Taming the Beast (9 page)

By the time she was sixteen the word was out. Sarah Clark did the things that nice girls didn’t do, she did them skilfully, and she
did them enthusiastically. And she was hot, which was something worth commenting on, because most girls who fucked around were desperately ugly. The local rumour mill churned out a never ending stream of Sarah Clark sex scandals, only about half of which were true, but all of which helped cement her reputation as the best way to spend a Saturday night in the north-western suburbs of Sydney.

Sarah acknowledged the labels given to her and continued to do as she pleased, thereby both confirming and subverting those labels. She had a near perfect academic record, she was beautiful, and she fucked like a porn star. If the occasional arsehole thought that easy meant ‘indiscriminate’ or that enjoying sex was equal to ‘asking for it’, then that was something she had to live with, much like the fact that her parents were as emotionally retarded as they were intellectually brilliant. Other people’s deficiencies could not affect Sarah’s life unless she allowed them to. And she didn’t.

Mike was no exception. There was no point worrying that he thought she was a sure thing; she wasn’t, and he had discovered that tonight. Next time he slobbered all over her face and zigzagged his hands along her spine, she might decide to fuck him, or she might not. Either way it would be totally about how Sarah felt, and not at all to do with what he was or wasn’t getting from the blushing princess he was in love with.

*

Jamie thought that since he had watched Sarah enter rooms at least two thousand times over the last ten years, he should be used to it by now. Should be. Wasn’t. Even when he was expecting to see her, when he was sitting at a sticky table at the back of the pub, sipping a beer he didn’t want, wondering why she had asked to meet on a
Sunday morning, trying to guess what was wrong this time, staring at the door, fuming that she had told him ten o’clock and here it was five to eleven with no sign of her, even
then
seeing her walk through the door struck him as something fantastic.

Every time, he was jolted. That such a person could exist – could be walking toward him – could want to speak with him – was always a fresh and wonderful realisation.

She kissed his cheek, lit a cigarette, sank into the chair across from him, took a swig of his beer, screwed up her face at its flatness and warmth and exhaled loudly. ‘Jamie, listen: I need you to promise me something.’

‘Only if you apologise first for demanding my presence here at an ungodly hour and then keeping me waiting for fifty-six minutes.’

‘You should be thanking me.’ She blew smoke in his face. ‘This is for your own good.’

‘Thank you. What is?’

‘Me warning you that Shelley is desperate to get married.’

‘Piss off.’

‘Jamie, promise me you are not going to marry her.’

‘As if.’ He laughed. Married! It was okay for Mike who was nearing thirty and owned his own house, but Jamie and Shelley were only twenty-two. They weren’t even all that serious about each other. Except… The other night, Shelley cried when he was leaving her house. She said that he used her, and that he didn’t even bother talking to her or being nice to her unless they were in the bedroom. This was not true; Jamie was never anything
but
nice to her. Unless her idea of nice was different to his. Unless she spent all their time together waiting for Jamie to do something which had never, until this moment, occurred to him.

‘She said she wants to get married?’

Sarah nodded. ‘Just tell me you won’t let this happen.’

‘Of course not. I don’t want to… I mean, I do want to one day, but not now and not… I don’t even know if I even… I do love her I think but…’

‘Just promise me.’

He met her eyes. ‘I promise I’m not going to marry Shelley.’

She nodded. ‘Good boy.’

Five and a half years ago, when Sarah was still living under her parents’ roof, she received a card in the mail. It was the first post day after the Christmas public holidays, which also happened to be two days before Sarah’s sixteenth birthday, and so there were several cards addressed to Sarah in the letter box that day.

The first was from Sarah’s grandmother on her mother’s side. It had a bouquet of pink and yellow flowers on the front, and inside was a poem about blossoming womanhood. The second card was from her Aunty Glad and Uncle Rick. It had flowers on it too, but thankfully no poem. It just said
Happy Sweet Sixteenth
. Third, she had a card from her grandparents on her father’s side. They lived in Tasmania and Sarah had never met them, but every year she received a birthday card and twenty dollars. This year, to her surprise, there was an extra five dollar note.

‘Hey, Mum. Grandma and Grandpa Clark sent me twenty-five bucks this year. They obviously understand that I need more money now I’m an adult.

Her mother looked up from her book. ‘Sixteen is not adult, Sarah, and if this is leading into another discussion about you getting a job you can stop right now.’

‘I just want to have a bit of spending money. You’re always saying we have to learn responsibility and independence.’ Truth was that Sarah needed money for grog and pot and clothes that weren’t chosen by her mum.

‘I’m not going through all this again, Sarah. When you finish university you will get a job, not before. End of discussion.’ Her mother went back to reading.

Sulking, Sarah ripped open the final envelope. The card was white, with a single long stemmed gold rose on the cover. Inside, neat, slanting, black words said
Sweet Sixteen and never been… forgotten
.

Sarah stopped breathing. Although there was no signature, and – she checked the envelope – no return address, Sarah knew that handwriting as well as she knew her own. It was the same handwriting that had once told her
You’re a Star
and
Great work, but don’t forget to credit your source
. Later, the handwriting would be cramped up on slips of paper saying
Distracted by your kneecaps. Car 3:30?
And,
Skip soccer practice, need to kiss your shoulder blades one more time…

She told him once, during a post-sex confessional cuddle, that she used to fear remaining un-kissed at sixteen. She told him that she had feared no man would ever want her, that she would be a brilliant but lonely academic. She would have several degrees and lots of cats. He said that by the time she was sixteen she would’ve been kissed so much she would laugh that she ever thought otherwise. He said by the time she was sixteen she would’ve forgotten all about him. She said never and meant it.

The memory of him made her face hot and her eyes fog up. She sat very still, willing the shaking in her legs to stop before her mother looked up from her book and noticed. She stared at the card until she couldn’t make out the words. So few words! Couldn’t he have spared her a few more? Couldn’t he, at the very least, have signed his name? Not because she needed him identified, but because it was his name. Couldn’t he have given her that?

Sarah stood up, gathering her birthday cards and her twenty-five dollars.

‘Can I go to Jamie’s?’

Her mother glanced up, frowned, looked back at her book. ‘You spend a lot of time with him lately. Is he a boyfriend now?’

Sarah pulled a face at her mother’s bowed head. ‘I’m not allowed to have a boyfriend.’

‘Exactly.’

Sarah ran her finger over the gold rose. ‘Exactly. So can I go?’

‘Yes, Sarah. But please get changed. An outfit like that, and Jamie might think you don’t take the no boyfriend rule seriously.’

Sarah wondered how her mother even knew what she was wearing since she never looked at her. Plus, Jamie didn’t look at Sarah in that way. She could turn up in her underwear and he would just ask her if she wanted to play Nintendo. Whatever, she wasn’t going to Jamie’s anyway. She was going to sneak into the Leagues Club and find someone to have sex with. Someone old. It would be her birthday present to herself, inspired by Mr Carr.

Sarah never heard from him again. Her sixteenth was the last birthday she spent at her parents’ home, and so she could never be sure if he didn’t write again, or if he did but the cards ended up in her mother’s stainless steel kitchen bin.

Then on a cold July night, almost seven years since he’d left her, Sarah saw Mr Carr. Her bus was stopped at a set of lights three blocks from the restaurant, when she glanced out the window and saw him flashing past. It was less than a second, just a glimpse of thick blonde hair and black clad shoulders, but she knew. She turned in her seat, trying to get another look, but the car had disappeared around a corner. She was certain though. She’d know him anywhere.

‘Uhuh, sure.’ Jamie said, when she told him the next day. He was pretending to read
Sense and Sensibility
. Jamie hated Mr Carr. Jamie hated all the blokes Sarah had been with, but he hated Mr Carr the most, because he was the first. She wondered if fourteen-year-old Jamie had hopes of being her first. She knew now that he
used to have a crush on her, but that ended after she had sex with him. Not because of the sex, which was fine, but because of what happened afterward. She did not like to think about that, so didn’t.

‘So anyway, there are eighteen D. Carrs in the directory, if you can believe that. I called them all. Nothing. He mustn’t be listed.’

‘You need help. You’re delusional.’

Sarah poked him with her pen. Jamie poked back. Sarah took his pen away and wrestled him onto his back. He went down easily, barely struggling as she pinned his wrists to the floor. She pressed her face right up to his, nose to nose. If he was another man, any other man, she would open her mouth, suck on his pale bottom lip and press down with her body. He flexed the small, tight muscles of his trapped arms and pressed the inside of his thighs against the outsides of hers. If he was any other man she would’ve pressed back.

‘Apologise,’ she demanded.

‘No way.’

‘I’m not delusional. It was him.’

‘Has it occurred to you that your obsession with someone you haven’t seen for seven years is slightly unhealthy?’

‘No.’ Sarah rolled off him and noted that his face fell. He was maybe not getting enough. That was typical of girls like Shelley Rodgers; all shiny lips and colourful hair clips to suck a guy in, and then once they’ve got them, they turn grey and sexless.

‘I went back to the school this morning,’ she said, lighting a smoke.

‘Oh, my
God
, you are insane.’

‘I only wanted to know if anyone had heard from him. I thought he might have been in touch if he was back. I thought he might even have…’ Sarah sighed. She knew Jamie was right. It had been crazy to think she could just walk into the old red brick English block and find him sitting behind his desk waiting for her.
‘So anyway, I was all worked up and angry and disappointed, and as I was leaving I saw this kid hiding in the bus shelter smoking–’

‘Shit, Sarah, please tell me you didn’t–’

‘I did. I went up to him and said “All they that love not tobacco and boys are fools.” And he was like, “What the fuck?” And I said, “It’s Marlowe.” And the boy says, “Huh?” So I told him about Marlowe and how he got knifed in a bar fight and he was sort of interested, and I told him how that line was what popped into my head when I saw him – a beautiful boy – standing there sucking back on beautiful tobacco. He offered me a cigarette – a durry, he called it – and we smoked together, and then I told him how nicotine is a biphasic drug. And he knew that; they learnt it in science. He said, “It both relaxes and invigorates.” And then I said, “Like orgasm.” And he blushed like mad and then I–’

‘Stop! God, that’s disgusting, Sarah. And probably illegal!’

Sarah laughed. ‘Chill out. He was sixteen. Totally legal and totally delicious.’ The boy had been truly lovely: a Greek god in training with a baby smooth chest and a recovery speed and enthusiasm which made up for his clumsiness. He hadn’t been what she was looking for, but then no one was. They were all mere consolation.

Jamie took hold of her shoulders. ‘You have a problem, Sarah. You’re like a sex addict or something.’

‘Get out. You usually laugh when I tell you this stuff. What’s wrong with you today?’

He let go of her shoulders but picked up one of her hands and turned it over. He traced circles on her palm without speaking. He had been weird all afternoon. Needy. He kept touching her and looking at her out of the corner of his eyes. He seemed to be on the verge of telling her something, and then he would change his mind and look away.

‘Jamie, what?’

He dropped her hand and picked up the book. ‘What am I supposed to be doing with this book again?’

‘Identifying sexual allusions.’

‘In Jane Austen?’

‘Don’t scoff.’ She picked up
Pride and Prejudice
and turned to the first of several marked pages. ‘For example: Caroline offers to mend Mr Darcy’s pen for him, telling him that “I mend pens remarkably well.” And then Darcy says: “Thank you – but I always mend my own.”’

‘Yeah, and?’

‘God, you finance types are thick! Mr Darcy is telling Caroline that he’d rather masturbate than let her touch his “pen.”’

Jamie tossed his book to the floor. ‘Not everything is about sex, Sarah. In fact,
most
things aren’t. The fact that you manage to find a sexual subtext in what is a completely innocent book is yet more evidence – as if I needed it – that you have a serious problem.’

Sarah closed her book and placed it on top of the one he had thrown. ‘And whatever it is that’s making you such delightful company today – is that one of the many, many things which is absolutely, positively not about sex?’

‘Are you going to work or am I wasting my time?’

‘Talk to me.’

‘About what?’ He rubbed his eyes. Cigarette smoke irritated him but he never complained. Sarah knew though, and she liked him more for it.

‘You tell me.’

Jamie bit his bottom lip. His forehead creased up, and he looked to Sarah like he was going to cry. Shit. She hated it when he cried. It was impossible to know what to do. Shit.