An Isolated Incident (26 page)

Thursday, 30 April

T
he invitation had surprised May but she managed to answer yes as casually and naturally as if she'd just been offered a cup of tea. She offered to drive and pretended not to already know the way.

Immediately on opening the door they were met with a putrid stench. Like rancid flesh, May thought. Chris had stopped three steps through the doorway and dropped the bucket of cleaning supplies and the stack of flattened cardboard boxes she'd been carrying. Her whole body seeming poised for attack, or for being attacked. May, carrying her camera, with her own stack of folded cardboard boxes under her arm, stayed behind Chris's left shoulder, waiting.

The front door opened directly into a miniature sitting room with mismatched easy chairs, a coarse, bright striped rug, a dark wood coffee table and there, in the centre, the source of the foulness: a bowl of rotten fruit and a vase of long-dead flowers. At the far end of the sitting room was a vestibule crowded with a fridge, sink, microwave. On the floor to May's left was a wonky plastic shoe tree, yellow ballet flats and sequinned thongs and sensible black low-heeled court shoes neatly gathering dust. To the right of where Chris stood was an open door, through which May glimpsed the edge of a bed. A little past that was another open door, glossy white tiles peeping out over the edge of the grey carpet.

‘Righto,' Chris said and strode over to the coffee table, then pulled out a black garbage bag and emptied the fruit bowl without covering her nose or gagging.

May ducked into the bedroom, her hand over her nose and mouth. Fucking soft. She concentrated on the details of the room, taking photos as she went. The faux-cast-iron double bed, made up with a matching quilt and sheet set of pale blue and yellow checks. A pine dresser, the type you could buy from a discount furniture barn for $79. A red velvet jewellery box, open to reveal a small collection of silver bracelets and chains, each in its own tiny compartment. At the back of the dresser, three bottles of pharmacy perfume, each used almost equally, lined up next to three lipsticks, two bottles of foundation, one tub of moisturiser, one of hair gel, a pale grey eyeshadow palette and a tube of dark brown mascara. Near the door, a small bookshelf, same pine as the dresser, holding several bestsellers from the past three or four years plus
Anne of Green Gables
,
Little Women
and the entire Harry Potter series. Four framed photos: Chris and Bella together; Chris, Bella and their mother together; Bella's dad Tony squinting into the sun, unsmiling; a tiny tabby kitten yawning up into the camera.

‘Did Bella have a cat?' May called.

‘A few years ago she had this little darling. Mopey, she called him, because he was such a sook, mewling or sulking in corners if she didn't pay attention to him every second.'

‘What happened to him?'

A long silence. May held her breath and headed out to the sitting room where Chris was wiping down the glass coffee table with a rag soaked in what smelt like bleach.

‘She had to get rid of him,' Chris said, not looking up. ‘This bloke she was seeing, he was allergic.'

‘Did they live together?'

‘Nah. Used to stay here a bit though. I think he still lived with his parents, so this was the only place they could . . . Anyway, Mopey made him sneeze, I guess.'

‘Shame. I used to have a cat. Couldn't take it with me when I moved into my terrace. My mum has her now. She loves her, so that's okay. I miss her, though, which is weird. Never thought of myself as a cat person, but I guess I must be. Or that cat anyway. Pixie.'

‘Thing is,' Chris said, dipping her rag into a bucket by her side, squeezing it out, ‘I don't think he had allergies at all. I think he didn't like Bella's attention being on anyone but him.'

‘Jealous of a cat?'

‘He was a particularly needy cat, that one.'

‘And a particularly needy boyfriend by the sound of it.'

Chris rocked back on her heels. The sun through the front windows made her hair look auburn, her skin glow. May raised her camera and took what she guiltily, excitedly, thought of as the cover shot. ‘Not particularly, no. Pretty nice guy. Maybe he did have allergies. I don't know. I find myself thinking the worst of everyone these days.'

With the site visit, the apartment clean-out and several hours of home interviews, May knew she had enough to close the deal with
Women's Weekly
. She spent the evening working on the pitch package, sent it off at 8 pm. Called Chas and told him she was in the mood to celebrate.

‘Yeah? They arrest someone?'

‘Oh, no. It's just . . . It's stupid. A small work victory.'

‘How small? Champagne or beer?'

‘Beer. But the good stuff.'

‘Right, VB it is.'

May laughed. Craig wouldn't have even got that joke, the elitist prick.

*

‘Did you hear anything about the fight Nate Cartwright got into the other night?'

‘No offence, darl, but your pillow talk could use some work.'

‘Sorry. Oh, baby, oh, baby, you're the best I've ever had. Did the earth move for you too, etcetera?'

‘Cold, cold woman.'

‘Well, if you don't want to talk . . .' She sat up, made to get out of bed. He dragged her back down with one arm, not opening his eyes or changing position.

‘We off the record?'

‘If you insist.'

‘I insist.' He wriggled his arm so she was tucked in against his chest. ‘Word is that the Giggler –'

‘Who?'

‘The bloke got his head beaten in. Everyone calls him the Giggler 'cause that's what he does, but like, not when something's funny, just randomly. Nervous tic or something.'

‘Well, that's creepy.'

‘S'pose. Anyway, he thought Chris was his, which is fucking stupid because everyone knows she's Nate's and –'

‘Chris is a grown woman. She doesn't belong to anyone but herself.'

‘It's just an expression. Don't get your knickers in a knot.'

‘Not wearing any, so there. And it's a shit expression. Say what you actually mean.'

‘Chris does her thing and that's fine, a good time is had by all but everyone knows that's all it is. At the end of the day, she's Nate's girl and always will be.'

‘Even if he's with someone else now.'

‘Not saying it's good, just telling you how it is. Look, you'll hear some shit talked about Chris because of how she handles herself, but I reckon she goes about it just right.'

‘Can we cut the coyness? She takes money for sex, yes?'

‘Yeah.' He stretched the word out. ‘That's my point. I mean, however good a time you have, however sweet she is to you, if you're paying her, it's pretty fucking clear she's not your girlfriend, you know?'

‘I'm not your girlfriend and you don't pay me.'

‘What do you call a six-pack of Coopers? Speaking of . . .' He slithered his arm out from under her, crawled to the end of the bed, gave her an eyeful as he leant down to the bar fridge and pulled out a couple of beers.

‘So you're telling me that Strathdee rules are that if a woman has sex without accepting payment it means she's betrothed.'

He knocked her arm with the icy bottle. ‘It's a little more complicated than that and that's exactly the problem in this situation because the Giggler is not a complicated man. One might even say he's simple. So, right, word has it that Chris let Giggler have a go without charging. Not unheard of. She's got her fuck buddies like anyone else, just usually they're blokes who know the difference. Like I said, though, this one's bright as a two-watt bulb. He got a freebie and thought it meant something. Chris took him around to Nate so he'd get the message that it didn't.'

‘You ever been with Chris?'

He let out a small burp. ‘Years and years ago. Pre-Nate.'

‘Why not post-Nate? You and her would get on well I'd think.'

‘We get on great, yeah. She's a top bird. Just a bit old for me, to be honest.'

‘You're the same age.'

‘And when I was twenty-five, that was fine.'

‘Ugh.'

‘It's biology. Men are drawn to youth. Not my fault if I'm not attracted to women over thirty.'

‘This must've been really hard for you then. I appreciate the effort you've made to hide your lack of attraction.'

‘You're not over thirty.'

‘I'll be thirty-one next month.'

‘Yeah, well, Sydney thirty-one is like Strathdee twenty-five.'

‘I'm so flattered. No, wait, I mean, appalled and offended.'

‘Sorry. What was it? Oh, baby, oh, baby, you're the best I've ever had . . .'

‘Alright. So tell me this: you live in a small town, you work your way through all the women in their twenties – then what?'

‘Long as people keep having daughters there'll keep being women in their twenties.'

‘So you have no problem with sleeping with the daughters and then granddaughters of former lovers? You are really, really gross, you know that?'

‘I'm honest.'

‘And what happens when the twenty-somethings start screwing up their noses at the gross old man cracking on to them?'

‘Come on. Can you imagine saying no to me? At any age? Never happened, never will.' He got to his knees, shook his dick in her face. She drank some beer, faked the lack of interest he deserved.

‘I don't believe for one second that nobody has said no to you.'

‘Well, okay, yeah.' He fell back against the pillows. ‘My wife says it a fair bit.'

‘Maybe she's attracted to young flesh.'

‘Don't talk about her, okay?'

‘You're the one –'

‘Bella.'

May's breath caught in her throat. ‘What?'

‘Bella said no.'

‘Um. Wow. What happened?'

‘No “wow”, no big story. She was a good-looking girl, of course I tried it on with her. She was sweet about it. Told me she thought I was lovely but she was seeing someone.'

‘When was this?'

‘I don't know. A year ago? About that.'

‘Did she say who she was seeing?'

‘Nah. I think she was making it up, to be honest. Not a good feeling, having a girl lie to let you down easy, like you're some sensitive little . . . Anyway, there you go. My story of shattering sexual rejection. Happy now?'

‘She was seeing someone, I think. He was married so she couldn't say.'

‘Yeah?' Chas took a long swig of his beer, shook his head. ‘Good for my ego if that's true, but, gotta say, a bit disappointing. Married man. Didn't think she was like that.'

‘Like me?'

‘Don't take it personal. If you'd ever met her you'd understand.'

‘And yet you, a married man, hit on her and was upset she knocked you back.'

He scrunched up his face. ‘Yeah.'

‘It's always different when it's you.'

‘S'pose.' He sighed. ‘I should go home.'

May kissed her way down his chest and belly. People who knew her would be surprised at what she was doing. Or no, not what, but to whom. People who knew her would say what Chas just had about Bella, she was sure. Nobody had known about Craig and nobody would know about this and so May got to go through life unscorned (except by the man she was doing it with) and she guessed that was why she didn't feel like she was the kind of girl who screwed married men.

Or maybe this was exactly what being
that kind of girl
felt like. It felt like being lonely and uncertain and excited and anxious about enjoying the company of a man who speaks frankly even while finding some of the things he says a bit upsetting. It felt like wondering if you were a bad feminist because the scent of a man's groin sends blood to your cunt and the way he grips your hair and groans gets you dripping wet and knowing you are a bad feminist and a bad person because there are more important things than wanting a man and wanting a man to want you, things like dignity and sisterhood and not wanting to cause harm in the world but you feel that there's something wrong with you that you can't help because when it comes to making the choice the hands and the voice and the smell and the cock, yeah, be honest, the cock makes you ignore all that, wilfully just put it out of your head and that doesn't mean you don't know it all, wouldn't say it all to some other woman thinking this was an okay way to live, but it's different because you know it's not okay you just can't help it and that – this – climbing on a man who's begging you in the filthiest, most un-respectful way to do exactly what you want to do anyway while also thinking
I hate myself
but then coming so hard that the hate is replaced with certainty that there isn't actually any better thing in the world that you could be doing and knowing this is why you keep on doing it because this is it, the whole fucking point of all of it – and then that's over and you're sticky and shivery and he's closing the door behind him and you get up and shower and get on with your bloody day.

Is that how Bella felt when she was riding the man whose wife was at home dying of cancer? Did she fuck herself into self-loathing and out the other side again and call herself the names that no one else could because they didn't know she was like that? Like May.

And if May had been grabbed and pulled into a car and men did to her things that ended in police photos that scorch the brain and soul of some try-hard crime reporter, if that was happening to May would she think (she thinks it now and wishes it away no no no no) that the men had seen it in her, what she'd done, what she was, and this was what happened, what you had to expect?

Because if Bella was like May, if the same tracks had been laid in her deepest secret self, if the thoughts that sped through unstoppably in those moments of terror were these ones, then that was the most unbearable thing of all. I am, May thought, pulling on her running shoes, because what else could she do right now with this this this in her, unable to bear this.