by Anita Heiss
'Oops, look at the time! Shelley will have dinner on the table.' I shouldn't have mentioned Thomas to Josie and I knew it.
Her phone went as I stood up to leave. It was Alice.
'Say hello for me and tell her I'll Skype her after dinner,' I ordered Josie, as if she was one of my staff. When I left she was gossiping about Aunty Ivy.
I Skyped Alice later that night and told her about the Pissarro exhibition.
'You seriously need to see Pissarro, it's amazing. It will change your life.'
'Sounds fantastic. I'd love to get to Melbourne for it, but we're saving for the wedding, you know how it is.'
'Well, no, I don't, but okay – I'll see you soon anyway for your hens' thing.'
'Anything else you want to tell me?'
'About what?'
'About Thomas? He's cool, smart and sexy, I hear. Which is saying something, when it comes from a lesbian.'
'Josie can't help herself, can she? It's because I won't hook her up with his sister. He's just an interesting curator of a gallery down the road. He's asked me out for dinner.'
'You're not going are you?
'Of course I am, for work.'
'What do you think James might say about that? Or should I say, how would he feel about it?'
'What are you going on about? Thomas is a great contact. I'll take you and James to his gallery when you visit and you'll see. So have you decided about the Melbourne Cup yet? Bring Gary, I know he won't let you come by yourself. I also know he likes a bet.'
'Melbourne Cup, maybe. I'll ask if it's okay – I mean I'll check what he wants to do. I can come without him. We're not joined at the hip, you know.'
'Okay, I didn't mean anything by it, Missy. Don't get all defensive.'
'And as for dinner, I don't think you should tell me about guys you're wining and dining with. I know you too well, Peta. You've still got a bit of that naughty party girl inside you.'
'What does that mean?'
'It's me you're talking to. I've known you for a decade and for the most part you were a serial dater. I don't know what's going on with you and James, but I've got him here every other week, telling me how much he misses you, so if you're cheating on him, I don't want to hear even a hint about it. That's not something I'd feel comfortable with, okay?'
'Back up a bit, Alice. No-one's cheating on anyone, so stay comfortable.'
twenty-six
Dinner at Jacques Reymond
I kept telling myself that dinner with Thomas wasn't a date, because it couldn't be. I loved James, and I was faithful or celibate, whichever one was going to keep me from giving in to any urges, but Thomas had suggested Jacques Reymond in Prahran, which even I knew was a bit too flash for an arts-related business meal. Shelley dropped me off, threatening to push her face up against the window during the meal. I wore a black dress and boots and I looked hot, although I knew I shouldn't have gone to so much effort. As I walked up the side of the building I adjusted my bra and was then surprised to find the door open just as I got to it.
'How did you know I was here?' I asked the fresh-faced waiter.
'Camera, ma'am.' I was mortified that they'd seen me adjusting my bra through the security camera.
Thomas was waiting, looking at the menu and sipping on what I imagined was a scotch. It was a nice, bright space with orchids above the fireplaces. There were a few couples, two small groups and one table of eight with AFL legend Ron Barassi as the star.
I read the menu and there wasn't much that I fancied at first glance: lamb sweetbreads and tongue, young pigeon and saddle of venison.
'What do you feel like?' he asked.
I hesitated. 'What about the degust—'
Without letting me finish, he cut in. 'Degustation menu . . . it's just a way of getting to sample a wider variety of dishes. They're only small serves though.'
'Thank you, Thomas, but unlike installation art I did know what it meant. Just hard to get the tongue around sometimes.' I kept reading the menu, course after course, but there was nothing that really screamed out at me, and I had to stop and read twice the 'ten-hour suckling pig'. It reminded me of the terrible meal I had with Mike. I hadn't thought about him for a while.
'Who wants to eat a pig that's only ten hours old? That's just not right, it's almost cannibalistic.' Thomas smiled at me; the waiter standing by our table smirked too.
'What?' I wasn't prepared to be sitting there looking hot but being mocked.
'The pig is actually about three weeks old, not ten hours old. It's just slow cooked for ten hours,' Thomas said.
'Ten hours, three weeks – same thing really, and anyway, that's not how it reads.' I was repulsed by the thought of eating a piglet.
'I'll give you some more time to decide, shall I?' The waiter walked off.
'You're sexy when you correct people, and you're absolutely right, it does read that way.' Thomas was backpedalling.
'I don't care how it reads, I'm not having that disgusting – I mean degustation – menu.'
'What about the vegetarian menu?'
'Hmmmm, yes, that looks tasty.'
'Do you want the matching wines?' I thought hard before I responded. Seven courses, seven wines, seven deadly sins and seven reasons why I could sleep with him – he's hot, young, fit, generous, smart, loaded, and here staring at me.
'Why don't we just order a bottle to share and see how we go? I don't feel like drinking much tonight.' I was lying, of course. It was Friday and I wanted to unwind but I needed to keep my wits about me and my knickers on.
He ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon to start and then a Merlot to go with the first course, a French raclette – a dish of vegetables smothered in a creamy, strong-smelling Alpine cheese.
He smiled at me as he poured me more wine and lifted his glass. 'To beauty,' he said, and I knew we were in dangerous territory.
'So, raclette. I've never heard of it before,' I said. 'Which part of France does it come from?'
'It actually originated in Switzerland, but the French have truly mastered the art, don't you think?' Thomas said knowingly, and put a boiled potato covered in melted cheese in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed luxuriantly.
I was about to ask what 'raclette' actually meant when he changed the subject completely.
'Someone should paint you for the Archibald – your beautiful smile would bring any canvas alive.'
'I wasn't a fan of this year's winner, but I thought the portrait of Cathy Freeman had soul,' I said, nervous.
He kept going, course after course. Was he just young and brash, or was he seriously flirting with me? Either way, he made me feel agitated – hot, bothered, weak and wet. It was not the business conversation I should have been having.
When dessert arrived, he picked up his spoon and smiled at me. 'Have you ever posed nude?' he asked, as easily as saying, 'How are you today?' and I nearly choked on my food. The meal had to end.
'Actually, Thomas, I'm feeling a little unwell. I'm sorry, but do you think we could head off?' He looked surprised, but got the bill, insisted on paying, then drove me home. I lied and said Shelley had her folks around for dinner so it probably wasn't a good idea for him to come in. He simply couldn't and shouldn't and I wouldn't let him, so we sat in the car awkwardly, like teenagers. There was chemistry that both of us were ignoring. Obviously it was normal to be attracted to more than one person at a time. And chemistry can't be controlled. All we can control is how we respond to it. And that's where being faithful came in. You can look at the menu but you just can't order off it, as my mum would say.
'I better go, thanks for dinner. I'll have Sylvia send you a funding guidelines booklet and some application forms for exhibitions, in case you want to do something collaboratively with one of the local artists.'
'I'll call you,' Thomas said through the car window as I started to walk to the gate. I was pleased that he found me desirable, but I didn't want him to call me – not socially anyway. I couldn't be friends with him, given
the chemistry between us. I'd let Sylvia handle all his calls and requests.
Inside Shelley had crashed on the couch with a half-glass of Pimm's on the table and an empty packet of chips on the floor. There was a postcard from the Great Barrier Reef on the coffee table from her folks. I shook her, turned the telly off and told her to go to bed before I hit the sack as well.
I was dozing within minutes of my head hitting the pillow and before I know it I'm in a cab, driving wildly around the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. I'm screaming and the cab driver is laughing but he seems to know how to manage the chaos of the traffic. He takes me to the Eiffel Tower, and there's a group of young musicians playing brass instruments and singing and having lots of fun. There are security guards everywhere but I avoid them because I've already tried that in Italy and anyway I'm not really looking for men, even though I know that monogamy is not a priority to the French and celibacy is probably punishable by law in Paris-the-city-of-love.
I want to shop and I instruct my crazy driver to take me back to the Champs-Élysées so I can buy beautiful French things. And I do. I go into Louis Vuitton and Yves Saint Laurent and Chanel, and buy a gorgeous bag in Hermès but I know it will never come out of the satin bag it is in because back in Melbourne I can't really carry off the style. I keep walking and I'm looking at the gorgeous French women who apparently never get fat but I don't know how they do it because they eat all those buttery pastries – or maybe it's because they chain-smoke and don't eat – but they have tiny waists and fancy shoes that somehow manage to support them even on the cobblestoned streets.
The men whistle like Aussie blokes on building sites, but it's a refined, sexy, classy, we-know-how-to-please-women whistle, not the 'you root?' kind of whistle you hear back home.
I go to the new Musée du quai Branly to see the Australian collection and there's a Koori there looking at his own exhibition. Visual artists are so vain, I think to myself. I go and say hello anyway, because it's my job. He hugs me immediately, glad to see another Blackfella when he is so far from home. But he holds me and won't let go.
'It's good to see me, yes, but touching me is another thing,' I say because he has both hands firmly on my arse, like we're together. 'You've got a wife? And kids?' I ask, because I can't see his hands for a wedding ring.
'Yes, but old way I could have many wives.'
'Yes, and old way you'd be living under law, and not here in Paris, so get your hands off my butt.'
He grins and morphs into the Mona Lisa and I'm wondering what mystery is behind her smile? Was she celibate? Or did she crave men like chocolate? Tourists are flooding the Louvre and taking photos of the famous painting which I think is sacrilege and I want to say something but all of a sudden I'm in another room, exploring the 'Americans in the Louvre' exhibition, and people are speaking in twangy American English all around me. The tourists all look the same till I see a brown person and I think he's Koori so I follow him. He's cute, with long black hair and beautiful dark skin. I haven't actually seen any other astral travelling Kooris before today and I tell myself it's not like an Aussie hanging out with another Aussie in Earl's Court, because Blackfellas have to say hello to Blackfellas they see in foreign places – it's protocol. Anyway, he might be one of my mob so I need to see he's all right. But I get a bit closer and I'm not totally sure he's Koori, even though I'm perfectly positive he's drop-dead gorgeous. We'd make beautiful children if I were at all maternal, but I know that I could never go out with a man who had better hair than me.
He smiles as we leave the glass pyramid building and offers me a cigarette. I take one and suck on it hard because it's been months since my last one in waking life. 'I'm giving up next Toosday,' he says.
'Oh, you're American,' I say.
'No! I'm Mohawk, a Native from Canada,' he says proudly. Of course, Canadians hated getting mistaken for Americans and vice versa, just like back home Indigenous people didn't want to be confused with non-Indigenous people either. Everyone wants their rightful identity.
He tells me his name is Geronimo, and I start to tell him all about life in Sydney and then remember I live in Melbourne but just keep raving. He smiles. 'I have no idea what you said, but gee it sounded good. What is your blood quantum?' he asks. But before I have the chance to tell him we don't measure Aboriginal blood as a percentage – either you are or you're not – I can feel myself slipping away, and I grab onto one of his plaits. 'I'm not ready to leave yet,' I say out loud. 'That's okay,' he says, 'but can you let go of my hair?' And he takes my hand off his plait and holds it in his own as we walk.
I'm trying not to have preconceived notions of Indians, or Natives, or First Nations People as they say in Canada, but I can't help thinking about living in a tepee, wearing beaded and fringed dresses and braids, or at least a ribbon shirt, with long houses and sweat lodges, and arrows flying through the air. I'm like those tourists who come to Australia and expect to see lap-laps and didgeridoos.
We find a cafe in a street lined with tiny Fiats packed bumper to bumper. I choose a piece of Céline Dion's wedding cake from the menu and order a house wine, L'Auberge Notre Vin Maison, because even in my dreams I'm on a budget and can't afford the Moët.
I want to stay here with the gorgeous Geronimo. I want to go back to Canada with him and wear a jingle dress and eagle feathers and I want to eat moose meat and dance at the powwow in summer, even though I know I'd need a bloody good sports bra.
It was as I started to tell him this that I woke up in Eildon Road with the rain pouring down outside in typical Melbourne fashion. I tried hard to go back to sleep to get back to Paris, or maybe Mohawk Territory, but then a wave of nausea overcame me and I wanted to throw up and it wasn't from the wedding cake I'd eaten in my sleep, or the cigarette, but the realisation that I was hung-over on three glasses of champagne, and that Thomas was in my head and I couldn't get rid of him. No, I couldn't fall for him; it wasn't possible, anyway, after one meal, one guided tour and an exchange on installation art. Who could fall in love talking about installation art? I hated installation art! Anyway, I was already in love with James and falling for someone in Melbourne was not my plan. It would only substantiate Dannie's claims that I was 'love fickle'. And Dannie can't be right ever. I must have been dreaming like this because I missed James, that's all. So I texted him:
I miss u. Can u come down next w/end? Px
twenty-seven
It's nice being a couple
The following weekend James arrived and it was great to see him. The breaks between visits made me value him more. I missed his touch and his smile and his kisses. And God, I missed the sex. So many women said it was important to have it good in the bedroom. I'd never thought that way; I'd always believed shared politics and laughter would make it all okay in the bedroom anyway. But then again, I'd had some dodgy lovers who had great values and political views. I'd been lucky with James; he was a nice guy with good values and a generous lover.
As he went to get us some coffees, I sat and watched people getting on and off the #96 tram to and from the city, and I wondered if they were tourists or locals. There were a lot of young, funky types. The sun was hot, and there were more palm trees shooting up among the tramline wires overhead. I heard the Scenic Railway roller-coaster rattling in the background and kids screaming. A guy walked past holding a bottle of wine and I imagined he was rendezvousing with his lover, perhaps going for a picnic. Fish'n'chips on the pier maybe. As I started to think about how nice it was to be a couple, James snuck up behind me and gave me a big, noisy smooch on the neck: 'MWAH!'
I jumped. 'You scared me half to death,' I said, swatting at him. 'Are you ready? Let's go. The markets are this way.'
We strolled the upper esplanade at St Kilda with the masses of others out enjoying a mild Sunday afternoon. There was a lot of scaffolding along the beach front and next to the Palais Theatre. A sign said Suzi Quatro was playing, and I thought of Alice. 'If You Can't Give Me Love' was one of her favourite songs. Alice and I ha
d very different tastes in music – but then, so did James and I. We never went to hear live music together back in Sydney, and we listened to different radio stations. He was into ABC Classic FM and I was on 93.7FM Koori Radio. Neither of us liked rap music, though, so we had that in common.
