It is hard to pinpoint a particular moment when I knew I loved Tim Lancaster from Tangambalanga (real place). When I first saw him looking at a dog? When he first draped a coat over my shoulders on a cold night?
We met the traditional way: in a production of Legally Blonde the musical. I was playing Elle and he was playing Warner, the arsehole who breaks up with her and inspires her to get into Harvard Law School. (What, like it’s hard?) Tale as old as time. We sang in harmony and laughed in dance rehearsals when I stepped on his feet. On closing night where there was one kiss in the script, I gave him two. And this is the moment.
We stayed friends for a long time afterwards but the tides kept throwing us together. We texted about building the perfect fort to recapture our childhoods and, when we finally had our first date, he had transformed his room into my dream pillow fort. And this is the moment.
I have felt limerence fizz in my arms when I’ve been around men before, and it almost always led to heartbreak. So I tended to date men who didn’t make me nervous. Men who made me feel safe. I didn’t think it was possible to feel those two things at once around a person, until I met Tim. The first night we spent together, we woke up and he said: “Maybe we should … ” and I was certain he is going to say, “Just be friends.” Instead, he suggested we stay at mine. It was 37C and I had better air con. And this is the moment.
Now Tim and I share a home, a dog and a Netflix account, though I refuse to learn the password. We also work together, which should be a nightmare but isn’t. It is rare to find a man in showbiz happy to be the wind beneath your wings. He plays guitar and characters in all my shows but never wants the spotlight himself. He’s a rare find – an artist who genuinely just wants to do the job because it is a nice job to do.
After every show people tell me they loved it but they really loved watching Tim watching me. “You can just see how much he loves you,” they say, to which I want to reply: “He is a trained actor so he could just be very good at his job.” Still, I’ve never known a more generous man on or off stage.
He smiles for photos on the red carpet and he warmly entertains the important people whose names I can’t remember in theatre foyers. When my manager worries I might be burnt out, she asks Tim rather than me because he knows me better than I know myself. When I finish a season he tricks me into stopping and reflecting with a cup of tea and a bath. He is my assistant, my partner, my collaborator. My best friend (yuck!).
And he is – most importantly – very silly. As I write this, he has come to interrupt me twice to show two versions of the lightning storm he’s watching, through dance. He is not a dancer.
When I am sure a new show is the worst thing I’ve ever written, he looks me dead in the eyes and says: “Shut the fuck up and have fun.” He holds my hand backstage before every opening night and helps me find my place when I lose my lines. He activates girly mode and gossips with my friends about their romantic escapades. He lets me blame my farts on our dog. These gentle, silly moments every day – these are when I know.
Michelle Brasier’s show Average Bear is at the Sydney Theatre Company, Wharf 1 Theatre, on 25-26 January as part of Sydney festival.
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