Page 48 of When Lemons Give You Life

“And I thought I’d seen every trick in the book! Prosthetics, hey, Griff? I’m impressed.”

“I’m busy at the moment, sorry.”

“I can see that. I’m good at getting busy.”

I hesitate. “Patricia, I should tell you . . . I’m gay.”

“And your point is?” she asks, glaring unashamedly at my “point.” “I’ve never let that stop me before. I almost married a gay man once—a lavender marriage, they call it. Fabulous dancer, he was. You’re the youngest man here by far. With youth comes . . . flexibility!” She pouts and swirls her long gray strands in her fingers as she approaches me. “You know, I’m considering getting a bob cut like Eileen. What do you think? You’ve always had such great taste.”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask the hairdresser?”

“Because I can’t afford to go.” She sighs. “My daughter’s restricted all access to my account. Said I have an online shopping addiction. Apparently, six kaftans, a sequined blazer and a novelty handbag shaped like a lobster qualify as ‘excessive.’ Anyway, I must be off, it’s time for Neighbours.” She blows me a kiss and exits, leaving me to my project.

Once the idea of making a dummy comes to me, I waste no time. Sewing is something that’s always come naturally; maybe that’s why I’m so good at trussing a chicken. Beau and I wore the same size clothes, but he was taller. He had a beloved pair of brown corduroy pants from Harrods in London that he’d bought shortly before we met. After a rare fight, I drank too much and secretly took the hem up so they would fit me. Even when I was at the bottom of a bottle of merlot, my stitches were impressive. After months of malnutrition, the pants are far too big for me now.

Grabbing the scrappiest beige tablecloth from the op-shop pile and a fistful of sewing supplies from the craft box, I spread out the corduroy pants and my least favorite shirt, trace a rough outline in pencil, and soon stitch together a limp silhouette. Spare pillows from my cupboard provide the stuffing.

“Breathe in, Cliff,” I urge my stunt double, as I squish him into the clothes. Positioning him in the bed facing the wall, I pull the comforter over him, placing Walt’s fake hand in full view.

I plonk down on the bed and readjust Cliff’s head. It’s missing something: hair. I look at my own meager locks in the mirror; I’m down to essential strands only. But thanks to her recent visit, I know someone who has plenty and wants to get rid of them.

They say there are Fifty Shades of Gray, yet Patricia and I have the exact same one. I hurry to her room, scissors in hand.

“Oooh, changed your mind, have you, Griff?”

“No, Patricia. I was just wondering if you’d like me to cut your hair. For free, of course.”

She scans me up and down. “Are you any good?”

“Yes, my cutting skills are world class. I’ve won awards.” Surely cutting hair can’t be that different to cutting spring onions or micro herbs? “If you don’t like it, then I’ll pay for you to go to the real hairdresser.”

“Okay then.”

She sits in the plastic shower chair in her ensuite, and I chop off half her locks in one straight line and pocket them. The cut is slightly crooked but could be worse . . .

She stands, catching sight of herself in the mirror. Her mouth falls open as she runs a hand through her new do. “How did you . . . I . . . ?”

I brace for a slap.

Instead she approaches me, arms outstretched. “You amazing man, you’ve taken ten years off!” she gushes, staring at her reflection in the same way Beau used to look at me. “You should have become a hairdresser, you know!”

I resist the urge to tell her that according to my stolen résumé, I was one for twenty years.

She leans in, lips puckered. Before I can duck, she grabs my cheeks, and, for the first time since Lucy Robinson at the junior prom, I’m kissing a woman.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go on a date, Griff?” she asks as I pull away.

“I’m sure. Sorry, Patricia. My heart’s closed for business.”

Her face twists in mock offense as she walks off, her neck making some alarming cracking sounds. With her new cut, she kind of resembles a gray-haired Bob Dylan—if Dylan had saggy boobs, that is. She did say she wanted a “bob” cut.

But she is delighted, and that makes me glad.

I return to my room, where I remove the chopped ponytail and glue the strands over the dummy’s scalp. The top of the head and blank face still look a bit odd, though. An old footy beanie and a blindfold later, and I think we have a winner.

Being me, I have to take it to the next level. Gladys was happy to give me her granddaughter’s discarded koala toy, which the child had refused to take home. The thing expands in and out like it’s breathing. I pop it under the shirt, and even I think Cliff is real for a minute.

For the pièce de résistance, I remove Beau’s old briefcase from my cupboard. The smell of the faded leather conjures joy and grief all at once. It used to double up as an overnight bag. How many times have I got out this case to pack for weekends away? Now, instead of me taking it on a journey, it’s taking me to a place that I’d give anything to return to: a world in which he breathed.