Eastlake noticed the way I was gripping my forefinger in the roll of my fist. ‘Wounded in action,’ he said. ‘You need a Band-aid on that. Doesn’t he, Fiona?’
A Band-aid would be useful, I admitted. The cut was small but it was bleeding profusely. I couldn’t walk around all night clutching a bloody cocktail napkin. ‘Fiona’s place is practically on the way,’ insisted Eastlake. ‘You’ve got a first-aid kit, haven’t you, Fiona?’
Fiona looked like she’d prefer to save her medicaments for a worthier cause. ‘Only if it’s no trouble,’ I said.
Domain Road delineated Melbourne’s social divide. It was the point where the public parkland ran out and the private money began. Marking the border were the playing fields of Melbourne Grammar, a school for children with problem parents. Beyond, were the high-rent suburbs of Toorak and South Yarra. Toffsville.
We crossed the road and walked half a block, turning into the entrance of a pink stucco block of flats. A dog-faced dowager with a miniature schnauzer under her arm was coming out. Eastlake held the door open for her, and the old duck nodded regally but didn’t say thanks. It was that sort of a neighbourhood, I guessed.
We climbed a flight of steps to the second floor, where two doors with little brass knockers faced each other across a small landing. One of them had a Chinese ceramic planter beside it, sprouting miniature bamboo. Fiona began to rummage in her handbag, searching for her keys. The bag was an elaborate leather thing with more pockets than a three-piece suit. After she’d been rummaging for what seemed like an eternity, Eastlake said something about dying of thirst, tilted the Chinese pot, slid a key from beneath it and unlocked the door.
Irritation flickered briefly across Fiona Lambert’s face, whether at Eastlake’s presumption, his casual breach of her security, or merely at the time she’d wasted searching her bag, I couldn’t tell.
Fiona’s domestic style was tastefully relaxed-what Vogue Living would describe as ‘a professional woman’s inner-city pied-a-terre’. The building dated from sometime in the forties and the best of the original features had been retained-the ornately stepped cornices, the matching plasterwork chevron in the centre of the ceiling, the onyx-tinted smoked-glass light-fitting, the severely square fireplace, the rugs-well-worn but far from threadbare, geometric patterns in black, turquoise and dusty ivory. Aztec jazz.
To these had been added a huge box-shaped sofa, heavily cushioned and covered in cream cotton duck, plain and inviting, a dining-table of honey-coloured wood with matching bentwood chairs, and a marble-topped coffee table piled with art books. The only lapse into period was a pair of low-slung tubular-steel armchairs, the kind that look like they’re too busy being design classics to offer much comfort.
‘Make yourself at home,’ she said, her hospitality perfunctory at best. ‘I’ll get your Band-aid.’ Eastlake had charged ahead into the kitchen where he was making ice-cube and bottle-top noises. I crossed to the window. The view was of the darkening expanse of the park, and the lit-up towers of the city centre beyond. A tram clattered by, its wheels chanting a mantra. Location, location, location. Eastlake’s car stood at the far kerb, Spider beside it, his jaw working mechanically.
Eastlake reappeared, bearing iced drinks. ‘Gin and tonic,’ he said. ‘Nature’s disinfectant.’ Fiona handed me a Band-aid. ‘Bathroom’s down there.’ It was perfectly preserved, all green and cream tiles and curved edges, the bathtub big enough to float the Queen Mary. I unwrapped my finger and found the bleeding already stopped.
When I wandered back, Fiona was sprawled on the sofa, almost horizontal. A monochromatic odalisque, bare legs stretched out before her, feet on the coffee table. ‘What a week,’ she groaned. ‘Cheers.’ Ah, the gruelling lot of a gallery director.
The heat of the day had permeated the flat, and an air of lassitude filled the room. We sipped without conversation. Lowering myself into the design-benchmark chair, I faced Fiona across the coffee table. The seat was very low and her toes nearly touched my knees. I couldn’t help but see her knickers. White cotton. She yawned and ran the bottom of her glass over her forehead. Maybe that’s how it works around here, I thought. Averting my eyes, I scanned the title on the spine of one of the art books. A Fierce Vision: The Genius of Victor Szabo 1911-77 by Fiona Lambert.
On the wall behind her, lit to good effect, hung a large painting in an understated frame. A highly realistic bush scene, pared down to the most basic elements of sky, earth, trees. The work of someone who knew his subject and hated it with a vengeance. Above the mantelpiece hung a smaller painting, clearly by the same hand. A reclining nude.
Lloyd and Fiona exchanged knowing glances, expecting me to say something. Let someone else make an idiot of themselves, I thought. Besides which, I’d already seen enough pictures that day to last me quite a while. Art would keep. My appetites at that point were more basic. ‘If I don’t eat soon,’ I said, sociably, ‘I won’t be answerable.’
The phone rang. Fiona went into a little study opening off the living room. ‘Hello.’ She listened for a moment, then reached back with her foot and hooked the door shut. I stood up and sucked my piece of lemon, beginning to get impatient, not sure why we were still here. Pacing to the window, I saw Spider leaning against a tree, a mobile phone pressed to his ear. Wanker.
Lined up on the mantelpiece was a row of framed photographs. Family snaps. Incidental mileposts in life’s little journey. Me, Mummy and Toby the pony. Provence on a hundred dollars a day. I took my drink over and picked one up, a five by eight colour print. This Fiona was a good ten years younger. A real little chubby-bubby. Her hair was longer, still brown, her dress a shapeless shift. She was smiling at the camera, close-lipped as though hiding braces. An old man had his arm around her shoulder. He was maybe sixty-five, barrel-chested, with a round face and a bare scalp, tufts of grey hair sticking out above his ears, grinning like a wicked old koala. The background was blurred, providing no clues to the setting.
I held the frame up. ‘Her father?’
Eastlake nearly choked on his G amp; T. ‘Christ no!’ he spluttered, glancing furtively back at the closed door of the study. ‘That’s Victor Szabo.’ He took the photograph out of my hand, regarded it with ill-concealed amazement and returned it to its place on the mantel. His eyes swivelled upwards, to the nude, and his mouth opened to say something. The study door opened and Fiona reappeared, frowning.
‘Bad news?’ said Eastlake, turning quickly to face her.
She made a dismissive gesture and shook her head. ‘Nothing.’ She yawned-it looked forced-and tugged off her earrings, plain pearl studs, one black, one white. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I really am, but I’m exhausted.’ She was trying hard to sound tired, but there was a tight brittleness in her voice. ‘Would you think I was terribly rude if I begged off dinner?’
Frankly, it suited me fine. Eastlake made some dissuading noises, thankfully to no avail, I expressed more gratitude for the first aid than was warranted and two minutes later we were back in the street. ‘Think I’ll give it a miss, too,’ said Eastlake, looking at his watch.
The night was young and I was half-cut and fancy-free. A hundred metres up the road women with backsides by Henry Moore were entering the most fashionable wet-throat emporium in town. As soon as Eastlake began across the street towards the Mercedes, I hastened to join them.
Shuffling down the footpath towards me was my nemesis, the flying cowboy. All the stuffing had gone out of him. He was lost in thought, mumbling to himself. ‘Jus you wait,’ he was saying, repeating it under his breath. As poignant a solitary drunk as ever I had seen. I gave him a wide berth and went into the pub.