Lingerie For Felons (4 page)

Oh no, I really couldn't go into this again. I hugged Emmy and Luke tightly.

‘Go home, guys,' I said. ‘It's all fine.'

Emmy drummed her fingers on the table like she had a lot more to say. Then she sighed and pressed the little button on the table.

When Public Defender Guy returned, she couldn't resist a parting shot. ‘Be careful,' she warned. ‘People do not fuck with me. Or my family.'

He simply nodded. ‘Of course, Dr Murphy,' he said gently. ‘She's in good hands. And I'm sure you need to get back to your clinic?'

Emmy snorted. ‘I'm a doctor of political science,' she said, punching his arm lightly. ‘The impact of Marxism on feminist thought. Boring.'

I smiled to myself. If only he knew the truth.

***

The day had been so thoroughly exhausting, least of all the arrest, that my head was spinning as I sat down at the table with the young lawyer.

‘You okay?' He had a really nice voice, well modulated and reassuring, without being overly deep. Wayne's had always sounded like beer to me. Beer laced with gravel.

‘Yeah, look, I'm fine thanks. It's just… Well, sorry about all that. Crazy family.'

‘They seem nice,' he lied smoothly. ‘Anyway, look, my name's Clark Cooper, and I'm with the Public Defenders Office. We'll talk a bit about your case, and then I just need to check a few things. Okay?'

‘Okay,' I agreed.

Clark Cooper
. Sounds like Superman. Or the Lone Ranger.

I had a sudden vision of this cute blond boy saddled up on Silver.
Hi ho
.

‘Right, so the police have confirmed that they will not be pressing charges, and the… er… court… is also not interested in pursuing the matter any further. Looks like you're free to go.'

I felt a sudden wash of relief, and realized I'd been holding my breath.

‘Grand. Thanks, um… Mr Cooper.'

He looked embarrassed. ‘Oh, please… Clark.'

He looked to be about 25 or 26, a few years younger than Wayne. With a closer view, I realized he wasn't very Hugh Grant-ish at all really, apart from the floppy hair. He had a long, straight nose. High cheekbones. Generous lips. And I could tell that underneath his collared shirt he had a lovely set of pecs. He pushed square, black-framed glasses back against the bridge of his nose as he read through my file. They made him look kind of like a blond Clark Kent. Between the glasses and the public advocacy, I mentally nicknamed him Superman on the spot.

‘Anyway,' he continued. ‘Sorry to hold you up, but I was hoping to ask you a few questions, with your consent. The City is trying to clean up its image. You know, after those last…unfortunate episodes.'

‘The homeless guy? And the prostitute?'

He winced. ‘Yes, horrible, horrible.' His mouth set in a tight line. ‘Anyway, the Public Defender's Office has been asked to do some audits of prisoner treatment. They were worried people wouldn't talk freely to the police. Or the DA's office.' He shrugged, then laughed. ‘Can you imagine? So, do you mind if I ask you some questions about your experience today?'

‘Yeah. Sure.' I tried not to sound too keen. Heidi says it's not natural to like surveys as much as I do.

‘Okay, then.' Clark whooshed out a breath, like he'd been holding his, too.

I rubbed my hands together.

But in the end, the survey was pretty dull. Once I confirmed that, no, I hadn't been assaulted, insulted or harassed, there were very few openings for me to air my theories about police brutality and corruption, and the competitive boys culture that feeds them.

But I gave it a red-hot try nevertheless.

‘Wow,' Clark spluttered an hour later when I reached the end of my monologue.

‘Do you need more?' I offered. ‘Because I can —'

‘Oh no, no, really,' he insisted. ‘You've been more than helpful.'

I slumped back in my chair and he added. ‘I mean, I'd really love to, actually. I don't get many interviewees who are so...enthusiastic, but… Well, to tell you the truth, I'm due at a birthday party and I'm already a bit late.'

‘Oh. Sorry,' I said.

‘No problem,' he smiled. He paused, tenting his fingers on the table. ‘Um, just...one other thing. I know it's none of my business, but you seemed kind of strung out today. And when I answered the door you mentioned Wayne? I just want you to know that if you are experiencing any kind of harassment or abuse…'

‘Huh?' I'm confused. ‘Oh no, nothing like that. My boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. He's not abusive. He's just….'

Why do I find myself wanting to explain things to this guy? Ah, of course. Superman.

But more than that. I had to make someone understand. Maybe a stranger might get it. So I tried again, even though I knew the poor guy was supposed to be at his party.

‘It's like… We just didn't get each other.'

‘Oh, I see. Different values, that kind of stuff.' He nodded sagely.

‘Exactly,' I purred. Then I remembered one of Dad's favorites, and before I knew it, it was out. ‘“Toil and grow rich, what's that but to lie with a foul witch.”' I felt my cheeks redden, and laughed in a way that hurt my throat. ‘If you know what I mean.'

He was quiet a moment, watching me, then he took his glasses off, rubbed them with a little handkerchief he pulled out of his top pocket, and laughed too, doing that cute shrug again.

‘But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.'

Oh. My. God. Yeats.

He was a nerd. Just like me.

‘Come on,' he said. ‘Let's get you processed so you can go home. It's cold out now though. You might need a coat.'

From the frying pan — Outside the Sixth; one hour later

Wayne was waiting. Of course he was waiting. And he smelled like coming home.

We fell on each other like leeches, kissing and kissing until we had to pull apart to take deep lungfuls of air. He picked me up in those huge arms and pressed me against the sheer brick wall behind us. I felt his hip press into me and realized what I was doing.

‘What the hell are you doing kissing me? And being here?' I demanded.

‘Rocket,' Wayne chastised. ‘Don't be silly. As if I could
not
come. Are you okay?'

‘I'm fine,' I lied. There was no way I was fine looking at him. I was so far from fine.

I was lost. He looked so good, I actually finally knew what that stupid phrase ‘she looked at him hungrily' meant. It meant my synapses were on autopilot, my eyes ranging continually over his face and his body, sucking and drinking in each piece of him, sorting and filing it away for later. Later, when there would be nothing.

‘It's fine. They didn't press charges. Anyway, how are you?'

He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me to face him. I could see the shadows under those dark green eyes. ‘Terrible, Rocket. Awful. I can't sleep. I miss you. I feel like I'm five years old and someone took me to Disneyland and I got lost. I'm lost.'

I knew what he meant. I knew exactly what he meant. I once went to a wedding. Because my parents were atheists, I'd never had much bible, but a phrase the priest used struck a chord with me. Something like ‘I am alpha and omega, the
beginning and the end'. I'd thought about it all the time since The Breakup. Because that was how I felt. Like he was everything. But sometimes everything's not enough.

‘Don't you remember?' His voice caught as he looked at me.

My heart swelled in my chest watching him. ‘Oh, I remember,' I said.

Lola meets Wayne — New York subway; one year earlier

I was waiting for the subway.

And I was drunk. For the first time ever. It would never have happened otherwise.

I was sitting on that shiny, plastic seat, thinking it was interesting how the platform slid and tipped in my vision, wondering which exact component in the fermenting process made alcohol do that to your brain, trying to recall more about chemical compounds.

I saw him sitting there reading the financial pages of the Times, and he was tall and solid. He took up his share of the bench like he enjoyed every inch. He wasn't my type. Whatever that is. I'm guessing you actually need to have had boyfriends to have a type. Anyway, he didn't look anything like what I imagined my type would be. But he had this little frown creasing the middle of an otherwise sunny face. He looked like he smiled a lot, but I wanted to check. I wanted him to look up and smile at me.

I started making horrified noises at my paper. I imagined it going like this:

Him, ‘Gee, what's that you're reading that's making you so upset?'

Me, ‘Oh, terrible stuff about shenanigans in Rwanda. Can you believe it?'

Thus demonstrating my compassion for all people.

He just looked over at me like I was slightly crazy.

But I did see a flicker of interest as he took in my tight flares and stretchy tube top. Typical. Takes a seventies themed party to get me in sexy clothes and a guy like him to show interest. But still, I couldn't tamp down the hot flash that zinged through me.

I squared my shoulders and started on a series of head shakings, tsk-tsk-ings, and long, heart wrenching sighs. Well, I was going for heart wrenching.

Finally, he turned to me. ‘Are you drunk?'

Actually, it sounded more like ‘Eah yoooo dr-ar-ah-nk?'

You know, I always really hated that whole Crocodile Dundee thing.

I mentally ticked off the reasons I don't think Australians are cute, or funny.

One: can't bear the outdoors.

Two: hate swimming — too pasty-white to get a suntan.

Three: I am the only person in the entire world who is kind of freaked-out by koala bears.

But this Australian sure was cute.

‘Well, drunk is a little strong. Maybe liquored. Slightly. Slightly liquored.'

‘Liquored? Is that a word?' His eyes were creasing up at the corners.

‘Well, not a word like Oxford English Dictionary type of word, but a word in the way of…common parlance, everyday usage. A colloquialism. Yes.'

‘What are you?' he frowned at me as his eyes widened, ‘some drunk nerd?'

Yep, that's exactly what I am.

My brain ran back over the Annual Math School shindig I'd just left. What had that schmuck, Barry Leipers, called me when he'd introduced me to the new professor? Something mean enough to make me head for the cocktail bar.

I took a deep breath and took off my glasses.

‘Do you want to kiss me?'

I blame three things.

One: those Creamy Cantors. Who knew alcohol could be so delicious? Even if Cantor, that cranky old German set theorist, would be rolling in his grave.

Two: Barry Leipers. ‘Meet our spinster genius. Don't get any ideas. She doesn't like guys.' Well screw you Barry, and the unoriginal theorem you stole from your postgrad.

Three: I'm not very good at small talk. I start to blabber and list things.

‘Shit yeah'. I couldn't believe he actually said that, but he did. Shit yeah.

Sounded like ‘shee-yit yair', but something about his voice made the hair on my arms stand to attention and my tummy feel watery and warm. He sounded like someone had offered him tickets to Kurt Cobain's final concert.

So we did.

And from the second I tasted his mouth I was hooked.

Look, I know this sounds disgusting but I just wanted to do a
Honey I shrunk the kids
, zap myself tiny, crawl into his warm, wet mouth and lie on his tongue with my legs in the air like a dog waiting to be petted. Or licked. Well, you know what I mean.

In fact, the kiss was so good that when I saw my train arriving I hurriedly scribbled down my details on a scrap of paper. Now this bit is really important, because I had a rule. If I wanted to see a guy again, I always took his number. Well, it had happened twice, at least. So not exactly a rule. More a...hypothesis.

But anyway, that piece of paper disproved my hypothesis then and there.

That piece of paper, that I stuffed into that huge hand of his as I scuttled onto the train, had every conceivable way of contacting me scratched on it.

Home phone. Work phone. Cell. Address. Even my parents' phone number.

I should have known then and there that things were going to go badly.

First date — One week after first meeting

Only a true optimist would describe our first date as disastrous.

You see, to start with, I have a theory that big, expensive cars are for men with penis issues. Actually, it's kind of a debunked theory now, but more on that later.

When Wayne picked me up in his penismobile, I slid in, pursed my lips and tried not to enjoy the sight of the crushed velvet of the evening sky through the clever little sunroof. Even though he looked like an early, moustache-less Tom Selleck, and I was doing a mental inventory of my lingerie, I still spent the trip ranting about big cars and the environment. It was like slipping on an old dressing gown. And it kept the giddy skip of my heart in check.

The problem was I couldn't quite work out how I had gotten here.

You know how when you're a kid, and you put a nickel in your mouth, and your Mom says not to because someone could have had it up their bum? Well, I'd kissed a Wall Street banker once before and that's how he'd tasted. Like dirty money.

I remember that boy really well. He had a gorgeous voice. Beautiful, sad eyes. Perfect hands that I wanted to stick up my shirt. But something was wrong. I kept thinking that if I just kept talking to him, kept asking him things, I would feel like I knew a little bit of him. Get at least that first spark of a connection that tells you ‘yes I am talking to another human'. But I couldn't. Nothing he said helped. At the end of our date, I knew nothing more about him than when I'd started. Well, except that he tasted like dirty money.