Australian Love Stories by Cate Kennedy

him of his mother, girlfriends doing what girlfriends do on a Saturday. He followed them upstairs to wait for the theatre to open and eavesdropped on their conversations. They all seemed to be talking about their kids.
    He found it difficult to concentrate on the film: it was too pat, too neat a fairy tale about redemption. He glanced around the dark cinema at the rapt faces, the air scented with popcorn. The last time he was up in Sydney his mother had offered her own version of a fairy tale. He’d gone over to her flat, the harbour dancing distantly outside her windows, sequinned by the sun.
    â€˜I have something to tell you’, he said. She was making coffee and warming the croissants he’d picked up at the French bakery in Darlinghurst Road.
    She smiled and said, ‘I think I know what it is.’
    He’d been silenced by that but went on nervously. ‘I’m gay.’
    And his mother said, ‘Oh sweetheart, I’ve known that since you were fourteen.’
    â€˜You have?’
    She nodded. ‘Mothers do know these things.’
    â€˜But you didn’t say anything.’
    â€˜Why would I? It was up to you to tell me.’
    He could hear the accusation in his voice as he said, ‘If you’d let me know earlier I’d have felt easier with it.’
    â€˜Would you, sweetie?’
    â€˜Yes, I think so.’
    â€˜Oh well, we’ve both reached the same place now. Jam and butter or just plain?’
    â€˜Jam.’
    â€˜Raspberry or strawberry?’
    â€˜Raspberry.’
    They’d sat in the sunshine and watched the shadows move across the blocks of flats between them and the harbour, like soldiers resolutely marching. She’d touched his shoulder as she got up to take his cup. ‘And is there anyone special?’
    It was too early to tell her about Peter. ‘No’, he said, hoping she wasn’t going to give him a lecture about safe sex.
    â€˜What about you, Mum? Have you met anyone nice?’
    â€˜No, but I had a party here last week.’
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜It was lovely. We all drank too much of course.’
    He pretended shock.
    â€˜I’m pleased for you,’ she said again. ‘I hope you meet someone you can have a good relationship with.’
    What would he tell his mother about Amy? His Mum was just as likely to tell him she’d never liked her, that she’d never have told him that to his face though, because people must be free to be friends with whomever they choose. What would she think of Peter?
    The women friends were standing in small groups debating the film. Debating where to go for dinner. He would haveliked to discuss Gran Torino with Amy right now. She was so good at deconstructing film narratives and she was up on the latest reviews. She always had an opinion about actors and she talked about them as though they were her best friends. It was disconcerting when she talked about Clint Eastwood like that. Or Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. He walked out into the late afternoon. The sun had gilded the plane trees on Lygon Street and the people sitting at the outdoor tables wore halos of golden light. He stood for a moment debating whether to walk into the city or back to Northcote. Should he ring Peter? Should he play it cool? He mustn’t be too earnest, too determined, too much in love.
    â€˜Jason!’
    At one of the tables outside Ti Amo was a group of men and one of them was Peter. Jason walked over slowly, looking carefully at the group.
    â€˜Sit down,’ Peter said, giving him a hug. ‘Have a drink with us.’
    All around him the chatter of people, loud boom beats from passing cars, Italian youths claiming their street, kids and old people, crows plane tree hopping. And Jason took a long swig of beer and let Peter introduce him to his friends, thinking how handsome he looked in his crisp blue shirt, his smile so welcoming, hands that would later trace the outline of his