cat eyed the fridge door fondly.
'He's hungry,' Genevieve told me.
'He's only trying to scrounge an extra meal. He gets fed at dawn when I come in and he knows it.'
'You drive a taxi, I've seen you,' she said.
'And you argue with what's-his-name or the band practises, jams, what ever you call it.'
'Yeah. Pia sings, Tuck plays bass guitar, Arthur plays synthesiser, and he and I write songs. I play the rhythm guitar. We're called the Tough Romantics.'
'I've heard your punk rock.'
'It's not punk rock. We've got too much musicality for that.'
I hid a smile. 'You sing too?'
'I do, so does Pia. She's beautiful. Tuck says it sells the band to have a good-looking girl up front. He says Pia's got 'pull'. He's right,' she insisted bravely with an odd touch of pride.
'Tucker has vision. He says we need to be more than just another band and I agree, but he won't listen to my ideas. Just because I'm the youngest and I never studied music, like he did. Arthur writes some beautiful stuff. So what if it's hard to define? We shouldn't let other people's perceptions limit what we are. The band should be the best that we can be.' Her ridiculously expressive eyes turned mutinous.
I got the impression that Genevieve was replaying an old argument. From the way she spoke she had to come from a couple of rungs up on the social ladder which made her slang an affectation.
She took a determined breath. 'They're practising tonight and I should be there right now. That's what the argument was about, Tuck and I were having "artistic differences".'
'Does he always settle differences of opinion with intimidation?'
'He never used to, but since we moved into the terrace he's been getting worse. Pia and I had no idea he had such a temper. If we'd known we would never have shifted. You see, Tuck reckoned we could save money by just renting one big place. He said it was wasting time for him and Arthur to drive over whenever the band wanted to rehearse.' She frowned. 'I should go back before they start without me.'
'Poor Mad Moll,' I muttered, then saw her expression. 'She lives in the flat next to mine. She's doing it tough, living next to the Tough Romantics!'
Genevieve gave me a dry look. 'Think I'll take that shower now.' She walked off.
Pangur Ban uttered an insistent cry, more speech than common cat talk, and circled my calf. With a flick of my wrist, I opened the arthritic fridge door and leant against it. On the bottom shelf was half a pumpkin in the last stages of decay. I threw it in the bin, wondering why I hadn't noticed it before. The only thing remotely edible was a can of sardines, so I scraped some fishy fibres into the cat's bowl.
'If you eat this now, there'll be none later.'
Ignoring my advice, Pangur Ban pounced on the food. I grunted to myself, I was spoiling the cat. I could hear Genevieve singing her heart out in the shower. Funny, the acoustics had never made me sound that good.
The bright spotlight over the canvas drew me and I returned to the easel to check that the sky was still the right shade now it was dry. I made a mental note to ask Joe to model for me, which made me wonder about the pose.
'Can I wear your shirt?'
I looked up and realised from the stiffness in my neck that I'd been lost in contemplation. My red flannel shirt suited her colouring. She'd washed off her make-up and looked a little shell-shocked with mascara-smeared circles under her eyes.
'Sure,' I said.
'I'll go now.' She hesitated.
I picked up the palette.
She turned on her heel and marched out, with her clothes rolled up in a bundle, hugged to her chest.
'How about tomorrow?' I called after her.
'Tomorrow?'
'You said you'd pose. Bring the kind of clothes you'd wear to walk down Fitzroy Street on a sunny, Sunday afternoon.'
She nodded slowly. 'Okay, I will. And thanks, um?'
'O'Toole,' I supplied.
'Thanks.' She headed for the door.
On Genevieve my shirt was a dress. Her legs were bare and her op shop shoes slipped off her ankles with each step. She was so young. 'If you need anything-'
She glanced over her shoulder cautiously. The sparrow wasn't used to overtures of friendship that didn't carry price tags. 'Sure, bye.'
'Bye, Genevieve.'
She pulled the door closed after her. Young, angry, suburban punk. Sorry, not punk. I had to smile. Musicality. Artistic differences!
I wanted to call her back, to tell her that Tucker wasn't worth it - but a year's experience with kids on the Street had taught me that they must come to you when they're ready.
CHAPTER 4
That was where it ended.
'Damn,' Monty muttered. 'I was getting right into it.'
'Me too. Walenski had more of the manuscript on his table. Guess we'll have to go back and eat humble pie.' I felt tired but inspired. Genevieve had been the hardest band member to get a handle on. Now she just sprang off the page. 'Do you realise what we've got here?'
'Yeah.' He held my eyes. 'Joseph Walenski's interpretation of how Pete O'Toole felt and thought. You can see it in the odd mix of attitudes he gives O'Toole.'
'Superimposing his perceptions onto O'Toole? Walenski seems genuine.' I chewed my bottom lip. How far could we trust Walenski's story? I shrugged.
'His portrayal of O'Toole doesn't mesh with the police profile of the taxi driver.'
Monty was right. 'But Walenski knew Pete O'Toole for a year. The police were building a case against him, going on circumstantial evidence. The media had already branded him the killer. I can show you an interview that his ex-wife did that makes him look like a jerk, while she comes off as a saint. Manipulative people can fool their friends and innocent people can be painted in a bad light.'
And I should know. That had been the most frustrating thing about my marriage break-up. People who knew Nathan could not believe he'd done the things he had. I should've called an end to it after 12 months. But I was in denial for ages and, determined to make it work, I always found excuses for him.
Then, when I finally admitted it was over, I lost almost all our shared friends. I'd done such a good job covering, that no one believed me. At least the police let me take out a court order against him. For a while there I couldn't turn a corner without Nathan popping up like a bad smell.
I still had nightmares. Since moving in here they'd gotten worse. Two nights in a row I'd dreamt he was following me through the house haranguing me and, when that didn't work, he'd lunge for me. Sometimes I had scissors in my hands, sometimes I kicked him. But
