Perfections (5 page)

His studio occupies the entire rear of the house, an area which must have originally been three separate rooms. Patches of raw, exposed wood remain where dividing walls once stood. At the far end, angled towards one of several curtainless windows, twin easels support what can only be the painting she’s been sent to reconnoitre. Wider than the spread of her arms and almost as tall, the canvas is shrouded in a grey, paint-spattered sheet. Pointedly, Jacqueline averts her gaze. Allows it to drift instead over the smaller canvases that lie stacked against the outer walls, their faces turned uniformly away. The jars of brushes and half-curled tubes of paint cluttering the corners and windowsills. The single mattress with its colourfully stained and crumpled sheet.

‘Sometimes I crash in here,’ Ryan says. ‘Easier’n cleaning myself up for bed.’

Jacqueline smiles. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Ryan?’ Alice pokes her head around the door. ‘Ryan, I got things of my own to do today. You gonna be long with her?’

Jacqueline opens her mouth to tell the woman not to wait on her account, that she’s quite capable of calling a taxi, but she doesn’t get the chance.

Ryan whips around, his face dark with fury. ‘Get the fuck out of here, Alice!’

‘I only–’

‘Piss
off
!’ Right in her face, so close that Jacqueline sees spittle arc through the air and land on Alice’s cheek. Her heart beats faster. Her breath sticks in her throat. The woman backs quickly out of sight and Ryan slams the door. Hard enough to make all the windows rattle in their frames.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters. ‘She knows I don’t want her in here, I don’t
ever
want her in here.’ He turns to face her, hands spreading in a gesture she takes for contrition. ‘She doesn’t understand art, never has. Doesn’t get the process, you know?’

Jacqueline nods. ‘Sure.’

‘Only reason she’s interested now is there’s money involved.’

‘I imagine that interests a lot of people. More so than art, that is.’

Ryan grins. ‘Someone in mind?’

Jacqueline takes a couple of steps towards the nearest stack of canvases. The topmost bears a word scrawled in red across its back:
median
or perhaps
meridian
. ‘Dante does care more about the money, your sister was right about that. Art is his business, and a status symbol. To be honest, I doubt he’d spot the difference between a genuine Jackson Pollock and a mass-produced Chinese knock-off. If he could sell them for the same price, he’d quite likely argue there was no real difference at all.’ She points a toe at the canvas in front of her. ‘Could I . . .?’

Ryan moves to her side. ‘Yeah, I got that about Dante. A real bottom-line guy.’

He bends and flips the painting around to face them. A sunset, all bloody reds and rich, bruised purples, casts its dying light over a city which has long since ceased to breathe. Skyscrapers loom, their glassless windows gaping black as missing teeth, above a river the colour of raw sewage. A post-urban wasteland, concrete and iron decaying to rubble and rust – and amid it all, faces peering out. Or what might be faces; what might be nothing more than wishful thinking. What might be nothing ever again.

‘It’s Brisbane,’ Ryan says. ‘One day.’

Jacqueline nods. ‘What you have to understand about Dante, though, is that he’s good at his business.
Very
good. You need him, Ryan, you really do.’

He shrugs, noncommittal, then turns over another canvas. And another. He leads her around the room, becoming more animated as each new painting, each vision of his tragic, post-apocalyptic city, is revealed. They’re good, better than good. They’re grand and dismal and undeniably beautiful, although Jacqueline can’t but help feel that something is missing. A unity, a narrative. Perhaps when they’re hung. Perhaps when the centrepiece is there to tie them all together.
If
the centrepiece ties them together. Jacqueline glances at the shrouded bulk straddling the two easels. Her fingers ache to lift a corner of the sheet.

‘You coming out tonight, then?’ Ryan asks.

‘I might.’

‘Better than hanging around some roach motel, yeah?’

‘It would be that.’ The heat in the studio is intense. Sweat beads on her face faster than she can pat it dry, and the skin on her back, her chest, feels clammy and close. Jacqueline wonders how the man can stand to work in here. She tilts her chin towards the concealed canvas. ‘Just a peek, Ryan? For me, not Dante. I promise I won’t say a word to him about it.’ Smiling, she draws a lazy cross over her left breast.

Ryan watches her finger complete its path before lifting his eyes to hers. ‘Sorry, but it’s not done yet and I don’t show anything that isn’t done. Not to anyone, yeah?’

‘We open in less than eight weeks, Ryan, and we need to allow time for everything to be crated and shipped . . .’

‘Hey now, don’t get yourself in a knot. It’ll be done.’ He reaches up with both hands to scratch at his scalp. Nervous serpents, his dreads twitch with each movement. ‘Less than a week, maybe, I get my blood up. You can see it then if you’re hanging around that long. You gonna be hanging around that long?’

Jacqueline tries not to think of the heat and the humidity. How, after a week of it, she might be little more than a puddle on the motel’s cheap polyester carpet. Instead, she nods. ‘I’ll be here, at your disposal. Anything you need.’ The grin that splits his face is wolfish. A startling flash of tooth and fire that sparks something equally unexpected deep in her loins. Uncertain, Jacqueline laughs. ‘Well,
nearly
anything you need.’

‘What do I need, what do I need?’ Ryan stalks across the room. Squeezes both her hands in his. ‘I need you to come out with me tonight, girl. I need inspiration, I need to dance. C’mon, you can be my muse, my Calliope.’ He’s laughing now as well – Ryan Jellicoe, Court Jester – but still his hands swallow hers.

‘All right.’ She pulls free, grinning despite herself. ‘Tell me where the club is.’

‘That’s my girl!’ Ryan retrieves a small scrap of canvas from the mess that litters the floor. Using a stub of charcoal wetted against his tongue, he sketches a series of intersecting lines. Streets, Jacqueline realises as he starts to label them. One near the middle he marks with a big fat asterisk and a scribbled name. ‘Here you go.’

The tips of her fingers blacken as she turns the map around. ‘
Merde
? That’s really the name of the place?’

‘Hey, you’re in Brisbane now; no one knows
shit
up here.’ Ryan snorts at his own joke, then snatches the canvas back. Still grinning, he signs his name in the bottom right corner. ‘There, you see, that’ll be a worth a mint one day. Isn’t that right,
Alice
?’ The last word is shouted over her shoulder, and Jacqueline turns in time to catch a glimpse of a shadow beneath the studio door before it slips away. Sister dearest, indeed. How long had the woman been standing there, ear pressed to the dry and splintery wood? Jacqueline suppresses a shudder. Her skin crawls.

There is always a game; there is always an audience.

Her own private mantra, for as long as she can remember. It wouldn’t do for her to forget it, not now. Jacqueline tucks the map into her bag. Feels her composure return. Ryan Jellicoe may have slipped briefly beneath her skin for a few scattered, heat-swollen moments, but what of it? She is beginning to sense the rules now, the conditions and boundaries. Gentle flirtation and the padding of egos.

It’s a game she knows she can play. It’s a game she knows she can win.

— 5 —

Waking to darkness and disorientation, Antoinette spends a few seconds fumbling for a reading light that isn’t there, before remembering and rolling across to the other side of the bed. Jacqueline’s side, the side with the art nouveau lamp Antoinette bought as a housewarming present, its green-glass shade casting a faintly olivine glow once her fingers find the switch.

The room is as empty as the rest of the bed.

And, just for a second, Antoinette doubts. Allows herself to think that maybe, just maybe, it was all a dream, some crazy-eyed fantasy spun from alcohol and grief and the kind of imagination that’s better left to bounce against padded walls.

But only for a second.

Because she
knows
, because she
feels
. It’s real.
He
is real. He must be.

Antoinette gets out of bed, wincing as her injured foot hits the floor. Still in her work clothes, she feels stale and constricted, her white blouse now crumpled, smelling of old sweat, and she reaches up beneath it, rubs at the spots where her bra has dug into sleep-soft flesh. A shower is what she needs, coconut bodywash and water so hot it all but blisters skin; a shower, and a clock – because she has no idea what time it is, what
day
even – but there’s one thing she needs even more.

The hall is dark except for a slim line of light shining beneath the closed study door. Without allowing herself time for second thoughts, Antoinette limps across and turns the handle, belatedly rapping her knuckles on the door as she pushes it open. ‘Hello? You in here?’

He turns to face her, swivelling in his chair with an easy, open grin. ‘Lo! Sleeping beauty awakens!’

He’s tidied the room, returned the futon to its sofa state and piled her stuff neatly on top of it. Behind him, Jacqueline’s computer hums, what looks like a page from Wikipedia open on the screen, but that isn’t what grabs Antoinette’s attention, what makes her burst into laughter.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, covering her mouth with her hands. ‘Is that my dressing gown?’

‘I was cold.’ He pulls the faded pink terrycloth tighter across his chest. ‘It’s all I could find that would fit. Sort of.’

Antoinette tries to stop smirking. The robe is absurd, purple appliqué ponies cavorting across a background the colour of fairy floss, and she would have sent it off to Vinnies years ago except that it was a thirteenth birthday present from her grandmother – her mother’s mother, who died soon afterwards. At least two sizes too big back then, it fits her comfortably now, and despite the numerous coffee stains and the rip on one sleeve – inexpertly repaired but holding – she can’t bear to let it go.

On him, it looks at once ludicrous and strangely endearing.

‘We’ll have to get you some clothes,’ Antoinette says.

His grin returns, wider than ever, as he rises from the chair. ‘If you say so.’ It only takes him a couple of steps to reach her, and Antoinette puts out her hand when he gets near, flattens a palm against his chest. Still warm, still solid.

‘Can I just . . .’ She leans forward and presses her ear over the place where his heart should be, her breath held tight in her lungs. Listening, listening, and when she hears it, the faint but steady rhythm, it sounds like magic.
Feels
like magic, the shiver that spreads across her skin, that thrums through her bones. Because can there be any other word for it? One day he wasn’t here – wasn’t
anywhere
– and now he’s standing before her, hand cradling her head as this unseen muscle beats and beats and beats, the fact of him so real, so
big
, it leaves no space for questioning.

‘Incredible,’ Antoinette whispers.

He takes her chin in his hand, tilts her gaze to meet his own. ‘Yours,’ he says, and lowers his head towards hers.

Jacqueline inches away from the boy newly slumped on the couch at her side. His sweaty arm rubs against hers and she wrinkles her nose at the odour that wafts from his body. He grins at her, head bobbing in time with the music. At least in Merde’s upstairs lounge the sound of the band is somewhat muted, their drums and synths blending to a harmless, syncopated beat. The vocal drone is just another instrument. Woodwind perhaps, or pipe organ.

‘You want a drink?’ the boy yells in her ear.

‘No thanks.’ Jacqueline smiles, carefully bland. She looks towards the staircase where Ryan disappeared too long ago. The band that’s playing isn’t the one his friends are in. He’s gone to find out when they’ll be on.

‘You look thirsty,’ the boy yells at her again. ‘Thirsty and hot.’

‘I’m not drinking tonight,’ she says. Not tonight, not ever if she can avoid it. She hates the way alcohol makes her feel. Light-headed and loose. Disconnected from everything, including herself. ‘Thanks anyway.’

But he’s already on his feet. ‘S’kay, I’ll get you a Coke then.’

Jacqueline starts to protest, but he’s already making his way towards the bar. Long and lanky, his limbs move as though they’re attached to strings. The girl on the adjacent couch begins to laugh, a harsh and barking sound. ‘Don’t sweat it; Scott totally crushes on newbs.’ She’s lying on her back, legs hooked over the arm of the couch and swinging gently. Her skirt puddles in her lap. Her calves are smooth and well-defined, criss-crossed by the strappy Egyptian-style sandals she’s wearing.

Jacqueline leans closer. ‘Jane, isn’t it?’

The girl shakes her head. She wears dreadlocks, like Ryan, only hers are shorter and multicoloured. ‘
Zane
. With a Z.’

‘Sorry,’ Jacqueline says. ‘I must have misheard.’

The girl shrugs, as though it doesn’t really matter, but there’s a keen, catlike gleam in her eyes. ‘So you’re this big shot gallery chick, right?’

‘My boss is the big shot. I just do his dirty work.’

‘You reckon he might be interested in someone other’n Ryan?’

‘I don’t know, I can’t really speak for–’

‘Hang on, look.’ Zane swings her legs around and sits up. She undoes the drawstring on the patchwork pouch she wears slung across her chest and pulls out a handful of photographs. Passes them to Jacqueline. Her fingernails are short and grimy. Her cuticles are ragged. ‘My website’s on the back, yeah?’

The light’s dim up here and tinted scarlet, making it hard for Jacqueline to discern much detail from prints which appear second-rate to begin with. Shots of boxes, and open suitcases, filled with a variety of different objects. Dolls, or parts of dolls, and scissors clutter one of them. Another seems filled with brightly coloured shapes and shiny pieces of metal. ‘You’re a photographer?’

Zane shakes her head. ‘No, see, I make what’s
in
the photos. But you really need to look at them for real, you know? You need to be in the same space. I thought maybe while you were up here, you might like to check them out.’

Jacqueline shuffles through the photos, flips one of them over. The website address appears to have been stamped on by hand, letter by individual letter. ‘I can certainly pass these on to my boss. He’s always looking for new work.’

‘Look, I know the photos are crap. But if you just came by . . .’

‘I’m not sure I’ll have time. I’m just here for Ryan.’

‘What if I bring a couple of them to you?’ Zane leans forward. Hunger pinches her face. ‘Where you staying?’

Jacqueline tries not to recoil. ‘Ah, I’m not sure that–’

‘Give it up, Zaney.’ The boy, Scott, sidles between them with drinks in hand. ‘No one cares about your stupid puzzle boxes.’ He places one of the glasses on the table in front of Jacqueline. ‘One Coke for the lady, straight up.’

‘They’re
not
puzzle boxes!’ Scowling, the girl aims a kick at him. Misses and hits the table instead. The glass wobbles and Jacqueline reaches to steady it, the photographs dropping to the floor as she does.

‘Scott, you dick,’ Zane snaps. She crouches beside Jacqueline’s legs to pick up the scattered prints. ‘They’re not puzzle boxes,’ she says again. ‘They’re more like dioramas, but complicated, you know. Layered. You should see them.’ She offers the photos to Jacqueline, thrusts them towards her.

‘Zane, put those away.’ The voice is sudden and commanding, and Jacqueline turns to see Ryan standing with arms crossed beside the couch. ‘No one’s doing business here tonight.’

‘I was only showing her.’ The girl pouts, then actually flutters her eyelashes at him. ‘Hey, Ryan, you think I could, like, bring a couple cases round to your place? Creeping Beauty, maybe, or Malice in Wonderland, that be okay? So she can get to see them while she’s here?’

Ryan grins. ‘A time to every purpose, little thing.’ He bends and kisses the top of her head, right where her dreads morph from pink to peacock blue, rendered purplish in this light. The expression on his face is amused, indulgent. An expression Jacqueline imagines a father might reserve for his favourite child. Except there’s nothing
daughterly
about the way Zane looks at him. Watching them, Jacqueline wonders about conduits, and whether it would prove help or hindrance to get the girl onside.

Ryan straightens. ‘Come on,’ he says to Jacqueline. ‘My mates’ll be on soon. Let’s head down, grab us a good possie, eh?’

Downstairs is the last place she wants to be. Amid the heat and the noise and the crush of the clammy, pulsating bodies that throng before the stage. But Jacqueline smiles and gets to her feet. Tonight, her primary concern is to keep Ryan happy. As she sidles her way out of the circle of couches, Jacqueline catches Zane’s eye. The girl’s mouth is now a hard, thin line, and her gaze has daggers in it.

Antoinette steps from the shower and grabs one of the ivory-coloured towels from its rail. She still feels bad about ducking away from him like that, slipping mercurial through his arms just as his lips were so obviously about to touch hers, but it was too sudden, and too strange. Kissing him would have been a kind of weirdness she doesn’t want to consider just now.

Her heel looks much better at least, now that she’s cleaned away the dried and crusted blood. It still hurts to put weight on, but the pain is old, dullish, the edges of the wound crinkled white from the shower. There are butterfly stitches in the medicine cabinet and Antoinette uses three of them, smears on some Savlon and wraps a fresh length of gauze around her foot, hoping the cut won’t open up again. Doctors and stitches and shots, oh my! Antoinette shudders.

She rubs at her hair, squeezing as much water from it as she can. It’s too long, the curls too thick, and will take ages to dry, but she’s forgotten her anti-frizz stuff back at home – back at
Paul’s
– and blow-drying would be a disaster without it. Antoinette swipes a hand across the mirror, cuts a swathe through the steam. Maybe she should hack it all away, short as she can stand it. She bundles her hair together, piles it up on top of her head: Raggedy Ann gone gothic, sure, but certainly easier to care for, easier to dye as well. Already time for a touch up, she notes, a fresh coat of black to conceal the creep of mousy brown.

Antoinette laughs. All that’s happened in the past couple of days, and she’s worried about the colour of her hair? She pokes out her tongue at her reflection, then wraps herself in the towel and opens the bathroom door.