SIGMUND FREUD
Rain thundered down outside the laboratory. It had been like this for days now. Mould was growing on Edaline’s clothes. This morning she had noticed a small pink fungus sprouting on her windowsill. It was silky and damp to touch, emitting a rich, sexual odour.
Even here in the laboratory the air was thick with moisture. Edaline could hardly remember a time when she had not been wet… This thought led her by association to Professor Brown.
A cloudburst lashed the windows, like a metaphor for her craving. Edaline’s internal humidity rocketed. She felt like a sponge — drenched, sodden, saturated. She clenched her thighs tightly under her floral print Laura Ashley dress. If only a pair of strong hands would wring her out.
Professor Brown worked calmly on his spanner crab dissection as if she was not in the room. He hummed as he worked, a picture of contentment.
Edaline added an extra maxilliped to her drawing out of spite. Professor Brown would pay for his negligence. She eyed the clock on the wall. Five minutes to twelve. Edaline tapped her high-heeled black boots on the rung of her ergonomic chair.
The hands on the clock met at the top. She waited, five seconds, ten seconds…before lifting her gaze.
Professor Brown’s blue eyes glinted behind his steel-rimmed glasses. ‘It’s a good day for Monopoly.’ His voice was deep, mellifluous, layered with meaning.
Edaline practically swooned. How could he know? She had been fantasising about playing Monopoly for weeks. Every night she had woken from dreams of landing, fatefully, on his hotel.
‘Oh, but I haven’t got any money, Professor…’
‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement…’
These dreams had been vivid, sensuous — the rolling dice, the red tower of the hotel thrusting skywards…
Professor Brown pulled out a box from beneath his lab bench. He opened the lid, displaying the contents as if they were an assortment of luxury chocolates.
Edaline eyed the pieces. ‘You choose yours first.’ What would he be? The naughty puppy? The leaping horse and rider?
Professor Brown’s hand reached out and picked up…the racing car. ‘And you?’ His nostrils flared.
He had sent out a challenge. Edaline arched an eyebrow, touched first the shoe…
Professor Brown sighed as Edaline lifted her hand.
Her fingers rested on the top hat.
Professor Brown’s eyes lit up, but no…
Edaline’s hand drifted over the wheelbarrow, the cannon and the battleship. At last she came to it. Picking up the thimble, she slid it on her forefinger and tapped loudly on the bench. Looking up, she exposed her teeth. ‘I’ll roll first.’
When Professor Brown spoke, his voice was husky. ‘Yes, Edaline. Anything you say.’
So far so good, but now I come to the hard part — the actual sex. I press on, hoping that the right metaphor will land, moth-like, on my computer screen. The game of Monopoly heats up in a very satisfactory way…
A surging wave of desire washed through Edaline’s rock pool. Sea foam crashed against her pink anemone. Professor Brown’s sea cucumber inched its way towards the anemone. It was a large cucumber, strong and manly—
The phone interrupts me. It is Sal. ‘Got something for me?’
‘Nearly.’
‘Let’s hear what you’ve got.’
I read it out.
She is silent for some time after I finish.
‘Sexy, huh?’ I ask.
‘The Monopoly is okay. Strange, but okay. Do you really feel like that about Monopoly?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘No, it’s just you, Ed.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m not sure about the sea cucumber though. The anemone’s okay, but the cucumber is kind of icky.’
‘Icky? This is literature you’re talking about. It’s a phallic symbol.’
‘Can’t you have a different phallic symbol? Anything long and thin would do; a cigar for instance.’
‘What would a cigar be doing in a rock pool? The cucumber is a metaphor encapsulating the essence of manhood. It’s very D.H. Lawrence.’ I can’t believe she’s criticising my writing.
‘I don’t remember a sea cucumber in Lady Chatterley’s Lover.’
‘That’s only because he didn’t think of it. What would you know? Have you studied literature? Huh? I didn’t think so.’ I slam the phone down, grinding my teeth.
There is a knock on the door.
‘What?’ I yell.
Jay’s head peers around the corner. ‘Are you ready to go?’
I resist the urge to squeal with frustration. ‘I can’t. I’ve got to do this thing for Sally.’ I pull at my hair. ‘I’m having trouble; we’re just not on the same wavelength. She has no idea. You’d better go on without me. I’ll see you there. I was going to go for a run too, but I haven’t got time now.’ I am pleased with the way I throw this in, casually, as if it is the type of thing I always do.
‘Do you run?’ Jay sounds surprised.
‘Yeah. Of course I run. Running and writing are two sides of a coin. Everything I know about writing I have learnt from running.’ Sadly, that could be true. I probably know very little about writing.
Jay looks doubtful.
‘Why, don’t I look like a runner?’
Jay’s eyes flicker to my legs. As I am wearing jeans, this can’t be very enlightening. ‘I didn’t say that. Yeah, you do look like a runner now you mention it. Can I have a look?’
It is a strange request, but I slide up one of my jeans legs a bit.
‘No, I mean your writing. Although that was nice. Thanks.’
I blush, lower my jeans leg and give him a wary look. I’m not sure if I’m ready to show him my writing.
‘Please.’ He sticks out his lower lip. ‘You know I’m a big fan.’
I am not aware of having come to a decision, but I find myself saying, ‘Well…as long as you realise that I am very sensitive about this. Is that understood?’
Jay steps closer. ‘I understand totally.’
I doubt that he does. How could he possibly know what a big thing this is for me? I push my chair back from the computer screen to let him see. I can hardly believe I am doing this. Do I really want him to read my writing? I feel daring, anxious and slightly risqué. I breathe, try to rise above it, channel Sooty Beaumont.
Daniel never read my poetry. I offered it to him a few times, but he was always too busy. After that, I gave up. I never acknowledged, even to myself, how much this felt like rejection.
As I watch Jay read my work I realise that, even though I would quite like to place the blame on Sooty, my erotic writing is a part of me. I am putting my strange and intimate thoughts out there for him to accept or discard. I want to reach out and turn off the screen. Oh God, why did I let him see it? What if he hates it?
Jay’s eyes run down the screen. He bites his lip.
I want to ask him what he thinks of it, but I am too shy.
Jay’s mouth puckers and his shoulders shake. A laugh explodes out of him. He stifles it with a choking sound. ‘I’m sorry, Edie.’ He turns to me, his eyes watering.
‘What?’ I stare at him, pressing the power button so the screen goes blank. I feel a little sick.
‘It was the manly cucumber.’ He snorts with suppressed laughter.
‘I am never letting you read my work again.’
‘No, no. I loved it. Please, don’t get me wrong. It was very, very…sexy.’ His eyes are sparkling and he is looking at me in a way I haven’t seen before; like he is seeing something new. ‘The cucumber,’ he presses his lips together, ‘inching towards the anem—’ he gives up and laughs out loud.
I try to hold my stern expression, but it is impossible in the face of his mischievous look.
‘You’re funny,’ he says.
I’m not sure whether to be pleased with this comment or not. ‘I don’t mean to be.’
‘I’m not laughing at you. You’re just so…different. You’re not like anyone I’ve met before.’ He pushes his hands into his pockets. ‘I like you.’ These last words seem pulled from him with reluctance.
I like you. Has a man ever said that to me before? I think I would remember it. I’ve had I love you, mainly after sex, but I like you, that’s something different altogether. I am struck dumb. I gaze into his brown eyes and wonder what it is he sees when he sees me, what he likes. The impossibility of ever bridging this gap in understanding wraps my tongue in knots.
Jay looks at the floor, his hair falling over his eyes and I realise I have been staring at him for too long. He is waiting for an answer.
‘I like you too.’ My heart jumps at my daring. I blush with a mixture of terror and pleasure. Have I said too much? Too little? I want to reach out and touch his chest — that gesture of certain tribes which says more than words can say. I see you. I recognise you.
Jay flicks his hair out of his eyes and smiles. He seems very cool. As if he does this kind of thing all the time. Tells girls he likes them. Maybe he does. Maybe everyone does except me.
‘So, you can’t come to the gig yet?’ His voice is low.
I shake my head, although more than anything that is what I want to do. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can finish this.’
‘Okay. Make sure you come.’ He pauses at the door and gives a wicked grin. ‘Actually, I think the cucumber’s the best bit. Poetic, really. Rather D.H. Lawrence.’
I look at him in surprise. ‘Have you read him?’
‘Of course. Lady Chatterley’s Cucumber. Sons and Anemones. Sea Hares in Love. Sexy as.’
A giggle explodes out of my nose.
Jay winks then, like the Cheshire cat, he is gone and the room is much emptier.
I turn back to my screen, delete everything I have written and start again.
Edaline felt herself to be a ghost, as transparent as glass. But in Jason’s arms she became suddenly visible, whole and beautiful. He painted her in colours she had never imagined she possessed — a rainbow followed his hands, swept out from the place where his chest rested against hers. And when, at last, they united, she felt herself forged, burnished and gilded into a thing so rare and beautiful it lit up the room with its glory.
‘I like you,’ he whispered, holding her as if he would never let her go.
‘I like you too,’ Edaline whispered back. And that was more than enough.
I email my piece to Sally, stand up and stretch. I feel calm. Jay likes me. I like him. It seems very simple. Can it really be that simple?
And what is more, he likes my writing. It made him laugh. I have a ridiculous idea. Perhaps he will fall in love with me by reading my writing — through words on the page alone. I am not the first person to think of this. Just look at the romantic poets. Writing is powerful.
On paper, I am all the things I am not in the flesh. I am eloquent, witty, funny, worldly, cool. I am Sooty Beaumont. I have many lovers and they never break my heart. Yes, he likes my writing. I will write for him. I will peel off my onion layers one by one and show him who I am. The idea draws me forward.
I open my wardrobe, looking for the right thing to wear to a Gary Jaworski gig in Lighthouse Bay. Usually this would be a task taking many changes of clothes, much hair pulling and often proving so difficult I would give up and stay home.
Tonight my hand alights on the perfect outfit straight away. I pull on the miniskirt, black tights and T-shirt and glance in the mirror. I look different. I am pale, but my skin is shining. My wayward hair is wayward in a cheeky, not ratty way and, for once, I don’t feel the need to cross my eyes to blur my outline.
I see my notebook lying on the bed — now is a good moment to update my pain dairy. This morning was a record low, but I am optimistic that I can do even better. While I am not cured yet, I am definitely on the up and up.
Monday (still): 51 days
Pain level: 3 (a new record low!)
Location: Indistinct
The bonsai is quiet tonight. I pick off its browning leaves one by one like plucking a daisy. I like you. I like you too. I like you. I like you too. I like you.
Tossing my car keys in the air, I catch them and float from the room.
Have fun.
I turn in the doorway. ‘Did you say something?’
But the bonsai speaks no more.