of direction gracefully. 'I dropped in on your nan.' A rueful grin lit his face. 'She ended up inviting me to dinner.'
I rolled my eyes. The thought of Nan serving Monty roast lamb and potatoes made me smile. It would probably feel just like home to him. But… 'Nan's moved from the old house.'
'Exactly.' He rested one elbow on the bench, long limbs casual. 'You're a hard person to track down, Antsy. Even Merryon didn't know where you were, but she did give me your nan's new address. She said you were preparing a doco and told me where you were staying. I know what happened in this house and you never made a secret of your obsession with the Tough Romantics, so I put two and two together. I want in.'
I was not obsessed, but I let it slide. I felt I had to be honest. 'I'm financing everything from the sale of the family home. It may never get off the ground.'
'It will. Somehow. You've got a knack for bringing people together, bringing out the best in them. And, if we don't get backing, it'll be just like old times, working with friends, sleeping in the back of cars. I do my best work like that.' His black eyes challenged me.
Monty was afraid I'd turn him down. He needed something from me. Now that was novel.
I slid off the stool, took a step forward and shoved him in the chest. 'You're a pushy bastard.'
A grin ignited him. 'And you're a slave-driving bitch, but here I am. Yours to command.'
I took a step back, bumping into the stool. Was there a sexual connotation in that, or was it just me getting the hots for a younger man? Did I mention Monty has the most beautiful body? He could have modelled for Michelangelo's David. Not that I would lust after someone simply because of their body.
When I first met Monty I assumed that he was gay and hadn't realised it yet. You know, good looking guy, dresses well, able to hold an intelligent conversation - has to be gay. But halfway through second year he turned up with a lady friend. Sacha was no girl, she was 30 if she was a day. And Monty was just 21. Five feet tall with curly dark hair, Sacha bristled with intelligence, always debating politics, art and philosophy. She irritated me, too pushy, but the rest of the gang liked her. In the 18 months that they were lovers Monty acquired a whole new layer of sophistication. The girls in our group whispered he'd also become the consummate lover.
My cheeks grew hot. I knew the blush had to show. I hated being so fair. I was glad of the high-backed stool between us.
'Okay, you're part of the project. Open the wine.' I went around to the cutlery draw, found the corkscrew and slid it across the bench to him. He collected the wine and came around to stand over the sink next to me. I felt a physical awareness, a tug that did not bode well for my peace of mind. So I looked for a distraction and remembered the cat.
Grace and Scott had been so excited about their first overseas trip, when we'd met to do the house handover, that they'd forgotten to mention their cat. I'd gone to bed and, next morning, there it was at the back door meowing. I loved cats, but they didn't love me. One cuddle and I was a sneezing, wheezing wreck. But I let it in, gave it some milk and water and later bought some dry cat food. I'd named him Smokey, since he was so dark he was almost black.
So, now I went to the pantry took the crunchy cat food, and topped up the food and the water bowl leaving them just outside the back sliding door, calling, 'Smokey, here boy.'
No sign of him.
Feeling more in control, I closed the sliding door and went over to the kitchen table leaning my hips on it. 'You're wrong, Monty. I'm not obsessed with the Tough Romantics. This doco is a carefully reasoned attempt to make a name for myself. I've roughed up the first draft of the script. Today, I saw Arthur Davidson, and I've spoken with Tucker's PR woman. I'm hoping to catch Pia sometime soon. She's in Australia for a family wedding.' I threw that in, trying to impress him but it was water off a duck's back.
Monty always was a good poker player. He'd had everyone in our group bluffed. Everyone but me. Being so much older and divorced had given me an advantage back then. Still gave me an advantage a 25-year-old lad.
His large hands made the wine bottle look small but he wasn't clumsy. I'd seen him dance. It was pure invitation. Yes, I definitely appreciated Monty - in the same way I appreciated the leaves on Arthur's driveway. Beauty for its own sake. Well, maybe there was a little lust in there, but Monty didn't need to know that.
'What's your angle on the band?' he asked.
'I'm not sure.' I went to get the wine glasses. 'I know what I don't want to do. I don't want to milk it for sensation. The Tough Romantics weren't some manufactured pop group. I want to do them justice.' We were just kids. I heard the echo of Arthur's voice. We were boring little shits. 'I want to look at the dynamics of the band in their formative years. Only the people who were there can give us the real band.'
'And the real murder? With everything that was written at the time you'd hardly need to interview people about it, 25 years on.' Monty said. 'Shit. That taxi driver was sick. Claimed he was innocent all along, then went and killed himself. What does that tell you?'
I hesitated. You never knew with Monty. He liked to argue black was white for the pure enjoyment of it. At the time of the murder, nearly everyone had been convinced of O'Toole's guilt. His suicide, a week to the day, was the nail in his coffin. As a child I'd thought so too. But, since beginning my research, I'd begun to wonder. O'Toole was too damn convenient.
'A fingerprint expert said O'Toole's prints, which the police claimed to have taken from the knife hilt, couldn't have been from it. Something about the curve of the surface and the texture.'
Monty's black eyes caught mine.
'I'll hunt down the clipping for you. In fact, if you're really interested, I can give you the whole file,' I said, watching him ease the cork out of the bottle. He poured the wine, pushed mine across the bench towards me. I had to come closer to get it. He lifted his glass. I let mine chime against his, the bench between us. If I wanted to work with Monty I had to be ready to ride the tiger.
'To the series!' he said, his voice rich and deep. 'May it be the first of many and make us a mint!'
'That's an about-face,' I teased. I took a mouthful of wine, savoured it, then swallowed. 'I thought you were morally opposed to mercenary motivation?'
'Since graduating I discovered I'm morally opposed to being unappreciated and kicked around,' he said, eyes intense and imperative. 'I want a chance to do some really good work and you're going to give it to me. I'm gonna ride your comet to the stars, Antsy. I can smell the stink of success on you.'
I chose to believe Monty meant it as a veiled compliment.
Now he drained his glass with relish and poured another. I covered mine when he tried to top it up. Monty had an amazing capacity for alcohol, but I didn't. Two glasses and I'd curl up and go to sleep. At least I wasn't a two-pot screamer, as Nan would say.
'So who has agreed to be interviewed?' Monty asked, gaze sharp as razors.
'No one. But I saw Arthur today.' I took another sip of my wine, felt it race to warm my empty stomach. Better slow down. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, hadn't had time. 'He refused to talk in front of his wife, then offered to put me in contact with someone from the band's early days.'
'Sounds promising.'
'And if he does come across, he can put us in contact with Pia. I get the feeling they are still quite close.'
