It’s quite irresistible to women, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Ennui?’
‘A languorous kind of world-weariness. It’s like you’re chronically bored, and yet amused at the same time. Probably by all of us poor fools trying to be the one to shock you out of your ennui.’
‘I wouldn’t say I’m bored at the moment,’ he said mildly. ‘And I urge you not to try to shock me out of whatever it is I am. It won’t work.’
‘Yes, I like that about you. Your unshockability.’
‘On the other hand, I might shock you.’
‘Oh, I’m quite sure you will, and I’m looking forward to it. I don’t get shocked nearly enough to suit me.’
‘I hope you still feel that way when I say something that makes you furious. I don’t want you stalking off in a snit when I’m only doing what you asked me to.’
‘I generally don’t stalk off in a snit.’
‘And no punching, slapping, kicking or stabbing me, either.’
‘No punching, slapping, kicking, stabbing,’ she said, giggling at the absurdity of it. ‘Should I be writing these down? I mean, is it going to turn into some giant manifesto?’
‘Depends how hopeless a case you are. Which reminds me—how long is it going to take? We need to set a time limit. Because I’m warning you now, I’m not hanging around for ever to walk you down the aisle.’
‘For one thing, I have a father for that. For another, I don’t want to get married right this second. Marriage is a longer-term goal. For now, I’ll be happy to have a relationship that lasts longer than three weeks. Three weeks and one day will suffice.’
‘Three weeks and one day from when? First date? First kiss? First sexual encounter?’
‘Three weeks and one day from … the first date, I think. How will that fit with your painting?’
‘That’ll work. Let’s aim for mutual satisfaction in six weeks’ time. My painting will be finished by then, and if you haven’t already nailed your guy, you’ll at least be on your way to relationship bliss. Does that sound fair?’
‘Sounds very fair.’
‘We’ll meet every Wednesday at my apartment—say, 8:00 p.m. You’ll pose, and I’ll simultaneously preach at you while dissecting your dating efforts. But since we’re both here now, I’ll do a bonus round for you and start my expert tutelage straight away. Here’s something for the manifesto: how to deal with guys who dump girls by text message. Unlock your phone and hand it over so I can respond to that text. And if I find you’ve already sent something mealy-mouthed, I’m going to … Well, I don’t know what I’m going to do, but it won’t be pleasant.’
‘I don’t generally do mealy-mouthed,’ she said, digging around in her evening bag. ‘In fact, there was a guy—DeWayne Callaghan, if you ever come across him, feel free to spit on him—who wrote something disgusting about Lane on Facebook once, and I favoured him with such an excoriating critique of his post he was begging for mercy within a minute—sadly, before I had the chance to raise the subject of his own critical failing.’
He was regarding her with a fascinated eye. ‘Which was …?’
‘Premature ejaculation, and how I would have loved to share that all over social media,’ she said, then sighed as she brought out the phone. ‘Ah well, lost opportunities.’
‘Good to know that premature ejaculation is not excused,’ David said, through twitching lips.
‘Nevertheless, I’ll delete what I started so you have a clean slate to work with. Aaaand … here.’ She passed the phone to David. ‘What are you going to say?’
‘I need to read his message first.’ He looked down at the phone. ‘Good God! Lusty Liam? Really?’
‘A misnomer, as it turns out, because he was not lusty. More like Lousy Liam, to be brutally honest. Mind you, there was a Randy Rob who wasn’t randy and a Sexy Sam who wasn’t sexy, as well as a—’
‘Spare me! No, I mean it, spare me!’ He dipped his head and read the message. Shook his head. ‘Good Lord, you really can pick ’em.’
‘You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.’
‘Don’t worry, bluebell, if there’s a guy out there for you, we’ll find him.’
‘Bluebell?’
‘Would you prefer rhododendron? What about hydrangea? Agapanthus?’
‘Fine!’ she surrendered, laughing. ‘Bluebell it is.’
‘It’s an eye thing. They’re that colour.’
‘What do I call you, then?’ She peered into his eyes. ‘What colour are your eyes?’
‘Bluebell is taken, aside from being way too girly—and remember, do not mention my eyelashes.’
‘Yes your eyes are very blue,’ she said, but as she looked more closely, more intently, she saw they were the most amazingly dark, swirling, drowning indigo. And something about them, framed in those dark lashes and staring right at her, made her heart do a butterfly-like flutter in her chest.
‘They’re the colour of a bruise,’ David said, looking away from her suddenly. ‘So you can call me Bruiser—a good alpha male name.’
‘Alpha? A-ha.’
‘Remember, my eyelashes are not tinted, brat.’
‘But it’s not very romantic. Bruiser.’
‘Neither am I—just for the record. Now come on, it’s time to text.’
‘What am I going to say?’
‘Depends.’
‘On …?’
‘What he means by the “cultural divide” he says is between you. Is he from overseas? Different religion? A lot older? Surely not younger—you only look sixteen yourself.’
‘I’m twenty-four, thank you. And he’s twenty-eight, which is in perfect proportion. Plus he’s agnostic. And he’s lived all his life here in Sydney, except for three months in Tokyo.’
‘Then I don’t get it.’
‘He means cultural as in him liking foie gras while I love pizza. Him being a Moby Dick kind of guy, whereas I’m crazy about Agatha Christie. The fact that he’s an opera buff, but I’m into pop music. I wear a terry towelling dressing gown, and he has a really short kimono, or whatever you call that thing that’s like a kimono only not as fancy. A bit like a— What’s funny?’
‘Oh God, the vision in my head!’ David choked out.
