Art Ache Read online

  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.

  ME

  (Calling)

  Time to go, Jacko.

  JACK

  Mummyyyy. One more minute.

  BOOFHEAD

  You were quick.

  ME

  Yep. Pretty straightforward. Sorry, sweetheart, Daddy’s got to get back to work.

  BOOFHEAD

  Come on, mate, I’ll piggyback you to Mum’s car.

  Just keep it bright and breezy, Persephone.

  BOOFHEAD

  Mind driving me back to the theatre?

  ME

  Sure.

  BOOFHEAD

  Had a big session at the gym last night. Tight hammies.

  ME

  Yep.

  I keep it so bright and breezy.

  BOOFHEAD

  You all right?

  ME

  Yep. All good.

  It isn’t until I’ve dropped Boofhead back at the theatre that I realise I hardly said two words to him. Not all bad.

  I drive away from the theatre, through the city and turn onto the freeway. As I glance in the rear view mirror, I see that Jack has nodded off. All that park action has plumb tuckered him out.

  I allow myself a moment to breathe. Let it out, Persephone. Let it go. The man had a terrible marriage, he bought his wife earrings for three anniversaries in a row, she got the shits and now she’s left him. It’s not your fault. Yes, you let the cat out of the bag, but you didn’t put the cat into the bag in the first place. Woeful analogy, Persephone, but the point is you’re not responsible for the guy’s actions.

  I still feel nervous though. I remind myself he’s just a lonely old medieval re-enactor who has been dumped by his wife. We actually have something in common. Being dumped, that is.

  I let out an audible sigh and switch on the radio. Best to distract my overactive and overly romantic mind from venturing anywhere it doesn’t need to go.

  I manage to catch the news bulletin, a litany of petty grievances and international politics that make little or no sense. The same people doing the same stuff and expecting a different result. I tune out as I zip along the freeway, reminding myself the world isn’t actually ending, sometimes it just feels that way.

  I’m only half listening when I hear:

  NEWSREADER

  . . . northern suburb and it appears the man has what may be a replica sword and is holding his wife hostage in her car . . . police are at the scene, attempting to talk him round.

  What! Are you serious? This is too much! I can’t do anything right. I’m a bloody danger to myself and others. Everything I touch turns to shit! I’ve not only ruined his anniversary, I’ve pushed the poor, old bugger over the edge! He’s gone rogue! And it’s all my fault.

  Concentrate, Persephone. Drive the car without crashing.

  I get home, manage to transfer Jack to his bed to continue his nap and feel the desperate urge to ring someone. Mum and Dad aren’t here and even if they were, they’d just panic. Boofhead’s off limits. My agent will only blame me. My sister . . .

  SISTER

  Hello?

  ME:

  How much damage can you do with a replica sword?

  SISTER

  You haven’t/

  ME

  /of course not. It’s a guy I work with.

  SISTER:

  Northern suburb guy?

  ME

  Yes!

  SISTER:

  He won’t hurt her. He’s just crying out for attention. “She left me.” Boo hoo.

  ME

  It’s my fault.

  SISTER

  What?

  ME

  His marriage break-up.

  SISTER

  Please God, tell me you didn’t shag him. He’s fucking hideous! I just saw him on the news.

  ME

  I haven’t shagged anyone.

  SISTER

  That’s a big part of the problem.

  ME

  I put my foot in it. I told his wife what her anniversary present was.

  SISTER

  That’s not enough to push a person over the edge.

  ME

  Then he showed me the sword and/

  SISTER

  /slow down. This guy is holding his wife hostage because he’s a nutter. It has absolutely nothing to do with you.

  ME

  Ruining someone’s anniversary is a big deal.

  SISTER

  Yeah, but it’s no reason to hold someone hostage with a sword, replica or not.

  My throat aches. I can feel a lump in it the size of a fist. I start to sob.

  SISTER

  Are you crying?

  It’s like she’s asking me if I’ve shat myself. Her voice is full of disgust and repulsion. My sobs are gut-wrenching and very, very real. I’ve connected with my centre, as they used to say in acting school. Oh, Stanislavski would be impressed. And Kristin Linklater. And Cicely Berry.

  ME

  I can’t do anything right. Everything I touch turns to absolute/

  SISTER

  /bullshit. I told you that husband of yours was a self-centred, narcissistic wanker. And probably gay to boot.

  ME

  What?

  SISTER

  He’s too well-groomed to be straight. He’s so fucking self-obsessed. And he works in theatre. Say no more.

  ME

&nb
sp; That doesn’t mean he’s gay.

  SISTER

  Suit yourself. All I’m saying is that it was inevitable he’d leave.

  ME

  Why didn’t you tell me?

  SISTER

  Would you have listened?

  I sob louder now. I can just imagine her on the other end of the phone holding the receiver away from her Chanel Vitalumièred face.

  SISTER

  It seems like the end of the world right now, but give it a few months and you’ll be fine.

  ME

  You think so?

  SISTER

  Totally. And don’t worry about the nutter with the sword. He won’t stab her. He’s just flexing his useless old muscles. They’ll do him for disturbing the peace or something and he’ll get off. He’s a fucking Freemason, or something.

  ME

  Really?

  SISTER

  Really. Freemasons never go to jail.

  I gather myself together.

  ME

  Thanks for listening to me.

  SISTER

  Don’t get mushy.

  ME

  I’m not.

  SISTER

  You’ve got that tone.

  ME

  I haven’t.

  SISTER

  Any minute now, you’ll tell me you love me.

  ME

  I do love you.

  SISTER

  Yeah I know, but I don’t need to hear it all the time.

  ME

  I like to tell you.

  SISTER

  That’s because you’ve been dumped and you feel like a loser.

  ME

  I haven’t been dumped.

  SISTER

  Yes, you have. But you’re not a loser.

  ME

  Thanks. Bye.

  Just as I’m about to hang the phone up, she shouts into it.

  SISTER

  Love you!

  I hang up, laughing. I feel so glad she’s in my life, and I’m hoping to hell the metabolic psychopathic Freemason caretaker doesn’t stab his wife.

  Chapter 7