In 1990, I’d started an exciting job as executive assistant to the director and chief curator of the not-yet-opened Museum of Contemporary Art in Sydney. On my first day, I was introduced to Peter, the museum’s talented publications manager. I smiled as I shook his hand, but he made no distinct impression.
As I settled into my role, I felt as if he was deliberately avoiding me. I chalked it up to his apparent conceit as, along with good looks, he had a swagger and confidence that made half the female staff infatuated with him.
December came and the office was sweltering. My desk fan blew a memo on to the floor. While collecting it I noticed Peter walking by carrying a heavy box. He was tall, blond and wearing a white T-shirt that showed his tanned skin and strong arms. Suddenly I noticed how truly handsome he was. All this, compounded with his offhandedness, made him catnip. I paid attention.
Post-meetings I’d pop into his office with “leftover” fresh coffee and shortbread. When he arrived at the director’s office I gave an extra-warm smile and a friendly hello. He wasn’t overly keen on my attention. Then one day I mentioned his motorbike and he asked if I’d like to go for a ride. “Sure,” I coolly replied.
The next morning he arrived with an extra helmet, and by noon we were on an epic lunchtime ride to a harbourside park. He handled the curves like a pro and when we reached the beach he complimented my skills as a pillion. After that outing we were much more friendly.
A few weeks later, I was grabbing lunch and spied a last slice of delicious-looking chocolate cake. Knowing Peter was a fan, I bought it.
I popped the slice into his pigeonhole in the print room along with a friendly note dated 13 February 1991. I was photocopying when Peter came in to get his mail and found the cake. I had a smile on my face waiting for him to thank me. But his response was totally unexpected.
He was furious. How dare I write him a note, especially on the day before Valentine’s Day! “Stop flirting with me and leave me alone,” he said.
Incensed, I told him to sod off and stop thinking so highly of himself. It was only a piece of cake. I decided he really was arrogant.
A couple of weeks passed, and we hadn’t spoken unless absolutely necessary. The tension was so great that one time a colleague walked into the print room as we were separately doing tasks, then retreated with an, “Oh, I’m sorry” and a knowing smile. We looked up quizzically before ignoring each other again.
In March we still weren’t speaking. Then I was tasked with refiling an ad hoc system involving spreading files across the floor before re-cataloguing.
I was sitting in the middle of this mess when Peter appeared with a notebook and coffee on his way to a meeting. I thought: if he cuts across, it’s love; if he goes the long way around, it’s war. I looked at him, not unkindly, when he started picking his way through the files. I smiled and said hello. He smiled back and said hello. It was love with no turning back.
By April we were engaged and in September we married. We were incredibly happy even though we were thought of as opposites. Peter was observant and serious as well as a risk-taker, artist, book collector and wine connoisseur. I was more social, always ready for fun and possibly a little careless.
Peter made me more thoughtful and diplomatic. Even through very tough times, our bond was strong and our love endured. We laughed every day, enjoyed the thrill of dancing in the kitchen, and our three gorgeous sons brought us so much joy. Our youngest son Jack, also an artist, now works at the Museum of Contemporary Art.
For 34 years we were there for each other. Then in May 2025, my brave, beloved Peter died from Parkinson’s.
He did tell me that when he met me, he immediately thought, “She’s trouble” and made sure we only spoke if it was work-related – because the moment he saw me he knew he could love me. Sometimes he’d playfully call me “Trouble”. But trouble or not, true love always finds a way.
