Lingerie For Felons (16 page)

‘I thought you liked Clark,' I said tightly. ‘You know, the whole lawyer thing.'

‘Of course I like him,' he agreed. ‘What's not to like? But…'

Oh no. I was absolutely not going there. Not tonight.

‘I know,' I suggested to the assembled crew. ‘Let's dance.'

I turned pointedly to Luke. ‘C'mon you big queen, here's one you'd better get used to.' Like lightning, I was on my feet changing Billie Holliday for the Village People.

Emmy finally shut her troublesome mouth and did the right thing, opening champagne and jumping on the couch singing ‘Go West' at the top of her lungs.

‘Your dancing better improve too, Luke,' she added. ‘Or no gay boy is going to touch you with a barge pole. Or even his barge pole.'

And so the night took off. After a while, the bitter bits were forgotten and only the strong, warm sense of being somewhere where you were okay remained. It was so good, in fact, that I stopped watching the time, and was taken completely by surprise when the music suddenly stopped and a sweet, low voice broke through the sudden silence.

‘Feeling better, Lola?'

Humble pie — Our apartment, East Village; the next day

Okay, so I'll admit I'm not very good at saying sorry. I blame my lineage. I once saw my Mom crash into someone's car and do such a thorough job of not saying sorry that after about half an hour the poor woman actually apologized herself for all the inconvenience.

Clark had looked so affronted when he walked in — taking in the empty champagne bottles, thumping music and general party detritus. Actually, let's be honest here, he'd looked hurt, and it made my tummy feel watery. We'd gone to bed pissed at each other. Him for obvious reasons and me because I felt bad and didn't know how to fix it.

I couldn't let it go on. I was a sucker for that wounded look in his eyes.

So I did this thing I do in lieu of apologizing. Heidi calls it my ‘acts of contrition' — she was raised Catholic so she knows all about that stuff. Anyway, while not technically apologizing, I kind of grovel around and be really nice to the other person for a period of time, generally until they start acting like they've stopped hating me.

So that's what I did for most of Saturday with Clark. I made him breakfast and vacuumed the apartment when there still seemed to be some lingering animosity. I even tried to seduce him, but he turned me down. I wasn't worried, I got it. Clark had never had much of an appetite in that direction. Luckily, he seemed to forgive me after a few hours, because I can't keep the contrite thing up for very long. And God knows I certainly wasn't going to do any more housework. I only picked the vacuuming because it was loud and showy, the housework equivalent of special effects.

I knew he would have preferred we ‘talk' about it, but I also knew I was way too fragile for heavy discussions about his political ambitions, his parents, or even Wayne.

Especially Wayne. There was too much to say and I didn't know where to start.

Anyway, suffice to say that by the time we headed off to Heidi's birthday party at seven pm, things were pretty much back on track between us. I made a special effort not to chat to anyone on the subway, even when I saw the old crazy bearded guy with the Ramones t-shirt looking like he'd love a chat.

The train lurched and whirred. ‘So how was it?'

Clark shifted in his seat to look at me. ‘The fundraiser?'

I nodded.

‘I told you,' he said, eyeballing Mr Ramones like he might make a lunge for us. ‘It went well. We announced. Dad shook a lot of hands, made the party bigwigs really happy.'

I squeezed his hand. ‘I'm glad,' I said. I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight lift from my shoulders. ‘So, I'm excited about tonight.'

‘Yeah.' Clark smiled in a way that didn't quite make it to those nice blue eyes. ‘A dinner party, hey? Pretty grown up.'

‘Yep,' I confirmed. ‘Eight. Us, them. Sarah and Joe. Maria and Max.'

Heidi's Party — Heidi and Steve's apartment, later that night

As Clark and I made our way up to my old apartment for Heidi's birthday party, I reflected that Heidi and Steve had been an item about as long as Clark and I.

And now, here we are, about to go up and play grown-ups at a dinner party.

Weird how life happens.

We were the last to arrive. Fairy lights were strung everywhere and candles flickered prettily, making the place look kind of starry. Some mouth-watering smells were drifting out from the kitchen. I made a beeline for it and found Heidi and Steve pottering away.

‘Hello, jail-bird,' Steve said, wrapping me in a huge bear-hug. ‘You okay?'

‘All in one piece,' I confirmed, hugging him back. ‘But then, I am sleeping with the Public Defender. Who can hurt me?'

Clark wrinkled his nose, and gave me The Look. ‘Hi guys,' he said.

Heidi came over and gave both of us a hug, accepting a gift-wrapped box from me. She rattled it. ‘Dildo?'

I nodded sagely. I would never be the first to buck our decade-old tradition. ‘Only the very best for you, my dear,' I confirmed with a very serious look on my face. ‘All kind of gizmos on that baby.'

‘Amen to that,' said Steve.

‘Shut up, Steve,' I hissed. ‘You know I hate thinking about you two...y'know...together. Makes me sick. Like thinking about your grandma having sex. In fact, I hope Heidi only uses it with the student volunteers at the shelter. Oops, sorry Heidi. Wasn't supposed to tell him, huh?'

‘Go away,' said Steve. ‘Go talk to the real guests. We only invited you because you know the date and would have showed up anyway. Remind me to get the key off her before she leaves tonight, Heidi.'

I smiled and Steve flicked me with a dishtowel as I made my way out.

I was still the unofficial third housemate. Heidi still bitched ceaselessly at — and about — Steve. Steve's life was marginally less disastrous since Heidi had started to manage key elements of it — finances, laundry — but he still managed to end up in ridiculous scrapes that provide wonderful entertainment. Even getting with Heidi had been a bit of a mess.

Heidi and Steve, as it happened — Our apartment, April, 1998

Just after my first arrest, back in 1998, the weird stuff simmering between them had first boiled over into real intimacy. It happened one night when we'd all been cooking in the apartment, which was pretty much a guarantee of disaster. Heidi had been project managing, with Steve chopping things and me trying to follow the intricate stirring or sautéing or simmering instructions she'd been barking at me. For such a nice person, Heidi has no patience, so I have no idea why she'd decided we should attempt nouvelle cuisine in some bizarre group bonding cook-off.

It had gone something like this.

‘Owww!' Steve had cut himself. Again. It was the third time in seven minutes, and, while it was annoying me a bit, it was pretty clear that it was making Heidi crazy.

‘What is
wrong
with you?' She rounded on him. ‘It's like you've got freaking Parkinson's disease. You're 27, Steve, not 87. Reminds me of my grandma. Just chop the carrots. If you cut yourself one more time, you're not getting any dinner.'

Steve had looked wounded. ‘Heidi,' he pleaded. ‘Please. I need a Band-Aid. I've cut myself really badly this time.'

She picked up the offending finger and inspected it. ‘It's a scratch. I can't even see it. It's not even bleeding. Now chop.'

‘Er, Heidi,' I interrupted after a few minutes. ‘I do think he might be bleeding. What's that red stuff dripping into the potatoes?'

‘What?' She was distractedly examining her cook book and peered briefly over the top. ‘Where?' I pointed to the steady drip-drip, spreading into an ever-larger pool in the creamy creation at his left. She exploded. ‘Steve, move your hand! You're haemorrhaging into the velvet mash!'

Steve lost his patience at this. ‘Well, I am sooo sorry. Pardon me for ruining the mashed potatoes while I bleed to death here.' He started going red in the face and I could tell he was getting really mad. ‘You are so unsympathetic, you…you…Nazi.'

Heidi looked momentarily stunned. ‘What did you call me?'

Oh no.

Despite the Catholic upbringing, Heidi claimed some Jewish heritage and took her role as a persecuted minority very seriously.

‘I can't believe you called me a Nazi. Have you got any idea what my family suffered…' She was off, and I could almost feel Steve's internal groan echoing my own. Something in his face changed as he scooped up a dishcloth, bound his bloodied hand, grabbed Heidi by the shoulders and kissed her.

Right there. In our kitchen.

It was pretty wild at first. She was still kind of struggling to continue her diatribe behind his mouth, and he was valiantly pinning her back with his good hand and his lovely big lips. But soon she relaxed into it, stopped the muffled squawking and returned the kiss.

I was left, mid-stir, watching this bizarre spectacle.

Actually, it looked pretty good.

I would never have suspected Steve had that sort of kiss in him. They'd been at it for a full five minutes when I finally decided my role as innocent bystander was descending into voyeur, and that some throat-clearing was required.

And as quickly as it had begun, it stopped.

I'm not sure what I expected once the clinch ended, but, released from his vice-like grip, Heidi simply straightened her clothes, disappeared, returned seconds later with a sticking plaster and bandaged the offending hand with a ‘do try to be more careful' for Steve and a little pat on his hand.

And then she was back to issuing instructions from behind her cookbook.

It should have been awkward but, weirdly, it wasn't. There didn't seem to be any lingering sexual energy between them clogging up the room and sucking away all the oxygen. They just went on with their tasks. It was like they'd cleared the air and that was that. It was a full fifteen minutes before I could drag Heidi into the bathroom to try to establish what the hell was going on. She seemed a little perplexed herself.

‘Oh, that?' she asked, referring to the kiss. ‘Yeah, it's been happening a bit lately. Not sure what to make of it really.'

I shook my head. People could be really obtuse.

‘Heidi,' I persisted. ‘That's not normal. That's not like “oops… just kissed you, pass the mashed potato”, that's like “holy hell just got kissed by a great big freaking kiss monster”. What are you gonna do?'

‘Nothing,' she insisted.

But I knew the winds of change were afoot. Four weeks later, Heidi and I were sitting watching old
M*A*S*H
re-runs and half-reading back issues of
Seventeen
magazine — we used to fish them out of the trash of the teenager down the hall.

Suddenly, she blurted out ‘God, I slept with Steve again last night.'

‘Right,' I countered. ‘So what's that now? Six times?'

‘Seven,' she corrected. ‘But it doesn't mean anything.'

‘Yeah, right.' I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her to me. ‘You are being so silly, my darling. How do you feel?'

She smiled. ‘Good, actually. Really good.'

‘Is he…good?' I couldn't resist. I had to know.

‘Amazing,' she muttered. ‘It's like…' She was searching for the right phrase. ‘It's like…Jean Claude Van Damme meets the Cookie Monster.'

I shook my head in disbelief. ‘I have no idea what that means,' I admitted.

‘Well,' she elaborated. ‘It's like all physical and sexy and muscly and yummy and then all sweet and comforting and goofy and kind of stupid.' She grinned. ‘I love it.'

‘You love it…or him?' I checked.

She paused, then nodded. ‘Mmm…maybe I do love him. Oh, no. God help me. I'm in love with the Cookie Monster.' She turned to me, mortified realization all over her face. ‘Don't you dare tell him.'

So of course I did. And of course he loved her too. As if I hadn't known that for ages anyway. And it really wasn't as earth shattering as I thought it would be. I was spending more time with Clark. They were spending more time together. And the earth kept spinning on its axis. And in a way, I was glad, because it meant they weren't bitching about me spending too much time away, and they weren't looking for another roommate.

And Heidi was no less mine. She didn't go all weird and different with Steve, making stupid faces at him or nudging him under the table when I said things.

We all still ganged up on each other in different permutations, as ever. Heidi was just much more relaxed than usual.

The goods — Back at the dinner party December, 2001

I lowered my voice conspiratorially as I left Heidi and Steve to it in the kitchen. ‘Do I have to talk to the wonder twins?'

‘Yep,' Steve confirmed with relish. ‘Here,' he offered, handing me a plastic table-cover. ‘You might need this to avoid getting bodily fluids on your pretty dress.'

Clark and I made our way out to the living room and straight for Heidi's cousin, Max, and his sister, Maria, who were deep in conversation about whether ‘Bootylicious' would survive as an adjective long after the song itself had been forgotten. Clark, a huge Destiny's Child fan, joined in enthusiastically, leaving me dangerously exposed. You know what it's like. The people you don't want to talk to at a party can always tell if you're not really totally involved in another conversation, and pick you off like coyotes attacking the weakest spring lambs. Sarah seized the moment.

‘Lo-laaa', she trilled. ‘So great to see you! Oh my God, Heidi has been telling me all about your adventures, hasn't she, my little labra-doodle?'

She turned and looked meaningfully at Joe, who was pinned underneath her red-taloned hand on the couch. Individually lovely, collectively Sarah and Joe are the reason people fear relationships. They always appear to be just on the edge of tearing each other's clothes off and fornicating right in front of you. I swear I once saw Sarah mount Joe mid-conversation, and carry right on chatting like it was normal to have your vagina wedged onto your boyfriend's jeans-clad cock while chatting about feline influenza.