Even I can recite Monty's life story by heart - no matter where you go with him, his background eventually comes up in the conversation. Monty had perfected his way of handling this halfway through first year at QCA. It all sounds very romantic but, after his mother died, he was reared by his Scottish grandfather's older sisters. These maiden aunts managed to rationalise strict Methodist leanings with weird Celtic beliefs. Think fibro suburbia meets Druids. Being reared by 'aunts', with a long two-generation gap between them, meant Monty made the occasional comment the dotcom generation didn't get. I usually recognised the references because we were both out of sync with our peers.
And we were both devoted to film. Monty brought an innate visual flair to his role as director of photography. A bunch of us used to frequent the art-house cinema to watch obscure black and white films. Monty and I would sit side by side, nudging each other at the good bits - great camera movements, subtle foreshadowing, that sort of thing. One night while watching an Eisenstein he'd turned to me and said, 'You see, they had to work harder when they only had black-and-white.' And he was right.
I was a mature-age student at QCA, when Monty got in on a scheme to help underprivileged youth. But he didn't need it. He was brilliant. In the four years I'd studied with him we'd worked together on several projects. He'd been one of the gang, but I never let him get too close because of the almost seven-year age gap between us. After we graduated I'd heard he'd gone to Europe looking for work, but obviously it hadn't panned out.
That calf-length coat fitted him like a glove. He'd always had style, now he had it in spades. I caught myself staring.
With a mental shake I focused on Monty's offer. Did I want to work with him? I'd be mad not to. I knew what he could do with lighting and camera angles, but I hadn't mentioned this project to anyone. 'How did you know about my plans and the Tap Incident?'
'Tap Incident?'
'Back from the dead.' I hummed The Twilight Zone theme.
'Speaking of-' He fixed me with intense black eyes as an eager note crept into his voice. 'What was it like?'
'I don't remember a thing between turning on the tap and waking up in hospital.' His face fell and I had to laugh.
'You were clinically dead until that woman revived you,' he persisted. 'Sometimes-'
'No tunnels of light, no voices. Nothing. Sorry,' I shrugged, but caught myself picking at the scar on my palm. Time for more cream. One of Nan's friends was into alternative medicine and swore by the cream. I had been lucky though, no impairment of use, but the scar kept flaring up and itching. And it was worse since I'd moved to Melbourne.
'Sometimes, people who suffer a near-death experience discover a psychic-'
'No,' I said. I didn't want to go there. I could feel the beginnings of a panic attack - racing heart, sweaty palms - threatening to take control. I hated being out of control, hated it that Monty could push my buttons. 'Maybe this won't work out.'
CHAPTER 2
'Whoa!' Monty edged closer, hands lifting to calm me.
I backed off, stomach cramping. One of the bench stools hit the back of my thighs and I felt trapped. This was an ideal time to practise my meditation. Naturally, I couldn't. But I was not going to have a panic attack. I hadn't had one for five years and I was not about to start now.
'Whoa, just an idle question, Antsy.' His voice was deep and soothing.
It did calm me and, against my will, I had to smile. 'What are you, the Horse Whisperer?'
A bark of laughter escaped him. 'I love it when you do that. You're the only person I know who can get one jump ahead of me.'
Really? I studied his face, I realised I liked making Monty laugh.
'Didn't mean to upset you, Antsy.'
No, and I didn't want to brush Monty off. The silence stretched. I placed my heel on the stool crossbar and sat on the seat, putting more distance between us. Showing more thigh than I intended. I resisted the urge to pull the skirt down. 'So how did you find out about my project?'
He accepted the change of direction gracefully. 'I dropped in on your nan.' A rueful grin lit his face. 'She ended up inviting me to dinner.'
I rolled my eyes. The thought of Nan serving Monty roast lamb and potatoes made me smile. It would probably feel just like home to him. But… 'Nan's moved from the old house.'
'Exactly.' He rested one elbow on the bench, long limbs casual. 'You're a hard person to track down, Antsy. Even Merryon didn't know where you were, but she did give me your nan's new address. She said you were preparing a doco and told me where you were staying. I know what happened in this house and you never made a secret of your obsession with the Tough Romantics, so I put two and two together. I want in.'
I was not obsessed, but I let it slide. I felt I had to be honest. 'I'm financing everything from the sale of the family home. It may never get off the ground.'
'It will. Somehow. You've got a knack for bringing people together, bringing out the best in them. And, if we don't get backing, it'll be just like old times, working with friends, sleeping in the back of cars. I do my best work like that.' His black eyes challenged me.
Monty was afraid I'd turn him down. He needed something from me. Now that was novel.
I slid off the stool, took a step forward and shoved him in the chest. 'You're a pushy bastard.'
A grin ignited him. 'And you're a slave-driving bitch, but here I am. Yours to command.'
I took a step back, bumping into the stool. Was there a sexual connotation in that, or was it just me getting the hots for a younger man? Did I mention Monty has the most beautiful body? He could have modelled for Michelangelo's David. Not that I would lust after someone simply because of their body.
When I first met Monty I assumed that he was gay and hadn't realised it yet. You know, good looking guy, dresses well, able to hold an intelligent conversation - has to be gay. But halfway through second year he turned up with a lady friend. Sacha was no girl, she was 30 if she was a day. And Monty was just 21. Five feet tall with curly dark hair, Sacha bristled with intelligence, always debating politics, art and philosophy. She irritated me, too pushy, but the rest of the gang liked her. In the 18 months that they were lovers Monty acquired a whole new layer of sophistication. The girls in our group whispered he'd also become the consummate lover.
My cheeks grew hot. I knew the blush had to show. I hated being so fair. I was glad of the high-backed stool between us.
'Okay, you're part of the project. Open the wine.' I went around to the cutlery draw, found the corkscrew and slid it across the bench to him. He collected the wine and came around to stand over the sink next to me. I felt a physical awareness, a tug that did not bode well for my peace of mind. So I looked for a distraction and remembered the cat.
Grace and Scott had been so excited about their first overseas trip, when we'd met to do the house handover, that they'd forgotten to mention their cat. I'd gone to bed and, next morning, there it was at the back door meowing. I loved cats, but they didn't love me. One cuddle and I was a sneezing, wheezing wreck. But I let it in, gave it some milk and water and later bought some dry cat food. I'd named him Smokey, since he was so dark he was almost black.
So, now I went to the pantry took the crunchy cat food, and topped up the food and the water bowl leaving them just outside the back sliding door, calling, 'Smokey, here boy.'
No sign of him.
Feeling more in control, I closed the sliding door and went over to the kitchen table leaning my hips on it. 'You're wrong, Monty. I'm not obsessed with the Tough Romantics. This doco is a carefully reasoned attempt to make a name for myself. I've roughed up the first draft of the script. Today, I saw Arthur Davidson, and I've spoken with Tucker's PR woman. I'm hoping