by Sam Hall
But I didn’t have to.
I think I surprised myself more than them when I got to my feet, but once up, I caught the eye of everyone for the moment. Yeah, me. Not my conditions, not my disease. And once I was up, it was much easier to turn and head out. People called for me as I did so, but I didn’t let that stop me. Leaving the room and shutting the door behind me and walking away in long confident strides made me feel a million times better. I wove through the crowds, not giving way when servers and workers streamed toward me. Fuck it, they could move around me. I walked and I walked down the Rutherglen’s very pretty transformed driveway, out of the Garden of Eden and back to normality, pausing for a second once I was free of all of it—the people, the grand house, the rock stars, the event. I just breathed the cool, simple, slightly smoke tainted air of real life. My shoulders relaxed as a long breath escaped from where I’d held it tight in my lungs, and it felt like it took a world of tension with it.
No one can make you do anything, I thought as I scanned the crowded car park, looking for my little beat up beast. You can be out taking bush photos within the hour, if you want.
That didn’t settle as well inside me as I thought it might. I’d pretty much photographed every inch of the bush around Gisbourne. Every rock, every tree, every outcropping, and in every season. My fingers twitched, not from a need to shoot something, but perhaps from a loss. There’d been some searing moments yesterday where I’d rode a frantic steed composed of exhilaration and need. I’d felt more alive shooting those confessional images, asking the questions and digging under the glossy surface, but at what? I glanced back at one of the stately trees in the Rutherglen garden, now hung with gigantic faux fruit, tempting all the Eves and Adams. I didn’t quite know what I was seeking when I spoke to them, but I wanted to.
But I couldn’t do that. I rubbed at my face, feeling the fear rise again inside me. I’d always resisted getting involved in Jen’s circle, knowing deep in my bones that this was not the place for me. Scouring the internet for images, watching The Changelings music videos, listening to Liam’s hoarse whisper or scream as I worked alone on my photos—that was me, that was who I was.
Because this… I stared at the grounds, saw the stages they’d set up and the chillout areas under the trees, the various bars and the photobooth they were just starting to build. If I walked into the Garden of Eden and decided to stay, who then, was I?
“Kira!”
Fucking everyone was yelling my name today. My head jerked around to see Dad storming down the driveway at me, a familiar look of disappointment and anger on his face. But not for missing my meds or a meal this time. No, this was a whole other thing.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, walking out on an important negotiation?”
“Rejecting the offer, Dad. I thought that was obvious.”
“Rejecting the… Did you take your medication?”
“Of course, I didn’t, Dad. I haven’t been home. I had a turn last night and slept it off here.”
“Yes, well…” I watched my father’s mind spin as he fought the tyrannical desire to see me stick to my schedule. But why? Nothing got in the way of that in his mind. “The Rutherglen’s have made an incredibly generous offer—”
“I know. They always do. Jen has offered to take me to Bali and Brunei, to Budapest and Barcelona. She’s constantly showering me with stuff, you know that. You said no to it all.”
“But this is work, Kira. Actual meaningful work. They’re talking about a six-month contract initially, then with the option to extend the arrangement if it all works out. Darling, you’d be gainfully employed.”
“So what was I doing beforehand, Dad?”
“Honing your craft, Kira. I see that now! If you saw the execrable crap I put out at the start…” I sighed, having heard Dad’s origin story many a time. “This is what creative people do. They put their work out to be judged on the world stage, to be judged by the educated and the masses. Otherwise, it’s just all mental masturbation, furtively creating in your little room. Where’s the worth in that?”
I knew my Dad didn’t really get me, didn’t support what I did or understand why I took my photos. Why would he? He was a writer, not a visual artist. He didn’t even have a say over his cover artwork. That was all a process conducted by the minions in his publishing house’s art department, and had nothing to do with him. But sometimes, I looked at my parents and wondered how the fuck I’d ended up being their child. Like there was the mental health stuff, but besides that… Where was there anything of me in them? Where was our common ground? But right now, there was an extra layer to my usual, everyday alienation.
“They’re offering you one hundred thousand for the first contract, with bloody generous bonuses on the table for the production of similar quality work—”
“No,” I said. I loved the sound of that word. Short, sharp, and to the fucking point. Like a buffer between me and the Garden of Eden over there.
“What? Don’t be ridiculous! They’ll be sending a medical team along to—”
“No.” The word only got better with repeating. There was a power to it, something I’d felt like I’d lost the moment my imaginary mask disappeared. I’d been hurting and scared and overwhelmed, and now, I wasn’t. I just had to say no.
“Kira! You can’t—”
“No, Dad. I’m saying no. I’m not going on tour. I’m not signing the contract. No.”
I’d never really seen my father as old as he was then. Something seemed to crumple inside him, making him look smaller, fragile almost.
“Kira, you must.”
“No, I don’t. I’m twenty-seven, well and truly old enough to make my own decisions professionally. I’m going back to the cottage, having a meal, my meds, and a sleep and then I’ll decide what to do going forward. If all these glossy mags want a piece of me, I’ll start looking at any offers on the table and proceed from there.”
“Kira.” Dad’s eyes, the same grey colour as mine, held me in a gaze more naked than I’d ever seen before. “You must. You don’t understand how it works with these people. If you don’t give them what they want…” He shook his head frantically. “My books, they’ve been in decline for years, and now, there’s not enough coming in to support the family for much longer. All these indie writers pumping out book after book, they drown out the quality works with just sheer numbers. Your mother, she’s never really felt comfortable working. She doesn’t show it, but caring for your grandmother… It takes its toll.”
“So, what? You want me to contravene everything you’ve said, take this contract, and live the insane life of a rock band on tour for six months, just to keep a roof over our heads? Dad, you wouldn’t even let me go to Newcastle when The Changelings were playing there, let alone let me shoot what will effectively be high class porn tonight. Do you know what happens during their after parties? Orgies, Dad. They hold orgies. You want me to leave home to shoot orgies.”
“No, Kira, I want you to survive. Give them what they want, use a pseudonym to protect yourself, ask not to be credited, if that’s what it takes, but do this. Get a solid nest egg together, buy a place, and that way, if things…”
“If things what? If things what, Dad?”
His eyes met mine squarely.
“If you end up like your grandmother, you’ll be able to afford decent care. We were older when we had you, darling. We won’t be around. You’re our only child, and none of your aunties or uncles are coming forward anytime soon to save the day. I’ve seen some of the places where they put people. It was what brought us to Gisbourne in the first place. Somewhere cheap and quiet and away from everyone else. You’ll need your own place like that, to stay safe as things deteriorate.”
“But what about me?” I asked, my voice becoming small and insignificant as I forced the words out, because I knew what was coming. “I’m your child. Doesn’t what I want count?”
“One thing you find out about being an adult,” he replied, as
if seeing me for the first time, his eyes scouring my mussed hair and creased clothing, “is that what you want often has nothing to do with what will be. You don’t always get to choose the cards you’re dealt. There is an inevitable future we must plan for, Kira, and this is going to be a part of that.”
The world lost all of its clean edge, my hearing limited to the pounding of my heartbeat, my focus on the low-level tremor vibrating through my body. My brain struggled to put it all together—my Dad’s words, the offers, the events of the last day—but couldn’t. I just didn’t have what was required. All I knew was I hurt, actually physically hurt, the ache in my breast bone growing so intense, I rubbed at it instantly.
“Mr. Leigh, Kira…”
I looked up and saw Dave and Jen, Mum and Mr. Adams, and the band all stood on the path, the beautiful estate providing the perfect background behind them.
“I’d like to reassure you both—” Dave said.
“Five hundred thousand for the six months work, more if she produces what we want,” Liam said, shouldering forward. He stared at me with eyes the colour of storm clouds, because it looked like something brewed there, rising in intensity. “Do we have a deal?”
Adams and Dave and Mum spluttered, but Dad just said, “Of course. Let’s formalise that paperwork.”
The second time I walked out of the estate was nowhere near as exultant. Rather, I drifted towards my car, numb to all the twittering that had gone on around me. Mum, Dad, and Mr. Adams had stayed on to celebrate, not really noticing when I slipped away. The band had gone once the deal had been struck, every single one of them watching my hand as I scrawled my signature over and over. That seemed to appease the hungry eyes, somewhat.
Not me though. Here I was, thinking that this might have been my way out, my path towards independence. Instead, I was being forced into a contract I felt uncomfortable taking.
Forced? That wasn’t quite right. I just stood on the curb and looked out on the car park, my eyes skipping over the vehicles and the chaos. This was the kind of job I’d have fallen on my knees, begging my parents to let me go on. So what had changed? I thought of those weird little interviews, something strange and bigger than me taking place, then the magazines being tossed on the bed.
I was scared, I realised, my vision sharpening now. It flicked around to take in the chaos happening all over the estate, the beautifully landscaped grounds being remade by a cast of thousands. I was just part of that. New clothes, new gear, new job, new life. The Rutherglen’s remade people more beautiful in their image, and I was just another part of that.
“Kira, I’m sorry. I thought…”
Jen had followed me out, the only one that did. Her beautiful face was crestfallen, a look I rarely saw on her. She didn’t try to explain further, instead, she moved in and threw her arms around me, so I felt her birdlike bones as she held me tight.
She was doing what she thought was best for me, I knew that. She had this amazingly lavish life which could have been grounds for excluding or looking down on me. Instead, she wanted to share it. It hurt her that I trundled around in a shitty old car and lived with passive aggressive parents—or aggressive aggressive ones. Everything she had was mine, always, whether I wanted it or not. I wrapped my arms around my friend, because she had done so much for me, because she was unceasingly loyal, always looking out for me. And who knows, once I’d had a chance to process, maybe I’d be able to see this as the opportunity everyone kept insisting it was.
“It’s OK, we’re OK,” I told her.
“Oh, thank god!” she yelped, drawing back and holding my head in her hands. “I hate it when we fight, you know that!”
“We haven’t had a fight,” I said, then I pulled them down and turned to walk with her down the drive. “I just don’t like being railroaded. If you could have told me, given me some time to process… You swim in this sea, but I feel like I’ve just been dropped down into it. I’m not sure if I’m going to drown or swim.”
“You’ll swim, Ki, so fucking well. I won’t let anything else happen because I’m coming with you. Took a bit for Daddy to agree, but he’s fitting us out a bus and everything. I’m not leaving you to do this on your own. I know it’s hard, but I’ve lived this life since I was a kid. I’ll be there with you every step of the way. You’re a genius, girl. You’ve just got to let yourself shine.”
Part of our relationship was we projected an image of the other that made us happier. She was too easily dismissed as some kind of socialite, kept in her gilded cage, and I was the crazy artist chick, but together, we saw something quite different. I let the love shining in her eyes wash over me, thawing a little of the frozen hell burning inside me.
“OK, well, I’ve got to start packing and be back here ready to be trussed up in that bloody dress.”
“Wear jeans and a t-shirt, if you want,” Jen said, her hand going to my arm. “I don’t mind. We’ve pushed you so hard.”
“And say that to Marlow after he hand hemmed every fall of fabric? No chance.”
“Well, call me if you start to get worried or something. Don’t sit there, looking at your wardrobe and run horrible scenarios in your mind. Just bring lots of underwear. Washing clothes is a bit of a luxury. We can always grab clean merch if we run out of clothes, but undies… Let’s just say the only ones likely to be around will be souvenirs.”
While I had felt that flare of warmth while Jen was standing next to me, as I turned to look out at the car park to find my car again, I felt cold and hollow. It was only now that I patted my pockets for my keys.
“Miss Leigh?”
Fuck. I turned my head to see Mark standing there, holding out my camera bag, complete with my keys attached to a fob.
“Miss Rutherglen sent me over with this. She said you might need it.”
“But she was just here.”
“Oh, well, it must have been Mr. Marlow then.”
I watched the big man get a little flustered, saw those grey eyes dart around, and smiled.
“Mark, did you go and get my bag for me?”
“I’m sorry, miss. That was probably slightly presumptive.”
“But useful. Thanks, by the way. Look, does Jen need you right now?”
“Ah, I’m not sure. I—”
“I need someone to follow me home then give me a lift back here. Do you have time to do that right now? Between kilt fittings, of course.”
I watched him fight the urge to smile and felt something I’d been missing since I got up—a sense of power. Nothing grandiose or over the top, just the ability to provoke a reaction, a positive reaction in another person. My Dad’s blank gaze had chilled me to the bone, something I could still feel if I closed my eyes.
“I just need to chuck some—”
“Yes. I mean, sure, that would be no problem. Mr. Rutherglen has assigned Paul and myself to your security detail while on tour, so we are at your disposal.”
“OK, well, you know where the cottage is?” He nodded. “See you there.”
10
I realised this wasn’t such a great idea when we got there. I’d been too caught up on re-situating myself in the familiar—my car, the road home, my cottage. But as I pulled up outside the house, I saw that there was a fly in that ointment, one I’d brought in.
I turned on my porch to see the big black town car pull up alongside mine, and then that tall, suit clad body ambled over to my place. My eyes flicked from Mark to the front door, momentarily unsure what to do.
I forced myself to put my keys in my hands and shove them in the lock, but my ears heard every movement behind me. I hadn’t had a guy over to my house ever, as I preferred to go to theirs when I found a hook-up I could bear.
“Did you want me to wait out here?” Mark asked, as if he sensed my reluctance.
“Ah, no, come in,” I said, forcing myself to act like a normal person. “Did you want a coffee?”
“Love one,” he said. “Though perhaps not as black as yours.”
> I nodded, placing the bag on my kitchen table as we walked inside. I retrieved my trusty old camera, putting it on charge and packing the peripherals. I might take it on tour with us, but it would be a backup device only. I went to grab the new beast, but for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to. My hand just hovered there for a second before I pulled away and looked at Mark.
What the fuck was the deal with the thing?
I could imagine pushing Mark down onto my couch, unbuttoning that shirt and ruffling that already mussed hair, one hand on him, the other on the camera, shooting shot after shot as I asked—
“Your work?” he said, moving to the framed photos on the wall.
I shook my head for a moment before replying, “Yeah, my final year portfolio from uni.”
“Portraiture? Miss Rutherglen said you were usually a landscape photographer.”
“More from necessity than choice. I pestered the hell out of most of Gisbourne to take those shots. I couldn’t keep doing that, and there were no more subjects. So…milk, sugar?”
“Yes and one, thanks.”
I busied myself with boiling the water and making the coffees. When my head wasn’t feeling like it was being ripped open from the inside, I had it as sweet and as milky as I could get it. But there was an odd tension to the familiar act. I could hear Mark moving behind me, a large alien presence in my little cocoon, setting my teeth on edge and my heart racing. Once the whistle rang out, I poured the cups and then turned to find him there.
I thrust the cup at him, cursing when some slopped over the rim.
“Shit, sorry. I’m such a—” I said.
“I’ll clean—”
We laughed as each of us spoke over the other.
“Take a seat, wherever you like,” I said. “I’ll mop this up.”
I put my coffee down and grabbed a cloth off the sink, turning to see he’d sat down at my kitchen table. My heart sank a little, but I covered that by mopping the spill from the floor. On the couch, I could’ve preserved a bit of distance, but I couldn’t exactly do so at my tiny table. He looked up and smiled when I approached, something that startled me more than anything. Mark always seemed faintly irritated for the most part.
