The Jackson Five #2
There came a brisk cough from the side somewhere that caught my attention, and I looked up in time to catch the man walking towards me with a plastic carrier in each hand.
He winked, then looked across the street to search out the delivery address.
And in that time, I went from panting heavily through to holding my breath altogether as he crossed the street, as he climbed the front steps, as he rang the bell.
Sheila answered the door in denim overalls that were pockmarked with various colours of paint, and I imagined her beavering away at a piece of furniture somewhere in her living room in the minutes before this.
Even though I hadn’t thought it possible, somehow I’d managed to forget just how bloody beautiful she was, too, only realising, or remembering, when the wind was knocked clean out of me as she smiled at the man, laughed – and an exchange unfolded that I was too nervous to even imagine.
But soon her smile faded and became a head shake; the man gestured with the bag; Sheila shrugged and moved to close the door.
Everything was movie montage instantaneous.
It felt like I was watching jump-cuts from one angle to another even though I hadn’t moved, and this poor sod was still standing on Sheila’s step!
I saw him gesture with the bag once more before the door was closed in his face.
He crossed the street back to me with a drooped head, looking every bit as though he was the one who’d been rejected.
‘Sorry, love.’ He held out the bag towards me. ‘I reckon it’ll take more than a chippy tea.’
I ate the fish and chips standing in the kitchen with Fred pawing at my leg for scraps. The post-sex glow from my last memory of this scenario entirely absent now, having been replaced by Celine Dion’s ‘All By Myself’ on repeat.
* * *
‘Why do all of your romantic plans involve a delivery?’
‘I can’t exactly walk down the street holding a massive vulva, can I, David?’
There was a long pause where I imagined he was seriously considering his answer. ‘I’m not sure many women would appreciate their vulva being described as massive.’
‘Well it isn’t to scale!’ I slapped his thigh; part in jest, but hard enough to sting. ‘Will you just help me pick one of these bloody canvases?’
‘I haven’t seen a bloody one.’
‘Right, that’s it.’ I struggled up from the sofa with my laptop in hand. ‘I’m going to ask Janet because at least she’ll give me a serious answer.’
‘Oh, settle down, you crazy wench.’ David tugged at my shirt until I was forced to take two steps backwards, my knees knocking against the sofa.
I sat down next to him but stayed perched on the edge of the seat; poised to leap as much as my legs would allow in the face of any more sarcastic comments.
‘Come on, scroll. I want to see the lady bits.’
‘You’re disgusting.’ I inched backwards. ‘And how any woman ever sleeps with you is beyond me entirely.’
He sighed. ‘I know. It’s reckless of them, really.’
There was a lot from my first date with Sheila that I couldn’t recall.
It was a medley of feelings more so than anything else and, while lovely – and bloody agony at once – it didn’t help when it came to remembering the names of any of the artists who’d contributed works to the gallery.
It had taken nearly half a day of searching online – something David claimed would have taken him thirty minutes if only I’d asked, and he never felt more like a husband than when he made those sorts of claims – for me to find the website that was selling artworks from the show.
There were many already marked with a small red X alongside their titles to indicate they were under offer.
But there were still enough pieces listed to keep David and I quiet for nearly twenty minutes while we perused my options.
‘I think I like this one.’ I pointed to a bright pink, peach and orange display of watercolour.
In my peripheral vision I saw David tilt his head from one side to the other, as though trying to determine whether the portrait even was what it claimed to be.
‘What?’ I asked with a blunt force when too much time had passed.
‘I sometimes find it helps to look at these things upside down.’
‘You’re a pig.’
He reached forward to tap at the screen, gesturing to the one next to the one I’d chosen. ‘I think I know that woman.’
‘Right, I’m ordering the watercolour. I’ve had enough.’
‘Of staring at vulvas?’
‘You can have too much of a good thing.’
I clicked the small shopping cart next to the image I’d chosen and it took us through to the payment page. While I was busy trying to free a credit card from my purse, David spotted the exact amount of money I was willing to blow on another make-up attempt.
‘Patti, it’s 395 pounds. Are you completely beside yourself?’
‘I would say so,’ I answered, already keying in my payment details.
‘Christ.’ David stood up from the sofa. ‘I need a drink after that.’ He was halfway to the door when he turned back to ask, ‘Do you not think it’s worth calling her one more time before you splurge on this?
It’s a tad more expensive than fish and chips.
’ He didn’t wait for an answer, though, and I didn’t offer one until I’d finished inputting Sheila’s address for the delivery, in three to five business days.
‘I’ve got an idea for if this doesn’t work,’ I shouted after him as the payment finished processing. I was sure I heard a mumble of something, deliberately out of earshot.
‘Go on…’ he said eventually.
There were glasses knocking together from the kitchen as he spoke.
‘I think it would look perfect hanging over the fireplace in here.’
A lengthy silence followed and I wondered whether he’d respond in jest or outrage.
A handful of seconds later and David appeared in the doorway to the living room, a tall glass in one hand and a bottle of hibiscus gin in the other.
‘Now you are being ridiculous. If it’s going anywhere, it needs to be in the hallway, so people see that vagina before they see anything else in the apartment. ’
‘It’s a vulva, David.’
‘You say potato…’