Page 18 of Love Is…?

She laughs, recrosses her legs, and I lean forward to experience those warm feelings, because Abigail Taylor has that rare talent of bringing a person into her space so she can listen properly to their words. It is another trait which endears her to so many. Fan-createdInstagramcollages, andTikTokmontages reveal alove for the star. One effusive post states that Abigail Taylor possesses;

‘tiger eyes tiger hair fierce skills she can outact anybody on film I will die on this hill’

Beyond the soft smile, the arched eyebrow, and eyes which resemble those of the large cat because hazel seems too mundane a descriptor, Abigail traverses popularity demographics with poise. She is approachable, gives her time generously to fans, laughs easily with journalists, charms studio investors, and supports a number of very worthy causes. Those causes are based mostly in Melbourne; her city of birth, and now the city she calls home; her topophilia. She owns a majority share in the prestigious Melbourne Theatre Company, rescuing it from bankruptcy five years ago, often repurposing sets, involving the entire company in conserving resources, and Melbournians love her for it. Many an overly-excited tourist, even an insistent paparazzo, has found their view blocked for a moment by the unexpected presence of one of the city’s five million residents running interference for their home-town celebrity. It is endearingly protective, and it seems that Melbourne loves Abigail in return.

Because she still owns a house in Los Angeles, I ask if she would ever think of moving back there, a city she has lived in for most of her life. She places her coffee mug on the side table, uncrosses her legs and leans over her knees.

“Oh, I can’t imagine that at all! I used to love LA but now that I reflect, it wasn’t love, it was convenience. I had everything right there; work, people, all that. But I didn’t really have what I needed. I wanted a home. LA isn’t myhome. There’s our house, of course, but this is my home. I feel like it always was my home before I even moved here.”

She waves her hand about as if to encompass all of the city from the room. Relocating to Melbourne appeared a sudden decision to the rest of the world, even to those who closely follow Abigail’s career.

“It wasn’t, really. I think I’d been looking, not at Melbourne specifically, but just somewhere, for a while. So it wasn’t that sudden. But it turned out that my heart knew what it was doing, and here I am. Tom, my PA, asked me a few years ago where I was. I thought he was quite mad, but he ended up being right. Where I was. Not where was I? He said where I was and he deliberately put the emphasis on ‘was’, like he was saying, ‘Abby, you were there, where are you going now?’ It was wonderful. Freeing, you know? I’ve mentioned that before, I think.”

I nod, recalling theWho’s Who?article from last June. Then I ask if Tom Campbell, with his long involvement in her life, has helped clarify other important decisions over the years. Abigail breathes in, then leans back in the chair. She reaches around to pull her hair into a pony tail. I recognise the action; it’s one she’s employed previously as if to pause the interview, perhaps to give her a moment to back out. But then, surprisingly, Abigail untangles her fingers, her hair falling free about her shoulders, and she contemplates me.

“A few. Usually I’m not prepared to share that much, but perhaps I am. Tom, of course, is in LA, then he’s here for the wedding. Tom loves LA, the mad thing. He doesn’t need tobe here twenty-four seven. Everything’s done remotely now. But over the years, Tom has stepped in to protect me before even my manager or agent knew I needed protection. He was there when a person close to me abused my goodwill and took advantage of my name. Tom is a person in my life who I love?—”

She cuts herself off by sharply slicing at the air with her hand in front of her face.

“No. I adore Tom. Simply because of who he is, because of his heart, his innate ability to just understand people. He is my friend, and my confidante. There’s not much about my history, my relationships, my family, not much about me that Tom doesn’t know. He is fiercely loyal, incredibly generous, and I see him as more than a friend. If I wasn’t such a lesbian, I’m sure I would have married him long ago.”

She grins wickedly, the gesture lighting up her face. Then she throws her head back in laughter, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh, he’ll kill me for saying that. That’s the thing about love, isn’t it? So many layers, like strata in rocks. Tom is a foundation layer. That foundation, the solidity is necessary for any love, whether it’s platonic or romantic. I have stood by that philosophy ever since I was able to understand it. To articulate the concept of connection, because love is connection. The threads all joining. And if we circle back, then that thread ties me here.”

It’s evident that even when travelling, Abigail’s thoughts stay close to home or with close friends such as Tom. Her family of Samantha and Grace, and her personal assistant, seem to be herinner orbit, maybe even the sturdy gravitational pull that makes her work possible.

Abigail has acted in six romantic comedies, often playing the girl-next-door character. I ask how important romance is when falling in love with a person or place. My question produces a soft gasp, and she flaps her hands as if to shoo away the very thought.

“Oh, it’s very important! It’s like…oh.”

She looks about the room with its soft cream-painted walls, and elegant, yet functional furnishings, then taps her fingers together.

“It’s like the engine that gets the whole thing on its way. Again, I have to point out that the script, the film itself, has to show the love the character has for place. Where is this character? What is their place? Unless their discomfort with place is a major point of tension, then the character must be happy, must love where they are in order to fall in love. To be open to romance.”

Abigail stops abruptly to ask if I’d like another coffee. Then she nods firmly before I can answer, and stands, insisting I follow, so I find myself trailing after Abigail Taylor into her appliance-filled, marble-topped kitchen. Responding to another authoritative hand-flap, I pull out a stool at the counter, lay my hands on the cool surface, and watch my interview subject putter elegantly about her kitchen. She looks over her shoulder.

“Sam is much better at this than I am. You’ll be drinking a fairly basic coffee, I fear.”

She delivers the news with a self-deprecating smile. I reply that coffee made by someone else is always appreciated, which earns me another grin.

It would seem the time to mention the person she is marrying since Samantha Markson, the Melbourne Theatre Company’s Director of Education Programs, has been introduced into our chat, but I feel that Abigail is enjoying the particular direction of our conversation. There will be an opportunity later. So I circle back to her words when we’d entered the kitchen.

If romance is the engine that gets the ‘whole thing’ underway, then once love is underway, does that mean the romance stops? Abigail suddenly abandons the coffee, turning away from the La Pavoni machine, and leans over her hands on the other side of the bench. I’m captured in an intense gaze.

“No. If there’s no romance, then the love would die, surely.It must keep track with love. I love Melbourne, and so I romance it, which sounds completely nuts. But I appreciate it, and it’s the same in return. This city loves me, well, the people seem to, and so I feel that love when I attend performances at the MTC and audiences compliment and applaud the actors and the crew. It’s symbiotic. Romance and love travel together. They are entwined without such desperate suffocation that they lose all form. To suggest that romance can drop away as if it’s done its job completely disrespects love. Don’t you think? So love is a place where your heart can breathe. Keep making me say things like that and you’ll finish this essay in a flash.”

Chapter

Six

Tessa knewthat Abby’s interviews were scattered about to accommodate her schedule. Sometimes there wasn’t even an interview at all in a single week. However, since the Dare Day—more capitalisation required—Jayde had turned up at the house three times, and Tessa didn’t quite know what to make of that. Apparently the extra visits were to chat with the members of the security detail, Marina—the driver—as well as Isabelle—the agent—and Tom when he was standing still long enough, about their thoughts on the essay topic. Jayde said that it was convenient to interview them so she could add content to herLovers of Melbournebook.

However, Jayde always timed her visits so she arrived when Grace was home. Meaning Tessa was home. But with much of the interviewing for her book completed in the household and surrounds—there weren’t many people—it actually seemed like Jayde turned up simply to hang out and talk. It was that last thought that caused Tessa’s crush to embrace its capital ‘C’.

They’d talked about all sorts of things, like the state of the roads when driving in the country—dreadful according to Jayde, not that she drove a car—or the latest jacket that Angel had discovered at the local op shop—accidentally fashionableaccording to Tessa. Every time Tessa thought about the chats, delicious goosebumps marched up and down her skin. Completely irrational. She’d known Jayde for all of three weeks. But it felt like their almost immediate connection was being strengthened every time they made eye-contact, or brushed their fingers accidentally, or when Tessa bit her lip as Jayde flicked her hair, or simply when Jayde breathed.

Jayde tucked her feet, encased in socks as she’d eschewed her boots at the front door, under her knees, crossed her legs and settled into the corner of the two-seater dark chocolate-coloured couch. She turned towards Tessa who was tucked into her own corner not that far away, when she thought about it. And she was thinking about it. Another apparently spontaneous visit. Tessa could swear that actual energy crackled between them. It had to be imaginary.

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