A two-word email ended a marriage, but started a romance between former housemates

Jacqui Hunt, 60, former lead singer of ’90s band Single Gun Theory, first met fellow muso Brian Conolly, 62, when they were teenagers. Decades later, they’d reunite in a collaboration that would be more than musical.

JACQUI: I was a rebellious child. I was expelled from school for a crazy haircut, and left home at 16 to move into a share house in Darlington [in Sydney]. It was 1982. There were four guys in the house, including Brian. They were a little older than me, and most were musicians. We started a band called The Guinea Pigs, with me as lead singer. I was Piglet One and Brian was Piglet Two. We were just friends, but he was very supportive. I wanted to write songs and so, one Saturday, he grabbed his guitar and we went to Centennial Park. I was young, and lots of people were telling me what to do, but Brian always took me seriously.

After a year, Brian left the band and the house broke up. I cried because I thought my life had fallen apart, too. I moved to Surry Hills and studied fashion at tech. I also started singing with an electronic band called Single Gun Theory. We toured the US and Canada and developed a solid following.

I saw Brian occasionally through the years, just as friends. Then, in 2012, we reconnected through Facebook. He was still making music and he asked me to come round and see what he was doing. When the time came, I thought, “This is the last thing I wanna do”. But it was lovely seeing him: he was so positive, which wasn’t what I was used to. At that time, my marriage was in a bad place.

We kept meeting up to jam, and I started to develop feelings for Brian, who’d been separated from his wife for seven years. But I was still married. Then he went to Europe. On the way there, he emailed me a poem he’d written about building his own planet and “taking your sky with me”. On the spur of the moment, I turned it into a song.

A few days later, I was at home one afternoon, crying, knowing my marriage was over. I opened my emails and saw one from Brian, who was in Italy, saying, “Ti amo.” I sent him the song I’d made as an MP3. He got it on his phone when he was sitting in the Kuala Lumpur exit lounge. I knew immediately I needed to see him, that it was the most important thing in my life. The day he arrived back, I met him at his house. Then I went home and told my husband I was in love with someone else.

I moved straight in with Brian, which was radical, and then my divorce took years. And all I wanted was peace: one day, I met Brian’s ex-wife in the driveway of his house – she was collecting one of their daughters. I said, “If you want to reconcile with him, just tell me,” and she said, “Oh, God, no!”

We’ve been through a lot: my father died of cancer in 2020, my mum died suddenly, also of cancer, in 2022 and, in 2024, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Brian has always been there. Every morning, he makes me coffee. He makes me laugh. We make up silly band names like The Turtle Minders because I think minding turtles would be a cool job. Or maybe it’s hugely stressful? We also ended up collaborating on my new album, Desiderium. Coming full circle with Brian feels like some weird miracle, like I’m in this beautiful space and lifting back into the light.

BRIAN: I met Jacqui in the early 1980s when she moved into a share house we had near Sydney Uni. She was gorgeous, a little punkette with short blonde hair. I was in a garage band called The Kelpies but, when she arrived, we started The Guinea Pigs, which was more New Wave.

I was at uni doing computer science, but music was in my soul. After graduating, I lived in Adelaide, then went to California to work in audio technology. One day in 1990, I was driving around San Francisco listening to Live 105, and Jacqui’s voice came on the radio in a song by Single Gun Theory. Her singing was beautiful, perfect pitch.

Over those years, we’d bump into each other: I crashed on her couch one time when she was living in London. We had very separate lives but were always friends. I came back to Sydney, got married and had children. I cofounded an audio business called Lake, which listed on the ASX in 2000. I then started another company producing sailing apparel, but it was incredibly stressful and my wife and I split in 2004.

I was wanting to get back into music again when, in 2012, I saw Jacqui on Facebook. I said, “Would you like to come to my studio and try some music together?” She was a brilliant vocalist, and I thought she must have all kinds of opportunities, so for her to accept was fantastic. We jammed together for a few months. I had zero expectations, but I slowly became mesmerised by her talent, and realised I was falling for her. I thought there might have been hints in the songs themselves, with the lyrics we were writing, but I wasn’t sure she felt the same. Then, one day, I was visiting my mother, who had cancer and was in hospital, and I played her one of the songs I’d recorded with Jacqui. Mum’s eyes lit up and she said, “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

Shortly after, I went to Italy for business. I talked with a friend there about what I should do. He said, “Just tell her!” But there was a risk, because it could’ve wrecked our musical connection. But I thought if I write something to her in Italian, which I don’t speak, then I could hide behind a layer of innocence. Also, I was safely on the other side of the planet. So I typed a message that said simply, “Ti amo, Jacquelina.” I pressed Send and thought, “Shit! I’ve done it!” The next day, in my inbox, was a song that Jacqui had sung with a poem I’d sent her earlier on. It was confirmation of her feelings, and one of the most momentous things that has ever happened to me.

The minute I landed back in Sydney, I rushed home, dropped my bags, then went shopping for a cooking pot: I wanted to make Jacqui spaghetti vongole, and you need a special pot for that. Jacqui moved into my house immediately and has pretty much been here ever since.

It hasn’t always been easy: we’re both passionate artists. But we complement each other. I’m scientific and Jacqui is more spiritual. She has made me more relaxed with the unknown, in breaking the rules of reality and embracing mystery. And I don’t think anyone else could’ve done that.

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