The Price of Fame. Rowena Cory Daniels

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      Joe humoured me.

      Two hours later, with a dozen useful sketches and some photos already sent to be printed, I headed back to the boarding house. Just as I turned into the lane, Genevieve shot out of the punk rockers' back gate almost colliding with the far side of the lane. One hand on the wooden palings, she bent double, with her back to me. Then she straightened up and staggered several steps towards the dead end. Either she was disoriented, or she meant to cut through the boarding house's yard and out onto the street.

      She'd been running as if someone was chasing her, but no one followed. I watched her erratic progress. Her op shop shoes, one size too big, clattered on the bluestone cobbles.

      Shrouded by dusk, she was a darker shape lurching down the lane between high, corrugated iron and wooden fences. Her scarecrow figure in a man's coat came to a sudden stop. Was she going back to What's-his-name? Would she never learn?

      She swayed. Her thin legs carried her a few more paces before she slumped to her knees, retching weakly. Then she collapsed amid the rubbish, one more piece of human flotsam.

      A pitted enamel sink glowed in the dusk while she was lost in the twilight.

      I approached cautiously. She was just as likely to come around and panic, mistaking me for a scavenger. All skin and bone, her pale thin neck protruded from the bulky coat.

      Maybe I was a fool, but I couldn't leave Genevieve in the lane so I carried her up to my flat, praying she wouldn't wake and panic. For the second time in less than a day I carried an unconscious teenager upstairs. Luckily it was only one flight and Genevieve was built like a bird. She moaned once but was still unconscious when I placed her on my mattress. My decorating hadn't extended past the essentials - a mattress on the floor, a fridge, the old stereo and my easel.

      Genevieve's skin had an unhealthy colourless sheen and her pupils were dilated. I checked her arms for track marks but they were clean. After wiping her face and coat I wondered what to do. She wouldn't appreciate being taken to a doctor. Guessing she would come to when she was ready, I turned her on her side and covered her with a blanket.

      Since I couldn't leave her, I put the time to good use, tearing out the sketches of Fitzroy Street and taping them on the wall, next to my easel. Should I do a rough first?

      There was a rustle from the bed. I ignored it.

      I decided to paint directly onto the canvas to capture the vitality of the line work. The canvas was wide and narrow, which meant I couldn't use a standard composition. All the better.

      The insight came without warning. Excitement made my heart race as I turned the canvas upright. Now, I could do the people almost life-size and because the canvas was so narrow it would pull the composition in, to focus on the central figure. I went though my sketches of street scenes until I had the right background. With some neutral base paint I began blocking in the outlines, distorting perspective to make the buildings loom.

      Genevieve sat up, muttering under her breath. She swayed and blinked, fighting to retain her wits. I concentrated on my painting. Her truculent, urchin face studied me and the room suspiciously. She was ready to fight or run.

      'You passed out in the alley, you'd been sick,' I told her. 'Were you fighting with What's-his-name again?'

      ' 'uck,' she mumbled, shivering as she pushed the blanket away.

      'Didn't see much point in taking you back to What's-his-name, so-'

      'Tuck. His name's Tucker.'

      Pretending to consider the canvas, I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she came to her feet, using the wall for support.

      'At any rate, I brought you up here.' I nodded to the window so that she would recognise the view which would have been almost the same as the view from their back window. 'You can leave whenever you like.'

      Walking with the care of someone who was used to being disoriented, she went to the sink and peered out the window. The palms and minarets of Luna Park were starkly silhouetted against a pale oyster shell sky. I watched the neons of Acland Street flicker into life. Far above these garish lights, a fine tracery of cirrus clouds glowed pink, picking up the sun's rays below the horizon. Gaudy, but home. The sight made my chest grow tight. God, I loved painting.

      I cleared my throat. 'Like a hot chocolate?'

      When I crossed to the stove, she was careful to maintain her distance.

      She examined the offer for hidden meanings and, finding none, shrugged. 'Sure.' She sniffed. 'I smell gas.'

      'Yeah.' I prepared two mugs. 'I've had the gas people here but they can't find the leak.'

      Her eyes slid past mine.

      'You can have a shower if you like.' I put the milk on to heat. 'Just don't bother me while I work.'

      Resuming my seat at the easel I took up where I left off, filling in background while I waited for her to come closer. She was a wild creature from St Kilda's feral underbelly, whose trust I had to win. I could sense her at my left elbow, still beyond arm's length.

      'Think I'll skip the shower,' she muttered.

      'Wise move,' I agreed. 'The hot water's off again, but I would have lit the pilot light for you. The gas people couldn't figure it out. They'd never seen such a draft, not even in a 20-storey building. Somehow the pilot light's always blowing out and-'

      'These your paintings?' She gestured to the canvases that littered the room.

      'Uh-huh.' I nodded, used to comments from people who knew nothing about painting.

      She studied the one I was working on. 'That's Fitzroy Street. You gonna paint the Street?'

      'In a way.' I was finding it hard to concentrate. Maybe I should sound her out. 'It's going to be a sunny afternoon with tourists half-in, half-out of frame as they stroll along. Then in the foreground there'll be this tramp sitting in the gutter, glaring out of the picture at us.'

      When she said nothing I turned to her. She was staring at the canvas intently. 'Say,' I began.

      'Say, what?'

      I figured I might as well ask. 'How about modelling for me?'

      Her face closed up, suspicion thinning her mouth.

      'You'd have to wear something summery,' I added quickly, knowing I'd given her the wrong idea. 'You'd be someone out for a Sunday stroll.'

      'Fishnet stockings?'

      'Huh?' I looked at her earnest face and felt old. 'I guess that'd be in keeping. You could be one the locals,' I said. 'The milk!'

      We ran to the stove. She made a grab for the cracked handle, cursing as it burnt her. I was ready with the tea towel to insulate it. The milk subsided and I poked at the bubbly scum with a spoon. 'It'll be all right.'

      'Yeah, just scrape the frothy stuff off the top.'

      Juggling the saucepan so that the towel's tips didn't fall into the mugs, I poured the hot chocolates, then took mine to the easel. 'If you're hungry, look in the fridge.'

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