It has to come out. There is no other way.

Yesterday I returned from a brief holiday in the country and the first thing I wanted to do was to write an email to the man I currently pine for, who is unfortunately in a different country (damn this double life of mine!). As I tried to write a standard email (you know, sensible stuff like how my trip was, and what did you end up doing for new year's?) though, I found myself oddly stuck. It's happened before.

At a time like that you have to abandon the sensible stuff. Only a little sliver of me is actually sensible anyway, so it's not a big step for me. Just give in. Just write the thing you can feel spreading through your shoulders and oozing down your arms. The thing that your heart is determinedly pumping through your veins so that your hands grow hotter as it threatens to burst out through your fingertips. Just do it. Unleash it on your keyboard.

I love you I miss you I love you I miss you I love you I miss you so so so so much.

Ah, that's better.

Breathe a sigh of relief, but don't even bother thinking about stopping to start cleaning up the mess. You're not done yet.

The thing is I do miss him so so so much. I try hard to force something else to the front of my mind. Something normal, inocuous, boring even. Anything for a little relief from the intensity of the feeling that comes when he is not within my reach. I can't though. There is no suppressing the feeling. There is no putting it aside. It has to come out, every time.

I miss him to distraction. I can't focus. My eyes blur as I try to think of something to write that could pass as normal. As I settle on, "I miss you Stefan", the screen becomes clear again, and I've already begun typing the words before consciousness returns and I remember that that was the thing I was trying to avoid saying. Damn. I try again to think of something normal, and snow clouds the screen. My body is tricking me into saying what I really mean. It won't have it any other way. "It has to come out", it says.

I give in, and let my fingers bleed onto the keyboard.

I miss you Stefan. I miss you, I miss you miss you miss you miss you.

That's the whisper I constantly hear somewhere inside or around me. Maybe both.

I miss you with my whole body actually. It's like feeling hungry, but hungry all over, not just in my belly. My shoulders ache a little. My legs ache a little and so does my chest. My hands feel weak. I feel like every muscle and bone and organ is starving to see you, hear you and touch you. My ears ring with remembered music. "Tonight is made of all the space in empty lovers' arms", sings a voice in the distance. There is space in my arms tonight. My hands, so often vacant, feel horribly empty as my palms crawl in anticipation of the smooth back they want to press and cling to. My cheek, always bare, suddenly feels exposed and naked as it yearns for the hot, drumming chest it has rested upon so often. Everything is tense, nothing moves. "Where is the rest of me?", asks my body. "Don't tell me I'll be okay. I want my other half".

My head feels light lately, and sometimes I've been going deaf. I am strangely suspended in time and space. I am constantly, unconsciously waiting. Today I have become conscious of it again, and I know that the thing that my dull brain is waiting for is you. The more I am conscious of the source of this floating, waiting, slow-motion feeling, the harder it becomes to breathe. Why is that? Why does the body react so strongly to the brain's emotions? 'I miss you Stefan' is a thought; it has nothing to do with my lungs. But there's still no question that these tiny, constricted, shallow lungs are directly related to the constant whisper. I miss you Stefan... Now I'm trying to see you reading this. I wish I could see what you are doing, what you are wearing, the expression on your face, the weather outside, the light on your skin. The air I breathe feels thick and my lungs are a pair of tiny, worthless billows. I move in slow motion, as though I'm SCUBA diving again. I'm swimming towards that light on your skin, where the air is clearer. I'm still swimming. There are tears in my eyes.

My heart relaxes a little. The ache is easing. It feels relieved - it's all on the page. And now I send it. To myself.

After dinner, I write him an email. I tell him how my trip was.

Tomorrow he will tell me what he ended up doing for new years'.

Non-rhetorical questions

Hello boy,

I'm little bit of a grumpy bum today. Well I was more sad actually, and then that gives me a short fuse.

I showed my Mum my films. It was depressing. First of all it was depressing because I have been home for more than three weeks now and last night was the first time any person at all, in my family or out of it, has expressed any interest whatsoever in seeing any of my work. Great, my family doesn't give a crap. Anyway, finally Mum requested to see my films, so today I showed her. They're crap, and I know it, and she gave me her opinion, which was essentially that they were crap (although she tried to make out like it wasn't my fault, although all of the things she pointed out actually were).

I don't know why but at school I beg teachers and peers for comments and criticisms, but from her I just can't take it. Even that time when I showed you two of my films (by the way, there are two more that you haven't seen) and you said that they were good but that you knew I could do better it was kind of hard to take, although at least your statements were positive and supportive. Why is it so hard to take the criticisms of others?

I think the problem is that I feel like you, and Mum to a much greater extent, are outsiders in the process. There have been times when you have been closely involved with some phases of my preparation, so it's not as bad to hear your comments. You, at least, have some idea of what it is I actually do. But Mum is completely outside the process, so showing her my films makes me feel completely and utterly vulnerable. I am exposed. All I have to show for my blood, sweat, tears, no sleep, stress, brainstorming and hours is the end product, and what is more, the end product is, well...shite. The films I am making are absolute rubbish, and I can't hack a negative comment. What if one day I really do get to make a feature film? There is no doubt that there will be some critics who don't like it, even if the majority do (which, at present, seems unlikely). How will I cope with a negative review? Maybe I will have grown a thick skin by that time, but it doesn't seem very probable.

What am I doing, Stefan? Honestly? I am twenty years old and highly intelligent, yet I am pursuing the study of a thing that I am actually bad at, and even planning to turn it into a career! Why haven't I pursued something I'm good at? I'm crazy! I must be.

On a completely different subject, my Dad just walked into the room and told me, "I think Mum and I have done something wrong in the way we brought you up.

I said, "Why is that?"

"You're lazy."

What a lovely end to the day.

Stefan, I am lost. I am studying something I am bad at, and that I'm never going to have a career in. My family... I don't even know where to start. I know one thing. This is not home. But where is home? There have been times when I have caught myself referring to New Zealand as "home" since I have been here, but the truth is that I didn't feel like it was home while I was there, did I? So if home isn't in the house I spent 19 years of my life in, with the family who raised me, and if home isn't the place that I travelled to to learn how to take care of myself, where the fuck is it? No matter where I am, it seems that home is somewhere else. It's at the end of the rainbow. It's a place I will always be reaching for but never touch.

There have been times when I have felt like I was home. Some of the times when you have cuddled me, or even just smiled at me, I have felt like I was home. Perhaps the reason I'm always begging you for cuddles is because I'm desparate to find that feeling again.

What is a home? For most people home is a person, or a family, or a place. All of these things exist outside the body though, and that makes them vulnerable and out of your immediate control. I really wish I could create the feeling of home inside myself - fully inside myself - and then I could guard it with my life and carry it with me always. I may be wrong but I get the sense that that is what you have tried to achieve. The ability to feel fulfilled by yourself, and yourself alone? It sounds wonderful in a way. To be independent. To feel confident and comfortable in yourself always. To be the guardian of your own peace of mind. Yet at the same time... I can't help but think that it's a lonely way to live life, and that maybe if I master it I will miss out on something magnificent. Surely our ability trust in and rely on other people, and to give and take fully, is one of the most special parts of the human experience?

It's hard to live with my family again. Even as I write I am devising ways to get out of here. In the past I always tried to be smart, and tactful. I knew when to keep my mouth shut. I knew how far was too far. I tried to be a perfect teenager. Basically, I tip-toed around because I was desparate not to get kicked out of home. I thought it would be the end of the world, and the end of me. I thought that if I got kicked out then I would turn into a poor, hopeless bum, and would never have the chance to learn and explore my talents because I would always be trying to desparately scrape together the rent. The reason I was so afraid of getting kicked out was because my older brother got kicked out multiple times when I was younger, and so it seemed a very real possibility for me too. He and my Dad used to fight like dogs. They would get into regular screaming matches and the occasional punch-on. We used to have a lot of cracked walls in our house from their fights. It was horrible, and I never wanted to go the same way so I was careful. No matter how angry I would get (because there were times when I lost my temper, of course) I was always acutely aware of what I said. There were things that could just never come out of my mouth.

Now I've lived out of home and I've found out how normal it is, and how it's not the end of the world. I know that I can make the money for rent, and I can feed myself three times a day, and I can wash my clothes. And now that I know this I'm no longer terrified of getting kicked out. This is a problem. The dam wall has become thinner, and threatens to burst at any moment. There are so many times and so many things that I just want to scream. I will snap, any day now, and I'll get kicked out. I don't want it, but... it really wouldn't be that bad. I might even be happier, I don't know. How can I get back the strength to hold my tongue now that I am not bonded by fear??? I have no idea.

Anyway, those are my thoughts for the day.

And now, because it's Christmas Eve, I shall instantly cheer up and say I hope you have a wonderful night tonight. I won't wish you a merry Christmas for tomorrow because I have no doubt that I will be unable to resist writing to you again :-)

I love you.

Lily

P.S. My Dad has now started to watch my films. Wish me luck.

The right not to care

If there's one thing I loathe it's passivity. So why can't I bring myself to do anything about it?

Okay, that's not actually true. I do try to fight passivity, but not as much as I feel I should. The question, "So why can't I bring myself to do anything about it?" was just an amusing thought that came to me then as a result of observing the fact that I was consciously loathing passivity while sitting on my couch doing nothing more than drinking a cup of tea.

I'm thinking about this because I just took out the recycling.

I used to take recycling for granted. We've had recycling at home in Melbourne for as long as I can remember. In the beginning it was only paper and cardboard recycling, and taking big bags of aluminium cans to a recycling depot and getting 80 cents or so pocket-money for it. Pretty soon though, in relation to my short lifetime, every house in the city had become the proud owner of an all purpose recycling bin for plastics, glass, paper etc. Soon after that came the green bins, for garden waste. I thought this stuff was standard practise. Everyone knows how important it is to recycle, right?

I live in New Zealand now - you know, that place that's supposed to be 100% pure? At least according to the ads.

Don't believe them.

I'm a uni student living in on-campus accommodation with about 500 other students, and yet until about 2 weeks ago we had no recycling. Absolutely none. This village has been here for about 5 years, and yet it has taken until now to get recycling. There's no need to work it out in kilograms; anyone can tell that that is a shitload of unnecessary waste.

Want to know how many residents wrote letters to try and get recycling in place here? Me! Just me. I wrote, and luckily enlisted the support of one conveniently influential person, the student union president. Not that the student body actually contributed in anyway, just their president. So finally, after much insisting and reminding and reminding and insisting, a large recycling bin has been placed at the village.

But it's fucking shit.

What kind of tight-arse stupid reasoning leads to the placement of a bin that can take polystyrene but not glass or cans? How much polystyrene does your residence put out? Mm, I thought not. On the other hand, everyone knows that uni students live on beer and baked beans. This is not even a good attempt at meeting the needs of the village and the environment. It's sheer thoughtlessness.

If I couldn't get my fellow residents to dash up a quick email to ask for recycling though, I'm not likely to be able to get them to ask for better recycling, am I?

One guy I spoke to about recycling answered me, "Nah, who cares about recycling? Tell them to give us free washing machines and dryers!". Yeah, 'cause I'm really likely to agree to that. Yup, you should be allowed to push your polluting washing powder down the drains more often and for free, and it should definitely be free for you to chuck your clothes in an energy-chewing dryer so that you don't have to get off your lazy arse long enough to hang them out to air dry. Argh.

There is one thing I have seen my peers fight passionately for though, and that is the right not to care. I'd be amused at the paradox of this if it wasn't so fucking scary.

I don't think this is limited to Auckland students, although I wish it was. I'm sure I can think of a couple of examples from my high school years in Melbourne. But over my last few months here it has begun to really gnaw at me.

In one lecture we were challenged to consider our responsibilities as emerging artists. The discussion quickly descended into chaos, with the only answer that actually aroused some enthusiasm and and sense of agreement from the majority of the group being a blanket rejection of responsibility. "Why should I?" was carried around the room.

"I'm just an actor; I only want to act."
"I'm just a director; I just want to make movies."
"So what if I'm a dancer, why does that give me some kind of responsibility?"
"Yeah, it's all very well to talk about taking a moral stand but if I keep doing that I'm not going to be very successful, am I?"

That's all it really comes down to, let's be honest. "Success". Money and popularity.

When we take a stand on something, when we have an opinion that might be different from the majority, we risk popularity. I think other people feel threatened and intimidated around those with genuine conviction - I know I have on occasion. Surely everyone has experienced it. One moment you're warm and snug, protected by the things you "know" and "believe". Maybe you even have a special cause that's close to your heart. And then someone comes along who has the same special cause and they've actually done something about it. You try to convince yourself that your $10 a month is all you can really afford just at the moment (hey, I'm a student, remember...), but something in your gut keeps piping up and telling you that if you really valued that thing, you would have found a way to do more. So you avoid that person, and maybe you even use words like "do-gooder", which sound kind of nice but are really just dismissive and alienating. We avoid these people, not because they are bad people, but because their presence reminds us that we are not necessarily good.

Popularity. Popularity and money. People invest in screen artists who have the potential to be really popular, it's as simple as that.

Filmmakers, actors, and artists of every variety have the right to make money and I wouldn't dream of taking it away. But at what cost? Sometimes I hear complaints that "extra" or "special" responsibility is foisted on artists, but I disagree.

I fully expect scientists to consciously consider the ethical implications of their experimentation and act accordingly. I fully expect business people to consider the living and working conditions and human rights of a group of people when choosing where to produce their goods. I fully expect a journalist to strive to relay the truth and achieve fairness in their reporting. And so on and so forth. Every occupation has a whole host of ethical responsibilities attached to it, and art is no exception.

But I started out by writing about passivity. EVEN IF other occupations did not come with ethical responsibilities attached, what about responsibility as a human being? Why are these people content to allow the world to wash over and and around their soft, complacent bodies?

If my fellow students chose just one issue each and were as vocal about that as they are about their right not to care, I think the world just might be a better place.

A poem.

I wrote this when I was 15 years old, after spending an hour alone in the bush.


The silence of aloneness, the sound of desertedness
Nothing but emptiness, a fear of nothingness
All around quietness, only a stillness
Maybe it's loneliness, it could just be peacefulness


I'm such a nerd.

A break from the usual stuff

This is just a piece I found today that I wrote when I was 16 about my boyfriend at the time.


He's not very big, a little taller than me, but there's no mistaking his size for frailty. He's ahtletic and seems to glide effortlessly from sport to sport and skill to skill like he was born to do each one. But he walks like a criminal. Head down, eyes lowered, like it's important that no one recognise his face. He takes huge strides, moves quickly. He wears a white cap pulled low, close to his eyes. It has dirty smudges from the same repetitive hand action that keeps it on, and him incognito. But somewhere in there are dependable soft lips, gates to his soft heart.

Letter

I was utterly focused and strangely energized as I got out of bed immediately and reached for my dressing gown and laptop. Seated at the kitchen bench and ignoring the cold I sat down to write. I would make her sorry for crushing my happiness. I would make him sorry for disrespecting me. I would make him sorry.

Natasha had given me the idea when she went on and on down the phone, telling me she’d been having sex with Alex. I knew that the truth would cut her far more deeply than any of her lies could hurt me.

I laid out every torturous detail of my interactions with Alex from the time we first met, so that the email would scream truth in every line. In half an hour I would send that email to them both and blast apart that relationship forever. And if my email did not make them sorry enough I would send it to people connected to them. I did not even hesitate for Ben's sake; that little boy I had never met but somehow loved. They’ll all be better off in the long-term, I thought.

Half an hour passed though and my bomb was still in the very early stages of preparation. I decided to continue writing until I had something worth sending.

The more time I spent writing, the calmer I became. Time, and something of a revival of the great affection I felt for Alex, cleared my head. Hours, and two and a half pages had passed, and yet I had only just reached our first kiss for I was writing in such detail. There were so many things I needed to do though before a weekend rehearsal was to begin at one o’clock. I would have to send the letter in it’s current state.

Sanity prevailed and I decided to give Alex one last chance. After all, taking away his girlfriend, house, son and potentially job all in one whack was hardly a small matter. It would genuinely be his last chance though.

Recognising now that calling his mobile was useless, and beyond caring whether I spoke to Natasha, I called his home phone. Alex answered.

“Oh Lily, I’m so glad you called.”

“What do you mean you’re so glad I called? Why didn’t you answer this morning?”

“Natasha's got my phone and she’s gone out. I’ve been in bed all morning; I’ve got tonsillitis. Listen buddy I’m sorry about last night.”

“But did you get my voicemails? I tried to call you.”

“Oh shit, you sent Natasha a voicemail? What did you say?”

“No I sent you a voicemail! I thought it was you texting me! I got a text from you this morning saying, ‘I love her’!”

“Oh buddy I’ve been in bed all morning, Natasha must’ve sent it.”

“And then I tried to call you and I left you a voicemail that was like three minutes long. I don’t know what I said, I don’t know, I just wanted you to talk to me. Oh shit, Alex, it’s bad.”

Alex was sorry for last night; he’d been so tired, he explained, and he’d been coming down with tonsillitis. As soon as he’d got home he’d crashed.

“But you replied to my text message last night.”

“What? No, I crashed. That must have been Natasha too.”

“Did you at least see the text messages Natasha and I sent to each other? I forwarded them to you.”

“No, I didn’t look at them.”

Alex did not want to hear them, but I forced him to listen to Natasha's messages down the phone.

Alex was sorry, but he couldn’t bear to live without Ben. He would live with Natasha. He couldn’t survive even one night away from Ben, he said.

“But will you pretend to have a relationship with Natasha now?”, I asked.

There was a pause.

“I’d rather not discuss that with you.”

The vice around my heart tightened.

We talked for as many minutes as I could possibly spare. He told me he could never call me from his own phone again because Natasha would only let him back home on the condition that he would never see me again. She would check the phone bill and knew both of my phone numbers by heart. She had told him to suspend his gym membership so that he would never see me there. Alex warned me that if he ever called me from his own phone again it was because Natasha was listening. He would call me Lillian to tip me off. If he sent me a text he would begin it with a question mark so that I would know it was from him.

I wanted to know when we could next see each other but he couldn’t answer. He suggested that we could still go away for weekends sometimes and that next year he would organize a boys’ trip to New Zealand so that he could come and see me. I told him that I deserved more, and we left the conversation with what I thought was a mutual understanding that we had reached the end of the road.

Morning

Saturday morning began far earlier than I had expected. I opened my swollen eyelids to see who was texting me at 7:02am on a Saturday and why.

“I. .-love her” said the message. It was from Alex.

“Fuck him”, I thought, and closed my dry red eyes to try to get more sleep. It was easy to think these things at 7:02am on a Saturday morning when you feel as though you’re knocking on death’s door. My heart was racing though. Within minutes I reached again for my phone.
The call rang until it reached voicemail.

I spoke for at least three minutes. I was calm. Grief and anger were dulled and confusion was taking it’s turn in the spotlight. I asked questions. I put forward my opinion.

“What’s going on Alex? I can’t believe how much and how quickly things have changed. I can understand why you’d go back to her ‘cause I know you can’t survive without Ben. But I can’t understand why you won’t talk to me about it and now why you’re saying you love her when you told me you haven’t loved her in three years. Please just explain Alex.”

I couldn’t even be bothered being angry over the message, which was really an unprovoked kick while I was down.

Again, he texted me.

“Look please don’t call or text. I do love my girlfriend and want to stay with her. Sorry.”

As sleep faded, the edge of my anger and disgust returned. A text again? Weak as piss. The man was weak as piss. He texts me at 7am and then asks me not to call or text?! He can’t even answer his phone after all that has happened? After I stayed with him when the waters threatened to rise and swallow him? Weak and stupid. Stupid not to treat better the woman who could break him.

I called again. I was genuinely willing to be calm if he answered the phone; I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The call went to voicemail.

“Hi Alex, I would have thought that you’d at least want to talk to me to make sure I kept my mouth shut.”

Soon I received a text.

“Like I said last night it is over. Natasha knows everything and is taking me back. I am in love with her. Sorry.”

How dare he lie to me! Natasha knows everything, does she? There is NO WAY Natasha would take you back if she knew everything. Natasha thinks we only had sex once. It’s time to enlighten her.

This time I did not bother to call.

“u hav half an hour 2 make peace with me”, said the text message I sent to Alex at 8:04am.

Crazy

That evening I went to the movies with my cousin, Anna. The movie was appalling. I couldn’t stop wondering if I would see Alex that night; doubts were creeping in as I hadn’t heard from him all day. After the film I drove Anna home to her flat in Elsternwick – conveniently close to Elwood, where I hoped to see Alex.

I phoned him to see what the deal was, guessing that he had probably left the football already.
As with every other intensely painful conversation I’ve had in my life, I can’t remember what was said the way I usually can.

He was in a taxi. He was tired. No he didn’t want to see me. He had sent the message that afternoon. No he wouldn’t explain. No he hadn’t seen Natasha's texts to me, or mine to her. He just wanted to go home. Home? Home. No he wouldn’t see me. No he wouldn’t explain…

“Natasha's asked me to come home because she’s scared.”
“Of what?” I scoffed.
“Of you.”
“WHAT?!” I could hear a psycho in my voice that had never been there before. Natasha never had reason to fear me until the moment she dragged me down to her level. I couldn’t bare for Alex to think that I was the psycho and that she, Natasha, was the innocent victim.

Natasha, who threw beer bottles, and dangled her son before his father like bait, and called me to torture me with lies about their sex life, and who tore up photos and threw clothes in the pool and ran off with Ben to Mt Eliza and kicked and screamed in front of Alex's clients.

Then I was furious at myself for sounding so psycho. The subsequent anger didn’t help me sound like any less of a head-case. Tears streamed faster than ever and I begged Alex just to see me and talk to me.

He would not. He just wanted to go home.

After we hung up the phone I bawled, sitting there in the car in the dark. I let the snot run down my chin and my face screw up and I writhed like a dying animal, while simultaneously forwarding him the text messages Natasha and I had sent each other that afternoon, desperate to show him that I was not the crazy liar.

Somehow my despair was not quite deep enough to stop me seeking out a friend though. I called Ellen, who lived two blocks away from where I was parked, woke her up and begged her to let me come see her. I was so desperate for someone to wrap me in their arms. I was desperate for Alex to wrap me in his arms, but Ellen would do for now.

I left Ellen after about half an hour. It was enough. My grief subsided. But anger followed.
Revolting thoughts ran through my head. The kinds of thoughts I would have only believed Natasha capable of, but which I had somehow now inherited.

I was so angry with myself for being taken in by such a weak, shallow, WEAK man. The word wouldn’t leave my mind. He was disgusting to me. Three nights! he had managed to stay away before crawling back. He was going back to his loveless life because it was the easy option in the short-term, and because it was cheaper.

“I can’t believe u ended us with a txt & won’t even face me once now. U r answering 2 her blackmail once agen & letting her use ur son as bait”

“Please try to understand I have a family. I’m sorry lily.”

I was angry at myself, but I was angrier at Alex and Natasha. I thought about going to their house and yelling for Alex to come out and face me. And in my head I saw Natasha come out instead, since Alex was such a coward, and I saw myself punching her collagen-injected face and tearing at her bleached-blonde hair. Then I thought, “no – revenge is a dish best served cold”, and I saw myself wordlessly shoving a positive pregnancy test in front of her face, and gleefully watching her try to comprehend what it meant. I even drove to a chemist on Centre Rd on the off-chance that it would be open 24 hours. It was not.

Ideas flashed through my head. I considered calling the police, to make an anonymous “tip-off” that Natasha was a child-abuser.

In the end I went home, and decided that there lay the fundamental difference between the two of us. Anyone is capable of thinking such things, but most people don’t act out all their thoughts.

Text

Needless to say, I could not get Alex and Natasha and Ben out of my head. On Friday I texted him.
“I’m so lost alex”

Some hours later I received a message from Natasha.

“Stop texting alex. He is not answering your texts because its over. Our family is what he wants, not you. So please leave us alone. We are in love & have been for years, you came along during a rough patch & sadly you got hurt but it’s over.”

I laughed and looked at the message in disgust but my heart thudded in my ribcage as I replied.

“if u think that what u’ve got is love then I sincerely pity you natasha”

Soon the phone chimed again.

“alex asked me to marry him last night. You have known him for a few weeks. You don’t even know him.”

I smiled smugly, but started to feel anger boiling. I was beginning to hate her.

“u r delusional. I hope u recover soon”

She said, “You are a stalker leave him alone. And ps. He thinks you are ugly! And a slut.”

I couldn’t believe I was texting a successful, thirty-eight year old career woman and mother. A fifteen year old is more cutting.

I texted, “why bother with lies when the truth is so much sadder? The fact that a guy like alex can b inescapably tied 2 a mole like u is heartbreaking”

Ten minutes later though, I received a message from Alex.

“Hi lily, I’ve been thinking and I’ve realized I need my family back. I love them. Please understand. Alex”

Without missing a beat I replied.

“Natasha, what a wanky thing to do. I’m not utterly stupid. Try harder.”

Premiere

Thursday morning promised a big day. The film I had been publicising was to premiere that night.

“Morning Lily, have a great day and night, I’m sure it will be fantastic. I’m with Ben all day and night, I’m going to smother him in kisses!”
It seemed that as per usual, Natasha's promises of never letting Alex see his son again had not materialized.
“haha, poor Ben! Save sum grown up kisses 4 me! I hope u enjoy every second & don’t let a single negative thought creep in. hav a wonderful time. Ur beautiful”

The premiere was a huge success and I was excited to be introduced to some television producers who said they would love to have me as a production assistant. As the night wound down, I text messaged Alex.
“hello, I’m guessing ur asleep.. hope u had a good day. 2nite was gr8 but wish u were here. I’m sending lots of kisses & cuddles ur way :-) miss u xx”
He was not asleep.
“I’m watching the footy show. Glad you had a good night. You are crazy to like me I’m damaged!”
“I can’t help liking u, & we already knew I was crazy. Sum ppl becum ugly wen they get damaged but not u. ur lovely & I’m lucky 2 know u”
“you’re about to move to la la land and I’ve got another little fella on the way. Run away!”
“is she still saying she’s pregz? Make her prove it, don’t let her enslave u with sumthing that could b bullshit. Put urself 1st, just 4 this 1 thing”
“I’ve seen the test it’s confirmed!”
I showed the text message to Ellen across the back seat of the darkened car and felt my eyes prick with tears.

We spoke on the phone for two and a half hours late into that night.
Alex told me how years ago he’d been in love with Natasha. She’d wanted children and had given him the ultimatum that he must either get her pregnant or get out. He loved her, so he did. I figured the truth must be a combination of that and the story he’d told me previously, about wanting to leave but staying when she fell pregnant.

I wanted to know what Natasha looked like. She was blonde apparently. She looked 28 even though she was 38 because she’d had cosmetic surgery. She had big fake tits.

I couldn’t understand what Natasha saw in Alex. I knew what I liked about him, but from my impressions of Natasha's values and personality couldn’t imagine her liking the same characteristics. He said he was her toy boy, her trophy boyfriend. I could imagine that. A woman like Natasha couldn’t bear to have people wonder why she was single. She’d have to have someone she could introduce to everyone and know that he would never embarrass her. He was certainly charming.

Alex had spoken to a friend who was a lawyer. The friend didn’t think Alex had a chance to win custody of Ben. The law was designed to favour and protect women in positions of care. I thought he should fight anyway. She had shown violent behaviour, and at one time had taken Ben and run off to stay in Mt Eliza without telling Alex.

Alex still wanted to see me. He didn’t know what to do. I told him I deserved better and that our relationship was supposed to be fun, yet I still begged him not to go back to her.
As always, Alex talked about Ben.
When I expressed my feelings towards Natasha, Alex defended her. That hurt.