by NS Thompson
I’m not in the office much at all next week. I’ve got tribunal hearings on Monday and Wednesday and Tuesday and Thursday are the quarterly inspections of all our rental properties. I’m restraining myself from inspecting your place as you’ve only been there a week and that seems a bit stupid.
I have a rostered day off on Friday and I’m going to my mother’s place in the city. Her health is failing and I want to do a few odd jobs about the house for. Do some shopping. I don’t think she’s really up to the train trips down to see me anymore but she is most concerned about the garden. We’ll see. I’ll keep my journal with me to catch any thoughts of you that spin through my brain as they inevitably will.
I’m sure, in this small village I am bound to bump into you at some stage. I’m swamped with paperwork and feeling tense because I haven’t exercised enough lately. I’m also feeling some pent up frustration because I want you so badly. I want to bury myself in your arms, inhaling the smell of your hair while my hands wander about your body, exploring every nook and cranny…I’m ready for bed. I need to turn out the lights and try to empty my head of thoughts of you. I need to focus on other areas of my life. I need to tidy up the rough edges.
Loving you, wanting you,
Goodnight.
31/05/05 Monday
Feeling depressed. Don’t want to depress you so it’s better for me to stay quiet.
If I pay $150 I can get a copy of your television interview. It might take up to three weeks.
That’s not why I’m depressed. I won’t burden you with it.
2/06/05 Wednesday
Sorry Grace. I’m just having a bad few days. It’s nothing to do with you. I’m at the court house all day dealing with lowlife rent avoiders and vandals. And they all say I’m the bad guy. I gave them warning after warning and if my compassionate approach doesn’t work to start with and then my threatening approach yields nothing, I am left with no option but to take it to the next level. I am the protector of people’s investment properties. I take my job seriously. I don’t care this morning if all these tenants get put out on the street and freeze to death. It serves them right. When you budget it’s important to put the rent first because a roof over your head is number one. Food is next. Most of these scumbags spend every welfare or blue collar payment at the local hotel or pour it into poker machines. Fools.
On top of that I’m not talking to Ron and that’s a problem considering he’s my boss. Karen refuses to get involved. She’s an apathetic, perfumed, fence-sitter. I think she’s secretly screwing Ron. This is all because a tenant has made outrageous and untrue complaints about me and that bastard is not standing up for me. I don’t want to go into it. I need to keep this job. I’m going to have to sort something out. May have to swallow my pride and apologize to the bitch tenant for something I didn’t even do!
I do hope you’re having a better week than me!
5/06/05 Saturday
Dearest Grace,
I am so sorry for the last few days. Sometimes woes rain down on you all at once. I really didn’t want to go to the city to see my mother but she laid a big guilt trip on me so I reluctantly and resentfully drove through stinking traffic to her semi in the inner city. I was quite cold and then I got thinking that this is not all about me. It’s easy to fall into the trap of seeing yourself at the centre of the universe. I spent the time at the court house seething with hate for these snivelling debt monsters and I now I think to myself – “Why tie yourself up in knots? They are the ones in the wrong. And it’s not my money.”
I know that Ron Fisher is a dickhead. A childish description I’ll admit but very appropriate. He may flash money around, drive a Jaguar and live in the best part of town but he’s in debt up to his hair-plugs. While I have spent a careful lifetime of control and caution and I own my own home, drive a nice but conservative late model Volvo and I don’t owe anyone anything! So I brightened up and managed to have a nice day with Mum today. It hurts me to see the old dear getting weaker. She’s shrivelling up before my eyes. Her little ears look like dried fruit and her mouth has caved in around gums. She can’t wear false-teeth because her gums are too soft. Even her memory is fading and she referred to my father today as if he were still alive. She corrected herself and laughed it off when I pointed it out to her.
I cooked up some minestrone soup for lunch. Crusty bread on the side and a chilled Pinot Noir – it’s just something that my palate enjoys. Mum ate the soup and got through only a snifter of wine. I drank the rest during the course of the afternoon. I felt the tension easing and melting away and my thoughts turned back to you.
This is hard for me to say. I’ve always been nervous around beautiful women. I feel more comfortable with you, though. You’re a nurturer. Not a sucker-fish like so many other women.
I have a confession to make. Since I met you, I made myself a promise that I would not indulge in pleasuring myself. I wanted to make that sacrifice to save myself for you. But on Sunday night I broke that pledge and lost control and acted like a dirty school-boy, in the dark, under my bed-linen. As I breathed shallow gasps of cold air and then exploded with such intensity, your face and your breasts and your lips flashed in strobe light in my brain. I felt soft and romantic for a few minutes before the guilt began gnawing at me. I will try not to do it again but my feelings and desire for you are so great that I will have to summon a will of steel.
I know I’m pathetic and have really dragged my heels with my wooing of you. I need to win you over. The sooner the better. But I’m not going to rush home tomorrow and ask you on a date. To rush something is to ruin something. If you want to catch a fish, you need to understand and know what you can about the fish. It’s no use at all if you use an inappropriate rod, hook and lure. Timing is essential. There is so much homework a fisherman can do to increase his chances tenfold of bringing home a good catch.
I’ve chosen you, Grace Templar. There are no other fish in the sea for me. I will go home and study you like I would for an exam. I want to know what you like, what you hate. Your favourite colour, food, drink, sexual position. THERE I GO AGAIN.
Cold showers don’t cut it. I’ve tried. My latest tactic to soften my lust for you is to imagine a dead, maggot-ridden wombat, lying bloated on the road outside Babylon. I’ve seen enough of them to get a clear picture. Weird and unusual, I admit. But I am getting a measure of success with the idea.
I’m taking my mission to the next level. On Sunday night- that is twenty-four hours from now- I will go for a run. When I get to your place, I’ll cut down the outside boundary of your yard which is inky black and sit beneath a pine tree not far from your dining room windows. Your open plan living areas will allow me to get to the heart of family life from that perspective. I want to see you mothering your boys. I want to see you without any guards up. I want to know you so that I can work out a fool-proof strategy to sweep you off your feet. I’m not sure if you’ll have the blinds open, shut or something in between.
The idea has boosted my flailing spirit. I might go and open another bottle of wine. It helps me to sleep.
Oh, did I tell you my mother’s entire back veranda is strung with wind-chimes – all different ones which clash like a band of deaf percussionists.
I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, one way or another.
Xxxxxxxxx
6/06/05 Monday
Oh Lordy, Lord. What a great day I’ve had. First you came and paid some rent (a little late but I’m turning a blind eye) on your way to the post office. I warned you about the outrageous incompetence of the post-master. You laughed and leaned over the front desk toward me. I could smell you. Not perfume. You. Womanly and musky. You smelt a little like you may have dipped into the honey pot this morning and weren’t able to vanquish the last vestiges of the tell-tale scent.
“Is it true that the postman,” you asked me, “you know, the guy who delivers the mail- once married a man and didn’t find out until after the wedding?”
Your cute little face
lit up like a mischievous school girl and you suddenly looked twenty years younger.
I put my hands up and shrugged.
“This is a very small town Grace, and we have more rural myths than you can poke a stick at. Gossip doesn’t have to be true to be interesting.”
You laughed again and sort of bounced out the door. You have a spring in your step that says “I love life and I want everyone to see it!”
I struggle on through a mundane day, looking forward to my run, glancing over at the surgery and thinking it is the sexiest building in the main street!
Later
It was a sublime view. I was completely out of sight, hidden by the dense and unruly pine trees. I reached your place at about seven thirty. You had the blinds open in such a way that I could see in better than you could see out. It was a dark night with just a sliver of moon. It was cold and even in the dark I could see my breath.
You had obviously already eaten as the table was covered in dinner debris. I couldn’t really tell but I suspect you’d had tacos or nachos. I suddenly remembered my phone and quickly switched it off, although I’m pretty sure you are in a no-service area of town. I could hear the television coming from the other room but it was just out of my sight. I’d only just gotten comfortable when you walked into the dining room. You were dressed in blue and white flannel pyjamas. Never has anyone made them look so enticing. You looked soft and cuddly. Your hair was pulled up into a high pony tail. Harry trailed in behind you and you asked him about homework. There was a bit of healthy resistance to that idea but he eventually gave in. You poured yourself a glass of red wine from a cask. Nothing that comes out of a box, my dear, is ever as good as a bottle. But you are raising three kids on a single income so I guess value for money is important.
You sat on a stool with your back to me, only meters away. Because it is so cold, your windows were all closed so the audio part of my adventure was poor quality. I could tell however that it was Jenny, your babysitter on the other end of the line. I didn’t get much more than snippets, interspersed with lots of laughter. At various stages of the conversation, your older boys came into the room bickering about who knows what. You shouted at them and told you to leave you alone while you were on the phone. I got that bit. It was loud and clear. You consumed three glasses of wine during the conversation, hung up and then began to wash up the dishes. You stood at the window, almost staring right at me.
“Let the cat out Harry!” I heard you call and then a moment later the sound of the back sliding door. I held my breath, hoping Harry wouldn’t venture into the cold night air.
No. He was off to bed. I waited until you left the room and stood up stretching when, suddenly, I felt your cat, a white Persian thing with evil eyes, rubbing against my leg. I nearly fell down the slight embankment - jumped right out of my skin and then laughed at myself.
Now Grace, I do believe you signed a ‘no pets’ clause in your lease but because I love you more than anyone in the world, I will let it go. I have always pretended that I was allergic to cats, so whenever I came to visit, people had to toss them outside. I’m not really allergic. I just hate them. I don’t like the way they look at me.
I ran home on air, all my former blues swept away. I was engulfed by a loving sense of family and I felt like I could fly all for having seen Grace Templar, unplugged. I can’t say that I learned much more about you, other than you look very cute in pyjamas and you drink cheap red wine but it’s a start. It took a lot of courage for me to indulge in something so covert. It’ll be much easier next time. It’s not sinister at all, because I’m doing all this for you.
7/06/05
I’ve just come from the Buxton’s dinner party. They are forever trying to set me up with one of their desperate, female friends. Tonight it was Lyn. A fifty something bottle blonde, who drowns herself in wine coolers. I’m sure she lives in a caravan park. Jill and Lance are really scraping at the bottom of the barrel these days. Not a great confidence builder!
There were eight people at the table. A local couple, the Hills, originally from England, who were interminably boring, Lyn and I, (I only lump our names together as I am going around the table in my head), Jill and Lance and a couple from the city, who were mildly more entertaining than the rest of us. Myself included. I had very little in the way of clever conversation to contribute. The food was good, the wine flowed but as a social soiree it failed. Oh, had you been by my side, you would have livened things up. I would have had a much better time.
You did however manage to arrive at the table orally. That sounds almost rude but I’m steering away from commenting further. You apparently have met the Buxton’s already.
You are quite the box of lucky dips, aren’t you, Grace? Full of surprises.
I learnt this evening that you are holding Theatre Workshops on a Saturday for the local primary school children. I didn’t know you had a background in theatre, though given your radiant, extroverted personality, I’m not really surprised. They said you did your first class last week-end, while I was in the city and you were a real hit with the kids. Jackie’s two girls are chomping at the bit to get to the next class. I did mention to them, I rented you a house, but nothing else.
I’m too tired to come and visit again but I will be thinking of you, wondering if you’re asleep or reading or watching television.
Night.
16/06/05
Grace,
I am sorry. I haven’t written a word to you for a week. I don’t know how I forgot. My head doesn’t seem screwed on too well. I had a seminar in Melbourne from last Wednesday until today and in the chaos, when Ron stopped to pick me up at eight a.m. last week, I forgot to pack my journal which lives beside my bed, next to my lamp and phone. As Ron and I have been rather uncommunicative of late, he had failed to remind me. I’m not usually that disorganized. I’ve been spending so much on this project (you) that I’m overlooking things in my work diary. So I packed quickly, pretended to Ron that I was fully prepared and then sat in silence beside him in his Jaguar that smells of leather and Mattel rubber. It really is just an expensive toy. We managed to get to the airport, fly to Melbourne and transfer to our hotel without uttering a single word. I nearly burst out laughing at the insanity of it all more than a few times.
So, although I’ve gone a week without an entry, I’ve been thinking about you – in a good and wholesome fashion most of the time – and I bought you a gift. It’s a small blue sapphire set in gold on a delicate gold chain. I think you’ll love it. I’m going to send it to the surgery from a ‘secret admirer’. Everyone fantasizes about having a secret admirer. Well – you do have one, my darling. But I won’t be a secret forever.
I’m tucking into bed early as I feel a sore throat creeping up on me. I always get sick after travelling. It’s probably something in the air conditioning on the plane.
Until tomorrow.
17/06/05 Thursday
7:58 a.m.
I’m swallowing razor blades and my chest is filled with slime. I rang your surgery. It would seem that you don’t start answering phones until eight-thirty and I’m wanting to saw my own head off below the very swollen glands and get a bicycle pump down my oesophagus and suck the gunk out of my lungs. I know you arrive at work at about 8:00 a.m., so I will call in five minutes and leave a message. Either, you’ll hear it and pick up or you’re not there. If you hear it and don’t pick up that would really upset me. I’ll leave it until 8:15 a.m because I’ve never seen you get there later than 8:05 a.m. If you answer the phone when you hear who it is…our future is secure. If I am just another patient to you and you don’t bother answering then I will have to work HARDER! Don’t play too hard to get. My frustration levels can boil over sometimes!
I’m sorry Gracie. I’m feeling really bad. I don’t generally get sick. I mean hardly ever. I got sick a fair bit when I was married but that was probably because she was slowly poisoning me with arsenic. I can’t back that up but I have very strong suspicions. So I mig
ht be a bit snappy or distant. I’m not moody but being physically sick seeps into the psyche too. I hope I get you on the phone. Please answer. It means you care enough about me to break the office hours of 8:30 a.m. – 6:00 p.m. I’d be an exception. That would mean a lot to me.
Okay, here goes. I’m writing with my right hand while listening to the ringing in my left ear. Brurp. Brurp. Here’s your super professional message…lovely tone…And here comes the beep and I’m on…..”Hi. It’s Jack Thorne from the Real Estate here. I’ve got a terrible throat. Sick as a dog really. I was wondering….
BINGO
“Jack?”
“Hello Grace.”
Later. I don’t know how late. Can’t find my watch.
Arggghhh. The antibiotics have not kicked in yet. Ahhh Gracie, can’t you come and be my nurse and sit on my face. I was told to do steam inhalations for my chest and that, I think would do it. Don’t get coy. You exude such hot vibes that a bit of sex talk would not – I don’t think- offend thee. You were a picture of empathetic concern today. Was it because I was sick and a nice guy or because I’m your property manager?
Millionaires and rock-stars can never truly know who their real friends are and who are just using them, draining them for what they can get and then discarding them, like the proverbial ‘ used tissue’. I want to know if you are starting to care for me or if I’m just the guy who controls the roof over your head.
I’m sorry Gracie. I’m on strong antibiotics and I very stupidly knocked back a bottle of the good stuff. So forgive me. It’s only my insecurity rearing its ugly head. I’m not drunk. I despise drunks but I’m under the weather. Illness doesn’t help. But I love you. I want to make love to you. Why does it have to be so hard? If I was a cave man I’d just clonk you over the head and drag you back to my lair by your sweet red hair and fuck you senseless and then you’d go out a cook me a woolly mammoth. Oh darling I’m sorry. I’ll just go to bed. The ravings of a drunken, antibiotic man……not Steve Austin. I’m not worth six million dollars…though in this market, in the city, that wouldn’t buy you much of a house, anyway, heh?
