I’d set the alarm early but woke before my sleep was interrupted by ‘Classic Hits’ on NovaFM. The December sun was streaming through the cracks in the wooden venetians and, already, I could tell the day was going to be a hot one. I loved this time of year as the first few days of summer were always hopeful. As a teacher at a local girls’ school, this time of year saw me counting down to the end of the school year and beyond that stretched 8 glorious weeks of summer vacation.
Today I was in particular good spirits; I was spending the day with my 10 year old niece, Emily, or Em, as we all called her. Em is my brother Ian’s daughter and we’ve always been close. We share the same birthday (January 8th), we look very alike (despite the 25 year age gap) and share a unique trait of having heterochromia which is when someone’s eyes are different colours.
First stop every day for me is the kitchen where I flick on the kettle and spoon two teaspoons of Earl Grey tea into a teapot. I sip my tea – white, no sugar – and sit on the balcony looking out across the city taking in the view. However, today I don’t have the luxury of spending the morning flicking through The Age, as I normally would. It’s action stations as Em’s arriving in half an hour.
Thirty minutes later, I’m putting the final touches to my make-up when the buzzer rings. I wave to Ian through the fly screen door, open it and Em rushes in at full pelt. She’s at the age where she seems to grow before your eyes. She’s going to be tall – she clearly gets her height from her mum as our side of the family is rather vertically challenged.
For an instant my mind drifts, as it often does when I’m with Em, to her mum. Beth and I were best mates at University. We’d both transferred in the middle of our first term from other courses (me from Psychology and Beth from Physics) and everyone had already made friends and were in their little cliques. Because of that we drifted towards each other. Fast forward a semester and we were roommates. Fast forward 3 years and we were backpacking around Europe together after graduation. Fast forward to Christmas Eve 2004 at about 7.15pm in my parents’ lounge room to the moment Beth met Ian. They really should have met before this but somehow had never managed to be in the same place at the same time. Their courtship was a whirlwind. They were engaged 4 months after they met and married 10 months after that in the Yarra Valley. Beth fell pregnant very quickly and Em was born a few days before their first wedding anniversary. Their life was idyllic – the stuff of fairy tales. They’d bought a little house in the back streets of Prahran, they had a gorgeous little girl and then it all came to a crashing halt when Beth found a lump. After numerous tests and scans she was told there was nothing that could be done. Her slight little body was riddled with cancer – it was in her lymph nodes, her bones, her brain. ‘Go home, spend time with your family, have fun’ she was told. And she did. But the end was quick and she left us for good 2 weeks before Em’s 1st birthday.
We all rallied round Ian and Em – smothering them with love, helping out where we could, holding Ian when it all became too unbearable for him. All the love we had for Beth was channelled into Ian and Em. And even 10 years on we’re all still grieving over the loss of a beloved wife, friend and mother.
I allow my mind to drift to happy times spent with Beth – smoking pot in Amsterdam and being violently ill; on a barge in the South of France, playing twister on the deck and getting very drunk on the local red wine. I smile and am jolted out of my day dream by Em insisting we leave now.
The destination for the day is Luna Park so we hop in my car and set off for St Kilda. Em’s chatting all the way – telling me about school, sport (she’s obsessed with tennis) and her new fish who she has called Colin. The journey takes no time at all and I’m soon paying the exorbitant entrance fees and she’s dragging me off to the roller coaster for what will no doubt be the first ride of many.
There’s already a queue and I know from past experience that this will not go down well with her. Patience is not a virtue my niece possesses. Luckily I know how to distract her so we start talking about the upcoming Australian Open the following month and off she goes talking about the players, who she thinks is going to win and that she wants to be a ball girl when she’s old enough.
The queue’s getting shorter and I’m aware of a boy just in front of us who’s roughly Em’s age staring at us and he’s taking a real interest in what she’s saying. Because I deal with kids every day I can tell he’s itching to say something. He’s seems quite shy so I guessed he’d never muster up the courage to interrupt her. ‘Do you like tennis too?’ I say to him. He nods and says ‘Yes, I really love it’. A voice pops up from my right ‘So, who’s your favourite player then?’ and that’s it. Within 20 seconds they’re exchanging views on who’s better out of Nadal and Federer and who has the best serve out of Serena or Venus.
The boy is with a man who is clearly his dad and he’s standing watching the interaction with some amusement. ‘We’ll never shut him up now’ he says to me. ‘Tell me about it. If he’s as bad as she is there’s a good chance we’ll be here all night’ I reply.
‘Simon Holland’ he says with his right arm outstretched. ‘And the wannabe Rafa over there is my son, Chris’
‘Abby. Abby Walker. And that’s my niece, Em’ I say as I shake his hand.
‘Ah, a day out with Aunty. Giving the parents a rest, are you?’
I shrug as if to agree. If only he knew the whole heartbreaking story.
We slip easily into conversation about the kids, their ages, upcoming holiday plans – that sort of thing.
‘So apart from being Aunty of the year, what do you do with yourself? Where do you work?’ he asks
‘I’m a Maths teacher at Lauriston Girls in Armadale for my sins. You?’ I reply
‘Words are more my thing rather than numbers. I’m a crime correspondent with The Age and I’m also a theatre critic for an Arts Magazine called “Artlink’. You’ve probably never heard of it.’
I nod to agree – live theatre has never held my interest – and we continue to chat about work and both agree a lottery win would solve all of our problems.
We’re soon at the head of the queue and we all climb into the same cab and off we go. I grit my teeth – I absolutely hate these things. Simon however is clearly reliving his childhood and joins in with the kids’ screams and laughs. He catches my eye and gives me a wink. I smile back and soon, thankfully, the ride is over and I’m back on terra firma. Em and Chris seem to be getting on really well so we make a beeline for the dodgems. The next few hours pass quickly and soon it’s 3pm and it’s time to head for home.
As we walk towards the car park Simon say ‘Well, thanks Abby for a great day’
‘Yeah, it’s been fun’ I agreed. ‘Kids certainly seems to enjoy it. I think Em enjoyed having someone else to play with’
‘Yep – they do seem to get on pretty well. Might be the start of a great friendship – future doubles partners, perhaps? Or first love?’ he laughs
‘That would just be perfect’ I reply. ‘She gets a boyfriend and I don’t have one!’
There was a bit of an awkward silence and I’m vaguely aware of Em and Chris standing off to the side polishing off the remainder of the candy floss we’d bought them earlier.
‘So,’ I say, ‘we really should head off. I’ve promised her Dad we’d be home about 4 o’clock and traffic’s bound to be an absolute nightmare. The joy of living in Richmond, eh? Thanks again though’
I turn to go but feel his hand on my arm. “Wait’. I spin round to face him.
‘Look, if you’re not doing anything later, do you fancy meeting up for a drink? I’m reviewing a play at East Richmond Rep – but should be finished by 9ish. We could catch up after that or, if you fancy it, you could come too. It’s called An Audience of One or something like that. And I have a weird feeling that might be quite prophetic. If you came along you’d probably double the audience!’ He laughed at his own joke and I couldn’t help but join in.
‘That’s funny. You’re not really selling it to me though!’ I replied. “But how about we do the drink thing afterwards. Inner city rep theatre really isn’t my thing anyway.’
He breaks into a grin. ‘Perfect. How’s about we meet at The Posty in Swan Street. 9.30?’
‘Great. See you then. I wave, call out for Em and head for my car all the while smiling and already looking forward to tonight.
The journey home is, as predicted, painful with heavy traffic on Punt Road but Em chirps all the way home about her new friend Chris. We pull up outside my house just as Ian’s getting out of his car. They’ve got to be at Beth’s parents’ house by 4.30 so there’s no time to chat. I kiss Em goodbye, give Ian a hug and we arrange to catch up for dinner the following week. As I walk up the path to the flat, I can still hear her chatting about her day and telling Ian all about Chris. Maybe Simon’s right… could be the start of a great relationship after all.
I spend the next couple of hours pottering about, reading, doing my nails, folding clothes – that sort of thing. After a quick dinner of bacon and tomato pasta (no garlic, just in case!), I head for the bathroom and turn the jets to lukewarm. I stand underneath the shower head as the needles of water rain down on my back. While I’m rinsing the conditioner from my hair, I’m already going through my wardrobe mentally rejecting one outfit after another. This is a tried and tested approach and by the time I’ve dried my hair and put on my make-up I’ve decided on my True Religion jeans, a black beaded top and my black wedges. Matching Jan Logan earrings and necklace and my new Mimco bag set the outfit off to a tee. Soon, I’m heading out the door a tick after 9.25 which should see me getting to the Posty a fashionable 5 minutes late.
I walk into the pub and head to the bar. Unlike some of my girlfriends, I’ve never had a problem walking into a pub on my own. Some of my friends would rather wait outside in the pouring rain than walk into a bar unaccompanied. It’s quite busy but it’s easy enough to get served so I take my glass of pinot noir, move outside and find a couple of seats next to the wall looking out onto Swan Street. There’s a table of lads next to me, a couple of whom keep glancing over at me. One of them shouts over ‘If he doesn’t turn up, you can always come and party with me’. ‘He’ll be here’ I say. Though I have to admit the signs aren’t good as he’s already 20 minutes late.
I convince myself with the thought that he’s working and maybe, just maybe, the play has run over time or that he’s had to stay behind to interview the director or the lead actor. I spend the next 20 mins playing with my phone and glancing up towards the door every now and again.
It gets to 10.15 and I know he’s not coming. Disappointed, and glad the table of boys next to me have moved on, I head for home. Even though I live close by, I don’t like walking home when it’s dark so I hail a cab. However instead of giving him my address I ask the cabbie to take a detour past the theatre before dropping me home. As we pass it, I can see the theatre’s all dark. There are old posters peeling off billboards and rubbish litters the steps. In truth, it almost looks derelict. I conclude that suburban theatre companies are doing it tough and need to perform wherever they can.
I get home some 10 minutes later. It’s not even 11pm so I crack open a bottle of Shiraz, pour myself a glass and spend the next hour channel surfing. The only programmes on seem to be about antiques, property development or the Sahara Desert. It’s a reminder as to why I tend to go out on a Saturday night.
I finally give up on finding anything of interest on television, drain my glass and get ready for bed. As I lie in bed with the light off, I reflect on the past few hours. I’d started the night on a high – convinced I was going to have a great evening. We’d have a few drinks, talk about our lives, friends, hobbies, interests. Maybe our hands would touch every now and again. We’d have been the last ones in the bar and the staff would be clearing up around us but we’d have been oblivious to it all. Then we’d slowly start to walk towards my house, arms linked, blind to everything going on around us. We’d get to my gate and then there’d be that awkward moment before we lean into each other and kiss – gently at first but then more insistently. I shake myself from my fantasy, roll over onto my side and drift off to sleep.
Sunday passes quickly as I fill the day with activities designed to take my mind off the disappointment of the night before. There’s washing, cleaning, shopping to be done. A quick lunch and I’m back to it with ironing, marking exam papers and a light jog round ‘The Tan’. As usual, I head to Mum and Dad’s in Kew for the traditional Sunday dinner and I’m home early and putting out the light by 10.30.
Monday morning dawns dull and wet. I hate mornings like this and it’s just typical that my car won’t start. Annoyed, I grab my umbrella from the stand beside the door and head to Richmond station. As I get to the station I look up at the boards and see that trains on my line are all running late due to the weather. Just great – could this day get any worse? I call my boss and tell her I’ll probably be a bit late. Expecting a frosty reception at this news, I’m pleased when she tells me she’s running late herself. I decide to buy a magazine to make the time pass quicker so go to the newsagent just before the ticket barrier.
All of the magazines are on display on a shelf just below the counter. I bend down and pick up a copy of Marie Claire. I hand over ten dollars and as I’m waiting for my change I scan the headlines of the newspapers laid out just to my left. The Australian is reporting another boat load of refugees has been spotted off Ashmore Reef. The AFR’s leading with an article about directors’ compensation. And then my blood literally runs cold. The headline on the front page of the Age screams ‘Age Crime Reporter Murdered.’ And next to it there’s a photo of Simon.
With shaking hands I pick up a copy and quickly scan the article. Simon Holland… 42…stabbed… disused theatre… doesn’t appear to be a mugging… discovered by kids on Sunday lunchtime… call Richmond Police if you know anything…
Turns out, it was an Audience of One after all…
Stories by Mrs Mac 