—23—
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami
Pakenham train line towards Melbourne Central
Frankie stood before Sunny’s door and took a deep breath. It calmed her a little but she still couldn’t help but play anxiously with the bottle of pinot in her hands, flicking the corner of its label back and forth between her index finger and thumb. She fixed her low-cut black top and pulled up her jeans. Despite Sunny telling her it was completely unnecessary, she had spent the day on her hands and knees scrubbing his car, and after three showers she still reeked of bananas.
She sighed at the memory of that look in Sunny’s eyes when he told her about Hazel D. She had never seen such pure loss. It was what she imagined Dexter Mayhew felt when Emma Morley died. Okay, you can do this, she thought. You—
‘I thought I heard creepy breathing outside my door!’ Sunny’s door flew open, and Frankie jumped back in surprise.
‘Ah, sorry. I was just about to knock. This is for you,’ she said quickly, thrusting the wine bottle into Sunny’s hands.
‘Pinot, my favourite. Come on in.’ Sunny placed his hand casually at the bottom of Frankie’s back and gently ushered her inside.
The strong smell of melted cheese and freshly baked dough filled Frankie’s insides. Sunny’s apartment was painted a vivid blue, and the dining table was scattered with large sheets of butcher’s paper covered in scrawled sketches.
‘Wow,’ Frankie said.
‘I told you I was messy.’ Sunny shrugged.
Frankie was drawn to one particularly colourful drawing, a beautiful yet confronting image of a hand holding a bleeding heart in front of a pine tree adorned with fairy lights and colourful lanterns, over which was written ONCE UPON A TIME, A MAN GAVE HIS HEART FOR CHRISTMAS in big black letters. She touched the rough butcher’s paper and looked at the illustration casually draped next to it. KIDNEY-CROSSED LOVERS, it read, on top of a beautiful image of what looked like an intertwined Romeo and Juliet, one single, bleeding kidney uniting them in an embrace.
‘What are these? They’re amazing,’ Frankie said, unable to tear her eyes away.
‘Oh, just something I’ve been working on. Don’t judge too quickly, they’re very much a work in progress,’ Sunny said dismissively.
‘Did you draw them? They’re beautiful!’
‘Yeah. I just whipped them up. They’re at the conception phase now.’
Frankie glanced over at Sunny, who was pottering about his poky kitchen. His shoulders were rigid and he seemed, if not nervous, exposed.
‘They’re brilliant. I didn’t know you could draw,’ Frankie said.
‘I was an Art Director at AKDB until last year, when I quit to do my own thing.’
‘An Art Director at AKDB? Isn’t that one of the biggest advertising agencies in Australia?’
‘Might be!’
‘How did I not know this?’ Frankie said.
‘You never asked,’ Sunny replied, and Frankie instantly felt guilty.
‘I can’t believe you had the balls to quit a place like that,’ Frankie said quietly.
‘I love drawing, and problem solving and thinking up big ideas. But I’d had enough of thinking up those ideas for toothpaste and banks. You know? I mean, I know that you have to do some of that stuff to pay the bills, but I wanted something bigger than that. More consequential. So, I pitched an idea for a pro-bono concept for Organ Transplant Australia. It’s a charity I’m really passionate about, because of, well, Hazel.’ Sunny paused, and Frankie’s heart skipped a beat. ‘My Creative Director loved it, but she wasn’t willing to do it for free, even though they’re a multi-million-dollar business. And Transplant Australia didn’t have the funds for it.’ Frankie could hear a slight bitterness in Sunny’s voice. ‘So, the next day, I put in my notice. And I’ve been in talks with Transplant Australia ever since.’
‘That’s incredibly brave of you.’
‘Not really.’ Sunny tried to wave her off. ‘It’s just something I had to do. You know, to be able to look at myself in the mirror every day.’
‘You have such vision, Sunny,’ Frankie said, running her eyes across the sketches, each taken from the pages of various books. ‘So, is this … has this got to do with how she died? Hazel?’ Frankie cautiously said her name, and watched as Sunny’s forehead creased at the sound of it.
‘Ah, I think the pizza is burning. I better take it out of the oven before I set my house on fire again. That’s another story!’ Sunny dashed into the kitchen, leaving Frankie staring at his drawings, Hazel’s name still on her lips.
‘This pizza is a-mazing.’ Frankie bit into a slice covered in mushrooms, capsicum and olives. ‘I can’t believe you made this.’
They were sitting at Sunny’s rustic wooden table, a pile of papers and sketches swept to the side to make room for them.
‘It’s the only thing I really know how to make. But I make it well, if I do say so myself.’ Sunny smiled in between mouthfuls.
‘You really do. And I know my pizza. I’m not sure whether I’ve told you, but it’s my all-time favourite food,’ Frankie said.
‘I figured, when you ordered a family-sized pizza to your apartment the other day,’ Sunny laughed.
‘Hey! They were desperate times, my friend. If being dubbed Period Girl doesn’t call for a family-sized pizza, I don’t know what does.’
‘So, how’s your writing going?’ Sunny asked.
Frankie sipped at her wine and thought about telling him about the blog. He’d probably find it funny. Maybe another time. ‘Non-existent.’
‘Why? Come on, Frank. I read your last book. It was brilliant. Truly. And I hate romance fiction.’ Sunny smiled.
‘You read A Modern Austen? When?’
‘The day I found out you wrote it.’
Frankie’s heart quickened as she covered her face with a slice of pizza. ‘You didn’t, did you?’
Sunny put his hand on top of Frankie’s, gently pushing the pizza to the side. ‘You should be proud of your work. It was so good, Frankie. Really. Your writing, it’s like art.’
‘Don’t talk to me about art, Mr Art Director. These drawings, they’re actually amazing.’ Frankie gestured towards the sketches pinned up on the walls, trying to distract him, and herself.
‘They’re nothing. Just roughs. You should see my oil paintings,’ Sunny teased.
‘Your oil paintings? You’re full of surprises, Mr Day. Can I see them?’ Frankie asked.
‘Well, there’s one hanging in my bedroom that you might get to see later.’ Sunny winked.
Frankie’s heart began to race as her eyes flashed towards a door which loomed in the shadow of the short hallway leading off the living room. ‘So, these ideas,’ Frankie said, collecting herself. ‘You said you’ve pitched them to Organ Transplant Australia?’
‘Yeah, I’ve had a few meetings with them, and they loved the concept apparently. I have a good feeling about it all. Finally. They’ve been using facts and figures to try to engage with people for years, and it’s not working. I’ve been trying to get them to see that we need to move people. Really get them thinking, feeling. I’m hoping some captivating, big illustrations with emotional messaging tied in with true, bloody, graphic imagery will do the trick. It’s just a matter of them scraping together enough money to get the ball rolling. I’d do it for free, but it’s not cheap producing ads,’ Sunny said.
‘What’s the next step?’ Frankie asked.
‘Well, I met with the head of Transplant Australia the other night. Actually, just after you gave me my phone back,’ Sunny said with a smile. ‘That’s what the meeting at The National was all about. The woman I met with, the Marketing Director, seemed really keen. It was my first big breakthrough. We both got pretty excited.’
‘Ah, right,’ Frankie said, trying not to cringe at the memory of hiding in the bushes spying on him. ‘That’s great, Sunny. Really exciting.’ She couldn’t help but smile at seeing him so passionate, so alive.
‘Anyway,’ said Sunny, scooping up their empty plates, ‘it’s time for dessert!’
After eating one too many chocolate brownies, Sunny reclined on the bright red couch in his living room and watched Frankie thumb through his bookshelf, her fingers tracing lightly over each novel.
‘John Green, Rainbow Rowell, Cassandra Clare, Veronica Roth, Stephenie Meyer – you literally have the biggest collection of Young Adult books of anyone I know.’ Frankie laughed.
‘You are such a book snob,’ Sunny said, throwing a pillow at her.
‘I am not,’ she countered, tossing the pillow right back. ‘I just think there’s more to literature than Young Adult. Especially if you’re a thirty-two-year-old man.’
‘I disagree. I can give you five reasons right now why YA books are better than any other genre,’ Sunny said, stuffing the pillow underneath his head.
‘Okay, Mr Day. Five reasons, now. Go!’ Frankie challenged.
‘One: they’re literary treasures,’ Sunny started, which Frankie countered with a dismissive ‘Ha!’
‘Let me finish,’ Sunny said. ‘Too often YA gets disparaged by haughty book critics, such as the one in this room …’ Frankie rolled her eyes as Sunny continued, ‘which crushes my soul. Think award-winning books like Angie Thomas’s The Hate U Give or Lois Lowry’s The Giver. Are you telling me you don’t think highly of these brilliant, timeless books, Frankston?’
Before Frankie could answer, he went on. ‘Two: they’re trail blazers. I mean, Nevo Zisin in Finding Nevo wrote brilliantly about the intricacies of gender, religion and sexuality! Three: they comment on pop culture and current affairs – think Dear Martin by Nic Stone, about a kid who’s arrested for reasons he can’t grasp. Four: they’re aspirational and full of ambition, unlike the depressing books you like to read. And five: two words – Harry Potter.’ Sunny finished his speech with a bow of his head.
‘Wow,’ Frankie said.
‘Wow, what?’
‘I never thought someone’s passion for YA books could be so sexy.’ Frankie smiled.
‘So, does that mean you’ll read one?’ Sunny asked, one eyebrow raised.
‘Definitely not.’ She tried to hide her smirk as her eye caught something on the bottom shelf. ‘Oh! Here’s your copy of Winnie-the-Pooh.’ She picked out the book, more tattered than her copy, almost every page cornered over. It looked more loved than any book she had ever seen.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Frankie said, turning each page gently.
‘How is Winnie, anyway?’ Sunny asked.
‘He’s fine. He’s at home in his tank, probably feasting on turtle pellets. Cat insisted on babysitting tonight.’
‘She doesn’t mind being away from Claud?’
‘To be honest, I think she wanted to get away from him. Those two have been acting very strangely recently,’ Frankie said.
‘Probably the anxiety of expecting their first,’ Sunny offered.
Frankie slid the book back onto the bookshelf, pushing it in a little too hard. A photo frame from the top of the tall shelf came tumbling down, the glass shattering at her feet.
‘Shit, Sunny, I’m sorry!’ Frankie said, picking up the frame. And there, staring right back at her, was a photo of Hazel and Sunny, embracing in front of the Eiffel Tower.
‘Oh my God. I’m so, so sorry,’ Frankie repeated, kneeling to pick up pieces of glass.
‘Don’t pick them up with your hands, Frankie. I’ll grab a broom,’ Sunny said with a hint of gravity in his voice as he stood abruptly from the couch.
‘No, no, it’s okay, I’ve got it. I’ll do it.’ Frankie piled the shards carefully onto her hand, but not carefully enough—
‘Shit!’ she exclaimed as she cut her finger. She stuck it into her mouth and sucked.
‘Are you okay?’ Sunny asked, rushing over to her. ‘Let me see.’
‘I’m fine. I’m fine. It was just a light cut. I’m so sorry, Sunny. I had no idea that frame was there,’ Frankie said.
‘It’s fine,’ Sunny said, aloof.
Frankie apologised again, her voice quivering.
‘I’ll just get another photo frame. It’s not the end of the world,’ Sunny breathed.
‘I’m just so sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine what it was like to go through something like that. You don’t deserve it. Nobody does. I wish she was still in your life. So you wouldn’t have to date idiots like me because of some tragedy beyond your control.’
Sunny looked down at their legs, just touching at the knees. He ran his thumb along the seam of her dark blue jeans. ‘It’s not like that, Frankie,’ he mumbled, his eyes still averted. ‘I mean … losing Hazel was the worst time of my life. And I will tell you about it more, when I’m ready. But I’m not the sort of guy who settles. I would never get into a relationship with someone if I didn’t think they were anything but amazing. And I’ve thought you were amazing since you kissed my nose in the bookstore.’
Frankie’s body prickled with goosebumps. ‘Sorry,’ she uttered.
‘Frankie?’ he said gently.
‘You have to stop apologising for being you,’ Sunny said.
‘Can I kiss you instead?’ she asked.
‘Yes, that I’ll allow.’
Her cheeks grazed Sunny’s stubble as she leaned in and touched her lips to his. Sunny lifted Frankie off the floor and she wrapped her legs around his torso. She laughed into his neck as he carried her into his bedroom and put her gently on the bed. He kissed her again, with more fervour than he had before, and soon both their shirts were discarded on the floor. Sunny looked down at her and breathed in deeply. He moved his finger softly along the edge of Frankie’s bra strap, near her collarbone, but instead of pushing it off her shoulder like she expected him to, he continued to run his finger over her chest, tracing her constellation of freckles.
‘I really love hanging out with you,’ he whispered through kisses.
Frankie pulled away. Her heart skipped a beat, but no words formed in her head. So, she did the only thing she could think to do: she closed her eyes and pulled him into her arms.
Frankie lay next to a sleeping Sunny, allowing herself to be soothed by his shallow breaths. She looked over at him and grinned, stroking her hand lightly through his messy hair, the curlier pieces at the base of his neck flexing beneath her fingers. Frankie hadn’t felt like this in a long time. In fact, maybe ever. There was something so intimate, so exceptional, about what had just happened between them. With Ads she always felt so secure, so confident in what was to come, but with Sunny it was different. He was full of surprises, each one better than the last. She peered over at the clock on the bedside table beside her, sitting next to a copy of her book. 1.12am. She couldn’t sleep. She looked at Sunny’s beautiful oil painting, hanging on the wall in front of her. Its colours formed what looked like the Melbourne skyline, but instead of buildings, it was made of tall trees. At the bottom of the painting, in thick black letters, were the words, Can’t we just start at the beginning and do it again?
Frankie sighed and smiled. A part of her couldn’t help but wonder whether the words, the whole painting, were about Hazel. She couldn’t stop thinking about the beautiful, auburn-haired girlfriend – and felt such a pang of sadness for Sunny, but also a twinge of jealousy. How could Sunny ever love her more than he loved Hazel? Not that they were ready for love yet; not even close.
Frankie rolled onto her side, peering over the edge of the bed. She brushed her hand along the carpet, feeling for her phone. Finding it entangled in the strap of her bra, she pulled it towards her and switched it on.
Cat: Can I feed the turtle chocolate? PS Have you slept together yet? x
Frankie: No and yes. xx
Frankie clicked open Mail. Sitting at the very top of her inbox was a new email with the subject: I found your copy of Man’s Search for Meaning on the train.
Frankie gulped and read the email. It was good. Very good. He would make great material for her blog. Frankie looked over at Sunny sleeping calmly beside her, and felt a twang of guilt. She had found someone she really, truly liked. And wasn’t that the whole point of her train experiment? Shouldn’t she end it all now, before anyone got hurt? But her blog was starting to gain momentum. She now had a couple of thousand subscribers, and a local indie e-magazine had reposted her last entry, captioning it: ‘Reading between the lines … Literally! Ever heard of speed dating on trains? “Book Ninja” leaves her favourite paperbacks on trains in search of “the one”.’ She was almost too afraid to believe it, but something inside her said this could be the stepping stone to getting back into writing. Her blog was no longer about finding love, and more about finding a new career. Before she had time to change her mind, Frankie quickly wrote back to the man at the other end of the email.
I’d love to meet. Where suits you?
Scarlett (AKA Frankie).
It’s not a real date, she told herself. I’m not going into it looking for love – just good content for my blog. It’s fine. Totally fine. She heard Sunny shift in his sleep, and she pushed away the shame.