String Bridge (15 page)

“Er—”

“Do you think he has a problem? You think he’s becoming senile?”

“Mum—”

“No. No, that can’t be it. He’s always been like this. He’s just plain selfish.”

“Um … so have you sold any more packages this month?”

“Yeah. I have to attend some board meeting Friday before we get on the ferry. The company wanted to hold it on the weekend but I kicked up a stink. Why does everyone want to book my time when I’m not here?

“Oh? Where you off to?”

“
Don’t
tell me you for
got.
I asked you to book a
hotel
room!”

The wooden spoon slips from my hand and clatters on the floor. As I bend down to pick it up, Doggy wanders in, licks up the splattered broth, and I hit my head on the edge of the stove.

“Ouch! Mum, I have to go. I’ll call you back later.”

Alex shuffles in on his slippers as if they’re skis, shorts hanging halfway down his bum. He takes the phone out of my hand as I obliviously hover it above the pot.

“What’s up? You okay?” He winks, massages my neck—talks in cartoon.

“Yeah, just whacked my head on the damn—”

“Who was it?” He jiggles the phone.

“Hmm?”

“On the phone.”

“Oh. Just Betty the bloody Banter-ress.” I hold my breath, cheeks puffed, as I turn the heat down on the hot plate. I put the lid on the pot, leaving a small gap for it to simmer down a little, and then gesture for Alex to turn around. “Um … have you lost weight? Your shorts are … kinda loose.”

“Don’t think so.” He pulls them back up above his hips with a frown.

“You have. You’ve lost weight. Have you been … exercising?”

“Of course not,” he snaps, looking blank-faced at the stove. “What are you cooking?”

“You know exactly what I’m cooking.”

Alex nods at the floor and turns to leave.

“Hey. Wait.”

“What?”

“Where are you going?” I ask, in the most non-threatening voice I can possibly muster. I look him up and down, pause on the patch of bald smooth skin on his right calf, where he pulls his hair out whenever watching TV, rolls it and flicks it like snot. Fur balls. But no cat in the house.

“Back to my desk. Why?”

“No reason.” I stare, trying to smile.

Alex’s eyes shift toward the greasy cupboard handle, to the floor, to my knees.

“I’m just wondering what’s going on with you,” I add.

“Nothing’s going on!” The tone of his voice shifts into defensive mode and he throws his arms in the air and storms out. I want to grab him by the ear and drag him back in; threaten to cane him if he doesn’t speak up.

“Okay. Whatever.” I shake my head.

I squeeze lemon-scented detergent into the sink and run the hot tap. It reminds me of the time my mother filled an old foundation bottle of hers with no-frills washing up liquid, made a wand from a wire coat hanger and blew bubbles with me in the driveway until the mixture ran out.

She didn’t care about tidiness then. She didn’t cry or scream, insult my father, or threaten to kill herself. She even baked me cookies once in a while. I must have been about three or four years old. Before bipolar took her away to a place I never want to revisit.

I wish I could recall the memories my mother cherishes so much; like when she would throw me in the air and catch my limp, trusting body seconds before I would have hit the ground. I’d do anything to remember flying for those few fantastical seconds—being greeted back to Earth with ardent tickles, on the green lawn of our suburban Aussie backyard. I want to remember her lifting me to reach the Vegemite on the top shelf, and giving me butterfly kisses until putting me back on my feet. I want to remember being carried for hours around The Queen Victoria Market, snuggled in my mother’s arms, with my face nuzzled in her warm, Estee Lauder-scented neck. But I don’t remember these things—my mother does. All I have are photographs and my mother’s word.

But if I roll them up—Mum’s words—into a tight sacred ball in my palm, I can
almost
feel the innocence we once shared; I can
almost
taste our love and her memories as if my own. Until she makes that call.
Selfish little bitch. Selfish little bitch.
And I begin to wonder: Why do I only remember bad things?

I’m rinsing the last of the dishes when Alex comes back in. I dry my hands on an overused tea towel which smells of garlic, onion, off yoghurt. Embedded in this stench is something warm and wet. And white. Cappuccino froth.

“For Christ’s sake, Alex, can’t you use the paper towel to wipe up your—”

“I lied.” Alex leans against the door frame, hanging his head.

“And you don’t know why.”

Alex smiles, sniffs, pushes nose hair up a nostril. “Sorry,” he says, stepping forward. He kisses me on the forehead.

“So, what’s the truth? Why you acting so out of character? And
how
did you lose all that weight?” I stretch my arms around his waist and lay my head on his chest.
Please don’t lie. Please.

“I’ve been feeling, er … unattractive?” he whispers, as if seeking approval for his response. He rocks me back and forth, lips planted on my temple like a statuesque kiss.

“And you’ve been exercising?”

“Yeah. I thought it might, you know, make you more attracted to me.”

“You worry I’m not attracted to you anymore?” I ask, looking up, the tip of my nose touching the dimple in his chin.

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”
Is this for real?

“You do?” He rubs my upper back as if burping a baby.

I nod, grinning as wide as Tessa draws smiles. I want to believe him. No. I
do
believe him, but the blister isn’t bursting. There’s no ‘pop.’ No instinctual psychological reflex to relieve my suspicion. There should be. If there’s anything my mother is right about, she’s right about a woman’s instinct. But, I’ll let it slide. I let it slide because the desire to believe Alex right now is as strong as my umbilical cord to Tessa. And, he did admit he lied. So that’s good. That’s one foot in the right direction.

“I should get dressed. Wanna help me choose some clothes? Maybe, you know, you can
dress
me?” I wink, pulling away from his embrace, so I can see his face.

“Er, not
rea
lly.” He scoffs. “Got a few emails to write. Sorry. Might have closed a deal with Samantha Fox, though. Wanna be her support act?”

“Um …”
I can’t make this decision now. I can’t. What if we have to move to London?
“If you book her, let me know when it is and we’ll talk about it.”

“You seemed more enthusiastic last night. What happened?”

“Um, nothing, nothing at all.” My cheeks tingle like aftershave on open pores. “It’s just that book exhibitions are coming up soon and I have to be there this year. Just want to make sure they don’t collide. I’ll just be too exhausted after standing on my feet all day.”
Phew. Nice save, Melody. He doesn’t know that they’re tomorrow. Does he? Oh God, if I told him, I’m—

“Okay, cool. I’ll let you know.”

Tessa’s sitting cross-legged on the balcony, trying to accessorize Doggy with purple sunglasses with star-shaped frames, but Doggy keeps shaking them off. Totally void of frustration, Tessa chuckles and licks Doggy’s nose.

“Tessa! What are you doing?” I walk out and lift her off the ground. The shoulder of her white T-shirt is drenched with drool, her sandals are on the wrong feet, and she has a smudge of dirt above one eyebrow in the shape of an adult thumb.

“What?” Tessa squeaks in chaste, cocking her head to the side, just like Doggy does when I give her an order she pretends not to understand.

“Don’t
lick
Doggy’s
nose
.” I put her back on her feet. “You might get sick.”

“Why? She licked
me
. Will she get sick?” Tessa frowns.

“If she jumped off the balcony, would you follow?”

“Don’t be silly, Mummy.”

“Yes, you’re right. I’m a silly mummy.” I hold out my hand. “Come on. Come help me pick a dress to wear.”

In my bedroom, we stand staring at my open wardrobe, hands on hips, as Tessa tends to enjoy the stance, inspecting its contents—an array of wrinkled black, gray, and olive green. Remind me—do we even
own
an iron?

I pull out a short black taffeta body-fitted dress that is pancaked to the far right side of my wardrobe with short sleeves and a high neck line. I hold it up against my body, my floppy man’s clothes, and look in the mirror. The coat hanger hook is almost digging into my neck. I envision thrusting it into my skin and piercing my carotid artery. Gushing blood. Nice. Quick. Death. I blink.
Jesus
!

“Put it on,” Tessa says, shaking her head like a disapproving sales assistant. “It looks silly like that.”

I nod, stripping myself bare. Tessa’s face goes pale.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping into the dress.

“Your legs have got … lots of holes,” she whispers, protruding her bottom lip as if she has just understood what’s in store.

“It’s called cellulite. That’s what happens when you sit at a desk all day and don’t do enough exercise.”

“Will I have to sit at a desk all day when I’m all grown up?”

I laugh, bend down and kiss her cheek. “No, Blossom, you won’t.”

Tessa smiles and smacks her lips together.

“Zip me,” I say. Tessa holds the zip and I lower my body to the floor so she can reach up to my neck.
It fits!

I turn to the mirror with my eyes closed. It’s been so long since I’ve worn a body-fitted dress that I’m afraid seeing myself will just dampen my self-esteem to a point where I’ll never want to step foot out of the house again.

I open one eye.

Okay. Disgust is not spreading through me like tear gas. That’s good.

I open my other eye.
Hey, I don’t look too bad.

I slide my hands down my thighs, smoothing out the edges of the dress, semi-consciously checking for unflattering bumps.
Maybe I’ll snazzy it up with those psychedelic beads I used to wear. Yeah.

I straighten my back, suck in my stomach and turn to inspect my profile.
Big ass. Ugh.

“Whatcha think, Blossom? You like?”

“Mmm …” Tessa scrunches her nose. “Nup.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” I ask, looking myself up and down, as if Tessa’s opinion means life or death.

“Put the pink one on.” She points to some purple-pink fabric sticking out of a plastic bag behind my shoes. How she even knows it’s a dress is beyond me.

I pull it out, and hold it up. Yep, it’s a dress—a jersey dress, wrinkle free—off-the-shoulder sleeves and a low-cut neckline. I can’t even remember owning it. Was it Serena’s? God! What would Alex say?

“Honey, I can’t wear this.”
Of course, you can. Why do you need Alex’s approval?

“Why not?”

Why not? Well. Trash, trash, trash. Or sexy? Can’t wear a bra with this thing either. My boobs will look like saggy bread dough. How do you explain trashy to a four-year old girl? How do you explain the woes of Earth’s gravitational pull?

“Because … Look, I’ll
try
it on, but that’s all okay?”

Tessa nods, runs on the spot and jumps onto my bed giggling. Usually I’d tell her to get off, but I didn’t make the bed this morning, so there doesn’t seem to be any point.

I put the dress on.

My boobs
are
a little lower than they should be, but that can be fixed, I think, with Alex’s two-inch wide sticky tape. I
could
pass for a twentyfive-year-old, I suppose, with a little make-up, not too much, I don’t want to look like a prostitute, and a little straightening of my hair … Do I still have that thing? Hmm, maybe …

I look at Tessa, who is staring at me the way she stares at her Barbie dolls.

“You don’t want to hack my hair off do you?” I ask.

“What?” Tessa asks, looking at me as if I’ve totally lost it.

“Never mind. You win. I’ll wear it,” I say expecting some sort of vocal parade.

“Cool.” Tessa nods and jumps off the bed, landing a little too hard. She hurts her ankle, but tries to hide it, stands up, brushes off her hands and says, “My job is done.”

She walks out of the room, wagging her bottom like “the stick ladies on TV.”

In the bathroom I find the hair-straightener in the towel drawer—
under
the towels—and complete the picture of Melody/ teenage clubber. I feel absurd—eyes embossed with black liquid liner, eyelashes curled, eyebrows darkened with a layer of brown lip pencil, lips glossed in shimmering pale pink.
Who are you?

I take one last look at myself in the full-length mirror, wondering how I should present myself to Alex.

Sexy, yet demure?

Shy and insecure?

No.

Better not hesitate. No signs of weakness.

“Vogue! Vogue!” I leap in front of Alex’s desk, striking a pose, “let your body
mooove
to the
muuuusic
. Hey, hey, hey!” I move my hips to the rhythm, roll out his chair and sit on his lap, all the while thinking:
Please let that interrupted frown turn into an impressed smile.

“Wow.” Alex scratches his head. His penis twitches on my thigh.

“Stand up for me. Spin around,” he laughs, waving his finger in a circular motion. I spin around, curtsy, wink.

“Will you be home in time for me to have a piece of you?” Alex asks, biting his bottom lip.

“If that’s what you’d like … ” I whisper all feathery-voiced. I bite his earlobe, breathe softly into his neck, massage his groin, taking my role to an entirely different level—a level I would ordinarily cringe at if I observed another woman doing it. Sexual manipulation. Others might call this foreplay. Why do I see it as something negative—cheap? What has happened to my femininity? Has motherhood sucked it dry? Marriage? Lack of aspiration? Libido detached, cloudy, like a used condom.

He moves in for a kiss, slides the tip of his tongue between my lips. But no goose-bumps. No heat between my thighs. I remember when the mere caress of his gentle fingers on the inside of my wrists made me shiver—made me want to slam him against a wall and fuck him until I could fuck no more—until it hurt to walk.