Art Ache (16 page)

Chapter 18

Later that night. My bedroom.

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” Oscar Wilde.

I hate this! I’m laying on my back, staring at the ceiling with some IT guy who I barely know enthusiastically rubbing and grinding his crotch against mine. Our clothes haven’t come off yet and I’m hoping to God they don’t. I’m reminded of Shirley MacLaine in the front seat of Jack Nicholson’s sports car in
Terms of Endearment
. Jack Nicolson’s character is speeding along a beach, impressing her with his manly driving, but with her headscarf blowing about her ears, Shirley MacLaine’s character hollers at the top of her voice: “I’m not enjoying this!” That’s what I feel like doing right now. Probably an inappropriate thought to be having while you’re drunk as a skunk and about to have what will definitely be incredibly unsatisfying sex with some IT Neanderthal who is, God help me, wearing a bandana.

Why did I go home with this guy? I gave Patrick my phone number and then in a moment of absolute weakness I went home with Bandana Bloke. What can I say? I was on a high. I know him vaguely from a radio station I sometimes read voice-overs for. He’d turned up at my birthday party with another voice-over friend, bought me a drink, complimented my outfit and then . . . well, here I am.

I have nothing in common with this guy, which in itself isn’t necessarily a problem. I mean, you can have sex with someone you don’t have much in common with, but it does help if you find the person attractive. I don’t. After way too many glasses of champagne, I stupidly thought he would be a safe choice for my first sexual experience after years with a husband I didn’t do it for. Wrong. This is not a safe choice. And it’s not even an enjoyable choice. He’s fumbling away, running his hands up and down the outside of my thighs, while he thrusts his pelvis up and down as if he’s hammering a nail into the back deck. Maybe he thinks he’s at work, laying some cable for a new computer. I have no idea. All I know is he sounds like he’s about to hyperventilate and I’m thinking about Shirley MacLaine movies. When will this be over? The excitement about testing out my too-high vagina has totally dispersed. I’ll save that exploration for another day and a different partner.

Oh, thank God. I think he’s stopped.

HIM

Sorry.

He gets up.

HIM

Sorry. My bronchitis is really bad at the moment. Haven’t brought my puffer.

ME

Sounds terrible. You’d better go.

Do I sound too keen to get him out of here?

HIM

I was really enjoying myself, too.

That makes one of us.

He tucks his shirt in, slips his shoes back on and I can see a wet patch on the front of his jeans. I suspect the bronchial attack is a ruse. I think Bandana Bloke may have other issues in the downstairs department.

HIM

Thanks.

ME

No worries.

He shoots out the bedroom door.

Thank God. I sit up too quickly; the room is spinning so I lie back down, clothes askew but still on, and try to remember what happened after Shirley MacLaine and Jack Nicholas got home from their drive along the beach. I hear my silky oak replica front door with stained glass kookaburra inlay close. His car starts up and he zooms off. See ya later, Bandana Bloke. Secretly, I’m hoping I don’t.

I lie there contemplating what just happened and can’t believe how alone I feel. If this is dating, it’s for the birds. I feel like such a bogan. Yes, it’s a particular term, bogan, but often the best term for the situation. In short, a bogan is an uncouth or unsophisticated person, generally regarded as being of low social status. It has nothing to do with class per se, but everything to do with choices and behaviour. My choices and behaviour last night have earned me the bogan moniker. Mum was right; there was no need to become common, but I have. I’ve turned into a tart. I’m a whore, a slut. Yes, I know we’re not supposed to use words like that about women, certainly not about ourselves, but at this moment, that’s how I feel. I brought a man home. I’m a single mother and I brought a man home. I’m trash.

At least Jack isn’t here. That’s something. I can’t be a complete bogan then. And I didn’t actually have sex with him. It was just a hyperventilation-inducing, fully-clothed grope with much grunting and, thankfully, a premature ending. If I’d actually slept with him and if my son was in the next room, then I’d be a fully-fledged bogan. I console myself with the revelation that I am therefore only a half-bogan and vow to contemplate that thought in greater depth—right after I throw up.

I make it to the toilet just in time and hurl my guts up into the bowl. Thank God Jack’s staying at Tom’s. How would I explain any of this to him? Well, the truth is that if he’d been here it wouldn’t have happened. Don’t pass the buck, Persephone. You did this, so you need to own it. Vomit and all.

Why did I go home with Bandana Bloke when such a nice guy had just asked me to go to the movies with him? Because Bandana Bloke was there. He was a rock solid option. He wasn’t a coconut oil-smelling guy wafting a kiss past me before he popped into a cab; he wasn’t a cute advertising guy with promises of a trip to the movies. He was a living, breathing man who desired me right then and right there and let me know about it. I should have left it at that. I should have taken the fact that he liked me as a compliment and left it at that. I could have shared a taxi home with my sister as she’d suggested, and life would have remained pleasant. But oh no. I soldiered on and shared a cab with two female voice-over friends and Bandana Bloke instead. Of course, the voice-over friends got dropped off first, and then one thing led to another, and now I’m snorting vomit up my nasal passage and into my mouth so I can spit it in the dunny while I contemplate the fumbling romp I’ve just had with a bronchial premature-ejaculating Neanderthal who wears a bandana.

I drag my sorry arse into the shower and then limp back to bed. I need to sleep. Images of bronchial Neanderthals swarm through my brain while I’m sleeping. Through the haze, I can hear my phone ringing. Must be Tom with a problem with Jack.

ME

Hello?

Oooh, all slurred and gross.

HIM

Hi.

I don’t recognise the voice immediately. Come to think of it, I don’t recognise the number either.

ME

Hello.

HIM

We could go on like this all day.

The penny drops!

I sit up in bed, smooth my hair and pull the bedclothes up, even though he can’t see me.

ME

Patrick!

PATRICK

Correct. I just wanted to see how you pulled up.

ME

Great! I’m great! Really well. I pulled up great!

Way too bubbly and bright, Persephone.

PATRICK

Great! That’s great.

He’s taking the piss out of me.

PATRICK

When I saw you just before I left, you looked like you were in for a big one.

ME

Ah . . . no, I went home soon after that.

That’s not a complete lie. I did go home, it’s just I’m not saying who I went home with.

PATRICK

So . . . how about that movie?

ME

A movie. Yes!

PATRICK

How ‘bout Wednesday?

ME

Um . . .

I want to say Wednesday’s no good because I have Jack and my sister probably wouldn’t be available to babysit. Weekends are easier. Jack can either go to Boofhead’s or my sister or parents can watch him. But I don’t say any of this. I don’t want to sound too heavy. I don’t want to remind him of the complexity of my parental status. Not that I want to hide Jack; of course I don’t. He knows about Jack, but right now I just want to be light and easy and not have the
Oh, that’s right, you’re a single mother
chat. I just want to go to a movie.

ME

The weekend would be better. I have heaps of lines to learn for the show I’m doing.

PATRICK

You’re in a show?

ME

Yeah. How about Saturday?

PATRICK

Sure. I’ll check out the session times and get back to you.

ME

Sounds like a plan.

PATRICK

You’ll need lots of water today and maybe a few Beroccas. Trust me, I speak from experience.

ME

I’m fine. Already out of bed and into it.

PATRICK

I should hope so. It’s eleven o’clock.

Really? Shit. I’ve slept in ‘til eleven o’clock? I haven’t done that since I was at high school. Thankfully, it’s the weekend.

ME

Okay. Well, let me know how you go with the session times and we’ll go on Saturday. Thanks for calling.

PATRICK

No worries.

I hang up, slide down the pillows and pull the doona over my head.

The cute advertising agency guy is taking me to the movies on Saturday night. Yes, I’m a slutty half-bogan, but he likes me, he really likes me!

Now I just have to make it through the day. Lots of water and maybe a few Beroccas. Good advice, Patrick. Tom’s bringing Jack home for lunch so I better get showered and into the day.

I’m still smiling and happy as I serve Jack chicken porcupines for lunch. He’s had fun at Tom’s, but I can tell he’s relieved to be home. I’m relieved for him to be here too. Just Jack and me and a rehearsal to attend tomorrow.

JACK

You’re very happy, Mummy.

ME

I sure am.

JACK

I think it’s because your porcupines are so good.

ME

I think you might be right.

JACK

I love porcupines.

And in this moment, so do I. They’re a funny little dish. Chicken mince rolled in rice and cooked in tomato soup. They will certainly never feature in any cordon bleu cookbooks, but they are undeniably delicious.

JACK

Can you help me build a really big shed out of Lego after this?

ME

Sure. What do you want to put in it?

JACK

Cars. One for you. One for me. And one for Daddy.

Ahhh . . . things seem to be moving forward. I resist the urge to interrogate him. To quiz him left, right and centre about whether or not he’s okay with the three separate cars in the metaphorical garage. I just let it sit there.

Once the porcupines have been consumed, we retreat to his cool, little boy bedroom and make a great big shed to park his matchbox cars in. I am so happy in this moment. Not just because Patrick has called, but because I feel wanted for the first time in ages. He’s going to take me to a movie. If only I could erase Bandana Bloke from last night.

Of course, by the time Saturday rolls around, I’ve tried on every outfit in my wardrobe a thousand times, workshopped topics of casual conversation and checked the details with my sister over and over. I told her about Bandana Bloke. She was philosophical.

SISTER

Get over it.

She suggested I go with a Jennifer Aniston look. Jeans, wedges, and unstructured jacket. Nice call.

As I wait for Patrick to arrive, I toss a handful of toasted almonds in my mouth. Good for the neurotransmitters. Might help the nerves. I never thought I’d be doing this. If they had named the girl least likely to get divorced, sleep with a bandana-wearing Neanderthal and then go on a date with a nice guy called Patrick while her little boy is babysat by her sister, then that person would have been me.

But he’s late. That means he hates me. He’s called it off. He’s not turning up. He’s standing me up. I stuff another handful of almonds into my mouth and pretend I don’t care while I try not to cry in front of my sister.

ME

I’m sorry to waste your time. I kind of had an inkling he wouldn’t turn up. He’s that type of guy. I don’t even think I’m that interested in him, to be honest.

SISTER

Bullshit. You’re into him. You’re just humiliated that he stood you up. It’s fine. I’ve been stood up a hundred times.

ME

Oh, I don’t think I’ve been stood up. I just think . . .

Saved by the bell! An early model Toyota screeches into my driveway and Patrick calls out as he rushes out of his car.

PATRICK

Sorry I’m late. Got lost. Still can’t work out the roads in this city.

ME

(with a mouthful of almonds)

No worries. I’ll just grab my bag.

I gulp the almonds down, pick as many of them as I can out of my teeth, grab my bag from the armchair and meet him on the front steps.

SISTER

Have fun! No home base on the first date!

Patrick laughs. He seems to appreciate my sister’s sense of humour much more than I do.

Our conversation on the way into town flows easily. He’s funny. Not gag-cracking funny, but Aussie, laconic funny. And gorgeous. His teeth are very straight. And white. He’s fit without being ridiculously buff and he’s also really interesting. He’s good at his job, which I already know from having worked with him, but he tells me more about himself. He cooks. He surfs. He plays music and dabbles in art. I have a moment of worry that maybe his surfing background is a bit too Puberty Blues, but then he reveals that he went to Uni. I heave a sigh of relief. I hope it’s not audible. Yes, I know I’m a snob, but I couldn’t date a surfer. Not a real one. Not even if he looked like Kelly Slater. Well, maybe I’d make an exception for Kelly Slater, but I couldn’t date a genuine board-waxing, monosyllabic, knuckle-dragging surfer. I guess this guy doesn’t fit that category if he went to Uni. Hang in there, girl.