Page 1 of Not Your Shoe Size

Chapter 1

It's a funny thing that people are always ready to admit it if they've no talent for drawing or music, whereas everyone imagines that they themselves are capable of true love, which is a talent like any other, only far more rare.

-Nancy Mitford, Christmas Pudding

Love has no other desire but to fulfil

itself.

But if you love and must needs have

desires, let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook

that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

-Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Kate McGrath was sitting on the 86 tram when Tyler’s message came. It had been a strange day. A dreary morning full of meetings had folded into a tepid afternoon of coffee and emails. Kate caught the tram in a daze, staring out of the greasy window without seeing any of the colour and concrete of Melbourne. When she arrived in the city, she’d been a penniless, small town teenager and the skyscrapers and packed streets had felt as unknowable as the ocean. Now everything that could be seen had already been seen a thousand times. Her phone buzzed and Kate was sure it was her boyfriend telling her he was working late or couldn’t pick up dinner. Another mildly irritating thing at the end of a mildly irritating day. Then she read Tyler Henderson’s message and it slapped her awake like an icy wave.

Daddy’s very disappointed in you, baby. Put on your pretty nightdress and wait for me in your bedroom. I’m going to teach you a lesson.

Kate’s mood changed so suddenly it was like she’d become an entirely different person. Gone was her faint disappointment in the day’s events, the plastic glaze over her attention. Her pulse raced; her breathing jacked up. She felt utterly alert, a small animal freshly aware of a predator.

Her daddy was angry, and he was going to make her pay.

She glanced around to see if any of her fellow straphangers had noticed her shift from absent to electrified. They hadn’t. An elderly woman was nodding off at the back of the carriage and a few guys in football jumpers were playing with a nerf ball, oblivious to anything but their game.

Students, she thought, until one turned and revealed he was in his early thirties or older. She squinted and realisedallthe guys were in their thirties, though they were laughing and shoving each other like teenagers as they bounced the ball on the floor and off the tram walls. Kate glared at them.

Grow up,she thought, then pressed a hand to her mouth. Grow up? Who in God’s name was she to tell anyone to grow up? No one had less of a right to tell people to do that than her. She’d worn hair ribbons and slept with a teddy and pretended she didn’t know how taxes worked until she was twenty-five. And even now she wore pencil skirts and refused to play the ingenue in public, her entire sexual aesthetic was built around acting naive and helpless. In pretending to be a little girl for daddy.

What’s wrong with me?she thought as a guy dove low to catch the ball and his friends cheered.I’m twenty-nine, when did I become such a bitter old bag?

No sooner had she asked than a strange feeling hooked behind her navel. An internal tugging, like the wind working on dandelion seeds.

What?She asked, but no answer came. The sensation hovered, stirring and pulling, impatient for something unknown. Kate folded her arms over her stomach, hugging herself tight. She first felt this way a month ago, sitting at Shanghai dumplings with her roller derby team. The Barbie Trolls had just won their third championship, and everyone was drinking and laughing and cramming down barbecue pork buns. Kate had tried to keep up with her teammates, to mirror their good mood, but she was celebrating behind a sheet of frosted glass. No matter how much she drank and laughed and hugged everyone, she didn’t feel like she was there.

She told herself it was anticlimax, the melancholy of her own unrealistic expectations, but two days later the tugging sensation returned. She was sitting at her desk, typing up a report and perfectly fine and suddenly she’d felt so bored she’d wanted to run from the room screaming. She couldn’t understand it. She’d never felt this way, even as a kid, and her childhood could roundly be described as ‘shithouse.’ But nothing was shithouse about her life now—it was wonderful. She had a job and friends and a gorgeous apartment and a boyfriend so perfect she’d never even dared to dream of him. It wasn’t right to be restless. To want more than she had. It wasn’t fair.

A shout made Kate look up. The guys were now bouncing the ball against the tram ceiling, laughing manically. One of them shouted something, and after a moment of confusion, she realised he’d spoken a different language. German, possibly. She looked closer and realised they were all carrying backpacks, piled into the tram corner while they played their game. They must be tourists. Maybe strangers who’d bonded over their shared language. Maybe a gang of friends exploring a new city. Her navel ached; the tugging was so intense she felt like a hooked fish.

What?She demanded.Do you want to play handball? Go to Germany? Eat a bratwurst? What?

She willed the answer to materialise, but there was no reply. She had an internal dial tone. She unclenched her teeth and unlocked her phone so she could reread Ty’s message. The sight of it made her insides heat. What game would they play tonight? She had no way of knowing. Even though they were almost five years into their relationship, she still couldn’t predict Tyler Henderson. He had a limitless imagination and he role-played like it was his job.

Daddy’s very disappointed in you, baby.

What would they pretend she’d done? Whatever imaginary transgression Ty had cooked up, he was undoubtedly going to spank her for it. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d tie her to the bed, wrap her hair around his fist, and force her to give him a blow job. Kate closed her eyes, picturing the scene. What would she wear? The pink negligee or the silk baby blue pyjamas? Strange how sex changed plans. A few minutes ago, all she’d wanted was to put the kettle on and eat peanut butter from the jar; now she couldn’t wait to shower and get into bed hungry.

It wouldn’t be her real bed, though. Not the king with dove grey sheets she shared with Ty. This bed was tiny, lacy, and pink. The bed Kate’s little girl self slept in. A year ago, she’d decorated the spare room as a surprise for Ty. He’d come home from a trip to Queensland to find it styled in a mishmash of teen nostalgia and the hyper feminine, frills and band posters and teddies. Now it was their playroom, a soft, pretty place where they could explore the dark edges of their sexualities.

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