SIGMUND FREUD
After climbing the stairs, I sink onto my bed and gaze out the window, blinking back tears. I hate you. I hate you not. My brain is like a computer hit by lightning; its circuitry useless. Now I’ve told Jay I hate him and yet all I can think about is how good it felt to touch him. I open and shut my hand, put it to my cheek. I wish I had never held hands with him. Now I know what I’m missing.
My short-circuited mind returns to Gary — Peter Pan.Peter Pan was one of my favourite books as a child. But I didn’t know the story behind the story then. That terrible masterpiece is what the book’s namesake called it. Peter Pan is not a good story to be thinking about right now.
At times like this I understand how Mum felt — how your brain turns against you. What would it be like to feel so sad all the time, not just when things go wrong?
I only heard Mum crying once. It was late at night and I’d got out of bed to go to the toilet. Her sobs carried up the stairs. She sounded wounded.
‘It’s all right, Jenny; it’s all right.’ Dad’s voice was a low murmur.
I peered over the banister and saw them sitting at the table. They were holding hands.
I wanted to go down, to find out what was wrong, but I sensed it was private so I sneaked away. The next morning Mum was smiling and laughing again and I thought perhaps I’d dreamt it.
She must have been trying so hard.
I go over to my chest and pull out her notebook. Being in a melancholy mood, I open it near the end and read:
When the black dog sits on my shoulder, the colour washes out of the world. Relationships I thought were working are revealed to exist only in my head. My whole life feels like a complete waste of time — like I’ve drifted through experiences others would have made something of — slid past people I should have connected with, somehow missed the whole point. It seems to me that everyone else does it better — finds meaning in things that are meaningless to me. I don’t want to feel this way.
That is exactly the way I feel right now — like I’m missing the whole point. It worries me to find my thoughts are so close to Mum’s.
On the other hand, Jay was in the wrong too. There was no need for him to go all cold and hard. He should have let me explain. Perhaps I let him off too easily? Now that I think about it, I almost feel ready for another round.
There is a knock on the door and before I can snarl, go away, it opens. Sally comes in.
I stuff the notebook away and sit up straight.
‘Hi.’ Sally sounds wary.
‘Hi.’
Sally sits down on the bed next to me. ‘What’s up with Jay?’
I shrug. ‘Why are you asking me?’
Sally touches my arm. ‘Hey, I’m your friend. I know you two have got something going on.’
‘No we—’
Sally talks over the top of me. ‘So why’s he down there, looking like Doctor Evil and you’re up here…’ she glances at the chest, ‘doing a Sylvia Plath number.’
‘I’m not doing a Sylvia Plath.’
‘Yes you are, you’ve got that no-one-understands-me look.’
I glare at her. ‘This is not a no-one-understands-me look. This is a don’t-mess-with-me look.’
Sally raises her eyebrows. ‘That time of the month?’
‘That has nothing to do with it,’ I snap. ‘He thinks I slept with Professor Brownlow. Not that it’s any of his business, seeing as we—’
‘You did, didn’t you?’
‘Slept. I slept. That’s all. Just slept.’
‘So… You slept with him, but you didn’t sleep with him.’
‘Exactly. We talked about Japanese literature. I helped him with his crab conference presentation. Then we got tired.’
Sally looks sceptical.
‘It was the same with Jay.’
‘What, the crab conference or the Japanese literature part?’
‘No. I slept with him, but I didn’t sleep with him.’ I flap my hands. ‘We were bed buddies.’
‘Bed buddies?’ Sally’s brow creases.
‘Yeah. You got a problem with that?’
‘No, no, no problem. Bed buddies is cool.’ Sally’s voice is soothing. ‘It’s just that this is a new concept you’re presenting here. How does it work, this bed-buddy thing?’
‘It’s like a sleepover. Without the pillow fight.’
‘Lollies?’
‘No lollies.’
‘Chick-flick DVDs?’
I shake my head.
‘Hmm.’ Sally looks thoughtful. ‘Gee Ed, I don’t think I’ve had a sleepover with a boy since I was ten. If I sleep with a guy these days, I sleep with him.’
‘Well, I like to mix it up a bit. Sometimes sex, sometimes just sleep. It keeps things interesting.’
‘Ed, I’ve got to say, this bed-buddy thing — I don’t relate to it.’
‘I think being with me makes men sleepy.’
Sally gives me some significant eye contact and slips into counsellor mode. ‘Does that bother you?’
‘What, being a human cure for insomnia? Why should it bother me? A good night’s sleep is very important. They should market me. Troubled by a disturbing need for sex? Don’t worry, one dose of Edie McElroy and you’ll be sleeping like a baby.’
‘I’m sure it’s not like that. It’s a compliment really; they feel comfortable enough with you to go to sleep.’ Sally sounds less than convincing.
‘Oh yes, I drive them wild. With a desire for some shut-eye. Scarlett Johannson has the same problem, I hear. Javier Bardem, Eric Bana, Josh Hartnett, all they want is sleep, sleep, sleep—’
‘Funny night, last night.’ Sal changes the subject.
‘Ha. Ha, ha. Yeah, it cracked me up too. What happened after I left the lab?’
‘It was a bit like being at a birthday party and the birthday girl leaves. We all stood there looking at each other for a moment, then Belinda slapped Ralph and took off.’
‘At least she didn’t hit him with the tennis racquet.’
‘I think she was going to, but she changed her mind at the last minute.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘I felt sorry for him. He looked like a sick kitten that’s just had a bucket of water thrown over it.’
‘Oh, that’s sad. Poor Professor Brownlow. So then it was just you and Jay and Professor Brownlow left?’
‘And that creepy guy.’
‘Oh yeah. Him.’
‘He was really excited by it all.’ She screws her nose up. ‘Anyway, then Jay just kind of walked out, looking like he was about to do a Kurt Cobain…’ Sally catches my eye as she says this. ‘Sorry, Edie, it’s just an expression, I didn’t mean…’
I wave my hand. ‘So then it was just you and Professor Brownlow?’
‘And the creepy guy.’
‘Right.’
‘I thought I’d better give Ralph some counselling at that stage. He was looking totally stressed out and I am his life coach, so I told him people always regret not doing things much more than they regret doing them. I mean, I thought he’d been sleeping with you, in the normal sense of the word, so it might make him feel better.’
‘How did that go down?’
‘He just muttered something like “this is worse than Moorookami” and took off. I don’t know what that meant.’
‘Oh,’ I finger my hair, wondering which part of Murakami’s stories Professor Brownlow was thinking about. ‘So then it was just you and the creepy guy.’
‘Yeah. Turns out he’s a client of mine.’
‘I knew it! He’s the phone-sex guy, isn’t he?’
Sally jumps. ‘There’s no need to yell, Ed.’ She looks embarrassed.
As well she should. ‘Does the term Crab Sex Institute mean anything to you?’
‘I didn’t expect anyone to think it was real,’ says Sal. ‘It was just a marketing ploy — you know, hot stories from the Crab Sex Institute. I didn’t identify where it was or anything. It was just to give it a bit of cachet.’
‘But it was obvious it was at a university.’
‘Not really.’
I glare.
‘It may have been.’
‘How many universities are there around here, Sal?’
Sally looks at me as if I am being unnecessarily pedantic. ‘I don’t know, how many universities are there?’
‘One.’
‘Only one?’
‘You knew that, Sal.’
‘I may have done.’ If Sally wasn’t a life coach, she would have made a good lawyer.
‘Jesus, I hope I’m not going to get a whole procession of weirdos sniffing around.’
‘I’m sure most of my clients aren’t like that. Speaking of which, I really need some more erotica.’
‘I told you, I’m not doing that anymore.’
‘I’ll double your money.’
‘I can’t. I’m completely off sex. I can’t write about it. I don’t even want to think about it. It’s more trouble than it’s worth’
‘Edie.’ Sal is about to use all of her famous powers of persuasion on me. ‘You’re so good at it. Just a couple more, while I look around for another supplier. Isn’t it like a recipe for you now?’
I think about how expensive it’s going to be in Tokyo and whether I can ever return to my job in the lab.
Sally bats her eyelashes at me. ‘Come on, Ed, puleeese?’
‘Oh, fuck, Sal. Don’t look at me like that. Okay.’
Sally smiles. ‘That’s my girl.’ She gives me a hug. ‘Hustle, hit and never quit. Remember, if you’re given lemons, make lemonade.’
‘You want a story with lemons in it?’
‘It’s a metaphor. It means turn negatives into positives.’
‘Okay, got it. Get that car back on the highway, right?’
‘Vroom, vroom,’ says Sal.
Creamy tuna pasta. I have ventured into the kitchen in search of inspiration. Mum’s old cookbook is open in front of me. Like Sally said — erotic writing is just a recipe. Creamy tuna — now there’s a whole lot of double entendre already. I take the book back to my lair and read through the recipe.
Cook pasta in boiling salted water until al dente. Drain and toss with half the oil.
Is it just me, or are cookbooks kind of like soft porn for everyone? I boot up my computer and summon my inspiration.
Edaline was boiling, salty and sticky. She poured olive oil over herself, feeling it trickle viscously into all her crevices. Her skin was slippery and slick to the touch. Jason’s body would slide over it with no resistance, no friction.
This has definite possibilities. I read on.
Over medium heat, heat remaining oil in a large fry pan. Add onion and cook for 2–3 minutes or until softened.
Goodness. Pretty sexy stuff.
She lay in the sun naked, cooking, softening, her eyes closed. There were footsteps and a round object was pressed against her lips. Without opening her eyes, she bit into it. It was an onion.
Add garlic and cook for 1 minute. Stir in cream and tomato paste, add tuna and peas. Heat gently for 1–2 minutes. Stir in half the parsley along with the tomatoes and capers, add pasta and season. Stir until heated through. Serve sprinkled with remaining parsley.
I carry on, my fingers flying across the keyboard. Edaline and Jason cavort wantonly with tuna and peas, parsley and tomatoes. They roll about on a white leather sofa and smear lavish amounts of tomato purée across a pool table.
At last, after it was all over, Edaline opened her eyes. Jason lay beside her. A sprig of parsley decorated his hair. She removed it, placing it between her sharp, white teeth.
‘What shall we have for dessert?’ asked Edaline.
I finish this piece and straighten my back. Part of me is guilty that I have reverted so swiftly to this seedy enterprise. On the other hand, I have to admit it has cheered me up; the world doesn’t seem as bleak as it did an hour ago. Maybe I’m not over sex after all.
‘Oh, my,’ says Sal, in response to my email. ‘Sigmund Freud isn’t in it. I can’t wait to see what you do with chocolate mudcake.’