Page 87

David Smith. That was his name. It was one of the most common names in Australia at the time, and remains so. Perhaps your accountant or pharmacist or optometrist is a David Smith.

Anyhow, I shall tell you about my David Smith.

His name was dull, but his face was not. It was a striking face. A beautiful face. His father was British and his mother was Korean, and David had inherited his mother’s eyes and black hair and his father’s patrician nose and strong shoulders. His Elvis Presley sideburns were something to behold.

He was not as tall as Jack. Not so tall that people said “Goodness, you’re tall . ” David was appropriately, authoritatively tall. We had exchanged a few polite comments at the Swiss fondue party, but I was too enthralled by Eliza to take much notice of him, and he knew the couple sitting opposite, so he mostly talked to them.

Anyhow, when it was time to leave somebody asked how I was getting home, and I said I would be catching a bus and train. No Ubers back then, of course, and taxis were only for wealthy people and special occasions. However, Baashir came over all paternal and frantic, “Young Cherry must not walk the city streets alone! Just look at her!”

That’s when David spoke up. He said he lived close to Hornsby, and it would be no trouble and his pleasure to drive me home. Everyone except me was thrilled to have the problem solved. I had become suddenly exhausted. I did not think I could manage to make conversation with a strange albeit handsome man on what would be an hour’s drive, all the way home from Newtown to Hornsby. If you are a fellow introvert you will understand. We’re all the rage these days. Movie stars regularly describe themselves as introverted while being charismatic on talk shows.

The night had become chilly. David had a Ford Falcon, which smelled very masculine, like leather and cologne. His cologne was Ralph Lauren Polo Green. He put the heater on full blast, switched on an easy listening radio station, and didn’t try to make conversation at all. He turned out to be a man who never made conversation for the sake of it and I always appreciated that about him.

You can probably guess what happened when I got into that quiet warm car.

Yes, that’s right, I fell asleep.

I’d only told David the name of my street, so rather than waking me to ask for directions, he pulled over, got his street directory out of the glove box and looked up Bridge Street. I had not given him the street number, but he looked for, and found, the Madame Mae sign on the letterbox. (Madame Mae had been a hot topic of conversation at the party. People were always interested in Mum’s profession.)

“Cherry,” he said quietly, and he touched my arm. “We’re here.”

I woke, and was confused and grateful to be home. I thanked him and he asked for my telephone number, which of course I gave him. He took me out to dinner the following weekend to an Italian restaurant in Glebe. That’s the night when I wore my green crocheted dress.That’s the night he called me a “bombshell” while he refilled my wineglass and said, “Tell me your life story, Cherry.”

It’s also the night I lost my virginity on a giant waterbed in Wahroonga.

Please don’t worry about the refilling of the wineglass. I consented.

Goodness me, I consented.

My apologies if that was too graphic.

It’s just that my relationship with David Smith was based very much on desire. It was truly all that mattered. Desire can be powerful enough to sweep away everything in its path: your good sense, your Catholic upbringing, your plans for the next day. It was all I thought about. You may be at a stage in your life where you have forgotten this, and even the word “desire” might aggravate you.

I understand that too. (But deep down you remember, don’t you? Ibet you do.)

Depending on your age and religious beliefs, you may also be confused. You may be thinking, What the heck? Why didn’t you sleep with Jack Murphy, Cherry? Wasn’t he your soulmate and wasn’t it the era of free love?

Yes, I’m always confused when I watch those documentaries with the stoned happy hippies swaying in the fields. That wasn’t my seventies. My friend Ivy occasionally wore a flower in her hair, but that was about it. Jack and I were well-behaved, conventional, conservative Catholics in suburban Sydney and we had made a mutual decision to wait until we married.

I think it was mutual.

Once I told Auntie Pat I felt guilty Jack died without ever experiencing sex. This was after I realized exactly what I had deprived him of. What kind of God would have approved of that? I thought she might tell me she felt the same way about the man she lost in the war, but I caught a look on her face and I understood she had not made him wait. I felt like a fool, once again taking the rules too seriously. She also pointed out, which I did not appreciate, that it was entirely possible Jack did have sex at some point in his life, just not with me.

He didn’t.

Anyhow.

David was a junior cardiologist. That night at the Italian restaurant he told me about the widow-maker heart attack, how when the left anterior descending artery becomes blocked, it kills without mercy, and how the heart surgeon races against time to unblock the artery, restore blood flow, and save a life. He said all this while he held my hand and took my pulse. He was always taking my pulse, to prove what he could do to my heart: make it race, make it skip a beat. He said the heart skipped a beat when the upper or lower chambers contracted slightly earlier than normal and it wasn’t anything to worry about, it just meant we should go home to his waterbed in Wahroonga.

We were married a little over a year after the Swiss fondue party.

It was a beautiful wedding and I was very happy with my hair, flowers, and dress. The only stain on the day was that little pollen stain on my hem, and that didn’t matter.

Our honeymoon was at a resort in Thailand: blue water, blue swimming pools, blue skies. Dinner the first night was an amazing seafood buffet, like nothing I had seen before. There were platters of glistening oysters, mounds of prawns—

—

I’m sorry.

—

Please give me a moment.

—

I’m afraid I can’t offer any more details as I feel queasy. I have avoided seafood ever since. I’m sure you have already guessed what happened.

You are correct. I suffered the most shocking case of food poisoning. I have never experienced anything like it before or since. David was fine. It must have been something only I had the misfortune to eat or the foolishness to choose from the buffet.

I thought I was going to die. I actually had no idea it was possible to be that violently ill.

David looked after me, of course he did, and made sure I did not become dehydrated or die, but he was a cardiologist, not a nurse.

He wasn’t unkind. Just brisk. Certainly not cruel.

I’m trying very hard to be accurate here.

David was driven by self-interest. It was at the heart of everything he did.

Every one of us is driven by self-interest, of course.

Never mind. I’m not sure what point I am trying to make. It’s something to do with convenience. I discovered on my honeymoon that David preferred not to be inconvenienced. Ever.

When he drove me home after the Swiss fondue party and so kindly let me sleep rather than waking me to ask for directions, I got an impression of him that turned out to be somewhat inaccurate. That can happen. I guess that was before he’d got me into his waterbed.

He did not exactly blame me for the food poisoning, but he did say under his breath: “Never eat the oysters at a buffet.” He said this as if it were a truism, a rule of life that everyone knew except me. But he saw me eat them and never said a word! They were the first oysters I’d ever eaten! He made jokes about them being an aphrodisiac!

Anyhow, we agreed there was no point both of us having a terrible time so he signed up for lots of resort activities, which was sensible. One such activity was scuba diving. He fell in love with it. He canceled the other activities and decided our honeymoon was the perfect opportunity to complete a five-day Learn to Dive course.

Never mind, I thought, as I lay with my cheek pressed to the cold bathroom tiles. At least one of us is having a good honeymoon.

But on the fourth day, when I had recovered enough to lie on a deck chair out in front of our “villa” while David was out doing his first open-water dive, I found myself looking at the horizon and thinking of Jack Murphy and wondering if he would have been good in bed. I decided he would most likely have been marvelous.

Try not to think about former boyfriends while on your honeymoon. It’s never a good sign.