Page 37 of Love Is…?

“I’d like to say thanks but, you know, romantically.” Jayde grinned. “Because my teacher will be thrilled that I’m practising.”

Tessa laughed. “Yes, she would. Romantic gratitude sounds excellent.”

“Who says I’ll be saying it?” Jayde murmured, then leaned forward, and softly kissed Tessa’s cheek. She stepped back, watching Tessa carefully.

“Oh,” Tessa breathed, pressing her cheek, her fingers cool against the warm flush on her face. She exhaled very slowly because the ground had shivered a little under her feet.

“I…I should go,” she whispered.

“Okay.”

They stood facing each other for another moment.

“So, going?” Jayde said, tipping her head in query.

“Yes. Right,” Tessa replied, chasing the second word with a quick exhalation.

“Thank you for the lift home,” Jayde called, when Tessa had taken four steps down the driveway. She turned. Jayde seemed reluctant to let her leave as Tessa was to leave.

“You’re welcome. Thanks for tonight. I’ll see you sometime this week?”

“Absolutely.” Jayde’s smile was so bright, it was competing with the streetlights.

When Tessa arrived home, she sat in the car, clutching the steering wheel, and stared at the signs advising that after eleven pm the stairwell door was alarmed. The door wasn’t the only thing alarmed. Her heart, her head, her entire body were alarmed at how Jayde was so remarkably perfect. Except for one small detail.

Love Is…?

PART TWO

Abigail Taylor

Abigail Taylor is the subject of this profile; one of six profiles in which well-known people from all walks of life will define love. With her impending wedding to thirty-seven-year-old Samantha Markson, her girlfriend of five years, Abigail Taylor’s perspective of love is quite compelling.

By Jayde Ferguson

“Hang on. This doesn’t relate to finding out the definition of love, does it?”

The question, delivered with good humour and a raised eyebrow, produces a laugh from the other occupant in the room, Tessa Connor. Tessa is chaperone to fourteen-year-old Grace Taylor, and is, according to Abigail, indispensable to the smooth running of the ‘timetable Tetris’ that is Grace’s weekly routine. Tessa apologises for the interruption, informing Abigail that sheis heading out to pick up Grace from school and escort her to the first activity of the week, netball.

I ask why Grace needs a chaperone at her age. Abigail pauses.

“Because I’d rather have control over my own information than the assumptions that are written in blogs and what not. Grace is a major reason for that control, and Tessa provides a barrier, somewhat, for those assumptions.”

Assumptions are an occupational hazard as she is a person of note. Abigail scoffs at the comment and gestures at the kitchen table where a plate of biscuits and two cups of coffee sit. We make ourselves comfortable. The dancing mice sporting top hats have reappeared, and Abigail catches my glance and laughs, holding the mug aloft.

“A gift from Eric, Sam’s father.”

Then she frowns as if to recall my question, and hums briefly.

“Hmm. A person of note. I know I have a fan base that loves Abigail Taylor, the actor. That person in the films and magazines. The product. But thememe? People make assumptions which is not something I’m enamoured with. Mainly because of Grace. Therefore, I control that information as much as possible. I share what I feel is necessary. I’m aware that keeping my personal life close fuels all those assumptions but they’d still continue even if I invited everyone to poke and prod, as if my life were an open house. So, Grace. I check in with her a lot. What she is comfortable to share. I’m still incredibly protective, of course, which means I advise her about what might hurt her or us if it was put out there.”

The window receives a vague wave, a nod, and then a shake of her head. She is a woman in motion; the gestures and expressions conveying even more depth to her words, each delivery revealing another layer. It is a privilege to be in her space, in her place, because these gestures and expressions are tempered in public. Her response to theHollywood Heraldreporter hovering at the edge of the red carpet at last year’sOscarswas a masterclass in diplomacy. A quick search on YouTube finds a clip of the reporter demanding Abigail “let us inside the mask”. With her expressions and gestures muted, Abigail was able to deflect the reporter’s aggressive questions while ensuring he knew exactly how far he’d stepped over her line. The animation of the elegant woman in this kitchen in Melbourne, with her mane of golden brown hair, loose and tossed away when strands drop forward, the small smiles, the exuberant laughter, and the hands waving when a point needs help with elaboration, indicates that her line is flexible. It is quite the gift.

Protecting the vulnerable is an act of love, I suggest, sipping my coffee.

“Exactly. Look, Grace has a driver, and occasionally, security. An entourage, which sounds…I don’t know, slightly pretentious, but it goes with the territory. The team in the States is bigger because societal behaviour towards celebrities is more extreme over there, but, yes. Those security people are necessary.”

Abigail folds her hands on the table top, the long sleeves of her rugby shirt pushing farther up her arms. She is sporting jeans again—obviously a favourite item of clothing—and has crossed her legs on the seat, her red-painted toenails on show.

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