Chapter 1
I think we all have some kind of fantasy that when we meet ‘the one’: the one person we want to be with, we will just know. Perhaps, or perhaps not for you. Naive farm gal that I was, at 21 I was hopeful that I would find the one but also knew the magic of life: who knows when?
It was late in 1992, summer, the warm wind still alive at 6 o’clock. I was off to a friend’s house for a party, just an everyday house party. Bottle of Lambrusco in hand, I swung my skinny arms as I stepped out from the train station. Free, fearless and with a friend waiting... good old Tom.
Tom was that dependable friend to call up and have a chat with, someone you can be honest with because they’re not after you. Even though I was not from the north shore, or even Sydney, Tom, with his glasses, chubby cheeks and funny little mannerisms, liked to ask what I thought about various facets of life in our chats. Once he even mentioned how he didn’t have much libido like other men. In other words, the perfect male friend. He had invited me to the party as he was a good friend of a renter there.
I found it was a concrete stucco house in Killara, a middle North shore train stop along the rail line of million-dollar-home suburbs. I walked into the house, late as usual, and already there were 15 people there or so. Looking out at them, I had an immediate bout of social shyness, and thought, I know what will fix that: wine.
After I had said hello to Tom and the guy he was talking to, in the kitchen I opened the bottle. I looked over at the rest of the crowd as I waltzed out of the kitchen with my wine glass.
It was a haphazard mix of all different young people; from the flatmates there (students? Waiters?) to their friends, and all of them I’d never met before.
Mostly you don’t remember a whole conversation, but you might remember just a look. I felt myself drawn to a tall, average build guy with magnetic eyes who was assessing me, then pretended to laugh with his chatting buddy as I caught him out. I walked up and probably said hello, how did you get here? who do you know? but my mind was on autopilot. Luckily, he took over and did most of the asking.
Once in the groove of conversation, I cracked a joke and saw his smile, with perfect white teeth. My perfectionist side liked that. All the while I looked into his brown eyes, peeking out from under a floppy fringe of brown hair. I was a goner. Butterflies. Heart skipping beats. The lot.
Somehow, we drank the bottle of Lambrusco and carried on talking, oblivious to the other people there. As we chatted, it seemed we had a lot in common, with impassioned music interests (mine rock, his alternative bands) and witty social observations. I could tell he was a social person; I mean he was very comfortable and he didn’t seem to know that many people there. He lived a few suburbs over, in Artarmon.
He said he liked my dress, which was a sparkly, short, flowy number and, actually, my only party dress. It showed off my long legs, my one good feature (as judged by myself).
I learned that the floppy fringe guy’s name was Jackson. We laughed at his last name because it was a strange one and he challenged me to spell it. Being a champion speller, I spelt out Britton no trouble at all. I explained that I worked in a consulting engineers doing word processing (you're all thinking: how was that a job?). Someone had to type up those reports because in those days engineers could not type, let alone user a computer.
Somehow, we ended up in a bedroom of the house, so it was quieter. There was a mattress on the floor and it was big room, but it didn’t seem like anyone’s haven. I didn’t feel uncomfortable at all. We were just chatting the entire time and sat down at first. Then words just melted away as I got lost in the hazel and golden flecks of his eyes. I noticed again the scar above his right eye and asked him how he got it. Sheepish, he explained it was in a car accident two years ago, where he was at fault. I didn’t push the issue because it seemed a bit tender.
He quickly switched the conversation back to me. How old was I? Just 21. He said he was 21 too. And he wasn’t allowed to drive yet.
I was close enough to him to feel the heat through his shirt, my face only inches from his face. It went quiet. He smiled and leaned in for a kiss… but the kiss didn’t end. It wasn’t just his magnetism or the wine. It was the way our mouths moved together, as if they’d always known each other, as if our tongues were entitled to meet.
By this age, dating (okay, mostly hooking up) since 16 or so, I had gained a fair amount of experience in this area, though I wasn’t used to someone being so interested in me. It wasn’t a physical interest only; it was more he couldn’t get enough of me, talking included, or admittedly, me of him.
His hands moved under my skirt and I play-whacked it away. Curling his arm around my back, he gently lowered me onto the mattress we were sitting on. I didn’t resist one iota. Maybe it was the wine, but I also felt like we’d known each other before. In some other universe we had already made the union.
With more immersive kisses, I was aware of myself lying on the bed - looks bad, I thought to myself. But there wasn't any pressure to go too much further than touching... a hand slides up my back and we kiss. I fondle his hair as he cradles my neck and we kiss.
We take a moment to breathe and he asks yet another question about me. Why do I like parties? Do I have many friends?
This was interspersed with my questions for him. Have you always lived around here? Do you have any brothers or sisters?
It still came as a surprise when, after two hours of knowing me, he whispered the words, "I think I’m falling for you".
This shocked me sober. I sat up, laughing. "I think it’s a bit early for that."
Looking in his eyes, I could see he was serious. Wounded even. Eventually, the bottle finished, the party ended and we both said our goodbyes. The night melted away, leaving a light that brightened my insides.
