The Price of Fame. Rowena Cory Daniels

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      'Great. That's the kind of publicity I need.'

      Arthur laughed. 'You're good at playing the tough bitch, aren't you?'

      Was I? I couldn't help wondering at his phrasing, and his motivation in all this. 'Why did you give me the mystery witness?'

      'I loved her,' he said, and hung up.

      I put the receiver down slowly, meeting Monty's gaze. I must have looked stunned because laughter crinkled the skin around his eyes.

      'Arthur Davidson, man of many parts,' he whispered.

      'I should've told him he was on speaker phone.' I felt guilty.

      Monty studied me.

      'What?'

      'How'd you know Walenski had liver cancer?'

      I shrugged and slid my hands into my pockets, pressing my itching palm against my thigh. 'Looks like Jake Tucker's going to be a bastard and try to stop me from making the doco.'

      'He doesn't know you like I do.'

      I grinned then stood up. 'I'm going to photocopy Walenski's book and post the copy registered mail to Nan.'

      'Good idea.'

      'Reading the book has given me some ideas for then-and-now stuff. You can cruise St Kilda take some shots, hunt up locations for interviews.'

      'Slave driver.'

      I stood over him. 'Yeah, and don't you love it?'

      His eyes gleamed.

      I felt an answering quickening of desire. Then I turned around and walked out, terrified.

      Why had I said that to him? I never flirt. What on earth had possessed me?

      It didn't take long to photocopy Walenski's first chapter. I bundled it up, tucking it inside a post bag. Then I asked the post office to date stamp it and scribbled a quick note to Nan, slipped this inside a larger bag then sent it registered post with instructions for her not to open the inner bag.

      I strolled back up Fitzroy Street, thinking Monty had changed. I didn't sense the age gap between us like I used to. Here he was, confronting me and forcing me to admit I had overreacted to Tucker. Sometimes, I didn't like myself very much. Come to think of it, how could Monty put up with me when I was such a loser?

      The Robot from Lost in Space did his spiel in my head: Warning, Warning: negative thought pattern approaching. Damn. I was not going to let the negative programming Nathan had tried to establish, ruin my life. Monty was here, working on the Tough Romantics project with me because he thought it was worthwhile, because he thought I was worthwhile.

      When I got back to One-Eight-One Monty opened the front door before I could use my key. His eyes were alight with mischief. I felt an answering tug of anticipation and smiled slowly. 'I thought you were going to hunt up locations.'

      'This is even better. Arthur called, says he's got something to show us.'

      As we headed down the hall, we passed the archway that led into the front room. I hardly ever came in here, preferring the sunlit kitchen. This room was always cold. And now I noticed beads of water gleaming on the polished wooden floor, as if someone had brought a drink in here and spilt a few drops.

      'Bummer, Monty. Can't spoil the polish.' I darted in, wiping up the drops with a tissue. 'That's one thing about staying in someone else's house. You have to be twice as careful.'

      'I haven't been in here,' he protested, then nodded to the window. It was opaque with condensation. 'Old places always have trouble with moisture. Come on, Arthur's expecting us. He sounded pleased with himself. Wonder what he wants to show us.'

      It was only after we'd climbed into my old Corolla and headed out to the Dandenongs that I remembered One-Eight-One had been renovated twice, most recently in the last five years. There shouldn't have been rising damp. Oh, well. That was Grace and Scott's problem, not mine.

      The drive to Arthur's place took nearly 40 minutes and there was no point in speculating about what Arthur was up to. Monty said nothing. That was one of the things I liked about him. He didn't waste time on small talk.

      Gravel crunched under the tyres as we pulled up the drive. I climbed out of the car, stretched stiff muscles and inhaled. The air smelt different up here - earthy with decaying plant matter and damp with the promise of cool rain. Autumn was well and truly here. It was a real buzz after Brisbane which had only two seasons, hot-humid Australian summer and cool-dry English summer.

      Monty and I walked towards the front door. It swung open as we stepped onto the veranda.

      'Come in.' Arthur greeted us. 'Pats has gone to the gym. We've got until two.'

      Monty caught my eye, his alight with laughter, quickly hidden.

      Once we were in the foyer I made the introductions. 'Arthur, this is Monty McArthur. He's my DOP. He's very visual.'

      Arthur was as tall as Monty, but thinner. As he gave Monty a preoccupied nod and led us down the hall in the opposite direction his wife had taken the day before, I recognised the nook where he had hidden to call me about Walenski. It made me smile until I realised I'd never been in this part of the hall before. I caught myself nervously rubbing my palm on my thigh. Maybe I should go back to the counsellor.

      We went through to a garage which had been converted into a recording studio.

      'I didn't know you were still working?' I made it a question.

      Arthur shrugged this aside. 'Only for my own amusement.'

      I could just hear his wife's patronising tone as she explained to her friends. Yes, Arthur still plays, but only for his own amusement.

      Arthur strode across the dim garage. 'It's over here.'

      As we followed him I passed a framed painting that was propped against the wall. Even with its base on the floor it was taller than me and was less than a metre wide. It reminded me of Jeffrey Smart's stylised realist urban work but this painting was not as sparse. The central figure, a tramp sat in the gutter, staring defiantly out at the viewer.

      I stopped so suddenly Monty collided with me. Catching his arm, I nodded towards the canvas. His eyes widened.

      It was O'Toole's painting. The tramp was a young Joseph Walenski made to look old, and behind him four arty types were caught in mid-stride, out for a Sunday stroll. I recognised Genevieve and Arthur, walking arm in arm. Her dark eyes sparkled as she tilted her head, birdlike, listening to something Arthur was saying. A bright violet streak dominated her short dark hair. Behind them, and partly out of frame, but still recognisable were Tucker and Pia. A stray strand of hair had blown across her lips. She was laughing, her mouth open. They all looked so young and unsuspecting, it was painful.

      Arthur had stopped speaking and turned back to see what was holding us up. I opened my mouth then remembered that, if Arthur didn't know about the book, I wasn't supposed to know about the St Kilda Art Show.

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