hotel room or the feel of the bedclothes under her skin. Later she was aware of starched sheets and feather pillows. And then the same pillows scattered on the floor, and tangled sheets and blankets hanging off the bed like sails shredded in a cyclone.The top of his head, clumps of black hair matted with sweat. Her heart juddering, streams of sweat mingling with the slap of skin and rasp of breath. Sounds she had never heard herself make.Tears she found herself shedding – scalding, confusing tears, for reasons she had never known before that moment.
She saw them both in the shower, his head thrown back joyously under cascading water. Soaping him.
He grabbed the soap from me.'Am I clean enough for your high standards yet?'Then he launched into,'If I was a rich man'from 'Fiddler on the Roof'.He broke off & said,'I forgot.You hate my singing.'
'I didn't say that. I said I loved your painting. I didn't say anything about your singing.'
'Why not? And why are you not wearing red toenails? Don't you know that is not allowed?'
We had a wild pillow fight that ended up on the bed.At two in the morning we ordered room service, three courses & champagne.As we sat in the hotel dressing gowns eating oysters, he said,'Since we have now made love,before you start to boss me about you had better tell me your full name.'
Greer Gordon, she said. G.G. Like a horse. Like the '50s actress Greer Garson.
Like the Governor-General. Not at all like the Governor-General or old Greer
Garson, he'd retorted, or especially a horse. Like Gigi. And Gigi, eventually,
she had become. Instead of Greer Gordon she had become known in the limited
circles of the art world as Gigi Svoboda. None of her old friends from the
Australian period would know her by that assumed name, that frivolous name.
They might know she had done a bunk, but they wouldn't know what had happened
to her. Unless the biographer detective had tracked them down and filled them
in.
Svoboda is a common name in Czechoslovakia, like Smith. It means freedom. Mischa is his nickname. He told me he had to get out of Prague fast after the Russians invaded in '68. He escaped by skiing across the border into Austria. I just tried to blot things out by bombarding him with questions. I could still eat, but inside I was all clenched up.
Suddenly he gripped my shoulders & said,'Where is your boyfriend? I have to kill him.'
The feeling I'd been fending off surged & I thought I was going to vomit.I burst out,'Actually,it's worse than that.I'm married.'Then I realised I really was going to throw up & rushed to the bathroom. I told him that C. was coming back from NZ tomorrow & after that we were going on holiday .Those two dreaded items were all I could manage.
'You don't wear a wedding ring so you can't be married. It's a mistake.A mirage.'
'I wish I wasn't. It is a mistake. I wish it was a mirage.'
The long, shuddering sigh.The conviction that at the age of twenty-nine she might have ruined her life.
'Why are you not wearing a ring?'
'I think because I've never felt really married.'
'You see? Your feelings know the truth.You're not really married. How long are you going away?'
'Three weeks.'
'Three whole weeks? Not three parts of weeks? Where?'
'The Isle of Pines. It's part of New Caledonia. Off the north coast of Australia.'
'I know where it is.Thousands of miles from me. For 3 weeks. With your husband.'
'Yes.' I started crying.
'You can't go. I won't allow it.'
'I have to. It's all booked. I have to go.'
We went on & on until we crashed from total exhaustion. Woke up at 8 when breakfast came in. He said he'd been up for ages, he'd used up all the hotel writing paper sketching me, there were sheets all over the floor.Then we had this dreadful row, he wanted us both to arrive at the gallery together, but he doesn't know what that would mean...I tried to tell him that I couldn't face it with Verity, but of course he didn't understand & I couldn't explain...He kept saying 'Why
She saw them both in the shower, his head thrown back joyously under cascading water. Soaping him.
He grabbed the soap from me.'Am I clean enough for your high standards yet?'Then he launched into,'If I was a rich man'from 'Fiddler on the Roof'.He broke off & said,'I forgot.You hate my singing.'
'I didn't say that. I said I loved your painting. I didn't say anything about your singing.'
'Why not? And why are you not wearing red toenails? Don't you know that is not allowed?'
We had a wild pillow fight that ended up on the bed.At two in the morning we ordered room service, three courses & champagne.As we sat in the hotel dressing gowns eating oysters, he said,'Since we have now made love,before you start to boss me about you had better tell me your full name.'
Greer Gordon, she said. G.G. Like a horse. Like the '50s actress Greer Garson.
Like the Governor-General. Not at all like the Governor-General or old Greer
Garson, he'd retorted, or especially a horse. Like Gigi. And Gigi, eventually,
she had become. Instead of Greer Gordon she had become known in the limited
circles of the art world as Gigi Svoboda. None of her old friends from the
Australian period would know her by that assumed name, that frivolous name.
They might know she had done a bunk, but they wouldn't know what had happened
to her. Unless the biographer detective had tracked them down and filled them
in.
Svoboda is a common name in Czechoslovakia, like Smith. It means freedom. Mischa is his nickname. He told me he had to get out of Prague fast after the Russians invaded in '68. He escaped by skiing across the border into Austria. I just tried to blot things out by bombarding him with questions. I could still eat, but inside I was all clenched up.
Suddenly he gripped my shoulders & said,'Where is your boyfriend? I have to kill him.'
The feeling I'd been fending off surged & I thought I was going to vomit.I burst out,'Actually,it's worse than that.I'm married.'Then I realised I really was going to throw up & rushed to the bathroom. I told him that C. was coming back from NZ tomorrow & after that we were going on holiday .Those two dreaded items were all I could manage.
'You don't wear a wedding ring so you can't be married. It's a mistake.A mirage.'
'I wish I wasn't. It is a mistake. I wish it was a mirage.'
The long, shuddering sigh.The conviction that at the age of twenty-nine she might have ruined her life.
'Why are you not wearing a ring?'
'I think because I've never felt really married.'
'You see? Your feelings know the truth.You're not really married. How long are you going away?'
'Three weeks.'
'Three whole weeks? Not three parts of weeks? Where?'
'The Isle of Pines. It's part of New Caledonia. Off the north coast of Australia.'
'I know where it is.Thousands of miles from me. For 3 weeks. With your husband.'
'Yes.' I started crying.
'You can't go. I won't allow it.'
'I have to. It's all booked. I have to go.'
We went on & on until we crashed from total exhaustion. Woke up at 8 when breakfast came in. He said he'd been up for ages, he'd used up all the hotel writing paper sketching me, there were sheets all over the floor.Then we had this dreadful row, he wanted us both to arrive at the gallery together, but he doesn't know what that would mean...I tried to tell him that I couldn't face it with Verity, but of course he didn't understand & I couldn't explain...He kept saying 'Why
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