Australian Love Stories (27 page)

That night, Georgia won't sleep. Colic or wind or getting used to her body is keeping her awake. I put her in the bassinette by the piano and I begin to play. At first a sarabande but then I stop; it's too bruising. I choose light notes, a gigue, then a lullaby. I send the music into her dreams and I can see that her eyeballs are dancing beneath her closed lids and I understand that our wordless language does not even require the sense of sight.

I stop playing and shift each shoulder up and down. Then I feel his hands on the muscles, thumbs pressed against the back of my neck. He rubs slowly, softly at first and when I don't shrug him away he continues.

‘I've missed hearing you play,' he says.

‘Me too.'

It's another one of those things from our old life, life-beforeher, that has slunk away, noticed only as being part of the general absence of the things beyond the functional which now take up our days.

She stays asleep.

‘I'll put her in her room,' he says.

‘Okay.'

I fall into our bed and feel when he climbs in through the rocking of the mattress. I can smell a trace of spice, warm and
peppery, like baked earth after the rain. I turn toward it and inhale it into my dreams. When I wake later to the baby's cry it is just dawn and my husband and I are facing each other. I smile and he does too.

Tomorrow it is Saturday. It will be hot, a midsummer sun at the peak of the sky. Georgia will like to lie outside in the morning, on a mat in the shade of the peppermint tree. I will cover her with a hat and polish her skin with sunscreen, so she stays just-fresh.

I will lie down beside her with my head in his lap. His finger-pads will trace the line of my jaw up to my ear and into my hair and he will fan out each strand across his legs. Her fist will take hold of my finger; he will tickle her foot and then he will look at me and I will look at him and we might rediscover our lost language.

FIRM AS ANCHORS, WET AS FISHES

Love and Antibiotics

SHARON KERNOT

Henry and Justine are lying in bed on their side like two mismatched but snug-fitting spoons. He's still inside her and still quite hard. She sighs. ‘That was good,' she says. She loves having sex with Henry. She loves him, more than anything or anyone.

He kisses her back softly: a butterfly kiss, and then runs his fingertips down her neck and over her shoulder.

She takes a deep breath. ‘I've got something to tell you,' she says.

‘Mmmm?'

‘I…' She loses her nerve, wishes she had left it for just a little longer so she can enjoy this feeling of closeness for a few more minutes.

‘Not pregnant?' He laughs but his fingers stop moving as if he has sensed an importance in what she's about to say.

‘No, don't be silly. Not unless some of the boys manage to slip through that knot they tied in your balls.'

He resumes the gentle circles. ‘I guess it happens.'

‘I guess, but that's not it. Actually…um…I think you should know that I have…chlamydia.'

‘What?' The circling stops. She imagines him frowning.

‘Chlamydia,' she says. ‘It's an
STD
.'

‘I know what it is.' The gentleness in his voice has gone. ‘Koalas get it.' His dick, soft now, slides out and she rolls onto her back. He does the same. ‘We've just had unprotected sex for
God's sake.' His arm sweeps the air and a cobweb above them floats and drifts madly on the breeze.

‘I know.'

‘Well…why? I mean if you knew.' He shakes his head, stares up at the yellowing ceiling.

‘We had sex last night and a couple nights before that too,' she says as if in explanation.

‘How?' There's a tinge of anger in his voice now. ‘How did you get it?'

‘Come on, Henry, you know how it works. It's an
STD
.'

He flips onto his side, props himself up on an elbow and looks directly at her. ‘Are you saying you've had sex with someone else?'

‘No!'

‘Well, what then? Toilet seat? Sharing a cup?'

‘A cup! It's not hepatitis. Or school sores.'

He raises his voice. ‘Well, I don't know!'

‘Well, I do.' She gets out of bed, stands naked in front of him for a minute, allows him to run his eyes down her long sleek body as she slips into her satin gown. There's a sulky look on his face, a look of bewildered hurt. She ties the belt on her gown into a tight knot. ‘When the doctor told me I was in shock. Obviously. She said I should contact all my recent sexual partners.'

‘And?' He's furious now, his eyes have narrowed to slits.

‘And I told her I only have one. One partner. My husband. Married. Been together five years.' She holds up a handful of fingers to emphasise the number of years. She can see the colour draining from his face. She takes a breath, calms herself. ‘When I asked her how on earth it could have happened, she said I should ask you.'

‘Me? Why?'

His pretence at innocence was beginning to give her the shits but she reminds herself to stay calm. Deep breaths, no crying, dignity. ‘Come on, Henry, let's drop the act. I know.'

‘What act? Know what?'

This display of denial had worked for him in the past so it's no wonder that he's clinging to the strategy. But really, in the face of all this?

‘You'll have to tell your little girlfriend that you've passed an
STD
onto your wife!' She folds her arms, glares at him.

‘What are you talking about?'

‘I know about Cherie. So just stop pretending. It's fucking insulting.' She bites her bottom lip hard and tastes blood.

Henry sits up slowly, rubs his temple. ‘Jesus!'

She slumps down, sits on the opposite side of the bed, facing the blind. ‘Yeah. Jesus!'

‘How'd you find out?'

‘It doesn't fucking matter how.' She's struggling to keep calm but she's not going to tell him the lengths she'd gone through to piece it all together. It'd taken a while, each revelation was like a triumph, a victory over deception. A win for intuition. Every piece of evidence she discovered felt oddly thrilling and devastating; the two feelings bled together.

‘What matters,' she says, ‘is that you are fucking someone else.'

A big sigh from him.

‘What matters is: that you have got to tell her that you've got chlamydia.'

He doesn't say anything but she's pretty sure he will be processing the information. Probably wondering if he can get out of it. Hoping perhaps that there has been a mistake.

‘And what matters is…' She turns around to watch his reflection in the mirror. ‘What matters is who contracted it first.'

He looks at her now, in the mirror, confused. ‘What do you mean…? You said it wasn't you.'

‘Not me. You or her? Are you sleeping with someone else as well?'

‘No! God, no!'

She watches his image for a long time and he holds her gaze. ‘There's no one else,' he says gently. ‘Honestly. No one.'

She ploughs on, a little more confidently now. ‘No one? Really?'

He shakes his head and his eyes soften as if to say, I'm sorry. She swivels around, studies his profile. ‘Then who started it? If that's the case, you must have got it from her. And she must have got it from whoever else she's been sleeping with.'

The vein in his temple pulses. Good, she thinks, that hurt.

‘You'd better tell her as soon as possible or she might give it to some other bastard's poor wife.'

‘Jesus.' He rubs his forehead and the space between his nose. ‘What a mess.'

‘Yeah,' she says. ‘What a fucking mess.'

‘I'm sorry. Really. I love you; it was just a weak moment.' He reaches for her hand, places his own over the top of hers. There's sincerity there in his eyes and she allows him her hand, soaks up the moist warmth of it for a moment even though she knows he's lying. It was not a ‘weak moment' as he put it; he's been at it with her for months. But she doesn't say. She allows him this deception.

‘You have to tell her. She'll have to get treatment. It won't just go away, you know. It can be very nasty.' She slips her hand from beneath his.

She wonders what this Cherie will make of it. Surely she won't be able to forgive him. Will he tell her that his wife has it, that she was the one who discovered it? No. He couldn't possibly drop himself in it. His profile on the dating site clearly stated that he was a man in need. One that hadn't had sex for months and months due to his wife's illness. Lies. He was good at those. She'd learnt a thing or two over the years. So, he'll just have to tell this Cherie woman that he got himself tested.

‘Are you sure? I mean, I don't have any…you know, symptoms.'

She shrugs. ‘Sometimes there aren't any. That's why it spreads so easily. Google it,' she says.

‘But—'

‘Look, if I have it, you have to have it. How else could I have got it?' She leans over to the bedside table, opens the drawer and pulls out a small white box. ‘Here. Take these. You have to take the whole course.' She throws him the box of antibiotics. ‘I filled my repeat for you.' She shakes another little box, slams it down on the bedside table and the lamp rocks precariously.

He stares at the little packet, turns it over and over.

‘Get your own if you want to but I thought I'd spare the humiliation of another doctor's visit.'

He turns and looks at her. ‘Thanks,' he says and gives her a small smile.

‘Not yours, you arsehole! Mine. The less people that know the better.'

He looks back at the box, resumes turning it over.

‘But if you do want to go to the doctor today, you'll have to go to the Medical Centre. Take your chances with the crowd. Our surgery's closed till Monday.'

‘No. That's fine. These'll do.'

She lies down and they both stare up at the ceiling for a moment. She watches the cobweb float and drift on some tiny whirlwind. She feels tears welling up. She doesn't want to cry. Not right now. She wants to hold herself together. She leaps off the bed, walks out of the room and closes the door firmly behind her to give herself time to gather her emotions and bolster herself. She leans against the wall on the other side of the door. What a mess. What a fucking mess. Worse, she loves him. Adores him. The arsehole. She should have known it'd come to this. Karma and all that. But she'd actually believed him, gullibly, when he said he'd never felt this way for anyone else before. Now she can't live without him. Pathetic. She blinks back tears, waits another minute then turns to go back into the room. When she opens the door, he's there with his phone in his hand.

She grits her teeth. This could go either way but she's hoping the odds are in her favour. She looks at the phone then back at him. There's a shimmer of sweat on his forehead.

‘Well?' she says and looks at the phone.

‘I sent a text. To meet up.'

‘When?'

‘Today or tomorrow.'

‘Today. It has to be today,' she says. ‘I want this over with.'

In her head she counts…one, two, three.

‘Or I'm out of here. I mean it! And you can go and live with her. Your decision.'

‘I don't want her,' he says, suddenly standing up, desperate. ‘I want you. Justine, I love you.' His eyes shine with tears.

She holds up a hand to ward him off. ‘Well then it has to be today.'

He nods. Sits back down and reads the text he composes: ‘Meet you today at the Oaks at 1.00. It's urgent.'

A pub? He'll need a beer in his hand when he tells her. They'll probably sit in one of those small booths—nice and quiet, and discrete. A good choice.

A reply comes back almost instantly. She sees his phone light up. It's on silent, of course, as she would expect. He reads it to himself and nods. ‘Okay.'

‘It's already 12.15,' she says, knowing it will take almost all that time to travel there.