I agree wholeheartedly.
Michael jumped at the sound of Lucian’s voice so close to his ear.
The author stepped back, thrilled at how successfully he had snuck out his front door and read over Michael’s shoulder. Are you writing something about Wood Green?
Michael closed the pocketbook and returned it to his satchel. No, just an observation.
Well I couldn’t have put it better myself. Maureen’s face does indeed hold your attention. And it’s not even what I’d describe as beautiful. It’s just her features are so strong. That nose and chin: they’re like picturesque hills and valleys for your eyes to tumble over. And the way her hair appears a little bit out of control. I admit I’ve often felt the urge to reach over the counter and take her head in my hands just so I could hold it still and stare at it. Writers always get poetic about a woman’s eyes, but how often do you see a pair that truly make an impression? Most people don’t even notice the colour of another person’s eyes. But Maureen’s are amazing. Grey flecked with gold. They’re almost avian. You can use that if you like. Avian. Not bad. Not bad at all. I suppose you’re writing a book, are you?
No. I mean…I haven’t started yet. Michael was a little stunned. Lucian had spoken like someone in love. But I have an idea for one.
Well I hear that’s how they usually begin. Sorry about not opening the door sooner but I told you about my 1pm rule didn’t I? Bring that stuff inside and we’ll have a cup of tea before you get started.
Michael hefted the groceries from the top of the wood box, kicked off his muddy shoes inside the front door, and followed Lucian to the rear of the house where he was shown what went where in the kitchen cupboards. The lesson implied he would be putting away more shopping in the future, and a detailed explanation of how Lucian liked his tea prepared furthered Michael’s suspicion that his duties were not to be restricted to the realm of manuscripts and letters.
Across from the kitchen was a sunroom with two black leather couches, creased and worn, facing each other over a long coffee table supporting a clean ashtray, cigarette papers, lighter, plastic sandwich bag filled with marijuana, notebook, pen, dictionary, reading glasses, and a catalogue of a Francis Bacon exhibition at The Art Gallery of NSW. The windows were floor to ceiling, offering an expansive view of the forest that stood no more than ten metres from the rear of the house.
Lucian set the teapot down, lowered himself into the corner of a couch that no longer rebounded from the weight of his body, and turned towards the windows in the hope of seeing one of the local wallabies, or the family of pink robins that hunted insects among the remains of his kitchen garden. He would have liked his guest to take up a similar pose, but a sideways glance confirmed that Michael sat like a child witnessing an inebriated parent for the first time.
You can pour the tea if you like.
Michael preferred it with a spoon of sugar, but was too embarrassed to ask. He found his cigarettes and placed one between his lips.
I’d appreciate you not doing that inside the house, said Lucian. A spliff is the only smoke that Sadie can tolerate. Shall I roll one for us?
Michael put away his cigarette and for the first time noticed the dog staring at him with suspicion from the foot of Lucian’s couch. Shouldn’t I start work first?
Your professionalism is duly noted and commendable, said Lucian as he dangled a cigarette paper from his bottom lip. However, in my vast experience I have often found that being stoned is the optimum state of mind for dusting. He unsealed the sandwich bag and inhaled the aroma of its contents. Don’t worry, it’s not too strong.
You’re the boss.
Lucian flinched. Michael seemed as incapable of resisting clichés in conversation as he was when theorising about Lucian’s books. And the thought of how such a mind might eventually portray Maureen in a novel made Lucian pull hard and deep as he lit the spliff.
Michael sank back into the couch with the realisation that he was thoroughly, terribly, stoned. At some point in the past half an hour the pot had undermined his ability to speak, and in the vacuum an album of trippy French folk – Paix by Catherine Ribeiro + Alpes – had taken over the room. So like Lucian he turned his attention towards the forest. Its details were infinitely more complex than Michael had first appreciated. The variety of greens and browns was astonishing, and the countless faces that appeared in the clusters of leaves flickering in the breeze seemed to all be competing for his attention. Look, a kangaroo! Michael shouted with a gesture so large and fast that the marsupial immediately disappeared back between the trees.
Lucian scowled at his new secretary. Time for you to start work I think.