Sex, Lies and Bonsai

by Lisa Walker

  Sally gives me some significant eye contact and slips into counsellor mode. ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘What, being a human cure for insomnia? Why should it bother me? A good night’s sleep is very important. They should market me. Troubled by a disturbing need for sex? Don’t worry, one dose of Edie McElroy and you’ll be sleeping like a baby.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not like that. It’s a compliment really; they feel comfortable enough with you to go to sleep.’ Sally sounds less than convincing.

  ‘Oh yes, I drive them wild. With a desire for some shut-eye. Scarlett Johannson has the same problem, I hear. Javier Bardem, Eric Bana, Josh Hartnett, all they want is sleep, sleep, sleep—’

  ‘Funny night, last night.’ Sal changes the subject.

  ‘Ha. Ha, ha. Yeah, it cracked me up too. What happened after I left the lab?’

  ‘It was a bit like being at a birthday party and the birthday girl leaves. We all stood there looking at each other for a moment, then Belinda slapped Ralph and took off.’

  ‘At least she didn’t hit him with the tennis racquet.’

  ‘I think she was going to, but she changed her mind at the last minute.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘I felt sorry for him. He looked like a sick kitten that’s just had a bucket of water thrown over it.’

  ‘Oh, that’s sad. Poor Professor Brownlow. So then it was just you and Jay and Professor Brownlow left?’

  ‘And that creepy guy.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Him.’

  ‘He was really excited by it all.’ She screws her nose up. ‘Anyway, then Jay just kind of walked out, looking like he was about to do a Kurt Cobain…’ Sally catches my eye as she says this. ‘Sorry, Edie, it’s just an expression, I didn’t mean…’

  I wave my hand. ‘So then it was just you and Professor Brownlow?’

  ‘And the creepy guy.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I thought I’d better give Ralph some counselling at that stage. He was looking totally stressed out and I am his life coach, so I told him people always regret not doing things much more than they regret doing them. I mean, I thought he’d been sleeping with you, in the normal sense of the word, so it might make him feel better.’

  ‘How did that go down?’

  ‘He just muttered something like “this is worse than Moorookami” and took off. I don’t know what that meant.’

  ‘Oh,’ I finger my hair, wondering which part of Murakami’s stories Professor Brownlow was thinking about. ‘So then it was just you and the creepy guy.’

  ‘Yeah. Turns out he’s a client of mine.’

  ‘I knew it! He’s the phonesex guy, isn’t he?’

  Sally jumps. ‘There’s no need to yell, Ed.’ She looks embarrassed.

  As well she should. ‘Does the term Crab Sex Institute mean anything to you?’

  ‘I didn’t expect anyone to think it was real,’ says Sal. ‘It was just a marketing ploy — you know, hot stories from the Crab Sex Institute. I didn’t identify where it was or anything. It was just to give it a bit of cachet.’

  ‘But it was obvious it was at a university.’

  ‘Not really.’

  I glare.

  ‘It may have been.’

  ‘How many universities are there around here, Sal?’

  Sally looks at me as if I am being unnecessarily pedantic. ‘I don’t know, how many universities are there?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Only one?’

  ‘You knew that, Sal.’

  ‘I may have done.’ If Sally wasn’t a life coach, she would have made a good lawyer.

  ‘Jesus, I hope I’m not going to get a whole procession of weirdos sniffing around.’

  ‘I’m sure most of my clients aren’t like that. Speaking of which, I really need some more erotica.’

  ‘I told you, I’m not doing that anymore.’

  ‘I’ll double your money.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m completely off sex. I can’t write about it. I don’t even want to think about it. It’s more trouble than it’s worth’

  ‘Edie.’ Sal is about to use all of her famous powers of persuasion on me. ‘You’re so good at it. Just a couple more, while I look around for another supplier. Isn’t it like a recipe for you now?’

  I think about how expensive it’s going to be in Tokyo and whether I can ever return to my job in the lab.

  Sally bats her eyelashes at me. ‘Come on, Ed, puleeese?’

  ‘Oh, fuck, Sal. Don’t look at me like that. Okay.’

  Sally smiles. ‘That’s my girl.’ She gives me a hug. ‘Hustle, hit and never quit. Remember, if you’re given lemons, make lemonade.’

  ‘You want a story with lemons in it?’

  ‘It’s a metaphor. It means turn negatives into positives.’

  ‘Okay, got it. Get that car back on the highway, right?’

  ‘Vroom, vroom,’ says Sal.

  Creamy tuna pasta. I have ventured into the kitchen in search of inspiration. Mum’s old cookbook is open in front of me. Like Sally said — erotic writing is just a recipe. Creamy tuna — now there’s a whole lot of double entendre already. I take the book back to my lair and read through the recipe.

  Cook pasta in boiling salted water until al dente. Drain and toss with half the oil.

  Is it just me, or are cookbooks kind of like soft porn for everyone? I boot up my computer and summon my inspiration.

  Edaline was boiling, salty and sticky. She poured olive oil over herself, feeling it trickle viscously into all her crevices. Her skin was slippery and slick to the touch. Jason’s body would slide over it with no resistance, no friction.

  This has definite possibilities. I read on.

  Over medium heat, heat remaining oil in a large fry pan. Add onion and cook for 2–3 minutes or until softened.

  Goodness. Pretty sexy stuff.

  She lay in the sun naked, cooking, softening, her eyes closed. There were footsteps and a round object was pressed against her lips. Without opening her eyes, she bit into it. It was an onion.

  Add garlic and cook for 1 minute. Stir in cream and tomato paste, add tuna and peas. Heat gently for 1–2 minutes. Stir in half the parsley along with the tomatoes and capers, add pasta and season. Stir until heated through. Serve sprinkled with remaining parsley.

  I carry on, my fingers flying across the keyboard. Edaline and Jason cavort wantonly with tuna and peas, parsley and tomatoes. They roll about on a white leather sofa and smear lavish amounts of tomato purée across a pool table.

  At last, after it was all over, Edaline opened her eyes. Jason lay beside her. A sprig of parsley decorated his hair. She removed it, placing it between her sharp, white teeth.

  ‘What shall we have for dessert?’ asked Edaline.

  I finish this piece and straighten my back. Part of me is guilty that I have reverted so swiftly to this seedy enterprise. On the other hand, I have to admit it has cheered me up; the world doesn’t seem as bleak as it did an hour ago. Maybe I’m not over sex after all.

  ‘Oh, my,’ says Sal, in response to my email. ‘Sigmund Freud isn’t in it. I can’t wait to see what you do with chocolate mudcake.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The doctor should be opaque to his

  patients.

  SIGMUND FREUD

  Friday: 55 days

  Pain level: 7.5

  Location: Chest (business as usual)

  Friday morning presents me with a dilemma. It is a work day, but will Professor Brownlow want to see me? Perhaps he would prefer it if I stayed away? On the other hand, I need the money. I also need to tell him I will be leaving at the end of next week.

  My legs are even stiffer today, so running is out of the question. Perhaps I will disown Murakami and down a few whiskeys tonight instead, a la Dylan Thomas.

  Tips for self-improvement: Find myself a stylish neck kerchief and a boat house.

  As I get dressed I hear Dad and Rochelle talking. Rochelle sound
s annoyed. Are they having an argument? That would be a first.

  ‘You have to tell her,’ says Rochelle.

  Dad mutters something incomprehensible in reply.

  Tell who what? Me? Are they arguing about me? I don’t like the sound of it. I also don’t want to get involved. I loiter in my preparations and by the time I come downstairs they have gone to work.

  I drive to the university, averting my eyes from the church sign as I go past. I am a confirmed sinner now. I am not open to salvation.

  When I arrive, Professor Brownlow is at his desk, poring over some papers. My social barometer is firmly set to awkward. I stand at the laboratory door for a moment, reliving the horror of Wednesday night. I cough.

  Professor Brownlow looks up. His eyes are bloodshot and he needs a shave. We lock eyes, but he doesn’t say anything for a little while. Then he pushes out the chair next to him and gestures to it. ‘Come in, Edie.’

  I sit down, wheeling the chair back until I am sitting well outside lover or even friend distance. On reflection, I edge back a bit more; even co-worker distance is probably pushing it, should Belinda make a surprise appearance. At three metres, I feel I have struck the right note; very distant acquaintance.

  Professor Brownlow slides an article across the desk towards me. ‘Sally gave me this. It’s very good.’

  I lean forward and take the paper, being sure not to brush his fingers with mine. I look at the title: ‘The secrets of happiness’. Running my eyes down it, I read the headings out loud. ‘Be positive, be brave, meditate, be kind to yourself, put your pessimism to work, find a calling, act happy.’ Act happy. I attempt to smile. ‘Sounds terrific.’ Funnily enough, it kind of works. Acting happy makes me feel better. ‘Is it working for you?’

  Professor Brownlow smiles. ‘It’s a work in progress.’

  ‘How are things panning out for you after…’

  ‘Belinda is giving me the benefit of the doubt. That might be the best I can hope for at the moment.’

  ‘Would you rather I left?’

  ‘No, no.’ Professor Brownlow shakes his head. ‘I need you.’ He gestures towards the cabinet where my drawings are kept. ‘I’ve been having a look. You did a fantastic job the other night. I think you’re coming into your own with this work.’

  He needs me. Now I find I’m unable to tell him about Japan. I almost destroyed his marriage and he needs me. Next week will have to do. I stand up, ‘I’d better…’

  ‘You know Belinda wasn’t totally wrong about you.’ His voice is low.

  I turn. ‘What?’

  ‘I am very drawn to you.’

  ‘You are?’ I am thinking of the motel room and the sexless bed-sharing.

  ‘I’m a lot older than you, Edie, not as spontaneous. I’ve learnt just because things seem like a good idea at the time, it doesn’t mean they are.’

  I glance at his article. ‘What about being brave?’

  ‘I’ve learnt to temper bravery with an assessment of the consequences. It doesn’t mean I’m not tempted.’ Professor Brownlow’s eyes twinkle for a moment behind his glasses. Then he pulls a beaker from his cabinet and proceeds to pour chemicals into it as if I wasn’t there.

  After a couple of seconds I am convinced that sexually charged moment never happened.

  Saturday: Day 56

  Pain levels: 8–9

  Locations: Everywhere except my toes

  Saturday is a carnival of awkwardness. Jay and I bump off each other like dodgem cars. Every time I see him a silent scream erupts inside me. He, meanwhile, is cool and polite. We catch each other in the kitchen in the morning; me heading for the toaster, he for the kettle.

  ‘Excuse me.’ He steps aside to let me pass.

  I try to match his demeanour, but probably look sulky. As he leaves, I notice he has the same sinuous rockstar glide as his father. I think of Tanya and what else they might have in common. I wonder if he ever meant a word he said to me or if it was just meaningless banter.

  It seemed meaningful. But then, I do have a tendency to take people at face value. I need to learn. My heart should have toughened up by now. I can’t keep doing this all the time; can’t keep going back for more.

  It would be better if he was rude. Then we could fight. But his coolness is impenetrable, like he has switched off. I no longer exist for him as a person, only as an object in his path. I seethe with unspoken retorts, rude comments and taunts that I will never utter. Retorts and taunting are not my forte.

  With every encounter in the kitchen, lounge room or on the verandah, I become more shaken and tearful, but I don’t let him see this. I clench my teeth, walk past, presenting an exterior so at odds with my interior it is a wonder it doesn’t slough off like a snake skin. I am relieved it doesn’t. I manage to keep myself together, patched up with a fragile thread of determination to not let him see me cry.

  I consider running, but eat a lot of chocolate instead. This requires frequent trips to the shop so I can pretend to myself that I am only eating small amounts of chocolate. While standing in line to buy very small chocolate bars I read a succession of women’s magazines. I learn how to get a flat stomach, hold fabulous dinner parties and get the latest Hollywood look. I also learn that you should never leave the house unless you are looking so fabulous that you would not be embarrassed to meet an ex-boyfriend. Who has time for this stuff? There has got to be a market for trendy burqa-style outfits to wear on days when you need to buy milk, but haven’t got two hours to get dressed.

  As I munch my way through Cherry Ripes, Mars Bars and Kit Kats I decide that if I ever become a famous erotic writer I will tell my fans that everything I have learnt about writing, I have learnt from eating chocolate. I wonder what those things are. How it can make you feel bad when you indulge too much. How it can make you feel good when you do it slowly with intention. How some chocolate is better than others. None of this seems any more of a long-bow than running.

  In the afternoon, I buy myself a red silk scarf from the pre-loved clothes shop. On my way home, I pick up two mini-bar-sized bottles of whiskey. Getting a whole bottle would be tempting fate. That evening, I tie the scarf around my neck, then drink the first bottle. Standing near the window, I imagine I am Dylan Thomas in his boatshed.

  It rains a lot in Glenorchy…

  When I spoke this line in Gleebooks, I had the crowd on tenterhooks. A bold start — but how would I follow it up in rhyming verse? Corky? Dorky? I unscrew the lid of the second bottle…

  And even the deer are quite gawky.

  I take a sip of whiskey and try to remember what comes next but my mind is blank. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten it. I adlib.

  The shifting mist

  Makes you want to get pissed.

  And you’d kill for a sausage that’s porky.

  I’m sure the original poem was much more spiritually uplifting. It certainly seemed that way at the time. I finish the bottle, collapse on the bed, pull out my notebook and write under Tips for self-improvement:

  Never write poetry again.

  When buying whiskey, get the large bottle.

  ‘Eddie.’ Dad calls up the stairs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s someone on the phone for you. Jennifer.’

  Jennifer? Do I know a Jennifer? Standing up seems too hard. Let alone going down the stairs and talking.

  ‘Tell her I’m not here. She can call my mobile.’

  This seems to do the job, as I am left in peace. After a few minutes I remember that my mobile is in the fishpond. Never mind, she’s probably from the bank or Optus and I can do without those calls.

  Despite my resolution, I can’t resist one last poetic utterance before I close my eyes.

  Men with guitars

  Should be put behind bars.

  My ticket to Tokyo sits on my bookcase like a lifeline.

  On Sunday morning Sally comes around for the next phase of my life coaching.

  I am sitting on the couch outside when she
arrives. Jay has gone out so the coast is clear. I swallow my Mars Bar and stuff the wrapper down the back of the cushions before she sees it. ‘I hope this isn’t going to be strenuous. I’m not in the mood for talking to strangers.’

  She smiles. ‘Well, it’s your lucky day. I’m going to try something different. We’ll do it in your bedroom.’

  ‘Good.’ This sounds promising.

  Sally is unusually dressed today. Her hair is tied back and she is wearing a neat skirt and a startlingly white T-shirt.

  ‘What’s with the primary-school teacher look?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m trying for a more professional persona. Like?’

  ‘Like.’ We climb the stairs. My room is fuggy as I have been spending a lot of time lurking in it with the curtains drawn.

  ‘You lie on the bed.’ Sal moves to the window, draws the curtains back and opens the window. ‘There, doesn’t that feel better already?’

  I brush the chocolate wrappers off the bed and lie down. Lying down is good. ‘Are you going to give me a massage?’

  ‘You wish.’ Sally wheels my writing chair over to the bed and sits down beside me. She bends over and picks up a Cherry Ripe wrapper. ‘Bad sign, Ed. It’s lucky I came round to help you out. This is going to do you so much good.’

  I’m not sure that I like the sound of that. ‘What are we doing exactly?’

  Sally pulls a notebook out of her handbag. ‘I’ve been having a look back through my university notes. I think I’m ready to get into some Freudian therapy now.’

  This is not very confidence inspiring. ‘Sure you don’t want to try a bit of brain surgery while you’re at it?’

  ‘You should be grateful. People pay a lot of money for this.’ Sally sounds reproachful.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re getting this for free, remember?’ Sally riffles through her notes. ‘Right, just to bring you up to speed, you need to know that the personality is like an iceberg divided into three sections. Our conscious mind, the ego, is just the tip of the iceberg. Lurking beneath the water is the subconscious, made up of the id and the superego. Got that?’

  ‘Ego, id, superego. Got it.’

  ‘Freud says that when the ego loses control and the id goes on a rampage it causes anxiety.’