Art Ache Read online

  PATRICK

  I was in a band once, it was a bit like that. Although not as intense. Except the time I busted my knee jumping around like Peter Garrett.

  ME

  Yikes. That’d hurt.

  PATRICK

  It killed.

  ME

  This is a nice walk. The bridge is great.

  PATRICK

  Glad I’ve given it a go.

  He walks a little closer to me and in this moment, he seems like a small boy. Vulnerable. I think he’s going to kiss me. It feels very awkward.

  He doesn’t. He just asks me very politely if it’s okay if he holds my hand. This melts my heart. He’s nervous. Not little boy nervous, but grown man nervous. He wants to get it right. And so do I.

  ME

  That’d be lovely.

  He gently takes my hand and we walk across the bridge in silence. The night is still and warm and we are two lost souls reaching out to each other. I have a stupid grin on my face. I am delighted.

  When we get back to my place, I ask him in and he says yes this time. Jack’s at Tom’s so we have the house to ourselves. I make him a cup of tea and as we sit on the couch and drink it, I’m convinced he’s going to kiss me.

  He drinks his tea very quickly and then tells me he’d better go. I walk him to the door and as I’m saying goodbye, he grabs me mid-sentence and plants a big, solid kiss right on my mouth. I respond and as it comes to a natural end, he heaves a great sigh of relief and says:

  PATRICK

  Thank God! I’ve wanted to do that for ages, but you make me so nervous . . .

  ME

  Nervous?

  PATRICK

  You’re way out of my league, but I really like you.

  He obviously doesn’t know about Bandana Bloke. He doesn’t know I’m a half-bogan. Half-bogans are not way out of anyone’s league.

  We kiss again. This time he traces the outside of my torso and waist with his hands.

  PATRICK

  You are so gorgeous. I can’t believe I’m kissing you.

  ME

  We’re in the doorway. My neighbours will be having a field day.

  PATRICK

  Who cares. This is bliss.

  The radio plays in the background and we kiss for the entire duration of The Doors, The End. Even though this might well be the beginning. He’s sweet and kind and gentle and a great kisser. And it’s a very long song. I’m happy.

  PATRICK

  I’d better go. Can I take you out again?

  ME

  Sure.

  PATRICK

  I’ve had a great night.

  ME

  Me too.

  PATRICK

  I’ll call you tomorrow.

  I feel the cool night air on my cheeks as he walks to his car. My lips feel alive and happy. And so do I. There is life after Boofhead . . . and after Bandana Bloke.

  Chapter 19

  Friday night. Patrick’s house.

  “A forest bird never wants a cage.” Henrik Ibsen.

  Patrick is funny. We chat, we laugh, we eat, we share fantasies about turning into old, fat people who eat whatever they want, whenever they want.

  PATRICK

  It’d be great.

  ME

  I know.

  PATRICK

  Just lard, lard, lard.

  ME

  Hold the lard, I’ll take the cakes.

  PATRICK

  I’m a biscuit man myself.

  I drive him back to his house. We’ve been on our third date. He asks me in and I agree. His house is neat. Very neat. A place for everything and everything in its place.

  While we’re sitting on the couch, he kisses me and it feels good, but I don’t want to sleep with him. All jokes aside about being a half-bogan, I can’t possibly go from having a husband I don’t do it for anymore, and not having sex for close to four years, to romping around with two different men in the space of a month. I decide to fess up.

  I blurt it out.

  ME

  I don’t want to sleep with you.

  PATRICK

  Ever?

  ME

  Not straight away. I don’t do casual.

  PATRICK

  Me neither.

  ME

  Well, apart from recently. I did casual then. Well, I nearly did casual. And I didn’t like it. It was out of character, actually.

  I’m over-sharing, but I want to tell the truth. It’s important to start as you intend to proceed. Much better than it coming out down the track. Put the cards on the table and then if he thinks I’m a full-bogan, half-bogan, semi-bogan, then that’s okay. At least he’s making an informed decision about me.

  ME

  “If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last . . . but in the onset come. So shall I taste at first the very worst of fortune’s might.”

  PATRICK

  Pardon?

  ME

  Shakespeare.

  PATRICK

  I don’t get it.

  ME

  In short, it’s better to know the worst upfront rather than have any nasty surprises later on. So I think it’s important that you know that I’m not interested in anything casual. I don’t sleep around. Even though the recent incident although not sleeping with someone, it was close and . . . well . . . it was after my birthday party actually . . .

  Awkward pause.

  PATRICK

  Ah . . .

  ME

  I went home with someone . . .

  PATRICK

  The guy with the thing on his head?

  ME

  Yeah, Bandana bloke. Daggy.

  PATRICK

  He seemed pretty interested in you. I actually thought you were probably dating. Although you’re way out of his league. Lucky bastard.

  He’s taking this very well.

  ME

  Anyway . . . I just wanted to put it on the table. Like I said, it’s out of character and it wasn’t the full ‘thing,’ but it’s still slightly bogan. It’s . . .

  PATRICK

  Oh well. We all make mistakes. I once dated a girl who used my razor to shave her mo, so a slip up with a bloke in a bandana is nothing. Thanks for telling me, though.

  ME

  Really?

  PATRICK

  Yeah.

  I heave a huge sigh of relief.

  ME

  I’m not sure of the rules of dating anymore. The last time I dated, I was twenty- something. The world’s a very different place now.

  PATRICK

  Know what you mean.

  I laugh.

  ME

  Anything you need to confess?

  I throw this line away casually, but a look flashes across his face. I can’t quite name it.

  PATRICK

  Nah . . . I’m pretty straightforward.

  ME

  You don’t do casual?

  PATRICK

  Nah.

  ME

  Great. Good. That’s great.

  Pause.

  PATRICK

  You can still stay, though. If you want. No compulsory shagging, I promise.

  I laugh. I like his sense of humour.

  PATRICK

  I’d like it. I like you.

  ME

  So would I. I think.

  PATRICK

  Jesus, you don’t give a guy much confidence.

  ME

  Sorry. I’m nervous.

  PATRICK

  Me too.
/>   He stretches out his hand.

  PATRICK

  Stay.

  ME

  Okay.

  Pause.

  PATRICK

  We’re talking in rhyme.

  ME

  We are?

  PATRICK

  How bizarre.

  ME

  This talking in rhyme.

  PATRICK

  You’re sublime.

  We both laugh like children. And continue our rhyming game while we finish our drinks. Then I do, it’s true. I stay. And play.

  And yes, we do sleep together, even though we both agreed staying over didn’t mean we had to. It wasn’t compulsory. It was voluntary and it was great! No thinking of Shirley MacLaine movies. We were compatible. And my possibly too high vagina still works!

  But now, the following morning, I just want to go home. I miss Jack. I always miss Jack. I realise I need a life, but when I’m not being a half-bogan, I’m more than half-Amish. Although I don’t make my own buttons or wear a headscarf and a pinafore, I do crave that wholesome, family life. I had that wholesome family life. Well, a version of it anyway.

  ME

  I’ve got to go.

  PATRICK

  It’s Saturday.

  ME

  Jack.

  PATRICK

  Cute kid. You’ve brought him into work a few times.

  ME

  He’s a treasure.

  PATRICK

  Looks like you.

  ME

  You think?

  PATRICK

  He’s got your eyes.

  I blush.

  PATRICK

  You’re gorgeous. You know that?

  I let out a snort-laugh.

  ME

  Thanks.

  PATRICK

  You’re very polite.

  ME

  I’m part-Amish.

  PATRICK

  (teasing)

  When you’re not being part-bogan.

  I laugh again. He’s disarming me. I feel he gets me. I don’t know if I want someone to get me.

  PATRICK

  Can we . . . can I . . . take you out for dinner this week?

  ME

  Um . . .

  Awkward pause.

  PATRICK

  It’s cool if you don’t want to. I can handle it.

  ME

  I do. I just . . . I’m trying to work out how to work it.

  PATRICK

  Jack?

  ME

  Yes. Um . . . if we do something early, like straight after work, he could have dinner with my parents while I have dinner with you.

  PATRICK

  Sounds like a plan. I’ll pick you up.

  ME

  I’ll meet you. Just text me the restaurant details.

  PATRICK

  Sure. Wednesday?

  ME

  That’d be great.

  He kisses me.

  PATRICK

  Cool. And I guess I’ll just have to book you for some voice-over sessions before then.

  ME

  I could only do them at lunchtime.

  PATRICK

  No rest for the wicked.

  ME

  It’s crazy when I’m in rehearsal. I race off each lunchtime to record voice-overs so I don’t lose my regular clients and then race back to the rehearsal room.

  PATRICK

  Cool. What’s the play about?

  ME

  It’s a narrative play with music about a couple of female friends dealing with the fallout from war.

  PATRICK

  Sounds heavy.

  ME

  Not at all. It’s moving and beautiful and funny. And the music’s great.

  PATRICK

  Cool.

  He kisses me. I literally go weak at the knees.

  PATRICK

  So in the meantime, I’ll write some scripts that require that sexy, smooth read you do so well.

  I launch into my ‘sexy’ ad read.

  ME

  “This has got to be the supreme indulgence.”

  PATRICK

  That’s the one!

  He kisses me again.

  PATRICK

  Hey, that was awesome.

  ME

  I agree.

  PATRICK

  I’ll call you.

  ME

  Really?

  PATRICK

  Yep. We’re not all bastards.

  But part of me thinks he won’t. Part of me thinks the dinner invitation was just a ruse and he’ll actually never call me again.

  Have I stopped trusting men? Persephone’s mum, Demeter, gave her the name Kore, meaning ‘maiden’ at birth. She wanted Persephone/Kore to remain a virgin goddess because she didn’t trust men, immortal or otherwise. Maybe the myth is rubbing off in more ways than I realise. Maybe it’s becoming my destiny.

  I grab my things, get to my car and by the time I’ve backed out of his driveway, my mobile is ringing. It’s Patrick.

  PATRICK

  Told you I’d call you.

  I laugh and feel very happy.

  Chapter 20

  Wednesday early evening. Patrick’s.

  “Art is the most intense mode of individualism that the world has known.” Oscar Wilde.

  I race from rehearsal, harmonies running through my head, duck home for a quick shower and then over to Patrick’s. Jack’s at Mum and Dad’s. Thank God for my parents, but I’m missing him like crazy. I’m having my gluten-free cake and eating it too, so to speak, but sometimes I just feel like I’d prefer a Sao biscuit.

  Just breathe, Persephone.

  Patrick is on the phone when I arrive. He gestures for me to come in. I think he’s talking to a family member. It’s all a bit hushed and Patrick sounds stressed. I feel awkward so I gesture that I’m going to duck to the toilet.

  I duck off to the loo even though I don’t need to go and spend more time than I need to sitting on the dunny with my knickers around my feet, pretending I’m peeing and tapping out the harmony part to one of the songs from rehearsal on my thigh.

  ME

  (humming)

  “I don’t wanna play house . . . ”

  No, don’t go up at the end of the line, Persephone. Stay on the same note. In the harmony part, play is the same note as house. In the melody, the notes are different but in the harmony, they’re the same. Okay. Practise it again.

  ME

  (humming)

  “I don’t wanna . . . ”

  No, Persephone. Stop practising your harmony parts in the dunny and get back into the lounge room. Surely he’ll be off the phone by now.

  He isn’t. He’s doing a lot of listening, but doesn’t appear to be enjoying it. I go to the kitchen and make a cup of tea. I feel nervous tonight. Anxious. Awkward. Out of place. I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I’m standing in his kitchen, which I have to admit is very neat and tidy, making a cup of tea that I don’t even want, while a man I hardly know is in the other room having a semi-heated conversation on the phone.

  I’d rather be home in bed, by myself. I’m exhausted. Exhausted from juggling the demands of single parenthood with the need to sustain a career and income. I’m beyond exhausted. I’m so wiped out, my comfy bed or curled up on my comfy couch, watching a mid-week re-run of a bad British detective show while Jack snores in his racing car bed would be much more appealing. I push any thoughts of Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot out of my mind and take a deep breath.

  Pat
rick enters the kitchen.

  PATRICK

  Ready?

  Patrick looks tired and is feigning cheerfulness.

  ME

  Sure.

  PATRICK

  Sorry about that. My mum. She’s got . . . some issues.

  We walk to the restaurant. I take some slow, long breaths and encourage the feelings of anxiety to go away. I feel borderline teary for no reason at all. I’m relieved to be in the fresh air. I love walking at night. Not alone. Too fearful for that, but with friends or family or . . . oh dear. I used to walk with Tom.

  I’m assailed by a memory of walking with him at night, along the road at the beach. We were on holidays. It’s a nice memory. We were happy. We walked past an Italian man at the beach and he stopped and said something in Italian that neither of us understood. When he saw our quizzical looks he stammered in broken English.

  Italian man: Beautiful couple. Young. In love. Stay that way.

  Sorry to disappoint you, Italian man.

  At the time, it felt very special. Like the Italian man had given us his blessing. But now, on reflection . . . oh dear . . . we didn’t stay that way. Beautiful, young, in love. I’m going to cry.

  PATRICK

  You okay?

  ME

  I’m fine. Just . . . you know . . .

  PATRICK

  You’ll feel better after we have some dinner.

  ME

  I like dinner.

  What’s that got to do with anything? Some unrelated statement. You like lunch too, Persephone. And breakfast, and even snacks. You like an array of meals, but no one wants to hear about it.

  ME

  Do you mind if we don’t go?

  PATRICK

  To dinner?

  ME

  Yeah. I’m tired, I’m . . .

  Crying before I know it.

  PATRICK

  Hey, what’s wrong?

  We stop under a tree on the nature strip and he takes my face in his hands.

  ME

  I miss Jack.

  PATRICK

  The little fella?

  ME

  Yeah. I’m working so much and . . .

  PATRICK

  Let’s turn around.