Almost Perfect (40 page)

‘I'm detecting a recurring theme here,' said Vincent. ‘Hey, that's right, your dad was a psychiatrist, wasn't he?'

‘And I'm a psychologist,' she told him.

‘No kidding?'

She shook her head.

‘So you counsel people, are you that kind of psychologist?'

‘As opposed to the kind that counsels animals?' she asked, frowning.

‘No, as opposed to the kind that researches, or teaches.'

‘Oh,' Anna nodded. ‘No, I'm a therapist. I work with real, live, dysfunctional people.'

‘What made you take a writing class?'

She shrugged. ‘I didn't want to do folk art.'

‘Does that have some deep meaning?'

‘Not that I'm aware of.' She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘So tell me, did you like my story or not?'

‘I did, very much. Especially the ending, Abraham languishing his life away with the now contemptuous Hagar who doesn't love him but hasn't had any better offers, while Sarah takes over the reins and becomes the matriarch of her people. Interesting angle.'

Anna smiled smugly. ‘I felt that Abraham needed to be pulled down a few pegs. He's the archetypal white middle-class male who gets away with murder, or at the very least adultery, and ends up with everything, yet he hasn't done a thing to deserve it.'

Vincent reached over to refill Anna's glass. ‘So I'm guessing your husband is one of these archetypal white middle-class males?'

Anna picked up her glass, considering him. ‘What makes you think this has anything to do with my husband?'

‘You said a minute ago that Abraham's excuses sounded just like your husband's.'

‘Oh, did I?' said Anna. She took out another cigarette and focussed on lighting it so she didn't have to make eye contact with him. She didn't want
to talk about Mac and his woman and his baby. ‘So what have you been doing with your life, Vincent?'

‘Do you want the long or the short answer?'

Anna leaned forward. ‘I'm not going anywhere.'

He smiled. ‘Well, I started high school just after we moved away from Toorak–'

‘I think it's safe to skip ahead a little.'

So he did, recounting his promising arrival on the literary stage when he received an award for his first novel, written while he was still at university. Great expectations followed, too great for the shoulders of a restless twenty-two year old to bear. So he took off, backpacking around Europe, living off his prize money and the advance for his next novel. Which he was supposed to be writing, he admitted sheepishly.

‘But that was in the days before the internet had taken over the world, Email was a brand name and mobile phones were still an exception,' said Vincent. ‘I couldn't be traced so easily, much as my publisher tried.'

He came back with a wad of crumpled pages that he had to peel off the bottom of his backpack. His publisher, needless to say, was not happy. He would have to pay back the advance or produce something. He had no money, so he moved back home, locked himself in a room and three months later he'd produced something. His publisher was still not happy, neither was Vincent, but it was all he was capable of. After some rigorous editing and disinterested rewriting, the book was published, sinking like a stone dropped into a river from a great height.
Bad reviews only hastened the fall. There were no awards, no more advances, but Vincent felt free. He pulled beers in a pub until he saved enough money to go back overseas. This time he stayed away for five years, working in bars in England, on farms in France, teaching English in Hong Kong, and eventually, in time, writing again.

He came home with a completed manuscript and began to hawk it around the publishing houses and literary agencies, wearing rejection like a badge of honour, paying his dues. Far from being demoralised, Vincent found it character-building. His early success had come too easily when he was too young to know how the hell he had managed to achieve it. But by then he knew that he could write and that he wanted to keep writing. He eventually found an agent who believed in him, who found him a publisher, who found him an audience.

‘And now I get to surf when I'm not writing, and teach when I'm not doing either,' he smiled. ‘Suits me.'

Anna regarded him through her own increasingly bleary eyes. She'd been mesmerised, listening to Vincent. He was an engaging storyteller, but he had been talking for quite a while, and consequently she had drunk quite a lot of wine. She wanted to say something, but she suspected the line of command from her brain to her mouth had been severely compromised. She had to concentrate.

‘I'd like . . . to . . . read . . . one of your books,' she said slowly and deliberately.

‘You mean you haven't already?' he said with
mock indignation. She went to apologise but he stopped her. ‘Don't worry, not many people have. I have a small but loyal readership, which is as much as a literary writer can expect in Australia.'

‘Don't you hanker after greatness though? Maybe you could be the next Tim Winton?' Anna suggested. ‘You've already got the ponytail.'

Vincent laughed. ‘What about you? You still haven't told me what made a psychologist decide to take a writing class?'

‘Yes, I did.'

‘The folk art defence? It doesn't really tell me anything.'

Anna felt the room beginning to sway. ‘Well, I will tell you this much, I think I might be getting drunk.'

‘Are you okay?'

She nodded. ‘But I don't think I should drive home.'

‘You think I had any intention of letting you drive?'

Anna gave him a lame smile. ‘And I can't remember where I put my car either.'

‘Maybe we should find it first. Make sure it's safe?'

She waved her hand dismissively. ‘It'll show up.'

‘You're sure?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘Okay, where do you live?'

‘Mosman.'

But twenty minutes later when Vincent pulled up outside the house, Anna was confounded. ‘Oh, no!' she cried.

‘What's wrong?'

‘I don't live here!'

‘You don't? But I'm sure this is the address you gave me.'

‘No, I mean, I used to live here, but I don't live here any more.'

‘So where do you live?'

Anna closed her eyes as if that was going to help. ‘I can't remember. I haven't been there long.'

Vincent tapped the steering wheel, thinking. ‘Your address must be on your driver's licence?' he suggested.

‘Good idea.' Anna rummaged in her bag for her wallet, opened it and slid out her licence. She tried to focus her eyes on the tiny writing, but it was hopeless, she couldn't read it in the dim light. That was her excuse anyway. She passed it to Vincent.

‘How did you manage to look so good in your licence photo?'

‘Yeah, yeah . . . but where do I live?'

‘Right here, according to this.'

She looked at him blankly.

‘How long ago did you move?' Vincent asked her.

‘Mm,' she frowned. ‘Only a few weeks ago.'

He peered out across the front lawn. ‘It looks empty.'

‘That's because there's no one living here yet. They don't move in for a couple of weeks, but I didn't want to stay here once the auction was over.
Legally it still belongs to me. Well, me and Mac.' She paused, thinking. ‘And if I'm not mistaken . . .' She slid a zip across the back of her wallet and produced a single key, holding it up triumphantly. ‘Let's go inside!'

‘Why?'

‘I don't know. It'll probably be the last time I ever do.'

Vincent considered her. ‘Okay, if that's what you want.'

Anna handed him the key as she didn't have much faith in her fine motor skills at the moment. They walked up the front path and Vincent opened the door.

‘Pretty fancy digs,' he remarked.

Anna stepped through the doorway and tried the light switch. It didn't work, which was to be expected considering she had cancelled the power and phone the day she moved out. There was a full moon so the house was not so dark they couldn't make their way down the hallway, and the sunroom was luminous, with its bank of French windows facing the northern sky. Anna stood still, gazing around the room. She'd never seen it completely empty. She had left ahead of the removalists and hired a cleaning service to go over the house afterwards. It felt strange; cold and lifeless. The mullions on the doors and windows cast shadows, making distorted patterns across the parquetry floor. It looked like a set for some surreal arthouse movie. Vincent walked across the room to the windows, his footsteps reverberating off all the bare surfaces.

‘Nice garden.'

‘You should see it in the spring.'

He turned around to look at her. ‘Were you happy here?'

Anna folded her arms, hugging herself. They had been so excited when they found this house. This was where they were going to raise their children, have birthday parties, Christmas, family gatherings, maybe even a wedding far off in the future. They had pored over paint charts and carpet and curtain samples, they'd even hired a colour consultant. They planned the scheme for every room, including a nursery, and made their way through the house systematically, starting with the sunroom, then the kitchen, master bedroom, bathrooms, dining room and formal living room, study. Finally they refurbished the downstairs bedroom as a guestroom, but they never made it to the other bedrooms. They were on hold.

Anna suddenly felt tears spring into her eyes as a sob leaped from her throat.

‘Anna?'

She didn't want to do this. She didn't want to be crying in front of a virtual stranger. He was crossing the floor towards her. Why did she bring him inside? Why did she even suggest it? She shielded her face with one hand, and then she felt Vincent's arms draping gently around her, unexpectedly comforting.

‘I'm sorry,' she breathed.

‘Don't be.' He smoothed her hair back, tilting her head so she had to look at him. ‘Come on, let's get out of here.'

‘But where will I go?' she said in a small voice. ‘I don't have anywhere to go.'

‘Yes you do.'

Anna didn't know if the sun had just happened upon her face or if it had been there for hours. But it felt warm and lovely on her skin. Her bedroom didn't get sun in the mornings, it didn't get sun any time. It was rather dark in fact, situated as it was on the south side of the small, soulless townhouse she was renting in Neutral Bay.

That's where she lived. She remembered now. 12c Milner Place. Anna's eyes opened wide as a montage of brief scenes flitted across her mind, like a trailer for a movie. In the cafe, sitting across a table from Mac,
Georgie's pregnant and I'm the father
. . . writing class, pan to Vincent,
Is the invitation still open?
she was asking, leaning towards him over his desk . . . sitting in a booth, smoking cigarettes, drinking too much . . . Vincent driving, pulling up at the house in Mosman . . . shadows on the parquetry floor . . .
Were you happy here?

Anna sat up. She was on a large bed in the centre of the room, a wall of windows to her left. And trees, lots of trees outside. Through the canopy she could just catch a glimpse of the ocean and the distant line
of the horizon. Inside the walls were green, the same green as the eucalyptus leaves outside the window. The room was a little messy, but in a homely, relaxed way. There were odd bits of furniture, a timber chest of drawers, an old armchair covered in faded cabbage roses, a wicker basket with clothes spilling out of it. Anna wasn't sure where she was, but she didn't feel afraid. In fact she felt strangely safe. Safe and sound. She looked down at herself. She was fully clothed, if a little dishevelled, in the trousers and jumper she'd left home in yesterday. Her coat was hanging on a hook on the back of the door and she could see her bag on the armchair.

She swung her feet over the side of the bed and they met with bare floorboards. She was wearing fine cotton socks, the ones she wore with her boots, which she'd just spotted, languishing on the floor at the end of the bed. Anna sat for a moment, looking out to the horizon, thinking. This was Vincent's house, it had to be. But she had no memory of coming here, no memory of falling asleep in this bed, no memories at all after leaving the house.

She stood up and stretched. It was a beautiful room, not because of the furnishings, the colours, not anything tangible like that. It was just a lovely place to be, with the sun streaming in, the trees, the horizon. She wondered if Vincent worked from here, but there was no desk, no computer. Maybe this wasn't even his room. Perhaps he shared the house and his room-mate was away at the moment. Anna hoped so anyway; it was bad enough that she had to go out and face Vincent, let alone someone she had never
met. She wished she had some recollection of how she had got here. She was feeling a little seedy, but the morning after had never been a problem for Anna. The night before was a whole other thing. Whatever quirk of her constitution that had saved her from hangovers was not so kind while she was still under the influence. She couldn't put it off any longer. She had to leave the room, find Vincent and apologise, for whatever she had done. And thank him. For whatever he had done. And get through it all while retaining a modicum of dignity.

Anna walked over to the door, opened it quietly and stepped straight out into the living area. It was a long room, encompassing kitchen, dining and lounge areas, cluttered and busy. Shelves lined the walls, crammed to capacity with books, videos, DVDs, CDs, and what appeared to be vinyl records. None of the furniture matched; the couch was disguised by a couple of batik throws, another length of batik served as a tablecloth. It was crowded and colourful and Anna felt immediately comfortable. Just as she had in the bedroom. There was the same wall of glass with the same gorgeous vista, but here it was comprised of sliding doors leading to a deck apparently suspended in the trees. And there was Vincent, stretched out on a recliner, reading the newspaper. He looked up, probably feeling her gaze.

‘Morning,' he called, jumping up and tossing the paper onto the table. He came inside, sliding the glass door closed behind him. ‘How did you sleep?'

‘Like a dead man.'

He laughed. ‘I hope that's good?'

‘I slept so soundly I didn't know where I was when I first woke up.'

‘That's because you've never been here before.'

Anna looked at him. ‘Vincent, I–'

‘You're not going to get all apologetic and awkward on me, are you?'

‘That's what I was planning.'

‘Then let's fast forward,' he said as he turned towards the kitchen. ‘Coffee?'

‘I don't want to inconvenience you any more than I already have.'

‘I hear what you're saying, because it's a huge inconvenience to make a pot of coffee,' he said, regarding her dubiously from across the bench.

Anna gave him a faint smile and walked tentatively over towards the kitchen. ‘Vincent?'

He had his back to her, filling the kettle. ‘Hmm?'

‘I do want you to know that I'm not in the habit of getting drunk and going home with men I hardly know.'

‘You know me!' Vincent scoffed. ‘You've known me for more than twenty years.'

‘No, correction, I
knew
you twenty years ago.'

‘Same thing,' he shrugged, plugging in the kettle and switching it on.

‘No, it isn't, Vincent,' Anna insisted. ‘Look, I'm embarrassed. I can't even remember how we got back last night. I remember being at the house, but not much after that. I didn't . . .' she took a breath, ‘. . . I didn't throw up in your car or something horrible, did I? I have a tendency to do that when I drink too much.'

‘Oh, so you're a chucker,' he nodded. ‘Don't worry, you spared me that trick.' He smiled at her pained expression, leaning back against the bench. ‘Anna, you couldn't remember where you lived and you were falling asleep in the car. I had no choice but to bring you back here.'

‘But how did you get me inside?'

‘I didn't have to carry you,' he assured her. ‘No, you could still walk, with a little assistance. You were just very tired and emotional, as they say. You were snoring before I managed to get your boots off.'

‘Snoring!'

‘Oh it was very feminine, more of a rhythmic hum really.'

Anna sighed. ‘Is that your room I slept in?'

‘Yes, but I didn't sleep with you, if that's what you're worried about. I slept out here.'

She winced. ‘You had to sleep on the lounge?'

‘It wouldn't be the first time.'

‘Oh, there've been others like me?'

Vincent looked directly at her. ‘There haven't been any others like you.'

Anna couldn't hold his gaze. She looked away, tousling her hair self-consciously. ‘Could I use the bathroom?'

‘Sure.' He pointed to the hall that led away from the living area. ‘If you want to have a shower–'

‘No, really, I'll just freshen up a little.'

‘Suit yourself. It's the first door on your right.' Anna returned a few minutes later. He'd taken the coffee out on the deck and as she stepped outside
she paused, gazing at the view, breathing in the salt air.

‘Are you going to sit down?' Vincent asked, watching her.

‘Mm, it's a wonderful spot,' Anna sighed. ‘Um, where is it, exactly?'

He grinned. ‘Avalon.'

‘I thought it was somewhere like that,' she said, taking a seat.

‘Ha, I could have told you Byron Bay and you would have been none the wiser. How do you take your coffee?'

‘I'll do it,' she said, reaching for the pot and a cup. ‘I didn't notice a computer anywhere. Do you write longhand?'

‘God no. My study's up the hall, opposite the bathroom.'

‘But you wouldn't have a view from there?'

‘Because I wouldn't get any work done if I did.'

‘Really, doesn't it inspire you?'

‘Yeah, to go surfing,' he confided, smiling at her. ‘No, I like this set-up. When I come out here, I can relax. It's completely separate from my work.'

Anna sighed deeply, looking out to the ocean, sipping her coffee. She felt extraordinarily peaceful. She wouldn't have any trouble staying out here all day, not that she had any intention of doing so, she'd already imposed on Vincent enough. And he still hadn't given her the chance to explain herself properly.

‘Vincent,' she began, ‘look, I wanted to say . . . about last night–'

‘You're not still going on about that, are you?'

‘I haven't gone on about it at all, you won't let me get a word out.'

‘Because it's not a problem.'

‘It is for me. I don't remember much but I do remember the scene at the house–'

‘I think calling it a “scene” might be overstating things.'

‘It was a scene, in my book anyway. I don't behave like that. Ever. Especially not with strangers.'

‘I am going to get offended if you keep referring to me as a stranger, especially now you've spent the night.'

Anna smiled weakly at him. ‘Look, I would like to explain.'

‘If it'll make you feel better.'

She leaned forward. ‘I saw my husband, or ex, or whatever I'm supposed to call him . . . I saw him last night, before class. He had some news that was . . . a little confronting, I guess you'd say. I'm afraid I didn't handle it all that well.'

Vincent considered her. ‘Do you want to talk about it?' he said carefully.

‘Um, no, not really.'

‘Then let's drop it,' he said, smiling kindly.

Anna smiled back. She really had to leave it alone now or he was going to think she was neurotic.

‘But I'd like to say something,' he went on.

‘Sure, go ahead.'

‘What you wrote in class last night was the best work you've done so far,' Vincent began. ‘Your first couple of pieces, they were good, they showed you can write.'

‘Really?'

He nodded. ‘But they felt repressed, like what you really wanted to say was being smothered under a layer of elegant words and phrases. They were quite beautiful, but they didn't feel real. And then last night's story leaped off the page. It was raw and emotional, even angry, because you were raw and emotional and angry. You obviously tapped into that.'

‘Are you suggesting I should stage fights with my ex-husband and then get drunk in order to write?'

‘No . . . well, maybe,' he smiled, ‘but not necessarily.' He took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Last night you kept palming me off when I asked you why you decided to take a writing class. You said it was because you didn't want to do folk art. What does that mean?'

Anna shrugged. ‘I had to take a break from work, I wasn't in the right frame of mind to be providing therapy for people in crisis,' she added. ‘I needed something to occupy my time.'

‘So why writing?'

‘My mother reminded me that I used to keep journals when I was a girl, and I found some of them. I guess I wondered if I could pick it up again.'

‘Why do you think you stopped for all those years?'

Anna held up her fingers and started counting off on them. ‘Oh, university, marriage, career . . .' she hesitated. Seven years of fertility treatment came next, but she wasn't ready to share that with Vincent yet. ‘Moving interstate, buying a house, renovating it . . . Life.'

‘And you never kept a journal again?'

‘No . . .' It had been a common suggestion in the infertility books and pamphlets they had read, and from the counsellors they had seen along the way, but Anna had had a hard enough time living it, let alone recording it for posterity. She had resolved to wait until she actually fell pregnant before starting a journal.

Vincent folded his arms, considering her. ‘Are you writing much away from class?'

‘No, not much.'

‘Why not?'

‘Do you need a note from my mother?'

He smiled. ‘I'm just interested.'

Anna shrugged. ‘I guess I can't think of anything to write about.'

‘What?' Vincent frowned, leaning forward across the table. ‘I don't mean to pry, Anna, but your marriage broke up, you've obviously been through some major personal upheaval.'

She pulled a face. ‘Oh I don't want to write about all that. It's too depressing.'

‘You know what they say, better out than in.'

‘Pardon?'

‘Get it out of you and onto the page.'

‘Writing as therapy?'

‘I think it's a little self-indulgent to use writing as therapy, at least if you expect anyone else to read it,' he added. ‘I do think, however, that the best writing draws on real emotion. You need to let some of that emotion bleed into what you write, Anna.'

‘I wouldn't know where to start.'

‘That's the easy part.'

‘Oh?'

‘Just sit down and start writing.'

When Vincent drove Anna back to her car, it was still where she'd parked it up the road from the cafe, fortunately not in a time-limited zone.

‘Now, you're absolutely sure you know where you're going?' he asked, only half joking. ‘I don't have to write it down for you?'

Anna smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Vincent, for everything. I owe you.'

He shrugged dismissively.

She hesitated, looking at him. He'd been really decent to her and she was grateful for that. She felt comfortable around him, and Anna wasn't comfortable around that many people.

‘Now that you know where I live,' Vincent was saying, ‘if you're ever in the area . . .'

‘You might regret saying that.'

‘I doubt it.'

He waited while she unlocked her car and drove away. When Anna arrived at the townhouse, she stared at it glumly through the car window. What possessed her to move into this ugly little box, she sighed. She should have donned a hair shirt and started fasting instead.