Sex, Lies and Bonsai Page 3

  Professor Brownlow advertised for a research assistant with drawing skills and a scientific background. I have a degree in fine arts and some experience illustrating for the catalogue of a funky retail mob called Hotpunk whose wares are far from scientific. I did, however, live with an environmental lawyer for six months. I am also a talented liar, and on a good day possibly an exceptional one. I can only assume the field for the position was not strong.

  Drawing crab larvae is not as exciting as it sounds. Crab larvae, or zoea, look like baby elephants with a pointy horn and feathery legs. At first I was concerned that they might be wriggly or slithery, but in fact they are kind of cute. However, being less than one millimetre in size, they are not at all cuddly.

  In my induction, Professor Brownlow pointed out the main features I needed to draw. ‘The mandibular palpus…blah, blah, blah…integument…blah, blah, blah…first maxilla…blah…endopodite…blah, blah…plumose hairs…’

  I refrained from putting my fingers in my ears and humming, but it didn’t help my powers of retention.

  From time to time Professor Brownlow gets very excited with the drawings I hand him. I can hear him muttering to himself, ‘Single spine without secondary hairs, no trace of exopodite…’

  This worries me a little. I fear I may have set back the cause of crab research several years by omitting one or two details in my compulsive rush to get on with the next larva. There is no logic in this as I’m not paid at a piece rate. I just can’t shake the feeling that the next larva will be more exciting than the last. The persistence of this idea in the face of all evidence to the contrary may say something profound about human nature. Or perhaps just about me.

  Professor Brownlow wears khaki shorts, collared shirts and loafers. His suntanned, muscular legs make this outfit look sexy rather than nerdy. Sadly, Professor Brownlow is married and has two children under ten. For this reason I try not to take too much notice of his sexy legs. Lusting after married men would be bad for my karma. Not that I’m into that stuff.

  Daniel had sexy legs too, but they were only revealed on the beach and in the bedroom. I know what he’d think of Professor Brownlow’s shorts and loafers ensemble. Thinking about Daniel’s sexy legs in the bedroom makes me sigh. Breaking up with Daniel has not only been hard on my pocket and my heart, it has been hard on other parts of my body too. I am not used to going without.

  Today at work, a strange thing happens. Professor Brownlow gives me a book. ‘I saw you reading at lunch yesterday. I thought you might like this one.’

  I am startled. Firstly, that he has noticed me reading. He never seems to notice me at all. Secondly, that he has thought of me enough to bring in a book. Thirdly, about his taste in books. If I had imagined Professor Brownlow reading, which I hadn’t, I would have imagined him reading zoology textbooks or maybe on holidays, as a break, he might plough through the odd thriller; John Grisham or Matthew Reilly.

  I gaze down at the book he’s given me. A downcast and vaguely sinister cat decorates the cover.

  ‘Have you read any Murakami?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘He’s a Japansese writer. Very funny. In a strange way. But also serious.’ His face colours. ‘You might not think so, of course.’

  I smile and also blush. ‘Thank you. Ralph.’ As Professor Brownlow walks away I let my eyes linger on his legs for the first time. Not for long, but they do linger and I let them.

  Professor Brownlow’s wife works as a casual tutor in the human movement section of the university. She is also a personal trainer. She too has muscular brown legs and wears short shorts and T-shirts which hug her taut stomach. She is charming to me in an impersonal way that makes me tongue-tied. Impersonal charm is not one of my areas of expertise. My social repertoire swings between over-the-top sincerity that scares people off and mute shyness.

  Professor Brownlow’s wife is very attractive — much more attractive than me. I glance at the book on my desk. But maybe she won’t read Murakami? I slap my thoughts down. That is no way to be thinking about a married man with two children and a wife who could easily flatten me with one swing of her well-toned arm.

  I wonder though, when I see them together, what it is they have in common. The attractiveness of his wife makes me suspect it is sex. Perhaps, for him, the legs are enough. Perhaps they are for her too. But I now suspect Professor Brownlow has hidden depths. And hidden depths are one of my favourite, favourite things.

  Thinking about the hidden depths of married men is also bad karma; maybe even worse than ogling muscular legs. I sigh as I draw my last zoea of the day. Going without sex is affecting my judgment. I need to do something positive to improve myself, not wallow in inappropriate feelings about people who are way off-limits.

  On the way home I focus on positive thoughts about what tomorrow will bring. I have already written my goals for Tuesday in my notebook:

  Think up new money-making ventures

  Write poetry

  Find more tips for self-improvement

  Consult Sally!

  The days that I’m not drawing crab larvae usually go something like this. I wake with a feeling of dread, have breakfast, go for a long walk then come back and check my emails. Usually there are none, apart from offers to transfer millions of dollars from Nigeria into my bank account.

  After deleting the Nigerian emails I am filled with despair at the blankness of my mind. This is soon replaced by self-loathing. How can I make some more money? Why do I waste my time writing poetry? Does the world need more poets?

  This takes until lunchtime, when I can have a break, after checking my emails and phone messages again. After lunch I have a nap. At two o’clock, in an effort to salvage something from the day, I check my messages again, then finally attempt to write poetry. My words are bland, dull and predictable. I hate them.

  So why do I keep trying? It can only be the memory of moments of grace I’ve had in the past. Perhaps poetry for me is like surfing for my dad. There are moments that leave me euphoric, when time disappears. These rare moments may be something like heroin — they leave me uplifted, but life is just one big withdrawal in between.

  Now I think about it, both surfing and heroin seem much more reliable forms of pleasure. But they don’t work for me.

  Chapter Five

  Sexual love is undoubtedly one of the

  chief things in life.

  SIGMUND FREUD

  I dream I am nude hiking in New Zealand and wake up early, relieved to find I am not. This is particularly the case since it was raining in my dream (as it does a lot in Glenorchy) and very cold. I wonder what this dream signifies. No doubt it is linked to Daniel.

  My mind drifts. If I was nude hiking with Daniel, well, we probably wouldn’t be hiking; we would be finding a cosy hut and getting warm beneath the covers. A mountain hut would be very sexy — the cold air, the warm bodies, the isolation… A long breath escapes me.

  As I try to go back to sleep I have a fantastic idea, possibly related to the nude hiking. I will ditch poetry and become an erotic writer. Why haven’t I thought of this before? This could be the answer to my financial difficulties. Sex sells! If I can write poetry, surely I can write erotica. How hard can it be?

  I am so excited about this plan that I jump out of bed and, what is more, skip my normal morning self-loathing routine. Live dangerously, Edie! Instead, I get straight to work.

  First, I seek guidance from the internet on how to write about sex, transcribing helpful points into my notebook.

  Points to consider when writing about sex:

  Never mention the penis or vagina;

  Never use euphemisms for these parts of the body;

  Tell it like it is, not how it is in porn movies;

  Less is more — don’t take the reader all the way;

  Be subtle — cut to the morning after;

  Choose whether to be erotic or convincing, it is impossible to be both;

  Choose whether to be practical or metaphor
ical in your descriptions, that is, the dark waves and white horses school versus the throbbing cock and dripping cunt school; A dash of humour can be good;

  Don’t cut to the chase too quickly, build the tension; and The difference between erotica and porn is the emotion.

  Several of these points seem contradictory — how do you avoid mentioning the ‘p’ or ‘v’ words, but not use euphemisms? How do you tell it like it is and still be subtle? I don’t let this faze me. I am too excited by the potential of this new venture.

  I pause for just a moment, seeking erotic inspiration, then, opening a new page on my computer, I plunge straight into it like a wild horse jumping a gate. My fingers race across the keyboard, leaving a trail of sweat behind them. Strangely, despite the mountain hut fantasy, I find myself in a laboratory…

  Edaline peered through the microscope, carefully tracing the mandibles of the crab larva that lay, delicately exposed, before her. Its feathery legs reminded her of the curling golden hairs on the back of Professor Brown’s strong, brown hands.

  Wisps of chemistry had been drifting between the Professor and Edaline for some months now. Along with the formalin and cleaning wax, the subtle aroma of attraction had established its place in the laboratory. Edaline felt it each morning as she walked in the door — a charge that made her stomach leap like a randy salmon migrating upstream through grizzly bear-infested waters.

  ‘That’s a particularly fine pair of plumose hairs,’ said a melodious baritone voice behind her.

  Edaline swivelled in her ergonomic chair, her heart beating a light staccato drum roll on her ribcage. She shifted her shoulders back, accentuating the cleavage she had, so daringly, exposed today in a low-cut black T-shirt.

  The Professor’s gaze was on her drawing. His white lab coat looked thrilling against his suntanned face and vivid blue eyes that gleamed behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He bent closer and Edaline caught a whiff of sweat. She gasped, her nipples hardening, and leaned further over the lab bench, her breasts hovering above the drawing. ‘Do you like them?’ Her voice was low, seductive, throaty.

  The Professor nodded, still studying the drawing. ‘The mandibular palpus is rather accentuated.’ He thrust his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, rocking back on his heels.

  Edaline’s nostrils flared like a horse at the end of a hard gallop. His meaning couldn’t be clearer. ‘Professor,’ she ran her tongue over her lips, leaving a glistening trail, ‘would you like to take a look down the microscope?’

  I lift my hands from the keyboard and stretch my fingers. Something occurs to me. I have forgotten to fill in my pain chart. I flip to the front of the notebook. Tuesday: 45 days. Pain level…

  I consider that. My chest isn’t aching. Today the pain has moved to the bottom of my throat. This is new. I wonder if it is an improvement. With a sense of satisfaction I title my spare column Location. It is lucky I planned for expansion.

  It’s strange, this broken heart thing. The Romans had it right: when Cupid fires his arrow, it can really hurt. On reflection, I decide the throat pain is an improvement. Eight. My best day yet. This erotic writing must be good for me.

  My eyes wander back over my writing. My cheeks burn and I can hardly bear to read it, but, on the other hand, it’s been so much fun. And I think it might actually be okay. Pretty sexy really. But why am I writing about Professor Brownlow? It is extremely inappropriate and rather alarming. What will people think when they find out this is what’s in my head? I couldn’t bear it.

  My mind flashes back to my dream. Was nude hiking a portent? Will I be exposed, cold, naked and ashamed with the rain pouring down? Maybe I can publish under a pseudonym. I have one ready as it happens, having recently played that game where you give yourself a name based on your first pet and the first street you ever lived in — Sooty Beaumont.

  The name has a certain ring to it. I imagine Sooty Beaumont is a raven-haired beauty who writes in a red satin dress with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She has a roster of lovers who bring her exotic and carefully selected gifts. In return, she delights them with her sexual prowess. Yes, Sooty Beaumont is a name to work magic with.

  I place my fingers on the keyboard again. I am reaching the sharp edge of the sex scene. I now have some tough decisions to make. Convincing or erotic? Metaphorical or practical? Show the reader what is happening or cut to Professor Brown putting his lab coat back on and Edaline adjusting her low-cut T-shirt? Just when I am on a roll, my old enemy, self-doubt, seems about to make a reappearance.

  Luckily the phone rings. It is Sally. ‘How are your tips for self-improvement going?’

  I scan the back of my notebook. Deer sausages. Don’t ring Daniel. How to write about sex… Consult Sally. ‘What sort of improvements do you think I should be making?’

  ‘You could start by getting out more. How are you ever going to meet guys if you never talk to anyone?’

  I don’t tell her about my new crush, Professor Brownlow. I know what she would tell me — Get real, he’s married, Edie. And I know she’d be right. Professor Brownlow is my dirty little secret. ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I’m going to talk to people more.’

  Sally is so shocked I have listened to her she doesn’t speak. This is a first.

  ‘I’ve been reading a book about conquering shyness. It says I need to speak to a stranger every day to build up my confidence.’

  ‘Where are you going to find the strangers?’

  I hadn’t considered that. Sally has a good point. Darling Head is a town of five thousand people, and I am at least on nodding acquaintance with most of them. This is not to say they are friends, and, in fact, many of them don’t actually nod, but I know they know who I am.

  The nice part about living in Darling Head, as opposed to Sydney, is that you do know who you are dealing with. I sometimes think our town is like the ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’. On the twelfth day of Christmas, Darling Head sent to me:

  Twelve trained baristas,

  Eleven school teachers,

  Ten sporty nurses,

  Nine well-dressed lawyers,

  Eight pretty hairdressers,

  Seven fashion retailers,

  Six surfing doctors,

  Five real estate agents,

  Four surfboard shapers,

  Three drug dealers,

  Two millionaire developers,

  And a milkman in a white van.

  To be honest, you don’t normally see that many lawyers and I think there might be more than three drug dealers, but you get the picture. In our town, no one is anonymous. ‘I think I can classify anyone who is not a friend or a relative as a stranger,’ I say. This leaves a field of approximately 4997.

  ‘Okay, but you have to choose them randomly, Edie. You can’t just wait for a friendly looking one.’

  Sally knows me too well.

  ‘You have to speak to the fifth stranger you see or something like that.’

  I murmur assent, but there’s no way I’m going to be speaking to the guy with the goatee who once accused me of pushing in, in the supermarket queue. Then there’s that woman in the newsagent who suspected me of swapping the price tags on the boxes of crayons and the owner of the surf shop who never gives me a local’s discount even though I was born in this town.

  ‘Edie.’ Sally’s voice is stern.

  ‘Okay, okay, the fifth stranger. So, what are you going to do with yourself now you’re back in town?’

  ‘I’m kicking around a few ideas. Something psychology-related maybe. I’ve got out my old uni notes. There’s some really good stuff in there. You should see this essay on Freud I wrote in first year.’

  ‘Cool. Let me know what you come up with.’

  ‘What’s your opinion on penis envy?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Have you ever wished you had one?’

  I consider this for a few moments. ‘There was one time I drank too much before getting on a train with no toilet. It would have been handy then
.’

  ‘Mmm, true, but apart from the practicality angle… I think Freud had that one wrong. Why would you want something that just…’

  ‘Dangles?’

  ‘Exactly. Some female psychologists thought that he suffered from womb envy.’

  ‘So, who won the argument?’

  ‘I’m not sure; I missed the second Anatomy is Destiny class — had a hot date the night before.’

  ‘Speaking of penis envy.’

  ‘That’s not envy, it’s desire. So,’ Sally gives a deep and meaningful pause, ‘what are you up to at the moment? Apart from crab larvae, I mean.’

  This question seems particularly probing, coming as it does on the heels of the penis topic. But I don’t want to talk about my new project. The erotic writing is beyond private. Even thinking about it makes my heart beat faster. ‘This and that,’ I murmur.

  ‘Mmm.’ Sally must be still thinking about penis envy as she lets me get away with this.

  After Sally hangs up, I try to return to my writing but the erotic moment is gone.

  As I have had such a successful morning, I decide to give myself a break and open the book by Murakami which Professor Brownlow gave me.

  Kafka on the Shore is described on the back cover as a ‘metaphysical mind-bending mystery’. This is not a genre I am familiar with. After an hour of reading I realise my assessment of Professor Brownlow as having hidden depths was correct, but didn’t go far enough. If he is into metaphysical cat mysteries his depths are not just hidden, but also uncharted, eccentric and mysterious.

  This is deeply, deeply sexy. I sigh as I think about Professor Brownlow and his short shorts, his hidden depths…

  Little does Professor Brownlow know that by lending me this book he has set in train a course of events with which I am rather familiar. But then, if it hadn’t been the book it would have been something else.

  Strangely, my crush on Professor Brownlow does little to diminish the symptoms of my broken heart. Infatuation and love are two very different things. I still love Daniel, but Professor Brownlow is very, very sexy. And now that he has lent me a book, there is no telling what will happen. Cupid’s chemistry lab is hard at work.