Other Side of the Season Page 16

  Tilly giggled. ‘Not right at this minute, silly. You say some funny things sometimes. I mean take me. I want you to want me, Matthew.’

  ‘I-I do.’ In the half-dark she saw his face scrunch up. ‘I’ve always wanted you, Tilly.’

  ‘I know. I thought about us, too.’

  ‘I’ve been so jealous of how you and . . .’

  ‘Shh, Matthew! I said stop talking.’ And with that, Tilly drew her sloppy joe over her head.

  The next day they left the mountain together, Matthew’s old Torana G-Pak–lime-green, like an unripe banana–bulging with belongings. Before they left they’d made a pact. Once they reached the bottom of the road, as they passed through the Greenhill gates–a new life ahead–there would be no looking back, no reflecting on the past. Never again would she or Matthew speak of Greenhill: of David, of Albie, of their parents. There would also be no more Tilly. It was time to grow up and Natalie was a much more grown-up name.

  They erased their childhood.

  They started again.

  They had a baby.

  They named her Sidney.

  • • •

  ‘So much for getting some rest,’ Natalie muttered. The motel room with its heavy curtains closed tight was far too claustrophobic, but looking out at a busy highway wasn’t going to help. Trying to sleep in this room within such close proximity to the cars whizzing by was too strong a reminder of the times she and Matthew had lived out of their car on the streets. For close to a month, after being kicked out of the crowded terrace they’d squatted in after arriving in Sydney, the Torana had become home.

  She had found them both a job with the local supermarket–Natalie behind the cash register and Matthew stocking shelves at night. Eventually they had enough money coming in for a small flat above a garage in an inner-west Sydney suburb. With her art supplies initially restricted to the ballpoint and felt pens she’d pinched from her checkout-chick job, she did a series of four-by-six-inch sketches in black and white of the neighbourhood, depicting the melting pot that was Marrickville, with her artist’s eye finding charm in the detail of its old buildings and quirky and colourful locals. Without the proper paper and pens, she could only achieve so much, until she managed to shoplift a few brushes to better execute the pen and wash effect–the closest thing she could get to her beloved watercolours. Each finished artwork was then pasted on card, married with a white envelope, and sold at various weekend markets throughout the month. The board on which she glued her creations, and the clear cellophane and curling ribbon she used to make bundles of five and ten cards–justifying the price tag–came courtesy of the inattentive art store attendant. A little older than Natalie, in his mid twenties probably, the boy who worked every Wednesday was not wise enough to notice that, despite the newborn she was toting in her arms, Natalie’s belly still had quite a bump from secreting supplies under her maternity top.

  Eventually she started painting larger pieces, mostly watercolours because when those urgent baby cries demanded her immediate attention a watercolour was less messy and easier to walk away from than oils and acrylics.

  Her stash of art supplies grew, which allowed her to add other trinkets to her market stall. Some things she pinched from op shops, including small wooden toys–especially wind-up music boxes that still worked. She spent her days painting new designs and sold the items for a good price, while Matthew found part-time work filling potholes in local roads. While the other men were smoking their way through morning tea, Matthew was busy calculating how he’d reduce the hot mix wastage to save the company money. His workmates made fun of him, but Matthew had the last laugh when the boss, impressed by his analytical ability, offered him a logistics role in the office. The promotion had come with a much bigger pay packet.

  Natalie and Matthew were finding their rhythm as a couple and as a family, making plans together and slipping into a routine that satisfied her husband’s need for quiet calm and order–as much as a baby allowed. When Natalie secured work four nights a week as cleaner at an inner-city art gallery, Matthew took care of Sid on his own, somehow learning to cope with the chaos only a toddler can cause. Natalie assumed love had something to do with that particular miracle and the bond between father and daughter that deepens with each birthday.

  The years passed, their bank balance grew, and somewhere along the way, totally unexpectedly, Natalie fell in love with Matthew. After ten contented years together and another baby–this time a boy they named Jake–it seemed they had everything.

  28

  Sydney, 1990

  Natalie had found her place in the world as a mother first, then as a wife, a worker, and an artist. Along the way she learned to be whatever else was needed–when it was needed. The cleaning job she’d secured at the gallery had turned into a kind of girl Friday role after less than a year, which saw her working nights as well as helping out with general gallery admin duties during the day. With Matthew studying, and her precious girl growing far too quickly, the family struggled financially, but Natalie held on to her dreams. On the occasions the manager was away from the gallery, she would swan around, chatting with customers and pretending the place was hers. Natalie learned lots of new things working there, like what philanthropist meant. She’d had a terrible time pronouncing it at first, practising the word, and her smile, in the bathroom mirror each night. Raphael’s was supported by some heavyweights in the Sydney art world and she discovered that people paid a lot of money for things that she was more than capable of painting with her eyes shut.

  The gallery owner–a man in his mid forties whose photograph was often featured in the social pages above the words seen here with philanthropist and art critic, Raphael–was, in real life, Ralph Snodgrass. Natalie had first seen the name on an electricity bill and council rates notice when she’d stopped being cleaner and accepted Ralph’s offer of a full-time job in the office, assisting the manager.

  By twenty-six, Natalie had learned more words and, thanks to Ralph’s generosity and belief in her, she also learned about spreadsheets. Initially she had fluked her way through the office job, sneaking files home on floppy disks and insisting Matthew teach her how to use a computer. Luckily she was a fast learner. After a few years, Ralph–who referred to himself as her mentor whenever he introduced Natalie–taught her about government art grants, even helping her apply for creative development opportunities. One successful application secured her a spot in a seven-day artists’ workshop. The other had been an actual cash payment, and she saw nothing wrong with putting the money towards a new pram when baby Jake came along. Throughout her pregnancy Ralph had remained supportive, generous and inspiring, while the starchy gallery manager with the humungous hump on her honker snubbed Natalie, treating her like some sort of low-life grub. Whenever she’d look down that nose of hers at Natalie, someone came to mind.

  Someone from the past.

  Someone who had once stood in young Tilly’s way.

  Someone called Pretty Penny. Pretty Penny with the lovely blue dress and bloody nose.

  When Natalie went back to work full time, the gallery manager went back to enjoying her extra-long lunches on the days Ralph was away. Within six months, following an inexplicable oversight–a spreadsheet anomaly and an unaccountable shortfall in the accounts–Miss Look-Down-Her-Nose Gallery Manager was summarily dismissed and her role was up for grabs. Natalie graciously accepted the position, staying on at Raphael’s Gallery for another five years, which saw Jake at school. Free of parental responsibilities–Monday to Friday at least–her metamorphosis from low-life grub to butterfly was swift, with Ralph growing increasingly flirtatious and keen to help an eager Natalie further spread her wings by introducing her to Sydney’s arts and cultural scene.

  The downside was that Matthew, already socially awkward, withdrew further into his introspective shell. Whenever Natalie took him to art functions, she’d end up berating him later for hijacking conversations, spouting facts and figures or expounding unwanted and ina
ppropriate political opinions, among other favourite topics. He didn’t get other people, and often they didn’t get him. At home Natalie sometimes had to scream to make her husband understand she was hurt or angry or frustrated. Mostly he’d retreat to a room on his own where he’d stay for hours, hunched over his computer, problem-solving something for work, muttering to himself.

  Her husband’s management role with the construction company was growing and changing. He was going away on business trips more often and frequently seemed distant when he returned home. At first Natalie had assumed his moodiness to be the result of disruptions to his routine. Eventually she started to wonder if there might be something else going on and perhaps all the so-called business trips were a cover story.

  One night she’d stopped in the doorway to the study to ask her sullen husband outright. ‘Are you having an affair, Matthew? I’d understand if you were, or if you’d contemplated one at least.’

  Matthew’s head jerked up. ‘What makes you think I would contemplate having an affair?’

  Natalie shrugged. ‘Things between us have been strained, to say the least. And it’s not like our marriage was based on love.’

  Matthew looked at her, his face stony. ‘It was for me.’

  ‘Oh, dear, that came out wrong.’ As Natalie stepped hesitantly towards him, Matthew closed the lid of his laptop. ‘Forgive me. I guess I was steeling myself in case–’

  ‘In case?’

  ‘Matthew, I’ve grown to love you so much. With every baby you gave me, I’ve loved you more.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Don’t what, darling?’

  ‘Don’t treat me like an idiot, Natalie. I’m not.’

  ‘Of course, my darling. I wasn’t implying–’ Natalie made a move towards her husband again, to hold him, to let her body reassure him of her commitment. Instead, Matthew stalked from the room, but not before she saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes.

  From that moment on their relationship changed. Matthew became quieter, even more reflective. On too many occasions Natalie would find him sitting in the dark at the desk in the study, rather than in bed with her. He worked all day and studied at night, often until midnight, when she’d hear him wander along the hallway. In the beginning he’d explained that he was sleeping in the spare room so as not to wake Natalie. Sidney, at the time old enough to be curious, seemed accepting, while Jake was still too young to care. But Natalie cared. She was losing her husband.

  Not long after, Ralph made her an offer. He told Natalie he’d consider including her watercolours in an emerging artists’ exhibition to get her some exposure. That afternoon she let him screw her on the magnificent mahogany desk in the back office, her legs spread wide and her breasts squashed flat under the weight of his hand pressing down on her back.

  There was something honest about the transaction. Her boss was one of the few people who saw through her lies. Together, in the back office, he was Ralph Snodgrass, not Raphael, esteemed critic and dealer, and she was Tilly no-name from the wrong side of the tracks. When he was finished, Ralph tugged the zipper on his trousers closed. ‘I’m heading off for the day,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to lock up, Nat. And thanks. You’ll do well, just wait and see. The punters will love you as much as I do.’ He stopped long enough to drop two fifty-dollar notes on the desk as Natalie pulled up her knickers and threw her torn stockings in the bin. What’s wrong with me? she thought. Why did she let him do that? Why do that to Matthew? As she drew her pencil skirt down over her knees, smoothing the crushed khaki-coloured corduroy over her hips, Natalie felt numb.

  It’ll never happen again. Never.

  If Ralph didn’t like it, she’d leave–after her exhibition. She knew enough people in the industry after all this time to find a new job. Hopefully one with a bigger gallery and more money, so she could keep paying for Matthew’s engineering degree and provide a home that would keep her children in all the things she’d never had. Yes, she’d do well all right, and on her own terms. Then, one day, when she and Matthew were bouncing grandchildren on their knees and she’d sold her own successful little gallery to fund their retirement, she would have lived her dream–or as close to the dream as she deserved.

  She would have her own gallery.

  One day.

  29

  Sydney, 2000

  Tash raised her glass. ‘The name is not as big a mouthful as Natalie and Tasha,’ she said.

  ‘Agreed,’ Nat replied. ‘And cheaper. We are paying the sign-writer per letter! Nat and Tash is a lot less pretentious than some gallery names, too, which is exactly what we’re aiming for.’

  ‘Here’s to the four effs.’ They clinked their glasses. ‘Fun, funky and effing fabulous!’

  Natalie had to smile at someone of Tash’s age and eminence saying words like funky, let alone effing. Maybe they should’ve named the gallery The Four F’s! One could get away with just about anything these days.

  ‘I love the idea of being different,’ Tash said. ‘The last thing this city needs is another ostentatious art gallery run by pompous prima donnas. Agree?’

  ‘Absolutely, darrrrr-link!’ Nat crooned and, for a short, heart-stopping moment, she was back in that cave with David, kissing imaginary strangers and sloshing an invisible cocktail in the air.

  ‘You okay?’ Tash was staring. ‘Your face just now . . . It was all–’

  ‘Oh God, no, no, I’m fine.’ Nat smiled and took another sip of the much-needed bubbly. ‘I was thinking you and I couldn’t be further from pompous prima donnas.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, darling!’ Tash chortled into her champers. ‘Cheers, partner. Who would have thought after stealing you away from that blasted Raphael character all those years ago that we would end up together like this? I’m ecstatic.’

  ‘As am I.’ Nat turned her cheek as her long-time friend, now business partner, performed one of her famous air kisses while juggling a champagne glass in one hand and reining in one of her flamboyant signature scarves with the other, much like those imaginary guests young Tilly had once conjured up.

  ‘Nope, nothing pompous about us.’ Nat had found her laugh.

  ‘Don’t forget to circulate, partner. Rubbing shoulders until our arms are raw is what we do now. Watch and learn.’ As Tash winked and strode to the far side of the room to greet a new guest, Nat hoped, in fifteen years from now, she would be every bit as wonderful as fifty-year-old Tash.

  Matthew sidled up to his wife–a rare but appreciated appearance at a social gathering. ‘I see Tasha is in her element. You need to get out there and do your thing.’

  ‘Yes, and now I’ve let go of my full name I can only hope when someone calls me I respond.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll always be Tilly to me.’

  ‘Matthew!’ The whispered rebuke startled her husband.

  ‘I know, I know.’ He held out his hands in surrender. ‘That’s bringing up the past.’

  ‘And we promised each other.’

  ‘Well, for what it’s worth, I agree–Nat and Tash is a great name for the gallery, although I’m surprised you got first billing.’

  ‘It may surprise you to know Tash and Nat was my original suggestion. Tasha was the best thing to happen to me. After you, of course.’ She smiled and leaned in to kiss her husband’s cheek, surprised when Matthew’s arm wrapped around her waist and he squeezed softly. His reluctance to show affection in public had been another of those little quirks she’d had to learn to live with.

  ‘As firm as your friendship seems to be, I can’t help but wonder,’ he said.

  ‘Wonder what?’

  ‘I know managing a gallery isn’t the same as owning your own. That has always been the dream.’

  ‘Stepping stones, Matthew.’ Natalie waved away his concerns. ‘And I’m not simply the manager. I’m the face of the gallery while Tash takes a step back to travel. Business partner is close enough for now, and with Tash happy playing the investor and overseas buyer, the place will see
m like mine. I’ll be making the decisions. We may not have a fifty–fifty financial arrangement, but I know Tasha really values my contribution. After all is said and done, having this gallery with her is still an achievement–and having you here in town for the opening makes everything sweeter.’

  ‘Leo hardly had a choice about letting me fly back early after you cornered him at the Christmas party last year,’ Matthew commented with mild amusement. ‘He asked me at work the next day if you were always so convincing.’

  ‘I hope you answered appropriately.’

  ‘A wink and a smile can convey so much, my sweet. You taught me that.’ Matthew waved a waiter with a champagne bottle away from his glass. ‘You did more or less bully him into giving me the time off. I would’ve made it back from Perth in time without you coaxing him. Nothing could’ve made me miss your big night, although I can understand why you might doubt me sometimes.’

  ‘I never doubt you, Matthew. You’ve never once let me down. Even after–’

  ‘Wasn’t Sid coming tonight?’ he interrupted. ‘Where are they both? I was looking forward to seeing Jake in a shirt and tie.’

  ‘Ha! Now that will be a dream come true one day.’

  For reasons she couldn’t explain, Natalie and Matthew had reconnected that year. Perhaps it was because Nat was so happy working with Tash. Perhaps it was that her husband had worked on a fly-in, fly-out basis for the last few years, giving credence to the idea that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or perhaps it was discovering there might be a legitimate condition to explain her husband’s sometimes-exasperating behaviour. Whatever the answer, she and Matthew had fallen into a relaxed and familiar place. Natalie even started missing him around the house, which had prompted her decision to stop by Leo’s office on her way to work one day, on the pretence of collecting something from Matthew’s desk. A casual visit only, so she could drop a few hints, ask a few questions–that sort of thing.