It was my sister-in-law Melissa’s fortieth and I knew that Jarvis would be there. Even though I lived in the same city as my brother, we only saw each other at special events: kids’ birthday parties, Christmases or get-togethers with friends. It was as though our relationship was safer in numbers. We liked each other, but we also liked the protection of having other people around us, in case we ran out of things to say to one another.
They had another barbecue, the same format and pretty much the same menu as Chris’s had been. I almost couldn’t stomach the idea of Jarvis and Luke eating meat off the same hotplate. It was going to be awkward. I felt as though my face was going to give the whole thing away, that Luke would be able to read Jarvis’s messages on my cheeks: our sex juices will dry on our skin, sticking us together forever like superglue.
That morning, I woke up and did my ten-minute pilates DVD stomach set, because that always helped to take the edge off when I was feeling nervous. I ate a big breakfast of sunny-side-down egg and bacon on a slice of toast, then washed my hair with shampoo twice, because I couldn’t remember whether I’d used the shampoo already. I had a wardrobe meltdown. I tried on four favourite outfits and hated them all. I threw clothes all around the room before settling on the first arrangement I’d tried on. When I squeezed the pimple on the lower left of my chin, it bled, and my fringe wouldn’t settle properly when I blow-dried it, so I hopped back in the shower and washed my hair again. Out of the shower and dressed once more, I argued with Max about brushing his teeth, then argued with Luke about the type of shirt he should wear. Suspecting that my blood-sugar levels were dropping and that was making me cranky, I topped them up with a muesli bar — but then I argued with Luke about what time we should leave. I sent Max to his room for speaking back, before arguing again with Luke about how he never cleaned out the kitchen bin and how there was always rubbish juice swimming in the bottom and why should it always be me who cleaned out stuff like that. When we finally did leave, I realised five minutes down the road that I’d forgotten the present and the bowl of potato salad, and we had to go back and fetch them.
Thank God Hattie was there, as she was friends with Melissa, too. Hattie had brought along her special new lady friend, Briar. I was keen to get to know Briar, but I felt distracted and unsettled. She didn’t seem to be very easy to talk to anyway. Answering my questions mostly in monosyllables, she didn’t ask me anything about myself. Without me having the enthusiasm to drive the conversation fully, it soon got stuck in the traffic of her aloofness.
Luke stood around the barbecue with a beer in his hand, chatting. Max was off playing ball games with his cousins, and I sat on the deck, heart in mouth, palms sweaty, waiting for the moment Jarvis would appear. When he arrived, forty long, drawling minutes late, he walked through the back gate, patted the dog that was tied to the clothesline, kissed Melissa on the cheek, shook Chris’s hand and said ‘hi’ to Luke. It was such an absurd moment.
‘He’s got a beard now,’ Hattie said.
‘I know. It’s sexy, yeah?’
‘I’m not into them. My dad had one. I’ve always thought they were gross, like the Mr Twit character in that Roald Dahl book. I always think about the food getting stuck in them. I never thought I’d see the day when they’d come back in vogue.’
I was disappointed that Hattie didn’t like the beard. It was one of my fetishes about Jarvis; I liked to imagine that his beard would be the right mix of rough and soft. Although his hair was brown, his beard had this beautiful orangey tinge through it, the same colour as some of his better Corten-steel sculptures, which I’d seen in photographs he’d sent to me. I was always encouraging about these works, as there was a marketplace for them. People would like them in their gardens, if nothing else. They were easy on the eye and didn’t need explaining.
Jarvis took his time making the rounds, saying hello to everyone he knew. I saw him cast a glance over my way and raise an eyebrow, ironically, indulging in this little secret of ours. It was as if everything else around us was fake and we were the only true reality that existed. I’d been wondering if lately in my mind I’d made him better than he actually was, whether it was the vision of him, the image that I was in love with. But he was divine to watch. His red flannel shirt was buttoned up all the way to his neck, he wore tight black jeans and tan desert boots. He walked with a calm reassurance, at peace with himself. Even though his messages to me were full of angst and yearning and uncertainty, somehow — even though he knew I was watching — he was able to give the appearance of being perfectly at ease with himself. For a moment, it made me question whether he was genuine or not. And I felt a fear that I hadn’t expected. Was he playing me? Was he as into me as all those words he sent me suggested?
I put down my glass of bubbles and excused myself, escaping to the bathroom, my heart racing. I checked myself out in the mirror, just to check that I was still me and that everything I thought was true was true. I had never questioned Jarvis’s love for me before. He wore his heart on his sleeve; he unrolled his devotion to me with such force that it was as though he was moving boulders around. I wondered whether I had been stupid to have believed in such words; words were just words. Words couldn’t support me or save me. They wouldn’t feed me, feed my kid, put a roof over my head. How had I fallen so stupidly in love with this man, against all my better judgement?
It still looked like me in the mirror: shoulder-length dark hair and the pale skin of an Irish descendant. The fine lines around my eyes and forehead were expanding, despite the rosehip oil I applied on my face twice a day. I was also getting tiny cysts that had never been there before. The skin above my eyelids was becoming looser, too. Sure, my face was changing, slowly, subtly, but was I changing, too? I wondered who I really was — to have come so far away from the person I used to be. Before Chris’s fortieth I was a completely devoted mother and wife, but now I was someone else. Which image of myself did I prefer? The sexy seductress, or the good wife and mother? Which one would I choose?
I washed my hands, turned the silver door handle, and stepped out into the hallway. And there he was, the man who invaded my head ninety per cent of the day with dreams and fantasies. He grabbed my hand and we slipped into Chris and Melissa’s bedroom and closed the door.
‘I couldn’t wait to see you,’ he said.
I realised I’d secretly been waiting for this moment, to be alone with him without us having contrived a meeting.
‘Me, too,’ I said.
‘If I kiss you, will you be mad? Will I have ruined everything?’ It sounded as though he had practised this line, so smoothly did it fall from his lips.
Too scared to reply, I kissed him instead, and I discovered that his beard did feel soft against my chin. I felt unsure of myself. It was so long since I’d kissed someone passionately. When was the last time I’d kissed Luke like this? I felt like a teenager again, uncertain, discovering my first kiss. I didn’t know if I was too soft or too hard or too saliva-y, whether I should be subservient or go in for the attack. Filled with a mixture of excitement, fear and passion, I held him to me as though my future happiness brewed under his skin.
But my son was in the house, under the same roof, and he adored me. I felt ashamed. I thought about the Wayne Carey affair and assured myself that I was nothing like those two. I was too sophisticated for tacky love affairs. That wasn’t my thing. That was for plebs. Real love should not be played out in hiding, in secret pashes behind closed doors, or in hotel rooms, or car parks. It was all too cheesy, too suburban, too low-life. I was above all that. I may have fallen in love, but I didn’t want to be completely disgraceful.
I pulled away from his kiss and looked him deep in the eyes. ‘I love you,’ I whispered.
‘I love you, too. Madly, insanely.’
‘I know — but you do understand don’t you?’ I asked.
‘I know. I’m sorry. I don’t want to ruin anything. You mean everything to me. I told you I’d go easy, I’d wait. Your life and happiness is more important than mine.’
He was so sweet it took my breath away. His messages said these things, but here he was saying it in real life. I couldn’t believe that I’d been doubting him five minutes ago. Now I felt the absolute truth in his words.
‘I’m working on it,’ I said.
‘I know. I’ll be patient, I won’t put pressure on you. I’m so sorry.’ He pressed my fingertips to his lips, then stopped himself from kissing them. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again, releasing my hand. ‘It’s just I’m losing my head over you. I’ve never felt like this before — I’m cursed with this love for you.’
I wasn’t used to being worshipped like this. His words were so tender, and this tenderness made my heart bleed for him, made me want to possess him for myself, wholly and completely. I knew then for certain that I was on a runaway train with Jarvis and that the tracks were leading me out of my relationship with Luke. The only thing I could control was how little damage I would do along the way. Could we stop the train from taking down passengers or even whole stations?
Jarvis squeezed my hand one last time, and said, ‘I’ll go first.’
He walked out of the room, while I stayed for a moment to calm myself. Glancing over towards the mirror, I noticed there were red splotches all up my neck. I sat on the bed and caught my breath, trying to savour for as long as I could the feeling of Jarvis’s lips against mine.
After a few minutes, I slipped out the door, too, and there was Max in the hallway, a football under his arm. He looked at me wide-eyed.
‘What are you doing, Mum?’
I looked at him, and my voice stuck, my assurance from a moment ago withered. Because what the hell was I doing? What was I doing?
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Do you need to go to the toilet?’
‘Nup.’ And he walked off. My lovely eight-year-old son, content in the safe world he’d always known, that we had worked so hard to construct for him. The biggest worry he’d ever had was whether he remembered to bring his library bag along to school on a Thursday. And there I was, his mother, about to destroy everything in his world. I’d tried to protect him from outside dangers all his life — but the biggest threat to his emotional wellbeing was me.