GINA WILLIAMS currently lives in Thorndon, Wellington and likes to write stories where nothing much actually happens.




THERE SHE IS: Sarah, drinking red wine out of a welted Pump bottle, as ‘No glass in the flat was big enough for her sorrow to wallow in’. It did cross my mind earlier, why she even bothered to transfer the discounted merlot, or Shiraz, or whatever the hell it was into the plastic. But, then again she always was one for a little mindless ceremony.

She’s wearing a tattered slip that I suspect was to be concealed under a dress. But, of course she can’t afford the dress, or the slip in the right size. So, every time she cackles I see her breasts. Her arms are shiny, streamlined and starving – tragic really. Evidently she’d stopped relying on food for sustenance and now counted on Marlboro (the Light variety), less dependent than she was buying Dunhill. What a joke. She blathered in footnotes for the first twenty minutes: ‘but’ this, ‘only because’ that. A lot of formality and serious discussion followed about a life she should really take more notice of. A series of distractions, it seemed filled in the days (mostly nights). And when gaps appeared in the plot she’d do her classic ‘faux-faint’. That’s always been my name for it, her creating drama. Still fancying herself a fucking Jean Harlow.

So, we’ve got an hour of pleasantries to wade through first before anything remotely interesting happens, I’m sure. I’m starting to run out of words and merlot or Shiraz or whatever it is – probably vinegar. The walls aren’t helping. The forgotten wallpaper feels like it’s peeling at a rate that’s going to roll me up in it and never let me leave. Oh how I want to leave. But I already have – so many, many times.

Yes, she’s always been one for a good routine. In the days when her eyes weren’t sunken and the whites weren’t cream, the ambition, I recall was ‘housewife’ for a notable somebody. She had just the right amount of wit, prettiness and playfulness – nothing to excess. Now it’s night courses, maybe a secretary or admin, or ‘anything really’. Rows of carrots, peas placed in clumps, perfect mounds of potato mash, serviettes for the face and napkins for the lap. All unnecessary; all superfluous and all just small distractions.

“Brilliant potato mash Sarah, just the right amount of gravy. Home made? Well, it certainly tastes like it. Nice job.”

“So Mr. I saw you know who in the society pages at the weekend. Oh. My. God!”

“Yes, well. It figures. So, I’m planning a small jaunt to London at the end of July. And…”

“I rather fancy your jacket Nicholas. A nice… sheen to it.” So damn sad! He so wants to desperately to be part of the old boys, the old money, the old aristocracy of this old retched town. He’s still the same, all his petty disposable income on lavish adornments. Class – what a joke. What he hasn’t realised is the old boys don’t need to indulge themselves. They just ARE. Damn fucking fool. I should have got out while I could. The chance was there so many fucking times.

The checklist of annoyances will kick in any time soon I’m sure. Let me see: there’s the obviously orchestrated, yet effortless downward inflection; the easy inserted plum-in-the-mouth, which becomes dislodged with insomnia or drunkenness (whichever comes first)…

“Sorry? Oh, yes Nick I totally agree. Totally!”

Ah, then there’s emphasis on non-trivial topics (oh his insight); and the avoidance of upbringing and the reciting of columnist opinions from art-related magazines. What a drag. He’s kidding nobody.

Damn it. No obvious follies have tumbled out of his stupid, make that pathetic mouth. I’ll have to bring out the taunts incognito and watch the clown take the bait. There we go! The Listener’s arts columnist what’s-his-face quoted verbatim. Injected seamlessly, complete with a rosy garnish of plum. That’s two out of five. Not bad going indeed Nick. Naturally, I reply with several meaningful nods as I see he’s recently acquired the idea that rich housewives don’t protest or argue a great deal. I won’t argue with the fantasy. Not quite yet.

“Want to fetch a beer out of the fridge and we can get a comfy seat on the deck? Maybe listen to some… Stones?” This will throw him. By referencing the past I’ll hit a nerve. Make him feel something. Make it fucking penetrate his newly acquired, well-researched shell.

“Oh Sarah. It’s a bit chilly don’t you think? Why don’t we get a digestif, maybe even some port and sit in your room for a while? I’d like that. Wouldn’t you darling?” She can just be such a Goddamn prude! Delaying tactics so she can play the ‘I’m too tired card’. I didn’t drive half way across town on a Monday night just to consume an averagely bad dinner, beer and her un-educated banter. Forget that. I’m going to get what I came for.

“Um…sure, why not. I still want beer tho…port is a little too posh’. You know me. Ha. Ha. Ha...” Work! I’ll get him talking about work and that will surely pass at least twenty minutes. What a brilliant distraction. Wait – work and his new flatmate and the topic of the not so clean kitchen. Nice one. What a pleasant and entertaining evening. Hah, 10 o’clock already.