It's Been a Pleasure, Noni Blake Read online

  ‘Yes!’ Her hands move wildly in the air. ‘Just because she wants to!’

  ‘I never do that.’ I shake my head. ‘Never. I have so many stupid rules about clothes,’ I say, jumping from foot to foot to the music.

  ‘You have a great body.’ She looks me up and down.

  ‘Shut up,’ I moan.

  ‘You do. I don’t know why you have a thing about your arms, your arms are great.’

  ‘Says she with the thing about her calves,’ I muse.

  ‘They’re too big,’ she says. ‘They look weird in pants.’ She stops, staring at me. ‘But, has that ever stopped me wearing pants?’ I roll my eyes and she shakes her head at me. ‘Right, what else?’

  ‘I want to be the kind of woman who wears lipstick, just because. I can never be bothered but when I wear it I’m always like, I am a badass.’ Naz cackles and I continue. ‘I want to invest in the good, long-lasting shit too, and wear a liner, because I don’t, and so it’s gone by lunch, and then I give up and my lips look weird for the rest of the day. I do that all the time.’

  ‘So motivation? Care? Ooh, investment?’ she says, impressed by her words, and I nod. She adds them to the list.

  ‘I want to be the kind of person who makes the first move,’ I say.

  ‘Yes! Have you ever made the first move?’ she asks.

  ‘No. Maybe. Once…or twice.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Confidence, I guess. The general presumption that people don’t like me like that.’

  Naz shakes her head. ‘God. I love you.’

  ‘And I love you,’ I tell her.

  ‘But you’re a huge dickhead,’ she says. The track changes to a grittier, sexier song, and so we slow down our moves, but we don’t stop dancing.

  ‘Thank you,’ I puff.

  ‘I wish you could see what I see when I look at you, because then you would just do all of these things. For the record I wouldn’t be friends with a real dickhead, so use that as your motivation. I’m fucking cool, so if I think you’re cool, then that’s saying something.’ I nod and she winks at me. She wiggles her hips in a full circle and I join her. Full-on, uninhibited dancing.

  ‘I think you should be the kind of person who says what they think. Who feels scared, but then thinks fuck it and pushes through and does it anyway.’ I nod. And then I start to cry. ‘Why are you crying?’ Naz asks.

  ‘Because I don’t do any of these things.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She rubs my arm and looks at me with nothing but love.

  ‘The kind of person who trusts that voice,’ I say with a clenched jaw, trying to stop the tears.

  ‘What voice?’ she asks.

  ‘That intuition voice, that gut voice, you know?’

  ‘The voice that’s telling you that all of this is right, to the point where it’s making you cry?’ I nod, the tears getting thick in my eyes, and Naz sympathetically gets teary too. ‘All of this stuff is amazing, Nons, and you can do all of these things. I know you can.’

  What emerges from our dance-brainstorming session is a new list. It feels like possibly the most important list I’ve ever written. A list I’m going to use to dictate the next bit of my life.

  What Pleasure Looks Like to Me: A List

  Someone who:

  • is the first on the dance floor.

  • wears things she wants to wear, not because they suit her shape.

  • makes the first move.

  • wears bright lipstick, just because.

  • does cool shit with her hair without worrying about it.

  • says what she thinks.

  • has fantasies that infiltrate her actual life.

  • can go to the movies, or eat in fancy restaurants, on her own.

  • feels confident enough to do anything on her own. Especially being on her own.

  • doesn’t think about calories and diets and good and bad food, who just eats what her body craves.

  • sticks up for herself in meetings, and in conversations, on the street, in her relationships.

  • tells people to get fucked, and who doesn’t spend hours and hours feeling nauseous or anxious or running things over and over and over again in a guilt-fuelled spiral.

  • doesn’t start sentences with the word sorry.

  • takes credit for her work.

  • wears sexy lingerie even when no one is going to see it.

  • does dance classes, and tries things even when she knows she’ll be bad at them.

  • values her own opinion and instinct. She hears that voice and trusts it. Every time.

  • allows good things to happen, and allows herself to make mistakes.

  • is audacious. She does things on a whim, dances more, and does what feels good.

  This, I decide, is a quest for more. For more pleasure. A pleasure quest. And I feel positively pummelled by the possibility of it all.

  The Pleasure Quest begins officially the next morning with a chocolate croissant. I eat it and I don’t feel guilty. I savour every goddamn mouthful. I don’t eat it because it’s a special occasion, or as a treat. I eat it because I saw it on the buffet table, and it smelled amazing, and I wanted it. I sit in the comfiest chair, next to the fire in the dining hall, with a soft blanket laid over my shoulders and a cup of tea in my hand, and I dare myself to enjoy every bite. To relish it. To be aware of the way it makes me feel, the way it activates each of my senses. It feels monumental to eat something and not think of the consequences. To focus only on the act of enjoying the croissant as much as possible, and nothing else.

  ‘What are you up to?’ Lil walks over to me, smiling. ‘You look bloody gorgeous sitting here.’

  ‘Just starting a revolution.’ I smile back at her.

  She raises her eyebrows, intrigued, and I tell her about the new list, about my revelations, about the pleasure quest.

  ‘Oh, Noni, this is divine!’ she squeals. ‘You are divine. What a gift.’ She claps her hands and pats my thigh. ‘I think I’m going to write my own list, you know. You’ve inspired me.’

  On our last day, after morning yoga, we all decide to hike down along the lake to a tavern where they apparently serve to-die-for mussels. The retreat is a booze-free zone, aside from barrister-made whiskey-filled coffees, so we buy a couple of bottles of wine for the table. Tall-and-stiff stands and does a toast: ‘May we all be rich with experiences, health and love.’

  ‘And cash,’ Naz says.

  ‘And orgasms,’ Edwina adds.

  ‘Yes, and pleasure,’ I say.

  ‘To pleasure!’ Tall-and-stiff says and we all clink glasses. We enjoy a final cheerful meal together, laughing and musing over our shared experiences at the retreat. On the walk back along the beach, Tom looks positively beside himself, picking up a squealing Naz and carrying her into the shallows of the freezing water as everyone watches them, laughing. I take my shoes and socks off and scrunch my toes into the sand, close my eyes and breathe in as deep as I can. Something has shifted for me. I feel an obligation to be better. To nurture this relationship with myself first and foremost. To let the Joan chapters be done for good. To stop running away from my grief. To be done with Molly. To stop being an asshole to myself. To repair this relationship. To date the shit out of myself. To believe in the possibility that things could be different.

  ‘Now what?’ Lil asks, walking beside me, linking her arm in mine.

  ‘Who bloody knows,’ I say.

  ‘You do. You know.’ She smiles, and I look at her.

  ‘I do,’ I laugh. ‘Naz and Tom are going to drop me in Edinburgh on the way back. I’ve booked a flat in the city for a week, and I’ll explore.’

  ‘Ooh, I’ll send you some recommendations, places you should go, and where to get good coffee.’ Lil smiles.

  ‘I’d love that.’ I take a moment and think about what else I want to do. Knowing I can do anything I want feels delightfully overwhelming. ‘I really want to go to Amsterdam too, so I’ll probably do that. I’ll ma
ke my mind up as I go, but Lil, I’m gonna let pleasure lead and see what happens.’

  Lil grabs my arm with her other hand and squeezes me, and I let the joy of the moment fizz in my whole body. ‘Please, will you stay in touch?’

  ‘Yes. We must,’ I tell her. She reaches into her handbag and hands me a piece of paper. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘My favourite poem. It reminded me of you. And your quest.’

  ‘Oh, Lil, thank you.’ We swap numbers and hug. Heart-to heart. And it’s not awkward for a second.

  18

  I walk past the tattoo shop three times before I finally go in. It smells different from how I thought it would: like cleaning products and lavender. I thought it would smell of leather and debauchery. A tiny girl with a lot of piercings smiles at me.

  ‘G’day, lovely.’ She’s Australian. I can understand her. My brain doesn’t need to process an accent. I breathe, relieved. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I was hoping to maybe get a tattoo at some point, please, if I could.’

  ‘First time?’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  She smiles sweetly. ‘You pacing up and down the street mumbling to yourself was a pretty good indicator.’

  ‘Oh good, well now that I’ve suitably embarrassed myself, I’ll be off.’ I jokingly head towards the door as a further wave of anxiety washes through my entire body. The girl laughs heartily. She’s pretty. I relax.

  ‘Have you got a picture?’ she asks.

  ‘Um. No. Do I need a picture? It’s just words. Can I have just words?’

  She laughs again. ‘It’s your body, babe.’ I exhale, nodding. If only she knew how poignant those four words were for me right now. She grabs a piece of paper and slides me a pen. ‘Write down your words.’

  I do. ‘It’s from a poem. A beautiful poem. A poem I’ve fallen in love with. I wanted something that reflected this thing that I’ve been doing and this feels right. I was thinking of getting it here.’ I point to just below my sternum. ‘So then only I’ll see it. Or people who I want to see it will see it, you know? It’s not like I’m going around with my top off. But I could, you know? What I mean is that it’s for me. This tattoo is for me. It’s important, yeah?’ Noni, stop talking.

  ‘You nervous?’ She smiles wide, the diamonds in her lip glinting in the fluorescent light.

  I nod. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. Normally you’d have to book a few weeks out, but one of our artists has literally just had a cancellation, so you might be in luck. Give me a second, okay?’ She leaves.

  My hands are clammy. I stare at the pictures on the walls, trying to give off a calm energy, like I’m cool, like I belong in a tattoo shop in Edinburgh having conversations with pretty girls with face piercings.

  ‘Orright?’ I turn and am greeted by a giant—a very tall man with broad shoulders, long brown hair pulled back in a low-slung bun and a slight beard. He’s more Viking than man. I stare and I don’t speak. Only my vagina can speak on behalf of the two of us now and all she can say is, ‘wow’ and ‘oof’ and ‘Jesus’.

  ‘You want to get a tattoo?’ I nod and hold up the piece of paper. He takes it out of my hand and chuckles. ‘You want it on your sternum?’ he asks and I nod again and it is at this point that I realise I have yet to say anything. My brain screams, Would one of you please speak? at either my mouth or my vagina. At this stage I don’t care which one of us it is, I just hope someone says something soon.

  ‘I’m Noni,’ is all we can muster.

  ‘Hi, Noni. That’s a bit of a tough spot. Notoriously a bit higher on the pain scale. Do you mind?’ I shake my head. ‘Are you nervous?’

  I nod and mumble, ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Just a vibe.’ The Viking smiles and I ovulate. ‘Orright, and this is your first tattoo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re just going to jump in the deep end then, yeah?’ He smirks and I smile. Or at least I think I smile. I’m too busy staring. And thinking about him wielding a sword and shield. ‘I like that,’ he says, then looks down at the paper where I’ve written the poem fragment. ‘Do you want just the words, or do you want me to do something with them?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like flowers, or a banner, or something.’

  ‘Yes. You do you. You’re an artist. Just. Yes,’ I stutter and the Viking laughs.

  ‘Okay, take a seat.’

  I do. He leaves and I close my eyes. Please let me get my shit together. Please let me be cool. Not even cool, just act like a normal person. Please let this be a good idea and not be shit. I take a deep breath. You are on a pleasure quest, Noni, you can get tattoos and be audacious and talk to attractive people. You can. Yes. I feel calmer.

  The Viking appears moments later with a piece of paper, which he hands to me. I look down at it. The words look like they’re growing out of flowers. Blooming. It’s perfect. I’m speechless.

  ‘We can change anything you don’t like, Noni. You’ve got to love it.’

  ‘I do. It’s better than I had in my head. It’s so—’ I look at the flowers. ‘Is it—’ I stop.

  ‘Is it what?’ he asks.

  ‘Can these flowers be daisies instead, is that possible?’

  ‘They your favourite?’ he asks.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Easy. Give me a couple of minutes.’

  This is a good idea. ‘Thank you, thank you so much, this is just—’

  ‘Cool. How about we tattoo it on you first, then you can thank me.’

  Once he’s redrawn the image with the daisies, and I’ve gushed a little more, I follow him to the back of the shop into a rust-orange room. There are sketches on tracing paper taped all over the walls, along with photos of the Viking in various settings with beautiful women and handsome men. Always smiling.

  ‘These are incredible,’ I say, meaning everything.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’ll have to take that off.’ The Viking nods at my jumper. Of course. Shit. I had not thought of that. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I do a quick mental assessment of what bra I put on this morning and begin the arduous task of pulling off layers while still trying to look cool. Which, I discover, is impossible. No one looks cool pulling off a thermal long sleeve top. No one. By the time I get to my four billionth layer, the Viking starts laughing.

  ‘Cold, huh?’

  ‘You have no idea.’ I stand there in my bra. It’s a good one, a black push-up t-shirt bra. Thankfully it’s not the greying one, which used to be white, that I pulled the underwire out of because it kept digging in to my side, so it literally does nothing except cover my nipples. I start shaking, both from the cold and from nerves, not to mention from how incredibly vulnerable I feel having his eyes on me. Or not on me. He looks at the floor, or the side of the room, or in my eyes, but never at my boobs. I like this. I like that I can see an air of effort in his interaction with me now. I like that he has manners, it says a lot about him. Though I also feel a slight pang that him having manners is a turn-on for me, because how fucking low does the decency bar have to be for men? He hands me the sketch, which he has now cut out.

  ‘Check that you’re happy with that size in the mirror,’ he says.

  I stand with the piece of paper at my sternum and the Viking stands behind me, staring too.

  ‘I think that’s good, yeah?’ I say.

  ‘Yeah. Happy?’ I nod. ‘I’ll go make the stencil then.’

  He leaves and I look more closely at the sketches on the walls. The Viking’s work is brilliant; lots of pretty, delicate designs that contrast directly with his size. He walks back into the room and I don’t look up.

  ‘I really like her.’ I point to a sketch of a naked woman, sitting cross-legged with a whole bouquet of flowers blooming out of the top of her head.

  ‘She’s new.’

  ‘She has excellent boobs.’ I turn and look at him and he laughs, surprised. ‘She does, indeed.’ He bites the co
rner of his lip, looking me in the eye. I have to look away because an adolescent giggle escapes my mouth that I have zero control over. I feel ridiculous. I stand in front of him as he sits on a chair holding the stencil in between his fingers. ‘Orright, you ready?’ His face is exactly at boob height and I look at the ceiling.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  He smiles. ‘Good.’

  His fingers lightly brush my skin and I flinch. ‘Your hands are fucking freezing,’ I say.

  ‘Are they? I’m so sorry.’ He rubs them together quickly. I can see his bicep muscles move through the fabric of his dark green shirt. I swallow hard. ‘Let’s try again.’ He puts the design on my skin and dabs a wet paper towel on it, leaving a purple outline lingering on my flesh. ‘Look in the mirror,’ he says. I look at the purple marks on my flesh. ‘What do you think?’ I bite my lip, trying to get my brain to compute the permanence that these soft lines represent. ‘Noni, we can do this as many times as you like, you’ve got to be one hundred per cent sure.’ He looks closely at my face. ‘You’re not happy.’

  ‘No. No. I’m—’ I twist my head from side to side in the mirror. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Your face. What are you thinking?’

  ‘I think it’s too low. Do you think it’s too low? I think it’s too low.’ I look at him, waiting for his answer, except he doesn’t answer, he just looks at me with the slightest smirk. I’m positive I see a diamond glint in the corner of his eye like a cartoon fucking prince.

  ‘I think it’s too low,’ I mutter once again.

  ‘Good. Okay.’ He wheels his chair towards me, his thigh muscles flexing in his dark black jeans as he pushes forward. ‘That means you’re going to have to take this off.’ He points to my bra.

  ‘Oh. Yes. Um.’ I look around for something to cover my nipples—I draw the line at lying in this Viking’s presence without a top on. ‘I know,’ I say, and I grab my new tartan scarf out of my bag. The Viking turns around and I slip my bra off and fold it neatly on top of my things. Instinctively I hide the label so he can’t see what size I am. But just as that thought rolls in it is met with another louder thought that yells, For fuck’s sake, Noni, he can see with his two fucking eyes what size you are.