One Way or Another (14 page)

For days, I rolled the piece of paper in my hands. I folded it. I smelled it. I memorised the telephone number and then finally, one Thursday afternoon, I threw it out. I was no shrinking violet, but I didn't have the guts or the cruelty to go through with it. Hurting Billy was the last thing I wanted to do.

But that night, with the crunched up scrap of paper still in the bottom of the waste-paper basket, I watched
Miami Vice
alone in the big old house, with all its creaks and groans. No house guests. No Joey or Jock. No Billy. Just me. Snuggled up on the cigarette-stained couch, cuddling a cushion.

Ten times I called the warehouse and there was no answer. I was worried about Billy. If he was going to be horrendously late, he always called. I fell asleep in front of the television until I was woken up by its static drone at two in the morning. Billy was still not home, so I dragged myself up the narrow staircase and curled up in bed, with the balcony doors wide open so that I could hear the squeal of the front gate. I missed Possum. She would have kept me company like a chubby mink stole about my feet.

I finally fell asleep to the insistent tinnitus of a mosquito.

At nine the next morning Billy phoned, sounding sick and sorry.

‘Some of the guys dragged me out for drinks after work and we ended up back at Spider's and well … you know Spider. I've only just dragged myself out of there and caught a cab back to the warehouse. They're shipping the bloody thing out at five and I've got a shitload of work still to do.'

‘Hmmm,' I fumed into the phone. ‘You could have called. I've been worried.'

‘You're not my mother,' he grumbled and I wondered who the hell we were becoming.

‘Fine. Fine.' I stood with the phone in my hand, wanting to hang up but also wanting the last word. ‘Fine. You have a nice day.'

*

With a false sense of bravado, I decided to do the deed. But what if Sex-on-Legs really had meant a cup of tea? I paced up and down the hallway, having a monumental argument with myself that would have made Hamlet proud. Finally I reached for the old green phone and dialled.

The velvet voice answered. If his girlfriend had picked up I would have breathed a sigh of relief and hung up, freed from having to go through with it. I wanted this man so badly and yet I was afraid of the consequences.

‘Hello?' he asked again.

‘Hi …' I cleared my throat. ‘Hi, it's me. Nikki.'

‘Hey. Hi.' He sounded surprised to hear my voice. I was surprised to hear my voice.

‘I was just wondering if you wanted to come over for that … cup of tea?'

The silence lasted only a few seconds but it felt like an endless tunnel.

‘Ah … damn … I'm going to have to take a rain check, baby.' My mouth went dry, but it got worse. ‘I'm working on the car today … it's an imported American beastie and we start recording in the studio tomorrow … Damn …'

I bit my lip and let the pride drain out of my body and down through the cracks in the wooden floor.

‘Any other time,' he groaned.

‘That's fine. I just … well … some other time. See ya.' I hung up fast, before I could hyperventilate.

I had never, ever been turned down for sex before and I felt a mixture of humiliation and dismay. Had I lost that invisible touch? I was no great beauty but I had a purr that seemed to register on most radars. But now? Nineteen and on the shelf! As I stared into space, trying to fathom it, the peal of the telephone invaded my trance and I jumped, grabbing for it.

‘Stuff the car. I'm coming straight over.'

*

Argghhhh! Oh my God. It was going to happen. I couldn't go back now. Even if I panicked, I couldn't chicken out or I'd be that creature nobody loves, the most unforgivable of unforgivables – the Prick Teaser.

I quickly rang my friend Sam, who was working at a video store around the corner. My head was spinning and my nerves jingle-jangling.

‘I might be going to do something that I shouldn't or might not want to do, despite at the moment wanting to do it, do you understand?' I blabbered.

‘No, but why are you telling me this?'

‘Because I need you to ring me at ten-thirty.' I looked at my watch. It was nearly ten. ‘I need you to ring me and pretend there is an emergency and tell me that I have to go to your place immediately. Just ring me at that time and I'll do the rest. You know, in case I need an excuse to get out of it. The thing I might or might not want to do.'

A brief pause.

‘Who is it? You have to tell me.'

‘No-one. Well, someone. But no-one you need to know about. I'm just not sure I can do it, you know?' I trusted her implicitly and she knew that Billy and I were experiencing some tension. It was becoming apparent to those around us. Little snaps. Prods. Digs.

She stated her terms. ‘I'll call you right on the dot, if you promise to give me all the details later.'

‘If there's anything to tell,' I clarified.

‘If … yeah, right. Talk to you in half an hour.' She hung up.

I ran up the stairs, banging my shin painfully.

‘Shit. Damn!' I cursed.

Into the bathroom. I'd already showered and dressed in anticipation of hanky-panky, but now I ran a face washer over my sweatier regions, reapplied my make-up and gave my hair an extra tease and spray.

Checking the bedroom, I closed the French doors, locked them and pulled the heavy drapes. No full daylight for me, thank you very much. Dim lighting for a first date – always. In only a few minutes I heard the low hum of a V8 engine and took a deep breath.

We sat on the couch and drank tea. Herbal, at his insistence. Knee to knee, beside one another, facing the television, which was blank and dead. The electricity was palpable. I had a chronic dose of stage fright and I guess he was waiting for me to make the first move.

‘Do you have any hand cream?' he suddenly asked.

‘Yeah, up in the bathroom …' I began and stood up abruptly to get it. He stood at the same time and wrapped his arms around me. Standing there, arms dead by my side, I could feel the deep timbre of his heart, beating through his warm chest.

‘I can hear your heart beating,' I said and then grimaced at my own cliché.

Slowly I let my hands creep up over his tight buttocks to form a knot at the base of his spine. Leaning back, I looked into his face and we kissed. He swung me into the air and I gave a hoot of surprise as he carried me upstairs, struggling a little under my weight. I directed him to the bedroom, where I landed on the bed with a bounce. We both laughed loudly as he flopped down beside me. After pausing a moment to collect ourselves he leapt back up, stripped all his clothes off and stood before me like a proud offering. I was more timid and let him undress me, shielding parts of my body with his own.

The sex was like a powerful current, dragging me under the surface of reason and sanity. Our passion crescendoed until at last fatigue won out and we collapsed into silence on the sweat-soaked sheets. I shut my eyes and listened to his deep breathing. My heartbeat was visible in my chest, my breasts moving to the cardiac metronome.

‘Well, that was amazing,' he finally said in a hoarse whisper.

The phone beside the bed rang. Sam.

‘Too late,' I mumbled and put it back down.

The phone rang again almost immediately.

‘I'll talk to you later. I'm busy,' I snapped lazily.

‘Hello, Nikki?' I didn't recognise the voice.

‘Uh-huh,' I smiled, eyes roaming over the naked male body lying spent in my bed.

‘It's Suzie Maizels, the casting agent. We met during casting for
Bliss
.'

All post-coital cosiness flew out the window. She had my full attention and I sat bolt upright, putting on my grown-up voice.

‘Yes, Suzie, what can I do for you?'

‘I'm casting a film at the moment. Based on a Peter Carey short story. I have a part that I think is perfect for you. Can you come in to meet the director tomorrow?'

‘I'll be there,' I promised and hung up, elated.

A hand crept across the sheets like a pale tarantula and began tugging at my hip. I turned around and melted back into a passion I had no right or reason to be enjoying, a passion I knew would lead to pain, probably my own. But in those sultry moments, the need for pleasure far outweighed the fear of injury. I sank back into guilty caresses and felt the sharp edge of excitement slicing through my life. The madness of my libido had bolted from the stable once again.

The director, Brian Trenchard-Smith, was a confident, amiable chap. His name meant nothing to me, but I was later told that he had an impressive reputation for making cutting-edge films. We chatted in Suzie's office for about half an hour, laughing and joking about various things until he gave me the nod and said, ‘You'll do.'

Suzie smiled and showed me to the door.

‘So when will I hear back?' I asked, unsure what the next move was and whether Brian's okay meant I would be granted a screen test.

‘Oh, you've got the job,' she said. ‘We'll courier you a filming schedule and the script. You start filming in about six weeks, don't you, Brian?'

‘Something like that,' he nodded. ‘We'll see you then.' He gave me a wink. ‘Welcome aboard.'

I floated out to the waiting room, where Billy sat expectantly.

‘I got the role,' I beamed. ‘And I didn't even have to read from the script.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean I got the role. I'm Shirl in
Dead End Drive-In
. It's a futuristic thing, like
Mad Max
.'

‘Cool,' he said, and gave me a friendly slap on the back.

*

I was walking on sunshine for the next few weeks and let myself believe I could juggle my relationship with Billy and my affair with Sex-on-Legs. I threw myself into the fling like a crazed bungee jumper. Through a series of obsessive trysts, I alternated between deep, agonising guilt and the thrill of a wildly passionate secret life – two emotions I had long ago mastered.

‘Hey, Nik, guess where we've been invited?' Billy blew into the house like a warm tornado one afternoon, calling out for me to get dressed. We were heading up to Surry Hills, he announced, to the recording studio where Sex-on-Legs's band was working.

‘They want me to build something for their next film clip and asked me up there for dinner. They said it was fine to bring my missus along.'

I bristled at the term but gave an inward grin at the brazenness of my lover.

Rhinoceros Studios was tucked down a back street of Surry Hills, then a seedy inner suburb home to punks, deviates and homeless people, although even in the mid-eighties a small revival was going on. Townhouses were being bought and renovated by trendy yuppies with an eye to the future. The studio building, a concrete art deco office block, looked far more sombre and discreet than I imagined a rock and roll studio should. We climbed the stairs, knocked on the studio door and were ushered in. A handful of people lolled about and a couple of attractive girls were fussing in the kitchenette. I had never been inside a recording studio before and found it fascinating.

Looking down past the large glass coffee table, I immediately recognised Vivien, a small lady swallowed up by the large sofa. She was a mystical dark gypsy of a woman who had been a travelling companion of the Poet's band. She recognised me but was not sure where from.

‘Where do I know you from?' she whispered into my shoulder as I took the seat beside her.

‘Oh … around the traps. You know.' I smiled nonchalantly.

‘Hmmm,' she nodded wisely, her eyes glassy beneath the glossy black hair cut in the style of Cleopatra. ‘Ahh … I think I remember. You're a Persephone.' A knowing glint tickled the corner of her eye. A Persephone. So there were others. Perhaps I should track them all down and start my own band, the Persephones. I bristled, surprised that the memory of the Poet still held some power over me. ‘He's somewhere in Europe,' she whispered, answering my unasked question.

Sex-on-Legs gave us a tour and got me to sit at the drum kit and hit it a few times.

‘God, you're terrible,' he laughed.

Billy had a bash and proved to be more capable.

‘If we ever need an understudy drummer, you're our man,' Sex-on-Legs smiled patronisingly. I squirmed, distinctly uncomfortable. My lover seemed to revel in the situation, letting a sneaky hand creep between my legs as he walked behind us, ushering us out of the studio and back into the lounge.

Dinner had been brought in and we tucked in hungrily, while Sex-on-Legs returned to the recording booth above. He stared down at us through the glass and I stole occasional glances at him.

Eventually Billy wandered off to talk to someone about his potential job. Seeing me alone, Vivien sidled up and asked me if I wanted a Rohy.

‘What's that?' I asked naïvely.

‘A Rohypnol. A pill. It's a really mellow ride.' She smiled sleepily. ‘You'll like it.'

‘A downer? I don't know,' I mused. ‘You haven't got any coke, have you?'

‘No, I took it all. That's why I need the Rohy. Usually I've got plenty, though. If you want some, I've got some arriving early next week. I'll give you my number. I'm down in Bondi. Right on the beach. Hey, you guys should come down and visit some time,' she raved in a gypsy trance.

‘Sure,' I smiled. There was something sweetly maternal about her. To keep her company and to pass the time, I swallowed the tablet and it wasn't long before my legs began to feel like lead. The heaviness inched through my body until I felt I was melting into the couch. My mouth was dry and the room seemed darker. Thoughts came to my conscious brain five seconds after being generated. Even my vision seemed to have been set to some freaky time delay.

When Billy reappeared, I begged him to take me home. I could hear my bed singing to me like a faraway Siren. It was calling me home … calling me to oblivion. Vivien said she'd share a cab with us, so we bid the rock boys adieu and I stumbled on Billy's arm out of the building, down past the old bus depot and up onto Oxford Street, where we managed to hail a taxi. It dropped Billy and me off first and spirited Viv into the night. I was asleep two seconds before my head hit the pillow, drifting into dreamless unconsciousness beneath my mosquito net.

*

The next noise I heard was an insistent knocking at my front door. The sound came from far away and then beat its way into my head, waking me like an early morning jackhammer. In a blur, I rolled off the bed, fighting my way through the mosquito netting like it was a giant spider's web and stumbling, fully dressed, to the balcony. The sun was high in the sky and there was no sign of Billy in the bedroom.

‘Hello?' I called, my voice as husky as a bar-room blues singer.

‘Hey there, Juliet,' called Sex-on-Legs, who stood in the front courtyard looking up at me. ‘Little pig, little pig, let me come in, and I'll huff and I'll puff and you can blow …' He laughed.

‘Hang on,' I walked like an automaton, pulling my clothes off and stomping out of them, trying to untangle my feet without falling over. I grabbed a bathrobe and draped it about my nakedness, padded to the bathroom for a quick tooth-brush and shuffled to the front door. The keys were usually on the narrow hall table but the dish was empty.

‘Hang on,' I called again and stumbled about the living room, frantically lifting magazines and records and ashtrays, looking for my set of keys. Suddenly I stopped. I remembered that Billy had left his at work the day before. He must have used mine to lock the front door … from the outside. The front and back doors were both deadlocked. Without the key, I was a prisoner in my own house.

I went to the front window and pressed my face against the black iron bars.

‘I think Billy's locked me inside. He's got the keys. I can't open the door.'

‘Shit.' Hands on hips, he surveyed the balcony. It was a high climb, with only a few dead twigs to offer assistance.

‘Have you got a ladder?' he asked. ‘Out the back?'

‘I don't know. The side gate's open. You can go and check. Come up over Joey's balcony out the back so no-one sees you.'

He could find no ladder. He made a half-arsed attempt to climb to the back balcony but couldn't pull it off. It was after lunchtime now and my stomach was growling, so I wolfed down a piece of dry white bread before meeting my lover at the back kitchen door.

We kissed through the bars of the ancient iron security grille. Running our hands over each other like lovers at the jail gates, our kissing became more inflamed and we tugged at each other's clothes.

‘This might just work,' he laughed, unbuckling his snazzy cowboy belt buckle.

After some inventive and awkward oral play, we decided to do what we suspected no-one had ever done before in the hundred-year history of the house. In a slapstick routine, we managed to have sex through the prison door, with me on my knees, my lower legs jutting out through the bars, and him kneeling on the top concrete step. It was uncomfortable, hilarious and exhilarating.

‘The bars have left bruises on my hips,' he laughed as I fell in a heap to the kitchen floor, panting with giggles. ‘And your bum has red stripes like the arse of an exotic tiger. Red and white …'

I made us tea and we sat, our heads pressed together through the iron divide as we chatted.

‘I'm having so much fun. God, we're good together. But I do feel guilty. We're being very naughty.'

‘But it's so goddamn good
because
it's illicit, don't you see?' he said intensely.

‘I guess.' I retreated into thought as I watched a stream of orange leaves trickle to the ground from the tree behind him. He was so beautiful. I touched his cheek and felt terrible for what I was doing to Billy.

*

Common sense predicted that our union would not last forever. I knew what he was. A rock and roller with a massive libido – and I was not remotely interested in sharing a boyfriend. What we had was a fling, an exquisite erotic interlude that was bound to end soon enough. I could feel already that his attention had begun to wane. The world was his oyster and oysters were a powerful aphrodisiac.

I saw him only once more as a lover, when we laughed and beat ourselves against one another in a derelict building adjacent to the Pyrmont Bridge, thrilling to the sound of the distant cars. We saw each other occasionally after that at gigs and parties, but kept a polite distance. For a long and ruinous time I obsessed over Sex-on-Legs, grieving for that strange non-relationship we'd shared. Sometimes I would wake from a fitfully warm dream about him, suffering from tactile hallucinations.

I still loved Billy deeply and I berated myself constantly for having given in to such shallow urges. I'd wanted to have my cake and eat it too, which was exceptionally unfair. And like most secrets, this one was short-lived. Rumours spread quickly through the music scene and I stupidly, childishly, selfishly responded by admitting my sins to Billy. I thought it would be cathartic and enable us to wipe the slate clean. He coped with the pain without pushing me out the door and for a while our romance blossomed again. But over time my revelations became a thorn in our side that stung often, and hard.