Authors: Ilsa Evans
‘Leap away!’ said Emily enthusiastically, putting her mug back down. ‘Feel free!’
‘No – see, that’s just it.’ Tim shook his head ruefully. ‘This is going to sound really old-fashioned and totally insane to someone as . . . well, as uninhibited as you. But it’s how I feel.’
‘How,’ prompted Emily, ‘do you feel?’
‘Like . . .’ Tim flushed slightly and looked over her shoulder at the large window, ‘like . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Emily encouragingly, ‘me too. So . . . ?’
He took a deep breath and then looked at her earnestly. ‘You’re not going to understand, but it’s the way I am and I’m not going to apologise for it. See, when I meet someone I feel like I really need to get to know them first. I need to have a deep –
really
deep connection. Because to me, sex isn’t just recreation.’
‘It
isn’t
?’
‘No, it isn’t. Most definitely not. It’s an expression of how two people feel about each other, a demonstration of their emotional bonds, a manifestation of their commitment.’
‘A manifestation of their commitment?’ Emily repeated with disbelief. ‘Are you
serious
?’
‘Yes,’ Tim said sternly, ‘perfectly serious.’
‘Are you
sure
you’re a bloke?’
‘Of course!’ Tim let go of her hand and looked at her affronted. ‘Why? Is it so bloody strange to hear a guy want a bit of commitment before he jumps in the sack?’
‘Well – yes,’ said Emily honestly, ‘very strange.’
‘Then I suppose I must be strange.’
‘Look, don’t get me wrong,’ Emily continued hurriedly as she watched his face close down, ‘I respect your stand, I really do. It’s just . . . it’s a little unusual, that’s all. And, um, can I ask you a question?’
‘I suppose.’
‘It’s only that I know you’ve never been married or engaged, so . . . how many times have you actually
reached
that level of commitment with a woman?’
‘How many times?’
‘Yes – how many times?’
‘Let me see.’ Tim smoothed out the creases in his trousers to give himself time to think.
‘Take your time,’ said Emily supportively.
Tim narrowed his eyes and looked towards the ceiling. ‘Actually – never.’
‘
Never
!’
‘That’s right – never.’
‘Then you’re a – a
virgin
!’
‘Well, I –’
‘A virgin! Oh my god! But you’re thirty-one years old! And gorgeous! I mean, look at you!’ Emily was well aware that she was babbling, but couldn’t make herself stop. ‘Your body – your eyes! How can you be a virgin? I don’t think I
know
any virgins – maybe that woman with the beard who works across the road, but . . . I can’t believe it! I really can’t!’
‘How about I leave you in peace to convince yourself,’ Tim said stiffly as he got up. He collected the tray and turned back to her: ‘And I’ll get to work. I’ll drop this off in the kitchen on my way.’
‘Um – sure. Listen, I –’
‘Never mind, we’ll talk later.’ Tim leant forward awkwardly and gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’
‘Oh – okay.’ Emily put her fingers slowly up to where he had just kissed her as she watched him leave the room with the tray. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Trust her to meet what would have to be the only thirty-one year old drop-dead gorgeous male virgin in the entire state of Victoria. She shook her head in disbelief and then scrambled up to the bed-head and, resting her arms on the window ledge once more, gazed out of the window to watch Tim leave. Sure enough, after a few minutes he emerged from her front door below and, straightening his tie, walked quickly towards the tram stop in the centre of the road.
If he knew she was watching, he certainly gave no sign, instead just gazing steadily into the middle distance. Emily shook her head as she stared at him. Because he didn’t
look
like a virgin, whatever a virgin actually looked like. She couldn’t quite remember, as there’d been a few men surging under that particular bridge since then. But what, Emily wondered as she chewed her lip reflectively, would this do to their relationship? Did she
want
a ‘manifestation of commitment’ – or would that sort of label suck the fun right out of it? Because although there was no doubting that she wanted the manifestation itself, and as soon as possible, the commitment was a whole other ballgame – metaphorically speaking. And one that she had successfully avoided for a good many years. Besides, could she actually
wait
until he deemed her committed enough? What
was
committed enough?
A grubby-green tram came into sight at the far end of the street and, very soon after, chugged to a halt in front of Tim and a clutch of other grim-looking people. They clambered aboard and, with a jerk that caused several passengers to disappear from view, the tram took off towards the city. Emily watched until it vanished around the far corner of the street and then flung herself back across her bed, pulling a pillow
with her and hugging it against her chest again. Should she look at this as a sort of challenge – or maybe a test? After all, she had been feeling increasingly unfulfilled recently, really rather bored and with a strange, disconcerting discontentment. Maybe that infamous biological clock she kept reading about was starting to sound its alarm and that’s what was keeping her awake at night. Maybe she, too, had come to a stage when she needed something more – some commitment.
But, even with all that, was it actually worth it? Or would the manifestation itself undermine the depth of the commitment? After all, he was a thirty-one year old virgin who had memorised none of those little tricks of the trade, had done none of those slightly outside the square deviations, had experienced none of the highs and the lows and the plateaus of a really good bout of sex.
Indeed – was it worth it?
Jack and Jill went up the hill,
to fetch a pail of water,
We don’t know what they did up there,
but now they have a daughter . . .
Or, to be more precise,
three
daughters, and a son, and a dog with a severe case of mange, and a cat with a personality disorder, and several uninvited mice, and a hefty damn mortgage that keeps me awake at night, and . . . and I’ve had enough.
Jill tore the sheet of paper off the pad with exasperation, scrunched it up and threw it into the wicker rubbish-bin, where it bounced off the rest of the rejected paper wads and
tumbled onto the floor. Ignoring it, she sucked on the end of her pen and stared into the thick circular mirror that backed the old-fashioned walnut dressing-table she was sitting at. Perhaps it was better not to try writing the speech down; perhaps it was better simply to rehearse it verbally. Accordingly, she removed the pen from her mouth, plastered a sincere and regretful expression on her face, and began.
‘It’s not that I don’t love you, Jack – I do. And I don’t regret one single year of the nineteen that I’ve spent with you. But things have changed, or I have – whatever. You must have realised that something’s not right. And I’ve tried, I’ve
really
tried, but I want more – I
need
more, or else I’m so . . . so very scared that I’m going to go mad.’
Jill stopped speaking and, leaning forward, continued to stare at herself in the mirror, half expecting some sort of physical change to reflect her inner turmoil. But, outwardly at least, there was nothing. Still the same thirty-nine year old features: green eyes, mouth slightly too large, and wavy, shoulder-length coppery-blond hair that desperately needed a trim.
She grimaced at herself and turned away, putting the pen back into her mouth and chewing the end absentmindedly. The thing was that she really didn’t want to hurt him – at all. She just wanted out, but an easy out with no recriminations or acrimony or thoughts of what might have been. But she also knew nothing was that easy. Even thinking about telling Jack was leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. A bitter taste that felt cloying, and thick, and altogether distasteful. Really revolting, in fact.
With a sense of foreboding, Jill pulled the pen out of her mouth and looked at the end. Sure enough, the small plastic plug had buckled in and the ink was bubbling out. She looked quickly back at the mirror and groaned when she saw the tell-tale black ink stains seeping along the creases of her lips. She bared her teeth and they glistened with an ebony sheen.
‘Shit.’
Jill threw the pen into the rubbish-bin with disgust and then, with her mouth hanging open so that she wouldn’t swallow inadvertently, hurried into the ensuite to clean up. Five minutes later, she was back staring into the mirror again, and this time there
was
a physical change. But a liquorice-grey tongue and teeth that looked like all the nerves had been removed were not quite what she’d had in mind earlier.
‘Shit, shit,
shit
.’
Jill decided to postpone the rehearsal for now and instead pulled the ties of the rubbish-bin liner together and hefted it out of the bin. Then she collected the few crumpled pieces of paper that littered the floor and shovelled them inside before tying off the ends securely. The last thing she needed was for Jack to pick one up and read it. Not just yet, anyway.
Lugging the plastic bag beside her, Jill walked out of her bedroom and towards the kitchen, trying to ignore the fact her surroundings were beginning to resemble a poorly managed op shop. The house itself was of an open-plan rectangular design with large, spacious rooms that had been able to absorb quite a lot of clutter before it started to overflow. The lounge-room was to the immediate right of the tiled entry foyer, and straight ahead the passage snaked, in an L-shape, around it. Along this passage on the left were the various bedrooms and bathroom, before it ended with a right turn into the family room which, in turn, had a set of decorative bi-fold doors on the immediate right leading back into the lounge-room.
But the family room was the heart of the house: the command post, first aid station, homework centre, laundry folding area, negotiating station and facilitating zone – a place for dinner parties and slumber bashes, for bedsheet tents and teddy-bears’ picnics, elaborate Lego villages and jigsaw puzzles. A huge square room, it encompassed the kitchen in one
corner where a door led through to the laundry and seldom-used back door, and even a flexible dining-room, which moved to wherever Jill felt like dragging the heavy oak table and chairs at any particular moment. And on sunny days, like this one, the whole room was filled with strips of reflected light from the cream vertical blinds covering the two double-sash windows at the far end, and the glass sliding door in the corner.
Today, however, the ribbons of sunshine only served to highlight the layer of dust on the furniture and illuminate the dancing little motes as they floated through the air, leaping gaily from one surface to another. There was a pile of dirty shoes by the sliding door and grubby fingerprints spaced themselves at intervals across the walls. Next to the computer, which was almost obscured by empty CD cases and game boxes, there were the remains of what looked like a picnic, with empty Twistie packets and biscuit crumbs and dirty plastic cups. The only ornament in the room, a dreadful china cow with an enormous salmon-pink udder (a Christmas present from Jill’s youngest daughter last year that had sat centre-stage on the buffet since then), appeared to be missing several teats, which meant that there would probably be shards of china somewhere nearby. Dirty glasses, mugs and bowls adorned the small end table by the tapestry sofa, which was itself covered by a selection of glossy magazines folded over to display articles with names such as ‘To tongue or not to tongue – is that the question?’
Well, reflected Jill, at least that was one question she didn’t need answered. Instead, standing by the entrance, she closed her eyes for a second before continuing over to the kitchen and dumping the plastic bag down next to its relatives by the rubbish-bin. From here she could see the overflowing sink that, ever since the dishwasher had broken down a few days
ago, everybody – except her – was simply using a receptacle for dirty dishes. With a tacit expectation that, when needed again, they would be miraculously clean, dry and available from within a cupboard. She stared at the dishes for a few seconds and then turned to look around the whole room slowly. And all of a sudden, the exact words she needed came to her: ‘Enough, Jack. I’m sorry but I’ve had enough. I’m tired of cleaning the same rooms day after day, only to wake up the next damn morning and start all over again. I’m nine years overdue for long-service leave and I want it
now
. I want to sit around on an inner-city balcony sipping champagne and watching life go by, instead of directing it. Then I’ll decide if I want to come back. Ever.’
A dusky grey Persian cat, which was draped over a small fish-tank that sat at one end of the buffet opposite the island bench, lifted its head lazily at the sound of Jill’s voice and regarded her through slitted eyes. Then, obviously deciding she wasn’t worth the effort, it went back to its unblinking seafood survey.
‘You
should
be worried, you know,’ Jill said to it threateningly, ‘because if I leave –
when
I leave – your chances of a regular meal are going to get mighty slim.’
Stroking the glass lovingly with one paw, the cat continued to ignore her so Jill turned away and wandered slowly over to the dining-table, half of which was not just clean but polished as well. This was because she had actually made a start here earlier, before being overcome with lethargy and a deep, deadening depression. Then, while staring blindly out of the window, she had been hit by the bright idea of writing her little speech down and maybe, by doing that, getting her own thoughts straight. Instead, all she had achieved was to waste a couple of precious hours and dye her teeth charcoal while she was at it.
With her mind still on the problem of verbalising what she
was feeling, Jill sat down and propped her chin on one hand. She looked around for inspiration and, with a wry halfhearted smile, her eyes settled on the gilt-framed portrait hanging on the wall opposite. Only taken a few weeks ago, it depicted her entire family in different poses on and around a beautiful Victorian spiral staircase that had adorned the photographer’s studio. And it was a fantastic photograph, unlike all previous attempts at a family portrait through the years which always seemed to contain at least one person with a finger wedged in a nostril, not necessarily their own. And it was impossible to guess, from the loving way they all seemed to be looking at each other in this latest portrait, that only five minutes before, everybody, including the photographer, had been either screaming or crying.