Read Online Stray Love by Kyo Maclear - Free Book Online Page A

living room, stuffing themselves on what I soon discovered were Polish dumplings her sister, Stasha, had made. There was loud crashing piano playing on the stereo. A woman in a long orange dress put a bowl of food in my hand and led me to an empty spot on the cushiony rug. Beside me, a man and woman were having a conversation about something called “chance paintings.” The man poured himself some wine and drank it in one gulp. The woman talking was dressed in a striped satin bathrobe. “What I’ve done,” she explained, “is I’ve randomly stained bedsheets with ink and marbles—”
    Just at that moment, the music stopped. I turned towardsthe stereo and saw Oliver fumbling with a cord that had caught around his ankle. The man sitting cross-legged beside me closed his eyes and bobbed his head back and forth to the silence.
    I loved Stasha’s friends—their theatrical clothes and strange relationship to furniture—but it was clear to me that Oliver did not. He walked around clumsily, grimacing, as if there were tiny rocks in his shoes. After an hour, he retreated to a back wall. I looked for Pippa, who was gliding effortlessly from conversation to conversation, her eyes sparkling, her warm skin glistening. I watched the way she made a party seem like something good and fun. Then I turned towards Oliver, seated alone on a piano bench. Finally, with a sigh, I dragged myself over to join him.
    I could barely admit it to myself but I was beginning to feel ashamed of him. He had chosen to wear a tie, a cardigan and an ugly tweed jacket. For the first time I wondered what Pippa could possibly see in him. I had noticed that her sister, Stasha, could hardly stand his presence. When we arrived, she had flicked her fur stole at him in a dismissive greeting, and then proceeded to give him the cold shoulder.
    Why couldn’t Oliver be more with it? Why couldn’t I have been adopted by the man with the tight velvet pants, the one who called himself “Ben"?
    I saw Pippa heading in our direction. She thumped down between us.
    “You’re a bit mopey this evening, Oliver. Everyone has been asking about the ‘sad bookkeeper’ on the piano bench. What’s wrong? Crowd not to your liking?”
    “No,” he said bitterly. “Frankly, Pippa, I think they’re full of shit.”
    I don’t remember falling asleep at the party. They must have carried me home. But later I awoke to the sound of arguing. I placed my ear to the wall.
    “How can you be so sure of everything?”
    “I’m
not
sure.”
    “But you act that way—as if anything that doesn’t settle into your view of what’s important is meaningless.”
    “I’m sorry, Pippa. But those people were complete phonies.”
    “Since when are you an expert on art?”
    “I’m not saying I’m an expert.”
    “That jacket, Oliver. Please take it off. It’s horrible.”
    “I tried to be open-minded.”
    “Then you can keep trying. Please, Oliver. We must agree to bend for each other. Promise me you’ll try a little harder.” She said this in a sweet and patient voice that made it clear she was feeling extra impatient.
    There was a little silence before he said, “If I must. If you insist.”
    And he did try. I found his tweed jacket folded in the rubbish bin the next morning. Over the next few days, he asked for Pippa’s opinion on Lamaism and Palmistry, the importance of good posture as an aid to digestion, and other topics he knew were of recent interest to her.
    Occasionally, she would stop whatever it was she was saying or doing and stare off into a corner, as if she could see someone there, and he put up with this too.
    W E DO TRY FOR THOSE WE GROW TO LOVE , don’t we. This morning, for example, I walked into the living room to find Iris playing dead.
    “It’s not playing dead. It’s called
corpse pose.
It’s the most important posture in all of yoga. What I’m
doing,”
she says, pausing for dramatic effect, “is rehearsing my death.”
    “Lovely,” I say,