The Same Deep Water (4 page)

Chapter Five

#1 Get A Tattoo

I don’t know Guy besides the fact he hangs around suicide spots with bunches of flowers. This is enough to put him in the ‘odd’ basket in my head, and despite his outward appearance, I don’t want Guy to know where I live until I know him better. Instead, on the following Saturday morning, we meet at a car park around the corner from the cafe. I spent the last few evenings researching tattoos, and now I have steeled myself to cross the first item off my list.

Guy’s wearing the same clothes as earlier in the week and is paler, eyes rimmed by red.

“Late night?” I ask him.

“Kinda.” He twirls his car keys around his finger before clicking the remote. The lights flash on a sporty red Audi and I stop.

“That’s your car?”

“Told you I was loaded.”

That’s the first truth confirmed and the first of my doubts quashed. Perhaps I need to accept he’s honest. “Where do you work?”

“I don’t. Get in.”

People’s ability to silence me with short answers is something I need to get a grip on, and learn to push for answers from them. One of the most irritating things in life is coming up with clever retorts several hours too late.

“You have a lot of spare time then.”

He frowns. “Phe. That’s unkind.” I redden and he laughs. “Teasing! I do, but I fill my time with the things I love.”

“Surfing?”

“I don’t surf.”

“But you look like a surfer. And you said you could teach me.”

“I mean, I don’t surf anymore, a mate got taken by a shark.” Guy opens the door and looks across the black soft top of the car at me.

“Oh, my God, really? I’m so sorry!” Guy chews on his lip, fighting a smile. “You’re teasing me again, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. My mission is to teach you not to let people do that. Don’t give people power over you, Phe.” He climbs into the car. “I surf. A lot.”

When I join him, I’m concerned he’ll put the top down; the summer heat has built over the last few days, a true Perth summer gripping the city.

“That’s what worries me about surfing. The sharks.”
And the water.

“You’ll be in safe hands with me.” Guy fires up the engine, loud music instantaneously filling the car. When I blink at the volume, he turns the sound down.

“Why do you want to swim with sharks?” I ask.

“Why do you want to swim with dolphins?”

“Because I’ve loved them since I was a little girl, we went to Sea World twice and watched the show. At every performance, the handlers pick kids to feed and pet the dolphins, but not me.”

“Aww. Poor you,” he says and I bristle at his dismissive tone. “I don’t like dolphins. I prefer sharks.”

“Won’t they attack you if you climb in the water with them, though?”

“Nah. I don’t taste that good.”

I bet he does.

Guy manoeuvres the car onto the street, and turns the music back up, the local chart hits station blasts out ending conversation.

Tucked away on an industrial estate, between an air-conditioning unit distributor and a plumbing warehouse, the skulls on the black painted sign of the small tattoo studio look out of place. Without Guy, I doubt I’d have found this.

Guy climbs out and walks around the side of the car and, before I have a chance to, opens the door for me. “Thanks,” I say, surprised by his chivalrous gesture.

After the cool of the car, the humidity washes over me and I’m grateful I wore a short summer dress. Guy scratches his head.

“Where’re you having the tattoo?” He indicates the length of my body with his hand. “‘Cause you don’t want to have to get naked. Shorts and shirt would’ve been better.”

“On my collarbone!” I retort.

“Shame.” He strides away.

The fact Guy just implied he wanted to see me naked, momentarily blanks the fear somebody is going to pierce my skin with a multitude of needles.

Inside the studio, photos of clients’ tattoos and example art cover the bright red walls. A girl with blue hair and a sleeve of tattoos emerging from her baggy, black t-shirt looks up. “Hey. Got an appointment?”

I clutch my bag, feeling as if I’ve walked into the waiting room at the doctors, although she’s unlike any medical receptionist I’ve ever seen.

“Hey, Lola. Wes is expecting us,” says Guy and indicates me.

Lola flicks me a look. “God, I hope she’s not getting an infinity symbol on her wrist – or a Southern Cross, Wes’ll refuse.”

“No,
she’
s not,” I retort.

A middle-aged man with a crew cut appears in the doorway; when he spots Guy, he seizes him in a bear hug. “Hey, mate, how’s it going?”

Guy claps him on the back. “Not too bad. Yourself?”

“This the virgin?” Wes asks Guy and looks at me.

Despite strong attempts not to, I turn bright pink. Guy arches a brow.

“Tattoo virgin, I mean,” says Wes with a chuckle. “In you go, sweetheart.” He gestures to the open door.

“Want me to hold your hand?” asks Guy. “You look pale. Are you worried?”

“No. I’m good.”

As I edge past Guy, he leans in. “You never added that to your bucket list,” he whispers.

I shiver against his breath tickling my ear. “Added what?”

He steps back and crosses his arms. “V-card, Phe.”

“Shut up!” I snap. “Don’t make assumptions about me!”

“You’re so proper. Do you ever swear? If I were you, I would’ve told me to fuck off.”

I straighten and meet his eyes. “I will if you make any more comments like that.”

Guy shakes his head with another smile then turns away. “Hey, Lola. Can you take a look and suggest whereabouts I should put my next tattoo?”

“Take a look where?” she replies, looking up from her phone.

“Wherever you like.” He perches on the desk and sweeps a hand, indicating the length of his body.

“Sure, Guy. Why not ask your girlfriend instead?” She points her phone at me.

I wait for Guy’s response with interest, but Wes ushers me through a black door before Guy replies.

The couch in Wes’s room reminds me of my local GP, grey and covered in white paper. Ohmigod, will I bleed everywhere? The cramped room is covered in more pictures, and there’s a small desk holding a large folder and picture frames containing photos of smiling kids.

“You need help choosing?” Wes asks.

This man is an advertisement for his craft, ink spreading across every revealed inch of skin, a mash of colours and pictures that would take a good study to decipher. They stop at his neck, where a red and black skull decorates the front.

“No.”

Following the last few evenings searching on the internet, when the design I chose appeared, I knew straightaway I wanted this one. I show Wes the image on my phone. He squints at the picture and groans. “A common one. I got this in my book.”

Leaning back in his chair and reaching over his head, he drags a large binder over and opens onto page with artwork of different birds. “Like this?” he asks and points at a series of tiny, black birds in flight.

“Yes, exactly like that.”

“Four?”

I nod. They may be cliché, but they mean something to me. Swallowing down my nerves, I eye his tattoo machine in the corner.

“Relax, sweetie, they’re small, won’t take long.”

“Will this be painful?”

“Depends where you’re putting it.” I brush my fingers along my collarbone to my shoulder and he wrinkles his nose. “Bone. Not promising anything but fleshier is normally easier. Everybody’s different though. Let me stencil the design up.”

Wes focuses on tracing his drawing while I sit on the edge of the couch and swing my legs. Why did he have to tell me this would hurt?
Of course, having a tattoo will hurt, Phe.

The noise and vibration is the biggest shock, the needles barely felt. A stinging sensation spreads across my skin. Wes attempts to chat but I switch off, close my eyes, and consider what I’m doing.

All my hopes and plans had been carefully pushed down to the recesses of my mind by the ink black of my thoughts. The four birds flying from the edge of my collarbone to my shoulder represent a freedom from my self-imposed cage. Carving images onto my body mars the perfection I crave, with this tattoo comes a step toward an identity I hide from. Writing a bucket list is an acknowledgement of a future I denied I had, as I sunk beneath the quicksand of my present.

What prompted me to write one? Guy’s persistence? Or was each of his nagging texts a reminder I have what he doesn’t – a choice to live my life. Again, I drift to thoughts of what’s wrong with him. I’ve never known somebody who is dying – not someone young anyway.

And me. How long will the medication work this time? What if my brain tries to kill me again?

“Done.” Wes dabs at my chest with a wet wipe and examines his handiwork before reaching for a mirror. “Here you go.”

The reddened skin from the procedure surrounds the small black birds, one flying close to a freckle I never noticed I had there. I didn’t take into account how visible this would be. The tattoo won’t be covered up in summer clothing and only a few weeks a year in winter jumpers.

Back in the shop, Guy sits on the edge of Lola’s desk, chatting. Flirting? Hard to tell, Lola’s not responding. I picture her more with a longhaired, biker guy, but who knows? My journalist side goes by the magazine clichés, not always helpful in social situations.

Still, she fights against smiling at whatever joke he’s telling her, Guy’s natural charm winning over. But I’ve seen the depth hidden in his eyes and know beneath he must be struggling to stay afloat.

Shaking my death obsession away, I head over. Guy’s eyes zone in on my tattoo.

“Cute ink,” he says. “Let’s go.”

That’s it? No praise for my bravery and at starting my bucket list? Irritated, I pay Lola and follow him. Outside, Guy rests against his car with the engine running.

“Lunch?” he asks.

“I have things to do.”

“Things?”

“Things.” Like, not showing my fresh tattoo to the world just yet.

“You’re lying.”

“Wow, okay. I’m lying.” I climb into the refreshing cool of his car.

Guy hops in next to me. “Come back to mine, I’ll make lunch.”

His. I absentmindedly touch my freshly scarred skin. “Um.”

“Are you worried I’m a stalker? A bit weird?” He starts the car.

Yes. Maybe. “No. I don’t know.”

Guy tips his head and looks at me in the way that prickles the hairs along my neck because in his eyes rests a connection I deny. “Fair enough. But I did save your life, why would I want to hurt you?”

Uncomfortable with the conversation, I angle the air vents to blow at my stinging skin. “True.”

“Just lunch. Nothing else. I promise. I’d like to spend more time with you, that’s all.”

“Where do you live?”

“Mosman Park.”

One of Perth’s most expensive suburbs. “Oh. Very nice.”

“Yeah, it is. Come take a look.”

I scrutinise his face, his expression is friendly but hopeful, putting me in mind of an eager puppy. My life could do with some of his enthusiasm and admittedly, I’m curious about him. I shiver against the cooling temperature as we study each other properly for the first time. One thing’s for certain, my elevated heart rate isn’t anxiety about being alone with him, but the desire to find out what would happen if I were.

The attraction to Guy built through the texts and his gentle understanding that helped me through the dark times – not just away from the edge of the rocks, at the fact he took time to keep in touch. Now I’m subjected to his physical presence, the draw I have to him intensifies. Do Guy’s eyes reflect the same thoughts? Do I want him to?

“I have a few things to do this afternoon. How about I come over this evening?” I suggest.

“Good plan!”

We head away from the industrial estate and back to the suburbs, for the first time, there’s a weird tension between us, an awareness of boy meets girl and girl isn’t entirely sure of boy’s motives.

Chapter Six

I drive to Guy’s place, I expected him to live in one of the trendier suburbs, but the surroundings are at odds with his image. A large, ultra-modern house in Mosman Park, amongst the doctors and the self-made millionaires, tucked away on the brow of a hill. Guy wasn’t lying; he does have money.

I park halfway down the street, unsure where I’m going and as I stand on the marble porch of the two-storey house, I’m uneasy. Sure, I’ve met him twice and Guy has secrets, but so do I.

The doorbell echoes through the house and Guy opens one of the glazed double doors. He’s relaxed, wearing faded jeans, and a t-shirt covered in streaks of red and blue what looks like paint, feet bare. The dimpled smile gets me every time, as does the awareness of my body’s reaction to him. He’s beginning to match Ross in my desire for his touch. Not good.

He pads across the shiny, tiled floor and I hesitate before kicking my sandals off and leaving them by the door. A bicycle leans against the wall, dirtying the white paint.

I follow Guy along the hallway, across immaculate, polished marble tiles, paintwork I’m frightened to touch in case I mar with fingerprints. The room opens into a functional but designer kitchen, utensils arranged neatly, hanging from a rack on the wall and stainless steel appliances gleaming.

“Do you live in a show home?” I ask stunned by the lack of empty dishes normally found in the houses of other guys I’ve known.

“I have a cleaner.”

“But still... Do you live on your own?” I hand him the bottle of red wine I brought.

“Yep. How’s that tatt?”

I place my fingertips on the ink. He’s fielding my questions again. “Fine. Big place to have to yourself.”

“I like my own space,” he replies. “They look cute on you. You need to tell me who they are.”

“Pardon?”

He points at the birds with the bottle. “The birds. There are four. Who are they?”

“Just birds.” The look he returns shows he knows I’m lying, this man reads me easily. Guy locates a corkscrew and opens a bottle of red wine. He takes goldfish bowl sized glasses from a glass-fronted cupboard, also finger mark free, and he pours us one each.

Amongst the clean, cool smell of the paint in the house, something is missing. I can’t smell food. “What are you cooking?”

“Me? Nothing.”

“Oh. You invited me for a meal.”

“Yeah.” Guy drags a handful of paper menus from the kitchen drawer and drops them on the counter. “What do you like?”

I pick up the first of the array of menus. Thai. Then the next, Chinese. Leafing through I come across Indian, Italian, Vietnamese. “What do you like?” I ask.

“Doesn’t matter, you choose.”

“I don’t care.” I push the pile to him.

“Choose.” He pushes them back without a glance.

“Honestly, I don’t mind.”

Guy rests against the counter, and crosses his arms. “Phe, make decisions.”

“I do! I just don’t care what I eat.”

“Then we don’t eat.” Guy gulps back his wine.

Uncomfortably, I shift, debating whether to leave. “Seriously, I don’t care.”

“If you were on your own, you’d choose what you want. Don’t worry about what I want.”

“I’m not!” I shake my head at him. “Normally, when I go around to someone’s place for dinner, they cook.”

“I can cook if you like.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

Guy pulls out three menus and lines them up. “These are my favourites. I’ll compromise. Choose one and I’ll decide what we eat.”

“You’re weird. Fine.”

Following the altercation over meals, Guy orders. When the Chinese food arrives, he tips the contents of the containers into large, white serving bowls. Beneath the bright spotlights in his kitchen, on stools at the counter, isn’t the most romantic of meals, but this could be why Guy chose the location. Am I misreading his interest?

“Why did you make such a big deal out of that?” I ask.

“I think you need to learn to be more assertive. I get the impression people make decisions for you a lot.” He mixes rice with the chicken and black bean sauce. “Am I right?”

“I’m not naturally pushy, but I can stand up for myself, thanks.”

“No, but you’re not as confident as you pretend.”

I poke at the meal. “You don’t know what I’m like.”

“I know that you probably do what people expect of you so you can avoid conflict.”

“Are you a psychologist or something?”

Guy shakes his head. “No.”

“What do you do?”

“I told you before. Nothing.” He tops up the wine glasses. “You?”

“I write for a magazine.” Funny how we’ve spoken about everything and nothing.

“That’s right! You never told me which one, though.”

“
Belle de Jour
.”

His mouth twitches as he fights a smile. “Serious?”

“What’s funny?”

“The kinds of articles in those kinds of magazines... I can’t picture you writing them. Surely, you don’t buy into all that bullshit. Perfect life, perfect body, perfect sex life?”

I switch my focus to the rice, discussing sex with Guy causes images to emerge that in turn cause aching I don’t need. “No.”

“Not a very healthy environment for somebody like you.”

We remain in silence until I realise he’s skirted around my question. “What do you mean you don’t do anything?”

“I don’t work.”

“You have money though. This place is very nice.”

“I do have money, too much. Inheritance.”

“Right.”

“So, I’m living what’s left of my life until it catches up again.”

The vagueness of ‘it’ tempts me to ask what he means, but I’m unsure I should. Guy’s right, I need to work on my assertiveness.

“What do you do all day then?”

“Live my life. Some days I like being outdoors: surf, walk, whatever.” He points at the ceiling with his fork. “Other days I stay inside all day. Paint.”

“You’re an artist? That explains your t-shirt.” I indicate the smudges and now I’m closer I can see light blue smears on his arms.

“Am I? Not really. Nobody ever taught me, I just like to paint sometimes. Empties my head.”

“Can I see what you paint?”

“No.”

I blink at his abruptness and Guy indicates my tattoo. “You were going to tell me who they are.”

I touch the black birds. “How do you know they represent people?”

“I don’t, just a guess.”

I inhale and hold the breath, which is a mistake because lack of oxygen spins me back to that night. “My parents and brother. And me.”

“What do you think your parents will say about the tattoo? Are they old fashioned?”

I clear my throat. “They’re dead.”

Guy blinks several times. “Sorry to hear that.”

“My brother too.”

“Shit, sorry. Accident?”

“Can I not talk about this, Guy?” I whisper. Too late, the dreams will return tonight. I know from the tightening head and shortening breath that the images will follow. At least the tears don’t come anymore.

“I lost my family, too,” he says.

“I’m sorry.”

Guy shrugs. “Life goes on.”

The connotations of his words hang heavily between us: apart from when life doesn’t.

We share the bottle of wine, chat about movies we like, books we’ve read, anything but each other. Guy steers the conversation to neutral territory, keeping us above the water and not looking at what lies beneath. I relax, he’s the kind of person who makes poor jokes, his sense of humour as odd as the rest of him, but I’m convinced he’s harmless.

“Should we discuss the next item on the list?” he asks.

“It’s your turn to choose.”

“You still need to catch up. Another one of yours.”

I picture the list attached to my fridge by a magnet. “I’m not sure.”

“How about ‘Ask a stranger on a date?’ That one’s easy and inexpensive,” he suggests.

I fiddle with the edge of my sleeve, why does he have to keep mentioning that one? I’m also annoyed I’m projecting a fantasy of a secret romance onto Guy when he’s clearly not interested. “Maybe.”

“There must be somebody you can ask. If you’re lucky you might end up doing your tenth.”

“Tenth?”

“‘Fall in love’. The item at the end of your list.”

I laugh. “I’m sure if the guy knew that, he’d run a mile. ‘Hello, do you want to go on a date and then we can fall in love?’”

“Meh. Just tell him about your list. Ice-breaker.”

“Smart.”

“I sure am.”

We share a relaxed smile, surprised by how easily our text message based relationship has translated into face to face. As he clears the plates away, I watch Guy’s lithe movements. The muscles move in Guy’s back against his t-shirt as he stacks plates in the dishwasher, and the thought of touching him creeps in again. This isn’t helped when he sits back down close to me, placing his arms on the kitchen counter. His hands are slender, blue paint stuck beneath his nails.

The awareness of Guy as a man, not the random stranger who hangs around cliff tops with bunches of flowers confuses me. This is a friendship. Travelling companions. Nothing more. He just proved that by talking to me about asking another person on a date.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I look into the eyes that remind me of the water that almost drowned me, at the concern set in his brow. His dimples are childish marks that are at odds with his very grown-up aura. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.

He arches a brow. “Why? Are you volunteering?”

Something new passes between us, clarifying the situation. Guy feels this too, the pull between us. I swallow. “No. I’m not looking for a boyfriend. Not at the moment.”

“Falling in love is on my list, too, if I had a girlfriend that one would be ticked off. I guess I need to find somebody.”

“You can have a girlfriend and not be in love.”

“What would be the point in that?”

“Men often have girlfriends and aren’t in love.”

The amused curve appears on his lips again. “And girls don’t?”

“Not as much, I think they expect a great love.”

“Do you?”

“Not really.”

Guy swirls the wine remaining in his glass then drinks. “Don’t wait your whole life for a Prince Charming to bring you a happy ever after, find your own.”

“I intend to.”

“Good. The only person who can make you complete is yourself.”

I drain my glass. “You’re a strange person.”

“Better than being something I’m not. No pigeon holes for me.”

Does he hide his pain as well as I do? I’ve almost asked him several times this evening what’s wrong with him, but can’t. I refused to open up about the pain behind my illness. I can’t expect him to open up to me.

“I’ve had an idea,” says Guy, topping up our glasses. “I honestly think we should do the lists together. All of them.”

“I already said I was fine with that.”

“I know, but plan things. One every week or so for the items on the lists we can do nearby. Meet up, have fun for a few hours, and then back to reality. No strings. No expectations.” I sip my wine and study him over the rim. No expectations. Can I spend time with Guy and not want more? Is that what he’s hinting at? Casual hook-ups to accompany our weird dates?
Dates?

“How long for?” I ask. “I mean, how long do you have?”

He remains looking at me then rubs his head. “A few months.”

“Can I ask what’s wrong with you?”

He sighs and puts down his glass. “No. I will tell you, but not yet. I don’t want to spoil our evening.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry I didn’t mean to cause you issues.”

“All good, Phe.”

We haven’t moved from the kitchen and my back aches from sitting too long in the low backed stool. “I should go. I’m tired.”

Guy slides his phone across the bench and checks the time. “Eleven. You okay to drive home?”

“I’m fine. I’ve only had a couple of glasses. Thanks for the meal.”

“Thanks for choosing.” I pout at him and he laughs. “Catch up soon?”

“When I find something on the list?”

“If you like.” Guy stands too. “Can I ask one more question?”

“Okay...” I’d hoped to leave before the awkward goodbye joined us. I can’t help feel the conversations around ‘fun’ had deeper connotations, or that Guy notices my attraction to him. He hasn’t stood this close to me since the night we met. When we sat together, there was a distance, now almost face to face that’s closed again. He rubs a finger along his lips as he studies me and I’m increasingly convinced the attraction is mutual
.