Читать книгу Just As You Are - Kate Mathieson - Страница 9

Murray and I met in university. I was doing a bunch of classes including anthropology, art and psychology, trying to figure out what I really wanted to do. He was a straight-A economics and computer studies student. Our paths would never have crossed had I not needed a tutor. I was taking Psychology 101 and needed desperate help with computer statistics. A friend suggested Murray would help me out, so I texted him immediately.

When we met over coffee to discuss tutoring, he was so geeky I knew he was going to make the perfect coach. He dressed in too-loose jeans. He was slightly pudgy. He walked self-consciously. He didn’t look at anyone directly when he first met them because he was too shy.

I felt totally relaxed in his company. I didn’t bother wearing make-up and I said what I thought. After a few months of weekly catch-ups, we became more like friends, and started meeting for coffee before tutoring, going to the movies afterwards, which turned into dinner, which turned into long drives down to the beach, where we talked about everything. He’d never had a girlfriend before, and so I was surprised when he kissed me at first. Besides, it was comfortable and good. We fitted together so easily. And we made each other really quite happy. I was the energy and fire, and he was the solid anchor – that seemed to balance us.

He was practical and calm, he taught me the best ways to save, about interest rates and how to accumulate Flybuys points (until then I’d had no idea what that even was). I got him dancing for the first time. We took a trip to New Zealand, and went on a fast speedboat. Although the entire time he kept saying how risky it was, afterwards he was as exhilarated as a little kid on Christmas morning.

Two years later, he proposed at the top of Centre Point Tower after a dinner of oysters and Champagne. It was terribly clichéd, but he looked so sweet in a dinner jacket, on one knee, that I said yes. Part of me was excited, and part of me was terrified. I knew I loved him, but …

But. It’s a horrible word to use, especially when you’re talking about someone you should be happy with, for ever after.

But. We had completely different ideas for our future. I talked about doing a worldwide trip then buying a small place near the woods with a large veggie patch within walking distance to the cute local store.

Murray was focusing on getting his first role in an international tech company, and climbing the ladder. He talked about things like security, and stocks, and mortgages, and planning where we’d go when he got long-service leave after twelve years.

I dreamt about a cottage with an apple orchard. An apple orchard! Who doesn’t want one of those? And maybe renting a place in Tuscany for a year, or the French countryside, or living like locals on a sleepy Greek island. He dreamt about a nice suburban house, on the Sydney busline. Ugh, I thought, who wants one of those?

I wanted to do up an old van or bus, put a bed in it, and travel around New Zealand. He wanted a 4WD for all the kids we were supposed to be having, except I didn’t even know if I wanted kids. Ever.

I couldn’t see the life he wanted becoming mine. And neither could he see the life I pictured becoming his. His felt too fixed to me, too vanilla. And mine felt unstable to him, too spontaneous. We pushed back the wedding date. Twice.

Finally, we talked about saving enough to buy our suburban house and the country cottage, and, even though that felt big, we said in small voices, we can do this. We booked a wedding date, in the early spring, and this time we committed to it.

A few nights before the wedding, Murray turned over in bed and held me really close and kept saying, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’ I didn’t know if it was him or me he was comforting, but for the first time I felt a distance between us. My best friend, Tansy, already married, told me it was just cold feet. Perfectly normal. Everyone went through it.

The night before our wedding, I was packing the final parts of my over-priced wedding underwear, preparing to stay at Maggie’s house. Before I left, Murray held up his three-piece tux to show me. We didn’t believe in fate jinxing us – but maybe we should have. He was so proud that he’d lost weight to fit into it. He asked what I thought, and I said he’d look amazing. He was looking at me strangely, and he kept asking, ‘What’s wrong, Em? What’s wrong?’

I said nothing. That I was fine. Excited. But then I felt wetness run down my cheek. I was crying. But they were tears of happiness, weren’t they?

I told myself it was nothing. I kissed him on the cheek and said, ‘Tears of happiness.’

The next day was our wedding day. I was standing in a small makeshift marquee next to a colourful spring garden. Dressed in white. My hair in soft waves, half pinned up, a crown of flowers. Soft blush make-up. A long lace dress, a sea-green sash around my waist to match my eyes. I held a bunch of wild pink roses, tied with string. We’d chosen soft pink peonies, bunched, at the end of each row. The aisle had no carpet, and instead was just flushed with white petals.

The sun was out, and it was a gorgeous spring day. The celebrant was waiting at the end of the garden, peering at her watch and trying not to make it look obvious. Murray was late. People in the congregation were waving their programmes in front of their faces, like fans. My mum was pacing, muttering under her breath, ‘Where is he? Where is he?’

I stuck my head out of the marquee. The string quartet had finished ‘Pachelbel’s Canon in D’ and they glanced across at me. I made a circling motion with my hand, a play it again sign. They nodded, and picked up their instruments. The guests started looking around because it was very obvious that something wasn’t right, or, really, that someone hadn’t turned up yet. I bet everyone thought it would be me. Because it was never Murray. Murray was never late.

‘Give me my phone,’ I’d said to someone. ‘Where is my phone? I’ll call him. He’s in traffic, maybe there are roadworks down on the M2. Or the M4.’ I was babbling about roads, and traffic lights, and where they were doing roadworks, and someone had my phone in their hands, and I was reaching for it, and still talking about the M7 or M2, and trying to figure out what road he would be taking to get here.

Then someone was whispering, ‘He’s not coming.’ He’s not coming.

***

Someone got me in a car. Someone took my dress off. Someone covered me in a blanket because I was shaking. Someone made sure I ate something. Someone put me in the shower. Lay with me through the night, while I tried to sleep. Someone kept bringing me tissues, and a million hands patted me on the back. For the first few days everything was a blur.

When I finally got out of bed, Tansy helped me throw that awful bad-juju dress in the garbage bin. Mum helped me get money back on the honeymoon to Europe. I couldn’t have done any of those things myself. Maggie wanted to know if she could clock him. Amy said she’d slash his tyres. God, I love my friends. They were all I had, when my world fell apart for a while.

He texted me. I’m sorry.

And a few days later I managed to respond. OK.

He texted me. I hope you’re OK, and that you find what you really want.

I didn’t know how to take that. Was he right? I thought I knew what I wanted, but then … maybe I didn’t. For days I thought about his text and what it meant. Murray was someone who was born knowing exactly what he wanted. In all likelihood, his head probably popped out of the birth canal and, before the rest of his body was out, he was saying, ‘I want a white-picket-fenced house in the city, on the busline and a stable job for life! Pronto, people!’ I mean, he was genius-level smart, so it’s completely possible that he could talk on entry to this world.

Deep down, I felt guilty that I couldn’t be the wife he wanted me to be. Why didn’t I want to settle down and have kids and live in a nice house? Who wouldn’t want that? I thought maybe there was something fundamentally wrong with me. I remember Murray had once shown me pictures of great houses we could buy in a newly developed suburb that were only forty minutes from the city in peak hour. He’d had a look of excitement in his eyes. For me it felt as exciting as a root canal.

A few days later, Murray texted again, asking if we could meet. I read his text over and over for days. In the end, I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t hear what he had to say.

All I knew was I had to leave – immediately. I felt a strange mix of self-loathing and guilt and anger, at Murray, but also at myself. I was unsure why I didn’t seem to want to fall into domestic bliss like everyone around me. Plus, everywhere reminded me of Murray, and I couldn’t be around the places we used to visit. Where we had coffee. Held hands. Got engaged. Planned a future. I had to get out of Australia, and not look back.

***

I arrived, relaxed and sun-kissed, at Sydney airport after sunset, where Mum and Dad were anxiously waiting. Mum gave me an extra-hard hug.

‘Hi Mum, it’s good to see you.’

Before she could utter a word, I raised my hand and said, ‘No, I didn’t meet anyone. But I took a cooking class and can make a mean lemony fish. Plus, I wove this basket.’

I held up a slightly wonky reed basket that the customs guys had ummmed about before finally letting me keep it.

‘I wasn’t going to ask that,’ Mum said.

I shared a look with Dad.

‘I wasn’t,’ Mum insisted.

Dad said, ‘Lorna,’ in a warning tone, then turned to me. ‘Hey, sweetie.’ We hugged.

‘Yes Lorna, listen to your husband.’ I said smiling gratefully at Dad. I’d taken to calling her Lorna when I was fifteen just to annoy her. When I’m irritated, it comes back out – like now, since I was feeling a bit weary that I hadn’t even stepped out of the airport, and already the Relationship Rant was beginning.

‘I mean, but did you meet anyone? Perhaps any kind of special someone?’ my mum asked, leading both of us out of the airport, marching ahead. ‘I think we’re parked over here, Ted.’

I thought about Nick for a second. ‘No one special, Mum.’

To make matters worse, she didn’t get the hint, and I had her smiling at me over the parking machine, suggesting it was time to start dating.

‘I can’t just start it, Mum. It’s not a car engine, or a board game.’

‘Well, try that on-the-line meeting thing perhaps?’

‘Online dating?’ I screwed up my nose. ‘No, thanks. It just doesn’t seem natural. Organic. Who picks out a date from a series of photos like one would pick a jumper out of a catalogue?’

‘Well, I got this top on-the-line,’ Mum said, pointing to her silky pink T-shirt. I had meant to ask where she got it and tell her not to go shopping there again. It looked strange, almost like PVC, too shiny and a little too tight, too.

‘Online,’ I corrected her again, stuffing the money in the ticket machine.

‘Just give it a go,’ she said, nodding. ‘You never know.’ She paused while my dad heaved my backpack into the boot of the car in the parking lot. ‘Ted, don’t put it in that way!’ Dad leaned in, and turned the backpack the other way. Mum nodded and slammed the boot.

‘Now, Ted, take the trolley back to the trolley bay. Why are you just staring into space like that?’ She waved her hand in front of his face. Then turned to look at me. ‘Did you know Bec has a new baby?’

‘Yeah, I saw. But how do you know that?’

She waved her hand as if I’d asked something silly. ‘Facebook, dear.’

‘But they’re not your friends on Facebook. Are they?’

‘No, but they’re your friends. I think they call it face-stalking.’

‘Have you liked one of their photos by accident?’ Oh, God, I felt mortified. How could I explain that? ‘Oh, sorry, guys, that was just my grandkid-wanting mother wanting me to have a life like yours. Please excuse her.’

‘No, of course not! Dear, give me some credit.’ She paused. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’

‘Mum, please don’t do that again.’

‘Doesn’t everyone in this day and age?’ she said casually, getting into the car.

She talked non-stop as Dad drove us out of the airport and pulled onto the highway for the hour’s trip home to Sydney’s North Shore. For the entire journey I managed to get in about twenty words, and the rest of the time I heard about the Chus (our neighbours) putting in a pool, whether or not the Sinclairs (other neighbours) were having marital problems, and something about a grey cat that kept finding its way into our yard and mewing for food at the back door.

When I got home, it was 11 p.m., too late to do anything but fall straight into my old, comfy bed.

***

The next morning Mum dragged me out of bed to go to the pool.

‘I’m still jet-lagged,’ I mumbled into Mr Bear.

‘You’ll love it, Emma, it’s good for your physique.’ She looked at the empty bowl on my dresser, and raised her eyebrows. ‘Ice cream? In bed?’

‘Actually, it was yoghurt.’ It wasn’t. It was ice cream.

Mum stripped back the covers then clapped her hands, ‘Right, up you get!’ When I didn’t move, she reminded me, ‘Betty’s been asking about you ever since you left.’

‘Betty?’ My ears picked up. ‘She’s still alive?’

‘Yes, Emma,’ Mum sighed. ‘She’s only in her early seventies.’

‘OK, OK, I’m coming.’ I stumbled out of bed, threw my swimming costume and towel in a bag. The truth is, I love aqua aerobics, even though I’m decades younger than everyone else. Before I left for London, I went every Saturday to the local pool with Betty and the gang.

In the pool change room I changed into the old swimming costume I’d found in the bottom of my closet. It was chic black Speedo, size fourteen, with a large print on the front that read in white letters ‘HAWAII’. I got the right side strap on, but the left side just wouldn’t stretch. I caught sight of myself in the bright changeroom mirrors and realised something terrible: it didn’t fit. Damn.

Under these horrid lights, my pale thighs appeared clotted with cellulite. But when I stepped out of the lights, the cellulite didn’t disappear as I’d thought (hoped) it would. My belly, which had always been somewhat flat, had a roll and a mound of pudge, that I’d never noticed in London, being dressed in jeans and jackets most of the year. My arms were undefined, and, when I held them up, the lagging skin where my triceps should have been, moved with a three-second delay, as though it was perpetually trying to keep up.

My dark blonde hair, long and wavy in the best of conditions, was now frizzy with humidity and escaping like a prisoner from my ponytail, my green eyes looked dull and sunken into my face and, to make matters worse, my chin had broken out in a heap of whiteheads since I’d got back. I looked like a very large, hungover version of Kate Winslet.

Had I looked like this in Fiji? During my night with Nick? I felt horrified … surely not. But it had been less than a week and so I guessed I really had looked like this.

‘Oh God, it doesn’t fit any more.’

‘Hmmm, yes.’ She was looking me up and down. ‘It doesn’t.’

I sat on the wooden benches feeling deflated. I stared at her trim figure; her string-bean legs were smaller than my arms. How did I even come from her?

‘Well, Emma, that’s why we’re here. So you can exercise your way to a tight tum and bum!’

‘You sound like one of those annoying motivational personal trainers,’ I said glumly.

Lorna laughed. ‘Funny you should say that. I’m thinking of getting my certificate.’

My mouth dropped open. ‘You’re going to be a personal trainer?’

‘Well.’ She looked at herself in the mirror and flounced her blonde shoulder-length hair. ‘Why not? Ted’s so busy in that damn garden, he may as well live in it. I want to do something for me.’

She fished around for fifty dollars in her purse and put it in my hand. ‘Now go and get yourself a new costume from the shop upstairs.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’

The class had almost started by the time I slipped into the pool wearing a new black costume and pool-regulated swimming cap. But they’d run out of the normal swimming caps, and so I’d had to buy a new petal-covered old-woman’s swimming cap, in a soft baby pink. It made me think of Nick. His hands. His kisses. But that was in the past, Emma, I told myself. Stop thinking about Fiji!

Tina, the class instructor, was getting everyone to do eggbeater legs and arms.

‘Emma!’ a raspy voice called from the other petal caps.

‘Betty!’ I exclaimed, swimming over to her.

‘How was your trip?’ she said breathlessly, keeping her wrinkled face above the water. Some grey curls had escaped out of the side of her pink petal hat and were wet and plastered across her forehead.

‘Great!’

‘Got any goss for this old girl?’

‘Well, I learnt how to do the American two-step. I celebrated the Mexican dance of the dead. And I’m very good at telling an enchilada from a burrito.’

She laughed and I could see the gold fillings in her teeth. Her robust arms and legs pumped hard, moving her thick body up and down in the water.

Tina blew her whistle, and we started running clockwise in a circle, creating a whirlpool.

‘How was London?’ Betty spluttered.

‘Grey!’ I spat out a mouthful of chlorinated water.

She laughed. ‘You are a little pale.’

‘And fat.’ I grunted.

‘Nothing like some indoor exercise for that!’ She winked.

Tina blew her whistle again. We turned against the whirlpool current and went anti-clockwise. For the next hour, it took all my effort to keep my head above the surface.

I was absolutely exhausted by the end of the class; I needed to float a little on my back before my shaky legs could kick me to the edge of the pool. And even then, it took me five attempts before I could pull myself out of the water.