Nine Perfect Strangers

On balance, he still wanted to smash their faces.

‘Ben!’

Jessica beckoned him over. She was all social and smiley, like they hadn’t just been yelling at each other. She was so good at that. They could drive to a party and fight all the way, not say a word to each other as they walked up someone’s stairs, and then the door of the apartment opens and – bang – different person. Laughing, joking, teasing him, touching him, taking selfies, like they were so having sex tonight, when they were so not having sex tonight.

Then, back in the car on the way home, she’d restart the fight. It was like flicking a switch on and off. It freaked him out. ‘It’s just good manners,’ she told him. ‘You don’t take your fight to a party. It’s no-one else’s business.’

He straightened up, adjusted his cap and went over to stand beside Jessica to perform like her monkey.

‘This is my husband, Ben,’ said Jessica. ‘Ben, this is Frances. She’s doing the same retreat as us. Well, probably not exactly the same . . .’

The lady smiled up at him from the driver’s seat. ‘That’s a very fancy car, Ben,’ she said. She spoke as if she already knew him. Her voice was snuffly and hoarse, the tip of her nose bright red. ‘It’s like something from a movie.’ He could see straight down the huge chasm of her cleavage; he couldn’t help it, there was literally nowhere else to look. It wasn’t bad, but she was old, so it wasn’t good either. She wore red lipstick and had a lot of curly gold-coloured hair pulled back in a ponytail. She reminded him of one of his mum’s tennis friends. He liked his mum’s tennis friends – they were uncomplicated and didn’t expect him to say much – but he preferred them not to have cleavage.

‘Thanks,’ he said, trying to focus on her very shiny, friendly eyes. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘What sort of car is it?’ asked Frances.

‘It’s a Lamborghini.’

‘Ooh la la – a Lamborghini!’ She grinned up at him. ‘This here is a Peugeot.’

‘Uh, yeah, I know,’ he said, pained.

‘Don’t think much of the Peugeot?’ She tilted her head to one side.

‘It’s a heap of shit,’ said Ben.

‘Ben!’ said Jessica, but Frances laughed delightedly.

‘I love my little Peugeot,’ purred Frances as she caressed her steering wheel.

‘Well,’ said Ben. ‘Each to their own.’

‘Frances says nobody is answering the intercom,’ said Jessica. ‘She’s been sitting out here waiting for twenty minutes.’

Jessica was using her posh new voice, where she made each word sound as fat and round as an apple. She was using it almost exclusively now, except when she really lost her temper or got upset, like last night, when she forgot to be posh and yelled at him, ‘Why can’t you just be happy? Why are you ruining this?’

‘Have you phoned them?’ he said now to the cleavage lady. ‘Maybe there’s something wrong with the intercom.’

‘I’ve left a message,’ said Frances.

‘I wonder if this is like a test,’ said Jessica. ‘Maybe it’s part of our treatment plan.’ She lifted her hair up to cool her neck. Sometimes, when she spoke normally, when she was just being herself, he could forget the frozen forehead, the blowfish lips, the puffy cheeks, the camel eyelashes (‘eyelash extensions’), the fake hair (‘hair extensions’) and fake boobs and there, for just a moment, was his sweet Jessica, the Jessica he’d known since high school.

‘I thought that too!’ said Frances.

Ben turned to look at the intercom.

‘I could hardly read the instructions,’ said Frances. ‘They were so tiny.’

Ben could read them perfectly well. He punched in the code and pressed the green button.

‘I will be absolutely furious if it works for you,’ said Frances.

A tinny voice sprang from the intercom. ‘Namaste and welcome to Tranquillum House. How may I help you?’

‘What the hell?’ Frances mouthed in comical disbelief.

Ben shrugged. ‘Just needed a man’s touch.’