What Came Before

by Anna George

  Her voice, stripped of sleep, was loud in the stillness. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I love that she’s a music biographer and he’s been hired to adapt her biography into film. And I love her name, Freddie. This definitely reminds me of something Howard Hawks would’ve made.’ His gaze was steady on hers.

  ‘Does it now.’ While her tone was dry, how she felt was less clear – miffed yet exhilarated, perhaps. She coiled the blanket around her.

  ‘Limerence is an intriguing title but you never define it. What does it mean?’

  She hesitated, surprised. He was right.

  He sat up. ‘Elle?’

  ‘It’s a term coined by psychologist Dorothy Tennov in the seventies to describe that heady, in-love state felt typically in the early days of a relationship, those all-consuming and intense feelings that inevitably pass.’

  ‘Ah. But do they have to?’ The force of his gaze belied his playful tone.

  ‘According to Tennov,’ she said, her voice cooling, ‘for most people, yes.’

  ‘But what about for you?’

  ‘Oh . . .’ A frown flickered across her face and she tried to catch it.

  That first morning he’d teased her that, as a creator of romantic comedies, she trafficked in false hope. Well, there’d been nothing false about hers. She’d wanted a flesh-and-blood lover, who moved her. But, over the years, she had come to fear her problem lay not in false hope but in her makeup. Prior to meeting David, she had never felt anything like limerent. Now, feeling herself teetering, she was in new territory. She tried to duck his gaze.

  ‘I can’t say,’ she said.

  ‘You can’t or you won’t?’

  In her chair, at her desk, he looked so damn appealing and cocksure. ‘Can’t,’ she said, squaring her shoulders. ‘It’s never happened.’

  ‘Really?’ His eyes held a fresh gleam.

  She had expected a glimmer of amusement or perhaps concern – for himself or maybe for her. But his reaction was more thoughtful. It seemed he could see the cogs whirling inside her, and was savouring the show. Unsettled, she turned from him. She leaned an arm against the doorframe as if to steady herself. She had not expected to share that revelation tonight. She glared at the script in his lap.

  ‘It’s not finished, you know,’ she said, ‘not even as a draft.’

  He put the script down carefully. He hadn’t intended to read it, he explained, but he couldn’t sleep and it was 3 a.m. And he’d wanted, among other things, the night to last. ‘But I see that I should’ve asked.’

  ‘Yes.’ She took in his wide-eyed innocence, his bated breath and underlying composure. On balance, she felt it as a small yet flattering theft.

  ‘I like all these squiggly notes you’ve written,’ he said, gesturing to her annotations. But when she didn’t smile, he went on. ‘I also like the way it’s self-referential.’ His words gained speed. ‘Like Wes Craven’s Scream movies. You’re lampooning those clichés of the genre that I’d never thought about. The contrived way the couple is always clamped together, the heroine’s physical transformation, the way the leads’ internal conflicts are neatly overcome, without even a shrink, and at the end, in the race to her packed-up apartment, he’s running in the street. You’ve even nailed the girlie soundtrack.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  She retrieved her script and hugged it. A flare of excitement shooting through her. Despite his methods, he was impressive, insightful. Not everyone could read a script. And he wanted to say more. She wanted to hear it too, but equally she didn’t. Her only hiccup at film school had been a devastating script assessment by a revered if jaundiced script editor; it had taught her the importance of keeping her own counsel, handpicking her early readers. Basically, she had one: her ex-sister-in-law and best friend, script editor and producer, Mira Raison. Above Elle’s desk was the sunny poster for Daisy, capturing the rapturous mood of her protagonist, a female dancer. But even that phenomenally successful film had had its moments. The Australian’s Michael Schaeffer had called her aspirant characters ‘overblown in the tradition of Australian comedies’ and put her success down to ‘dumb beginner’s luck and the film industry’s need for a new (female) face’. The Nasty Bastard’s stinging attack had felt personal and it had taken her weeks to recover.

  David watched her warily. Pale and naked, he slipped from the chair and sank to his knees. He took her hand in his. His grip was tight and warm. Her anxiety dispersed. She found herself awed by his ease with himself, with his graceful if untoned body, and his swinging penis. She was tempted to kneel with him.

  ‘Though I’m not one for romantic comedies,’ he said, ‘the more I’m with you, the more I fear I will be.’ He winked. ‘And I reckon you’re spot-on. The genre is ripe for an intelligent parody.’ He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. ‘And that script is the one to do next. No question. It has your stamp on it. Even as an early draft, it’s all there. It’s funny and fresh and true.’

  He fixed his red-brown eyes upon her like a full stop and his face sprang into a smile. A brief silence ensued. Though he had caught her off-guard, he’d told her the one thing that she needed to hear. She gave herself a moment to digest what he’d said and done, and how she felt. In the morning quiet, she was aware that something was transpiring between them, something pivotal and profound. But she didn’t know what. All she understood was that, held in his firm grip, she felt his belief in her. It was like the greatest compliment that had ever been bestowed upon her. And it felt, wholeheartedly, like love.

  Snippets of memories play around her now, like a montage sequence in one of her films. She was writing at her desk when he appeared at her window, one Thursday lunchtime, with a tray of boardroom sandwiches. Her whole body recognised him: heart, gut and vulva. She was atingle. A week passed. Two. Humming, she snipped a small bunch of star jasmine from her vine and scattered petals through his briefcase. Naked, she sat on him, kneading his shoulders, her breasts tickling his back. The days were glorious and growing longer, the light brighter. At dusk, they were on a rug at the Royal Botanic Gardens. It was all so extraordinary and so enchanting.

  At the gardens’ moonlight cinema, Adam’s Rib and Woman of the Year were playing. She had him there early, in the lawn’s centre. In front of them, the screen was flanked by fruit trees. As they waited, hundreds of movie-goers and a colony of bats joined them. In the growing crowd she became nervous. In almost four months, everything she’d seen suggested that David was a fit for her: from his love of Alice Munro and Mark Rothko to his fondness for hot baths and organic chocolate. And she was not tiring of him – quite the opposite. She’d discovered that in essence he was more artist (or at least aesthete) than lawyer. And she’d been delighted, of course. But did he actually like these films? Films over fifty years old and black and white?

  As Woman of the Year began, she cleared their picnic dishes. He’d enjoyed her leafy salad, smoked trout and watermelon. All that remained were grapes and half a bottle of white wine. He wasn’t much of a drinker, which was good as neither was she. On his tartan rug, she sat between his legs, within the warm cave of his embrace. And waited, her fingers crossed.

  The truth was she had always seen herself in Katharine Hepburn. She preferred trousers and was all elbows and knees. She too could be bossy. And she was misunderstood, deemed haughty and aloof at high school and university. As she’d begun the great Kate’s autobiography, she’d realised their commonalities ran deeper: she also stood apart from her university peers, when her father died during a gall stone operation, just as Kate had when she found her elder brother, dead at sixteen, tethered to a sheet from his bed. Their independence, forged in the heat of tragedy. And, as she was coming to know David, she could see something of Spencer Tracy in him too. A man’s man, with a rich vein of humour running through him; he didn’t suffer fools but kept his closest friends for life, apparently. Men like Alex Carras, David’s oldest friend (and biggest client), a man
Elle was eager to know. During dinner, she’d raced through KH and ST’s history as if they were grandparents he was about to meet. She told him that Woman of the Year was Katharine and Spencer’s first film together. After it they would go on to make another eight. And she told him, blushing inexplicably, that KH had known ‘right away’ when they started: Spencer was ‘irresistible’.

  David had kissed her nose and said, ‘Yeah, I’ve read it.’

  And she’d laughed, embarrassed. Elated.

  When the film began, she felt invested in it, almost as if she had written it herself. As the characters watched a baseball match and sparred, she imagined she could see the first sparks of the love that would come to last nearly three decades. Glancing at David, she hoped that he could see it too. But his handsome face, at rest, was inscrutable. And she felt eight again, bubbling with stories of hopscotch while her mother folded T-shirts without eye contact or comment.

  Then he whispered, ‘I can see shades of you in old Ginger up there.’

  And she felt sated.

  A moment later they laughed, together. She floated in relief, until Katharine and Spencer leaned into their first embrace. Around her, the crowd fell silent, enjoying the starry night. She leaned against David and he leaned into her, and a quiet conversation was had by their bodies. Hard to soft, fine-boned to thick. As Spencer and Katharine broke from their clinch, scattered shrieks and laughter rose from the crowd. Elle could hear loud ticking and clicking. The sounds were familiar but somehow distant, the stuff of memories. They seemed to fill the entire Botanic Gardens. After that, it happened quickly. Water was spraying from a dozen sources across the grassy area. Sprinklers. Their many hidden heads had popped up from the turf in an orchestrated, fine, cool outpouring.

  The big screen crackled; Katharine and Spencer dripped then disappeared. The crowd, a sea of contented bodies only moments before, broke up as if a storm was breaking. But among the chaos, the laughter and squeals continued as people ran for the trees and the flower beds out of reach of arcing water. Bats flapped from trees to eclipse the stars.

  Elle clambered to her feet, followed by David. To their right, a sprinkler head was whirling. Everything within its reach was soaking: napkins, grapes, blanket, cushions, and them. She took in the joyous pandemonium. Young families, older couples and groups of youths scurried, arms stuffed with cushions and baskets and shoes. She felt the water on her skin and let it linger. She felt the cool seep into her clothes, her skin rise into electrified bumps. She grinned wetly up at David. His eyes were shining and his face was alight; she imagined she could see the beautiful boy he’d once been. Yes, she loved that boy and that man in a way she’d not loved before. This love came from her gut and throbbed. It was as palpable as the sheen on her skin. Delighted by this dawning, she flung her arms around his neck and whispered her love into his ear. His answer was a tightening of his bear hug and she was satisfied.

  The next morning, they lay side by side in her bed. He passed her sections of her script as he read them. In his hand was a lead pencil; every page or two he scribbled on the pristine margins. She watched him as if he were a human, naked miracle. Read the newspaper, she told herself, or Kate’s life story. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t look away.

  The second time he chuckled she said, ‘Where are you up to?’

  ‘Where Freddie meets Mike at the Corner gig.’ He smiled softly. ‘You’ve tightened it. It’s more fun.’

  ‘And you still like her?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s sassy, trouble. Just my type.’

  Elle sat back. ‘Keep going.’

  An hour later, her bedroom was filled with sunlight and he was done. He passed the last page to her with a deferential bow. ‘It’s good, really good.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And . . .’

  He leaned against the pillow and held her tender gaze. His hair and whiskers were richly brown against the white. She raised her fingers to touch his cheek but stopped herself. Concentrate.

  ‘Well, it flags around page forty; I marked the spot. That only lasts a few scenes, maybe fifteen pages. Then it springs back.’

  ‘Okay . . . Yes, I know where you mean.’ She nipped her bottom lip. ‘What do you make of its theme?’

  Watching him think, she was torn between kissing him and prioritising her next thousand questions. He rolled onto his stomach, his face close to hers. Perhaps the real question was: Could he actually articulate it? She held her breath.

  ‘Now, that’s spot-on,’ he said. With his finger he traced the curve of her jaw. ‘Because love is the most transformative thing on the planet.’

  Yes, she thought. Yes. Her blood was infused with joy. He brushed his lips on her wide smile. ‘And I’m your first.’

  ‘Okay, smartie, no need to gloat,’ she laughed. ‘But what about —’

  ‘How about I let it percolate,’ he kissed her again, ‘and jot down some thoughts later?’

  ‘Okay,’ she whispered, her toes tingling. ‘Deal.’

  That afternoon, he made her breakfast. She watched him cha-cha with goats’ cheese, mushrooms and tomatoes from fridge to bench to stove. The music was his and unfamiliar; pared back yet energetic, Latin. She watched as he moved consistently, un-self-consciously, off the beat.

  ‘Is that for real?’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  She gave her best imitation of his dubious footwork. He grinned and kept at it, channelling Peter Sellers.

  ‘I auditioned for a Coke ad once,’ he said. ‘I was seventeen; there were about eight of us. We had to flirt and dance around a kitchen. I gave it my best shot. Then some guy called out, “We’ll take all of them but that one.” His hairy arm pointed to me.’

  She could picture him then at seventeen – fresh, bristling with energy, uncoordinated. She tried to smother her chortle. ‘And it’s not something you’ve grown into.’

  ‘Ah, no.’

  Her laughter burst into the kitchen. His shortcomings were as adorable as the rest of him. And their existence, a relief. After that, he gave his best hip-swinging, shoulder-jiggling performance. She didn’t let him stop until the mushrooms had set and the tomatoes evaporated.

  A rumba is playing within her house. In her memory, she’d attributed their beginnings to David’s enthusiasm for her. But that, she sees now, is not the whole story. You cannot, she realises, be a passive player in your own seduction.

  From the ceiling, she takes in her galley kitchen with its petite, pearly tiles, the gleaming jarrah floorboards, the adjacent shelves of alphabetised films. Setting up her home, she’d thought of herself as successful, independent and happy. And she was. But equally, that year she’d been susceptible. Reckless. In a matter of months, she’d been undone by heightened sex, raw beauty and the first blush of love.

  An incredible thing, she thinks, for an intelligent woman to allow.

  3

  Dave staggers from the toilet block. His ageing Merc is as he left it, lights on, door ajar. His briefcase and telephone, his dictaphone and wallet are all there, on the front seat. This on a Friday night and less than a kilometre from Footscray, Melbourne’s drug-dealing centre! Nothing about this evening is making sense. Around him, the street’s almost deserted. He turns off his lights and slumps against his bonnet. He closes his eyes and sighs, drawing in the night air roughly. His ears, he realises, are ringing. He slides a cigarette from his packet and inserts it between dry lips. This is going to hurt, he thinks, but it’ll be worth it. Nothing like tobacco to sharpen the mind. And it works, by the third long exhalation.

  Time to punctuate his story with logic and facts. Principles. The cases that come to him are inked into his brain, courtesy of his brief and broke stint practising criminal law, long ago.

  ‘See The Queen v. Keogh,’ he says into his small black box, ‘a 1989 decision of the Victorian Supreme Court.’ Provocation is possible with mere words . . . He’s never forgotten it. Keogh killed Cleary, his 25-year-old ex-girlfriend, outside the Coburg kind
ergarten where she worked. Keogh claimed he stabbed her to death because, when Cleary saw him approaching, she told him to piss off or get fucked. Keogh was found guilty of manslaughter rather than murder and was sentenced to eight years with a minimum of six. He spent less than four in jail.

  Dave exhales in one long, slow breath. It seems impossible that he’s in the same category as a criminal like Keogh. But if he is . . . He could be out before he’s forty-eight. And more than a year clear of the fateful age of forty-nine, when his old man keeled over. Other cases come then too: The Queen v. Moffa; The Queen v. Schembri. Moffa, he recalls, killed his wife because she called him a black bastard, threw a telephone at him, and was apparently sleeping with other men. He was found guilty of manslaughter, sentenced to nine, served seven. Schembri strangled his ex-wife when she came to collect their daughter for an access visit. He pled guilty to manslaughter, and was given eight with a minimum of five and a half. Yeah, thinks Dave, there’s hope for me yet. He tries to recall similar, more recent cases but the details elude him. Smoke curls from his cigarette. They will come.

  Some people have a head for numbers, some for faces. With him, usually, it’s names. Citations. It doesn’t make you a good lawyer but it helps with the spin. Elle often said: ‘Once a lawyer, always a lawyer.’ And she was right. He’s mulling over case law on the worst night of his life. The defining night of his life. He pictures next year’s Victorian Reports and the pithy head note for his case: Husband strangles new wife in kitchen . . .

  Shadows reach across the bonnet of his car. When they separate, he’s back in her kitchen and sipping red wine. It is 6 p.m. Dinner, a pungent marinara, is in a pot. Sunlight spills across the floorboards, capturing her in a golden cloud. ‘Look at you,’ he says. At the stove, she stirs the cooling cauldron. Rests the wooden spoon on the pot’s rim. He waits, not believing what he’s seeing. When it finally comes, what she finally says . . . He still can’t take it in. What she said and what she made him do. It’s like a blind spot in his mind. A pall across his memory: dense and thick.