It Started with a Kiss Page 2

  He wished he’d never mentioned that he wanted to try stand-up again. He’d failed the first time and, truthfully, was scared he really didn’t have what it takes. But that didn’t stop the desire. Over the years, he’d spent hours watching comedians, live and on television. He’d observed how they engaged an audience, or not, and how they provoked the viewers into laughing or cringing. Liam wrote copious notes, and researched the best, most reputable Sydney comedy workshops to enrol in.

  Time was running out. If he didn’t make a move, he’d be fifty and still dreaming. Maybe if he quit his job and took the time to really immerse himself? That would work. Besides, his job was adding fuel to his general malaise. Yes, Beat FM was the number-one radio station in Australia, but it was exhausting keeping up with the station’s motto: ‘Local, with a world view, Beat FM is focused, relevant and controversial. It’s YOUR station, Australia.’

  Yeah. Yeah. All round, Liam felt like a caged animal.

  The next evening at dinner, Liam was still smarting when Friday again dismissed his comedy idea.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so adamant about it,’ she was saying as they sat at their local sushi restaurant. ‘Why all of a sudden?’

  ‘Because if I don’t do it now, I never will.’

  It infuriated him that Friday couldn’t or wouldn’t understand how important this was to him. His thoughts turned to Brad. Brad, his younger, more successful brother, was on easy street, living the good life, doing what he wanted, when he wanted to. Brad didn’t answer to anyone. Meanwhile, Liam was living in suburbia, weighed down by responsibility and commitment.

  He tuned back into the conversation to hear Friday say, ‘Go for it. I’m not holding you back.’

  What a joke! Absolutely Friday was holding him back with her not-so-silent judgement and the way she rolled her eyes, belittling him, and making him feel insignificant.

  He’d had enough. ‘I don’t think I want to be married anymore.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Friday was glaring at him. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘I just… dunno…’

  ‘Liam!’

  ‘I don’t think I want this anymore,’ he said, eventually.

  ‘This!’ Friday said, raising her voice. ‘This—our marriage? This—our life together? This—our two daughters?’

  Liam glanced around the restaurant. ‘Keep your voice down.’

  Friday was furiously shaking her head. ‘This! You’ve decided you want to leave the girls and me because you think I don’t want you doing some comedy workshop? Get a grip. That’s pathetic, Liam.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Liam said, trying to find the right words. ‘It’s more than that. Dad…’ He trailed off.

  His father’s illness had taken him by surprise. One week he was fine, the next, riddled with disease. And only eight months after his mum had died. Liam was struggling to cope with the loss of his two parents over a short space of time. He wanted to get into his car and drive, to escape to the country or coast. Anywhere but here. He was shattered, waking most nights at two am in a sweat as he wrenched himself from a recurring nightmare, where he struggled for breath, pinned down by the heavy weight of bricks on his chest, unable to escape.

  Liam wanted release from the constant pressure and stress. Why couldn’t Friday sympathise?

  They sat in silence, staring at the sushi boat in front of them.

  Liam wasn’t sure what he wanted or even if he loved Friday any longer. He loved Olivia and Evie, of course, but right now that love wasn’t enough. Yes, it was selfish, but this was about self-preservation. What good was Liam to his children if he was dead? Or worse, merely existing, not really living but not six feet under, either.

  ‘I’m going to Brad’s for a while,’ he blurted, not even sure if he’d said the words out loud until he registered Friday’s expression of disbelief.

  ‘What?’

  As her hand moved towards his, he withdrew it under the table.

  ‘Liam, no.’

  Liam shrugged. The time for talking had come to an end. This scene had been building for months. Liam knew that. Friday knew that. The little spats over dinner that turned into long brooding silences when one of them, usually Liam, would end up sleeping on the pull-out sofa in the study. These had escalated, certainly in the weeks since Christmas. His first Christmas without his parents.

  ‘Let me help you,’ Friday was saying.

  ‘I have to do this by myself, Fri. Why can’t you see that?’

  ‘But what about me? The girls?’

  Liam didn’t have an answer. The more he tried to free his mind, the more questions he asked himself.

  ‘I feel lost.’

  ‘And you think Brad can help you? Brad who lives in a man cave in Paddington? Brad, who this week is screwing Smiggle Chloe?’

  ‘Friday, calm down.’

  ‘This is a joke, right? Calm down? You feel lost?’

  He stared at her, wide-eyed. ‘We’ve talked about this before.’

  ‘I know, Liam. Your mum and dad, the pressure at work. I understand, really. I want to help. Come on, we’re supposed to be in love. Life partners, through thick and thin, good and bad.’

  ‘I never agreed to the “death do us part” thing,’ he countered.

  ‘Yeah, well there were a lot of things I didn’t agree to, either.’ Friday wiped the corners of her mouth with her dinner napkin, then threw it down on the table. ‘Grow up, Liam. Just grow up.’

  Grow up? That did it. To Liam, hearing Friday say that was a clear indication that she didn’t have the slightest understanding of what he was going through. She had no idea.

  That night when they arrived home, before he went to sleep in the study, Liam sat alone out on the deck, for a long time. The deck used to symbolise peace and opportunity. Now it felt like a prison. Although there were no physical walls, just seemingly endless openness and freedom, clear skies as far as the eye could see, Liam felt trapped. He wanted to climb the railing, jump down onto the lawn below and run, leaving all this behind.

  3

  ‘So, he’s left,’ Rosie said as I stared blankly into my skinny latte three days later.

  I blinked, my eyes heavy with sadness. ‘Packed a suitcase and took off. I told the girls he was staying with Brad because Brad’s going through a rough time. I didn’t know what else to say.’

  Rosie was glaring at me. ‘Let me get this straight. Liam’s gone off to stay with Brad because of the comedy thing.’

  ‘Not only that.’ I sniffed. ‘Our problems run deeper: his dad’s death, stress at work, boredom with me—’

  ‘How could he be bored with you?’

  I shrugged, still not quite believing this was actually happening. ‘Twenty years is a long time together. As he was packing, he said, “I don’t want this to be permanent, but we just need a break.” He was so calm and rational, Rosie. He could’ve been talking about buying a new toaster.’

  ‘Wow.’ She sucked in some air. ‘That’s crap. Not that I can play the superior card. I regularly split with men for far lesser crimes.’

  After Rosie’s second divorce, she told me she was done with monogamy, declaring, ‘I don’t need a man for money, companionship or emotional security. I don’t need to date. I just need sex.’ That’s when she signed up for internet dating. She’s now a walking advertisement for KissMeCupid.com and often has two or more suitors on the go at any one time.

  Fifteen minutes later, eating our second slice of chocolate cake, she urged me, ‘Get out and live a lot! Get yourself onto KissMeCupid and then you’ll know what’s what.’

  ‘You can’t be serious?’

  ‘No, just trying to lighten the mood. Doing my best to help you temporarily forget your worries. We have Zumba Wednesday nights. Maybe we could also try tap or singing classes?’

  I paused and cleared my throat. ‘Think I’ll stick with cake.’

  Four days later, Stephanie caught me crying amongst the agapanthus in my garden and interrogated me. I told her
straight that Liam had temporarily absconded.

  After she picked up her jaw off the ground, she said, ‘What will people think?’

  I didn’t have an answer. And, frankly, I was too distressed to give a damn.

  Composing herself, Stephanie offered guidance centred around ‘being true to your authentic self’ and advised inward reflection as opposed to hitting the town. ‘Men will only want you for one thing,’ she warned. ‘And let’s face it, you don’t want that, do you?’

  It had been less than a week. Give me a break.

  At night I kept thinking about Liam and how we met. They say falling in love is a thirty-second phenomenon. I didn’t believe it until it happened to me. And then it probably took all of fifteen.

  The day I met Liam, I was with my then boyfriend, Toby, the latest in a line of no-hoper boyfriends. Not that I’d ever been treated badly. But I was the sort of girl who fell into relationships. Fell into giving boyfriends blow jobs and having unsatisfying sex until the next one came along. I couldn’t recall ever being dumped. I just sort of drifted on.

  Anyway, I was tiring of Toby on the night I’d spotted Liam and his friends. We were at a Japanese karaoke restaurant in Balmain, and I was half listening to their inebriated conversation about the Eurovision song contest, which was playing on the massive television screen behind us. Liam (though I didn’t know his name at the time) was asking if anyone remembered Bucks Fizz. His friends were laughing, saying he was making up a ridiculous name.

  I jumped up and started singing ‘Making Your Mind Up’, complete with dance moves. That was pretty much it. I didn’t even notice my ex-boyfriend leaving.

  It was the first time I’d met someone where my heart actually beat faster, like, wow, kapow. Right then, I got what others meant when they talked about love at first sight. It’s a feeling that slams you in the guts. You can’t breathe.

  Liam and I started talking and then when the karaoke machine ramped up, we sang a duet to ‘Sweet Caroline’.

  The truth is, I want Liam back. He’s my husband. I love him. He is taking a break. Finding himself. Whatever that means. He’ll be back. I just have to be patient.

  Two weeks later, my patience came to an end when he arrived to pick up the girls for the night.

  ‘Liam,’ I said, doing my best to remain calm, ‘when are you coming home?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘This isn’t fair. You must have a plan.’

  Liam looked around the living room, seemingly appraising the situation.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just—’

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘I haven’t taken any belongings apart from a few clothes. No furniture, no books or CDs, nothing. I just sort of left.’

  ‘I thought you were staying at Brad’s temporarily. Are we separated? Is that what you’re saying? That this is permanent?’ My mouth was tight, my lips thin.

  Liam shook his head. ‘I really don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.’

  ‘So, when are you coming home?’ I said, not letting him off the hook.

  ‘You’re not listening to me, Friday. You never do. I told you I don’t know.’

  ‘Fine, Liam,’ I said, faster and louder than I meant to. ‘Take whatever else you want. Half of it’s yours. Doesn’t matter to me. It’s only stuff.’ But it did matter. What if we were to separate permanently? I looked around with new eyes, imagining overflowing cardboard boxes lining the hallway marked with the word ‘books’ or ‘other’ in black texta. It was depressing and sad.

  I stepped in front of Liam, forcing him to look at me. ‘Face it, you haven’t wanted me for years, not since—’

  ‘Not since what?’

  My hands were trembling. ‘The baby.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about that—’

  ‘No, you never do. But what about me? My feelings? I’m grieving, too. He was my baby, too. And after that—’

  ‘After that, I’ve been working my arse off for you. For years, that’s all I’ve been doing.’

  Just then, the girls walked in, dragging their backpacks behind them.

  ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ said Liam, before turning to the girls. ‘Ready?’

  Liam and the girls left and nothing had been resolved. If anything, our communication was at a standstill. So many years spent together and for what?

  I was so furious I was almost hyperventilating. What the fuck had just happened? I walked out onto the deck, picked up a pot of newly planted petunias and threw it to the ground. Smashed. Terracotta and dirt went flying.

  ‘Rosie,’ I screamed down the phone several minutes later. ‘I’m separated.’

  I could hear Rosie sucking in air. ‘What happened now?’

  ‘The fucker just… he just left. Left our marriage, left our life.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know he’s having a hard time with his parents dying, but, shit, what about those of us who are still living?’ I sobbed. ‘I hate him.’

  ‘You don’t hate him.’

  ‘I fucking do. And I supported him that whole time. After his mum died and he started hanging out with his dad and Brad most weekends—’

  ‘The Three Musketeers—’

  ‘Exactly. He was bereft, I was supportive. Then when his dad died, then Baxter… I just don’t know what to do.’ I ran out of steam and there was a long pause. ‘I smashed my favourite pot plant. My petunias are dead.’

  ‘Do you want me to come over?’

  ‘No,’ I said bluntly. ‘I just wanted to rant and now I want to sleep.’

  After I hung up, I swept up the remains of my plant. While it seemed like our separation was sudden, it wasn’t. Not really. It had been coming since the miscarriage, those dreams shattered and replaced by tense evenings, restless nights, unspoken hurts and anger. Still, the realisation didn’t make life easier.

  After that horrible afternoon, Liam and I spoke sporadically, mostly about the girls and logistics, about who was picking up whom and from where. Our telephone conversations barely lasted three minutes. As for face-to-face time? Liam avoided that as much as possible.

  ‘I’ll pick up the girls Friday and return them Sunday after lunch,’ Liam would say, like he was borrowing a pair of shoes.

  Time ticked by. Two months later, Liam was still living at Brad’s.

  I got on with looking after Olivia and Evie, who seemed to be coping well—at least they gave that impression in front of me. Physically, Olivia, fifteen, looks completely different to Evie, though people say they can still tell they’re sisters. Whereas Evie is dark, tall and lean, Liv is shorter and has blonde hair like her dad. She also has pale skin like mine and is curvy. She’s pretty, no doubt about it, especially when she smiles. But she wasn’t doing a lot of that lately, especially with me, after I repeatedly refused to let her boyfriend, Brodie, stay overnight.

  ‘But, Mum!’ is her favourite catch-cry.

  ‘But, Mum what?’ is my standard reply.

  ‘You’re so mean. You don’t know what it’s like to be fifteen. I’m talking RL. Real Life. Mine.’

  Teenagers.

  The reality was, I was struggling to make it out of bed most mornings, and doing the parenting bare minimum. Yes, Evie and Olivia were being fed, but I was lax when it came to vegetables and cooking. I managed to buy sushi, roast chicken and chips, but then I often forgot that Evie was going through her vegetarian stage. She’s all about lettuce.

  As well as consuming a family-sized block of chocolate, my regular dinner was half a bottle of wine, sometimes more. My skin was sallow, my personality dull, and it was only if I was going into work that I even bothered to shower. The rest of the time, I moped at home in my pyjamas.

  Even mundane tasks, as simple as washing a cup in the kitchen sink, were an effort. One afternoon, I opened the kitchen drawer searching for a pen and found everything but—takeaway menus, keys that didn’t open anything, pens that didn’t work… the drawer was overflow
ing with useless junk. I pulled out a photo of the four of us taken last year on top of the Harbour Bridge. I laughed, remembering the day, but then my laughter turned to tears, real tears. That life, the one that featured the four of us living together, going on excursions and holidays, was over.

  It’s not like I didn’t realise I was on a downward spiral—I did. But I couldn’t help myself. Since Liam had walked out, I’d felt worthless, ugly, sad. I cried a lot. (Hence why my skin looked so pale. The alcohol and chocolate consumption wasn’t helping.)

  At work, I invariably received a long lecture from Deirdre, my boss. I felt like saying, ‘Why not put both of us out of our misery and sack me?’

  Instead, I just stared straight ahead when she spoke about ‘resilience’ and about me being my own person, ‘the best you can possibly be’. (I often felt I was sitting in one of Olivia’s teen self-esteem lectures that she regularly received at school.) I got the resilience thing. I really did, but it’s hard to focus on building a positive spirit and attitude when your husband’s dumped you and is out in the real world doing God knows what with God knows whom.

  Deirdre sometimes suggested (maybe once a day) I take a break. ‘Hon, you’re not a great advertisement for the industry.’

  I guess. I love my work as a naturopath but was feeling lacklustre. I was self-prescribing more and more… taking heaps of feel-good tablets and yet wasn’t improving. If anything, I looked wrung out and tired.

  After a Deirdre pep-talk, I’d stop weeping, dry my eyes and promise her I was trying. ‘I really am.’

  So there was work—which motivated me enough to shower—and Stephanie, who dropped in home-cooked lasagnes and self-help books, while reiterating the ‘no going out in public where married men might be congregating’ counsel. Surely a quick glance at my appearance would allay her fears somewhat. I was in no condition to be roaming the neighbourhood stealing husbands.

  And then there was Rosie, sweet, annoying but funny Rosie, dragging me to Zumba classes and chattering about her latest potential venture—hosting divorce parties.

  What to say about her? In addition to being disdainful of most of my friends, the Mother Mafiosi, she calls them, she spends a lot of time swanning around, looking for new adventures. She made her money franchising a pet minding/feeding/walking service back in the mid-noughties, Rosie’s Rogues. Now, it seemed she was focusing on newly divorced women as opposed to lonely dogs.