‘No, it is. I like where it’s going. Keep going,’ I tell him, sipping my wine, then excitedly tucking my hands under my legs, and sitting on them. James eats the food off his fork.
‘Okay. So Brett has to find someone to give us a lift back to Seattle, and…I don’t know. That’s enough about my Double R Diner story. What about you? Tell me about you. Did you go to Mosman High? You look familiar.’
‘No.’
I adore him, and love his story, even if he thinks it fizzled out and didn’t really go anywhere. In fact it’s the most beautiful story that didn’t go anywhere that I’ve ever heard.
‘I grew up around and about,’ I say, feeling more and more comfortable in his presence. ‘Mainly in Glebe. Where do you live?’
‘I’m actually living on a boat at the moment. Bit illegal. Maybe?’ He gives me a cheeky grin.
‘Wow! In Sydney?’
Please live in Sydney. Please live in Sydney.
‘Yeah, it’s moored up in Pittwater. It’s my parents’ boat, and…I don’t know, I travel quite a bit with work, so it kind of suits me to have a boat as my house. Is that weird?’
‘I like weird,’ I tell him. ‘But that’s not weird. I mean, it’s the kind of weird I love.’
We sit quietly for a moment while he eats and ingests my love of weirdness. Then my mind conjures up the worst-case scenario—I imagine him on his yacht in his pyjamas with his girlfriend in a bikini diving off the front of the boat, and then James diving in after her and swimming up to her and pashing her like crazy.
‘Bit lonely on there sometimes, though,’ he says, looking into my eyes as though he’s a little boy.
‘Oh, you live by yourself?’
‘By myself. How ’bout you? Do you—’
‘By myself. I don’t have a boyfriend.’ Joni, you idiot.
‘I haven’t had a girlfriend for a while. This feels like a date. Does this feel like a date to you? In…a good way?’
Oh my god, I love that he thinks this feels like a date.
‘Um…sort of.’
Juliet bursts into the room through the back door.
‘Guys! My Pines people are coming through. No smoking, no swearing, no stripping!’
I look at James, feeling responsible for Juliet’s outfit, hair-do and humour. Although that was pretty funny. James chuckles, and gives me a who is this nutcase look.
I take James’s empty plate and coffee cup up to the bench.
‘Thank you,’ he says, following me up.
I stand beside him, and try to lean into him a little bit. I wobble over, holding onto one of his shoulders. He puts his arm around my waist, just for the tiniest splice of a moment, and I smell his smell. Not aftershave, but his smell.
I inhale him, and I can’t get enough. I feel like holding him in my arms for hours. Cocooning myself in his strong body and looking into his funny face, listening to stories about Diane and cherry pie.
The corporate-looking group from the Pines walk into the Bar Room one by one. Gone is the perfect make-up. Gone are the perfect postures. Instead, it’s all rosy cheeks and slouchy stumbles, followed by the sound of handbags falling off shoulders. I look at James.
‘Do you want to come with me?’ he asks quietly.
‘Where?’
We’re whispering like kids in a dark cupboard playing hide-and-seek.
‘I want to take some long-exposure photos tonight. Maybe down at the wharf. End of Darling Street. Is that weird? Me asking you to come along?’
‘No. That’s not weird, even though…’
‘…you like weird.’ He finishes my sentence and we look into each other’s eyes and I feel like I’ve found him. I’ve found my guy.
‘Yes. I’d love to come with you,’ I tell him, the rumble and chatter of the Pines crowd passing through the room bubbling away in the background.
‘Let’s go now. Shall we? Or do you have to stay and clean up?’
‘Let me check with Lucy.’
20
Walking through Harland in search of Lucy, I smile at everything I see. The cuckoo clock in Lillibon, the old gold cash register on the hallway sideboard, the fireplace in Gatsby. When I enter the Red Room, there’s no Lucy, just Polly and Annabelle, deep in conversation. I study Annabelle closely. Her puffed-up bleached blonde hair. Her pale skin, blue eyes—like sapphires. She’s leaning one elbow on the table, and her brow is furrowed as she quietly confesses something or other to Polly. The longer I look at her, the louder becomes the voice inside my head, telling me that, finally, someone has picked me.
James just asked me to go somewhere with him, and he didn’t ask you to go anywhere with him, and he didn’t tell you anything about the Double R Diner, and he didn’t put his arm around your waist, but he kind of put his arm around mine, and…
‘Joni!’ Annabelle calls to me warmly, reaching her arm out, inviting me to hold her hand. ‘I just told Polly everything about me and Johnny, and how he broke up with me over the phone today.’
‘I’m not going to print it, of course,’ Polly tells me, although I bet she will.
‘I told Polly how you and I met at my second live show ever.’
‘That’s so cool,’ Polly says, placing her fork in line with the knife on her empty plate.
‘Yeah, we’re such good friends,’ I tell Polly.
‘The best,’ gushes Annabelle.
Stretching my arm out, I take Annabelle’s hand. We hold tight. I know this grip so well. But I’m only vaguely absorbing what they’re saying, ’cause I’m overwhelmed by the mysterious chemistry that’s developing between me and James.
‘Can I get you guys some dessert?’ I ask them.
‘I’m right, thanks,’ Annabelle says.
‘I’m full to the brim. Right up to here.’ Polly puts on a silly face and points to the top of her forehead.
And then the dingle of the bells on the front door brings with it the smell of Lucy’s perfume, and I let go of Annabelle’s hand. ‘I just need to ask Lucy something. You two carry on.’
Polly looks at Annabelle. ‘Okay. So, your next record. Have you started writing for that yet? Or are you still in touring mode?
I leave them be.
‘Lucy,’ I say quietly, putting my hand on her shoulder.
Together we walk into Gatsby. The room is people-free. Only chairs, and tables with empty, stained coffee cups on them. Lucy busies herself with tidying up.
‘How is everything going out there?’ she asks.
‘Really good,’ I tell her excitedly. ‘James just asked me to hang out with him. Tonight! He’s wondering if I can knock off now.’
‘What!’ Lucy’s face lights up.
‘I know! Can you believe it?’
‘Oh my god. Yes. Finish up now. I’ll clean up.’
‘Really?’
‘Oui.’
She reaches out to me and hugs me tight. Then she holds my shoulders firmly, and stares intensely into my eyes. ‘The only way to love is deeply and completely. So much so that one begins to experience a sense of madness. For all true lovers know that there is no love without madness.’
I’m mesmerised by her passionate words. Her French accent. Her emphasis on the word madness.
‘That’s beautiful. Did you make that up?’
‘No. Maman used to say it to me whenever I met a new boy I liked. She was extremely dramatic. We clashed. Too similar.’
James wanders into Gatsby, hands in his pockets. I smile at him.
‘You two heading off now?’ Lucy says, as though she’s my mum.
‘Ah, yeah,’ James tells her casually. ‘I might just say goodbye to Polly and Annabelle before we go.’
‘Me too.’
‘I’m just wondering…’ Lucy says, leading us into the Red Room. Polly and Annabelle look up towards her.
‘I’m just wondering,’ Lucy repeats, ‘if Polly and James might like to join us at the staff dinner this Wednesday night. We have caterers coming. There’ll be plenty of
food. And, you know, you’ve come all the way from London, Polly. And James, it would be lovely to have you here. Could be nice to get a few photos during the night. I can pay you, of course.’
I can’t believe she’s helping me out like this.
Lucy continues, ‘We have a sit-down dinner, and a little dancing, and cocktails—lots of wine. I usually invite a few extras. Spice things up a bit.’
Polly looks excited. ‘That sounds like so much fun, and I don’t fly back to London until Friday, so I’m in!’
‘I’d love to come too,’ James says, looking right at me.
‘Annabelle’s coming, aren’t you?’ Lucy checks.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Annabelle’s tone of voice suggests that she’s not that interested in joining us. I imagine it’s because it’s becoming obvious that something is brewing between me and James. But if Polly’s coming, she’ll definitely want to be here. She won’t want to appear like a party pooper in the UK press.
‘Great. That’s sorted,’ Lucy says, in punchy staccato.
‘Shall we go, then?’ James asks me.
‘Yeah.’
Annabelle gives me an envious, extra-long stare. ‘Where are you two off to?’
‘Down to the wharf. Taking some photos. We’ll see you all Wednesday?’ James keeps it short and sweet.
‘Yes, darling,’ Polly says, rising from her chair and walking towards James. She gives him an air-kiss on each cheek.
Annabelle breaks her competitive stare. ‘We’re heading up to the Emerald after this, if you two want to join us?’
‘Um, maybe,’ I tell her.
Lucy starts to clear the table and the interview resumes as James and I walk back into the Bar Room. I grab my things, put my jumper on, and poke my head into the kitchen to say goodbye to Michael and Dave.
‘See ya, Joni!’ Dave calls, then walks out from the kitchen. ‘Great to meet you, James,’ he says with pep.
‘Likewise,’ James says, as they shake hands.
‘Let’s go,’ I tell James. ‘This way.’ I hoist the straps of my backpack over each shoulder and lead him out through the back door. It’s dark and cold as we walk down the side path. As per usual, the golden glow from the window next door lights up Harland’s white weatherboards. I bet James is thinking about how beautiful the lighting is.
‘I just want to get my camera out of my car,’ he tells me.
We walk towards an old station wagon parked under the streetlight out the front of Harland. James unlocks the door on the passenger side, and pulls out his camera and a tripod.
‘Do you live near here?’ he asks me, putting his camera strap over his shoulder.
‘Yeah, just down Darling Street, and then you take a right turn and…it’s up in that area.’ I point towards where I think my place is. ‘I ride my bike in,’ I tell him as we start to walk down the middle of Darling Street towards the wharf. There aren’t any cars at this time of night. It’s quiet, and still.
‘Was that your cute little bike leaning against the shed?’
‘Yeah.’
I begin to give him more information about myself, even though he’s not asking for it. ‘I usually head into work at about five. But I paint during the day. I’m…I’m an artist.’
‘I thought you might be,’ he says, with a smile.
‘What made you think that?’
‘I don’t know. I just…thought you might be. I feel as if I know you. Like we went to primary school together, or something.’
‘I sort of have that feeling too,’ I tell him.
We walk downhill together, getting closer to the wharf. We pass parked cars, the sandstone cottages and terrace houses, and a bus parked at the stop. It won’t start moving until the next ferry comes in, and then it will drive all the passengers home.
‘Do you study art?’ James asks me.
‘Yeah, I studied at Sydney College of the Arts. I graduated last year, a few weeks before my twenty-first birthday.’
‘Joni, you’re a baby,’ he says, poking fun at me.
‘What? I’m not a baby. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘And did you study?’
‘Nope. Self-taught. I travelled a lot after I left school. Got any more questions?’ he says playfully. ‘Ask me one, and then I’ll ask you one, until we get up to ten.’
‘Okay.’ I gladly play along. ‘So you live on your parents’ boat—do they live in Sydney?’
‘Yep. My go. Favourite food?’ He turns to look at me with soft eyes as we start to walk over to the left-hand side of the road.
‘Favourite food? Um…chocolate. Actually, no. I’m gonna say almond croissants. What about you? What’s your favourite food?’
‘Um…spanakopita.’
‘Spana what?’
‘Spanakopita. It’s Greek. Come on!’ He snaps his fingers repeatedly. ‘Fast game’s a good game.’
He jumps up on the knee-high sandstone wall that surrounds the garden bed at the side of the footpath.
‘Okay, okay,’ I tell him, following him up onto the wall. He walks quickly along the top, almost running, as though he’s begging me to chase him.
‘First job!’ I call out to him, almost losing my balance trying to keep up.
‘Delivering newspapers on my BMX!’
We both laugh. James jumps down when he gets to the end of the wall, and runs towards the large grassy park that sits hard up against the water’s edge. He has the spirit of a child in the body of a man. And his mind—I still can’t place it in any category. Who is this guy? A dreamer and a doer? I just want to get inside his head. I want to know everything he thinks, everything he feels.
I catch up to him, and we stand together, staring out at the Harbour Bridge. It’s lit up, in full view, and it looks grand and glorious, rising tall above the dark water that flips and flops and bobs and bangs into the boats and sandstone bricks surrounding the harbour. That large body of water. The constant movement. The flickering, reflected lights. It’s a part of who I am. What I’m made of. Where I come from. James looks at me, and I wonder whether he might try to kiss me.
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’ he asks.
‘No. I’m an only child. You?’
‘Two sisters,’ he says. ‘Favourite artist?’
‘Mmm.’ I think carefully. ‘I can’t name just one, so I’m going to throw a few at you. Klee, Egon Schiele…um…it’s a bit of a man’s world, isn’t it, when it comes to art. I can’t think of any women. I mean, there’s Cindy Sherman. She’s great. Judy Chicago…’
‘Okay, I’ll give you a woman. She’s my favourite photographer. Julia Margaret Cameron. Her portraits are beautiful. Have you heard of her?’
‘No, never.’
‘She was around in the mid-to-late eighteen hundreds. She took a lot of close, cropped portraits of Victorian celebrities. I went and visited her house on the Isle of Wight. She used the wet collodion process and…’
‘Is that like an old photographic technique?’
‘Yeah. But her portraits are in soft focus, and at the time people thought they looked like mistakes. But really she was intentionally creating these beautiful, blurry artworks. They were more like black-and-white or sepia-toned paintings.’
‘Wow, I’d love to see some of her work.’
James quickly puts his tripod down and holds onto both of my shoulders. He twists my body gently, so my back is facing the water.
‘Stand here,’ he orders, setting up his tripod. ‘Don’t move.’
‘What? I…’
‘There’s a ferry coming. I’m going to take a long-exposure photo of you,’ he tells me, attaching his camera to the tripod and bending to look through the viewfinder. ‘You need to stay really still. I’m going to have the shutter open for about thirty seconds. The ferry’s coming in towards the wharf, and it’s going to make a pretty line behind you.’
‘Okay,’ I tell him, keeping as still as I can.
He presses the butto
n on the camera gently, then looks at me. We stand silently for ten seconds or so.
‘Don’t laugh, don’t laugh,’ he says, on the edge of laughter himself.
I can’t hold it in anymore. I start to giggle. ‘Stop it. You’re making me laugh,’ I tell him. ‘Look. I’m moving, I’m moving. And now I’m talking. My mouth’s going to be blurry, isn’t it? Are we making art? Is this going to be one giant mistake?’
‘One giant mistake of a photo,’ James says, sarcastically. ‘Pure art.’
I try to settle my giggles, and then James announces: ‘Okay, done. Can I—’
‘Race you to the swings!’ I bolt as fast as I can, over to the two swings in the grassy playground, and James follows, leaving his camera behind. I jump on a swing and begin to push myself up, back and forth, as high as I can. He watches me, then jumps on the other swing and tries to propel himself higher than me.
‘Favourite poet?’ he calls out.
‘What?’ I yell back.
‘Who’s your favourite poet?’
I let my swing slow down, gradually, gradually, and James does the same. We swing low, and I tell him: ‘Keats.’
James recites with veritable passion: ‘My heart aches…’
Together in unison we declare, ‘and a drowsy numbness pains my sense…’
‘As though of hemlock I had drunk,’ I finish.
‘Oh,’ James says. ‘I couldn’t remember that bit.’
We both hang from the cold chains of the swings, twisting, spinning side to side.
‘What about Allen Ginsberg?’ James leans over closer, and touches my boots with the tips of his.
Our knees bump into each other. I don’t pull back; instead, I move forward, and our knees bump together again. I look into his dark-brown eyes.
‘I haven’t read much Allen Ginsberg.’
‘I have one of his books in my car. I’ll lend it to you.’
After he packs up his camera, we wander back up to Harland. James asks me all about my work and my influences. He tells me my paintings sound incredible, and that he’d love to come and see them. When we reach his car, he unlocks the passenger-side door and puts his camera gear on the front seat. Then he opens up the glove box and pulls out a little book with a black and white cover: ‘Howl’ by Allen Ginsberg.
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