Crazygirl Falls in Love (6 page)

He had walked me out and directed me to the nearest tube
station, gave me a peck on the cheek and said those devastating
words,

“Take care.”

Take care.
Take
care
?! I mean… really? Take care? That’s
male code for ‘Hopefully see you around, NEVER’. Luckily the pain
in my head and stomach were so fierce that they masked his
shattering parting line.

And oh, if only the story ended there, but
it don’t. I proceeded to undertake the most horrific walk of shame
in recent memory. My eyes were bloodshot and sore. My hair looked
like a birds nest. I was wearing yesterday’s smelly and crumpled
work clothes, with beer and vodka stains running up each sleeve of
my blouse. The heel snapped off my left shoe so I was forced to
limp my way along. Worse, my tights were ripped and covered in
holes. I looked like a sad, pathetic junkie whore, and not in the
romantic
Pretty Woman
kinda way.

I sat in the corner of the train carriage, hoping no one would
see that I’d been up all night doing something I shouldn’t have
been doing, with someone I shouldn’t have been doing it with.
Luckily there were only two other people there, an old lady and a
pimply teenager.

We reached my stop with no dramas. But as I
alighted I suddenly felt that tell-tale, sickly sweet taste seeping
out of my salivary glands.
Uh
oh
... Sickeningly sweet saliva means only
one thing. My body was going to spew, immediately. I looked
frantically around the platform, desperate for a restroom. No luck.
No toilets, no place to hide.

A second later there I was leaning over an extremely pungent
rubbish bin, it’s wafts of grossness making me throw up the
morning’s aspirin-water all the more violently. It was a
see-through bin too. Not cool. Totes not cool.

And oh, if only the story ended there, but it don’t. I stood
up and wiped my mouth with an empty McDonald’s paper bag I had
fished out of the bin (it was the only item left that was
semi-clean and vom-free). I turned around and there was the little
old lady who had been sitting near me in the carriage. Just
standing there. My face went bright red and I resorted to that
trite, dated, lame-ass excuse for throwing up in public,

“I’m sorry, I’m pregnant.”

Little old lady turned out to be a crafty little old lady, and
no one was pulling the wool over her eyes. She shook her head,
tutted her disapproval, and walked on.

And oh, if only the story ended there, but it don’t. When I
came home I found an empty condom wrapper stuck to the back of my
head.

Emma is laughing so hard by this stage that I have to pause.
After she’s calmed down enough I begin anew,

“So anyway, I got home a few hours ago looking like a creature
dragged out of the black lagoon. I murdered four Alka-Seltzer and a
Barocca, then I must’ve crashed.”

“After that much Alka-Seltzer I’m not surprised. You’ll feel
better soon. Oh I almost forgot, I have something else to tell you.
Dublin’s not the only guy in town. Rusty’s back.”

“Oh. Have you seen him?”

I’m not sure if I’m overstepping the line,
asking about the
other
married guy.

“Yeah, he was around for another conference on Thursday. He
asked me to dinner, and once again I succumbed, and just like last
time he left straight away.”

“No spooning?” For me personally that’s the million dollar
question. If a guy spoons he’s at least more decent than most of
the twats out there.

“We spooned for a little but that’s beside the point. What
should I do?”

“I dunno.” My shoulders rise in an involuntary shrug as I say
it.

Emma doesn’t reply. She’s clearly expecting something,
anything, to make all the badness she’s recently been doing
disappear.

I guess I have to say something. I rack my sore
brain,

“Look, I’m your sister and I’ve got to be
honest here. Sleeping with married men brings bad karma, creates
lots of negative energy. Remember Lydia? She broke up that dude’s
marriage and eventually he went back to his wife. Seven years later
and she
still
has
nightmares about it.”

“I know I know, I feel like my moral compass is all wonky.
First it was Rusty, but I blamed that on the weed, plus he doesn’t
live in London so it was supposed to be a one off mistake, never,
ever to be repeated. But then Dublin and I started hanging out, and
I promised myself I wouldn’t but I’ve really fallen for him, and I
know I’m screwing over his wife, who for all I know is a really
nice person.”

“Yes, all true.”

We’ve had fights before because I consistently display an
utter lack of tact and diplomacy towards my little sister. What I
want to tell her is to stop immediately, that Dublin and Rusty are
both pants and shouldn’t be given the time of day. Who the hell do
they think they are anyway, keeping the whole perfect-family-life
cover going whilst secretly chasing every piece of tail in town?
What disgusting pigs. What about their wives? What about their
children (if they have any, which hopefully they don’t)? I mean,
yeah sure I hate kids but no one deserves a cheating, lying anus
crack of a father.

Of course, I can’t say any of this to Emma,
plus it’s not really her fault. She, after all, is single. No one
is putting a gun to these guys’ heads and forcing them to take her
out. Emma is like me – we never,
ever
message first. We want to be
pursued, not the other way ‘round. So I’d put money on the fact
that these guys chased her down like hungry spider monkeys and her
only failing was that she accepted their advances. Still wrong of
her, no denying that, but my sis ain’t no home wrecker out on a
mission to destroy lives. She isn’t. She’s nice.

I’m drawing a blank with what I should say next, so I resort
to my I-have-no-idea-how-to-respond response,

“It’s a tricky situation.”

Again she’s silent. I guess my awesome conversational
get-out-of-jail-free line has worn thin over the years. So I decide
to speak from the heart,

“Em, there are so many awful men out there, single and
married, that it’s too depressing to think about. Let’s just try to
have a nice time during our short stint on this planet, forge great
careers, earn lots of money, stay fit and read a good book every
once in a while.”

“And drink lots of wine.” She sounds a little
cheered.

“Ugh,” I moan, rubbing my eyes with my free hand, “don’t
mention alcohol. And let’s stop talking about men, they’re just
bits of skin attached to a penis and they all suck. I mean, the
Stranger hasn’t even messaged yet and it’s already the
afternoon.”

“Relax Penny, it’s only been, what, five hours? He’ll get in
touch. But sis…”

“What?”

“You know he’s not boyfriend material, right?”

“Yeah, I know!” I snap, a little too quickly.

“Your body is coursing with oxytocin at the moment, you’ll be
thinking about him until the next guy you’re with.”

“I don’t know Em, I think it might be different. I mean,
between me and the Stranger. Maybe he’ll want something
more.”

She hesitates before replying,

“Okay, if that’s how you feel I support you one hundred
percent. Hey, you’re coming to salsa tonight, right?”

I rub my eyes again,

“I don’t know. I feel like I’ve died but no one’s bothered to
tell me yet.”

“Go for a run, you’ll feel better. You have to come out,
please!”

***

I pant to the rhythm of my runners hitting the track. Thump.
Thump thump. Thump. Thump thump. Oh god this is hard. I try to
ignore the knife-stabbing-the-jelly-tissue-of-my-brain agony but
it’s bloody difficult. Feargal Sharkey sings through the
headset,

A good heart these days is hard to find, true love, the
lasting kind…

Cheesy 80s is by far the best playlist on my iPod. It’s a
goldmine of washed up stars from the era of excess. Nick Kershaw,
Paul Young, Dead or Alive, Go West, Chicago, Chris de Burgh,
Bananarama. I’ve put Richard Marx in there too, even though
technically he’s 90s.

Look, I’m not gonna lie. Last night was made
in heaven. And yes, if you’re wondering, he did spoon (be still, my
beating heart…). But that’s not the point! The point is that I went
home with a guy who has never asked me to dinner, who has a history
of treating women with scorn and contempt, and now I’ve been
oxytocin poisoned.
Nice going old
girl
.
What
happened to the Penny with her head screwed on straight? The one
who had stated, ‘I’m not one night stand material’ just a few hours
before doing just that with a sexy Spanish
lothario?

Faster Penny, lift those knees!
I urge myself on. Faster circulation might get him
out of my system sooner. I have absolutely no scientific basis for
that theory but Emma’s right, it’s better than mooching about at
home. I pick up the pace. I’m close to the oak tree, my halfway
point where I always stop to stretch. As I run I go into a mind
trip as I remember the Stranger’s perfect face, his body, his hair,
his smell. Will he text? Will he call? God I hope he does. Please
God.

Almost there, c’mon!
I’m fast approaching a bench that’s a few hundred meters
before the tree. I smile when I see the General and his dog sitting
there. The General lives in the apartment below mine. He walks to
Hyde Park every day and sits about, chatting to people as they come
and go.

“Morning Mr Harold!” I say loudly, jogging up to the bench,
“hey Captain.”

I squat to pat the pooch on his shiny head. He’s a huge mutt
with lots of grey hair and bald patches, and judging by his
out-of-breathness isn’t taking too kindly to this nice summer’s
day. For me, an English summer is the same as a Melbourne winter,
so I’m good.

“Top of the morning to you, m’dear!” The General
yells.

Looks like he’s forgotten to put in his hearing aid
again.

“How are you today?! And how is Captain!?” I yell
back.

“Marvellous, just marvellous. But I say young Callaghan is a
riddle t’be sure. Can’t make head nor tail of his jolly old
decisions, isn’t that right Captain?”

The General is over ninety years old and isn’t really with the
program anymore. He sometimes thinks it’s the 1940s, sometimes the
1960s. Sometimes he’s convinced he’s back in the war, and clutters
around his apartment assembling artillery shells from saucepans and
measuring cups. Anyway, there’s no point telling him the year. I
always play along with whichever era he believes us to be in. I’m
almost certain he’s currently referring to 1970s PM James
Callaghan.

“You’re dead right Mr H, politicians are all knobs as far as
I’m concerned. But I gotta get back to it, need to keep the heart
rate up!”

I start jogging on the spot.

“Jolly good, you have a splendid morning won’t
you?”

“Sure will. Keep it real.” And we pump fists. I taught him
that move a few years back when I first moved into our block. Told
him I was initiating him into the Melbourne Hood. He had loved it.
Or maybe he hadn’t, it’s difficult to tell, he’s always so lovely
and pleasant and polite.

I sprint away. Only a few hundred meters to
go. Feargal has been replaced by Michael Jackson who is wrapping a
ribbon on
You Are Not
Alone
. Don’t you just love his Lisa Marie
era? I know I know, that’s strictly not 80s either. In fact, lots
of the songs in Cheesy 80s aren’t actually from that decade at all.
I probably should rename this playlist ‘Blatantly Inauthentic
Manufactured Pop Tracks That I Find Really Easy To Run
To’.

MJ finishes and to my delight Glenn Medeiros comes on. I love
this song.

Nothing’s gonna change my love for you, you outta know by now
how much I love you…

Ugh, finally!
The
oak is a few meters away. I slow down to a stop, place my hands on
my knees and bend down. I am officially out of breath. Breathe
through it. Breathe…
Breathe...

My music is so loud I don’t hear him approaching. I feel a tap
on my shoulder. I turn around.

Oh you gotta be fucking kidding me.

“Hi,” Blue says, smiling.

I take in the barely-there tiny strapped muscle tank top
tucked into the highest, shortest, tightest, yellowest lycra shorts
I’ve ever seen. Gee whiz, it looks like tightly packed supermarket
fruit down there! I look him up and down, from the fluffy aqua
headband down to the knee high socks squeezed under a pair of
battered Converse All Stars. His outfit is a running wardrobe
malfunction.

And then I remember.
Now
I know why he seemed so familiar
yesterday. I’d seen this guy a few weeks ago, right here in Hyde
Park. I’d been running my laps and had noticed a crazily clad man
jogging towards me. As we passed each other his bright cornflower
eyes had flashed. We had smiled to each other in that
‘keep-going-you’re-almost-there’ runner camaraderie kinda way. But
also in a boy-likes-girl kinda way (I had thought anyway). After
meeting eyes, smiling, then looking back down, I had thought he was
really cute, except for his outfit which made him look like a high
school wrestler crossed with Flo Rider.