Let Down Your Hair (6 page)

The path to the house was overgrown with feathery weeds. Ryan steered around the corduroy couch on the verandah and unlocked the door, releasing the scent of old furniture and herbal tea.

He led me to a sunroom at the back of the house, where a plump woman with ringlets sat in a beanbag in front of the TV, a small ginger cat in her lap. Behind her was an old-fashioned kitchen, with pastel green tiles and tarnished faucets. Scattered through both rooms was an assortment of chairs, one wooden and three vinyl with piping around the seats, all in different styles and colors.

“Hey, Shell,” said Ryan to the woman.

“Hey, Ryan,” said Shell. Her voice and eyes were drowsy, as though she was on the verge of falling asleep.

“Sage, my roommate, Shell. And Tango.”

“Hi,” I said, wondering if I should say “hey” instead.

Shell lifted a limp hand. “Hey, Sage. Nice to meet you.” In her lap, Tango gave a small, dismissive meow.

“Tea?” asked Ryan, opening a cupboard.

I accepted a mug of peppermint tea and sat on a lime green chair, scrutinising Shell out of the corner of my eye. Ryan hadn’t told me he had a female housemate. Was she his girlfriend? Maybe our lunch was a friendly lunch, not a date. Maybe he was trying to add me to his harem.

Shell turned off the TV and clambered out of the beanbag, clutching her cat. “I’m off to the vet,” she said. “My little warrior’s limping again. If Tom comes home, tell him I’ll be back around five.”

“Sure,” said Ryan. “See you.”

The front door closed. “Tom?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Her boyfriend. They share the other bedroom.”

So she’s not his girlfriend, then. So our lunch
was
a date. Probably.
The muscles in my shoulders and jaw slackened; the ones around my stomach tightened.

I sipped my peppermint tea, at last understanding why Jess had spent hours recounting what men said and did: she was trying to figure out what they
meant
.

“Grab your drink,” said Ryan, heading back up the corridor.

He opened a door and I realized with a jolt that he was taking me to his
bedroom
. My mouth went dry.
What did you expect?
sneered Andrea’s voice in my head.
That’s what men think women are FOR. And as soon as you step into his bedroom, he’ll assume he’s entitled to sex.

I froze on the threshold.

In my mind’s eye men’s bedrooms were dark and primeval, with shuttered windows and stained sheets, but this room was painted white and brightly lit. The window was curtained with a batik sarong, and shelves full of books, CDs and DVDs covered two walls. An old fireplace had been bricked over, and Ryan had blu-tacked postcard reproductions of surreal art—Miro, Kandinsky, Dali—to the chimney.

He was looking at me now with a puzzled frown. “Are you coming in?”

Hovering just outside his door suddenly felt ludicrous. “Sorry.” I stepped into the room, brandishing my mug of peppermint tea like a weapon. Which it could be, if he tried anything. It wasn’t as though I was helpless, I reminded myself. I was an alert, empowered woman, and I’d studied Women’s Self-Defence since I was thirteen.

“So,” said Ryan, “where do you want to start? Books? Music? Movies?”

Still gripping my mug, I scanned Ryan’s shelves, his bed squatting balefully in my peripheral vision. It was a double futon mattress, resting on a layer of milk crates and draped in a quilt with a geometric design in cream and black. On top of it, two pillows kept watch, like a pair of squashy orange eyes.

“Um,” I said, trying to concentrate, “how about … the singer on your T-shirt of the day?”

“Prince?” Ryan pulled out his cell phone. “I’ve got a couple of albums on vinyl at Mom’s place, but I’m pretty sure … Aha!” He plugged his phone into a pair of speakers and pressed a button. “1999. Most played song at parties on New Year’s Eve 2000.”

The first few bars of the track sounded like something from a cabaret, with drums and a flashy synthesiser. “Is this a dance song?”

“Yeah, I guess. Do you dance?”

A memory of Caitlin gyrating in the karaoke bar singed my brain. “Definitely not.”

“Then it’s time you did. Consider it part of your education.” He held out a hand and I shrank against the chimney, shaking my head so emphatically that I knocked a couple of postcards to the carpet. Entering his bedroom was bad enough, letting him
take my hand
was going way too far. Especially if it involved dancing.

“Come on, Sage! I promise I won’t watch. In fact …” He opened one of the drawers in his desk, and took out a nylon eyemask with an airline logo on it. “… I’ll make sure I
can’t
watch.”

Ryan pulled the blindfold over his eyes and started dancing, in a prancing, energetic way that involved a lot of arm-flailing.
Keep your guard up, Sage
. Andrea’s voice again, as if she’d installed herself in my head. Yet he looked so ridiculous dancing in his blindfold that my reservations dissolved into smiles. I dodged a particularly enthusiastic hand gesture, drank the last of my tea and placed the mug on his desk.

“So are you dancing yet?” he demanded, groping through the air in my direction. “You’re not, are you?”

“I am so!” I said, backing away from his hand. I even tried, feebly, to jig up and down to the music, reassured by the blindfold and the knowledge that I couldn’t look sillier than he did.

“Let me check.”

Still dancing his ludicrous dance, he inched up his blindfold and I swiftly reached out to pull it down. As he pranced backwards to escape me, he tripped over the leg of his desk chair. He thrust out his arms to break his fall and caught me across the face, dislodging my glasses and knocking us both to the floor.

“Ow!” Ryan ripped off his blindfold. “Shit, are you OK?

The song ended, and the room fell quiet. I sat up. Without my glasses, the outer edges of my vision were blurred and mellow, like a soft-focus photo. “I think so. Are you?”

He rubbed a red mark on his shin. “I’ll live. My manly dignity mightn’t, though. That was seriously stupid, wasn’t it?”

“Dancing with a blindfold on? Um, yes.”

He released his leg and it fell so that it was touching mine, so slightly I wasn’t sure he’d noticed. A tiny, forbidden sizzle went through my skin. Forbidden because this was his leg. And his bedroom. Tiny because the area of contact was so very small.
Sexual assault usually starts small
, said Andrea’s voice.
And escalates slowly, so that when the victim gets uncomfortable she feels it’s too late to object.

“Did you dance, though?” His voice was innocent, but his leg was still touching mine, filling the room with a soundless hum.

“A bit.” I should nip this in the bud. Move my leg away and rebuke him.
Now
.

He grinned, a warm, generous grin that crinkled his face. “Then it was stupidity well spent. You need to dance.”

“I do?”
Move your leg, Sage
, snapped Andrea, but my leg didn’t move.

“Definitely.”

A pool of shared warmth was growing where my skin met his, dissolving all the words in my head. “Why’s that?” I managed to say.

“Because when I met you, you came across sort of … stiff. And scared. As if you needed to be on your guard all the time in case someone attacked you.”

A too-vivid memory of the first art class reared in my head. My leg stiffened away from his, and the warm pool evaporated. “So what’s that got to do with dancing?” I said, not looking at him.

“Dancing frees you up, and lets you express who you are.” He was focused and quiet, wanting me to understand. “And I like who you are. I want you to feel safe, so you can let down your hair.”

I looked at Ryan again and suddenly he wasn’t A Man any more, not the sort I’d read about, who wanted to keep women in their place. He was a person, a friend, someone who’d listened to me and comforted me and was trying to help. He hadn’t coerced me into his room. I was here because I wanted to be. “Like I did at the window?”

He smiled. “Exactly!”

“That,” I said sternly, “was an accident.”

“Serendipity. I take my luck where I find it.”

He reached across the room and retrieved my glasses. As he leaned back, the entire length of his leg came to rest against mine. A huge, glittering wave swelled my veins, because this time I knew it was deliberate. And this time I didn’t even pretend I wanted to move my leg away.

He looked at my glasses. “Are these strong?”

“Pretty strong.”
What are you doing?
screamed my Inner Andrea.

“How well can you see me?”

“Maybe not the … finer details.”
This leg business is a SEXUAL ADVANCE, and you’re allowing it!

He folded up the glasses and leaned so close I could hear the rapid rasp of his breathing. “Is that better?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
Look at you, sitting on his bedroom floor like territory waiting to be conquered!

Ryan shook his head with a wondering smile. “This is one of those Miss Jones moments.”

Unable to hold his gaze any longer, I dropped my eyes to my locked, twisting fingers. “Miss Jones?”
You’ve barely met this man!

“Hollywood movie reference. The director hires a gorgeous actress, pulls back her hair and puts glasses on her to play the ugly duckling. Then, at the crucial Swan Moment, she takes off her glasses, undoes her hair, and the hero cries: But Miss Jones—you’re beautiful!”

He’s grooming you for seduction, Sage! Don’t let him suck you in. Be assertive. Say something. DO something!
“Is that … does that really happen in Hollywood movies?” My voice sounded throaty and strange, as though everything lower than my mouth was underwater.

“More of them than you’d think.” He slid the glasses into my hand, and the brush of his fingers created a wave that broke in my stomach and washed Andrea away.

“So,” I said, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my eardrums, “what happens after that?”

“Usually something like this.”

He leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth. For two or three shimmering seconds I let him. Then he tried to pull me closer and part my lips with his, and panic gripped me. I jerked back and Ryan whipped his leg away. He got to his feet and stumbled over to his desk, where he stood avoiding my eyes, clinging half-stooped to the back of his desk chair while the aftershocks of his kiss flickered through me like shooting stars.

Andrea clawed her way back into my head.
Good
, she said.
You finally stood up for yourself. For a moment I thought you were going to let him exploit you, like some passive sexual vessel with—

NOW HANG ON
, said a second, louder voice that I didn’t recognize.
What about women’s lust? What happened to women reclaiming their own sexuality?

So following him meekly to his bedroom and sitting tongue-tied while he shoved his leg against yours and kissed you was “reclaiming your own sexuality“, was it?

Maybe it wasn’t
, said the second voice.
But this is
. As I got up and tiptoed over to Ryan, I realized that the second voice was mine.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to … I was … I was just startled.”
No one’s ever kissed me on the mouth before.

“Startled?” said Ryan to his desk.

Hot and cold with my own daring, I rose, walked over and laid my hand on his shoulder. He didn’t move, but I felt his muscles relax a little. He lifted his head to look back at me, and this time I didn’t look away. The shimmering, pounding feeling returned like a tide, and this time I admitted to myself it was desire.

“Also,” I added, “you forgot something important.”

I plucked his hand from the desk chair and placed it on the bun at the back of my head. For a moment he didn’t react. Then he turned to face me, slipped the hairnet off and tossed it onto the floor. The last thing I remember clearly before the world melted away was the tickle of his springy dark hair, and my own hair, pouring onto the futon like a sea of spilt champagne.

When I arrived home, the street lamps were on, filling the garden with spiky purple shadows. The garden and its shadows were as familiar to me as my face, yet tonight they looked different, as if the events of the afternoon had changed them as well.

I reached for my keys with a tingling hand. An hour ago this same hand was on Ryan’s skin, feeling the muscles of his back tense and shift, marveling at the way his jaw changed from prickle to sleek. Standing in front of my childhood home, the afternoon’s events seemed impossible. Only the salty tang of him on my lips, and the unfocused afterglow in my body, kept me trusting that my memories were real.

I took hold of the doorknob and it jerked from my grip. The door swung open, and light flooded the porch, cut in two by an Andrea-shaped shadow.

“It’s nearly nine o’clock, Sage.”

A day ago, her pointed tone would have withered me, but not tonight. “Sorry,” I said. “I was just … at a friend’s place.” Time to shelve the library excuse for something closer to the truth.

“This friend doesn’t have a phone?”

I started to say “he” and then substituted it at the last minute. “They do, but I thought … I didn’t think I’d be quite this late.”

Andrea’s mouth thinned. “You lost track of time again.”

“I suppose so.”

“I see you also lost track of what night it is.”

It was Tuesday. Andrea and I made dinner on alternate nights, and Tuesday was my night. A chink of guilt opened in my hazy golden mind. “I’m so sorry, Andrea. I could … Would you like me to make you something now?”

“I made something for myself. At eight.”

The chink widened at the resentment in her voice. “I’m so sorry. I honestly forgot.”

“Like the meeting with Hilda.”

Andrea advanced down the hallway and looked me over. Nervous and guilty, I tilted my head to hide the rash Ryan’s chin had left around my mouth.

“So have you written your proposal for Hilda?”

“I’ve started it,” I lied.

Andrea gave an exasperated sigh. “A month ago you were a responsible adult. What’s happened, Sage?”

I groped around for a reason, but every thought I touched turned into mist. “I think it’s the transition to a PhD,” I said at last. “I found it easier to get motivated when I had deadlines and exams.”

“Then we’ll put together a timetable with deadlines. In the office, first thing tomorrow morning.”

Andrea partitioned her own time into half hour blocks with labels like
Online Research
,
First Year Marking,
and
Conference Administration
. Something told me my version was unlikely to contain blocks labeled
Learn About Popular Culture
and
Have Sex With Ryan
. “Could we make it Thursday? I’m … I’ve got a meeting with someone in the Art faculty.”

“At what time?”

Ryan had the morning off tomorrow, and I’d arranged to be at his place at ten. For more education in popular culture. Among other things. “Ten o’clock.”

“Then we’ll do it at nine.”

My shoulders slumped. There was no way I’d get to Ryan’s place by ten. I’d have to find some way of calling him and letting him know I’d be late.

The midmorning sun shone directly through the sarong on Ryan’s window, dappling our bodies with blurred batik patches of orange and green.

“So, Sage,” said Ryan, wriggling his arm out from under me, and propping himself on one elbow. “What was this mysterious tryst this morning? Should I be jealous?”

I lifted my head, damp with a mixture of my sweat and his. “Mysterious tryst?”

“The unexpected meeting at nine that made you late. You didn’t ring until eight thirty, and it sounded like your hand was cupped around the phone.”

“Oh! That was just my grandmother,” I said, settling back onto the futon. “She was helping me put together a schedule.”

“A
schedule?
For what?”

I dug the schedule from the puddle of clothes on the floor beside the bed. Andrea had printed three copies, one for me, one for her, and one to laminate and put on the fridge at home.

“Time management,” I said, handing it to Ryan. “She wants to make sure I honor my PhD commitments.”

Ryan contemplated the schedule. “And your catering commitments, I see,” he said gravely. “Not to mention your hairdressing commitments. And oh! Today’s ten o’clock appointment at the Art faculty.” He looked up, one ironic brow raised. “Why didn’t you tell her you were meeting your boyfriend?”

I shuddered at the thought. “It’s not the sort of thing I can tell her.”

“What, the truth?” Ryan started to laugh. “Come on, Sage. You’re not in high school any more.”

My throat constricted with shame. Normal twenty-two year olds plainly didn’t lie about these things. Why had I? Because I was cowardly. Weak.
Juvenile
. “I never went to high school, remember?” I said, forcing a smile.

He stopped laughing. “You didn’t miss much there,” he said, tossing the schedule to one side. I folded it and slid it back into the pocket of my pants.

“Anyway,” he said, as I climbed back onto the futon, “tell me about your PhD.”

He extended a repentant arm and I settled into it, “PhD” buzzing in my head like a fly. The PhD was part of Andrea’s world. It didn’t belong here, on the sun-dappled futon. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. What it’s about. Why you chose to do it.”

So far my PhD proposal consisted of two bullet points: (1) Something about feminist art and body image? And (2) What would Hilda like? I decided to answer Ryan’s second question. “I suppose it just seemed logical.”

He looked incredulous. “You started a
PhD
because it was
logical?
”

“Well, yes,” I said, unsettled by his amazement. “I want to lecture in Women’s Studies, so I need a PhD.”

For the first time, I pictured myself working as an academic. Writing journal articles. Going to conferences. Setting essays. Facing lecture theatres full of students like Jess. My heart withered a little.

“That was just what came next, huh?” Ryan shook his head—the slow, smiling shake of someone marveling at what they’ve just heard. “So,” he went on, “are you planning to follow in Andrea’s footsteps? Become the next Head of Women’s Studies?”

Perhaps he didn’t think I could do it. Perhaps he felt threatened by Women’s Studies after all. I stiffened out of his hug and turned to face him, arms folded. “You think there’s something wrong with that?”

“Not wrong, exactly,” said Ryan, “but it sounds to me like your career, not your calling.”

My arms slackened. “What do you mean?”

“Your calling’s your passion. Something you have to do because it’s who you are. Your career’s something you do to make money. Or fall into because your grandmother does it. Or because it’s
logical
.”

Women’s Studies
is
my passion. As a feminist nothing’s more important to me than fighting for equality and women’s rights
. But I couldn’t say it. The two bullet points on my screen stifled the words like a gag.

“So what about you?” I said, reversing the spotlight. “What were you studying again?”

Ryan’s mouth twisted, and he withdrew his arm. “A Diploma of Education,” he said, in a colorless voice I hadn’t heard before.

Curious and unsettled, I searched his face and he dropped his gaze to his hands. “So why did you choose to do that?”

“You want the sensible answer or the honest one?”

“Both.”

Ryan slumped into the pillows and closed his eyes, as if the thought of answering me exhausted him. “The sensible answer is
marketable skills
.” He spat the words like a wad of used gum. “I need to support myself. Generate an income. Become a productive member of society.”

An uneasy twinge went through me. What were
my
marketable skills? Essay writing. Research and analysis. But I’d never tried to market them. Andrea owned the house where I lived, bought my food and clothes, and covered other expenses when I asked. My two grant payments this year were the first independent income I’d ever received.

“So what’s the honest answer?” I asked.

“Failure,” he said, his eyes still closed.

Touched by the bitterness in his voice, I laced my fingers through his. His hand was limp. “Failure?”

“I decided I wanted to be an artist when I was six,’ he went on. ‘By fourteen, I had this …
vision.
I’d start at the College of Visual Arts at eighteen and stun the place with my genius. By twenty-one, galleries would be lining up to exhibit my work. By twenty-five, I’d have it all—commissions to build public sculptures; celebrities clamoring for me to paint their portraits; moodily lit photos in front of my easel in the international press; my own TV show:
Ryan, Prince of the Arts
.” He swept his free hand in a melodramatic circle.

“Well, you’re only twenty-four now,” I said, trying to keep things light.

“I am. And how many galleries have exhibited my work? One. Two years ago. A student exhibition in the College gallery. And what did the reviewer say? In the
local
paper?” His eyes flew open, blazing at me as if I was the reviewer. “
Prince
’
s work shows technical skill
,” he quoted in a scathing tone, “
but lacks the freshness and originality shown by some of his peers.”
I told myself he was full of shit. I told myself I couldn’t let one review poison my calling. But after two years of trying to be an artist, I got sick of living off modeling and enrolled in Education. So I could teach other people to be better artists than me.”

He threw my hand off, rolled off the futon and stalked naked down the corridor to the bathroom.

Alone in his bed, I lay on the edge of the warm shape left by his body. Part of me felt frightened by this new side of him, and bruised by my failure to comfort him the way he’d comforted me. Another part of me felt a pang of envy. He knew his calling at the age of six. All I had at twenty-two was two bullet points and a key to my grandmother’s office.

I retrieved the schedule, scowling at the slots for Research, and tried to muster some passion. The words blurred together and I cast the page aside, curling in a small, troubled ball among the sheets as I waited for Ryan to return.