fast talking.
Arthur Davidson was bottled integrity. If he opened up to me, the other band members would follow. I planned to post a podcast of the interview on the Facebook page I'd set up for Genevieve James and blog the making of the doco, adding snippets to YouTube. Even after 25 years, devoted fans of the Tough Romantics maintained websites dedicated to the band. She still had a web presence as a virtual ghost and I hoped to use viral marketing to stir up interest. Everything I had was being ploughed into this series; it had to be a success. At least Nan was secure. With the sale of our family home she'd bought her own unit and had given me her blessing to do what I liked with my share, but even a shoestring doco eats up the dollars and if I wanted to do a whole series…
I turned the corner of the gravel drive, and paused to look at Arthur Davidson's imposing Edwardian house. Mellow brickwork blended with the established gardens, radiating tasteful respectability. This was what money could buy. And he didn't flash it around.
Through the diamond-paned windows I noticed somebody turn and rise. By the time I stepped onto the porch the door was opening. I don't know what I expected. Mrs Miles-Davidson was nice, not pretty enough to make another woman feel inadequate, yet appealing. She'd dressed in casual, sage green pants and a cashmere sweater one shade lighter. The outfit went well with the soft red-gold highlights in her hair. From the heels of her low Italian boots to the top of her salon-maintained hair she screamed restrained elegance.
I'd done my homework; I knew before she opened her mouth that Patricia Miles-Davidson was old money.
'Antonia Carlyle?' She gave me a practised smiled and offered her hand.
I shook it automatically. I'd met plenty of her type back when I was trying to make my marriage work. Then I'd only cared if I made a good impression because Nathan never let me hear the end of it. Now that I needed to make a good impression for my own sake, I experienced a stab of nerves as she looked me up and down. I didn't like having my clothes priced and my social status pegged. Let her make what she could of the vintage sixties, raw-silk cream suit under my red coat. Usually I opted for comfort but today I was Grace Kelly power dressing.
'Mrs Miles-Davidson?' My voice sounded throaty as if I had a cold. Partly nerves, mostly just me. I'd never smoked.
'Call me Patricia.' She stepped back. 'Come inside. Arthur was about to-'
'Pats? Where's that bloody-'
Seeing me, he broke off and a lopsided grin split his face. I recognised that same grin from the early photos of the band before the band's publicists had schooled him to glower for the cameras. Only now he didn't have shoulder-length, bright orange baby-fine hair. He had the kind of baldness you associate with blond men and his hair was so closely cropped it was almost shaved.
In his early 40s, Arthur Davidson had gone bald early, but he was still tall and lanky. His wasn't the physical type to put on weight. He wore charcoal grey pants teamed with a dove-grey, cable-stitched pullover that made you want to hug him. I just knew his wife had laid the clothes out on the bed for him.
'This is Antonia Carlyle, your interview,' Patricia told him.
I caught the message in her tone. I guess he did too because he cast me a swift, almost guilty-little-boy-look and I felt an instant tug of empathy. What was this man doing, going into politics?
'Go through to the study.' Patricia indicated the door. 'I'll bring in some refreshments. Would you like a coffee, tea?'
'Uh, coffee will do. White, one sugar.'
She left us and Arthur Davidson opened the door for me.
'What did you lose?' I asked.
'That bloody mobile phone. I think the kids have run off with it again,' he confessed, with disarming honesty.
And I knew I had to come clean. 'I'm here under false pretences, Mr Davidson. I'm not interested in the election. I'm an independent producer and I want to make a documentary about the early days of the Tough Romantics. I need to interview you for the intimate insights that I can't get from research.'
I pulled out the DVD. 'Here are some samples of my work, a showreel of my best stuff.' God, I was tactless. I gritted my teeth and made the best of it.
Arthur went very still, staring at the offered DVD. I guess he hadn't thought about the early days and Genevieve's death in years. For a heartbeat, real distress defined his slightly lopsided features. He'd been the philosophical one, Pia had been the smooth talker and Tucker had been the bad boy, but all the band members had lived the wild life in London in the early years. I'd seen some grainy black-and-white film of them stoned out of their brains, collapsed on threadbare couches in trendy squats with their fans.
I could sympathise with him. Reformed rocker, Arthur Davidson, didn't want the sordid details of his old band raked over, even if the scandal was over two decades old.
'Why would the public want to see a documentary about a girl who gets murdered?' A rueful smile lifted one side his mouth. 'Sort of gives away the ending, doesn't it?'
I felt an answering grin on my lips. 'The same could be said of Romeo and Juliet, Mr Davidson.'
He acknowledged the strike and accepted the DVD. 'Call me Arthur.'
'Arthur, then. You see, my doco won't concentrate on Genevieve's death. I want to research the band and its evolution. I plan a 10-part series on the Australian music industry and the Tough Romantics were the biggest thing in the '80s. Will you give me an interview? And, if you do, can I tape it to podcast?
As he breathed out through his nose, I could just feel the 'No' coming, but I could sense something else. He looked distracted like he was hearing inner voices.
Just then, his wife backed into the room with a tray and he snapped out of it, switching to professional mode. This was the Arthur Davidson who'd survived teen fame and sex-drugs-and-rock-&-roll to end up a pillar of the establishment - well, the alternative green establishment.
'The Tough Romantics are old news, Ms Carlyle,' he said smoothly. His wife's smile faded. She glanced at me, then back to him as he went on. 'If you want to milk a threadbare scandal to further your own career, I'm not your man. I'm an Independent, standing for responsible management of resources. I don't want to remind the public of my less than salubrious past.' His expressive clown-face grew troubled. 'We were just kids. Let Veevie rest in peace.'
Hearing him use Genevieve's nickname made something shift inside me. I felt raw and exposed. Despite this, I plunged on. 'Naturally, I can appreciate your position. But, like I said, I'm not going to concentrate on Genevieve's murder, or the drugs and sex angle. I want to explore the dynamics of the band, discover what drove its creativity, and what eventually tore it apart. And you're wrong about the Tough Romantics. Their music is gaining new devotees every year. Have you googled the band recently, seen how many websites the fans maintain? Even if Pia and Tucker hadn't gone on to forge successful solo careers the Tough Romantics' music would still be collecting fans.'
Arthur hesitated.
'Your coffee?' Patricia said. She was going to be the perfect hostess if it killed her, only her stiff smile told me how much it cost. 'Why rake over old ground, Ms Carlyle?'
'Antonia, thanks,' I told her, then held Arthur's eyes. 'I've been listening to the band's first four albums, looking at its development. Much of the early stuff was innovative and challenging. It had the in-your-face feel of punk combined
