Art Ache Read online

Three weeks later. The airport.

  “I regard the theatre as the greatest of all art forms, the most immediate way in which a human being can share with another the sense of what it is to be a human being.” Oscar Wilde.

  He didn’t stab his wife. Thank God. But still, the last three weeks have been abysmal. Of course, it began with my husband leaving, then Mum thinking it must be my fault, and then I ruined a perfectly good anniversary surprise for a tragic metabolic Freemason, leading to the end of his marriage and almost a murder. But it gets worse. Jack has started daycare and he enjoys it so much, I feel superfluous. And tonight, he’s having his first sleepover at Boofhead’s. So as I’m standing at the airport saying goodbye to my sister, who is going to Vietnam to visit her lover, I have pangs of jealousy and envy. Why is her life so simple? So straightforward? So bloody breezy? There is pain in my heart and a deep feeling of longing in the pit of my stomach as I look down the barrel of an Easter all alone. My phone rings.

  ME

  Hello, Persephone speaking.

  PATRICK

  Hey . . . that guy took his wife hostage.

  ME

  Sorry?

  PATRICK

  It’s me, Patrick.

  Awkward pause.

  Ahh, the advertising agency guy from the computer game voice-over session.

  ME

  Patrick.

  PATRICK

  Yes. Sorry to call you direct, but your bloody agent never answers her phone.

  ME

  No worries. Oh . . . yeah. He did. With a replica sword.

  PATRICK

  Must have been inspired by the computer game.

  ME

  Nah, he does medieval re-enactments.

  PATRICK

  Ha ha. Seeking revenge because you spoilt the earrings surprise.

  ME

  That’s what I’m afraid of.

  PATRICK

  Nah, just your run of the mill nut job.

  ME

  Ha. Probably. Thank God he didn’t go through with it. They charged him for disturbing the peace apparently.

  PATRICK

  Idiot. Anyway, I’ve got a session for you, if you want it. Over the Easter break.

  ME

  I’m not doing anything.

  PATRICK

  Perfect. It’s for an international client. Easter break means nothing to them. I’ll text you the details.

  ME

  Sure.

  PATRICK

  Stay out of trouble until then.

  ME

  Will do.

  I like Patrick. He makes me laugh. And he’s cute. He looks like a sports coach. All fit, outdoorsy, positive and can do, but very Aussie. Probably married with six kids and a gorgeous wife. I bet he’s not spending Easter all by himself.

  Celine Dion makes another guest appearance in my brain. “Don’t wanna be eeeeee eeeeee, all by myself . . . ” Off you trot, Celine.

  My sister bustles back from having checked her bags in.

  SISTER

  Have an affair with that gorgeous actor. You’ve always had a crush on him. The one in your play. It’s fate.

  ME

  He’s just broken up with his wife. Maybe I will.

  SISTER

  You won’t.

  ME

  How do you know?

  SISTER

  Because you still love that douche bag, Tom. But hey . . . if you do shag the gorgeous actor, make sure you get a Brazilian first. And have a few drinks.

  ME

  No way.

  SISTER

  If you don’t shag him, I will.

  ME

  You would, too.

  SISTER

  Oh, lighten up! Don’t wallow, Pers. Have some fun. I want a full report when I get back.

  She pecks me on the cheek, and then races off through Customs.

  SISTER

  See ya!

  ME

  Love you!

  She rolls her eyes.

  ME

  (calls out)

  Enjoy yourself!

  She turns and gleefully reminds me at the top of her voice.

  SISTER

  And take your pills!

  Thanks. Everyone turns around to look at me. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. Anti-depressants. The counsellor, Marjory suggested I get a prescription. I went back to see her when I couldn’t stop crying. Time to check in regarding that lifejacket and those swimming lessons. I had a nagging thought that maybe mum was right, maybe I had done something wrong. Maybe in some way, this was all my fault. Maybe there was something I could have done to prevent it.

  MARJORY

  Of course you’ve done things wrong.

  ME

  Thanks.

  MARJORY

  That’s part of the process, accepting your responsibility in the demise of the relationship.

  ME

  It is a demise, isn’t it? A death, really.

  MARJORY

  Exactly.

  ME

  I didn’t want it to die.

  MARJORY

  That was beyond your control, I’m afraid. Now you need to learn to swim.

  Enough with the water metaphors, Marjory. I’m drowning in a sea of tears here.

  MARJORY

  I suggest you see your GP for a prescription of anti-depressants. Just in case you need them. You need to continue to function. You have a child to take care of. I also suggest you watch your sleep. Make sure you’re going to bed early and getting up early. Exercise each day and be kind to yourself.

  Easier said than done, but off I trot to the GP. An older woman with a gentle disposition, but an astute mind.

  GP

  Are you sure you need them?

  ME

  No. My counsellor suggested them.

  GP

  I’m not convinced.

  ME

  Neither was she.

  GP

  How’s your diet?

  ME

  Good.

  GP

  Sleep?

  ME

  Up and down.

  GP

  Sex life?

  ME

  Non-existent.

  GP

  That’s not good.

  Well, my husband has left me.

  GP

  When was the last time you had intercourse?

  I can’t bring myself to say it. I mutter it.

  ME

  Um . . . about three or so . . .

  GP

  Months?

  Now I’m really having trouble saying it. I clear my throat.

  ME

  Um . . . years.

  GP

  Three or so . . . years?

  I clear my throat again.

  ME

  Yes. When we conceived our son.

  GP

  And your son is . . .

  ME

  Four.

  GP

  That’s longer than three or so years.

  ME

  Probably.

  GP

  Do you have a libido?

  ME

  What’s that?

  I laugh at my bad joke. She doesn’t.

  ME

  Um . . . sometimes, but . . .

  GP

  But, what?

  ME

  Well . . . you see . . . it’s just that . . . since the birth . . . um . . . I’m not sure that . . . well even if
I did have a libido . . . I’m not sure it would . . . fit.

  GP

  Not sure what would fit?

  ME

  A penis.

  GP

  Your husband’s?

  ME:

  That definitely won’t fit. He’s left me . . . I’m fine, though . . .

  Clearly, that’s a lie.

  ME

  It wasn’t an issue when we were married because he didn’t want to have . . . intercourse.

  GP

  And you did?

  ME

  Sometimes. But he wasn’t really that interested. Well, not at all really.

  I feel like an adolescent being quizzed about my sex life by an overly inquisitive elder. Only difference is, when I was an adolescent there was actually something interesting to confess. Now, it’s just wide-open spaces. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero.

  GP

  But now . . .

  ME

  Well now, even if I wanted to, which I don’t, and let’s face it, who would I do it with? But even if I wanted to . . . well . . . I don’t know if I’d be able to . . . I’m just not sure . . .

  I’m gibbering. Talking too much. I want to make her feel okay about this. God knows why.

  ME

  . . . maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe that’s why he rejected me.

  Then I realise that I need her reassurance. I need to know I’m okay. That I’m not some sort of sexually rejectable freak.

  GP

  He rejected you?

  ME

  Yes.

  GP

  Maybe you rejected yourself, my dear.

  Good point.

  GP

  Did he witness the birth?

  ME

  He took photos. And moved the car. He was worried about getting a parking ticket.

  GP

  I see.

  She sits back in her chair as if she’s heard this a thousand times before.

  GP

  Your vagina ceased to be a playground and became some sort of macabre science experiment, in his eyes.

  ME

  Yes!

  GP

  It’s more common than you think.

  ME

  And now . . . well . . . even if I wanted to . . .

  GP

  The obstetrician changed the shape of the opening.

  ME

  Yes!

  How does she know this? Has she been looking through my bathroom window?

  ME

  When I plucked up the courage to investigate what had happened ‘down there’ after the obstetrician had done his fancy patchwork, I was pleasantly surprised by the result, but it seems a bit . . .

  GP

  Higher than it was?

  ME

  Yes!

  GP

  Very common.

  I love this woman! I didn’t feel this was the sort of subject I could raise at mothers’ group or with my sister, but somehow it seems completely appropriate to blurt it out in front of a friendly GP who I’ve just met.

  GP

  Buy a dildo and re-familiarise yourself with your vagina, my dear. It’s been very good to you. It’s given you a beautiful son, so be patient. A dildo will help you regain your confidence and you’ll be ready when the time comes.

  ME

  You think so?

  GP

  I know so. In the meantime, I’m giving you a prescription for anti-depressants. If you feel you need to fill it, then fill it, but I think you’ll be okay. See how you go.

  I’ll order the dildo online, but I’m not sure about the anti-depressants. My sister thinks I should embrace them with open arms. A big believer in the chemical fix for any problem, big or small, hence her choice to tell everyone at the airport that I’m a potential drug user. Oh well, just another of life’s disappointments.

  I shrug it off as I go back to the car. I try to push my soon-to-be-ex-husband out of my mind only to be flooded with images of Jack. He’s having his first sleepover at his dad’s. How odd. It’s only been three weeks and already Tom has set up house in his metrosexual bachelor pad. He’d obviously been planning this for some time.

  I shake my head to try to remove the images of his new, single life. I don’t want this to be happening. I want to be a family. A mum, dad, and kid living in the same house type of family. I don’t want to be an uber-modern family, but now it seems it’s been thrust upon me.

  I feel the anxiety creeping up my chest as I imagine all the things that could go wrong. Tom won’t give Jack enough attention. He’ll feed him junk food. He’ll leave one of the doors unlocked and Jack will wander off. He’ll . . .

  Breathe, Persephone. Breathe. This is your new reality. But I don’t want the reality, I argue back to the voice in my head. I feel like soliloquising right there on my way back to the car. Bursting into a stream of consciousness speak, talking to myself, trying to work out my thoughts and feelings. But I don’t. Instead, I remind myself that this is real. I have to deal with it. This isn’t some scene from a play. This is my life.

  I also remind myself that I have my healthy boundaries in place, and now I just have to honour them. Marjory said I could ring once to say goodnight, which I’ve already done, and then once in the morning to say good morning. Only another 12 hours to go.

  I try to put Tom and Jack out of my mind by thinking about the rehearsal process for my play. It starts on Monday. Exciting. Just have to get through the rest of today and then Jack will be back tomorrow. We can spend the day together and then I can drop him to daycare and attend rehearsals. It’s an honour to have a play produced in a main house season by a theatre company. The significance of it is not lost on me, although the timing could be better. I wish it wasn’t coinciding with the breakdown of my marriage.

  The play. Think about the play, Persephone. That’s part of your reality. As we know, Boofhead’s directing it. The less said about that, the better. The cast is strong so that’s a real positive. The gorgeous actor is in it, the one my sister suggests I have an affair with. Although I have no desire for sex at the moment, I do feel reassured that there’s nothing permanently wrong with my vagina. And the gorgeous actor is . . . gorgeous. There’s no harm in daydreaming.

  I’ve known him for years, since I was 21. I remember inviting him to my 21st. We were both in a big community musical organised by a group of funky lefties who managed to convince lots of people to donate their time to perform in huge rock musicals for free. All the money raised was donated to charity. I was thrilled that I was about to be twenty-one and had a speaking role in a major musical, even if it was just a community one. He had the lead role. And he was gorgeous. I knew he was married, but I was mesmerised by him and desperately wanted to invite him to my birthday party. I was more than happy for his wife to come too.

  I plucked up the courage one evening during the warm up, timidly heading over to him with an invitation in my sweaty little palm. I handed it to him and muttered:

  ME

  I’m having a party. You’re invited. So’s your wife.

  Then, to make sure he didn’t think I liked him too much, I added:

  ME

  And everyone else. If you can come, come. If you can’t, don’t.

  He smiled his alluring coconut oil smile and opened the invitation right there and then. Oh my God, he’s in love with me! I thought at the time. Even though he’s married. He’s non-threateningly, platonically in love with me!

  I lived in one of the inner city suburbs and parking was a nightmare so I had added to the invitation “Park on Grove Terrace.”

  MR. GORGEOUS

  So it’s in a park on Grove Terrace?
Which one? It doesn’t say.

  ME

  What?

  MR. GORGEOUS

  Which park?

  ME

  Park? What?

  MR. GORGEOUS

  Which park?

  ME

  No park.

  MR. GORGEOUS

  Yeah, the one on Grove Terrace, but which one?

  ME

  No one.

  MR. GORGEOUS

  Look, if I don’t know where the party is, I can’t come, can I?

  ME

  You’re coming?

  MR. GORGEOUS

  If you’d tell me where it is.

  ME

  It’s all on the invitation. See you then.

  I was bright red and dripping with sweat. Oh my God, Mr. Gorgeous was coming to my 21st! Then I realised what he was trying to tell me. He didn’t know where it was! Oh my God. I’d walked away by that stage and couldn’t muster the courage to go back to him and clarify. But he turned up anyway. Maybe his wife worked it out for him.

  WOMAN

  Have you got change?

  A big, gruff woman asking me for change for the parking machine throws me out of my reverie.

  ME

  Sorry, no.

  WOMAN

  Well, it’s not accepting notes, so we’re all stuffed.

  Funny how a stranger can articulate the deepest truth of your life. I’m stuffed. I can’t see a way forward. I am not where I thought I’d be. Dumped, alone and fantasising about someone I had a crush on when I was twenty-one.

  The big, gruff woman storms off and there I am, stranded at the airport without change for the parking machine, wondering if Mr. Gorgeous still remembers that I invited him to my 21st, which wasn’t in a park on Grove Terrace. He probably does remember and thinks I’m a complete idiot. Oh well. And I’m wondering why I’m wondering if he remembers my party. Why is it important right now? Because it would mean there was someone else in the world apart from my family and friends who love me. Or at least like me. Or think I’m special. And it’s important, because Mr. Gorgeous belongs to a moment in the timeline of my life before Boofhead, and before I was a mum. He represents that part of my life when I was young, breezy, carefree and full of promise. Oh, I could use one percent of that energy right now. I am so far removed from who I was when I was twenty-one that I don’t think I even recognise myself sometimes.