.
Ged and his friends watch Lauchlan’s evolution from competitive d***head to caring gentleman while Ged checks his possible misogyny.
–––
It’s Saturday morning and I’m ecstatic with relief. For days I’ve been hearing reports of how the swell is going to be huge (dude), and I’ve promised myself, again and again, that this weekend I will not chicken-out. Which means I’ll be throwing myself down some horrible waves with all my mates watching. Or worse, and far more likely, pulling back off the waves at the last minute, with all my mates watching.
“Did you get a receipt for that hypnotherapy?” I can hear them asking already. “I thought you said you’d been practicing?”
But hooray, there is a deity. It turns out the swell is strictly East-North-East and so Bondi is pretty flat. I have another week to practice before revealing my lack of progress. We could drive down to Maroubra, of course, but we never do. Instead, at a dull and overcast seven a.m., four of us lean against the rails above the rain-mottled sand and debate whether even to get changed.
“Aw, there’s always a wave if you look hard enough” I say, keen to try the over-crowded and tiny swell down at the southern end.
“I don’t know” says Michael. “It was raining all night, the water will be full of dog-shit and litter.”
“And I had a big night” says Tom, inviting questions that never come. “Maybe we should just go and have breakfast?”
Andrew is suddenly alert, staring along the pavement above the beach.
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Andrew disagrees with his flat-mate for once. We’re here now, he says, we might as well get wet. This leaves Lauchlan, whenever he turns up, with the deciding vote. I ask if anyone’s heard from him, but Michael and Tom shake their heads in a vague early-morning kind of way. Andrew, on the other hand, is suddenly alert. He’s stood himself upright, the breeze off the ocean bothering his hair, his fine Greek profile staring along the pavement above the beach.
“Check this out” he says, unclear if it’s an instruction to himself or us.
The three of us turn but I’m the last to see what he means. Only once Michael has whistled slowly and Tom has taken a loud gasp do I see the red-head walking slowly towards us. Despite the grey weather she’s wearing a light summer dress which keeps blowing up to show her impressive legs. When the wind presses the light cotton print against her, it’s difficult, even at this distance, not to appreciate her figure. She’s lost, or maybe she’s looking for someone, turning her head left and right, one hand up to keep her hair from her lightly-freckled face. Then, as we watch, enter Lauchlan, stage left. He’s been running, and now he shouts and she turns and suddenly they’re in each others arms, a long slow kiss sealing them together.
Something tells me we’re not going surfing.
◊♦◊
She’s not pretty, she’s beautiful, and on top of that she’s utterly sexy.
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It’s another minute before Lauchie spots us and pulls the beautiful red-head by the hand along the pavement. This is long enough for me to work out she must be Annia, the Swedish girlfriend none of us has met yet. But it’s not long enough, apparently, for the other three to pull themselves together. They’re still swearing intermittently under their breath, maybe there’s a joke I didn’t quite catch. For Annia is, on closer inspection, stunningly pretty. No, that’s not true. She’s not pretty, she’s beautiful, and on top of that she’s utterly sexy. You don’t often see people like this in real life, at least I don’t. Her skin makes you want to reach out and touch it.
It’s great watching what a good woman does to a man, the way they soften him and turn down the testosterone.
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I have to admit, I love meeting my mates’ girlfriends. There’s a real thrill when a bloke you’re fond of meets a girl he’s nuts about. I remember when Michelle arrived on the scene, it felt like Michael’s story had just reached the ‘And They All Lived Happily Ever After’ part. (Apologies if that sounds clunky, but it reads better than “It felt like she was his happy-ending”). Tom’s girlfriends never stick around for long, but they’re always charming and fun to be around, and I really like each of Andrew’s ex-wives. What’s great is watching what a good woman does to a man, the way they soften him and turn down the testosterone. You can see the evolution from Competitive Dickhead to Caring Gentleman take place before your eyes (it rarely lasts, but then fatherhood comes along and sorts it all out again). Annia’s effect on Lauchlan is apparently no exception and, of course, she has the added advantage of being someone you want to stare at.
◊♦◊
She’s very polite and puts out a hand for each of us to shake. She tells Andrew she’s heard so much about him and is still telling him this, still smiling and chatting with him, as her hand makes its way round to me. I’m impatient, I admit, for a bit of her undivided attention. But also, I have a rule about not shaking the hand of someone who’s not even looking at me. So I wait, her deliciously slim fingers hovering in the space between us, until she notices what’s happening.
“This is Ged” says Lauchie. “My oldest and closest friend.”
Aha, it must be love. When you fall in love, the words ‘best friend’ disappear for all but the object of your affection. I’ve seen this happen before and I’m happy for it. (The current Mr Gillmore – fourteen years together this week! – is certainly my best friend, even if he’ll never be my best mate. Other than in the biological sense of course). Now Annia looks at me. I move to shake her hand but, before I can, she retracts it slowly and gives me a long slow look up and down. So that’s why they call it a dry bath.
‘Hello Ged’ she says.
I only speak about five phrases of Swedish (“hello”, “goodbye”, “squeeze it harder”) and am keen to make a good impression.
“Trévligt att rå´kas” I say.
“Sorry, what?”
My God, she’s gorgeous. When she frowns, she looks like one of those luscious fifties cartoons which even I find a turn on. I try my phrase again, a bit quieter this time. I wish I hadn’t started this.
‘Oh!’ she says, laughing suddenly. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand. It’s just, you’re pronunciation is so…. shit.”
She looks around at the others until they laugh too and Michael hits me on the arm and calls me a dick. Fair enough.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re up the road at our normal café squeezing around our normal table – me and Tom already sitting, Michael edging between the table and the wall, Andrew genetically incapable of bending his knees until all women within the same post-code are seated – when Annia lets out a little cry.
“Oh I can’t sit here” she says. “It’s too claustrophobic. Let’s all sit outside.”
When the older blokes see the trick – send in the pretty girl to get the favour for five strong men – they are not impressed.
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Outside is tough, the café prefers to seat couples out there with a fast coffee turnaround. But Annia is out the front already, flirting sweetly with some older blokes sat between two not-yet-cleared tables. They edge up awkwardly so the six of us can squeeze into a space for four. When the older blokes see the trick – send in the pretty girl to get the favour for five strong men – they are not impressed. I smile apologetically but they don’t smile back.
“So, Annia,” I say down the table, “whereabouts in Sweden are you from?”
“Why do you ask?”
I don’t know. Why do we ever ask that? Making polite conversation I suppose. But with five pairs of eyes staring at me I come up with a stupid true-but-false answer.
“I used to recruit a lot in Sweden” I say. “Thought I might have been there.”
She laughs her lovely laugh again.
“Let me guess. You’ve been to Stockholm, and Gothenburg, and – ooh, wild and crazy – maybe even Malmo. So you think you know a country bigger than Spain?”
My open-mouthed hesitation shows she’s bang-on target and once again all around are laughing at me. Except for the two older men to my left. They’re still not smiling, and the one next to me adjusts himself to make it clear who owns the seat.
◊♦◊
I’m not going to drag this out. There are three more opportunities for me to make polite conversation with the beautiful Annia and on each occasion she turns the situation into one where I’m being revealed as an idiot. Eventually I give up – who am I trying to impress anyway? – and let the others make her laugh. She compliments them on their knowledge of Sweden and its language (Tom: “I’ve always wanted to go to Copenhagen”) and she tells them how she’s heard what wonderful surfers they all are. “Apart from Ged of course.” Cue general laughter.
I’m halfway through a joke to Andrew when I next hear her speak. Jokes aren’t generally funny in my opinion, real life is far more amusing. But this is a joke-telling crowd and it’s a new one to me. One of those convoluted stories that allows for accents and gestures and funny little asides. Quite unintentionally, by the time I’m nearly finished, the whole table is listening. Even the two old blokes to my left. I’m just building up to the punch-line (“And so the other blokes says what shall I wear?”), friends and strangers hanging on my every word, when Annia says:
“Oh Lauchie, let’s go home and have sex.”
Oh! Hand over mouth and eyes so wide, did she say that loud enough for everyone to hear? There’s general uproar around the table until Annia pulls Lauchie to his feet – she didn’t like her breakfast so she won’t contribute to the bill, we can explain to the waitress – and drags him out and away.
“Wow” says Andrew, once they’ve left and he can sit down again. “What a woman.”
“Fantastic” says Michael.
“Best yet” says Tom.
I say nothing.
◊♦◊
But I don’t get away with it that easily. The next day Lauchie phones. What did I think of her, isn’t she great? Isn’t she witty and fun and smart and loveable? Which leaves me in a bit of a quandary really, because I pride myself on being honest and upfront, especially with my best mate. But what I think of Annia is that she’s halfway between a nightmare and a silly cow. I don’t like either of those phrases and test myself for misogyny. What if she’d been a man, what would I think then? Well, if she’d been a man, I’d think she was a perineum (halfway between an arsehole and a word they won’t publish here) so maybe it’s fair enough.
“She’s wonderful” I say down the phone. “Mate, I’m so happy for you.”
Because that’s what you do about your best friend’s girlfriend. Nothing. Nothing at all.
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Because that’s what you do about your best friend’s girlfriend. Nothing. Nothing at all. Maybe it was me, I know I can come across as a bit of a smart-arse, maybe that handshake thing was a bit strong. She’s fine, I’m sure. I’m bound to get to like her in time.
And if not?
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Photo Credit: Getty Images
Thanks guys – I’m going to go with diplomacy for now. It takes two to tango!
It sounds like she targeted you on purpose. Other than being self centered (a lot of beautiful women are so used to getting their way that they don’t even notice that they are inconvinienting other people), it sounds like she might feel threatened by your friendship to her new boyfriend.
One meeting is too early to tell if she really sucks, but i agree with you- you cannot tell them their partner sucks. You can be there to put the broken parts together after an unhappy-ending or go your own way if they stay together. I
I never understand people who enter a situation and work to make others (in this case, just you) uncomfortable. I am sorry that happened and even more sorry that it was connected to someone who is your best mate. Good luck and keep your mouth shut. Honesty means crap when it comes to new love. But don’t be too gushing either because then the question is when can you be trusted.
Hi Will, I hear you and normally I always prioritise honesty. But in the past it’s damaged friendships…over partners who’ve not stuck around. Sometimes I think honesty is a poorer cousin to diplomacy. I’d guess it comes down to when the bad partner outweighs the original good friend.
Hi,
I don’t know, but being so completely shut down by a “silly cow” wouldn’t be a very flattering reflection of your own intelligence, would it? 😉
Perhaps, instead of the name-calling, you could have agreed that she very possibly was “witty and fun and smart” etc, but that she for some reason didn’t seem to like you? (But this could probably escalate quite ugly too.) Then again, maybe you came off as just trying a bit too hard to begin with?
Then again again, I am swedish so I know most of what you are talking about.
I know exactly the situation you’re talking about. But I told it straight: “I don’t like her.” It didn’t hurt that I was in a non-nuclear friendship with the guy (Different friend circles for the most part). I see saying nothing as the easy (and dishonest) way out. Lying by omission is still lying.
For the same reason that you should tell someone who has asked your opinion that no, they DON’T look good in that shirt etc… because your friendship is stronger than some silly Swedish bimbo and part of that is based on your honesty to each other.