'Slave driver.'
I stood over him. 'Yeah, and don't you love it?'
His eyes gleamed.
I felt an answering quickening of desire. Then I turned around and walked out, terrified.
Why had I said that to him? I never flirt. What on earth had possessed me?
It didn't take long to photocopy Walenski's first chapter. I bundled it up, tucking it inside a post bag. Then I asked the post office to date stamp it and scribbled a quick note to Nan, slipped this inside a larger bag then sent it registered post with instructions for her not to open the inner bag.
I strolled back up Fitzroy Street, thinking Monty had changed. I didn't sense the age gap between us like I used to. Here he was, confronting me and forcing me to admit I had overreacted to Tucker. Sometimes, I didn't like myself very much. Come to think of it, how could Monty put up with me when I was such a loser?
The Robot from Lost in Space did his spiel in my head: Warning, Warning: negative thought pattern approaching. Damn. I was not going to let the negative programming Nathan had tried to establish, ruin my life. Monty was here, working on the Tough Romantics project with me because he thought it was worthwhile, because he thought I was worthwhile.
When I got back to One-Eight-One Monty opened the front door before I could use my key. His eyes were alight with mischief. I felt an answering tug of anticipation and smiled slowly. 'I thought you were going to hunt up locations.'
'This is even better. Arthur called, says he's got something to show us.'
As we headed down the hall, we passed the archway that led into the front room. I hardly ever came in here, preferring the sunlit kitchen. This room was always cold. And now I noticed beads of water gleaming on the polished wooden floor, as if someone had brought a drink in here and spilt a few drops.
'Bummer, Monty. Can't spoil the polish.' I darted in, wiping up the drops with a tissue. 'That's one thing about staying in someone else's house. You have to be twice as careful.'
'I haven't been in here,' he protested, then nodded to the window. It was opaque with condensation. 'Old places always have trouble with moisture. Come on, Arthur's expecting us. He sounded pleased with himself. Wonder what he wants to show us.'
It was only after we'd climbed into my old Corolla and headed out to the Dandenongs that I remembered One-Eight-One had been renovated twice, most recently in the last five years. There shouldn't have been rising damp. Oh, well. That was Grace and Scott's problem, not mine.
The drive to Arthur's place took nearly 40 minutes and there was no point in speculating about what Arthur was up to. Monty said nothing. That was one of the things I liked about him. He didn't waste time on small talk.
Gravel crunched under the tyres as we pulled up the drive. I climbed out of the car, stretched stiff muscles and inhaled. The air smelt different up here - earthy with decaying plant matter and damp with the promise of cool rain. Autumn was well and truly here. It was a real buzz after Brisbane which had only two seasons, hot-humid Australian summer and cool-dry English summer.
Monty and I walked towards the front door. It swung open as we stepped onto the veranda.
'Come in.' Arthur greeted us. 'Pats has gone to the gym. We've got until two.'
Monty caught my eye, his alight with laughter, quickly hidden.
Once we were in the foyer I made the introductions. 'Arthur, this is Monty McArthur. He's my DOP. He's very visual.'
Arthur was as tall as Monty, but thinner. As he gave Monty a preoccupied nod and led us down the hall in the opposite direction his wife had taken the day before, I recognised the nook where he had hidden to call me about Walenski. It made me smile until I realised I'd never been in this part of the hall before. I caught myself nervously rubbing my palm on my thigh. Maybe I should go back to the counsellor.
We went through to a garage which had been converted into a recording studio.
'I didn't know you were still working?' I made it a question.
Arthur shrugged this aside. 'Only for my own amusement.'
I could just hear his wife's patronising tone as she explained to her friends. Yes, Arthur still plays, but only for his own amusement.
Arthur strode across the dim garage. 'It's over here.'
As we followed him I passed a framed painting that was propped against the wall. Even with its base on the floor it was taller than me and was less than a metre wide. It reminded me of Jeffrey Smart's stylised realist urban work but this painting was not as sparse. The central figure, a tramp sat in the gutter, staring defiantly out at the viewer.
I stopped so suddenly Monty collided with me. Catching his arm, I nodded towards the canvas. His eyes widened.
It was O'Toole's painting. The tramp was a young Joseph Walenski made to look old, and behind him four arty types were caught in mid-stride, out for a Sunday stroll. I recognised Genevieve and Arthur, walking arm in arm. Her dark eyes sparkled as she tilted her head, birdlike, listening to something Arthur was saying. A bright violet streak dominated her short dark hair. Behind them, and partly out of frame, but still recognisable were Tucker and Pia. A stray strand of hair had blown across her lips. She was laughing, her mouth open. They all looked so young and unsuspecting, it was painful.
Arthur had stopped speaking and turned back to see what was holding us up. I opened my mouth then remembered that, if Arthur didn't know about the book, I wasn't supposed to know about the St Kilda Art Show.
'O'Toole's last painting,' Arthur said. 'Joe had it all this time. I got it framed when I bought it from him. He had no idea what a Tough Romantics collector would have paid for it. He only sold it to me because he needed money and didn't want charity. I had to twist his arm to take as much as he did.'
'You all posed for it?' I asked.
'Veevie did. O'Toole took some promotional shots, just before…before she died. He must have used those as references to capture us.'
I nodded slowly, eyes on the painting. O'Toole had done more than capture their likenesses. I was reminded of the many indigenous peoples who refused to be photographed because they believed their image captured their soul.
'It must be worth a fortune,' Monty said.
'To the right person.' Arthur gave an apologetic grin. 'When I got it back from the framers I hung it over the mantelpiece in the library. Pats said it gave her the creeps so I moved it in here.'
Monty and I exchanged looks.
Arthur cleared his throat. 'Take a seat.' He indicated a two-seater couch that had seen better days. It was positioned in front of a TV-sized computer screen which was running a screensaver. It had to be a personal screensaver because the three children were obviously Arthur's. Two looked just like Pats, but the eldest girl had his clever, slightly uneven eyes.
He killed the lights and inserted a disk. 'I got the original super-8 digitised to save it from deteriorating any further, then edited it and burned it to DVD.'
The monitor cleared to black, then a menu came up. He hit play. A title and date appeared. The date was a month prior to Genevieve's murder. The words faded out as sound built and the picture became clear. Arthur was a dab hand at editing his own home movies. He sat on one end of the couch next to me, sinking deep into the worn springs.
Monty perched on the couch's arm, his hard thigh near my cheek. It was an effort, but I ignored it.
'You gotta realise the original was not a professional recording.' Arthur said. 'One of my friends came along to see us perform at the Prince of Wales and filmed us. I've cleaned it up as much as I could.'
Dark heads appeared silhouetted against a lit stage while Tucker and Arthur did a sound check. Arthur hunched over his synthesiser fiddling with dials. Pia stepped onto the stage. With her white-blond hair and wide cheek