'You were sick, Genevieve.' She wasn't surprised that I knew her name. 'You passed out in the lane.'
'I ran out, an' Tuck didn't come after me.'
'That's right.'
She digested this, her eyes blank, concentration turned in on her drug-slowed perceptions. 'Think I'll have that shower now.'
'You do that.' I'd seen something I needed to change on the building so I picked up the palette to check that I had the colour right.
As I mixed more paint, I was vaguely aware of her moving off, closing the door to my minuscule bathroom. It was so narrow and the ceilings so high, that if you turned it sideways it would make a luxurious bathroom for dwarfs.
'Hey, mister?' A forlorn voice called. She stood in the doorway, thin white legs protruding from my red, flannel shirt. 'There's no hot water.'
I swore, stabbing the brush into the jar. The last thing I wanted was to stop painting and fiddle with the cantankerous gas.
Five minutes later, Genevieve waited for my signal. Her job was to spin the tap on full, so the gas would blossom into life the moment I had the pilot light lit. But each time a gust of wind extinguished the pilot light. To my frustration, the candle went out. I cursed.
'I don't want a shower, really,' she mumbled miserably.
'Wait. I'll get this bloody thing going, if it kills me.'
I struck a match, shielded it, lit the candle and ignited the pilot light all in one go. 'Now!'
She spun the hot water tap. Blue flames roared into life, and a gust drove them into my face. I threw myself back, collecting Genevieve. She squealed in panic, scrambling away from me.
'Hey, I didn't mean,' I rolled to my feet.
She was already standing. Unable to meet my eyes, she pointed to the window. 'It was that damn cat. It suddenly jumped onto the sill. One minute there was nothing, next there's these yellow eyes watching me.'
Yanking the old sash window open, I greeted the tomcat, and rubbed just behind his ear. 'Thought you'd get another meal outta me, eh, Pangur Ban?'
When I put the black cat on the floor he glided over to the fridge and I knelt to fix the safety cover over the heater, closing the door. 'Pangur Ban climbs onto the laundry roof, then jumps to the sill.' The cat let her stroke his back. 'You can take a shower now.'
'Funny name for a cat,' she muttered. He pivoted and stalked away.
I grinned. 'It's from a poem -
I and Pangur Ban, my cat
'tis a like task we are at
hunting mice is his delight
hunting words I sit all night.
'Written by a ninth-century Celtic monk,' I explained, coming to my feet. 'Only I hunt the inspiration for my painting. You can blame a friend of mine. Joe's a hopeless, romantic writer.'
The cat eyed the fridge door fondly.
'He's hungry,' Genevieve told me.
'He's only trying to scrounge an extra meal. He gets fed at dawn when I come in and he knows it.'
'You drive a taxi, I've seen you,' she said.
'And you argue with what's-his-name or the band practises, jams, what ever you call it.'
'Yeah. Pia sings, Tuck plays bass guitar, Arthur plays synthesiser, and he and I write songs. I play the rhythm guitar. We're called the Tough Romantics.'
'I've heard your punk rock.'
'It's not punk rock. We've got too much musicality for that.'
I hid a smile. 'You sing too?'
'I do, so does Pia. She's beautiful. Tuck says it sells the band to have a good-looking girl up front. He says Pia's got 'pull'. He's right,' she insisted bravely with an odd touch of pride.
'Tucker has vision. He says we need to be more than just another band and I agree, but he won't listen to my ideas. Just because I'm the youngest and I never studied music, like he did. Arthur writes some beautiful stuff. So what if it's hard to define? We shouldn't let other people's perceptions limit what we are. The band should be the best that we can be.' Her ridiculously expressive eyes turned mutinous.
I got the impression that Genevieve was replaying an old argument. From the way she spoke she had to come from a couple of rungs up on the social ladder which made her slang an affectation.
She took a determined breath. 'They're practising tonight and I should be there right now. That's what the argument was about, Tuck and I were having "artistic differences".'
'Does he always settle differences of opinion with intimidation?'
'He never used to, but since we moved into the terrace he's been getting worse. Pia and I had no idea he had such a temper. If we'd known we would never have shifted. You see, Tuck reckoned we could save money by just renting one big place. He said it was wasting time for him and Arthur to drive over whenever the band wanted to rehearse.' She frowned. 'I should go back before they start without me.'
'Poor Mad Moll,' I muttered, then saw her expression. 'She lives in the flat next to mine. She's doing it tough, living next to the Tough Romantics!'
Genevieve gave me a dry look. 'Think I'll take that shower now.' She walked off.
Pangur Ban uttered an insistent cry, more speech than common cat talk, and circled my calf. With a flick of my wrist, I opened the arthritic fridge door and leant against it. On the bottom shelf was half a pumpkin in the last stages of decay. I threw it in the bin, wondering why I hadn't noticed it before. The only thing remotely edible was a can of sardines, so I scraped some fishy fibres into the cat's bowl.
'If you eat this now, there'll be none later.'
Ignoring my advice, Pangur Ban pounced on the food. I grunted to myself, I was spoiling the cat. I could hear Genevieve singing her heart out in the shower. Funny, the acoustics had never made me sound that good.
The bright spotlight over the canvas drew me and I returned to the easel to check that the sky was still the right shade now it was dry. I made a mental note to ask Joe to model for me, which made me wonder about the pose.
'Can I wear your shirt?'
I looked up and realised from the stiffness in my neck that I'd been lost in contemplation. My red flannel shirt suited her colouring. She'd washed off her make-up and looked a little shell-shocked with mascara-smeared circles under her eyes.
'Sure,' I said.
'I'll go now.' She hesitated.
I picked up the palette.
She turned on her heel and marched out, with her clothes rolled up in a bundle, hugged to her chest.
'How about tomorrow?' I called after her.
'Tomorrow?'
'You said you'd pose. Bring the kind of clothes you'd wear to walk down Fitzroy Street on a sunny, Sunday afternoon.'
She nodded slowly. 'Okay, I will. And thanks, um?'
'O'Toole,' I supplied.
'Thanks.' She headed for the door.
On Genevieve my shirt was a dress. Her legs were bare and her op shop shoes slipped off her ankles with each step. She was so young. 'If you need anything-'
She glanced over her shoulder cautiously. The sparrow wasn't used to overtures of friendship that didn't carry price tags. 'Sure, bye.'
'Bye, Genevieve.'
She pulled the door closed after her. Young, angry, suburban punk. Sorry, not punk. I had to smile. Musicality. Artistic differences!
I wanted to