She also said it first to Edward, after drinking a particularly delicious strawberry daiquiri. She hadn’t really meant it, to be honest. She meant that she loved strawberry daiquiris.
Actually, now that she thought about it, she always took the lead. She’d written “I love you” on Jon’s thirty-eighth birthday card, and he’d taken forty-two humiliating days to say it back.
It might be safer all round if Patrick said it first.
And then he did.
He stayed at her place one weeknight, and in the morning he was running late for an early appointment. He leaned over the bed, kissed her cheek and said, “OK, gotta go, love you,” before rushing off.
He’d said it in the exact same casual voice that he used on the phone to tell Jack that he loved him. It was clearly a slip of the tongue.
She was pondering this, half amused, when she heard the sound of his footsteps pounding up the spiral staircase. She sat up in bed as he reappeared at her doorway.
“Sorry,” he said breathlessly, his hands gripping the doorjamb. “That was a mistake. Well, no, not a mistake! I was waiting for the perfect moment with moonlight and rainbows or whatever, and now I’ve blown it. Fool.” He slapped his forehead.
He came and sat down on the bed next to her, and looked at her in a way that she didn’t think she’d ever been looked at before, by anyone, lover or friend, as if nobody else had ever concentrated that hard.
He said, “I would like to make something very clear.”
“All right.” Ellen made her face serious.
“I am making this, er, declaration on the record. I am of course prepared to put it in writing if necessary.”
“Right.”
He cleared his throat. “Ellen. I love you. I officially love you.”
“I love you too,” said Ellen. “Officially, that is.”
“Right. Good then. Well, this has all worked out extremely well then.”
He held out his hand and they shook hands, as if at the conclusion of a satisfactory business deal, except that before she could let go, he pulled her to him, rolled her on to her back and kissed her hard.
They sat back up, grinned idiotically at each other and then Patrick looked at his watch. “OK, so this sounds bad—”
“That’s right. Love me and leave me.”
He kissed her again and left. She lay back down and felt drenched with happiness. This was how love was meant to feel: simple and peaceful and funny. Obvious. There was nothing to analyze. It seemed to her that she had never loved or been loved like this before. All those other times had been a wishy-washy imitation of the real thing.
Just imagine if she’d gone her whole life without knowing that!
(Also, not that it mattered, it was just something interesting to note for future reference: He said it first.)
I rescheduled my appointment with the hypnotist because I had to go away to Melbourne for work.
I tried to get out of it, but Trish supposedly came down with some terrible virus, and I was the only one available at short notice. Single, childless woman. What else have you got to do? That’s right. Nothing.
Patrick and I never went to Melbourne together, so there were no memories lurking on street corners. At first it seemed like the trip was a good idea. The brooding skies and cruel breezes were a relief after Sydney’s relentlessly cheery weather. Work kept me busy and distracted. I was tired at night and fell asleep straightaway.
But the longer I was away from Sydney, the more my desire grew to see Patrick and Ellen again. On Thursday morning I woke up early, ravenous for information. What were they doing right that moment? Had he stayed at her place? Had she stayed at his? My need to know felt physical, like a nutritional deficiency.
I flew back to Sydney on the first flight out on Friday morning, my hands clenched around the armrests, leaning forward as if I could will the plane to go faster. I was a vampire and I needed blood.
It was Friday afternoon and Ellen was taking a moment in between appointments for some deep breathing and positive affirmations.
She had a somewhat stressful weekend ahead of her.
That night Patrick was meeting Ellen’s mother and godmothers for dinner, and the following evening Ellen was being introduced to Patrick’s family. On Sunday Patrick was meeting Julia for the first time. They were having fish and chips at Watsons Bay, and Patrick’s friend Stinky was coming along too, to meet Ellen and also as a possible match for Julia, although his name obviously didn’t bode well. (“Oh, he doesn’t actually stink,” Patrick had said, all chuckles at the thought of Stinky actually stinking. “That’s just what we call him.” “So why do you call him that?” Ellen had asked, but Patrick just chuckled. Men were so strange sometimes.)
They hadn’t meant for all these introductions to happen on consecutive days. It had just turned out that way because of various reasons such as Ellen’s mother suddenly rescheduling their dinner, and Stinky unexpectedly being in Sydney for the weekend.
The weekend loomed in front of Ellen like a week of exams and dental appointments. She’d woken up that morning with a vague sense of dread, manifesting itself in an unpleasant feeling of nausea. It felt like a crowd of people was about to come stomping through the middle of their delicate new relationship, throwing about their opinions, asking questions, digging up flaws. Patrick and Ellen would see each other through the eyes of other people, people who mattered. Their perspectives would be like harsh, unflattering spotlights illuminating shadowy corners.
Breathe in.
She didn’t give a fig what other people thought!
Breathe out.
Rubbish. She gave a whole fig tree. She wanted everyone she loved to love Patrick and everyone he loved to love her.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe—
“Forget it,” she said out loud.
She gave up trying to access her higher self and instead took a chocolate from her silver bowl, letting it dissolve slowly in her mouth. The chocolate was there for therapeutic purposes. It released the neurotransmitters endorphins and serotonin, leading to a sense of well-being, and even euphoria. Which, as Julia said, was all just a complicated way of saying chocolate tastes good.
Ellen closed her eyes for a moment and felt the warmth of the sun on her face. She was sitting in the recliner chair that her clients used. She often sat here and tried to imagine what it must be like for them, seeing her sit opposite them. Did they ever catch a glimpse of her doubts, or worse, her vanities? Did she look silly sitting there, with her legs so professionally, elegantly crossed? Did the sun shining through the windows show up the little hairs and lines around her lips?