A case of Knives

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‘I’m going to talk about why Peter Rose’s voice is so beautiful. It’s beautiful not just because of the felicitous phrases . . . It’s the pleasure of bitter honey or of sweet lemons.’ robert dessaix ‘Rose Boys is an intimate and moving — though never maudlin — story of familial love … the elegant prose that one expects from an accomplished poet — often simple, sometimes rich and lyrical, and always free of cliché.’ daniel williams, Time ‘The House of Vitriol seems to me the most impressive new book of poetry to appear in the last decade. It places Peter Rose in the mainstream of Australian writing, alongside such accomplished figures as Peter Porter and Les Murray.’ peter craven, First Edition ‘[Rose Boys is] a deep family story of suffering, love and passionate devotion, richly and freshly told.’ helen garner ‘It is a deeply felt, passionately uplifting story, but terrifying all the same . . . It is what makes this book about such a tragic set of circumstances so profoundly uplifting.’ liam davison, The Weekend Australian ‘I’m not sure when I last came across someone who has written so powerfully about death, perhaps it is because the author never allows himself false emotion.’ martin flanagan, The Age ‘Rose Boys is the wrenching, stunning account of a family living for about a quarter of a century in the sometimes tightening, sometimes loosening, but never absent, grip of catastrophe . . . This story of multiplying troubles, apparently unassuageable grief and nowhere-to-turn desperation becomes, in Rose’s hands, a triumph.’ brian matthews, The Age ‘It is a hugely moving reading experience. You don’t have to have been there to respond to the depth of emotion and insight expressed. Peter Rose has done a remarkable job capturing the comedy and the heartbreak.’ james waites, Good Reading Guide

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About the author Peter Rose has been a publisher at Oxford University Press and is now the editor of Australian Book Review. He has published several volumes of poetry, most recently Rattus Rattus: New and Selected Poems. His family memoir, Rose Boys, won the 2003 National Biography Award. He divides his time between Adelaide and Melbourne.

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A CASE OF

KNIVES peter rose

A Sue Hines Book

ALLEN & UNWIN

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First published in 2005 Copyright © Peter Rose 2005 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10% of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act. A Sue Hines Book Allen & Unwin 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218 Email: [email protected] Web: www.allenandunwin.com National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry: Rose, Peter A case of knives. ISBN 1 74114 536 8. I. Title. A823.3 This project has been assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body. Edited by Louise Thurtell Cover and text design by Kate Mitchell Design Typesetting by bluerinse setting Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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For Sonja Chalmers and Craig Sherborne

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‘Where had the words gone to? Weren’t they still in the air, somewhere? Couldn’t they be found and collected, grabbed with the hands out of the air? Somewhere. Somewhere they were preserved. Things didn’t vanish. Truth did not become a lie.’

patricia highsmith, This Sweet Sickness

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Characters PHILIP ANTHEM former prime minister STELLA ANTHEM his only child RUSSELL LACEY her first husband; attorney-general in the Anthem government; now a High Court judge Their child: ROMAN ANTHEM ALEC PAYNE Stella Anthem’s second husband (deceased) Their child: MAX PAYNE HAL HUTTON Stella Anthem’s third husband; media tycoon Their child: HUGHDIE HUTTON JULIA COLLIS, publisher CANDY COLLIS, her daughter; opera singer BABS LIGHT, chef and author ROGER LIGHT, her former husband; legal academic Their son: MATTHEW LIGHT, actor URSULA SAIT, Babs Light’s niece; Roman Anthem’s girlfriend TOM PRENTICE, journalist

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JULIA December 30 ~ Eureka! This is definitely the way to fly. Here I am with a litre of ouzo, a cabin-full of charmers and a free carton of cigarettes. They still hand them out like sick bags on Greek aeroplanes. Our purser, bent as Patroclus, hinted that smoking is almost mandatory. We lit up gratefully and poured ourselves more tonsil paint. Quite nostalgic I became when I lit my first cigarette. It spluttered in my face like an old lawnmower. Back it took me to my first visit to Greece, when I bummed around the islands with (what was his name?) Spiros — thighs of Hercules and thick as a Cyclops. Ah, Spiros. Where did I find him? More to the point, where did he pick me up? Flying with the Fourth Estate is like rooming with louts. The air is blue with smoke. The mess reminds me of my office at Concord Inc. Everywhere you look there are empty stubbies and stray shoes. The amount of equipment journalists travel with makes publishing seem archaic. Slender laptops whirr away as the disbelieving journos justify this 1

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amazing junket with their lurid impressions. I’m in a Jumboland of clichés. Our stewardess, a pneumatic blonde, initially seemed more intent on landing an ageing Croesus than on helping her Australian charges. Pallas Athena took fright when my waggish guardians of free speech unleashed their laptops upon taking off from Sydney. Patrolling the aisle like a maenad, she oozed disapproval. Maybe she thought the laptops were bombs. They are in a sense — lexical bombs. I was determined to humour tetchy Pallas, that is until her manner became too officious and she ordered me to switch off my Concord clunker. She picked the wrong person to admonish in stricken English. I gripped her wrist and gave it a little twist. ‘Sweetie,’ I whispered, ‘if you go near my delete button again you’ll wish you were in Turkey.’ She hasn’t been sighted since. The marvellous thing about journalists is that they have absolutely no interest in anything other than journalism — certainly not book publishing. When a Canberra correspondent asked me where I worked and I mentioned Concord, he asked for free air tickets, his good eye glazing over as I explained it was a publishing company. He only perked up when I offered to issue his syndicated musings. (‘You should let me publish your columns. They’ll really go!’) He rang for more ouzo, wondered about different titles, toasted the book, then fell into a stertorous sleep. I know many of the journalists. Most of them are political correspondents whom the newspaper editors felt obliged to send in case the foreign minister (representing the new government) made a Grecian gaffe. They all got the recent election spectacularly wrong, failing to predict the Raglan government’s defeat, but no one’s apologising. Pisspots to a man, their florid faces remind me of fascist brutes in a George Grosz nightmare. And nearly all of my companions 2

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are men. It’s like being on any flight, with all the blokes going about their dirty boyey business. But this flight is rather special. The journos can’t quite believe that we’re flying to Greece to dispose of Philip Anthem’s ashes. They seem to think it’s an eccentric choice for the late prime minister. Still, the women’s magazines are here in force. I know all these bouffant stalwarts. They give my authors a good run, especially the gardeners and decorators. Fortunately I brought my PowerPoint kit, so I was able to show the gals next season’s covers. The youngest of them, a bolshie thing who writes for Glass Ceiling, wondered how I could possibly top Babs’ Feast and asked if I felt under pressure. Otherwise they are as receptive as tea bags (their only contraband). Not that I delude myself that they’ve come halfway around the world for my sales pitch. It’s Philip Anthem’s daughter they’re after — a little touch of Stella on the flight. Losing her father soon after misplacing a child seems to have heightened Stella’s profile. Ever since Roman Anthem, her eldest son, went missing, he and Stella haven’t been out of the news. No Idea even voted Roman The Sexiest Man Alive in the Universe (Ever). ‘Where’s Roman?’ the ladies keep asking me. As if I’d know! ‘What do you think happened to him? He’s such a hunk.’ Bugger Roman, I feel like saying, it’s Matthew I’m worried about. Where the hell is he? But they haven’t heard of Matthew Light. Not yet. Yes, it’s Stella Anthem Lacey Payne Hutton they really want. Meanwhile I wonder which one will it be today: which persona? I always preferred Lady Payne myself. So apt. What a pity she had to relinquish the title when she married the mogul. Unfortunately, Stella has remained invisible, most frustrating for the ladies of the press. Stella’s up the front, doubtless giving orders to the pilot or rehearsing her 3

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emotions. Philip Anthem is there too, somewhere – or at least his ashes are. They’re probably rammed into one of her Louis Vuitton cases. Poor Philip. How did he produce a daughter like Stella? Our only glimpse of Stella was at the airport. She kept us waiting for an hour, as if it was another one of her weddings. We were lined up like girl guides waiting to drop a curtsy. Finally Stella arrived in a Hutton stretch. For the journey she had chosen global sunglasses and a black leather jacket, reminding me of an earlier black widow bound for the Whispering Glades of Greece. Russell Lacey escorted her to the plane, followed by the Greek ambassador, about a foot shorter than the regal ex-couple. Wisely the second Mrs Lacey, a peach of a woman with piano legs and lymphoedema, chose to stay away, not wishing to be eclipsed by her svelte predecessor. I always love watching Stella with her former husbands. It’s wonderfully grotesque. Her current husband, Hal Hutton, didn’t show up at the airport. He had taken their son (Stella’s youngest, and the shared heir) and flown his jet to Greece, saying he had to get there in a hurry. He had some business to transact in Athens, something to do with pay television. This came as a huge relief to the Fourth Estate. Hutton must be quite a martinet. You always know when men are truly frightened of someone: the very mention of the ogre’s name makes them sweat like pigs. One journo told me he’d been dreading the trip ever since Philip Anthem died ten days ago. He confessed that the thought of being on a plane with Hal Hutton was so horrifying he’d gone on a bender and woken up on a hotel fire escape without any clothes on. I batted my eyelids a few times, so he explained: ‘We’re talking about someone who rips up offending newspapers in front of the editor, then starts on them. He’s an animal.’ Impressed, I began to want to get to know Hal Hutton 4

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better. I may have a chance in Greece, after the obsequies. I met Hutton briefly a year ago, when Candy, my darling daughter, sang at Philip and Roman Anthem’s combined birthday party. I liked Hal. He’s not unsexy, despite the Beatles mop which he’s always fiddling with to hide a spot. When he realised I could handle one, he told me about his Harley Davidsons. He has seventeen and keeps them in a hangar at Hatfield. The rogue offered to take me for a ride in his sidecar. I wasn’t able to commiserate with Stella after her father’s state funeral in Sydney two days ago. The crush outside the cathedral was impenetrable, and Stella was soon whisked away with her retinue. As ever, when I went up to condole with her at the airport, Stella’s manner was perfectly frigid. First I thought she was going to pretend not to recognise me. She’s done that before, having perfected the demi-celebrity’s annihilating glance. Then she had second thoughts. Extending a gloved hand, she shook mine and purred in that famously intime voice of hers. ‘Julia, how well you look!’ (She made it sound as if last time I’d been a fright.) ‘Which magazine are you representing these days?’ She’s good, I had to give her that. ‘Representing’ was inspired. ‘As opposed to owning every second one in the land,’ I felt like retorting. But I smiled and let it pass. The national clothes-horse still knows how to get to me. Her eldest son does too, or used to. Stella and I have only known each other for thirty years. I first met her in Canberra while I was working for Philip. This was before the finishing school got to her. Stella still wore braces and played with her plaits. She was bandy-legged from all that horse-riding and had such a paralysing crush on her father. I was a fixture before Philip became prime minister. This year I published his memoirs. Yet Stella still felt she could 5

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extend that black fist and expect me to genuflect. They’re all the same, the elect: malignant, voracious, contemptuous. Pleasingly, Stella is still smarting over The Anthem Memoirs. Not long before he slipped into a coma, Philip told me that Stella disapproved of his book, or disapproved of his doing it with me. He whispered it to me, though we were alone in the hospital room. Philip was afraid of his only child. He always was. Stella resented Philip’s decision to publish with Concord Inc. She wanted him to give it to one of Hutton’s publishing subsidiaries. Then she was offended by the impersonal nature of the book. Her late mother’s virtual consignment to the footnotes was taken as a personal insult. And where were the photographs of her own brood: the husbands, the heirs? Philip’s refusal to allow us to reproduce the famous shot of Roman in Canberra — charming the president, beguiling them all — was the last straw for Stella. Stella wasn’t the only one outraged by its omission. You try telling your boss that he can’t use a famous image on the cover because the author won’t allow it. I can still hear Roscoe Hunt’s reaction: ‘You’re telling me Anthem’s determined to protect his grandson. The boy’s a fucking carpenter, he’s not standing for the Senate. Fuck, Julia, do you want to kill the fucking book?’ Roscoe’s vocabulary always shrivels when he’s stymied. For one radiant moment I thought he was going to sack me and make me a rich woman. But I knew Philip was implacable. He felt Roman had endured enough publicity over the years. ‘He’s not a public figure, and he has no desire to become one now,’ Philip told me at the outset. ‘Why should I perpetuate maudlin national iconographies? The boy just wants to be left alone.’ Most authorial vetoes one simply ignores, but not Philip’s. I knew that if we pressed him he would abandon the book, simple as that. 6

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No sooner had Stella swiped me at the airport than I spotted her second son, Max Payne, sole issue of her marriage to her second husband, Sir Alec Payne, the septuagenarian Gold Coast developer. Max looked impressively seedy. I noticed the sick posture, the bones beneath the pallor. Spying me, he crossed the tarmac and shook my hand. His shirt was dangling from his trousers. I hadn’t seen Max in months — or only briefly, at the cathedral. He bragged about turning fifteen. I asked him what he intended to do now that he was all grown up. ‘Make my own decisions for a start,’ he croaked in that amazingly dissipated voice of his. ‘I think I’ll go away like Roman.’ ‘Where will you go?’ I asked, wondering how much he knew about his half-brother. ‘Not to Greece.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Too many stepfathers.’ I knew there was more to it than that. They didn’t want Max at his grandfather’s memorial ceremony. He was too much of a risk. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said flatly. ‘Now Max, you mustn’t form instant attachments with older women.’ ‘I like talking to you. You’re . . . you’re kind of weird.’ ‘Thanks, pet.’ ‘How old are you anyway?’ ‘Never you mind.’ ‘Doesn’t matter. Mum says you’re in your late forties.’ He made it sound like the outer reaches of our galaxy. ‘You’re not bad, though. I love your fringe. It must get in your eyes all the time. But you never blink. I like that. And you talk faster than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s like a machine — yes, a rap machine. There’s no crap either. You know it’s all shit.’ 7

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(Yet another philosopher in the First Family.) ‘When you get back we should get together, have a drink.’ The precocity of it, the pouting menace, faint as Little Max’s moustache, had a certain appeal. Then the surly shrimp thought of something. ‘Do something for me,’ he ordered, as if I was one of Hutton’s investigative serfs. He was sufficiently arrogant — Anthemic — to presume it was his right. Not for nothing was he Stella’s son. ‘If you see my brother, tell him to ring me. I’ve something to say to him. Something he needs to know.’ I knew from his sad tone and furtive look that he had nothing to relate to Roman — only loneliness and alienation. The bruised angel had no inside knowledge after all. ‘Of course, Roman probably won’t turn up,’ Max rallied. ‘He’s far too cool for that, unlike the rest of them.’ Max glared at his sylph-like mother and Russell Lacey, who moved around the tarmac with judicial gravitas. ‘Look at them,’ he snarled. ‘How inconvenient, losing a son like that.’ ‘Roman’s not lost,’ I pacified Max. ‘We just don’t know where he is.’ My babysitter logic was wanting, but I was doing my best. ‘That’s what pisses them off.’ Stella, glaring at me, indicated with a flick of her hand that Max should rejoin them. Reluctantly he moved away, walking backwards like Tadzio in the Visconti film, teasing Dirk Bogarde. ‘Ring me when you get back. We’re mates. We know stuff.’

8

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MATTHEW December 31 ~ ‘Hmm.’ Slap it away. ‘Ttt ttt ttt.’ Buzz of mosquito. Stabbing sleep. ‘Hmm,’ said the phantom. But pensive, feeling the way, willing me to stir. I lay there and feigned sleep, hoping it would go away, hoping we wouldn’t have to go through another round of maudlin speculation. In the hotel garden beneath my room a child was having a tantrum. I’d heard him and his rowdy siblings before. The boy seemed to wind himself up to a peak of irritation while his helpless mother pleaded with him to relax, clearly making promises she knew she couldn’t keep. I pictured the scene in the garden: the tired white roses, the frayed umbrellas, the hotel guests hiding behind their straw hats. Beyond their little dramas the sea flopped and foamed, trying to drown it all out. But my anxious shadow wouldn’t be silenced. ‘Ttt,’ she 9

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repeated in a stage whisper, followed by a histrionic ‘humph’. ‘Is everything all right, Shirley?’ I asked, sitting up on the sofa half asleep. ‘Sort of,’ she said, inhaling for oxygen or effect. ‘Did I wake you, sir?’ ‘No, I was just dozing. And it’s Matthew, please.’ Shirley, the hotel housekeeper, was a stickler. ‘Ignore me. I just came in for a quick tidy.’ She swiped a cobweb with her duster, looking worried. ‘Such a shame,’ she said. ‘It just goes on.’ ‘What does?’ ‘The vigil — for the boy,’ she sniffed, incredulous now. ‘There’s no end to it. Just terrible.’ ‘The boy downstairs?’ I asked, as the midget sat on a high note. ‘Not him!’ Shirley scoffed, impatient. ‘What a monster. We see far too many like that at the Eclipse. All of six and has its own mobile. I’m sixty-four and I can’t afford one. You know very well who I mean,’ Shirley growled. She was right. I did know who she meant. I always did. ‘No news, I take it?’ ‘No news,’ Shirley confirmed, and then, since I remained silent, ‘How could he do this to us?’ ‘Do what?’ ‘Disappear like that. I don’t understand.’ She perched on the end of the sofa, too highly strung for housework. ‘I’ll miss him,’ she said. ‘I know you will.’ ‘You probably think I’m strange.’ ‘Not at all. Did you ever meet him?’ ‘Only in the magazines,’ Shirley piped, throwing her head back, suddenly girlish. Just then, a new suspicion entered my repertoire. Perhaps 10

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Roman had stayed at the Eclipse Hotel without my knowing. Perhaps he was a regular guest here. Was this the refuge he’d mentioned, the bolt-hole where he brought them, the other ones? Had Shirley told me everything she knew about the object of her obsession? Perhaps if I snuck down after lunch and examined the register. ‘I did see him once,’ Shirley went on, chirpier now that she had my full attention. It was like this all day: Shirley moving from room to room, befriending the guests, reminiscing as she dusted and polished. ‘I was up in town, buying buttons. There he was, near the Royal Arcade. Quite unmistakable. Very thin, I thought to myself. He had the most beautiful eyes. His mother’s eyes. Tall, too, even then.’ ‘How old was he?’ ‘Sixteen?’ Shirley hazarded, glancing at me. Almost six years ago. Not long; but aeons. I didn’t know Roman then. He hadn’t entered our lives, hadn’t beguiled us. ‘His grandfather was with him — the former prime minister,’ Shirley added, as if I was from Mars. ‘Such an imposing man.’ Did she think I was still in my teens or simply obtuse? Well, I couldn’t blame her. I hadn’t exactly sparkled during my short stay at the Eclipse. ‘I can still see them both walking along Collins Street,’ she went on. ‘They were laughing at some silly joke. Arm in arm they were. Rather sweet, if unconventional.’ Shirley paused for a moment. ‘They had an aura, that’s what they had. An aura. You won’t believe what I did.’ ‘Let me think — you asked for their autographs.’ ‘How did you know that?’ she sang, slightly peeved. ‘We’re all stage door johnnies at heart.’ ‘I suppose you actors would know all about that. Well, I hadn’t done it in ages. Not since Our Joan in ’65. Though 11

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there was that time Sir Robert came to stay at the Eclipse with that nice young male secretary of his . . .’ ‘Sir Robert Menzies?’ ‘Helpmann.’ ‘What happened next?’ ‘Philip Anthem was so charming,’ Shirley said, rolling her eyes. ‘They don’t make them like that any more. He stood there patiently as I fossicked in my handbag for something for him to sign. Then he said he’d never autographed a shopping list before. I told him I’d always voted for him. A slight fib, but he’ll never know now, will he?’ ‘What about the boy? Did you get his autograph?’ I would have liked to see it, to run my hands over the paper. I had so few things to remind me of Roman — not even a photograph of us together. It was as if those bizarre few months had never happened. ‘He couldn’t be tempted, despite my pleas. He said something odd, though. What was it? Oh this batty old brain of mine!’ ‘What did he say?’ ‘He said it wasn’t . . . deserved.’ I could hear him saying it, and liked the note of Roman ambiguity. ‘Not rudely, mind. That darling boy wouldn’t know how to be impolite. I thought he was a honey. Beautiful manners too, like all the Anthems. He stood there smiling while I spoke to his grandfather. Very cool he was, very poised. You felt you almost knew him. He’d always been there, you see, even as a child. “Our boy.” That’s what I used to call him. Everybody did. I bet they did in your family too.’ ‘I’m not sure.’ ‘You probably think I’m just a barmy old lady clutching at celebrities.’ Shirley paused for a moment, plumping cushions covered in one of the many freakish patterns that 12

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adorned the hotel. ‘You’ll miss him,’ she predicted. ‘We’ll all miss him, more than we think. He was always there, you see. I even remember the night he was born. You’re much too young. There was a news flash on the TV. We all sat up. Because he was ours. He belonged to us somehow. Just like the princes.’ ‘Poor Roman.’ ‘Yes,’ Shirley said, then again, more resignedly, ‘yes’. There was silence in the garden and the breeze stiffened. Shirley and I sat there staring at the laced sea. Below, the child of indulgence fell silent, cajoled by his adoring mother. I thought how dependent we all become on other people — how useless we become — if we let it happen. ‘Hmm,’ Shirley said, because she couldn’t let it go. ‘Hmm.’ I decided to go out for a walk — another one. Fond though I am of Shirley, I’m always trying to escape her. My stay at the Eclipse Hotel is getting me fit, if nothing else. This time I made for the point, past the dogged holidaymakers: young couples with their first infants, pleading for surf; retirees with thermoses and hefty biographies of Churchill; morose teenagers, kicking at sand, bitter about something. Now and then a windbreak was swept away in the gale. Laughter in the dunes. More shy nods between outcasts. We pass each other like solitaries in a Noh play. I’ve come to the windiest place on earth. It suits me though, inducing a strange kind of privacy. Inland, Shirley says, it’s calmer. But I don’t go there, I don’t bother with that. There’s even wine to be had: prize-winning reds, they say. I haven’t touched a drop since I came here. Taking my order in the dining room (when I bother to eat), the farmers’ boys who double as waiters can’t believe it when I order bitter lemon. Looking at their annotated palms, they 13

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extol the local pinot, as if worried for my sanity. But I persist, sucking my fizz through a straw like a combed boy down from the bush. I’ve drunk enough booze for one lifetime, especially this year. Would it all have happened if I’d stayed moderately sober? Would I have made those choices — those mistakes? Sometimes I wonder how long this mood will last. How long does it take to right the mind, to still it? Perhaps it can’t be done; perhaps we’re all squalid, broken. (‘Too many questions,’ I can hear Julia sighing in the background, exhaling cigarette smoke through her nostrils, that old censorious trick, like resorting to French sotto voce whenever it suits her — stage whispers.) Candy, more polite than her mother, alluded to my confusion the other day when she rang from Berlin, where she’s preparing for Traviata. ‘How long do you expect it to take?’ she said, in so many words. I couldn’t say, couldn’t take her into my confidence, so I made a joke about the hotel tat, the infants stomping overhead, the havoc in the garden. We laughed at the absurdity of it all: Candy in Berlin, fêted after her triumph in the Ring; me stuck in the Eclipse Hotel, enduring Shirley’s monologues. Candy, shivering on her strasse, deep in Julia’s sealskin jacket, listened to my patter. She’s well again, almost recovered, and she can’t understand. It’s leaving her at last, the old infection or obsession. Silence fell like early snow on our old pact. Ever loyal, Candy persevered, though I sensed a fresh note of needfulness in her voice. ‘Just tell me when you’re ready and I’ll join you, darling,’ she shouted, to drown out a streetcar. ‘I mean it. Bugger the chintz. We’ve put up with worse. After all, we’ve lived in Valhalla all these years. What a dump, as Julia would say.’ She broke off, regretting having mentioned her mother. ‘God, I wish we were together. Wouldn’t it be fun staying up and talking all night, 14

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just like we used to. I miss that. We’ll do it again, won’t we, darling?’ ‘Of course we will, Candy.’ ‘Soon? Very soon? Promise?’ Then she rang off abruptly, as if defeated by frozen memories of her own, or European distances. Only Candy knows where I’m staying. I’m sure she hasn’t told Julia. She knows how I feel, if not exactly why. I haven’t told her the full story yet — I hope I’ll never have to. What’s the point? Why break her heart? I haven’t told my own mother where I am. Babs would be appalled by my choice of refuge. She once wrote about the Eclipse’s restaurant in one of her newspaper columns and gave the restaurant the lowest score in the history of food criticism. It’s a relief to be alone at last. Shirley was wrong about going missing: it’s so easy. All our lives we delude ourselves about our indispensability. We think we’re so vital, so pinned inside the narrative. Then we take a wrong turn, fall under a bus, miss a rung on the slippery ladder, and the gods barely register the cast change. Perhaps that’s the moral of Roman’s story — his message to all of us. Ever since I was a boy I’ve fantasised about such a fate: living in a third-rate hotel with sandy rugs and buckled photographs of local shipwrecks. When things became complicated between my parents (when were they not?), I was always dreaming of flight, desertion, abandonment. Outwardly placid, I drifted off mentally and never came back. And why not? Wasn’t it our natural fate? I could sit in a room, laughing my head off at the adults’ banter, and be so far out of it, so far away, I almost blushed to think about it. Once I even took the first step. I was about eight. Babs had left me in Julia’s care, as she often did. I opened the 15

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front gate and marched out into the world. I walked and walked, intending to go on forever. Poor Julia, just back from London, full of tales of the great world, must have wondered why she had come back to such a madhouse. She pursued me in her Triumph, caught me near the canal, shouted at me a bit, then called me a delinquent. I had to look it up later in one of her dictionaries. Twenty years on, Julia must be equally livid. My going AWOL like this will outrage her sense of order. Julia has never been able to stand not knowing our whereabouts — Candy’s and mine, I mean. Perhaps she’s hired a private detective. I must keep an eye out. She’s probably done it before. When Candy and I were young, Julia always had to know about our outings, any chance alteration to the daily schedule she stuck on the fridge. School holidays were a torment for Julia. That’s when she lost control of us, or felt she did. It’s a wonder she didn’t enrol us in summer camps. She had the money after all. It was as if she didn’t trust us, or the world. My friends used to tease me about it. ‘Does she think someone’s going to molest you?’ Chris Killen said one day. Going into town, even when I was thirteen or fourteen, required a kind of pass-out. ‘Why don’t you invite her along?’ CK scolded, lighting our first joint on the train. ‘She wants to be under your skin.’ And laughed as he blew smoke rings at the dissolving suburbs he so despised. (CK, my gadfly — why do I think of him today?) Valhalla was like a hotel in those days. Long before I went to live there with Julia and Candy, I grew used to the clamour. Julia was always dashing around the country, running sales conferences, hiring and firing staff, launching books, courting new authors, disposing of failed ones, and shrewdly overtaking more orthodox or sedentary colleagues at Concord Inc. I have vivid memories of Julia scrambling into taxis, barking last orders, spilling things on the foot16

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path, chronically late for her flight, only to emerge in a cloud of cigarette smoke and expletives having forgotten her Marlboros or manuscripts. Finally, when she’d gone, Candy and I would collapse in the kitchen, laughing as we drained Julia’s untouched coffee. Then we’d wait for the call from the airport — the urgent request to courier things (the Mont Blanc pen, the Hermès scarf that was just right for a certain lunch). Last week when I fled Valhalla after sixteen years, Candy said I’d miss the burlesque. I knew what she meant, knew also I was ready for the torpor that must surely follow life after Julia. After my walk along the beach I went to the local café for a soda water. I know most of the regulars by now, but they’re not aware of me. Loners are invisible. I study the vacationers, memorise a few tricks for later: a gesture, an accent, a squint. One aggressively blonde couple interests me: a Strindbergian study in chilly antipathy. Clearly this isn’t their first holiday together, but it may be their last. They’re so bored they can hardly look at each other. Today they wielded magazines and travel brochures like barriers. The service, as always, was slow. Twenty minutes after ordering, their champagne still hadn’t arrived. By then the husband was almost demented, his hairy brown legs thrashing away beneath the table. When the plastic flutes finally arrived the champagne was flat, but they didn’t complain. I noticed that the man’s tide was well out, while her glass was full. So did he. At first he said nothing, biding his time. Then, when his wife went out the back with her mobile, he reached over and drank from her glass until it was level with his. Then he held up a copy of the Zone like a shield. Roman’s photograph filled much of the front page, not for the first time. The print was so large I could make out the 17

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first paragraph. There was no fresh news, only guesswork. No one knows what’s happened to Roman. They’re spinning it out over summer. It’s like a phoney war. When something does happen, Shirley will be the first to tell me. I souvenired the newspaper and took it back to my room. I lay there with Roman covering my chest, to no avail. Shirley was back this afternoon, more cautious this time, softly tapping on my door like a rumour. She asked if she could ‘do through’, change my linen, iron my shirts. I told her the room was fine and that I don’t have any shirts worth ironing. I didn’t want to be diverted by chatter, not even with this amiable woman whose conversation is as fluent as her restless rubber gloves. ‘Towels then,’ she insisted. ‘Surely you need lovely fresh fluffy ones.’ Glancing round the room, she darted into the bathroom. Before I knew it, she had plunged her hands into the basin and was scrubbing away in her bird-like fashion. Soon she was humming a Nat King Cole song, wishful and slightly out of tune. It’s been like this since my arrival, gentle coaxing followed by a torrent of suds. Scrubbing or vacuuming, Shirley sings away in her wobbly soprano. Less melodic than Candy, she nevertheless fills the void. Until I left Valhalla I hadn’t realised how addicted I am to Candy’s singing. It’s always been there in the background — Candy humming and warbling and trilling. Silence, now that it’s fallen, is a shock, like a blunder in the theatre. Shirley is my only companion at the Eclipse Hotel. Apart from brief enquiries to the manager about mail or missed calls (always negative), I’ve hardly spoken to anyone. Everyone seems reticent: the beery sceptics in the bar, the oddly scarred girl who serves breakfast in the peeling ballroom, the jocks who work in the restaurant. They’re amazed that anyone would choose to spend more than a single night 18

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at the Eclipse. But it suits me fine. I’m not here for chitchat. Everyone keeps their distance. Except Shirley. Even on Sundays she appears, indefatigable in her bleached smock embossed with a huge E. Doesn’t she ever go home? Perhaps she lives in one of the attic rooms. Shirley has told me all about her long career at the Eclipse. Like her shy, slashed great-niece, she began by waiting at breakfast after the milking. She often reminisces about a grandfather who was present more years ago than she likes to admit when the governor and his consort arrived in their carriage to open the hotel and rudely tittered at the name (a tribute to some skyey phenomenon). All the women in her family have worked in the kitchen: the biggest in the southern hemisphere according to Shirley. And it was there that Shirley met her husband. Reggie tended the rose garden for half a century until they found him dead one morning among the Lorraine Lees, secateurs still poised. Guests being at a premium (there are never more than four or five of us in the vast hotel), Shirley’s desire to please is rampant, like her curiosity. Though she frets about my smoking, she steered me to a tobacconist who sells red Marlboros imported from the States — cheap and deadly. Better still, four days into my stay, Shirley suggested that I move out of my cramped single room, with its non-view and odour of past summers, into the governor’s suite. Transfer I did, for a modest increase in the tab. My money will run out soon enough anyway. The governor’s suite is ridiculously big. Spanning the front of the hotel, it has two vast high-ceilinged rooms and a bathroom whose kidney-shaped spa, big enough for a rock band, gives the game away. The décor — ponderous, bordello-like, a nightmare of lace and frills — reminds me of the Feydeau farce in which CK and I acted at Swanton. As soon as I moved in I hid all the tat, but Shirley restored it 19

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next morning, clucking. Long windows give onto a wide verandah. I sit there all day chain-smoking. I try to concentrate on The Tempest but always fail. Broken talk drifts up from the foreshore — reports from the uncomplicated world. One more bonus: my view of the hotel entrance is uninterrupted. If Julia was to come, if anyone was to come, I’d have ample warning. Not that Julia will be bothering me for a while, even if she dares. She’s on her way to Greece with the rest of them. Last night Shirley flew into the room and made me switch on the television immediately. First I had to find it. It lives in a teak temple behind ornate doors. There was an item on the news: footage from the official ceremony at the airport. They’re taking Philip Anthem’s ashes to Greece. Stella Anthem was led onto the plane, escorted by Roman’s father, while the others looked on, Julia among them. ‘Who’s that blonde with the fringe?’ Shirley asked, squinting at the set. ‘No one,’ I said. ‘No one at all.’ ‘Maybe Roman will turn up after all.’ ‘You never know.’ ‘Such a shame,’ Shirley clucked, turning away from the screen when it was over. ‘How could he do it to his poor mum?’ They didn’t say how long the official party would be away. I hope it’s a slow ceremony. I hope Julia stays away for a long long time. This afternoon Shirley was chatty as a radio. She had tidied every room in the hotel but still didn’t want to go home to her dour mother-in-law and her tomato plants. She prolonged her visit like an ancient of the theatre milking a line. Shirley knows I’m an actor. My face is familiar from a yoghurt commercial, my low-fat classic. She asked me what she could look forward to seeing me in next year. 20

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‘No more ads, I’m afraid. But I did score an episode in Police World.’ ‘That’s nice,’ she said, propping on the sofa again. ‘Do you play a detective?’ ‘A pederast.’ ‘But you’re far too young to be a pederast.’ ‘I’m older than you think, Shirley.’ ‘I bet you’re twenty-one, just like my grandson Jeffrey,’ she proclaimed. I’d met her grandson briefly, a lumpish boy, always yawning. Some days he came in to scrub tables or try to mix cocktails. ‘And just like Roman,’ Shirley added, lest we forget. ‘I’m twenty-eight,’ I informed her. ‘Nonsense,’ she laughed cautiously, shy about her crooked teeth. ‘You actors are meant to put your ages back, not forward.’ ‘What have you been watching, Shirley?’ I asked, changing the subject. ‘Well, golf of course. There’s always golf. My Reggie loved his golf.’ Shirley thought for a while as I lit a cigarette. ‘And I can’t get enough of Babs’ Feast. I love the way Babs chatters away. Such a natural. I’ve even forgiven her for writing that nasty article about our chef. Just because he liked cornflour there was no reason to crucify the poor man.’ ‘Have you tried her recipes?’ ‘Never,’ Shirley gaped, slipping an octave. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. She’s far too exotic for me. Those bombes of hers frighten me, and what she doesn’t do with lime leaves!’ She paused again. ‘I suppose you’ve been to her restaurant?’ ‘Once or twice.’ ‘Strange the two of you having the same surname. Quite a coincidence.’ But then she digressed. ‘There’s the news, of course. I’m addicted to the news.’ ‘What’s been happening?’ 21

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‘Well, there’s been a drowning of course — some loopy fisherman swept off the rocks. Amazing how it happens.’ She paused. ‘There’s still no word.’ ‘No word?’ ‘About Roman.’ She sighed at this, doing something with her eyebrows, just like Annie Mason’s Isabella when Angelo propositioned her — which we all called Annie’s Generally Pained Expression. It was as if Roman was the only missing person in the land, and everybody was waiting for a sighting or a ransom note. Ethnic wars had been fought and lost since his disappearance, Douglas Raglan’s government had fallen at the election, three Ring Cycles had come and gone, and I’d survived Lucky’s speech in Waiting for Godot for eight nights in a row. And still the long wait hadn’t sapped the nation’s curiosity — seemed merely to have piqued it. ‘How could he just go away?’ Shirley said, pink with wonder. ‘You can’t just disappear.’ She might have contemplated it once, disenchanted by golf or the gales, before realising she had nowhere else to go, nor the readies. ‘It’s so irresponsible,’ she said. ‘Thank god the poor old PM didn’t live to see it. It would have broken his heart. He adored that boy. And as if he didn’t have enough on his plate with those Americans. You don’t suppose they had anything to do with it, do you? I mean, we’re meant to have a treaty with those people. Imagine what his mother must be going through. Poor Stella! Her firstborn and so handsome, don’t you think? I can still see him as a toddler, kicking up his legs and winning the president over. Quite the little diplomat. “Our National Anthem”, that’s what we called him. Imagine losing a child. Do you have children yet? No, I don’t expect you do. Thank god Stella has two other boys and a new husband to comfort her. That newspaper mogul. Such a nice man.’ I thought of Stella Anthem: cool, pencil-thin, handsome in her angular way, never so composed as in a crisis. They 22

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would have spent Christmas at Hatfield, entertaining tycoons and politicians, pretending nothing was amiss, while the satellite dishes listened overhead, and Hutton’s minions filed their despatches. Now she’s off to Greece to scatter her father. ‘You don’t think anything sinister’s happened to the boy?’ Shirley asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. ‘We’ll probably never know the true story. Mr Paxton in room nineteen said it’s a miracle what the authorities keep from us. He’s a banker, so he should know.’ Eventually I bundled Shirley out the door, saying I had to memorise my lines. I would have enlightened her if I could. But all I could do was piece it together, clue by clue. That’s why I’d come to this whistling coast, armed with memories, suspicions and my toxic chronologies. If I pored over them long enough perhaps I’d make sense of it all, might even know where to search for Roman. This too will pass, I heard myself say — Roman’s old ironic jest. It always sounded odd coming from a twenty-one-yearold. That’s how old he was when he befriended me a year ago, almost to the day. This too will pass, he would say, studying me with those amazing black eyes. Too bleak, too resigned, for the national darling. Most people never realised how philosophical he was. Certainly not Julia, bitter, unforgiving. And suddenly I could have sworn I heard Roman murmur it in that confidential way of his, placing his hand on my shoulder, steadying me as I went on missing him and needing him and regretting everything that had happened.

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3

JULIA December 31 ~ The pilot has just announced that we’re flying over Cyprus. The lights of Nicosia twinkle below, defying the dawn. We’re due to land in half an hour. Time for three more explosive cigarettes. Young Mr Prentice is asleep beside me, snoring like a gladiator. His six-foot-something frame presses against me warmly. Prentice hasn’t slept without a woman since he was sixteen, and I’m all that’s available. Earlier I challenged him to a game of poker and cleaned him up so briskly he hid his cards and feigned sleep. Like all men, he detests losing to a woman. A frown formed around his eyes that I hadn’t seen before. I should be working on the speech I have to give at the Pioneer Bank Awards soon after I get back from Greece next week. Why did I let Roscoe talk me into it? Why am I always expected to represent Concord? Roscoe should be doing it himself (or at least reading my speech). Haven’t I sacrificed enough for that book already? I won’t even have time to return to Valhalla and unpack. 24

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I swore that last week’s appearance on the Late Show was my swansong. Just watching the haughty hennaed compere crossing and uncrossing her legs fazed me. Miss Marvel, who had clearly never heard of Philip Anthem, had spent more on her stockings than I had on my entire outfit. She made me feel distinctly ordinaire. At one point I glanced at a monitor and saw a mysterious stain on my silk shirt. Had I begun to express claret in fright? Still, I must attend the award ceremony, for Philip’s sake. The Anthem Memoirs has won the big prize — the first of many. It’s still number one after four months, with the paperback to come. Hurrah for gloire, as Gertrude Stein said. Naturally, Roscoe is thinking of a sequel — difficult when the author is dead. He’s adamant that Concord should publish Stella Anthem’s memoirs. He was at it again last night when I went up to his office for a drink before going home to pack for Greece. Roscoe seems to believe the Anthems are somehow in our pocket. He pooh-poohed me when I mentioned the Hutton empire. ‘Crap. They only know how to do tiramisu and perfect pecs. Offer Stella the works.’ He calls them by their first names, as if he’s an intimate of the family. ‘Give her anything she wants: embossing, colour wraps, heads and tails, fat advance.’ A six-figure advance, for Roscoe, has all the cachet of a comparably orgasmic tryst. He went on, generosity itself: ‘Tell her she can have every colour snap in the family album. We’ll give them more Romans than Eddy Gibbons.’ The prospect of charismatic confessions is tantalising to Roscoe. ‘Stella must have so much she wants to say. All that stuff about the husbands, for a start. How many? — three? four? Then there was the nymphomaniac mother who died soon after Anthem became PM. Imagine being forced to act as your father’s consort in your teens. Remember when the Queen nodded off at the State dinner and Stella banged on at her as if nothing was wrong. That’s class!’ 25

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I told Roscoe that no one had ever compelled Stella Anthem to do anything she didn’t want to do, but he wasn’t listening. ‘You’ll have to get her to explain what happened during the scrum . . . the melee.’ ‘Fracas, pet,’ I rescued him. ‘You’re thinking of footy.’ ‘But I want it in simple language, nothing fancy. I’ve never been able to work out why the Yanks got so twitchy? And you’ll need half the book for that eldest son of hers — the missing one. Have we ever been told why Stella left his father? Christ, what a story that would be. Just imagine what the magazines will pay for extracts. Why does a PM’s daughter leave her husband — and the foreign minister to boot . . .’ ‘Attorney-general.’ ‘. . . and never explain to her public?’ ‘Her public? Philip was the elected one — not Stella.’ But Roscoe bored ahead like a lesser politician. ‘Remember the stink when she changed the boy’s name to Anthem? What an insult to Russell Lacey. That’s got to be good for at least two chapters.’ Roscoe thought for a moment. ‘I take it he was the father.’ ‘Without a doubt.’ ‘Well, you’d know about that,’ he said, stroking his stubble. ‘Careful, darling.’ I let Roscoe drone on and helped myself to a second drink. There was a kind of logic in his boorishness. He hadn’t presided over Concord for a decade because of his tawdry ties. I wanted Stella’s book too, just as I’d wanted Philip’s. Publishers are insatiable beasts. The Anthem Memoirs is history now, despite the awards. I want the sequel too. I deserve it. It’s right for me. After all those years when no one thought the Anthems would ever tell their story, I don’t want my apolitical rivals or rookies getting their hands on the second one. I’m like Houdini: ‘I vehemently want to be first.’ 26

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Roscoe’s banter, and the waves of cocktails, distracted me for a few hours last night. I wasn’t looking forward to another evening alone at Valhalla. What a strange lonely business it was packing without Matthew there to prompt me and to squash my suitcase for me. Matthew’s been gone for ten days (ever since Philip died). It’s our longest separation since he came to me as a beardless boy sixteen years ago. I have no idea where he is. Candy knows, but I won’t pressure her — not yet. That can wait until she returns from Berlin. Better to apply the screws in person. Anyway, I must find out what Matthew’s thinking before I can rescue him again. Not being able to read him is the strangest feeling after a lifetime of second guessing. Baby has surprised me this time. I must get over that if I’m to win him back. And to think they’re all worried about bloody Roman Anthem. At first, after Wagner’s Ring, everything seemed normal. We all drove back from Adelaide together in midDecember. Rufus was still with us, which always added to the sparkle. Candy was euphoric after her last performance. There was something fissile about her mood, but I attributed this to Wagner. You can’t take part in three Ring Cycles and emerge quite sane. I was convinced she was starting to forget about Roman. Candy only had a week with us before flying to Germany where she was due to sing in Traviata. Her agent was getting all sorts of offers from overseas companies: Leeds, Cologne, San Francisco. They had all gone to Adelaide or sent spies. Then the overseas reviews began appearing. Digby Danton sent them to Candy with copious roses. The man from the Guardian described her Sieglinde as the most affecting he had ever seen. Opera News said that The Valkyrie was the highlight of the Ring because of ‘La Collis’. This mortified Candy, but I knew it would stick. Initially, back at Valhalla, the mood was calm. Matthew 27

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seemed fine, if distracted. His morale was better now that Waiting for Godot was behind him. He said he was looking forward to The Tempest in April. Then things began to change — I don’t know why. I can’t describe the effect, except to say that one day I came home from work and the atmosphere was glacial. Candy, exhausted and shyly exultant, was unaware of the change, but I knew something had happened. Being alone with Matthew, normally a sweet prospect, was excruciating. It’s a shock when a ward treats you like a pariah, or worse, an equal. The transformation was too stark to be trivial. This was not a bad case of post-production malaise. Matthew’s never been prone to that. In a world of neurotics, he’s famous for his level-headedness. It’s why shrewd directors cast him in their plays. No, someone must have spoken to him, vilified me. Unless of course Matthew had intuited it on his own. I couldn’t tell, for he was unusually secretive. Nothing passed between us: no hints, no recriminations. That was the worst part. Matthew could hardly bear to look at me, but he was outwardly polite. And because he refused to admit that anything was wrong I couldn’t ferret out how much he knew. Not that I had any reason to be alarmed. No one knew a thing, I was confident of that. I had behaved responsibly and with the utmost stealth. Yet somewhere along the way I must have left a clue, said too much, dropped a figurative butt — something for one of my enemies to distort. At times like that I almost wished I was still a lawyer. You make so many enemies in publishing. Then one morning, just before Christmas, Matthew was gone, without a word. All he took with him was a gym bag with a few T-shirts and scripts. (I searched his room, of course — stripped the bed.) All the expensive clothes I’d bought him were untouched. His room was desolate, accusatory. I closed the door and haven’t gone back in since. It waits for Matthew, gathering dust. 28

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(Where is he — where is he? Why is he doing this to me?) I never thought it would come to this. God knows I’ve taken some risks in my time, but I thought I was immune to self-doubt. Matthew’s tacit contempt has robbed me of my carapace of self-belief. It’s like a death, another one. If only Philip were alive for me to confide in him. Who would have thought it would end like this? Fancy being deserted by the one of whom I was most sure. Long after his exit, I still recall Matthew’s eyes, his hollow talk, his lethal manners. ‘It’s like a death, just like Hamlet without the bloody prince,’ a scatterbrain from No Idea said this morning. She was thinking of another disappearance — Roman’s — but it gave me pause. Whose death? Mine? His? Will I regain my old powers, persuade Matthew of the wisdom of my machinations? Cruel. Cruel. But I shall rally in the classical world. A moment ago we hit an air pocket and I lost half a page. I must save this before we land. The horizon, prettily clouded, is topped by a surpassing azure. (Greece always does this to my prose.) Shy as the peeking sun, Pallas Athena tiptoed down the aisle like a praying mantis and meekly asked if I would mind switching off my computer. I could see the capillaries beneath her foundation. They mapped her cheeks like a legend of excess. Then the captain informed us that the Acropolis was visible to the right. ‘What sort of a line is that?’ Prentice of the Zone hissed, waking up and rubbing his puffy eyes like a dissolute baby. ‘I need some drugs,’ he groaned. ‘No more Mogadon for you, pet. We’re nearly there.’ ‘Christ,’ Prentice said, floundering on his seat. ‘What happens then?’ ‘I understand the president will meet us as the airport. Then we’ll be driven to Piraeus where a naval boat will take us to Patmos.’ 29

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‘Pat who?’ I gave him an arch look, which isn’t easy in steerage. ‘Why fucking Patmos?’ ‘Read the memoirs, darling.’ I wasn’t going to remind him that Philip lived there with Stella and Roman after leaving office. Prentice of the Zone, every bit as conservative as his newspaper, questioned the propriety of a former prime minister electing to have his ashes scattered in a foreign country. ‘You really think it was patriotic of Anthem?’ ‘To expire?’ ‘To be sprinkled over Greece like thyme.’ ‘I think it’s sublime,’ I said. Prentice snorted at my rhyming notion. This is his first trip overseas, and he doesn’t see the point. ‘What about our national reputation?’ ‘What reputation?’ ‘Don’t start on that leftist stuff,’ Prentice snapped. ‘We should be able to bury our own leaders. On board we have the foreign minister, a High Court judge and a PM in a handbag.’ ‘A handbag!’ ‘Can’t we even afford our own plane?’ ‘Stop exaggerating. The Greeks offered. They admire everything Philip stood for, unlike that weasel your rag has installed as PM. Anyway, you’ve had your shining jingoistic moment. What more do you want?’ I wasn’t surprised when the state funeral went ahead despite Philip’s aversion to formalities. He had made it quite clear he didn’t want one. ‘Just raise a glass, play some old tune and edit their woeful eulogies,’ he’d joked between blasts of oxygen the last time I spoke to him. But Philip knew that nothing would block Stella’s funereal ambitions once he was out of the way. The government, too, though scornful of Anthemism, was conscious of the imagery. 30

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Prentice had attended the funeral, more interested in the mourners than the mourned. He stood up the back, always preferring to be near an exit. From my vantage in a lesser pew I kept an eye on him, knowing what he’s capable of. Afterwards I was surprised to see him talking to Max Payne on the front steps. I wasn’t aware they knew each other. Prentice has blossomed during the year I’ve known him; he’s become quite forensic. I watched him looming over Little Max. He was speaking to the runt in that ventriloquial way of his: the reporter’s significant whisper. He even placed an arm around Max’s bony shoulders, as if the boy was tearful. So Stella’s delinquent was human after all. But for whom was he weeping — his grandfather, his absent half-brother, himself ? I studied the odd couple from behind my veil. I hadn’t seen Prentice since Adelaide when he flew over for Candy’s last performance. His profile of her had finally appeared in the Zone. Candy Diva they blazoned above the masthead, and I knew she was home. Prentice had bought a white jacket (Versace, he told me) and red pointy alligator shoes (Hugo Boss) for the occasion. He really belonged in the production, which was set in a cocktail party, a rather long cocktail party. I didn’t have an opportunity to thank him for his article in Adelaide, so now was a good time, before we landed in Athens. The best way to flatter a man is to quote him. Prentice listened and nodded. But I couldn’t help teasing him about the odd mistake. ‘You really mustn’t say Wagner wrote Marriage in the Seraglio,’ I chided my flushing bear. ‘Bloody editors. So pedantic.’ ‘God knows you had long enough to get your facts right. It’s twelve months since you met Candy.’ ‘We’re faithful seekers after the truth, ma’am,’ Prentice grinned, lunging at a stray mini-bottle. ‘Research, besmirch! I know what goes on at the Zone.’ 31

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‘But research is the best part,’ Prentice said, winking. He’s the last man on earth who knows how to punctuate a wink. He did so that first night at Hatfield, during Russell Lacey’s interminable speech, and I knew he was my type. ‘I’m a wake-up to all your tricks,’ I laughed. ‘The graft, the wiring, the tip-offs.’ ‘Not forgetting the buggers,’ he looked at me, wincing from the cheap Scotch. ‘Where would you be without my bugs.’ It was bold of him, but I liked his cheek. Thirty-five, bull-headed, quick-witted, stubborn-tempered: he was the only man who could make me laugh these days. ‘What are you writing now? Who’s your next victim?’ I asked, wanting to change the subject. Prentice looked at me through rheumy eyes and removed a non-existent fleck of tobacco from his tongue, like one of his beloved fast-talking scribes from the twenties. ‘It’s your turn next.’ ‘You’re joking.’ ‘Don’t be bashful.’ ‘No one would want to read about me.’ ‘They will when I’ve finished with you,’ Prentice laughed. ‘There’s a big story there and it’s got my name all over it. My editor loves it. He thinks it’s time we did someone from publishing. You guys get away with murder. We think you’re the obvious contender. You’re big, you’re different, you’re . . .’ ‘Yes, I know, I’m about to turn fifty, thank you very much.’ ‘Bullshit. You’re at your peak. They’re terrified of you at Concord. I was shocked when I heard some of the names they call you.’ ‘Flatterer.’ But Prentice drove on. ‘Everyone wants to know about you and Philip Anthem — what it was like working with him 32

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during his illness, how close you became, what he meant to you.’ ‘I was his editor for god’s sake.’ ‘Oh yeah, a humble handmaiden to the gods, pencil in your bun.’ Prentice was enjoying himself now that the booze was kicking in. He could drink faster than anyone other than myself. ‘You should do Philip’s daughter,’ I suggested. ‘She’s much more important. What about the good works, the sweetness of her nature, the tender way she mothers her boys?’ ‘I don’t give a stuff about Stella Anthem Onassis, or whatever her name is. If I was interested in pedigrees I’d be writing about racing. You’re the one I’m interested in. Think of the symmetry. First Candy, now you. It’s not every family that produces two dominatrixes.’ ‘Print that and my lawyers will be talking to yours.’ ‘Candy’s huge now — in another league.’ ‘Yes, I know. We’ve both seen to that. She’s soaring and singing, as Henry James says of one of his heroines.’ ‘You should be too.’ ‘You’ve never heard me sing.’ Prentice paused for a moment. ‘Our readers will be fascinated by lots of stuff.’ He stared at me, almost diffident for the first time in his life. ‘Come on, Julia. How long do you intend to keep this up?’ ‘Keep up what? ‘Tantalising people.’ ‘I like tantalising people. It’s good for them.’ ‘You can’t get away with it forever. The public will need to know eventually. There are no secrets any more. They’re not allowed. What’s the big deal anyway? Why the subterfuge? We’re all broad-minded now.’ ‘It’s not subterfuge, Prentice. It’s called privacy, something not esteemed at the Zone.’ 33

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But Prentice was adamant. The veins stood out on his hefty neck, undesirably for once. ‘Who gives a toss who Candy’s father was? It could have been Hal Hutton for all people care.’ ‘Back off, Prentice.’ ‘I presume Candy knows,’ he went on, riling me. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve kept her in the dark too.’ ‘Back off, I said. It’s quite common not to know who your father is. Wagner didn’t have a clue.’ ‘Not forgetting bloody Lohengrin.’ ‘You’ve been Googling again — I’ve warned you about that.’ Then I tried reasoning with the boy: ‘This is personal stuff — my business, no one else’s. It’s how we’ve always arranged things.’ Prentice snorted, unconvinced. ‘Ah yes, we know all about your arrangements.’ He puffed himself up like a prelate and continued stubbornly, ‘Then there’s Matthew Light to consider. He’s part of the story too — classy, different, not exactly huge yet, but a bona fide subject in his own way. The next leading man, they’re saying — the next real talent.’ Prentice stuck out his chin and inhaled deeply. He might have been composing his first paragraph, studded with epithets. I pitied Matthew; I pitied all of us. Prentice fancied he could tell a coming celebrity when he saw one, and savoured his role in the public ordination. ‘Readers always love a good old ménage à trois.’ ‘Lawyers, tiger,’ I warned him again. ‘Learn some French. We share a house, that’s all.’ ‘And what about the other Matthew, Candy’s uncle? You’ve never mentioned him. Your twin, wasn’t he? I’d love to find out about him. Don’t worry, I’ll be sensitive. It’s a profile, not an indictment. There’s so much to explore. I reckon you’ve got me for another twelve months. You’re complex, Julia. You’re Delphic, to employ the local argot.’ 34

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I stared at Prentice. I’d never trusted him implicitly (I’ve never trusted anyone implicitly), but it had never occurred to me that he would turn on me. Had someone told him about Matt? Not Candy, surely. Candy knows better than to mention her lost uncle. Besides, she didn’t know Matt; he’s been dead for thirty years. Who else then? Everywhere you turn, vipers and liars. I hoped my disapproval was palpable. But Prentice was peering through the window, suddenly boyish again. ‘What do you suppose that heap of rocks down there could be?’ I said nothing and stared at his crooked profile. He seemed terribly young, full of unthinking energy and menace. I wondered how much he knew. I would have to be doubly alert now. Ah well, let that be my epitaph: En garde. And where in Christ’s name is Matthew?

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4

MATTHEW January 1 ~ It’s midday, New Year’s Day. I’m sitting on the beach, protected from the wind by the red cliff, said to be unstable. I have it to myself. Everyone else is asleep in their four-poster beds, lost in frou-frou. I didn’t sleep all night. I don’t sleep now. The sea is rougher than usual. Tiny skiffs wobble about like party hats. The tide’s gone out, revealing mounds of seaweed and the odd thong. Opposite, the enigmatic island, often hidden by mist, has never been more distinct. I’ll go there one day, play the tourist — when I give myself a morning off. For the moment there’s too much to work out, to remember. Last night I watched the local New Year’s Eve revels from my balcony. The crowd was impatient for something to happen. A plump tipsy woman danced on top of a Saab and fell off, several blokes pissed in the Eclipse rose garden, but that was about it. At midnight there was a queer silence — like rapture in the theatre — followed by woops and firecrackers. Then my telephone rang. I knew it couldn’t be 36

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Julia. She’s still in Greece with Stella Anthem. It was Candy, ringing up to check on me. She told me about the rehearsals at the Staatsoper. Everyone is being supportive, despite her shonky German. The director is awed by her readiness to take on another new role so soon after the Ring. ‘Helmut got a fright when he realised I like to act,’ Candy laughed. ‘We’re planning quite a striptease at the end of Act One. The only hitch is my suntan. Helmut says I’m the sultriest Violetta in history.’ We spoke for a few minutes, but I had little to contribute. We’ve become so guarded. Candy said, ‘I wish it was last New Year’s Eve, when we were all together. Remember?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘Roman too.’ ‘Roman too.’ How could I forget that night? It was the beginning of something, or the end — though we didn’t realise at the time. ‘And the fuss . . . and the journey . . . all the trouble we had getting there.’ ‘I remember, Candy.’ We drove down to Hatfield for the dual birthday party — Philip’s seventy-fifth, Roman’s twenty-first. Candy and I were looking forward to seeing Hal Hutton’s famous pile in the country. Julia wasn’t. All week she’d tried to talk us out of it. We were on holidays, a sacred time for Julia. I’d been worried about Julia for months. She seemed restless, brittler than usual. She never talked about her work (‘Why bore you with filthy margins, darling?’), but I suspected that London was applying the screws. Or was something else troubling her? It was impossible to read Julia in that mood. She spent each day in bed ploughing through manuscripts, smoking like a maniac, watching screwball 37

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comedies. She said the notion of washing her hair and waxing her legs for Stella Anthem was abhorrent, and she was scathing about Hal Hutton’s business empire. (‘We’ll end up playing Monopoly.’) I thought the prospect of renewing her acquaintance with Philip Anthem, whom she’d known when she was at university and later as a junior in his department, would be an attraction, but she corrected me. ‘I’m editing his memoirs, Baby. I don’t need to party with him.’ When Candy reminded her that Stella Anthem had asked her to sing, Julia was unmoved. ‘Tell her you’ve got laryngitis. That’s what singers always say. Tell her we’ve all got laryngitis.’ ‘I can’t cancel,’ Candy protested. ‘Stella’s asked me as a special favour and I’m not going to let her down. You know how good she’s been to me. But for her, I wouldn’t be in the Ring.’ ‘Well, I hope she’s paying you five thousand dollars.’ ‘I’m not accepting money from Stella.’ ‘You’re hopeless,’ Julia exploded. ‘You need a ruthless agent. Me, for instance.’ ‘I’m quite happy with Cynthia, thank you very much. Besides, it would be a bit incestuous.’ ‘You’re both star-fuckers,’ Julia retorted. ‘And what about Stella’s dopey son. You don’t imagine Roman’s thrilled at the prospect of celebrating his twenty-first with five hundred of his mother’s closest friends. I bet he was looking forward to a night at the Noodle Bar with Belladonna.’ (Belladonna was one of Julia’s politer names for my cousin, Ursula Sait, who was Roman’s girlfriend.) We offered to go by ourselves, leaving Julia in bed with Billy Wilder and Howard Hawks, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Apparently we couldn’t be trusted on our own. ‘I’m not going to wait up all night worrying about you. Children, 38

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children, why do we have them?’ Julia camped. So the three of us set off for Hatfield, almost asphyxiated by Julia’s Marlboros and amused by her banter. Julia wanted to know what Candy proposed to sing, but she still wasn’t sure. ‘What do you sing to an old statesman and a reluctant cabinet-maker?’ ‘Give them a mad scene, sweetie,’ Julia said, throwing up her hands. ‘I’m not sure that’s appropriate for a happy majority.’ ‘A happy majority! That’s a quaint notion for the Anthems.’ ‘Stop being so black — and keep your hands on the wheel. I’m thinking Gershwin. Something stormy, like the weather forecast.’ ‘Let it rain,’ Julia sang to the staring sheep. I studied her irreverent profile and lit a cigarette for her, just as I did when I was a boy. As then, she allowed me to inhale once or twice before extending her long bony hands and twiddling her fingers impatiently. ‘Light your own, and then apologise to Miss Collis for smoking in the car. Don’t forget, we have a diva on board.’ As we drove through the country I remembered countless expeditions in the past when I was young. The car had changed, but not the sarcasm. Julia now drove a regulation Concord BMW, but in those days it was a consumptive Triumph. We went everywhere in that Triumph. My first outing with Julia and Candy was to Sydney. I must have been about ten. I thought it was the height of sophistication. Julia had just returned to Australia after several years in London. She and Candy were staying with us. My mother had organised a party to welcome them home. It was summer, blazing. Julia was about thirty: long-haired, barefoot, strikingly free. She wore languid pearly transparent dresses. Weirdly she took an interest in me, as if I was an adult or should try to behave like one. When we were alone she asked about my mother 39

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(wanting to know if Babs was looking after me) and told me what books I should read. Somehow I knew she would be my mentor. I’d never met anyone who was without fear. I sensed that Julia could save people if she wanted to — make them more daring, more courageous. Hysterical, isn’t it? I had always known Julia, even before she went to London. All my life she’d been part of my family, such as it was. When I was very young I realised that Julia was my mother’s lover. Some mornings they called me into bed with them. I watched the oceanic sway of breasts: Babs’s colossal and pink-nippled, Julia’s spear-like and tawny. I thought those nipples would be hard to the touch, salty. I dreamt of them. During those hazy early years Julia was always there, rolling joints, needling men, opening another bottle in a flash, arguing, criticising, pontificating. She was the most exotic of Babs’s friends and clearly the sharpest. She was better informed about politics than most people, even before she went to Canberra to work for Philip Anthem. She was doing postgraduate studies in my father’s department, and would often appear late at night to discuss her thesis with him. (Babs had divorced Roger by then, with help from Julia: I shuttled between my parents’ houses.) Roger seemed to enjoy Julia’s visits, despite the fact that she had replaced him on my mother’s ample futon. It was a time of liberation and confusion. Passionate or not, people had affairs because it was expected. Mild or not, they tolerated worse in their spouses because it was allowed. Men were drawn to Julia, if slightly intimidated. Julia talked longer and faster than anyone I’d ever heard. No compromiser, she wasn’t the type to slow down for dreamy boys. She out-talked everyone and suffered no fools. Once I saw Julia lose her temper with a snooty restaurateur, and it was an education. I’ve never been sure why Julia decided to leave Australia. It seems odd in retrospect. Philip Anthem was still prime 40

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minister. In some ways it was a halcyon time for the likes of Julia. I must have been four or five when she left. Then she was simply gone for several years, with her tall beautiful olive-skinned daughter. I missed them. Life went on, but it felt subdued, lacking. In London Julia practised law for a while, then joined Concord Inc. She travelled non-stop. Her fortnightly letter to my mother always bore a different national stamp. Unlike Babs, who knew only the south of France, Julia went to unusual places — Hungary, Iceland, Sardinia, Kenya. On her return to Australia, Julia stayed in publishing despite offers from law firms and universities — including Roger’s, he later told me. She started the Australian list at Concord Inc., the world’s biggest publisher, or so they claimed. Julia had made quite a bit of money in London — enough to buy Valhalla, anyway. Julia came home just in time for the Fracas, so Babs’s party in our tiny garden was dominated by talk of international politics: the drama, the accusations, the likely repercussions. We all sat around the television and watched when the president, tetchy as a Texan and resentful of our new independent foreign policy, visited Canberra for talks with Philip Anthem, only to be photogenically charmed on the tarmac by his frisky two-year-old grandson, Roman. Shirley may remember it like yesterday, but for me it’s a vague image. Julia had often told me where Roman fitted in and who was married to whom, but I could never hold it in my head. I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Nor did Candy, when I asked her. ‘Don’t tell Julia,’ she laughed, shaking her head like a model, all of twelve. We went inside and smoked her mother’s cigarettes and dressed up in exotic clothes. Candy was coltish by then and reputedly fluent in several foreign languages. They would be useful later when she became a singer. We all knew that was her destiny. It was 41

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a given, hanging in the air like a high note. I dreamt of becoming an actor myself, not so much to keep up with Candy as to please her. In those days I was still alternating between Roger and Babs, not very satisfactorily for either of them. Babs was renting a damp fetid terrace in Carlton, while Roger had sought refuge in Eltham. When they were away or too busy to have me, I’d stay with Roger’s parents, amiable souls in complementary pastels. They were clearly bewildered by what had happened to my parents. Their only son, no rebel, had left Babs soon after I was born. It was a mystery and a source of sorrow, possibly even embarrassment. Thank god they knew nothing about Babs’s affair with Julia. That would have been too much. My memories of those times are vivid. Babs was famously gregarious. Hers was the sort of bohemian kitchen that people used to write about in novels. Nothing was private — awkward for an introvert. Did that ratty place even have doors? When Julia took a bath she always left the door open. Once I found her in the kitchen without any clothes on. Sucking a mango, she raved on as if it was perfectly normal. Strangers were always welcome and stupendously fed. The house was always full of strays. Even now I often meet people who remind me that they lived with us for a few months while finishing a play or cutting a record or learning how to make pastry in Babs’s kitchen. The first time I met Digby Danton he reminisced about one of Babs’s parties. Apparently I fell asleep on the floor and Digby carried me to bed. (‘It’s a miracle you grew up semi-normal,’ Julia said when I told her.) Next door was a brothel called In for a Penny. Our kitchen often served as a refuge for the whores when customers became violent. ‘Come in, darls,’ Babs would drawl, giving them a hug. ‘What you need’s a big bowl of 42

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spaghetti alla puttanesca.’ I watched everyone stack on weight, especially my mother and the spent Pennys. Babs kept the weirdest hours. Dinner never happened before ten o’clock. When we finally ate there were usually a dozen people around our table: beaded, bearded and impenetrably stoned. Babs had discovered her culinary gift. Long over her crush on Julia, she was now infatuated with a Thai guy who imported trinkets and hashish. Under his influence Babs dabbled in Asian dishes. Each night I went to bed with iced water for my scalded palate. Then Babs, inheriting some money from a fond uncle, took a lease on a much larger house in Carlton. Babs’ Basket was born — precursor of three other alliterative bistros in nearby streets, and of this year’s (no, last year’s) multimedia phenomenon, Babs’ Feast. I realised quite early that Babs was different from other mothers. She didn’t hide her aversion to domesticity. She made it clear I was not to look to her for entertainment or first aid or help with my woeful spelling. Somehow I knew I would have to read myself to sleep at night. It never occurred to me that Babs was unfeeling. She fed me until I groaned, she got me to school most days, she made no attempt to estrange me from Roger or the Lights. All mothers were distracted, I supposed. I didn’t blame Babs for mildly resenting my presence. A legal gambit had simply backfired. When a pushy lawyer misjudged my father, Babs found herself with a son on her hands five days each week. I enjoyed my role as midget factotum in that disorderly household. I mothered Babs when her spirits were low and when her Thai boyfriend was deported; I nursed her through hepatitis. We were not unclose. I remember affectionately our conversations in the aromatic kitchen when Babs would tell me about her emotional life and explain yet again why she had left Roger. 43

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Then it all began to change, without me quite realising. Before long I was spending more time at Valhalla — entire weekends if I could, sleeping on the floor between columns of Julia’s London books. ‘Are you sure he won’t get in the way?’ Babs asked Julia incredulously each Friday night. After a while Julia stopped seeking permission and Babs didn’t bother asking about my plans. If the arrangement was unorthodox — me spending all my spare time with my mother’s former girlfriend and her teenage daughter — no one said anything. At Swanton my teachers forgot which one was my mother, but I did my homework on time and proved a docile student. Outside the classroom my stylish guardian gave me a rare boost of prestige. Not everyone could boast a flamboyant alternative mother. Even Chris Killen, cool and precocious, was intrigued by the Collises. Roger didn’t object to my youthful migration from Babs’ Basket to Valhalla. He was probably relieved. He’d begun having affairs again, often with younger women who weren’t keen for adolescent company, and his remaining energy went into winning tenure in the law faculty, which he duly did — some consolation for my grandparents. Julia’s godmother status was convenient. Roger, though often wounded by her tongue, respected her intelligence and was grateful I wasn’t spending all my time with Babs’s swaying rabble. At first I was intimidated by Julia, overwhelmed by her forthrightness, her refusal to fudge or forgive. Used to Roger’s placidity and Babs’s scattiness, I was jolted by Julia’s will power, by the fierceness of her judgments. In Julia’s orbit the dopey latitude of youth counted for nothing. Julia chided me when I said something foolish or second-hand, which was most of the time. She told me everything (or almost everything). She regaled me with each new passion in her life: wine, author, lover, cuisine, magazine, politician, satirist, film director. She seemed to forget I was eleven or 44

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twelve or whatever I was. She insisted on me learning as rapidly as she did. She taught me shorthand and speed-reading and how to read a balance sheet. Latin followed, plus a working knowledge of the Constitution, both of which I’ve forgotten. Julia advised me to study people’s eyes when they spoke, and to be wary of nervous types. She was full of nostrums and she detested religiosity. ‘Hagiophobia’ was at the top of the word list she made me keep. Disdainful of the teaching at Swanton — my father’s old school, staffed by blockish Presbyterians and military types — she introduced me to history and didn’t spare me the horrors and depravities. Hypocrisy she derided above all else, hypocrisy about race, manners, wealth, sexuality. Shaken by my new obligations, I felt out of my depth. Words froze in my mouth as I attempted to match her outrage or enthusiasms. How could I share her boldness? After being largely ignored by my parents, it was daunting to spend time with someone who could read my innermost thoughts and who was unmoved by my emotional reserve. ‘That’s not good enough, Matthew,’ she would thunder when I showed her a derivative essay or ventured a juvenile platitude. ‘Say what you mean, not what you think the world wants you to say. You have decent brains, genes and an excellent mistress. Use them.’ I knew I was the luckiest Swantonian, but, despite the school’s valiant motto, I was still a little scared. Like my mother, I marvelled at Julia’s interest in me and her generosity. (No money changed hands; Julia refused Roger’s offers.) Adoring Candy and mesmerised by Julia, I had few friends at Swanton, apart from Chris Killen. I spent all my spare time at Valhalla. One day I realised I had effectively moved in for good and was never going back to Carlton. Babs sent my things a week later with a breezy note and a tub of pesto. Valhalla was my home now. Julia and Candy would be my family for sixteen years. 45

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It never occurred to me that I was in the way — the slightly stunned ward in the spare room. Julia is no celibate, and Candy already had her serial idolaters at fourteen. ‘Please don’t become de trop, darling,’ Babs had warned me one Friday as she tore off at high speed. But I was never made to feel so. I had no idea why Julia — brilliant, cynical, vaulting ahead at Concord — bothered with me, but she did. It baffled me. We became the closest of trios, frequenting theatres and jazz clubs, attending film marathons, living in bookshops, haunting Russian and Transylvanian restaurants. Julia joked that it was good having a man in the house. Most weekends we would load up the Triumph and set off. If there were sculptures in Mildura, African music in Adelaide or oysters in Coffin Bay, we were there for the opening. At first Roscoe Hunt complained about Julia’s petrol bills. Then she published her first bestseller and Roscoe shut up about the cost of her restlessness. Later on, we accompanied Candy to the jazz bars where she sang before enrolling at the Conservatorium. Candy was invariably the last act, so Julia and I would sit in the car until midnight. As cigarette smoke spiralled from the vents I listened to Julia’s world-weary summations of the absurdities of men and my mother’s latest folly. Then we went inside and watched Candy, tall and tressed, dressed in something plain and black, as she effortlessly improvised. It was after one of these performances that I lingered in Candy’s room rather late. I was untangling her long black abundant hair, always slightly electric after a performance. Vaguely distorted in the mirror, not as knowable or symmetrical, she watched me as I struggled with her hair, then stood up and kissed me on the mouth. It was different from Chris Killen’s salty, cracked kisses. Then we stepped out of our clothes like human sacrifices and lay on the bed holding our breath. ~ 46

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The party at Hatfield twelve months ago was just as lavish as Julia had predicted. Nearing the immense property we spotted helicopters and small planes bearing greenish guests. The ribboned roads were full of white limousines with darkened windows. The sun hadn’t quite set when we arrived. Long gum-shaped shadows stretched from one lush property to another. The ‘events team’ met us in front of the old white house where presidents had tasted their first barbecued chop and where Katharine Hepburn and Robert Helpmann had given an impromptu reading from The Taming of the Shrew during her tour in the fifties. Performers still rank as trade, so Candy was led round the back to a creamy bungalow that had been renamed the Green Room for the night. Julia and I explored the famous park, with its walled garden and shapely lake. Hatfield had been in the Hutton family for a century. Hal Hutton had added the golf course and the tarmac. The main marquee quickly filled with dignitaries, all in black tie. The prime minister was rumoured to be flying down from Canberra. Justice Lacey had arrived earlier, sans his second wife. Security men were everywhere. Hal Hutton must have been thinking of Stella Anthem and their young son. Ever since that botched abduction in LA when an earlier wife was shot at, Hutton always travelled with a phalanx of guards, thick-necked and black-shirted. His four children by former wives were there too. They had flown in from their Ivy League colleges and media outposts. I presumed they were there for Philip Anthem, not Roman, the umpteenth stepbrother. They stood together in a huddle noting the guests before retreating to the big old white house on the hill where they remained for the rest of the evening — sacking editors and buying more newspapers, Julia speculated. The alcohol was already flowing — Pink Gins, vodka martinis and champagne from Hutton’s new winery in New 47

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Zealand. Julia preferred a shot-glass containing a colossal oyster. The waiter informed us that it came with the compliments of the ‘executive chef ’. ‘How is Babs?’ Julia rejoined, startling the youth. ‘Give her my love.’ I knew my mother was presiding in the kitchen. She does most of Stella’s parties. I didn’t expect to speak to Babs. She had a long menu and a staff of fifty to organise. She appeared twice during the evening, led out by Stella. Babs, deeply flushed and flamboyantly jewelled, was a study in modesty. Watching her, Julia hissed that Candy could learn a thing or two from my mother when it came to curtain calls. Spotting us, Babs blew kisses and mouthed that she wanted to see us afterwards. ‘I’ll cop it,’ Julia said in mock alarm. ‘Babs always expects me to bring a carload of Babs’ Feast and flog them, even when I’m on holidays. It’s amazing what stardom does to people. I’m beginning to feel like one of her sous-chefs.’ Then it was time for speeches. The prime minister had cried off at the last moment, ostensibly because his defence minister had gone missing in a yacht race (‘Not a bad excuse,’ Julia opined). Hal Hutton produced a message from the Lodge and read it in his flat voice. Drollery is not the prime minister’s forte. The most excruciating of his jokes silenced the audience, so patronising was it to Roman Anthem. How democratic, Douglas Raglan said, that the grandson of our greatest parliamentarian should find employment as a cabinet-maker. I looked around to see how Roman had taken it, but he was lurking behind a post. Julia, increasingly restive, groaned when our host produced a third prime ministerial page. One of the blackshirts silenced her with a hiss. ‘So much for free speech,’ she said, winking at him. Russell Lacey — suave and satin-jacketed, taller than the High Court, as they say — spoke after Hal Hutton. Stella’s 48

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first husband (attorney-general in Anthem’s government) seemed quite relaxed and thanked Hutton for his kindness to his son. He ended with an allusion to the Fracas and wondered what the US government would send his old mentor on his birthday. Then Lacey proposed a joint toast. ‘To Philip and Roman,’ we muttered. Babs had made an enormous birthday cake. Four weightlifters in sequined shorts carried it in on a huge silver tray. Digby Danton had borrowed the swollen strongmen from the Opera, where they often appear in heroic guise and minimal dress. I recognised two of the gladiators from Alcina, my sole opera (this was when Candy got me work as an extra during one of my leaner patches). Philip Anthem blew out two or three candles and spoke graciously with his old self-deprecation. He seemed frail and was barely audible. I got a bit of a shock. His emphysema had worsened. Julia was surprised too but said nothing. The unspoken fear at Concord was that their star author wouldn’t be alive when The Anthem Memoirs appeared later in the year. Roman, declining to speak, led Philip Anthem back to his table where Ursula Sait stood up and kissed both of them. I’d never seen Ursula in such vivacious form. Catching my eye, she sat on Roman’s lap and raised a triumphal glass. ‘What a tart,’ Julia hissed. She’d been watching the pantomime too. I remembered Julia’s prediction that Ursula would marry Roman in the New Year. Ever since Candy (who had heard it from Ursula) had let slip that Roman would receive a tidy sum from Philip Anthem when he turned twenty-one, Julia had been adamant about Ursula’s designs. ‘She’ll marry him in a flash,’ she insisted. ‘Ursula’s not the marrying type,’ I insisted, looking away. I wondered why I was defending Ursula. We had little in common. Babs might have been fond of her niece — partly because of Ursula’s serial problems, but mainly because her 49

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mother had died young and she pitied her — but I hardly knew her. ‘Oh she’ll marry him all right,’ Julia bore on. ‘Just you watch. How old is Belladonna now — thirty-five? Go figure! There’s nothing like trust money to turn a girl’s head.’ Then Julia let out one of her lethal sighs. ‘Poor Roman doesn’t stand a chance. You and Candy will be back here for the nuptials before you know it. That’s one wedding I won’t be attending. Imagine the frocks, the ballroom dancing. What vulgar relations you have, Matthew.’ I thanked Julia, but she wasn’t listening. ‘I bet Ursula has visions of Philip Anthem giving her away. If I see her sucking up to Philip or trying to lure him on to the dance floor I’ll let her have it. She’s not going to exhaust my author.’ ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ I said. I hadn’t come all this way to discuss Ursula’s marriage plans. But I hoped Julia was wrong. I wasn’t sure why, but suddenly I didn’t want Ursula to marry our junior guest of honour. Outside it was all shrill cicadas and furtive moon. I wandered through the grounds and began to feel alien. We could go home soon, once Candy had sung for the birthday boys. I began to miss Valhalla, our cloistered home. I walked past the old white floodlit house and suspected I was being filmed. Inside the front room Hal Hutton’s children were staring at a television as if someone had been assassinated. I drifted into the walled garden and pissed on the lemon tree. To see how drunk I was, I recited Shakespeare’s twentyninth sonnet backwards — my party trick. I made it, so I knew I wasn’t too far gone. Halfway through, I was startled by the sight of the red tip of a cigarette among the sunflowers and stamens. It glowed in the dark, clearly inhaled. Someone was leaning against the wall. I moved away, embarrassed. I was expecting the odd 50

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surprise at Hatfield, but not to find out that Hal Hutton’s garden was a beat. The red tip fell and someone crushed it on the gravel. ‘What language is that?’ my invisible spy asked. Then he shone his torch and looked me up and down. It was one of Hal Hutton’s blackshirts. Apologising for surprising me, he said he was so bored he’d decided to guard the frogs. ‘What this party needs is drugs, not protection.’ Then he offered me a cigarette and rolled it adroitly in the dark. ‘I reckon you’d be a whippet, not a greyhound man.’ Lighting it, he cupped his hands around mine. I thought they only did that in Terence Rattigan plays. He kept them there while I inhaled, the torch catching his wedding band. He was bored. I thanked him and moved away. It had been so long. I was rusty. I walked along the famous driveway. Horseshoe-shaped and lined with eucalyptuses, it surrounds a ménage for Hutton’s horses. I knew I should start thinking about my coming work, such as it was — two lines in a film, some radio work, then Samuel Beckett at the end of the year — but I pushed it away. I’ve never been good at preparation. Until I enter that studio, step on that stage, I’m always in denial. But I didn’t have the driveway to myself. Someone was approaching from the opposite direction, casting long shadows. I hoped my blackshirt wasn’t following me. It was too hot for a scene. Or would I let him have me, in the ménage, with the sweet odour of dung in my nostrils? Passive ghosts rose in me, old feelings of suggestibility. Still a fair way off, the tall figure heard me and froze. I thought he was going to turn around and head across the ménage. Then the lithe form walked towards me, snapping twigs. It was Roman Anthem. Our guest of honour had escaped from the party for fresh air or privacy. We stood in a cone of moonlight with little to say. It was the first time we’d ever been alone. Finally I remembered to congratulate 51

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him on turning twenty-one. I asked him if he was enjoying himself. ‘Tonight’s really about Dad,’ Roman said laconically, waving it away with the nagging insects. ‘Justice Lacey?’ ‘You are formal,’ he smiled. ‘I meant Philip. I’ve always called him Dad. Don’t ask me why.’ He poked at the dusty track with a stick. I noticed his stained work boots. He alone wasn’t in black tie. ‘My mother was determined to have one of her extravaganzas, so here we all are. How are you coping?’ ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Have you seen the walled garden?’ Roman went on. ‘Special, isn’t it? I’ve always liked enclosed spaces. Did you see the lily pond? That’s a pond with a history. My stepfather almost drowned in it when he was two. His mother heard him floundering around and fished him out. Apparently she had to work on Hal for half an hour. He brought up a goldfish. Just imagine how different things would have been if old Mrs Hutton hadn’t saved him. Try imagining a universe without Hal Hutton. You see, you can’t. Neither can I.’ Roman laughed. ‘We’d still know each other though, wouldn’t we?’ ‘I guess so.’ ‘Of course we would. We’re almost related.’ I was surprised by Roman’s mood. He seemed disengaged and sardonic for someone about to inherit the earth. ‘What time is it?’ Roman asked softly. He turned my wrist over in his warm hand and breathed heavily. I’d never really looked at him before. ‘I should go inside,’ he said. ‘Candy’s about to sing. Mustn’t miss that. I bet you know what she’s going to sing. Don’t tell me! There must be one surprise tonight. Apart from meeting you out here, that is. Don’t follow me. Stay here and enjoy the tranquillity.’ I watched Roman recede in his loose-limbed cowboy 52

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fashion. He looked over his shoulder and smiled at me, suddenly his own age, not that of a much older person. ‘Thank you for coming to my party,’ he sang out. ‘It was good of you — all three of you.’ Then he added, ‘Don’t talk to strangers.’ Moments later all sense of Roman had dissolved — his nature, his easy gait. He left no after-image. It had always been like that during his two-year affair with Ursula. She would lead him into a room like a trophy — a tall shy boyprize with Spanish eyes — and Roman and I would nod at each other across the void. Usually I would have to remind myself which one he was, where he ranked in Ursula’s cast of monosyllabic bonks. Across the ménage I heard Candy singing Blue Moon. It washed over me like an American cure. I followed that loved voice into the scented night and thought of drifting further, beyond the paddocks and the sculptures and the thoroughbreds. As a boy I used to fantasise about running away. I guess I had cause to when I was living with Babs, but even when I went to live at Valhalla I would head off on a tram or a bus and dream of going further, lapsing out into some vista of my own creation. I suppose I was running away from myself, not my minders. The lure was subtle, almost erotic. But I always pulled up at mental borders — except for one day much later when Julia pushed me, pushed me too far, and I snapped. Ironic isn’t it that Roman should be the one to vanish at the end of the year, condemning all of us to our clueless, severed vigils. Roman, who always seemed so docile, so inextricable. * It’s late now, three or four in the afternoon. I’m still sitting on the beach. I’ve been here so long my face is as tight as a death mask. Behind me the Eclipse slowly comes to consciousness. Bleary guests fill the garden, ordering milkshakes instead of martinis. Now and then combi-vans pull 53

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up and bare-chested heroes spill out in search of surf, only to be disappointed. ‘Imagine swimming in that,’ one of them sneered as he inspected the churning sea, with its geriatric waders and ubiquitous seaweed. I don’t want a swim but even I need food, fuel for insight. After foraging I’ll sit on the balcony and wait — as long as it takes. No alternative.

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5

JULIA January 2 ~ One of Prentice’s hot hairy horny hands is lying between my legs. His thick unlovely ankles rest on mine, twitching now and then. Why are men such nervous sleepers? Guilt, I suppose. There are scars all the way up his hairy legs. Even his ample cock is scarred — not just the original snip. Someone must have bitten him. Those footballers will stop at nothing. As Prentice drifts into a deeper sleep his fingers strum my thigh, not unpleasantly. Soon his snoring will resound throughout the hotel. I’ll stay awake tonight, listening. I have known Prentice to babble in his sleep, Cassio-like. You never know when you might be able to do something with all those Bonnys and Biancas. We got back from Patmos early today and decided to share a room. Hal Hutton and Roscoe Hunt would approve of our economy if they knew. Our room overlooks the Acropolis. The Parthenon, catching the last rays of the sun, is as pink and prodigious as Prentice’s prick. I shan’t see it again this trip (the temple, I mean). We’re due to fly home in the 55

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morning, on separate commercial flights. No Greek largesse for the return journey. Prentice hasn’t mentioned his impertinent profile since our arrival. Wary by nature, I’m now doubly circumspect. If Prentice learns any of my secrets, it won’t be from me. Sometimes, pretending to come, I ejaculate a few names, just to tease Prentice. He looks at me and strives harder, determined to efface his forerunners. During the voyage to Patmos, we sat at the back of the boat smoking like infidels and soon emptied my hip flask. Prentice told me about his potato sack of a marriage. The wife (I can’t remember her name) is much too placid for such a rampager. She wants babies and a beachfront; Prentice craves glory and gore. I can’t see it lasting for more than a year. Prentice would have me in his cocksure way, but I won’t be conquered. I’m nearly fifty; he’s thirty-five going on nineteen. Ursula Sait is welcome to an age difference like that. The thought of Babs’s ludicrous niece reminds me of another debauch with Prentice: my first encounter with the young rascal. This was exactly a year ago, at Stella’s birthday party for Philip Anthem — and the other one. No press was meant to be there. It was a condition of Philip’s, and Stella for once obeyed him. Hal Hutton knew of the ban but authorised the Zone’s editor to cover it, furtively. Prentice was despatched, full of protests, the jet set not being his usual thing. That’s how I met him. First came the prelude. Despite the cocktails, I feared it was going to be a dismal affair, too mannered for my liking. The guests were on their best behaviour, trying to emulate Stella’s brittle hauteur, which is impossible. Only Ursula Sait was in mercurial form. Chemicals must have inspired her giggly mood. She licked her lips repeatedly, always a 56

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give-away. They looked fuller than usual, as if she’d just had collagen inserted. Then she started spinning through the marquee. She was wearing one of those silly dresses that billow around you like an unruly sea: the kind I hurled back at my mother when I was ten. I began to feel giddy and told Ursula to calm down, to no avail. She was far too excited to notice me — or Matthew, for that matter. She didn’t speak to her cousin all night. Come to think of it, she didn’t spend much time with Roman, either. Stella was polite to Ursula, with a look of the utmost weariness. Stella was at her most relentlessly chic. I had to admit she wasn’t bad for forty-five, though I did detect a new tight sheen in her complexion. Stella started playing around with her visage when she was twenty — first the protruding ears, then the noble nose. Imagine tampering with Philip’s aquiline features. Stella was twenty-four when she had Roman. Russell Lacey (who was at Hatfield, by the way, almost stooped with judicial solemnity) must have been in his mid-thirties. Stella left him a year after she had Roman. That must have taken nerve. Reluctant though I am to embellish the legend of Stella Anthem, it was brave of her to go through with it: fronting up at a press conference tout seul, acting as her father’s de facto consort, and raising Roman on her own. Brave, even unusual, and Stella’s hardly an unconventional gal. I know how prurient the world can be when you upset the apple-cart — raise a fatherless child. But I’m not an ‘icon’, as they say at the Zone. I was living in London when the Laceys divorced, but it was in all the UK papers. Hal Hutton had just bought his first busty rag. In those days the radical Anthems were fair game. ‘PM’s Daughter Sacks Cabinet Member’, said one of the headlines. (Stella must have forgiven him for that.) The torpor in the pompous marquee began to deepen. 57

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One local grazier, informed that I was a publisher, limped across the room, introduced himself brusquely (using his last name and my first), and asked me to publish a greasy memoir written by a convict forebear. This always happens at genteel parties. Then the martinis took over and people began to relax. I knew that Stella wouldn’t introduce me to her husband, so I went up and did it myself. Hal Hutton was transfixed by my cleavage, which I had plumped up like two mangoes in a bowl. He struck me as ruthless, roguish and rather well put together. He was wearing the most beautiful shoes I’d ever seen on a man. I wanted to touch them, but thought it impolitic with his gimlet-eyed wife in the background. Most men don’t worry about footwear: they don’t realise how much women care. Philip Anthem, inevitably the most elegant man at the party, must have been impressed by his son-in-law’s grooming, if not by his business ethics. We had met before, Hal Hutton and I. He didn’t remember, of course. This was at a mollusced affair in Sydney when his network was flirting with electronic publishing. I went along to represent Concord. This must have been about eight years ago, just before Hutton and Stella Anthem got together. He had just divorced the Venezuelan beauty queen (I was surprised he could still afford oysters). Officially unattached, he was surrounded by a sortie of burnt blondes who lit his cigars and admired themselves in his shoes. He did all the talking and made a surprising amount of sense. He talked over everyone and listened to no one. Now the Huttons have a son of their own to go with Roman and the runt Stella had with sleepy old Alec Payne, of the tropical knighthood. Hughdie, the authentic heir, pushing five or six, was upstairs with his nanny in the big white house. That’s when I met Max Payne for the first time: a misfit for the ages. For Roman’s half-brother, he was surprisingly 58

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short. Surly, foul-mouthed, Little Maxie, as Stella cloyingly called him, slouched around the party like a handsome thug. At one point I found him going through Lady Martin’s handbag. ‘Don’t bother,’ I advised him. ‘You’ll only find scratchies.’ So he stole my Marlboros instead. At midnight he went off on a Vespa, cursing his stepfather. My table was full of wealthy dullards: graziers’ wives who dabbled in water colours, and Hal Hutton’s dilapidated aunts. One of them thought she was still in Double Bay. I took a tablet to give me strength. Stella Anthem had snaffled Digby Danton, and Candy was busy vocalising in the Green Room. I thought the evening was going to be one long suicide. With a sinking social feeling I turned to the young man on my right. I liked his broken nose and Presleyan smirk. He instantly made a crack about the décor and I knew I could rely on him to entertain me until coffee and mints. We clicked, as my mother sweetly used to say when I arrived home having raped a new boyfriend. I enjoyed Prentice’s quips, his cynicism, his big unabashable voice. He was impressively erudite. We sat there trading put-downs from our favourite comic writers, baffling the wizened aunts. We had been placed in the furthest corner, miles away from Stella Anthem, but even she could hear Prentice’s volcanic laughter. She peered at us suspiciously, trying to place my companion. According to Stella’s frigid etiquette, enthusiasm of any kind is a weakness: it ruins subtlety and lines the face. Prentice was under orders to pretend to be someone else — an arms dealer of all things — but I knew he was a journo. I could tell from his thirst, his wisecracks and the tape recorder bulging under his rented tuxedo. Being a boy, and a half-tanked boy at that, he was panting to tell me why he was really there. All it took was a few compliments. Prentice told me about the Zone, Hutton’s reign of terror, the carousel of 59

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editors, the ultimatum to write about Philip Anthem’s big night or else. No oysters for him unless he was a good boy. Then he swore me to secrecy. I crossed my heart and hoped to die. Just then Candy, rather bored, emerged from the Green Room and joined our table. I introduced her to my mole who was instantly silenced, as they all are on meeting Candy. Svelte in red Valentino, she had never looked lovelier. She glistened and glowed like an unimprovable deity. When Prentice rallied, he was droll about the impossibility of my having a grown daughter. More hilarity followed; more craning of reptilian necks. On learning that Candy was a singer, Prentice offered to perform a duet with her. He fancies himself as a crooner. Then he sang something in a voice bigger than Tom Jones’s. They could have heard him in the Grampians. ‘Later, precious,’ I said, tapping his hand. ‘Drive us all back to Valhalla and you can sing to your heart’s content.’ That must have been when Prentice decided to write about Candy and we all became enmeshed. Just then a waiter told me that Philip Anthem wanted to see me in the main house. I felt ridiculously nervous. I went to the Green Room and freshened up my war-paint. I’d had just enough booze to give me pause as I hurdled the odd consonant. (‘Please don’t get drunk,’ Roscoe had pleaded with me that morning, from London. ‘If you must make a pass at someone, leave the old man alone. Go for the grandson.’) I crossed the portico and entered the old house. It reeked of lilies and Hutton’s cigars. I searched for the family treasures (the Streetons, the Degas, the Paul Storr candlesticks) but Stella had shrewdly locked them away. I had no idea where Philip was. I heard youthful voices overhead, snig60

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gering. Down the hallway, in the library, three old rogues were leaning over a table filled with family photographs in silver frames. I stood in the doorway and caught snatches of speculation about Stella’s past. One liver-spotted gossip mused about Stella’s first divorce. (‘Damned irregular, don’t you think . . . throwing Lacey over like that . . . a good man . . . bit bolshie at first . . . Anthem’s influence, you know . . . seduced them all . . . much better on the High Court . . . looks the part too.’) I found Philip in a chintzy alcove at the rear of the house. He didn’t get up but kissed my hand and pointed to a chair, as if we had seen each other daily for twenty-five years. Mercifully he encouraged me to smoke. ‘I can’t now, because of this heart business, so I do it vicariously,’ he said. ‘It’s why I go to so many parties. I’ve become quite shameless. Don’t tell Stella.’ Philip studied the illuminated rose garden without glancing at me. ‘Do you still go out all the time? I always said you went to more parties than my diplomats.’ I didn’t respond. Best to wait for the preamble to finish. Silence, even with masters of evasion, is the key. Men blurt out everything eventually. ‘I trust you haven’t lost that astonishing stamina of yours,’ he said. ‘You’ll need it this year. I’m afraid your author has exhausted his.’ I told Philip how much I liked the opening chapters. But he wasn’t ready for this and raised an actorly, ringed hand. ‘Not yet. Let’s give ourselves an evening off, shall we? I may not have deserved it, but I’m sure you have. How long has it been, anyway?’ ‘Only a quarter of a century.’ ‘Are you sure? That long. How remiss of me.’ Philip looked at me with rheumy eyes and a familiar, ironic expression. The first time I met him he reminded me of Peter Finch, but handsomer. I was nineteen, so Philip 61

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must have been forty-five. He was in Melbourne for a national conference, the seminal one that adopted the platform that would win him the election two years later. Afterwards I went to a party, in Brighton of all places. My boyfriend (Sam, Simon, Stephen?) — son of a party functionary — had scored an invitation. Someone introduced me to Philip in the hallway. He smiled, almost bowed, looking at me. We were all Comrade that night, in the prehistoric past. My mates at university were all agog when I described it next day. ‘You’ve been doing great things,’ Philip went on. ‘Oh yes, I’ve been following your career since you stopped working for me. You’re why I signed with Concord. But you know that, don’t you? You were the only person I wanted to work with. It nearly drove my agent mad. She wanted to auction me off like an old master of doubtful authenticity. Millions, millions, that’s what she said she could get for me. But I told her that unless it was Concord the deal was off. I hope that’s understood by your masters in London. God knows what that bumptious man told them — the one who came to talk to me about the contract.’ ‘Roscoe Hunt? He’s my boss.’ ‘Then you have my sympathy. He’s the most extraordinary man. What did they call Theodore Roosevelt — “the embodiment of noise”. I’ve never met anyone so obsessed by money. Your Mr Hunt seemed to think my only reason for writing my memoirs was filthy lucre.’ ‘Not all our authors are so disinterested, Philip.’ ‘Yes, I’ve read some of my former ministers’ efforts. Travesties.’ He discussed everything but politics and his memoirs. He asked about my travels. He said he hoped to return to Greece during the year (‘if you’ll give me a furlough’). He talked about his great passions. They hadn’t changed: 62

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bridge, single malts, Tolstoy, the Civil War, Rothko, Gore Vidal, Montaigne, Elizabeth David, Thomas Jefferson, Nabokov, the great indoors. He was scathing about the current prime minister. ‘Is there anything more risible than the sight of a well-shod politician hanging over sheep-yard rails and pretending to be a country boy at heart?’ He was still a superior detector of moral paste. The timing, the orotund phrasing, were as mordant as ever. Then there was Wagner, of course, to whom Philip had introduced me in my twenties. He listed all the Ring Cycles he’d seen, including one while he was prime minister. (‘Remember when I went to Bayreuth? They nearly slaughtered me. It was as if I’d gone to North Vietnam. One of my future son-in-law’s newspapers said I was the first leader to visit Bayreuth since Hitler. That’s when they started calling me the Führer. I must have a go at Hal about that.’) In all, Philip had seen twelve Ring Cycles, which was a dozen more than I had. He said he hoped to attend the Adelaide Ring at the end of the year. He went through most of the cast, but he didn’t mention Candy. I knew from Digby Danton that Philip was sponsoring Sieglinde. (Stella, predictably, had bagsed Fricka.) Philip was aware I had spent some time in Italy with Roman and Ursula, and wanted to know how it had gone. He seemed to think everyone was devoted to his eldest grandson. I didn’t disabuse him. Why tell him that I had stayed as far away from the Beestung Belladonna and her boy as possible? Philip was fond of Roman — excessively fond. I felt sure he was uneasy about Ursula Sait. Stella was mentioned only in passing, the younger grandsons not at all. There was a single dry reference to the new husband — ‘our mogul’. Sighing, Philip began to discuss his hopes for the memoirs. He said he despised the new craze for jocularity and indiscretion. ‘I’m woefully old-fashioned,’ 63

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he intoned with the old camp emphasis on the adverb. ‘You’ll have to indulge me. All I’ve tried to do is to pen a few modest studies in political character and fortitude.’ Philip reminisced about his time in office. He didn’t mention his wife, the heiress from Boston who’d died a few months after he became prime minister. He admitted that despite all his denials at the time his health had never recovered after the first coronary. Yet he had hung on for another four years, a further election win, and the almighty diplomatic schism that he himself christened the Fracas. ‘I wasn’t even sixty but I was a walking corpse,’ Philip confided, stroking Stella’s fussy cushions. ‘I was in worse shape than I am now, if you can believe that. Like my doctors, I was appalled by my lust for office. I dressed it up of course, to myself, my colleagues — said it would have been irresponsible to quit at such a time, implied I was irreplaceable. But I knew the real reason. I couldn’t bear to let go. It was deplorable behaviour — Churchillian. Why my colleagues tolerated it I can’t imagine. At the end they had to prop me up on the podium like the other Roosevelt — my hero, as you well know.’ Practical questions arose, with some urgency. Removing a puffer from his jacket and using it covertly, Philip asked me when I expected to be able to show him edited chapters and how long I would spend in Canberra, where he still lived. The latter concentrated the mind like a month of sobriety. But I was heartened by Philip’s enthusiasm and by the fact that he wasn’t precious about his first draft. I had worked with too many nonentities who thought they were geniuses because they could type with two fingers. There was only one hint of recalcitrance. Philip hadn’t mentioned Stella’s marriage to Russell Lacey, the brisk separation or the farcical debate in parliament when the Opposition claimed there was a breach between the PM and 64

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his attorney-general. Finally, studying me with those beautiful grey eyes, Philip surprised me. ‘I suppose your men in London will demand a chapter on my daughter’s colourful past.’ ‘Who exactly are my men in London,’ I asked. ‘You know what I mean,’ Philip softened. ‘They’ll want their money’s worth.’ ‘No more than usual,’ I countered. ‘You wouldn’t believe what we expect our sporting heroes to reveal.’ He laughed. ‘Sometimes I think the enemy isn’t ignorance but prurience. Whose side is my editor really on?’ Then Philip slapped his long elegantly trousered thighs, as if to wake them up. ‘But now I’m asking too many questions. I’m not even sure why we bother. Hubris again, I expect. “Why drag about this corpse of memory.” Who said that? Yes, Emerson, very good. You haven’t changed. But that’s enough cross-examination for one night. I look forward to resuming our conversation. Let’s rout the philistines, shall we?’ On which note he rose creakily, shook my hand and signalled to an invisible spirit that it was time to leave. ‘I must go back to the circus tent and do my duty. It’s been a tonic talking to you again after all this time. Twenty-five years . . . I can’t believe it. Where has it all gone, Julia?’ A flunkey appeared and handed him his stick. I didn’t watch Philip’s slow exit, not wishing to be reminded how changed he was. I’d read that he was infirm but I hadn’t believed it. In the doorway Philip fumbled in his suit and said something over his shoulder. ‘Nearly forgot. I’ve something for you — a return souvenir, shall we say.’ After much groping he produced a small object and passed it to me. His fingertips were cold in my palm. ‘Remember?’ I did. It was the gold Dunhill cigarette lighter I had sent him during the Fracas soon after my return to Australia. I had bought it for him in London, but wasn’t sure if I would 65

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ever give it to him. When the Fracas erupted I sent it to Canberra with a private note. I slipped the lighter into my jacket. ‘I bet you’ve forgotten the inscription,’ Philip said. ‘Molto coraggio. I often thought of it during that rather tense fortnight. Alas, it’s no use to me now, so you should have it back. Good night, my dear.’ After this — intrigued and flattered and seriously agitated — I badly wanted to do two things: smoke an entire packet of cigarettes and tell Roscoe about my success. I found a small room and phoned him at the Savoy where, carried away by the majesty of it all, he was flagrantly ensconced. (Roscoe always puts me up at a creaking slum in Bloomsbury.) I told him about my meeting with Philip. He seemed pompously pleased with himself, as if he were responsible for our coup. Then he terminated the call, saying he was late for lunch at the Groucho. I knew my reunion with Philip had gone well. The old rapport was still there. Here at last was something I could get my teeth into. I needed to be tested again. The previous two years had been a doddle. I had bossed people around, published a hundred books a year and packaged them like bliss, yet none of it mattered. Awards, cars, travel, a whopping salary — by publishing standards anyway — had left me with a taste of ashes in my mouth. The Anthem Memoirs would change all that. Needing to be alone, I moved into the rose garden, only to find a group of Roman’s school friends — lanky Swantonians, like Matthew. (How unimaginative of Roger Light to send Matthew to his Alma Mater, that catamitic college: home to generations of Laceys and Anthems.) The Swantonians, with the blinkers of the young, ignored me completely. They were speculating about all the women in the marquee, though not our daunting hostess, I noticed. 66

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Even brash boys are wary of Stella Anthem. Some of these pups hadn’t begun to shave. I looked at their peachy complexions and wondered what they would do with their lives: all the havoc they would cause, the women they would use and betray, the deceptions, the perversions. Quite bland they looked in their dinner suits; impossible to tell apart. Bored by their anonymous good looks, I took out some coke and took a revivifying snort. At this, the Doc Marten brigade finally noted my presence. They hadn’t tried it before and clamoured to do so. ‘We’ll pay you,’ one banker of the future offered. Such sweet boys; so well-trained. ‘Does it give you a rush?’ a pimply product wondered. ‘Does Rose Kennedy wear black?’ I retorted with a sneeze that startled the wombats and wallabies. Just then, in the distance, I heard someone singing I Left My Heart in San Francisco. Young Mr Prentice had commandeered the microphone. Beyond the inevitable parterre a lawn runs down to the lake. I stood listening to the possums wheezing like Philip Anthem. Scudding across rocks, a water rat, pinkened by fairy lights strung about the garden, caught my scent and arched into the water like an Olympic diver. Then to my considerable surprise Roman Anthem appeared, superfluously tall, as Jane Austen would say. I asked him why he wasn’t inside unwrapping gifts or making a speech. He laughed, reminding me of his grandfather for a nanosecond. I didn’t tell him I’d just been with Philip. He wouldn’t have been interested in the memoirs. He had always been bored by the Anthem lore, if not unfond of his grandfather. But Roman seemed oddly unwilling to leave. The curled darling of the nation wanted a chat. He stood there by the lake and asked me in that sardonic way of his if I was enjoying myself. ‘Hugely.’ What else could I say to the attentive boy-host? ‘I should have stayed in Italy.’ 67

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‘But who would have blown out your candles?’ ‘Don’t you wish you’d stayed longer?’ ‘I’ve lived abroad a number of times, Roman.’ ‘Whereabouts?’ ‘London. New York.’ ‘Why did you come back?’ ‘Responsibilities.’ ‘Candy? Matthew?’ ‘Now you’re asking too many questions. Tonight we’re meant to be captivated by you.’ ‘Humour me, Julia. I came out here to escape — like you.’ This was presumptuous of him, but I let it pass. ‘Ursula’s not so shy,’ I observed. ‘She’s never looked more . . .’ I couldn’t think of a single blameless epithet to complete the sentence. ‘Effervescent?’ Roman chuckled. ‘Next there’ll be dancing,’ I predicted, keen to avert any grotesque insights into Roman’s affair with Babs’s niece. ‘Ursula will be in her element.’ ‘She’ll find partners,’ Roman said coldly. ‘I’m too drunk to dance.’ ‘Forgive my saying so, but you don’t seem drunk enough.’ ‘Give me a cigarette.’ ‘But you don’t smoke. I’m not about to start corrupting the young.’ ‘I want one tonight.’ ‘I’m sure your friends will give you all sorts of cigarettes.’ ‘I don’t want dope. I feel old enough already. I feel about forty.’ He said it stolidly, as if he meant it. He ran his hand through those preposterous curls. ‘Well, I’ll let you have one, but only because I haven’t bought you a gift.’ Roman lit the cigarette, his strong brown Florentine hands adept with the gold Dunhill lighter. I took it from 68

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him before he had a chance to read the inscription. I didn’t want him reading anything of mine, or Philip’s. ‘I’m wearing my grandfather’s jacket,’ he breezed. ‘Do you like it?’ His face was enigmatic in the sickly light. People usually fell in his tracks, but I’d never found him handsome. ‘Very fetching.’ All this cokey repartee with a virtual stranger in whom I had no interest was giving me a migraine. It was time to leave. ‘Thank you for coming,’ Roman said as I moved towards the candled parterre. ‘I hoped you would — all of you.’ ‘Candy and Matthew have been looking forward to it for weeks.’ ‘And you, Julia?’ he laughed. ‘You should go inside.’ ‘You seem to have the closest relationship — always going out together. I’m envious.’ ‘Your mother will be looking for you.’ ‘Can I come and see you at Valhalla?’ So he knew its name. It seemed impertinent, like a veiled threat. ‘Go inside and dance, Roman.’ As I walked back to the shining marquee I began to wonder how accidental our meeting had been. Had Roman been waiting for someone by the lake? Girl or boy (his manner was so ambiguous)? One thing was for certain: it wasn’t Ursula Sait. That was the first time I had given Stella Anthem’s beanpole much thought. Roman Anthem intrigued me in a lacklustre sort of way. Previously, even when our paths crossed — at Babs’s restaurant or at film festivals — he hadn’t registered. Now he was a kind of fact: flippant, persistent, slightly irritating. Not much surprises me these days — I’ve been cauterised too many times — but there was something bizarre about 69

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Roman’s being the grandson of Philip Anthem: charismat, visionary, giant among our federal pygmies. I felt like drawing a long blue line through that unlikely branch when I came to edit the Anthem family tree. Sure, Stella was an improbable daughter, ruthless and avaricious, but at least she had inherited some of Philip’s drive and glamour, his ability to surprise. Stella’s life had been one long melodrama — superior soap. Roman, by contrast, seemed like something out of Ibsen, the brooding disappointment in the vestibule, with none of the hereditary savoir faire. I had become aware of this six months earlier when Roman and Ursula Sait joined Babs’s house party in the villa outside Siena. They had flown in for a few days before Babs’s coterie dispersed: twenty divorcées paying huge sums to learn how to make gnocchi and panna cotta. I’d never taken much notice of Roman before, though he had been lurking around for about two years. Babs had hired him to help modify her kitchen and that’s how he met Ursula. Nothing dramatic happened in Siena (Roman is too controlled for that), but I became aware that each time he joined Babs’s party the general mood altered, became more charged, more self-conscious. Roman was the only male in our company — apart from Matthew — but there was more to it than that. Women encrusted in make-up visibly flushed in his presence and couldn’t take their eyes off him. When Roman strolled into the medieval kitchen and unblocked a flue they hovered around the ladder like Magdalenes at Calvary. One afternoon, unpeeling for the first and only time, he plunged into the pool and the collective sigh from the sun lounges was audible. It wasn’t just his name or celebrity that undid them: it was his slim waist, his ivory skin, his surprising shoulders and the besotting curls. Subtly, sexually, perhaps unknowingly, he intimidated our garrulous gourmets. Here was another of those males who 70

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only had to roll up his sleeves to cause havoc. I wanted him out of there. Fortunately, Roman kept his distance. He went for long walks through the clay country and peered into the farm machinery that dots La Crete. He struck me as being an introvert, satisfied with simple things — like tractors. Domestically he was far from content. It didn’t take genius to deduce that he had run out of patience with Ursula, that carping, self-pitying woman. Roman stayed well away from her all week. In the evening he was obliged to join us in the courtyard for aperitifs, followed by Babs’s latest truffled triumph. Like the rest of us, Roman drank too much Montalcino wine and became sarcastic. This tantalised Babs’s ladies, half of whom were by now concertedly in love with him. One or two of the older matrons tried to impress Roman by reminiscing about his grandfather, whom they had known in their twenties. He studied them coolly through thick unamused lashes. This callow young man had quite an effect on people. It was a paradox. Babs put it succinctly one night when Roman went outside to quieten the dogs in a surprisingly forceful voice. ‘He makes me feel like a catherine wheel,’ she sighed. The hounds of La Crete fell silent too. Even the majestic Sienese were not indifferent to his dark good looks, as I discovered one day. We had all gone into Siena and arranged to meet in the Campo during the passeggiatta. (Babs, ever fond of a title, had befriended the Contessa d’Este, who had agreed to show us through her apartments, poor woman.) We all set off in different directions. Roman and Ursula, who had clearly quarrelled that morning, split up the minute I parked the mini-bus. Babs and her devotees wanted to savour more truffles at the Osteria le Logge. A few souls, still digesting and morally absolving the previous night’s suckling kid, went off to send postcards of the 71

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Allegory of Good Government to the envious and misgoverned back home. Ursula flounced off to try on more shoes. After a stroll through the university — a daily ritual because of the beauty of the students — I returned to the Pinacoteca and admired my favourite painting in the gallery, a Lorenzetti landscape thoughtfully stuck behind a door. I reached the Campo ten minutes before the allotted time. I saw a young man leaning against the fountain, the sole garish feature in the square. He was long-legged, narrow-waisted, darkly nonchalant and quite devastating. Languid as St Sebastian porcupined with arrows, he took in everything: the timeless architecture in the scalloped piazza; the spontaneous soccer; the immaculate elders led around the Campo by hirelings or great-nephews; the golden bambini in their thousand-dollar suits. For an instant I thought him, it is disquieting to admit, the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Then I moved closer for a better view and recognised Roman. I was so annoyed by my mistake I had to circumnavigate the Campo a few times before joining the women who had now encircled him. When I reached the fountain Roman turned away from the others and nodded to me without a word. He had seen me that first time — I was sure of that — but he hadn’t waved and he hadn’t said a word. I made a kind of mental note that day. But it wasn’t sharp enough, and it didn’t help. Perhaps if I had been more vigilant, more like myself — but my guard was down. Tuscan truffles had lulled me into a state of apathy. Besides, the beautiful blur hardly seemed like a threat at the time.

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6

MATTHEW January 5 ~ And so we all drove back to Valhalla last January after the party at Hatfield. Delighted to be out of there, Julia let out one of her war cries and roared away down corrugated roads while the rest of us cheered and gossiped. Julia had picked up a new admirer — Tom Prentice, a journalist with one of Hal Hutton’s newspapers. He hitched a ride home with us and impersonated Tony Bennett and Frank Sinatra. Candy, glad it was all over and soon tipsy on the French champagne we had pinched on the way out, began singing duets with Prentice and lost her voice. (‘That’s a great start to the year,’ Julia chimed. ‘Lily Pons sounds like Tom Waits.’) Prentice, very drunk, asked Candy if he could write an article about her for the Zone. He told Julia slurrily that he would make Candy famous. We toasted our diva and her new Svengali. Back home, Candy and I limped upstairs to bed, but Julia and her recruit were still thirsty. Prentice wanted to introduce her to his favourite bar, the Cruise. They set off in a taxi whooping like immortals. God knows when they got home. 73

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Prentice phoned Julia a few days later to report that he was still alive. We marvelled at his wife’s forbearance. Candy, voice restored, began studying for the Melbourne Salome, her final role before the Adelaide Sieglindes at the end of the year. Most days we sunbaked in the garden and worked on Candy’s German. My copy of Waiting for Godot sat inside, unread. I began having nightmares about Lucky’s long monologue. Then I drove to Sydney for two days’ work on an American film, a futuristic thriller. Fortunately my character was so heavily disguised that no one would recognise me, even if it survived the cutting room, which was doubtful. I’d never made so much money in my life. It was better than my Method dog food commercial. I could have stayed in Sydney, seeing shows and mates, but I headed back to Valhalla. Apart from a stretch in a Sam Shepard play, I’d never spent more than two nights in a row in Sydney. I knew I was pathetically untravelled, but I didn’t care. I was homesick as ever. Julia was in Sydney too. She was launching yet another spin-off from Babs’ Feast. I didn’t bother attending. The new version came with a baroque CD and a booklet full of culinary aphorisms. (Seven, Babs pronounced, was the new ideal number à table, and one should never invite guests to a function until the start of that month. Otherwise it looked desperate and déclassé.) Julia spent a few days at the Concord office, briefing and being debriefed by Roscoe Hunt, just back from London. Roscoe had rung me on his return, keen for information about Julia’s mood. He always made a point of contacting me when he got back from overseas. Even after fifteen years he was still scared of losing her to one of his multinational rivals. Insensitive though he can be, Roscoe had worked with Julia for too long not to be aware of her recent edginess. ‘What does she need — a bigger car, another holiday?’ he asked me with a jet-lagged yawn. Roscoe was 74

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pleased about Julia’s meeting with Philip Anthem. He knew the memoirs would delay any thoughts of flight for another year. The Collises came to stay at Valhalla while Julia was away. Candy and I were relieved when Julia rang from Sydney to say that she had prolonged her stay for a few more days. It was much calmer with her out of the way. Julia’s mood was never so volatile as during her parents’ annual visit. She did her best, but that merely worsened things. When Julia tries to be conciliatory it’s like living in a police state. Much better to keep her away, Candy and I agreed. My early meetings with the Collises were always tense. When I went to live at Valhalla, Errol and Betty still owned the farm near Kilmore. Errol had gouged a pear-shaped track for his trotters, and Betty had the biggest laundry on earth. They talked about them constantly. Once a year Candy cajoled Julia into visiting the Collises. (‘I’d like to see Pops, if that’s not asking too much.’) Julia insisted that I go with them. The long drive was excruciating, with Julia decrying the gnomes, the carports, the finials, the curtains, the Doric carports. She recalled horrors from her adolescence and cursed us for dragging her back. She pushed the old Triumph harder and harder until one day the suffocating car stopped in the middle of a freeway. (‘Joy,’ was Julia’s reaction. ‘Now we can call a taxi and head back to civilisation.’) But it soon restarted, prompting more groans. When we arrived at the Collises’ farm the situation always worsened. Julia would only speak to me. Awkward enough in my new role as resident ward, I felt embarrassed by her attention, especially when asked to transmit curt messages to her parents. I withdrew to the pungently manured garden. The Collises’ dog, the timidest of Tulips, sat with me, similarly cowed by the reign of silence. I wondered why Julia was so altered in her parents’ company. I watched her legendary 75

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self-possession dissolve, her mobile face become a rictus of hurt and disdain. It was different from my parents’ incompatibility — different because angrier. Babs and Roger had been hopeless together, but never contemptuous. Julia’s attitude towards the Collises, by contrast, felt toxic. I couldn’t work it out. Betty Collis, plump as her scones and docile as Tulip, was clearly no Medea, and Julia’s father — stuck to his recliner and his racing supplements — was too mild to be an ogre. Last year’s visit, while Julia was in Sydney, was much more relaxed. Candy, ever the diplomat, took her grandmother shopping and installed pay television so that Errol could watch sport non-stop. He and I drank beer and watched the cricket. Errol, though named after the actor, always forgot that I was one. ‘What are you writing now?’ he would ask me tentatively. It was more than he could cope with having a singer in the family — as well as Julia. I tried to get him to talk about their peripatetic life when he was in the army: the years in Townsville, Malaysia, then Canberra and early retirement in Melbourne. I was fascinated by his laconic accounts of Julia’s adolescence: the serial expulsions from private schools and the fence-hopping boyfriends at Duntroon. Julia didn’t approve of my sessions with Errol, so I seized my chance while she was away. These annual chats on the verandah were a kind of homage to Julia. What were those lazy anecdotes and fading photographs but exhibits in the Collis archive I’d been accumulating since Julia rescued me as a boy? And there was still so much I didn’t know about her. Each year (last January was no different) I resolved to ask about Julia’s twin brother — my lost namesake. Each year I rehearsed my questions, keen to find out how Matthew Collis died. And each year I postponed it again, intimidated by the silence and static in that blocked family. But for a 76

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chance remark of Candy’s years ago I wouldn’t have even known she had an uncle. Julia had never mentioned him to me. So how could I betray her over late beers? Julia hadn’t told me, so there must be a reason. All in good time, I decided. Julia, the great confider, would tell me eventually. Unless it was too terrible. Yes, I was a malleable ward, to the very end. I must have been about twelve or thirteen when Candy told me about her uncle and the accident of my naming. I’d never asked Babs about my birth, assuming it was conventionally unconventional — a home birth, both parents present, lots of chants and incense, a late umbilical crisis and hospitalisation. Then one day, down at the beach, Candy enlightened me. Though she was only two when I was born, she remembered it disconcertingly well — or thought she did. Nostalgic conversations between Babs and Julia had obviously coloured the memory. Julia often took Candy along to witness her friends’ labours. Babs’s was torrid: I was the wrong shape. All day it went on, well into the night: interminable agony for Babs. Roger was there of course, but Julia finally persuaded him to go home. (I felt a mild premonitory jolt when Candy told me this. Went home?) Roger had been drinking heavily the night before, which was unlike him. It was election eve; he was nervous. They all were. Next morning the hangover refused to lift, worsened by Babs’s outbursts and the issuing gore. My mother abused Roger for not being home when the contractions started. (She’d almost had to get herself to hospital in a taxi.) She swore at him and said she’d never forgive him. Finally, worried about Babs’s mental state, Julia took Roger aside and sent him home with some Mogadon. She promised to ring him when it was over. And that’s when Julia really took command, Candy said. She massaged my mother, played soulful music and gave orders to the staff. 77

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There was a tank of gas to ease the spasms. Babs and Julia lay on the bed taking it in turns. The television stayed on, for Julia was determined to follow the count in the tally room. It was touch and go until well after midnight. Then a few seats fell in the west and Philip Anthem claimed victory. They watched him address a huge crowd in the Sydney Domain. Anthem had led the party out of the wilderness after all those years. Babs and Julia were woozily euphoric. Julia opened a bottle of champagne and drank most of it. It’s a wonder I wasn’t named after Philip. For a time Babs was tranquil, but then the pain revived. Julia suffered also: sympathetic pains. She said it was like giving birth again. ‘Tell me a story,’ Babs screamed. ‘Tell me the saddest story you know.’ And according to Candy that’s when Julia leant over and told Babs about Matthew Collis, related it in such a soft, reverent tone that Candy, dozy in a corner, caught only the odd word. All she knew for certain was that Julia’s twin brother, blond as an angel, prodigy of prodigies, had died exactly two years earlier — not long before Candy’s birth — when Julia was nineteen. By now Candy was drifting in and out of consciousness. Just as Julia’s tale reached its sad climax, she overheard Babs ask her comforter for a kiss. Candy deliberately put herself back to sleep, as only a child can summon oblivion. But she remembers that kiss. It reminded her of a painting above Julia’s bed: a Sapphic Annunciation by a Spanish surrealist. On waking many hours later, or so it seemed, Candy turned over and there I was: bloodied, indignant and spontaneously named Matthew Light, after the lost one. And so Julia was there from the beginning, triumphant and controlling. She and Babs joked about me being their own handiwork. Only recently did it occur to me that the affair began symbolically that night, while I was ripping Babs apart. Candy had always known it — ever since she woke up 78

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and saw Julia hold me aloft, my little appendage the cause of much amusement, and saw Julia, with a second, consummating kiss, lower my flailing self onto Babs’s smeared and aching stomach. My sex itself was no surprise. Julia — famous for being able to predict such things — had announced months earlier that Babs would have a boy. She laughed about wanting an ersatz brother for her little girl. After the Hatfield party January wore on, very hot. Julia stayed away, and the Collises finally drove back to the place they’d long since retired to on the Gold Coast. Candy went off to the first rehearsal and came home in a state. She was sure she’d made a ghastly mistake. Salome’s long scene in the middle of the opera filled her with dread. She collapsed with laughter when describing her first attempt at the Dance of the Seven Veils. ‘Digby Danton said it was like someone throwing tea towels at a fridge.’ Digby, aided by Stella Anthem, had talked Candy into doing Salome, and now she was petrified. There was even talk of a telecast on opening night, which really unnerved Candy. Another complication was that the Jokanaan of the piece was Tony Knott, with whom Candy had just had an unhappy affair. Tony, still smarting, was as stubborn as the Baptist, whom he threatened to play in a loincloth. It was all too much for Candy. ‘Last night I rocked myself to sleep like a three year old. Why didn’t I stick to jazz.’ Next day Candy went off to have lunch with Stella Anthem, who was back in town after the rustic season. Stella had heard that Candy was having misgivings and wanted to counsel her in her usual exorbitant fashion. She had invested too much time and energy in Candy’s career to be stymied now. They lunched for several hours, and Candy was duly pacified. She came home with a thumping cheque for singing at Roman’s 79

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party and a Mont Blanc pen for all the autographs she would have to sign in future. ‘I don’t know how it happened,’ Candy declared. ‘I went along determined to say no, but before I knew it Stella was flinging offerings across the table. It’s impossible to resist that woman.’ Stella Anthem had also invited Candy to spend a week with her in New York. They would fly there in Hal Hutton’s jet. Stella made it sound like going out for coffee. She visited New York each month, to host a party or to decorate their new apartment. Stella wanted to introduce Candy to some people at the Metropolitan Opera. It might be useful later — all part of Stella’s aspirations for her protégée. Candy seemed uneasy about Stella’s largesse and the Manhattan option. I told her she’d be crazy not to go. If she didn’t, Stella would find other passengers. I liked the idea of Candy in New York. I could picture here there. The only time I’ve been overseas was to Siena, and that was only possible because the royalties from Babs’ Feast had begun to flow. Even as a boy my favourite reading was about flight, exile, alienation. Crusoes and Candides and sexy prodigal sons peopled my imagination. None of the grown-ups in my life ever stayed in the same place for long. I was the one who stayed behind and took messages, more familiar with foreign time zones than I was with my homework. I answered the phone, explained my parents’ movements, redirected the mail: the apostle of poste restante. Julia’s stay in Sydney dragged on and on. I missed her vitriol, her smoky expletives. Life was always dull when she was away. Not for the first time I wondered what it would have been like to grow up without that worldly, cant-busting influence. What if I’d stayed with Roger or been bundled off to the Lights? Finally, Candy and I agreed it was high time Julia came 80

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home. Her parents had gone, and the coast was clear. It was unlike Julia to stay away for so long. She always said she couldn’t trust us on our own for more than a week. Candy wanted to ring her, but I dissuaded her. Edicts had no effect on Julia. Candy was convinced that Julia had a new lover in Sydney, and wanted to hear all about it. There were no secrets between mother and daughter. They shared everything: from conversational overture to post-coital rating. Had their boyfriends realised, they would have been appalled. Men never appreciate the boldness of women’s talk. Candy suspected that Roscoe Hunt had renewed his amorous crusade. But Roscoe had rivals. Julia had her usual quota of desperadoes, including a law professor called Kelvin Pope, who fancied himself as a thriller writer. Julia had known him for years. They went back, as she said; they all went back. He amused Julia, despite his vanity. Professor Pope, as he liked to be called, was married with several offspring. He dedicated his books to each of them. Julia has been married herself (twice, I believe, though who can be sure now?), but she still regards matrimony as eccentric. As for having six children! One sufficed, she said, plus the odd stray. There was another candidate, of course: Prentice of the Zone. This struck me as a strategic flirtation (Julia likes having fingers in the press), but Candy fancied it was more serious. She began reading Prentice’s weekly column, ‘The Exposé’, and was shocked by what she read. Candy had always believed that all politicians were as altruistic as Philip Anthem. She was surprised to learn that Parliament was a snakepit and Canberra as sordid as a verismo opera. Prentice’s diary piece about Philip Anthem’s party was much delayed. When it finally appeared the tone was polite and the content oblique, most unlike ‘The Exposé’. It was as if the lawyers or Stella Anthem had got to it. Prentice managed to say next to nothing. But he raved about Candy’s 81

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singing and reminisced about driving home with ‘my three new friends’. That morning, Prentice phoned Candy to ask if he could write that long article about her for the weekend magazine. Candy thanked him and declined. She couldn’t imagine why Prentice was interested in her. She said her life was dull as dishwater. She wasn’t nearly racy enough for Julia’s new admirer. I had one visitor while Julia was away — Roman Anthem. One day I opened the door and found him on the threshold. I was so surprised I forgot his name. Madly I called him Marshall. Roman didn’t seem to mind and chuckled at my confusion. I’d never heard him laugh before. He wasn’t laughing at Hatfield. ‘Call me what you like — just let me in,’ he said. ‘I don’t like my name anyway.’ ‘But it’s a proud name,’ I said innocuously, wondering why he’d come. ‘You try living with “National Anthem”. Sometimes I’ve thought of reclaiming my real name. It’s quite anonymous, don’t you think?’ ‘Up to a point.’ Roman edged past me, touching my side with his warm hand. We had Valhalla to ourselves that day. Candy had gone to the Opera for her first fitting. Despite the heat, Roman was wearing overalls over a rugby shirt. He looked down the hallway and surveyed a few of Julia’s Art Deco treasures. He ignored the jewel in her collection, a Lalique vase, but stroked the curved pedestal, admiring the rosewood. He said he’d been doing some work around the corner. Lady Martin, a friend of Stella Anthem’s (and author of Julia’s), had hired him to make some cupboards. He said he needed the work to pay for some coming travels. I didn’t ask him where he was going. He didn’t give the impression that he’d 82

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just inherited a million dollars, though I’d never met anyone who had, which made it difficult to tell. Roman had been to Valhalla before, but never on his own. Ursula, always keen to show off her new men, had introduced him to us in the early days, liberally dropping his surname, much to Julia’s disgust. Roman struck me as the quietest boy I’d ever met. It was like entertaining a Buddhist monk. That first visit was unpromising. Julia, no dissembler, didn’t hide her impatience with Ursula. Even my cousin couldn’t ignore Julia’s glares and guffaws. The young lovers didn’t return. After that, our conversations had always been stilted. Roman’s downcast expression didn’t help. It was difficult to make out features or a coherent personality beneath the concealing curls. Julia dismissed him as vapid. ‘Where does Belladonna find them?’ I reminded her that Roman was only nineteen — to no avail. ‘Youth is no excuse for banality,’ she snapped. ‘I was a mother at his age and you yourself, under my tenacious influence, not incapable of conversation. This boy-child is a waste of space.’ I knew better than to remonstrate with Julia. Her judgments were lethal and mercurial. It took me years to get to know someone, but Julia could sum up people in five minutes, spotting their flaws, or so we thought. Rarely did she change her mind. Like Prentice of the Zone, she issued no apologies. Standing there with Roman last January, I was embarrassed by how little I knew him. Absurd though it seemed, he could have been my cousin by marriage: quite a concept. There had been speculation at Hatfield. After our awkward meeting by the ménage, I had overheard some Anthem matrons gossiping about an imminent engagement. They seemed excited at the prospect of an autumn wedding, if underwhelmed by Roman’s choice. Now, at Valhalla, Ursula’s name didn’t arise. Roman might have been keen to 83

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distance himself from her or to establish his own social credentials. I waited for him to abort his call, but he stayed and stayed. Without Ursula tugging on his arm or whispering in his ear, ordinary conversation became gropingly possible. Roman wanted to see our ramshackle house, so I took him upstairs. He was amused by our crude renovations. When I showed him a wobbly balustrade he came to life and made useful suggestions about materials and artisans. We ended up in the garden drinking beer. Roman picked up my copy of Waiting for Godot. His grandfather had taken him to see it in Paris when he was young. Roman made it sound like a hundred years ago. He knew I was playing Lucky at the end of the year and said he was looking forward to the production. Only when I asked about his work did he become evasive. He dismissed his carpentry as insignificant. He was sick of off-white minimalism and preferred the gothic. ‘That’s why I like Valhalla,’ he observed, as if he’d been there many times. Then he offered to fix an old lawnmower which I’d been intending to mend for about five years. He took it apart and studied it like a clinician. I noticed his long brown capable hands: very dexterous, amazingly veined. Actors would kill for them. He pushed back his hair, revealing a fine tawny scar on his right temple — not unattractive. I began to understand why he worked as a cabinet-maker, much to Stella Anthem’s chagrin. I’d never seen him looking so relaxed. Within seconds he had reassembled the lawnmower. He smiled at me with his lustrous black eyes. ‘Magic,’ he said in that soft, confidential voice of his, not unlike his mother’s, but not affected. More inquisitive than in the past, Roman wanted to know what we’d been doing since the party. ‘I was jealous when you fled from Hatfield,’ he said, slipping his hands into his vast spotty overalls and stretching out his long Anthem legs. 84

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‘I would have given anything to head back to town with you.’ I was surprised he was aware of our furtive exit. I wondered if he knew about the champagne. Then Roman began reminiscing about Italy. He amazed me by mentioning San Galgano. I listened as in a mortifying dream. I had no memory of him accompanying Candy and me to the great ruined Cistercian abbey near Siena — six months ago. That was how distant he’d seemed until Hatfield, or now. What did this say about my indifference, my distraction? Embarrassed, I tried to disguise it. Roman didn’t seem to mind. He was subtler than Julia had credited. Slowly, as we talked, details of that afternoon came back to me (the storm, the feral cats, the lake in the grassy nave). Roman said that after a while he and Candy decided to leave me alone and returned to the car. ‘I hope I didn’t hold you up,’ I said, trying to picture them. ‘You stayed in the abbey for an hour.’ ‘How boring for you.’ ‘Not at all. We had quite a picnic. We found a bottle of chianti in the back and ate some of your mother’s bread. We enjoyed ourselves, sitting there in the rain — talking. After a while I did begin to wonder though. I thought you must have converted or something. But Candy said you’re happier on your own.’ ‘I’d always wanted to visit San Galgano,’ I explained. ‘It’s why I went to Italy.’ ‘Not for your mother’s cooking?’ ‘I can have that here, sometimes.’ ‘Lucky you. Babs tried to teach me to make gnocchi. Very lumpy gnocchi. Ursula loves it. We have it all the time. See what a dull life we lead at Satchell Street. I’d invite you round but you’d be so bored.’ His face was expressionless. Then he went off on a tangent. ‘What was the attraction at San Galgano? Was it the film — by Tarkovsky?’ 85

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‘No, much earlier than that. When I was at school someone gave me a book with an engraving of San Galgano. I became obsessed. Don’t ask me why?’ ‘Now I remember,’ Roman said. ‘Candy said you have a thing about ruins.’ ‘You two did get on well.’ ‘She said you’re always dragging them off to see old wrecks. That must be why you love Valhalla.’ He laughed, crossing his feet, as if settling in for the afternoon. ‘Candy said something about you visiting San Galgano before — with a friend.’ ‘Not quite. We talked about going there, but it never happened.’ ‘I’d been there before,’ Roman said, not really listening. ‘When was this?’ ‘Don’t ask me things like that. I’m not good with dates. But I can’t have been very old. Philip had just resigned, Mum wasn’t married to Alec Payne, so I guess I was four or five. We lived in Greece for a couple of years.’ I liked the way Roman put it so casually, as if it wasn’t part of the national lore. He breathed in slowly, flexing his broad shoulders as if they ached. I watched him stroking his bare white neck, badly shaved. He was without vanity. ‘Did you like Greece?’ ‘Yes, I did. People left us alone. We were just three tourists on a sleepy island. One summer Philip took us to Italy. He wanted to show us the cathedral where Wagner got the idea for one of his operas — Siegfried, I think.’ ‘Parsifal.’ ‘Poor Philip, I was always such a disappointment. Then he took us to San Galgano.’ I stared at the garden and said nothing, curiously moved, not sure why. Roman continued in his jovial fashion. ‘So you see, we’ve been to San Galgano together — even if you 86

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don’t remember.’ He paused for a moment before going on. ‘Did you hear a gunshot while you were in the abbey.’ ‘Not that I remember.’ But then I recalled a moment of chaos in the transept as a thousand pigeons, abruptly startled, flew through a rose window, blurring into cloud. ‘You really don’t remember, do you? Amazing. It’s like that movie where the girl in Paris forgets having had sex with Ethan Hawke.’ ‘Someone forgot having sex with Ethan Hawke!’ ‘That’s what she said.’ ‘I trust nothing improper happened at San Galgano?’ ‘It was too wet for that.’ ‘Was anyone watching?’ ‘There’s always someone watching, Matthew.’ Roman put his hands behind his head and flexed his long slim waist. He studied me for a while. ‘I guess you don’t remember the drama we had getting there, the slippery road, the incident on the bend?’ ‘It was raining?’ ‘Buckets.’ ‘Who drove?’ ‘I did, Matthew,’ Roman said. I liked his intimate voice, the resonant tone. Then he stood up, remembering something. He said he had to collect Ursula and help her to enrol at university. This time she was studying hospitality — her fourth go at a degree. We went outside and stood by his rusty ute. Roman asked me if he could drop in again some time and interrupt my day. He offered to bring some timber to secure the balustrade. I didn’t like to tell Roman that we were fond of the rickety effect, nor that Julia was unlikely to see him as the saviour of Valhalla. But I knew I wanted to see Roman again.

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7

JULIA January 14 ~ Thank god for men, particularly the Roscoes of the world. They really do alleviate the boredom. How predictable they are. The older they get, the more transparent they become. Their self-absorption is awesome. Even as virgin sacrifices in smocks and braces, girls sense men’s goofy egoism — nature’s comic triumph. What the mothers and nuns forget to warn us about is their anxiety, their mortal dread. To appreciate that you have to lie beside them at night, listening to their baby talk. You learn to predict the hammer-blows — the horror, the horror, to steal a phrase. It wakes them up with a thud, usually at ten past three in my experience. Macbeth-like they writhe on their twisted sheets, stalked by the sick knowledge of what they have done, or condoned. And it worsens with the years. Slowly it dawns on them that they will never be president of the United States, never captain the Australian cricket team, never pen anything remotely worthy of Chekhov or Tolstoy. It 88

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catches up with all of them — even the magnificoes and megalomaniacs. I knew something was wrong with Roscoe the minute I got back from Athens five days ago. He was down from Sydney, commissioning a new masterwork, Golfing with Gout, and he had just sacked a few reps (he always likes to start the new year with a purge). I went up to see him, clutching a duty-free litre of Laphroaigh. Foolishly I expected him to be pleased to see me and eager for news about Stella Anthem. Imagine my surprise when he evinced scant interest in the House of Anthem. Roscoe seemed to have forgotten that I’d been out of the country. He was unusually tetchy. Elyot Waters had just delivered him a batch of cover roughs. Roscoe showed them to me with a bilious look on his face. Behaving like a bovver boy, he threw them across the room and ordered me to commission new ones. Roscoe’s face was as long as his presidential desk. Something was clearly wrong, and the problem didn’t lie in our design department. Five minutes’ coaxing was all it took to find out what was troubling him. Sighing like a blameless man on death row, Roscoe told me that he had a burning sensation in his cock and that it was clearly cancer. The situation was so dire it’s a wonder he hadn’t drafted his will, one of life’s great consolations. Already he had decided who would succeed him at Concord (not me, irritatingly) and bequeathed his golf clubs to a numskull-nephew. What hypochondriacs men are. The minute they feel a twinge they start composing their obituaries. I can’t keep up with Roscoe’s ailments. The last time it was cancer of the armpit, which turned out to be a blocked sweat gland. I thought of all my medical hiccups, all the dramas I had quietly neutralised without telling anyone: ovarian cysts, fibroids, cystitis, endometriosis. I had the first of my several 89

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abortions on the eve of my high school exams. I still sat all my exams and was dux of the school. Errol and Betty never knew a thing. Confident that Roscoe wasn’t dying, I asked him when the pain had begun. ‘Last night — after dinner,’ he said, moping at the memory. ‘You ate at a restaurant?’ ‘No, up in my room.’ ‘Such thrift! Are we trying to save money?’ ‘A young Asian chef wants me to publish her cookery book. She offered to cook for me.’ ‘Spicy stuff, I imagine.’ ‘Pretty hot.’ ‘Did you help her?’ ‘I cut up the chilli.’ ‘And did you wash your hands before . . .?’ Roscoe went all pink and giggly with gratitude. He phoned his best mate to assure him of his immortality and challenged him to a game of golf. Then he wanted to celebrate, with Bollinger. Who was I to disappoint my vulnerable angel? And that’s how we ended up in bed. Fucking Roscoe was the last thing I’d had in mind. We hadn’t made the beast with two backs since his fortieth birthday in Pukhet. I can’t describe the wonderment on Roscoe’s face when I propositioned him in his office. It was matched only by his surprise when I performed my spider dance on his bed. What’s that line in the Goncourt journals, the actress’s remark to one of the brothers as she undresses: ‘You are funny. You look like a little boy staring at a jam sandwich.’ Or marmalade in my case. Onion marmalade. Roscoe had wanted to head to Valhalla, so to speak, but I demurred. We went back to his hotel suite and resumed our 90

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filthy positions. I ignored the reek of cigars, the lipstuck evidence of other women. The sex itself was perfunctory, notwithstanding my spider dance. Neither of us was really in the mood, old fakers though we are. Intimations of mortality perhaps, like Roscoe’s chilli crisis. Screwing someone every five years feels like taking part in a longitudinal study. Afterwards we sat up in bed, prim as Doris Day and Rock Hudson. Depressingly, the Bollinger didn’t help, and one of Roscoe’s joints sent me into a jet-lagged stupor. Still, it kept me away from Valhalla for a night, and that was the whole point. There’s still no word from Matthew. Even Roscoe knows about his defection, which is infuriating. ‘What is it about you?’ he asked me, stroking my aggravated nipple. ‘All the men in your life are disappearing. Will I be next?’ ‘Only if you’re very careless,’ I said, smacking his hand. Chaos is come again, and there’s nothing to do but outstare it. How could Matthew of all people do this to me? I woke long before my snoring sook and snuck out of the room like an uncommon prostitute. I still didn’t want to go back to Valhalla, so I went to the Concord office instead. It was barely light when I arrived. Roscoe has imposed a ludicrous new security system; it makes him feel important. Concord is more like a fortress than a publishing house. I flashed my credentials at our not unattractive Bulgarian security officer and dared him to frisk me. My office was a mess. That’s what happens when you go away for a week. There were mounds of manuscripts with gruesome labels in Elyot Waters’ curly hand: ‘first novels’; ‘thirteenth novels’; ‘stuff you’ll loathe but need to look at’; ‘TV memoirs’; ‘TV dinners’; ‘know thyself’; ‘annals of abuse’; ‘better bowels’. There was even some poetry, god help us. When will these iambic inspirados realise we can’t 91

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give the stuff away. Bombed cities and tomeless libraries in Eastern Europe don’t want it. Rashly, Elyot had written to several of the aspirants (all the handsomer ones), promising that I would get back to them within a matter of days. Days, I must remind him, don’t feature in a publisher’s lexicon, only weeks and months and the sublime fullness of time. Reading these sunny valentines, I knew Elyot must be in love again. I can’t keep up with Elyot’s escapades. I’ve never felt backward in love’s theatre, but my secretary (as he insists on being called) makes me feel quite spinsterish. I’ve never known anyone so tenaciously bold. The straighter my authors, the greater the challenge. Like every other mortal in the fortress, Elyot is entranced by my author Stevie Nicholls — ace forward, golden-haired All Australian, dual Crownlow Medallist, whatever that means (‘best and blondest’, Elyot quips). We’re publishing Stevie’s second autobiography in March, at the start of the football season — that’s if I write it in time. The fact that we only published his first, Stevie – Quite a Life!, last year is no impediment. We’ll just make it up all over again. Yesterday, during my visually rewarding if not intellectually taxing meeting with Stevie, Elyot found regular pretexts to enter my office. ‘Steroids in your tea, Mr Body?’ he enquired with a pout. ‘You must tell me about all your injuries on the way out. What a moving banner that was the other day in the Zone. “Stevie’s Groin!” Miss Collis and I were all concern.’ I interrupted his aria and waved him away. Still, I’m fond of Elyot. Authentic queans are rare these days. It’s what endeared him to me last year when he was working as Babs’s publicist. Stevie Nicholls, admirably relaxed about the homoerotic awe he induces in half the population, enjoyed Elyot’s banter. After our meeting he spent an hour signing autographs for Elyot’s imaginary nephews and trying to explain 92

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where he plays on the football field. (‘No, it’s not called centre half backward. I’ll draw you a diagram. I’m good at those.’) Roscoe — chronically uncomfortable with sexual dissidence — didn’t want me to employ another gay boy when I decided to poach Elyot from Babs last July. Admittedly, Elyot is far too fey for his own good. His typing, never flawless, is atrocious, especially after one of his long nights in the dungeons. One morning I found him having a catnap under his desk. To think that I once hoped to set him up with Matthew — my Baby, who loves for the ages, who couldn’t tell amyl nitrate from eau de cologne, and who gets out of bed when Elyot’s fish-netted cohort begins to flag. But I would miss Elyot if he left. I’ve grown accustomed to his protean face. He has formed a Gin Club, which meets in his office most evenings and mocks us all to hell. My authors adore him: those with a sense of humour. Elyot, often underestimated on account of his bent walk and crimson hair, is acute on the subject of Kelvin Pope. He apprised me of my author’s latest demands. Knowing I was away, the Pope rang up and suggested that we should withdraw his latest book and reprint the jacket now that he has an OAM, presumably for services to state and self. Elyot’s face was pursed with disapproval: ‘I don’t think I want to work with your literary types any more. They have no charm. Please sign up some real artists — like The Body, for instance.’ Now it’s Friday evening, quite late. Roscoe has gone back to Sydney for a weekend of golf and cunnilingus. The Gin Club, having run out of Bombay Sapphire, has set off to a karaoke bar. I’m all alone on the editorial floor, except for the Bulgarian guard who stalks around grunting at me. He must want me to go home so he can watch porn on Elyot’s 93

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computer. Suddenly, like Judy Garland, I never want to go home. I almost felt a pang when Elyot set off with his fellow gin-birds. I hoped he’d linger and tell me about his new boyfriend: where they met, what he was wearing, his star sign, how his parents coped when he came out, why this one is destined to last and last. The old sedative song. Anything to keep my mind off the void at Valhalla. It was different in the past, before Roman came along. How I looked forward to my homecomings when I got back from overseas. No matter how late it was, Matthew would wait up for me. Candy, a sleepier soul, would come staggering down the stairs. First I would distribute my bounty — Godiva chocolates, Marco Polo tea, assorted books. Then I would ask them what they had been doing. Soon Candy would start slurring her words and go back to bed, but Matthew would stay up for hours, pouring me wine and making a Spanish omelette. Even as a treble-voiced boy, Matthew was a shrewd listener, infinitely patient. I can still see him at twelve or thirteen, balancing on a kitchen stool, pretending to like black coffee more than he did, determined not to miss a name. And always so forbearing. Each summer I watched him with my father and marvelled at his patience. I’ve always found my parents’ visits so frustrating I have to run away, and I couldn’t bear to be alone with Errol. The dullness, the dullness. But Matthew digests his every inanity. What a stoic. Is it a game, all part of his mimetic art? Was he studying us for new gestures or inflexions — the actor as anthropologist? How intolerant I must seem to Matthew, how unworthy. Perhaps I never appreciated him. I should have realised how lucky I was. My biggest concern is that in his guilelessness — his sponge-like state — his good nature will always be abused. The world doesn’t respect the incorrupt. It despises them and spits them out. I’ll never feel guilty about my distrust of 94

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other people. Goading, stirring, warring; even picturing them at the end, imagining all sorts of Dantean fates: that’s what energises me. Matthew couldn’t be more different, always wanting to like and to be liked. Pathetic, really. Look where it got him. But no wonder after an upbringing like his. I could go on about Babs’s deficiencies as a mother. What a slut she was to leave him. But a cute slut. Still, it all worked out well in the end. Had Babs been a more orthodox mother, Matthew would never have come to me. Yes, it all worked out — until now. Last January, after Hatfield, I stayed away for longer than usual. When my taxi finally pulled up outside Valhalla, Candy and Matthew were waiting on the kerb like two orphans. They’d begun to wonder if I’d run off with someone. I didn’t tell them I’d spent some time in Canberra. I wasn’t ready to talk about Philip. When he’d invited me to Canberra, I’d kept it to myself. Perhaps I was nervous about working with him again after so many years, or about the book we would make together. I had flown to Canberra early one morning, intending to spend the afternoon going through the manuscript with Philip. To my surprise, he collected me at the airport rather than sending his driver. It was amusing to be met by the old stager. Bureaucrats and army chiefs gaped as Philip kissed my hand and addressed me in flirtatious French. A party of middle-aged tourists applauded as we left the concourse and reprised an old Fracas chant. Nothing had changed. Philip still transfixed them, wherever he went. Instead of showing me the research school where he has an office and professorial status, Philip proposed an early lunch. He led me across the campus to a quaint restaurant which was like something out of the sixties. Sliding into a banquette, I felt like Natalie Wood being seduced by her 95

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grandfather. There was only one unpleasantness when our waitress — a pious undergraduate with a crucifix dangling on her sunken chest — snatched the Dunhill cigarette lighter from my hand. This might have provoked a brawl but for the excellent Gin and Twos that Philip had instructed her how to make. (‘What do they teach young people nowadays?’ he purred with a parliamentary flourish of his dainty hands, the smallest I’ve ever seen on a man.) He seemed less fragile than he did at Hatfield — younger, more sanguine. Perhaps the distance from his grinding daughter was a tonic. It might have explained his surprising decision to go on living in Canberra — well away from Stella’s flashy estates and penthouses. He had settled there, in a crummy cottage, after his return from Greece. ‘I can see you’re amazed by how well I’m looking,’ Philip said, studying me over his glass. ‘I can’t tell you what sacrifices I’ve been making for Concord. I rise early, I work until five, revising those dreadful early chapters. I never go out. It’s like being on a treadmill. This is my first drink since Hatfield. I don’t even glance at a newspaper until the evening. That sort of thing could kill an old politician. I wish you’d do something about the prime minister, though. He’s always ringing me up; usually late at night when I’m in bed with my hot milk. We seem to have a new Tiberius of the telephone. He needs much more reassurance than he did in the glory years.’ ‘Is Raglan in trouble?’ I asked. ‘Let’s just say the dogs of Cabinet are causing him some disquiet. It happens after two terms. I expect it’s the same in publishing. Young Raglan has forgotten how to weave and prevaricate, and he knows it. There’ll be an election in December, and he’s frightened.’ ‘Do you feel sorry for Raglan?’ ‘Sorry’s a big word for political types,’ Philip said, removing 96

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an olive pip in the old style. ‘But I feel sorry for his wife. I introduced them when she was a member of my staff. It takes its toll, you know.’ ‘I’m sure.’ ‘I suppose you have a vested interest in my good relations with Raglan,’ Philip went on ironically. ‘You’ll doubtless want him to launch my book.’ Looking up and nodding at a passing don in that Canberra way, Philip changed the subject: ‘I see a lot of Russell, but that’s never a chore. Good old Lacey. Once a week he picks me up in his car and gives me a picnic on the roof garden at the High Court. We sit there reminiscing about the first ministry. Why the first? Because we could still have fun then. I wasn’t sick, and we hadn’t dreamt of the Fracas.’ ‘How long have you known Russell Lacey?’ ‘We must go back thirty-five years — long before government. Lacey joined my law firm as an associate when I was still at the Bar. I saw immediately that he was brilliant, so I scooped him up and opened some doors. He was like a son to me. He was always at our house — long before there was any thought of his marrying Stella. Most of the time she wasn’t there. She was off being finished or learning a new language — her mother’s two conditions before agreeing to leave New York and come back to Australia.’ ‘What did Isobel think of your protégé?’ ‘Oh, she adored him,’ Philip laughed. ‘She said he reminded her of Gregory Peck. How shall I put it? Isobel liked whate’er she looked on. She was always seating my square-jawed associate on her right at those endless dinner parties of hers. Poor Lacey — such a tactful young man.’ ‘Wasn’t Lacey twenty-three when he went into parliament?’ I said. ‘Correct,’ Philip nodded, poking a scallop. ‘You’ve been studying ancient history. Lacey was ridiculously young, 97

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especially for the Senate, but he conquered the place in a flash. When I formed my first government he was the obvious choice as attorney-general. Not long before I quit I moved him to the High Court. My critics claimed it was because of his divorce from Stella, but we don’t dignify such piffle, do we, Julia? Lacey needed a change, and his appointment rejuvenated the bench. He was the youngest justice since Evatt. We always thought he might go back into politics, but that hasn’t happened. Lacey enjoys being a judge. He likes protocol, you see: a sin, but not a cardinal one. Stella does too. It brought them together. Lacey’s done good things judicially. But all this could still change. Anything’s possible. He’s still only in his mid-fifties.’ Philip’s sudden mention of Roman Anthem was disconcerting. Roman’s membership of this lineage always jangled my nerves. He should have been better than he was. ‘I must say, to give them their due, the Raglans have always been good to my boy — Roman, I mean,’ Philip went on. ‘Raglan stood godfather to him, and he never forgets his birthday, much to Roman’s embarrassment.’ ‘Who could forget that interminable message at Hatfield?’ ‘Shall we have one more Gin and Two?’ Philip asked, ignoring my comment. ‘No, I think we should go through the manuscript before I fly back to Sydney.’ ‘You won’t stay the night?’ ‘I can’t. But I’ll be back soon.’ ‘I hope so.’ I handed Philip my initial editorial report, which had cost me more blood than any other report I’d produced at Concord. I watched him with some trepidation as he read it slowly, greedily. Philip devoured my commendations and didn’t mind the 98

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odd criticism about longueurs in the text. So buoyed was he by my favourable report that he wanted to spend at least a month together refining the memoirs. He invited me to stay at his house on the coast. I said yes and toyed with the idea of taking Matthew with me. I knew Philip would like him. If there were any questions about Matthew’s status, I would say he was my amanuensis, which Philip would enjoy. It wasn’t a complete fiction. I often think of Philip. I miss him horribly. I miss those mad collaborative months. How I wish it had ended differently. Why didn’t Philip have a chance to enjoy his success? Now all I’m left with is a sense of futility. It was like that when my brother died thirty years ago. Philip’s demise and Matthew’s defection have revived the old ennui. What’s the point in straining, warring, publishing and fretting if they’re not here to share it with me? The true subject is loss. Who said that? I’m even losing my memory. God knows how Philip would have reacted if he’d been at the Pioneer Bank Awards last night. I had to go along to collect his prize for The Anthem Memoirs. Determined not to suffer on my own, I hunted for an escort. Most people snorted at the idea, but Elyot Waters was at a loose end and agreed to go with me, repairing my make-up in the car. The ceremony was held in one of the galleries at Federation Square. The walls were adorned with a photographic exhibition called The Poetics of Decadence. The waif-like models seemed intent on injuring each other, not always sexually. The audience — mostly bankers, their wives and assorted cliques — failed to notice, so obsessed were they with one another. The gallery was bright with burnished hair and generational gold. We stood in a corner and studied the inbred rites. The guests exchanged complicated kisses with those they had lunched or jogged or shopped with that afternoon. They 99

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knew how much everyone was worth and where it had come from. They knew who was up or down or resting. They lived in the same streets, holidayed and went skiing together, and cultivated one another’s children. They were loud but strangely desiccated. They grazed on molluscs and studied their livers. Godless and ruthless, they had no interest in anyone outside their clipped crescents and hereditary groves. They did everything together; they even read in packs. The noise in the gallery was immense until the governor arrived with a fanfare that silenced the throng. One dowager even curtseyed to the old sprinter, and had to be helped up. Prentice of the Zone was there, mooching around. He told me he was writing a story about one of our hosts, who was likely to be charged with fraud any day. Sneering at the assemblage, Prentice said, ‘What a detestable group of people.’ ‘Pillory them,’ I dared him. ‘Write one of your exposés. Or do they own you, too?’ ‘No one owns Prentice,’ he snapped. ‘But I thought I recognised a few of the Zone’s big advertising accounts.’ ‘Let’s get out of here — this is much too polite for me,’ Prentice muttered, quoting from The Great Gatsby. It was one of our games when we were bored. But I was wary of Prentice, still conscious of the threatened profile. I agreed to lunch with him next week. He said he had some news, but I assumed this was a ruse. I knew I’d need a few vodkas after the awards ceremony, but not with Prentice. That too had changed. Then it was time for speeches. A tiny little man with a defective microphone told us how lucky we were to be standing in the greatest building in the southern hemisphere. The pinstriped fraud was next, his task being to present the prize. His tribute to Philip Anthem was sarcastic 100

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and historically errant. How amusing, he remarked, that this year’s award should go to the last of the socialists, the suave warrior who’d taken on the banks. Accepting the statuette, I began by correcting his facts, then congratulated the judges on their choice, reminding them that most prizes are drawn to failure as the moth is to the star, as Karl Miller once said. They thought I was a Marxist. My speech ran to several smudgy pages, but no one listened, so, lowering my voice for effect, I read the epilogue from The Anthem Memoirs: that rueful meditation on the Fracas. Never had it sounded more bleak or pessimistic: the old statesman’s autumnal prognosis that despite the temporary triumph, the presidential concession, something had been revealed during those tense few weeks — a flaw bordering on cravenness in our national politics, a fear of independence bordering on masochism. Incongruous it felt reading that jeremiad to the mercantile mob, but I persisted, only to succumb to that most loathsome of states: public tearfulness. I had never done that before — not even at Matt’s funeral. Appalled by my display, I hid it as best I could and fled from the podium. Elyot Waters, flirting with a mascaraed waiter, consoled me. He praised my speech and said that only Now Voyager had moved him more. Then good old Felicity Martin, dressed in one of her crusted creations, came over and held both my hands, revealing her famous fangs. Felicity’s sympathy was clipped but genuine. ‘I’m sorry you were so upset. We all miss darling Philip. Tonight you made them all want to read his book. Now buck up and wipe your nose.’ I hadn’t seen Felicity since late November, during the Adelaide Ring Cycle. ‘You’re looking tired,’ she said in her brusque fashion. ‘What have you been up to?’ 101

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‘Work, Felicity.’ She wasn’t the first person to remark on my new haggardness. Had I been a man I would have been flattered. ‘A likely story. You’ve lost too much weight. You’re almost as thin as your daughter. How does she expect to sing Wagner when she’s all ribcage and clavicle?’ Then she surveyed the gathering, with its cool battles of posture and thinness. ‘You’re all the same — far too emancipated.’ Lady Martin’s malapropisms were as famous as her Nolans, of which several cruising curators had tried to relieve her. ‘You must be worn out after all that fuss over Philip’s ashes. What was Stella thinking — silly girl? Patmos of all places!’ ‘It’s what Philip wanted.’ ‘I’m sure,’ Felicity said, raising her eyebrows. She was far too pragmatic for Aegean paeans. ‘So much has gone on since we last met. So much has changed. What’s happened to Roman?’ she blurted out, her eyes welling up. She was a sentimental soul beneath the hide. Roman got to all of them. ‘He can’t have done a runner. Roman’s far too good to frighten us deliberately. How scared his mother must be, despite that composure.’ ‘I’m sure he’ll show up when it suits him,’ I said to pacify her. ‘You’ve never liked Roman, have you?’ Felicity snapped, perusing me with wise old unblinking eyes. ‘I could never understand why — loving his grandfather as you did.’ ‘Loving’s a bit strong,’ I cautioned her. ‘Editors don’t have affections, as you well know.’ I had published several of Felicity’s books on garden history. Felicity ignored me and went off on one of her tangents. ‘I often think of that charity lunch in Adelaide during the Ring.’ I’d hoped that Felicity had forgotten that day in November, but her memory was regrettably sharp. ‘Who were all those people? I guess they were the crème de menthe of society. And will you ever forget Annie Pullman’s speech?’ Felicity shuddered, buxom in pearls. ‘That’s when I knew the 102

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age of oratory was dead. Then you drove me back to Mount Lofty in that terrifying car of yours. You were on the phone constantly, just like my grandchildren,’ Felicity reminisced. ‘Let’s go over and sit in that corner, shall we? My poor old feet can’t cope. But try not to look at the photographs. What odious vinaigrettes of modern life. Far too much self-love for my liking.’ I found her a seat and eased her down like a floury sack, wondering how I could change the subject. On the wall behind us a slimy delinquent, arms full of puncture marks, smirked at my dilemma. Then Felicity dropped her secret like one of her prized manglings of the language. ‘You must have been one of the last people to speak to him.’ ‘Speak to whom, Felicity?’ I asked patiently. ‘To Roman, of course.’ She was watching me with the frankness of old women. ‘Hardly.’ ‘Darling, I’m not ga-ga. I’d know that boy’s voice anywhere. I helped raise him, remember? You’re not the only one with an Anthem connection. Oh yes, I remember you telling me about those Philip Anthem scrapbooks you kept as a girl. You were in your cups. It’s all right, I won’t tell anyone. The Anthems and I go way back. Isobel and I were great chums. Remarkable woman. Such a dasher. You would have liked her. I can’t imagine why she agreed to leave New York. Couldn’t say no to Philip, I suppose. He was the dishiest man. I think it was Canberra that killed her, though there were rumours about the bottle. She was only fifty when she died. Afterwards, when Roman came along, I used to babysit him for Stella. She’d leave him with us for weeks at a time, but we didn’t mind. We adored him. I cured him of his stammer — consonant by consonant. You didn’t know that, did you? That’s another of Stella’s secrets. You can imagine how perfect those boys had to be.’ ‘I’ve never had much to do with Roman.’ 103

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‘But what about Adelaide? The minute his voice came over the speaker I knew it was Roman.’ ‘So much was going on that day. It was the eve of Candy’s début.’ ‘But Roman said he was returning your call,’ Felicity persisted. ‘It must have been one of my authors. I can’t remember.’ ‘Well, I can, and I recall thinking you were behaving most furtively. I wondered if you were planning a party for Candy and I wasn’t going to be invited. You switched off the speaker and spoke to Roman directly, which must be illegal, even in South Australia. I’m sure you mentioned something about meeting up with Roman later.’ ‘I was not being furtive. He was probably ringing up about The Anthem Memoirs and I didn’t want to bother you.’ ‘I see! So you thought the old girl had nodded off.’ ‘Felicity, you’ve never dozed off in your life.’ ‘Quite. I may be crippled with arthritis and more wrinkled than a rhinoceros, but I still have my hearing. I did wonder when Roman went missing a few days later. Still, I mustn’t pry. My daughters say I ask far too many questions. I’m sure you know what you’re up to. Now, here’s the governor and his wife to rescue you.’ We studied the vice-regal couple as they parted the room and headed for Felicity. There was still time for a few more questions: ‘Have you mentioned this to anyone?’ I asked. She shook her head and everything trembled: jewels, jowls, my own suspicions. ‘You’re sure?’ ‘Well, maybe Matthew.’ ‘Matthew?’ ‘Now I feel as though I’m being grilled,’ she said. ‘I’m just curious,’ I mollified her. ‘Matthew hasn’t mentioned it.’ ‘Well, that’s hardly surprising. We don’t call him Mr Discretion for nothing.’ 104

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Then Felicity studied me as if I was a lax parent. ‘Digby Danton tells me that now Matthew’s gone missing. It’s rather strange, don’t you think? Bit of an epidemic. Don’t bother disassembling. If you weren’t so clever I’d be positively suspicious.’ ‘Matthew’s gone away to memorise The Tempest, that’s all. He’s playing Caliban.’ ‘Poor moon-calf,’ Felicity murmured strangely. ‘I ran into him not long after you all got back from Adelaide, just before Christmas. I was desperate to hear about Candy’s last night, but all Matthew wanted to do was talk about Roman. He’d already been missing for weeks and Matthew was beside himself. It’s terrible to be in love like that. That’s when I remembered hearing Roman’s voice in your car.’ ‘Did you mention that to Matthew?’ I said, doing my best to keep my voice neutral. ‘Precious, you’ve gone quite grey.’ ‘It’s these awful photographs. What did Matthew say?’ ‘What’s going on, child? Do you know something?’ Felicity demanded, her face a worried mask. Then she let out a sigh. ‘What don’t you know, more likely. I trust you’re not keeping anything from the authorities.’ ‘What did Matthew say?’ I insisted. ‘All right, all right,’ Felicity relented, suddenly looking her age. ‘Nothing happened. Matthew looked away and stared into the distance like that stupid serf he’d just been playing in Beckett’s pantomime. Have you noticed that Matthew seems to be playing a lot of slaves lately? I’m sure it can’t be healthy.’ ‘It’s just a phase.’ Felicity surveyed the noisy gathering. ‘What lives you people lead. You think it’s one long party. You’ll all go to your graves with a glass in your hand. I trust that if you and Roman were hatching a party for Candy in Adelaide you 105

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didn’t intend to exclude Matthew too. Such a good boy. So true to Roman.’ At that moment I could have kissed the old girl. ‘I do wish Matthew would get a real job,’ she said. ‘It’s such a vicarious existence being an actor.’ ‘Indeed.’ ‘Now I hope you’re satisfied, having pummelled your old friend into submission?’ ‘Thank you, Felicity. Matthew’s fine. I look after him.’ I took her nobbled hand. ‘You do trust me, don’t you?’ ‘I’m not sure who I should trust after an exhibition like this,’ Felicity shrugged, reaching for her stick. ‘It’s all too much for a dinosaur like me. Now help me up. You’re on show, remember. Try not to be provocative. And if you curtsy to that harrier I’ll crack you over the head with my stick.’ Suddenly the air was thick with all the creaky protocols. I slipped away, needing a drink. Elyot Waters had headed off with the boy in mascara, and Prentice was long gone — no doubt back at the Zone flaying the pinstriped fraud. Outside, the undulating square was as empty as Valhalla. I stood in the light rain, weirdly disorientated. There it was, flashing in mental neons: Matthew knew, Matthew knew. I didn’t know what he knew or how much he knew, or how much more he cared to know, how much more he could stomach, but he knew this much at least: that Roman and I had spoken briefly in the traffic; knew that Roman and I had our own tenuous line of communication — something Matthew had never imagined. Felicity Martin, clueless though she was, had let it slip, and everything that followed now made sense: Matthew’s silence, his wariness, his contemptuous flight before Christmas. He no longer trusted me, and the belated act of mistrust was like a million scales falling from his eyes. I wandered around the square kicking the sandstone tiles, clutching Philip’s futile prize. 106

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8

MATTHEW January 25 ~ How long is it since I last slept under my mother’s roof? That’s like going back into prehistory: BM. I must have been twelve, still putting in the odd appearance at Babs’s place before my formal shift to Valhalla. It seems odd to be here. I feel like an exchange student with the wrong wardrobe. It can’t be fun harbouring a shiftless son. I’m always reassuring Babs that I won’t stay for long. Not that Babs has hinted that my sudden return was inconvenient. Most of the time she’s not around. It’s just something about our relationship, I suppose. Hospitable though she is, I still feel awkward in her house. Perhaps my father did too. It was always Babs’s name on the lease or the deed, Julia once told me. (How does she know these things?) Even Roger felt like an extra. Babs was always selfsufficient, even before her culinary metamorphosis. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. It was generous of Babs to take me in when I rang from the Eclipse needing a bed in town. She sounded pleased, not mentioning that my sudden 107

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descent would force her to dislodge her similarly rootless niece. Babs knows better than to mention Ursula to me, so I have no idea how long she was here. All I know is that Ursula couldn’t bear to stay at Satchell Street on her own and moved in with Babs, bringing Marilyn the cat. I still find kitty litter and used tea bags all over the house. I haven’t seen Ursula since that night six months ago when it all unravelled. Frankly, I haven’t given her much thought. Her feelings have come a long third behind Candy’s and mine. It was as if — having Roman, enjoying a kind of mocknormalcy with him — Ursula was condemned to a kind of connubial banality, whereas Candy and I — separately, surreptitiously — enjoyed an illicit intensity she couldn’t match. How bizarre, how naïve, how delusive. For it was Ursula who had him, not us. She lived with him, sparred with him, even laughed with him, in intimidatingly private ways. We didn’t get the chance. There must have been a time when Roman wanted her, in his halting fashion. I saw vestiges of it early last year, before the fall: an early exit arm in arm, a carnal note in his voice. During one party, Roman borrowed someone’s camera and started taking our portraits: random, angled, zany. Then I saw him photograph Ursula from the floor. She was perched on the edge of a sofa, curvaceous legs apart. Their locked exclusive gaze made me look away. Roman must have sensed my unease, my alienation. The next time we met he told me that ours was the most intimate relationship he’d ever had — the most profound. Shyly he used the word ‘communion’. Now I suspect that Ursula knew him better than anyone did, or as well as it was possible to know Roman Anthem. Which is another reason not to see her. Besides, Ursula’s numbness will pass. She’ll recover sooner than the rest of us. Before long she’ll be cleaning out his wardrobe. Ernesto or one of his successors will be there 108

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to rescue her. For my cousin — thirty-three when she met Roman — is a survivor, just like Babs. It’s in their blood. Roman never understood this aspect of Ursula’s character: her resilience. Exposed too young to her moods, her hypochondria, he convinced himself that she was genuinely fragile. Queasily he saw himself as her nurse. It’s why he stayed and stayed, long after most twenty-year-olds would have bolted. Patient as a prompter, he hung on, even when he resented her — even when he was disgusted by her wiles. Babs was away when I actually moved into the new white pile in Kew, or as Julia had dubbed it, ‘the house of royalties’. These days Babs spends most of her time in Sydney. On this occasion she was up there to cook for Stella and Hal Hutton while they entertained Dr Kissinger. (‘What should I feed the old warmonger?’ Babs mused over the phone. ‘Cambodian curry? A bombe?’) Babs had also been invited to give a lecture on the over-egged theme of food and society, which caused her none of the angst it would once have occasioned. There was a time when Julia and I had to pump her with Valium to relax her before a talk. Now she’s like a diva, quite unfazable. Babs and I had barely seen each other since Adelaide (she flew over for Candy’s début). She’s been making a doco in Provence — and gourmandising, judging from a recent photograph in Vogue, in which she looked quite voluptuous. For the first few days I had the place to myself. Waking in the middle of the night — wrenching myself from another humiliatingly erotic dream — I would marvel at its vastness and wonder where I was. My wing, as Babs refers to it, comprises a long rectangular bedroom, a ruthlessly mirrored en suite and a dressing room that even Ursula would be hard pressed to fill. I haven’t been back to Valhalla to collect my possessions. When I need things — socks, goggles, jocks — I go out and 109

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buy them. This can’t last of course (my money will soon run out, if nothing else), but for the moment I derive a queer solace from my thingless state. Nothing I’m wearing came from Julia. Babs’s house is the antithesis of Valhalla and all those slummy Carlton terraces I grew up in. The lights, the security service and the phenomenal stove all defeat me. Everything is slender and translucent. The carpet is whiter than our lunar set for Godot. Mysteriously, at the head of the sofa, stands a gleaming set of drums. I have no idea who owns them, but I sense they have a percussive story of their own. Babs’s gift to a new beau perhaps? She’ll tell me in due course. Swaying in the fake breeze, the cymbals flash at me. I don’t play them or the supersonic sound system. I don’t even listen to the radio. Word, when it is time, will be swift, whatever the medium. I’m trying to study The Tempest, but memorising a page of Shakespeare takes an hour. The swimming pool, welcomingly deep, is my sanctuary. I go round and round like a seal, holding my breath, blocking out my sickly repetitious thoughts. Then I float on my back, staring at the blue blank blameless sky. Babs came home two nights ago, manic with fatigue. She showed me her new Prada wardrobe. Stores and couturiers send her stuff all the time now. Despite my lack of appetite she cooked me a stupendous meal: stuffed this, flamed that. First I watched her shuck two dozen Streaky Bay oysters with those butch old forearms of hers — stronger than Roman’s. Then she got stuck into the offal (‘I’m in a kidney kind of mood’). Babs was too distracted to notice my pickiness. She told me about the Huttons’ starry dinner party and her television ratings. She didn’t ask me how I was, for which I was grateful. Ursula wasn’t mentioned once — only the ludicrous cat, whose rank smell is everywhere. Babs mentioned Stella 110

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Anthem a few times, but not Roman. I sympathised with my mother, coping with so many divided loyalties. Babs knows I went missing for a time, for Julia keeps her posted, but she doesn’t ask me where I went. At the end of each day, in her spa’ed suite, she opens a bottle of champagne and telephones Julia with my non-news. I know this without being told: it raps away in the gloom like Morse code. Everyone knows a little: not enough to influence events, but sufficient to keep it going, the carousel of rumours. If I were stronger I’d find a way out. The great stayer, the homebody, the universal postboy is finally restless. Floating in the pool, I dream of Egypt, India, Mexico — not Greece. If Roman can vanish, why can’t I? There are times when I miss my old hideaway at the Eclipse. I think of Shirley fondly. By the end of my stay her talk was unstoppable. She was obsessed by Roman’s fate. Propped on the side of my bed, she made me promise to ring her up if I gleaned anything in the city. Had she known of our . . . acquaintance, she would have made me fill out an affidavit. By the end, her speculations were quite lurid. She’d read, heard or dreamt that foul play had not been discounted. There was talk of a ransom note, a severed ear, a million-dollar deal with the Huttons. The rumours grew wilder. Roman had been sighted on a moped in Naples, meandering through the Louvre, driving a red Mustang along Oxford Street with rings in each nipple. Then a newsreader referred to Roman in the past tense and Shirley vowed never to watch him again. Strangely, Shirley got a bit ‘pippy’ when I left. Life wouldn’t be the same, she said. She had so enjoyed listening to me. This morning Babs left to start work on a new television series. This will take her, cannily, to each state, culminating 111

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in a barbecue near Uluru. Concord, meanwhile, presses her to write a second book, alluding to the spanking advance (even more than they paid Philip Anthem, as Babs likes to remind me). Babs longs for another bestseller. She reminds me of several actors I’ve worked with, for whom celebrity is addictive when it finally happens. They want it again and again. They crave more recognition, more silly articles, more shy glances in restaurants. Babs must know it will be hard to repeat the success of Babs’ Feast, but for now she’s having fun tantalising Roscoe Hunt with more outlandish proposals and extortionate lunches. I’ll be gone when Babs returns again. I’ve found new lodgings. When the Tempest cast met for the first time, our plump Ariel mentioned he was looking for someone to share a studio in Flinders Lane. There are no phones, so it sounds ideal. I should be on my own now. It’s not fair to inflict such a pathology on other people. No one knows about my midnight trawls. Self-loathing makes me furtive. I slink about at night undetected. I never intend it to happen. My days could hardly be more innocuous. I see no one, speak to no one. (That mandatory read-through with the cast was torture. Supreme lines fell from my lips like stones. Any minute, I felt sure, someone would step in and sack me, sparing us all.) But things always fall apart in the evening, the dark wrecking my resolve. By then I’ve spent so many hours resurrecting certain looks, phrases, deeds, so much time analysing hints, nuances, interludes — dating and deconstructing them, reversing and fast-forwarding, holding them up to the light, savouring a hard-won union, decoding an idle rebuff, marvelling that it could so corrode what we felt, wondering what happens to two people so attuned, so hopelessly necessary to each other — turning it all over in my mind like a peasant with his simple stupid worry beads — that by midnight I’m almost 112

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fantasticated out of my mind: love’s sick craving chronologist. And then I can’t help myself. That’s when I need — need to see, drive, hunt, shadow, locate — need squeamish primitive proof that my absent tormentor exists. God knows what I expect to find. Roman’s hardly likely to be hiding in a big city, or Australia for that matter. He’d be spotted in a flash. Roman’s more famous now than when he was two. I picture him in an ashram, surrounded by murmuring monks who have never heard of the Anthems. Yet I persist, driving around the city like a taxi driver without a fare. My ancient Fiat is holding up well, though I’m down to two gears and the wipers don’t work. I convince myself that if I can only surprise him with someone — Ursula, Candy, Julia, Digby, anyone will do now — I’ll be free at last. Usually I begin at Satchell Street, nauseated as I turn into that perilous one-way street. Habit steers me there, not common sense. Wild horses wouldn’t lure Roman back to Ursula’s house. There was a time, following the separation, when he would call on her. Candy, after one of her own clumsy meetings with Roman, told me that he visited Ursula once a week, from a sense of duty. She made it sound like social work. But Roman stopped calling months ago, long before his grandfather died. Even if the front lights are off and Ursula’s car nowhere to be seen, I walk down the rear lane and peer into the kitchen, which is always lit. I stare at the small wooden table that Roman built; the antique stove where he made Turkish coffee; the cabinet I watched him install one afternoon, able and engrossed, turning to me, half-smiling, for a tool or a beer — shirtless, ivoried, all vein. Sometimes I stand there for hours, almost hallucinating. I am patient now. Julia — another creature of the night — would be impressed by my stealth. As a boy, I used to hear her slip out in the middle of the night, easing the door. I’m like her now. Sometimes 113

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I fancy that it’s her car cruising past mine, searching for me now. Last night I drove across town, numb but compulsive. Parking the car a block away, I located the house where Roman was rumoured to have enquired about a room on his return from Philip Anthem’s launch late last year. Weeks of cunning, a thousand indirections, had been required to find out the address. Finally, pretending to be a homeless student (a student of Roman history), I rang the bookshop where the room had been advertised and they gave it to me. The house is more exposed than Satchell Street, so I walked briskly up and down the street like an insomniac. Mooching gay boys in leather assumed I was drawn to the park opposite and stared at me, strumming their cocks. I felt like warning them to stay away. I can’t imagine being wanted again — and I only want him. Lights were on in the weatherboard house, so I crept down the side path, intent on finding Roman’s bedroom. If I knew where he undressed, slumbered, brooded — betrayed us — I too might be able to sleep. Ignoble thoughts led me on, the desperado’s bait. I saw him lying there naked on his back, sleek shanks twitching and parted, a neglected book resting on his lightly downed waist. Or I followed him into the shower, watched him undress and languidly smear his body with soap, slowly pleasuring himself. I concluded that the smallest of the downstairs bedrooms — curtainless, meagrely furnished — had to be Roman’s. Just then, on cue, a bedraggled young woman lurched into the room and fell across the bed, bumping her head audibly on the frame. She lay there stupefied, full of some other drug than mine. Roman wasn’t living there at all. He’d never rung them up about a room. It was all nonsense. I didn’t know this woman. I didn’t care about her. I didn’t care about anyone but Roman. I trudged back to my car like a feckless crusader. Other nights I visit the places where Roman lived as a boy, 114

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all palatial. This was after Greece, when Stella was Lady Payne, before the Hutton apotheosis. Later — after leaving school at sixteen, scandalising his mother with his passion for wood — Roman rented cheap maisonettes in suburbs of which Stella had never heard. Then came Ursula, and Satchell Street. Once, at his bleakest — when he thought he could never honourably leave Ursula — Roman told me that he had spent the previous night drifting around Melbourne on his motorbike, revisiting all those houses, reminding himself that he had been happy there. Now I was retracing the same nostalgic route. I even drove past Felicity Martin’s Georgian pile, knowing that Roman had stayed with the Martins as a boy. Felicity had told me this — and other things — when she collared me before Christmas. She urged me to drop in whenever I wanted to talk about Roman. But I had no intention of inflicting myself on her. Desperate though I was for word or sight of Roman, I didn’t want to discuss him with others. We’d all said enough. But that didn’t stop me from roaming, fretting, peering, longing. Last night, for the first time, I went as far as Valhalla. The irony of it — my skulking around the place where I’d lived for sixteen years — was overwhelmed by my need for Roman. Why couldn’t I find him? Why couldn’t anyone find him? Beginning to panic, I feared I’d never see him again. A stranger to Julia, to myself, to Candy (still in Germany), I slid into the known but foreign cul-de-sac and hid in the garden across the road. It must have been four o’clock. Both cars were there: Candy’s daffy Morris; a new Saab for Julia, doubtless a reward from Roscoe for the latest prize. Had she sheltered Roman, abducted him, succoured him? Which room was he occupying, whose bed? Was he sprawled across mine, arm around my pillow? Was that staunch light above the portico a taunt or an oversight? 115

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Finally, as morning began to sallow the cul-de-sac, I forced myself to leave, self-disgust dulling my craving like a moral dawn. Back I went to Babs’s beeping house, grateful at least that I was no longer condemned to life in Valhalla. Back I went shivering, with a queer sense of resolution. ‘Free,’ I chanted in the car, like a child going on a terrible vacation. ‘Free, free, now you are free.’ After succumbing to these sorry prowls, I doze for a few hours. Waking, I enjoy a few seconds of erotic complacency before the hangover-like thud. Then it all comes back like a squalid dream. Disgusted with myself, I lie there staring at an imaginary profile on the wall. Once, I remind myself, I was capable of self-control; once I marvelled at such excesses in others. Now obsession defines me. Like a devotee I play scenes over and over again in my mind, my mad chronologies. And it will always be like this. Roman will never come back. I know that now. I can’t imagine living any other way. Romanless, I have no wish to recover. Living simply, capably, respectably, would be a travesty. Better to sink into rashness and odium than a dignified calm. Better to talk to yourself in public like a crazy man. Better to be arrested. Better to be put down like an old sick dog. There’s no getting over such a loss, no consolation in doing so. Even at my maddest I know there was a kind of crazy grace in what I felt for Roman and what I’ll always feel.

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9

JULIA February 3 ~ It’s months since we decided to do Stevie Nicholls’ second autobiography and we’re still agonising over the title. Whole production meetings are devoted to it, with Elyot Waters — a new convert to football — amusing the Melbourne office with various pornographic suggestions. He has bought his season ticket. Any code that produces physiques like Stevie’s must be noble, he declares. Last night I had my own revelation. The Body is perfect for the book. It didn’t take me long to succumb. The sweetly constructed boy proved too tempting. I knew it would distract me from other worries for a few athletic hours. I had invited Stevie to Valhalla to work on the proofs. Both my problem children being away, I can bring my work home now. To contact Stevie one has to ring his football manager, a vulgar bruiser with extortionate methods and a riot of pixillated ties. Never having read a book in his life, Bazza O’Connor is always unhelpful. He prefers Stevie to appear on pay TV or to remove his tracksuit for yet another oily 117

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calendar. Wearily I insisted on speaking to my author. I told Bazza that Stevie should see his memoirs at least once before they went off to the printer, in case our ghost writer had him kicking with the wrong foot or injuring the wrong groin. Bazza eventually responded to my threats and expletives and Stevie duly arrived, angelic in a cropped top and concise shorts. He had just run a marathon in Homeric heat but was quite unpuffed. Benignly trusting, he flicked through the first chapter and pronounced it ‘okey-doke’, with one caveat. ‘You haven’t given me enough sisters. But Tiffany won’t mind.’ Would that all my authors were so obliging. Stevie was more interested in the colour wraps, so we went through his hefty scrapbooks and selected one hundred images. It was difficult to find one of him fully clad. The majestic torso will look splendid on the front cover, suitably embossed. At nine I rang for Thai takeaway. Then Stevie surprised me by producing some choice skunk weed. The effect was instantaneous. Before Stevie knew what was happening his sponsor’s T-shirt was being ripped off yet again. I let him unpeel the rest himself. Athletes understand the poetry of undress. Stevie has been doing it publicly since he was fifteen, maddening the peanut-crunching crowd. An agile narcissist, he prolonged the ceremony of the jockstrap so adroitly that further revelation was almost superfluous. It was the most robust sex I’ve had since I did that book with the breaststroke champion. The Body is massively constructed. When he positioned me where he wanted me, his grip was like an electric shock. I clung to his stirring shoulders like a bleached maiden in a silent film. For such a dark man he is miraculously hairless. In a world of sprouting men it’s always a delight to touch a marmoreal body. Or does he wax like the rest of them? He is unusually sensual for such a powerful man, and strangely doting 118

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for a star. Most celebrities, in my experience, begin to think about their next conquest before the last shudder of coitus. During half-time I straddled Stevie’s lithe waist and we shared a cigar. He told me that on average he receives twenty propositions each day, and the sort of correspondence that would make Tiffany blush. Maintaining a semblance of editorial dignity, I didn’t ask him how often he succumbs, but I guess he has three or four partners most days — except match days, when the figure soars. He has a large gay following and enjoys posing for ‘artistic’ magazines. Several websites are devoted to his contours. ‘All part of the job,’ he said, reflectively twisting his nipple ring. Still, I think I taught him one or two new tricks — ‘something to use in a scrum’. ‘Wrong code,’ he said, biting me. Above his turbulent groin is a small tattoo which his team commissioned after a famous victory. They all had it done. A couple of Stevie’s more insecure young team-mates even underwent circumcision in the interest of solidarity. But for its unconsciously fascistic design, the tattoo would be perfect for our cover. (I thought it best not to enlighten Stevie about the motif: this was no time for a history lesson.) Always thinking of my list, I asked Stevie about some of the other rites of passage that go on in The Rooms. Bashful at first, he loosened up as the skunk weed took effect. None of it, sadly, was publishable. He reminisced about his first day at the club. After training, he went into the shower expecting to swap tactics, only to feel a warm squirt on the back of his leg. One of the club legends was pissing on him and leering at him through his mouthguard. All the other players stood around laughing. It was a kind of ritual for novices. Stevie also told me about the overseas trips that culminate in orgies of such elaborateness that they almost require coaches and statisticians. I stopped him when he 119

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began telling me about what they did at Pleasant Sunday Mornings. Some things are best left to the imagination. I was struck by Stevie’s easy amorality. The sleepy charmer is laudably open to pleasure in any form. I suspect he goes to bed with boys from the cheer squad when it suits him. (Elyot Waters will be pleased to hear that.) For Stevie, nothing is taboo. Shirk a bump or miss a crucial goal, though, and his contrition rivals that of the flagellating saints. Candy was cruelly disapproving when I told her about my editorial labours. She’d rung from Berlin, sounding tense. It’s dress rehearsal time, and everyone is brittle. Candy’s schoolgirlish scruples about not meddling with the married made her leap to assumptions. ‘Firstly, madam, Stevie doesn’t have a wife,’ I retaliated. ‘Those blondes on his arm in those deplorable magazines you read are just passing fancies. The players share them around. It’s good for team morale. Anyway, Stevie’s too big a property to get married. His manager won’t let him. You shouldn’t cast aspersions about your poor old mum. Any other daughter would be proud that I can still attract a syndicated stud. At least I’m not going to be a burden for you and Matthew. Who else is going to look after me in my dotage, with a canary and a clown in the family?’ But Candy was persistent. ‘I just don’t think it’s professional to go to bed with all your authors.’ ‘Not all of them, treasure. I draw the line at my natural history authors. Anyway, aren’t you being a tad hypocritical? What about your composers? You’re in love with half of them.’ ‘But they’re all dead,’ Candy defensively wailed. ‘Necrophiliac! I don’t think Violetta’s in any position to lecture me about morals. What about Tony Knott?’ ‘Stop it,’ she snapped, like an imperious diva quelling a chorus. 120

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‘Don’t Taci me this and Taci me that! I refuse to be bossed around by La Collis. What about the Loose Knot? What about Master Anthem?’ ‘Don’t! That’s enough.’ Candy needn’t worry. I don’t imagine my tour of The Body will be repeated. I did threaten to show him the third pages, but soon the football season will be under way and Stevie will be saving himself for the weekly bloodbath. I was touched when he invited me to the opening game, but the thought of sitting in a grandstand for hours trying to engage my anorexic rivals in conversation did not appeal, so I made polite excuses. All of a sudden, everyone wants to buy me lunch. I have become a kind of universal tax deduction. Roscoe flew down last week and took me to Caffe di Stasio. I think he likes the décor; it makes him feel ruthless. Our revered leader has decided to restructure Concord for the fifth time in as many years, and wanted to reassure me that my position was safe. Over a bottle of wine costing more than we pay Elyot Waters each week, Roscoe lamented the usual retrenchments. He was dependably inconsolable at the slayings and talked about the sleepless nights, the weight of office. By the time we got to the Armagnac, Roscoe, still dewy-eyed about The Anthem Memoirs, was so maudlin he offered to lease me a convertible Saab. I thanked him but thought of something better. ‘If you really want to impress me, send me to New York.’ I said. I was thinking of the missing Matthew, my awkward fiftieth, and prying Prentice. It would suit me to vanish for a while. Everyone else was doing it. Roscoe must have been feeling particularly guilty. The Saab arrived next day, and my US itinerary has already been fixed. I leave soon after Candy does Salome. Concord must want to keep me. I have no illusions, however. One day, over Lobster 121

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Thermidor, Roscoe or some callow successor will quietly assassinate me and the window will run with crocodile tears. Not for a while though. At present they can’t afford the payout, and they must realise that half my authors would defect with me. Besides, I have so much dirt on Roscoe he’d have to blast me out. Kelvin Pope’s notion of culinary seduction is different from Roscoe’s. Twice in the past week he has taken me to University House, where his department has an account. Neither the clientèle nor the menu has changed since Babs and I frequented the place hundreds of years ago (once, I recall, with the Pope himself). Pope regaled me with departmental politics. In return for shedding a quarter of his staff he has been promised a year’s sabbatical, during which he proposes to write another thriller for me. It’s always instructive to watch scholars employing the methods of the corporations they so despise. The Pope, for all his stated ambivalence, is a natural. He often talks about his disappointment with the mother of his six children. There is something essentially weak about him, always fretting over a hang-nail or bleating about lack of sleep. Next he’ll be complaining about a burning sensation in his vitals. He yearns to spend whole afternoons discussing the future of his marriage, but I’ve made it clear I’m not interested in marital woes. And yet, despite his specious morals, his cheap wines, I’m still attracted to The Pope in a complacent sort of way. Candy, perturbed by my romp with The Body, is appalled by this new flirtation. She will never understand my attraction to dons. She has no sense of the circuitousness of life — its inexorability. Nor does Matthew, flitting off to his sand dunes, believing he can abscond from chaos. Life is a sealed campus, I long to tell them. You can’t avoid the past; you can’t lie down with others and then shake off their scent. 122

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Perhaps I’m becoming nostalgic about my university days. When I was Roger Light’s research assistant, Kelvin Pope was the bright young pony-tailed thing in the faculty, an émigré from English, and the author of an acclaimed book of poems. The last time I looked at The Décor of Subterfuge I wasn’t totally embarrassed by my youthful enthusiasm. Not that I’d admit this to the author. He’d want me to publish the Collected Pope. He wants to take me away for a few days. He still owns that bamboo house on the peninsula where, decades ago, dozens of us gathered for tumescent weekends. It was there, I’m sure, that Babs seduced me — or did I seduce her? (Roger, ever clueless, was upstairs guarding Matthew in his bassinet and marking essays — always marking his damned essays.) I declined the Pope’s offer. There is something too blatant about a coastal assignation. I was surprised, on delving into The Décor of Subterfuge, to find that it was dedicated ‘to Babs’, followed by some moody Italian from Dante. I had forgotten this. But I remember the book launch in one of those wine bars where Candy later sang jazz before the canary-fanciers poached her. Kelvin spoke for half an hour, then read every poem in the book. Those were the days! I wonder if the Pope and Babs slept together. I must ask her tonight when she calls. God knows there weren’t many people we didn’t bed during those incestuous days. If she did I just hope they didn’t do it in the bamboo hut. Babs rings me most nights, in her cups. The instant Matthew arrived she was on her mobile like a spy. Now she fills me in on his movements (or lethargy). Twenty years ago she used to phone me with instructions as to where I was to collect him. Now she warns me to stay well away. Apparently, Matthew still isn’t ready to see me. Matthew can’t be comfortable in the ‘house of royalties’. 123

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It’s not his thing: all that white carpet and spindly Scandinavian furniture. I could visit him, of course — confront him, have it out with him — but for the moment I will heed Babs’s warning. I ran into Roger on my way to University House with Kelvin Pope. He still wears that disgusting old tweed jacket. Roger wanted to know if I had any news about Matthew. He never speaks to Babs if he can help it, so he had no idea. ‘What’s wrong with Matthew?’ the Pope interjected, squinting at me. ‘How do you mean, “gone away”? I thought you had him too well trained.’ Roger told me that the university is about to confer an honorary doctorate on their old colleague Justice Lacey, Roman’s father. He comes down from Canberra in a fortnight. The conferral will be followed by lunch with the Chancellor. Roger invited me as his guest. The Pope twitched at this, annoyed to have missed something (he is too self-centred to recall the intricacies of my relations with Babs and Roger). Naturally I accepted. I admire Lacey’s judicial career, if not his progeny. Then Roger tried to surprise me. ‘I believe you know my other guest — a Mr Prentice, from the Zone.’ ‘That rag!’ the Pope spluttered. He affects not to read Australian newspapers, though he is always remarkably wellinformed when they review his books, and comically litigious if the crits are hostile. ‘I had no idea you and Prentice were friends,’ I said to Roger. ‘Hardly friends. We met last week. He’s doing a story about that banker who’s in trouble. He wanted to check a point of law. I rather liked him. He’s brash of course but cleverer than most.’ ‘Oh yes, he’s clever.’ ‘We met for a drink,’ Roger continued in his airy way. 124

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‘Young Prentice had no idea we were acquainted until he mentioned your name. I told him I’m Matthew’s father, and it all fell into place.’ ‘Small world,’ I purred. ‘When Prentice learned that Justice Lacey is coming to lunch, he asked if he could meet him. The VC will be pleased. He wants us to cultivate the tabloids.’ Roger stroked his beard, then went on aimlessly. ‘Prentice tells me he’s writing a profile on you.’ ‘A profile — of you?’ the Pope expostulated. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it, darling?’ I said. ‘Prentice wants to ask me a few questions about you and Matthew,’ Roger said. ‘He knows about Roman.’ ‘What Romans?’ Kelvin Pope bumbled on, never so de trop in his life. ‘Roman Anthem.’ ‘Oh, the Anthem boy,’ he nodded sagely. ‘Strange business that. Not a bad subject for a thriller.’ ‘And you’re the one to write it, darling.’ I said. I studied Matthew’s father — guileless, twitchy, unkempt. How much did he know about Matthew and Roman? Not much, I decided. Matthew has never confided in his father, and Roger can’t stand speaking to Babs long enough to quiz her about their son. I certainly wasn’t going to enlighten him. ‘Enough gossip,’ said the Pope. ‘I want my lunch.’ And with a cursory wave to Roger Light he led me into University House like a grandee reclaiming the spotlight. Now that Felicity Martin has let the cat out of the bag, the nights are interminable. My old sangfroid dissolves when I’m alone. I lie in bed rehearsing old scenarios, wondering if I should have stepped in earlier, later or not at all. It’s not like me to doubt myself, but I’m desperate. 125

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Some nights I hear noises: footsteps in the garden, a hand trying the front door. One morning I found cigarette butts on the verandah. Local pushers and whores must be using my garden as an office again. I wish they’d leave me alone. I who have never been frightened of anything in my life am suddenly edgy in Valhalla. Perhaps I should go over to Babs’s place and try to appease Matthew. Perhaps if I explained why I did it he would soften, forgive me, pack his gym bag and come home forever. Taunts, disgust, incredulity would be better than this no man’s land. A reaction: that’s all I want. Is it asking too much? In a dream, an old dream, one I’ve had before, I saw Matthew coming towards me, enraged, fists flailing, accusing me. I stood there powerless, unable to raise my arms, no longer capable of self-defence. I waited for him, oddly stirred by his anger. It was deserved, what he was raining on me, and it soothed me like a biblical shower. All for you, I kept saying. I did it all for you.

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10

MATTHEW February 13 ~ This waiting game is killing me. Roman’s absence is all that matters. Not having him, not seeing him, is like an abyss. Simple tasks — doing my laundry, cooking a meal, creating a tax invoice — are futile. I have to will myself to do things. The other day Abby, my agent, phoned to say that if I didn’t agree to have coffee with my new director she would find another Caliban. (‘You’ve pushed them too far, luvvy. Now it’s bloody serious.’) It was tempting to stay away and let it all fall apart, but in the end I agreed to meet the director. Even extrication requires oomph. All I do is think about last year — the only year — the only time I knew Roman. He’s my religion now. I wasn’t alive before him, and I’m not now. I pore over each day like a sick historian. Perversely it all rushes back, despite the whisky and insomnia. For once, my vocation is proving useful. Actors are memory’s sprites, spewing out other people’s rage and ardour. Whole conversations and meetings come back to me. Abby has urged me to set it all down. ‘It will be good 127

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for you,’ she said, enunciating clearly, as if cajoling a temperamental child. ‘Think of it as therapy.’ But I can hardly write. There’s no point, and my handwriting is shot. Something seems to have happened to it. My speech is affected, too. I have trouble with certain R’s. The word ‘review’ is beyond me: maybe a mercy for an actor. Perhaps I’ve had a mild stroke. Is it possible at twenty-eight? I’m not panicking, though. Obsession does this, I tell myself. More reason not to write or speak, I guess — another economy. More time for erotic reveries. Today I went back exactly one year. It was February, still warm — perpetual summer. I hadn’t seen Roman since his solo visit to Valhalla. I’d thought about him from time to time, even asked after him — but obliquely, never giving too much away, not exactly sure myself why I was suddenly curious about Ursula’s boyfriend. I hadn’t told Julia about Roman’s visit, for I knew she would disapprove. One day I ran into Ursula at the fish market. She mentioned that Roman was working on a theatre set and that they hoped to visit his grandfather on the coast. That was all she said, but it was something. One day after yoga I went to the Opera to see Candy. The company was in full swing again. Everyone was back from holidays: estranged or in love, newly soprano or defiantly mezzo, transformed by a new teacher or resigned to the old. Digby Danton had come back from holidays phenomenally fat and more ebullient than ever. In Bangkok he had discovered reflexology and a Thai boy whom he was contemplating adopting. On his return the company’s mood, always subdued when he was away, rapidly improved. Digby exuded confidence. The box office for the autumn season, led by Salome, was unexpectedly strong. Candy, still daunted by her sadistic princess, was glad to 128

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have Digby back. She knew what pressure he’d been under to cast her as Salome. Stella Anthem had been adamant, declaring that this was to be the year of Candy Collis. But for Stella’s cosmic faith in Candy, Digby would never have mounted such an expensive new production. But was she ready for Salome? Even Digby must have had his doubts. Candy was full of dread. Everything depended on her — vocally, dramatically. (‘It’s like Lucia without the laughs,’ she said.) In dreams, she told me, audiences turned their backs on her and sniggered during the final scene. What possesses some people to stand up in public and try to personify struggle, passion, longing, mendacity? I once asked Candy why she wanted to be an opera singer. She had no idea. I feel the same about acting. With each new role the challenge becomes more acute, more embarrassing. For singers it’s even worse. Will anything come out when they open their mouths? Is that a trace of vibrato above the stave? How to dress up like Pagliacci or Turandot and keep a straight face? The mood in the rehearsal room that day was genial. Digby Danton’s sunny mood was palpable. Liberated by Stella Anthem and Annie Pullman’s largesse, he had scheduled additional rehearsals. Tony Knott, who hadn’t forgiven Candy for dropping him, had managed to refrain from causing a scene, but their big duets were still ahead of them. Candy knew Tony too well to believe that this queasy truce would last forever. The rehearsal space was so cavernous they weren’t forced to live in each other’s pockets, but the Green Room was a trial. Twice they had been forced to share a table. A loincloth diet of fruit and nuts wasn’t helping. Tony started boasting about his sex life at the top of his voice. One day he became so fresh with Herodias that Digby Danton had to caution him. (‘She’s Herod’s wife, for goodness sake. Act like a martyr, not Don Giovanni.’) 129

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Candy knew the Tony factor was grist to the mill for the Opera. Could she trust the foghorns in Publicity not to remind journalists about their recent separation? She dreaded the stories that were likely to appear in the colour magazines. Was this why Digby had cast Tony as Jokanaan, despite his recent vocal problems. Prentice of the Zone was also on her case after their Hatfield meeting. He had recorded several interviews with her, and was keen to speak to Julia. It wouldn’t be long before the great exposer took Tony Knott out for a drink. Tony would be only too happy to air his side of the story. ‘At least Prentice hasn’t asked me about my father, or rather my lack of one,’ Candy said, relieved by the oversight. There was another visitor that day — Roman Anthem. I noticed him standing in a corner. Others became conscious of him too, and gazed at the tall young man. His height, his looks, his brooding gaze made him oddly compelling, even in a room full of wits and Gloria Swansons. Candy crossed the room and whispered to him, as if Roman had been there before. She beckoned to me and took my hand when I joined them. We watched the others file out of the room but didn’t follow them to the Green Room, just in case Tony Knott misbehaved. We must have stood there for half an hour — friendly, if slightly tentative. Roman told us about his new job. He was working next door on a production of Glengarry Glen Ross. Mamet’s play called for umpteen desks. Roman joked that he was good at making desks. It was the only thing he’d learned at school. Roman asked about the opera. ‘I’m so ignorant you two won’t want to know me,’ he said blithely, turning his earring, which I hadn’t noticed before. ‘We don’t listen to much classical music at Satchell Street.’ ‘What about when you were growing up?’ Candy asked him. ‘Stella’s so . . .’ 130

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‘Oh yes, she’s a real operamane, if that’s the right word,’ Roman interrupted. ‘Stella took me with her a few times when I was a boy. She always had the best seats. Nowadays of course she gets her own row. She’d insist on going in just before the lights dimmed, when everyone was watching. I hated it. But Stella was away a lot. Most of the time I was with my friends or at boarding school, listening to punk.’ ‘Heavy angst and heavy metal,’ I ventured. ‘You must have gone to Swanton too,’ Roman smiled. It was strange to think that I was seven years ahead of Roman. He seemed much older than twenty-one. ‘Both Swantonians,’ Candy marvelled. ‘I hadn’t realised. Just like your fathers.’ ‘Were you a boarder?’ Roman asked. ‘Matthew boarded with us, didn’t you, darling?’ Candy interrupted, smiling at us both. She liked Roman too. We both found him modest and subtle — the last person to end up with Ursula. Juliet Cardinal, flightiest of publicists, and Frida from Wardrobe (an Austrian émigrée, older than the company) interrupted us to introduce themselves to Roman. Juliet had a pretext — a journalist wanted to interview Candy — but it was obvious why she had joined us. Glancing at Roman through narrowed eyes, the two women circled him as if admiring a beautiful mannequin and longing to stick pins in him. ‘I want those lashes,’ Juliet purred. ‘Men don’t deserve them on principle, and yours are quite wasted if you must insist on wearing those extraordinary overalls. They’re like something out of a bad Porgy and Bess.’ ‘Ven vill you let me dress you?’ Frida demanded, as if mentally sizing up the slim apparition with an invisible tape. ‘She means undress you, darling,’ Juliet retorted. ‘Don’t listen to a word she says. Dr Johnson was quite right. Opera 131

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encourages just this sort of immorality. Anyway, I like your butch look. Don’t you think he’d make a convincing tradesman, Candy?’ ‘Roman is a tradesman, Jules. He’s a cabinet-maker.’ ‘Excellent,’ Juliet rallied. ‘When are we doing The Master Builders of Nuremberg?’ ‘But he vould look beautiful in black cashmere,’ Frida rhapsodised. ‘So slender. Not like those tenor oafs I have to turn into svans.’ ‘I like the way your jaw ripples,’ Juliet breathed, patting Roman’s sideburns. ‘Very Brad Pitt. Tony Knott must have a jaw somewhere, beneath the folds.’ Then she looked Roman up and down. ‘I bet you’re covered in tattoos beneath those overalls. Very suggestive tattoos.’ ‘Down, Jules, down,’ Candy murmured. It went on like this quite entertainingly for several minutes until the others reappeared. Roman laughed but he seemed to switch off after a while, glancing at me once or twice. Tony Knott appeared in the doorway and glared at us. Jealous by nature, he couldn’t bear Candy talking to another man. Everyone hesitated, except Roman. I presumed he knew about Candy and Tony, and was impressed by his poise. Candy thanked him for dropping in. He asked if he could come back. ‘I’d like to hear you sing again one day.’ He said it deliberately, as if wanting to remind us of Hatfield. ‘I’m around,’ Candy laughed. ‘Come to opening night as my guest,’ Juliet offered. ‘I don’t have any clothes.’ ‘Frida can rustle up something.’ As Roman was leaving, Digby Danton came over and shook his hand. Roman had quite an effect on people; I hadn’t realised before. Digby said he hoped they would lure him back to the Opera. ‘I’m relying on my Salome,’ he said, turning to Candy. 132

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That night over dinner Candy told Julia about Roman’s visit and people’s reactions. ‘Oh yes,’ Julia sniffed, ‘some people are easily deceived by that dozy bedroom manner of his, but I would have thought that Jules is too worldly for that silent caper. I suppose he does possess the gland of charm, as Cyril Connolly called it — a very slender gland in Roman’s case. He is an Anthem after all. But aren’t you all forgetting about Ursula? If Roman goes on opening night, Belladonna will expect an invitation.’ ‘It won’t happen,’ Candy countered, regretting her candour. ‘Jules auditions legions of tall dark things before selecting her date.’ ‘Well, she’d be wasting her time on the Invisible Man. Why doesn’t she do us all a favour and set her sights on Tony? She might even pull the Loose Knot into shape. And what about her responsibility to the company — to her prima donna? I’m sure Digby would give her a bonus if she took him off your hands.’ Julia was silent for a moment, exhaling smoke through her nostrils. ‘I must say I’m not looking forward to opening night. The sight of that pigeon-toed lech spitting at you for two hours is more than I can bear. I can’t wait for him to be beheaded.’ And so it went on merrily, with Julia mocking Candy’s world and the latter protesting amusedly. Julia could make Candy laugh so hard a comical vein popped up on her forehead. I listened to the patter but felt myself drifting. Julia, never missing a trick, accused me of inattention. ‘Return the ball,’ she said, clicking her fingers. But I was miles away, across the city, in a dusty workshop where Roman, the last to leave, possibly reluctant to go back to Satchell Street, was constructing his desks late into the night, fitting them with a kind of rapt concentration, stroking the props with strong brown veined hands that I couldn’t get out of my mind. Suddenly I felt like one of Roman’s inexorable designs: 133

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a different prop. It was as if he was constructing me too — along primitive lines and out of yielding wood — testing the joins, sanding the rough bits, granting me some notional status in his chaotic ensemble.

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11

JULIA February 16 ~ It was last February when I realised that Roman had a new stake in our ménage. I’d known for a while he was pestering my susceptible angels, but I wasn’t worried at first. I trusted Matthew and Candy, and the notion of Roman Anthem posing a threat seemed absurd. Matthew, knowing my aversion, never mentioned Roman, but Candy told me that the beautiful blur had visited Matthew at Valhalla while I was in Sydney. I thought this peculiar (Roman’s visit, Matthew’s reticence) but wasn’t anxious. Then Candy mentioned that Roman was working nearby and that she often had lunch with him. This was so bizarre I felt obliged to say something. I reminded her that Roman was ten years her junior and almost engaged to Belladonna. Candy took this with rather more bottom lip than she was wont to do and stopped mentioning Roman. So I was curious when I finally had an opportunity to observe Roman again. I had driven to Philip’s place on the coast to work on the manuscript. I’d finished editing it and had about fourteen 135

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hundred queries for Philip. Our scheduled two-day blitz turned into a fortnight. For the first few days we had the house to ourselves. I was worried about Philip. He had no stamina, but each afternoon he insisted on taking his ancient dog down to the beach, where he knew most of the surfers by name. Emerging from the waves like frizzy courtiers, they greeted him. I suspected that Philip would have squeezed into a wetsuit if he could have. ‘Did you ever surf?’ he asked me. ‘Yes, of course you did. Lucky you. How could I forget? You took me to the coast once. I’m sure they’d lend you a wetsuit if you asked nicely. What nerves they have. What daring.’ One day Philip decided to investigate the rock pools on his own. I sat on the shore and followed his unsteady progress. All sorts of things went through my mind. What if I lost him? Even Waldo — fattest of Labradors, panting like his master — seemed anxious, whimpering as Philip reached the outer rocks. For half an hour Philip stood staring out to sea, until the tide began to lap his unsteady feet. I virtually had to haul him back to the house, though he declared himself reinvigorated. As I helped him up the stairs leading to the terrace, Philip seemed like a frail old man. The flesh beneath his upper arms was floury; he was losing weight. His elegant clothes were too big for his frame. At the Vietnamese restaurant we went to that night Philip played with the rice with tremulous chopsticks. ‘Please eat something,’ I urged him. ‘You think I should eat properly if I want to become prime minister?’ he joked. ‘I’d vote for you,’ I said. ‘Don’t vote for me,’ he chortled. ‘Vote duck! You’re the one who needs fattening up. I swear you’re thinner than when I first knew you. Don’t publishers eat?’ ‘Only each other.’ 136

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Philip’s humour, if not his appetite, was robust. I’m sure he still missed the badinage of the House and the Bar. Mrs Warren, the everlasting housekeeper, tried to penetrate his puns, but her prim smiles betrayed a certain mystification. ‘Very good, Mr Anthem,’ she would say after each epigram, plunging her hands into suds or dough. I fancied Philip shortened our daily editorial sessions in order to prolong my stay. Most afternoons we lunched on the terrace overlooking the sea. Rapidly, Philip read the half dozen newspapers that were miraculously delivered each morning. One day he looked up, consulted his watch and announced that he had to run up to Canberra to collect Roman. He hadn’t mentioned this before, possibly aware of my attitude towards his grandson. He added that Max Payne would also be joining us for a couple of days. I held my breath, dreading more bad news, but Philip (reading my mind) said that Ursula Sait was staying in Melbourne. Roman’s decision to leave her behind interested me. Ursula must have been furious. I offered to accompany Philip to Canberra, uneasy about him doing the long drive on his own. The plane was late, so we sat in the car park listening to Question Time. Philip followed the debate, coaching his stars. A queer quartet we made on the way back: Philip and myself in the front; the lopsided grandsons in the back, strangely quiet. I wondered if Stella had asked Philip to take Max off her hands for a few days. Possibly she couldn’t trust Max to get there safely on his own, and had enlisted Roman as his chaperon. Whatever the case, I was annoyed with Stella for interrupting our sojourn with her offspring. Philip had been discreet about the Huttons’ difficulties with Max, but I knew from Babs just how serious they were. No sooner had Stella married Hutton and attained the kind of life she always wanted than her middle son began acting 137

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like a saboteur. Relations between Hutton and Max were toxic. The mogul couldn’t abide his foul-mouthed stepson. Max had been at his most wilful, stealing money, dabbling in drugs, frightening little Hughdie’s nannies. One of them, an Irish virgin, had lasted a week. Submitting her resignation, she said she was afraid of being in the same room with Max and accused him of filming her in the shower. During one of the Huttons’ business trips, Max and some friends from Flinders Street Station had a party at the Toorak seat. Babs had been hazy about the details, but it was clear that thousands of dollars of liquor had been consumed and that someone had urinated on the conjugal bed. Max was also refusing to go to school. But for his stepfather’s patronage, Swanton would have expelled him long ago. Hutton had just funded a new media centre, so they could hardly reject the truant now. Max slept until two or three each afternoon then headed into town on his skateboard. Sometimes he stayed away all night. He was fourteen. It seemed authorities of all kinds — teachers, school counsellors, detectives, department store managers — had a direct line to the Huttons. To date they had managed to keep Little Max out of trouble, but for how much longer? I studied the pallid misfit in the rear-vision mirror. I hadn’t seen him since Hatfield when I’d caught him going through Felicity Martin’s handbag. Stella must have dreaded the prospect of another scandal. Max Payne, slouching on the back seat, caught my eye and winked. The boy without a future must have read my mind. I felt sorry for Philip, having to guard him, but sorrier for Max — poor sullen smudgy disaffected Max. At this rate he’d be dead before he was twenty; I was sure of that. While he was staying with us, Max was friendly, even chatty. He spent time in the kitchen watching Mrs Warren cook, more inquisitive than his half-brother. When the 138

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phone rang, which it did constantly, he insisted on answering it and took messages like a practised staffer. He seemed fond of Roman, despite their age difference and frequent separations. Philip he plainly adored. Only when Hal Hutton’s name was mentioned did he became fractious. (Roman would chide him in the same growling tone he reserved for Waldo when the Labrador farted or sniffed around for scraps.) Max loathed his stepfather as much as his journalists did, but there was a big difference — Max didn’t fear him. On the beach one afternoon I watched Philip and Max rescue a stranded skate. I was moved by the sight of my fragile septuagenarian and his slender grandson, fag in mouth, bending over the dying fish and consoling each other when their efforts failed. I liked the boy. I admired his spirit. In another life I would have taken him back to Valhalla, as I had rescued Matthew. On the eve of his departure, Max asked if he could leave school and look after Philip. He implied that this would enable the Huttons to get on with their public lives. Besides, he was no scholar: why not save all that money? (Philip had insisted on paying for his grandsons’ education.) There was a grave silence round the table. ‘Can I, grandad?’ Max asked, staring at Philip with that precocious insight of his. ‘Everyone would be happier. I won’t get in the way. I could answer your mail and protect you from publishers.’ I’d never seen Philip look so anguished. He wanted to save the boy; wanted to wrest him from the world that did him no good and made him so unhappy. But he couldn’t, because he didn’t know how to confront his daughter. Philip was helpless, and his impotence appalled him. Stella, like so many single children, controlled him without so much as a flick of the filial reins. Philip was afraid of her; he always had been. I’d known that for a long time. 139

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All Philip could say was, ‘My boy, I’m far too antiquated to play the tutor,’ then the moment passed. When Philip and Roman returned from driving Max to the airport, Philip was unusually quiet. After a cursory dinner he retired to his study. Emerging an hour later he asked Roman for a second whisky, which was unusual. The rims of his eyes were red with regret. After Max’s departure, life on the coast became more predictable. While Philip and I revised the manuscript, Roman pottered away in the shed. He was building a book wheel for Philip’s reference books. It was based on a device he and Philip had once admired in Vienna. When it was finished, Philip commissioned another one for Canberra, but Roman said he had to get back to the theatre company — and Ursula, sotto voce. ‘Then you must come back as soon as you’ve finished making your confounded desks,’ Philip said. ‘I like having my boys around.’ Some days, while he wrote, Philip asked me to go through Hansard to verify a date or a quotation. I began compiling the political chronology I’d persuaded him to include in his memoirs. The speed of his ascent and the longevity of his parliamentary career bewitched me all over again. Within three years of leaving the Bar, Philip had become prime minister, and he remained so for a decade. Despite all the labels they threw at him — firebrand, class traitor, last of the socialists, villain of the Fracas, the dandy with the Boston wife and the Harvard education — he ruled parliament like a Brahmin with a cause. No one had come near him, and he saw off four Opposition leaders. I was always struck by the tumultuousness of those years and by Philip’s eloquence under fire. With certain speeches I was intimately familiar. I had listened to them in the gallery. Others were new to me, except for snatches quoted 140

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in the English papers. (I was in London during almost the entire second half of his prime ministership, returning just in time for the Fracas.) There was the celebrated statement to the House concerning his quarrel with Washington. He describes this vividly in the memoirs, though not its aftermath: the mild coronary of which he became aware even as he uttered those timeless rebukes and roused his backbench — his people even — to a kind of roaring nationalism that neither ever regained. One morning Philip rushed out of his study, clearly animated. He asked me to skip a year and turn to the last but one of his parliamentary speeches, delivered soon after his tenth anniversary as prime minister. Philip had told the House of Russell Lacey’s appointment to the High Court and all hell had broken loose. Philip said he needed to check a few interjections: those that weren’t elided. ‘Some couldn’t be heard above the uproar, others were omitted as unparliamentary,’ he said drily. ‘The Opposition was desperate. That’s not a bad thing normally, but they went feral that day, and that can be dangerous. We’d just won our fourth election, against the odds. The Fracas was behind us, the dear old dollar was recovering, and Washington was learning to tolerate us again. So Madden and his henchmen decided to go after me, and Stella, which was much worse. You remember, don’t you?’ Of course I did. I’d had one of my premonitions that morning. I always listened to Question Time when the auguries were bad. By then I was working for Concord. There was a sales conference. During the children’s list presentation I kept ducking out of the room to listen to parliament on the radio. I told Roscoe Hunt I had my period, which was always a relief to him. I sat in the loo with my trannie. The Opposition made outrageous claims about Stella’s influence over Philip, her role in Lacey’s departure 141

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— even (and this is what incensed Philip most) her dubious propulsion of little Roman onto the national stage when the president came to town. Philip read me his passage about this cat fight. ‘They stopped at nothing,’ he went on after. ‘It was quite ludicrous. Anywhere else it would have been actionable. But they had their day, and it brought out the Tory bloodlust. It stung us, and we hadn’t been hurt like that in years. Perhaps it wounded me too, at some deeper level. Twenty-four hours later I had my third heart attack — the real McCoy — and even I couldn’t postpone the inevitable. As soon as they patched me up I went back into the House and resigned. I stared at them, memorising their craven faces, and knew it was over. I knew they’d inherit everything we’d created. And they did.’ Just then a noise in the garden silenced Philip, who closed the volume of Hansard. ‘Don’t tell Roman,’ he said, glancing at the shed. ‘I don’t want him to know we’ve been discussing that episode.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘He went through quite enough because of me.’ ‘But he was three when you resigned.’ ‘Don’t think it ended there — not for Roman. Being a politician’s child is no fun. Being a Lacey–Anthem is worse. When we got back from Greece we sent Roman off to Swanton, a terrible mistake on my part — an old man’s hubris. Roman never talks about his schooldays, but I suspect they were a nightmare. One of his teachers told me about one particularly grotesque incident. Roman . . . this is not going in the book, by the way . . . Roman was thirteen at the time. Hutton was courting Stella, and it was all over the rival newspapers. Some of Roman’s classmates pushed him against a wall and chanted, ‘Stella Anthem’s a whore, Stella Anthem’s a whore’. Roman stood there in silence watching the boys. A master found them and dispersed the mob. It 142

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was he who told me when I visited the school to open Hal’s new media centre. He said he’d been more shaken by Roman’s stoicism than by the antics of his tormentors, who after all were merely venting their parents’ Tory prejudices. Roman never mentioned it, never asked us to send him to another school, never asked me why in hell’s name I was putting him through this hell. But for that master, I’d never have known. I didn’t tell Stella.’ ‘Of course.’ ‘Had I found out earlier I would never have sent Max there. Now it’s too late. Stella’s made up her mind. She thinks he should stick it out.’ ‘Are you sure you’re not projecting your own frustrations onto Roman?’ I asked tentatively, not wanting to come straight out and suggest that Philip’s grandson was a paragon of passivity. ‘With respect, you don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Philip replied with rare heat, looking away. ‘Roman’s the bravest boy I’ve ever known. Now I’d be grateful if you’d find those debates and bring me anything slanderous.’ And with this he turned around and returned to his study, closing the door. Each morning while Philip was in his study Roman stayed out of my way. When he wasn’t whittling in the shed he lay on the grass tanning his long insectile body. He was trying to read Ulysses, but the same passage (Dignam’s funeral; I checked while he was in the toilet) defeated him each day. Again and again he flicked back to the start like a child reading Tolstoy. (I thought of Philip, who once famously read Lolita on a plane from Sydney to Perth.) Roman would fall asleep with one hand behind his neck and those preposterous curls shading his eyes. For the life of me I couldn’t imagine why he had such an effect on people. 143

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One day Mrs Warren asked if he’d mind cleaning the living-room windows. The boy had one skill after all. He perched on a ladder and polished them for an eternity, unaware that I was sitting inside with my Hansard. Then he caught my eye through the glass. Apologising with one of his shy half-smiles, he said he would come back later. Even I had to admit there was something faintly pathological about my animosity towards the boy. Roman might have a knack of getting in the way — he might be nagging my waifs — but he wasn’t exactly harmful. Dinner brought us together, unavoidably. Philip was always the talkative one. Though he accused Concord of trying to kill him with its punishing schedule, he seemed buoyant after his literary labours. ‘The French have a marvellous saying for it,’ he said one evening. ‘I feel tête exalté after writing. Even if it’s only tosh, the process bolsters me. I thought I was too old to be rejuvenated.’ Conscious of Roman’s silence, Philip asked him if he felt similarly roused when he finished making something. ‘Dad, we’re talking about cabinets, not manifestos. I’m just pleased if they fit,’ Roman said, heaping more pork on his plate. He ate like a horse and had the waist of a model. The following night Philip asked me about Candy. He hadn’t mentioned her before; didn’t seem interested. I hadn’t pushed it, knowing he’d ask about her eventually. He wanted to know about Salome. He hoped the role wasn’t too taxing for Candy. ‘Stella tells me it’s not a particularly big voice. I trust she’s not pushing it, especially with Wagner to come later this year.’ He asked about Digby Danton’s production, as if I was an authority. Was it decadent enough? ‘Mahler couldn’t get it past the Viennese censors a hundred years ago. I wonder if Mr Danton will do justice to that psychopathic music.’ 144

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‘Beats me,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps you should ask Roman. He’s been spending enough time at the Opera.’ At this the greedy boy averted his eyes and said he had no idea. It was only when Philip mentioned Candy’s shift from jazz to opera that he became more engaged. He said he wasn’t aware Philip had known Candy before she sang at their birthday party. I was surprised by this. The vapid boy was incuriosity itself. If he had ever been told about my stint in Canberra working for Philip he had forgotten. Surely Ursula Sait had gossiped about Babs and me at some stage. With the snaking logic of indiscretions, this would normally have led to talk of my small role in Philip’s first electoral triumph. (One day, of course, I would help him to put two and two together, but not then, not yet. Such revelations lay in the future. I may have been wary of the beautiful blur, but I didn’t take him seriously then. Another mistake.) Then Philip announced that he hoped to attend the opening night of Salome — ‘That’s if my publisher will let me’. I said I’d consider it if he was a good boy. ‘I hope so. I want to see how the Melbourne burghers cope with the sight of Herod slobbering over his stepdaughter.’ Then he turned to Roman. ‘Why don’t you come with me? Your mother will be off with Hal and the sponsors. It’s years since I’ve taken you to the opera.’ ‘I’d love to,’ Roman said, colouring. ‘But I’ve already been offered a ticket. A publicist there asked me.’ ‘Beware publicists,’ Philip sighed, covering Roman’s massive paw with his bony hand, on which a pulse between the right thumb and forefinger throbbed visibly, like a countdown. ‘Well, I shall just have to ask my editor to go with me.’ ‘I’m at your service,’ I said, dipping my head. ‘Will your young man be there? Roman has told me a great deal about your ward. I don’t believe I met Matthew at Hatfield. I long to see him in Godot later in the year. That’s 145

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another favourite. We love it, don’t we Roman? What a versatile ménage you preside over, Julia.’ Philip peered at Roman. ‘What’s he like, your actor friend?’ Roman sat there wide-eyed and lost for words. I let him burn. Finally he said, ‘He’s tall, rather quiet. He dresses well — at least, better than I do.’ ‘Everyone dresses better than you do, Roman.’ ‘Thanks, Dad.’ ‘You make your new friend sound like an aesthete. This is a departure for you. I’m intrigued.’ Then smiling, he said, ‘I’m sure Matthew must be a genius if he’s spent all his life with Julia.’ ‘Matthew came to me as a grown boy,’ I interjected. ‘A foundling,’ Philip clapped. ‘What a fascinating editor I have. She collects strays. That’s probably why she likes me.’ He had drunk more wine than he normally did, and was enjoying himself. ‘You must know Matthew’s father,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘Roger Light? Yes I do, vaguely. A constitutional academic, rock solid, if a bit earnest. He’s one of those dons who should have got away from Carlton but left his run too late. The mother I do know. She’s always crashing around in Stella’s kitchen doing things with quinces. Quite a voluble woman. No wonder Matthew fled to Valhalla. Boys can’t live on quince jam alone.’ ‘I had no idea you disliked Babs,’ I said. ‘I’m rather sorry I gave you a copy of her book.’ ‘A classic of the literature,’ Philip returned without missing a beat. ‘I’m aware of your fondness for the ebullient chef. They say she’s brought great lustre to Concord. I just hope you’ll be as loving to me if I fail to sell. How can a superannuated politician hope to compete with Babs’ cassoulet?’ At this Philip glanced at the watch hanging around 146

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his wisp of a wrist like one of Stella Anthem’s gold trappings. ‘Time to go. Can I leave you two to make the necessary arrangements for Salome? Let’s all go out to lunch the following day. Roman, can you book a table somewhere suitably biblical?’ ‘I’ll try,’ Roman said, helping his grandfather on with his jacket, ‘but you know I’m a pitiful host.’ ‘Nonsense. You’re Stella Anthem’s son, and she was already organising galas in her teens. You might even persuade Salome to join us. She’ll need a good square meal after being crushed to death. And don’t forget, I want to meet your new friend — Julia’s stray. Now come along, children. It’s well past my bedtime.’ I learned even more about Roman Anthem on my return to Melbourne. Babs invited me to lunch at Chiaroscuro, the creepily lit bistro in which she had just acquired an interest. Going to restaurants with Babs had become an event. Wearing a small fortune in Issey Miyake and new black pearls, she made an entrance worthy of Callas. Heads turned, especially when she greeted me with one of her wet open kisses. One shy matron asked Babs to sign her copy of Babs’ Feast. While Babs defaced the book with a flourish, I ordered grilled, unadulterated fish from a nervous waiter. ‘Who needs lunch, for heaven’s sake? And why does everything have to be so decorative? Remember those endless photographic shoots when we were working on Babs’ Feast. They went on longer than Digby Danton’s Ring. It was like watching open-heart surgery.’ ‘Well, you’re in a foul mood,’ Babs chipped, doing sacramental things with her Miyake wrap. ‘Sorry, I’ve had a torrid fortnight,’ I said, softening. ‘Oh sure, holidaying in one of the country’s great houses 147

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with the most charming man alive.’ ‘Philip and I were busy. You try revising three hundred thousand words with an invalid.’ ‘Who else was there?’ Babs asked, peering into the gloom, nodding at patrons. ‘Roman and the problem Payne child. I’m afraid your niece wasn’t invited.’ ‘Tell me about it,’ Babs exclaimed, wielding a wine list stouter than Brewer’s Dictionary. ‘Shall we start with a bottle of fizz?’ We also began with the usual recapitulation of her sales figures. Babs adores the sound of six figures. When I handed over her latest royalties cheque she went quite pink and ordered a bottle of Krug. Then she told me about Ursula’s recent histrionics. Usually I wasn’t interested in Belladonna’s escapades, but after my week with Roman I was intrigued. Their relationship turned out to be more complicated than I’d thought. Things were strained already because Ursula couldn’t get her hands on the trust money. When Roman said he needed a break,Ursula became so upset she had to be sedated — ‘not for the first time’. Ursula accused Philip and Stella of trying to separate her from Roman, especially when he said he intended to spend more time with his grandfather in coming months. I felt a pang of jealousy at Roman’s easy access to Philip. What did Stella’s boy have to offer? We raced through the champagne, so Babs asked the sommelier for a bottle of the 1990 Hill of Grace. She told me that Ursula had become so distraught she couldn’t be left on her own for long. Babs had to cancel a series of master classes and book signings, than which there is no greater sacrifice. Ursula had moved into the house of royalties. ‘There I was, sitting up in bed with Ursula watching ancient American sitcoms. I never want to see Patty Duke again. All 148

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I could do was replace the box of tissues and listen to her accusations.’ (Would she have done the same for Matthew, I wondered. Would she have forgone a master class for her only child? She hadn’t been so attentive when Chris Killen did his worst. But despite her negligence I forgave her, as I’d always done.) Even Babs was shocked by what she learned during one of her vigils. In spite of her flaky state, Ursula wanted to play a game. ‘Let’s cheer ourselves up,’ she’d said. (I could picture her sitting up in bed, plumping the pillows like something out of Little Women.) She proposed an inventory of all the men they had slept with (no mention of Sapphic strayings). Babs agreed, relieved that the conversation had moved away from the Anthems’ duplicity. ‘You go first,’ she said. For a while the game was amusing, especially when one of them named a partner whom the other had also bedded. For half an hour Babs kept up with Ursula. Then she began to falter in the mid-thirties, as most people do. Ursula’s carnal trance was impressive at first, then daunting, then positively demoralising. Ursula recalled legions of lovers in oppressive anatomical detail. Apparently she likes to draw men’s genitalia while they sleep the Samsonian sleep. Sometimes she even crochets pouches for them. Babs, initially sceptical, was silenced by the litany of journos, taxi drivers, roadies, lawyers, chiropractors and athletes. ‘Have you heard of a footballer called Stevie Nicholls?’ Babs asked. ‘Swastika on his butt: that sort of thing.’ I didn’t tell her I’d just signed up The Body and persuaded him to let me write his autobiography. Ursula also recalled trysts with rock bands, baseball teams and rowing eights. It took nearly two hours before Ursula reached National Anthem and the subsequent tag team of tangophiles. 149

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‘How many are we talking about?’ I asked, like a wedding organiser. ‘Hundreds, thousands. She even added Roger to the list without turning a hair.’ ‘The old fox. I thought Roger loathed Ursula.’ ‘He does now! But according to Ursula, it was all quite innocent. She took pity on him one night.’ ‘A niece’s touch.’ Babs was flummoxed by Ursula’s clinical manner, if not by her predatoriness. It was disconcerting to find out she has been outfucked so spectacularly by her baby niece. Ursula seemed to have gone straight from diapers to diaphragms. ‘I’m not complaining about her promiscuity,’ Babs insisted. ‘She can fuck who she likes — even Roger, for that matter. I can hardly accuse him of disloyalty, after what I did. What shocked me was Ursula’s blasé manner. You should have seen her ticking off her one-night stands between sips of green tea. It was like watching a hostess doing the placement before a dinner party.’ She paused for a moment, baffled. ‘It all seemed so joyless. Do you know who Ursula reminded me of?’ ‘Stella Anthem?’ ‘How did you know?’ Babs marvelled. ‘They’re both so . . . so acquisitive.’ ‘No wonder they loathe each other.’ ‘At least Stella doesn’t rush home and tell Hal Hutton about each new scalp,’ Babs qualified gnomically, darting a look at me. This was out of the ordinary. I pushed away my barely infiltrated fish and asked her what she was talking about. ‘Pillow talk, darling,’ she said, lighting a Davidoff. Pausing for effect, she gathered the black pearls beneath her cute, plump, pointed chin. ‘Shall we have some more Hill of Grace? I think we’re here for the long haul, don’t you?’ 150

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‘I want to know everything. Otherwise I’ll never let you have French folds again.’ ‘Bitch!’ It emerged that Ursula’s relationship with Roman Anthem was even weirder than I’d thought. Babs presumed they still slept together, but doubted that there was much rumpty-tumpty. She wasn’t sure how much there’d been in the first place. Apparently Ursula always arranged to meet her migraine cures in expensive hotels or at a girlfriend’s flat, to which she had a key. When she got back from her orgies she would sit up in bed with her lotions and camomile tea and tell Roman all about her adventures — blow by blow. It had been like that since they met, when Roman was nineteen and Ursula in her thirties. From the beginning Ursula had made it clear she would have affairs. She insisted they didn’t count romantically — or spiritually, as she put it. She must have realised Roman couldn’t keep up with her appetite. Roman, it seems, was obliging. Perhaps it suited him to get her out of the house. But at nineteen! I’d heard of this kind of queer pact before, but it always revolted me. Which was worse: Ursula’s callousness or Roman’s passivity? Imagine listening to her lull herself to sleep with her lewd monologues. (Still, as Billie Holiday said, any kind of freakish feelings are better than no feelings at all.) When Babs finished her account, we slumped back on our chairs, slightly flushed. After an oozy Everest of Fleur de Marquis and quince paste, Babs revived and speculated about the relationship. She thought Roman’s decision to visit Philip alone was a watershed. ‘He won’t be round for long,’ I predicted. ‘Give Roman a break. He’s not devoid of character. Just because he wasn’t a Rhodes scholar or the youngest parliamentarian in history doesn’t mean you should write him off. 151

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He cared for Ursula once.’ ‘And now?’ ‘I’m not sure.’ ‘Surely he’ll do a runner.’ ‘That’ll be the end of my sequel if he does,’ Babs sighed. ‘Patty Duke here I come. But Roman will put up with it for the moment.’ ‘Why?’ Babs pondered this while lighting another cigarette. ‘He knows what will happen if he goes.’ ‘But he’s twenty-one. Young men don’t make sacrifices like that.’ ‘Roman’s different,’ Babs said, looking at me. ‘So are you.’ Despite everything — the long vinous afternoon, any residual embarrassment about her treatment of Matthew — her grey tender eyes were lucent. ‘You saved someone once.’ ‘That was different.’ ‘How?’ ‘Roman should be restless, ambitious. It’s in his genes?’ ‘And you?’ ‘I never expected much from life.’ Babs sat back, nostalgic. ‘You said something like that the first time we met. Do you remember that night? Roger brought you home after a seminar. When I asked if you saw yourself as an academic in the future you said you wouldn’t make forty. Then you told me you didn’t believe in happiness. You were nineteen, and you meant it. Why?’ ‘My brother had just died. I must have been low.’ ‘You’ve never talked about that time. We wouldn’t have known but for an article in the paper during the inquest.’ Babs, never sentimental for long, scrutinised her young staff as they reset the tables for the evening. ‘Roman’s a great stoic too,’ she said. ‘You have that in common.’ I thought of the quiet tousled downcast boy at Philip’s table. 152

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‘Well, don’t count on me when he vanishes,’ I joked. ‘I’m not going to sit by Ursula’s bed and be humiliated in the battle of the beaux.’ ‘Oh, that’s a long way off,’ Babs predicted. ‘Roman will do it gently. He’s preparing us all. Visiting his grandfather was the first step. Now he’s back at Satchell Street.’ ‘What will happen next?’ ‘Oh, they’ll resume their incongruous lives and slug it out. Ursula will sulk, there’ll be tears, and Roman will sit up with her all night.’ ‘How nauseating. Thank god I’m not married.’ ‘I can think of a dozen people who would marry you, darling. Surely it’s time you settled down, gave someone hell. How’s good old Roscoe — still enamoured?’ As I drove home later (down my wonted rat-run to avoid detection) I mused on our conversation. I wondered what lay behind Roman’s new friendship with Candy and Matthew. Should I really go to New York? Would they be safe without me? Once Salome was out of the way, Candy would have to start thinking about the Adelaide Ring Cycle. The last thing she needed was a tall distraction with Latin eyes and curls. Winding down the window to let out the smoke, I cursed Ursula Sait and willed her unhappy minder to stay away from the rest of us. Just like Lucio in Measure for Measure, ‘I am a kind of burr, I shall stick.’

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12

MATTHEW February 18 ~ And then it was a golden time — pure autumn. A typical March haze cloaked Valhalla. On the streets I’d begun haunting like a pilgrim, leaves gilded the cars and glittered above the intersections. Soothed by this languor I moved from theatre to Valhalla in a hopeful trance. My mood was ecstatic, if unearned. Had I stopped to reflect I would have known it couldn’t last, but I was drifting like clumsy leaves and I was no longer making sense. Roman, oblivious to the effect he was having on me, kept coming back to us. Back to Candy and myself, I mean — together or apart. He went away for a while, visited his grandfather on the coast, coinciding with Julia, but the day of his return marked a new chapter in our cautious comedy. Immediately after flying home, he called on us and stayed until late, not bothering to phone Ursula. And this became the new pattern. When those visits were over — ten minutes, an hour, half the night — I waited for him to return. Even waiting was a kind of ecstasy. I was an addict now. I studied Roman as 154

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though preparing for a new role. I was steeped in this solemn doting black-eyed boy, absorbed by him — a captive moon. I memorised his every mood, every feature, every gesture: the way he sat on a stool, legs apart, firm hands around his thighs; the slight tic in his right shoulder as he prepared to go back to her; the way his sensual fingers ran along his corded forearms. I indexed his idioms: the ‘rightios’ and ‘okey dokes’ and ‘hooley dooleys’. I learned to read his mood. I could tell when Ursula was being impossible and the atmosphere at Satchell Street poisonous. Roman didn’t have to tell me what it was like. I stopped asking about Ursula. Best not to think of Adonis with my cousin. Roman’s visits to Valhalla became more frequent. He lingered there like a refugee and said he could imagine living there. I didn’t know how to read these clues: the attentiveness, the glancing touches, the endless curiosity. Was he teasing me, or was he needful and unsure how to end his relationship with Ursula? He began doing odd jobs for us. One morning he arrived with a truckload of timber and made a start on the rickety balustrade. I kept this from Julia, who had earlier said, ‘I’d pour hot, cold and tepid water on that idea,’ when I sounded her out about offering him work. Julia was away so often I thought she’d never know. Roman liked to present me with things. One day it was a book wheel for my Shakespeares. When Roman wasn’t hammering or tinkering he seemed to want to drift. I would find him in the garden, barely stirring on Julia’s old hammock. One day he invited me to join him. Like a dancer he lifted me up by the waist. I felt his nonchalant strength flow through me and lay there self-consciously while he rocked the hammock, his arm around me, staring at the sky. And that’s when, god help me, I must have convinced myself that one day we would be together. 155

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Roman grew fond of our hexagonal windowless library. He liked to stretch out on his back, knees raised, with one of Julia’s first editions cupped in one hand. Then he watched me flounder away in the kitchen, amused by my creations, strumming his fingers on the wood like a drummer, listening to some inner music. (‘Give me an onion,’ he would say. ‘I’m good at dicing things.’) Only when Julia appeared did he tighten up in the old way. I noticed there was a kind of truce between them. Julia remained suspicious of him, but less censorious. If she damned him, she kept it to herself. She was away much of the time, flitting between Canberra and the coast, preoccupied with The Anthem Memoirs and Philip Anthem’s health. When we saw her — if we saw her — it was usually around midnight. Roman always straightened up when he heard the key in the front door. He seemed used to the politics and portents of footsteps in a hallway. He’d listen to Julia’s colourful summaries of the day’s events before saying goodnight and disappearing on his motorbike. Barely conscious of Julia, I’d sit there listening to the last splutter as Roman accelerated away. When Roman was caught up elsewhere, he would ring and explain. He always wanted to know what I was doing. Waiting, I wanted to say, but didn’t. When he came straight from his workshop, the veins on the back of his hands were swollen from manual labour. His hands were like moral lessons, the legends of his simplicity and goodness, absent in the rest of us. Even in repose, his hands and wrists were massive and knotted. I tried not to look at them too often, remembering what had come of my addiction to Chris Killen’s hands. One evening, after one of Roman’s visits, Candy asked me — apropos of nothing — if I could imagine loving someone with weak hands. I began to dream of those hands, what they did to her (Ursula, I mean). One night 156

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I dreamt he was inside me, mastering me, and woke full of foreboding, knowing I must stop this, put an end to it. But could not. Roman’s wardrobe wasn’t stylish. He wore frayed jeans or overalls, plaid shirts that hung over his belt, even his old spotty Swanton jumper. Apart from an earring (his sole ring), he was the least fashion-conscious person I’d ever met. He made actors — scungiest of dressers offstage — look like fops. Roman told me about his mother’s third wedding. He was fourteen when Stella married Hal Hutton. The leadup was hugely public and dragged on like a royal wedding. Hutton’s television stations and magazines covered it with sycophantic zeal. On the big day, Stella made Roman wear an Armani suit. I could remember the saturation coverage and the bride’s sheath-like gown (flown in from Milan), but not her lanky, besuited son. Roman told me how he grew his hair long and hid behind it. His distaste for fashion must have annoyed Stella, annually dubbed the most elegant woman in the country. Philip Anthem, who gave her away (‘Again!’ shrieked a rival newspaper), was likewise famous for his style. I was struck by Roman’s indifference to publicity and imagery. Was he aware of the effect he had on other people, how we all wavered in his presence, brooded when he was gone? Roman’s manner at first was taciturn, his silence unsettling. I found myself rabbiting on like a shopkeeper euphoric at finally attracting a customer. All my life I’ve filled in conversational voids. I always had the sense with Babs that if I didn’t avert them the silences would engulf us and she would get up from the table and find something better to do. When I went to live at Valhalla, I was amazed at my good fortune, but apprehensive. How could I possibly interest 157

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someone like Julia? The best way to hide my dullness was to draw people out. Chris Killen used to mock me because of my incessant questions. (‘What is this, the Larry King Show?’) But there was no risk, during this verbal dance, that they would die of boredom. After a while Roman became more chatty and talked about his work. Design clearly fascinated him, and I asked him once why he hadn’t become an architect. (‘Not bright enough,’ he replied nonchalantly.) Before turning to cabinet-making he’d tried his hand at clocks, furniture and lithography. Roman spoke fondly of Patmos, where the Anthems had lived for a time. Roman, five or six on his return to Australia, came back fluent in Greek, which he still used at the market and when he read Cavafy, his only poet. Listening to him, I doubted that he had similar talks with Ursula. I felt sure it was rare for him to confide in other people, and flattered myself that I had passed some sort of test. I needed to believe our friendship was unique. Roman extolled Italy’s treasures, reminiscing about ‘our holiday’ in Tuscany and playfully reminding me about my faux pas. At the time I hadn’t been aware of its effect on him. If anything, he had struck me as bored, anxious to leave. He seemed impatient with the group’s nightly frivolity, Babs’s smorgasbords, the cultural crusades in the mini-bus. One morning I came across him in the vineyard behind our villa. I had gone out early to savour an extraordinary fog that had blanketed the place. Trudging along, I noticed something in the white distance. At first I thought it was one of the cypresses that dot those clean Piero roads, but then I realised it was Roman. Something about that morning — windless, unreal, domed in fog — disconcerted me, as did his face when I reached him. He was standing on a precipice by the side of a road. Despite his massive overcoat, he was shivering. I had no idea what to say. Roman had 158

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never seemed so isolated, so unapproachable. I mumbled something and hurried past. We didn’t speak again. He and Ursula left that afternoon. Yet within a few months here we were spending our afternoons together, picking at baklava. One day Roman showed me his photographs of Siena, sparing me the ones of Ursula en pointe in the Campo. He was especially pleased with a shot of Candy and me in front of the Palazzo Pubblico. I couldn’t recall it being taken — just as I still couldn’t picture him at San Galgano. Roman told me about his grandfather’s house on the coast, which I’d seen photographs of in magazines. Philip Anthem had built it in the sixties before going into politics. He had often retreated there while he was prime minister, sometimes taking his infant grandson with him. Roman said he wanted to show it to me one day. He said he planned to spend more time there. Again, there was no mention of Ursula. Then Roman — normally content to stay at Valhalla — surprised me by suggesting an outing. He had some work to do for a client on the peninsula. He also thought I should get out more. ‘You’re too pale,’ he said. ‘Let me introduce you to sunlight.’ I agreed, of course, and left a message on the kitchen table. But I didn’t tell Julia I was heading off on Roman’s motorbike. The long journey took us down a surging freeway, which Roman took fast and skilfully. As we negotiated corners I put my arms around his old pungent leather jacket, feeling his long narrow waist, the marvel of his ribs. I liked his thinness, his hardness. Speeding from the city, the traffic, the signage, I was aware only of fragments of birdsong and a blur of gum trees. My sudden exit with this decisive if enigmatic man left me feeling weightless, irresponsible. I had a strange sensation of falling away from myself. When Roman relaxed the throttle it felt like an omen, a defeat. ‘Faster,’ I urged him, and Roman took the next bend with 159

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a kind of breeziness, drifting onto the other side of the road, while never fully succumbing to my deeper chanciness. ‘Daredevil,’ he screamed over his shoulder, tapping my left hand with his glove. We arrived, blinking and exhilarated. Roman inhaled some Ventolin surreptitiously. I asked him if he suffered from asthma, but he didn’t want to talk about it. After Roman’s repair work was done, we drove down a maze of unmade roads, pleased to be lost in our wake of dust. We found an orchard and wandered up and down the long rows. Roman reached for an apple and we shared it, then we lay on the warm grass between the trees, talking. Our conversation was aimless and covered everything from theatre to carpentry. It was as if we were making up for lost time. There was so much to say. I hadn’t been so open with a man since Chris Killen, and Roman might have been making up for lost time too. After several hours of this he sat up abruptly, brushing off twigs. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, looking away. ‘I have to take Ursula to her tango class. Her dance partner’s torn his Achilles tendon. He’ll be out of action for six weeks. I’m all that’s available.’ When I commiserated with him he said I should go in his place. ‘It’s high time you got to know your cousin properly.’ Whenever he teased me his eyelids blinked slowly, all lash. ‘I’m not Ursula’s speed.’ ‘That’s what they all say,’ Roman wheezed, standing up. As we rode back to the city, I could feel the pull of Roman’s resentment through the leather. When he dropped me at Valhalla we exchanged a few words, which fell like dead weights. As Roman pulled away I realised I still had his spare helmet. I clutched it like a relic, the skull of our intimacy. * I knew Roman was also seeing Candy. She was his other special friend. It had a beautiful logic of its own — the three of 160

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us. Roman rarely mentioned Candy, but she told me everything, or so I thought. At first they met at the Opera — never at Satchell Street. Roman, who was helping out next door with another production, used to drop in during rehearsals for Salome. These visits were hugely popular in Publicity. Juliet Cardinal, like half the company, had a crush on Roman. During the run of Nabuccos she took him to a party of choristers: thirty Hebrews in a flat. Roman, no gossip, never told us what happened, but Candy was sure Jules had tried — and failed — to get him into bed. Candy was aware that cast members were beginning to speculate about Roman’s visits. Old cynics in the chorus who would have been unmoved by the trials of Cio-Cio-San began making faun-like motions when Roman arrived, captivated by his long legs, his proud name, his Botticelli curls. Candy was still paranoid about Tony Knott. She had good reason to be worried. I knew he had hit her once during their affair. (‘Time to get out the green plastic bags,’ Julia had ordered.) A stirrer must have said something to Tony, for his manner had soured. Before, he’d kept his distance, albeit sulkily; now he was openly irascible. During one break he accosted Candy in the cafeteria and bumped her with his tray. Then he slept with Salome’s understudy, just to spite her. Roman seemed happier meeting on neutral territory, Candy said. The weather was still fine, so they often went for walks by the river. Candy needed the exercise, and Roman was amused by the gasping joggers, the fanatical oarsmen. They’d wander through the Botanic, pausing in the same rockeries and rotundas where Candy had taken lanky boys fifteen years before to smoke joints and learn how to kiss. Like me, Candy never mentioned Roman to Julia. She knew her mother distrusted Roman’s motives and resented his ancestry. Candy had never before thought Julia capable 161

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of jealousy, but she couldn’t think of any other reason for her animus towards Philip Anthem’s grandson. Candy mildly resented the need for subterfuge. Sometimes, waiting for Roman outside the Opera, she wanted to remind her colleagues that the relationship was platonic. She objected to the popular fantasy that she fell in love as lightly as Mimì. Another affair was the last thing she needed after two years with Tony Knott. She was too busy practising her veil whirling, she said. I never joined Roman and Candy by the river. That was their domain. I was pleased for Candy, pleased for them both. We had it in common, our Indian summer friendship, and for once Julia wasn’t the common denominator. Now and then I met them at a café in Flinders Lane, the sort of dive that Juliet Cardinal wouldn’t have dignified with a second look. Roman knew it well. Suspicious of modernity, he liked places that never changed. The décor at L’Express was strictly fifties. We usually had it to ourselves, except for a pair of stooped Parisians who darted about and fussed over Roman, whom they plainly adored. He knew all about Georges and Violette. They had run the café since emigrating during the Algerian crisis. Their customers were few but affectionate. Roman’s manner towards the midgets was fond, almost filial. I liked his manners, his solicitous way with people. Someone had taught him well. Stella? His grandfather? Or perhaps his manners were innate. One evening when I joined them at L’Express, Ursula was sitting between Roman and Candy. I hadn’t seen Ursula since the party at Hatfield and it was the only time all four of us met at L’Express. Ursula flashed a giaconda smile at the bewildered owners who were trying to work out where she fitted in. Then she shocked Georges by ordering decaffeinated coffee, sending him back to his beloved espresso machine a shaken man. Candy, at her most voluble, peppered 162

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Ursula with questions about her dancing, her new studies, her hats. Ursula, naturally uninquisitive, didn’t reciprocate. That Candy was about to make her début in Strauss’s masterpiece was of no interest to my cousin, who sat there blithely, playing with Roman’s curls. I had never seen Roman so quiet — at least not since his first visit to Valhalla two years before. Irritated by her chatter, her caresses, he shredded a napkin, never looking up. He had just been to a dancing class, since Ursula’s partner was still on crutches, and clearly hadn’t realised she’d insist on joining us. Soon after I turned up, Ursula dragged him away to a Spanish club. The three of us met up again at L’Express later that week. It was the eve of the opening night of Salome. Everyone was chatty and excited. Roman seemed more nervous than Candy. ‘No more cigarettes,’ he warned her. ‘Yes, Dad.’ ‘And don’t sleep in tomorrow?’ ‘Not a chance. Digby will be on the phone early.’ Roman shivered at the thought of being woken by Digby Danton. We discussed the seating arrangements. I was to be upstairs with Philip Anthem. Julia, by some aberration, was in the stalls next to Roman. I couldn’t imagine Julia and Roman having anything to say to each other. Roman wanted to know what Candy planned to do when Salome was over. ‘Sleep, I hope. And recover my decorum. Salome’s not good for a girl’s reputation.’ ‘Stella tells me she’s whisking you off to the States.’ ‘She wants to introduce me to some people in New York,’ Candy said, waving a hand. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ ‘Don’t ask me for advice about your career,’ Roman said. ‘Look at mine.’ 163

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‘What do you mean? You’re doing interesting things. You . . . make things,’ Candy said, floundering a little. ‘Unlike us, you mean — always making scenes,’ I said. ‘Exactly. Roman’s the constructive one.’ ‘What romantics you are. I’m the under-achiever in the family. They say so in the newspapers. Apparently I should be running one of Hal’s companies by now,’ Roman said, leaning over the table. Then he turned to Candy and changed the subject. ‘I can just see you in Manhattan. Stella and Hal have an amazing apartment, I’m told.’ ‘Haven’t you been there?’ Candy asked. Roman laughed in his world-weary way. ‘You’ll probably stay there forever.’ ‘And leave all this?’ Candy laughed, glancing around the café and distending her tapered fingers. ‘When’s Julia going, by the way?’ Roman asked. ‘Going where?’ Candy and I duetted in surprise. ‘New York. Haven’t you heard? I thought you three told each other everything.’ Roman could be dry at times, especially when relations at Satchell Street were strained. ‘Will Matthew abandon me too?’ Roman asked, staring at me. ‘Where on earth would I go?’ ‘Oh yes, you’ll desert me on Hal’s big jet.’ ‘Who told you Julia’s going away?’ Candy reverted. ‘Philip of course. Philip knows everything. He wasn’t very happy when Julia told him she’s heading off to America.’ ‘America — the cat! How long will she be gone?’ ‘A week — a month. She’s not sure.’ Roman glanced at me again. ‘I’m surprised Julia trusts you two on your own for that long.’ ‘What do you think we’ll get up to in her absence?’ Candy asked, amused by our conversation and delighted not to have to think about tomorrow night. ‘I have no idea what the gods get up to at Valhalla,’ Roman 164

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quipped before saying I should take Candy home. Normally he never wanted those nights to end — dreading the return to Satchell Street — but he knew Candy should go home and rest her throat. An early night was the last thing Candy wanted. She was far too wound up to sleep. ‘Let’s go and see a movie instead. Didn’t you say something about a late session at the Capitol? Who did you say the director was?’ ‘Tarkovsky,’ Roman helped her. ‘It’s called Nostalgia. You’ll both recognise the church. San Galgano.’ ‘Divine,’ Candy rhapsodised, becoming more theatrical as the big day approached. ‘I remember it well. We had it to ourselves. Do you remember, Baby?’ ‘Matthew remembers nothing,’ Roman said coolly. ‘This time we won’t let you out of our sight,’ Candy crooned. ‘We almost lost you last time.’ So the three of us set off to the Capitol, near the Town Hall. Our being together like that felt odd, as if one of us should have peeled off. I knew I should have made an excuse and gone home, but I couldn’t do it. Inside, Roman sat between us, at Candy’s suggestion. On cue the grand old thousand-globed Art Deco ceiling lit up, or the bits of it that still worked. Candy giggled as she recalled stoned visits in her youth with other boys. A Russian cinéaste in the next row turned around and hissed at her. Then the film began, out of focus until Roman whistled and attracted someone’s attention. It was ten years since I’d seen it last. That was with Chris Killen — another midnight session at the Capitol. Candy, snuggling up like a child, gasped at the auto-da-fé in Rome. Then she began to shiver. It was chilly in the cinema and she was anxious about the opera. Despite her protests Roman removed his leather jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, making an inaudible joke. He kept his right arm there for a moment, tapping her protectively. 165

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After what seemed like hours it was time for Erland Josephson’s profound and profoundly long candle-holding scene in San Galgano. It was as if this stubborn mystic procession was being staged just for us. Roman moved closer to me and I listened to his adenoidal breathing. Finally I turned to him. He was looking at me, his gaze steady and calm. He had understood. He placed his arm around my shoulder and turned back to the sepiaed film. Nothing was said. I studied his full lips, his handsome brow, his beautiful profile. Then I felt a wave of something I had never experienced before (no, not even with CK) — exquisite, chemical, unqualified love. I leaned against Roman and willed the elegiac scene to go on forever. I loathed the thought of being away from him even for a day — however mad it began to feel being with him like that.

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13

JULIA February 22 ~ How to describe Prentice of the Zone? Let me count the ways. He is vain, nosey, boorish, insensitive, bullish, uncouth, garrulous, over-cologned, loose-tongued, aggressive, gluttonous, rambunctious, nicotine-stained, hirsute, fashionably fascistic and lamentably monolingual. He is the type who forgets to wipe the shaving cream from his sprouting ears and who unbuttons his shirt to impress people. He is as ambitious as Stella Anthem, as ruthless as Roscoe Hunt. His idea of a personal interview is to bug someone. He earns a ludicrous amount of money for someone who traffics in smut and innuendo and who is incapable of forming sentences with more than six words. Bile is his medium, cynicism his measure of humanity. He turns on everyone in turn, for he can’t afford to relent. I’ll be next. I knew that when I met him at Hatfield. Driving him back to the city that night, abducting him to the Cruise, bedding him briskly, I knew he would betray me in the end. It gave me pause and it protects me still, even when I consort with him, as I often do. 167

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Prentice wants to be youngest editor in the Zone’s long sorry compromised history. One day he will be, and we will all suffer his primitive politics. He will go far before he is brought down by Hal Hutton. He will sponsor grand finals and Commonwealth Games and yet more bloody Monet exhibitions. He will make and unmake premiers while noisily defending democracy. He will advocate war and flay the innocent. He believes the book is finished. As you can see, we’re getting on famously. Now that I’m unsure of Prentice’s game, things have been much more zesty. Ever since our lunch with Russell Lacey, the buck and I have been quite reconciled. We met outside University House that day and chainsmoke madly, avoiding the sherry and anal talk and liberated silver. Neither of us was looking forward to the formalities. First there was a feudal procession to a taped anthem, then the Chancellor conferred the rarest of honorary doctorates on Justice Lacey. Roman’s father was in his element. Protocol is clearly his middle name. Anyone looks significant in slow motion and a gown. Lacey’s speech was in Latin, which entertained some of us but startled the horses. I took it down in shorthand for Prentice. Then we lunched on tinned tongue and vague veal. I was seated next to Prentice. Lacey sat opposite, spectacularly frocked. He smiled at us as if about to pass judgment. To my knowledge, Prentice hasn’t got to Lacey yet, though he has doubtless tried. I persuaded him, after the congealed crème caramel, not to lean over and ask Lacey for a comment about his missing son. (‘Not quite the right moment, pet.’) Sighing, Prentice desisted, scowling at the assembled dons who had all turned their chairs slightly to face Lacey and the Chancellor. ‘What’s going on between you and the professor?’ 168

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Prentice hissed out of the corner of his mouth, glancing at Kelvin Pope. ‘I hear you’re always lunching with him.’ ‘Are you having me followed?’ ‘I have my spies,’ Prentice sniffed, pinching my bread roll. ‘I can’t imagine what you see in the old Kelvinator.’ ‘I happen to publish Professor Pope’s crime fiction.’ ‘And I thought you were meant to be a quality publisher. How do you go from The Anthem Memoirs to third-rate Chandler?’ ‘It’s a rounded list,’ I said before turning to my neighbour — a bad move. A furrowed criminologist, he was keen to find a publisher for his study of incarceration rates in Canada before the war. Since then, I’ve seen much of Prentice. He rings me several times a day, looking for new stories, telephone numbers — ‘the dirt’. He says I have the best address book in town — and I do. After work he takes me out for cocktails, my reward. Nowadays we frequent the Kitten Club, the Cruise having been shut down because of what they once called immorality. There’s a long mirror behind the bar, so Prentice feels at home. We sit there admiring the dancers’ slender waists and mercenary breasts. Sometimes we buy them drinks and they tell us about their studies in Kelvin Pope’s faculty. They dream of becoming partners in big law firms. I was like that once myself, before I realised what you have to do to get ahead. Prentice still wants to soliloquise about the rotten state of his marriage. He longs to abandon Katelyn or Katrine (it’s something like that), but he can’t help thinking about the mortgage and the consolidated child. He accuses his wife of trapping him. I suspect he dreams of someone leggier and lovelier, someone who will give him a push. Journalists, I’m discovering, are moodier than tenors. I hoped that Prentice had forgotten about his article on 169

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me, but no such luck, so I decided to cooperate with him. For a while this seemed to work. He interviewed me several times, dined at Valhalla, sat in on a publishing meeting at Concord, and took Elyot Waters out for coffee to find out what the dragon lady was really like. I even showed him my Anthem files, though not a certain scrapbook begun when I was seventeen. This publicity won’t hurt the Anthem Memoirs paperback, due out in June. I even agreed to be photographed for the profile, as long as the photographer didn’t expect me to loll around in a spa. Nor did I neglect my living authors. I’ve introduced Prentice to Stevie Nicholls. The Body invited him into ‘the rooms’ and offered to pump iron in a jockstrap. Prentice has almost stopped asking me about Candy’s father, as if resigned to the fact that I will never blab. ‘Don’t you want to open up?’ he said one last time, after the umpteenth stinger. ‘Why would I do a stupid thing like that?’ ‘Everyone else does.’ He thought for a moment, glancing at the mirror, his co-conspirator. ‘Besides, it might be good for you.’ ‘Cathartic, you mean? Sweetie, I’ve kept my own counsel for thirty years. I don’t see why I should change now just to give you a headline.’ ‘So it’s headline material?’ ‘It’s none of your business.’ ‘Surely you owe it to Candy? Imagine the publicity.’ ‘Exactly.’ ‘What am I going to say then?’ he moped, wearying of the chase. ‘Put it down to parthenogenesis,’ I suggested. ‘Zone readers don’t know what that means.’ And that, so I thought, was that. Yesterday, Prentice’s mood had altered. This time he was 170

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his old cocksure self. I had rung him to say that Candy was due back in the evening. I wanted him to write an article about the Berlin Traviata. I had shown him all the clippings and raved on about the record number of curtain calls. They like records at the Zone. Prentice seemed keen, but thought it might be too soon after the big profile last November. He claimed he’s only allowed to do one opera story every five years. We arranged to meet at the Kitten Club before I picked up Candy. After ordering two Sidecars, Prentice went off on one of his tangents. ‘What’s all this about husbands?’ ‘Husbands?’ I marvelled. ‘I hear you’ve been married.’ ‘Have you been trolling around again?’ ‘Let’s just say it’s been a productive day.’ ‘What barren lives you people lead.’ ‘So you’ve been married — to an African?’ ‘A Zimbabwean.’ ‘A white Zimbabwean?’ ‘Black,’ I said, reading his mind. ‘We were at law school together. I did it to help him out with the authorities.’ ‘That’s your line, isn’t it — rescuing people.’ I ignored this. ‘How did you find out? We didn’t tell anyone. Even my parents don’t know.’ ‘How old was Candy when you married?’ Prentice went on. ‘About one. She was the flower girl. There was no one else . . .’ Then I remembered. Roger and Babs Light (newly pregnant with Matthew) were our witnesses. One of them must have told Prentice. Not Babs, surely. But I could imagine Roger falling into one of Prentice’s traps. Fond though I was of Roger, I knew he was gormless. ‘What happened to the African?’ ‘We divorced when he got his degree. That was the deal. He’s a judge now in South Africa. I published his book on family law.’ 171

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‘How cosy.’ But Prentice wasn’t done yet. ‘What about the other one — the Englishman. Son of a duke, wasn’t he?’ ‘Dream on.’ ‘Well, some kind of aristo.’ ‘His uncle was a viscount, that’s all. No royalty, no dukes. Sorry.’ ‘They say he’s why you came back to Australia.’ ‘Do they? You need some new sources. Life’s not that dramatic.’ I reached over and took one of his cigarettes. ‘All right, I confess. I did get married while I was in England. His name was Stephen. He was an editor at Concord. That’s how I got into publishing. It didn’t last long.’ ‘What went wrong?’ ‘Let’s just say Stephen’s list went off in different directions.’ Prentice got it, bless him. ‘He liked boys?’ ‘Don’t we all.’ ‘And that’s it? No more husbands?’ How ingenuous of him, I thought to myself. Prentice was struggling, and he expected me to do his research for him. At least he didn’t know about Ravi or Martin Valentine or the other fiancés. Nor about Marcus Wenzel, I gathered. If he knew about that drama he would have quizzed me, for he was in that sort of mood. Poor Marcus: it was all rather sticky in the end. I was glad not to have to relive that one. ‘You’ve had a fruitful day,’ I said. ‘Quite juicy, really,’ Prentice agreed, studying his gnawed nails. ‘I had lunch with another of your old boyfriends — good old Roger Light. He took me to his club.’ About to light a cigarette, Prentice looked at me pointedly, holding Philip’s Dunhill lighter away from his face. ‘Why don’t you join a club? Perhaps they’d make an exception and have you at the Savage.’ ‘I’m not the clubby type. How is Roger?’ ‘Thin and scrutable as club soup,’ Prentice intoned, 172

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storing the phrase for future use. He kept a ratty little notebook in his jacket and was forever jotting down his bons mots. ‘I wanted to ask him a few questions about Matthew.’ ‘Why Matthew?’ It was the first time Prentice had mentioned him in weeks. He had stopped vetting me about Matthew — or Roman. This suited me fine. I never wanted to hear Roman’s name again, and the subject of Matthew was too raw. ‘Come on!’ he said, inhaling so deeply that nothing came out. ‘Matthew’s part of your story. You can’t suppress him too. It’s not a Stalinist profile.’ ‘I’m just curious why you went to see Roger. He played such a minor role in Matthew’s childhood.’ ‘He is the father.’ ‘But he and Babs split up soon after Matthew was born.’ ‘So he told me. I hadn’t realised the three of you were so close.’ ‘Roger was my tutor at university. That’s how I got to know them.’ ‘Did you always date your tutors? Did you always go out with them when their wives were pregnant?’ ‘Did Roger tell you that?’ I whispered, smiling. ‘And then some. He told me about a law school function when Babs was nine months pregnant.’ ‘Roger needed a companion,’ I explained. ‘Babs was too big for small talk.’ ‘According to Light, you kept him out until the wee small hours of the morning.’ ‘That wasn’t very gallant of him.’ ‘Apparently you took him to one of your subterranean haunts. He’d never seen men dancing like that before. You plied him with drinks and made him smoke all sorts of cigarettes. It was almost as if you wanted him to be in bad shape on the big day.’ ‘Did Roger really say that?’ 173

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‘Hardly,’ Prentice grinned. ‘Roger’s a gentleman, unlike Prentice of the Zone.’ I loved the way he talked about himself in the third person. ‘He has no recollection of the latter part of the evening. What did you put in his drink? All Roger remembers is waking up next morning with all his clothes neatly folded by the bed. You do look after them.’ ‘I’ve tucked you into bed once or twice,’ I reminded him. ‘What else does Roger remember about that day?’ ‘Very little,’ Prentice said. ‘I think he finds the whole episode rather embarrassing. He woke up to find Babs thrashing around on the bed. He had to get her to hospital despite having the mother of all hangovers. He stayed as long as he could, throwing up between contractions. Then you sent him home with a sedative. From that night on, you and Matthew’s mother were inseparable.’ ‘Babs needed help. I was there.’ Prentice signalled to one of the topless sophomores for two more Sidecars. ‘Who’s Chris Killen, by the way?’ he said, surveying the room for gangsters. He claimed the place was crawling with them. He was always seeing gangsters. Part of him envied them. I told him they were just union leaders. ‘Chris who?’ I stared. ‘Really, Prentice, I can’t keep up with you today.’ ‘That’s unlike you,’ he chimed, winking at me in the mirror. ‘Roger Light thought you might remember him.’ ‘There was a boy by that name at Matthew’s school. They were quite close for a time, even after they left Swanton.’ ‘According to Roger, it was more serious than that. He reckons Killen was Matthew’s great passion — before Roman.’ (So Roger knew about that too; they both did.) ‘What was Killen like?’ ‘What do you think? He was like all those bourgeois brats — a spoilt flaky charmer,’ I said, keen to nip this one in the bud. ‘And a venal one, I presume,’ Prentice interjected. 174

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I ignored this and went on: ‘Killen was a druggy, a real one — not like Matthew, who merely dabbled. Killen got in far too deep far too quickly. He had access to family money, so there was no trouble funding his habit. He soon became a junkie, with an addict’s weak and merciless tendencies. He had a huge influence on Matthew. Matthew was . . . suggestible. I hated to think of Killen dragging him down.’ ‘So you intervened?’ ‘I spoke to Matthew, if that’s what you mean.’ ‘Roger Light believes it was stronger than that. He’s not sure what you did, but he thinks you got rid of Chris Killen.’ ‘Got rid of him!’ I snorted. ‘You make me sound like Lucrezia Borgia. Life’s not like that. It’s messy and irregular, like a journalist’s prose.’ ‘So what do you think happened to Killen?’ ‘I guess he’s in rehab — if he’s still alive.’ ‘And what would you do if he came back into Matthew’s life?’ ‘I’d decapitate him.’ I had spoken too quickly and regretted it, though the Goths at the next table glanced at me approvingly. Prentice stared at me over his cocktail, not quite sure whether he should utter what he presently, gingerly did. ‘You seem to have a genius for making people disappear,’ he observed. I held his gaze and curbed my tongue and thought of all the implications of this remark. Prentice might be a brash boy, but he wasn’t obtuse. He was burrowing deeper now, with a tenacity that surprised me. I wasn’t used to such forensic skills in other people. Prentice believed — or was it just the glimmer of a premonition? — that he was closing in on a truth, or a sequence of vested truths and mistruths. Tempting though it was to lash out at him, now was hardly the right time. So we sat there smoking and exchanging 175

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quick suspicious but not disrespectful glances until it was time for Prentice (or Hal Hutton) to pick up yet another thumping tab and for me to head out to the airport. Candy’s plane was late. Slightly woozy after Prentice’s liquor and insinuations, I stood outside with the other hostages, doggedly smoking. I thought about Prentice’s accusations, his line about my supposedly punitive nature. Then I thought of Killen, that Icarus: all fire and promise and selfdestructive gifts. I hadn’t thought of him since the night I called on him, took certain steps. There’d been no need to; he posed no threat. He was just another chemical blip. Sometimes I marvel at this temerity of mine. All my life I’ve felt this capacity for vengeance. Even as a child growing up in an oh so cordial household I was an absolutist, a virgin virago. My heroines were Jeanne d’Arc, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Catherine the Great (hence Candy). I despised cruelty and egotism and stupidity — above all stupidity. Having failed my darling brother in ways I can’t go into, can’t bear to think about, I vowed to protect others I loved. No one would get away with the sorts of things they’d done to Matt. Forever en garde, I have peered into the hearts of those who would threaten Candy, the second Matthew, and I haven’t hesitated to act. Where did it come from, this anger? Not from Betty, certainly not from Errol. Mine was the mildest of dams, the meekest of sires. I have made up for it in spades. Listening to me years ago as I flayed one of my victims, Candy predicted that everyone would suffer the same fate, even Matthew and herself. ‘We’ll all disappoint you in the end,’ she said. Perhaps she’s right. George Herbert: ‘My thoughts are all a case of knives.’ Finally, Candy’s plane landed. She had flown home via the States, where she’d met with agents and impresarios. The 176

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audition in San Francisco had gone well. Her outfit was all Berlin: black leather pants, a buckled top, vertiginous boots to show off her height. Striding through the concourse, she made her old mum feel a fright. She was sleek, stylish, svelte, superb. She had confidence now. That wizard at the Staatsoper had taught her something about stardom. I wondered if there was a new man in Candy’s life. She had done something different to her hair, always a good sign. Even after a German winter, she glistened and glowed. It was hilarious watching the effect she had on other travellers. Stevie Nicholls was there too, returning from some romp in the tropics with a pack of team-mates, all in matching shorts and sunglasses, surrounded by television cameras. Spotting my towering companion, Stevie jogged over and asked to be introduced. I pushed him away and ushered Candy to the car. Back home, Candy wanted to hear all my news. She asked about Concord and the gang. She sighed when I told her to expect a call from Prentice. (‘Won’t his readers think it’s obsessive the way he bangs on about the Collises?’) All she seemed to want to do was take me on a long holiday. She has no definite commitments, apart from a second Salome in Sydney and a Cologne Valkyrie next year. She asked about my birthday plans. She thinks we should head north for my fiftieth, far from Valhalla. But that’s not until April, which seems a long way off. There was no mention of Matthew or Roman. Yawning like a baby, Candy staggered upstairs. I listened to her hum wearily as she tried to unpack. It reminded me of when she was a child, always waking up singing, and humming herself to sleep. Then she slept for twelve hours. I stayed awake all night, thinking. I wasn’t alone any more. I was persistently clawing them back. Around midnight the telephone rang. I knew it would be Matthew, but I was surprised 177

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that he had rung. He must have really needed to speak to Candy. They had stayed in touch while she was in Berlin. Would Matthew deign to speak to me, I wondered as I picked up the phone, thinking of the hundreds of calls he’d made in his youth: excited panting gushing calls, telling me everything, wanting to hear all my news. Now we stood there in our separate worlds, irreconcilable. Finally he spoke, sounding cool, measured, like an actor. I was the one who stammered and stalled. How old he seemed, how resolute, how cruel. Had I done this to Matthew? Had I taught him cynicism and self-reliance? Matthew asked me to pass on a message to Candy that he needed to speak to her. But he didn’t leave a number. I asked how he was. Fine, he said, but that was all. He wouldn’t accept any money. Nor was he ready to meet me. I poured myself a schooner of Talisker and inserted the video of Traviata I’d asked Candy to bring home, but there was no sound. Candy, who never likes watching or listening to herself, hadn’t checked the video in Berlin. So I lay on the sofa and watched Candy become Violetta: by turns the hostess, the coquette, the martyr, the consumptive, the bedridden human sacrifice. It was extraordinary without the music. I thought of Callas as Medea, filmed from the pit at La Scala, which Digby Danton often plays late at night, singing along in his falsetto. There was no sound with Callas either, only gesture and tempest and futility, all the puny grandeur of life. Candy was a tragedienne now. She was of that doomed and queenly company. I lay there transfixed as Candy soared and swooned during the bitter third act. As she lifted herself up from the carpet and responded to those ecstatic curtain calls — first surprised, then gracious, then, yes, almost majestic — I compared her with the Salome of a year ago, after another first night (excited, giggly, ordinary), and boggled at the transformation in my daughter. 178

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But then I had another thought. Perhaps Candy’s new sangfroid was a front. What if it was bravado? Why hadn’t she mentioned Roman? Was it more than she could bear to do? Didn’t she trust me, or herself? Who was to say she didn’t think about him every minute of the day, even as she loomed there like a goddess of the silent screen. Why did she want to get away from Valhalla? What would she and Matthew talk about when I wasn’t there but him — him — him — or the shared impoverishing lack of him? Even I’m not spared these Roman ghostings. Three months have passed since his disappearance, but still he won’t recede, not entirely. The newspapers are beginning to forget about him, and nothing has come of Felicity Martin’s tittle-tattle, but there are rumours, phantoms, silhouettes. One day in town I could have sworn I saw Roman waiting for a tram, staring at me, half-smiling, just as he did in the Campo: strangely knowing for someone so . . . incomplete. That night I went to the opera: Lulu it was . . . not a bad vehicle for Candy, now that I come to think of it: she has the figure and the top, if not the requisite vices. I want her to play temptresses and murderesses: none of these Violettish bleeders and relinquishers. Anyway, there I was in the stalls — tout seul, such is my lot while Rufus stays in New York. I became aware of the young man seated to my right. He was breathing with emotion or adenoids. I felt sure that if I turned to him I knew whose curls and profile I would find. But I did not — not for three hours of atonal mayhem — and when it was over we parted in perfect anonymity. It was like the opening night of Salome, when the fates seated us next to each other and we hardly spoke all night. What’s happening to me? Incredible to find myself doubting my own powers. Fancy letting a pup threaten my sanity. Molto coraggio, as Violetta would say, between gasps. 179

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14

MATTHEW February 22 ~ I rang Valhalla last night. Yes, I know it was mad. Julia was more shocked than I was. She sounded almost grateful, most unlike her. She offered me money (the old pacifier) and asked me round for a drink. Not yet, I thought, not yet. Candy duly rang this morning, jet-lagged. She’s coming here tonight for dinner. I’ll have to ask Ariel to hide his pet rat. Usually he wears it on his shoulder like a fanged epaulette. I don’t mind Harold — he’s cleaner than Pinter’s characters — but he does freak out some people. As for dinner — what is dinner? Must ask Babs. God knows what to serve in a dive without power or water. We could always go out. But not to L’Express? I can’t stand Georges and Violette’s mournful eyes. They miss Roman so. I asked Candy about Berlin, but she was bored by the subject after Julia’s grilling. Candy kept mentioning Salome — the opening night last year. Like me, all she does is live in the past. It lulls me too this morning as I lie in bed trying to remember Caliban’s ‘All the infections that the sun 180

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sucks up’ speech. The past is our refuge — because Roman was in it. ‘Where were you sitting?’ Candy asked. ‘In the circle next to Philip Anthem — I don’t know why. I’d never met the man before. He must have wondered who the hell I was.’ ‘Philip liked you,’ Candy breathed, always diplomatic. ‘He said so next day at lunch. That must have been his last opera. He didn’t make it to the Ring.’ Then she asked me where Julia was sitting, if not with Philip. ‘Downstairs, in the stalls.’ ‘That’s right. I saw them . . .’ There was a pause on the other end of the phone as if Candy was swallowing tea, or steeling herself. ‘It’s weird what you make out on stage. One moment I was lying on the floor waiting for Tony to be beheaded, just minding my own business, then I looked out at the audience. A freak of lighting caught all the opera glasses. Hundreds of outsized eyes flashed at me. It was terrifying. They could see everything — all my artifice and limitations. Then I made out Julia in the gloom and everything was all right. The lighting changed; all their eyes went out. I knew I could go on.’ ‘You hid it well,’ I said, recalling Salome’s vigil above the dungeon. But I was watching them, too — Julia and Roman. Indeed, I hate to think how much of the opera I spent watching them. They were seated in the middle of the stalls — quite a handsome couple: the stylish executive and her tall young date. Whoever seated them together had a sense of humour. But what did they talk about before the opera? If they spoke, that is. Despite the family connections (my sitting next to Roman’s grandfather; Errol and Betty Collis across the aisle, flown down by Julia), I had never felt so irrelevant. I could have 181

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walked out that night and gone away and no one would have noticed. I wish I had. Later — after Candy’s solo curtain and Tony Knott’s fury at her triumph — I hardly spoke to Roman. It was a chaotic scene, not helped by his grandfather’s unsteadiness on his feet and the warmth of the audience, which recognised Philip and applauded him on the way out. (‘How magnanimous of them,’ the old man chuckled, bowing his head from left to right. ‘Some of them would have had me horse-whipped during the Fracas.’) Then Roman joined us in the foyer, minus Julia. I had never seen him so euphoric. He had been deputed to lead his grandfather into the reception that Stella Anthem was hosting. Catching my eye, he smiled and shrugged his shoulders resignedly. I went backstage to congratulate Candy. She was still in costume: a sort of biblical cocktail dress. Digby Danton was just leaving, hugely relieved by the premiere. He kissed me warmly, mistaking me for a sponsor. When we were in the dressing room I hugged Candy and lifted her off the floor, feeling her panting ribs. How slight she seemed when the costumes came off. Then we pulled back and laughed at the absurdity of it all. ‘Five to go,’ she cackled. Tony Knott had stormed off, declaring that he would never perform with Candy again. The other singers had decamped to the reception (‘Herod’s never late for a beer,’ Salome remarked). Candy was in no such hurry. She dreaded the speeches, the formalities. And she knew they’d wait for her that night. Then, weirdly, Ursula entered the dressing room. Candy and I sat up like guilty children putting out cigarettes. Candy shot me a glance, imploring me not to desert her. Ursula, wearing one of her dancing frocks, wanted to know why we weren’t at the party. (‘You must be waiting for the reviews.’) She and her tango partner had decided to attend 182

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at the last minute. It was a short opera, after all. Roman had no idea she was there. ‘Where is he, by the way?’ Ursula asked, heaping her copious hair as if she was about to go on stage. ‘Never mind. I’ll surprise him.’ Then she wanted to know if Babs was there. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Everyone’s here for Candy.’ ‘Candy the diva,’ Ursula crooned, playing with Salome’s cosmetics. ‘I loved that article in Vogue. Do you know what I said to Roman? “That journo’s in love with Candy.” I made him read it right through, and we all know how difficult it is to get Roman to read anything.’ This was followed by one of Ursula’s bored pauses. ‘We’re so alike,’ she went on, fixing Candy with those wide blue unblinking eyes. ‘You and Roman?’ Candy groped. ‘As if,’ Ursula chortled. ‘I meant you and me. You have Julia, and I have to cope with Babs. I’ve always thought of Julia as a kind of bossy aunt. It can’t have been easy for you.’ Ursula, examining herself in Candy’s mirror, wasn’t finished yet. ‘Poor old Matthew,’ she went on pityingly. ‘You can’t have had an easy time either, being abandoned like that. We all felt so badly about the way Babs treated you.’ ‘Babs and I are fine, thank you.’ ‘More credit to you then.’ Restless now, Ursula prowled around the dressing room, playing with the cards on Candy’s dressing-table, reading the inscriptions. There was something delinquent about her mood. I was conscious of her smooth legs, her curvaceous figure, the spectacular bust. As a young girl, seven years my senior, she once ordered me to kiss her, pursing her lips like Marilyn Monroe. Practice time, she called it. Kissing cousins. ‘They’re getting on wonderfully, don’t you think?’ she said to Candy, picking up Salome’s deranged wig. ‘Matthew and Babs?’ Candy floundered. 183

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‘Roman and Matthew — Anthem and Light. You know they’re inseparable? I hope they’re leaving room for you, Candy.’ ‘I think it’s wonderful.’ ‘And Julia?’ Ursula laughed. ‘What does she think? How funny — Auntie Julia and Catherine.’ ‘All families are improbable, I guess,’ Salome quipped. ‘We’ve been a kind of one for sixteen years.’ ‘Roman’s devoted to Matthew,’ Ursula went on, unmoved by this tribute. ‘I think it was love at first sight.’ She paused, her Nordic features quite impassive. ‘Don’t you wonder what they talk about? They can’t rave on about absurdist theatre all night.’ ‘Perhaps they talk about us,’ Candy dared, winking at me. ‘If only I could believe that,’ Ursula replied. Then she was off again, defiantly. ‘Do you think Roman’s jealous of Ernesto?’ ‘Who?’ Candy said confusedly. ‘My tango partner. The pretty one.’ ‘They’re all pretty, Ursula,’ I reminded her, suddenly impatient. I wished she would go away and leave us to our reveries. ‘Why should Roman be jealous? He knows you need a partner. Unless of course he wants to partner you himself.’ ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she snorted. ‘A few weeks ago, when Ernesto was on crutches, I had to drag Roman to a class. It was like removing a wisdom tooth. He’s so restless these days — so stubborn. Has he said anything?’ Candy and I were silent for a moment. ‘We talk about other things,’ I said. ‘Roman and I seem to have run out of ideas,’ Ursula said flatly. ‘I’ll just have to try harder.’ Then, impulsively, Ursula announced that she had to rescue Ernesto. ‘We’re off to the Olé Bar. But I’ll be back soon to take Roman home.’ 184

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Brushing Candy’s cheek with her lips, she said, ‘I adore your wig. Do you keep it after the show? I’d love to borrow it.’ I hadn’t planned to attend the party, but now I felt obliged to warn Roman about Ursula. I waited while Candy changed, then followed her into the reception. Instantly there was loud applause. Candy flinched briefly, then put on her practised face and started shaking hands. It had begun — the apotheosis. I left her to it and headed for the bar. Stella Anthem had taken along Roman’s half-brother, the problem child. The tuxedoed sprite roamed around the ballroom disfiguring the ice fauna. Hal Hutton was there too. He spoke at length to Stella Anthem’s fellow board members. There was a rumour that he was trying to buy the Opera. He had skipped Salome and stayed in the Green Room watching English soccer on one of his television channels. The party was endless. Digby Danton, for once, didn’t hide the wine when the speeches were over. The opera had gone well; the mood was buoyant. The remaining performances had sold out, and there was already talk of another season in Sydney. Because of Digby’s largesse, the usual suspects stayed until two o’clock. Annie Pullman and her black-velveted husband did the Twist on the dance floor. Finally, Roman got back from the Windsor, where he had put his grandfather to bed. We didn’t have long for our têteà-tête. Stella Anthem was standing nearby, in a black sheath and significant diamonds, so Roman introduced me. ‘Mum, I’d you like you to meet my great friend Matthew Light.’ Stella tilted her almond-shaped face and presented her hand at an odd angle, like a Cecil Beaton model. ‘Now let me see, you’re Candy’s . . . brother.’ ‘Not quite. I live with her and Julia Collis.’ 185

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Stella Anthem stared at the news as if at a vulgar canapé. ‘How nice,’ she said. ‘Now if you’ll both excuse me, I’m going to separate the Pullmans before they fall over. I want to talk to Sid about sponsorships.’ ‘And that’s my mother,’ Roman sighed as Stella crossed the room and exchanged intricate kisses with the twisted Pullmans. Roman’s elation vanished when he heard about Ursula. ‘I had no idea she’d go backstage,’ he explained, grasping my wrist and starting to apologise. ‘Don’t,’ I said, feeling my pulse against his hand. We stood closer than we’d ever been before. I felt his breath on my neck. ‘What did Ursula want?’ Roman asked gloomily. I hated the way she stultified him. ‘You know very well what she wants,’ I whispered, avoiding his eyes. ‘She wants you . . . wants you back. She’s here, by the way.’ Ursula had just entered the room. ‘And what does she think she’s had all this time — a husk? Two long years.’ It was as close as Roman had come to outright dejection. ‘She doesn’t like your new independence. She thought she could rely on you.’ ‘You mean she’s taken me for granted and now she . . .’ Roman truncated it on seeing the angel of complacency, who was striding towards us. ‘And now she’s not so sure.’ I got it in before Ursula joined us. By this stage I felt implicated. I wanted to get away, free myself, breathe again. I wanted to go somewhere and hide — hide from all of them. Sometimes you wonder why you ever meet people, why you step into the garden or admit a handsome plausible dark-haired boy. It felt disastrous, like a beautiful curse. I could have ended it that night. It wasn’t too late. Had I slipped away, so much would have been different. Roman wouldn’t be missing; he’d still be 186

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living edgily in Satchell Street. I would have got on with my career, solitary but sane. Julia wouldn’t have felt obliged to act. Candy and I decided to clear out, but Roman insisted on finding us a cab, so the four of us left together. I hoped that Ursula would vanish, but she stuck with us. The road, steamy after the first rain in weeks, was deserted. Minutes passed before a cab arrived. A straggler from the party came over and asked Candy for her autograph. Then Roman was opening a car door and Candy and I were sinking into a snake-pit of seat belts. Ursula stood over us, staring blithely. ‘It’s like you’ve just got married and we’re seeing you off,’ she hooted. I tried to picture them alone together when they got home. Would she undress for him? Would she subvert the evening again? Would he get out his camera? Despite Ursula’s presence Roman managed a fugitive gesture, leaning over me and slowly shutting the door with a look. As we pulled away from the kerb I heard his sure tap on the roof. I glanced in the rear-vision mirror and saw them walking away beside the gallery moat, ominously silhouetted. Ursula had taken Roman’s hand and was swinging it like a broken toy.

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15

JULIA February 24 ~ ‘I shouldn’t drink, you know. I always say something brilliant.’ Who said that: Clifton Webb, George Sanders? One of my acid boys. Or was it Fred Astaire in On the Beach? Whoever. It was one of the many quips that sprang to mind during today’s gruesome indoctrination. Concord had decided to send a few departmental heads on a management course. They bussed us to a concentration camp in the bush. It was horribly near Hatfield, which was meant to impress us. I could see those pretentious gables through the gum trees. Our gurus were all in their twenties, with specious credentials and wobbly American accents. I hate to think how much Roscoe paid these prats to teach us about management. The first few minutes were devoted to their MBAs, their wooden domestic life, their bland offspring. The Leader, as we were asked to call him, sermonised for two hours on wealth creation. This philistine was still in shorts when I published my first book (and I’m not talking about 188

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Cindy Blazer). When I teased him during our morning session (‘Books in Cyberspace: Beyond the Square’) that I had recently published my five-hundredth title, he told me that my problem was that I was tainted by experience. Let that be my epitaph: Tainted by Experience. I like it. Then our Leader asked us to prioritise our tasks into different categories. My favourite was ‘urgent but not important’, which summed him up perfectly. Before long, my mind was wandering all over the place. Studying the Leader, I noticed that he was most unqualified in one respect. No lunch today. Then he became aware of my déshabillé in the nether nooks. He blushed like a pig and left the room. Later there were fizzy drinks by the inevitable golf course. I was loud in my condemnation, but noticed that my colleagues were silent. Mortgaged to the hilt and fond of their packages, they are a gutless mob. Roscoe has weeded out all the gadflies — except for me, of course, and Elyot Waters. But if Roscoe has his way Elyot won’t last long. As soon as I turn my back or go overseas, our resident Displacement Officer will march him out the door. Everything about Elyot annoys Roscoe: his wit, his cheek, his flair. But Elyot, one step ahead of him, is already planning his next career. He intends to supplant Bazza O’Connor as Stevie Nicholls’ manager and to take him on the road. ‘Beckham has nothing on The Body,’ he declares. Sometimes I wonder how much that boy knows. Finally home, I badly needed a serious drink. Candy went off to have dinner with Matthew in his slum by the cathedral, so I invited Prentice over for a T-bone steak. He never seems to go home these days. His wife’s idea of a big night is to arrange her Agatha Christies in alphabetical order. Christie is all she reads, apart from recipes — vegetarian recipes. Whereas Prentice is a carnivore — a real carnivore. Candy thinks that Prentice is obsessed with us. She may be 189

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right. Tonight he asked about my journals. I enjoyed teasing him about them and speculating about their ultimate fate: shredder or incinerator. I should publish them, Prentice insists. But long before I am gathered or gunned down I will burn them: a perfect bonfire of my circle’s vanities. Tonight I did something I’ve never done before. Prentice and I had drunk too much Talisker and were rather maudlin. Prentice was desperate to see the journal and begged me to read him something about Philip Anthem: the last months. I went upstairs and grabbed a notebook from my dressing room, where I keep all my precious things. I knew Prentice really wanted to hear about himself, so I read the account of the drive home from Hatfield, our first visit to the Cruise — and the high jinks that followed. Quite graphic it was, too. If I’m ever short of cash I can always resume writing pornographic novels under a pseudonym. Thank Christ I didn’t blab to Prentice. Where is Cindy Blazer, by the way? I haven’t seen a copy in years. It got me through university, and still no one knows. (Errol and Betty’s ignorance about their daughter’s oeuvre is staggering. Fancy having a child and being unaware of multiple abortions, a literary début, and a husband or two.) Prentice was captivated by my reading. Sprawled on the kangaroo rug, he gazed at me as if I was Samuel Pepys reciting a pretty tale of depravity. ‘How was I?’ he asked lewdly, shirt unbuttoned to the waist, stroking his beefy belly. ‘How were you?’ I prolonged it like foreplay. ‘I’m afraid there’s a note to the effect that you were a bit of a flop. Still, it was a long night, and you’ve redeemed yourself since then. Now fill up my glass, houseboy, and I’ll read you another fable.’ The diary opened auspiciously at May last year, the opening night of Salome. Scanning the page for indiscretions, I read extracts from the party scene. It made me quite nostalgic. 190

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Matthew was there, of course. At one stage I looked around and saw Roman touching his arm, as if pressuring Matthew to do something. I felt like striding over and shouting ‘Keep your hands off him,’ but I kept my distance, biding my time. Stella Anthem had brought Max Payne to the party. She likes showing off her sons — even the misfits. He squirmed in his fashionable straitjacket. Bored, he began draining abandoned glasses. With a look of profound indifference, he dropped one on the floor. Then he made an obscene gesture at a sponsor’s wife. Digby Danton, very flushed, came up to me and ordered me to ‘discipline’ him, as if Max were my responsibility. I thought that was his caper. But fourteen is too young, even for Digby. Finally, knowing that Stella and the dour mop-topped mogul wouldn’t step in, and determined that Candy’s notices weren’t going to be spoilt by bad publicity (‘PM’s Grandson Molests Socialite’), I decided to mollify Little Max. I’m always rescuing self-destructive boys. Plus, I remembered Philip’s affection for Max and felt strangely beholden. Max’s bitter conduct seemed pathetic, yet no one was willing to help him. Crossing the dance floor, I approached the tiny pariah. He glared at me like a cut-throat in Genet. ‘Having trouble with your jacket?’ I asked. ‘Fuck off,’ he hissed, raising his sparrow shoulders. I swore back, which shut him up. Punks aren’t used to being abused by women in little black dresses. Besides, my vocabulary is bigger than his. ‘Why don’t you take it off and rip it to bits?’ I suggested. ‘No one’s watching.’ Max eyed me with impressive disdain. Superb eyes: the colour of a shallow, moody bay, unlike his half-brother’s black agates. ‘It’d be therapeutic after the opera,’ I went on, trying to preoccupy him. 191

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‘Strauss sucks,’ he said. ‘My sentiment exactly. I can see we’re going to get on famously.’ ‘Piss off,’ he almost spat, his face pallid and prematurely lined. ‘I’m only here because I know someone in the cast,’ I fluted, noble as a social worker. ‘What’s your excuse?’ ‘Don’t jerk me off,’ he glowered. ‘I know who you are. My mother’s told me all about you.’(He was pretending to forget our idyll on the coast with Philip.) ‘I bet she left out the good bits.’ ‘Where’s your daughter by the way? Hanging round my brother, I suppose.’ ‘Why are you here?’ I asked, ignoring this provocation. ‘Shouldn’t you be out somewhere burning hedges?’ ‘I’m looking for signs of life.’ ‘Any success?’ ‘We live in a morgue.’ ‘A philosopher after my own heart.’ But I couldn’t controvert him. Daring me again, Little Max asked me if I wanted to score. ‘Not right now, but I’ll let you know if the situation becomes desperate.’ We stood there in silence. ‘See that man over there talking to your mother?’ I said, indicating Digby Danton. ‘Why don’t you go over and pick on him?’ ‘No thanks, I’ve been told to stay away from men with pink hands.’ As the sickly gargoyle spoke, his left leg thrashed around, describing crazy arcs on the dance floor. Boredom ruled and agitated him. To keep him occupied, I asked if he liked to dance. ‘Only in bed,’ he pouted. ‘Who asked you anyway? What’s your name again?’ ‘Because you’ve been so polite you may call me Miss Julia.’ Max watched me, briefly interested. He was more curious than Roman, and infinitely smarter. He was quite forbidding 192

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for fourteen. But I doubted whether he would last as long as Roman or scorch as many hearts. I asked him what he did enjoy. ‘I quite like singing,’ he said, yawning like a drugged primate. ‘I used to sing in a choir.’ ‘So did Sinatra.’ ‘Who are they?’ ‘Never mind. What did you sing?’ ‘Anything baroque.’ He stared at me, briefly relaxing. ‘Don’t tell my mother. I wouldn’t want her thinking I’ve got an interest or something.’ ‘Absolutely. You have a bad reputation to keep up.’ ‘It’s not that. She’d only want to buy the choir.’ I had misread this blunt, scornful boy. While the entire world was flummoxed by him, all he wanted to do was to pursue the thrilling fugues in his head. The indifference of others only worsened his manners. Somewhere along the way (after Stella’s public feud with Sir Alec Payne perhaps) he had decided it was easier to shock than to please. Insolence was the lonely doctrine he practised, without believing in it. I was almost sorry when Hal Hutton irascibly summoned Max from the other side of the room. ‘That made the time go faster,’ Max said, slouching in his round-shouldered way. ‘You’ve kept me out of mischief for ten minutes. I’ll tell my mother. You need a few brownie points in her book. I guess we’ll meet again. You people move in such tiny circles.’ Then he was gone, weaving through the dancers, barely reaching their shoulders, peevish but rather piteous. Next day a group of us had lunch in town. Matthew and I picked up Philip and Roman at the Windsor Hotel. Philip prefers to stay there rather than with the Huttons. Philip and I walked slowly down Bourke Street while Roman and Matthew went ahead. I watched their merging forms as 193

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Philip and I dropped further behind. Roman, taller, coltish, broad-shouldered, was clearly delighted to have his grandfather back; Matthew seemed angular and absorbed. I told Philip about my meeting with Max. He asked me what I thought of him. I described Max as quick, bright and lost. ‘Thank god you like him,’ Philip exclaimed. ‘Most people misjudge him completely. They miss his daring and originality. He’s the cleverest and unhappiest boy I’ve ever known.’ ‘I bet he’s a handful for Stella and Mr Hutton.’ Philip looked at me strangely. ‘You don’t like my daughter, do you? You never did.’ I knew him too well to respond. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, slipping his arm through mine. ‘I don’t expect you to love us all.’ Perhaps because the subject of his own family was too raw, Philip became interested in Matthew, who was almost out of sight. ‘Tell me about Matthew. How old was he when he came to live with you?’ ‘Twelvish.’ ‘Younger than Max,’ Philip observed. ‘You were pretty young yourself.’ ‘I was never young, Philip.’ ‘That’s the sort of thing Max says. No wonder you two clicked.’ Philip thought for a moment. ‘Why did Matthew come to you?’ ‘I didn’t like the way he was being brought up.’ ‘So you adopted him?’ ‘Lock, stock and phobia.’ ‘I’m sure his mother was relieved,’ Philip sighed, reminding me of his aversion to Babs. ‘Well, I suppose you don’t have much family yourself.’ ‘Only Candy.’ 194

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‘No siblings?’ ‘One brother.’ ‘Of course. Matthew isn’t it?’ ‘Yes . . . Matthew,’ I said softly, not wishing it to carry on the peopled street. I wondered if Philip had been talking to someone. He’d never asked about my family before. ‘Twins — I remember now. What does your brother do?’ At this, Philip stopped and realised what he’d said. He took my hand firmly, as if he’d sensed a profound coldness or numbness in my arm and wanted to revive it. ‘My dear, forgive me. I’m just a stupid old man and I completely forgot. I’m so sorry.’ I blurted out some inanity — I have no idea what. I regretted the whole conversation and my foolish, glazed reaction. Thirty years after Matt’s death, I still couldn’t bear to talk about it. Even my parents knew better than to mention his name in my presence. So we moved on in silence, awkwardly. I was grateful when we reached the Florentino. Roman and Matthew stood very close in the gilded foyer, watching us like handsome, wary doormen. Stella was upstairs giving instructions to the waiters as to what her father was and was not permitted to eat. She sighed when she saw me and pointed to a far chair at the large round table. She announced that she could only stay for a drink and promptly drained a towering Negroni. She and Hutton were giving a small lunch for two hundred business leaders. I didn’t think death had undone so many. Stella had left Max at home, probably comatose, and brought along Hughdie Hutton, the third son. He was wearing a kind of sailor suit, just like the one Roman had on when he met the president. Stella told us about her latest meeting with the PM, during which Raglan had once again raised the subject of an ambassadorship for Philip. This time he had mentioned Athens, aware of its personal appeal. 195

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Philip said he had no intention of accepting. ‘Why not?’ Stella shot back. ‘I’m too infirm for a start, I couldn’t do it without a consort, you’re no longer available, my Greek’s rusty, and I have a book to finish. Besides, I’m a relic. It will be a miracle if I’m still alive for the launch. It’s a beautiful gesture on Raglan’s part, and that’s all it’s meant to be. It’s like offering a republican a vice-regal appointment. One enjoys the moral equivocations.’ ‘What a shame,’ Stella sighed, idly preventing Hughdie from playing with his buttons. ‘It would have been so nice to go back to Greece.’ ‘You make us sound like the Bonapartes,’ Philip said. Just then Candy arrived in a tangle of adverbs and scarves. Stella got up to leave. ‘Party hard, darling,’ Philip farewelled her — their old war cry. ‘Have a good time, but no cream,’ Stella said, leaning over and kissing Philip’s crêpey cheek. ‘Don’t let your publisher lead you astray. If I find out that she’s kept you up all night I’ll be very cross.’ Philip wanted Candy to sit beside him. They had never really talked before, and he monopolised her for hours. Matthew sat listening to Juliet Cardinal, whose new affairs always take hours to unfold. Cruelly, I copped Roman Anthem for the second time in a row. Bored, I souvenired a butter-knife without his noticing. Draining his glass rapidly, Roman lowered his voice and asked me if I was feeling better. ‘Do I look tired? Careful, I have feelings.’ ‘You were so tense during the opera.’ ‘Tense?’ ‘I was worried about you.’ ‘Please don’t be. I can look after myself.’ I was annoyed with Roman — annoyed with him for noticing. Something had gone wrong during Salome, and he 196

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knew. I’m always racked when Candy sings, but the premiere had been worse than usual. Towards the end, as Candy writhed around waiting for the Baptist’s head to appear (inevitably masturbating, as in any modern opera), I began to panic. I was convinced Candy wouldn’t hit those cruel top notes. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was about to vomit into the Hungarian hair in front of me. That’s when I clutched Roman’s arm automatically, as you do on a plane when it hits an air pocket and you think you’re about to die, only to release it embarrassedly when Candy effortlessly and radiantly held the note. Afterwards I slipped outside and stood there trembling and chain-smoking. ‘No Ursula today?’ I asked, changing the subject. ‘She’s off somewhere tangoing,’ he explained coolly. No one saw them together any more; there seemed no hope of a rapprochement. Roman was on his own now, ominously. ‘How’s life in Satchell Street?’ I asked. ‘Bracing,’ he said, looking at me over another glass of wine. He was drinking heavily. Even Philip noticed, though his eyes never left Candy’s face. ‘Do you still have your aviary?’(If there was one thing I loathed it was an aviary.) ‘Valentino, last of our lovebirds, has cancer of the eye,’ said Roman. His own were brilliant, inextinguishable, despite the booze and ennui. I hadn’t been inside Satchell Street since early in Roman’s dim reign, but I could picture the chaos and the sordor: the trail of Ursula’s florid clothes; the neglected cat, too proud to miaow; the stench of rotting rabbit; unopened bills on the floor; all the detritus of another breakdown. Divorces are always the same: scrappy and malodorous. ‘I guess we’ll be seeing lots of you in future,’ I said with grim impartiality. ‘Perhaps I should go away.’ 197

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‘Go away?’ ‘It might be better if I vanished.’ He said it flatly, as if he meant it. ‘Matthew would miss you.’ ‘Do you think? He wasn’t very responsive last night.’ Roman’s frankness was uncharacteristic and oddly needful. Did he trust me? I was heartened by his openness. Unlike Blanche du Bois, I don’t mind naked light bulbs or rude remarks. They are more useful than shades and sophistries. ‘He relies on you, Roman,’ I said. ‘I must talk to him about that.’ ‘Be good to him,’ I wanted to say, but refrained. There’s no sense pleading with callow devastators; it only encourages them. Instead I said, ‘Matthew tells me you’re going to the coast.’ ‘Yes. Philip’s invited both of us. Do you mind?’ ‘Why should I mind? Just don’t distract my author.’ ‘I won’t let him out of the study.’ This went on for hours. I had never been so tactful in my life. My face began to ache from the rictus of charm. I noticed that Roman was uninquisitive about Matthew. Here, surely, was a silver-plated opportunity for Matthew’s shadow to enquire about his past (to get it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak). But Roman didn’t ask a single question. I was infuriated by his shallowness, his lack of curiosity. He was as self-centred as the rest of them, in his mock-shy way. In the end I edged my chair back from the table, closed my eyes and pretended to have indigestion. I began to dream about Concord’s office in New York. I would be there soon, far from Roman and the Beestung Belladonna. I pictured my little office overlooking Saks. But for Philip’s memoirs and the prospect of another sojourn on the coast, I would have set off immediately. Roscoe, anxious to retain my services, wouldn’t have minded, and there 198

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was nothing else to keep me in Australia. I longed for privacy, an end to responsibility. I knew I’d find them in New York. Prentice had given me a long list of Sinatra shrines. I was even thinking of staying in Hoboken. But how could I leave Matthew at such a time? How could I sit there rhapsodising about Manhattan when he was dissolving in front of my eyes. Not since the days of Chris Killen had Matthew seemed so stricken, so pathological. All my good work had been undone. Seated across the table, outwardly engrossed in Juliet Cardinal’s gossip, Matthew was quietly dissolving. Only I sensed how addled he was. I knew him too well: his instincts, his addictive nature. Someone in Shakespeare says of his son, ‘He hath a great infection to serve.’ But Matthew wouldn’t confide in me about Roman. He couldn’t trust himself. So we went on with our lives as if nothing was amiss. Had I known all the details and been sure of Matthew’s reaction, I would have confronted Roman on the spot, eliminated him from the scene. For the moment, however, I wasn’t fully armed. Like a sphinx without a cure I didn’t know what to say — how to help or how to confound. I must have deluded myself that Matthew’s passion would be short-lived. Glancing at Candy — beaming, babbling, brightening at Philip’s charm — I realised she was unaware of Matthew’s condition. Candy was bewitched and bothered in her own way. I wanted to put them both back together again — protect them, console them — but for the time being, I was helpless. Infections must run their course. As yet, I could merely watch and wait, watch and wait, and try to outfox the beautiful blur.

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MATTHEW February 25 ~ ‘I’ve done it again.’ That’s how it opens, the scrawly note stuffed inside my Salome programme. It fell out this morning while I was going through the menacing bills beside my bed (really just a mattress on the floor). I keep it there for times when I miss Candy — or miss last year. Is this why people keep diaries? Julia always said I should try it. Imagine what hers must be like, full of rants and ogres. What prompted me to write this confession, a rare souvenir from last year? I must have been deranged, and the handwriting’s certainly cracked. Something must have possessed me after the post-Salome lunch last May. Yes, I had done it again. But worse this time, more terrible. I know that now. Lust and guilt: bitter companions. Days pass like fogs, worthless if they don’t bring him. I’ve learnt nothing. Nothing. First Chris Killen, now Roman. 200

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Julia was right about my masochism. But why do I think of CK now? Why dream of Roman’s insolent precursor, slouching in his hated uniform, always unbuttoned; led off to the headmaster’s office, lewdly winking at me; secreting obscene acrostics in the Swantonian? Why the old anti-hero and not my new demon, my final Anthem? Night proving sleepless, I summon Roman in my mind, undress him, allow myself to be undressed, whispering to him, traffic in those supple limbs, traffic and submit. Whisky jolts the memory. I have Adonised this Roman, marble to my miscreation. Guiltily I anthemise his name until meaning fades. Roman. Roman Anthem. No longer mine, it becomes public property, dynastic metaphor: the shared promiscuous national anthem. I envy those who can name him without stammering. Even his initials undo me when seen on a doorway, a number plate — RPA. I begin to resent the ease of strangers Roman chats with in his affable way. Julia, for instance, yesterday at the Florentino — barely glancing at him, so rude she ended up pulling away from the table. I even envy inanimate objects — the tools he wields adroitly — the thin worn band on his watch, which he turns a little, as if it pinches, revealing blueness underneath, the pulse amid the pearl. I want to notate that surge. So I trespass in his workshop, slightly squeamish these days, wishing I was invisible like Ariel. I study his every deft motion, the piece of jarrah he trims so scrupulously. Absorbed in each task, he runs his tongue around his lips, makes a subtle clicking sound in his throat which I listen for. In the background Velvet Underground is playing, those old sad songs Roman has listened to a hundred 201

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times. Sometimes we don’t speak for an hour. I don’t trust myself now. Addiction is stupefying. Other times I pick up his dog-eared Ulysses and read a few pages until Roman looks up, ravishing. He seems content to have me there, pours cups of honeyed tea that I drink because he stirred them. ‘What are you thinking?’ he said the other day, looking at me with those lashes as I sat there thrilled by the army of veins on his forearm. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’ Which gave me pause. ‘Entertain me with one of your backstage stories.’ So I become a kind of Bgrade raconteur, the voyeur in his workshop with its ponderous aromas which I inhale like incense. Roman. Fast killing me. When I leave him, vaguely conscious of a flamboyant sunset or the loveless traffic, I intone his name like an idolater. Rome. Roma. Roman. Manliest of cities. Who said that? Must ask Julia. Make a mental note, though. No use relying on memory in this state — which may become permanent. That’s my fear, if fear gains a foothold in this void. What happens in life? They never warn us. Imagine having children, inflicting it on them, poorly briefed and equipped. Today I forgot a press interview. Jules Cardinal, who had arranged it with one of her mates, phoned up to harangue me, finally cross. ‘Where are you for Christ’s sake? Do you know what this cost me? What’s wrong with you? It’s so unlike you.’ But this is so like me, I wanted to say, but could not, and made apologetic noises. I felt sorry for Jules. Save your publicity for Candy, I felt like saying; save it for someone more deserving. Jules will find out eventually. Someone will blurt it out at the Opera. I almost want it to happen, want to be able to boast about it. Pathetic. Poisonous grace. 202

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Mustn’t tell a soul though. There’s nothing to be done. Like a penitent I give in to loss of will, timelessness. Five months since Hatfield: five months. Roman comes to me when he wishes, leaves when he must. I wait for the hollowing moment when he goes. Sometimes he doesn’t even announce it, merely reaches for his helmet, touches me and goes. For Roman has obligations: Ursula for a start. Mustn’t forget that. Wish I could. Wish we weren’t all so horribly related. Wish I never had to see her again. So I grab what I can, rush to his studio when summoned. Last night I was lying in bed thinking about him when he rang. I flew across the city like a stalker, met him at the condemned cinema, got home at three, ecstatic, crept past Julia’s room. Imagine. Imagine going on with it. Countless the number of times I’ve resolved to end it. Yet it goes on. Julia always said I was impressionable. Ah, but the malady is beautiful, I want to tell her. And to think she thought I was cured. Hilarious. I am like one of those smeared Christs CK couldn’t abide, drooping on their crosses, slumping on the womenfolk. Perhaps that’s why CK bolted in the end. How long before Roman becomes impatient or distracted? I’m not sanguine; never was. I divide my life into two phases: the first a time of hibernation; the second launched so casually when Roman walked into Valhalla. I want to tell Candy but resist for the moment. Perhaps she knows already, or suspects. What do they talk about at L’Express when they see each other? ‘We’re alternating,’ Candy said, laughing, as Roman and I stood arranging our next meeting. I don’t imagine Roman asks about me, but Candy must be inquisitive. Babs is and teases me. 203

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She phoned the other day to say she’d seen me on Roman’s motorbike. She wanted to know if I enjoyed riding pillion. Quite prurient really. She must be delighted, having given me up as ghostly, asexual. Didn’t they all, even Julia, who should have known better. Candy too, quite possibly. So the city mutters and colludes. Does Candy ask about our . . . friendship? But I am all questions, never answers. ‘You don’t believe in analysis,’ Roman said the other day — ‘just impressions. And nicotine,’ he added, impressed by my habit. I smoke all the time, even in bed, just like Julia used to do when I was young. Still does. One day she’ll burn down Valhalla. Very still, very stiff, I would lie there on my twin bed listening to her tales of adult strife, mesmerised by the red tip of her cigarette glowing in the dark. Now I drink her whisky, secretly replacing the bottle every other day. It’s an expensive habit, but only mildly soporific. I haven’t eaten in days but I have no appetite, not for that. When I place food in my mouth I have to make a conscious effort to masticate. Swallowing has become difficult. Sometimes I think I’m choking. This can’t be normal. But there’s no point in sustenance — only Roman, Roman Anthem, my drug, my dirge, who elevates and destroys without realising. I spill over repeatedly, stung by longing. Sated, unsated, I lie awake at night longing for oblivion. Should I see someone, take something, take lots of things? What would good old Dr Birt prescribe? But can I trust him? Everyone’s in awe of Julia, or in her pocket. I think she’s becoming suspicious. Gimleteyed she watched me at the restaurant. I must be careful. Julia mustn’t find out. That would be too humiliating. Imagine her disillusionment. Not again, 204

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she would say — not the old abasement. I don’t want to frighten her and I couldn’t bare her irony. Yet part of me is perversely untouched; part of me doesn’t care what anyone thinks. Julia senses this new immunity. She sees me in a new light and is vexed by my detachment. Has she ever loved like this? Not really, I suspect. Wouldn’t let herself go. Very sensible perhaps. But life without such . . . anticipation! Tomorrow night Roman will collect me and it will start all over again. Tomorrow night. Yes, count them: nineteen hours. Soon it will be midnight and I will be able to say, today I see him again. If only I could sleep between now and then. I’ve tried sedatives, but they mock me. Reason, selfrespect, common decency, even chemical sleep are beyond me. All I know is that I will see Roman tomorrow and the day after that if I’m blessed. I have no interest in composure. On the street, as on the stage, I gaze at the sane and the self-possessed and do not envy them. I shudder, I waver, I become mere nerve endings and scattered thoughts, jaded by this looming ardent killing Roman. Enough.

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JULIA February 27 ~ To this very day I have no idea why I deserted my poor susceptible chicks. What possessed me? It’s not like me to shirk a fight. I’d never abandoned Candy or Matthew when I thought they were at risk. Something happened last year, call it laxity or weariness. There had been too many parties, too many speeches. I wasn’t eating well; my liver was putrid. All I wanted to do was get away. I was sick of the Stellas and Digbys and Raglans of this world. Lust played its sordid part too, I’m afraid. After an unusually long lay-off I was looking for new talent, new frontiers. Only in New York would I find them, I decided. Ridiculously, I was still searching for my soul mate, and I’d given up hoping this paragon would be a local boy. I wondered if he was living in America. Perhaps he’d been under my nose all the time — another publisher, cherish the thought. But how could I leave Valhalla, my waifs? When I put it to 206

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Candy and Matthew they urged me not to hesitate. Go, they both said, with strange alacrity. It should have given me pause, but off I went, clutching my passport and my joggers. No sooner had we toasted Salome than I was on that plane, sinking a celebratory G and T. Just when they needed me most, I set off to the States for a fortnight, which grew and grew into a dangerous eternity at Valhalla.

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MATTHEW March 1 ~ Four months have passed since Roman vanished. Four months! Tonight, on the news, it was as if a turning point had been reached and Roman’s status has subtly changed. There was a terse note in the newsreader’s voice, as if she resented Roman’s failure to emerge from his hole, photogenic and dehydrated. How they must have looked forward to that. Huge figures had been bandied around for the rights to his story. There was even talk of a telemovie. Now the waiting game had palled. It was high time we stopped thinking about him and focused on the new sensation: three duck-happy youths missing on a lake. I presume the authorities are still investigating. But do they have the slightest idea what happened in November? And why did it take them so long to find out that Roman had withdrawn a portion of his trust money the week he disappeared? Or did Senior Detective Vallado know this from the start and keep it from me? Perhaps I’ve been a suspect all along. 208

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Vallado rings me each week. He says it’s the most baffling case on his books: no note, no struggle, no cryptic message. ‘In Italy you’d sit back waiting for the kidnappers to ring, but here’s different,’ he said. Here’s different, all right. Vallado confides in me. He knows my state and sympathises. I suspect he’s half in love with Roman himself. Last night he even offered to buy me a drink. ‘Let’s go to the Express, where Roman used to go,’ he suggested. He always wants to talk about my career, such as it is. He thinks I should go into musicals. He can see me in Guys and Dolls. The authorities don’t seem able to agree on the significance of the trust money. I gather that Roman withdrew a quarter of a million dollars. Two hundred and fifty thousand reasons to do what: escape from Satchell Street? create a new life? a new identity? Mega-reasons for someone to go after him? Prentice updates me as best he can, but he’s compromised by his article on Julia (he knows we no longer speak) and embarrassed by his inability to locate Roman. He was mortified when another reporter broke the story about the trust money. Prentice prides himself on being a sleuth. Perhaps it was bravado, but he told me that he doubted that Vallado was telling the truth about the trust money. He said it was a ruse to throw someone off the scent. Besides, if it was a new identity Roman was after, he’d always known where he could raise the funds. Even Stella Anthem seems more resigned to Roman’s absence. The same news bulletin showed the Huttons at a reception for the visiting Chinese premier. Stella towered over him in white. She didn’t look like she was in mourning — not with those dancer’s legs on ample show. Stella has kept a low profile until now, rarely leaving Hatfield, so this was a kind of statement, doubtless prompted by Hal Hutton’s media interests in China. 209

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There was a final news item: late arriving, badly worded. Human remains have been found by a farmer . . . near a dam . . . in a state of decomposition. I switched it off. I had heard it before: duney offerings, a severed hand. Better to sit there in the gloom waiting for the telephone to ring. Better to resort to the past, with its Roman mazes. Several weeks had passed since that mad note in the Salome programme. Most of the makeshift diary I began around then is barely legible, but the following entry is lucid — coolness itself, compared with the last mad entry. Why this lover’s reportage at such a time, I wonder. Why am I even bothering to write? Imagine reading this stuff in a year’s time: notes on the plague. Perhaps my follies deserve to be known. They should expose me in one of those gruesome tabloids that thrive on the misadventures of the Anthems (‘Sicko Actor Stalks Roman’). I should be in a pantomime this Christmas, not Waiting for Godot — booed and pelted with sad fruit. I deserved everything I got last night, and I deserve what is to come. For it’s not over yet. Julia must be told for a start. And there’s no way I can avoid Roman indefinitely. The prospect of seeing him again, in a day or a fortnight, fills me with horror. As for Ursula Sait, I never want to see her again. Yesterday was the longest day, the longest night. I was woken early by something thudding against my window: a bird or premonition. I knew something was about to happen. The whole sordid muddle of hearts had become too bitter. Despite our collective genius for avoidance, something had to give. 210

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Julia, conveniently, is still in New York. She’s in no hurry to come back. The Anthem Memoirs is now safely printing, so Roscoe Hunt can do without her for a while. She calls it her sabbatical. (‘All my academic authors have them. Why shouldn’t I?’) She’ll be home in time for the launch in September. Meanwhile, a handsome young colleague is keeping her entertained in New York. She told me about him last week. A Southerner, he too wears his initials like a handsome curse: RFK. Strained is the best way to describe the mood at Valhalla. Candy stays in her room the whole time. When she’s not sleeping she plays the same old torch songs over and over again (never opera, and certainly not Wagner, though she’s due in Adelaide in September to start rehearsing). Occasionally she emerges to make more green tea, looking tiny and frail in bare feet. She’s lost weight. How can this waif play Sieglinde? How can she run off with her brother, incite a rebellion against Wotan and bear a hero-child? This morning the mist refused to lift. It settled over the chimneys and the lamp-posts and the spines of trees. Roman and I had nothing planned, not for the entire weekend, so I stayed at home. Candy was upstairs asleep. I sat in the front room. I had work to do, lines to memorise, but instead I flicked through old photographs. I was hoping to find an improbable relic of Satchell Street, though I hadn’t forgotten Roman’s aversion to being photographed. (Other people, of course, from naughty angles, but not himself.) Then, weirdly, Ursula drove slowly past our house. It was unlike her to visit Valhalla, especially now, given her increasing ani211

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mosity towards Candy. Perhaps she’d made a mistake, entered the wrong cul-de-sac. I watched her park the car and inspect her visage in the rear-vision mirror. Satisfied, she got out and crossed the road. I opened the door and let her in without a word. She’d brought their cat, Marilyn, which hissed at me in its ribboned basket. ‘She’s bilious,’ Ursula announced. I wondered why she’d come. Normally blunt and self-serving, today she was aimless. She wanted to know if I’d seen Babs and what I knew about this new restaurant of hers. Had I spoken to Roger recently? I had, but I wasn’t going to tell her — Roger despises Babs’s niece. Ursula gushed in her giggly way about her Bolivian boyfriend. Then she mentioned Stella Anthem’s boy, the lawless Max? Had I heard about his latest antics: deliberately soiling himself at a school function. A non-Hutton tabloid had reported it that morning. ‘How will Stella cope with a coprophile in the family?’ Ursula laughed. This went on for an hour, maybe two. Ursula did most of the talking, oblivious to the fact that I had work to do, a new character to inhabit. She made herself several pots of tea and prodded the cat. She peered into the bare fridge and pulled a face. I began to feel trapped. Ursula had obviously come for something — she always did — but she was having trouble spitting it out. I willed her to get to the point and let me revert to my riotous thoughts. (I thought it impolite to indulge in my Roman reverie while she was present, though a Roman phantom kept appearing in a corner of the room, long legs outstretched, watching us, half amused.) Ursula was lonely and fearful, that much was 212

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clear. With rare restraint she didn’t mention Candy (by now plainly barricaded in her room), but she did ask about Julia. She couldn’t believe how much time Julia had spent with Philip Anthem before going to America. How could they find so much to write about? After all, Philip hadn’t been prime minister for twenty years. ‘Do you really think people will be turned on by some old Fracas? People only care about interest rates.’ Ursula picked up the aggravated cat and rocked it like a child. Marilyn went to scratch her but thought better of it. Then Ursula noticed the photographs on the coffee table. ‘Are you getting nostalgic, Matthew? Isn’t that me dancing in the Campo? Ah, Siena. If only we could turn the clock back a year. Can I have it?’ Pocketing the photograph, Ursula asked me if Roman had told me they were planning to go to Greece. Wasn’t that a good idea? She was critical of Stella Anthem for hedging Roman’s trust with so many conditions that he was unable to get his hands on the money. There was so much she could do with it. ‘Still,’ she sighed, ‘my accountant thinks there’s a way.’ Then Ursula said they both wanted to see more of me. ‘Don’t be a stranger. You’re part of us now — you always have been.’ She had left it late to play the cousin, I thought. ‘Roman’s terribly fond of you, and I’m so glad.’ She had picked up some of Stella’s silken cadences. ‘I think it’s wonderful for both of you. Roman’s never had close friends. He’s never been willing. You’re about it.’ I felt sure that Ursula’s uncharacteristic effusion masked desperation, even jealousy. (How innocent I was yesterday — centuries ago). I promised to keep in touch. 213

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Ursula looked at her watch and stood up. Then she stopped and said, ‘You don’t realise what it’s been like.’ ‘How do you mean?’ ‘With Roman. He’s not an easy person to know. You all think he’s so . . .’ ‘What?’ Yes, what did we really think? Perhaps Ursula was about to tell me. ‘Just try loving him,’ was all she gave. Ursula looked at me for a few seconds with a halfsmile. It was as close as we had ever come, and it was short-lived. After a few parting questions she left, but not before souveniring two of Julia’s expensive design magazines. I sat there recomposing myself while Valhalla creaked overhead. I expected Candy to rush out of her room, but she didn’t. There was something bathetic about Ursula’s visit. There we were, with nothing in common, spending an entire morning avoiding the issue. I thought of the time — not so long ago, before Roman’s arrival — when I would only see her once or twice a year, always in company. I thought of the time when my weekends were spent sanely, productively. I missed them. I knew Ursula would report back to Roman. There are no secrets at Satchell Street, or so I thought. Hadn’t Candy told me years ago, when she was still friendly with her, that Ursula and Roman shared everything — a carnal pact so depressing I didn’t want to think about it? Roman rang soon after, sounding despondent. He wanted to know what Ursula had said. I told him she seemed unhappy. ‘Tell me about it,’ he replied curtly. He asked about my plans that night. When I said I had none — the old cue — he didn’t suggest a 214

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meeting. He seemed tense, keen to end the conversation. I wanted to ask him what was going on but refrained. Nor did I enquire about their Greek odyssey. So I asked about his own plans instead. Yawning, he said he had to install some bookshelves at Digby Danton’s loft. Then he would spend the evening at Satchell Street tidying up. Ursula would be out dancing. Sensing that Roman didn’t want company but unable to stop myself, I said I might drop in at some stage. ‘When?’ he asked. ‘I might be out the back. I don’t want to miss you.’ I wondered how I could fill in the leaden hours before I could respectably visit Roman or ring him up to hear his voice. Reading was out of the question — had been for weeks, much to Julia’s disgust. Print rioted on the page. I knew I had to get away from Valhalla, so I went into town and saw a movie. Then I decided to visit Babs. I hadn’t seen her since Salome. The return journey would eat up a couple of hours. I also wanted to raid Babs’s pharmacy. I needed some sleeping pills but knew I couldn’t go near Dr Birt, Julia’s confidant. So I visited the new house in Kew. Babs was about to be interviewed for a ‘lifestyle’ programme. We spoke briefly in the garden, where they were filming. She was dressed in a Max Mara robe and black pearls. She asked me to stay, seemed concerned, or am I imagining this in my addiction to portents? When you’re in love everything feels significant — except the wider world. Babs asked about Ursula, said how worried she was. Babs still hadn’t recovered from her vigil by Ursula’s bed when Roman went to stay with Philip and when he seemed, for forty-eight exhilarating hours, unlikely to return. 215

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Then a gofer summoned Babs and she was led away towards a floodlit gazebo. I went into the palatial kitchen and had a cigarette with her publicist, Elyot Waters, a new face at Concord and a vaguely familiar one. When he worked out who I was, he said he was after a job with Julia. He was over publicity, and wondered if I could smooth things for him. With his red mohawk and countless rings in his ears and lips there was a good chance he’d appeal to Julia’s desire to shock her waspy colleagues. Elyot was disgruntled at having to look after Babs, especially with a thumping hangover. He’d been up dancing all night and had a long drugs party ahead of him. ‘When’s a boy meant to sleep?’ Then I remembered where I’d seen him before. He’d cruised me in a shadowy bar years ago. I deflected him that night. He was too speedy for the likes of me. I went upstairs and explored Babs’s bathroom cabinet. As I left, Elyot Waters was watching South Park on Babs’s new Plasma and glumly working his way through a tray of crème brûlée. Candy was out when I got back to Valhalla. I found several messages on the answering machine, but none from Roman. Ursula, increasingly shirty, had rung three times. Julia, sounding frisky, had phoned from her hotel in Hoboken to ask me to send her some books and clothes via the Concord courier. She ended by saying that she was relying on us not to get into any mischief and asked me to ring her. I decided not to. I couldn’t trust myself over the phone: not with Julia, the great reader of weakness and emotion. I wandered through the house and flopped on a sofa, only to fall into a dreamful sleep. With 216

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perverse timing, Chris Killen, not dreamt of in years, made a cameo appearance. On one of his exaggerated biceps ‘Roman’ was tattooed backwards. I read it in a mirror. CK sweetly led me to the edge of a cliff and urged me to jump, assuring me of a safe, heathered landing. On the cove below was a flotilla of press boats. The cliff was strewn with eggshells and desiccated nests. ‘Jump, go on, jump,’ CK said, fondling me. ‘Roman’s down there waiting for you.’ So I did. Next thing Roman and I were swimming in the slimy cove. When I looked around he was drowning in the slick. As I resuscitated him the surreal tattoos covering his body wore off like a disguise and our lips merged. We were indivisible, siamesed. Hours passed. By nine o’clock I deemed it not too flagrant to visit Roman. Not wanting the company of strangers on a bus or in a taxi, I walked all the way to Satchell Street. Lightning threatened, then the rain came. Reaching a gleaming intersection I thought with the utmost detachment of one solution to my absurdities and stepped onto the road automatically, only to find myself several blocks on. I studied the faces of passing motorists — shiny mondaines in evening dress, chatty couples with docile children buckled in the back — and wished I was somebody else. Outside Roman’s house I heard voices in the front room. I thought of turning back but plunged on masochistically. When Roman opened the door I heard Ursula snorting in the distance. Roman said nothing and ignored my saturation. He seemed neither pleased nor displeased to see me and led me into the living room where Ursula was curled up on a couch with her head on a stranger’s shoulder. He 217

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turned out to be her new dancing partner and the plainest Bolivian I had ever seen — nothing like Che Guevara. Ernesto was short, rather plump, with frizzy thinning hair. He was old enough to be Roman’s father. Roman introduced us, since Ursula couldn’t be bothered, then returned to his stool. It was freezing in the unkempt house, but Roman wasn’t wearing anything over his old plaid shirt. It had come away at the seam. He said nothing and stared dully at the lovers. When Marilyn, confused by these new configurations, brushed against his leg he nudged it away. The Bolivian tango champeen seemed oddly relaxed and stroked Ursula’s downy arm. He seemed amused to meet Ursula’s cousin (which was how Roman had introduced me). Speaking in a heavy accent, he said they had come home early from the Olé Bar, Ursula having developed a headache. She glanced at me like a spy and said how pleased she was to see me again so soon. By now I was feeling almost psychedelically out of place. I was struck by the paradox of Ursula’s choosing this plump man when she could have Roman. Then Roman stood up and motioned me to follow him. As he led me down the hall, cluttered with tools and hatboxes and a gaping mannequin, his shirt parted, revealing three ivory ribs. Was this what I had come for — my sick vision? Would it always be like this? I loathed the pursuit and was thrilled. It was no longer CK’s compact, muscular form I lusted after, but a more abstractly erotic form: manly, sinuous, elongated. In the kitchen Roman filled two Vegemite jars with bourbon and slumped on a chair. When it 218

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creaked beneath him he thumped the base violently, capably. On the table was an upturned copy of Ulysses. ‘This is how I spend my Saturday nights — still at the funeral,’ he sniffed. I’d never seen him so dejected. For once he didn’t ask about Candy, Julia, Beckett or the memoirs. I did all the talking, awkward, unconvincing. At one stage I caught Roman looking at me with an expression of impatience or indifference. Refilling his glass, he stood up and stretched. He said he should rejoin the others. ‘You don’t want to see that,’ he said, clasping my neck with his hand. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow,’ he went on, guiding me to the door. When I looked back he had already closed it. ‘Fool, fool, fool, fool,’ I hissed. I knew why I had gone and what I craved. The faces of motorists didn’t interest me now. Spray flew from gutters as they passed. I paced down random streets. I had had my vision — bitter, humiliating, exalted. Home again, I poured myself a drink and switched on the television. It was Wimbledon, so it was raining. Candy emerged from her room, wanting company. Then Cliff Richards led a chorus in the stand and we hastily switched it off. Over and over again Candy played Julia’s favourite Billie Holiday song, ‘Don’t Explain’. We listened to the old cracks in the voice, in the heart. Then Candy surprised me by asking for a glass of whisky. Tucking her feet beneath her, she wanted to know where I’d been. I told her. ‘How was Ursula?’ she asked. She seemed to know that Ursula had come home early. ‘She’s got a headache.’ 219

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‘Was her friend there?’ Candy asked, a new note of acid in her voice. ‘He was. And very much at home. Does he realise what’s going on between Roman and Ursula?’ ‘Perhaps he thinks Roman is her adopted son,’ Candy said drily, holding out her glass for more. We were both smoking. Packets would be consumed during the night. ‘How was Roman?’ she asked. ‘Miserable. He hardly spoke. He can’t go on like this for much longer.’ It was as much as I dared. ‘No, he can’t go on like this,’ Candy agreed. ‘When did you see him?’ ‘Tonight,’ she eventually said. ‘We had a drink.’ I realised this must have been while I was on my way home from Babs’s place. Hours, weeks, months began to blur, the whole sorry floating saga. Everything depended on the availability of this tall singular disquieted and disquieting young man who had undone us, quite unconsciously, or so I thought. We sat there quietly, waiting for something to happen. I asked Candy about the Opera, always good for a diversion. She said she was finding the German lessons difficult. (‘Just as well I’m only doing Sieglinde. Poor old Brünnhilde has three operas to learn.’) The big news was that the Berlin Staatsoper had asked her to fill in for a pregnant Violetta in January. We both tried to sound excited. I asked her how Digby Danton had reacted. ‘Oh, I’m a veritable traviata.’ ‘Such an interesting word.’ The telephone rang and Candy rushed to answer it. She was gone for several minutes. From the long silences and clipped responses I suspected it was a difficult call. Julia often rings after midnight, but I 220

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knew it wasn’t her. Candy always speaks faster with Julia; everyone does, trying to keep up with her. But this time Candy was guarded. Then she said abruptly, ‘Okay, okay, I’ll find out.’ She came into the room and asked me if I was planning to go to the Capitol with Roman on Wednesday night. I said I had no idea; we hadn’t discussed it. ‘Who is it?’ I quizzed her. ‘What’s going on?’ ‘It’s Ursula. Don’t worry, it’s all right.’ Candy went back into the kitchen. Hilariously, in my confusion, I wondered if Ursula had begun to suspect me. What had Roman told her? Then I heard Candy say ‘I’ll be there’ with rare sharpness before hanging up. There was a long silence before she left the kitchen. Perhaps she was writing something down. Or did she intend going out immediately? Had she offered to mediate? Then she came back and slumped on a different chair, further away. I filled her glass and handed it to her. She was bruised and pale and very beautiful. Her long hands gripping the glass were white, bony, startlingly veined. ‘Is something wrong?’ I said, with appalling understatement. ‘Oh Matthew,’ she exhaled. All my life I’ve studied women in that attitude, full of news. As a boy, listening to Babs and Julia and all the girlfriends who filled their kitchens — the wounded, the discards, even Ursula, it occurs to me now — I relished that moment before the narrative shock: the infidelities and betrayals; the perfidy of men. ‘Where to begin?’ Candy struggled, blinking rapidly. ‘A lot’s been happening. I haven’t been very good at . . . there are certain things you don’t know 221

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. . . may not want to know about. But now there’s no alternative. It’s all out . . . known.’ She lit a cigarette, pulled on it, hugging her minute waist. ‘You see, Roman and I are having an affair . . . have been for some months . . . most of the year. Ursula’s just found out. She’s not very happy, as you can imagine. That’s why she rang.’ I thought I heard a hissing sound, as if the room was wheezing for breath. But when I finally spoke I was outwardly calm. ‘Don’t see her tonight,’ I said. I didn’t want Candy to confront Ursula in her current state. ‘Oh no, not tonight. Maybe Wednesday. That’s what she wants. She’s being vile.’ ‘When did she find out?’ ‘Tonight.’ ‘Just now?’ ‘No, earlier.’ ‘Did she find you together?’ ‘It’s not that squalid,’ Candy said, looking away. ‘Ursula’s been suspicious for a while. It came to a head tonight. She asked Roman straight out — before Ernesto arrived. Roman told her. He’s never lied to her. He can’t.’ I said nothing. I remembered their old pact: the post mortems, the pillow talk. ‘When it was over he had to see me,’ Candy continued. ‘He waited until they went out dancing . . . Yes, Ursula still went off to the Olé Bar. That’s when he rang me. You must have been out. Sorry, I should have left a note. We met at L’Express. We didn’t have long. Ursula had made all sorts of threats if he didn’t stay home.’ ‘What sort of threats?’ 222

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‘Hysterics, recriminations — that sort of thing. Roman got back just in time.’ I realised that Roman must have rung Candy while I was leaving Satchell Street and before he returned to the living room. It explained his impatience for me to leave. ‘Why did she go out in the first place?’ I asked. ‘She had a new party dress. You know what she’s like.’ We could both still laugh. ‘What exactly did Ursula say over the phone?’ ‘All sorts of things. Allegations. Apparently I’m the lowest of the low. She’s thinking of going to Stella and the board. That doesn’t worry me — they can sack me if they like — but I was alarmed when Ursula threatened to ring Philip. Roman will be furious when he hears that.’ ‘Did you speak to him just now?’ ‘She wouldn’t let me.’ Candy studied me benignly. ‘Poor Matthew. I wish you hadn’t found out like this. It must seem so sordid. Strange,’ she brooded. ‘You don’t seem surprised.’ ‘Nothing surprises me,’ I said, a kind of lie. ‘I wanted to tell you, but it all happened rather suddenly. I kept saying to Roman that he should tell you, but he didn’t want to bother you. He thinks we’ve let you down . . . that it’s not up to your standard.’ ‘My standard?’ ‘He loves you, Matthew. He believes in you. He knows how wise you are.’ She paused. ‘Now we’re going to rely on you even more. You’ll have to protect us from Ursula . . . and Julia. You’ll be our rock, won’t you?’ ‘I’ll do my best.’ So Candy didn’t know after all. She was as innocent as I was. 223

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Then the telephone rang, but just twice. This happened several times. Finally I disconnected it. Candy hesitated, fretting about Julia. ‘Let’s worry about that in the morning,’ I said. Candy relented, needing sleep. She lent over and kissed me, whispering something. Everything had begun to warp, all the senses. I went to my room. As I was undressing I was overcome by a powerful need to piss. I barely made it to the bathroom and stood over the bowl for more than a minute. This went on all night, every fifteen minutes. It had never happened before. Can your kidneys fail from shock? The pain was intense, the amount of fluid staggering. I lay there waiting for each stabbing rush, wondering if I would be found in the morning, all life drained away. It would be a kind of leached solution. I rose early. Despite the indignities of the night, I felt weirdly alert. Candy emerged soon after, as if she too needed to resume the nocturnal intimacy. We plugged in the phone, willing it to ring and not to ring. Very calmly I told Candy that I’d be moving out as soon as I could find another place to live. I didn’t say why, just that it was time for me to ‘leave home’. I said I’d been contemplating it for months. Nothing would ever change between us, I said. Candy was quiet, concerned. Where did I plan to live? Would I share with someone? Had I told Julia? Further attempts at conversation proving arid, we decided to get away from Valhalla. We thought of seeing a film but tacitly agreed the Capitol was not ideal. We ended up in a new cinema so small you felt obliged to introduce yourself to the other patrons, 224

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except that neither of us felt like speaking to anyone. We sat through a romantic comedy with a cast of pubescents, one of whom reminded me of Max Payne. The puerile theme and narcissistic acting washed over us like necessary irritants. It was enough to be isolated in the dark, not forced to think. I felt completely numb. The only emotion I could summon was reserved for Candy. Her revelation had only deepened our old affection. After weeks of distraction, we were strangely united again. The endgame, so slow in coming, had failed to divide us. Outside the cinema several people recognised Candy. She has always turned heads, but her new stardom makes her even more conspicuous. I wait for the little tic of recognition as people pass her on the street. Attention was the last thing she craved, so we came straight home. Entering the kitchen, both of us glanced at the telephone. There were no pulsing messages. Not that either of us expected to hear from Roman. We knew it would be some time before he was allowed to ring Valhalla. Incongruously, we decided to cook. I took down my copy of Babs’ Feast and chose a dish with chicken and fennel — parodic fare, for neither of us was hungry. We hadn’t used the stove in months. Like robots we moved around the kitchen trying to recall where implements lived. (‘We’ve forgotten the chook,’ Candy shrieked and dashed out to buy one.) What should have taken an hour took three. During the ceremony of trussing we talked lazily, automatically — anything to avert the silence, the silent ringing. Roman’s name wasn’t mentioned, nor what had happened last night. Candy began talking about her late uncle. I asked her how he died, a casual 225

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question that would have been taboo in Julia’s presence. Julia had never mentioned her twin brother to me. ‘He killed himself. With a rifle. Didn’t you know?’ ‘No one tells me anything,’ I said. Candy glanced at me. It had slipped out. ‘He shot himself twice, once in the side, messing it up, then in the head.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Why does anyone kill himself ?’ ‘And Julia?’ ‘What do you think? It was terrible. She adored him. They were inseparable. She was the one who found him. Imagine. She cleaned him up before calling for help. She didn’t want them to see him like that.’ Candy looked at me. ‘Never say anything to Julia. Promise? It was too awful for her.’ ‘Of course.’ Julia rang as we poked at the chicken. We didn’t tell her what had happened. I’m just grateful she’s still away. Had she been home last night, things would have been bloody. I might have been able to dissemble, but Candy would have given the game away. After dinner we resorted to television. Barbra Streisand was in concert and we rushed to switch channels. It was still raining at Wimbledon. We stared at the leaden skies and the sodden strawberries. Cliff Richards was in the stand again, making silly faces and waving at the camera. They expect it to rain all week. What’s new? I don’t care what happens now.

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JULIA March 2 ~ I can’t believe it’s less than nine months since I was in New York. It was blissful being back there, the city of anonymity, without bonds or responsibilities. No one knew who I was; nobody cared; they all kept their distance. On arrival, I thought I’d be there for a fortnight, not close to two months. First I checked into the Plaza, indulged in the odd celebratory martini in the Oak Room, and woke up a few people back home to tell them I’d arrived safely. Then I caught the ferry to New Jersey, intent on finding a bed in the most authentic establishment in Hoboken. The Angel Eyes Hotel, on Fifth Street, was the one. The song, one of my favourites, played continuously in the lobby, the shuddering elevators and the peeling dining room. The proprietor, Mr Hoffmann, hummed it as he took down my details. He told me he’d owned the place since the war — which war I was never quite sure. The Angel Eyes Hotel is just around the corner from 415 Monroe Street, ‘where it all began’. Each morning I 227

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walked past that holiest of lots en route to the subway. Nothing is left of Sinatra’s birthplace, but even the rubble feels grand. Any desire to sing was quickly checked. To quote Juvenal: ‘Orestes may have murdered his mother, but at least he never sang on stage.’ As Candy says, it’s easier to sing Mozart than to harmonise with Sinatra. They play his stuff everywhere. I got to know all the bars in the neighbourhood. Some regulars claimed to have known Sinatra at school or to have introduced him to Nancy. One gaffer reminisced about the night a limousine the length of his diner cruised along Monroe Street and a tinted window was lowered to reveal a pair of startling and oh so blue eyes. I waited for him to mention ‘ectoplasm’. More credible was the testimony of Miss Alice, who has managed the dry cleaner next door to the Angel Eyes Hotel since the Korean War, when business was no doubt brisk. Stroking one of my claret stains with fanatically beringed claws she told me about her days as a bobbysoxer outside the Paramount Theatre in the winter of 1943. ‘It was so cold, darling,’ said bouffant Miss Alice, resting her avoirdupois against a venerable groove in the counter. ‘We stood there shivering on 43rd Street until after Mr Sinatra’s final show. Eleven shows in one day, imagine! That’s history, darling — history. Can you see the likes of Andy Williams or this young Mr Feinstein giving eleven shows in your worst nightmare? Finally Mr Sinatra appeared through the stage door with an exquisite woman on his arm — I frankly doubt that it was Nancy — and floated to his car, flashing us the most wonderful smile. He was so beautiful, so charismatic. And thin! My god, we all wanted to take him home and bounce him on our knee. It was snowing at the time, but none of us felt a thing. Then my friend Mabel from Jefferson Street decided to souvenir Mr Sinatra’s footprint. She found a box of some kind, produced a knife from 228

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her handbag, which was unusual in those days, took the footprint home and kept it in the ice-box. Someone told me later that Mabel had it made into a cast which she keeps in her bedroom, but this I cannot verify. Mabel and I had a falling out when Mr Sinatra married that Marx Brothers showgirl. Still, Mabel started quite a craze. Some wit at the Post said it was one way of keeping the streets free of snow! Don’t you love it? I kept the clipping somewhere. You can see a bit of my head in the crush. I wasn’t tangerine then, let me tell you. Miss Collis, if you laugh like that you’ll make another stain.’ You’ll be astonished to learn that I joined a gym while I was over there. I happened to be feeling perky when they rang one day, and for once publishers receive a discount rather than having to give one away. The owner, a girthy Greek who owned half of SoHo, was soon urging me to publish his Matrix guide, but I affected a kind of dumbbell languor whenever he waddled my way. My new regimen didn’t last long. My commonest posture was the horizontal lounge, sitting by the pool with the Times. Smoking was verboten, so I did it in the sauna: I’m sure it rejuvenates the lungs. The locals were entranced by my snuff habit. When I produced my little silver box two law students asked me what it was like. Citing Coleridge, I said it was the final cause of the human nose. They seemed to think Coleridge was a rap band. I managed to avoid poetry readings, book fairs, writers’ festivals, gallery openings, symposia on intellectual copyright, and anything connected with opera. I began to dress like one of Woody Allen’s bedraggled heroines. I wore galumphing white joggers to work, only changing into sleek Milanese shoes when a flashy compatriot took me out to lunch. I wore little jewellery or perfume but yards of underwear. Make-up was clearly infra dig. 229

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My hotel in Hoboken was adequate, as Beryl would say, white-lipped and all a-trembly. My room was too small for the twin beds that had clearly been built for midgets. But at least I can say I’ve lived in Hoboken. The staff at Concord were agog when I announced I intended to commute from New Jersey. Word had spread that Harold Fotheringay had offered me his duplex on the Upper West side. However, this was far too close to the Lincoln Centre for my liking, and to that other cultural landmark: Stella Anthem’s penthouse, beloved of the women’s magazines. Colleagues were floored by my preference for Hoboken. For once, an office in New York was eerily quiet. It felt like that time when all the lights failed and people thought they were about to die. Harold Fotheringay still ruled from London, but two of his Etonian protégés had crossed the Atlantic, unnerving the natives. A number of bright young things had recently fled to Random or Doubleday. I recognised some of the marsupial editors who emerged on the hour from their cubicles, flexing their bowed backs and rubbing the marks of erasure from their matted cardigans. It goes without saying that no one smoked or swore or copulated. The dear old Pickwick Arms down the road — a frequent lunchtime rendezvous when I was there last — was unpatronised by my colleagues. It was rare to hear anyone confess to so much as a fondness for the occasional sherry. I stood at the window of my cubicle serenading the squirrels and blowing smoke in the direction of Saks. I didn’t have much to do, which suited me fine. I wasn’t missing my authors back home. (‘I think continually of those who are truly grating.’) The Pope and his cohort would have to fend for themselves. After the rigours of The Anthem Memoirs, I deserved a break. Before leaving Melbourne 230

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I had checked the proofs and sent them off to the printer. This left the photo wraps, so in New York I sifted through hundreds from Stella’s archives. How handsome Philip was when he was young: the panther of the Sydney Bar. Not that he had lost his looks, or the Anthemic litheness. Even at seventy-five he made the rest of them look commonplace. There were endless portraits of Roman, such a standby for the newspapers. Most of them were taken when Philip was still in politics. It was difficult to find a photograph of Philip in which the brat didn’t make an appearance — dangling from his shoulder, being led to school for the first time, meeting the Queen, propped on the prime ministerial desk like a gargoyle. How Stella used him to cultivate her own image. There were surprisingly few photographs of Isobel Anthem (had someone culled them?), but Stella appeared in hundreds of them, as the prime minister’s chatelaine and, later, with sundry escorts and husbands. I even came across photographs of the party at Hatfield. I appear in one of them, shot during my conversation with Hal Hutton. In others, Babs, flushed and buxom, gives orders in the kitchen; Belladonna crosses her legs, plainly conquering the cameraman; Little Max sneers like a rock star; and Philip is photographed from every angle, blithe and gaunt. In one bizarre shot our leggy hostess towers over two Hutton aunts whom I remembered from our table. Then I spotted two figures behind the self-conscious trio, almost hidden by ferns. Candy is talking to Roman Anthem. The cat is even smoking a cigarette. This must have been after she sang for him and Philip. The unlikely pair seem quite preoccupied and unaware of the camera. I was still under pressure to use ‘that photograph’ on the front cover. Harold Fotheringay rang me from London to say that its appearance was vital for British sales. ‘Such a charming photograph,’ he said, with the pompous vowels of 231

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a new life peer. ‘Only in your casual land could a child of two totter on to a tarmac and disarm a president virtually at war with your prime minister. We all heard about it, of course. It was tremendously affecting.’ I had to admit there was something poignant, if trivial, about the famous image: Philip lurking in the background, handsome, immaculate and clearly amused, as his sailorsuited grandson took the president’s hand, delighting the old hawk and dispelling the seismic tension. Stella was there too, formidably thin — but only one of her Chanel shoulder pads appears in the photograph, which must gall her to this day. I knew I had to resist Harold. Philip’s ban was fresh in my memory. (‘Use that photo on the cover and my name won’t be next to it.’) I finally persuaded Harold that Philip wouldn’t abide it. For the cover I chose Philip as a young lawyer. As a sop to the sentimentalists, the notorious photograph went inside. I longed to eliminate every trace of Roman, but I wasn’t allowed to do that. ‘Molto wraps please, and lots of the kiddo,’ Roscoe Hunt ordered in one of his eloquent emails. So I selected one hundred images and sent them off to our designer. I’d done my duty. That very day, after dispatching the photographs, I laid eyes for the first time on Rufus F. Karsten Jnr — a vision in seersucker. He was leaning against the photocopier one afternoon when I got back from lunch at Michael’s. Rufus is a foot taller than the original RFK, slim-legged as a cyclist and chesty as a mannequin. I could see firm tanned skin through his neat white shirt. Descended from good liberal Southern stock, Rufus is blond, well-toned, touchingly moled, conducively susceptible to alcohol and so young I don’t want to know about it. He has a doctorate in Jacobean drama and manners from the gods. It shames me 232

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to recall that within a week we had moved from the photocopier to the compactus and thence, yes, to the Pickwick Arms. I was seduced by Rufus’s wondrous hands, masterly grip and laconic genius for sex: not unlike, it occurs to me after all this time, Stevie Nicholls (whose first autobiography, Elyot Waters happily informed me, was reprinting within days of publication. Elyot was handling his publicity, so to speak). Rufus had been with Concord for less than six months. Apparently I was his first Yankee girlfriend. He found me exotic and blunt (I can’t imagine why); I found him eager and undressable. He was editing First Fiction, but I knew that wouldn’t suit him for long. Literary by inclination, he seemed destined for a university press. He was so smart I knew he’d end up running one. I grew fonder and fonder of RFK, meltingly so, if you can believe that. I had to remind myself that I was only there temporarily. Rufus seemed to be having fun, though he sloped off to the Catskills most weekends for some much-needed sleep and kayaking. On his return — stirringly grazed, reliably horny — I whisked him off to a new bar, plied him with vodka and caviar, then bedded him for more hours than I was putting in at Concord. We did it at his place in Brooklyn mostly, but sometimes we spent a dirty weekend in Hoboken. One Friday, Rufus poked his head into my office, leaning against the jamb like a tousled angel in Botticelli. I closed my journal intime and flicked my Marlboro towards St Patrick’s Cathedral. Sweetly, Rufus informed me that Independence Day was coming up, as if I’d never heard of it. Rufus proposed a long weekend in Washington. We could visit the Smithsonian and traipse through the White House like happy young Republicans. Rufus had a sister there. She was secretary to the secretary of a Secretary of State. We could stay with Lois. Picturing little Lois’s pygmy apartment, the 233

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dragging lunch à trois, I said I was so fatiguée I preferred to stay in Hoboken and to celebrate the national day in bed. Rufus’s disappointment was touching. He stood there coltishly, strumming the door with his long tanned fingers, consuming me with his wide hazel eyes, before returning to his latest authorling. Night and day they queued up outside his office with their knotted manuscripts, in love with Rufus’s dimples and convictions. While Rufus was in Washington, Juliet Cardinal took me to lunch at Harry Cipriani’s. Jules was passing through en route to Bucharest, of all places. She had resigned from the Opera to pursue a Romanian bass with whom she had canoodled when he sang Boris Godunov in Sydney. I knew the whole thing was doomed. The Romanian was notoriously manic and married with five children. But Jules, skittish girl, was determined to prise him away from Mrs Godunov. Eventually we talked about Candy. Jules had been to Sydney for a Strauss concert hastily scheduled after Candy’s success in Salome. Both of us were alarmed about Candy’s voice. What was Digby Danton thinking — or that interfering Stella Anthem? I had warned Candy about accepting too much work before the Adelaide Sieglindes in November and December. I had a good mind to ring Digby and accuse him of vocicide. Jules thought that Candy looked strained in Sydney. She told me about Roman Anthem’s behaviour. He had promised to attend the concert but cried off that afternoon when Belladonna threatened to flog his tools or slash her ballet slippers. His sudden exit must have done wonders for Candy’s morale. Jules saw her before she went on and said Candy seemed stoic but tremulous. Jules had dinner with Roman and Ursula when she got back to Melbourne. She found Roman hollow-eyed and subdued. 234

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‘Have you ever noticed how dull the beautiful can be?’ Jules asked, admiring our square-jawed waiter with the frankness of a tourist. I said I had, but by then Jules’s attention was straying. ‘Isn’t that Bianca Jagger over there?’ It was. She was always there. ‘And who’s that old guy at the bar.’ I told her it was Philip Johnson, the architect. He was always there too. It’s where people hung out when their careers were largely over. Gently I steered Jules back to the terrible topic — her dinner with Roman. ‘Roman hardly said a word all night,’ she said. ‘He seemed very black. I began to worry about him. He’s drinking a lot too.’ The thought occurred to me that Roman might drink himself to death. I couldn’t forgive the cur for upsetting Candy before her concert. ‘She’s going,’ said Jules. ‘Who is?’ ‘Bianca. Isn’t she lovely.’ I turned around, like everyone else in the restaurant. Bianca Jagger was about to depart with a much older man — not Philip Johnson, as it happened. Before she left she did a kind of slow pirouette so that we could all admire her. Mind back on the job, Jules said that Candy wouldn’t discuss the romance with anyone. She had lost seven or eight kilograms since Salome. Jules wasn’t sure how much Stella Anthem knew, or wished to know. There was still talk of her flying Candy to New York. That would be the perfect solution. I decided to stay on in New York so that I could keep an eye on Candy and cure her of this romantic nonsense. Rufus could introduce her to a nice Southern boy. Unless of course this new infatuation suited Stella. 235

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Perhaps she would bring Roman with her. She was perverse enough to sacrifice Candy in order to thwart Belladonna. There was also Matthew to consider. I wondered how he and Candy were surviving, rattling around in Valhalla? How morose Matthew had seemed when he took me to the airport. He was evasive, keen for me to move through the gates. (I remembered a thousand other departures when he would linger by the door, keen for a last leaning look.) Matthew had been pale from lack of sleep and incapable, I noticed, of pronouncing certain words, a slight problem for an actor. I felt a pang of impotence as we said goodbye. How wretched to be eclipsed by an Adonis without qualities. As soon as I got back to the Concord office after my lunch with Jules I rang Matthew to tell him all about it. Not listening and sounding quite ill, he said he had decided to leave Valhalla as soon as he could find somewhere else to live. It was time, he said — his only stated reason. For once, I didn’t know what to say. Matthew seemed blank, unreachable. I refused to countenance the idea of his leaving home, and resolved to stop it. But at that moment I felt powerless, almost — almost — afraid. God knows how we poor flawed patient suffering animals survive at times. As my Goncourt boys say, ‘How disgusting it all is.’

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MATTHEW March 3 ~ After the confrontation, Roman kept his distance, doubtless under orders. This suited me, but not Candy. Julia extended her stay in New York to be with RFK. The minute I spoke to Rufus on the phone I liked him, especially his smooth accent and dry humour. There was talk of him attending the Ring in Adelaide. Julia wanted me to join them there. I said yes, only because November felt such a long way off — improbable. Julia rang most evenings, always getting the time wrong. I didn’t mind. I was never asleep. Candy, tortured by Roman’s silence, phoned Satchell Street a few times, with unpleasant results. Ursula, who had deferred her studies and taken to her bed, answered the phone each time and let her have it. Their brief meeting on the Wednesday after the bitter night had been grotesque. Ursula had accused her of every sin in the book: envy, disloyalty, avarice, careerism. She joked about ‘the Anthem fortune’ and said Candy would never get her hands on it. She accused her of baby-snatching, 237

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conveniently forgetting that she was five years older than Candy. (Candy tried to laugh it all off: ‘I’ve never been called a hooker or a double-crossing bar singer before!’) After a week of this, Roman contacted Candy at the Opera. They arranged to have dinner at L’Express. Georges and Violette, overjoyed to see them together again, opened a bottle of Sancerre. Roman told Candy about the tense truce at Satchell Street. He had moved into the ‘sleep-out’, an alcove that normally housed Ursula’s hat collection. Relations between Ursula and the Bolivian were volatile. On top of everything else, Roman had had to cope with Ernesto’s fury on the night of the row. It was only then that Ernesto had twigged that Roman and Ursula were lovers of a kind. Previously he had thought they were co-tenants, or unlikely siblings. After kicking one of Ursula’s wigs across the room, Ernesto ran from the house saying that he had been ‘dishonoured’. (‘Very Verdi!’ Candy said.) Ursula followed, pleading with him. Ernesto was bamboozled by all the links and misalliances. Where did I fit into things, he wanted to know. Was I her cousin or Roman’s brother? And what about Candy, the fatherless one? It was all too much. Whatever Ursula said or did to him that night clearly worked, for Ernesto came back next day, sulky at first, then more cocksure, proud of the cuckolding. A new pattern was established. While Ursula and Ernesto went out dancing or shopping (ribbons and bows for her, cummerbunds for the Bolivian, generous cummerbunds), Candy and Roman snuck in lunches and walks along the nearest pier. I had no idea if they were sleeping together; at least Candy spared me that detail. Reluctantly, she felt obliged to tell Julia what had happened, before Babs spilt the beans. We both feared that Julia would come straight home, but she held off, though she was plainly torn. Eventually she announced that she was 238

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thinking of staying in New York for another month, until the launch of Philip Anthem’s book. Concord was dumbfounded by Julia’s absence. Roscoe Hunt, scenting a rival, kept phoning me for news. What did I know about this Rufus F. Karsten Jnr? Roscoe, never one to mope for long, invited Candy and me to spend a week at his house in Kangaroo Valley following her Strauss concert. I told him I wasn’t going to Sydney. I knew Roman would attend the concert if he could. I also knew that Kangaroo Valley wasn’t far from Philip Anthem’s house on the coast. Roman was bound to visit him on the way to Sydney. I had no wish to spend an entire weekend yearning southward while Roscoe flirted with Candy. Candy, for her part, politely declined Roscoe’s offer, saying she was always dreary company before an engagement. Roscoe said he would go on calling her until she agreed to have lunch with him. Julia was duly outraged when Candy related this. Elyot Waters, now Julia’s secretary, rang each day for an update on ‘Miss Collis’. God knows why he persisted; I’d never felt so slow-witted in my life. I could tell why Julia had poached Elyot from Babs. He was quick, dry and restoratively wicked. ‘We should have sex some time,’ he said one day, apropos of nothing. ‘I don’t think so, Elyot,’ I said, and he changed the subject as if he’d just been told that there was no vanilla ice cream left. Elyot was avid for gossip about the Opera and scathing about Digby Danton: ‘the Danny Kaye of Diaghilevs’. I cut him off when he asked about Candy and ‘National Anthem’. They all knew now; it was just another titillating topic at Concord and in the Green Room. Then Ursula began ringing at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes she spoke, sounding blurry; others she hung up. She was furious with Roman for seeing Candy again (he still told her everything). Then Candy left for 239

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Sydney, followed by Roman, and the calls became more intemperate, reaching new heights of absurdity when Ursula accused Candy of abducting Marilyn. (‘I haven’t seen your cat,’ Candy wailed. ‘I’m in Sydney.’) Ursula called Candy names, some of them in Spanish (Ernesto was evidently coaching her). Then she burst into tears and slammed down the phone. ‘I wish I could sob like that,’ Candy said. ‘It would come in handy in Traviata.’ It was hard to take Ursula’s tantrums seriously. We’d seen them before, Candy quite close up, when they were mates. Ursula is one of the great survivors, we knew that. If only Roman would realise. But all communication had ceased on that front. He would have to find out in his own time. ‘Injured women are all the same,’ Julia philosophised when Candy rang her up to tell her about the latest tirade. ‘They never forgive the culprit, even when the man crawls back home with his dick between his legs, as your Romeo appears to have done. Ursula knows he won’t stay for long. He may be gormless, but he’s still a male. Belladonna will never forgive you. Remember when I bumped into stoutcalved Frau Pollnitz at Frankfurt, years after my flingette at the fair with the reprehensible Rudi? The things she threw at me! Remaindered wives have the longest memories.’ Roman proved less immune to Ursula’s threats than the rest of us. Whatever she said to him when he reached Sydney clearly worked. Without a word of explanation he was on a Greyhound bus back to Melbourne a few hours before Candy’s recital. Candy rang me from the hotel, sounding bleaker than she had since the row. I think that’s when she realised what she’d let herself in for, how hopeless it was. She said she felt diminished, doubled-up. ‘I miss him, my body misses him,’ she said softly, unaware what she was saying. She wanted to know if that was how I had felt when 240

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Chris Killen went away without a word. ‘How long did you feel this way?’ she asked. Years, years, I wanted to say — until Roman came along. ‘God help us,’ Candy said, devout as one of her adulterous heroines. ‘How pitiful I’ve become,’ she went on. ‘Not that I blame Roman. It’s my own fault. I’ve never felt like this, you see. I thought I had, but now I know what it’s really like. I just want to go to sleep. After the concert, perhaps. I mustn’t cancel though. That will come, I’m sure, but not yet. I mustn’t succumb. Imagine what Julia would say.’ Fortunately, Candy had moral support in Sydney. Stella Anthem was there. She knew all about Candy and Roman. Candy had felt obliged to tell her after Ursula’s initial outburst. She wasn’t sure how Stella would react. If she objected, Candy planned to resign from the Opera and pull out of the Ring, simple as that. But Stella didn’t seem to mind; she wasn’t even shocked. In fact she seemed relieved and wished them well. (Stella probably knew about the affair already. Roman wouldn’t have told her, but she had her spies.) According to Julia, Stella only approved because of Candy’s enhanced profile, but this was too cynical. Stella had never liked Ursula. On the eve of the Strauss recital, Stella flew to Sydney sans the mogul and hosted a dinner party for Candy and Roman. Russell Lacey was there, along with a few other personages whose names I forget now. Even Julia was impressed. After Roman’s disappearance the next day, Stella was tactful and solicitous. Much to Julia’s relief she still wanted to take Candy to New York. But Candy didn’t feel strong enough to alternate between these two lionesses and limped back to Valhalla, preferring to be miserable in her own home. I began to think it was all over; that now we could all get on with our lives, equable but Romanless. But just when I thought it might be finished Roman 241

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always came back for more. He rang up a fortnight later, bashful but garrulous. I wanted to hand him over to Candy, but he went on talking. He said he missed me — missed our talks. He asked if he could see me. I cut him off and went upstairs to find Candy. She ran to the phone, of course. They talked for hours. She probably went to him that night, met him in a park. I don’t know. I wasn’t listening. A few nights later, on my own at Valhalla, I thought I heard a motorbike splutter into the cul-de-sac and half expected a knock on the door, as on other nights. None came, and I thought no more about it. Moving through the house later, I sensed that someone was out there on the street watching me. I moved away and drew the curtains. No more, I said. No more. No more.

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JULIA March 5 ~ Who would have thought it possible? There I was — on a night made for romance or lines of vodka martinis — waiting to be collected by my seersuckered scion of the South and taken to 92nd Street Y for a poetry reading by one of his old college chums. Just when I thought it safe to go outside again — away from Kelvin Pope and his Orphic ilk — RFK had confessed in the hustings of my arms to a secret yen for all things lyrical. The darling boy often went to bed with Elizabeth Bishop and Emily Dickinson — chaste company. Emboldened by my confession that I had once published poetry, Rufus groped me like a groupie and demanded to know what it was like to work with poets. Paraphrasing Carlyle on journalism, I told him I would prefer to wash in a filthy puddle than to mix with poets. But my remarks about the venery of the versifiers had no effect. Only long exposure to the paranoiacs would disabuse RFK. Rufus’s college buddy, the jockishly named Josh J. Jefferson, was to read from his new book, Convolutions. Rufus 243

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warned me it could take a while. Later there was to be a massed dinner for the Jeffersonians at a Hungarian restaurant famous for its meat platter. But I could refuse Rufus nothing that day. Soon after we had got back from our lunchtime gyrations at the SoHo gym, the President had summoned Rufus to his office and made him VicePresident of First Fiction. That Rufus of all people, with his poetical propensities, should be made a Veep (the youngest in Concord’s history) was an irony lost on most people. He came straight up to tell me and we celebrated in my cubicle. This all felt like the opening minutes in a Tom Cruise movie. I felt like Nicole Kidman: all curls, but rather more expression. Then Rufus went off to phone his mom. I had spoken to Tammy once or twice and liked her. Rufus was keen for us to meet, but I hesitated, aware that Mrs Karsten was a year younger than I was. Best to save that one up for later. Later the President invited both of us to the boardroom for a celebratory drink, but I cried off, saying I had to write the Anthem blurb, and sent Rufus off on his own. It was his moment, not mine. I didn’t want our liaison to complicate things for him. I sat in my cell feeling virtuous as a nun and primly revelled in my young Veep’s rise and rise. I knew I would miss him when I went home. Indeed, I would miss him more than I thought possible. What a surprise to discover that at the age of a hundred and fifty I could still be shaken and stirred. As I sat there, a fax came through from Elyot Waters. The Zone had just included me in a fatuous list of the Fifty Most Important Australians (Prentice’s work, I presumed). Roscoe and The Pope, neither of them laurelled, would be furious. The Huttons naturally headed the list, Felicity Martin was included for her good works, and there were also countless sportsmen, led by The Body. Not one scientist or educator appeared on the list. Gingerly, Elyot mentioned 244

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that my short profile contained a sly reference to the infamous spider dance. This gave new meaning to national importance. Presumably it was Roscoe’s revenge. The sole prime minister deemed worthy of inclusion was, rightly, Philip Anthem. Two decades after his retirement he still had an impact and glamour that the Raglans of this world couldn’t match. I rang Philip most days, to check on him. He always teased me for staying away when he most needed me. But The Anthem Memoirs was safely printing (all fifty thousand copies), and the jacket looked fine, even without the celebrated brat on the front. We had survived the legal process. Concord’s lawyers — Cerberus and Sons (‘the dogs of libel’) — had queried two hundred and ninety-three passages. Philip’s political contemporaries were deemed fair game, including the malcontents in his own party who had tried to destabilise him during the Fracas, but the lawyers worried about his portraits of peripheral figures. They enjoined us to omit a facetious passage about Philip’s formidable sister, Annabel Newsome, who for some reason blamed Philip for Isobel Anthem’s sudden death soon after he became prime minister. (It was Annabel who had commissioned a vitriolic biography while Philip was living on Patmos.) One flip reference to the Melbourne Club, bastion of anti-Anthem ferment, was sacrificed. Cerberus, we knew, was a loyal member, and at one thousand dollars per letter Roscoe wasn’t going to argue with him. Philip met all these requests for changes or excisions with a kind of gallows bravado. ‘Let them sue,’ he said in a fax. ‘Tell your masters they won’t have to pay for a QC. I can defend myself in court. Besides, I’ll probably be dead when the book comes out.’ Despite this, Philip was planning a holiday in Greece after the sixty-day author tour stipulated in the contract. I kept 245

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hoping he would tell me that he had decided to take Roman with him. If only he would get Roman out of the country for six months — better still, marry him off to some doe-eyed islander and leave him there. But Philip avoided any reference to his grandson. He knew what I thought of Roman.

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MATTHEW March 6 ~ I kept my distance from Roman. I had some radio work: another AIDS melodrama; a suite of smackhead sonnets. I felt calmer in the studio, away from Valhalla. My mates in the production room knew something was wrong, but they indulged me. Then I scooped a voice-over for a new brand of toilet paper, which paid wickedly well. Strangely, I began dreaming about Matthew Collis. I hadn’t done this since my early teens, when I became obsessed in my brotherless fashion with the missing Collis. In those days Matt always appeared in the distance: stranded on an island, moving through a colonnade or on the opposite railway platform — that sort of thing. Because I’d never seen a photo of Matt he assumed various guises — increasingly handsome ones. It had always felt strange knowing next to nothing about Julia’s only sibling. Even Babs knew little about him, or about his death, except what she and Roger had gleaned from the newspaper reports of the inquest when they first got to 247

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know Julia. All Babs would say, when I asked her in my teens, was that the beautiful boy had died ‘horribly, horribly’. Starved of sources and knowing it would be foolhardy to ask Julia, I sought out clues about Matthew Collis. Christmas and birthdays were good for biographical titbits. They helped me to construct a cubist portrait of the boy: the musical flair; the precocious compositions; the illnesses and spells in hospital; the hole in the heart; the photographic memory he shared with Julia; the double-jointedness; the proneness to accidents; the mania for heights; the Icaruslike leaps as a boy; the adolescent anarchism; the horror of guns (so poignant in retrospect). I must have been half in love with Matt, or an idea of Matt, the awkward absence in Julia’s albums. Or did I flatter myself that I’d been recruited to succeed the lost youth after whom I’d been named? Morbidly I fantasised about Matt’s funeral. I saw myself in the cortège, watched the young veiled inconsolable sister kiss the coffin and aim a funereal rose. Now, ten years later, my dreams had a sly serial quality. Matt was always unattainable, on craggy verges, dizzy pedestals, even a trapeze. He was pensive, hostile. Once I came too close and he abused me. ‘Leave me alone,’ he said in a foreign language that I understood without having to translate. ‘Why are you stalking me? You don’t belong here. Leave my family alone.’ Incorrigible, I moved closer, seeking proof, wanting to finger the bullet wound. Just then Matt was changed into Roman and flew with ponderous wings across a trompe l’oeil sky. It was always theatrical, and Julia was usually directing. Most of my dreams are stagey, seen through a proscenium arch. Humiliating though they were, those dreams of Matt Collis were preferable to the other sort: endless screenings of Roman; joyless, erotic, clutching, seeded with bad faith, full of rejection and self-loathing. 248

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Julia, meanwhile, was still in New York with Rufus Karsten. I’m always relieved when she starts a new affair. That’s when she’s happiest. Now I had added reason for wanting the romance to last. I hoped that Rufus would detain Julia in New York for months. There was no point in her witnessing our malaise. Julia couldn’t help us now. We were beyond her influence, her coercion. ‘Darling,’ Julia purred down the phone one night, ‘if you ask me how long I’ll be away one more time I’ll start to think you don’t want me back. Have you sublet my room or something?’ Then, subtly, things began to change. Roman and Candy got back together, or so it seemed. (I didn’t ask for details.) I still hadn’t seen Roman since the row, but the overtures soon began. Nothing I said or did, nothing I failed to say or do — no tacit denial of a shared past, no businesslike transcription of messages for Candy — had any effect. Roman seemed to prefer me this way. Instead of being affronted by my coolness, he would ring back next day and try another tack. I suppose it was a kind of challenge. I was conscious of acting — acting my way out of a situation, civil but dispassionate. I knew the only way to survive was to leave them to it. I knew I had to become someone else, and to do so in the same city as Candy and Roman — in the same house even, until I could find somewhere else to live. I thought about going overseas. Julia would lend me the money if I asked her. But where to go, what to do? I didn’t know how to leave Valhalla yet. I dreaded my first encounter with Roman, but in the end it proved oddly bland. I knew that if I could ignore his voice, his eyes, his wrists — the Roman reality — I would be all right. Weeks after the spat, Roman came over unannounced to tell Candy about some hullabaloo at Satchell Street. I fell away like a lapsed devotee. Then he came again and again and again. The meetings felt wooden, unreal. This was black 249

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practice for Beckett’s phlegmatic Lucky. I began to feel liberated in a dull sort of way, as if the previous eight months hadn’t happened. By denying Roman, by practising this ruthless avoidance (once, I swear, on answering the phone, even asking him to repeat his name before putting Candy on), I was able to function, to prepare for Godot, to maintain a halfway interesting conversation without tripping over every other word. Life was over, a rite without meaning. I knew that; I didn’t delude myself. But there was a kind of zen in this futility, and at least there would be no second collapse, no post-Killen humiliation, no men in white coats. I was on my own again, back in that primal state where I had always belonged. And I was working at last, full of weird energy, purpose, always looking for distractions, day and night. I usually made sure I was out when Roman came round, but one night I was home when they got back. They had been to one of Digby’s parties and were high on margaritas and god knows what else. I was standing on a ladder, painting the oval dining room. Roman, waving a magnum of champagne, held the ladder and tried to engage me in conversation, as if my silence was a bore and it was high time the three of us resumed our old intimacy. I’d never seen him so drunk. Sensing my unease, Candy made an excuse and led Roman to her room. That night, lying in bed, I wondered why I had stayed at Valhalla after the blow. I began to doubt my resolve. Had I really postponed my departure to keep Candy company? I should have packed a bag and headed off that night. But I stayed of course, as did Roman, faintly audible in the next room. He left before dawn, quietly closing the front door behind him and creeping down the path beneath my window. Candy went out too, earlier than usual, as if she couldn’t face me over breakfast. For the first time in my life I had no desire to see her either. I washed the champagne 250

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glasses, then, unable to stop myself, climbed the stairs and entered Candy’s room. She had flung back the doona and opened the window to air the room, which still had a young man’s ponderous smell. I moved towards the wide heaped bed and ran my hands over the mattress. It was stiff with Roman’s semen, liberally spilt. I traced each jet, needing this final opulent proof of his unattainability. But I stayed, I stayed. I went back into the dining room and took up my paintbrush. I didn’t move out. And so we went on living voyeuristically, incestuously. And we all paid in the end. Especially Roman. It was clear that Ursula’s demands were placing strains on Candy and Roman’s relationship. It became more difficult for them to get together. A couple of months after the storm they stopped meeting altogether. Roman kept on ringing me, always choosing times when he knew Candy would be seeing her vocal teacher. Finally, tentatively, steeling himself, he asked me if I wanted to go out one night and check out a new band. Madly I heard myself saying yes. After two months of stabbing closure to the Anthem charm, I had relaxed my guard. I knew it was insane. ‘Wear your leather. We’ll go on my bike,’ Roman said excitedly, ringing off. And so it began again. I convinced myself that Roman and Candy must have decided it was over between them; too hard with Ursula mad in pursuit. I didn’t tell Candy about my conversation with Roman. That’s what it had come to: lies and delusions. The only thing that mattered was that I would see Roman again. His voice on the other end of the phone had been a shiver, imploring me. ‘Wear black,’ he’d said. ‘I like you in black.’ And that was all. After so much hurt and demoralisation you become a kind of double, or traitor. It wasn’t enough, I knew it would only lead to grief, but it was everything. Everything. 251

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JULIA March 8 ~ My American idyll went on much longer than expected. I was enjoying my new life in New York. One day I gave Roscoe Hunt a fright and said I was thinking of resigning and staying on indefinitely. I was still living at the Angel Eyes Hotel. Each morning I took the train into Manhattan. Spurred on by Rufus, I was reading voraciously, mainly biographies of my goddesses. I also introduced Rufus to Proust and the darling Goncourts. Rufus tried to interest me in some of his first novels, but I drew the line at that. Besides, Rufus was so fuckable, propped up in bed with that hairless athletic chest and those shapely brown calves. This was not the time for the chiselled nuances of novelists straight out of college. Slowly I would remove his tortoise-shell glasses, retie his manuscripts with the pink ribbons they still use over there, and concentrate the light. Diligent though Rufus was, his complaints were invariably short-lived. Then Rufus went to Memphis to visit his other sister, who was about to have her first child. Judging by the photographs 252

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he e-mailed to me, his sister, shaped like the Capitol, was about to produce two future presidents, not just one. They still think like that in America. I wondered if Philip had harboured similar ambitions for his eldest grandson. I hoped not, for his sake. What a disappointment that would have been. Years ago there had been vulgar speculation about an Anthem dynasty. One scribe had predicted that Stella Anthem would stand for the Senate (‘Gandhis Down Under’ was the memorable headline) only to learn next day that she was about to marry Hal Hutton, which rather ruled out the need for public office. Rufus told me the entire Karsten clan was gathered in Memphis for the birth. Sweetly he invited me to join them, but I declined. I told him I was afraid of blood (far-fetched I know, but it was all I could think of at the time). I’d had enough childbirth for one lifetime. Candy’s entrance may have been surprisingly smooth, but Matthew’s was a real bloodbath, not helped by Roger Light’s clumsy ministrations, which I had to abort, so to speak. The only consolation that day was the gas. Babs and I took it in turns. I’ll never forget the look on the nurse’s face when she checked the tank. ‘My, what big lungs you have,’ she said to Babs. While Rufus was away, Stella Anthem came to town, rating a mention in ‘Talk of the Town’, which must have thrilled her. Stella didn’t bring Candy with her, despite my hopes. I was worried about Candy. I hadn’t heard from her since the Sydney concert. I knew I should go home. They both needed me, even if they didn’t know it. If it wasn’t for Rufus I would have been on the next plane. Matthew never rang me, but he sent long desultory letters. I was perplexed by this switch until I recalled Cicero’s maxim: ‘A letter does not blush.’ Matthew even sent them by ordinary mail, not fax, to delay communication. Matthew’s letters were full of evasions but one bore a dual clue, buried 253

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in a postscript. He reminded me he was planning to leave Valhalla, and he mentioned Roman Anthem for the first time in months. I defamed the latter in my reply, but made no comment about Matthew’s planned defection. This wasn’t the right time for remote strictures. They’d have to wait until I got back to Valhalla. But there was no way I would allow Matthew to leave Valhalla. That wasn’t a good idea at all. To quote Stendhal: ‘Everything can be acquired in solitude, except character.’

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MATTHEW March 8 ~ Within weeks of that first black-clad outing, Roman and I were inseparable again. Julia was still in the States, and Candy was preparing to leave for Adelaide. She would be gone until the final Ring Cycle in December. So I’d have Valhalla to myself for three months. I fantasised about Roman moving in with me, sharing my bed, nailing everything that shook. Most nights Roman collected me on his motorbike. We always chose places where no one was likely to know us: crummy pubs, pizzerias, old cinemas. Roman had been doing some work for Digby Danton. His transformation of Digby’s city loft was a bit of a joke at the Opera. They reckoned the only reason why Digby, famously predatory, hadn’t pounced was because of Stella Anthem, but I doubted this. Despite Stella’s patronage of the Opera, Digby struck me as being about the only man in Melbourne who wasn’t afraid of Mrs Hutton. One night Roman and I delivered another row of 255

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cupboards. Digby’s kitchen already had acres of them, though he was famous for refusing to cook. His parties were always catered for — often by Babs. Still, Digby paid well, invariably doubling the quote, despite Roman’s protests. ‘Not another word, dexterous boy,’ Digby drawled. ‘What would your mother say if I didn’t pay you adequately?’ Digby’s capacity for alcohol and chemicals was as awesome as some of his productions. On the glass coffee table that night stood a jug of something with two shiny glasses nudging each other — one for him, one for Roman. (Digby always forgot about me.) He filled the glasses and lolled on a vast ottoman like a wicked whale. His witticisms always made both of us feel thick. Roman even made a joke about it, wondering why Digby put up with him. ‘Nonsense,’ Digby said, humouring him. ‘Who else does it quite like you? We love your piano hinges and your laminate, don’t we . . . Matthew? Now iodine those masterful hands and smile in that angelic way of yours at my puerile jokes.’ (Digby really spoke like that. He’d done a lot of Coward at university before retreating backstage.) Digby had been away in Sydney. While he was gone he’d let a Polish string quartet use his loft. He told us about the liberties they had taken, the orgies in his bedroom (the quartet fast swelling to an octet). ‘I don’t care if people fuck in my flat,’ Digby boomed, ‘but I wish they wouldn’t do it near my Robert Hunter. He, more than most painters, shows every stain. Why didn’t they choose my Whiteley. You could never tell with Brett.’ The musicians had also drunk Digby’s Courvoisier. ‘Naughty, thirsty Poles,’ he sighed. But there was always a fresh supply of liquor. Digby poured us three of the strongest martinis I had ever tasted. Each inebriated olive was like a warning, which we failed to heed. I noticed that Roman drank greedily, as though intent on getting drunk. 256

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Mischievously Digby asked him about Candy. Roman, head drooping for the first time in weeks, said he hadn’t spoken to her, but meant to do so. ‘So you should,’ Digby teased him. ‘She misses her fan.’ Then he wanted to know about Julia. ‘How is the empress of darkness?’ he asked, looking at me. ‘Will she be coming home soon, or is she really applying for a green card, as they hinted in the Bulletin?’ Digby wanted to take us out for dinner but we declined, preferring to be on our own. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ said Digby, closing the massive leathern doors, picked up from a cathedral. We decided against L’Express (even dear old Georges and Violette were too attentive for our liking) and went to a Thai restaurant by the river. Drinking beer with our tom yam, we raved on like maniacs. After such a long interval there was so much to say, so much to find out, so much to savour. Roman wanted to know how I’d spent those two months; what I’d read, who I’d seen. Roman talked openly about the impasse at Satchell Street. He said it was like a kind of paralysis. The one person we didn’t discuss was Candy. We were surprised when Lady Martin came over to our table and spoke to us. It turned out she’d been there all the time. She asked Roman to do a few odd jobs for her. (‘Arcadia is peeling,’ she said, fiddling with her pearl choker in that self-throttling way of hers. ‘Do come round and touch it up.’) Silent, I watched the pair of them, tipsily proud to be out with Roman. God knows what Felicity Martin made of it all, but for me, at that swoony moment, it was as if the bitter preceding months hadn’t happened and Roman and I were a besotted if mismatched couple meeting a fond aunt. I liked the way Roman introduced me, grinning boyishly. I liked his crisp white shirt, vaguely buttoned, exposing his long white mannerist neck. He was taking more 257

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trouble with his clothes, even ironing them. Lady Martin noticed too and teased him about it. When she left Roman slumped on his chair and gulped down his beer. ‘You’ve gone grey,’ I said. ‘It’s just . . .’ ‘What?’ ‘I don’t know . . . it’s Felicity . . . all these nice old ladies who think they know me and don’t . . . responsibilities . . . family stuff . . . you know . . . all that,’ Roman stumbled in a kind of verbal impasto. ‘No, I don’t know, but I’m not sure I’m going to find out tonight.’ ‘You handle it so much better than I do — charming people, I mean.’ ‘You’re just flattering me in the hope I’ll buy you more beer.’ ‘I’m paying tonight,’ Roman said firmly. I joked about taking him away. ‘Please do,’ Roman said earnestly. ‘I’ve been here too long.’ I knew what he meant. He wasn’t alluding to the restaurant, the world of the Martins and the Digbys and the Huttons and the Anthems, but to a culture, a past, heavy with associations and expectations. He had been there too long. It was time to move on. ‘Suppose we just vanished,’ Roman said, staring at the creepy crayfish in their tank. ‘What do you think?’ I let it go. But I was moved by what he’d said. Maybe it wasn’t so fanciful after all. Maybe I wasn’t imagining it. Neither of us wanted to go home, so I took Roman to a bar in Fitzroy. I hadn’t been there since the days of Chris Killen — eight years before. It felt odd mentioning CK to Roman, but he didn’t pursue the subject. We stood outside in the queue, rapidly sobering up in the cool air. Then the man 258

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on the door spotted Roman and waved us forward, dazzled by what he saw. He stamped our brows, which glowed for the rest of the night. We stood at the bar drinking beer. On one huge video screen four wrestlers sloshed around in a mud pit. More popular was footage of athletes being rubbed down in slow motion. Someone must have sold it on the black market. I recognised one of the footballers: Stevie Nicholls — Julia’s new author. His shapely gleaming thighs were a big hit with the crowd. Bored, we went downstairs and watched a bedraggled drag act in the Arena de Dance. For one awful moment I thought it was Ursula up on the stage slavering into her microphone and pretending to be Marilyn Monroe. But the padded boy was just one of many Marilyns. I stood next to the railing, watching the rapt dancers. Roman was behind me, rocking on a stool. It was noisy in the bar and he couldn’t hear me, so he slipped his hand around my chest and drew me closer towards him. ‘What did you say?’ he screamed. I turned towards him and whispered into his ear, creating a sudden frisson, which he shared too. I was resting against his legs, trusting. I moved my hand along his corded neck and touched his angular jaw with its midnight growth. He was staring at the dancers, inscrutable in the pulsing light. I can’t say how long we stood there, not speaking, his arms around my waist. Finally, with a tremor of uncertainty or impatience even, I wrenched myself free and yelled, ‘Do you want to dance?’ ‘I don’t dance.’ ‘Not even tonight?’ ‘Not even tonight.’ ‘Let’s go then.’ ‘Where?’ ‘Take me to Bondi.’ I could see Roman walking into the surf at dawn, fully clothed. 259

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‘On my bike?’ ‘Take me to the lake then.’ We were improvising now. Neither of us wanted it to end. The lake was another old haunt of mine. I hadn’t been there for years. Though this time I didn’t mention Roman’s forerunner. Roman wanted to walk around the lake. Given our languid mood and wayward gait, it took two hours. There was no moon, no traffic, only the steeples of poplars and the odd spying swan. ‘Go to bed,’ we cried, our voices drifting across the lake, forming rings. Little was said, though Roman did ask when Julia was due back. ‘Soon, I guess,’ I said, watching him. ‘The big launch is in a fortnight. That will be interesting.’ ‘What a pair we are,’ Roman ventured. ‘All these women in our lives.’ Ahead of us stood the motorbike, at an odd angle. Roman took me home, weaving down empty streets. Candy’s light was still on at Valhalla. I didn’t invite Roman in; nor did he want to come in. He stayed on the bike, but switched off the engine. For once we looked at each other without any awkwardness. ‘Soon?’ he asked simply. ‘Soon.’ Then he kissed me deeply, assuredly, as if it were natural. Roman was back next day. It was compulsive now; he couldn’t stay away. We spent the whole day together and ended up at the Blue Wheel for a few games of pool. Then we went to the St Kilda breakwater. There was a strike on, and the bay was full of container ships. I thought of all the stranded Slavs watching us. We were so comfortable we hardly spoke. So much was going on between us even the silences were thumping. We sat there on a rock listening to the chiming yachts in the marina, the hissing of water 260

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rats. I knew Roman wanted to say something — had done all night. Finally he spat it out. ‘Come to the coast with me next week. I want you to meet Philip — properly, I mean.’ ‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘Very. Afterwards we’ll go to Sydney for the launch. Just think — two weeks together . . . no one else.’ ‘All right, I will.’ Again, silence. Roman seemed amazed by the ease of it. So deep was his surprise at our reunion — our reprieve — he could hardly believe it was happening. I shared his incredulity, less overtly. Then it was time to go. Rather than offering me a lift home, as he usually did, Roman invited me back to Satchell Street, adding that Ursula was away. She and Ernesto had won first prize in a tangothon and were strutting down the Long White Cloud. She would be away for a fortnight, making this an ideal time for Roman to visit his grandfather. Slightly reluctant, I went back to Satchell Street. I hadn’t been there since the confrontation. It all came back vividly, regrettably. The house was even more shambolic than it had been that night. It felt loveless, condemned. I had some sympathy for Marilyn, the neurotic cat, which was trying to disgorge an imaginary fur-ball. I wanted to leave but suddenly felt immensely tired. I knew I had to go to bed. Roman led me to the front bedroom, now used only by Ursula, then withdrew to the rear of the house, his new domain. He reappeared with a jug of water and sat briefly on the bed, watching me. I was so tired I could barely focus. Seconds after Roman left the room, I fell asleep. In my dream I was rescuing a party of rock-climbers, one after the other. I kept thinking how stupid they were, exposing themselves like that, expecting to be saved. Among those 261

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I rescued was a boy of sixteen with the body of CK: stocky, Caravaggiesque. Grateful, he touched the back of my hands, mesmerised by my veins. Looking down, I noted without surprise that they were Roman’s hands, clumsily attached to my wrists by wires. I roused myself from the dream, rolled over and fell into a stupor. Roman was already up when I stirred. I listened to him showering. He stayed there for twenty minutes. I wondered what he was doing. Steam snaked along the hallway. Roman began humming an old Lou Reed tune. I lay there listening to him, amused. Then he came into my room — Ursula’s room — still drying his hair, his formidably long cock swinging between his thin legs. He was white, glistening, unbelievably firm. ‘Get out of bed,’ he growled, shaking me. ‘It’s time you were up. I’ll make you some eggs.’ I watched him disappear down the hallway, thin, ivory-skinned, with those muscular shoulders. I wondered if he woke Ursula like that, bearing tea, or jests, or apologies. Showered and dressed, I entered the kitchen. Roman was whisking eggs, still naked, unselfconsciously so. It reminded me of something Candy had told us two years ago, in the dark ages, when she was still friendly with Ursula. She had gone round to Satchell Street and found Ursula in the bath with a new boy called Roman Anthem, and the inevitable ducks. (They are still there, deflated.) Roman was nineteen. Embarrassed, Candy wanted to leave but they insisted that she stay. While Ursula submerged herself to wash off the suds, Roman got out of the bath and stood there towelling himself luxuriously. He asked Candy about her singing, her family. He had heard about a house called Valhalla and wanted to see it one day. I was mildly intrigued by Candy’s account of this curious flagrant boy and stored it away. ‘Did I leave any water?’ Roman said, grinning at me and flicking the damp curls from his eyes. ‘Here, have some 262

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coffee.’ We sat there listening to the radio and devouring scrambled eggs, as if it were usual. ‘I must go,’ I said, kissing his warm prickly cheek, feeling the tense bristling jaw. ‘Tonight?’ he asked, with a quick glance. ‘Tonight.’ Soon after I got back to Valhalla the telephone rang. It was Stella Anthem, or Stella Hutton, as she announced herself. She was the last person I’d expected to hear from. Anyone else — Ursula even, in that peevish way of hers — but not Stella. I would have been less surprised if Philip Anthem had rung me up for a chinwag. Knowing how fond he was of Roman, I was half expecting him to contact me. Arrested by Stella’s wispy voice, I was jolted into queasy lucidity. ‘Forgive me for ringing so early,’ Stella said in that famous confidential voice. ‘Roman’s told me how busy you are at the theatre. I’ve put off ringing you as long as I could. I wonder if you’d mind having lunch with me — today, if possible.’ It was a summons, not an invitation. After one or two more pleasantries, Stella named the time and place. I went upstairs to shave, then put on my only suit. It had so many stains I resorted to remedial spotting, which only made it worse. Candy was in her bedroom watching a chat show. An anorexic woman was talking about her triumph over obesity and a sado-masochistic husband. Like a monster of sympathy, the audience applauded each revelation. Candy told me she was addicted to this stuff. She was eating a wafer, her entire lunch. She looked thinner than the avenging angel on television. Candy didn’t ask me where I’d been last night, though it was years since I’d stayed away without letting her or Julia know beforehand. Nor did she want to know with whom I was lunching. ‘You look gorgeous,’ she said, uncurling her bare legs and 263

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gliding across the room. ‘But your tie’s not right. Let me.’ She stood on tiptoes and straightened the knot. ‘Party hard, darling,’ she said, turning back to the television. Where had I heard that before? On the way into town I mused about Stella’s reasons for calling me. Although we had spoken a few times since she began taking an interest in Candy’s career, we had never had a private conversation. I could only assume that she had heard something and intended to deliver a motherly warning in the most stylish ambience. But how much did she know, and who had told her? Not Candy, surely. Their alliance had never been closer, but Candy was no traitor. Babs, too busy finishing her television series, had no information to divulge, and Ursula, hardly in favour, was an unlikely source. Only Digby Danton was in a position to betray us. I knew he was intrigued. Last night I had caught him watching us over the rim of his glass, like a lugubrious sea creature, patient, shrewd, unblinking. Stella had asked me to meet her outside the gallery. At first I thought she was going to suggest a quick romp through the European rooms to check that Hal Hutton’s Haystack hadn’t been stolen, but she proposed lunch instead. I felt sure she would head for Chiaroscuro, Babs’s restaurant, but she led me to the Thai place where Roman and I had eaten two nights ago. When the owner, half-bowing to Stella, led us to the same table I emitted a kind of pained animal noise. ‘Are you all right,’ Stella said, touching my arm, suddenly human. ‘Would you like to sit somewhere else? What a good idea. David, somewhere less glary, if you don’t mind.’ The restaurant was full, but they rapidly set up a table in a corner. Stella, very commanding, led the way across the room with that feline, sexy walk of hers, the long waist absurdly slender, the posture ramrod, the shoulders wide, like Roman’s. Everyone recognised her. A handful seemed 264

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to know her personally and nodded to her with the sly tact of the elect. She smiled at some, looked through others, the pretenders. Apart from her natural beauty, which was formidable — a sort of carapace — her celebrity added to the effect. It felt queer partnering the most famous woman in the country. It made me wonder how Roman had coped as a boy, what it must have been like being led through foyers and airports and state rooms — through life, as it were — by this princess of publicity. It was bizarre to think that Stella Anthem was ten years younger than my mother and five years younger than Julia. Stella had been a presence in all our lives since Philip Anthem went to Canberra, yet she was only forty-five. No sooner had we been seated than Stella asked for two large glasses of iced water. I needed something stronger and risked a martini. ‘How is your mother?’ Stella opened, stroking the black marble table with her long twinkling fingers. ‘Busy as ever?’ ‘I haven’t seen her for weeks. She’s been on the road making a TV series.’ ‘So that’s why she’s never available to cook for me. These days I have to fumble around in the kitchen, trying to remember how to grill a chop.’ It was amusing, as it went. The Huttons retained several chefs and dozens of retainers. ‘Babs hopes to write another book,’ I hazarded, for something to say. I wondered how long this familial overture would last. ‘I bet she does. The first one has done rather well. I don’t know how many hundreds of copies I’ve given away. One of the girls in my reading group suggested we should do it next time. Fond though I am of your mother, I said that was going too far.’ ‘What are you reading instead?’ ‘Mahfouz. Have you tried him? Such an interesting man.’ 265

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She made it sound as though she knew him, and no doubt she did. ‘I find him incomparable. I long to go back to Cairo. Have you been? But you must!’ The food arrived and was served more formally than the Eucharist. I had no appetite. Boldly I ordered another martini. Stella changed her mind and asked for a glass of chablis. (‘I never do this at lunch. I must be nervous.’) She seemed unsure how to address the real issue. ‘Do you think my father’s book will reprint as many times as your mother’s?’ she asked. ‘I wish they’d release the blessed thing. Books seem to take longer than double dissolutions. I’ve ordered two thousand copies. Hal and I are giving it to everyone on our Christmas list.’ It was her sole reference to her current husband. ‘I think it’s due out in a fortnight,’ I said, my throat wonderfully scorched by a gulp of gin. ‘Julia’s coming back for the launch.’ Stella looked at me with those famous violet eyes. ‘Have you met Philip? Of course you have, at the Florentino. How foolish of me? I hope you’ll spend more time with him. I know all daughters say this about their fathers, but he’s quite a man.’ I refrained from telling Stella about the proposed visit to the coast. My life had become furtive, one evasion after another. Stella broke off to acknowledge a pinstriped type who had entered the restaurant. She introduced me, but by now I was so edgy I immediately forgot his name. ( Julia would have flayed me.) There was talk of Chinese satellites and obstacles in Canberra. Stella promised to contact the man. ‘You must be wondering why I rang,’ she finally blurted out. ‘It was very good of you to come. I know you’re busy.’ She was overdoing this, I thought. I was the least busy man she’d ever had lunch with. Her usual poise had deserted her 266

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by now. All her cutlery was in disarray. Each time she tried to straighten it, it spun around on the black marble. ‘I’m terribly worried about Roman,’ she said, looking at her rings. ‘He’s so despondent. I’ve never known him to be so gloomy.’ She was silent, apprehensive. ‘I need your help, Matthew. I hope you don’t mind.’ ‘Not at all. I’ll help . . . if something’s wrong,’ I stumbled. ‘When did you last see Roman?’ ‘Last night. He seemed fine.’ ‘Oh, he’s all right when he’s with you. You’re not the problem . . . I’m sorry — I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. You’ll have to make allowances today. I’m anxious.’ ‘It’s okay.’ But I kept hearing that phrase ‘you’re not the problem’ throughout our lunch. When you love someone you want to be the sole problem, not contingent. ‘Roman relies on you absolutely,’ Stella said. ‘He talks about you all the time. I can’t tell you how much he likes you. He respects you so much.’ ‘I’m fond of him,’ I said limply. ‘I know you are,’ Stella said. Then she threw up her hands and exclaimed, ‘Blast these marble tables! How do people cope?’ ‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked as calmly as possible. ‘To be there, I suppose — to see him now and then, if you have time — to make sure he doesn’t . . .’ ‘What?’ ‘Isolate himself . . . or worse. It can happen so quickly. He’ll listen to you.’ Stella paused, staring at her strawcoloured wine. ‘He’s drinking rather heavily.’ (Regretfully, I decided not to order a third martini.) ‘I’m used to him drinking a certain amount — I’m used to all men drinking — but lately it’s been rasher, more desperate.’ ‘But he seems to be functioning. He has his work.’ I was beginning to wonder if I had completely misread Roman. 267

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‘The business is a farce,’ Stella shrugged. ‘He hides away in that disgusting workshop of his and knocks up a few cupboards for my mates, and that’s about the sum of it. You won’t tell him I said that, will you?’ ‘Of course not.’ ‘Under the sombrero?’ ‘Under the sombrero.’ I began to sense the vaunted charm, as well as Stella’s powerful resemblance to Roman. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ I blurted out, desperate now. ‘Only if you let me join you.’ We went onto the terrace, turning heads. It was windy out there. Stella cupped the back of my hand as I lit her cigarette, but it was useless. I lit one and passed it to her, as I used to do with Julia. Stella went on eagerly. ‘Next you’ll want to know how I think Roman should spend the rest of his life. I don’t have a clue. Just live, I suppose. Pathetic, isn’t it. We don’t have the right language at such times.’ She paused, loudly exhaling. ‘I’ve never done this sort of thing before.’ ‘What, asked for help?’ ‘Practically. We’re Anthems, you see. The world expects us to cope.’ She laughed drily. The statuesque pose had given way to a kind of relaxation. We were cautious allies for an hour. We stood there watching the restaurant as it began to empty. Stella said, ‘It’s terrible when your child is in trouble — serious trouble. You don’t have any yet, do you? One day you’ll know what it’s like. And it’s worse when you can’t help them. I feel so useless. We can’t talk — never could perhaps. I’m his mother, but he never turns to me. I must have let him down in some way. Which is why I’m burdening you with all my worries, I suppose. I hope I’m not embarrassing you.’ Stella was quiet, pensive. ‘Roman never saw much of his father, you see. Does he ever talk about that — what happened between me and his father?’ ‘Never.’ 268

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‘He’s so strong, you see,’ she said, gazing at the swirling river. ‘I would like to, but I’m too frightened.’ For one nervy moment I thought Stella Anthem was on the verge of telling me why she had divorced Russell Lacey and changed Roman’s name. Would I, Matthew Light, humble servant and potential go-between, be entrusted with the answer to the national riddle? ‘What about your father?’ I digressed. ‘Roman adores Philip. Can’t he help?’ ‘Philip’s too old,’ Stella sighed. ‘How can I ask him to save us again after what he’s been through?’ ‘And you think the situation is critical?’ ‘Yes, I do.’ ‘I suppose you know Ursula is away?’ ‘I know nothing. Roman doesn’t tell me a thing.’ ‘She’s overseas with the Bolivian. Roman has a fortnight’s respite.’ The last word was deliberately loaded, and Stella didn’t miss the chance. ‘Thank god. Thank god. You hate her too! Let’s go inside. I need more wine.’ We returned to our corner and sat there with our shared antipathy while the waiter brought two fresh wine glasses, even bigger than the first pair. We clinked glasses and murmured a kind of black toast. ‘I wasn’t sure how far I could go — how much you could take,’ Stella said. ‘She is your cousin, after all.’ It sounded lamentable. ‘I know very well what Ursula’s like.’ ‘She’s crushing him, Matthew.’ ‘Then why does he stay?’ ‘For the same reason he stayed two years ago when he found out what she’s like and what he’d let himself in for — because he’s good and she’s a wreck.’ Then Stella remembered something. ‘The other night I was talking to one of 269

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Max’s long-suffering masters. After he’d told me the worst about Max, he asked about Roman, whom he also taught at Swanton — your old school, I understand. The master described Roman as the most courageous boy he ever knew — not because of any valour on the rugby field but because of all the odium he had to endure on Philip’s account, and mine. He didn’t go into details — I didn’t want him to — but I could imagine. He said that Roman never complained. It broke his heart to watch.’ ‘Surely Roman will get out before long,’ I said, suddenly impatient with all this stoic Anthem lore. ‘I’m not convinced. He’s very young, Matthew. We forget that because he’s so . . . self-possessed. Ursula is older, volatile. She was in bad shape when they met. I think Roman may have saved her life. Your mother does too. I’m not trying to be melodramatic. It’s not in my nature, and it won’t help. People like Ursula use their condition like a vice. She’s wearing him down. I had such hopes for him and Candy — such hopes — but now Ursula’s destroyed that. Roman’s stayed before when it’s been bad, and he’ll give in again. He’s so laconic. God knows where he got that from! Sometimes I think he’ll hang around just to shut her up. He hates conflict, you see — most unlike the Anthems!’ ‘I don’t know what to say.’ ‘All we can do is watch and wait and lend support. That’s where you come in. He trusts you, Matthew.’ Stella was silent for a moment, watching me. Not altogether cynically, I pictured her in Canberra in a few days’ time lobbying for access to some billion dollar satellite. ‘You love him too, don’t you? . . . It’s all right, you don’t have to say anything. It’s wonderful. He inspires such devotion. I know mothers should never say this, but I feel a special affinity with Roman. He’s my firstborn, you see.’ I wondered if Stella enjoyed saying things like that, or if she was genuinely 270

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unaware of the potency of the Anthem myth. She wasn’t to know I’d been steeped in it by Julia since I was a boy. ‘It’s always been like this,’ she explained. ‘My life was a little complicated in those days. We were a pair for so long — or a trio, if you count Philip. The three of us against the world, it sometimes felt. Roman gets to me. He’s special.’ Stella tapped her sternum with her fist. We didn’t speak for a few minutes. Outside it was still light, but darkness would have been more fitting. Three Thai waiters, professionally patient, stood by the door in a kind of polite coma, praying for us to leave. But Stella hadn’t finished. ‘I was looking at Roman the other day. He came over to see Maxie. They’re very close, despite the difference in age and personalities. Have you met Max? You understand then. Anyway, Maxie was out, so Roman played with my youngest son, showing him how to attack a jigsaw puzzle which I bought last week at F.A.O. Schwarz. Roman was sitting on the floor with Hughdie — very patient, paternal. His hair was a fright, his hands were putrid, he was wearing things I’d bought him when he was at school, but I thought to myself, how beautiful he is. It was like seeing the man for the first time, and he was patient, attentive, masterly. When I think of some of the partners he could have had — all those luminous girls he brought home before Ursula came along . . . That’s what makes it so frightening and frustrating. With other boys — the Maxies of this world — trouble is a kind of destiny. But Roman shouldn’t be like that — it’s not his fate. If only he’d assert himself.’ ‘Would it help if I got him away?’ ‘Absolutely. Get him out of the country if you can. I could part with him if I thought he was safe. I’m a great believer in vanishing. America has swallowed me up a few times.’ She paused before leaning forward. ‘I’d help with the money, of course.’ 271

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‘That won’t be necessary. I wasn’t looking for that.’ ‘Forgive me,’ Stella said. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’ At this, a lone tear welled up and rolled down her cheek. She dabbed at it, ashamed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered. ‘That one escaped. You’ll think we’re all hysterics.’ She retreated to the toilet and was gone for several minutes. It gave me time to try to make sense of it all. My new role as ally, confidant, therapist was so bizarre. Should I have been more open with Stella? Should I have said: I love him too, I’m as helpless as you are, in fact I’m nuts about him? But where would that have got us? Or had I been compromised? Was this how Stella netted people and got her way? I wasn’t flattered by this charismat’s plea for help, but I had stayed and I had listened, and now I was embroiled in new ways. Roman would be appalled if he knew. He must never find out. Briefly, my attention was distracted by two latecomers who were sitting at the table Roman and I had occupied two nights before. I hadn’t seen them come in. Advertising types or arts administrators judging by their sharp Paul Smith suits and Duchamp ties, they stared out the window, as if one of them was about to impart certain news but didn’t know how to phrase it, while the other one simply, leadenly, waited for the hammer-blow. I pitied them and looked away. I didn’t want to know how it ended. I hoped Stella would return before the coup de grâce. When she did, erect and tearless, her sangfroid was again intact. It was time for us to leave. With a kind of lazy flourish she paid the bill and enwrapped herself in a long silken shawl. I remembered Julia studying her in a foyer during the opera season and saying, ‘That woman does things with scarves that make the rest of us look like frumps.’ ‘And now,’ Stella said, eyeing me superbly, ‘do you trust me a little?’ ‘I’ll help if I can,’ was all I could say. 272

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‘That’s not an answer, but it will do,’ she smiled. ‘When are you seeing Roman?’ ‘Tonight.’ ‘Bon! Promise you’ll stay in touch? I’m relying on you, Matthew.’ As we left the restaurant Stella’s limousine pulled up nearby. She must have rung the chauffeur while she was in the toilet. She offered me a lift, but I preferred to walk home. ‘Au revoir then,’ she said, kissing me three times to seal the pact. ‘I’m so glad we’ve had our talk, despite the gloomy circumstances. Next time it will be jollier. I feel as though I’ve made a special friend. I hope you’ll look upon me as that.’ ‘Goodbye, Stella.’ As the chauffeur opened the car door she said, ‘Do you know, I’m sure I recognised those two young men in the restaurant. Did you see them? They weren’t very happy. I shouldn’t give them very long, poor boys. Goodbye again.’

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25

JULIA March 10 ~ Last September I knew it was time to go home. I couldn’t delay it any longer. Duty, Concord, Philip, Valhalla, all called. I said goodbye to the puritans at Concord and went out for lunch, dinner and cocktails every day for a fortnight. One evening Rufus and I sat up late packing my books and clothes. The phone didn’t stop ringing. Usually I’m the one who rings at inconvenient times. First it was Jules Cardinal, whom I hadn’t seen since our lunch at Harry Cipriani’s. Her affair with the Romanian bass had not gone well. Soon after her arrival in Bucharest, Jules was robbed in the main square by a brute who threatened to sell her to a Muscovite white slaver. Jules is partial to a bit of rough stuff — but on her own terms. She found a hotel and rang the opera singer. He promptly took her to Genoa, where he was due to sing in Boris Godunov. He drank heavily between performances, and we know where that leads. One night he slammed his fist through a door and began frothing at the mouth, as they do. ‘Quick-sticks,’ Jules thought, and off she went to Paris on 274

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the midnight express. Now she was living with a charcutier with the temper of a lamb and the biggest member she had seen since Digby Danton did that nude production of Samson and Delilah all those years ago. When I hung up there was a message to ring Ursula Sait. Belladonna was in Dunedin, of all places. She had never rung me before, so I was intrigued. I got through to her at last, gratifyingly waking her up. When she finally came to, she was quite splenetic. She said I had no control over those ‘creatures’ at Valhalla. She had just found out that Candy had been in touch with Roman, which incensed her. As for Matthew: ‘Keep your boy away from my husband,’ she screamed, getting everything wrong. I gave her a taste of her own medicine and hung up. Still, I thought it prudent to ring Valhalla. Candy had just walked in. She told me that Matthew was visiting the house of royalties. Babs had summoned a few people to watch the preview of her new television series. Candy had spent the afternoon with Digby Danton. I was glad someone was looking after Candy, if only the old reprobate. Digby had taken her out for lunch then back to his loft where they had sprawled on his famous room-sized ottoman with a fabulous Armagnac guaranteed to cauterise Candy’s vocal cords. Digby wanted to update her on his mislove life, as he called it. It took hours. Candy had seen Roman Anthem the night before — the first time in weeks. He had rung her up and suggested coffee. (You know it’s over when they don’t want alcohol.) Roman took her to Pellegrini’s, not L’Express, their old dive. Candy kept telling me how handsome Roman looked, how unaware he was of the effect he had on people. I swallowed and said nothing. It wasn’t the right time for home truths. That would come later, on my return. Their conversation was hopeless, monosyllabic. Roman hardly spoke. He 275

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didn’t ask about Candy’s plans, America, the Ring, her plans for next year. By ignoring the future he was clearly in retreat, but I didn’t say that to Candy. Roman did say how sorry he was, how guilty he felt. It was not what Candy wanted to hear. Finally, she asked him to take her home. She was determined to confront him, rouse him. She didn’t want to endure another wretched fortnight, didn’t want to wait around until he took pity on her again and bought her a granita. Roman stayed for an hour, very glum, almost catatonic. He was hunched in an armchair, defensive, staring at the carpet. He seemed to be in agony. I hope so anyway. (How did Browning put it: ‘He must be wicked to deserve such pain.’) Candy began to miss Matthew, always charming, responsive. Nothing she said allayed Roman’s misery. Growing desperate, she asked when Ursula was due back from New Zealand. Icily, Roman murmured something about anticipating the pleasure of her company at the end of the week. Candy suddenly felt irritated, even sorry for her nemesis. Was this how Roman represented their own stalemate to the boys at the workshop — to Matthew even? (‘Such thoughts, such thoughts,’ she said. But I was heartened by this new note of hostility.) They sat there in silence: Roman abject, Candy trying to work out why it had all gone wrong so quickly. After two hours of this she went to him, knelt in front of him, kissed his hands. He pulled them away, recoiled. ‘I can’t,’ he whispered, ‘I can’t.’ ‘Can’t what?’ Candy pleaded, needing to hear, all pride shot. ‘I just can’t,’ was all he would say, twisting his hands. For an instant, watching him squirm, Candy felt a pang of impatience, even (inchoately) boredom. It was almost liberating to be rejected so bluntly. She knew that Roman wouldn’t be restored to her — knew that what they had both intuited in Sydney had been 276

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confirmed. The truth was cold, sullen, lonely. She was alone again, and this time she felt she would always be alone — as one always does. Roman left soon after. Candy didn’t look up or see him out. She felt battered, winded. She crouched by the armchair with her head on the cushion where Roman had sat. She must have sat there for hours. All trace of him had faded, all warmth. She moaned his name now and then, from habit as much as anything. It sounded foreign and comfortless. I wept silently as I listened to my daughter on the other end of the phone. Greasy tears fell onto the floor. I hadn’t cried like that in years, not since Matt died. I didn’t think I knew how. Candy was right, of course: right about Roman, and right about herself in a way. And I couldn’t help her. All I could do was stand there and listen — so proud of her, so glad she had rung. And suddenly I felt a profound desire to punish, as well as to console.

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MATTHEW March 11 ~ I spent as much time as possible with Candy before leaving for the coast. She knew I was going away with Roman; we both knew what it signified. I was determined to leave Valhalla on my return. I should have done it months ago. The days of prevarication were over. Despite my impending departure, our mood was surprisingly relaxed, in a kind of anaesthetic way. We were always slipping into other people’s voices and joking about the early days at Valhalla. There was no denying what had happened, the dilemma we found ourselves in after sixteen years together, but there was a kind of camaraderie in our impasse. If anything, the past three months had brought us closer together. Whatever happened (and both of us knew much lay ahead), we understood each other, which wasn’t the case when Roman tired of Ursula and turned to us for — whatever. We might be rivals in a way, but we weren’t going to succumb to insults, we weren’t going to make scenes 278

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in public, and we weren’t going to scratch each other’s eyes out. We just happened to love the same man. Candy insisted on us spending the last night together. I offered to take her out for dinner, but she wanted to stay home and cook. ‘Let’s make pollo alla diavola,’ she said when I got home from rehearsals. It was the first time we’d both been in the kitchen since the night it all came out. We lurched around like squatters, forgetting where things lived, discovering condiments that had expired six years ago. Fortunately, there was more of that Angel Blend that Julia had bought before she went to New York. We sat at the table prodding our pollo and discussing our new roles, Lucky and Sieglinde. I had a week off before the next rehearsals; Candy was leaving for Adelaide on Monday. After dinner we sat in the garden. It was a mild night and the people next door were giving a party. Music filled the garden. Side by side on our old cane lounge, we smoked and drank and hissed at the possums. We had never been so open before. It was as if both of us, at the eleventh hour, were ready to be frank. Candy told me about her meeting with Roman the previous night, and I said I had lunched with his mother last week. ‘So Stella said. I wondered when you were going to tell me.’ ‘I didn’t want you to think we gossiped about you all afternoon.’ ‘Didn’t you? Gossip about me, I mean.’ ‘We didn’t talk about you at all.’ ‘I’m not sure that’s flattering,’ Candy laughed huskily. ‘After all, I am meant to be a prima donna assoluta.’ ‘Stella was preoccupied.’ ‘So she told me. She said she hadn’t raved on like that in 279

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years. She thinks you must have been dreadfully bored. She likes you a lot. She described you as patient — with beautiful manners.’ I snorted at this and refilled our glasses. Then Candy wanted to know what Stella had wanted. ‘Does she only take people out to lunch if she wants something?’ I asked. ‘Usually.’ ‘She’s worried about her son.’ ‘Which one?’ Candy asked, deadpan. We had to laugh. ‘She asked for my help.’ ‘You must have made an impression. It’s not like the Anthems to trust outsiders.’ ‘I told her I’m no saviour.’ ‘Oh, Stella must have her reasons. You’re an ally now. It carries responsibilities.’ ‘Roman knows nothing of this, by the way,’ I remembered to add. ‘I’m sure it was all under the sombrero.’ Candy paused, reaching for a Marlboro. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I won’t tell him — or Julia. I thought it best not to mention that you’re going away with Roman when she rang last night.’ ‘Thanks. I’ll fill her in later.’ ‘Good luck.’ Candy told me what had happened in Sydney. In some detail, not sparing either of us, Candy described that first indulgent week when Roman had joined her, and his mounting unease as Ursula began to harass him over the phone. Finally, Ursula had staged a full-blown mad scene and Roman had left for Melbourne while Candy was out rehearsing with the orchestra. He left a sort of note, saying little. ‘But I guess Roman has already told you about our failed elopement,’ Candy said. ‘I wasn’t seeing him then,’ I reminded her. ‘I was being strong — remember?’ We smiled at the notion. 280

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‘Roman hated that,’ Candy recalled. ‘I just thought it might have come up later.’ ‘Roman never talks about things like that. You know what he’s like.’ ‘Oh yes, we both know what he’s like.’ ‘It’s a point of honour.’ ‘Or a curse.’ I thought of Candy alone in Sydney, forced to put on a majestic face and entertain fifteen hundred people. ‘That must have been tough — having to stay there and perform.’ I reached across and held Candy’s hand. ‘No worse than when I broke the news to you.’ ‘It’s all character building, as Julia would say.’ But Candy refused to be let off like that. ‘Roman and I were mortified by the way you found out.’ ‘It was a bit clumsy, I must say. You could have prepared me.’ ‘Roman wouldn’t let me. He was terrified of hurting you . . . disappointing you. He thought you’d drop him or go away. That’s why you’re leaving Valhalla, isn’t it?’ Candy wanted to hear everything, wanted it all out in the open — so that she could move on perhaps. I said nothing, recalling that night, and slowly nodded. ‘But here we are.’ ‘Yes, here we are.’ We sat there silently smoking, listening to the abiding Blondie. ‘How long will you be gone?’ Candy persevered. ‘A week, maybe longer. I’m sorry, Candy.’ ‘Don’t you start apologising,’ she said wryly, and we both laughed. This went on for hours. There were no secrets, no euphemisms. Candy told me about their affair, from its shy overtures at Hatfield to the last inarticulate circlings and clutchings when she got back from Sydney. ‘But you’d have him back if he made a sign,’ I said when Candy began to flag. 281

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‘Probably. It’s too early for heroics.’ ‘What does Julia think you should do? . . . Yes, I know, stupid question.’ I paused. ‘Surely Roman will change?’ ‘I thought so until last night at Pellegrini’s.’ ‘Was it awful?’ ‘Worse. It was cold and futile.’ ‘What’s the problem?’ ‘Which one are your referring to — my abjection, his depression?’ ‘Candy!’ ‘Roman’s unhappier than we realised. And more damaged. That’s our problem.’ ‘Who’s to blame?’ ‘Let’s just say your cousin has much to answer for.’ ‘That’s what Stella says. She thinks Ursula is blackmailing him into staying.’ ‘It’s not that blatant. Desperadoes find subtler ways to entrap people. Ursula sapped Roman’s will long ago. He was too young for someone like that, he wasn’t ready. When he failed to . . . amuse her she turned to the Ernestos of this world. Now he stays with her from guilt but also out of lassitude. He thinks he can’t do better . . . can’t sustain it.’ ‘Sustain what?’ ‘He thinks he can’t love as we do — can’t give.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Perhaps he’s right. Maybe he’s the honest one. What if we’ve just been deluding ourselves?’ Candy stared ahead for a while then said calmly, not antagonistically, ‘But now it’s your turn to try to save him.’ ‘Is that my role?’ ‘Just don’t go to bed with him — please!’ Blurted out like that, it sounded desperate. Candy needed to say it — she had probably been saving it up all night. We were equals now, loving and competing. Candy and Matthew; Matthew and Candy. It had been heartfelt and 282

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surprisingly plaintive, but where did it leave us? And was there any room for Roman? Just then, at the bottom of the garden, a head popped over the fence. Nodding at us, the shadowy sprite said hello than disappeared, possibly prised from the fence. There was scuttling in the undergrowth, then derisive laughter. Too numb to respond, we sat there in silence. Candy spoke first. ‘Remember what you said that night when you found out about Roman and me . . . about never being surprised by anything?’ ‘No . . . yes.’ By then it was well after midnight. We moved inside, locked the door. There was nothing else to say, but neither of us wanted to separate. We opened the last bottle of Angel Blend and moved to the piano. While Candy improvised I swayed on the stool and tried to sing. I studied Candy’s long nails on the keyboard. ‘You haven’t been practising,’ I said, lifting them as if they were exhibits. ‘I’ve a good mind to report you to Digby.’ ‘Don’t do that,’ she pleaded. ‘He’s worried enough already. He thinks I’ll screw up my big break in Adelaide.’ ‘Will Roman be there?’ ‘Ask him tomorrow,’ she said with a sidelong glance. ‘But no, I don’t think he’s planning to go.’ ‘I’ll just have to look after you then.’ ‘That’s right,’ she said with a playful pout. ‘Baby’s not allowed to leave home yet. Candy can’t cope.’ After another hour of this crooning we shut the lid and turned off the lights. Climbing the stairs, we examined Julia’s Pre-Raphaelitish stained-glass window and discovered things we’d never seen before — new vistas and moons. ‘You must come back,’ Candy said slowly. ‘Valhalla’s too big for Julia and me.’ 283

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‘Now who’s the blackmailer?’ I peeled off to the left and entered my room. Candy said she couldn’t sleep on her own and asked if she could stay. I took off my clothes and slipped between the sheets. Candy took a couple of sleeping pills and put on her flannel nightie, which always made us laugh. Then she spotted my notebook on the bedside table. ‘Do you still write in that thing?’ ‘Occasionally.’ ‘Read me something.’ ‘I’m not sure what Miss Manners would have to say about that.’ ‘Go on. Read me something outrageous.’ ‘Do you want to see how it all ends?’ ‘I think I know that now.’ We lay there facing each other in the half-light. Candy took my hand beneath the doona and stroked my palm, describing circles. Despite her prediction, she began to doze off. I watched her eyelids flicker. I thought of Roman’s lashes, other vigils. I don’t know how long I lay there watching her. Candy had fallen into a deep babbling sleep when I heard a commotion on the stairs. For one mad moment I thought it must be Ursula, with Ernesto in tow. She would be confused. The voices grew louder. Two heavy objects, possibly suitcases, fell onto the hallway floor. This was followed by a theatrical silence, as if preceding a parental peek. Had Errol and Betty flown down to check up on us? I sat up in bed, too drunk to be alarmed. Finally the door opened and someone groped for the switch. ‘Fuck,’ said a familiar voice, stubbing her toe. ‘I’ve got it,’ said the tall stranger behind her, switching the light on, then off. Briefly illuminated, he reminded me of another slim-wasted waverer, sonorously restored to us, but with an American accent. 284

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‘Rufus darling, meet your new family,’ Julia said acidly, herself transformed, no longer blonde. She pointed to the bed with a despairing look, then led her new beau from the room saying, ‘We’re off to bed. We’ll see you both in the morning.’ As the door clicked shut Candy stirred. She reached across me and gulped down some water. I watched it trickle down her neck. ‘I just dreamt that Julia came home with a party of Bolivians led by Che Guevara and ransacked the house looking for your journals, wanting to publish them,’ she slurred. ‘Fancy.’ ‘Guess what the advance was? Thirty silver bullets.’ ‘You know what Julia says about publishers.’ ‘No one came, did they?’ ‘Go back to sleep, Candy.’ ‘You should, too. You have a long day ahead of you.’ And I did.

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27

JULIA March 12 ~ Rufus and I slept badly after the long flight. He’d never flown so far in his life and thought it was some kind of bad joke. Next morning my mind was buzzing with the coming trials and decisions. I spent two hours cleaning up Valhalla, which was a total mess. The brats had drunk all my Angel Blend and there were empty bottles everywhere. Candy — comatose when we arrived — spent the day in bed, her own bed. Matthew was missing when Rufus and I got up. He had left a brief note on the kitchen table saying he was heading off to the coast with Roman Anthem for a week or more. I didn’t like the sound of that one bit and decided to detour via the coast on our way to the book launch in Sydney. Collecting Philip would be my pretext. I dashed into Concord, leaving Rufus to explore my library. Roscoe Hunt, nervous about my Southerner, was tetchy at first, but sales were so good he couldn’t keep it up for long. My office was such a mess I decided not to touch the heaped mail or the thirteen hundred e-mails until 286

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I got back from Sydney. I was still in transit — postponing decisions about my future with Concord. Elyot Waters was furious with me for leaving Rufus at home. ‘Don’t give me your domestic excuses,’ he said in a curdled tone. ‘That’s no reason to keep your new executive publicist away from a real Southern gentleman. You know what a Confederate I am.’ Elyot seemed to have been away on a constant author tour with Stevie Nicholls. Stevie – Quite a Life! had reprinted eight times and was on top of all the bestseller lists. Stevie was a great success in shopping malls. Schoolgirls, housewives, even the odd inflamed bookseller were always ripping his clothes off. But Elyot was there to massage him afterwards. Stevie rang me up and said he was keen to meet Rufus. Everyone was after him. Stevie invited us to the grand final, about which Rufus was worryingly knowledgeable. (How do boys absorb so much information about sport? Rufus even wants to see a Test match this summer. I told him I’d prefer to have an operation.) Thus began the longest day. The official lunch before the grand final went on for four hours. We were seated with a group of car dealers. Newly brunette, I was the only non-blonde in the showroom, not to mention the oldest. I was superconscious of my vintage after an incident at JFK Airport. Rufus had inadvertently discovered how old I was when I dropped my passport and he picked it up. The angel had been far too gentlemanly to ask me or to snoop. Not that it seemed to worry him. Indeed, it seemed to spur him on. He was fond of his mother, after all. The Huttons were at high table, with Douglas Raglan, four state premiers and a creepy cardinal in a beanie, but our paths didn’t cross. I would be seeing them at the Sydney launch in a week’s time. Prentice of the Zone was seated at the media table, next to the bar. He came over and I introduced him to Rufus. They got on famously. Before long they were 287

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discussing their shared love of gridiron. Then we went outside and watched a nauseating display of commercial jingoism. Several children became entangled in a huge flag and were almost choked to death. The game itself lasted longer than A Dance to the Music of Time. I couldn’t make sense of the rules. Stevie Nicholls — captain of the Marauders — was said to be ‘in the thick of things’. Very watchable in his tight little shorts, he hooked a goal, was shirt-fronted, whatever that means, went off covered in blood, received some stitches during interval, ran back on to a huge ovation, ‘fluked a goal’, ‘ran through someone’ (fascinating phrases), lifted the boys, as they say, dislocated a finger, popped it back in, snapped the decisive goal, won the game, hugged all his team-mates like the natural leader that he is, then hoisted the premiership cup with gusto, nearly knocking Raglan off the dais. The PM was unamused by his reception from the crowd. It can’t be fun being booed by ninety thousand people. I mentioned this to Philip Anthem when I rang him that night. He reminisced about being the first leader to brave the coliseum two decades ago. ‘That was soon after the Fracas, so I thought I was safe — being the underdog and all. But I still carried Roman on to the field as insurance. I knew they’d never boo him.’ Rufus, for his part, was astonished by the chorus of derision that greeted Raglan. Back home, he said, everyone would have been up on their feet, hand on heart. Afterwards, a posse of leggy lasses from the Events Squad led us round to the changing rooms. This was more entertaining than the match. The aromatic room was full of lawyers and businessmen in vast cashmere overcoats, all very watchful. Photographers stood on greasy benches vying for black market gems as the victorious Marauders emerged from the showers. I was a little tongue-tied myself as the nude gods lolled in front of us, hoarsely triumphant and 288

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showing one another their wounds. Stevie, fetchingly grazed, gave a press conference and extolled ‘the entire united team as a whole’. (‘Screw the team,’ I thought to myself. ‘Just mention your bloody book.’) Thirty reporters took down his every truism, open-mouthed. When it was over, Stevie limped over to us, achingly fondling his troublesome groin. Perhaps he had a sequel in him after all. On Sunday, Rufus was keen to hear some local writers, so we drove to a country poetry festival near Mount Desolation. Sixty poets (all but three of them men) had gathered in an arts centre that was formerly a prison. They read from the gallows. The fug of egotism and botched ambition was palpable. Mercifully we had missed the opening ceremony, a kind of poetic pie-night. This was followed by several brawls. One stalwart of the sestina, drunk on vanity and turpentine, had staggered off into the bush and gone the way of Voss. Kelvin Pope was there to remind everyone that he was at heart a poet. He spent the first ten minutes of his ‘audience’ upbraiding the organisers for failing to mention all his prizes in the programme notes. He referred to himself in the third person, which confused the locals, who were waiting for the open section so that they could recite their own wingless ballads about tractors and kelpies. After one more session I withdrew to our motel. A party of footballers from the Mallee had colonised this for their end-of-season holiday. Fifteen year olds trying to be men drank beer and pissed into the prawn-shaped fountain. Feeling old and missing Manhattan, I closed the curtains and opened a fiction manuscript that Elyot Waters had recommended. The hero shoots up joylessly in the first paragraph and doesn’t have the grace to overdose. Roscoe would love it. I could see the cover: the author’s name in powdery white; the embossed hypodermic needle. 289

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I tried another manuscript, and another. They were all trying to write like the latest American sensation, the one who carried off the Pulitzer and the National Book Award and the Golden Globe for Overblown Prose with his sicko family saga that belaboured every nuance and metaphor for about 820 sodden pages. If my hopefuls weren’t penning gory histories of Van Diemen’s Land, they were trying to emulate these latter-day Margaret Mitchells. I slashed away at them with my blue pencil like Cy Twombly on a mission and then put a big red cross where there should be a Fin. Had I outgrown publishing? Had it outgrown me? I was out of sympathy with the market and what the bright young graduates could offer. Whenever I mentioned this to Roscoe he was patronising: ‘This too will pass.’ (Is there anything more vulgar than a proverb?) He couldn’t understand my dismay, my sense of betrayal. I felt like the Goncourts’ friend Scholl who longs to slap someone’s face — anyone’s — to provoke a duel. Roman was available of course (or would be when I reached the coast), but for the moment I was keeping my powder dry. The beautiful blur would keep. Fortunately, our stay in the motel was brief. Rufus came back earlier than planned, chastened by what he had heard in the prison. We paid the bill and drove off in silence. We had a few days to kill before driving Philip to Sydney for a week of interviews and then to the launch. I was feeling oddly nervous. The PM had at last agreed to speak at the launch. Raglan had prevaricated for weeks, informing us via his press secretary that he might have to attend a summit in Vanuatu. (‘What sort of an excuse is that!’ Philip exclaimed.) Raglan, due to call the election, was loath to share a platform with Philip; he couldn’t bear the competition. He had stayed away from Hatfield for the same reason. As we got closer to the coast I asked Rufus if he wanted to listen to a memento of our poets. Voss had given me an 290

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audio version of his Smackhead Sonnets, read by Matthew. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Rufus said. Very gracefully he wound down the window and threw out the masterwork. It began to unspool in the air, frightening a cow. Moving a little closer, Rufus put his strong bare arm around my neck. ‘Show me another part of your wide brown land,’ he murmured contritely, nibbling a lobe. The angel has never mentioned poetry again.

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28

MATTHEW March 14 ~ Onward, onward I’ll drift through that enchanted daynight, from Valhalla to the blackness of the Brindabellas, to the first spear of light above the rainforest near the coast. Roman and I set off earlier than planned. I didn’t tell him why I wanted to get away before dawn. Once out of Melbourne we took it slowly, with frequent stops and detours. Neither of us was in a hurry. Then night fell, radiant. Soon after we crossed the border a stone shattered our windscreen. It was as if the stars were pelting us with gravel. Laughing at our bad luck we pulled over as the great serpentine truck that had blinded us drove on, tooting. Roman said we could sleep by the road until first light, but I preferred to push on. Sheathing our fists in oily rags we smashed the clinging glass so that night was all around us and in our hair for the last however many hundred kilometres. By then it didn’t matter; it was hypnotic. Silence followed and gulps of air and the deepening night. No hint of danger. No reckoning. Not yet. 292

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Roman bore the brunt of the gale but never complained. Pneumonia was better than what he’d been through, what he was fleeing. I noticed flecks of windscreen on his wrist, in his hair. Removing them, I wavered and lifted my hand. Leave it there, he ordered. And I did. Then he said, tell me a story. Say anything — just keep me awake. So I related Candy’s comical dream, the one about thirty pieces of silver. Roman laughed in the tunnelling dark. But I didn’t tell him who dreamt it, or whose bed she was in, nor who came while she dreamt. Julia would pursue us to the coast, I was sure of that. For the moment, I wanted to protect Roman from the Collis tendrils. Philip Anthem was waiting on the terrace when we arrived, frailly waving in his dressing gown. At his feet sat a hefty Labrador. Roman bounded up the driveway ahead of me to embrace the old man and to greet the delirious dog. He led them inside, signalling to me to follow. I had seen the famous house so many times in magazines that when I stepped into the oblong-shaped living room walled in books it was as if I was re-entering a familiar house. Roman came over and put his arm around my shoulder as if I were an inarticulate hippie he’d picked up on the way. ‘Poor Matthew’s done a great job keeping me awake all night,’ he laughed. Philip told us that Mrs Warren, the legendary housekeeper, was away, attending a tonsillitic granddaughter. He prescribed strong coffee and whisky and went into the kitchen. Roman capered about, delighted to be ‘home’, as he put it. He had never seemed so happy, so boyish. He noticed everything: new art books, a small Klippel sculpture, a fearsome telescope on a tripod. ‘That’s a gift from Matthew’s guardian,’ Philip boomed from the kitchen, hearing everything. ‘Julia gave it to me 293

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before absconding to America. She told me to scan the Pacific for the marines. Truth is I’m searching for her. I miss my editor!’ He reappeared bearing two mugs of fortified coffee. ‘Did you know she’s back?’ he said, studying me. I sensed a reserve towards me, though I often felt that about strangers. ‘Yes, I did,’ I said, patting Waldo, who was alternating between Roman and me, unable to believe his luck. ‘Who’s back?’ Roman looked up, slurping. ‘Julia,’ Philip beamed. ‘You didn’t mention that,’ Roman said to me. ‘What did you talk about all night if not about Julia?’ Philip quipped. ‘Matthew went through his repertoire of dreams and I helped him to interpret them.’ ‘You must share them with me, Matthew,’ Philip said, suddenly coughing. ‘Roman’s dreamlife has always been a severe disappointment to me. I believe he’s only remembered one dream in his life, and that was a verbatim account of the first debate his mother took him to in the House. Tragic, isn’t it?’ Roman, on the carpet, long legs extended, grinned at the old joke but didn’t deny it. ‘She rang last night, by the way,’ Philip continued. ‘Who did — Stella?’ Roman said. ‘Not her,’ Philip wheezed. ‘Your mother rings every night — to see if I’m still alive. I meant my publisher. What a grand phrase that is. When people ask me who’s doing my book I say “Julia Collis of Concord” and they fall away impressed. Julia rang to let me know you were on the way. You should ring her and tell her you’ve arrived safely.’ This was aimed at me. ‘She seemed worried.’ ‘When will you see her?’ Roman asked. ‘When her jet lag wears off,’ Philip said. ‘It’s always worse 294

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when you don’t want to come back.’ He paused, smoothing his foppish fringe with a ringed hand. ‘She wants to introduce me to her new admirer. Don’t you think it’s a wonderful name — Rufus F. Karsten? Straight out of Tennessee Williams.’ Turning to me, he said, ‘You’ve met Mr Karsten, I presume?’ ‘Briefly.’ ‘Will he stay, do you think?’ Then Roman’s grandfather remembered something. ‘Julia’s bringing me an advance copy of my memoirs. You’ll have to humour me when it arrives.’ ‘It’ll be fine, Dad,’ Roman reassured him, yawning. ‘Don’t be so cocky,’ Philip shot. ‘You’re in it. Yes, I thought that would take the wind out of your sails. It’s your own fault. You shouldn’t have been such an enchanting child.’ ‘Matthew and I will just have to stay here until the fuss dies down.’ ‘Bravo,’ the old statesman said, clapping his hands. ‘But why should Matthew stay? He’s got no reason to hide from the world.’ ‘You’ll stay with me, won’t you, Matthew?’ Roman said softly, gazing at me. ‘Enough of this silliness,’ Philip said, creakily standing up. ‘What you two boys need is sleep, followed by a long swim in the morning. Finish your coffee and I’ll show you to your room. I’ve put you in the studio. When she gets back I’ll ask Mrs W. to make up the guest room for Julia and her Southern gentleman. We might even lay on Irish linen for the lovers. You’ll be cosy in the studio.’ With this he led us to a glass-roofed studio at the top of the house. A small door gave on to a triangular balcony with a rearing view of the Pacific. Opposite, sliding doors led to a broad terrace, with canvas chairs and Balinese sculptures. Here and there, 295

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among the pillars of books, were a few remnants of the studio’s origins. Roman, stretching out on a day-bed, told me about his grandmother. ‘Philip and Isobel met in New York after the war when he was studying law. She was a painter — an abstract expressionist. It’s weird to think of her doing that stuff in Canberra. Some of it’s not bad, though she can be a bit morbid. Isobel worshipped Mark Rothko, which might explain it. Apparently Douglas Raglan got rid of her paintings in the Lodge to make way for his exercise machines. Philip has one or two of them. I’ll show them to you tomorrow.’ Loudly yawning, Roman fell silent. Reclining on the other bed I listened to his grandfather moving about the house and talking to the Labrador. Soon I was asleep myself. We slept until midday. In the galley kitchen Philip Anthem had set out food left behind by Mrs Warren. There was excellent meat loaf and egg-and-bacon pie — pre-Babs fare. We ate voraciously as if we’d been saving up. Roman’s grandfather stayed in his study all afternoon, his cough getting worse. The telephone rang every few minutes. We suspected it was Julia (‘my Messalina of the mobile phone’, Philip dubbed her) with more instructions about the launch. All day the fax spat out proofs of speeches and articles for Philip to check, and more media requests. He was always being asked to launch things or write forewords or speak at conferences. The world didn’t seem to realise how frail he was. After lunch Roman showed me round the house. We found his grandmother’s paintings and stared at the remorseless umber and maroon. Remembering that she was an American, I said she must have found it awkward during the spat with Washington. ‘Spat!’ Roman shot. ‘Don’t let my mother hear you 296

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calling it that. She insists on “Fracas”. It was the first word I learnt.’ ‘Mea culpa.’ Roman told me that he never knew his grandmother. ‘She died soon after Philip became prime minister. Stella was in charge during our intercontinental falling out.’ ‘Do you remember the Fracas?’ ‘Give me a break! I was only two.’ Suddenly impatient, Roman steered me down the hallway. ‘Let’s get out of here. This wasn’t meant to be a history lesson.’ The walls were lined with photographs of Philip Anthem with dignitaries and friends. I searched for Isobel Anthem, but couldn’t find her. I was surprised to see a photograph of Philip with Candy in the marquee at Hatfield. Inconspicuous to its left was a small print of the famous image of Roman and the president. ‘Stop being nosy,’ Roman said, propelling me through the door and on to the terrace. ‘I’ll start to think it’s my family you love — not me.’ We stood there peering into the bushland at the back of the house, finally breathing the mild and pungent air. ‘Free at last,’ Roman murmured. ‘Yes, free,’ I said, unconvinced, but wanting to believe. ‘It was ugly back there — at Satchell Street,’ Roman went on, as if needing to confide. He waited for a moment. ‘Have you ever felt like hitting someone?’ I shook my head, but Roman was more candid. ‘I came close last week . . . so disgusted with Ursula and myself. That’s why I had to get away.’ But I had struck someone once. I hadn’t thought about this in years, hadn’t really cared to. Now I felt I had to tell Roman, since he was being honest with me. So I described my sole juvenile assault. It was twenty years ago. I was holidaying in Rye, near the beach. Julia, not long back from London, had rented a house there. Candy had taken some friends from school. They seemed to alter her and make her 297

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more cynical. One afternoon I fought with Candy, which was unusual. She and her girlfriends were teasing me because of something I’d said. Then one of them picked up some rotting apricots and pelted me with them. Furious, I went inside and told Julia to make them stop. Deep in a book, she told me not to be such an idiot, so I marched out of the house, determined to leave. The place next door was vacant, so I hid in the overgrown garden. I stayed there for what seemed like hours, quite calm. I imagined staying there forever, undetected, leading a kind of shadow life in the titree. Then I heard voices next door. Julia had realised I was missing. She became annoyed, then anxious, then terrified. It was bizarre to watch. I’d never seen real panic before. Julia ran through the garden and down the street calling my name. Then she piled the guilty girls into the old Triumph and reversed down the driveway. I could tell she was going to search the back beach before calling the police. I knew the way her mind worked. I was surprised by the extent of her alarm. Foolishly I stuck out my head for a good look as they were pulling off and one of the girls spotted me — Candy, I think. Julia braked hard and told the girls to stay in the car. She marched into the garden, berating me for being so childish. What would Babs have said if she’d known? How could I have frightened her like that? When she reached my ti-tree hide-out she was frantic and red-faced. That’s when I stepped forward, swung back my right arm and hit her sharply on the side of her face, knocking her backwards. It was the last thing she was expecting, so she was vulnerable. I was surprisingly forceful. ‘You hit Julia?’ Roman gaped. ‘I’m afraid I did.’ ‘Hooley dooley,’ was all he could say, as if I’d taken a pick to a Pietà. Roman asked me if Julia had retaliated. ‘No, she didn’t,’ I said. ‘It was strange. She looked at me 298

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and took me by the hand and led me back to the others, who were . . .’ ‘Looking on in some amazement, I imagine.’ ‘They were a bit.’ I paused. ‘Julia and I have never talked about that day.’ ‘No wonder — she’s probably petrified of you.’ Roman was grinning as he rocked against the railing. ‘Remind me never to cross you.’ Elbows touching, we stood on the terrace for half an hour, saying nothing. Later, when the temperature rose, we went for a swim. The beach was empty. As the tide receded we ventured on to the rocks, our eyes slowly getting used to the splendours in the rock pools. All life was there, all form, all colour. The shore, fifty metres away, seemed alien, the striking white house on the hill unattainably remote. Our talk was easy, rather tender. Roman too seemed freer, transformed. I was impressed by his knowledge of the natural world, and remembered what Stella had said about his pedagogical streak. He showed me things in the rock pools I would never have spotted on my own: crimson anemones and submerged temples. At one point Roman knelt down and fossicked in a pool, as if retrieving something left there on a previous visit. He handed me an oval stone, rather austere, strangely warm. ‘Do you like it here,’ Roman asked, needing reassurance. ‘Yes, I like it.’ ‘We could stay — not go back.’ ‘Do you think?’ When it was time to return to the house we ascended in silence, ineffably close. Again we found Roman’s grandfather waiting for us, elegant in linen trousers and a cashmere cardigan. ‘We’ve been blessed,’ he said, putting down the Economist. ‘An entire day without visitors. We should celebrate. Do you remember how to make a martini, Roman? Strong, please. Remember, I’m an old man.’ 299

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Roman showered outside, semi-visible through latticework. Then he began mixing cocktails. We had two each as the sun set behind the knuckled mountain overshadowing Philip’s house. (I thought of my last martinis, with Stella Anthem. I hadn’t heard from her since our lunch. Roman knew nothing of our meeting. I wondered if Philip did.) We decided to eat on the terrace. Roman and I set the table while Philip produced another ‘cold collation’. ‘You must be wondering if you’re ever going to have a hot meal,’ he chuckled. ‘Be not afraid. Mrs W. will join us soon, then you’ll have soup and roasts and the sacred mixed grill.’ Then he thought of something. ‘Julia rang while you were combing the rocks like palaeontologists. Oh yes, we were watching you through my telescope, weren’t we, Waldo?’ ‘How’s Julia?’ I asked. ‘Cross with you for not ringing her. She’s feeling ignored. I didn’t tell her about the windscreen.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘Did she have any news?’ Roman asked. ‘Concord has sold twenty thousand copies of my memoirs to a book club. “Be still my beating heart.” What a heady world it is.’ ‘How’s Rufus?’ I asked. ‘Settling in beautifully, I’m told. Julia took him to one of your beaches where he promptly saved a young woman who was drowning in a rip. Only an American would perform a miracle so soon after landing. Then Julia took him to the grand final. Apparently she knows one of the gladiators.’ ‘When are they due?’ Roman asked, slightly anxious. ‘In a few days. Julia’s taken Rufus to a poetry festival in the country.’ Philip poured some chianti into our glasses. ‘So you boys have the place to yourselves. Just ignore me. I’ve got behind with my correspondence because of this blasted book, and I have a launch speech to write.’ 300

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But it was Roman who withdrew first, declaring he was tired. ‘Good night, dear boy,’ Philip said, kissing Roman’s lowered brow. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve come.’ By now it was cool. Thinking of Philip’s lungs, I suggested we move inside, but he wanted to stay on the terrace. ‘I’m brave if you are,’ he smiled. ‘Let’s savour it as long as we can. Besides, a drop of single malt will warm us. Shall we?’ I had never been alone with Philip. All day I’d wondered what he would say when it finally happened. Would he ask about Roman? Would I receive another Anthem pep talk? Would he enlist me as a spy, like his daughter? Apart from one enquiry about Ursula — uttered with a kind of distaste or reluctance — Philip didn’t allude to Roman’s private life. Urbanely he put up with my ignorant questions about politics. Then, abruptly, he mentioned Julia’s late brother. ‘Your namesake, wasn’t it — Matt Collis?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Does she talk about him often?’ ‘Never.’ ‘I wish I could say she confides in me.’ ‘I thought she might have.’ ‘Hardly. Julia only tells us what she wants us to know. She keeps it all to herself. Suffers.’ ‘I understand the brother killed himself,’ I said tentatively, conscious of the betrayal. ‘That’s what I’ve heard.’ ‘Do you know why?’ ‘No idea. You’ve never asked her about it?’ ‘She’d only get upset.’ ‘What about Candy? Doesn’t she know? There must have been an inquest — something.’ ‘Candy doesn’t want to hurt Julia.’ ‘You’re all frightened of her,’ Philip said quietly. 301

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I was surprised by his curiosity. He was so different from his grandson. There I was, expecting to stay up all night talking about Roman (my only subject of contemplation for months), only to find myself deflecting questions about Matt Collis. ‘You seem to have a lot of secrets at Valhalla,’ Philip continued. ‘There’s Candy’s paternity, for a start. There were all those rumours at the time. I always presumed it was that boyfriend who introduced us at a party when they were both at university . . . son of a party official . . . rather bland, I thought — not her speed. What’s your theory?’ ‘I don’t have one. That’s Julia’s business. It never comes up. I don’t even think about it.’ ‘Strange isn’t it, these parental mysteries. They’re commoner than you’d think. What about Candy? Doesn’t she want to know?’ ‘Not particularly. Julia’s been like a father and mother to her. We’ve been a kind of family in our own way.’ ‘Amazing.’ Philip was clearly intrigued by Julia. This old man who had known everyone, been everywhere, done everything, was fascinated by his editor, as so many men had been before. In his worn-out way, he too was in love with her. ‘You’re drawn to her too,’ he went on, as if reading my mind. ‘You stay because you know it’s important.’ ‘Important?’ ‘Complex, worth unravelling.’ ‘I’m not sure how much choice I had in the matter,’ I said, laughing a little hollowly. ‘I was quite young when she took me in.’ ‘That’s what we always say,’ Philip said, studying me above the unreally still candles. ‘I think you’re drawn to everything that’s oblique and withheld. You’re a fatalist, just like us. That’s why you’re here, among the Anthems.’ 302

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‘You think something happened all those years ago — when Matt Collis died?’ I asked. ‘I think it was terrible,’ Philip said with real feeling. ‘But she won’t tell us what. And she won’t let us help her.’ At this Philip, who had been resisting sleep, visibly faded. Suddenly he looked much older than his years. He stood up and blew out the candles with an effort. ‘You should go to bed, Matthew. It’s late, and I want you both fresh in the morning. Inspire me with your youth.’ We shook hands rather formally, then Philip went inside. I stayed on the terrace, hesitant now. How long was it since I’d shared a room with another man? Not since Chris Killen — before he went away. Too long, anyway. (Occasional pick-ups and my irregular nights with Candy didn’t count.) Would I blurt out something in my sleep? Would Roman? I edged along the terrace smoking a last cigarette, then slid into the studio trying not to make a sound. I was about to get under the covers when I saw Roman powerfully silhouetted on the opposite wall. He was sitting up in bed waiting for me. He said something, but I missed it. I pretended not to notice. Then he called me again, using another voice. This time I crossed the room and went to him, transcending those long years of quarantine. He stood up as I approached, still waiting, prolonging it, very tantalising, then he held me, masterful, as I had hoped, suspected, known. Suddenly it was all verb, active and urgent. Within seconds, still upright, we were locking, probing, sure of the way. After several minutes of this Roman pulled back, smearing me with a slimy precursor. The proud tattoo hung there, warming me. Nothing was said. Nothing much would be said all night. There were no more games, no more repartee. Our bobbing cocks caressed each other like bold doves. I tongued his miraculous neck, still warm from the 303

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beach. Then, taking over, he kissed me. His sinuous arms rocked me, enfolded me. Then, knowing what he wanted, a further tremor invading him, I slid down his salty body, down the lean white torso, into hair and sweat and subtlest of skin. Even sand, a souvenir. He laughed, urging me on. Probing both sides of his smooth long uncut cock, his shapely balls, searching for the real nerve, I eased back the foreskin with my lips, tongue, nose, swallowed him and took it all in, surprised how it came back, the greedy homage. Working him like that, my lashes occasionally stroked his belly, which made him gasp. And almost immediately, so long had it been, so long had it taken us to reach this point, he arched back, arms spread out like standards, and I was swallowing his creamy eruption, consuming him until he was panting and spent. Just then, savouring the last of him, I spotted something in the doorway. ‘Waldo, go back to bed,’ I said, with the primness one reserves for pets chancing on acts of emission. But it was a marsupial of some kind, possibly a wombat. It sniffed us and fled. ‘Bolt the fucking door, then come back to bed,’ Roman moaned, all tenderness and throat. Shivering now, we stumbled across the floor and fell onto the bed, interlocked. This went on for hours: many seasons and sessions. Roman was fluent and resourceful and impressively recuperative. Each time he drove it harder, surer. I felt sure I was his first man, but the transition for him came easily. The instant, surprised pleasure he took in it told me that. At one point he switched on the wall lamp and manoeuvred its antique neck, almost clinical. Looking at me for any sign of flinching, not finding it, he inserted his unsheathed cock, barely observing the niceties of passage. This thrilled me, made me hard, and I urged him on until he moved like a tide inside me. Before long he was bucking like a beautiful 304

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machine. First he held my waist with his hands, then he drove me down into the day-bed, leaning over me and whispering dirty things in my ear: what he did to women; what he would do to me later. He was smothering me, dripping on me. I licked it — licked his sweaty sinewy strength. Then with a shock of expletives he was coming, as he said he’d never come before. Disengaging, suppressing a yawn, he turned me over roughly. Hovering over me, he kissed me coaxingly and stroked me as if I was one of his strips of willing wood. I came then for the first time, having served. Then it was almost morning. Roman rolled over on his back and was soon asleep, his reddish mouth and long thighs parted. He was the soundest sleeper, so I took his pulse, as I always do. It was amazingly slow, about forty, whereas mine bolted along. I kissed the Southern Cross of moles beneath his sternum, the brown recessive nipples with their coronas of hair, the only fluff on his chest. Occasionally he made a soft clicking sound in his throat. The high cheekbones were so perfect I lowered myself to inspect them, like a connoisseur. Roman, stirring in his sleep, unconsciously mouthed something. I didn’t listen for a name. Nor did I think about the future, even when Roman woke up with a start and said, ‘We should go to Greece together.’ That night, at least, we had hungered and engaged. It was enough. There was a pact in those embraces, an oath of flesh. He would wake soon and we would begin again. I reached over and picked up the stone he had given me. It was still warm. Then he flung his left arm across my stomach, the veins beneath his forearm a republic of blue. I kissed the sapid palm, traced the long and now so familiar fingers. Then, profoundly tired, I slumped back and stared at the ceiling, not even anticipating what might come.

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29

JULIA March 15 ~ We reached Philip’s bolt-hole in time for lunch. Philip was impressed by Rufus’s punctuality. Roman was preparing a sturdy martini, the vermouth merely waved across the jug. I congratulated him on his lemon twist, but that was all I could bring myself to say to him. The minute we arrived I twigged how intense things were between Matthew and the beautiful blur, and blamed myself for my long sojourn in New York. Matthew refused to admit the affair, but it was obvious from his visage, his manner, his smudgy lips. When they were together, which was most of the time, his whole personality was concentrated in Roman’s; when he spoke it was with the old vapid dreaminess. His smooth brow was furrowed by a new seam of emotion or anxiety. It reminded me of the sickles of doubt that had appeared around his mouth during the worst days of Chris Killen. I couldn’t be sure what went on in the studio. Over the following days I snooped around (as you would expect), but 306

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they kept the door closed. They were quiet as mice at night, bleary and inscrutable in the morning. By the fifth day I sensed the thrill was beginning to wane for Roman. When I mentioned this to Rufus he said I was fantasising, but the evidence was stark: a new note of impatience in Roman’s voice as they planned their day; a declared preference for a solitary walk one afternoon; the alienating resort to his book (still Ulysses!). Matthew became more taciturn, compliant. His eyes were clouded, as if he was reliving something and couldn’t believe it was happening again. Rufus, trusting as a lamb, took a liking to Matthew’s torturer. Roman’s power over strangers, even straight men, baffled me. Where was this charm they all talked about? I didn’t sense it in his weak smile or his fatuous jokes. To me he was the coldest man in history. Rufus said I intimidated the boy, but I wasn’t convinced. Roman was an Anthem, after all. Naturally, Rufus also adored Matthew. Who wouldn’t? By day three he described him as his younger brother. (‘Whoa there!’ I said.) Until Roman began to drift, the three of them spent entire afternoons on the burning beach, disporting themselves like the idiot dogs that woofed at waves or used them as mouthwash. Philip and I, in the deep shade of his study, watched them through my telescope and shook our heads at their animal innocence. Even my long sessions with dear Philip lacked the old brio. The book was done now. Philip was gracious to Rufus and me, but he was too enervated and preoccupied to sparkle. He was worried about the book’s reception. He was also far from well. Then he received some news about Max Payne that upset him. He didn’t divulge what it was, not even to Roman, whom he protected with a fondness I couldn’t understand. Then a lurid columnist wrote about ‘The Curse of the Anthems’ and listed all the family’s deaths and dramas. (Even I didn’t know about Stella’s stillborn brother.) Philip 307

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read it to us over sulphuric coffee and chuckled at the headline. He said it would have made a better title for his memoirs. This inter-generational holiday didn’t suit me. It reminded me of an Iris Murdoch novel. Any minute someone would be swept down a gully or sucked into a blowhole. I had nightmares about protracted drownings, which always claimed Matthew. One night he was imprisoned for nameless crimes. Spear-wielding guards forced him to stand beneath a spotlight and repeat Lucky’s speech over and over again. ‘Sodomite, sodomite, sodomite,’ they jeered while I sat in the stalls with my mouth taped. I realised I was watching the first night of his execution. I was desperate to extricate Matthew, but he and Roman said they would join us in Sydney a few days later. I didn’t like the thought of leaving Matthew with Roman. Things seemed balefully out of control. What had Philip been thinking when he put them in the same room? Perhaps it was Mrs Warren’s doing. The old woman was so wholesome she wouldn’t have recognised a sodomite if she stepped on one. Apart from wanting to save Matthew, I was keen to be alone with Rufus. He was due back in New York the day after Philip’s launch. Philip, aware of my unease, offered to make him an honorary Australian. Even Roman, crunching his Coco Pops, managed to look sympathetic. I was alarmed later when the subject of the Ring came up and Roman said he might attend after all, saying it was high time he heard some Wagner. But I knew there was only one reason why he wanted to attend: to see Candy. I couldn’t allow that to happen. Nothing could jeopardise her début. Then came our last afternoon. Rufus, determined to see a lyrebird before his departure, set off into the bush with his binoculars. Philip and Matthew, stooped as gargoyles, 308

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played chess in the study. I knew that Matthew, a better player, would politely concede when Philip tired. I sat in my bedroom, so bored I picked up a ten-year-old National Geographic. Waldo came in and rubbed up against me. ‘Piss off,’ I said, lighting another cigarette to frighten him. I was sick of his atomic farts. I was sick of the whole damned thing. Just then I looked out the window. Roman, towel round his neck, had emerged from the track to the beach, where he’d been all afternoon, on his own. I could hear his breathing, oddly laboured after the climb. Then he took off his shorts and washed himself under the outdoor shower, thinking he was invisible. I hadn’t really looked at him since — when? — Siena, the Campo, when I spied on him, or he on me. But now he interested me. Like Rufus, he carried no fat. Their physiques weren’t dissimilar, though Roman’s legs were as thin as an Elizabethan dandy’s. I watched him as he strained to tighten the nozzle. I noted the sinews in his back, the purposeful heaving of his ribs, the prodigious arms, the respectable cock. So this was what all the fuss was about — the new Adam. I looked at his sinuous torso and was faintly repelled. That sort of man-boy physique has never aroused me. No butt to speak of; a bottomless blur. The puniness of life took my breath away. I might have pitied Roman but for what he had done to Candy, to Matthew. Roman took an eternity fixing the shower. I could see he was happiest doing things, making things, mending things — happiest alone. His isolation in the garden interested me. Clearly he was less self-satisfied than I had thought. I sensed somehow, as he towelled himself down, that he had begun to dislike his new role as seducer. He was sick of the easy conquests, depressed by the impact he had on people, mistrustful of the long spidery body that drove them all nuts. He wanted a quiet life, preferably alone. It didn’t endear him to me, but it helped me to understand, and to plan. 309

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After his shower he watered the shrubs until they bled, distractedly spraying my window and soaking a page. Slowly he exhaled: the sigh of a discontented man. Of whom was he thinking in his solitude: Ursula, Candy, Matthew, someone else? Himself, probably. A koala, honking in a nearby tree, offered a porcine commentary. Spinning round to locate his jester, Roman began to change and unravel before my eyes. Suddenly, perversely, he reminded me of another youth, that other charismat, looming in front of me, naked, forsaking — reminded me, yes, outrageously, finally spotting me, of Matt. So I slammed the window shut, staggered down the hallway framed with memories and sprites, burst into the glassy studio with its reek of boys and rancid daybeds, buried myself on one of them and lamentably wept. Gradually I composed myself. To be shaken by the beanpole was intolerable. I hadn’t felt so angry in years. I would never forgive him. Mortified though I was, I resolved to exert myself and to rout this third-rate phantom.

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MATTHEW March 15 ~ The others set off early one morning. I got out of bed to farewell the travellers; Roman stayed on his day-bed, motionless. Philip Anthem barely spoke as Julia and Rufus helped him towards the government car. There was a poignant moment when the old man farewelled Waldo, who was staying with us. Philip seemed too frail to be undertaking a week of publicity. His health had worsened since our arrival. He coughed all the time, and his breathing was strained. The oxygen tank was never far away now. Julia, knowing how ill he was, watched her invalid author and gripped my hand. Subdued, we said goodbye. When they had all gone I returned to the studio, needing sleep or oblivion. Roman sat up on the bed, as he had done a few nights before. ‘What is it?’ he said, trying to bring me into focus. ‘They’ve gone.’ ‘Who has?’ It was as if he had stirred in a brightly lit railway station and couldn’t remember which country he was in or what whim had led him there. 311

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‘Your grandfather,’ I explained. ‘Rufus and Julia have taken him to Sydney.’ ‘Oh well,’ he breathed, and fell back on to his pillow with a thud. Quickly undressing, I slipped beneath the sheets and shivered against his warm body. It was three nights since I’d touched him. ‘Hold me,’ I said. He gripped me as is from a tremendous distance, firmly as ever, but no longer convincing. ‘Oh Matthew,’ he groaned, and was soon asleep. Part of me knew then, viscerally. Bone, gut, kidneys, sinew felt him recede and registered the shock. It was over. It hadn’t even begun. Roman didn’t want me. He’d tried it and he’d been good at it, but it wasn’t felt and it wasn’t for him. Either he missed his women or I wasn’t what he needed. I knew that now and was hollowed by the knowledge — just a shell, an automaton. After that we hardly spoke. Each morning I rose long before him. Mrs Warren was back, forever baking and polishing. She was quieter than usual, worried about Philip. Whenever the phone rang she clutched her goitrous throat and picked up the phone as if it were a loaded gun. Of an evening she would watch the news headlines then retreat to her downstairs flat, leaving a little casserole in the oven and pavlova in the fridge. Roman slept until midday. It was all he wanted to do. One day I listened to him moving around in the studio. He seemed to be disposing of things. Surely it was too early to be packing for Sydney; we had several more days of this misery to endure. Then he showered for half an hour. Steam curled from the narrow window overlooking the garden. Was he pleasuring himself under that stream? I remembered a corded hand around our nuzzling cocks as he facetiously weighed them. Madly I wanted to invade the bathroom, to swallow him and suds and gush, whatever 312

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came. Afterwards, he stayed in the studio for hours. I felt like pushing a note under the door then disappearing into the bush, telling him it was safe to come out. It was his house after all, not mine. I no longer belonged there. Eventually he appeared with a pot of coffee. We sat in the garden while Waldo rolled arthritically on his back in a futile attempt to stimulate us. Roman hardly looked at me. He hadn’t mentioned Greece since that first night. ‘I may finish today,’ he said flatly. ‘Finish what?’ ‘Ulysses.’ ‘What will you read next?’ ‘Something shorter.’ ‘I hear The Anthem Memoirs are very good.’ ‘Maybe,’ he said, sniffing. He was too desolate for jokes. ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ I said, feeling unworthy, as if I reeked of something: queerness or needfulness. I remembered Babs imploring me not to get in people’s way when I was a boy. Clambering down the path I fell over and cut my shin rather badly. I should have gone back to the house and disinfected the wound, but I pushed on and bathed my leg in the sea. Waldo stayed with me, very patient. Gradually the tide receded, exposing the rock pools that Roman had shown me. I limped around on the jagged rocks, my shin bleeding freely now. I searched for the rock pool where Roman had retrieved the stone and sat by it, trying to revive a sense of logic or coherence. My oozing blood began to pollute the clear water. Waldo looked at the spreading cloud and fled to the shore. I dropped the stone into the pool and followed him. I had once again vividly failed.

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JULIA March 16 ~ It guts me to think of Philip’s launch. What should have been the summation of his career, and a milestone in mine, turned out to be as hollow as Raglan’s speech and torture for everyone present. Yet recall it I must. Retrospect is all as we piece the story together — and patch ourselves up. Philip rallied when we hit the promotional road and seemed to enjoy the first few interviews. For the master of repartee, they were a piece of cake. Talk of the Fracas bemused some of the younger reporters, and Philip had to spell it for them. A few of them weren’t even born when it happened. The press conference at the Seymour Centre was livelier, with numerous Canberra veterans in attendance, wittily sparring with the old hero of the gallery. The Anthem Memoirs was attracting rave reviews, and Philip’s image was everywhere (along with far too many Romans and Stellas for my liking). Roscoe agreed to a huge reprint two days before the launch. That afternoon, cruelly, things changed. Philip stumbled 314

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on leaving a television studio, shaking his confidence. By the time Rufus and I got him back to the Hyatt, he was in pain and short of breath, needing oxygen every half hour. I cancelled his engagements for the next twenty-four hours. I had taken a large suite so that we could be close to him. I sat up with him all night, screening calls. His breathing was raw, spasmodic. By the following afternoon — the eve of the launch — he was very weak. When his doctor examined him he was shocked by his deterioration. We took him to hospital in an ambulance. It was on the news before they hooked him up to a respirator in Intensive Care. So the launch at Government House took place without the author. The place was crawling with senators and scribes (some of whom I would spar with three months later on the flight to Greece). Word had circulated that Philip was dead, and no one wanted to miss it. I spoke first, representing Concord. Before losing consciousness, Philip, full of apologies, had asked me to read his prepared speech. I did so, but tripped up when I reached the bit about my being the book’s ‘onlie begetter’. I excised this and other tributes. Stella spoke briefly, as if she didn’t trust herself. Then it was the PM’s turn. He rambled as usual, stressing each rhetorical point with a strange wobble of his head which I hadn’t noted before: early Parkinson’s or a new Roosevelt-like affectation? At least he got his dates right, and avoided the passive voice, beloved of politicians. Afterwards, watching Raglan move freely through the large crowd, Rufus was struck by the informality. Had it been the American president, he said, we would all have been strip-searched. ‘Oh for a green card,’ said Elyot Waters, so attentive to RFK you would have thought he was the author. That’s when I remembered Matthew. I’d been so preoccupied by the speeches and protocol I hadn’t given him a 315

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thought. Where was he? I couldn’t see him in the crush. Roman was there — lurking behind columns, backing onto the terrace during the speeches — but no Matthew. I hadn’t spoken to him since our last morning on the coast, when we arranged to meet at the launch. Rufus hadn’t seen him, either. I couldn’t ask Babs. She was in the kitchen running the show. Nothing got past Elyot Waters, so I tried him. He told me he had asked Roman the same question. Roman didn’t seem to know where Matthew was. I smelt a rat. Meanwhile, Stella and the PM signed hundreds of copies of The Anthem Memoirs. I thought I was the only one who found this incongruous until Annabel Newsome, tautly Chanelled, sidled up to me and poured purry poison in my ear: ‘I’m not sure which of them is more presumptuous, my invincible niece or the dreary PM. What a shame Pip couldn’t be here to do the honours.’ This was hardly convincing. Annabel famously detests her brother. Lady Macbeth of Mosman, as she was known in her prime, was only there because Philip was not. ‘How are you, darling?’ Annabel melodised. ‘I haven’t seen you in a thousand years. How’s that operatic daughter of yours? I can’t wait to see her in the Ring. I’m taking the whole Wagner Society. It will be fascinating to see what Candy does with Sieglinde. Such a difficult role. And what about Roman — will he be there? I hear they’re inseparable. Your daughter’s a brave girl. Just like Philip’s. Look at her — what a trooper. You’d think she wrote it herself. And so thin. How does she do it? I live on celery, but you wouldn’t know. Where are we all off to afterwards, by the way?’ Douglas Raglan had invited some of us back to Kirribilli for drinks, but Annabel, no ally of his, wasn’t included. When it came time to leave, there was a slight contretemps in the foyer. Little Max, determined to visit Philip in hospital, refused to get into the car with Stella and disappeared 316

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before the PM’s bodyguards could apply a headlock. Douglas Raglan and Hal Hutton took Roman with them in the first limousine. His mother travelled with Rufus and me. Stella and I congratulated each other across an embossed armrest, the sum of our intimacy. Crossing the great bridge, the motorcade got stuck in a traffic jam. When motorists recognised the official party they tooted and made irreverent gestures. Rufus observed this with some amazement, as if he had reached the ultimate stalled republic and didn’t want to leave. But leave he must, as we both knew. First, though, there was time for local champagne and a short encore from the PM, who told us that he had visited Philip en route to the launch and (this we found unlikely) had a long chat with him. Then I accompanied Rufus to the Concord car. Roman, rather boldly, had offered to drive him to the airport, but I put a stop to that. I didn’t trust Roman with anyone — especially in a tunnel. Saying goodbye to Rufus was horrible. We arranged to meet in New York as soon as I could get away. I didn’t look back as the car disappeared, but I smoked a Marlboro down to the tip in thirty-two seconds: a new world record. Then I returned to the smallish house. Parts of it were vaguely familiar. I had been there once or twice decades ago, during my time in Philip’s department. I caught Roman’s eye and indicated that I wanted a word. He knew the house better than I did, having stayed there as a child, and led me into a chintzy alcove with an exercise bike and several fax machines. I didn’t muck around. ‘What have you done with Matthew?’ ‘Nothing,’ he mumbled, looking at his filthy shoes. He was pale and had lost weight since his al fresco shower on the coast. I looked away in disgust. ‘Where is he, Roman?’ I demanded, seething behind my fringe. He said he had no idea. ‘What do you mean no idea? 317

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You were together five days ago. You drove up to the coast together — didn’t you?’ ‘Yes, and then we . . . then we parted. I thought he’d be here tonight.’ ‘Thought? Of course he was coming!’ I was so angry I wanted to hit him. ‘So you’ve not been with him?’ ‘Not since yesterday. I’d arranged to stay with my family.’ (It was strange to hear the reedy rebel use that word.) ‘Matthew wanted to stay in a hotel — Bondi, I think.’ ‘So you just dumped him and buggered off!’ ‘It wasn’t like that. Matthew seemed quite happy . . .’ ‘Don’t, Roman,’ I warned him, cutting him off. He was going too far now. I strummed my nails on a fax machine, which promptly spat out some economic data. ‘Why in Christ’s name didn’t you ring me?’ ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know where to reach you. And I wouldn’t have known what to say.’ At this I thought I was going to vomit. I stared at Roman and saw myself scratching his face. I had never hated like this before, which is really saying something. But my threat, when it came, was cool in its malevolence. ‘If anything happens to Matthew, you know what I’ll do.’ Roman nodded. He did know. I could see he wanted to slouch away, but just then the PM wandered into the alcove, to escape from the Huttons or to check the fax machine. ‘How are you, Roman?’ he said, patting his godson on the back, ignoring me. ‘You know the whole country is thinking of you and your dear mother at this dreadful time. Ring me if you need anything.’ He paused, glancing at his watch. ‘By the way, you might be interested in one of your dear grandmother’s paintings which we found upstairs. Mrs Raglan says it doesn’t quite “go” with the new look. Damned fashion! I thought Stella might like to have it.’ 318

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Raglan walked down the hallway, cracking his knuckles. He hadn’t looked at me once. Roman tried to say something, but I shot him a look of such derision that the gormless one withered away. I hoped (how wrong I was) that I would never see him again. He had done his worst now; the rest was up to me. After the launch I stayed in Sydney. I was there for more than a month. I was determined to see Philip daily and to supervise the promotion. It’s not easy to sell a book without its author. But The Anthem Memoirs proved different. Philip’s status and his illness sparked new interest in the legend. People not alive when he was in power wanted to know about the man, and those who were alive clearly felt a mixture of nostalgia and regret. From Anthem to Raglan: what a falling off. By mid-October one hundred thousand copies of the book were in circulation. I visited Philip first thing each morning and after dinner. Stella claimed the rest of the day. Sometimes I passed her in the hospital corridor (the changing of the guards). She was so regal she barely noticed me. I managed to avoid Roman, who seemed to be drifting between Sydney and Melbourne. I told Philip about each review and reprint, and showed him some of the thousands of letters that had begun to arrive. Philip nodded through his ventilator, but had none of his old appetite for correspondence. He was sick, worn out. The man who had written thirty thousand letters in his time (some, preciously, to me) could no longer lift a pen. Philip knew he was dying, though no one else would admit it. They moved him from Intensive Care, but only to a private ward with specialist nurses and grisly machinery. Finally Philip’s condition stabilised, then he rallied slightly and they got him into a wheelchair. His doctors told me he was unlikely to die that month. Desperate to see 319

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Rufus, who sounded even more desperate to get his hands on me, I flew to New York for a week. We hardly left his apartment. It was during a brief walk in Central Park that word reached me that Philip had suffered a stroke and was now comatose. When I went home in early November I flew straight to Melbourne. I didn’t want to see Philip like that — not him of all people. I would visit him again but not yet, not yet. Stella could handle that. She was good at it. I had to agree with the women’s magazines: she was supreme in a crisis. Candy was in Adelaide. She had been there for two months, but her first Valkyrie was still a fortnight off. By now the company was tired and grumpy. One of the sets refused to rotate, and a chandelier in the Café Valhalla had fallen from the roof, nearly crushing a Rhinemaiden. The Belgian Hagen had flown in late, with so little English and imagination he was beyond help. Digby Danton, always best at the endgame, was holding it together, but just. At least the three Ring Cycles had almost sold out. Candy never mentioned Roman, never asked if I knew if he was going to Adelaide. I hoped he’d left it too late to get a ticket. Matthew was waiting for me when I got back to Valhalla, just like the old days. I was shocked by how haggard he looked. Roman had done a real job on him. Matthew never alluded to what had happened on the coast, but he did ask how the launch had gone (such a polite boy). I knew better than to ask him about Roman. I could tell they were no longer in contact. It was obvious from Matthew’s dazed eyes. Still, he functioned when we were together and wanted to hear about my week with Rufus. (I left out the euphoric bits.) We began making plans for Adelaide. Matthew might have been clueless about Roman, but I felt sure Babs knew what he was up to. When I visited her in Kew she was duly informative. She was seeing more of Ursula. 320

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She told me about one foray to Satchell Street. Roman had just got back from Sydney, but only to remove his things. Ursula took the news quite well. Ernesto had moved in anyway, so she wasn’t lonely. I had to admire Ursula’s survival instinct. As yet there was no talk of money, but Babs knew that would follow. Ursula was expecting a share of the trust money, which had to come through soon. Babs had no doubt Roman would give her whatever she wanted. Then Babs made a piquant discovery. Appalled by the state of the house, she had offered to clean up the sleep-out while Ursula went dancing with Ernesto. Roman’s old kennel was full of millinery ghosts. Roman had been quite thorough before moving out, but he had overlooked a few things, including a sketchbook containing doodles and drawings of cabinets and the like. It yielded other gems. Along with newspaper photographs of Philip and Candy, and reviews of Salome, Babs found her own recipe for gnocchi, an obscene birthday card from Max Payne, Roman’s birth certificate of all things, his primitive business card, dozens of unpaid parking fines, Digby’s dimensions, so to speak, and an invitation to attend a class reunion at Swanton (the beautiful blur was nostalgic after all). The book was also a repository for some of his borrowed pensées, drawn from Philip, James Joyce, Hunter S. Thompson, even me, Babs was amazed to discover. (Did I really say that solitude is the greatest and most pointless test of character?) It also served as a kind of diary on occasion. Babs, responsible as an archivist, naturally pocketed the sketchbook and took it back to Kew. She didn’t want Ursula to read it — at least not a certain page. Babs was coy at first and refused to show it to me. She intended to return it to Roman next time they met. She relented, but only after a bottle of Mount Mary and endless entreaties. While she went upstairs to retrieve the sketchbook, I drained my glass 321

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nervously. Was I ready for this? How much did I want to know about Roman and Candy, Roman and Matthew, Roman and all of us? But in the end, as I read the ill-written page that Babs pointed me to, I was grateful for the evidence — and surprised by what I learnt about Roman. For the first time he seemed older than his twenty-one years. The entry wasn’t dated, but I soon placed it: Perhaps I’ll go away — don’t know where. New York’s available, but I’d feel like a fake there. I want to live very quietly, away from people. Perhaps I owe it to some of them to vanish. Greece would be good for that. Not so long ago I asked Matthew Light to go with me — another wound. How to explain what happens, why passion switches off? I can’t. Never could. It always happens, but this one was quicker than most. Perhaps I’m speeding up. Hopeless. It must be time to live another way, more cautiously. Perhaps solo’s best. All my life I’ve tried to be everything to other people. Look where it gets you, look what it does to them. Instead of giving pleasure I’ve hurt those who matter most. I looked at them in the end, the victims — Candy and Matthew, even Ursula, so simple and confused about what she wants — and I could hardly recognise them, couldn’t work out what I’d done to them, couldn’t explain or pacify, couldn’t even feel. I never expected them to love me. Not like that. I thought they had more taste. I tried to warn them. But they wouldn’t believe me. They thought it was one of my jokes. Candy’s over it now, but Matthew needs me, worships me, and I can’t have that. Not again. One night at Philip’s place Matthew sat at my feet and rested his head against 322

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my leg, so vulnerable I wanted to scream, wanted to run away, free myself and him. What to make of it all? If I had a father — but enough of that. Philip was always that to me. Yesterday he went into hospital. He didn’t make it to tonight’s launch, about which the least said the better. He won’t survive this time. That’s all over. Now for the visits, the black clinical comedy, the last social rites. Yes, time to find another way to live, to work. I might even build that house I’ve always had in mind. A new Valhalla. But lighter. More open. White. Of them all, I think I’ll miss Rufus Karsten most. Why? Because he didn’t need me? Because he went away? Strange, isn’t it?

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MATTHEW March 17 ~ After the deadlock in Sydney I went back to Valhalla. I had failed again but I had no idea why. Roman never volunteered a reason. He had just withdrawn and moved on — no explanation. Already it felt like an illusion, something I’d imagined. I didn’t have a clue what was going on, and as always resorted to a kind of mute self-blaming introspection. It never occurred to me to pick up the phone, track him down, find out what was going on, demand some answers, point out his selfishness. It wasn’t in my nature or my rearing. Now of course I realise that’s what I should have done. If I’d confronted Roman, insisted on knowing what the hell was going on, even told him a little about myself, god help us — confided in him about my addiction, the immense simplicity of my love for him, how he’d saved me, revived me — even, pitiably, if I’d asked the man how he was, what he was thinking, why he always recoiled from emotion, what they’d done to him, then perhaps we might have jolted each other, might have shaken those sad defences, might have learned to understand what happens in life, might even 324

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have been good for each other, however passingly. And perhaps Roman would still be here today. But I didn’t know how then, didn’t know the way. So back I went to Melbourne, alone. At least Valhalla was empty. Candy was in Adelaide, and Julia stayed on in Sydney. I immersed myself in Waiting for Godot, but I was merely going through the motions. Since there was little action in Sal Pesman’s production, I felt at home. Sal had just been to Japan on a grant and was inspired by everything Noh, so hers was a languid conception. One day I fell into such a reverie I missed Lucky’s entrance — my only entrance. ‘Dance, misery!’ Sal snarled from the wings. In early November Julia flew to New York to be with Rufus. I was pleased for her. We all missed Rufus: his humour, his sureness, his fineness. Despite Philip Anthem’s worsening health, Julia came back to Melbourne, not Sydney. The doctors promised to keep her posted, and the newspapers were full of medical reports in any case. Unfortunately, the opening night of Godot coincided with Candy’s first performance as Sieglinde, so I couldn’t attend her début. But our season was short, and I was planning to attend the last Valkyrie three weeks later. We’d all be there: Julia, the Collises, Prentice, even Rufus. (He e-mailed me saying he intended to surprise Julia by attending the final cycle in mid-December.) A week before opening night, Stella Anthem rang Valhalla. Stella, very calm (practised at death, good at it), asked me to pass on a message to Julia urging her to fly to Sydney as soon as possible. Julia, struck by Stella’s gesture, knew what this meant and was on the first plane. I thought of going with her but changed my mind. Roman would be there. I hadn’t seen him since Sydney; there had been no contact. I didn’t belong there now.

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So it was a relief one afternoon when the gods rehearsed one of their cosmic jokes. This was two days before my opening night. Julia had flown home from Sydney, but only to collect her Saab and head off to Adelaide. For some reason she needed a car there. She had taken a large suite at the Hyatt and wanted us all to use it over the next month. I’d gone to Dimmey’s to buy a few things. As I was leaving the store I recognised, or thought I recognised, a barechested figure stepping into a Valiant parked on Swan Street. He tore off a parking ticket in disgust. By the time I reached the car he had almost pulled out, not bothering to indicate. ‘Roman,’ I shouted, thumping the windscreen. ‘Roman, it’s me.’ ‘What the fuck?’ the driver yelled, squinting at me through the windscreen, ‘Sorry, sorry, I thought it was him,’ I said, as if all the world knew who I meant. ‘It’s Matthew. Remember?’ ‘Well, get in before they run you over,’ Chris Killen said, winding down the window and smiling at me in that dozy way of his. Irate motorists were tooting, so I did. ‘Fancy,’ CK snorted, wrenching the car into first and accelerating with a hint of muffler problems. ‘Where shall we go? Bondi?’ ‘Come back to my place,’ I said, without thinking. I began to navigate, not telling CK where we were going. I felt winded, meeting him like that after six years. We drove to Valhalla in silence, both vaguely regretting our spontaneity. CK was thinner than when I’d seen him last, but still powerfully built. As he drove his right leg twitched constantly, as it always had. I was aware of his heavy, sweetish scent, despite the cigarette that he automatically lit, not offering me one. A damp shirt lay on the vinyl seat between us. CK always perspired, even as a boy. On the left side of his neck was a 326

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new Laocoön-like tattoo. Beneath the famous dimpled chin hung two long twisted whiskers. His greasy hair was in a ponytail. ‘Tell me you’re not taking me back to Valhalla,’ CK said, as he recognised the suburb. ‘Please tell me you’re not still living there.’ One of his top teeth was missing. He had excellent teeth when I first knew him at Swanton. We all did. Very straight. ‘I’m afraid so.’ ‘That’s fucking awful,’ CK spat. ‘It’s so boring . . . so Victorian.’ But he stopped the car when we reached the cul-de-sac and got out without waiting to be asked. ‘What a dump!’ he said, inside the house. Restless as ever, he moved from room to room, slipping a hand under his beltless jeans and feeling his cock, always half erect. Like Julia, he never bothered with underwear. He was tanned all over and his feet were black. I recognised the filthy leather anklet. I was there when he knotted it, ever dexterous. ‘Got a drink?’ he asked, glancing at me for the first time. Then he hugged me roughly, threw back his head and laughed. I went into the kitchen and filled a tumbler with Julia’s cognac. We might have been thirteen again, raiding her bar and pouring crème de menthe on our ice-cream. I looked at CK’s hands. They were strong and typically filthy. Even on speech nights, CK always looked like a mechanic. I had lived for those hands. Once I drew him as the Man of Sorrows, slapped and scorned by his own putrid, amputated, charismatic hands. ‘I suppose you’re still living with that . . .’ ‘Yes, I am,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘How is the old witch?’ ‘Happy, since you ask.’ ‘Impossible,’ CK snapped. ‘I suppose she hasn’t let go of Candy either?’ 327

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‘We’re all still here,’ I said, adding quickly, ‘You’re not going to say awful things about Candy too?’ ‘You know I’d never do that,’ he smiled. ‘What’s Candy doing these days?’ ‘She’s a star, or about to become one.’ ‘Which band?’ ‘Candy’s an opera singer now.’ ‘Fuck!’ ‘You should hear her one day. She has an amazing voice.’ ‘She always did,’ CK said, strumming his right nipple meditatively. ‘I always had a soft spot for Candy. Did I ever tell you that?’ ‘Only nightly.’ ‘You always told me to be honest.’ ‘Where are you living?’ I asked, changing the subject. ‘In a housing commission flat by the Maribyrnong. Beautiful view.’ He reflected for a moment. ‘Did I tell you I’m married? I thought about inviting you, but I didn’t know where you lived. I didn’t think of Valhalla. Silly me.’ ‘What does your wife do?’ ‘She’s a certified addict. We’re beautifully matched.’ ‘And you’re happy?’ ‘You always asked me that, and you always looked hurt when I said no.’ CK shrugged, peering into the matted garden. ‘Happy’s a big word. But we have a child. Shine Kurt Cobain Bowie. And Killen, of course. None of your hyphenated bullshit for my boyo. Dad had written me off for so long as the last of the Killens I wanted to give him a little uncircumcised surprise one Father’s Day. Shine’s got a sister on the way too. We’re going to call her Ecstasy — middle name Bonus.’ ‘Are your parents pleased?’ ‘Both dead. Dad collapsed one day outside the Club. They said it was an aneurysm. Bitches of things. Makes you 328

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wonder sometimes. At least he’d had a good lunch. Mum went before that, with the breast business.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘You mean that, don’t you?’ CK said, yawning at me with a kind of bored incomprehension that I remembered. He was unsentimental about everything and everyone. One Monday at school he told me his eldest sister had been killed in a car accident that weekend. He made it sound normal and he never wept, or not that I was aware. ‘You were always so pathologically nice to my parents, even though they couldn’t bear you hanging around. Don’t look so shocked. My dad always thought you were trying to corrupt me. One day when he was driving me to school he said he needed to have a chat with me, man-to-man. He’d been freaked out by something he’d read in Reader’s Digest. He told me a man only had to touch you on the arm or look at you in a certain way and you were never the same again. He drove through a red light — that’s how worried he was.’ ‘But they couldn’t have known about us?’ ‘Of course they knew,’ CK snorted. ‘Everyone did.’ Then he held up his glass. ‘More cough mixture please sir.’ I passed him the bottle. ‘Then we should go out, for old time’s sake. Which shopping mall do you hang out at? I prefer Leopold Bloom’s, in town.’ ‘Spare me,’ I winced. ‘Have I made another faux pas?’ ‘Never mind.’ ‘I was always good at that. Remember the time Babs and Juliafucker drove us to that Nuremberg rally at Swandong and I started banging on about Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas and what they got up to under the quilt. I couldn’t work out why they were so silent up the front. How is your mum, by the way — still running Babs’ Basket? I always liked Babs. A very sexy lady. I could never understand your 329

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preference for Julia the Destroyer.’ (Babs was fond of CK too, I remembered. She always liked having him around. It was Julia who disapproved of our friendship.) Then I blurted it out. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any drugs on you?’ ‘Aha,’ CK chortled. ‘So that’s why you threw yourself on my bonnet.’ ‘I just thought . . .’ ‘Sparks fly upwards!’ ‘Still reading the Bible,’ I said. ‘Reverend Mowbray would be impressed.’ ‘That old bastard. Whatever happened to Mowbray?’ ‘His wife went mad and shot him.’ ‘Good!’ CK said impassively, gulping his cognac like lemonade. He had always thrilled me as a boy with his mordant judgments. He was a great moralist, something the Mowbrays of this world failed to realise, too shocked by his insolence, his sexual cunning, the splotches of hash they found in his locker. ‘What sort of sherbet did you have in mind?’ CK asked me clinically. ‘Just something to make me sleep.’ ‘I’m not a fucking pharmacy. But I hear that E’s very big among you theatrical types.’ ‘I don’t want that. I just want to be obliterated for a few nights.’ ‘What’s going on?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘I haven’t seen you like this before.’ ‘I’m fine.’ ‘I could duck over to St Kilda and get you some of the real stuff . . .’ ‘No, thanks.’ ‘It’s no hassle. I’m at your service.’ 330

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‘Please.’ ‘Well, you won’t mind if I have a little heart-starter.’ With this CK cut up some of the white stuff and snorted it through a ten dollar note. It all took about a minute. ‘That feels better,’ he said, shaking his head and sniffing. Then he kissed me with those dry, sexy lips. ‘What about some music — or a movie? Let’s watch Nostalgia. That’ll cheer you up.’ ‘I went there last year — to San Galgano.’ ‘You bastard.’ ‘Do you remember the book you gave me?’ ‘Of course I do,’ CK snapped. ‘Was it as good as the engraving?’ ‘Nothing is ever as good as its engraving.’ ‘Fuck, you still say things like that,’ he joked, sneezing violently. ‘You were always fond of ruins. Come to think about it, I introduced you to many of life’s consolations: sex, ruins, sex among the ruins, drugs of course, and the remote possibility that not everything our parents and schoolteachers tell us is true.’ ‘I’m indebted to you.’ ‘I must remember that.’ CK slid on to the sofa and positioned himself behind me, so that my head rested against his decorative neck. I felt his racing pulse. It was always rapid, unlike Roman’s. ‘I thought we were going to San Galgano together?’ he murmured, drifting now and caressing my thighs. ‘I gave up waiting.’ ‘So you went there with my rival,’ CK said, surprising me with his cool acuity. Like Roman, he had always been incapable of jealousy. Possibly because he could have anyone he fancied — his brother’s girlfriends, captivated mothers, dazzled classmates like me, our tactile teachers with their lying wedding bands — he didn’t see the point. ‘Sort of, though we didn’t quite realise at the time,’ I said. 331

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‘That sounds complicated. Do you want to tell me about it?’ ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Good. I just thought I’d ask.’ The least analytical of lovers, CK had never understood my endless dialogues with Julia and Candy. Scratching his forearm vigorously, he looked at me and said, ‘It’s not me now, is it?’ ‘I don’t follow you,’ I said, my head spinning, as if I’d taken something too. ‘I’m not the one,’ CK went on. ‘Are you getting nostalgic?’ ‘Call me anything but that,’ he jeered. ‘Do I know him?’ ‘Probably.’ ‘Don’t tell me he’s an Old Swantonian. What’s his name?’ he asked, gripping my neck. ‘Never mind,’ I said, freeing myself. ‘I’m sorry for being so boring.’ ‘Don’t apologise. We regret everything. Remember?’ It was our adolescent motto. ‘How far do we go back,’ CK asked, always vague about the week before last. ‘Fifteen years,’ I said. ‘I’d just gone to live with Julia and Candy.’ ‘You and your facts,’ CK sneered, prodding my ribs. ‘I bet you wrote about it in your fucking diary.’ ‘Of course. There’s a long entry about our first day at school.’ ‘Jesus.’ ‘I watched you all day. I was sitting two desks behind you, next to Roger Upton of the halitosis. You were the only one who dared to laugh at the Locust’s shocking French accent. Everyone else was too frightened of being expelled. You were so brown after your holiday. I was suddenly glad Roger had sent me to his old school after all.’ ‘You sound like a fucking pervert.’ 332

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‘I was thirteen, if you don’t mind.’ ‘That’s right, a day older than me.’ ‘A day younger.’ CK paused, rolling a cigarette. ‘What did you say about me in your diary?’ ‘I said I wanted to share a desk with you.’ ‘That’s cute.’ Despite his premature ravages — the pustules, the gaunt cheeks, the dull eyes — I remembered CK as our golden boy, a kind of glamorous herald placed in our class to rouse us from our timid pubescence and woeful conventionality. ‘I give you our future prime minister,’ said Mr Wattle, our social studies teacher, after an intense debate about the recent Fracas, in which CK had defended the Americans, and prevailed. Then CK drew me closer and said, ‘Would you like me to take you to bed and do things to you?’ I liked his carnal candour, the casual eroticism. He’d always been blunt about sex — just like Julia. Neither of them saw any reason to delay or any reason why they shouldn’t have anyone they fancied. Perhaps that’s why they distrusted each other. ‘Why not?’ I said, blurry from a few sips of CK’s cognac. I didn’t care now. Something else had taken over: indifference perhaps. CK always had this automatic effect on me. ‘You still haven’t asked me.’ ‘Asked you what?’ ‘How I am — in myself, as my mother used to say.’ ‘Oh that. It doesn’t matter. ‘You don’t mean to say you trust me?’ ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ CK, who always had a thing about conjugal beds, wanted to use Julia’s, as we did once or twice in our teens, with almost cardiac consequences for me, but I refused. We 333

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stayed on the sofa, opening it up. CK tore off my T-shirt in a single motion and rubbed my arms approvingly. ‘Great veins,’ he said, kissing me. He was as wordless and commanding as I remembered. He wasn’t bad at sixteen; now he was superb. He had several abortive orgasms, prolonging his pleasure, and mine. Eventually, remembering what he liked most, I let him fuck me from above. I watched the haunted expression on his face and waited for the hurt howl as he finally and thuddingly came. We slithered on to the carpet and shared a cigarette. Nothing was said. We had run out of news; those six years began to close over us like a casement. CK, saturated, walked across the room and stared at the garden. I watched his strong back and shapely calves. It all came back: CK standing in other doorways, his back towards me, boredly watching the stars. One night he went out late, needing adventure. I got up on the hour; I could tell the time by the arching of the moon. I’d given up waiting for him when he came in at dawn. ‘I’d better go now,’ CK said. ‘I’ve got an errand to run in Fitzroy, then I want to go home and see Shine before he sets, so to speak. I must say it’s nice having a kid. You should try it. Why don’t you give Julia a thrill one night? It’s not that difficult. Just close your eyes and think of me. After all, that’s what she’s been waiting for all these years. You might have a baby boy, another one for her to torture.’ ‘Julia thinks fondly of you too, CK.’ ‘We all have our reasons,’ he said with a grin. He leaned over and kissed me. I touched his neck, the sharp Adam’s apple. As I watched him dress I wondered how long it would be before I saw him again — how long before I’d read about him in a newspaper, the subject of some diplomatic quandary in Thailand, or buried in the death notices. ‘Are you sure I can’t leave you something for later?’ he asked. 334

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‘Quite sure, thanks. I’ll be fine.’ ‘I don’t believe you.’ ‘I’m all right.’ ‘Get away from this place, Matty. Don’t stay here.’ I changed the subject and fetched him a dry shirt to wear home. CK put it on, amused by its tightness. ‘You haven’t asked me yet,’ he said. ‘Asked you what?’ ‘What happened — the last time we . . . when I . . .’ ‘It doesn’t matter.’ ‘But I want to explain . . .’ ‘I really don’t care,’ I said, silencing him. ‘Go home to Shine.’ The minute CK left I almost forgot what he looked like. Another image, mercifully clouded since our meeting on Swan Street, replaced his. For three hours I hadn’t thought about Roman, my first respite in months. But now it all rose up, hopeless and exquisite. I sat there rocking on the floor, almost calm for a time.

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33

JULIA March 19 ~ When I left Sydney, I knew I’d never see Philip again. It had been thoughtful of Stella to contact me, but she made it clear in the waiting room that there would be no more visits from outsiders. The time for that was over. Everyone wanted to be there of course. It was like the death of a lion. Philip’s hospital room was crowded. Several nurses stood over the bed, fond of him. Russell Lacey was there, holding his mentor’s inert hand. Hal Hutton was opposite, surprisingly moved. Max Payne was so uptight, so angry at Philip for leaving him, he kept on shouting at the nurses to do something. He couldn’t understand why they didn’t just give him more drugs. Stella, ashen, tried to console Max. Roman wasn’t there. He had taken Little Hughdie home. I was grateful for this. Later, of course, it would have simplified things if I’d been able to collar him there. Strange it was saying goodbye to Philip in that crowded space. Because of all the distractions and emotion, no one noticed. I stood at the foot of the bed and studied Philip’s 336

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face, still magnificent, though an unreal colour. His eyes were shut, his breathing laboured. It was more than a fortnight since his stroke. Pneumonia had set in; this would kill him. The doctors were monitoring him for another heart attack. They had removed the blanket and sheet from his feet because of his temperature. I bent down and kissed them, whispering to Philip. I left the room without a word. Outside I asked one of the doctors if Philip could hear anything. Most unlikely, he said. Nor was there any chance that Philip would wake up before the end. He might go on like this for a while, but always comatose. Outside, the television crews, avid for scoops, asked me what I knew. I ignored them and went straight to Adelaide, as far away as possible, taking a suite at the Hyatt. It was extravagant of me, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Besides, it’s not every day your daughter makes her début in the Ring Cycle. Besides, Philip’s book had grossed two million dollars in as many months, so Roscoe could afford it. I slept for twelve hours, only waking to call Rufus in New York. I missed him dreadfully: his arms, his grip. I hadn’t felt like this in years. It shocked me. The thought of not seeing him in weeks, months, was appalling. We would have to do something about it. Marriage still hadn’t been mentioned, but it was no longer totally outlandish. If there was to be a third husband, RFK was my man. In New York, that last time, we had talked about arranging things so that we worked in the same office. But Melbourne or Manhattan? I would have to talk to Roscoe Hunt in the New Year. He would be livid — another hurdle. Candy moved in with me, tired of shacking up with Brünnhilde, who snored. Candy seemed calm, positive. She was ready now. It was her big chance, as Prentice of the Zone concluded in his profile, which finally ran on the Saturday before her first night. This filled three pages, unprecedented 337

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for the Zone. ‘Candy Diva’, as Prentice christened her, had put opera back on the front page. Each morning I spoke to Matthew, who was stuck in Melbourne. Because of bloody Samuel Beckett, he wouldn’t be able to join us until Candy’s final performance. I was worried about Matthew and wished he was with us. I remembered our last conversation at Valhalla, just before Stella Anthem’s SOS. I had taken him out to dinner. I hadn’t seen him like that since the days of Chris Killen. Matthew’s despondency was impregnable. I knew he hadn’t been with Roman since the day before the launch — two months ago. That’s a long time to be dysfunctional. How could he get through Godot? I hated to think of him alone at Valhalla. Rufus was worried too and urged him to stay with Babs, but Matthew wouldn’t listen to either of us. Two days before Candy’s premiere I left her in the hotel suite with Digby Danton. Adelaide had gone wild about Wagner. Even my friendly tobacconist wanted to know if I was there for the Ring. He was so impressed when I told him I was there for all three cycles that he gave me a free carton of Marlboros. I lunched with Jude, an old mate from law school who’d just been made chief justice. My age, not quite fifty, she had done well for herself. Afterwards I went to the art gallery, which had an exhibition of Ring memorabilia, including some colossal gowns. Candy was the slimmest Sieglinde in history, I decided. Then I looked at the Elizabethan portraits. The only other person in the room was a local dowager, weighed down by gold. She was peering at one of her Tudor great-aunts. Spotting me, she said, ‘You’re from out of town, aren’t you?’ as if I came from Nhill. When I nodded she proceeded to tell me about ‘the seven families of Adelaide’ and how she belonged to most of them, by marriage or divorce. The rest of Adelaide, she assured me, didn’t rate. As I made my escape 338

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she was already cornering an American couple and regaling them with the same dynastic tale. When I got back to the hotel Candy was waiting for me in the sitting room, blankly gazing at the Torrens. Something had happened while I was out, and it clearly wasn’t a vocal crisis. Candy was sitting on an armchair with her knees drawn up under her chin. She reminded me of a child. Briefly I felt impatient — annoyed with both of them. Philip Roth, as always, knows what I mean: ‘What is ridiculousness? Relinquishing one’s freedom voluntarily — that is the definition of ridiculousness.’ Strange these flashes of ambivalence when you despise those you love most. Unlike Matthew, though, Candy needed to talk. At least she didn’t keep things from me. Roman had just rung her from Sydney. (Roman, Roman — when would I stop hearing that name!) I had left my number with Stella Anthem, in case of emergencies, and she must have given it to Roman. He was on his way to Adelaide. His mother had decided to stay with Philip, but there was nothing Roman could do for the moment. He wanted to see Candy and was determined to use Stella’s ticket. There he’d be, bang in the middle of the stalls, probably right next to me. It would be like Salome all over again. I knew I had to do something — knew I had to neutralise Roman. The thought of him sitting there beaming at Candy — jeopardising all my plans — was unbearable. I was surprised that Stella had allowed him to leave Sydney. Didn’t she know what effect he had on people? And why wasn’t Roman with Philip? Well, if Stella wouldn’t do the right thing, I’d have to act. The time for vacillation was over. I looked at Candy and saw what it was doing to her. She was nervous, preoccupied; she was even biting her bloody nails. Old longings and doubts were racing through her mind. I stood there watching her as if from a great distance. Fancy me having an ingenuous daughter. 339

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First I had to find Roman. Brightly, I asked Candy where he was staying. She mentioned a place called Port Elliott. How to locate him? Then I remembered Roman’s crappy business card. I had souvenired it when Babs showed me his sketchbook — just in case. But where was it, where was it? If I’d left it at Valhalla I could hardly ring up Matthew and ask him to dig it out. Then I remembered slipping it into my copy of The Anthem Memoirs: the one with Philip’s personal inscription. There it was, filthy and dog-eared: Roman Anthem – Cabinet-maker. I had to laugh. While I memorised the mobile phone number I glanced at the photos in the book. There was little Roman prancing for the president. Quite a cute child, really. Too bad, I thought. Too bad. I slept poorly that night. I had one of my filthy dreams about Concord. Roscoe Hunt was doing his best to destroy me. First he took away my Saab, then Elyot Waters, then my passport. I was no longer the publishing director. When I peered into my old office I saw Rufus F. Karsten with his feet up on my desk, cancelling all my contracts. The only books I was allowed to commission were on loss and adoption. When the editorial staff headed off to the Zone to be photographed for a feature story, Concord’s Bulgarian bruiser stopped me from getting on the bus. When I rose next morning Candy was still in bed, doubtless brooding. All I wanted to do was to stay at the hotel and keep an eye on her, but I’d promised to meet Felicity Martin, who was in Adelaide for the Ring. I was to be Felicity’s guest at a charity lunch at the Queen Mary Club. I met her outside, on North Terrace. ‘Late,’ she said as always, tapping her tiny silver watch, the only petite thing on her person. I didn’t tell her I was late because I’d had to stop at a pub on the way and leave a message on Roman Anthem’s mobile phone asking him to ring me. Our guest speaker that day was Annie Pullman, the dry340

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cleaning multi-millionairess. Stella Anthem was to have spoken, but Pullman, Digby’s other backer, had agreed to replace her. Digby Danton was Pullman’s handbag, and a slightly unsteady one too, having clearly steeled himself with a couple of stingers. The club president, hyperventilating in the presence of so much money, introduced Pullman as if she were a visiting Medici. Pullman’s theme was ‘Rags to Riches’. The days of rags were shorter than our soup, the years of plunder long as Felicity’s countenance. Pullman’s subject was the improving qualities of fifty million in the bank. We also learned about her endless good works. (Felicity, in my ear: ‘If I wore my hair like that I’d feel obliged to devote myself to charity.’) It went on so long I pilfered a silver salt cellar. After several philanthropic encores, Digby Danton prised Annie Pullman away from the microphone. Never had I been so grateful to the bald impresario. Later the awed ladies stood around drinking weak coffee while I attacked a tray of liqueurs. Felicity wanted to inveigle Annie Pullman into sponsoring one of her lame ducks, but Digby Danton whisked away his benefactress before anyone could buttonhole her. I was keen to get back to the Hyatt to ward off unwanted visitors. First, though, I had to drive Felicity back to her sister’s place at Mount Lofty. We were almost there when a call came through on my hands-free phone. It was Roman saying he had got my message. I lunged at the machine and switched it off before Felicity, who was dozing, realised who it was — or so I thought. Then I picked up my mobile phone and spoke to Roman briefly, arranging to ring him back later. Leaving Mount Lofty, I searched for a public telephone. It was like trying to find a hose in a bushfire, but eventually I found one. I didn’t want Roman’s mobile phone number appearing on my statement. The phone rang about fifteen 341

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times before Roman answered it. He was breathless, even nervous. We hadn’t spoken since our quarrel at Kirribilli two months before, when I became far too angry. He deserved it, but I regretted it now. I would have to mollify him. Roman, always keen to be liked, was quickly reassured that I didn’t intend to carry out my threat. He assumed I was ringing up about Philip. I told him I hadn’t heard anything. Like everyone, he said he hoped it would be over soon for Philip’s sake. He also said I would miss Philip, which was odd of him, I thought. Breezy as a swallow, I asked Roman about his plans. He told me he was staying in Port Elliott, about an hour away. Friends of his mother had invited him to use their house. (They detested Wagner and had fled to London.) Roman said it was quite a pile, high above a cove — far too big for just himself. He hoped that Candy and I would visit during the season. The dupe probably saw us having a picnic on the beach. I asked Roman about his work, careful not to mention Belladonna. Never had I thought to find myself standing in a urine-soaked phone box discussing the market for cabinets. The things I do for my daughter! But it had the desired effect. Roman said he was managing to scrape by. He put it laconically, with a new kind of ease. The foolish boy trusted me. They are so amenable at twenty-one, even the damned. He even essayed one of his dismal puns. I thought of all the misery he had caused and wanted to punish him. The contrast with Matthew’s deranged state was stark. Roman didn’t ask about Matthew or Godot. It was as if Matthew no longer existed for him. He’d had his fun; experimented on the other side and found it lacking. Now he’d moved on or doubled back. He said how much he was looking forward to Candy’s début. He had just been reading the wacky libretto when I rang. (‘It’s a comedy, I take it?’) 342

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Then Roman said he planned to take things easier next year. I inferred that he’d received some of the trust money that Philip had set aside when he was born. The thought of this gritless boy getting his hands on all that loot, not to mention a significant portion of Philip’s estate when he died (maybe the house on the coast as well), incensed me. I thought of Matthew — Candy — living from hand to mouth, dependent on the next gig. But I went on listening and said nothing. Needing a pretext, I asked Roman if I could return the photographs we had used in The Anthem Memoirs. I said I didn’t want to trouble Stella. Roman agreed, sounding pleased. I didn’t have them with me, of course, but I could always say I’d left them at the hotel. Roman offered to meet me in Adelaide (possibly anticipating a dinner invitation), but I didn’t like that idea one bit and said I’d always wanted to visit Port Elliott. Roman extolled the huge surf and suggested a swim. I pleaded fatigue and said I would be there after dark. He gave me directions and said ‘ciao’ as if to an old friend. I drove back to Adelaide, rapaciously smoking. I always do my blackest thinking behind the wheel. I knew I had to be careful, think it all through. I would have to do it in such a way that Candy would never find out. Nor Matthew. I was good at this; I had done it before. Their inamorato, for his part, suspected nothing. He was pleased I had rung. By now he would be scouring the Fleurieu Peninsula for the right bottle of wine and wondering what he could knock up in a wok. Such innocence. I almost pitied the boy. Why did he have to choose us at Hatfield? Should I have said something that night, warned him in the garden? If only he’d gone back to Ursula instead of besieging Valhalla. Then I wouldn’t have been forced to act. But act I must, quickly, emphatically. Roman must not be allowed to wreck the biggest night of Candy’s career. And 343

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how much more of this torture could Matthew take? These absurd intrigues couldn’t go on for another year, especially if I wasn’t going to be around for much of it. Candy was still resting when I got back to the Hyatt. She seemed calmer and was reading the score. I drew her a bath, then went downstairs to the cocktail bar. I needed a steadier. The room was quiet and the boys behind the bar were talking about Candy, unaware who I was. How beautiful she was, they said. A gay boy wearing too much kohl said she was the next Callas. Then one of them mentioned Philip Anthem. There had been something about a relapse on the news. I remembered the doctor saying that Philip would never come out of his coma and couldn’t understand a word that was said to him. At this, immensely stirred, I knew what I had to do. After months of impotence, Philip’s illness had, ironically, provided me with the solution. What was the one thing that would shock his insouciant grandson? What was the one thing guaranteed to crush Roman? Only by shaking his sense of identity, his notion of Philip, would I eliminate him for a month or two — long enough to patch up Matthew and get Candy out of the country and on to the stages of Europe. ‘Not expected to regain consciousness.’ The phrase kept echoing in my head. Yes, I knew what to do now. I could say anything and Philip would never know. I could tell Roman any number of truths or untruths — about the history of my friendship with Philip, about Candy, about the question of paternity. And who was to say it wasn’t true if I couldn’t be sure or if I didn’t care . . . We invent our lives, we edit the past and we make our own truths. Even if Roman flew straight to Sydney, marched through the hospital, shook his grandfather and demanded to know his version, Philip wouldn’t understand a word he was saying. It was all twilight now and the liberty was mine. Besides, I knew Roman, how344

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ever shocked, wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t the type. Stoic, self-contained, rather proud in his squalid way, he was unlikely to rush to Philip’s deathbed for confirmation or rebuttal of my claims. If I had my way, he’d never lay a finger on Candy again. Oh yes, I could rely on Roman to do the right thing — slink away hurt and leave us alone. Just for a month or so. I swear I wasn’t thinking of anything permanent. I swear. You must agree it was all rather neat. I went upstairs and changed into something girly and exposing. I laboured over my make-up and peered at myself in the harsh bathroom light. As good old Elsie de Wolfe said, ‘Know the worst before you go out.’ Candy asked me where I was heading. I told her I was off to see one of my new authors: an ex-nun who had been terribly defiled. Finally the lurid sun tipped into the gulf and I set off for Port Elliott. A woman must do what a woman must do.

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34

MATTHEW March 21 ~ Now it’s eighteen weeks since Roman disappeared. No one really noticed at first. Roman had always been such an enigma it didn’t seem strange. He was a free man now — why shouldn’t he take off on his own? When his absence became more glaring, we all assumed someone else knew where he was or was at least doing something about it. I forget when I realised something was wrong. I woke up one morning and thought to myself: what if he never comes back? what if I never see him again? But it all seemed too far-fetched. As soon as Waiting for Godot was out of the way (tepid notices for Sal Pesman’s production; delusively good ones for me), I joined Julia and Candy in Adelaide. This was a few days before Candy’s final appearance. I had read all about the first two. A London critic had described her as the Sieglinde du jour. He said it was a ‘treasurable’ performance. They still write like that. Candy, keen to atone for earlier secrets, was frank about Roman. She told me he had contacted her in November and 346

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arranged to be there on opening night. Much to Julia’s relief, he failed to appear. Candy, used to Roman’s escapes, seemed calm about it, but I knew how disappointed she must have been. He had done it again. Candy described the first few minutes of Act One: scanning the stalls for a glimpse of him — panicking. I felt a nanosecond of satisfaction at this but stifled it, despising myself. During those first few days in Adelaide we ate and swam and rested and watched videos. Julia drove us to the Barossa Valley where she ostentatiously replenished the cellar we had depleted that winter. On the way back she told us a fairy tale about the seven families of Adelaide. When we returned to the Hyatt, Rufus Karsten was waiting in our suite with gifts and champagne and the most fetching smile. I’d never seen Julia blush before. Rumours began to circulate about Roman Anthem. There was a coy item in a newspaper speculating about the strange disappearance of a certain mogul’s stepson. Then, on the morning of Candy’s final Valkyrie, I received a letter from Stella Anthem, written on hospital stationery in a hectic hand. It was headed ‘Confidential’: December ? My dear Matthew, (Please excuse my scribble. I’m writing this by Philip’s bed, not the correct posture for calligraphy.) Do you remember our lunch in August? I hope so. I bared my soul that day; I asked for help. I shall always be grateful for your compassion, and your tact. So much has happened since then, so much has changed. I look at my family, my life, and don’t quite recognise them. Death does this, doesn’t it: robs us all? It’s as if a huge shade has passed over the 347

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landscape. Perhaps I’m just tired. Hospitals aren’t good for one’s morale. This too will pass, as Roman used to say. Darling Roman. That’s why I’m writing to you — interrupting your holiday (forgive me). Will you do something for me, Matthew – all under the sombrero, as we say? I don’t know who else to ask. It’s delicate you see. It often is, being an Anthem. Something odd has happened (or may have happened) to Roman, but I don’t know what. Perhaps the rumours have reached Adelaide. They’re rife in Sydney, quite prurient in fact. Why must people say and print such ugly things? It’s possible nothing’s wrong — a hope I cling to. My husband tells me not to worry. He thinks it’s usual behaviour for a young man facing the loss of an adored grandfather and finding his feet after a ‘divorce’ (one small mercy). But I’m not so sure. I like to think I know my eldest son rather well (though not as well as you perhaps) and it’s not like Roman to frighten people. I also know how much he adores his grandfather. Philip goes on, by the way — incredibly he goes on. The doctors say it’s a miracle he’s still alive. I suspect he’s waiting for Roman. I don’t want to contact the police: not yet. This may become necessary later (god help us). Roman was last seen in Port Elliott, not far from you. Some chums of mine let him use their house while they were overseas. Roman wasn’t there long, apparently. He’s certainly not there now. The Levers are back from London, and there’s no trace of him. Would you be a darling and go down to Port Elliott and find out what you can? I don’t have the Levers’ address on me, but you won’t have trouble finding it. It’s a prominent house: the biggest one in town, 348

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near the Obelisk, above the rocks. Tom and Patty are expecting you. I know you’ll help me, Matthew. I have never felt so helpless in my life. Remember what I said when we parted — you are my ‘special friend’. Love always, Stella H. P.S. Can you forgive me for forgetting to ask about Godot? Fear does that to a mother. Everyone tells me you had a sensation, just like Candy. What a clever pair you are! Even Felicity Martin now has a kind word to say about ‘that Irishman’. Let me give you lunch and ask you a thousand questions — when things are clearer. S.H.

I showed the letter to Candy and she agreed we should go to Port Elliott immediately. There was still time that day if we hurried. The opera started at five o’clock because of its length, but Candy wasn’t due at the theatre until three. Besides, as she said, they could hardly start without her. ‘Sieglinde does make things happen.’ ‘Such as?’ ‘Well, redemption through love for a start.’ Fortunately, Julia was away. She and Rufus had flown to Kangaroo Island for a couple of nights — to spare us the ardour, as Julia put it. They were due back that afternoon, in time for the opera. We retrieved Julia’s Saab from the car park and set off for Port Elliott. We found the Levers’ house without any difficulty. Built a hundred years ago and exorbitantly renovated in recent years, it jutted out over a grassy point. Nearby, a long grand public staircase led to a rocky cove, very wild and picturesque. Beyond was ocean, a wilderness of waves. There was no beach 349

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— only huge granite rocks, shapely and weathered. The wind was fierce. I sat on a bench and imagined Roman stretched out on it, reading, thinking. He would have liked it there. The site felt lonely and primitive, despite the lavishness of the Levers’ limestone house. Only the Southern Ocean separated us from Antarctica. We went upstairs and introduced ourselves to the owners. Stella Anthem was right: the Levers were waiting for us. They showed us into a long glassed dining room with an unbroken view of the coastline and an enormous mahogany dining table, which would have seated twenty. We sat in the middle with our questions and our cups of tea. (I noticed that our hosts didn’t use their We Hate Wagner mugs, which stood on a sideboard.) The Levers told us that when they got back from Europe they found the house exactly as they had left it. It was almost as if no one had stayed there. Roman hadn’t slept in any of the beds, and if he had used the kitchen he was even more fastidious than his mother, which was saying something, according to Patty Lever, a tiny fineboned woman all in white linen. Perhaps he took his meals at the hotel up the road. All they found was an empty wine bottle on the verandah. ‘Two glasses,’ Tom Lever added. ‘Two glasses.’ That was all. We thanked them and walked up the road to the hotel. Madly I thought I saw Roman wandering up from the protected beach. Perhaps he had been there all that time, relaxing. But it was another barefoot boy with dark curls. The hotel proprietor remembered Roman, which was encouraging. So he had been there. Just the once, though, he was sure. Roman had come in for a few pots. It was a quiet night, so they got talking. The proprietor had no idea who he was and was shocked when I mentioned his name and where he was staying. Roman had said he was self-employed – here for a concert. He got the idea Roman was a bit of a wanderer. 350

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Candy and I drove back to Adelaide in silence with our separate misgivings. It was all very weird, but I tried to be optimistic. Perhaps Roman had decided to get out of everyone’s hair for a while. I knew how upset he was about his grandfather. Candy packed her work case and set off to the theatre. I called out the obligatory ‘Break a leg’ after her, then rang Stella Anthem and told her my paltry news. After that I waited for Julia and Rufus. When they got back, happy and wind-burnt, we drank a bottle of fizz before the opera. Candy’s final performance was clearly her best, people said — even those who hadn’t heard the first two. She could disguise all her fears now; technique and discipline had taken over. She rightly got the longest ovation of all. Julia and Rufus and I stood there whistling like groupies. Next morning, all four of us drove back to Melbourne. Candy felt guilty about sloping off before the last two operas in the cycle, but Julia, who had been in Adelaide for a month, was determined to get back to Valhalla. Rufus told us about his quaint relations in the South and about the new wowserism in New York. Soon you wouldn’t be able to smoke or swear, even in Central Park. Julia would hate it. Later, while I drove, Julia read out Candy’s notices, chanting the superlatives. Then she played her own pirate tape of last night’s performance. We all marvelled at Candy’s mighty singing in Act Three. ‘O hehrstes Wunder . . . Sublime wonder, indeed,’ Candy chuckled. ‘Where did that come from?’ While we settled back into Valhalla, Candy and I waited for word of Roman. Newspapers began hinting that something was wrong. This led within days to headlines and front-page stories. The police were said to be involved. The prime minister was asked for a comment while out on his morning jog. At least the journalists had another Anthem to play with. Philip’s long illness had tested their patience. The profiles, 351

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the tributes, the editorials had all been filed. Obituaries lay in their coffins, minus the last paragraph: ‘finally succumbed on . . . survived by his daughter Stella Anthem Lacey Payne Hutton . . . beloved grandfather of . . .’ Not that everyone got the tone right. One talkback host declared that it was like waiting for the Pope to die and was promptly sacked, having magically alienated liberals and Catholics alike. Julia was convinced that Philip would never regain consciousness. She was desolate in her own way, even with Rufus still there to console her. Hers was a different limbo, dry and sardonic. She couldn’t bear to think of Philip being kept alive by soulless technology or filial insistence. She longed for it to be over for him. Candy had one more public engagement before flying to Berlin to start work on Traviata. She had agreed to sing a couple of Christmas carols at the Opera’s concert at the Bowl. I went along by myself and sat on the lawn as twilight happened and the buzzing world picnicked and flirted and performed an eerie Mexican wave. The concert was late starting because of the size of the cast. I had never seen so many children, on stage or off. During interval I went into Digby Danton’s marquee and ran into Stella Anthem. She didn’t have any sons with her this time. We stood in a corner with our backs to the dignitaries, swapping our pathetic information. Stella told me that an investigation was under way and that Interpol had been notified. I could expect a visit from a Senior Detective Vallado. Stella had rung all her friends around the world: anywhere Roman had ever been. When I offered to help she said there was nothing I could do. ‘It’s up to him now,’ she said. ‘We just have to wait and hope.’ She was quite composed. Then she told me that Max Payne had run away from home. (‘My boys have such gorgeous timing.’) She even made a joke about misplacing two sons within a month. Then, almost wordlessly, we parted. 352

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Afterwards, the more I thought about it, the more puzzled I became by Stella’s new insouciance. I would never understand women’s mood changes, their stoicism, their depths of acceptance. But then I began to wonder, and soon I was almost dizzy with suspicion. Was Stella being open with me? Had she told me everything she knew? Had this Senior Detective Vallado apprised her of Roman’s whereabouts and sworn her to secrecy? Didn’t they trust me? Didn’t Roman want me to know where he was? By now I needed a drink and moved to the bar. Lady Martin, leaning on her stick, beckoned me over. Although we had only met a few times I liked her manner, always direct. She wanted to discuss Waiting for Godot. She had found it hilarious and couldn’t understand why no one else laughed at the jokes. (‘People are so pious these days. You’d think they were at a funeral.’) But I was in no mood for Beckett talk. Blurting it out, I asked her if she’d seen Roman. She hadn’t, though she had been expecting to sit next to him at The Valkyrie in Adelaide. She was cross with him for not using Stella’s ticket. Lady Martin doesn’t like waste, even in a crisis. ‘But how are you, child?’ she asked, softening. ‘I’ve been meaning to ring and say I’m thinking of you, for what that’s worth. I know how fond you were of Roman.’ She delivered it with uncomplicated tact, but I hated the past tense. ‘I often remember that night when I ran into both of you at the restaurant. How happy you looked. It was sweet, though you were slightly drunk, if I’m not mistaken. I always meant to invite you round for dinner.’ Her eyes welled up, and she looked away. ‘Roman will come back,’ I said. ‘What if he doesn’t?’ Lady Martin said. ‘What if something happened to him in Port Elliott.’ ‘What could have happened to him?’ I asked. ‘You don’t know that coast. It’s treacherous. I lost a 353

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nephew at Boomer Beach.’ I pictured the rocks beneath the Levers’ house. Felicity Martin went on, ‘You know how fond Roman was of Philip.’ ‘Yes, but that’s no reason to think . . .’ ‘Quite,’ she said, cutting me off. ‘But accidents happen . . . and mistakes.’ I stood there, not knowing what to say or how to console. ‘I’m astonished the media hasn’t run with the story,’ Lady Martin said. ‘The Huttons don’t want publicity.’ ‘That’s ironic,’ she puffed. ‘Well, they won’t be able to suppress it forever. When it breaks it will be “huge”, as my granddaughters say. They’ll want to talk to you too, I suppose.’ Surveying the marquee, she declared, ‘I don’t think I can bear much more of this crush. I think I’ll slip away and miss the second half. I don’t have much stamina these days. These arthritic old legs of mine,’ she said, banging them with her stick. ‘I’m sure Candy won’t mind if I cry off. Do give her my love. Such a radiant girl. I’ll see you before Christmas, I hope.’ I insisted on walking Lady Martin back to her car where her ‘man’ was propped in the back reading Steve Waugh’s latest diary. Clutching my arm, the old woman remembered something as she was getting into the car. ‘I was hoping to see Julia tonight,’ she said. I explained that Julia and Rufus were in Sydney for Concord’s Christmas party. ‘Will I ask her to ring you?’ ‘No, it’s not important. I just remembered something — from Adelaide.’ She paused before going on, ‘It occurred to me that Julia must have been one of the last people to speak to Roman.’ ‘I doubt that,’ I said politely. ‘My dear boy, I was there when Roman rang. I overheard them.’ 354

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‘Roman rang Julia?’ ‘Absolutely. By my reckoning it was just before Roman went missing. She must have told the police.’ I doubted that too, but said nothing. Julia hadn’t told me. To the best of my knowledge, Roman and Julia had never spoken to each other over the phone. ‘Where was this?’ ‘In the car — on the way to Mount Lofty. I’d taken Julia out to lunch to try to persuade her to publish my new book. To no avail, I might add. Such a stubborn girl.’ ‘Did they talk for long?’ ‘Heavens, I feel as though I’m being interrogated,’ Felicity Martin sighed, twisting her pearls. ‘It was very brief. I got the impression they had some business to transact.’ I thought it prudent to temper my surprise and said goodnight to Lady Martin. I walked back to the Bowl, trying not to think about what she had said. I found a spot on the lawn and tried to listen to the carols, without success. Even Candy came and went unnoticed. Mulling it over, I became more and more confused. What was weirder: Roman ringing Julia or her neglecting to tell me? Julia had given me a hilarious account of the lunch and Annie Pullman’s boring talk, but she hadn’t said boo about a conversation with Roman. Why? After the concert I joined Candy in the marquee. She seemed tired, subdued, so we went home immediately. Mystified though I was, I said nothing to her — said nothing to Julia either when she rang at midnight to hear all about the concert. Next day I had Valhalla to myself. Candy had arranged to see her agent before leaving for Berlin. I was sitting in the library thinking it all through — wondering what I’d do with this new knowledge, how far I cared to pursue it — when Chris Killen arrived. He was the last person I expected to see, even unlikelier than Roman. 355

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CK looked seedier than last time, thinner, if that’s possible. He said he’d come to return my shirt. He paced round the room as if it were normal for him to drop in unannounced. I wasn’t in the mood, and kept an eye on him. I knew he’d stolen some of Julia’s things in his teens. ( Julia did too.) One day I found him going through her wardrobe, mightily amused by a colossal black dildo. He thought of borrowing it, but I made him put it back. He called me a prude. ‘I saw your mum the other day,’ CK said. ‘What a doll she is. Why didn’t you tell me she’s on telly?’ ‘We were too busy catching up,’ I said, wondering why he’d come. ‘It was quite an afternoon,’ he replied, looking at me frankly, rubbing his dry lips with his thumb. ‘You mustn’t stay long,’ I advised him. ‘Julia’s due back from Sydney any minute.’ ‘Do you think I’m frightened of the old dragon?’ ‘Of course not. I just don’t want it to flare up again.’ ‘Julia’s factotum,’ he snickered — the old taunt. ‘There’s no point, CK.’ ‘What about Candy, then? Am I allowed to have a word with her?’ ‘She’s out,’ I said, wanting him to leave. ‘How convenient.’ He stood there rubbing his belly and squinting at the shelves. The brightest boy who had ever gone through Swanton took down one of Julia’s first editions and peered at it as if he hadn’t read a book in years. He asked me if I still had that book of engravings he’d given me years ago. ‘It’s there somewhere,’ I said, pointing to a column of books. ‘Do you want it back?’ ‘It was a gift, babe.’ I took the first edition from him and switched off the 356

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light. We moved into the hallway, with its lurid stained-glass window. CK examined the myriad doors as if entering each room in his imagination. I noticed that he was twitchy, unsteady. He had probably taken something on the way. Even as a youth he always liked to snort something before ringing the doorbell. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked him. It was my turn now. ‘Sort of,’ he said blankly, oddly defenceless. ‘There’s some shit going on.’ ‘What kind of shit?’ ‘The usual. I was slack the other day and got busted. This time I may have to do some time. Phoebe’s parents are freaking out and threatening to take Shine away from us. Bastards!’ ‘Do you have a good lawyer?’ ‘Pretty good. He specialises in keeping entrepreneurs such as myself out of the can.’ ‘Do you need some money?’ ‘Fifty bucks wouldn’t hurt,’ he said warily. ‘Fifty?’ I went to him and rested my hand on the nape of his neck. It felt brotherly, like the end of something. Then I wrote him a cheque for ten times that amount. I’d just been paid for Godot and was almost solvent. It didn’t matter now. ‘You’re too good to me,’ CK said, holding the cheque as if reluctant to pocket it. ‘Considering what I did . . .’ ‘Just look after yourself.’ ‘And what about you?’ he prolonged it. ‘How’s my replacement?’ ‘He’s gone away.’ ‘Back to San Galgano?’ ‘He’s missing,’ I said, not really meaning to. ‘What do you mean “missing”? People don’t go missing. They can’t afford to.’ ‘Don’t they, CK?’ I said, looking at him. 357

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‘How long has he been gone?’ ‘About a month.’ ‘Julia must be delighted.’ ‘Let’s not go through that again.’ ‘Did she have anything to do with it?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Just promise me one thing,’ CK said, more emphatic now. ‘Don’t stay here. Get away from her.’ ‘I’m twenty-eight. I’m not Julia’s puppet.’ Very intently, CK studied me with the smouldering laserlike gaze that usually portended sexual overtures. I had always been embarrassed when he trained it on others, or on me. I hoped he wouldn’t try it now. But this was different. CK said, ‘Do you remember when we were staying at my folks’ place on the island . . . at the end?’ I nodded my head. Of course I remembered. ‘She came to me, you know.’ ‘Who did?’ ‘Julia — who else?’ ‘Julia turned up at your place.’ ‘I’ve never told you before.’ ‘Where was I?’ ‘You’d gone up to town for the day. Babs rang you in the morning asking you to go and see her. I think they were in cahoots.’ ‘What is this — a conspiracy theory?’ ‘Well, it was a coincidence, that’s all I’m saying. You know how Julia liked to — what’s the word . . . orchestrate things.’ ‘You say she went to you. For what?’ ‘To persuade me to leave you — to convince me I was in the way.’ ‘And why would she do that?’ ‘You know how much she hated me.’ ‘And did she — convince you?’ 358

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‘Eventually.’ ‘It took a while?’ ‘All night.’ ‘Did she give you money?’ ‘That too.’ ‘Much?’ ‘Quite a lot for me. Enough to keep me going for a year.’ ‘That much.’ ‘She was very determined.’ ‘Did you see each other again?’ ‘Never.’ ‘And you’re telling me all this six years later.’ ‘I’m sorry, Matty,’ CK said abjectly. ‘Julia made me swear. I think I had to sign something.’ ‘Of course. She was a lawyer, after all.’ ‘I felt dreadful, but there was no choice. Cold turkey: that was the deal. No farewell, no explanation. I knew what I was doing to you — what you’d go through. But Julia was insistent, and it’s amazing how you rationalise things when you’re desperate. I told myself it was the right thing — for both of us. I knew it wasn’t going to work out, not the way you hoped. You wanted all of me — a kind of marriage. I could never have lived up to the idea you had of me. Besides, I was susceptible. Julia knew that. She’s a good judge of human weakness — I’ll give her that. I was very young, don’t forget.’ ‘I understand.’ ‘I hope so.’ CK looked at me strangely before going on. ‘And she’s never spoken about this to you — not even a word? Fuck she’s good. But I still think you needed to know. When I heard about that guy disappearing, I just thought . . .’ ‘What did you think?’ ‘You mustn’t go on making the same mistakes, and Julia can’t get away with it all the time. You’ve got to get away.’ 359

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‘Thanks for your advice,’ I said, moving towards the door. ‘Now you should go.’ ‘Don’t you want me to stay? You’re upset. I’ll look after you.’ He was anxious, pleading. ‘I’ve got some stuff. We could go to bed.’ ‘Julia’s bed?’ I asked, looking at him. His eyes filled with tears: frightened tears. It was happening to everyone. ‘No thanks, CK. Look after yourself. Look after your boy. Goodbye.’ ‘I suppose you want it back — the money?’ he said, holding the door as I tried to shut it. I laughed softly and shook my head. Then he said, ‘You’ll miss me, babe — you’ll miss me.’ It was a lament — for me, for himself. Then he disappeared down the path, shuffling, demoralised. I closed the door and went upstairs, decisive and clearheaded. I didn’t have long now. Julia would be back from Sydney soon. I had no desire to see her again, though I felt sorry to be missing Rufus. I knew what to do now. I packed a gym bag with a few clothes and my Shakespeare. But where to go? I couldn’t afford Sydney, and cities didn’t appeal in any case. Then I remembered an article Babs had written about a corny old pub by the sea. It sounded perfect. I rang the Eclipse Hotel to see if they had a bed. The artless girl on the desk said they had so many empty rooms I could take my pick. I told her I’d be there in an hour. I left the telephone number and a short message under Candy’s pillow, where no one else would find it. Then I left. After sixteen years, it had taken me five minutes to escape from Valhalla. I was only really visiting, I guess. I drove straight to the hotel and checked in. I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling fan. After a while (I don’t know how long I’d been lying there) there was a meek tap on the door. It was the housekeeper: Shirley, as she introduced herself. She insisted on giving me new towels, though I 360

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hadn’t touched the first ones yet. She had just heard the news, and I was the only guest who was available. There was a news flash on television, interrupting the golf. Philip Anthem had finally died. Shirley felt sure I’d want to know.

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35

JULIA March 25 ~ Thank god for Easter. I haven’t eaten so much chocolate since I was a sweet-toothed tomboy. Easter’s still three weeks away, but I’ve placed my order already. Rufus is due to arrive on Good Friday. I haven’t seen him since he flew home on Boxing Day. Three months ago — three months. Look what happens when he leaves me. I blush to think of my rowdy romps with Roscoe Hunt and Stevie Nicholls, not to mention one or two nameless dogs along the way. These separations are killing me. My phone bill has gone through the roof. I often ring him from Concord, but some conversations must be reserved for the witching hour. Rufus is proving to be a nimble fantasist. Last night, getting down to business, we agreed that we must do something about this. Why delay? I have waited all my life for someone like RFK, and he feels the same. Endearingly, he seems even more smitten than when we first met by the photocopier. He hasn’t been in love before, you see. Men get such a shock when it happens to them. Rufus has told his mother that he 362

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intends to spend the rest of his life with me. Tammy Karsten took the news well, considering my vintage. Tammy wants to meet me and is planning a holiday with the daughter from Memphis. As for the future, Rufus and I have opted for Melbourne instead of New York. At first I thought I would be the one to emigrate, but Manhattan has begun to pall for Rufus. He dislikes the racket, the congestion. He reckons that five years in Australia will suit us rather well. Beyond that, RFK turns out to be quite an explorer and dreams of Africa or South America. Roscoe Hunt, relieved not to be losing me, is sympathetic and has offered to let Rufus run the fiction list while I concentrate on non-fiction, since it’s so profitable. Perhaps Rufus can take over from Roscoe — in the fullness of time. Roscoe can’t last forever, and I’m not interested in his job. Rufus is less sure about Valhalla. I thought the old place would appeal to a Southerner, but he finds the dark rooms and general decay dispiriting. My pioneer dreams of building a white house on a hilltop. I’m not opposed to the idea. Ever since Matthew moved out, Valhalla has felt ridiculously big. It creaks at night, like a stout contralto attempting her last stage curtsy. Stairs crack like old knees. The nights are dull without Rufus — and Matthew. I haven’t resorted to arranging my Agatha Christies in alphabetical order, but it can’t be far off. I have begun rereading my old journals (my insurance). I can usually rely on them to amuse me for a few hours. Last night I wanted to read about my brother, needed to hear his voice again. It’s always like this before our birthday. (Our fiftieth is three weeks off — part of the reason why Rufus is coming back in April). Unfortunately I chose the wrong volume, one I’d never read before. (I noticed the high red warning on the cover: ‘Read This At Your Peril.’) I was in my teens — seventeen, to 363

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be precise — racing through school, racing through boys, full of confidence, determined to be chief justice before I was forty. I was still at home of course, bored to death and itching for the time when I could leave Australia. Then Matt became ill, not for the first time, but the worst of his collapses. I nursed him, of course. Finally, even Betty and Errol, ostriches both, acknowledged that something was wrong and back Matt went to The Clinic. I haunted the place. Each day after school I went straight there with éclairs and joints, anything to cheer up Matt. I remembered all the nurses from the last time, but the doctors were new. They didn’t stay there long; they couldn’t bear it. No amount of privilege or training prepared them for what they saw there. I grilled them about Matt’s prognosis, the medication they heaped on his spoon every four hours. I was dogged; they couldn’t get rid of me: Matt needed me too much. I stayed with him at night, curled up on his bed. Matt’s state worsened. He began hallucinating, which was terrible to watch. I couldn’t help him; all my teasing and love were useless. Then I made a dreadful mistake, one I regret to this day. It was exam time. I was determined to come top, as always. Coming second gave me acne. I had to get that scholarship to law school. Betty and Errol couldn’t afford to send me there, and I wouldn’t have wanted to be indebted to them anyway, not after their crass parenting of Matt. So I went to The Clinic one day and explained that I wouldn’t be able to visit him for a week, that I had to swot around the clock. (I decided not to burden him with my little foetal nuisance.) I remember Matt lying there smiling at me and wishing me luck. Saint of a boy. That’s when it all came unstuck. While I was away the doctors (impatient with Matt, sceptical about his future) did their worst, with my parents’ approval. Without me there to keep an eye on them, Betty and Errol sighed and shuffled 364

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and signed the cursed forms. The doctors had carte blanche. They did their electric thing with impunity in those days. It must have been quite a blast, or blasts, for there were multiples: a week of it. They didn’t leave much of him intact. That’s what I discovered when the exams were over: the shell of a brother curled up on his bed, outwardly the same, smiling still, horribly calm, but missing something, missing a crucial factor: call it a personality. Of course, I raged at them and denounced their stupidity, so furious I made my mother weep all over again. The cruellest of Matt’s whitecoats threatened me in turn. ‘Do it to me too,’ I remember daring him. ‘Wipe me out too, you bastard.’ Something else was coming out now, a lifetime of loathing: with authority in general, and my poor stricken useless blubbering parents. But it was too late — far too late. There was no undoing such a clouding. Matt knew it. He knew what they had taken away. I could see it in his eyes, suddenly a different colour, less blue. We never discussed it, neither in hospital nor during the months that followed, but he knew what they’d done to him and what it meant. Part of me sensed that Matt was pondering a futureless world and deciding what to do about it. I knew I would have felt the same, which only made it worse, like a double obliteration. All of seventeen, for god’s sake, and two more years to live. What a disgusting world. And I hadn’t been there, I hadn’t stopped it from happening. Had I been around, they wouldn’t have done it, they wouldn’t have dared. That made it worse. When Matt had been most vulnerable I had betrayed him, all for ego, convention, self-advancement. I hated myself; I wanted to be punished. But the knowledge of Matt’s sublime nature made me pull myself together. I would live for him, do anything for him. I would never abandon him again, or anyone else 365

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I loved. I would never disappear when they needed me; never fail to save, to thwart, to repair, to overcome. I sat there amid my journals, weeping futile tears. When it was over, when I was spent, I was relieved to have an unexpected visitor. It was quite late when Senior Detective Vallado knocked on the door. I thought all upright policemen would have been home by then, watching The Bill. Admitting him, I complained about hay fever and dried my eyes. This was my second conversation with Vallado. Back in February he had visited me at Concord with another detective: a junior one, the gum-chewing type, no Einstein. This time Vallado was alone. I realised his visit was partly social. Vallado, in his thirties, was wearing a rainbow tie and the prettiest brogues I had ever seen. He was clutching his Salome programme, which he hoped Candy would autograph. I told him she was in Sydney for a few weeks, making a recording. Vallado had interviewed Candy separately — before me. Vallado put the programme back in its plastic wrapper, as if it were an exhibit. He said he wanted to go over my story again. He made it sound like a fantasy. I could picture him reading bedtime stories of evil and depravity to his gaping children. I sat there undressing him mentally, for something to do. I do that with most people: men and women, even boys — if they possess the right je ne sais quois. Judging by the black tufts around his collar, my valiant dick was a hairy Latin, but he was also a shapely one. I admired his strong shoulders — arresting shoulders, so to speak. Vallado asked if I had remembered any more details about my visit to Port Elliott. It seems I was the last person to see Roman Anthem — or to ‘converse’ with him at least — prior to his disappearance. I told Vallado I had nothing to add to 366

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my February account. I had visited Roman at his request, though it was slightly inconvenient because of Candy’s début. Vallado asked me again why Roman wanted to see me. The sleuth was trying to catch me out. I explained that Roman wanted all the photographs back: the ones we had reproduced in The Anthem Memoirs. Knowing how upset he was about his grandfather, I thought it prudent to drive to Port Elliott and explain that Concord couldn’t return the full set, our designer having misplaced them. We were still searching for them. It was a huge embarrassment. ‘You say he was upset?’ Vallado asked, twisting his thumping watch with his simian paw. ‘Not upset, but on edge. He was devoted to his grandfather.’ ‘As many people were,’ Vallado added, writing something down. ‘And you say there was no one there when you reached the Levers’ residence.’ ‘Only Roman. I think he’d just arrived. He hadn’t unpacked. I didn’t get the impression he intended to stay long. Mansions don’t suit him.’ ‘And Mr Anthem said nothing about other visitors: Ms Sait . . . his brother Max . . . your daughter perhaps?’ ‘There was no mention of guests,’ I said, quite clipped. ‘How long were you there, would you say?’ ‘Twenty minutes, half an hour. It was quite quick. I don’t know Roman well. We sat on the front verandah. The view is spectacular. Have you been there? Roman opened a bottle of wine, but I declined. I was driving, and I never drink before Wagner.’ ‘Good girl,’ he said forwardly. ‘You don’t approve of Mr Anthem, do you?’ ‘You said that last time. What makes you think so?’ ‘I’ve heard it from a number of sources.’ ‘We’re acquaintances, that’s all.’ 367

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‘You and his grandfather go way back, I understand.’ ‘You make me sound like Vera Lynn! I have no reason to dislike Roman. He’s done nothing to me.’ ‘How did you feel about his interest in your daughter — and Mr Light?’ ‘I was curious, no more than that. Whatever they wanted was fine by me. They’re responsible young people. I worried for Roman of course, because he was younger than the others . . . and impulsive.’ ‘Impulsive?’ ‘Flighty.’ ‘Capable of extreme measures?’ ‘I’ve no idea.’ ‘What did Mr Anthem plan to do after your meeting in Port Elliott?’ ‘We didn’t discuss his plans.’ ‘He had a ticket for the opera.’ ‘I know nothing about that.’ I could see that Vallado was running out of questions. He hadn’t expected any revelations in the first place. I felt sure I was way down his list of sources. Otherwise he would have summoned me to police headquarters and been less pleasant. I knew he wouldn’t say no to a glass of whisky. Fortunately, there was still a drop of Talisker in the house. Never stint a detective. He stayed for two glasses. I tried to get him talking about the case but he was impressively tight-lipped. He was more interested in Candy’s plans. He was sorry to have missed the Ring. (‘It’s a shame Anthem didn’t go missing earlier,’ he said, looking at me a little sleepishly over his tumbler.) He let slip only one gem during our chat. Apparently Roman had withdrawn the first instalment of his trust money prior to going to Port Elliott. I knew what Vallado was thinking. A young man can do a lot with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and more to follow. A young man with 368

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plebeian tastes can make it stretch even further. You can buy a new passport or identity. You can set yourself up nicely in Brazil or Mexico or Greece. Vallado thanked me for the whisky and shook my hand. He hoped we’d all meet again socially — at the opera perhaps. He said he might have to trouble Candy again with a few more questions. I told him when she’d be back. No sooner had he left than the phone rang. I thought it would be Rufus needing to hear my voice again (we phone each other three or four times each day), but it was Prentice. He apologised for ringing late. I could tell he was lonely. He was also in his cups. He had left his wife earlier that night after a row about money. He was staying at the Victoria Hotel, with all the other deserters. He swore he would never go back to Katrina (I think that’s what he said), but I knew he would, temporarily. He would miss the ironed shirts and the casseroles, not to mention the doteworthy daughter. He said he needed to see me as soon as possible. We arranged to meet at the Kitten Club the following night. Prentice is finalising his article about me. It’s due to appear soon in the Zone, just before my birthday. Resigned to this invasion, I hadn’t given the profile much thought. But then Prentice, unable to wait for our meeting, introduced a new egregious name. ‘Tell me about Marcus Wenzel,’ he said bluntly. ‘Marcus Wenzel,’ I echoed vaguely. ‘Go on, you remember. He was one of your authors.’ ‘Oh, Marcus — the Jungian psychiatrist? With the goatee?’ ‘And the tics. That’s the boy. He died, didn’t he?’ ‘Everybody dies, as Stephen Sondheim said.’ ‘Only this guy died rather suddenly, I gather — in a car park — outside a public hospital. A very thoughtful shrink.’ ‘Don’t be crass, Prentice: it suits you. Marcus was a sweet tragic brilliant man. 369

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‘And a great loss to Australian science, I gather. If you call psychiatry a science, that is,’ he goaded me. ‘Why are you so interested in Marcus?’ ‘You were close, weren’t you?’ ‘I’m close to all my authors.’ ‘And you did several books together?’ ‘Three or four.’ ‘Wasn’t there meant to be a fifth, on the integrated self.’ ‘I can’t remember all the thousands of book proposals I’ve read over the years.’ ‘Surely you remember this one. According to my sources, Dr Wenzel thought you were committed. He left a note on the passenger seat. He mentioned all sorts of contracts — professional ones, more personal kinds. Then he wound up the windows and inserted the hose and swallowed quite a lot of tablets, just to be sure.’ ‘Marcus was a very troubled man.’ ‘Do you know what was playing in the car when they found him: tapes of some of your conversations. Surreptitious tapes. That’s what I’m told.’ ‘You’ve seen the note?’ ‘Of course. I memorised it.’ ‘And the tapes?’ ‘Everything.’ ‘I won’t bother asking about your sources. The world is full of rivals, and publishers can never please everyone.’ ‘That’s not what Auden thought. He said all publishers are rogues. He put it in German, which made it sound even worse.’ ‘Now I’m tired, Prentice — tired of the innuendoes. You can write what you like in your article. I’ve heard worse before.’ ‘Come on, Julia, be a pal,’ he said, purring like one of his crooners. ‘What about a nightcap at the Victoria?’ 370

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‘I don’t think so.’ Prentice rang off eventually, maudlin at the prospect of a night on his own. I wished he hadn’t been assigned to the party at Hatfield last year. He was proving rather pesky, and he’d be worse as a bachelor. It was time to nip that one in the bud before Rufus got back.

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36

MATTHEW April 6 ~ It was deafening at my place this morning. Next door the bell-ringers of St Paul’s were practising a new party piece, and the effect was like any rehearsal: chaos. They’re digging up Flinders Street again, and the guy with the bagpipes was on duty early. Then about fourteen hundred motor bikes roared through town, loaded with toys for orphans. I have the hovel to myself these days. Ariel has hooked up with Trinculo and is living with him. The pet rat went with him, so I don’t have to put up with Harold’s company during the night. Now that I’m on my own I get up as late as I like. This morning I was still in bed at midday. I lay there listening to the bells and watching the doves on the sill. They shivered with each peal then settled again, determined not to lose their spot. All I could really think about was The Tempest. For the first time in my life I was feeling relaxed about an opening night. I was ready, or as ready as I’d ever be. Caliban’s lines, so difficult to memorise, came easily now, touch wood. The four previews, all sell-outs, had been successful. The Aboriginal 372

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treatment was proving popular with audiences, and the hiphop islanders were inspired. Babs dropped in mid-morning on her way back from the market and presented me with a colossal hamper. She does this most Saturdays: Ariel calls her the empress of brioche. Babs was excited about tonight. She’s bringing a party of eight people. I’m seeing more of Babs these days. She’s sick of the house of royalties and is thinking of buying an apartment in town. She loves my hovel but can’t believe I don’t own a telephone or a mobile. She has several, plus a fax machine in her car. When we go out to lunch it spits out press clippings and invitations and restaurant menus. Curling on the back seat, one of them offered her membership of the Order of Australia. Babs seemed nervous this morning. She had some news and was quite flustered when she broke it. She’s getting married to a jazz musician called Lester. This was the first I’d heard of him, though it explained the gleaming drums in the house of royalties. The brief service and the rather longer eight-course dégustation will take place at Chiaroscuro in nine days’ time. Babs wants Candy to sing, and I’m to read a sonnet: ‘not backwards’. Babs asked me if I thought she was foolish to marry someone twelve years her junior. Then she remembered that Rufus is almost twenty years younger than Julia and felt better about it. This was her only reference to Julia. I got the impression that she won’t be invited to the wedding, which surprised me. Then, almost shyly, Babs asked me to give her away. I agreed of course. We stood there laughing and embraced. I’d never seen her looking so happy. After the wedding they’ll holiday in New York, where Lester often works at the Blue Note. He wants to stay in his smallish apartment, but Babs prefers Stella Anthem’s. I heard from Stella during the week: another careful letter. Babs saw it on my kitchen bench and was surprised. 373

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In the letter Stella told me she was about to fly to America. Again she apologised for missing my performance. (‘You’ll start to think it’s deliberate, but it’s not. I follow your career and Candy’s avidly. I couldn’t be happier for you both. At least some good came out of that awful year.’) She said that she and Hal Hutton were relocating to New York. She can’t bear Australia any longer: too much has happened. They’ve closed up Hatfield and enrolled little Hughdie at a private school in the Upper East side. She hasn’t been able to persuade Max to join them, so Hal Hutton has found him a job working on one of his youth magazines. ‘Fingers crossed,’ she wrote. ‘I thought of asking you to keep an eye on Max and to make sure he doesn’t end up in the wrong company, but after everything you’ve done I don’t feel I can presume. You have my details if you need to contact me.’ Honeymoon talk out of the way, Babs handed me this morning’s edition of the Zone with a wary glance. Prentice’s article on Julia has finally appeared. I asked Babs how it reads. ‘It’s frank’ was her only comment. I won’t be reading it myself. I know that story too well; I don’t need Prentice’s take on it. I could see that Babs still had something to say. I hoped she wasn’t going to offer me money, which was always embarrassing. Instead she pulled back and became apologetic. ‘I should never have done it,’ she said. ‘Done what?’ ‘Left you . . . left you with . . . just left you.’ ‘It all worked out.’ ‘Did it? Did it really?’ ‘We’re still here.’ ‘Maybe. But I should never have abandoned you. What was I thinking?’ ‘You had your reasons.’ ‘Selfish reasons.’ ‘Who’s to say?’ 374

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‘I love you, Matthew.’ She gabbled the words, keen to get them out. ‘And you always have.’ ‘Thank you, darling — even if I don’t deserve it.’ Babs kissed me and held me as she hadn’t done in years. Before she left we arranged to have supper at Chiaroscuro after the show. Lester is in town and wants to meet me. I lay on my bed thinking about all the changes in our lives. It’s almost four months since the Eclipse Hotel. So much has happened since then. Or not happened. Roman’s still missing. I don’t think anyone really believes he’ll come back now. He’s made a new life somewhere. At least that’s my hope. So it’s almost over. Soon I’ll put away this notebook, slow the burning mind. I’m thinking of studying a new language or becoming an acrobat. A player always needs a few tricks up his sleeve, and I’ve always fancied myself on a tightrope. Or should I try another career? There’s always telemarketing to fall back on. God knows I won’t be able to afford being an actor much longer. Everyone’s getting out. They can’t stage Lear because there’s no one old enough to play him. Travel’s another option. Babs is keen for me to join her and Lester in New York. It’s high time I went overseas. Or should I stay in Australia, seize the day ( Julia’s old phrase)? There’s talk of a national theatre at last, and I’m rumoured to be one of the actors on the short list. But first things first. There was still a Tempest to get through. I planned to head off to the theatre at five o’clock. I always like to give myself plenty of time to change into my costume and peruse the text. (Opening line: ‘There’s wood enough within.’) Before that, though, I had a couple of errands to perform. I met Candy at L’Express as arranged. She was reading the Zone when I arrived but folded it up on seeing me. She was 375

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just back from Sydney where she had recorded Act One of The Valkyrie for the ABC. Georges and Violette were delighted to see us. They wished me well and insisted on bringing us champagne and caviar, which is doubtless bad theatrical luck in some gloomy culture. Poor Violette was limping. She needs a new hip but refuses to have it done. L’Express is on the market; as soon as it sells they’ll return to Paris. For the first time they didn’t ask about Roman. Candy was more nervous than I was about The Tempest. In the end I changed the subject, for she was making me edgy. I told her about Babs’s engagement and her plans for the ceremony. ‘What on earth will I sing?’ Candy asked, tapping her front teeth as she always does when choosing her repertoire. ‘Not Blue Moon,’ I suggested. I didn’t have to explain. ‘Are you pleased?’ Candy asked. ‘Very. It’ll be good for Babs. I haven’t met the drummer yet, but Babs seems happy.’ ‘You know Prentice writes about her and Julia?’ Candy said tentatively, holding up the tabloid like a dubious fish. ‘I’m sure he does.’ ‘I wonder how Lester will react when he reads it.’ ‘He’ll cope. He’s a jazz musician, after all. Besides, it was all over years ago.’ ‘Have you read it?’ ‘No, I haven’t.’ ‘We’re all in it,’ Candy sighed. ‘Prentice writes about our ménage, as he calls it. He even describes your birth — how Julia sent Roger home and took over.’ ‘Those poor readers!’ I said. ‘Did you know about Cindy Blazer?’ ‘Who’s she?’ ‘It’s a book, a rather naughty book — mother’s little secret.’ 376

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‘Another one . . . What about Philip and Roman? Does he go into all that?’ ‘Only obliquely,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Never mind.’ ‘Have you seen Prentice?’ ‘Not for a few days.’ I had managed to avoid the great exposer all week. It’s not easy now. He’s living round the corner, plotting his divorce. I last saw him a fortnight ago. One night he buttonholed me outside the theatre. He wanted to buy me a drink and tell me something. I knew he was still ferreting around for information about Julia. I listened for a while, saying nothing. Prentice had spent the day sifting through the coronial records from thirty years ago. Finally he located the inquest into Matt Collis’s death. The coroner had ruled that it was a ‘probable suicide’, but there was a teasing note of ambiguity in his finding. The twins’ parents had been away at the time. Julia and her brother were alone at the farm. It was Julia who heard the gunshot. She was up in the house. Apparently she took her time when she found Matt’s body in the stable. She must have been in there for an hour, they calculated, though she was hazy about this. What was certain was that she had moved the body, even tried to clean it up. Eventually she left the stable. She went up to the dirt road and screamed at a passing motorist, so violently his car skidded on the gravel and came to rest in a ditch. Julia was covered in Matt’s blood. She went with the shaken motorist to fetch the police. Despite Julia’s measures, a terrible sight awaited them in the stable. Her brother was no marksman. He had shot himself twice, once in the stomach (‘probably a misfire’), then in the head. Because of Julia’s ‘interference’ (which the coroner understood, but regretted), much evidence had been ‘contaminated’. They found a notepad and pen beside 377

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Matt’s body, but no letter, only an impression on the pad, which no expert could decipher. Julia admitted that she had destroyed the note, which was addressed to her, not her parents. Julia refused to divulge the message. It was too painful, too private, she said. It was between her and Matt; it always would be. The coroner reproved her on this score, despite her nineteen years and the depth of the twins’ relationship. Prentice asked me if I knew about Matt Collis’s death or could add anything to the coroner’s finding. I said it was the first I’d heard about it. Julia had never mentioned her brother. Then he asked me about Marcus Wenzel. I’d been around for that one, but I said I’d never met the man. All I knew was that Wenzel had killed himself in one of his manic phases, I said, adding that I was unaware of his dealings with Julia. Then I changed the subject and said I had to leave. Why bother now, I thought. I could have incriminated Julia — could have aired my suspicions — but what was the point? Would it bring anyone back? Would it help us to understand? Julia’s influence was over now. The rest was up to us. I almost laughed at this final act of concealment. It was ironic but somehow restoring to protect Julia one last time. Candy and I sat there talking about other things. Then I decided to broach the subject that was my main reason for wanting to see her. I asked her if she’d given more thought to the idea of leaving Valhalla. A few weeks ago I had urged her to move out when a huge apartment became available near mine. I said it would be perfect for Candy. ‘Why are you so keen for me to leave Valhalla?’ Candy asked, twisting her long black hair into a chignon. ‘It’s time,’ I said. ‘You can’t stay there forever.’ I hoped I wouldn’t have to be more explicit. Candy was unconvinced. ‘Valhalla’s so convenient. It’s what I know. And Julia needs me.’ 378

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‘But you said Rufus is coming back next week. What if he stays – what if they get married?’ ‘Then I’ll decide what to do,’ Candy said, smiling luminously. ‘She drove him away, you know,’ I said, blurting it out, desperate now. I was running out of time. ‘Who?’ Candy said, clueless. ‘Roman. Julia drove him away. You know when she went down to Port Elliott — it wasn’t Roman’s suggestion, as she told Vallado. Julia rang him up and arranged to see him. It was all her idea.’ ‘Julia would never ring Roman,’ Candy scoffed, just as I’d done when Felicity Martin told me what happened. ‘Someone’s taking a rise out of you. Was it Prentice? He’ll say anything.’ ‘Not Prentice,’ I said firmly. ‘Someone else, someone who knows. Julia went to Roman deliberately, and we were never meant to find out.’ ‘But why? Why would she contact him?’ Candy asked, growing pale. ‘Because she was determined to get rid of him, and she thought she was safe. You weren’t there, and I was in Melbourne. When she found out that Roman was heading for Adelaide she decided to act. She drove to Port Elliott and confronted him. Whatever she said, whatever she alleged, had the desired effect. She got him out of the way. I’m sorry, but you had to know.’ Candy, now in tears, slumped on the banquette. ‘What did she say to him?’ ‘I don’t know. I only know it worked.’ ‘How can I believe it if you don’t know what she said?’ ‘Trust me,’ I said quietly, taking her hand. ‘She’d done it before.’ ‘What is this?’ she cried, screwing up her face. 379

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‘You remember Chris Killen, don’t you? He came to see me before Christmas. I wasn’t going to tell you. CK told me everything. Remember when he left me on the island, without a word.’ Candy nodded her head, snuffling. ‘Julia went to him too, while I was away. She gave him money to vamoose. Lots of money — and other inducements I won’t go into.’ Now Candy understood. Disenchantment is a quick chemical, even after a lifetime of delusion. She stared at me and sipped her champagne as if it were hard liquor. ‘When did Killen tell you?’ she asked slowly, dazedly. ‘Before Christmas.’ ‘And that’s why you left Valhalla?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I knew something was wrong, but I thought you’d tell me if you’d found out anything about Roman.’ ‘I hoped I wouldn’t have to. I thought you’d move out when you got back from Berlin.’ ‘Poor Matthew,’ she said, ‘always caught in the middle.’ ‘Not any more,’ I said. Candy glanced at me, as though I sounded different. ‘Promise me you’ll get away from Valhalla.’ I said. ‘She’s capable of anything.’ ‘I guess we’ve always known that.’ ‘Have we?’ I sat there watching her. I would wait all night if I had to. I would miss my entrance if necessary. ‘Promise me you’ll leave!’ Candy inhaled as if about to emit the longest note. ‘Yes, I think that’s probably a good idea. Can I stay with you tonight?’ ‘Of course.’ She squeezed my hand and wiped her face and signalled to Georges that we needed more to drink. Then she said, ‘I guess now’s not the right time for my own little bombshell.’ 380

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For a moment I thought Candy was going to tell me something about Roman. I half expected him to walk through the door, twitching his right shoulder nervously, bashful about being the cause of so much drama. Just then a woman in her forties walked past the café, not looking our way. She reminded me of Julia, straight-backed and purposeful. I was hallucinating. ‘What bombshell?’ ‘Later. After the show.’ ‘That’s bad luck. Later spells trouble. Look where it’s got us. Tell me now.’ ‘I’m being silly,’ she said, waving her hands about. ‘It’s not so momentous. Well, I mean it could be . . . if you feel the same way . . . but maybe not . . . I can’t say.’ ‘Now you’re being mysterious.’ ‘Good, I’ve always wanted to be enigmatic.’ Candy breathed in again and leant across the table. When she finally spoke I could hardly hear her. ‘Here goes! I’ve been thinking about the future — our future. For a long time I’ve wanted something . . . wanted a child . . . You didn’t know that, did you? I kept it to myself, knowing Julia would poohpooh the idea. But it’s always been there, and now I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like bits of Wagner I can’t get out of my head . . . the love theme at the end.’ Candy sat back and sighed, as if she was halfway home. ‘That’s where you come in. I have a favour to ask.’ ‘A favour?’ ‘I think we should have it together.’ There was a long silence. ‘Please say something. Otherwise I’m going to blush!’ ‘You think what?’ Candy raised her hand to forestall any scruples. ‘I’m not looking for a conventional deal. It would be quite clinical, if that’s what you wish. We wouldn’t have to cohabit or 381

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anything. Nothing domestic. And I’d pay for the child of course. I’d look after it. It would be my responsibility.’ ‘Why now? Your career’s taking off.’ ‘It’s the perfect time. I have more freedom now. You’ve seen how many sopranos travel with offspring. They’re so much less hostile than critics. I began to think about it last year when I was doing Salome. I’ve always wanted children. If you could only see your face.’ ‘But you were with Roman then.’ ‘So?’ ‘Did you ever think . . .?’ ‘That was never an option,’ Candy said quickly. ‘You must know that by now. It was all an illusion. You had one too . . . an idea. But they were flawed ideas . . . almost lies. I know that now. And they were our lies, not Roman’s. We mustn’t go on blaming him.’ ‘But I don’t.’ ‘Really?’ ‘I don’t blame him at all.’ ‘Good. Good.’ Candy sat back in relief and threw back her head, exposing her magnificent throat. I hadn’t realised how changed I was until Candy asked about my attitude towards Roman. Everything was different. I couldn’t imagine being so fanatical again, so obsessive about another person. The Romans and Julias: what were they but projections of my own malleability? Even if Roman had walked into L’Express and pulled up a chair, it wouldn’t have been extreme or destructive, it might even have ushered in a new kind of order, a saner accord. And if he didn’t turn up; if we never saw him again, as seemed likely? . . . I hoped he was creating a new life with someone, and children eventually (for that was his role, not mine). But Candy, in her own reverie, wouldn’t let it go. ‘You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted to have a child with. Don’t 382

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chuckle.’ Then she bit her bottom lip and laughed. ‘It’s not as if you have to decide tonight. I still have a few more good years left.’ ‘What about Julia?’ ‘What about her?’ ‘Have you discussed it with her?’ ‘Why should I tell her anything? She’s never been open with me.’ ‘What’s she told you about your father?’ It felt bizarre using that word. I’d never asked Candy outright before. The spectre of Julia was too intimidating. Now it seemed perfectly normal to ask. ‘She once mentioned a sperm bank,’ Candy said. ‘That’s as far as she’d go. Then she got drunk and the version changed, which made me wonder. She talked about a gay boy at law school. She fancied his brains and he wanted to experiment. I’m not sure she really knows.’ ‘Do you mind?’ ‘It’s amazing what you get used to. Perhaps it’s too late now. All I’m thinking about is my own child.’ ‘Don’t you think it would be rather close — you and me?’ ‘That’s why it’s perfect,’ she said calmly. ‘We know each other so well. We know what we’re like. Who else could I trust? Having a child shouldn’t just be genetic or romantic. It’s an act of confidence.’ I could see she’d been thinking about this for some time, possibly long before Roman and Tony Knott? I sat there with this burden of her belief in me and emptied my glass. The whimsy of life took my breath away. Just when you thought your affairs were more orderly, predictable, something cropped up to floor you again. ‘It’s been quite a day,’ I said. ‘First my mother, in a reversal of roles, asks me to give her away, then you cast me as paternal material.’ 383

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‘At least say you’ll consider it,’ Candy pleaded. ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Think it over. Let me have my fantasy. We’re good at those.’ ‘Too good.’ ‘It would be a fine thing, Matthew — good for all of us,’ Candy went on, surer now, more earnest than I’d ever seen her. ‘It would be our child . .. no one else’s . .. ours to raise as we saw fit . . . humanely . . . without interference . . . no more secrets and stratagems.’ ‘Life’s not like that.’ ‘Promise me you’ll give it some thought.’ ‘Candy — Candy Diva.’ ‘Just promise.’ It was late now, time for me to go. I still had one more task to perform before going to the theatre. We made a few wet jokes, almost nervous. Then we farewelled our old Parisian friends. Georges kissed Candy’s brow like a father in an opera. Candy offered me a lift home but I said I needed some exercise. Besides, I wasn’t going home. It was three o’clock; I didn’t have long. I walked all the way to Valhalla, wanting to clear my head. I was so wound up I almost outstripped the lumbering trams. I hadn’t been back to Valhalla since January, when one of my mad midnight treks had led me back to the cul-de-sac. Julia wasn’t home, so I let myself in with my old house key and dropped it on a side table. Julia could find it later. I wouldn’t need it again. I climbed the staircase three steps at a time, decisive, clear-headed. Someone had thrown a rock through the stained-glass window, I noticed. I went into Julia’s bedroom, stood there and took it all in. Then I began hunting through her things. I did so with a sort of animal cunning. I was thinking like Julia, acting like her. I wondered how many times she had fossicked in my room. 384

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I entered her dressing room. Above the racks of clothes ( Julia never gets rid of anything) were stacks of boxes, all unmarked. I pulled down the one furthest away and opened it. Julia had never shown me the famous scrapbook, so I didn’t know what I was looking for. I went through three boxes without success. I came across lots of letters between Julia and various authors, stuff that doubtless should have stayed at Concord or gone to an archive. Julia’s superannuation, I guessed. I was about to move on to the next box when I felt something foreign at the bottom. I pulled it out almost angrily. It was titled simply ‘Philip’. The coarse yellow stationery suggested it was ancient. The first clipping, neatly scissored and glued, helped me to date it. Philip Anthem had just left the Bar and become leader of the Opposition, so Julia was about seventeen. Philip was photographed with his wife and young daughter. I’d never seen Roman’s grandmother before. She was nearly as tall as Philip and equally striking. Stella had inherited her elfin looks. Isobel Anthem seemed wonderfully displeased at Philip’s elevation. There were dozens of clippings from Anthem’s short period in Opposition, then the election and re-elections, culminating in the Fracas, the president’s visit and the heart attacks. There were far too many clippings for the scrapbook. In the end Julia had run out of pages and folded them up higgledy-piggledy. I found two or three clippings from Julia’s short time in Philip’s department, following her graduation from law school. In one they were photographed at his desk for some departmental magazine. Philip, still dark-haired and suddenly resembling Roman, was looking up at Julia, who had big hair and was wearing a leather skirt. (‘Prime Minister Anthem consults his newest research officer, Ms Julia Collis,’ it read primly.) Here and there Julia had scribbled comments in the margins, or circled lines, or crossed 385

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someone out in frustration. Then something fluttered to the floor like an old yellow moth. I picked it up and opened it. It was the only personal note in the scrapbook, and it was written on Philip’s private letterhead. It was brief and intimate: Darling, (I refuse to be discreet tonight.) Forgive me, but we’ll have to take a raincheck tomorrow night. Too many white papers. I’m beginning to regret leading a reformist government. There’s also Stella to consider. She insists on my taking her to see Sutherland in Sydney. You can imagine how much I want to sit through The Tales of Hoffmann when I could be with you. But it’s the second anniversary of Isobel’s death and Stella’s brittle. I’ll ring when I can. Love in obscene haste. Pip

I read it slowly, as if I had always known. I thought it odd that this was Julia’s only souvenir (unless she kept his letters somewhere else, a cache of them, in a vault). Perhaps this one was crucial. Then it occurred to me: perhaps it was the last. That would have explained Julia’s long aversion to Stella Anthem — and to Roman. Stella must have whisked Philip off to Sydney and never let him go back to her. I folded the letter and slipped it into my coat pocket. I stuffed everything else back into the scrapbook and rammed it into the corner. I shut the door and went downstairs. I sat in the library and waited, breathing heavily. In sixty minutes I would have to be at the theatre. I was cutting it fine. I was rehearsing Caliban’s lines in my head when I heard Julia open the front door. She stood by it removing her 386

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coat. She knew I was there of course; she had spotted the key. I thought like her; perhaps I always would — Julia’s curse. She dropped something on the side table, probably the Zone. Then she walked into the library and switched on the light. ‘Hello stranger!’ she smiled. I said nothing, just waited. ‘Reading in the dark again,’ she said. ‘I’ve warned you about that.’ She wasn’t surprised to see me. She knew I’d come back eventually. But she didn’t seem well. In fact she looked quite green — or was it the biblio-light? ‘Did you see my window? Some bastard smashed it. Bloody vandals.’ ‘It wasn’t me.’ ‘Darling, as if you would,’ she said. ‘Is there any whisky left? I feel quite queasy.’ She went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle and two glasses, which she waved at me. I shook my head. ‘No, of course,’ she said, ‘not before a premiere. It’s good of you to fit me in.’ ‘I can’t stay long.’ ‘Why have you come then?’ ‘I wanted to see you again — to say goodbye.’ ‘Ah, that word,’ Julia said gnomically. ‘Candy isn’t coming back either.’ ‘Candy too,’ she smiled. ‘She knows.’ ‘Knows what?’ ‘Knows you spoke to Roman . . .’ ‘You have been busy.’ ‘She knows you went to see him.’ ‘I had to, Matthew.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I had to save you — both of you.’ ‘That’s what you always say.’ 387

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‘Roman Anthem,’ she sneered. His name might have been an abomination. ‘You should have trusted us.’ ‘No way!’ There was a long silence. I began to think there was nothing else to say and that I might as well leave. Then Julia said, ‘Do you want to know what I said to him?’ ‘No. It doesn’t matter. It’s done.’ ‘You don’t like facing the truth, Baby. You’re so damned oblique. The perfect actor.’ She had never really liked me. I saw that now. Love, detestation: they were indivisible in her. I was on my own now. It felt lonely but heady. I was ready for it. ‘Leave Candy alone.’ ‘And you’ll look after her, I suppose,’ she laughed. I ignored this and studied Julia. She seemed older, less formidable. Her face had collapsed, as it does when bullies are finally exposed. I’d often seen it in the theatre. Then I offered my last sad severing revelation. ‘I’ve spoken to Chris Killen. I know what happened.’ ‘He’s lying,’ Julia drawled. ‘But you don’t know what he said.’ ‘He’s a pathological liar. They all are.’ ‘It’s over, Julia,’ I interrupted her, wanting to end it. ‘But you need me. You always have.’ ‘What if I don’t? What if I never did?’ The arrogance of it all sickened me. ‘You’ll miss me, Matthew.’ ‘That’s what CK said.’ They both despised me. It was almost liberating. I stood up and walked to the front door. I wanted to go now; there was nothing else to say. Julia followed me and stood by the door. She reminded me that it was her birthday next week, as if nothing had happened. Rufus would be back on Good Friday. She wanted Candy and me to visit. 388

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‘You’re insane,’ I said, opening the door. She slammed it shut with her body and stood in front of me. The whole house seemed to shake; a shard of moon fell from the stained-glass window. I took her by the shoulders and forced her away from the door. She felt slight beneath her suit. ‘Are you going to hit me again?’ she said with supreme sarcasm. I stared at her and held her gaze. She shuddered and appeared to gag, then raced into the kitchen where she was horribly, horribly sick. I went to her and stood by the sink until she had stopped retching. I watched part of her being swept away — her power — the lurid core of her. When it was over I handed her a towel and she cleaned herself up. I left without a word. Down the cul-de-sac I went one last time, not looking back. It was raining lightly. If I hurried I would have time for a shower before leaving for the theatre. I needed that. Never had I been so ready to become someone else. I felt light-hearted, almost tipsy. I thought of Caliban and longed to ape him, all his terror and insolence and thickets of frustration. So many names they had for him; so many taunts. So I hastened down the road as Monsieur Monster, gleeful, profoundly ready, without a past: ‘Freedom, high-day! High-day, freedom! Freedom, high-day, freedom!’

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37

JULIA April 15 ~ Nice sort of gift that is for a girl on her fiftieth. Talk about an Easter egg! I’m still in shock. Dr Birt can’t believe it. He says it’s a miracle. I have others words for it. I blame him of course. Last year he assured me I was menopausal. That’s why I didn’t panic when I was late. Dr Birt reckons I could be as much as four months gone. He’s waiting for the results. I’ve been feeling lousy for weeks. First I put it down to the prevailing mood, the successive blows. Then the nausea began. The mornings are worst. I can’t even stagger out of bed. I’ve been reduced to listening to radio plays. It’s that bad. Four months, he thinks. I haven’t done my sums yet. When did Rufus arrive in Adelaide. Mid-December. Candy’s last night. He was with me for a fortnight, until Boxing Day. That’s right. Not that Rufus knows about this. I haven’t shared it with him. Best not to, in my experience. Biology isn’t their strong suit. It only frightens them. Besides, things have changed between us, you might say. 390

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Rufus arrived horribly early on Good Friday, full of gifts and gallantry. At first things were fantastic. We stayed up all night, and we weren’t listening to Bach’s St Matthew Passion. But then Rufus must have read something or spoken to someone. On Saturday he went out and when he returned everything had changed. Maybe it was that article in the Zone. Rufus wouldn’t say: he’s such a gentleman. But he disapproved, I could see that. Then Rufus went off to meet Candy and Roman. Next morning (just yesterday) he told me he was off to Tasmania to go bushwalking. He said he needed to be on his own. I knew better than to try to dissuade him. I’m not surprised by his change of heart. Rufus is a puritan, just like the rest of them. He may stop in Melbourne on his way back to New York, but I doubt it. I suspect I’ve seen the last of RFK. I must say it feels weird being rejected. It’s never happened to me before. I’ve always been the bolter. Strange to think this is most people’s fate. (What to do, what to do? All in good time, Julia. No need to panic. Everything will be fine in the end. Down, nausea, down.) Roscoe rang me last Monday, four days before Rufus’s arrival. I knew he wasn’t phoning me about Matthew’s laudatory notices in the arts pages. Roscoe had read the Zone online in Sydney. He said he was flying down to Melbourne and wanted to take me out to lunch. He took me to Di Stasio, which was suitably shadowy. Lobster Thermidor wasn’t on the menu, but everything else was predictable, right down to Roscoe’s sombre tie and funereal expression. He alluded to Prentice’s article and told me that Harold Fotheringay had seen it in London. The chairman’s only comment was that it wouldn’t do. I shivered at their methods. I went out the back and threw up as though I was powdering my nose. I’m good at it by now — quite quick. 391

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Then Roscoe got straight down to business. He always likes to execute people over entrée, so that he can enjoy his Grange. The great upheaver spoke of the need for another restructure. He said it was time to promote some bright young people. Women who weren’t even born when I published my first book are now in charge of fiction and cookery books. Even Elyot Waters is in favour; he’s running memoirs and biography. (‘I still think he’s a creep,’ Roscoe bleated, ‘but if I don’t give him life-writing he’ll walk out with half your list, including Stevie Nicholls.’) As for me, Roscoe offered me craft and popular health. He said I was the only one with the nous to save those lists. The thought of Julia Collis publishing books on bunions or bulimia was too much. I stood up and threw a glass of wine over Roscoe, which the waiters seemed to enjoy. I told Roscoe what he could do with his crochet hook. End of Concord career. I drove straight to my lawyer’s office and the pair of us took out our calculators. Roscoe still hasn’t signed the agreement, but he has no choice. I’m going to be a rather wealthy woman it seems. But for what? Candy has been very attentive, despite Matthew’s filthy talk. She knows nothing of these developments, either cyclical or professional. There’ll be plenty of time for that later — if she needs to know. She rang me again this morning. I think she’s still staying with Matthew, though we don’t talk about that. She said she had a gift for me. We arranged to meet at the Windsor. (I’m fifty now: I have a right to be quaint.) We sat there amid the tourists and the towering gateaux. I couldn’t drink anything, but Candy toasted me with champagne. She told me her news — well, some of it. Her conversation has become wonderfully stealthy. But I’m sure it will be all right in time. It’s not in Candy’s nature to blame anyone, especially her mother. She trusts me. She always did. How could she not? 392

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On the way home I stopped at the real estate office and signed the contract. Valhalla is officially on the market. No one knows yet, not even Candy. I’ll miss Valhalla, but it feels too vast without someone to share it. My estate agent, rankly cologned and dressed like a Mafioso, thinks it will fetch one and a half million — because of the land, not the house. His eyes glazed over yesterday when I gave him a tour of Valhalla (the name meant nothing to him, of course). He couldn’t believe the décor, and the library was a total mystery. He reminded me of a woman in a Nabokov novel of whom he says, ‘Had she been condemned to spend a whole day in a library, she would have been found dead around noon.’ ‘Take lots of photographs, because they’ll just bulldoze this and stick up townhouses,’ the estate agent said casually, sending a text message to one of his bitter vendors. Divorce is his bread and butter. Broken homes, that’s what he specialises in. Poor Valhalla, in the hands of such a barbarian. After my meeting with the estate agent, I drove home aimlessly. It was a bright morning, rather windy. I opened the car roof: I need lots of air these days. Near the cathedral I spotted Candy and Matthew. They were setting off towards Princes Bridge. Candy must have gone back to Matthew’s slum and collected him. Where were they off to, I wondered. Perhaps they were going to Southbank for lunch. Would they raise a glass in my honour? I doubted it. But I was happy for my chicks, pleased they were together, sane again, arm in arm. What surprised me was that they were both formally dressed. Candy looked as though she was about to perform for royalty, and Matthew was wearing a suit — not one I had given him. (They’re still in the wardrobe, waiting.) If I didn’t know him better I would have thought he was going to a funeral — or a wedding. As I drove past Flinders Street Station I looked at the 393

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punks on the front steps: packs of five or six, with their dreadlocks and grievances. Most of them stared blankly ahead, waiting for the next hit. They looked mortal, doomed. Then I spotted a boy sitting in a corner, alone but somehow part of this rabble. He was rubbing his haunches and looking daggers at a droning bagpiper. It was Max Payne. I hadn’t seen him since the day at the airport when we set off for Greece. I pulled up outside City Hatters and wound down the window. Max was twenty-five metres away, so I had to shout. ‘Matt . . . Matthew . . . I mean Max . . . It’s Julia!’ With a cat’s perverse timing, Max refused to look in my direction. Then he glared at me as if to say, stop making a fool of yourself. Unwrapping some gum and shoving it in his mouth, he sauntered over to the car. He seemed quite leggy. Little Max was growing up at last. He strummed the duco with his grimy fingers and looked inside. ‘What brings you to the zoo?’ he asked, smiling diabolically. ‘I thought I’d buy myself an Akubra.’ ‘Going bush?’ ‘Hop in and I’ll give you a lift,’ I said. ‘Mum’s warned me about accepting lifts from strange women.’ ‘Get in,’ I growled. And that’s exactly what he did. Without asking I brought him back to Valhalla. He’s sprawled on the sofa with one grubby foot on the wall. He won’t stop playing with Philip’s old Dunhill lighter. He keeps flicking it on and off. Perhaps he’ll start a fire. It doesn’t matter now: it can all come down. Max loves the inscription and has adopted it as his motto. I expect he’ll steal the lighter. No matter. He’ll make off with everything. I feel it in my misbehaving womb. It kicks me now, the certainty. 394

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When we got home, Max watched Mission Impossible. Now he’s listening to a certain Immolation through my headphones. He’s done nothing but eat since he arrived. He seems quite ravenous. I think he’ll be here for some time.

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Acknowledgments Thanks are due to Sue Hines and Andrea McNamara at Allen & Unwin, and to my agent, Jenny Darling. I am profoundly indebted to my editor, Louise Thurtell. A grant from Arts South Australia helped me to write an early draft of this novel. Throughout, Craig Sherborne and Christopher Menz listened and humoured me beyond the call of duty.

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