Art Ache (6 page)

Chapter 6

The following morning. At home, on the phone.

“True wisdom comes to each of us when we realise how little we understand about life, ourselves, and the world around us.” Socrates.

Witchypoo calls the next morning.

WITCHYPOO

They want you to go back and re-do some lines for the computer game.

I daren’t tell her that I have singlehandedly destroyed the caretaker’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

WITCHYPOO

Not your fault. They changed some of the lines in the script.

I’m stuck. After a multitude of phone calls, I’ve managed to secure a childcare place for Jack, but it doesn’t start for another two weeks. So no daycare yet and Mum and Dad are away for a couple of days visiting her sister at the north coast.

ME

I’ve got Jack.

AGENT

Well, you can’t take him with you. You’ll just have to work it out.

Click. She’s hung up. A woman of few words. I’ll just have to work it out. Add that to the litany of phrases echoing around my brain. “You just don’t do it for me anymore.” “I don’t love you anymore.” “You’ll just have to work it out.” It would be an understatement to say I’m feeling alone. The word ‘abandoned’ springs to mind.

Boofhead, I mean Tom, will have to do it. He is Jack’s dad, after all. This is the way of the future. I’ll just have to ring him. Ring him? Ha, gone are the days when I could have asked him over breakfast.

Will I always remember his phone number or will it conveniently drop out of my head when I least expect it, just like your PIN does sometimes? I hope so.

ME

I’ve got a voice-over this morning and I need you to look after Jack.

BOOFHEAD

I’m at work.

ME

I know, but I can’t take him with me and Mum and Dad are away.

BOOFHEAD

What about the childcare thing you were talking about?

ME

They don’t have a place for him yet.

BOOFHEAD

Sorry, can’t help you.

He’s talking to me like some bloody stranger who’s asking for a donation to Surf Life Saving.

ME

You have to.

BOOFHEAD

No I don’t.

ME

He’s your son. You’ve . . .

I stop short of telling him he’s abandoned us and instead try a more diplomatic strategy. I refine my script.

ME

You’ve moved out of the house, but you haven’t moved out of his life. This is the reality of where we’re at.

Quite a clumsy way of putting it, Persephone, but I think he’ll get the point.

BOOFHEAD

Just as you can’t take him to your job, I can’t take him to mine.

Hang in there Pers, you can do it.

ME

My job is freelance. I work with these people once in a blue moon and they pay me very well. Your job is full-time and you work with people you’ve known for years. They’ll be more understanding. I’ll drop him at the theatre’s office in about an hour and you can just take your lunch early and take him to the park. I’ll only be gone an hour.

I hang up before he has right of reply. I’m tempted to switch my phone off so I’ll be unavailable for any return calls. I leave it on and look at it, breathing deeply for what feels like an eternity, but is actually about twenty seconds. No call. I think I have successfully asserted myself with Boofhead. I mean Tom.

He’s standing out the front of the theatre when I pull up. He’s frowning. I choose to keep it bright and breezy.

ME

Dadda’s here, Jacko.

Jack

Daddy!

Handing Jack over, I feel like I’m in a scene from
Kramer Versus Kramer
, only I’m more like Dustin Hoffman than Meryl Streep.

ME

I’ve already put sunscreen on him and his hat’s in the bag. I’ll be back in an hour. Have fun! Love you, Jacko.

JACK

Come on, Daddy. Let’s go to the park!

BOOFHEAD

Tell your mum you love her, Jack.

Why bother? He’ll probably just end up abandoning me in ten years’ time anyway, following diligently in the footsteps of his narcissistic father.

I can’t believe I just thought that. I hope to God I didn’t say it out loud.

ME

It’s okay. I know he loves me.

I call into a shopping centre on the way to the studio and buy flowers, biscuits, a box of Cadbury Roses and then swing by a bottle shop and grab a bottle of champagne for good measure. I have to make it up to this man. I ruined his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I don’t want my bad marriage luck rubbing off on others.

I arrive early, but not too early. Just enough time to reiterate my humble apology and share a cup of tea with an aged metabolic caretaker. He looks decidedly more dishevelled since I saw him yesterday. I’m guessing the dinner was a disaster and the weekend getaway isn’t happening.

ME

Again, I am so sorry. I can’t tell you enough how absolutely dreadful I feel about putting my foot in it. I just genuinely thought you’d given her the earrings . . .

CARETAKER

Turns out she hates earrings. Not your fault.

ME

How can you hate earrings?

CARETAKER

Apparently, I’ve given her them for our last three anniversaries. How am I supposed to remember what I’ve bought her?

I’d like to tell him that perhaps that’s part of the problem. Perhaps he could be a bit more mindful and present in their marriage, but I think better of it.

CARETAKER

I’ve got something else I’d like to show you, today. No more bloody earrings.

He’s bought her a replacement gift, I think. What a nice idea. That’s a pro-active husband. He probably looks dishevelled because he was up all night having make-up sex with her.

He stands up and goes to the broom cupboard behind me and retrieves something. I can’t see what it is. It’s eerily quiet here today. The client hasn’t turned up yet and it looks like the Gen Y’er sound engineer is late.

I hear him behind me as I take a sip of tea.

CARETAKER

The apple of my eye.

It’s a computer. An Apple Mac. He’s bought her a computer and he’s going to bore me stiff about it. Oh well, that’s the least I deserve for ruining his twenty-fifth anniversary. A petty penance.

CARETAKER

She’s a real find.

He says it in a seductive, lascivious way as he makes his way back to his seat. I’m mid-sip of tea when I look up and realise it isn’t an Apple Mac. It isn’t anything to do with any sort of apple. He was indeed speaking figuratively when he referred to it as the ‘apple of his eye.’ It’s a sword!

He sits in front of me and polishes it with his hanky. He caresses it as if it’s . . . well, like it’s something he’d like to caress.

CARETAKER

An arming sword, also called a knight’s sword. Look at that. A single-handed cruciform hilt, double-edged blade.

He’s going to stab me. He was only pretending to be okay about me putting my foot in it but in actual fact, he’s going to stab me.

I look around the tearoom and for the first time, realise that all the windows have bars, and there is only one way into this room, which is the way I came in back down the hallway. And at the moment, he’s blocking my escape with his portly body and a rather large sword.

CARETAKER

A replica of course, but couldn’t you do some damage if it was real?

I choose to believe this is a rhetorical question and don’t answer.

I daren’t ask about the anniversary dinner or the intended weekend away and I can safely assume that he isn’t dishevelled from being up all night having make-up sex. Probably from doing sword practice. Thrusting and stabbing, or whatever it is you do with a sword. I can’t work out if he intends to stab me or his wife. Probably both.

CARETAKER

There are very few things you can rely on in this life, but this little beauty . . . well . . . she’s one of ’em.

He flashes it and does a slicing through the air motion. I’m recalling every movie I’ve ever seen that’s had a sword in it and am desperately trying to remember something useful. Blank. Nothing. Can’t think of a thing. Just say something, Pers. Anything. Keep him talking. Jolly him along until the client turns up.

ME

It looks very nice.

CARETAKER

The standard military sword of the medieval knight.

ME

Interesting.

CARETAKER

Yeah, gorgeous. But it’s how it strikes that’s important.

He holds it in front of him and takes aim at things around the room. Oh, shit. This is how it ends. Killed by a deranged, psychopathic metabolic caretaker who has a grudge against me because I let the cat out of the bag about the crappy citrine earrings he bought his wife for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. I didn’t even like them. Not really. I know I said I did, but I didn’t. I often do that, say things I don’t really mean in an attempt to keep the peace, but this time in particular, it definitely seems to have backfired. The peace has obviously not been kept. This situation is anything but peaceful.

I should have spoken the truth about the earrings.
They look like shit. It’s twenty-five years, buddy. I’m thinking the least the poor bitch deserves is some Tiffany. I mean, you’re no oil painting and as boring as bat shit. Splash out on a decent gift.
Of course, I didn’t say that. I gormlessly went along with the oohs and the aahs about the bloody earrings. And now he wants to kill me!

ME

Look, let me reiterate how sorry I am about yesterday. Twenty-five years. That’s special.

CARETAKER

Not so special that she wanted to make it twenty-six. She left me.

ME

Left you?

CARETAKER

Yep. Last night.

The dinner obviously didn’t happen.

CARETAKER

Told me the dinner was crap, threw the earrings at me and left. Been thinking about it for a while apparently.

Seems to be going around, this “thinking about leaving your spouse for a number of years before you actually tell them” syndrome.

ME

I’m so sorry.

CARETAKER

Not your fault.

And he turns the sword on me.

CARETAKER

What do you think?

I think he’s going to kill me. Or her. Or me, then her.

CARETAKER

Got a medieval re-enactment this weekend. This is going to look terrific with my chainmail armour.

Maybe not.

The buzzer goes off at the front door. Saved by the bell.

I hear the client whistling.

PATRICK

Anyone home?

ME

Patrick!

In this moment, he’s my hero.

The buzzer goes off again. It’s the Gen Y audio engineer.

I have sweated through my linen blouse and underpants. My hairline is sopping and my mascara is running. I bolt out of the chair and down the hallway to greet Patrick and the Gen Y’er with an overly effusive –

ME

Hi!

PATRICK

Hi. Sorry. Few corrections. Seems you just can’t have too many pseudo-Russian grunts in computer games these days.

ME

No worries.

My psychopathic metabolic caretaker friend strides through the foyer with a cheerful grin and a wave. He’s carrying a large bag with him, must be taking his replica home in preparation for the weekend re-enactment.

CARETAKER

I’ll leave you to it. Got a busy day.

Gen Y’er shuffles into the studio.

PATRICK

Not too many pick-ups. We’ll knock this over in a matter of minutes.

ME

Sure.

PATRICK

You okay?

ME

Just . . . busy.

PATRICK

Worried you’re going to put your foot in it again?

ME

Ha ha. Probably.

I make my way into the voice-over booth and read the corrections. Gen Y’er is efficient and businesslike. Patrick is organised and pleased with my work. I’m ecstatic. I read the whole thing in less than five minutes with no mistakes. I want to get the hell out of this building. I need to be as far away from the medieval sword-wielding re-enactor’s building as I can.

GEN Y

Jeez, you read that quickly.

PATRICK

Well, she is a one-take wonder.

ME

Yep. Slicing it up!

Is that the most appropriate thing to say?

ME

I’ve got to fly. Back to back sessions today. See you later.

PATRICK

Absolutely. Always great to work with you.

ME

Likewise. Hooroo!

I don’t breathe again until I’m in my car, doors locked, reversing at speed out of the car park.

I can’t believe that just happened. I take some deep breaths as I drive slowly and mindfully to the park.

I can see Boofhead pushing Jack on a swing. I want to run to him, Boofhead that is, throw my arms around him and tell him what’s just happened. Now I’m being ridiculous. Even in his finest hour, Boofhead was not “throwing arms around” material. He’d probably say something like, ”what sort of sword was it?” I decide to keep my heart-stopping experience to myself.