by Unknown
His flat was barely furnished: the dead giveaway of the newly single man. His television was on the floor in the main room. He had a two-seater sofa, a kitchen table, no chairs, and a bookcase made from stolen milk crates and a plank of wood stacked with expensive art books. His bedroom was equally sparse. Just a mattress on the floor covered with pristine white sheets. Dozens of framed photographs and piles of camera equipment leaned against one wall. His clothes were still in a suitcase on the floor.
In the end it was just as well there was nothing hanging on the walls because Francie spent a good part of the night bouncing off them. Karl was a phenomenon in the bedroom. And the kitchen. And the bathroom.
They went for it. Karl was monosyllabic. ‘Come here. Sit down. Yes, now. Very good. Once more. Bend over. Like that. More please. That’s great. Oh, yes!’ He didn’t seem to have any brain cells left over to form coherent sentences. His whole mind and body were dedicated to the task of taking Francie right over the edge. Everything Francie wanted was on offer, lots more she hadn’t ever thought of, and as much of it as she could stand.
There was no way back to fantasies about Nick’s silent ministrations after this. As for Dave? Francie was having trouble bringing him into focus as well. She knew that every time she thought about sex from now on, the image of Karl’s muscled chest, his smooth back and his perfect, hard, urgent dick would be in her face. Like it was now. She reached out for him and did exactly as she was told.
Licked and fucked, caressed and kissed, bitten and bruised, sated and exhausted, Francie eventually slid into sleep at about 3 am, only to have another of Karl’s huge erections nudge her awake a couple of hours later.
This time his performance brought the house down. If Francie hadn’t been so weak in the knees she would have stood and applauded.
Twenty-Eight
‘First, I have to say that it’s quite surprising you’ve come here together. On paper your separation doesn’t look too messy. You’re young. You have no property together and no children. There’s nothing to divide.’
Nothing but my heart.
‘But you are both obviously stuck and looking for some answers from each other. Before we go on, I want to warn you that you shouldn’t expect to get them tonight. This is just one session. You’re both here, as you’ve told me, looking for some kind of completion and peace. So, let’s start by asking what you want to hear from each other. Perhaps you could go first, Nick, because, as Francie told me, you’re the one who thought this could be a good idea.’
Nick was studying Faith’s walls and shifting uneasily. He caught Francie looking at him and gave her a tight smile. No doubt he was reflecting on exactly what madness had led him to be here tonight. Everything about the room—the soft light, the lavender aromatherapy candle, the box of tissues on the table—spoke of intimacy. This would not be pleasant.
He crossed his legs, folded his arms over his chest, coughed and sat forward as though he was wearing horse blinkers. As though Francie wasn’t in the room.
‘I’m only here because I want to make sure Francie is OK. I’m worried about her. I don’t want to feel that I’m responsible for her happiness in the future. I’ve never wanted that. I never want to be responsible for anyone’s happiness . . . or otherwise.’
Faith nodded. ‘Al . . . ri . . . ght,’ she drew the word out slowly. ‘That’s very clear. I will say I think there are some problems with that attitude, but you’re not here for therapy with me. So, Francie, what do you want to hear from Nick?’
Francie had been sneaking glances at Nick’s profile against the light of the amber shaded lamp. She had loved looking at that profile. She’d always thought of his fine, straight nose and full mouth as being poetic. Profoundly and perfectly composed. His long hands were lyrical and expressive of the emotion he kept inside. That’s the story she’d invented for him anyway. Tonight, though, and it might only have been a trick of the half-light, he seemed to be a small boy, diminished somehow. She was once more torn between love and punishment.
‘I want to hear from Nick why he stopped loving me. He’s never told me. He’s never told me anything. In fact, looking back, I’m not even sure I know why he loved me in the first place—’
Faith held her hand up in an attempt to interrupt. Francie was admonished by the loud clanking of Indian clay bangles, but she persisted.
‘Doesn’t the fact that I gave up so much for him, worked so hard to make him a home, mean anything?’
‘Francie, stop!’ Faith’s voice was sharp. ‘We are not here to go over old ground with Nick. This is not about looking back, it’s about going forward, and—’
‘No! I want to answer that!’ Nick exclaimed. ‘I never asked her to give up anything for me. She’s the one who always gave up everything. I know I came before everything—her friends, her family, career. She always told me that. But I didn’t want to be the person she gave up everything for. I never asked for it. I always thought she was waiting for me to turn into someone who would make all the sacrifice worthwhile. I don’t know if I can ever be that person.
‘She wanted too much. I always felt that whatever I did was never quite right, or not enough, or . . . she could never let things just be.’
Faith had given in, taken the attitude of Buddha, sitting back, letting the argument roll. Francie was indignant. What Nick was saying was unfair! She had to defend herself. She shook her head, trying to comprehend. She shifted to the front of her chair.
‘Just be? What do you mean just BE? Our relationship wasn’t one of your dumb trust exercises at the theatre, Nick! It wasn’t acting. It was real!’
Now Nick turned to Francie. His voice was thin and ragged at the edges. ‘Come on! There was a point when we both knew it wasn’t going to work, but you didn’t want to talk. You kept on booking holidays, organising dinner parties, bringing home fucking . . . sorry . . . furniture . . .’ Nick hesitated, looked at Faith, and Francie saw her chance.
‘I only did all that stuff because I knew you wouldn’t. You never took the initiative. Ever!’
‘And why would I? Because I knew it would never be up to the standard of perfection you wanted. I watched you rearrange every plate I put on a shelf, every flower I ever put into a vase, every bit of furniture, all the paintings on the walls. You even remade the bed after I made it! I knew that whatever I did, it would never be good enough. You’re like my mother. Demanding, smothering, rescuing. What did you see in me? What did you want?’
This was too much for Francie. She was like his mother? He would be accusing her of sewing name tags in the back of his jumpers next! He wouldn’t have the last word in front of Faith. Francie was paying for this session, after all. Faith was on her side, not Nick’s.
‘Well, you’ve ended up being like my father. Just fucking off with no explanation and leaving me to pick up the pieces!’
So there it was. They were actor and writer, both reliving some B-grade script written in childhood. They sat in silence, breathing deeply. Faith held up her hands, as if to call them to prayer. A moment to reflect. Francie let the ribbon of years unravel.
There was a warm early summer afternoon once—somewhere in the country—when they had parked their car on the side of the road and waded through a wheat field. The supple stalks supporting pregnant pearly heads of grain bent and slapped at their thighs as they pushed through a ripening tide. They had thrown themselves on the ground and, surrounded by a fortress of green, lain hand in hand looking up at a blue sky appliquéd with white clouds.
It was just him and her in that small space which would never again be made on the face of the earth. Safe from the past. Cast in a future they had both long dreamed of. She had a fanciful notion they were Adam and Eve that day, remaking the world from nothing but grass and sky and clouds and love.
Francie remembered the colours of him—tanned skin, brown eyes—against the green-stemmed walls. He had lifted her cotton top and kissed her warm skin from neck to breast to navel.
‘I love you, Francie,’ he had murmured. ‘I love you with all my heart and soul. There will never be anyone for me but you.’
‘I love you too, Nick. I’ve wished for you my whole life. It’s as if I wished you true. I will never stop loving you.’
She had wrapped her legs around him and pulled him into her. Their bodies made a rainbow of pleasure, arching from rich dry earth to endless sky and back to earth again.
And then Francie was there sitting stiffly in the blue chair in the front room of Faith and John-Pierre Treloar, Relationship Counsellors, contemplating the bitter harvest of that wheat field.
Faith just let them think about it all, until she finally spoke in the calm, professional tone familiar to Francie. All emotion gone, just pure reason.
‘You know, so many of us who have been abandoned, rejected, unloved or over-controlled as children, choose a partner who is like a ghost from our past. And then we set out to relive everything we know.’
Francie and Nick fidgeted in their chairs as if they were in front of the headmistress.
‘When you came together, you recognised something in each other, you didn’t know what exactly, but something which spoke to the other. I really believe you are both loving people and came together not to hurt each other, but to heal each other.
‘But truly, Francie, Nick, the healing has to be done within your own hearts. This break-up? It actually is an opportunity—don’t you say a word, Francie! It is a chance to rewrite your personal scripts. To look back and see the way your family life shaped you, so that next time you go into a relationship you can do it better and find lasting happiness. So, instead of blaming each other for what happened during the past five years, and punishing each other for the way it ended, why don’t you thank each other for the time you had together?’
Nick looked at the ceiling. Francie checked out the carpet.
‘Say thank you for being allowed to make mistakes. Thank you for being able to discover what you need to know so you don’t have to make the same mistakes again.’
Faith turned to Nick.
‘I asked you before what you wanted to hear from Francie. Instead, let’s try it the other way. What would you like to say to Francie?’
Francie heard the creaking of Nick’s leather jacket as he tugged at it. She heard him cough and inhale.
‘Francie . . .’ he began, still looking at Faith.
‘She’s just there, Nick. In the chair next to you.’
Francie turned to meet his eyes. The ones she had loved to see across the pillow every morning. The eyes she had secretly congratulated herself for capturing and holding fast for so long.
He reached out his hands. Francie took them and felt them slim and hard in hers, the warmth gone. She understood they belonged to someone else now.
‘I’d like to say . . . First, that I’m sorry for the way this ended up. I didn’t mean it to happen like it did. You have to believe me, there was no way I—’
‘Keep going forward, Nick,’ Faith steered him back on course.
‘Second, I really, really did love you. I mean, I still do. I think about you so much. You probably think I’ve forgotten everything, but I haven’t. Sometimes I wake up in the night and wonder where you are. And then I remember and I go back to sleep and you’re there in my dreams.
‘I was always so proud of being with you. Whenever we went anywhere I was never disappointed that I was with you. You were my girl.
‘We learned a lot together and I will never, ever forget you. Thank you for everything you did for me. Thank you for . . . letting me go.’
Nick’s chin dropped to his chest. ‘Oh God, Francie! I really miss you.’ And then he cried.
Francie had to let go of his hands because she was crying too. The tears were streaming down her face, her neck and splashing into her cleavage. But this time the tears didn’t feel like the others she’d shed in Faith’s room. Those had been hot, sour, acidic and had scoured her cheeks. This time her tears felt cool and clean, like spring water. She was bathing in them. Francie wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. She flapped the moisture from her fingers, sniffed, wiped some more and the tears kept coming.
‘Oh God! Oh God! Nick! Bloody hell! Hah! I’ll stop, I’ll stop, because I want to say something that . . . something you’ll remember. Aaargh! Stop!’
She tore a handful of tissues from the box on the table and pushed them into her eyes. She sniffed, dried her neck and chest and sat up straight.
‘Phew! Oh God! This is the hardest thing. It really is so, so hard! I just want to say . . .’
Nick raised his head and Francie could hear his breath catching in his chest, which was shuddering like a child’s. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him cry like this. Every instinct told her she should hold him to her breast. Smooth the hair from his forehead, dry his tears and make the hurt stop. She should cradle him. Croon there, there and there, there again. But she could see now that that’s what she had always done, and it wasn’t how she wanted to take her leave.
On a resolute outward breath she began. ‘Nick. You are such a fine and sweet and good man. I wish I could have said goodbye gracefully. I wish . . . I wish that with all my heart.
‘I can see now that our love was never going to last the distance, not the way it was. But honestly, I wouldn’t have missed a minute of it for the world. You have been my darling, darling love.
‘And you’re wrong, you know, because I’m not letting you go. Not all of you. I’m keeping a part of you no-one will ever have. It’s mine, for always.
‘That time in our lives will never come again. I’m glad I shared it with you. I’ll miss you too. Thank you for loving me, Nicky. Thank you for allowing me to love you. Be happy. I love you too.’
Francie and Nick both stood. They walked into each other’s arms. She knew this was the last time they would hold each other like this. She rested her head on that familiar place—her ear on his heart. And in turn Nick posed in his lover’s embrace, his chin on her blonde head. His arm—both arms tonight—were around her. She wished her dearest love a silent farewell.
That night Francie dreamed she was Alice in Wonderland. She was crammed into a tiny gingerbread house. Its roof tiles were traced with snowy icing and studded with brightly coloured sweets.
Francie had one leg sticking out through the front door and one arm up the chimney. She tried to wriggle free but found she was stuck fast. How had she got inside, she wondered.
Through a tiny window just at eye level she could see into another room, where a long table was set with a tempting afternoon tea of fairy cakes with pink icing and a tall jug of lemonade.
Nick and Poppy walked into the room in their party clothes and sat down at two small chairs tied with balloons. She watched as they giggled together, shared their feast and chased each other around the table. They were happy and carefree and she smiled to see them. She couldn’t help but feel she had stumbled into the wrong fairytale.
Then she looked into the room on the other side of her and could see an enchanted mirror. Tell me what you see, Francie. Tell me why you love you?
‘I’m beautiful,’ Francie replied, shifting her body to ease the cramp in her legs. ‘I’m happy and I have nice hair.’
Sometime in the middle of the night Francie woke with a start. She was feeling thirsty and groped for the glass of water on the bedside table.
Her first thought was that it was almost Christmas and she should make an appointment with her hairdresser. Her second thought was that she was too big to fit in the Nick and Poppy fairytale house anymore.
Next morning Francie got out of bed and walked, completely unaided, down the hallway towards a bright light, the smell of buttered toast and the sound of laughter.
Acknowledgements
I can’t quite believe I’ve been given the opportunity to write a second novel.
My eternal thanks again to my two best cheerleaders—publisher Richard Walsh and my agent Hilary Linstead. A wr
iter couldn’t wish for better encouragement, constructive criticism, enthusiasm and support.
Thanks too to my dearest little mascots, Marley and Maeve, who give Mum all the love she needs to feel happy and secure in this life.
The team at Allen & Unwin have again come through for me magnificently and I offer my heartfelt gratitude to Annette Barlow, Christa Munns and Jo Jarrah for their attention to detail and unfailing professionalism.
To all my friends who have embraced my literary endeavours with such open-hearted goodwill, I am in your debt. And, to Patrick C, a special thanks for being there and watching me grow up. You are still in my heart and dreams.
Finally, to the ‘uncarved block’, my husband Brendan, I am loving writing the Big Story with you day after day.
