Saltskin (13 page)

Gilda stopped shouting, feeling foolish and prudish
and old. She went up to Blanche, who stood with her
hands on her hips.

'Good one, Gilda. Way to scare him off. I almost had
him drinking the beer. Want some?' She held out a jam
jar of brown liquid, foaming and slightly sulphurous. 'It's
beer.'

Gilda bent and sniffed it, and reeled backwards at the
pong. '
Not
beer —it's pretend beer you've made out of a
chemical set. I know because I used to make it too. Did
you pee in it?'

'Naturally,' said Blanche.

'You can make people sick with that.'

'Well, you can make a girl pretty sick by sticking your
tongue in her throat and then telling everyone she's a
skank.'

'Oh, Blanche. I'm sorry. Did you really like him?'

Blanche shook her head and glared, but her face went
pink.

'Oh dear. Did he drink any?'

'He almost did, until you arrived all loony-bin,' Blanche
said sullenly.

'Sorry, honey. Try sardines in his schoolbag.' Gilda gave
the girl a friendly nudge and Blanche brightened. They
walked together back to the Qualm's. Just before Gilda
went inside she glanced back at the beach and her senses
picked up the rush of the waves.

Inside the clammy noise of the bar there was a gust of
wild wind. The band announced the last song, the crowd
groaned, and Gilda knew they'd play another.

'This is a new one I wrote back in LA,' said Ben. 'Ted
did the bridge, and it goes out to Gilda.' He raised his glass
and staggered.

'Charmed, I'm sure,' Sophia said under her breath.

Ben played solo on the piano and sang sweetly: 'I will
write to you to fill my days, to be near you, to relish having
you on my mind, but most of all to cast a spell on you
— hey, hey and I'll be dancing, dancing with you by the
breath of the cool moon, enraptured and captured — just
us in our swoon.'

Behind the bar Sophia rolled her eyes and Gilda rolled
her eyes back and Joel rolled his eyes and Val rolled his
eyes and they all laughed.

'God loves a trier,' said Joel, raising his glass and winking
at Gilda.

'You can finish if you like, Gilda,' said Sophia. 'Take a
seat by the harmless Joel and let me pour you a drink.'

Gilda looked doubtfully at Joel, who opened his mouth
wide and let his tongue hang out, very black maiden. She
could see what he must have looked like screaming on
stage, sweat flying, wearing a skull and crossbones T-shirt
like the one he was wearing now. She slipped onto the bar
stool and turned to the band. It was a lovely song with a
fine melody.

Sophia dipped the lights a little and the dancers, with
bodies pressed, swayed drunkenly. The song reached
its crescendo and the crowd cheered and whistled and
clapped.

'Encore!' yelled a voice, and then another, and soon
the room was stomping. 'Encore! Encore!'

Ben looked at Ted, who shrugged, and they started
the intro of their number one hit. The crowd went crazy,
including Gilda, who let out her own rock chick whistle,
which got a nod and grin from the band.

'Keep your pants on,' said Joel into his beer, and Gilda
gave him a dig in the ribs.

'Oi,' said Martha in Gilda's ear.

'Hey, where have you been? Where did you and Maggie
go?'

'To see a man about a dog,' said Martha levelly. Too
levelly.

Gilda was in tune with every nuance in her cousin's
voice — a year of mute listening sharpens the ear. She
opened her mouth to say something but intercepted a
glance between Martha to Sophia. Bloody hell, will they
just spit out whatever it is! she thought. She spun around
to Sophia, who was in the act of waving her arms and
shaking her head at Martha.

Gilda eyed her cousin.

Martha pretended not to notice but her voice wavered
as she ordered a drink. Her eyes flickered, settled on the
other side of Joel. Meanwhile, Sophia busied herself
collecting glasses.

'So who is he? The man I heard you talking about. What
are you lot up to?' Gilda yelled over at Martha, who shook
her head and made out she couldn't hear by cupping her
ear and squinting.

A wave of fury washed over Gilda — the kind of rage
that drove her to say things she shouldn't. Her head rushed
with blood. In this town her reputation had too many
layers for her ever to pull away, ever to shed it. She felt
the heights of indignation. She felt like smashing a glass,
or yelling in someone's face. It engulfed her. Fine. They
could have their secrets. What did she care, really? She
could always take off to London again.

But she couldn't talk herself out of it. She felt her anger
swell inside, making her stronger, righteous.

'What's going on? Where did you and Maggie go
earlier? Where did Sophia go before, instead of emptying
ashtrays?' she shouted plaintively.

Martha was laughing and frowning at once. 'What's the
matter?'

Gilda realised she couldn't hear Martha, so Martha
probably couldn't hear her. She made a flourish with her
hand to say it doesn't matter and Martha slid her a shot.
Gilda sculled it, realising she was already a bit drunk.

Why was there this undercurrent of mystery? What
were they withholding and why? This town was a hellhole.
She started calculating how soon she could save enough
to get out.

The band finished and the crowd groaned. Sophia
turned the lights up full. No negotiating.

Ben swaggered over and threw his arm about Gilda's
shoulders. 'Darling . . .' he crooned, one eyebrow arched
lasciviously, his mouth in a pout, obviously designed to
be devastating. Gilda turned her face to him, deciding to
channel her anger into sexual desire.

Ben's pupils dilated. He stammered incoherently and
postured in an awkward way.

Gilda reached her arm around his neck, took his ear in
her mouth and breathed hotly. 'Let's go,' she said to him,
her eyes grave.

Gilda tossed her mane wantonly, adjusting her gait to
Ben's swagger. She caught Martha's eye and understood that
she would have done the same thing. Martha winked.

'No!' Val cried in mock anguish.

Tom watched her walk out with that same confidence
Mary had had. The same prowess. Somehow they both
made sluttishness look like victory.

Gilda had always found that a sexual adventure helped
when she wanted to get out of her own life. Once outside,
she kissed Ben on the mouth, let her tongue be pliant. Men
and their hungers were a tonic for Gilda, her drug, and the
men were always so grateful. Let tomorrow take care of
itself. If she kissed him hard enough ground against him
hard enough loved him hard enough he just might stay
around, and if she willed it with all her might, he might be
the one. For a while, at least, she didn't have to be alone.

And yet, even as she received his return kiss, even as she
lifted the underwire of her bra for his fingers, she knew she
was going through the motions of a habit that no longer
served her. But she went anyway. Ben thrust his pelvis at
her and she felt his hardness as he pressed her against the
railing of the fire escape. She looked teasingly into his eyes
and he stroked her lip, pushed his finger into her mouth.

And then a pain like a bitten tongue jarred her head and weakened
her spine. She felt herself fall, struggled to remember something that was
once important, but sleepiness, passive and quick, clouded in, and her consciousness
drifted away from her like a helium balloon. She slumped.

Martha knew what Gilda was doing, had done it plenty
herself. And who could tell the good guys from the bad
in the end? She twirled her barstool back to the bar with
finality.

'We have to tell her — she's on to us. She's getting pissed
off,' Martha said.

'Nonsense, pet. Maggie and I know what we're doing.'

'But what if we're wrong? What if our meddling causes
more harm than good?' Martha wondered if Gilda would
have gone with Ben if they'd told her the truth instead
of fobbing her off. She didn't see how dragging up the
past was going to help. No one is perfect; everyone's got
something. Why do we have to fix everything and mould
people to a uniform plastic? She drummed her fingers on
the counter.

'Look, sweetheart, she'll work out her tension in the
bedroom tonight — it'll take the edge off. And tomorrow
it'll be fine. We only need a few more days anyhow, and, like
I say, what is for you won't go by you. Honey, everything
is perfect: you just can't see it yet.' Sophia raised her arms
like a saint and poured Martha a shot of tequila.

Joel was staring at the door as if he might follow Gilda
and Ben. But instead he slowly turned back to the bar.

Gilda:

The sun is bright, as bright as headlights on full beam, and it
hurts her eyes, mesmerises her. She tries to run but her legs won't
move, as though from the waist down she doesn't exist. A woman
is trying to make her drink something black and inky. The woman
is telling her it will help with her forgetting, but she won't drink
it. She's not thirsty or hungry or anything but numb. The woman
pushes it against her mouth. It is slightly sticky like molasses and
as black as a hole, and the rosemary aroma is overwhelming.

The woman insists and her face is worried. She wears a locket
and it sways like a pendulum back and forth, back and forth.
Eve swallows. Black tar streaks her chin and she closes her eyes
against the light and sinks down and down and now she is out,
as in a new world, as if dropped from a slit in the sky and she
is peaceful, like breath, like oxygen, and we fly together, though
nothing moves and yet we are soaring fast and I am with her and
it is exhilarating, but she can't see me. I am her shadow.

I reach to touch her but she is just fractured light, a hologram,
and it is cold, like opening a fridge door, and I cannot stop
looking at her. I try to move my eyes away but they won't leave
her, fearing that if they do she will disappear, that she is only there
because of my seeing. Like, is the grass green at night, y'know.

And her coldness is not without warmth, comfort is irrelevant,
there are no senses to feed, to cater to. There are no memories.
There is no before, there is no future. It is morphing. We move
over a landscape like acres of liquid coal and then we are on a
beach, but just a piece, like a jigsaw puzzle on a black cloth and a
man is in the water. He is frozen still, as if the film has jammed
and she stares at him, expecting to know him, but she doesn't,
and I want her to leave. We should not be here. I want her to
somehow focus on me.

And then it judders, the vision, and then an awful roar loud
like a train in a tunnel and the man: he moves and he's worried,
agitated, and I don't know why we are here when we could be
flying and I reach again for her and this time she turns towards
me and suddenly she knows I am here.

Gilda disentangled herself from Ben Johnston and slithered
off the hotel bed. In the bathroom she ran the water in the
basin so hard it splashed the mirror, and she put her face
under the spout. She looked up and her reflection made
her wince: mascara streaked, hair knotted. Her mouth was
dry as sand. She put her hand to the base of her neck,
feeling for the throb.

Her memory of the night before was a bit patchy.
She had drunk too much, maybe. She slitted her eyes in
concentration. Had she dreamed? She was not sure, could
not piece together the snapshots of the night. If she had
dreamed she should feel different — lighter, relieved. But
she didn't. She moved her fingers into the hollow at the
base of her skull as if searching for a lost pulse. Someone
had told her once it was the spirit gland. She felt cheated.
Why couldn't she remember whether she'd dreamed? She
dried her face on a damp towel she found on the floor and
went back into the bedroom.

Her clothes were folded neatly on a chair. Not something
she would do. She put them on, making a yuck noise when
she noticed a dry patch, like PVA glue, on her thigh.

Ben was sprawled still in the curvature of her shape. He
looked angelic with his pale peaches and cream complexion.
Why do men look so darling asleep? Gilda mused, and why
now, when she looked at him, did she consider maybe he
had something? She liked being awake when others were
asleep, feeling she were their guardian.

Suddenly she remembered and slapped her hand over
her mouth. She had fainted. Had been out not long,
surely, only a minute or two, not much longer? Oh God.
Gilda grimaced as she recalled stumbling up the stairs,
him leaning on her, her leaning on him, crashing into the
walls. She hadn't been that out of it, had she? She saw
herself opening the mini-bar and piling the tiny bottles on
the bed, him laughing indulgently, taking off his jacket,
loosening his tie.

She had downed three little bottles in a row, as horrid as
petrol — and fuel of a kind. Walking over to him unsteadily,
her face all lascivious pout and fluttering lids. Now she
turned her face to the wall in shame. Oh God, she had
put on quite a show. Was the star of the show: a feather
dancer in the Moulin Rouge, a pole dancer on K Road,
a concubine in Arabia, a temptress, a jezebel. Oh God.
Flashes came back: he had her pinned down as if he were
a fork over a spider. He hadn't waited for her to be ready
and she hadn't said anything. Why not?

Suddenly Gilda needed to get out of the room: it
spooked her. She needed her boots. She began to search but
her attention kept being drawn back to the man sleeping
on the bed. She wanted to wake him, bounce on him and
launch into the future with him . . . Except there never was
a future. Why was it always so different in the morning?

She decided to leave a note, but everything she thought
of saying sounded like a request. She wanted to be direct
but it felt wrong, ill-mannered or somehow debasing, to
make emotional demands on him. And what was there to
say? I love you? She guffawed, but still she reached out
as across a divide and touched his sleeping brow with her
fingertips, then quickly snatched her hand back.

She hadn't liked the sex, she realised. It had been too
fast, too hard. She realised she barely liked him. Hadn't
last night, either. So why had she even come to the room?
Blast it, she cussed. All of this because of Martha's mystery
man.
Why won't they be straight up with me?

Yet that excuse didn't hold any water. The truth was,
she had wanted to be wild. What had she done? How
stupid.

She looked under the bed for her boots. It was all a
waste of time anyway because the whole town knew
the Page women were mistresses — not wives. An empty
whisky bottle rolled when she shoved it. Her thoughts ran
loquacious: Women in the world are as pretty, intoxicating
and sweet as flowers. Why on earth would any man stick
with just one? Least of all her. If she were a man she
wondered if she would do the same thing — race around
planting seed like it was going out of fashion.

She still couldn't find her boots. Well, she wasn't going
to put herself up for sale again. She always gave away more
than she intended. They could have her body, but never
her heart. That was the secret. But that didn't feel right
either. Gilda stood up, annoyed, muddled. Stuff the boots.
She took one last look at the sleeping rock star and bent
to sniff his neck. She touched his skin, awed, for it was as
soft as bread. She went to the door, opening it carefully,
and slipped away.

Stealthily Gilda tiptoed down the hotel hallway like
a fugitive in a cartoon, exaggerated and comical, making
herself snigger. She snuck out the front door onto the street
and bumped smack into Joel. She gave a yelp. He flicked
her up and down with hard eyes and shook his head. 'The
seedy walk of shame.'

'Don't start. Go get us a coffee,' she said imperiously.

He passed her his lit cigarette and went into the
Qualm's Arms.

Gilda sat on the step outside and took a drag. The
smoke tasted foul, just like it did in the school paddock all
those years ago. It made her skin fizz and she felt woozy;
her headache started up its thump thump and for that she
was grateful. If she had a turn she wanted to be there for
it, not have it be vague, for the dreams always stayed with
her when they happened in daylight, as well versed as a
memorised poem.

She flicked away the cigarette and looked down the
street. It was quaint, and an unexpected gust of nostalgia
rose in her. She tilted her head to the sun and smiled, for
in a way she had made a lucky escape. She knew what
words the Bens of this world chose. She certainly didn't
need to hear them again; the message was always the same:
Cheers, darling, see you around.

'Warm today,' said Joel, handing her a coffee, and she
saw again the Madonna tattoo on his arm.

'She really is fantastic.'

'The sacred feminine is where it's at,' said Joel cryptically.

Gilda choked, gagged on her laughter, searching his
face for the joke, but when he returned her stare levelly,
sagely, she cried, 'That is such a bizarre comment coming
from you, Joel.'

'Why? Because I'm a
maaaan
?' He drawled out the
word.

'Yeah, because you're a man.' Gilda swilled a mouthful
of coffee, sweet and strong. It stripped away the ugly
feeling in her mouth, but as soon as she swallowed her
mouth felt dry and sticky again. 'And because I bet that
wasn't what you were thinking when you threw your last
weeping girlfriend onto the reject pile,' she added slyly.

Joel had the grace to look pained, she noted with
triumph.

But he was shocked at her crassness. He had never
dumped a girl in his life. He knew how she had him
classified, in her judgemental absolutes: convicted before
a trial.

'You men wouldn't know a good thing if it sat in your
lap,' Gilda said, trying to pick a fight.

He smiled at her, amused, tolerant but not ingratiating.
'We just don't understand each other — men and women.
You lot are a mysterious force that will destroy us unless
we destroy you. You should all wear burkhas.' He added
the last just to rile her. He liked the charge she was sending
out. He liked her passion. He could tell she was getting
mad.

And she was. He was too together, more than he had
a right to be, and he was calmer than her, which was
infuriating. Gilda looked up at the sky. 'Sex is all you
blokes want,' she said languidly, pseudo-bored, aloof.

Joel gave a short laugh, then an expression of sadness
crossed his face. 'No,' he said, looking into space.

'Yes, you want to conquer,' Gilda retorted, and yet
she could see the irony, for it was she who invariably
conquered, leaving before she could be left. Attack was
always the best form of defence. She was no fool. She
looked at him defiantly and was momentarily arrested by
his long, thick eyelashes. She picked up a stone and threw
it an impressive distance.

Their eyes followed the stone in silence. Not quite
checkmate.

Joel lit another cigarette, collecting his thoughts. Only
the brave is worthy of the fair maiden. He slowly blew out
the smoke and said, 'You have forgotten how nice peace
is.'

Gilda blinked rapidly. Clever men knew how to get in
under the radar. Tell the girl she has a problem and they
have the quick fix. Yet the mention of peace made her
uneasy, curdling the acid in her empty stomach. 'Forgotten
how nice peace is — Joel, where do you get such shite?'
Gilda mocked him just like she mocked all the boys. He's
a nutter, she told herself. How in hell had he got on in the
world if he went around talking like some prophet? It was
intrusive, too close. People didn't like that. No wonder he
was here in the back of beyond.

'Have you been gorging on self-help books?' she said.

'I made it up just then,' he said truthfully, not bothered
by her sarcasm. 'I'm looking for peace too: that I've-comehome
feeling. We all are.'

Gilda felt her anger, her indignant confusion rise. God,
she did want peace, but the problem was she remembered
too much. There were too many memories. Her damned
dreams. She frowned and said in a brittle tone, 'We're born,
we die. That's it. Just like sheep and every other animal.'

'You're afraid.' He swivelled and faced her.

'That's rich. What of, big man — you?' She scoffed
and fixed him with one of her never-fail vixen glares that
shouted that she didn't need anyone, and tossed her head
for good measure.

But the real Gilda shone out from behind the bravado,
just for a second, and Joel saw she was sweet and he was
crushed. The tone of his voice softened. 'I'm sure you are
not afraid of any man, but maybe of yourself.' He wanted
to smooth her feathers, yet he knew she'd take flight at the
slightest touch. 'Hey, it's okay. Fear is an indication that
there is an opportunity for growth. Everyone is afraid of
feeling too deeply. That's the gamble, the game. But that
shouldn't stop us.'

He realised he was putting her off but he wanted to
take the trouble out of her eyes. He rubbed his palms
together and realised they were sweaty. He flicked away his
cigarette. He was aware of a shift between them, as though
a new foothold had been found, and he had the brief but
profound notion that she needed him. He smiled at the
beauty of it.

But Gilda wasn't about to buy anything he was selling.
'Gambling is a vice. My experience is that men operate on
the snatch-and-grab philosophy and are therefore not the
best basket to put one's eggs in. And an egg is about the
one thing that can't be mended once broken.'

'As to your faith so shall it be,' Joel said tentatively, as
if coaxing someone off a ledge.

'What?' No wonder he needed to get out of his head
through drugs, she thought unkindly. He annoyed her so
much she wanted to pull his hair. She stared at him, baffled.
She felt she were on a debating team and had been briefed
on the wrong topic. She didn't want to be having a deep
conversation right now. She thought, I'll just stand up now
and walk away. Then she nodded her head and smirked.
Boy, this one was good, a real campaigner, and women are
so easy, so willing to believe a pretty tongue.

But it wasn't his actual words that made her stomach
drop. It was the fact that he was getting too close — poking,
it felt like, at her secrets — and it made her wild. She took
a swig of coffee, like a truck driver downing a pint, and
wildly wondered if it was too early for a drink.

'I'm just saying you get what you believe,' he
murmured.

'I don't need you to fix me. Why don't you find another
damsel to distress,' Gilda quipped.

He chuckled. His expression was frank with empathy
but Gilda read it as pity, and she started to talk shrilly.
'Faith? Faith has nothing to do with it. It's not that simple.
Some people just aren't cut out for "happy ever after".
There are too many unreturned phone calls and smashed
promises in the glory stories of every woman in my family.'
She felt she were being trashed in a wave. Blood thudded
in her ears as her rage rose, and she held up her attitude
like a sheet of iron pinging off bullets.

'But you can choose. It
can
be simple,' said Joel.

Gilda curled her fingers in a clutching motion in an
effort to find the right words. She spoke ardently. 'Joel,
love is not real; it's a mere chemical reaction, a trick of
nature to get the girls and boys from opposite sides of
the disco to get it on and have unwanted children. Look,
I know all about falling in love. I know all about the
wretchedness of a rejected heart, and I'm telling you it is
a waste of energy. The idea of two halves making a whole,
the delusion of one-flesh-soul-soup is completely false. It's
for troubadours and Shakespeare; it's theatrics, not reality.
Romance is a fashion, and the sooner the whole world
realises that love is not the answer the better off everyone
will be. Then people will get together simply to procreate
and run a household, and there will be no more divorce
and probably no more marriage and then we can all live
sanely ever after.'

Joel could barely handle the sadness of her words.
She was wrong, and he knew it with such force that his
face contorted in a kind of agony. 'But what if your heart
doesn't break? What if your love does go on forever?'

Her heart skipped a beat but Gilda snorted and poured
all the scorn she had. 'Poor you.'

He looked at her, flushed, and thought: She has the
face of a movie star — tempestuous and impossibly planed;
and in that moment she seemed to Joel to be surrounded
by light, and he was the source of it. Somehow it was
beaming out from his heart. It rocked him. He suddenly
wanted more than anything to touch her, as softly as a
butterfly, or to hold her wrists in the air and shake her, and
then fold her arms behind her until she stilled. He wished
he could change her weather, and yet he also had the sense
that there was time — there would be time for everything.
He let out his breath on a long whistle. 'Why are you so
angry?'