Geography (10 page)

The next time I saw Michael we went to dinner with some friends of his. They assumed I was a friend, not a lover, and began to make jokes about the number of women he was seeing.

‘How many has he got in the queue here?' one of them said to me.

‘I'm probably the wrong person to ask,' I said. ‘I'm in the queue.'

After a moment's awkwardness talk turned to the bushfires.

‘I'm sorry about that,' Michael said later as we walked back to the flat.

‘Don't be,' I said.

That night when we made love Michael talked nervously over the rhythms of our touching. ‘Have you come yet? What do you want me to do? Tell me what you like. Tell me how you like it.' Michael had got so he couldn't tell the difference between using words to turn himself on and using them to keep me at bay.

‘What I'd like,' said I after a few minutes, ‘is for us to be quiet with each other.'

‘Whatever,' he said. ‘It's too hot for this anyway,' before rolling away so no part of our bodies was touching.

The two of us tossed and turned in the heat. The wind was high, fuelling the fires as well as rattling all the windows in the flat. This was a special quality Bondi had. The wind would come off the sea and rail against the windows, shaking them in their old, loose frames.

‘That noise is driving me crazy.'

‘Well, do something about it.' But Michael had drifted off to sleep again. I got up; rifled through my bag looking for business cards I could fold and jam between the window and the frame. An hour or so before dawn I fell asleep, but was woken by the sun around 5.30.

Michael moved back towards me. ‘Let's make the best of this,' he said, ‘and go for a swim.' By six o'clock we were diving in water that the wind had made broken and choppy, scattering it with foam. Michael was a strong swimmer and I watched him move through the ocean, ash raining around him like black snow. It was cool in the water, it woke me up, I couldn't maintain my bad mood. Michael swam back to me and I duck-dived underneath him a few times, leapt on his back as a wave hit him.

‘What's this about?' he shook me off. ‘What are you doing?'

‘It's called playing.'

Michael looked at me, embarrassed. ‘Oh,' he said. I wondered what it was that had happened to him that he did not know joy.

‘Should I be worried about these other women that your friends were going on about?' I asked when we were back on the beach.

‘No,' is all Michael said, as he towelled himself dry. And the truth was I had such a feeling of certainty about what there was between us I did not think other women were important, I did not take them into account. This is how I saw things: I was special. This is how others saw it: I was not.

I spoke to Marion on the phone. ‘It doesn't worry me.'

‘It should,' was all she would say.

In English novels women sit by windows, constrained by etiquette, weather, class and clothing. If they're lucky there's a bay window with a bench set into it for that very purpose: waiting. The unlucky ones stand bolt upright by the glass, hands folded before them. Me, I was a modern girl. I sat on the balcony with a beer in my hand. Michael and I had planned to go and see a new print of
The Misfits
at a cinema down the road. So, yes, I was waiting, but I was not wearing a corset. I wore a short white linen shift that hung loose on me. I enjoyed the way the sea breeze moved over my skin, cooling me down as I sweated.

Michael walked in the door, found me outside. ‘Am I too late?' he asked. ‘Have we missed it?'

‘No,' I said. ‘But we'd better get going now.'

Before the film began, one of my ads came on: an aerial shot swung along the Great Ocean Road and around the Twelve Apostles, and then cut in a smooth arc to the craggy outcrops of Haloong Bay in Vietnam. The sweep of the camera continued over the barren outcrops of the Skelligs, off the west coast of Ireland. Trance music spun it all together. ‘Freedom. Choice. It's the same thing.'

I whispered in his ear, ‘That's one of mine.'

‘Right,' he nodded.

‘So,' I asked, standing in the foyer afterwards. ‘I know what you thought of the film. What did you think of my ad?'

‘It was fine,' said Michael, ‘for an ad.' Then leant down and kissed me on the mouth, his hand brushing my breast. ‘I suppose it's too public to make out here, huh?'

The last night I was in Sydney Michael was four hours later than he'd said he'd be. At 10 p.m. I took Tony up on his offer of a drink and a late-night swim. When I got home at one o'clock there were three messages on the answering machine from Michael, asking me where I was.

He came around early the next morning before I left for the airport. It was only eight o'clock but it was almost forty degrees. The heat. This is the main memory that will be left of that time, when I am old, when everything else is a haze.

I answered the door and tried not to react when I saw him. That physical response was always there, no matter how badly he behaved. For his part, he averted his eyes slightly. He seemed embarrassed. He started talking, quickly, before I could protest.

‘I'm sorry,' he looked genuinely flustered. ‘I couldn't get to a phone earlier. I rang late last night and you were out. Here, I've brought you a present.' He held a book out in front of him, cautiously, like he was unsure I would take it from him.

I did.

‘Do you want a coffee?' I asked, walking down the hallway and into the kitchen, filling the kettle.

‘Thanks,' he said. Then, ‘I haven't got much time though.'

‘Surprise me.'

Michael sat on the couch looking nervous, sipping from the mug and looking around the room. ‘I'm really sorry,' he said, again. ‘I'm just not good with punctualness.'

‘Punctualness?' I asked. ‘Is that even a word?'

I was angry, which felt a little like being horny; at any rate I'm not sure I could tell the difference. As I straddled Michael on the couch he tried to push me away.

‘There isn't the time to do this properly.'

‘I don't care,' I said, lifting my dress over my head.

We rolled off the couch and onto the floor, which was hard and cool, and didn't give way when Michael pushed into me. The sweat pooled under me and made a sucking sound against the boards. When we were slick with it, Michael picked me up and carried me into the bathroom, lifting me up onto the bathroom basin. He turned the cold tap on and scooped water onto my back, and in the space between our bodies. He bit my breasts, my chest. It hurt. I liked it. The bruises took weeks to fade; by the time my skin was fresh again we were in different countries.

‘Is this too uncomfortable for you?' he asked.

‘No,' I said, despite the awkward angle and the way the taps dug into me. But in a fleeting second of clarity I realised the physical effect he had on me, the thing I called chemical, was a bad thing. The words flashed through my head, ‘You are a virus.' Then the knowledge that would have saved me was gone, disappeared by the feeling of Michael inside me, outside me.

‘You're lying, darling,' he said as if he'd read my mind. He pulled out of me. ‘I told you there wasn't time for this. I've got to leave.'

He kissed me on the forehead and left me there, sprawled. I sat still on the basin for a few minutes then went into the shower and stood under the cold water. When I went back into the living room I saw the book he had bought me sitting on the arm of the couch. It was
Seinlanguage
and he had written an inscription on the inside leaf. ‘Here's to all the laffs we would have if we lived in the same town.'

I yelled, ‘Happy New Year,' to Raff and Marion when I got back home. The two of them came down the hall and into my bedroom where I was putting my bags down. ‘Happy New Year to you, too,' Marion put her arms around me and I gave her a big hug.

‘Hi hon,' Raff leant over and kissed me on the cheek. ‘We were sure you'd been burnt up, by fire or passion.'

‘Both,' I smiled. ‘I've buggered my shoulder carrying these bags. I need to go to the doctor.' I paused, before launching into what was really on my mind. ‘Look what Michael gave me after he'd been late for about the tenth night in a row.' I threw the book on the bed. Raff picked it up and read the inscription.

‘“Laffs”? Marion's right, the guy's a wanker. What did you buy him?'

‘Actually, I found a beautiful old hardback of
Les Liaisons Dangereuses
but then decided it was too good for him and kept it to read myself.'

‘I was joking,' said Raff. ‘Why did you get him a present in the first place? You're not still interested, are you?' He looked at me. ‘Jesus, you are. Women, I'll never understand them. It's the nice men like me that always get passed over.'

‘What am I?' Marion threw a pillow at him. ‘Dead meat?' Then turned back to me. ‘Why that book?' Books were a serious matter to Marion. I knew where she was taking this. My choice had to
mean something
. ‘I thought you hated the film.'

‘I did,' I said. ‘But Michael has written on it. And I love writing letters. So does he.'

‘Ah,' said Marion. ‘You are still turning you and Michael into a great romance. Are you Swann and Odette, or Jake and Lady Ashley?'

‘Aim higher,' said Raff. ‘We're talking Heathcliff and Cathy here.'

‘Whatever. Michael would love to imagine himself as a great, tragically flawed hero. Just as long as you don't see yourself as some kind of Madame de Tourvel. She died of grief. She hesitated, a big smile on her face. ‘Raff and I have something to tell you. It's important.'

Suddenly I knew. ‘You're pregnant.'

Over the next day or so the pain in my shoulder became excruciating. I felt like I was falling apart at the seams. The doctor put me on painkillers and into a sling.

Michael had called to say he would visit me in Melbourne. I did not really know what I expected, and the drugs made me so out of it I felt like I didn't care. Even those intense blue eyes of his were fading in my imagination. Briefly I thought perhaps he was nothing to me now, and the feeling was a pleasure. He arrived at my house several hours late. Even when he was on my turf he had this capacity to stretch me thin, create distance.

‘What's with the sling?' he asked, when he finally arrived. ‘Looks kind of kinky.'

As we lay in bed he stroked the curve of my stomach, my full breasts. ‘You're like ripe fruit,' he said. ‘Ready for babies. Ready to drop.' And I wondered if perhaps he meant that he wanted to be there to catch me, to break my fall.

The next morning we went for a long walk through the gardens and streets of Fitzroy. I showed Michael the places I had lived and worked. ‘Brunswick Street is one of my favourite places in the world,' I said. ‘I used to live in that terrace there. And my boyfriend at the time lived just around the corner, next to that pub.' We kept walking. ‘Here,' I said, ‘is where you get the best maple walnut ice cream in the world. But it's disgustingly rich.'

I pointed out various landmarks as we walked. Rhumbarallas café was freshly painted in greens and reds with blobby shapes hanging around the place. ‘You see those kind of amoebic shapes?' I asked. ‘They are spreading through the street like some kind of viral infection. There are more of them outside Polyester Records,' I pointed. ‘And the nursery.'

‘I like it,' said Michael. ‘It's changed since last time I was here. It feels less parochial.'

‘Do you see that giant hamburger hanging off the building there?' I said. ‘I slept with the guy that made that.' Michael pointed at the giant doner kebab across the road. ‘And what about the guy who made that?'

‘No,' I laughed. ‘There are only so many makers of big things a girl can sleep with. Though I must say I found the guy who designed the giant earthworm in South Gippsland very attractive. Not to mention Big Prawn man.

‘Let's go to the Black Cat. You must have been here before you left for LA. It was the first real café around here.'

We went in, sat by the window and ordered a coffee. Michael looked around the café which was furnished with bits and pieces of fifties detritus. Several very old cats were lurking around, missing either a limb or an eye. There were pot plants everywhere.

‘This is nice,' said Michael, ‘this city. Being here with you. I could live here.'

We got back to my house in the middle of the afternoon. Michael sat on the couch and pulled me down onto his lap. ‘I'm not sure I'll have time to see you again while I'm here,' he said.

‘What?'

‘I'll write,' he said, holding my face, kissing me on each cheek and then softly on the mouth. ‘I'm sorry.'

Then he left. As he shut the door behind him I started to shake. It became harder to breathe until, panicky, I called Marion at work. ‘Is there any chance of you coming home early?' I asked.