Eat Me by Linda Jaivin Page A

Chantal’s face and exposing his little arsehole to her view. Then he curled happily onto Philippa’s lap and began purring loudly. Philippa made clucky noises and tickled Bernard behind his wispy ears. He closed his eyes and arched his neck. You’d almost swear he was smiling.
    Some men are like that, reflected Chantal. Complete bastards to you and perfect pets to the next woman. Why did she always seem to catch them on the first half of the cycle?
    She recalled that first night with Bram as though it were yesterday. When they’d reached the fringes of Darlinghurst, he had led her without speaking into a side street crammed with ramshackle terraces, and then down the narrow steps of one to a cramped basement flat. The lounge had a makeshift kitchen in one corner, a sofa with several springs poking through the upholstery, and messy stacks of books and vinyl records. The other room featured a bed, snail trails of dirty laundry on the floor, a low table on which sat a makeshift bong and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The only other furniture was a wooden folding chair. The whole place stank of stale smoke, mould and sweat. Bram opened the ancient fridge and ferreted in it for two bottles of beer. Opening them with a practised gesture on the edge of the counter, he handed one to her and ambled without further comment into the bedroom. She noticed he left the bottlecaps where they lay on the floor.
    â€˜Well?’ Philippa scratched Bernard’s tummy. The purring rose to a crescendo. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me anything?’
    Chantal narrowed her eyes and sighed. ‘I’m not sure, darling. What do you want to know?’
    â€˜All about last night, of course. But I’m also curious about how you and Bram got together in the first place. You’ve always been most secretive about that.’
    â€˜Oh, darling, it hardly bears thinking about. He dragged me home to his wretched little hovel after a reading of his that I’d attended. I remember my first reaction was, like, could I live like this? And my second was, Jesus, I haven’t even slept with him and I’m already fretting about the housekeeping. Next up I’d be worrying about whether this is really the best place to raise our family. I do so hate it when I discover I’m conforming to stereotype.’
    Philippa laughed. ‘Don’t we all.’
    â€˜Mmmm.’
    Philippa waited patiently for Chantal to continue. But behind her RayBans, Chantal had closed her eyes and was back in memory land.
    She’d followed Bram as far as the doorway. He sat down on the bed, cross-legged, and rolled a joint. What am I doing here, she wondered. Is this really what I want? To be seduced without ceremony, or romance, or even the pretence of either? She was nervous, and excited, and a little peeved as well, more with herself than him. Peering at him over her beer, she lingered indecisively, leaning on the doorframe.
    He took a puff and held it out to her. ‘Come here, little girl,’ he said, patting the bed next to him.
    â€˜Natasha,’ she said, her voice coming out in a whisper. She felt humiliated. He hadn’t even asked her name. ‘My name’s Natasha. And I’m not that little.’
    She looked down at her feet. Her face felt flushed.
    â€˜Come here, Natasha.’
    Still she didn’t budge. He shrugged and took another puff.
    In her fantasies he’d tried a bit harder to win her. In her fantasies, he had pretended to be interested in her own poetry. In her fantasies, he had at least asked her name before he asked her home.
    As Philippa studied her friend, an awful thought occurred to her. ‘You weren’t,’ she said, breaking into Chantal’s thoughts, ‘you know, a virgin or anything, were you?’
    â€˜Sorry?’ Chantal looked momentarily lost. ‘Oh, God no. No, no. I’d had several boys by then. Boys our age.’
    â€˜Oh, of