Manhattan Dreaming (5 page)

One day Libby had a dental appointment late afternoon and was going straight home from the surgery without coming back to work. I was glad because it meant I could go and watch Adam train without having to worry about her seeing me. It was the one ‘step' I hadn't yet mastered in my heart-detox.

I left work at 5 pm in the cold and wet. It was already dark – nightfall arrived quickly during winter in Canberra. Anyone in their right mind would have gone immediately from their office to their heated home for a hot shower and a seat in front of the fire, but the weather didn't stop me. It was the first chance I'd had of seeing Adam in the flesh since we'd broken up. I turned into Hayden Drive, parked the car and braved the weather. I had my long black coat, and a blue hat and matching scarf wrapped halfway up around my face to hide as much of me as possible. I felt like a spy. As I held on tightly to my lollie pink umbrella I just hoped it didn't blow inside out. I made my way to the entrance, where only a few fans were gathered to watch. I stood right back, shielding my face from the weather and recognition.

I felt a hot rush the minute I saw Adam. His dark brown hair was thick and needed a cut. He wasn't wearing a mouthguard and I could see his wide smile as he joked with the other players. I was frozen to the core by the time I left but cruised back down Barry Drive feeling warm in my heart for having seen him.

‘Morning, how's the mouth?' I asked Libby as she came in carrying a portfolio of scanned pictures for me to go through.

‘Mouth is fine, thanks. How's your chest?'

‘My what?'

‘Your chest. Didn't get a chest cold last night, standing in the rain at the stadium?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Really?' She walked over to the door and got my umbrella out of the brolly stand. ‘So there must be another woman who wears matching hats and scarves and carries a hot pink umbrella who would be mad enough to stand in the rain and watch meat-heads do footy training?'

‘There must be,' I said, embarrassed.

‘Just because I went to the dentist didn't mean I couldn't go to my Spanish class. I had to park in Hayden Drive because I was running late, and I saw you walking to the stadium.'

I felt like an idiot. And worse, I felt like Libby thought I was an idiot.

‘This is going to stop, Lauren, today.' Libby put the portfolio of pictures on my desk, grabbed a folder from her own desk and walked out.

We both had meetings back to back for the rest of the day, and by the time I returned from the National Gallery of Australia she had gone home. I was relieved.

When I walked in the door at home Libby was sitting in the lounge room with Denise. Libby and I hadn't spoken since our unpleasant exchange that morning, and to find her at home made me suspicious, and a little nervous.

‘Oh, this is a surprise. Did we have plans for tonight? I was going to go to the gym, but pizza and a movie is a much better option if that's what you had in mind.' I hung my coat on the hallstand and walked through to the kitchen. Neither had said anything yet. I put the kettle on and went back into the lounge room.

‘What's wrong?' I asked, looking at Denise and then Libby. They were propped up on two dining chairs like they were about to interview me.

‘Did someone die? Someone's dead, aren't they?' I put my hand over my mouth as my stomach started to churn. ‘Is it Mum?'

‘Your mum's fine, Lauren,' Libby said.

‘Oh god, it's Dad?' I sat down.

‘Your dad's fine, too,' Denise said.

‘It's Adam, isn't it, what's happened? I knew it. I could feel today that something was wrong. He didn't log in to MySpace, his song hadn't been changed. The photo was the same. What happened? Tell me. Where is he?' I was almost hyperventilating with fear that something had happened to him.

‘It's not fucking Adam. Stop it. You're behaving like a crazy woman!' Libby was furious.

‘So he's fine, then?' I looked to Denise for reassurance.

‘I … I …' Denise tried to speak. She looked like she felt sorry for me but was too scared to say anything.

Libby turned to her angrily. ‘We agreed we'd do this together. You can't always be the good cop, for fucksake. I'm sick of seeing an intelligent, gorgeous, creative woman behave so appallingly over a bloke who's not interested in her.'

I stood up and walked around in a circle, shocked, annoyed, confused. I still didn't know why the girls were both there, and why Libby was being so brutal with me.

‘Why are you doing this to me, Libby? You're supposed to be my friend. You're supposed to support me when I'm hurting, but you seem to enjoy humiliating me.' I started to cry and sat down again.

‘I'm not doing
anything
to you, Lauren. You're my tidda, but someone needs to tell you that you're humiliating
yourself!
And when
you're
not doing it,
he's
doing it. I'm just trying to help you. I
am
supporting you.'

‘You're helping me? You're supporting me? How exactly are you doing that? You only ever make me feel like shit.' I felt overwhelmed – the walls were closing in on me.

‘This is an intervention,' Libby said calmly.

‘A what?'

‘An intervention to help you move on.' Libby was being matter-of-fact.

I heard the kettle boiling in the kitchen, then whistle loudly until it turned itself off. ‘I don't need an intervention. I hardly drink, I don't take drugs, I don't gamble and I don't eat any more or less than you guys. Okay, so maybe a little bit more cake. But I don't have addictions.'

‘So you understand that interventions are about addictions, then?'

‘Yes, I'm not an idiot.' I'd had about as much as I could take.

‘Well, interventions are for all kinds of addictions, like for people who are addicted to the internet, for example. Or to other people.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Lauren, the gallery is going to block Facebook and MySpace because some people are abusing the internet privileges we have.'

‘Are you suggesting that I'm responsible for that? That I'm to blame for the entire gallery losing internet privileges? As if.'

‘They've done an audit, Lauren, and your computer has the most log-ons every day. And they know the sites, or should I say the site.' Libby held a piece of paper in her hand. ‘I got the memo from Emma because I'm the administrator. I thought it would be better that I tell you than someone else.'

‘So you're all talking about me, are you? You two and Emma, and god knows who else.'

‘No, it's just us. Emma doesn't know what's going on. She just knows you're on the internet an obscene amount of time, and that it's not work related, and it has to stop.'

‘So people are questioning the amount of time I put into work, then?' I felt like I was being bombarded.

‘God no, we all know you work your arse off and give far more hours than are expected of you. Our concern' – and she dragged Denise in again – ‘is that your internet addiction is directly related to your Adam addiction, and so we want to do an intervention to help you with both.'

Denise smiled sympathetically at me and finally said something. ‘Lauren, I totally get your addiction to Adam, I really like him. But don't you think that maybe, just perhaps, your behaviour is just a
tad
self-destructive? I mean staying up late nights and compulsively checking his MySpace page? I see the light on under the door. I guess that's why you upped our broadband package at home too?'

Everyone had been watching me and I hadn't even known.

‘Lauren, you need to think of how wonderful your life is right now. How wonderful it has
always
been, with good friends and colleagues and a job you are not only brilliant at, but that you love. And you need to behave like you value yourself, like you love yourself …' Libby's tone was softer.

‘But you let me take your car to do drive-bys. You even came with me.' I accused Denise of being my willing accomplice. I wanted Libby to know that she had encouraged me in my addiction.

‘I know, and it was okay once or twice but, Lauren, you are out of control,' Denise said.

Libby was shaking her head in disbelief at Denise's role in my bad behaviour. ‘You have to believe us, tidda,' she said, looking directly at me, ‘when we say you are wonderful and loving and thoughtful, and a good friend.'

‘And a great flatmate,' Denise added.

And then there was silence. There I was sitting on my couch in front of my two closest friends – the good cop and the bad cop – who loved me so much they wanted to do an intervention.

‘It hurts,' I said softly and started to cry.

‘What hurts?'

‘Rejection. It hurts. I don't understand why he doesn't want me.' I cried more. Both Libby and Denise moved to the couch and sat on either side of me, putting their arms around my shoulders.

‘Tidda, it's not that he doesn't want you. He just wants a different life to what you want.' Libby was being gentle with me.

Denise dabbed at my cheeks with a tissue to mop up my tears. ‘It makes me worry you can't sleep,' she said. ‘I'm really concerned about your health. I want you to eat and sleep properly – you can't just survive on cakes and the gym and no sleep.' She rubbed my back.

Libby stood up and I was relieved. I was feeling slightly claustrophobic on the couch being affectionately smothered by my two dear friends.

‘We want to support you in your post-relationship rehab, tidda. And that's why we're both here. Just let us know if there's anything we can do. I can be your sponsor if you like. When you feel like texting him, text me. When you feel like calling him, call me.'

‘And when you feel like logging on … well, we need to find an alternative.' Denise wasn't sure what the answer was and looked to Libby.

‘Here, when you feel like logging on, look at one of my calendars.' Libby handed me the entire set of 2010 firemen's calendars from every state and territory and a couple from overseas. I laughed and cried at the same time.

‘But you love these calendars.'

‘Desperate times call for desperate measures. You need the distraction, I don't.'

I flicked through one and paused on Mr April. He was hot and had the same sixpack as Adam.

‘Why don't I go and re-boil the kettle and we'll have a cuppa.' Denise headed out to the kitchen.

‘God, I feel like something sweet,' I said to Libby.

‘Don't think I didn't come prepared, tidda. I got some of that pavlova from Café in the House.' She stood up. ‘Oh, and we're going out on Friday night just to celebrate life, okay?'

‘Oh, just what I feel like – pav and a party.' I rolled my eyes and shook my head.

Libby joined Denise in the kitchen and I sat with the calendars in my lap. I could see a library book sticking out of Libby's bag titled
Addiction Intervention: Strategies to Motivate Treatment-Seeking Behaviour.
I knew then that this was serious. That she was serious. That my behaviour was serious. To have my friends borrow library books and learn about interventions and confront me like that meant they loved me, but it also meant they were worried about me. Even though I wasn't quite sure how I was going to do it, I knew I had to change my behaviour. It was going to end, today, somehow.

‘Everything all right?' Emma asked as Libby and I sat silently in her office.

‘Yep.'

‘Yep,' Libby echoed. We hadn't mentioned the night before.

I hadn't slept at all – not because I was on the internet, but because I was lying in bed trying to work out how I had arrived at a place where my happiness depended on another human being. Where my self-esteem had disappeared to, and how I had forgotten all my achievements in life. Libby and Denise had offered me support but I still needed to believe in myself – that I was worth much more than Adam was giving me. That belief was the only thing that was going to help me move on and be the woman I was capable of being.

Emma looked from her computer to her diary to the whiteboard on the wall and then back to us. ‘I need an update on how we're going with the schedule for the exhibition next year. Have you decided the artists? Is there a short list we can discuss?'

‘We've come up with a few artists: we're thinking Gordon Hookey and Adam Hill, a couple of photographers – Christian Thompson and Destiny Deacon. And I really like the work of Jenny Fraser and r e a.' I always included Libby by saying ‘we' but I really made the decisions related to the curatorial side of things. Libby was the program manager, dealing with artists' agents, estates and other galleries and controlling the budget.

‘They sound great. I like the mix of mediums and states and you've got some strong women in there as well. And Libby, I know you've been getting on to some regional galleries – who's showing interest so far?'

‘Moree Regional Gallery, Wagga Wagga and Newcastle. Once Lauren has confirmed all the artists I'll approach the galleries in each of their home towns where possible. In terms of major cities I'm aiming for Boomalli in Sydney and Fireworks Gallery in Brisbane. I'm still in talks with galleries in Victoria and Tassie. Some of the smaller regional galleries require funding assistance, and I've offered to help them with applications.'

‘Excellent. I love working with you girls. You just get in and do it. Sounds like we're on schedule for a March opening, then.' Emma looked at us for confirmation.

‘Indeed we are,' I said and that ended the meeting.

The lead time for exhibitions was long but we needed it. Libby and I worked well together and we liked working with Emma too. She was a considerate manager of staff and a visionary director. Emma had been at the forefront of the fight to get the site of Old Parliament House as the National Aboriginal Gallery back in 2006. She said she knew the government would never hand it over for an Aboriginal embassy but they could be persuaded to hand it over for a national gallery because of the success of our visual arts movement internationally, and the revenue our artists were bringing into the country every year.

Emma had written so many submissions she reckoned it was like doing a PhD. As soon as we moved in she invited the Tent Embassy mob to take up residence in the old Country Party Rooms, which overlooked the original Tent Embassy site, where only a flagpole and plaque stood now in honour of the ‘Tent' and activists. She turned the Senate space into a room for community meetings, and the House of Representatives into a venue for readings and launches.

The gallery now had a staff of over sixty, a growing team of curators and a number of exhibitions running concurrently, with an exhibition schedule right into the next decade. International dignitaries visiting Canberra always insisted on visiting the NAG because we had the most comprehensive collection in the country. When they entered Kings Hall they saw statues of our warriors and activists, like Windradyne, Pemulwuy and Jandamarra. There were portraits of inspiring activists, politicians and other modern-day heroes like Neville Bonner, Aden Ridgeway, Linda Burney, Pearl Gibbs, Eddie Mabo, Vincent Lingiari, Charles Perkins, Mum Shirl and Chicka Dixon.

Over the years we had managed to broker a lot of relationships with visiting consular officials and even prime ministers of other nations, and such meetings led to us being able to plan travelling exhibitions overseas in coming years. My masters thesis considered the appeal of Aboriginal visual arts in the international market and now helped me plan for visits by embassy officials and the like. My knowledge of international markets had helped me secure my job – during the interview process, I'd been able to rattle off the national revenue figures for Indigenous visual arts for the previous five years.

I had an important job and tried not to get overwhelmed by it, although I had become more prone to panic attacks since being promoted to senior curator. But right now I had work to do, calls to make and deadlines to meet.

I looked at the schedule in front of me: confirm artists, talk to marketing, commission someone to write the text for the catalogue, speak to the education department about activities and tours, go through the budget … Libby was already back on the phone to regional galleries sorting out who was interested in touring the exhibition. I needed to confirm the artists as soon as possible, so I started the ring around.

The best part of my job was inviting artists to show at the NAG. I could hear their excitement and gratitude down the line when I put in the call. It took some time but I finally tracked down Gordon Hookey in Brisbane. He wanted to show something from his ‘Ruddock's Wheel' collection, inspired by Philip Ruddock, once Australia's immigration minister, who had claimed that Indigenous Australians had not reached a great level of sophistication because we didn't use chariots or the wheel. Gordon was known for his political commentary and his work would add a lot to the exhibition.

I found Queensland artist Jenny Fraser in Darwin and she was keen to show her digital images,
I Am What I YAM
, challenging notions of sexuality, from the ‘Still Black' exhibition. Photographer Christian Thompson was a little harder to track down. I finally made contact with him in the Netherlands. He wanted to think about what he might offer, but I knew that as much of his work examined the way Aboriginality was misrepresented by mainstream society, then anything he contributed would be valuable to our show.

The artist known as ‘r e a' had four images and a single-video channel installation called ‘Poles Apart' which reflected the colonial construct of Aboriginality – fitting in perfectly with the theme and vision of the exhibition. By lunchtime I felt like I'd accomplished loads and was back on track.

With the curatorial adrenalin pumping, I thought about what the NAG had become and what the future held for the gallery and all of us working there. Just thinking about it put a spring in my step and made me realise how great my life was, with or without Adam.

After work Libby and I met Denise in Civic, Canberra's city centre. The night was cool, but not as unbearable as it had been in weeks past. I could get by without my gloves and hat; that was always a good measure.

Denise seemed particularly excited about being out with ‘adults'.

‘We have to try the Tongue‘n'Groove, it's the latest thing. Everyone's talking about it at school. Most of the teachers who aren't married have already been, and some of the sleazy married guys too.'

‘What's the crowd like?' I asked.

‘It's full of public servants,' Libby said, sounding critical.

‘What? Like us?'

‘Not as colourful or creative as us, but yes, kind of like us. And students.' We walked into the crowded bar.

‘God, it's packed here, and it's only early,' I said, feeling overwhelmed by the crowd and blindly following Denise as we wormed our way through Canberra's latest pizza pub.

‘Most of these fellas would've been here right after 4.51 pm knock-off time,' Libby said.

‘Really?' I was surprised.

‘Most people don't work like you, Loz.'

‘And the students look so …' I couldn't think of the word.

‘Preppy,' Libby offered. ‘They all wear Abercrombie & Fitch and the like.'

I looked around the room at the public servants, many of them wearing their security tags around their neck like prized war medals or something equally out of place for Friday night at the pub. It was casual Friday so there were few ties to be seen.

‘I don't mind a man in a suit,' Denise offered.

‘Who do we know in Canberra who wears a suit?' Libby asked.

‘More importantly, who looks good?' I asked.

‘Stephen Smith,' Libby offered.

‘Wayne Swan,' Denise countered.

‘Peter Garrett?' Libby asked

‘Greg Combet, most definitely,' I insisted.

‘Julia Gillard,' Libby said adamantly. Both Denise and I looked at her strangely.

‘What? Seriously, she wears a suit better than any of those guys. Especially that purple one she has.'

‘Yes, that's true, she does, I agree,' Denise and I concurred.

Two old men arrived at our table and stood with their schooners.

‘Let's move,' Libby said, giving the nod with her head, and we stood outside under a heater.

‘Why did we have to move? It was warmer inside.'

‘It's not a good look, us three stunners with those two fellas who should be home with their grandchildren.'

‘Oh, for godsake, who cares how old those fellas are?'

‘Look, I've been out with a sex fiend, a gay guy and a man in love with his mother. I'm not dating someone's grandfather. They were too old for any of us.'

I'd been eyeing the dessert menu. ‘Let's eat here, please, can we? Seriously, they have ricotta and banana pizza
and
a pizookie.'

‘A what?'

‘A pizza-sized cookie with ice-cream and chocolate chips. That's for me for sure.'

It started to rain and we went back inside and ordered food. Libby and Denise decided on wine and we settled in for the night, doing a running commentary on the men in the room.

‘See, I told you, there are NO men in Canberra at all,' Libby said.

‘What are you talking about, there's blokes everywhere,' Denise argued.

‘They're all twenty years old and drunk. The older ones who were here earlier came straight from work, had their beers and went home to their wives and families in the wastelands.'

‘The what?' I laughed.

‘Nappy Valley – Tuggeranong, you know, where all the families live. The ones left here now are all too young.'

‘You two are mad. I'll be back in a minute.' I escaped to the ladies with the intention of sending Adam a text, and was just about to take out my BlackBerry when I was distracted by the conversation of a drunken woman at the basin.

‘I shouldn't have sent that text,' she slurred.

‘No, you should've,' her friend disagreed.

‘No, I shouldn't have. I only did it because I was drunk. He never sends me messages like that. I'm sick of my boyfriends having other girlfriends. God, take my phone.'

I realised I was just like her – but I wasn't drunk enough to use that as an excuse. I let go of my BlackBerry and grabbed my lipstick from my bag instead.