Trust (44 page)

Gerry moved closer to her on the couch, touched her hand, stroked it sadly. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Suze. I like what we do, I like it a lot. But it’s always … vanilla.’

‘Vanilla,’ she admitted. ‘Bland.’

‘That’s what I mean: married sex.’

‘Susanna,’ said Leigh. They turned to him, both their faces open, hiding nothing. ‘What might happen if, one night when you’re in bed together, or in the mood for bed, Gerry was to invite you to go on an adventure with him?’

‘
Me?
’ she said, and blushed to hear her tone.

‘Yes,’ Leigh smiled. ‘Why not you?’

Is this what had been missing in their relationship: sexual adventure?
What would he want me to do?
she asked herself nervously
.
And then:
what am I so afraid of doing? Stepping outside of my narrow vanilla good?
She took a breath, high into her chest, and looked boldly into Gerry’s eyes. ‘Only if we can go to the toyshop first.’

How long since she’d heard Gerry laugh like that? Really laugh! It seemed a very long time.

It was like having a handsome suitor, going all-out to win her.
No, not ‘like’ that: Gerry
is
my handsome suitor.
He’d secretly packed her bag, with her favourite going-out dress and her only pair of high heels, and a taxi delivered them to the door of a boutique hotel in the heart of the city. What awaited, in their suite? A bottle of excellent champagne, of course. On the bed lay a flat pink box, extravagantly ribboned, with the name of a legendary lingerie shop written in a flourish of gilt across the lid. Within the box, and the layers of tissue, a luscious Italian bra and matching silk knickers that were sensuousness itself. And when she emerged from the bathroom wearing them and –
oh, why not!
– the high heels, Gerry’s response, very visible through his own new designer underwear, made her giggle like a teenager. ‘And now,’ he said a couple of minutes later, in a growly murmur, ‘I get to take them off you.’ Which he did, slowly, with nuzzling digressions.

The toys they had chosen together, but Gerry had sneaked in a few extras to surprise her. Somewhere amid the delicious delirium Susanna recalled Vinnie’s voice saying, as she’d dropped the catalogue into her bag, ‘your husband will love you for it’.
My husband?
she thought.
I love myself for it!

She waved goodbye to some inner censor she’d never even been aware of, and let herself be noisy: gasped and moaned and, at one point, even screamed – a small shriek, really, of surprise rather than pain. There had been nothing, Susanna realised, to be afraid of.
Not in this adventure. Not with him.

Afterward, both fell briefly into a post-orgasmic sleep, deep as though they’d been dropped down a well. When they awoke, the evening was still young. Susanna exchanged languor for glamour, enjoying the rare thrill of dressing in her finest clothes and carefully putting on mascara as well as lipstick, to dine in a many-starred restaurant with this beautiful man.
Her
man.

Over dinner, as Gerry regaled her with one story after another illustrating his wit, his talent, the esteem in which he was held by people whose opinion counted, Susanna suddenly put her finger on it.
You’re flirting with me. Showing off
. Why did this feel like a revelation?
You don’t have to impress me
, she felt like saying, but instead she smiled and made appropriate noises of admiration. Susanna knew perfectly well how the game was played, but was surprised that instead of truly finding it enjoyable, she felt an inner niggle of resentment.
Is this what he always does when he’s flirting? With a new woman?

When Gerry had finally finished describing the rapturous response to some designs he’d done for a project in Canada (‘setting the standard for retro-fitting large-scale buildings throughout North America’, apparently), she tried to introduce some topics of more mutual interest – the kids, and their progress at school, for instance; some gossip about Angie’s new-found interest in Buddhism – but he brushed these aside with a charming, careless smile. ‘We can talk about the family any time, Suze,’ he said. ‘Tonight’s for us!’

Is it?
she began to wonder.
Or is it for you?
Throughout the meal she waited in vain for Gerry to ask
her
questions, to show any curiosity about her work at the college, or what she was doing in her studio. None. But he
did
ask when the purchasers of Jean’s unit were likely to settle, which led directly to what they would spend the money on: the house renovations.
I don’t want to talk about this, again
. Susanna decided to make a bold move to change the subject.

‘Gerry, could I ask your advice, about a professional problem?’ she said, while they waited for the arrival of the dessert they’d decided to share.

‘Absolutely,’ said Gerry, always pleased to give advice. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Lucy Simonic, the curator of Booradalla Art Gallery, is getting some serious opposition to mounting my show there.’

I told you so
, said his look. ‘Too bleak for them, right? They want family viewing, not torture and pornography.’

Steady
, she told herself. ‘Booradalla
is
a conservative gallery, as Lucy has reminded me. Being funded and administered by the council, and with councillors always mindful of the next election – yes, they’re not exactly at the cutting edge of contemporary art. Lucy’s already been called in to a meeting about my work, and she’s shown me the follow-up letter. It’s, ah … they’re pretty serious.’

‘So, what’s she reckon? Pull the whole show, or just the most offensive bits?’

Wow, you really don’t like my work, do you?
It took Susanna a few moments to compose a cool response. ‘Pulling the whole show isn’t what we want to do, though a couple of the most conservative councillors would like that. Lucy suggests withdrawing some of the more … confronting works.’

‘Sounds reasonable,’ said Gerry, nodding his agreement. ‘What’s your problem?’

‘Well … that feels like a cop-out to me.’

‘People are going to
hate
that stuff, Suze,’ said Gerry. ‘This gal Lucy’s right: you’ve got to take out pieces like that Rwanda rape thing. At least rework it so it’s not so hideous, or put a great big sticker saying
CENSORED
over the top of that – ugh! Do
something
!’

‘Right,’ said Susanna thoughtfully. ‘Thanks.’

‘Though I reckon you’d be better off cancelling the whole thing, myself.’

‘I think I kind of get that idea,’ said Susanna, resting her chin on one hand as she gazed at him.
Why don’t you want me to have this exhibition?
She hadn’t been able to come up with a convincing answer to that question, no matter how she puzzled at it. Then a dry voice inside her head said,
There’s only room for one creative genius in this marriage, and that’s Gerry Visser.

She sat up straight. ‘Oh!’ she said.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Nothing, nothing. Look, here’s our dessert.’

‘Fabulous!’ said Gerry, lifting his spoon. ‘I’ll have an espresso, too,’ he told the waiter, who looked questioningly at Susanna. She asked for peppermint tea.

Back in the hotel room, Gerry said he’d stay up for a while and catch some of the play at Wimbledon. Susanna went to bed. She took off her lovely dress, her stunning new lingerie, and lay propped up on the abundant snowy pillows, staring at the small hillock of her bent knees. That dry, unsentimental voice that had spoken inside her head at the end of the dinner was intent on conversation.

So
, it asked her,
you really think adventurous sex is what’s been missing from your marriage? Everything’ll be hunky-dory now?

Reluctantly, Susanna found herself admitting to the likelihood that, for her at least, it probably wouldn’t.
Not that sex like that isn’t fantastic
, she assured the interrogating voice,
and wonderful.

What is it you’re really missing, then?

I think it’s … something else entirely.

What?

Oh – it sounds so pretentious.

What? What do you really need, Susanna?

Acknowledgement of my creative side, and support for my own work.

With this admission, a still space opened up inside her, and Susanna looked into it for a long time, trying to find some sense of optimism that Gerry would be able to give her this acknowledgement, this support. But there was none.

Gerry sat on the other side of the wall, on the natty leather couch, staring at the TV, wondering whether hot sex with Susanna was really going to satisfy his need for sexual adventure. Reluctantly, a part of him was coming to the conclusion that the frisson of triumph he felt at what he’d done with her this evening wasn’t going to last.
Not that it wasn’t fantastic. It was.
But the thrill of the chase – that’s what was missing. The heady moment when he knew he’d won a new woman’s consent, the exploration of unfamiliar flesh, the raw animal rush of getting his hard cock into a body he’d never fucked before.

He sat there, hands propped on his knees, looking down the barrel of a future without any secrets, any adventures, any such triumphs. It seemed a desolating prospect.

THIRTY-EIGHT

‘Susanna, Susanna!’ Vinnie’s voice was almost yelping with excitement. ‘Where are you? Can you get yourself in to Studio Lulu inside half an hour?’

‘Inside half a minute, if you like,’ Susanna said. ‘I’m just out here in the car park, running over one of the drawings.’

‘Running it
over
?’ Vinnie shrieked. Susanna held the mobile away from her ear. ‘What are you
doing
?’

‘Relax, Vin, everything’s okay. There’s method in my madness. So, what’s up?’

‘Just come — oh, I’ll meet you! I’m walking out to the car park now.’

Excited though she was, Vinnie insisted on first inspecting the drawing Susanna had run over. ‘Oh, thank god, it’s not wrecked.’

‘Of course it’s not wrecked, it just had to have tyre marks on it. Come on, what’s the big news?’

‘First, you have to tell me this,’ said Vinnie, taking hold of Susanna’s elbow, her dark eyes glittering. ‘Do you want to be on national television?’ Susanna goggled at her. ‘Because in half an hour – less, twenty minutes – a producer and a reporter from
Arts Week
are going to be here —’ at this point Vinnie started literally jumping up and down, ‘— to look at
your work
!’

‘Huh?’ This didn’t make any kind of sense. Susanna shook her head as though trying to clear it. ‘No.’

‘Yes!’ Vinnie was striding along, propelling Susanna toward the framing shop. ‘Come on, I want to get all the pieces I’ve already framed out for them. Then we’ll get the others down from your studio.’

‘Vinnie, please, explain to me what’s happening. How does
Arts Week
even have a clue about me? Or my work?’

As they hurried to assemble Susanna’s graphic narratives, and the small paintings that complemented each one – almost thirty pairs now, in total – Vinnie breathlessly explained that Anna, whose studio was two along from Susanna’s, had got a phone call from the
Arts Week
reporter (who happened to be her sister) as she and her producer were driving back to Melbourne after a segment they’d been planning to film in Ballarat had suddenly gone pear-shaped. She’d told Anna they were going to drop in on their way through and asked if, by any miracle, she knew of an artist whose work would fit with — and here Vinnie was a little unclear. ‘But whatever they need it to fit with, and whatever Anna told them about your stuff, they seem to be interested.
Very
, Anna says. And they’re on their way here
now
.’

Susanna didn’t even have time to get nervous before the door buzzer sounded and they were there, Melita the reporter and Megan the producer, both in their thirties, with smooth asymmetric haircuts, stylish clothes in shades of grey and black, and friendly but analytical eyes. Suddenly Susanna felt very conscious that she was wearing an old blouse of Jean’s, pale blue with a neat little round collar, which made her look like a Sunday school teacher, tucked into jeans with a desperately old-fashioned high waist. As the pair looked at her work, Susanna, as casually as possible, untucked her blouse.

Melita beckoned her over. ‘Susanna, can you tell us about this one? Why these tyre tracks?’ she said with an interviewer’s smile, indicating the piece Susanna had just run over in the car park.

‘Right.’ Susanna took a deep breath. ‘I added them because it was a truck that took the bodies away,’ she began. ‘Some years ago, I read a Bosnian woman’s description of the massacre of about fifty women and children in her village. She described how her youngest child had run to her when the soldiers came into the hall and started firing, how he had been hit just as he reached her. She described the noise of his breath leaving his body:
Oof.
’ As she talked, Melita and the producer were glancing back and forth between the drawing itself and Susanna’s face. ‘This woman was shot too, and thrown onto the back of a truck – she found herself lying on top of her own mother’s body – but she wasn’t dead. She jumped off the truck before it got to the place where they dumped all the bodies. So I — I felt it needed tyre tracks. Brutally, running over it. This,’ she added, picking up the small painting of a child’s blue sandal lying on its side on a muddy road, ‘is the detail painting that accompanies it.’

‘And there’s one painting for each of the graphic narratives?’

‘Yes, they’re paired,’ Susanna said. ‘A tiny bright spark, to light each dark story on its way.’

‘Mmm,’ murmured Melita. ‘Like that phrase. And the idea to present your work as – I keep thinking of Alison Bechdel’s subtitle of her graphic memoir, “a tragicomic” – where did that come from?’

‘Probably my students.’ Susanna briefly described her epiphany about their online work, and the essay she had written about it – just published, in fact. ‘There’s a link to it on my website,’ she said, ‘which, I have to admit, is completely my students’ doing: the whole website. They said they’d be too embarrassed for me not to have one. “If you’re not online, miss, you’re nowhere,” quote unquote.’