On the first page of his notebook, Blake had written a dedication to go on the appropriate page of his novel when it appeared in print. After “To Elizabeth”, he had initially written “hub of my wheel”, then “star of my night sky”, before settling on ”heart’s echo”. It was fitting that he started his novel with a reference to Elizabeth. She was his compass, his point of difference from all the drifting Australians who temporarily called London home. She had given him emotional stability, a network of friends, a better wardrobe. He was no longer just flotsam on the Thames.
They had met one night in February the previous year, at a performance of Patrick Marber’s Closer at the Lyric Theatre. He had caught just a glimpse of her before the lights dimmed and had noted her short, dark hair and graceful neck. She cultivated a deliberately androgynous look but was pretty enough to manage it well. The scene on stage was about a would-be writer named Dan. He was in a hospital ward with a young woman who had been hit by a car. She was a dangerous girl, but Dan felt protective towards her and they had started a relationship. The complication came in the form of a photographer named Anna – a successful and intelligent woman more Dan’s own age.
Stories of chance meetings had emboldened Blake, who approached Elizabeth at the intermission. She had accepted his offer of a drink and smiled at him most promisingly. ‘An Australian!’ she said after he handed her a glass of “sparkling” (his accent came out strongly on certain words). ‘I’ve just been defending a bouncer from Melbourne. You’re not in that line of work, I can see.’
‘I’m a writer,’ he replied, standing a little straighter, ‘when I’m not teaching.’
‘Really?’ she said, raising her left eyebrow. ‘Just like in the play?’
Blake hadn’t published a word beyond some music reviews in his university newspaper, but that didn’t stop him from holding forth. It wasn’t exactly a lie – it was more like a self-description he had adopted, as some men will describe themselves as “fishermen” or “hunters”, pastimes rather than occupations. It was also true that it sounded impressive when talking to girls in pubs or theatre bars. It went down better than “teacher”, certainly.
Her business card had read Elizabeth Louise Bodley, Hobson Chambers. ‘Hobson Chambers,’ he had repeated, as if he had heard of them.
At the time, Elizabeth was seeing a magazine editor, a Cambridge graduate with a clipped accent and an MG. Blake didn’t feel he had much of a chance, but there was something between them. They met for coffee a few times with the excuse of talking about books and gradually, the shadowy figure of the magazine editor was talked of no more. One spring day, on a picnic rug on the Cliffs of Dover, love had blossomed.
‘And to think that Gloucester and Edgar were here on this very spot!’ he’d said.
‘Shut up with your Shakespeare,’ she replied. For once in his life, Blake seized the moment.
She was a wonderful kisser. She tasted so much better than his previous girlfriends — particularly the last one, whose lips were flavoured by cigarettes and Jack Daniels.
In the next few weeks, his emotions had soared and fallen as Elizabeth ended things with her boyfriend and then seemingly hesitated. One rainy night, when Blake was full of doubt and checking the prices of flights back to Sydney, Elizabeth knocked on his door, a dripping beauty with an overnight bag. That was the start of their relationship proper. Not that Blake ever forgot his adversary. He secretly wondered why Elizabeth had given him up for a teacher (and very occasional writer) whose only worldly possessions were an acoustic guitar, a mustard-coloured sleeping bag, and an ever-expanding collection of paperbacks.
He couldn’t remember exactly when they started talking about moving in together, but it was definitely on the cards when he proposed in a fit of vertigo on top of the London Eye. ‘Down the track a bit,’ he added, after pronouncing the fateful phrase. He was kneeling awkwardly, and had to return to his seat when the carriage moved.
‘You know I’m Australian…’
‘I had noticed, Blake.’
‘…and hardly perfect.’
She laughed and said, ‘I know what you’re like and I love you for it. You just need some help to become the person you want to be. Yes, I’ll marry you!’
There was an improvement streak in Elizabeth. Blake often felt like a house that needed some handy work to realise its market potential.
They had decided on a lengthy engagement. Elizabeth needed to put her career first, before any wedding plans began to dominate their time. ‘In the meantime, I’ll write a book,’ Blake promised himself, ‘because everyone likes an author. Even Elizabeth’s parents would be impressed.’
Elizabeth’s parents were very accepting of him but spoke in such a posh manner that Blake could never feel comfortable around them. His wide jeans felt too grubby for their fine furniture and he kept stumbling between Australian and English pronunciations of such words as yogurt (“yo“ or “yho“?) at the breakfast table. He wondered what they’d make of his father’s tradesman’s manner and his mother’s equally down-to-earth way of putting things. The thought of marriage as a coming together of families scared the shit out of him.
The decision to come to France alone was really about Blake taking his writing seriously. He knew that if he continued to teach in London and live with Elizabeth and her busy social life, he’d never get started. Besides, he was heartily sick of disinterested students and figured that if he didn’t have a go at writing now, he’d never manage it. He’d had his last day at the end of the summer half-term and had arranged for his stay in France to commence the following week.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right without me?’ he asked Elizabeth on the platform at Waterloo. ‘Because I could just cancel my ticket and scribble at home.’
‘And write what? Death by Procrastination?’ she replied.
By the time the train had reached the Channel Tunnel, Blake spotted a belle femme and was writing about her on his laptop in a document he entitled “Women I’ll Never Meet Because of Elizabeth”. He was beginning a new phase in his life. The humdrum and occasional indignity of his teaching days was over. He really was a writer, on his way to the South of France, and who could tell what would happen next.