Me Without You (4 page)

‘Yes. You will.’ she agreed. ‘But tell the truth, you already
have
sand in your shoes, don’t you?’

I squeezed my toes and felt the grit beneath my socks.

‘But…’

‘Let me put it another way.’ She dropped her outstretched hand to her thigh then drew it slowly back up her body to plant it on her hip. Her body language shifted, her hip jutting towards me, her shoulders arched back, her chin dropped. ‘Do you want to kiss me?’

If she hadn’t already, she now had my full attention. Lilah slowly tossed her hair back from her face and there was no missing the way her expression morphed from teasing to downright taunting.

‘Well?’ she prompted. She had me and she knew it.

‘You are awfully confident, Lilah Owens.’

‘I can read you like a book. You want to kiss me and I’d love you to kiss me. But I can also see that deep down inside you want to paddle too, so I’m not getting out of this water until you’re in it. If you
really
want to bring this exhaustive night of flirtation to an end, you’re going to have to take off the bloody shoes and come on in.’

I groaned and bent down to roll my trousers up to my knees then remove my black leather work shoes. Next I folded my grey socks up and stuffed them inside. My feet made their first contact with the shock of the cold, coarse sand and I gasped.

‘This kiss had better be worth it,’ I muttered.

She cheered playfully as I neared the water’s edge. The coarse sand became finer, and I yelped as my foot hit water for the first time.

‘That’s
freezing
.’

‘Oh, please. If you think this is cold then you’ve obviously never been to Russia.’

As soon as she had my hand, she dragged me a few steps further into the water so that it now passed my ankles.

‘Well, you lured me in here with the promise of a kiss…’

‘I was actually going to peck you on the cheek and run away,’ she grinned, but the smile faded as we automatically stepped closer together.

‘
Was
going to?’ My voice was dropping. Lilah rested her hand on my chest and our gazed locked, the playful moment coming to an abrupt end.

The waves were splashing around my calves, and somehow all of her nonsense about standing within something as large as the earth itself seemed sensible and amazing. I reached to touch her cheek with the back of my forefinger, then turned my hand to cup her face as I bent all the way down to kiss her. It was a gentle kiss, a reverent kiss, although I daresay it wouldn’t have stayed that way for long had an unexpectedly large wave not drenched me to my thighs in icy cold water.

Lilah burst out laughing and dragged me back towards the shoreline. Being so much shorter than me, she was now wet well and truly to her backside. I was laughing like I hadn’t done in as long as I could remember, chuckling with that kind of breathless joy and shock that steals away your words. She collapsed onto the sand and I sat heavily beside her. But for the fact that my toes felt like ice and the bottom half of my trousers were dripping, I might have suspected I was having a particularly trippy dream.

‘Whoops,’ Lilah said.

‘You were right,’ I laughed. ‘That was magical.’

She pulled her handbag down off the rock beside us and sat it behind her, then lay all the way back to use it as a pillow.

‘Your suit… the sand…’ I started to protest, but she pulled a face that suggested I was missing the point again. I sighed and copied her, propping my laptop case behind my head.

‘Look at the stars,’ she said. ‘Don’t you hate how the light pollution of the city washes them out like that? You can’t even see the Milky Way from here. My place at Gosford is only ninety-odd kilometres away, but it’s like a whole other sky. I’ve been sitting on my deck late at night and I’ve seen shooting stars that pop like camera flashes.’

I felt for her hand against the cold sand and entwined our fingers again. It struck me that she saw the cloudless night sky as a pale imitation of its potential, but right beside her I was staring at exactly the same view, stunned by the spectacle of it. I tried to remember if I’d ever stared up at the stars as a kid. I could remember Dad dragging me camping with him and the twins a few times—surely I’d looked up at least once. Or maybe I hadn’t, because it seemed as if I was seeing the enormity of the night sky with brand new eyes.

Lilah sighed heavily beside me then moved closer, but at the same time I tried to snake my arm around her and we giggled together like teenagers as we awkwardly collided. Eventually she settled so that her head was resting on my chest. Finally, I managed to slide my arm all the way around her. She was slight, and the weight of her in my arms was like nothing at all, especially compared to the weight of the moment.

‘We’re going to catch hypothermia and die,’ I said softly.

‘And your final words will be,
I so wish I’d gone to Paris,
’ Lilah murmured.

I chuckled and felt the answering rumble of her chest against mine. For a few minutes, we lay like that in the cold sand, staring at the stars and enjoying the closest thing to silence a person can find in the city. Eventually Lilah turned to rest her chin on my chest and stare up at me. I brought my other hand up to touch the thick softness of the wild mess of hair around her shoulders then brushed my fingers over her lips. And then she stretched up so that her face was over mine and she kissed me.

This was a different kiss to the one we’d shared in the water. Slow and almost wondrous, it was the physical equivalent of our soft conversation as we’d walked from Manly to the beach. We were learning one another, and the freezing sand against my back and my wet trousers and feet faded into oblivion as the warm glow of the kiss took over.

When Lilah relaxed away from me a few moments later, I felt dizzy, like things had spun out of control. Something was happening between us, something I didn’t have words for yet, but something very real. Lilah settled back into her previous position, now using her forearm on my chest as a pillow, and stared at me. Her gaze was quizzical and questioning.

‘Have you ever had sex on the beach?’ she asked, but her tone was more curious than suggestive. I raised my eyebrow at her and propped myself up a little more so that I could maintain eye contact without doing a mini sit-up.

‘Nope.’

‘I have,’ she said, and wrinkled her nose. ‘What were you saying about reality versus expectation? Sand, friction and certain body parts are not a great combination.’

‘I’ll bet you were stranded on a dessert island with a handsome sailor or some such adventurous combination.’

‘Actually, I was in Fiji,’ she laughed softly. ‘I was only a little bit stranded though. Mum was singing on a cruise liner and I flew over to spend a few days with her between her cruises. It was only after I’d landed that she realised her ship was docking in Port Villa, which is actually in Vanuatu, so I was in the right region, but the wrong country. My then boyfriend and I had three days sitting around Denarau with not much planned.’

‘So you made your own fun.’

‘Something like that,’ she agreed, then sighed. ‘I have terrible taste in men. That guy was an idiot.’

‘Maybe you’ve matured with age. You’ve made all of the right choices tonight.’

She laughed softly.

‘Do you want to head back?’

I wanted to scoop her up in my arms and sprint back to my apartment, and at the same time, I didn’t want the moonlight encounter to end.

‘Didn’t you bring me here to show me a tree?’

‘Ah! So I did.’

I rose and helped Lilah to her feet, and we both dusted the sand off ourselves—as much as was possible given it had pretty much coated us where we were wet. Lilah led the way back up the beach and when she was on the path again, pointed up into the hill behind us. I could see the bright lights of houses along the rise. With the wide mouth of the bay behind us, I well understood someone wanting to maximise their view. I wouldn’t tell Lilah that though.

‘There,’ she said, pointing to the silhouette of a Norfolk Island pine jutting out into the greyed night sky. I recognised it only because there is an iconic line of the same pine all along Manly beach, but the truth is, it’s probably the only species of tree I know by name. It was taller than the other foliage in the area, and formed a skeletal silhouette against the glow of a very large house behind it. ‘That’s the tree. Now do you understand?’

Truthfully, I did not understand, not even a little bit. And I knew that even if I visited during the day, I’d still fail to see her point. I’d probably still side with the property owner, who clearly had money to burn even to own a patch of dirt with such a view, and had probably worked hard enough that he deserved to enjoy a sparkling water vista if he ever did his own dishes.

What I did understand, though, was that anyone with the determination to believe so completely in something, and the will to fight for it like Lilah clearly had, was
not
going to understand my lack of comprehension. So I whistled, as if I was as awed by the tree as I was by her, and I shook my head slowly.

‘That’s a real beauty. Two hundred years old you say?’

‘We think so, yes.’ She stared in silence for a moment, as if paying her respects. ‘I
knew
you’d understand if you saw it. Some things you just have to experience for yourself, don’t you?’

My gaze had wandered back down the hill, and landed on her face.

‘You’re absolutely right.’

J
ust like I
couldn’t remember agreeing to go to the beach, I couldn’t remember discussing where we were walking to, but I knew our goal was my apartment. We walked faster this time, perhaps spurred on by the rising heat between us, or maybe even the practical discomfort of dripping clothes and a cold winter’s night. Our conversation came in bursts, a short sentence and a short response, and then only the sound of our breath as we walked at a slightly uncomfortable pace.

When I finally opened the door to my apartment and we stepped inside, Lilah immediately dropped her skirt onto the floor in a shower of sand. I sat my keys onto the hallstand and tried to contain my shock and delight.

She gave me that quizzical glance I was already becoming familiar with, as if my reaction was the only strange thing that was happening at the time, and wandered further into my apartment wearing her suit jacket and underpants.

‘You weren’t kidding when you said you were mid-renovation, were you?’ she remarked. She bent to run her hand over the heavy wooden coffee table I’d paid a fortune for, inadvertently giving me a delightful view of her sand-sprinkled thighs and buttocks. ‘Nice coffee table. Where’s the bedroom?’

T
he next day
I woke up excited and it felt strange. Life wasn’t exciting to me anymore, and it hadn’t been for a long time. Lilah really had been wrong when she said I was bored, and I certainly wasn’t unhappy—I’d just achieved everything I wanted to, and then I’d fallen into a holding pattern.

Lying there, with the scent of Lilah on my sheets, I felt something within me coming back to life. It was the tinniest green bud on the starkly bare branch, but it was still there, and I knew that it could flourish into something remarkable.

I realised as soon as I opened my eyes that she was already gone. Lying in bed, I scanned the room for some physical sign that she’d really been there, but the shirt by the door… the jacket by my bed… her handbag in the space where my built-in-wardrobe would go one day… it was all gone.

I showered and dressed for work, forcing an inner monologue about the day’s meetings and deadlines so the disappointment didn’t have any room to rise. I had artwork to review with one team, a pitch presentation I needed to start, and a new client to court. I needed to talk to HR about filling that copywriting position and write the performance management plan for the researcher who was giving me headaches. The board meeting was only a week away and I still wasn’t sure if I should recommend adopting the proposed IT budget for next year. So much to do, so little time, especially after a totally unproductive night.

It was only as I stepped onto the ferry and caught myself scanning the peak-hour crowd for a glimpse of her that I acknowledged the heavy feeling in my gut.

I didn’t want to be Lilah’s one-night stand—but the worst thing was, I hadn’t
expected
to be. I’d been caught completely off guard, and it stung that I’d made myself vulnerable enough to feel so disappointed after just one night.

2
6 August

It’s seven a.m. and I find myself at the café near the courthouse. I sat outside, as if early morning sun rays might find me, even though experience tells me that the skyscrapers all around me will block them. This patch of cement only sees sun for an hour or so at noon, and only in summer, because the monstrous tower across the road is at just the right angle to block direct light altogether in winter. And knowing all of this from years of arguing at this court house and having brunches and lunches at this very café in between sessions, I sat out here anyway. I’m not sure if that makes me an optimist or a slow learner.

I’ve been sitting here looking at the blank page of this journal for a few minutes, trying to remember how to start. It’s been five years since I wrote in one of these books. They were busy years, years with zero time or tolerance for the kind of self-absorbed navel gazing I once did in these things. I bought this particular notebook nearly six months ago, on a bad day, when I was sure I was about to get sick again. It’s always there, right at the front of my mind, and that wasn’t the first time that I’d convinced myself that the remission had ended and the nightmare had returned. The bad day passed and I stayed well, but I kept the journal on my desk at home—a visible reminder every time I walked past. I can’t afford to take the beauty of life for granted, because I’m living mine on borrowed time.

Journaling has been my solace and companion during the troughs of my life, but more than that, it was always a simple way to take the intangible essence of myself and make it tangible. Thoughts are like vapour—they disappear in the wind. But words on paper… well, that can be forever, or close enough to. I can write my soul here today, and come back tomorrow to check—is that still who I am? I suppose when I’ve felt lost in time, my journal has been an odd type of compass.

Ah, prattle. That’s what I used to do on these pages, I’d let the thoughts drain from me like I was bleeding out and the paper was absorbing my essence. I stopped writing because it felt like a self-indulgent waste of time, and time was something I could not afford to waste.

I’m running on virtually no sleep between the late night with Callum and the insanely early morning I had studying up for court today. I’ve been sipping today’s green smoothie—extra kale and wheatgrass. I felt I needed the vitamin boost. And all of these thoughts are just a way to postpone facing the real reason I’ve come running for this journal again: I’m feeling unsettled. I don’t do unsettled, not these days, when everything is in place and organised and I know exactly what it is I’m here to do.

I only agreed to have dinner with Callum because I was caught off guard. Shit, I could easily list a dozen reasons why now is not the time to start a relationship. That judgmental look he cast me on the ferry really got my hackles up, and the next thing I knew, I was genuinely enthralled in the dinner conversation.

Yes, there was a moment late that night when, lying in his arms in the darkness of his half-renovated apartment, maybe it was nice to daydream about seeing him again. We could meet for a casual coffee, or a drink together at the bar on the ferry one evening. We could talk for hours again, make love at his place. This time I’d stay and we could wake up together and he could explain to me how he managed to live in that godawful unit. It reminded me of Grandma and Pa’s house, during the second week of my renovations. The first thing I saw when we stepped inside was the wall of paint samples. He’s obviously had ideas over time about what the colour scheme might be: in perfectly straight columns and rows, he’s painted tiny patches. There are dozens of them now, all perfectly ordered, line after line of indecision.

The kitchen is in pieces, there’s a jagged hole in the ceiling in the living area where he obviously intends a light, and the skeleton of a built-in wardrobe rests against a wall in the bedroom. It’s all functional I suppose, but definitely mid-job. When I renovated, I couldn’t wait to get it all done and enjoy the final product. But Callum openly admitted that he’d left it like that for months? Bizarre.

What was it about Callum that had me so fascinated? He’s exactly the kind of guy I have historically avoided like the plague. He has a fancier haircut than me, for a start, with his curls sitting just-so atop his head and the back and sides perfectly short. Plus, I’m pretty sure there was product in those curls.
Product
. For fuck’s sake,
I
don’t even use product. And was his chest genuinely bare or had he
waxed
it? And even if I give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he really is some kind of six-foot hybrid of masculinity and just-so locks and hairless skin, he still smelt like he’d just stepped off an aftershave ad. Maybe it was his shampoo or deodorant—or both. Whatever it was, it was no doubt laden with methylchloroisothiazolinone and sodium laureth sulfate and God only knows what else. I should probably have warned him that he’s dousing himself with industrial chemicals that will mess with his endocrine system and fry his cell-aging process.

The worst of it though was the whole corporate-capitalist thing. It seems crazy when I think back to what I was like when I was working in corporate law myself, but I can’t help but loathe that whole lifestyle now. Work harder to earn more money to buy more things so that companies can pay their staff more money which they can use to buy more things? It’s madness.

At times when he spoke last night, I’m sure I could hear his life straining at the seams, wanting to burst open from the cage he’s contained himself in. I saw in Callum the same confused dissatisfaction I once felt myself when I was stuck up to my eyebrows in the corporate lifestyle. Maybe the only reason I’m still thinking about him today is that he triggered in me some need to rescue him, because he reminded me of myself, once upon a time.

Shit. Who am I kidding? I really liked him. I liked the square set of his jaw and the surprise in his smile just about every time I spoke last night. I liked his quiet confidence, and the hint of wild creativity that’s hiding somewhere in there under the suit, just waiting to be unleashed on the world.

And probably most of all, I liked how safe I felt in his arms, like I was coming home after an exhausting, madcap adventure and I could finally rest. I liked showing him my tree, and dragging him into the water. It would be fun just to share hours with him, to watch the startled pleasure on his face as he smashed his way out of the rut he’s stuck in.

In another life, I’d have been giddy like a schoolgirl right now figuring out how to bump into him again. Instead, I’m one day into what is potentially a lifetime of driving to work so I
don’t
see him.

It wouldn’t be fair to either of us. I just wish it was. Oh, to just relax and enjoy the blind naivety that Callum does. I wish I too could believe that the years will be generous, that there’s time to frit away, waiting for life to come to me. I wish I had the space for flirtations and silly love affairs with men who use hair product. If only I could just throw a few nights or weeks into this thing and see where it took me. It wouldn’t have to be happily ever after—happy
for now
would do.