Eat Me (10 page)

Like a gaunt bird, Chantal perched on a wrought-iron bench in the shelter of a pergola canopied with flowering wisteria. Her silver satin slip dress—latest look this season, silver being even more trendy than mere colour—shimmered wherever the afternoon sun pierced the thin shade of the wisteria to lick the fabric. Alexi had dyed her hair blonde again, keeping the roots dark, to give it a fashionably trashy appearance. Before they'd come out, he'd artfully messed it up for her and then gelled the tangle into place. But Chantal was uncharacteristically in no condition to luxuriate in her own appearance or its impact on others. Something about her aura and the subtly defensive posture she had adopted warned strangers off impulsive approaches.

She felt absolutely shocking. Behind her RayBans, her dry eyes ached; she thought she could trace the thudding pulse of her optic nerve all the way down to her queasy stomach. Her head pounded like a track from that wretched Nine Inch Nails CD her last boyfriend had insisted on playing when they made love—he hadn't lasted very long. She had had to apply a tonne of concealer to mask the bags under her eyes. Too much alcohol, too little sleep and, most of all, the shock of—how would you describe exactly what had happened last night?—the shock of the old, yes, that was it. Where the hell was Alexi with her Eno?

He was in the kitchen flirting with the Thai caterer's assistant.

Why hadn't she also remembered to ask him for a Panadol? Why had she let him talk her into coming? Having heard what had happened the night before, he insisted she come. He said it would be good for her. It would get her mind off, etcetera. Besides, he really wanted to come himself and it was she who'd been invited in the first place.

Chantal squinted through her sunnies. Sydney had the most appalling excess of sunshine. It was obscene, all this bright light. Why didn't they just filter most of it off into solar heating systems, leaving just a few gentle beams for general use? Why didn't she live in Melbourne? That's right. She remembered now. Too many poets in Melbourne. She pushed the glasses further up on her nose and wondered if she was passing for mysterious or if she looked as tragic as she felt.

Bernard, a handsome Burmese cat which had scrupulously avoided all previous offers from party-goers keen to pet and pose with him, slunk over to her feet and fixed her with a calculating blue stare. He hoicked his backside up into the air, stretched his front legs and spread his claws, digging them into the ground. Bernard liked the woman he saw in front of him and, like so many others of his gender, didn't really see the need for formalities before making his move. He crouched and pounced and landed squarely on her lap.

‘Puh-leese,' Chantal hissed as the cat hooked the claws of one brown paw and then the other into the lace trim on her frock and pulled at it with precise and self-satisfied little gestures. ‘That's a Richard Tyler original, you bloody feline!' she snapped. ‘Piss off!' Extricating claws from fabric, she hoisted Bernard by the scruff of his neck, and chucked him off to the side. Shaking her head, she minutely inspected her frock for damage. Bernard, meanwhile, had landed up to his pretty ankles in the moist dark mud of the well-watered and fertilised garden. Mewing with annoyance, he reviewed his options, and pounced again. When Chantal reached for him this time, Bernard swung his head around swiftly to sink his fangs into her hand. Then he bounded off before Chantal had time to retaliate, leaving her to contemplate the smarting red marks on her hand and muddy paw prints on her skirt. Bernard, at a safe distance, turned his back on her, and licked his paws clean. Women! He was sticking with birds and mice from now on.

‘Chantal!' Chantal looked up to see Philippa loping across the lawn towards her with her vaguely awkward gait, shoulder bag bouncing off her hips, big grin on her face. ‘I didn't expect to see you here!'

Chantal managed a wan smile. ‘Hello, darling,' she said. ‘Nor I, you.'

Philippa sat down. They brushed lips over cheeks.

‘So how do you know this lot of vile bodies?' Philippa asked.

‘They are pretty appalling, aren't they?' Chantal grimaced, glancing around. ‘Work,' she answered. ‘And you?'

‘Oh, Myrna was going to my writing workshop for a while. We hit it off and used to go out for coffee afterwards. Later she said that words weren't “plastic” enough for her and dropped out. But we've kept in touch.' She looked up. ‘Say, isn't that Alexi?'

‘Oh, thank God! He's got my, uh, drink.'

‘G'day, Alexi,' Philippa greeted him cheerfully.

‘Hi there gorgeous,' replied Alexi, handing Chantal a champagne glass and air-kissing Philippa.

‘Champers. I might go get some of that too,' said Philippa. ‘Be right back.'

Alone with Alexi, Chantal pouted. ‘Where have you been?' she whinged, gulping down the bubbly liquid. She put a hand over her mouth to screen the burp that welled up as the frothy antacid did its work.

‘Nice,' Alexi commented. ‘Very ladylike.'

‘Shut up, Alvin,' she replied with a smirk, feeling better already.

‘Shhh!' He looked around quickly. No one had heard. He frowned and pouted. ‘Never, never call me that in public, darling! You know how sensitive I am!' Chantal was one of only three or four people in the entire universe, including his parents, who knew Alexi's real name. ‘I shouldn't really tell you, I suppose,' he sniffed, ‘that I also thought to get you a Panadol. I should just let you suffer.' He waved his closed hand in front of her. Chantal grabbed the fist, unclenched it, and holding his hand up to her face, licked the pill off his palm. A waiter passed by with champagne, and she held out her empty glass. A touch of Moët and the Panadol was on its way. She was regaining form.

Philippa returned with a flute of champagne and a plate of canapes, which she held out to Chantal and Alexi. ‘You'll never guess, Chantie, who Helen thought she saw on Victoria Street the other day,' she said, watching Chantal carefully for her reaction. ‘A real blast from the past. Bram. Back in town.'

Chantal suddenly didn't feel so good again. She replaced the wedge of baked brie she'd taken from the plate, untouched. ‘I know,' she moaned.

‘Really?' Philippa asked, surprised. ‘Have you seen him then?'

‘I've already heard this story.' Alexi rolled his eyes sympathetically. ‘It's too, too tragic. I'll leave you fabulous creatures to it.' He had wanted to head back to the kitchen and his meaningful eye-alogue with the caterer's assistant at the earliest opportunity anyway.

‘When did you have that thing with Bram?' Philippa mused. ‘Seems like a lifetime ago.'

Chantal expelled a little puff of air. ‘Ten, eleven years ago? We were third-year students at uni. I was in my black hair phase.'

‘Black everything. I remember you had the most incredible collection of lace and velvet frocks. You took on the whole gothic look.'

‘I know. I always was such a fashion victim.'

Philippa laughed. ‘You even changed your name, remember?'

‘Ooooh, darling,' Chantal mewled. ‘Don't remind me. “Natasha”. Talk about walking cliches.' She sculled the champagne and held out her glass to a passing waiter. ‘Yes, please.'

‘So, tell me already. When did you see him? What happened?' Philippa prodded.

Putting her glass down on the bench beside her, Chantal took her forehead in both hands and shook it, as if to dislodge the memory. ‘I don't know if I can bear talking about it, actually.'

‘Surely, he doesn't mean anything to you now, does he?' Philippa persisted, incredulous. ‘He was only a punk poet with an interesting haircut.'

Funny, that, Chantal thought to herself. She actually mistook him for a god at the time. Twelve years older than Chantal, Bram had the kind of tough, wry character etched into his face that the apple-cheeked boys her age tried to affect but could never achieve. He encased his small, thin body in tight black jeans and tattered t-shirts, and cut his thick black hair himself, chopping it back till it stuck out in short uneven spikes from his handsome, angular face. She'd been dead impressed by the fact that not only had he been to London, but he'd hung out at the Batcave, home of the original goths.

‘Of course,' Chantal said aloud, ‘I was a bit of a punk too.'

Philippa shook her head, observing her fondly. ‘Chantal, correct me if I'm wrong, but your razor blade earrings were boutique-purchased trompe l'oeil.'

Chantal shrugged.

‘Do you remember,' Philippa giggled, ‘how we used to read
Les Fleurs du Mal
to each other in the Newtown cemetery? Along with our own adolescent jottings? Isn't that a hoot? We were such romantics.'

‘That we were,' agreed Chantal, tapping a cigarette out of her pack. A memory welled up of the first time she went to hear Bram read. It was at the university. She'd gone early to get a seat up front. When it was over, she felt like she wanted to say something to him, though she wasn't sure what. Silly young thing that she was, however, she found herself intimidated by the cluster of beautiful young women and pale, thin boys who thronged around him. She stood a few paces away as he talked to a blonde girl who seemed to Chantal to have reached some plane of desirability that didn't even exist in her personal geometry. At one point he looked over at her and the intensity of his gaze caused her to turn and walk away as fast as she could without actually running.

‘You know,' said Philippa, ‘you were always very mysterious about what actually happened between you and Bram.'

‘Oh, darling,' said Chantal, lighting a cigarette, ‘it was all a bit sordid, really.'

Philippa interrogated Chantal with her eyes. It was hard to read her expression behind the RayBans. Chantal wasn't giving anything away. Philippa motioned to a passing waiter to refill their glasses.

Chantal had gone to all of Bram's readings after that. One evening, as she was heading out the door, she felt a hand on her arm. For some reason, she knew it was him. Turning, she blurted out, ‘You're my idol,' and then blushed to the ears. He smiled.

To cover her embarrassment, she asked about the tattoo on his arm. He explained that it was an alchemic symbol. He asked her if she believed that common metals could be transformed into gold. He didn't pay much attention to her answer. ‘Come on,' he said, taking her hand. It didn't occur to her to ask where they were going.

‘So,' Philippa broke into Chantal's reverie, ‘what happened last night? Any re-igniting of old flames?'

Chantal rolled her eyes. ‘More like the final scattering of the ashes.' Though she was making light of the whole affair, the memory made her feel momentarily queasy. She put down her refilled glass on the bench beside her, but picked it up again quickly as Bernard pounced, landing precisely where the glass had been.

‘What a beautiful cat,' Philippa marvelled.

Chantal cocked one stylised eyebrow and treated the creature to a look of high disdain. ‘I suppose. If you like cats.'

Before Chantal could react, Bernard jumped onto her lap and picked his way across it to Philippa's, stopping briefly as his front paws reached Philippa's jeans to lift and stretch each back paw in turn, waving them offensively close to Chantal's face and exposing his little arsehole to her view. Then he curled happily onto Philippa's lap and began purring loudly. Philippa made clucky noises and tickled Bernard behind his wispy ears. He closed his eyes and arched his neck. You'd almost swear he was smiling.

Some men are like that, reflected Chantal. Complete bastards to you and perfect pets to the next woman. Why did she always seem to catch them on the first half of the cycle?

She recalled that first night with Bram as though it were yesterday. When they'd reached the fringes of Darlinghurst, he had led her without speaking into a side street crammed with ramshackle terraces, and then down the narrow steps of one to a cramped basement flat. The lounge had a makeshift kitchen in one corner, a sofa with several springs poking through the upholstery, and messy stacks of books and vinyl records. The other room featured a bed, snail trails of dirty laundry on the floor, a low table on which sat a makeshift bong and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The only other furniture was a wooden folding chair. The whole place stank of stale smoke, mould and sweat. Bram opened the ancient fridge and ferreted in it for two bottles of beer. Opening them with a practised gesture on the edge of the counter, he handed one to her and ambled without further comment into the bedroom. She noticed he left the bottlecaps where they lay on the floor.

‘Well?' Philippa scratched Bernard's tummy. The purring rose to a crescendo. ‘Aren't you going to tell me anything?'

Chantal narrowed her eyes and sighed. ‘I'm not sure, darling. What do you want to know?'

‘All about last night, of course. But I'm also curious about how you and Bram got together in the first place. You've always been most secretive about that.'

‘Oh, darling, it hardly bears thinking about. He dragged me home to his wretched little hovel after a reading of his that I'd attended. I remember my first reaction was, like, could I live like this? And my second was, Jesus, I haven't even slept with him and I'm already fretting about the housekeeping. Next up I'd be worrying about whether this is really the best place to raise our family. I do so hate it when I discover I'm conforming to stereotype.'

Philippa laughed. ‘Don't we all.'

‘Mmmm.'

Philippa waited patiently for Chantal to continue. But behind her RayBans, Chantal had closed her eyes and was back in memory land.

She'd followed Bram as far as the doorway. He sat down on the bed, cross-legged, and rolled a joint. What am I doing here, she wondered. Is this really what I want? To be seduced without ceremony, or romance, or even the pretence of either? She was nervous, and excited, and a little peeved as well, more with herself than him. Peering at him over her beer, she lingered indecisively, leaning on the doorframe.