DAVE
The August gathering of the Romance Readers’ Club was underway in a tiny living room bathed in beige, and six elderly ladies were staring at Dave with eager anticipation.
‘Well? What did you think?’ asked Mrs Hipsley, who was clearly on tenterhooks. ‘Did it answer your questions, love?’
Dave hesitated. A grandfather clock chimed in the corner and Mrs Hipsley’s bald friend Myra seemed to have forgotten the lamington that was lifted halfway to her lips. How could he avoid hurting their feelings? They wanted so badly to help him—and, after all, it had been his idea to join the Romance Readers’ Club. In a fit of desperation, he’d thought it might help him learn to finally understand women (i.e. Vanessa). The only thing he hadn’t factored in was actually reading the novels, and now he’d lost five hours of his life consuming Passion at Pasadena Ranch, a tome about a rich horse rancher that read like a pile of equine excrement from start to finish.
‘Yeah, some of them,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘But the rancher, that Kurt Devereaux bloke, he’s pretty arrogant, don’t you reckon?’
The ladies exchanged indulgent glances and Dave discreetly wiped his brow. The heating was turned up so high that he thought he might expire.
‘Of course Kurt’s arrogant,’ said Myra. ‘Sexy men are always arrogant. That’s what makes them so sexy.’
The others nodded enthusiastically. Mrs Turner, who must be eighty-five if she was a day, gave Dave a disconcertingly lascivious wink.
‘So all you have to do is act like a prick?’ Dave asked. ‘Sorry, I mean a cad?’
‘But they’re not really cads,’ Mrs Hipsley explained. ‘They’ve got hearts of gold beneath their brash exteriors. And you’ve got a heart of gold, so you’re halfway there.’
‘I just have to work on my brash exterior.’
‘And your bank balance!’ chimed in Gwen, an octogenarian who resembled Humpty Dumpty with a perm. ‘Romantic heroes are always rich.’
The other ladies nodded.
Dave suppressed a twitch of irritation. ‘But that’s not fair, we can’t all be rich.’
‘Of course not,’ Mrs Hipsley assured him—without much conviction, in his opinion. ‘A man doesn’t have to be rich to be sexy.’
‘Confidence is more important than money,’ Myra declared.
They all turned to listen. As hostess and book club founder, it seemed she was deferred to as the expert.
‘You just need to be confident, David. If you like a girl, just sweep her up into your arms and kiss her before she knows what’s hit her.’
Bloody hell, thought Dave. Where had she been for the last fifty years?
‘But if you don’t ask first, it’s sexual assault.’
‘No, it’s not. Only if the man who didn’t ask isn’t sexy.’
The other old dears nodded their agreement. Dave was appalled. So much for the post #MeToo era. He tried to reassure himself that these ladies were products of their generation—it’s not like anyone under seventy shared their views. But then he remembered Dr Nob in Vanessa’s book, and the ecstatic look on her face when Stafford had manhandled her in the office. He fought off a fog of despair.
‘So that’s what makes a man sexy? Sweeping a woman into his arms?’
‘Yes, in spite of her protests.’
‘In spite of her protests? So now you’re saying that no means yes?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Of course it does.’
‘Absolutely.’
Then they all nodded sagely as Myra added, ‘Depending on who the man is.’
What?
‘Oh yes, it’s very important who the man is,’ Mrs Turner concurred. ‘If the wrong man did it, I’d have him arrested.’
Dave was more confused than ever when he arrived back at the office. Ms Izetbegovic was engrossed in her computer screen. Was she actually working? It was possible, wasn’t it? Dave wondered if she was writing a follow-up email after his fruitless attempts to make Charlotte Lancaster’s lawyer Mike Schwartz comply with discovery. Of course she is, Dave. And that thing in the corner with a sparkly horn is a unicorn.
In profile Ms Izetbegovic’s face looked even flatter than usual, but there was no denying that she was an attractive woman—albeit in a shit-scary kind of way. It was weird that after all this time he still didn’t know if she had a boyfriend. He tried to imagine what he might be like. A broad, stoic Balkan who’d saved her during the Bosnian War? Or maybe she’d saved him? Get with the feminist program, Dave. Did they eat pickled cabbage together and carefully keep their chat to pleasantries, avoiding any references to their traumatic past? Or maybe there was no boyfriend? Maybe she was single and that was eHarmony on her computer? Dave wondered if she was typing in her requirements:
He must be rich and up himself, must race me off without asking permission.
But did Bosnian women want that too? Surely the elderly Anglo ladies didn’t speak for every woman in the world.
‘Ms Izetbegovic?’ he said, against his better judgement.
She glanced up irritably. ‘Yes?’
‘If I swept you into my arms and kissed you, what would you do?’
‘I’d call the police.’
Dave chuckled. ‘Fair enough. I wouldn’t blame you.’
He felt relieved. Of course not all women wanted to be manhandled. That was just a tiny subsection of the female community who were unhealthily obsessed with romance novels.
‘But if someone else did it,’ Ms Izetbegovic added, ‘someone sexy, then that would be different.’
Dave grinned bleakly. He’d asked for that.
He slid some coins into the Seeing Eye Dog and headed for his office. As he passed Ms Izetbegovic’s desk he saw that she was watching a lava lamp on eBay.
‘It’s two-thirty, Ms Izetbegovic. Your lunch break is over.’
‘But the auction ends in eleven minutes.’
‘I’m sorry, that’s not my problem. I want you off eBay now.’
She ignored him.
The door opened, interrupting them, and Dave turned to see his ex-wife Evanthe. She was carrying Nickie’s puffer jacket and looking stunning. He felt a flash of crankiness. Evanthe had decided that she was a lesbian, so the least she could do was look like one. Yes, of course he knew that lesbians came in all shapes and forms and some of the most glamorous women in the world were gay, blah blah blah, but did she have to turn up at his office with her hair hanging softly around her shoulders and wearing that black thing he’d always liked that hugged her Grecian curves? His ex-wife couldn’t look more feminine, and frankly Dave thought that was unfair. It was high time she cut her hair short and invested in a pair of sensible sandals.
‘David,’ she greeted him pleasantly.
‘Evanthe,’ he pleasanted back.
Meanwhile, Ms Izetbegovic leaped to attention and clicked out of her eBay screen, but she wasn’t quick enough to fox Evanthe, who was already standing behind her.
‘Ms Izetbegovic. Still a diligent employee, I see.’
Ms Izetbegovic coloured, grabbing a file and opening it industriously.
Dave had often wondered why his PA was so scared of Evanthe when his own wrath had no effect on her. But, then, she’d never experienced his wrath, so that probably had something to do with it. He caught a small triumphant smile on Evanthe’s lips and his ire rose. Who was she to tell Ms Izetbegovic off? His PA was none of her business anymore.
‘Actually,’ he said childishly, ‘Ms Izetbegovic’s watching a lava lamp on eBay and the auction’s about to end. Log back in, Ms Izetbegovic.’
She looked at him like he was the most pitiful person on the planet.
‘Go on. I’m your boss and I want you on eBay now.’
Ms Izetbegovic rolled her eyes but obliged.
Evanthe took the high ground, refraining from comment. She held out Nickie’s puffer jacket. ‘Nickie left this at home.’
‘Thanks.’
He reached for the jacket but she didn’t let go.
‘Can I come in for a couple of minutes? I’d like a quick chat about the September holidays.’
Dave’s brow darkened. ‘All right.’
Evanthe followed him into his office, and as soon he’d moved some files so she could sit, she announced that she was speaking at a conference in Paris next month. Needless to say, she and Vicki thought it would be a wonderful opportunity to take Nickie with them and introduce her to the French capital, especially since she was doing so well in French at school. Of course, Nickie was technically scheduled to spend the September holidays with Dave, but they were hoping that he wouldn’t mind swapping.
‘But that’s only six weeks away, and I’ve already booked the caravan park in Merimbula,’ Dave heard himself say petulantly.
‘We’ll reimburse you for the deposit. I understand it’s disappointing, but you can have two extra weeks with her at Christmas. That’s fair, isn’t it?’
Yeah, but Dave didn’t feel inclined to admit it. He’d been planning to take Nickie to Paris himself next year, but trust Evanthe to get in first. She was a high-flying insurance broker but he’d never been threatened by her success until they’d divorced and she’d started using her jetsetting lifestyle like a weapon.
‘Well?’
‘Of course she can go,’ he acquiesced ungraciously. ‘As if I’d let her miss out.’
‘Thank you, David.’
She smiled at him, secure in the knowledge that she’d won again. Evanthe, always Miss Smartypants. Sorry, Ms Smartypants. Dave wondered where he could take Nickie next year instead. Rome? New York? London? They were all good options, but they weren’t Paris. Nickie was a budding Francophile and he’d pictured them strolling along the Left Bank in berets while munching baguettes, taking ‘selfies’ atop the Eiffel Tower, practising their French in chic cafes and yelling, ‘Bravo!’ at top-flight French football matches. But now Evanthe and Vicki were going to give his daughter that formative, once-in-a-lifetime experience, because Evanthe was still intent on punishing him.
‘Why are you so determined to beat me? Is this still about the downpipe?’
Evanthe threw her hands in the air. ‘Not the downpipe again. Don’t you think that blaming a downpipe for our marriage break-up is a tad simplistic?’
‘I’m not blaming the downpipe for everything, but it’s emblematic, isn’t it? How could we have spent hundreds of dollars on a romantic weekend when the gutters were clogged? It didn’t make sense. We spent the weekend together at home anyway, and we got a new downpipe. Everyone won.’
‘For goodness’ sake! It was about so much more than that stupid downpipe!’
Dave did a double take. Evanthe rarely lost her cool. He watched as she carefully recomposed herself.
‘Can we not get hung up on this?’ she said, as though she were speaking to a preschooler. ‘You were wrong for me on so many levels. I needed someone with … with a …’ She paused as she searched for the word.
‘Vagina?’ Dave offered helpfully.
‘Actually, I needed someone with balls.’
That stung. Advantage: Evanthe.
As Dave tried to regroup, she picked up a hand-knitted tea cosy from his desk. It was red with green leaves on top, a woollen strawberry, courtesy of client Mrs Kerslake.
‘I see nothing’s changed. Who made you this?’
Dave snatched it from her and put it in his drawer. ‘Frankly, Evanthe, that’s none of your business.’
So this was what his life had come to: hiding tea cosies. He wanted to hit his head on the desk.
‘Whoever she was, did she pay you with money or just with the tea cosy?’
Dave didn’t answer that question on the grounds that it might incriminate him, but Evanthe had already turned her attention to Mrs Hispley’s doll’s house. She raised her Smartypants eyebrows at him. And then, Murphy’s law, a breeze wafted through the window and blew one of Mrs Zhang’s handwritten letters right into her lap. Dave tried to grab it but she got there first. He squirmed as she read it but, surprisingly, she softened.
‘David, I know how guilty you felt about your mum, but she’s dead now. It wasn’t your fault. You don’t have to keep looking after her.’ Dave felt like a wrecking ball had just slammed into his stomach. ‘I’m not trying to look after my dead mother.’
‘Aren’t you? Then what’s happened to you? When we met you were going to save the world, but someone looks at you with sad little eyes and you save their guinea pig instead.’
It was vintage Evanthe, thinking she knew everything about him. Dave jumped up and snatched Mrs Zhang’s letter back. ‘I appreciate the helpful insights, but you seem to forget that the bulk of my clients are still in the workforce and pay me with actual currency. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy.’
Evanthe nodded. She stood up and turned to leave, but she paused at the door. ‘I know you fear change, David, but I read this very apt quote from George Eliot, who wrote Middlemarch. Actually, her real name was Mary Anne Evans,’ she clarified, as if Dave gave a stuff. ‘Anyway, she said, “It’s never too late to be the person you might have been.”’
‘So many pearls of wisdom, Evanthe. You’ll have enough for a necklace soon.’
Evanthe was too dignified to get into a childish slanging match, so she just gave him a weary look and walked out the door.
Dave paced around his office in agitation. His ex-wife had turned into such a snob. It was all very well for a corporate high flyer to be dismissive of elderly people at the bottom of the pecking order, but they deserved representation just as much as anyone else. And Evanthe thought she knew everything about him, but she knew nothing. Scared of change? What a load of crap! She’d been reading too many self-help books—or maybe it was Vicki’s influence? Well, Vicki could take a flying leap off one of those cliffs she loved to abseil down.
He sat at his desk. And as for that stuff about still trying to look after his mum; well, he could do without the two-dollar psychoanalysis. He picked up a conveyancing file and opened it, but his eye caught something underneath—Vanessa Rooney vs Charlotte Lancaster and Wax Publishing Pty Ltd. He considered it for a moment and then snatched up the phone and rang Mike Schwartz’s office. When Mike came on the line, Dave heard himself sounding like somebody else.
‘Mike, I’m not putting up with this stalling any longer. I want Amy Dunphy’s computer, Charlotte’s early drafts of Love Transplant, all relevant email trails, text messages, Skype chats, and everything else I’ve asked for. If I don’t receive them within the week, I’ll file an injunction.’
It felt good.