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‘Ennui?’
‘A languorous kind of world-weariness. It’s like you’re chronically bored, and yet amused at the same time. Probably by all of us poor fools trying to be the one to shock you out of your ennui.’
‘I wouldn’t say I’m bored at the moment,’ he said mildly. ‘And I urge you not to try to shock me out of whatever it is I am. It won’t work.’
‘Yes, I like that about you. Your unshockability.’
‘On the other hand, I might shock you.’
‘Oh, I’m quite sure you will, and I’m looking forward to it. I don’t get shocked nearly enough to suit me.’
‘I hope you still feel that way when I say something that makes you furious. I don’t want you stalking off in a snit when I’m only doing what you asked me to.’
‘I generally don’t stalk off in a snit.’
‘And no punching, slapping, kicking or stabbing me, either.’
‘No punching, slapping, kicking, stabbing,’ she said, giggling at the absurdity of it. ‘Should I be writing these down? I mean, is it going to turn into some giant manifesto?’
‘Depends how hopeless a case you are. Which reminds me—how long is it going to take? We need to set a time limit. Because I’m warning you now, I’m not hanging around for ever to walk you down the aisle.’
‘For one thing, I have a father for that. For another, I don’t want to get married right this second. Marriage is a longer-term goal. For now, I’ll be happy to have a relationship that lasts longer than three weeks. Three weeks and one day will suffice.’
‘Three weeks and one day from when? First date? First kiss? First sexual encounter?’
‘Three weeks and one day from … the first date, I think. How will that fit with your painting?’
‘That’ll work. Let’s aim for mutual satisfaction in six weeks’ time. My painting will be finished by then, and if you haven’t already nailed your guy, you’ll at least be on your way to relationship bliss. Does that sound fair?’
‘Sounds very fair.’
‘We’ll meet every Wednesday at my apartment—say, 8:00 p.m. You’ll pose, and I’ll simultaneously preach at you while dissecting your dating efforts. But since we’re both here now, I’ll do a bonus round for you and start my expert tutelage straight away. Here’s something for the manifesto: how to deal with guys who dump girls by text message. Unlock your phone and hand it over so I can respond to that text. And if I find you’ve already sent something mealy-mouthed, I’m going to … Well, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but it won’t be pleasant.’
‘I don’t generally do mealy-mouthed,’ she said, digging around in her evening bag. ‘In fact, there was a guy—DeWayne Callaghan, if you ever come across him, feel free to spit on him—who wrote something disgusting about Lane on Facebook once, and I favoured him with such an excoriating critique of his post he was begging for mercy within a minute—sadly, before I had the chance to raise the subject of his own critical failing.’
He was regarding her with a fascinated eye. ‘Which was …?’
‘Premature ejaculation, and how I would have loved to share that all over social media,’ she said, then sighed as she brought out the phone. ‘Ah well, lost opportunities.’
‘Good to know that premature ejaculation is not excused,’ David said, through twitching lips.
‘Nevertheless, I’ll delete what I started so you have a clean slate to work with. Aaaand … here.’ She passed the phone to David. ‘What are you going to say?’
‘I need to read his message first.’ He looked down at the phone. ‘Good God! Lusty Liam? Really?’
‘A misnomer, as it turns out, because he was not lusty. More like Lousy Liam, to be brutally honest. Mind you, there was a Randy Rob who wasn’t randy and a Sexy Sam who wasn’t sexy, as well as a—’
‘Spare me! No, I mean it, spare me!’ He dipped his head and read the message. Shook his head. ‘Good Lord, you really can pick ’em.’
‘You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.’
‘Don’t worry, bluebell, if there’s a guy out there for you, we’ll find him.’
‘Bluebell?’
‘Would you prefer rhododendron? What about hydrangea? Agapanthus?’
‘Fine!’ she surrendered, laughing. ‘Bluebell it is.’
‘It’s an eye thing. They’re that colour.’
‘What do I call you, then?’ She peered into his eyes. ‘What colour are your eyes?’
‘Bluebell is taken, aside from being way too girly—and remember, do not mention my eyelashes.’
‘Yes your eyes are very blue,’ she said, but as she looked more closely, more intently, she saw they were the most amazingly dark, swirling, drowning indigo. And something about them, framed in those dark lashes and staring right at her, made her heart do a butterfly-like flutter in her chest.
‘They’re the colour of a bruise,’ David said, looking away from her suddenly. ‘So you can call me Bruiser—a good alpha male name.’
‘Alpha? A-ha.’
‘Remember, my eyelashes are not tinted, brat.’
‘But it’s not very romantic. Bruiser.’
‘Neither am I—just for the record. Now come on, it’s time to text.’
‘What am I going to say?’
‘Depends.’
‘On …?’
‘What he means by the “cultural divide” he says is between you. Is he from overseas? Different religion? A lot older? Surely not younger—you only look sixteen yourself.’
‘I’m twenty-four, thank you. And he’s twenty-eight, which is in perfect proportion. Plus he’s agnostic. And he’s lived all his life here in Sydney, except for three months in Tokyo.’
‘Then I don’t get it.’
‘He means cultural as in him liking foie gras while I love pizza. Him being a Moby Dick kind of guy, whereas I’m crazy about Agatha Christie. The fact that he’s an opera buff, but I’m into pop music. I wear a terry towelling dressing gown, and he has a really short kimono, or whatever you call that thing that’s like a kimono only not as fancy. A bit like a— What’s funny?’
‘Oh God, the vision in my head!’ David choked out. ‘He wears a yukata? A mini yukata?’
‘Is that what it’s called?’
‘Yep. And I’m guessing that’s his way of pretending he knows all about Japanese culture because he lived in Tokyo for a few months when he probably knows squat.’ He started laughing again, and that set Sarah off too. He tried to take a breath, failed, tried again and managed it. ‘Sorry.’ Another quick breath. One more. ‘Okay, I think I’ve got it under control—now you get it together, or I’ll start laughing again.’
‘Okay,’ she managed, in a strangulated wheeze of a voice.
‘Sarah!’
‘Sorry.’ Choke, breath, choke, deep breath. ‘Right. Fine, I’m fine.’
‘So that ludicrous message of his is basically saying you’re not cultured enough for him?’
‘To be fair, he has a point,’ she admitted. ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. I read literary novels, just not only literary novels. I always dress perfectly for any occasion, I know what cutlery to use, chew with my mouth closed, and can hold my own in just about any conversation—I work in PR and events and have a huge range of clients, so that’s kind of mandatory. But I certainly have what you might call unsophisticated tastes.’ She grimaced. ‘You should have seen Adam’s face when I asked him to add Coke to one of his precious single-malt whiskies.’
David’s eyes were heading into fascination territory again.
‘Anyway,’ she went on decisively, ‘it’s now your job to make me worldly.’
‘If you want to present yourself to the world as a foie gras-scoffing, single malt-swilling opera lover, then yes, I can help you pretend to be that. But there are plenty of pizza-loving Agatha Christie readers out there we can target instead.’
‘Have you ever read a book by Agatha Christie?’
‘No, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t.’
‘Ha! You wouldn’t.’
‘Seriously, I would.’
‘Ha!’
‘Enough already with the “Ha!”’
‘So what do you like?’
‘I like pizza, same as you. I prefer wine over beer, cocktails and whisky, and blues over either opera or pop music. And most importantly, I do not wear a yukata and pretend to be Japanese. In fact, if you ever hear that I’ve been caught wearing a yukata outside of Japan, and a mini yukata anywhere on the planet, you’re to shoot me dead.’
‘Shoot you dead,’ she said, eyes brimming with laughter again. ‘Just don’t stab you.’
‘Brat! Still, knowing about the yukata and the foie gras makes the text reply easy.’ Ten seconds later, he was hitting ‘Send’.
‘That was quick!’ Sarah said. ‘What did you— No, what did I say?’
David held out the phone for her to take. The message was short.
Go fuck yourself
Sarah gazed at David in frank admiration. ‘I don’t swear—not when there are so many more fabulous words available—but I have to say, I like that.’ She looked down at her phone again. ‘That’s that bridge burned, then.’
‘Do you care, bluebell?’
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘Good. Now, before we go any further, just for future reference, in the normal run of things you shouldn’t denigrate one guy’s sexual performance to another guy. That’s one for the manifesto.’ He frowned. ‘You know what? I’ll bet Loser Liam would call something a “manifesto”, so we’re going to go for something simpler. What about the rulebook?’
‘The rulebook. Done.’
‘And I hope you appreciate that I’m batting above the average here when it comes to the rules. We haven’t even left the room and you’re up three lessons.’
‘Are we really?’
‘Don’t talk your head off; no dissing a guy’s bed performance to other conquests; be as mean as you like when responding to break-up text messages,’ he said, holding up a finger per point. ‘And on that note, I’m going to block Lousy Lustless Liam, so hand over your phone again. And then I’m going to put my number in there, et cetera, et cetera.’ He busied himself with her phone, then used it to call his own number. ‘There, now I have your number too.’
‘Okay, so now what?’ Sarah asked, taking her phone.
‘Now, let’s get out there,’ he said. ‘I’m going to shadow you—not obviously, but I’ll be close enough to see what you’re up to. I want to see how you flirt. I’ll give you a sign when we’ve found the right guy for you to pick up.’
‘Oh, we’re starting now?’ She looked at the exit. ‘Out there? Together?’
‘We’re on a tight deadline, bluebell. No time to lose.’ He looked curiously at her when she didn’t move. ‘A few minutes ago you couldn’t wait to absquatulate. What’s the sudden problem?’
‘It occurs to me that I may have got carried away in here. With just you and me, it seemed easy. You have a way of …’ She trailed off, not quite brave enough to suggest he was a master manipulator. ‘Of putting women at ease.’ Nice save, if she said so herself. ‘But Lane and Adam are out there and that … changes things.’
‘Changes things how?’
‘I have no idea how they’ll interpret what’s going on with us.’
‘It’s straightforward. There’s nothing to interpret.’
‘Think of the relationship intricacies. What if Lane doesn’t end up with Adam? What if she decides she wants to pick up with you where she left off?’
‘I told you—past tense.’
‘But Adam won’t want me anywhere near you, regardless, if she dumps him. And he’s not exactly the most forgiving guy on the planet, so he might not want me anywhere near you even if she doesn’t dump him, now she’s waved you in his face like a red flag at a tank.’
‘I think you mean red flag at a bull.’
‘Trust me, I mean tank. And I don’t want to have to watch him kill you over something to do with me.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘And I know I’ll end up hating you if you hurt my brother—if you hurt him emotionally, I mean, because he’d wipe the floor with you physically.’
‘Thank you for that vote of confidence.’
‘I might end up hating Lane, too. And even though I want to slap her right now, I love Lane.’
‘So just wait it out for six weeks and don’t hate either of us until our time’s up. You won’t have to see me again and you can mop up the rest any way you want. I’ll even help you do it.’
Her hands dropped, and she regarded him with disbelief. ‘It doesn’t work like that with feelings. You hate people, you like them, you love them, but you do it unconsciously. Even if you’re ambivalent, it’s not something you decide, it just happens.’
‘In my experience, feelings can be controlled.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘I’ve seen it, first hand. In fact, I’m adding that topic to the rulebook—controlling one’s emotions. Meanwhile, bluebell, the choice is yours: confess all, or keep me a deep dark secret. Won’t bother me either way.’
‘How can I keep you a deep dark secret when they’ll see us together out there?’
‘They won’t see us together. Adam dragged Lane off in highly dramatic caveman style ages ago.’
