‘You knew, didn’t you?’ They’d been home from the hospital for two hours and there’d been more lengthy phone calls to Queensland, namely to Susannah’s mother who seemed the only one capable of maintaining a conversation. Both Priscilla and Franklin Wright had gone under.
‘The hospital told Mummy that they rang the theatre hours before Michael died and that you said you’d ring the family.’ Susannah was no longer hysterical. She’d had several hefty Scotches, the sedative Alex had given her twenty minutes before was starting to take effect, and he’d finally pursuaded her to lie down. For the moment her grief was numb. But it would be back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. She felt exhausted.
‘I wondered why that woman was so cold when we got to the hospital. How long had you known?’
Alex looked at her sympathetically but he didn’t reply.
‘How many hours, Alex? Did you know when we were fucking on the dressing room floor?’
He nodded.
‘Oh my God!’ She didn’t have enough strength left in her to feel rage but the tears threatened to come again.
Alex knelt beside her. He didn’t attempt to touch her but his face was close to hers. ‘Listen to me, Susannah. They said he would never regain consciousness. He wouldn’t have known whether you were there or not. You had an opening night. You had a thousand people waiting to see you. What was I supposed to do?’
Susannah’s eyes, now barely able to focus, looked at him.
‘I hoped he wouldn’t die before you could get there,’ Alex continued, ‘I really did.’
A glimmer in Susannah’s eyes told him that he’d made contact.
‘What else could I do, Susannah? What else could I do?’
As Susannah’s mind slipped into unconsciousness she was aware of only one thing that truly appalled her. She understood! She understood so well that if the situation had been reversed she knew she would have done the same thing herself. She was appalled at the callous attitude of the theatre, she was appalled that ‘the show must go on’, and she was appalled that the next night would see her up on that stage. The only sensation that remained as she passed out was one of utter self-loathing. Michael’s heroic death made headlines the next day, as did Susannah’s heroic insistence she perform.
‘No, I’m not being particularly brave,’ she was quoted as saying. ‘Performing Hedda Gabler is the only thing that’s keeping me going.’
It was perhaps the one completely true statement she’d made to the press in a very long time, Susannah thought listlessly. But then she’d lost sight of what was real and what wasn’t long before. Michael was probably the only thing that had ever been real in her life. He was certainly the only person who had ever known the real her, Susannah was convinced of that.
Alex stood quietly and supportively by his wife’s side during the brief press interviews he allowed. He was quick to whisk her away when he sensed she’d had enough and he didn’t participate in the interviews himself. What was the point, after all? Susannah was far more effective left on her own.
Her Hedda was not quite the same, Alex thought, after seeing the next few performances, and it probably never would be. It was technically flawless but there was a spark missing which was hardly surprising. Not that it really mattered. No one else noticed and the entire season was booked out.
Alex was wrong. Someone else had noticed. Maddy had noticed.
Maddy hadn’t seen Susannah since NADA, twelve years before. Enough time for changes, certainly, but not this drastic, she thought. Where was the vivacious Susannah Wright? The craftsmanship of the actress onstage was undeniable but where was the electricity and charm which had always been Susannah’s trademark? And she looked so ill! Susannah had always been thin, but now she was positively emaciated. The make-up didn’t disguise the dark rings under her eyes and even her glorious titian hair had lost its lustre. Her recent family trauma couldn’t be solely responsible for such a change, surely.
Maddy was fully aware of the turn of events. She and Jenny had arrived in Sydney the day after Michael’s death. She’d read about the accident in the press and her mother, still an avid devotee of the theatre, had told her of Susannah’s previous troubles—her collapse and the cancellation of the original opening night. Poor Susannah, Maddy thought. She would have got in touch if Susannah hadn’t been married to Alex. Any contact with Alex was unthinkable.
Despite her dread of bumping into Alex, Maddy hadn’t been able to resist coming to the show. She was keen to see not only the faces from her past, but Susannah’s performance of Hedda. Hedda Gabler was a role Maddy had always longed to play.
Strange, she thought. Susannah and I were constant rivals at drama school and now here she is, not only playing Hedda but married to Alex. Maddy felt no envy. Far from it. She felt an overwhelming pity for Susannah and a flood of relief at her own escape. Suddenly she wished Douglas was with her.
Maddy hadn’t dared tell Jenny she was going to the theatre. ‘Going to see some old friends,’ was what she’d said, which wasn’t really a lie. But she’d had to promise to take Jenny out the next day.
‘The movies or the theatre?’ Maddy had asked. Silly question.
‘The theatre, of course.’ Jenny didn’t care which theatre. Maybe we’ll go to Julian’s play, Maddy thought.
As she sat back and watched Susannah and Harold and Rosie Lee, Maddy found herself overwhelmed by a bittersweet nostalgia. Those wonderful days seemed so long ago.
Dear Harold. He was looking old now. Well, he’d have to be in his mid to late seventies. He was still a marvellous actor. Much as she longed to see them, Maddy hadn’t yet made up her mind as to whether or not she would contact Julian and Harold. She decided not to think about it until after she’d seen Julian’s play and she spent most of the interval casting furtive glances around the foyer from behind a potted palm. Alex was nowhere to be seen, thank goodness.
As soon as the performance was over Maddy ducked out of the main entrance and into the chilly night air. She felt quite safe, as the stage door was around the other side of the block. But nevertheless she kept in the shadows until she saw a vacant taxi approaching.
She stepped out to hail it and collided with a man who had just crossed the street and was hurrying past the theatre entrance.
‘Oh,’ she gasped, ‘I’m terribly—’ She looked at him for only the briefest moment before dropping her eyes in the pretence of fumbling with her handbag.
It was Alex. ‘That’s all right.’ He flashed her an automatic smile and continued walking.
Maddy didn’t dare look up until she’d seated herself in the taxi. Then, from the safety of the shadows, she turned just in time to see him round the corner of the block on his way to the stage door.
For one split-second Alex had looked directly into her eyes. And he hadn’t recognised her.
‘Kirribilli, please.’ Maddy closed the taxi door and leaned back, aware that her pulse was racing. His smile, although a token courtesy to a stranger in the street, had been pure Rainford. Dazzling, magnetic. And she was shaken by the effect it had had on her.
‘Good show tonight?’ Alex accepted the glass of port Harold offered him. When he was performing Harold never drank during the day but he always kept a bottle of port in his dressing room and allowed himself two medicinal nips. One before the show and one during interval. ‘Essential for the voice,’ he insisted.
‘Oh yes, excellent,’ he replied as he cold-creamed his face. ‘Packed house, good audience. Where were you? You’re usually in on a Friday.’
‘Had to chat up a prospective investor,’ Alex answered. ‘Now hurry it up. Julian’ll be waiting for us.’
‘Don’t rush me. He has a key to the flat, he can let himself in. I don’t like to be rushed.’ But Harold was loving it. His darling boy was bossing him around, and he was about to cook supper for his two dear boys and to reunite them in their friendship. He rather hoped Alex felt a twinge of jealousy at the fact that Julian had a key to the flat.
Alex hadn’t even heard Harold. His mind was on Myra. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he had to chat up a prospective investor. After they’d made love he and Myra had talked avidly about joining forces in another venture. She’d been fascinated to hear that Alex was planning to produce Julian’s next play.
‘He doesn’t know it yet,’ Alex grinned, ‘but he will by the end of the evening. We’re having supper together.’
Myra smiled back. One couldn’t help but admire Alex’s cocky confidence. And he was as attractive as ever—possibly more so. The cheeky laughter lines which used to disappear as the smile faded now remained there. They had become character grooves, and gave his face an added strength. How old would he be? she wondered. Thirty-one? Thirty-two? Yes, he was aging magnificently.
As for sex, it was the same battle royal between them. From the moment they entered the bedroom it was obvious that both had decided to take the first game. Neither had won; it had been a draw. But Myra had only just managed to stay the pace. My God, this is exhausting, she thought, as they galloped towards their mutual climax. I can’t make a regular habit of this—I’m too old.
She’d never contemplated herself feeling ‘too old’ for anything. Certainly nothing sexual. But over the last few years Myra had realised that concessions did have to be made. The lighting certainly had to be softer, mirrors had to be strategically placed to cover flattering angles and, most important of all, there was to be no riding on top unless it was in the dark.
Myra remembered with vivid clarity the large, black lacquered, glass-topped coffee table and the young man stretched out on it. She was astride him and riding home when she caught sight of herself in the table’s surface. She had three chins and looked seventy. It was a terrible shock. The biggest shock of all was the face of the twenty-six-year-old looking back at her. My God, he’s seeing that, she realised, and it put her completely off her stride. She never rode on top again.
Maybe she really was getting old, Myra thought, as she decided with a certain sense of relief, that Alex should be yet another sexual concession. She’d made it through the final round tonight. While the scores were even, she could withdraw from the Rainford-Nielson sexual stakes.
Besides, Alex had far more to offer than sex. Myra couldn’t wait to work on another production with him.
Alex was thinking along exactly the same lines. He was thrilled that Myra wanted to be in on the deal. It practically guaranteed him investment from the private quarter. And of course it was the added carrot to dangle in front of Julian.
To keep in favour he was even prepared to concede a draw in round one of the sexual battle: as he sensed Myra starting to tire, he timed himself perfectly. It was a small price to pay.
‘Myra Nielson’s really hot on the idea, Julian.’
‘What idea? There isn’t even a script.’ They had finished Harold’s excellent supper and were sipping the last of the red wine and nibbling at the huge wedge of Brie Harold had placed in the centre of the table.
‘But there will be, won’t there?’ Alex leaned forward enthusiastically. ‘There will be a script. There’s something in your mind already, isn’t there?’
Damn it, how can he read me so well? Julian felt a flash of annoyance. Alex was quite right. Despite the fact that he’d tried to distance himself, Julian had found Alex to be yet again a source of inspiration. As thrilling as his idea was, though, he was fighting to resist it, fighting to resist Alex’s encouragement.
Alex read the irritation in Julian’s eyes and chastised himself. There’s something going on in that head, don’t let him know that you know or he’ll close up. ‘And with Myra behind us we’re laughing.’ Keep it general, he warned himself. ‘Not only are we in front with the private investors but the press too. She’s more powerful than ever, Julian. Just think …’
As Alex started to paint the mammoth production he had in mind—the theatres he’d book, the promotion campaigns he’d mount, the prime tour circuit he’d plan—the beginnings of a play germinated in Julian’s mind.
It had started from the moment he’d arrived at Harold’s flat. He hadn’t wanted to come. David had moved out two days ago and he’d been depressed ever since. Somehow, unreasonable as it might be, he blamed Alex for the split and as a result he’d been determined to keep his distance tonight. He didn’t want to get drawn into chats about old times with him; he was there purely as a favour to Harold.
‘I was sorry to hear about Susannah’s brother,’ he said. ‘She must have been tremendously upset.’ Well, that part was easy; he had been genuinely moved and had written Susannah an extremely touching letter.
‘She was. She loved your letter. Thanks.’
Harold looked up from the salad he was tossing. ‘She’s still an absolute mess, poor dear. Thank God she’s got me and Rosie to look after her.’
Julian nodded sympathetically. ‘And after being so terribly ill herself.’
‘Oh, that part was staged.’ Julian looked confused and Alex glared at Harold who continued with gay abandon. ‘Didn’t you know? Alex built that up to epic proportions in order to buy an extra twenty-four hours. The press loved it.’ Harold didn’t draw breath as he turned to Alex. ‘“Fie, fie, unknit that threat’ning unkind brow”—we don’t keep secrets from Julian.’ He finished tossing the salad and tipped some bread rolls into a wicker basket. ‘The terrible thing is, the press loved the news of poor Michael’s death even more. One of you boys open the Henschke please.’ Harold took the bread and salad to the table. ‘The show could run for a year.’
Julian felt a slight but familiar tingle at the back of his spine as he looked at Alex.
‘It’s ghastly, isn’t it,’ Harold continued, ‘to think that the more macabre the publicity, the greater effect it has.’
Alex sensed Julian’s interest and the irritation he’d felt towards Harold disappeared immediately, along with the original idea of playing for respect and understanding as Susannah’s stalwart husband.
‘Poor Susannah,’ he said as he started opening the wine. ‘She didn’t know. All through the performance she didn’t know.’ And Julian sat enthralled as Alex told the story, clinically and without embellishment, of Michael’s death.
Once again, the power Alex had over people riveted Julian and, hard as he tried to ignore it, his fascination grew as the evening progressed.
There were frivolous moments, mainly provided by Harold who was basking in the company of his two favourite young men and delighting in the fact that he had successfully forged their reunion. But, ironically, it was one of Harold’s theatrical anecdotes which finally ignited the spark in Julian.
It was one of his Noel Coward stories and Julian had heard it before. The one where an irritating person accosted Coward in the street and accused him of being a fairy.
‘“A fairy!” he said …’ Harold pursed his lips, put one hand on his hip and, with the other, flourished an imaginary umbrella. He tapped Julian on the shoulder with his ‘wand’. ‘“Then vanish!”’ And he sat down with a hearty laugh.
Vanish. The word hung magically in the air for Julian. That’s what Alex did to people, he thought. Alex made people vanish.
All those years ago at NADA Jonathan Thomas had vanished. Then Maddy’s baby had vanished. Perhaps Alex hadn’t meant Maddy herself to go but it would probably only have been a matter of time before she became a hindrance. He certainly hadn’t missed her for long.
Now Michael Wright had vanished. And there appeared to be no reason for his disappearance other than it served Alex’s purpose.
And of course David had vanished. Julian refused to admit that it would probably have happened without Alex’s influence. Alex had said that the affair would last no more than a year. That was the distance he’d allowed them and that was the distance they’d lasted. No more, no less. Just like the others, David had been willed out of existence.
What a wonderful character for a play, Julian thought, as the idea grew chillingly in his mind. A conjurer. A man who willed people to disappear. Sometimes they died, sometimes they just went away. But, whatever the turn of events, they simply ceased to exist in the conjurer’s sphere.
Julian knew there was no turning back. The play was there.
Harold had been well and truly infected with Alex’s excitement at the prospect of another joint venture. ‘Another I, Me and Us,’ he exclaimed. ‘That’d set them all on their ears!’
‘No. Bigger than I, Me and Us, Harold. Much bigger. An international hit—one that’ll sell to the West End.’
Julian was staring fixedly at the table. He could see the bare stage. Two small boys. Brothers. That was the beginning. One of them wants to be an only child like his best friend down the street who gets twice as many presents as he does. He dares his brother to do something. Something dangerous. The brother accepts the dare and is killed. It is the first successful vanishing act.
‘Some more Brie?’ Harold had noticed Julian staring at the cheese.
‘No.’ Julian rose to his feet. ‘No thank you, Harold. I’m sorry, but I won’t stay for coffee. It was a great supper. Thanks.’
As he walked to the door, Alex called after him. ‘Shall we meet next week?’ When Julian shook his head, Alex smiled benignly. ‘That’s all right, you do the writing. I’ll work on the rest.’
‘Give me three weeks.’ Julian opened the front door. ‘Three weeks and I’ll have your first draft.’ And he closed the door behind him.
The moment Julian had gone, Alex jumped up and hugged Harold. ‘Did you hear that, Harold? I’ll have my play in three weeks. In three weeks!’
And Harold was very happy for his darling boy. He was very happy for both his darling boys as he went off to the kitchen to fetch the coffee and brandy.
Alex didn’t get home until three o’clock in the morning. Apart from a sleepy grunt of acknowledgement Susannah didn’t notice. But then Susannah didn’t notice anything lately.
Alex tried to be kind to her. Tried to help her through her period of mourning, but to no avail. She seemed to prefer him keeping out of her way. The only time she showed any animation was when she was on stage. Any topic Alex brought up for conversation was met with a listless shrug of indifference and even the prospect of another play with Julian failed to arouse her interest. She never left the house and she refused all invitations.
Alex was actually glad when she knocked back Harold’s invitation to supper. It would be easier for him to work on Julian. But he was annoyed when she steadfastly refused to join him at the ski chalet on Sunday.
‘It’s just the break you need, Susannah. You need to get out of Sydney for a couple of days. The Claytons are coming up early Sunday morning and we’ll be back in time for you to rest before the Monday performance.’
There was the usual shrug of indifference. ‘I can’t stand the Claytons. I can’t stand any of that trendy après-ski set.’
‘Then I’ll stay in town and we’ll go up together on the Sunday, for Christ’s sake.’ But he couldn’t budge her. Finally, he gave up in disgust. ‘Bugger it, what’s the point!’ And he left for Thredbo first thing Saturday morning. The reports of early falls were excellent, it was the first weekend of the season and he was damned if he was going to miss out on the break he’d planned for weeks.
Hell, other entrepreneurs had their boats or their racehorses or their bloody polo ponies—all he asked was his several weekends at the snow during the winter months.
Alex’s love of skiing and the chalet life in general had been a major expense over the past several years. It was only recently that he’d curbed his European trips and settled for the local resorts. Not for much longer, though, he decided. Next year it’ll be Europe again. Switzerland or Austria? Hell, why not be different? Maybe Scotland this time. And maybe I’ll take Julian with me.
Alex spent the afternoon on the slopes of Crackenback and was ensconced in the chalet bar at around seven-thirty pm.
At eight o’clock he excused himself from the pretty twenty-three-year-old with the promise in her eyes. He took himself off to the restaurant to dine alone. The Claytons were very wealthy, very reliable investors. The Claytons were also starfuckers who worshipped Susannah and Alex and dined out on the intimate friendship they maintained with the dynamic duo of the theatre. The last thing Alex needed when the Claytons arrived tomorrow was a snow-bunny on his arm.
‘Not much of a house for a Saturday night,’ Jenny commented as she looked critically around the auditorium.
‘Yes. Sad, isn’t it?’ Maddy answered, keeping a wary eye out for anyone she might know, particularly Julian.
‘Maybe it’s not much of a play,’ Jenny said with all the ruthlessness of an eleven-year-old.
‘Jen!’ Maddy couldn’t help smiling but she defended Julian just the same. ‘I told you, I know the playwright.’
‘Doesn’t mean it’s a good play though, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t. You’re right. But let’s reserve our judgement till we’ve seen it, shall we?’
‘OK.’
‘I like it,’ Jenny said at interval. ‘Well, so far I like it.’
‘Yes,’ Maddy agreed. ‘It has its moments.’
‘Can I get to meet him?’
‘Who?’ But Maddy knew who she meant.
‘The playwright.’
‘I told you, Jen, he’s not here. I’ve been looking.’
‘But you could ring him—the theatre would know where he is. We could meet him tomorrow.’
‘All right, all right. Now do you want to go to the loo? There’s another five minutes.’ Jenny shook her head. ‘Then let’s go back for Act Two.’
It wasn’t the first time Jenny had asked about people from her mother’s past. Ever since they’d arrived in Sydney the requests had been continual.
Relatives had been an easy answer for the first week but now Helena and her family and Todd Hall and his weren’t enough. Not that Helena and Todd hadn’t been highly successful. They had. Maddy had been delighted with the instantly established rapport. Helena refused to be called ‘grandma’, ‘gran’ or ‘nanna’ but she loved the role and, while her grandmother act was at times a little cloying, Jenny didn’t mind. In fact the child seemed to realise unconsciously that Helena needed to play roles in order to justify her existence.
Helena hadn’t changed much. Another harbourside home—Kirribilli this time. Another successful professional man—cardiologist this time. And another commitment to the role of society hostess and tireless charity worker.
‘Only Variety Club and handicapped children these days,’ she insisted. ‘Oh, Maddy darling, I’ve changed radically—my whole life has changed radically. When I think how I frittered away my energies on meaningless charities when I could have devoted myself to my kiddies.’
The antique grandfather clock which had been in Todd’s family for generations struck five.
‘Oh, is that the time? Check there’s plenty of ice and lift out the Glenfiddich will you, dear? Toddy’ll be home in a minute.’ And Helena started clearing up the endless mailing list she’d been working on for the Variety Club’s Black and White Ball.
‘Todd of Todd Hall’ was a very nice man—a protestant version of Robert, really. A little less stitched-up but reserved nevertheless with a penchant for a well-ordered life and a pretty and supportive wife. Helena fitted the bill perfectly and they were very happy together. When they saw the sandy-haired little girl with the strong face, the direct grey-blue eyes and the even temperament, they quickly became doting grandparents.
Nevertheless, Helena was thrown when Jenny posed the question out of the blue. ‘Did you know my father?’
While Helena fumbled for the answer, Maddy dived in. ‘No, she didn’t, really. Like I told you, he was a student at NADA and we weren’t together for very long.’
‘I was asking Helena, Mum.’ Jenny wasn’t being rude, Maddy realised, just her usual disconcertingly direct self. And she did, after all, deserve an answer. They all looked at Helena.
‘Well …’ Helena could barely remember Alex. ‘He was very attractive, and … well …’ It was no use. ‘Your mother’s quite right. I hardly knew him.’
Jenny turned to her mother. ‘Is he here in Sydney? Are we going to see him?’
It was Maddy’s turn to be thrown. ‘I hadn’t planned on it. Do you want to?’
Jenny shrugged. But it wasn’t a diffident shrug. She was watching Maddy closely, realising that her mother had been unsettled by the question.
‘Why the sudden interest?,’ Maddy asked. ‘You didn’t seem to care one way or another when we were in England.’
‘That’s because we were in England.’
‘Oh.’
‘Would you like to see him, Mum?’ The eyes didn’t waver; they demanded to be met head-on.
Maddy did just that. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Fair enough.’
Why did Maddy feel such a chill at the prospect of seeing Alex? And what right did she have to deny the child a meeting with her father? She felt riddled with guilt. ‘Maybe when you’re a bit older, what do you think?’
Jenny had read her mother’s guilt. ‘Mum,’ she said, ‘I don’t mind.’ And then she smiled. ‘Really!’ And Maddy knew she was off the hook.
Jenny’s queries about the past continued, though. She particularly wanted to hear about NADA and the people Maddy knew there. And now she wanted to meet Julian.
During the second act of the play Maddy’s mind kept weighing heavily on whether or not she should seek Julian out and introduce him to her daughter. How close was he with Alex these days? Could she trust him with the secret of Jenny? Maddy was still pondering her decision at the end of the performance as they walked out of the auditorium into the foyer.
‘I didn’t like the second act as much as the first.’ Jenny chatted away, oblivious to the fact that her mother wasn’t really listening.
‘Maddy?’ A tall bony man with lank hair that fell across his brow was waiting for them beside the foyer door.
Maddy froze for a moment before she realised with a sense of relief that her decision had been made for her. Julian’s eyes had flickered to Jenny and, when they returned to meet her own, there was a query in them. She nodded slightly. Julian now knew and she was glad.
‘Julian! How lovely to see you.’ And it was. She hugged him, forcing back the tears. ‘This is my daughter, Jenny.’
Julian had called in to the theatre at interval. He hadn’t intended to stay for the second act. Then he’d seen Maddy. She was looking about a little nervously as if she didn’t want to be noticed. But surely by coming to the theatre she was hoping to make contact. Why the mystery? Why didn’t she want to initiate the contact herself?
Then he’d looked at the child with her and he knew. The child was Alex Rainford’s. He could tell not only by her physical appearance but, as he watched her in animated discussion with her mother, the girl’s intensity—her very mannerisms—were Alex’s.
He’d watched as Maddy gestured towards the women’s toilets. He saw Jenny shake her head and then he watched as they returned to the auditorium. He followed, positioning himself in one of the many empty seats up the back and then he studied them as the lights started to fade. Maddy had changed. With her cropped blonde hair and her slim body she looked as young as ever but she’d matured. There was a womanliness about her now and it suited her.
Julian had slipped out into the foyer just before the curtain and waited for them, hoping that he was right about Maddy’s desire to make contact. Why bring the child to the theatre if she hadn’t been hoping subconsciously he’d be there? Now, as he hugged her, he knew he’d been right.
‘Jen. This is Julian Oldfellow, the playwright.’
‘Oh, great!’ Jenny beamed. ‘I was trying to nag Mum into letting me meet you.’
‘What a good idea. She’s been avoiding me altogether too much. How about lunch tomorrow? My place at Bondi?’
‘Bondi Beach?’
Julian nodded.
‘Wow! I’ve never been to Bondi Beach.’
Julian looked questioningly at Maddy, who laughed. ‘All right! I can’t take you both on.’
‘I suppose a coffee now is out of the question?’ Julian asked.
Maddy nodded firmly. ‘It’s past Jenny’s bedtime.’ But she accepted Julian’s offer of a lift home.
As Jenny sat in the back seat and unwound the window to get a better view of the harbour lights, Julian murmured to Maddy, ‘Can I ask Harold tomorrow, or would you rather I didn’t?’
Maddy hesitated, then shook her head. ‘Let’s keep it just between ourselves for the moment, Julian. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. I need your advice.’ Julian nodded and Maddy called over to the rear seat. ‘Stick your head back in the car, Jen.’ They were crossing the Harbour Bridge now and Jenny was leaning out of the window to watch the arch of lights zooming by overhead. She pretended not to hear.
‘I said now,’ Maddy demanded. ‘And close the window, it’s cold.’
‘Nag, nag, nag,’ Jenny muttered. Julian and Maddy shared a smile.
Julian picked them up the next morning, telling them to bring some warm clothing for a walk along the beach.
There was the bite of winter in the air but the sky was blue and the air was clear when they arrived at Bondi. A steady stream of long white breakers rolled invitingly to the shore.
‘Good day for the surfies,’ Julian said. ‘Look at them, the idiots. It’d be freezing out there.’ At least two dozen wetsuit-clad surfboard riders were braving the waves, much to Jenny’s delight.
Not long ago David would have been one of them, Julian thought, with a rush of nostalgia. Then he shook off the feeling. Don’t be maudlin, he reprimanded himself—it’s not healthy.
After dumping their gear at Julian’s they walked for miles, Jenny skipping on ahead, indefatigable. So’s Maddy, Julian thought, already aware of tomorrow’s cramp in his calf muscles.
‘Sure you don’t want to call it a day?’ he suggested for the fifth time and Maddy once again smiled as she shook her head.
‘Not just yet.’ She laughed at Julian’s painful grimace. ‘You’re getting positively middle-aged, Julian. Just to the cemetery, I promise. Then we can sit and talk while Jenny explores. She loves cemeteries.’
They crested the hill and saw Waverley Cemetery ahead of them. Maddy sought a choice park bench where they could look back along the headlands to the view of Bondi in the distance and Jenny started her exploration of the headstones.
Julian sank gratefully onto the bench and, after regaining his breath, sat back, ignored the view and looked demandingly at her. ‘Right. You want to dive straight in or do you need me to break the ice?’
Maddy shook her head gently, took a deep breath and plunged in. She told him about the doctor and the faked abortion; she told him about the rift with her father and her seedy life in London while she tried to carve a career for herself; she told him about Androgyne and the start of her success. She spared no details and pulled no punches and the telling was a salve to her. For the past twelve years there’d been no one to whom she could bare it all.
Julian listened patiently, offering a smile of encouragement here and there. He laughed uproariously at the story of Androgyne and Rodney Baines.
‘Stop it, Julian,’ Maddy admonished, although she was grinning broadly herself. ‘He’s a lovely man and a very, very dear friend.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it, Maddy. You could obviously do with one over there, it sounds like a bloody uphill battle.’ But he kept chortling nevertheless. ‘The dick that defies an ice bucket—I’ll never be able to watch that film seriously again.’ He dabbed at his eyes, the chill in the air and the tears of mirth were making them sting. ‘I can’t wait to tell Harold.’
Maddy’s smile faded. ‘I’m not sure if you should, Julian.’
‘Why not? It’s the sort of story he adores. Besides, he was mad about the film. Said it had shades of Les Enfants du Paradis about it; “just a tad short of a masterpiece”, he said.’ Julian noticed Maddy’s sombre look and decided to joke her out of it. ‘Mind you, he said he’d have liked a touch more vulgarity. “A touch more La Grande Bouffe,” was what he said. He said,’ and Julian struck a pose, ‘“I feel cheated if I don’t get any repulsive eating or furious fornicating scenes. The Europeans do all that salivating and slobbering so well”.’
Julian burst out laughing at his excellent imitation of Harold. ‘He didn’t mean it, of course, he so loves playing the cantankerous old actor these days. He spends most of his afternoons lolling around eating chocolates and reading the Bulletin, Time and Life magazines because he says when you’re fat and over seventy sex is out the window, so what else is there?’ Julian grinned and shrugged. ‘Just another aspect of the jaded aging actor image he likes to present—I don’t think sex was ever that important to Harold, anyway.’
Maddy was still looking serious so Julian stopped camping it up. ‘What’s the matter, Maddy? What’s worrying you?’
‘I don’t want Alex to know about Jenny.’
‘I agree with you,’ Julian nodded. ‘And you can rely on me not to tell him.’
‘But could I rely on Harold?’
Julian didn’t answer.
‘Are they as close as they used to be?’ Maddy asked.
He nodded. ‘As far as Harold’s concerned, possibly even more so. He worships Alex.’ Julian breathed a regretful sigh. ‘You’re right. Even if Harold swore on the Bible, you wouldn’t be able to trust him, not in anything relating to Alex. A night of camaraderie, a good bottle or two of red under the belt, his love for Alex overshadowing everything …’ Julian shrugged ‘… he wouldn’t be able to resist reuniting you two and your beautiful child. He’d do it with the best of motives, of course, but …’ Julian shrugged again.
Maddy nodded and they both turned to watch Jenny as she ran up the grassy slope towards them.
‘How’s it going, darling?’ Maddy asked when the child arrived panting beside them.
‘There are lots of children buried here,’ Jenny said.
‘Well, I guess there would be, it’s a fairly big cemetery.’
‘There’s a Celia Dora who was twelve and a Thomas William who was thirteen and they were both born in 1886, and there’s a six month old baby called William Norman with the most beautiful headstone: a white lamb with “Suffer little children to come unto me” written under it. It’s right over the other side; do you want to come and have a look?’
‘No thanks, sweetheart.’ Maddy flashed a smile at Julian. ‘I think we’d better preserve our strength for the walk back.’
‘Do we have to go now?’ Jenny looked disappointed.
‘No, lunch’ll keep,’ Julian interrupted. Then he assured Maddy, ‘I’m happy just sitting here. Really!’ he insisted when she looked doubtful. ‘And there’s a lot more talking to be done. Believe me!’
‘Off you go, Jen,’ Maddy said. ‘Take your time.
‘I don’t know why she’s so interested in cemeteries,’ she mused to Julian as Jenny skipped happily down the slope. ‘She’s not at all morbid and yet she seems to have this fascination with death. Weird.’
The two of them watched the child weaving her way through the tombstones.
‘It’s shocking of me, isn’t it?’ Maddy said eventually. It wasn’t a question and Julian waited for her to continue. ‘I don’t have any right keeping the child from meeting her father.’
‘Does she want to?’
Maddy nodded. ‘Not obsessively though. I’ve told her I’ll introduce them when she’s a bit older.’
‘I’d leave it till she’s a lot older, if I were you.’
Maddy glanced at Julian, surprised. There was an uncharacteristic bitterness in his voice.
He didn’t look at her for several moments while he made his decision and when he finally turned towards her it was with great urgency. ‘Don’t ever let her meet him, Maddy. If you can possibly help it, don’t ever let him into her life.’
It took Julian a long time to tell Maddy everything he knew of Alex. He told as much of his story as objectively as he could, starting with Alex’s childhood and the death of Tim. At the end of that segment he decided it was time to leave. It was a gruesome enough story without the headstones of little Celia Dora, Thomas William and William Norman looking on. Besides, the wind had sprung up and it was way past lunchtime.
After they had eaten, they settled Jenny in the study happily poring over Julian’s endless array of books. Over coffee, Julian embarked upon the Jonathan Thomas saga.
He told it succinctly without embellishment but Maddy’s face reflected her growing horror as she realised how Alex had used the erotic photographs. The photographs, which she had thought were such a personal and precious thing between the two of them, had also been the final straw for poor, sad, guilt-ridden Jonathan Thomas. She was sickened by the thought.
Julian ploughed on remorselessly and it was only when he had finished telling her about Michael Wright’s death that he started losing control.
‘I’m writing a play about it all, Maddy.’ He was trying to keep it light but his voice was strained. ‘The Conjurer—good title, don’t you think? About a man who wills people to disappear from his life. And they do. Just like that.’ Julian’s control suddenly went out the window as he leaned forward in his chair, knuckles tightening around his coffee mug. ‘That’s what Alex does, Maddy, don’t you realise? Alex makes people disappear.’
Julian stopped. He rose abruptly and crossed to the living room window where he remained staring out at the vine-covered patio. ‘He repels me,’ he admitted. ‘But I can’t seem to write without him. He knows it too. I think he’s known it since that Friday night in the pub when he told me about his brother’s death.’
Poor Julian, he’s torturing himself, Maddy thought, as she listened to him recount his attempt to break free of Alex’s influence, the failure of his next plays and now the ironic rebirth of his inspiration during Harold’s supper party.
‘Alex again, you see.’ Julian was indeed tortured but he was never one for prolonged self-dramatisation. ‘Jesus,’ he said, turning to her with a wry grin, ‘if Alex remains my muse I might well corner the market on black plays. Who knows, maybe I should be grateful.’
Maddy joined him at the window and together they looked out at the patio.
It was Julian who broke the silence. ‘So, you see, you mustn’t feel guilty about keeping Jenny away from him.’
‘I know,’ Maddy said. And she did know. She knew that Alex had revelled in the power he had had over her. Now he was obviously gloating in the power he had over Julian. Surely he would relish even more the power he would have over his own adoring flesh and blood. And Jenny would adore him, Maddy realised. Alex would make sure of that.
Maddy saw Julian regularly over the next three weeks before she and Jenny returned to England. Each meeting drew them even closer together. Sometimes they talked voraciously, sometimes they walked quietly along the beach at Bondi watching Jenny chase the waves, and sometimes they read through the latest pages of The Conjurer.
‘Straight off the press,’ Julian would say. ‘First draft only—so don’t be too cruel.’
‘It’s great,’ Maddy would say after each read and each time she meant it.
‘Well, it’s only first draft,’ Julian repeated, secretly thrilled and in total agreement, ‘but yes, it’s coming on quite well, isn’t it?’
Then it was time for Maddy and Jenny to leave. Maddy insisted that family farewells take place at Kirribilli. She was aware that Helena’s reluctance was a gesture only. It was a surgery day for Todd, after all, and the Black and White Ball was only a week away. There was so much to be done.
Julian took them to the airport. ‘Why can’t lovers be this close?’ he asked and he held her to him. Then, as they both felt the prickle of tears, he wailed, ‘Oh God, do I really have to turn straight?’
Maddy giggled. ‘It wouldn’t solve anything if you did.’
‘Of course not.’ Julian hugged her again. ‘I hope he’s right for you, Maddy.’
They’d talked a lot about Douglas Mackie. He hadn’t rung once during Maddy’s month-long holiday in Sydney. It had strengthened her resolve. Good, she thought. I’ll get back to London and call it a day.
Then, twenty-four hours before she was due to fly home, the phone rang. It was Douglas. ‘Sorry I couldn’t call you. I was out of town on business.’
‘What business?’ she wanted to ask. Don’t they have a telephone, these business associates?
‘I’ve missed you,’ he said. ‘Very much.’ That bloody Scots burr, Maddy cursed, going weak at the knees, thrilling to the sound of his voice. I bet he’s laying it on thick deliberately, the shit. ‘I’ll be at the airport,’ he said, and hung up.
‘Yes, I hope he’s right for me too, Julian,’ Maddy said and she turned to go.
Jenny waved furiously but Maddy didn’t look back as she walked into the customs lounge.