SIGMUND FREUD
Monday: 51 days
Pain level: 6 (a record low)
Location: Throat
Tips for self-improvement: Write more erotica
Professor Brown flicked noislily through Edaline’s drawings. Today he seemed to be channelling some deeply repressed emotions. His usually sanguine air had been disturbed by something darker. Edaline sensed a build-up of tension, like a volcano on the brink.
She worked at her illustration, her nerves on edge. What could have provoked the normally calm, good-natured Professor Brown?
‘Two plumose hairs?’
Edaline jumped, her heart pounding. Professor Brown had materialised beside her.
He held out a drawing. ‘Are you sure there are two plumose hairs here?’
Edaline nodded, although she was not sure at all.
Professor Brown gave a sharp intake of breath. He had a light in his eyes she had never seen before. A burning ember.
Edaline felt a warm wind touch her cheek as he breathed out. An image flashed through her mind: she was climbing Vesuvius, the ground was shaking beneath her.
And then Vesuvius erupted. Professor Brown grasped her by the shoulders. ‘You little minx,’ he said.
She had never imagined he would use a word like minx, but this new Professor Brown seemed capable of anything.
‘You make it up as you go along, don’t you?’
Edaline nodded. He had found her out. She’d always known he would.
I ease my fingers off the keyboard and re-read what I have written. I’ve had to get up early this morning to work on my erotica as it is a crab larvae day and Sally is breathing down my neck for a new instalment. When am I going to start running? Not now, anyway. Perhaps running will be an evening thing for me.
Hah, says the bonsai. I bet you never run.
‘Of course I’m going to run. I’m just very busy. You wouldn’t know what that’s like. All you do is sit there and criticise. Why don’t you say something nice for once?’
Did I tell you that Daniel’s new girlfriend is an Olympic gymnast?
‘Former Olympic gymnast, you said.’
I imagine she’s pretty fit, says the bonsai.
‘Well, I’d probably be pretty fit too if I only had to be a barrister and cook gourmet meals. She should try writing erotic fiction while holding down a job drawing crab larvae.’
The bonsai laughs snidely.
‘Shut up. Who asked you anyway?’ I throw a rug over it. ‘And I’m going to run very soon.’
I’ll believe it when I see it. The bonsai manages to exude smugness, even from under the rug.
I glare at it. ‘Well, I bet I run before you do.’ It is a cheap shot, but the best I can do. ‘And please, be quiet will you? One of us has work to do here.’
Work? the bonsai scoffs. Since when does writing pornography count as work?
I ignore it and turn back to the keyboard. I’m not satisfied with the way this piece is panning out. How does one describe sex using the metaphor of the volcano? No doubt Professor Brown will at some stage erupt, but is Edaline a languid pool into which his lava flows? It’s tacky, but it could work. I press on.
… Edaline felt herself to be a pool. Not a cool mountain pool, but a simmering hot pool such as those she had seen once on a trip to Rotorua. And in her pool, was a…
A what? My fingers freeze on the keyboard. A volcanic plug? A thrusting, demanding volcanic plug? No. It’s no good. It just doesn’t work. I’m going to have to change metaphors.
… Edaline felt her flower opening as Professor Brown’s mouth met hers. His touch was like a bee collecting pollen, delicate, yet purposeful. Her petals closed around his…
Trunk?
Branch?
Woody vine?
The phone rings. It is Sally. ‘Have you finished?’
I gnaw at my fingernail. ‘I’m having a bit of trouble.’
‘What with? It’s just sex. You know how to do it; what’s the problem?’
Sally has no understanding of the artist’s tortured soul. ‘It’s not that easy. Doing it is one thing, writing about it is another.’
‘I’ve got clients lined up for this, Edie.’
‘They’re just going to have to wait.’
Sally’s silence tells me I am sounding shrill. ‘It’s okay, Ed.’ If she was here, I’m pretty sure she would be backing away with her hands in the air. ‘Tomorrow will do.’
‘I’ve got to go to work now,’ I squeal.
‘Edie, this is a bit of a personal question, but as your life coach I think I need to ask — have you been getting any?’
I know that Sally doesn’t mean waves. ‘No, not lately. Not since Daniel. Why?’
‘Freud said that the suppression of sexual desire could lead to hysteria in women. It was pretty radical at the time; no one had considered that women had sexual desires.’
‘Are you calling me hysterical?’
‘Hmm.’ The sound of paper-shuffling comes over the phone. ‘Do you have a tendency towards trouble-making, irritability, loss of appetite, insomnia or—’
A sudden dread strikes me. ‘Sally, you’re not doing this line of coaching for Professor Brownlow, are you?’
‘Nervousness.’ Sally completes her sentence. ‘You know I can’t tell you that, Ed.’
‘But you have to. How am I supposed to face him if he’s been reading this stuff?’
‘People never recognise themselves in fiction.’
I am so eager to be convinced, I buy this ridiculous line.
‘Tomorrow?’ asks Sal.
‘Tomorrow,’ I confirm. This is far enough away not to bother me. I am sure the perfect metaphor will arrive by then.
‘You know, Edie, I’ve been a bit deficient as your life coach.’ Sally sounds apologetic.
I don’t like the sound of this. ‘No, you haven’t; you’ve been great. I’m making real progr—’
‘Your task for today is to smile at ten strangers.’
I sigh with relief. That sounds relatively painless. ‘Okay.’
‘And you still haven’t mastered that talking to a stranger exercise,’ says Sal.
I can already see where this is heading and I’m not going there. ‘Did so. I spoke to Jay. Like you told me to.’
Sally coughs. It sounds a bit like did not.
‘I did.’
‘And was it successful, would you say?’ Her voice is gentle, but she’s not fooling me.
Humiliation. Terror. Nausea. Some people pay big money for that sort of thing. ‘Depends on what you’re trying to achieve.’
‘Was it a mutually rewarding social interchange?’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘No buts, Ed. I’ll help. I’ll be coaching you all the way. What you need are cue cards. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. And I’ll expect a report on the smiling thing too.’
‘But—’
‘Byee.’ Sally hangs up.
Apprehension clutches my stomach as I wind up the road towards the university. Surely I will know at once if Professor Brownlow has been reading my writing? In that case, I can resign immediately.
I tense as I approach the church. What will the all-seeing, all-knowing sign say today?
‘Erotic writing takes Darling Head by storm.’
My heart leaps. Who said that?
‘We are now talking to Sally Harris, who can fill us in on Saturday’s startling letterbox drop,’ the radio announcer continues.
‘Sally, what are you doing?’ I shriek.
‘…it was just a fun way of generating interest in my business, Motive 8 life coaching…’
I wind down the window and stick my head out, a squeal like that of a newborn piglet escaping my lips. ‘That’s me, you’re talking about, Sally. Did I say you could?’
The balding man is standing in the church entrance. A clean conscience makes a soft pillow say the black letters in the sign today. Damn that man and his holier-than-thou platitudes. Of course a clean conscience makes a soft pillow. It would, wouldn’t it? But how does that help when your conscience is dirtier than a dog that’s rolled in cow shit?
‘…so tell us, can we expect more of these stories?’
‘Oh yes,’ says Sal. ‘Anyone who’s interested in more hot stories from the Crab Sex Institute can give me a call. A good sex life is essential for mental health; after all, we’re not living in the Victorian age anymore, are we?’
The church man raises his hand at me like we are friends. He has no idea he is waving to a veritable Medusa.
I smile at him through clenched teeth (smile number one) as Sally laughs gaily on the radio. ‘No, I can’t tell you who wrote it. Let’s just call her Anonymous.’
‘Well, I think there’s going to be a bit of speculation about that,’ says the announcer. ‘Call in now folks if you think you know who the mysterious Anonymous is.’
I punch the off button as I drive into the car park. I feel an urge to pull my hat down low and drape a scarf around my face, but that will only draw attention to myself. Plastic surgery is starting to seem like a good option.
Professor Brownlow looks up as I come in. His expression is mild, good-humoured, no seething volcano, no underground rumblings. ‘Good morning, Edie.’
I run these words through my paranoia meter. They pass. ‘Good morning, Ralph.’
‘The specimens are at your desk.’
My paranoia meter flashes orange at the mention of specimens and desk but I know this is ridiculous. I realise there is now no way we can discuss my job without everything sounding like sexual innuendo.
‘Something different today.’
‘Different?’ I perk up at the prospect of excitement.
‘Yes, I’ve started on the genus Libnia. I’m giving a conference paper on them.’
‘Great.’ Yay, new genus. I retreat to my desk, where the specimens are — indeed — waiting. Extracting the first one from the beaker with a pipette, I squeeze it onto a slide, place it under the microscope and start to draw. Libnia fails to excite me.
All is quiet for half an hour or so, until Professor Brownlow gets up and strolls past my desk. He pauses, examining my drawing over my shoulder. ‘I like the way you’ve drawn those plumose hairs.’ A whiff of citrus on his breath wafts towards me.
Plumose hairs — red light, red light. My heart beats faster. I slide my eyes towards him. There is nothing in his expression to suggest anything except a scientist’s interest in crustacean appendages. ‘Thank you.’ I still have my suspicions.
‘Ralph?’ I wonder why I have never asked this before. ‘Why are we researching crab larvae?’
‘Hmm.’ Professor Brownlow looks puzzled, like he has never asked himself this question before either. ‘There are a lot of gaps in knowledge. Some species, we don’t actually know what all their larval stages look like. They moult through several metamorphs before becoming adults. It wasn’t until the 1870s that the first complete set of larval forms of a…’
I zone out. This is why I never asked. It is not interesting. I doodle a crab larva as superhero, complete with cape and thigh-high boots. Metamorph, I write beneath it.
Professor Brownlow concludes his mini-lecture on the history of crab larvae research.
The silence alerts me that a response is required. ‘Fascinating.’ I slide my drawing beneath the others on my desk.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ He smiles and moves on.
At lunchtime his wife calls in. Professor Brownlow stands and kisses her. I pretend I am not watching and see his hand slide onto her Adidas-clad bottom. She giggles and presses against him. A stab of jealousy makes me grind my teeth. I have allowed myself to believe Professor Brownlow is suffering in a loveless marriage. Clearly this is not the case. I look up as they go past, decide that she qualifies as a stranger and smile brightly (number two). She gives me a gracious lady of the manor smile in return. I scrunch up my nose behind her back, mentally thumbing my forehead. I’ll just get back to my crab drawing then, Ma’am.
They wander out, hands touching each other’s waists. Irrationally, I feel betrayed. And then a certainty strikes me. It is my hot sex which is saving their marriage. They are having the sex I should have been having. I am hoisted by my own crab-erotica-themed petard.