Art Ache (7 page)

ME

(Calling)

Time to go, Jacko.

JACK

Mummyyyy. One more minute.

BOOFHEAD

You were quick.

ME

Yep. Pretty straightforward. Sorry, sweetheart, Daddy’s got to get back to work.

BOOFHEAD

Come on, mate, I’ll piggyback you to Mum’s car.

Just keep it bright and breezy, Persephone.

BOOFHEAD

Mind driving me back to the theatre?

ME

Sure.

BOOFHEAD

Had a big session at the gym last night. Tight hammies.

ME

Yep.

I keep it so bright and breezy.

BOOFHEAD

You all right?

ME

Yep. All good.

It isn’t until I’ve dropped Boofhead back at the theatre that I realise I hardly said two words to him. Not all bad.

I drive away from the theatre, through the city and turn onto the freeway. As I glance in the rear view mirror, I see that Jack has nodded off. All that park action has plumb tuckered him out.

I allow myself a moment to breathe. Let it out, Persephone. Let it go. The man had a terrible marriage, he bought his wife earrings for three anniversaries in a row, she got the shits and now she’s left him. It’s not your fault. Yes, you let the cat out of the bag, but you didn’t put the cat into the bag in the first place. Woeful analogy, Persephone, but the point is you’re not responsible for the guy’s actions.

I still feel nervous though. I remind myself he’s just a lonely old medieval re-enactor who has been dumped by his wife. We actually have something in common. Being dumped, that is.

I let out an audible sigh and switch on the radio. Best to distract my overactive and overly romantic mind from venturing anywhere it doesn’t need to go.

I manage to catch the news bulletin, a litany of petty grievances and international politics that make little or no sense. The same people doing the same stuff and expecting a different result. I tune out as I zip along the freeway, reminding myself the world isn’t actually ending, sometimes it just feels that way.

I’m only half listening when I hear:

NEWSREADER

. . . northern suburb and it appears the man has what may be a replica sword and is holding his wife hostage in her car . . . police are at the scene, attempting to talk him round.

What! Are you serious? This is too much! I can’t do anything right. I’m a bloody danger to myself and others. Everything I touch turns to shit! I’ve not only ruined his anniversary, I’ve pushed the poor, old bugger over the edge! He’s gone rogue! And it’s all my fault.

Concentrate, Persephone. Drive the car without crashing.

I get home, manage to transfer Jack to his bed to continue his nap and feel the desperate urge to ring someone. Mum and Dad aren’t here and even if they were, they’d just panic. Boofhead’s off limits. My agent will only blame me. My sister . . .

SISTER

Hello?

ME:

How much damage can you do with a replica sword?

SISTER

You haven’t/

ME

/of course not. It’s a guy I work with.

SISTER:

Northern suburb guy?

ME

Yes!

SISTER:

He won’t hurt her. He’s just crying out for attention. “She left me.” Boo hoo.

ME

It’s my fault.

SISTER

What?

ME

His marriage break-up.

SISTER

Please God, tell me you didn’t shag him. He’s fucking hideous! I just saw him on the news.

ME

I haven’t shagged anyone.

SISTER

That’s a big part of the problem.

ME

I put my foot in it. I told his wife what her anniversary present was.

SISTER

That’s not enough to push a person over the edge.

ME

Then he showed me the sword and/

SISTER

/slow down. This guy is holding his wife hostage because he’s a nutter. It has absolutely nothing to do with you.

ME

Ruining someone’s anniversary is a big deal.

SISTER

Yeah, but it’s no reason to hold someone hostage with a sword, replica or not.

My throat aches. I can feel a lump in it the size of a fist. I start to sob.

SISTER

Are you crying?

It’s like she’s asking me if I’ve shat myself. Her voice is full of disgust and repulsion. My sobs are gut-wrenching and very, very real. I’ve connected with my centre, as they used to say in acting school. Oh, Stanislavski would be impressed. And Kristin Linklater. And Cicely Berry.

ME

I can’t do anything right. Everything I touch turns to absolute/

SISTER

/bullshit. I told you that husband of yours was a self-centred, narcissistic wanker. And probably gay to boot.

ME

What?

SISTER

He’s too well-groomed to be straight. He’s so fucking self-obsessed. And he works in theatre. Say no more.

ME

That doesn’t mean he’s gay.

SISTER

Suit yourself. All I’m saying is that it was inevitable he’d leave.

ME

Why didn’t you tell me?

SISTER

Would you have listened?

I sob louder now. I can just imagine her on the other end of the phone holding the receiver away from her Chanel Vitalumièred face.

SISTER

It seems like the end of the world right now, but give it a few months and you’ll be fine.

ME

You think so?

SISTER

Totally. And don’t worry about the nutter with the sword. He won’t stab her. He’s just flexing his useless old muscles. They’ll do him for disturbing the peace or something and he’ll get off. He’s a fucking Freemason, or something.

ME

Really?

SISTER

Really. Freemasons never go to jail.

I gather myself together.

ME

Thanks for listening to me.

SISTER

Don’t get mushy.

ME

I’m not.

SISTER

You’ve got that tone.

ME

I haven’t.

SISTER

Any minute now, you’ll tell me you love me.

ME

I do love you.

SISTER

Yeah I know, but I don’t need to hear it all the time.

ME

I like to tell you.

SISTER

That’s because you’ve been dumped and you feel like a loser.

ME

I haven’t been dumped.

SISTER

Yes, you have. But you’re not a loser.

ME

Thanks. Bye.

Just as I’m about to hang the phone up, she shouts into it.

SISTER

Love you!

I hang up, laughing. I feel so glad she’s in my life, and I’m hoping to hell the metabolic psychopathic Freemason caretaker doesn’t stab his wife.

Chapter 7

Three weeks later. The airport.

“I regard the theatre as the greatest of all art forms, the most immediate way in which a human being can share with another the sense of what it is to be a human being.” Oscar Wilde.

He didn’t stab his wife. Thank God. But still, the last three weeks have been abysmal. Of course, it began with my husband leaving, then Mum thinking it must be my fault, and then I ruined a perfectly good anniversary surprise for a tragic metabolic Freemason, leading to the end of his marriage and almost a murder. But it gets worse. Jack has started daycare and he enjoys it so much, I feel superfluous. And tonight, he’s having his first sleepover at Boofhead’s. So as I’m standing at the airport saying goodbye to my sister, who is going to Vietnam to visit her lover, I have pangs of jealousy and envy. Why is her life so simple? So straightforward? So bloody breezy? There is pain in my heart and a deep feeling of longing in the pit of my stomach as I look down the barrel of an Easter all alone. My phone rings.

ME

Hello, Persephone speaking.

PATRICK

Hey . . . that guy took his wife hostage.

ME

Sorry?

PATRICK

It’s me, Patrick.

Awkward pause.

Ahh, the advertising agency guy from the computer game voice-over session.

ME

Patrick.

PATRICK

Yes. Sorry to call you direct, but your bloody agent never answers her phone.

ME

No worries. Oh . . . yeah. He did. With a replica sword.

PATRICK

Must have been inspired by the computer game.

ME

Nah, he does medieval re-enactments.

PATRICK

Ha ha. Seeking revenge because you spoilt the earrings surprise.

ME

That’s what I’m afraid of.

PATRICK

Nah, just your run of the mill nut job.

ME

Ha. Probably. Thank God he didn’t go through with it. They charged him for disturbing the peace apparently.

PATRICK

Idiot. Anyway, I’ve got a session for you, if you want it. Over the Easter break.

ME

I’m not doing anything.

PATRICK

Perfect. It’s for an international client. Easter break means nothing to them. I’ll text you the details.

ME

Sure.

PATRICK

Stay out of trouble until then.

ME

Will do.

I like Patrick. He makes me laugh. And he’s cute. He looks like a sports coach. All fit, outdoorsy, positive and can do, but very Aussie. Probably married with six kids and a gorgeous wife. I bet he’s not spending Easter all by himself.

Celine Dion makes another guest appearance in my brain. “Don’t wanna be eeeeee eeeeee, all by myself . . . ” Off you trot, Celine.

My sister bustles back from having checked her bags in.

SISTER

Have an affair with that gorgeous actor. You’ve always had a crush on him. The one in your play. It’s fate.

ME

He’s just broken up with his wife. Maybe I will.

SISTER

You won’t.

ME

How do you know?

SISTER

Because you still love that douche bag, Tom. But hey . . . if you do shag the gorgeous actor, make sure you get a Brazilian first. And have a few drinks.

ME

No way.

SISTER

If you don’t shag him, I will.

ME

You would, too.

SISTER

Oh, lighten up! Don’t wallow, Pers. Have some fun. I want a full report when I get back.

She pecks me on the cheek, and then races off through Customs.

SISTER

See ya!

ME

Love you!

She rolls her eyes.

ME

(calls out)

Enjoy yourself!

She turns and gleefully reminds me at the top of her voice.

SISTER

And take your pills!

Thanks. Everyone turns around to look at me. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. Anti-depressants. The counsellor, Marjory suggested I get a prescription. I went back to see her when I couldn’t stop crying. Time to check in regarding that lifejacket and those swimming lessons. I had a nagging thought that maybe mum was right, maybe I had done something wrong. Maybe in some way, this was all my fault. Maybe there was something I could have done to prevent it.

MARJORY

Of course you’ve done things wrong.

ME

Thanks.

MARJORY

That’s part of the process, accepting your responsibility in the demise of the relationship.

ME

It is a demise, isn’t it? A death, really.

MARJORY

Exactly.

ME

I didn’t want it to die.

MARJORY

That was beyond your control, I’m afraid. Now you need to learn to swim.

Enough with the water metaphors, Marjory. I’m drowning in a sea of tears here.

MARJORY

I suggest you see your GP for a prescription of anti-depressants. Just in case you need them. You need to continue to function. You have a child to take care of. I also suggest you watch your sleep. Make sure you’re going to bed early and getting up early. Exercise each day and be kind to yourself.

Easier said than done, but off I trot to the GP. An older woman with a gentle disposition, but an astute mind.

GP

Are you sure you need them?

ME

No. My counsellor suggested them.

GP

I’m not convinced.

ME

Neither was she.

GP

How’s your diet?

ME

Good.

GP

Sleep?

ME

Up and down.

GP

Sex life?

ME

Non-existent.

GP

That’s not good.

Well, my husband has left me.

GP

When was the last time you had intercourse?

I can’t bring myself to say it. I mutter it.

ME

Um . . . about three or so . . .

GP

Months?

Now I’m really having trouble saying it. I clear my throat.

ME

Um . . . years.

GP

Three or so . . . years?

I clear my throat again.

ME

Yes. When we conceived our son.

GP

And your son is . . .

ME

Four.

GP

That’s longer than three or so years.

ME

Probably.

GP

Do you have a libido?

ME

What’s that?

I laugh at my bad joke. She doesn’t.

ME

Um . . . sometimes, but . . .

GP

But, what?

ME

Well . . . you see . . . it’s just that . . . since the birth . . . um . . . I’m not sure that . . . well even if I did have a libido . . . I’m not sure it would . . . fit.

GP

Not sure what would fit?

ME

A penis.

GP

Your husband’s?

ME:

That definitely won’t fit. He’s left me . . . I’m fine, though . . .

Clearly, that’s a lie.

ME

It wasn’t an issue when we were married because he didn’t want to have . . . intercourse.

GP

And you did?

ME

Sometimes. But he wasn’t really that interested. Well, not at all really.

I feel like an adolescent being quizzed about my sex life by an overly inquisitive elder. Only difference is, when I was an adolescent there was actually something interesting to confess. Now, it’s just wide-open spaces. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero.

GP

But now . . .

ME

Well now, even if I wanted to, which I don’t, and let’s face it, who would I do it with? But even if I wanted to . . . well . . . I don’t know if I’d be able to . . . I’m just not sure . . .

I’m gibbering. Talking too much. I want to make her feel okay about this. God knows why.

ME

. . . maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe that’s why he rejected me.

Then I realise that I need her reassurance. I need to know I’m okay. That I’m not some sort of sexually rejectable freak.

GP

He rejected you?

ME

Yes.

GP

Maybe you rejected yourself, my dear.

Good point.

GP

Did he witness the birth?

ME

He took photos. And moved the car. He was worried about getting a parking ticket.

GP

I see.

She sits back in her chair as if she’s heard this a thousand times before.

GP

Your vagina ceased to be a playground and became some sort of macabre science experiment, in his eyes.

ME

Yes!

GP

It’s more common than you think.

ME

And now . . . well . . . even if I wanted to . . .

GP

The obstetrician changed the shape of the opening.

ME

Yes!

How does she know this? Has she been looking through my bathroom window?

ME

When I plucked up the courage to investigate what had happened ‘down there’ after the obstetrician had done his fancy patchwork, I was pleasantly surprised by the result, but it seems a bit . . .

GP

Higher than it was?

ME

Yes!

GP

Very common.

I love this woman! I didn’t feel this was the sort of subject I could raise at mothers’ group or with my sister, but somehow it seems completely appropriate to blurt it out in front of a friendly GP who I’ve just met.

GP

Buy a dildo and re-familiarise yourself with your vagina, my dear. It’s been very good to you. It’s given you a beautiful son, so be patient. A dildo will help you regain your confidence and you’ll be ready when the time comes.

ME

You think so?

GP

I know so. In the meantime, I’m giving you a prescription for anti-depressants. If you feel you need to fill it, then fill it, but I think you’ll be okay. See how you go.

I’ll order the dildo online, but I’m not sure about the anti-depressants. My sister thinks I should embrace them with open arms. A big believer in the chemical fix for any problem, big or small, hence her choice to tell everyone at the airport that I’m a potential drug user. Oh well, just another of life’s disappointments.

I shrug it off as I go back to the car. I try to push my soon-to-be-ex-husband out of my mind only to be flooded with images of Jack. He’s having his first sleepover at his dad’s. How odd. It’s only been three weeks and already Tom has set up house in his metrosexual bachelor pad. He’d obviously been planning this for some time.

I shake my head to try to remove the images of his new, single life. I don’t want this to be happening. I want to be a family. A mum, dad, and kid living in the same house type of family. I don’t want to be an uber-modern family, but now it seems it’s been thrust upon me.

I feel the anxiety creeping up my chest as I imagine all the things that could go wrong. Tom won’t give Jack enough attention. He’ll feed him junk food. He’ll leave one of the doors unlocked and Jack will wander off. He’ll . . .

Breathe, Persephone. Breathe. This is your new reality.
But I don’t want the reality, I argue back to the voice in my head. I feel like soliloquising right there on my way back to the car. Bursting into a stream of consciousness speak, talking to myself, trying to work out my thoughts and feelings. But I don’t. Instead, I remind myself that this is real. I have to deal with it. This isn’t some scene from a play. This is my life.

I also remind myself that I have my healthy boundaries in place, and now I just have to honour them. Marjory said I could ring once to say goodnight, which I’ve already done, and then once in the morning to say good morning. Only another 12 hours to go.