worth filing so he hasn’t been near his stash. I have been leaving printed papers about with elaborate casualness all night and he hasn’t even noticed them. A police patrol threatened to pick me up for littering.’
‘What have you been using as bait?’ I asked.
‘Just newspapers and so on.’
‘Why not give him these,’ I offered, handing over a bundle of financial documents. ‘They’re copies of my shop accounts. Perhaps he will consider them worthy.’
‘I’ll try it tonight,’ said Daniel, kissing me again. ‘And how are things at the soap set?’
I told him about Ms Atkins’ collapse.
‘The really unpleasant thing was the way they just re-formed and went on,’ I said, putting on the kettle. ‘And that Emily was a perfect copy of the star. No, not a copy—a pastiche. She just put on the red suit and the personality with it. It was very strange. Would you like to go out to dinner?’
‘I would,’ he said. ‘You must be tired of cooking. Where shall we go?’
‘Let’s just walk around and see what’s open,’ I suggested. Melbourne is a good place for this. There are innumerable—well, I expect the Chamber of Commerce has counted them, but I haven’t—cafes and bistros and little restaurants which only seat twenty people on old orange crates. They come and go and reopen with a new speciality daily, so there is always something surprising available. And you need to enjoy it while you can, because it might not be there when you thread the alleyways next week and find that it has reinvented itself as a Moroccan takeaway.
I finished my accounts and Daniel consulted with his BlackBerry and then we issued forth into the warm dusk, in search of a diverting culinary experience. Summer had relented for the moment and I was not sweating into my decorated kurta by the time we found a little Japanese restaurant in Bourke Street which had an encouraging population of Japanese students in search of tori teriyaki just like Mother makes. We were drinking our miso soup when I became aware that other persons had felt the need for some Tokyo cuisine.
Ensconced in a booth were Ethan, Emily, Tash and an unknown female with glasses. I thought she might be one of the crew. They were laughing and drinking sake. I pointed them out to Daniel and explained who they were. He was already rising from his seat. I joined him and we went over to the TV table.
‘Eth!’ exclaimed Daniel. ‘I thought it might be you!’
‘Daniel!’ Ethan stood up, always an unwise thing to do in a Japanese restaurant if you are over two metres tall. He ducked his head under a hanging ornament and gripped Daniel’s hand. ‘You still haunting the city, then?’
‘You still making pictures?’ asked Daniel.
‘Yep,’ said Ethan.
‘Yep,’ said Daniel.
Some sort of ritual exchange, I assumed. Emily caught my eye and shifted uneasily in her seat. The woman with the spectacles introduced herself as Sasha, the producer of Kiss the Bride . I was vague as to the respective roles of producer and director. Sasha was small, thin, and fined down to the bone, with a nose I could use to cut cheese and very bright eyes behind the pickle-bottle lenses. They had almost finished their dinner, while I was aware of my stomach making grumbling noises. The table was covered with bits of script. Tash gave me a big grin chock-full of country goodness.
‘Join us?’ asked Ethan. ‘Only we’ve got to go soon.’
‘Just came to say hello,’ Daniel said. ‘Nice to meet you all.’ And he ushered me back to our table, on which now reposed rice, tori teriyaki, that strange and fascinating Japanese coleslaw and potato salad and Daniel’s sashimi, which he loves even more than the Mouse Police do. I poured myself another cup of green tea and picked up my chopsticks.
‘So you know our Ethan?’ I asked. ‘How?’
‘Met him when he was doing a documentary on the homeless. Showed him around the traps and introduced him to Sister Mary. He went
‘What have you been using as bait?’ I asked.
‘Just newspapers and so on.’
‘Why not give him these,’ I offered, handing over a bundle of financial documents. ‘They’re copies of my shop accounts. Perhaps he will consider them worthy.’
‘I’ll try it tonight,’ said Daniel, kissing me again. ‘And how are things at the soap set?’
I told him about Ms Atkins’ collapse.
‘The really unpleasant thing was the way they just re-formed and went on,’ I said, putting on the kettle. ‘And that Emily was a perfect copy of the star. No, not a copy—a pastiche. She just put on the red suit and the personality with it. It was very strange. Would you like to go out to dinner?’
‘I would,’ he said. ‘You must be tired of cooking. Where shall we go?’
‘Let’s just walk around and see what’s open,’ I suggested. Melbourne is a good place for this. There are innumerable—well, I expect the Chamber of Commerce has counted them, but I haven’t—cafes and bistros and little restaurants which only seat twenty people on old orange crates. They come and go and reopen with a new speciality daily, so there is always something surprising available. And you need to enjoy it while you can, because it might not be there when you thread the alleyways next week and find that it has reinvented itself as a Moroccan takeaway.
I finished my accounts and Daniel consulted with his BlackBerry and then we issued forth into the warm dusk, in search of a diverting culinary experience. Summer had relented for the moment and I was not sweating into my decorated kurta by the time we found a little Japanese restaurant in Bourke Street which had an encouraging population of Japanese students in search of tori teriyaki just like Mother makes. We were drinking our miso soup when I became aware that other persons had felt the need for some Tokyo cuisine.
Ensconced in a booth were Ethan, Emily, Tash and an unknown female with glasses. I thought she might be one of the crew. They were laughing and drinking sake. I pointed them out to Daniel and explained who they were. He was already rising from his seat. I joined him and we went over to the TV table.
‘Eth!’ exclaimed Daniel. ‘I thought it might be you!’
‘Daniel!’ Ethan stood up, always an unwise thing to do in a Japanese restaurant if you are over two metres tall. He ducked his head under a hanging ornament and gripped Daniel’s hand. ‘You still haunting the city, then?’
‘You still making pictures?’ asked Daniel.
‘Yep,’ said Ethan.
‘Yep,’ said Daniel.
Some sort of ritual exchange, I assumed. Emily caught my eye and shifted uneasily in her seat. The woman with the spectacles introduced herself as Sasha, the producer of Kiss the Bride . I was vague as to the respective roles of producer and director. Sasha was small, thin, and fined down to the bone, with a nose I could use to cut cheese and very bright eyes behind the pickle-bottle lenses. They had almost finished their dinner, while I was aware of my stomach making grumbling noises. The table was covered with bits of script. Tash gave me a big grin chock-full of country goodness.
‘Join us?’ asked Ethan. ‘Only we’ve got to go soon.’
‘Just came to say hello,’ Daniel said. ‘Nice to meet you all.’ And he ushered me back to our table, on which now reposed rice, tori teriyaki, that strange and fascinating Japanese coleslaw and potato salad and Daniel’s sashimi, which he loves even more than the Mouse Police do. I poured myself another cup of green tea and picked up my chopsticks.
‘So you know our Ethan?’ I asked. ‘How?’
‘Met him when he was doing a documentary on the homeless. Showed him around the traps and introduced him to Sister Mary. He went
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