At least ten minutes had passed since Elton disappeared upstairs to fetch the helmet. James listened for some sound but detected nothing. He edged across to the bottom of the stairs.
‘Elton?’ A bus pulled up out front; he heard the hiss of airbrakes and the engine burst to life as the driver pulled away. ‘Elton?’ he called again, and put his foot on the carpeted stairs.
On the top landing, he turned towards the front of the house and a room that was filled with sunlight. Stepping cautiously along the short passage, he came to a darkened doorway on the left, and across the lightless expanse, he saw the back of Elton’s head silhouetted against a computer screen, large headphones straddling his skull.
‘Elton?’
The chair swivelled instantly. ‘Jason! Sorry man! I had this message from some random guy in Connecticut and … There’s no helmet, or if there was one I can’t see it.’ James did not doubt it; his eyes were still adjusting to the gloom.
‘Okay, no problem.’ On the periphery of his vision he noted various aspects of Elton’s room, weakly illumined by the pixelated light. A single bed was pushed against the wall and the rest was all technology. No books, trophies, posters, memorabilia; not even scattered clothing, which was the omnipresent feature of his own room. James wasted no time exiting that dim, dark hole and out in the passage he breathed deeply, allowing his pupils to contract before descending the stairs.
‘I can let myself out,’ he said, and headed towards the door. ‘By the way, it’s James, Elton.’
‘What?’
‘My name. It’s James, not Jason.’ As he stepped into the street, he called again. ‘See you,’ he said, though that future prospect was furthest from his mind.
JAMES’ PARENTS, Simon and Stefanie, always arrived home in the same car. Their art studios were almost a suburb apart but it was a regular routine for Stef to swing by and pick up her husband on the way home, and the procedure was reversed each morning on the trip out. Rarely did either venture into the other’s work area. They liked their own privacy, their own ‘autonomous space’, but there were other reasons as well. Simon was a conceptual artist. He abhorred the idea of ‘art as product’, of ‘object making’, of ‘project’, of ‘frameability’. His work was ephemeral, installation-based, interactive, site-specific. By contrast, Stef was a painter and no further explanation was required. She came home enveloped in a faint aura of pure gum turps, with oil paint in her pores and a smudge of sienna up the cheek. What she envisaged as the ultimate work, striven for but never quite attained, was so far off Simon’s radar as to seem like a lost language once spoken by primitives.
Clearly, it was not Stefanie’s philosophical stance that originally attracted him to her. Instead, as Simon would happily attest, it was her superbly proportioned figure, her wicked laugh and the twinkle in her brown eyes. He was Head of the Art Department and Stef was his student. As art school seemed to dictate, the young woman cared little for virtuousness, so flirtation with a senior lecturer that lapsed into sudden liaisons in the storeroom was not at all out of the question. A relationship flowered and it was not long before it occurred to Simon that if he was ever to keep her, he should propose.
They both declared their love – though it was desire that underscored their union. Stef craved recognition but, as all art students know, there is a yawning chasm akin to the moon’s Sea of Tranquillity between being an artist and being an important artist. For Stef, Simon was the bridge and she crossed it, up the embellished passageway of the Government Registry Office. For Simon, Stef was the perfect companion and at the best gallery events he felt flattered to be with her: the sparkling young graduate who was more effusive than most, who brazenly confronted even the most conceited senior art figures.
But that was then, the early nineties, and time had intervened. Now they were husband and wife, like so many others, sharing expenses and household concerns, a night at the cinema with a meal afterwards and, every so often, a holiday overseas. They generally agreed on most things and could sidestep their differences, such as their diametrically opposed artistic sensibilities. At least most of the time.
Stef glanced at her husband, twelve years her senior, and marched towards the kitchen. ‘Are you ready for your show?’
‘When is anyone really ready?’ Simon called from the sitting room. ‘I’ll get done what I can and work it all out in situ.’
Stef carried a bottle of sav blanc to the lounge where Simon had already slumped into one of the black leather couches. She poured two glasses.
‘Are you going to use the bag piece?’
‘The bag piece …’
‘Yes, you know, those plastic bags you collected with the beach sand and –’
‘This new work isn’t about environment, Stef. Did you read the catalogue essay?’
‘Of course. But it’s hard to see exactly what you have in mind for the … you know … what you intend to –’
‘Not even I know that. Not precisely. I want osmosis and transmutation to play a role.’
Longstanding experience had taught Stef that it was time to switch subjects. She took a sip of wine and leaned back in her own armchair. The radio was whispering in the corner and Stef heard mention of a squabble for leadership. It reminded her of the special service they’d attended at the National Gallery for the passing of a leading Labor man.
‘We should invite that couple we met at Clive Cunningham’s funeral.’
‘It was a Memorial Service, Stef.’
‘You know what I mean. Those collectors, what was their name?’
Simon discharged one of his trademark huffs. ‘Those two haven’t been buying for years; they just live off their reputation. I can’t stand people like that, swanning in and swanning out, expecting the art world to court them.’ He looked away. ‘But I think it was appalling that our own National Gallery director didn’t show.’
‘At the service?’
‘Yes. He should have been there.’
‘He was there, I saw him.’
‘Really? Damn it, why didn’t you mention it?’
Just then Jess came through the front door, their daughter. As she reached the foot of the stairs, her mother called after her.
‘Jess.’
‘Yes Mum.’
‘Hi.’
‘Oh, hi Mum.’
‘How was your day?’
‘Good.’
‘Did you go to the interview?’
‘Yep.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Won’t know for a while.’ She put her hand on the banister.
‘What do you intend to do now?’
The girl turned to face them. Jess was typical and atypical; she did not look like many eighteen-year-olds yet she looked exactly like some. Self-created tartan bondage pants, platform boots, remnant top over a grey T-shirt, a clutter of silver rings and requisite piercings, spiked hair both black and fuchsia-red, black kohl surrounding fiery green eyes, face as pale as parchment. She was not quite goth, not quite emo.
‘You mean right now, this minute, or some other time?’
‘Tomorrow. Are you going to apply for something else, or do you intend to wait on the job at the electrical store?’
Jess thought for a minute, avoiding her parents’ eyes.