Mud in Your Pretty Eye

Nine years later, you’re leaving a bar with a friend and you see him across the wet road, getting on to a bus. From then, from the restaurant.

Francis

You always thought, Francis, rhymes with answers. Which it doesn’t, really. But you’d change the s of answers to be soft like his name. Francis, Francis, there’s no answers. It was a walking rhyme. A home from the bus-stop rhyme. The rhyme of a Fifteen-year-old girl who could feel sad every time she thought of that soft s.

Hands in gloves in the hot water in the sink, you’d turn around and be surprised again, every time, when you saw his face. His eyes crinkled up and were almost lost when he laughed. His laugh was nearly silent and you tried to match it. You and your friend Thea had developed the habit of snorting whenever you laughed. You tried desperately to curb this around him. At the restaurant. You never thought of it as going to work, you thought of it as going to see Francis. You barely remembered that you were a dishwasher.

Brideshead Revisited was on television at the time.

You were not your usual self around Francis. None of the cackle, the shrieking, the tough-girl acts that you and Thea lurched around school and town with. You shrank, you backed off, you revealed nothing. If you smiled it was anxiously, if you spoke it was so softly that people said What? Eh? Speak louder. You were in love with this feeling of self-consciousness. You wanted so much that the constant holding of breath could bring tears to your eyes. The only freedom you allowed yourself was imaginary. Elaborate fantasies you dared yourself to get lost in while Francis banged in and out of the kitchen, carrying plates, scraping them, arguing with the chef. You thought maybe your daydreams would be strong enough that he could read your mind, would look at you, know, love you. Or maybe your body would reach out, involuntarily, necessarily, and save itself on his thin arms. This never happened, of course. You were Fifteen. Nothing ever did.

Very thin, with wispy kind of no-colour hair, not tall, pale, dark circled eyes, cheekbones. Cheekbones. Every angle you yourself did not possess was page 4 there in his cheekbones. You can’t even remember the colour of his eyes. Probably blue, some cold colour. He dressed like he knew nothing about fashion and cared even less. You loved this gap in his knowledge, this laziness, this flaw. You thought nobody else could see how beautiful he was.

What happened was entirely predictable, though you never predicted it. After you’d been at the restaurant for four months, Francis left. He had exams at university and he quit his waitering job. You didn’t even know it was going to happen until he said Last fucking time I have to serve up this shit. What? you asked but nobody heard you. Why? and you felt your eyes get hot and you felt dizzy and you felt like running out, now, or saying You’re wrong, making a mistake, it’s me I’m here, you can’t, no. But the same thing happened, nothing. Nothing at all. And he left, he smiled your way and left, and you stayed on through the summer until March when your family moved to Auckland.

*

Art Class

Hey Cody

How are you? I miss you. How’s Auckland? Things here are OK. I want to leave school but not allowed. Mum’s spazzing out because I told her I quit smoking—stupid—then she found a packet in my room. I miss you. Julie’s OK but she never wants to wag school to watch Prisoner. There was a drug raid last week and Robert Stone got caught with an ounce in his locker. His dad is really pissed off because he’s a cop and he caught Robert once before. Sucked. I can’t wait for the August holidays. When are you coming to stay? Are there any OK guys at your school? GROSS the art teacher Mr O’Donnell just came over to see what I was doing, we call him Stiff O’Donnell because he gawks at the girls all the time he is so disgusting, plus he says Far Out all the time like he thinks he’s really cool or something What A Dick. Anyway, the mid-year dance is on next week, I’m gonna go. I asked Celia Fox if she wants to go with me. I really like her. Is that weird? I mean, I don’t think it is, well I do a bit, but—does it weird you out? I don’t really want to be a Lesbian or anything, god I hate that word, but I never felt anything the whole time I went out with Paul, I mean he was a useless kisser but I think even if he wasn’t I still would have felt nothing. I guess I like girls page 5 more than boys. Well that’s OK, I’m not gonna get too freaked out, write back soon and tell me what you think. I’ve got this great dress to wear, it’s purple kind of plasticky stuff, quite short, Mum’ll spew. Yuck Stiff O’Donnell is perving I better go. Tell me what you think.

love Thea

PS she said yes

*

It took Cody two weeks to answer Thea’s letter. She started about four before she made it sound all right. What really worried her, though, was something she couldn’t say in a letter. In the August holidays, she went down to stay with Thea, who was going out with Celia Fox by now, and looking forward to term three starting so they could be the scandal of the school. Cody and Thea got Celia, a seventh former, to buy them some wine one night and they went and drank it in the park. Celia went home for dinner and Cody and Thea sat on the swings, talking. Thea told Cody that just because she liked girls, it didn’t mean she was attracted to her. Cody was hugely relieved. Then Thea said not to assume that she wasn’t, either, and started laughing so hard she nearly fell off her swing, which did big loopy curves out over the grass. Cody laughed too and swung her swing higher and they spent the rest of the evening there winding each other up and enjoying it more than they ever had before.

This is years ago now. Cody remembers it when Thea rings her up to tell her she’s met a new woman. Her name is Thea too. Cody thinks this is very bizarre and one of the hazards of having same-sex relationships. She doesn’t want to say this though in case Thea thinks she’s been uptight about the whole thing all along.

—Imagine a couple both called Thea, says Thea. —Isn’t it awful? One of the hazards of same-sex relationships, I suppose.

—Do you and Thea want to come for dinner this week? asks Cody.

*

page 6

Thea & Cody on August Holidays

It was the boat sheds
in winter
& we ran out of
that terrible play

the invitation read
danger
no climbing
on roof

we’d have slept there
we said, passing
a joint
between us

before the rain started
dreaming California

*

What Happens Next

The Saturday after Cody sees Francis at the bus-stop, she goes to a party with Thea and Thea. It’s a long time since Cody’s been to a party. This one is in a warehouse off Cuba Street. There is a DJ playing reggae music and a lot of white people dancing to it. Cody is glad she brought her whisky.

—Something something KITCHEN something, shouts Thea at Cody.

—WHAT, shouts Cody, —WHERE?

She follows Thea into a small, brightly lit converted office. There is a bench, a sink and a stove-top element thing over which knives are heating. Thea helps herself to a bottle of wine left by somebody. Three people leave, shutting the door. It is much quieter.

—Thank fuck, says Thea, —I’ve got to talk to you. I think Thea’s having an affair with a cycle courier.

—Oh no, says Cody. She lights a cigarette. —Male or female?

—Female, says Thea. —Which is worse, I think.

page 7

—Are you sure it’s happening? asks Cody.

—No, well I am, I haven’t asked her, but you know she’ll only lie anyway, I’m pretty sure oh shit Code I’ll really miss her if we break up.

—Now hang on, hang on, says Cody. She passes Thea a paper napkin to wipe her face. She goes round the corner of the table to hug Thea and as she does the door opens and Francis walks into the room.

—Sorry, says Francis. —Bad timing. Hi.

It’s a question really, he’s not sure that he knows her, or if he does, from where. A lot of people are looking familiar to him these days. But he’s interrupted something so he’s just going to grab a plastic cup and leave.

—Wasn’t that —starts Thea, wiping her nose on the lining of her suede jacket.

—Mm? says Cody. —Who? Do you want to go now?

—No, says Thea. —I don’t want to leave Thea here. That cycle bitch might show. Can I have some lipstick? They spend a minute putting Thea back together again and then walk out to the party. Thea finds Thea and they dance while Cody walks over to the window not looking for Francis.

He finds her anyway, and this is what he says.

—Leo Tolstoy and his brother believed anything they wished would come true if they could stand in a corner and not think of a white bear.

Cody feels her rib cage expand, contract, expand, contract. She lights another cigarette off the butt of the one she’s just smoked. She has a mouthful of whisky, making sure not to spill any down her chin. Her hands shake. She tightens her grip on the windowsill.

—I know you from somewhere, he says.

—Um, says Cody, —I think we might have worked in the same restaurant once, ages ago now, about ten years ago or something, is your name Francis?

—Yeah. He smiles. —What’s yours again?

—Cody, says Cody.

—What? says Francis.

—Cody, she says again, hating this. —C–O–D–Y.

—Cody? he says.

—Yeah. She’s feeling sick now even without the whisky, wondering where her personality’s gone. She could have sworn she had it on her when she left the house.

—Visions of Cody, he smiles.

—Yeah, says Cody. —I never read it yet.

page 8

For a while they stand there at the window next to each other not saying anything. Cody looks around the room at the other women there. They all look completely gorgeous. She glances carefully over at Francis. He’s looking straight ahead, sucking the rim of his plastic cup with red wine in it. Cody realises with relief that she is bored, and walks away.

But here she is now at the end of the party and there’s only a handful of people left. Thea and Thea have gone home. The cycle courier never showed up. Cody is talking to a red-haired woman about Virginia Woolf and trying to sound informed but not pretentious while keeping Francis in her peripheral vision. She got Thea to make some enquiries for her earlier on and found out he’s not with anyone, he just got back from overseas. Which potentially places him in a high-risk category but at least he’s available. Cody can’t get over how he looks exactly the same. She’s not sure whether this is good or bad.

—Ugh, said Thea, —He looks like he crawled out from under a rock. I thought you’d gotten over that Brideshead cheekbone thing.

—I did, said Cody. —I did get over it.

Cody sees him going for his coat and manages to look as if she got up to leave first. There is an art to this manoeuvre and she has to concentrate hard, which is not easy after three and a half hours of whisky and forty-five minutes of leftover beer.

She hears him behind her on the stairs. Once she’s outside she stops and looks up at the stars. The night is clear and very cold. She is wide awake. She looks at him, surprised. She smiles.

—Hi, he says.

—Hi.

They walk together down the street, hands in pockets, ears ringing from the music. Everything else is still. They reach the taxi stand.

In the taxi he asks her if she wants to go back to his place. She can’t believe it’s been this easy. She says OK, still looking surprised, smiling a small smile.

Actually it’s not his place, it’s his brother’s who’s away for the weekend. This is a further stroke of luck. Cody does not like to encounter strange flatmates in the morning. The mornings are awkward enough as it is. Francis pours them each a glass of wine and puts a record on. He touches Cody’s face. He says, —I remember you.

They go to bed.

—Well, says Thea the next day, —how was it?

page 9

—Good, says Cody. —I think. I can’t remember much.

—So, says Thea, —what happens next?

*

Swimming Back Upstream

but here’s a
new mark

on my
white Flesh

Fingers
or mouth

have
bruised it fresh

and I want
to laugh

and I want
to run

and I want to
show you

what you
have done

*

In Case INTERVIEW Ever Wants to Know

Because there are at least eight other things she should be doing, Cody spends the afternoon compiling the guest list for her Ideal Dinner Party. She has a strong sense that, although she’s only a waitress right now, some day page 10 magazines will want to know this kind of information from her. Her Desert Island Discs; Night-Table Reading; Who Is The Sexiest Man In Politics, etc.

She decides to limit herself to six guests, three of each sex. She starts with Susan Sarandon. Susan is one of Cody’s favourite actresses and it’s apparent that not only is she talented and beautiful, she’s also a smart political thinker. Plus she’s played a lot of waitresses. Cody feels Susan will be an excellent contributor to dinner party conversation.

• Susan Sarandon
• Al Gore

Al Gore? He is the Sexiest Man In Politics, but maybe a little earnest. Cody’s unsure how his environmental stance will suit the style of evening she wants—sharp, funny, an element of risk. Leave him in for the time being. But no Tipper.

That couple the film Lorenzo’s Oil was about. Real people who changed the world through love and determination. Whoa, then Susan will be at dinner with the woman she played in a movie. Does it matter? Are there too many Americans so far?

Mother Teresa?—maybe not.

It disturbs Cody how hard she’s having to think about this. You’d imagine it would be easy enough to rattle off six heroes from the top of your head. But it involves more than that. It involves balance, precision, a successful dynamic. Cody’s disappointed she can’t think of more famous people in Science, or Classical Music. What about Anita Hill? She’s another American, true, but she’d definitely get on well with Susan. Maybe Al could do something nasty to Clarence Thomas on her behalf. Does Al have anything to do with the Supreme Court? Surely he’s got some influence.

• Susan Sarandon
• Al Gore
• Lorenzo’s Oil couple
• Mother Teresa
• Anita Hill

The couple from Lorenzo’s Oil are standing on shaky ground. What Cody needs now is a man. Someone older perhaps, erudite, charming, powerful. Someone witty and wise who can offer the benefit of experience. Someone page 11 Al could learn from, and the others could be grateful to have had the opportunity to meet. In literature? Politics? Prince Rainier? Gore Vidal? Gielgud?

On the other hand, Cody does need someone to help with the dishes. And there’s always the possibility of one last drink, a walk by the sea, an undeniable electric attraction that demands to be fulfilled—

• Susan Sarandon
• Al Gore
• Lorenzo’s Oil couple
• Mother Teresa
• Anita Hill
• Daniel Day-Lewis
• Brad Pitt
• Johnny Depp

*

The weekend after Francis, Cody and Thea go to breakfast. They try and figure out which of the couples surrounding them just met the night before. Cody needs to talk about Francis.

—I can’t stop thinking about him, she says.

—That’s bad, says Thea.

—I know.

—You need to fuck someone else.

—Who? says Cody, looking around the room.

—Anyone, Thea says. —There are other guys. Anyone. Just don’t obsess about thingy.

—Francis.

—Francis. What kind of a name is that for a guy?

—I am obsessing, aren’t I? Cody slops her coffee into the saucer.

—Yes, says Thea.

—I’m enjoying it. I can’t help it. I’m out of control.

—Crap, says Thea.

Their food arrives. Cody wonders if the waiter is attractive enough to sleep with. She decides that he isn’t.

—And, she says, —I keep remembering things.

Thea sighs. —Spare me the details.

page 12

—No, but, like the mascara.

—What?

—Well, says Cody, There was this mascara on his bedside table. Do you think he’s a cross-dresser?

—Were there any feather boas lying around?

—No. Um, I don’t think so.

—Cody you moron. He’s not a cross-dresser, he’s got a fucking girlfriend.

—But you said he was single, Cody says, feeling a tantrum coming on.

—Well I don’t know for sure. But make-up is a sure sign of a girlfriend.

—Oh.

—Either that or he’s a New Romantic.

—I’d rather he had a girlfriend.

—What are you going to do tonight.

—Get drunk.

—And?

—And fuck someone else.

—Good girl.

*

Regarding Francis

I sit in my room
thinking & smoking
thinking & smoking &
whisky all day

I want to write a story
about a man I met
met & went to bed with
went to bed with & left

But it’s raining & cold
& the sky is all grey
the words are too hard
the memories not old

page 13

there’s something there’s something
it’s too hard to say

*

Cody Makes Sure

There’s nothing more boring than people telling you their dreams. God, no. Anyone’ll tell you that. And everyone thinks their dreams must be the most interesting, the most symbolic, the best evidence of their inner complexity. Jesus, the number of people who would never tell you about their sex lives but go on about their dreams all day long. It’s daytime, for Christ’s sake! Wake up! Nobody cares! Besides, there’s only about seven dreams really, that just slip from head to head in the night. Tramps.

I’m having a baby
My teeth are crumbling
Wow, I can fly
I’m having sex with
a) person you find repulsive
b) person you’re related to
c) person you thought you’d gotten over by now
I’m having sex with
a) man of your dreams
b) woman of your dreams
c) animal of your dreams (surely not)
I’m driving a car and it’s out of control

page 15

I’m on stage naked, late, and I don’t know my lines.

So, dreams are something I’ve vowed never to talk about. I’m not going to bore you stupid with my extended nightly soap opera. There’s just one thing I want to be clear about, though: I have never, ever dreamed about Francis. Ever.

*

The Ditch

It’s been a rocky week. On Tuesday, Thea announced to Cody that she and Thea are splitting up. She’s worried that they’re becoming co-dependent—whatever that means.

—It’s that four year thing, said Thea.

—Um, said Cody, who can’t remember having a relationship that’s lasted more than four weeks.

And then Thea said she was going to Sydney in a month.

—To live?

—Yup.

—You’re fucking joking.

—Nup.

Thea will stay with her cousin until she can get a job and a place of her own. She’s serious about leaving. Cody does not welcome this piece of news.

—How fantastic. I’m so jealous, you’ll have such a great time.

—Yeah, I’m a bit nervous.

—Oh you’ll be fine. I better start saving so I can visit.

Cody spends that evening going over her bank statements and crying. She has fifty-four dollars and the rent’s due this week. She doesn’t understand why she’s a waitress. She doesn’t understand anything anymore. She goes to the bottle store and buys a twenty-eight dollar bottle of vodka.

Wednesday, Thursday and Friday Cody says she’s busy whenever Thea calls. On Saturday morning Thea turns up with a bunch of grapes.

—I’m not sick, says Cody.

—Why are you avoiding me? asks Thea.

page 16

—I’m not.

—Cody.

—What? What? There’s nothing going on.

—You’re mad at me.

—I’m not.

The kettle whistles and overflows.

—Fucking screaming noise, says Cody.

Thea turns the kettle off and makes tea.

—OK, says Cody, I hate you. You’re leaving.

—I’ll miss you, says Thea. Just don’t ruin this last bit.

—Christ Thea. Why is it so hard for me to let people go?

—I don’t know, darling. But you’d better get over it.

That night Cody dreams she is a little girl again.

*

Tender Callus

talked all night
drank till four
taxi to somewhere
clothes hit the floor

sighing & laughing
ten years isn’t much
again & again &
touch touch touch

so tender he says
like sirloin she smiles
sun too bright to sleep
is callousness guile

yes Francis Francis
there’s no words to say
just take me to somewhere
I’d better not stay

page 17

*

Cody shows Gene, the cook where she works, the ad she’s put in the paper.

Flatmate wanted
7b Hunter St
Sat-Sun
$50pw No pets

—You’re mad, says Gene. —You’re going to have to stay home all weekend and you could get any kind of freak coming round. You should’ve just put your phone number.

—Been cut off, says Cody. —Where’s the pepper grinder?

—Are you looking for a male or female? asks Gene.

—Don’t care really, says Cody. —I just need the money. It’ll probably be a disaster whatever sex they are.

—That’s the spirit, says Gene. —Take that soup now and the fish’ll be ready when you come back.

Cody knows she shouldn’t be so negative about sharing her Flat. She’s taken her desk and an armchair out of the sunroom. There’s just enough room for a double bed and a small chest of drawers. She vacuumed for the first time in about a month and scrubbed the bath. The Woman’s Weeklys are hidden under her bed and a couple of Kundera books are lying casually on the kitchen table. She wonders what she’s trying to prove. She feels her misplaced pride dragging her around the house trying to create an image of a fabulous self-sufficient working woman. She buys fresh flowers. This is exhausting.

—See you Monday, she says to Gene at the end of the night.

—Good luck, says Gene. —Hope you don’t get any psychos.

*

page 18

The Gentleman Caller

All Saturday Cody waits at home for prospective flatmates to call around. It rains, and she plays patience and looks at the dead telephone. No one comes.

On Sunday she wakes up in the afternoon with a hangover. She thinks, fuck this. She leaves a note on the door and goes to the market. Coming back up her path as dark is falling, she sees someone standing in her doorway trying to read the note. She calls out, —Hi. She runs up the steps to the door. It’s Francis.

She feels her tongue dry in her mouth. She can’t swallow. She doesn’t trust herself to speak. He looks terrified. He speaks.

—I’m sorry I didn’t call you.

—I didn’t give you my phone number.

—Um.

—Uh

—Cody can’t find her key. She considers running back down the path, leaving Francis on the doorstep in the dark.

—Should I come in?

—Uh. Sure, I’ll just—here it is—uh —

She follows him inside, turning on the lights. They stand stuck in the narrow hallway. Cody doesn’t want to squeeze past Francis and he’s not going anywhere on his own.

—Have you had many people through? he asks, and she realises he is here for the flat, there’s no mistake, he hasn’t tracked her down, sought her out, found her. He’s looking for somewhere to live.

—No, she says. —None, I mean, so far. You’re the first.

—Oh. Really?

—Yeah, well, it’s been raining, so—

—Right. Um, it seems really nice. Is this, um, the room here?

He gestures to the sunroom door on his right.

—Yeah that’s it, Cody says, not opening the door. —I’ve been here on my own, you know, I much prefer it. But um, I need the money, I’m trying to save.

—Oh yeah? How much is the room again?

—Fifty a week.

—That’s really good for so central. I mean, I haven’t got a lot of money, fifty’s really good.

page 19

—Do you work? asks Cody.

—Yeah, at a second-hand bookshop in town.

—Oh.

—You’re a waitress, right?

—Yeah. Uh, so this is the bathroom—

Cody shows Francis around her flat, surreptitiously checking herself in every reflective surface. How can this be happening? A second-hand bookshop? Jesus Christ almighty. Jesus Christ alfuckingmighty.

—Oh and that’s my room, she says, flicking her hand in the direction of her closed bedroom door. —And this is the kitchen.

—Gas oven, great. Oh, Kundera. You like him?

—Mm.

—Can I see the room that’s going?

—Oh sure, sorry, here—

They stand in the empty sunroom, looking out at the night. Cody is struggling to find an etiquette for this situation. Why is he still here? Why hasn’t she just said, Look I’m sorry what a silly mistake, I don’t need a flatmate anymore, I’m moving in with my boyfriend, we’re in love you know, he’s asked me to marry him . . . Shit. Shit fuck.

—Well look, says Francis, —I really like this place. So, um—

—Right.

—Do you need someone in a hurry.

—Yeah I do really, the phone’s been cut off, and—

—Oh.

Well that was clever, Cody tells herself. Bang goes your escape route. And now you look like an idiot who can’t manage money. You are an idiot who can’t manage money. Gross financial mismanagement, that’s what got you into this mess.

—Um, well I need somewhere straight away, Francis is saying. —My brother’s fed up with me sleeping on his couch.

—So that wasn’t your —Cody immediately regrets the reference to that night.

—Um no, it was my brother’s um room.

—Oh right.

The image Cody has been carrying around with her of Francis’s girlfriend putting on mascara while Francis watches from the bed vanishes.

—Look, she says, —Do you think—

page 20

—I guess it does look like a fairly foolish idea.

—Foolish. Mm.

—Well, says Francis, —you’re desperate for a flatmate—

I’m not desperate for anything thanks very much, thinks Cody.

—And, he continues, —I really need somewhere cheap and central—

That’s me, thinks Cody, cheap and central.

—Also, he says, —I am the only person who’s come to look.

—Well, says Cody, —I’m working nights at the moment.

—And I work days, so we wouldn’t even need to see each other.

—Yeah . . . says Cody.

—Oh, says Francis, —do you smoke?

—I’ve just given up, says Cody. —I can’t really afford it.

—Well I’m asthmatic.

—Oh right, says Cody, trying not to smirk.

—Well I’m willing to forget what happened between us, says Francis.

—I think we could be mature about this, don’t you?

—Oh of course, says Cody. —Absolutely. No, it wouldn’t be an issue.

—So what do you think?

Cody hates being asked this question.

—Um, she says, —sure. I mean, if you like the room—sure.

—I could move my stuff in tomorrow while you’re at work.

—OK, fine.

—Could you leave a key in the letterbox?

—OK, sure.

—Great, says Francis, heading for the door. —Great, I’ll see you tomorrow then, probably.

—OK, says Cody, —uh, see you.

She closes the door behind him, feeling dazed and a bit giddy. She waits to make sure he’s got down the road and gets her coat and some money and goes to a phone box to call Thea.

—Code, says Thea, —are you sure you know what you’re doing? You sound dangerously excited. Are you smiling?

—No, says Cody, —I’m not, I’m quite rational about this, it’ll be fine.

—You are smiling, says Thea. —I can hear it. And you’re smoking. I thought you gave up.

—Just one, says Cody. —I bludged it off the guy at the bottle store. Do you think I’m crazy?

page 21

—Yes, says Thea, —I think you’re an idiot.

—I am, aren’t I? says Cody. —But I don’t care.

—Just don’t have sex with him again, says Thea.

—Of course not, says Cody. —Of course not. I’m not that stupid.

—Oh Jesus, says Thea, —would you just stop smiling?

*

Cutting Francis’s hair. We sat on the steps out the front of the house. It was the first sunny weekend in a couple of weeks. I had a comb, a bowl of water, and the kitchen snips. Francis had a towel around his neck. There was music playing and the front door was open and I thought, This is it. This is it. Francis’s skull was warm under my hands. He was telling some funny story about the bookshop and I was laughing and I snorted and I didn’t care. He leant back against my knees and I must have lost concentration because I cut his ear. He kind of yelped and there was a lot of blood, more than seemed natural, and I couldn’t stop laughing. This was the wrong thing to do. He jumped up and knocked over the bowl of water and it ran down the steps looking dark and red in the sun. He ran into the house to get a sticking plaster and tripped over because the dark inside was such a contrast to the winter brightness and he couldn’t see. I stayed on the steps, squinting, feeling guilty for not feeling guilty. Francis came blinking back outside and I apologised. He wouldn’t let me near him again with the scissors. I didn’t point out that I’d only finished cutting one side.

*

Flood

In the third week after Francis moved in, there is a terrible rainstorm. It starts on Wednesday night and keeps coming all day Thursday. When Francis gets home from work on Thursday evening he discovers that the sunroom roof is leaking and his bedroom’s flooded.

—Bloody hell, he says, standing in the middle of his damp rug.

—Bloody hell. His voice gets louder. —Bloody bloody bloody.

—You sound like my father, Cody says, coming into Francis’s room.

—It’s bloody soaked, says Francis, his voice under control again. —It’s leaking all over the bloody place. Look.

page 22

—Oh shit, says Cody. —Whoops.

—What do you mean? says Francis. —Did you know about this?

—No, says Cody, —Of course not. I just mean, you know, bummer.

—Bummer, says Francis. Bummer? Look at this. Bummer? It’s fucked. It’s soaked. My bed —He goes to his bed and wrings out a corner of the sheet, —my bed is fucking soaking. Where am I going to sleep?

As soon as the question is out there they both avoid looking at each other. Cody backs out of Francis’s room and down the hall.

—Well, she calls from the kitchen, opening and closing cupboard doors, not looking for anything, just needing the covering noise, —You could always stay in my room. I won’t be home till late.

—Uh, calls Francis from his room, pulling his bed out from the wet wall, —yeah. Well I might have to.

—That’s fine, calls Cody. —I’m going to work now—um, see you later.

—Bye, Francis mutters. —Bloody, bloody hell.

Francis drags his mattress onto its side and turns the heater towards it. He checks it every fifteen minutes. It’s getting drier, but not dry enough.

Cody stays after work for a special coffee with Gene.

—Go easy on the brandy, says Gene. —Cigarette?

—Love one, says Cody. —Thanks.

When Cody gets home the lights are all out. She opens her bedroom door quietly. Francis is in the bed, on his side, asleep. She gets her T-shirt and goes to change in the bathroom.

Francis opens his eyes. He hears Cody brushing her teeth. He moves further towards the edge of the bed. Cody gets into bed very carefully. She lies on her back as far to the other side of the bed as she can go, her hands crossed over her chest. She tries to regulate her breathing.

—Neither of them moves a muscle all night. Neither of them gets much sleep. Francis gets out of bed at 7 am. Cody stretches out at last. She swaps her pillow for his. The rain stops.

*

page 23

Look, Francis

she wants it &
she wants it now
she wants it
& she’ll tell you how

she wants it in
the afternoon
she wants it slow
& quick & soon

she wants it soft
she wants it rough
she wants it
till she’s had enough

she wants it loud
& silenced too
but more than it
she must have you

*

Three weekends after the Flood, Francis and Cody spend the evening at home together. It is very windy outside and every now and then the house shudders. There is a bottle of wine nearly empty on the floor between them. Francis is berating Cody for having enjoyed a recently fashionable book which is not only sentimental, falsely optimistic and clumsily written—

—But face it, it’s also fundamentally morally flawed.

—You’re morally flawed.

—Don’t be so facile.

—Don’t be so anal.

—Jargon-monger.

—Pedant.

—Fashion victim.

—Bore.

—They glare at each other across the room. Francis clears his throat.

page 24

—Look, he says, —We could sit here hurling insults at each other all night but I’d much rather go to bed with you.

—I’d much rather eat my own vomit.

—I find that hard to believe.

—I find you hard to believe.

—Stop it.

Cody pours herself some more wine, finishing the bottle. She is desperate for a cigarette. She sighs. The sigh goes on longer than she expected and she is suddenly afraid she might cry. She stands up. Francis stands up. He looks out the window.

—I’m sorry.

—For what, says Cody.

—That was a particularly charmless proposal. I didn’t mean to assume—

Cody goes to the window and stands behind Francis. She strokes the back of his head, down to his neck. She sees Francis’s reflection in the window. He has closed his eyes.

—Don’t assume anything, she tells him. —And don’t talk.

She leads him carefully to his bedroom. He opens his eyes.

*

An aerial photograph of a city at night-time.

Dear Cody

How are you darling? I miss you. I miss Thea too, more than I expected. I might have a job!—details later if it works out. When are you coming over? I miss you

Thea

PS I love Sydney

PPS Are you being careful?

*

page 25

Bonfire

In the dream there is a Weld. Francis is in the Weld. She gets closer and she can see the food, the fruit and leaves and meats spilling out of the horn. The Horn of Plenty from her childhood books. A large cream shell lying on the dark grass. Viands, she thinks, nectar. Francis is back, crouching by the horn, eating everything that comes out. He’s wearing his yellow raincoat. He’s eating and eating and he’s not getting any bigger.

I got plenty of nothing

Nothing’s plenty for me

Cody sings these lines all day after she remembers the dream.

She doesn’t imagine Francis to be the kind of guy who feels sexual frustration. He doesn’t seem to be driven by anything like that. She wishes that he was.

I’m the guy here, she decides. It makes sense the more she thinks about it. The two times they’ve had sex, she’s fallen straight to sleep after while Francis has lain awake. She can tell by the darker than usual circles under his eyes in the mornings. Also, she can drink more than him. Which is not to say she can hold it better, but she can keep going long after he’s had enough. She knows this is not her most attractive feature.

She’s not the guy. She knows that too. She doesn’t even know what a guy is, other than Guy Fawkes. She wishes she was more politically active.

She goes to bed at night determined not to dream about Francis. She doesn’t. She doesn’t. She does.

*

And Had Nothing to Do with the Sea

Francis comes home from the bookshop. From the path he can hear that Cody is playing her Kurt Weill record. Again. Christ, he thinks, if I have to listen to ‘Surabaya Johnny’ one more time I’ll smash something.

—Hi, Cody calls from her room. She’s getting ready to go to work.

Francis goes into his room and shuts the door. He feels like slamming it but restrains himself. Control, he thinks, calm.

page 26

—I was young, God I’d just turned sixteen—

He can hear Cody singing along, loudly and not very well. He gets the shoe polish from under his bed and starts working on his shoes. He is rubbing furiously when Cody sticks her lipsticked face around the door. He starts, flushes, tries for some reason to cover the shoes with the rag. He feels as if he’s been caught masturbating.

—I’m off, Cody says. —Have a good night.

—Yeah, he says. —See you.

He sees her out his window walking down the path, still singing. She’s waving her arms in time.

—You said a lot, Johnny
All one big lie, Johnny
You cheated me blind, Johnny
From the minute we . . .

Her voice trails after her as she disappears around the corner. He should never have slept with her. He should never have moved in. What a stupid mistake. He doesn’t even know her. He hates this messy complication of his life. Bloody mess. At least she’s clean.

He goes to her room and stands outside the door. It would be easy to open it, walk in, look in drawers, the wardrobe, the desk. Under the bed. Get to know her that way. Cheat. This is ridiculous, he thinks, looking at himself in the hall mirror on his way back to his room. He looks tired. Older? Probably.

He falls onto his bed. The tin of shoe polish gets him directly between the shoulder blades. Twisting around, he knocks it upside down. There is a thick black streak on his blanket. He throws the shoe polish on the floor. It wheels around leaving fainter black traces before it settles. Francis gets under the blankets with his clothes still on. He counts to a hundred. His breathing slows.

When he wakes up it is dark and the room is cold. He feels a moment of lurching panic. He thinks about going into town. He could have a coffee at Cody’s cafe. Sit, talk, walk home together.

He has a bath.

He reads a book.

*

page 27

A painting of a bowl of fruit.

Dearest Code

Thea says she saw you in a jeweller’s shop with some weedy looking guy. Tell me she’s joking. I’m working for one of Sydney’s top production companies!—as a script editor. Scares me shitless. I love it. I miss you, write.

love Thea

*

The Crowded Empty Bar

inside Cody
small & still
sits & waits
an act of will

outwardly, she
runs the race
spins around
for each new face

mantra chants
the inside child
hums her hymn
is meek & mild

the hurricane
outside the eye
shows no sign
does not know why

Francis is a thumb
I want to suck

*

page 28

Cody gets home from work to find Francis and a friend drinking coffee in the living-room. The friend’s name is Marc. Marc with a c. Cody’s seen it written down by the telephone. Not for the first time, she wonders if Francis might be gay.

—How was work? asks Francis.

—Fine, says Cody. She doesn’t really hear him. She can’t take her eyes off the back of Marc’s head. Marc, Marc. There’s something disturbing about the name. Like Jon without an h. Or Shayne with a y. Marc. Spelt backwards, it makes cram. A real word. This makes it seem like code. Code for what? Cram, cram. Trying to break the Code. OK, so her own name is enough of a liability. She shouldn’t laugh at other people’s. But Marc—it’s like biting tinfoil.

—Um, I’m going to have a bath, says Cody.

—Fine, says Francis.

From the bath she can hear them talking. About what? She has no idea what guys talk about when they’re alone. Sport? Sex? Not those two. Dungeons and dragons maybe. Or the relative merits of MMP and STV. Her? Doubt it.

—Night, she calls on her way to bed.

—Night, Francis and Marc call after her.

It is three o’clock before she hears the front door close.

*

—I’m pregnant, says Gene at work on Monday night.

—Oh boy, says Cody. —Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

—Both I guess, says Gene, slapping a steak down on the grill.

Cody looks at her closely to see if she’s changed. She’s read that during pregnancy your hair is at its glossy best and your skin is glowing. But Gene’s ponytail is as limp as ever and she always glows at work anyway, from the heat in the kitchen.

—Are you throwing up yet, asks Cody.

—Nah, says Gene. —Soon maybe. Hey—she looks at Cody, worried, —does it show?

She stands side-on to Cody. She’s wearing her T-shirt that says do i look as if i care on the front, and leggings.

—No, says Cody. —Don’t worry about it.

—Good, says Gene. —That means I don’t have to tell him yet. He’ll do page 29 a runner as soon as he finds out.

—So what are you going to do? asks Cody.

—Go ahead with it and pretend he might change, says Gene. —I want to have the baby. Even if I’m on my own.

—You’re brave, says Cody.

—And stupid, says Gene.

—Yeah, says Cody, —and stupid.

Cody spends the next day at the library reading international magazines. She mostly skims through the articles, but reads the short stories in Buzz magazine and The New Yorker. She is relieved to discover that many of these deal with the same sort of man trouble problems as she has got. There’s a whole bunch of American women out there writing about stuff she can relate to. The No-Good-Men Genre. Cody feels reassured, part of a global sorority of single women. Things can’t be so bad if they have the same situations in San Francisco and Chicago as they do in Wellington. At least they’re all in it together.

No. Wait a minute. Cody stops cold. It is not in fact a good thing if man trouble is an international phenomenon. It is in fact a disaster. The one thing she’s been relying on is the fantasy of a different breed of man overseas. Every Antipodean girl’s dream—Mr Europe!—Mr Africa!—Mr Mediterranean!—take your places please. Now Cody knows that this will never be a reality. Even if she could ever save enough money to go to New York, she’d still be scouring the streets for a halfway decent man. Shit. Looks like she’s going to have to ditch romance and hold out for the fast-track, power-dressing career.

She leaves the magazines on the floor and scuffs her feet all the way down the street to the cafe.

*

WHICH FACE

thirteen at a table
Francis the last
no-one to kiss
left with the glass

page 30

port passed round
not immune
towards the star
right through moon

here Francis
have this mask
heart sees face
this your task

have an answer
have some air
from this distance
you’re so fair

*

Francis has woken up too early. He pulls a jersey on over his pyjamas and shivers. The sky is milky blue. He traces a line curving up and around in the condensation on the window. He worries that the shape he’s drawn is too phallic. He worries that he worries too much.

In the kitchen he tries to make coffee without disturbing Cody. She’d probably sleep through a siren anyway, he thinks as the percolator hisses over onto the gas flame. He searches the bench for a teaspoon. Old teabags, dirty knives, crumbs. Standards are slipping. On the table he finds a teaspoon under a piece of paper with writing on it.

Mark called twice
sorry forgot to tell you
We need soap!
C.

He wonders how long the note’s been there. He thinks about what he has to do at work today. He’s trying to make some changes to the bookshop. Get rid of some of the trash and concentrate on the upmarket, cerebral and quirky. He has a sudden vision of himself as a turn-of-the-century shop clerk, tight collar and pinched brow, pushing pieces of paper around on a desk. He wishes he were back overseas. Maybe he’ll get drunk tonight.

page 31

He stops outside Cody’s door. Without thinking, he opens it and slowly steps into her room. She’s almost hidden underneath her blankets, face buried in a pillow. He can’t see her breathing. He imagines going to shake her, giving her a fright, seeing her uncomposed morning face open in alarm. He doesn’t do it. He doesn’t do that sort of thing. But he thinks it, which makes him feel guilty enough.

He sits gently on the end of Cody’s bed and watches her sleep. She moves her feet a little bit. Nothing much happens. He leaves her room, forgetting on purpose to close the door. On his way to work, he smiles when he imagines her waking up.

*

A black and white photograph of two schoolgirls on a road.

Cody

Anyone would think you’d disappeared off the face of the earth. I called your machine, your voice is still on the tape. Is that guy hiding you under the floorboards? or boiling you up on the stove? 99% of women are murdered in their own homes. Or something like that.

Thea.

*

I’M GIVING YOU A LONGING LOOK

Cody wakes from a late morning dream. The room is hot. She’s still heavy and slow from sleep, but her mind is clear. She knows there’s something she has to do. Francis, she thinks, which is nothing new. There is something different now though. She feels a pulse somewhere which tells her she’s going to do something. She doesn’t want to think what it is. She just wants to get there.

She has a bath and gets dressed to music she and Thea used to listen to at school.

page 32

Here’s some mud in your pretty eye
But please drop in if you’re passing by
I’ll tell you how much I hate you girl
Perhaps it isn’t true, perhaps it isn’t true

She brushes her hair, humming, smiling at herself in the mirror. Tears come into her eyes. She misses Thea. She’ll write to her, after she’s done this.

Walking into town she wonders if she’s been kidnapped by the FBI and brainwashed as a sleeper. I must kill John Lennon, I must kill John Lennon, she mutters, then laughs out loud. She feels hysteria welling up and breathes down to control it. She realises she’s heading straight for Francis’s bookshop. What’s she doing? This is stupid—she’s about to turn back but she gets rid of the thought, she doesn’t think anything, the song runs through her head.

To those who look snide
And those who connive
I say love cannot be contrived
love cannot be denied

She’s scaring herself now, and walking still, getting closer and closer. It’s a mistake, it’s wrong. No. Just get there.

And if you ask me to explain
The rules of the game
I’ll say you missed the point again

She walks into the bookshop and up to the desk where Francis is sitting. There’s no one else there.

—Hi Cody, he says.

—Hi Francis, she says. She squeezes in past the desk and stands behind his chair. For seven seconds she doesn’t touch him. Then her hands reach over his shoulders and down his chest. Her mouth is very close to his right ear. One hand finds its way up inside his jersey. The other feels the worn leather of his belt. She kisses his throat. He turns and stands and the chair falls over and her back is against the wall and they are kissing each other. She twists him around and she holds him to the wall, holds his hands to the wall, kisses him and hears someone behind her. She lets him go. He is confused.

page 33

—Sorry, he says to the customer.

She isn’t sorry. She laughs and says goodbye and leaves the shop.

Francis reaches in his desk drawer and pulls out his inhaler. He gulps mouthfuls of Ventolin. The customer asks him if he’s got anything by Julian Barnes and he says Never heard of him, when of course he has, he’s read everything he’s written, but the only one he can remember right now is Talking It Over, and he decides that’s what they’ve got to do.

When Cody gets home from work that night Francis is in the living-room smoking a cigarette.

—What about your asthma, says Cody.

—I don’t care, says Francis.

—OK, says Cody.

—I’m going to move out, says Francis.

—OK, says Cody.

—It’s not healthy, says Francis.

—OK, says Cody.

—They look at each other. Cody lights a cigarette off the end of Francis’s and steps away again.

—I want you, says Francis.

—Do you, says Cody.

—Yes, says Francis.

—Really, says Cody.

—Yes, says Francis.

—I suppose you want to consume me, says Cody.

—Yes, says Francis.

—Well, says Cody, —you can try.

Later, you can’t sleep. You don’t care. You reach over Cody for a cigarette. You light it and cough. You lie on your back blowing smoke into the dark above you. Cody wakes up. You pass her the cigarette. You smile at her.

—Cody, you say.

She smiles back. —What? she says.

—Cody, you say. —C—O—D—Y.

—Visions of Cody, she says, handing you back the cigarette.

—Yeah, you say, still smiling, —Every day I write the book.