by Anna George
He kissed her nape. ‘He’s in here somewhere.’
‘He is?’ In her other life as an office worker, she had rarely encountered the city’s art galleries. Perhaps back then she was blinkered by her own discontent.
Inside, a waiter found them, arming them each with a flute. With his hand in hers, David escorted her through the gallery. From the outset she’d been keen to meet his friends. And to see him in context. In situ. This place, she intuited, more than his mansion in Middle Brighton or his office tower in Collins Street, was probably it.
The simple four-room gallery was filling steadily. Three artists’ abstract works were like magical windows on the white walls. Windows to infinite imaginings.
‘Haven’t been here for years,’ David whispered, ‘but the crowd hasn’t changed.’
Elle took in the mix of suits and jeans, the artists’ families and the avant-garde. David waved at disparate groups.
‘You still know a lot of people,’ she said.
‘I only know a few,’ he said, ‘but lots wave back.’
Laughing, she eyed the art and the faces, as if they were clues to the puzzle of him.
‘Look at this.’ She paused to admire a massive blue moonscape. Mysterious, dark yet luminous. Abruptly, a figure blocked their view. He was around twenty-five, well built, with a chestnut afro. His arms outstretched. At her side, David squinted, then found himself bear-hugged.
‘I heard you were allowed out again.’
‘I love the ’fro,’ said David, plunging his fingers into the reddish-brown.
The young man grinned, his hair floating like a helium balloon. When David introduced her, she was agog. With his wide-set eyes, he was like a beautiful extraterrestrial. David gestured to the moonscape. ‘This’s his.’
Elle smiled. ‘It’s extraordinary. Congratulations.’
Each of them seemed to inhale, reflect. When the men grinned, she felt as if she had cleared a hurdle.
After a moment, she asked, ‘How do you two know each other?’
‘I used to be a waiter at Dave’s firm. One morning he caught me in a boardroom admiring an early Jeffrey Smart.’
‘So we snuck out and had a smoke,’ said David.
Impressed yet unsurprised, Elle glanced at David, but he was flagging down a passing waitress. They each took a refill.
‘Then Dave introduced me to Alex. Next thing you know, I was having a show.’
This time, Elle cocked an eyebrow and David coloured. ‘This is Alex’s place – well, Fi and Alex’s.’
Elle found herself catching up: so, both he and Alex had unexpected facets. It made sense, of course: people weren’t only ever this or that. She took a nip of sparkling wine. But why keep these things a secret? What to make, she thought, of his tendency to withhold, to drip-feed her pieces of his life?
Beneath her stare, David’s shrug was sheepish. ‘Alex showed Nat too, early on. For a while, we were here a lot.’
‘Mm.’ The lovely ET gave a judicious eye-roll.
‘I see.’
Perhaps his memories were not all so fond. Perhaps it was pain he was masking. On balance, she felt honoured to be given access to it. She made her grin to him brave. When he stroked her back, she felt as if she’d cleared another hurdle. Was becoming a steeplechaser.
Then three more homely others approached: an illustrator, a photographer and a crusty portraitist. Kisses scattered across cheeks. David’s gentle questions laced the group as they discussed their practices, their recent shows. She stood, holding his hand, beaming. Amid the chatter of studios and commissions, she felt validated. In this world, her man made sense. And so did they.
Perhaps now he might return to his own art.
When the portraitist made her excuses, David gestured to the trestle-table bar. ‘There he is.’
Across the gallery, Alex Carras waved. He was wearing a precise black suit and white shirt; beside him, his wife, Fi, towered in swathes of green silk. Elle had forgotten their hosts. She watched as Alex excused himself from his coterie. Without fuss, he glided through the crowd.
‘Welcome back, buddy,’ said Alex, arms wide.
David had told her the basics about Alex. That he hadn’t changed – since university in the eighties or his wedding ten years ago. Then, as now, he was short but fit, his face tan. Then, David had been his best man. Today, Alex’s Leonidas Finance Group made David the highest-billing partner at Freeman & Milne. That was firm lore. But, what, if anything, did Alex Carras know about her?
David withdrew from Alex’s hug and, without ado, introduced her.
Elle embraced Alex. ‘Wonderful to meet you,’ she said, her voice loud above the rabble.
‘And you.’ Alex’s head inclined to hers. If he was taken aback by her familiarity, he didn’t show it. She pulled away first.
‘By the way, I enjoyed Daisy,’ he said. ‘Synchronicity’s always fascinated me.’
‘Me too. I’m glad you liked it.’
‘This country’s notorious for making unprofitable movies.’
‘Kind of you to say so,’ said Dave, shooting a dart at Alex. But Elle slipped her hand back in his, squeezed.
‘Did yours make a quid?’
‘Yes, actually. We were lucky.’
Alex mimed surprise to ET. ‘How about that!’ Elle grinned, unfazed. ‘I expect it’s a tough business for a woman?’
David’s mouth was open. ‘Can be,’ Elle said, ‘but fortunately good stories don’t discriminate.’
‘Ha.’ Alex scrunched his raisin-brown eyes as the young painter slipped a complicit smile to Elle. It was David’s turn to beam.
‘I gather you’re a man of many passions?’ said Elle.
‘I wouldn’t say passions. Passion’s an overused word,’ said Alex. ‘Too emotional.’
‘What word would you use, then?’
‘I have interests,’ said Alex. ‘And I give them my all.’
‘No one could ask for more than that,’ said Elle. She leaned in. ‘And something tells me they don’t.’
‘Hell, no.’
Elle and Alex laughed. Followed by the young painter. But David’s laugh was biggest. Beneath the bright lights, beneath his adoring gaze, Elle felt glittery and triumphant. A runaway champion.
Four hours later, they fell into a taxi. Having mingled all night, they’d dined only on hors d’oeuvre. But that didn’t matter. Within twenty minutes they were at her house, on a dining chair. The windows were open, the scent of star jasmine in the air. This time, as she rose up and his thighs glistened, she was ecstatic. It was back.
In her laundry, her pride is gone and she is incensed. How easily she was swept away. A second time! It’s extraordinary: how eager she was to ignore her instincts and indulge her heart. How ready to forgive. Believe.
If only, that lonely Sunday morning, she hadn’t let him in.
On average, women in relationships like hers attempt to leave seven times before they succeed. She has learned that since. But that isn’t any consolation now. It would have helped, she thinks, had she admitted then to the true nature of their relationship. Or to the dark side of limerence: the semi-delusional world view, the irrationality. Instead, as the months passed, she became more attached and more determined. She cast them as strong people having their inevitable clashes. Relationships aren’t easy, she told herself; no one is perfect; the path of true love . . .
Clichés and limerence, she realises, make a formidable combination.
13
Dave rips off his shirt, spraying buttons, as hot water surges into Reg’s bath. His fingers drum the china. What a goddamn lame godfather! A childless dilettante who chose wives with their own kids or faulty bits and bobs. A man who’d been divorced twice! He only got the job because Dave’s parents didn’t know any other professional. What did Reg know about the younger generations? About women? About intimacy? Reg told him once: ‘A parent’s love is unparalleled.’ This from a man who spent every Saturday at the Forresters’ cov
ertly raging household when Dave was a teenager. What a fucking joke!
Dave clambers into the bath and stands. His ankles sting; the water’s surface is biting like angry socks. He pictures Reg in his sitting room: his wrinkly ears attuned to that rolling tape. Dave splashes his legs and winces. Damn it. Maybe he should’ve explained himself better. Said more about the good stuff. That his form wasn’t always as poor as tonight’s. He did love her well and make her happy, sometimes. He had lived to a higher standard, once. Fuck it.
The air becomes steamy, the water nipping now at his shins. He sits. Overcome.
He remembers her standing at Flinders Street Station beneath the clocks. They met there before every festival he could think of: Spanish Film, Melbourne Jazz, Comedy. And every time, her face, her sweet face, telling him: ‘Lead on.’ And he did; he did his best.
He’d never felt so loved in his life.
It lasted almost three months. By May, every night he could sense her desire, as if she was emitting a scent. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. She was closer to him than anyone had ever been. And that was what he wanted. Wasn’t it? Together, they’d seen a dozen shows in Melbourne and hadn’t missed an opening at Alex’s. They’d hung their new blue painting above the bed. He’d even led her in and out of Melbourne’s galleries, her very own guide; at home he was her private cook. And he’d loved it – for a while. This time, as he wooed her, she was busier. The writing stage done, she was fully in director mode, with a production office up in Footscray. He’d hoped her pre-production might take some of the heat off him. But it’d had the opposite effect. The sound of her phone, her talk of recces and endless meetings were getting to him. Apparently, she had to meet with everyone from her camerawoman to her designer and makeup people. And after, overstimulated, she had to yak about it, with him! Then fuck.
That windy evening, in her bed, his limbs felt full of lead. He rolled onto his back but couldn’t find an easy spot. He could hear her sighing as she stared at the ceiling. He told himself to relax, to unclench his legs and to sleep. He tried inching from her so they weren’t touching anywhere. But before too long, her hand found his thigh and planted itself. Feeling her warm fingers on his thigh, he disowned his legs, as if they were a tree’s dead limbs.
Three months, he figured, was about his limit. After three months of getting on, his feelings for her . . . went away. Was it boredom or was it fear? Whatever it was, it was violent. He wanted to smash the thing to bits. As much as he tried, daily chitchat and nightly wrestling were beyond him. Everything she did – her questions, her massages, her tinkling laugh – was a turn-off. It took all his strength not to leap out of her bed and sprint back to his dormant house, which he couldn’t bring himself to sell. There, in the dark, his head began to pound.
He shut his eyes and lay like a mummy.
The next night, on Collins Street, sinking in the elevator to his car, he realised he was now expected in Seddon every day, like the postie. Every night they were together and every morning they woke up entwined. And every day, she tried it on. If he caved in, they’d jostle through their positions: missionary, spooned, askew. Mostly in silence; lately without the waterworks. Again. The one thing that had elevated their sex life, giving it an intensity he’d never felt before – gone. Again. He swore out loud.
In the glary car park, the ground dipped and parked cars swirled. He stopped and squatted on the cement. He put his head between his legs. After a moment, he found his phone.
And that was when it started: the nights out, flying solo. The circuit-breakers.
Five hours later, he arrived at her house. He was scruffy then, and slightly stinky. Alcohol rose from him when he walked. Though he held his breath as he kissed her, he guessed she could taste his last ten cigarettes. He tried to tiptoe down her hall like a naughty, big mouse, but she blocked his way.
‘Where have you been?’ she said. ‘I almost called a hospital.’
Long ago he’d learned the best excuses were brief. He explained that Alex needed him at a thing for homeless dogs in Albert Park, and he owed him one. Listening, she stood tall; they were almost eye to eye. How gorgeous she was, and so . . . upright. He badly wanted to giggle.
‘I could’ve come.’
He’d heard that needy tone before, but not on her lips.
‘Boys only,’ he slurred. He let out a grin and it slid across his face. He slunk around her. Time for cheese on toast. He was walking very carefully.
‘David, I hope you didn’t drive.’
He snorted a laugh and turned around. He put his fingers on her shoulders. ‘No, no,’ he said, lying sincerely.
When she nodded, he felt forgiven.
See, he told himself, you can be with her and be calm. Separate. He’d worked that out, earlier, with Alex. Though she would’ve liked the views across Albert Park Lake and the snaps of happy dogs, his time away had done him wonders. The sushi had tasted fantastic. So had the tempura. By his seventh shot, he was flying and his head pain was gone. Thanks to Alex. His friend’s words came to him again: ‘It’s normal to feel apprehensive, buddy, starting over.’ The more he’d thought about it, the more relieved he’d felt. He wasn’t that unusual, or inept. He was a divorced man. Wariness and unease were a part of the deal. ‘You can have your space. But you don’t want to screw this one up,’ Alex had said in parting. ‘Combat the nerves by looking forward.’
Taking the backstreets home, Dave had realised his friend was a genius. He had lost sight of what he wanted. The thing he’d been yearning for, all these years. And now he felt . . . sensational. But it was midnight – maybe not such a good time to discuss it? Recalling his earlier efforts to progress their relationship, he hesitated. Her gaze was gentle, puzzled. He looked from her to her study: her laptop and drafts. The sight stung him like a slingshot and he sobered. When she was working, she was lost to him. Gone. It was the nub of their underlying difference and his next hurdle. Making matters worse, he’d stopped being privy to her script months ago. He had no idea why. He sighed. He needed to think. He kissed her ear and headed for the kitchen. For once, he’d opt for prudence.
That night, maybe because he smelled or snored, she’d slept on her side. He’d slept on his, with no bridge of flesh between them. And he was happy. As the clock ticked on 1 a.m., he was pain-free and reminiscing about the man he’d been when he’d first had his dream. He was thirty-four and solo, living like an automaton. Women were a disappointment, friends were few and his mother was a cow. Shuttling from his apartment to his office, eighty-odd hours a week, his life was winding-up applications and foreclosure files, ham sandwiches at his desk and takeaway Indian curries on the carpet. While he had two friends, both in litigation, they worked longer and harder than he did; he hardly saw them out of hours. Then, one fresh morning, passing a cafe near North Brighton Station, he saw Natasha Larsen. She had red streaks in her black hair and almond-shaped green eyes. She served him a long black – too weak or too strong but he didn’t mind – and went on about her upcoming exhibition, other artists and her daughter. Her passion was contagious. Within a month, he’d bought one of her ceramic pelican sculptures. Within two months, he’d met Amelia. For the first time since high school, he was thinking about art. He was playing with kids.
When he met Amelia, she was four. They were at the St Kilda Botanical Gardens. They were playing tag among the roses and he was ‘it’. ‘Look,’ she’d said, halting suddenly, her huge green eyes directing him to her chest. Briefly, he was distracted by her petite, proportionate beauty – somehow her skin and dark hair were even more beautiful than her mother’s. ‘Look,’ she’d said again. Her chest rising rapidly. So he did. On her yellow T-shirt was a white and unmoving butterfly. For maybe five minutes, as they caught their breath, they studied its translucent wings and tiny black head. When Natasha ducked over to a nearby cafe, Dave didn’t notice; it was Amelia who led them towards the gate, and, all the while, the butterfly was like a badge on her chest. ‘She likes me,�
� she said, her smile bright. ‘Doesn’t she, Dave?’ Watching her, Dave felt his heart open. Three months later, he married her mother. A year later, his dream of more children exploded.
Half drunk, half sober now, he felt a tinge of fear. Yes, how he felt tonight was no doubt fuelled by his failed first marriage. Okay, maybe that was normal. But what if he’d picked another dud?
Amelia was in her first year at school when he saw what he’d done. Though they shared her with her artist father, Red, Dave spent hours clapping her jazz ballet and reading her fairy stories. He made her porridge and taught her how to tie her laces, ride her bike, tango. His strategy was simple: he did the opposite of what his parents had done. Natasha was more slapdash; laundry was rarely done and school readers often lost. But Dave filled the gaps. It seemed to work. Amelia thrived; climbed on him, learned to read beside him and called for him at night. Quickly, it seemed, she loved him. The good times lasted roughly twelve months. A record, he thinks now, thanks probably to Amelia. Then, one chilly Thursday in June, the curtain lifted and he saw backstage.
It began around 5.45 p.m., when Natasha phoned his office. She’d been caught, she said, at her friend’s studio in Preston; after-school care finished at six and she wasn’t going to make it . . . Though Dave rarely finished work before seven, within ten minutes he’d shifted two meetings and was dodging traffic on St Kilda Road. When he arrived, a bit after six, at Wesley College, Amelia was writing her letters, stony-faced: the last child there. Seeing Dave, her eyes flashed with hurt. ‘Mummy will meet us at home,’ he said lamely. With a sigh, she fetched her schoolbag and took his hand. When they pulled into his driveway and saw the dark house, she didn’t flinch. ‘Mummy must still be shopping,’ she said. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’ In the kitchen, Dave found sprouting onions and warm beer. Irritated, he tried his wife’s phone again.
‘It’s okay, Dave,’ Amelia sang out. ‘There’s an apple in my lunch box. Come on.’
Half an hour later, he was on a titchy chair at Amelia’s red table. Drawings of purple, orange and green butterflies covered the carpet. To his amusement, most were his. Drawing, he’d discovered by her side, was like riding a bike. He hadn’t done either since he was seventeen. Leaving school, scraping into law at Monash University (and briefly satisfying his parents), he hadn’t seen the point in continuing. And neither had anyone else. Over the years, he’d fallen out of the habit. He’d learned to live with the nagging restlessness, which he took for a by-product of adulthood. But, alongside Amelia, he felt unstoppered. Permitted. The tension that he carried was replaced by a curiously beautiful sense of spaciousness. Best of all, his stepdaughter adored everything he drew.