Art Ache (20 page)

JACK

Am I in trouble?

ME

No, of course not. You’re hurt.

And the worlds begin to collide even more. I’ve left my car at Patrick’s, so I’m without a vehicle and I don’t want to take Jack home in a cab. Patrick is standing silently behind me. What to do now?

I have to ask Boofhead for help.

ME

Can you drop us off? I didn’t bring my car.

BOOFHEAD

Why?

ME

Because we were at an award night.

BOOFHEAD

So you’ve been on the sauce.

ME

No! I thought I might have a couple of drinks but I didn’t.

BOOFHEAD

Well, you look like you’ve been drinking.

ME

I can assure you I haven’t. Why was he jumping on the bed?

BOOFHEAD

Because we were having fun.

ME

Doesn’t sound like fun if he breaks his leg.

BOOFHEAD

Do you want a lift or not?

ME

Of course we do. Come on, sweetheart, we’ll carry you to the car.

BOOFHEAD

I’ll get a wheelchair.

Patrick hasn’t said a word. Boofhead races off to fetch a wheelchair.

JACK

Hi.

PATRICK

G’day, mate.

ME

Oh, sorry. Jack, this is my friend, Patrick. Patrick, this is Jack.

PATRICK

Looks like you’re in a lot of pain. I broke my knee once. Well, twice actually, so I know how you feel.

JACK

It hurts.

PATRICK

I bet.

JACK

How’d you break your knee?

PATRICK

Jumping around like a lunatic.

JACK

That’s how I broke my leg!

Boofhead comes back with a wheelchair and we all head off towards the lift. Boofhead is fuming. I’m a prostitute-y version of Farah Fawcett in shock, Patrick’s a silent yet supportive version of Elvis meets Benny Hill meets Danny De Vito, and Jack’s a brave little soldier in a wheelchair, strangely entranced by his newly plastered leg. It’s quite the tableau.

The motley crew bundle into the lift, the collision of world one (Boofhead) and world two (Patrick) almost complete. I chat with Jack, trying to take his mind off it all. And mine.

We get out of the lift, make our way to the car and then try to work out who’s going to sit where. Boofhead informs me that it’s way too weird to put the ‘current’ up front with the ‘ex,’ so I opt for up front, which means I’m away from Jack. I just want to get home. Jack seems intrigued by Patrick, and Patrick seems patient and supportive of Jack, whose leg is sticking out at a strange angle because it’s in plaster from knee to ankle and he can’t bend it.

We drive in silence. Jack starts to nod off. It has certainly been a huge night.

Sudden realisation . . .

ME

I don’t have my key.

BOOFHEAD

What?

ME

My key. I left it at Patrick’s on the keyring with my car keys. We can’t get into the house!

BOOFHEAD

Yes we can.

ME

No we can’t. I don’t have a spare hidden anywhere.

BOOFHEAD

I’ve got one.

ME

What?

BOOFHEAD

A key.

ME

Why?

BOOFHEAD

Didn’t give it back. Do you want to get into your house or not?

ME

You have no right to still have a key to my house.

BOOFHEAD

I never bloody use it.

ME

That’s not the point. Give it to me!

BOOFHEAD

Back off, will you? It’s on my keyring.

And the worlds continue to collide. Patrick is awkwardly perched in the back seat with Jack’s leg sticking out and his head on Patrick’s shoulder. Not the way I wanted my son to meet my boyfriend. I still can’t come to terms with being a single mother who has a boyfriend. I have trailer park cringe about it. Mothers have husbands, not boyfriends.

I don’t know what comes over me. Stress, I think—yes, let’s blame it on stress—as suddenly, I’m in desperate need of a cigarette. Of course I don’t have any because as a rule, I don’t smoke, but the combination of the overwhelming feelings, the leg, the key, the ex and the current makes me feel in desperate need of nicotine.

ME

Can you stop in at a servo?

BOOFHEAD

I don’t need petrol.

ME

No, I just need to get something.

BOOFHEAD

Jesus Christ, you’re not buying condoms are you?

ME

NO!

I manage to both whisper and hiss at him at the same time.

ME

(hissing)

Will you stop treating me like some sort of bogan? Of course I’m not buying condoms.

BOOFHEAD

(defensive)

Sorry. Well, what then?

ME

(whispers)

Cigarettes.

BOOFHEAD

No wonder I’m treating you like a bogan. You’re acting like one.

ME

(whispers)

Don’t you judge me. Just because you’ve always been a non-smoker. Pull in here.

BOOFHEAD

No way.

ME

(whispers)

Look, I’m not asking you to smoke one.
I
want one. I just need you to stop here.

BOOFHEAD

No way.

ME

God, you’re pathetic.

BOOFHEAD

I’m pathetic? You’re acting like a complete bogan.

ME

No I’m not!

BOOFHEAD

You bloody well are!

ME

You’re concealing the fact that you have a key to my house. If that’s not an act of boganism, what is?

BOOFHEAD

I just never gave it back. It’s no big deal.

ME

Then give me a key to your unit.

BOOFHEAD

That’s different.

ME

No, it’s not.

BOOFHEAD

You’re acting like an adolescent. You are being completely irresponsible.

ME

Me?

BOOFHEAD

YES. Dressed like a hooker, wanting to buy cigarettes, dating . . .

The full collision has occurred so let’s just go with it. Here it comes . . .

ME

Me? I leave our son in your care, so I can go and get an award for my work, at an award ceremony just happens to be fancy dress . . . an award for my work/

BOOFHEAD

/you already said that.

ME

For my work! My work that I have been doing to keep a roof over my head, since my selfish, juvenile ex-husband walked out on me because I no longer “do it” for him. All the while, demanding that I pay him one- third the value of the house that I paid for in the first place. While I’m attending this ridiculous, tacky, porn-themed, bogan function to get this crap, plastic piece of shit award . . .

And have to deal with every three-dollar whore this side of the Black Stump laying claim to my current.

ME

. . . you, you useless dickhead, let our son jump on the bed you affectionately call your “workbench,” he falls off, breaks his leg, and ends up in the emergency department of the children’s hospital. And
I’m
the irresponsible one?

We’ve arrived at my house. Well aware it is completely inappropriate to use such language and discuss such topics in front of a child (even if he appears to be asleep on Patrick’s shoulder), I open the car door and bark at Boofhead.

ME

Give me the key and go.

He takes the key off his keyring while I attempt to lift Jack out of the back seat. I’m alarmed by how much heavier he is with a cast on his leg and can’t budge him.

PATRICK

Let me do it.

Patrick lifts him up and takes him inside. Jack stirs in his sleep but then snuggles in. Boofhead breaks the land speed record backing down the driveway.

Patrick carries Jack into his room while I organise some Panadol. When I come back in to give him the pain reliever, he stirs.

ME

I am so sorry about tonight, Jacky.

He whispers.

JACK

I need to go to the toilet.

ME

Okay, sweetheart.

I bend down to lift him up.

PATRICK

I’ll take him.

ME

Are you sure?

PATRICK

Sure.

ME

I’ll stand at the door. Is that ok, Jacky?

JACK

That’s okay. Are you Mummy’s boyfriend?

I cringe inside.

ME

That’s such a funny word, isn’t it?

JACK

It’s okay, Mummy. I’ve got a girlfriend at kindy.

ME

Really?

JACK

I wasn’t supposed to tell you.

ME

Patrick is my friend and we’ve been having some dates.

Get to the point, Persephone.

ME

I wanted you to meet him over dinner or something. Not like this.

PATRICK

But sometimes things don’t go the way you think they will, mate.

JACK

Like my leg.

PATRICK

Yeah. I can carry you to the toilet if you like. You’re a bit too heavy for Mum with that cast on.

JACK

You look strong.

ME

I’ll be with you too, darling so there’s nothing to worry about.

JACK

I’m not worried.

Patrick carries Jack to the bathroom. I follow and hover. As Patrick’s balancing Jack on the toilet, helping him with the position of his leg, he subtly offers some blokey advice about the direction his doodle needs to point in order for the wee not to go on the ground.

ME

I’ll help you, Jacky.

JACK

I can do it.

PATRICK

I’ll look away, mate.

My heart warms.

ME

Just relax and do your business.

JACK

(whispers)

I think I need to do a poo, too.

ME

You can do that too, sweetheart.

PATRICK

Sure can, mate. I’ll keep looking away. I’ll pass you some paper when you’re ready.

And my heart officially melts.

Chapter 23

A couple of weeks later. Evening. The lounge room.

“The course of true love never did run smooth.” William Shakespeare.

So the two worlds collided. The worlds I had so effectively kept apart now know of each other. Boofhead thinks Patrick is tall, tanned, and a bit blokey, Patrick thinks Boofhead is tall, pasty, and metrosexual. Jack thinks Patrick is cool and funny. Patrick thinks Jack is the best thing since sliced bread. Me? I don’t know what to think.

Yes I do. I think it has all changed. For better or worse, we are where we are and there’s no going back. I think I should stop calling Tom Boofhead, it’s a bit spiteful. I’m bigger than that. I think Tom feels terrible about Jack’s leg and it seems to have been a real wake-up call for him. He’s now more attentive and vigilant. I think that’s a good thing.

And I think Patrick seems different now. Kinder and lovelier, but also more knowing, more experienced, more worldly. More real. And I don’t think I like that.

Don’t get me wrong; his relationship with Jack is great, a very pleasant and reassuring surprise, and Patrick’s more than willing to nurture it. In fact, I’ve had to put the brakes on. He wants to be best mates with Jack. That’s lovely. It’s nice. It’s fine. But I don’t know if that’s what I want. I’ve fallen head over heels in daisy-chain-making love with this guy very quickly. I need a pause. So I’ve set a new boundary with the relationship. I’m keeping Patrick and Jack away from each other until I’m absolutely sure how I feel. That’s why I wanted the worlds to stay apart. I didn’t want the planets to align, let alone collide, until I was sure Patrick was a keeper. It’s not fair, otherwise. I’m over being a part-bogan so I’m not going to nurture a relationship between my son and any Tom, Dick, or Patrick that comes along.

I need more information about Patrick and I also need time to think, but let’s be honest, I don’t have any. Rehearsal is full-time and full on. I’m learning songs, choreo, lines, and even how to style my hair in a pseudo-sixties way. By the time I drop Jack off at daycare, race to rehearsal, maybe duck out at lunchtime to record an income-supplementing voice-over, spend all day treading the rehearsal room floorboards in preparation for treading the real theatrical boards, then race back across town to collect Jack, have some quality dinner time with him, do the bath, book, and bed routine, I’m stuffed. Only problem is, I don’t have time to be stuffed. I need to learn lines, refresh harmony parts, bed down my memory of entrance and exits points for each scene, and prepare for the pressure of opening night. Lots of deep breathing, creative visualisation, and positive self-talk required. It’s now a week away. I’ll be relieved when this play opens. Then I’ll only be working nights and will have more time during the day to spend with Jack.

Tonight is a rare moment of mid-week adult time with Patrick. Adult time during which I can stay home, dig a little deeper, get to know him better, and suss out if he could possibly be a keeper. My heart says yes, but my head’s not sure.

Jack is having a sleepover at Tom’s, mid-week. I decided now was a good time to end the cold war with Tom over the broken leg. He was grateful, promising there would be no jumping on the bed (not that Jack can jump on the bed, given he still has the cast on his leg). Tom even did an impromptu snippet from a Wiggles song, complete with daggy gestures just to reinforce his point, “No more monkeys jumping on the bed!” I found myself staring at him and visualising him in a red skivvy and black pants. It occurred to me he bears a striking resemblance to Murray Wiggle.

I have a hideously early start tomorrow, squeezing in a voice-over before rehearsal, then a costume fitting, and a full day of running the play. Basically, that means going through the whole play from beginning to end. No real ‘running’ required, except when you have to sprint from one side of the stage to the other (backstage, of course), do a quick change into another cool, pseudo-sixties outfit, and then enter on the other side of the stage, fresh and unfazed.

So tonight I’ve been able to have a calm, relaxed dinner with Patrick, go over some lines, and crash into bed. Although the bed crashing has happened earlier than I expected. I am so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. But as I snuggle up to Patrick, I decide now is the perfect time to dig a little deeper, to address some of the nagging questions that have been beating around in my brain. It was originally an idea from Marjory the last time I saw her.

MARJORY

Ask him five key questions. You each answer them truthfully. As you do, you’ll drop deeper and deeper into the relationship . . . or not.

I start with my least threatening question.

ME

What’s your favourite colour?

PATRICK

Red.

ME

Red?

PATRICK

Yeah. What’s yours?

ME

I’m not sure. Purple or blue. I like pink too. And I really like navy.

PATRICK

Pick one.

ME

I can’t.

PATRICK

Yes, you can. If you could only have one, which one would it be?

ME

Um . . . purple. Nah . . . blue. I’d have blue. But a soft blue. Not a wish-washy blue.

PATRICK

Like a sky blue?

ME

Yeah. Sky blue. Sometimes purple. Sometimes pink.

PATRICK

Sometimes navy?

ME

Yeah.

PATRICK

Good thing you’re not indecisive.

I snuggle into his chest and he kisses the top of my head and strokes my hair. I want to purr.

Second least threatening question.

ME

What’s your favourite animal?

PATRICK

What is this? Twenty questions?

ME

No, only five.

PATRICK

Five?

ME

Yeah. It’s important we get to know each other.

PATRICK

I know you.

ME

Not all of me.

PATRICK

I don’t want to know all of you. I want to know the bits that matter.

ME

Animal.

PATRICK

Dog.

ME

Horse.

PATRICK

Cool.

Third least threatening question.

ME

When did you have your last date?

PATRICK

This is a shit game. Who thought of this?

ME

It’s only five questions. Just answer them truthfully and move on.

This question is important to me. I don’t want someone who needs the reassurance that comes with having multiple lovers. I don’t want any of the complications. I want someone who is honest, open and has a decent moral code. After the advertising awards night, I’m not so sure. Yes, I’m sounding like a hypocrite given my bogan dalliance with Bandana Bloke, but I’ve confessed that.

PATRICK

With you, last week.

ME

Before me.

Pause.

PATRICK

I had a fling with someone from work. Dated her for two weeks and went on one date with someone else from work.

ME

When?

PATRICK

June last year.

ME

Is that all?

PATRICK

Yep. It’s been wide-open spaces since then. I’ve never had much luck with women.

ME

Until now.

PATRICK

Yeah. Present company excluded.

ME

Thanks. And of course you know my answer.

PATRICK

Do I?

ME

Bandana Bloke.

PATRICK

Yeah. Can we move on?

ME

Two more questions.

Fourth least threatening question.

ME

How many people have you slept with?

PATRICK

Jesus Christ.

ME

If you’ve slept with him, I’m very impressed.

PATRICK

Ha ha.

ME

How many?

PATRICK

Um . . . more than ten, but definitely less than twenty.

ME

You don’t know the exact number?

PATRICK

Somewhere in there?

ME

Definitely less than twenty?

PATRICK

Yes.

Not the answer I was hoping for, but I can live with that. At least he’s being honest.

PATRICK

You?

ME

Six and a half. The boy I lost my virginity with, a couple of boyfriends at Uni, a fling overseas, Tom, Bandana Bloke (that’s the half), and you.

PATRICK

Spare me the last question. Come here.

He pulls me up towards him and kisses me on the lips. Patrick must have kissed a lot of mirrors when he was growing up because his kisses are fantastic. Hands down the best kisser I’ve ever experienced. I used to practise on the side of the bathtub until my sister walked in on me one day. She told all and sundry that Persephone was a pervert and pashed bathtubs. So I desisted and took up practising on my bent knee under the covers when I went to bed. Kisses have never really lived up to that initial thrill of pashing your own knee under the bedclothes . . . except for Patrick’s. His kisses are textbook, knee-weakening perfect.

I abandon my last question.

PATRICK

Hey, can you touch me there?

“There” isn’t where you might think. Not his penis, but a spot on the side of his torso.

PATRICK

Softly. Really gently. Like a feather.

I oblige but I must admit, I feel uncomfortable. This seems very rote. I feel like a stand-in. Maybe I’m just feeling sensitive and insecure because “more than ten, but less than twenty” was more than I expected.

PATRICK

A bit longer. And go down a bit further. Ah, I love having this done to me before sex. Hey, you got any Bob Marley? Great rhythm.

This falls into the “too much information” category for me. Too familiar. And it’s ringing that bell that’s been bothering me. That bell that says–Patrick’s been round the block a couple of times and probably isn’t actually a keeper.

ME

That’s a bit of a one-size-fits-all type of statement don’t you think?

PATRICK

What?

ME

Very generic.

He laughs.

PATRICK

So?

ME

Well, how do you know you like it there?

PATRICK

How do you think?

ME

Because other people have touched you there, obviously, but/

PATRICK

/of course they have.

ME

I understand that. But do you think you could say it in a more . . . discreet kind of way.

PATRICK

Why? I’ve got a history. You know that. You just asked me about it.

And there it is again, summed up in a word. He has a “history”. He seems worn out, not fresh. He seems used. Pre-loved. Shop-soiled. Hey, I’m pre-loved and shop-soiled too, but we could still keep it fresh and new, not just go through the routine of what you know works. We’re still in the getting-to-know-each-other phase. I’d like honesty and disclosure and emotional warmth, I can do without shorthand paths to sexual satisfaction based on how previous partners have performed. At least the language could be less generic. It’s too early for this letting down of the guard, this going through the motions. He’ll be farting, burping and slurping his tea before I know it.

Patrick rolls over and lets out the most uninhibited fart I’ve ever heard.

PATRICK

Better out than in.

God help me. Stay on track, Persephone.

ME

It makes me feel like a number.

PATRICK

My fart?

ME

No! The way you talk about what you want . . . sexually. I feel . . .

Find your words, love.

ME

I feel like a replacement . . . a cardboard cut-out who’s picking up where someone else left off. Number twenty-something. Or number “more than ten but less than twenty” something.

He’s flapping the bedcovers to get rid of the smell of the fart. I’m choosing to ignore it.

PATRICK

That dumb game was your idea. If you can’t handle the answer, don’t ask the question.