button a dozen times until I got through to the producer.
‘Hello, you are?’
‘Jack from Fitzroy.’
‘And you want to say?’
‘I’m a psychotherapist and I’d like to shed a little…’
‘Stay on the line please, Jack.’
A wait, listening to people emoting, then Linda’s voice. ‘Jack from Fitzroy’s next. What’s your view, Jack?’
‘If breaking up is hard, how much harder is making up? That’s the question I’d like to pose to Phil. And to you, Linda.’
‘Excellent point, Jack,’ said Phil. ‘No simple answer. I deal with this in chapter sixteen of my book, called “Be proud and be lonely”…’
She talked rubbish for a good while, then Linda said, quickly, ‘And insofar as that question included me, not hard at all, Jack from Fitzroy. Moving on, Phil, you say…’
I switched off, found a bottle of Cooper’s Sparkling in the back of the fridge, stood around drinking it, thinking about Linda, what the remark meant, about who would want to give me the video of Marco and why. In the way of minds, I then veered off to Sandy the bashed plunge organiser, to my sister, to a despondent survey of the clutter of my life. A life that had no pivot, no fulcrum, no axis, no…
The phone.
‘Jack Irish.’
‘I’m in the ad break.’
Linda.
‘Ad break. I’m in the life break.’
‘Where?’
‘Donelli’s?’
‘Shit,’ Linda said. ‘Doesn’t anything change?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘Eight-thirty?’
24
For a Tuesday night, Donelli’s in Smith Street was crowded. It had recently been redecorated, which included knocking a large hole in the wall between the dining room and kitchen. Now it was a theatre-restaurant: diners could watch the fat faux Italian patron and chef, Patrick Donelly, fussing around and abusing his staff.
I’d rung to book. The patron spotted me entering and came out to escort me to my table. ‘You’re a lucky man, Irish,’ he said. ‘Two servings left of the stuffed squid braised with white wine and tomatoes.’
‘That’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘Anything I don’t have to watch you both stuff and cook.’
‘The watchin’s by popular demand,’ he said. ‘Punters can’t get enough of the chef. Sex objects, that’s what we are.’
I looked at the man, torso like a wrapped fridge. ‘Speaking for myself,’ I said, ‘I’d rather have sex with the squid. Now, a decent bottle of white. Any of that little Tuscan number left?’
‘Two bottles. I was savin them for the cognoscenti.’
I patted him on the white arm, as thick and round as a fire extinguisher. ‘Well, they’re not coming tonight, Patrick. I’ll have theirs.’
‘You’ll be dinin on the bill, will ya?’ he said.
‘I think you can take that as read.’
Donelly owed me a large sum, payment for hundreds of hours of skilled labour over a messy legal matter finally resolved in his favour. Since getting actual money from the man was impossible, I’d been extracting my fee in food and drink.
Linda came in the door. Her hair was different, longer, parted in the middle. She was wearing a black raincoat and she took it off to reveal a black polo-neck and jeans. Lean and handsome, that was the same. She came over and kissed me, on the cheek, touch of silk, throat-catching hint of perfume.
‘Now this closes the circle,’ she said.
Our first social meeting had been at Donelli’s, at this table.
We sat down.
‘How can circles be circles before they’re closed?’ I said.
She smiled. ‘When I think of the years I’ve wasted wrestling with that problem.’
My desire was to take her by the hand and go home, but nothing was that simple. Except in beginnings.
‘I’ve ordered squid. Stuffed. Braised with tomatoes and white wine.’
‘Sounds good, excellent.’ She pushed her hair back. ‘Somehow, I never saw you as a talkback caller.’
‘I’ve always wanted to be. Full of potential. Just never heard a talkback host I wanted to talk to.’
We sat looking at each other, smiling, neither of us sure how to proceed.
‘How’ve you been?’ she said.
‘I’ve known better. You’re looking good.’
‘For radio, I’ll pass. You’re thinner.’
‘Worry.’
Silence again. The wine arrived. I waived the tasting ritual.
Linda sipped. ‘Nice. I heard you’d taken up with a photographer.’
She’d never been one to step around subjects. I tried the wine. Much too good for the cognoscenti. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Gavin Legge. He rang me. Trying to get publicity for a book he claims to have written.’
Legge was a journalist, a client of mine in the old days when I was practising criminal law. I’d got him off a charge of assaulting a female restaurateur. He had also introduced me to Linda.
‘The Legge is quicker than the eye,’ I said. ‘But he’s out of date. I’ve moved on. Now I’m seeing a supermodel. She’s eighteen. Stalked me, a thing for older men. What about you?’
She made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Too much bother. And there’s this internet service that home-delivers men — yourfuck dot com. It’s all a working woman needs.’
I nodded. ‘Do they take them away again?’
Linda frowned. ‘They say they’re working on that bit. Four in the garage the last time I looked.’
I laughed, she laughed, and the awkwardness was over, the long time apart contracted to nothing. I felt buoyed, light-headed. We talked about things that lay in our common ground, laughing a lot. She’d always been able to make me laugh and I’d had some success with her.
The squid was served by a small and intense young man. It was delicious. Donelly arrived, lifting Linda’s hand and bowing his head to kiss it, reverent.
‘Deeply honoured, my dear,’ he said. ‘I remember when ya first graced my establishment in the company of this ruffian. And now the whole kitchen loves ya. Station of choice while we’re preparin the finest food in this city.’
‘Thank you,’ said Linda. ‘I appreciate you saying that.’
I realised that people said things like this to her all the time. It was nothing new to her. She was a celebrity. I took the opportunity to order another bottle of the Tuscan.
‘And in the circumstances, how could I say no?’ said Donelly, shaking his head at my opportunism.
‘Exactly.’
Donelly sighed. ‘Consortin with this famous lady, Irish,’ he said. ‘How ya do it, legal extortionist that you are, defies the imagination.’
‘She sees in me what is invisible to people like yourself, Patrick,’ I said.
He went off, stopping here and there to bestow benedictions on tables of chef groupies, all eager to have sex with him.
