Читать книгу A Hand in the Bush - Jane Clifton - Страница 14

'More bull's blood anyone?' Dax's voice boomed out across the punchbowl. Definitely not Selma Thurlow's kind of party, thought Decca.

'Judith looks as if she could do with a transfusion,' Boyd said sotto voce. He was seated at a companionable distance from her on a low sofa. They faced a roaring log fire enclosed behind glass, set in a snow-white column in the middle of a vast living area. Some metres away, in the food preparation area, formerly known as a kitchen, two teenage girls were efficiently stacking dishes in the stainless steel dishwasher, wiping down granite benchtops and firing up the espresso machine. Inscrutable looks darted between them, but did not interrupt their work rhythm.

Dax and Flavia's warehouse conversion in the reclaimed industrial wasteland of West Melbourne was what a real estate agent's sale board would describe as The Entertainer. The entire ground floor was given over to the idea of the lavish, sprawling dinner party, with or without accommodating a six-piece jazz combo. It was both spacious yet intimate: one could be completely involved in the main show around the dining table or peel off into any number of niches.

Once the last of their three offspring had flown the nest for good, the Hathaways had cashed in their four-storey East Melbourne terrace and moved across town. They were part of the upper-middle-class diaspora to the inner city that caused rates to soar and complaints about noise to skyrocket. The city fathers scratched their heads and wondered what these neo-urbanites expected to emanate from city streets. The funereal quiet of the outer suburbs? Birdsong?

A petite, fine-boned woman whose cropped white hair was gelled into fashionable disarray, Flavia sported the narrowest of titanium glasses frames and the chunkiest jewellery outside of North Africa.

Flavia Hathaway was a respected photographer of some four decades snapping whose work ran the gamut from commercial, advertising savvy to serious art cred. The latter comprising studies of rocks, leaves, litter, wrought iron, concrete, etc-not people. A retrospective exhibition had been the hit of last year's Melbourne Festival, while the souvenir coffee table book, rrp $98.99, had remained on the bestseller lists for over two months-nationally.

Dax Hathaway's eponymous restaurant, a fixture in the leafier part of South Yarra for over fifteen years, had a business clientele, both show and pro, as long as your arm and as loyal as a Collingwood supporter on Anzac Day. Ranked as one of the top five Melbourne super chefs, it seemed he had the Midas touch in the kitchen. His recent foray into the Southbank precinct with a smaller, more relaxed bistro, the Dax Max, had been one of the success stories of the leaner, 'post-fine-dining' era in Melbourne's eating habits.

Diners flocked to the Dax Max for the views of Melbourne-in the afternoon light, the back of Flinders Street station looked almost, well, European-the novelty of the river taxi, but, above all else, the food. Word was, SBS was interested in a TV cooking show for Dax, with his trademark handlebar moustache, enormous girth and luxuriant age-defying grey locks.

No doubt about it, Dax and Flavia Hathaway were right up there in the pantheon of Melbourne icons, and their dinner parties were the business.

The fire blazed away almost soundlessly in its glass case as Decca gazed across at Judith, the anaemic, birdlike target of Boyd's crack about a transfusion and was forced to agree. But then, perhaps Boyd wasn't as aware as she of what a fraught hot-bed of co-dependence Judith and Lionel's marriage was.

'I haven't seen you at one of these dinners before,' she said.

'Is that like, "Do you come here often?"' Boyd said with a nervous laugh, which was echoed by Decca. 'Not often. But you have seen me here before,' he continued. 'Once.'

When Decca and Volker parted company five years ago, Decca had remained within the Hathaway dinner circle, while the ex and his trophy bride went hungry. Volker's political standing in the state government ministry had been bad enough, but the Hathaways were not about to tolerate the new model Mrs Danehart, whom Flavia-in a reference to Fatal Attraction-referred to as 'the bunny boiler'.

'I mean, darling, what on earth could she possibly have to talk about?' Flavia had said to Decca. 'The gentle art of husband-shagging, perhaps? Always a popular topic at my house. Nappies, toilet-training, pilates? She's barely out of nappies herself. You are so well shot of the kraut, my sweet. Heart attack in five years, that's my bet. Plus heartache-if he had one. You want twenty on it?'

In every break-up, friends take sides and it was clear whose side the Hathaways were on. So although invitations kept coming, this was the first time Decca had accepted for several years.

'They have two groups, did you know?' said Boyd. 'Our hosts.'

'Really?' she said stiffly, unsure of what would come next.

'Oh, yes. They have their arty list-actors, painters, writers, filmmakers, that sort of thing-and their professional list-lawyers, doctors, company CEOs.'

'But then, I would have seen you at...'

'No. You wouldn't,' he cut in. 'I always came with my wife, you see. With Ronnie.'

'Oh,' said Decca, and waited. 'But not tonight.'

'No.'

He wasn't going to elaborate. This was going really well.

'What type of "arty" is your wife involved in?' Have to keep the conversation going, she thought, wishing they hadn't got to the bones of the matter quite this quickly. He was talking about his wife as if she were dead.

He was good-looking though, and he smelled nice-not too perfumed, not too rank. At rest, however, his face fell into a slight glower which had a forbidding effect. 'A frog is a frog...' Then again, he was taller than Tom Cruise: only centimetres shorter than Decca. Phew! Score one on the Goldilocks scale: right size chair. Neither loud-mouthed, nor boorish or painfully dull. Score two: right temperature porridge. All that was left was to go upstairs and find the right size...

'Textile design,' he said. 'She used to be at a firm called Arthouse, in South Melbourne.'

Decca shrugged apologetically, indicating scant knowledge of such things.

'She was very good,' he said. 'Is very good.'

'And...?'

'She's works freelance now. In London at the moment. My son is there too. She's doing very well,' he said glumly, 'in design terms.' His face settled back into its resting frown.

'Great,' said Decca, only just holding back from suggesting he go home and take out her picture and pull himself a nice long scotch. Only just holding back from switching into therapy mode. Must change the subject, she thought. To what? The meal? The weather? Suddenly he spoke. 'Are you an opera fan?'

Winsome's photo from the morning paper flashed in front of her eyes and her stomach tightened.

'What?' she blurted.

'Opera,' he said. 'Do you like it?'

'I don't know a lot about it other than Carmen and Madame Butterfly'.

'Well, you're two up on me,' he laughed, his face sparking back to life. 'I've got tickets to the Coco Alvarez recital tomorrow night. Wanna go?'

Decca's heart was really racing now.

'I...' she tried to speak.

'Sorry,' he said. There was a long pause as they both gazed into the flames.

The other guests had long since left the dining table and could be heard from various parts of the room. Yolande had already 'left the building' for a 'little walk'. Sheldon had Jan and her sister from Adelaide pinned in a corner near the fridge, regaling them with tall tales and true from the frontline of the Tasmanian state election. Maurice was casting furtive looks at the salon-tanned pelvic zones, protruding hip bones and Celtic arse tattoos on offer from the teenage kitchenhands, while feigning interest in the intricacies of the Hathaways' Bang and Olufsen sound system.

'I am so crap at this,' Boyd said at last. 'No match practice.'

'Listen, I'd love another drink. Could you grab me a straight red this time?' Decca said. 'Hold the AB negative,' she added with a smile.

'Sure,' he said, shooting to his feet, immensely relieved to beat a quick retreat from the scene of the gaffe. He almost sprinted to the drinks table, where Dax, big stogie clamped between his teeth, was wrangling luscious desserts, coffee and cognac.

Idiot! Boyd reproached himself. He'd behaved like the proverbial livestock among the Wedgwood. 'Hi, I'm Boyd. My wife's left me, wanna date?' As much finesse as a droog from A Clockwork Orange: 'No time to read the meter, love, just here for the old in and out.' Simply irresistible.

My God but she was a doll, he thought. Barely forty and smart with it. The conversation at dinner had crackled with energy and wit, from all and sundry-well, maybe not from Sheldon. Boyd went to pour a glass of cab merlot, but Dax wrested bottle and glass away from him.

'You don't want that,' he said. 'You want some of this.' He held up a dusty bottle of cognac and snifter.

'It's not for me,' Boyd said.

'Oh. Okay.' Dax poured the red in one glass and the cognac in the other, then leaned across and whispered. 'How's it going?'

'Oh, business is booming,' Boyd replied loudly. 'Briefs galore!'

Dax spread his hands, palms up, and shook his head, as if to say, 'Okay. Tell me nothing,' then passed over the drinks. Boyd smirked and turned on his heel.

'Thanks,' said Decca, after he returned to her side. 'Cheers.'

'Slainte,' he rejoined.

'About the recital,' she said. 'I'd love to go. Will I meet you there?'