by Ellie Marney
And on it goes. Two more conversations, and I’m talking about Marco in each of them. He seems to be poking his nose in everywhere; he’s spoken to Mitch about props and security, Lee about the acrobatic spot, and Jones about promotion. When I call Judy Wilkinson to ask about dukey boxes for Dad, and discuss bulk ordering for the mess, I’m half expecting her to say Marco’s been talking to her about that, too. But apparently this is a detail he’s overlooked. Trust Marco to avoid the banal stuff.
I go back in with Daddy, watch him sleep and sort through the boxed-up paperwork until Eugenia arrives at nine. She tip-toes in, her dark red culottes swirling around her ankles and a basket of costumes that need mending in the crook of her elbow.
‘He’s still out?’
‘It’s the pain meds.’ I keep my voice low, usher her forward. ‘Are you staying? Can I take your car back to the lot? There seem to be a few spot fires I need to put out before the matinee performance.’
‘Yes, I’m staying. God, Fleur, did you get any sleep at all? You’ve got panda eyes.’
‘I’m fine.’ I wave a hand at the sleeping bag. ‘I’ll be more comfortable if I bring in a yoga mat or something for tonight.’
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘How long?’
‘Doctor March said Dad’ll be here at least a fortnight.’ I avoid Eugenia’s look by bunching papers into a neat stack. ‘But after that he’ll be home on bed rest, and I can–’
‘Fleur.’ She settles into the armchair beside mine. ‘Fleur, listen to me. You can’t do this for a fortnight. You can’t sleep on the floor, and organise, and perform–’
‘I can do whatever it takes.’ I skewer her gaze. ‘If I didn’t have a certain ring-in trying to muscle into my organisational schedule, this would all be a lot easier.’
She’s unrepentant. ‘Marco can help. If you’d just stop fighting him–’
‘I’m not the one who’s–’ I force myself to stop. Close my eyes, open them. ‘I appreciate the thought. But what made you think bringing Marco on board was a good idea? He’ll be fumbling around, finding his feet, and it just makes more work for me.’
‘He’ll find his feet in a day, and you know it.’ She unpacks some darning out of her basket.
‘Do you remember us as kids, Genie? We squabbled all the time.’
‘Of course you squabbled. Two children, left largely to their own devices and constantly in each others’ company? A few squabbles were inevitable.’ She regards me. ‘I don’t remember the arguments, though. I remember you and Marco as inseparable. You were like two peas in a pod.’
‘Well, the peas outgrew their pod, and now they’re just…’ I turn away when I feel my face warm. ‘Okay, forget the vegetable analogy. I don’t know where I’m going with it. And I don’t know Marco anymore. Right now, he’s cramping my style.’
‘You’ll get used to him again.’ She says it so matter-of-factly. ‘But I want you to talk to him about a division of labour.’
‘Division of labour?’ My voice is scathing. ‘Let Marco talk to Judy about grocery orders, and I’ll do the important stuff with you and Mitch–how’s that for division of labour?’
‘However you decide to work it out.’ Her expression is serene as she re-attaches a plaquette to a green clown tunic. ‘But you do need to work it out. And I want to see you both at a whole-crew meeting before the post-matinee dinner. People need to know why Marco’s here and what’s going on, and it’ll be better if it’s all out in the open.’
‘Great.’ I pinch the bridge of my nose.
‘One other thing. Mitch and I have talked about bringing in the police to discuss the security problems on the lot. You should participate in that process. Mitch is trying to arrange an interview with detectives this afternoon.’
‘Okay.’ The idea of talking to police wakes me right up. Someone is still trying to hurt us. ‘Yeah, I guess police involvement is probably overdue.’
‘I don’t know what they can do. But at least they’ll have a record of our concerns, and we’ll have someone to call.’
If there’s another disaster. God, I hope that doesn’t happen. If we have another mishap and someone else gets hurt, I don’t know how we’ll keep things running.
I steer the conversation into different territory. ‘Genie, how come Marco isn’t staying with you while he’s here?’
She goes a little quiet; not her voice, but her movements still and her stitches get smaller. ‘Marco’s a grown man, now. He doesn’t need to stay with his mother. And where would I put him anyway? You know the Airstream is full of junk.’
This is true–Eugenia’s van is like a bower bird’s nest. ‘Fair call.’
I don’t want to push her about it. If I know Eugenia, she’ll just clam up and I’ll never get the story. But something about having Marco here is hurting her, I can see that much.
If I ever get a spare moment to myself again, I’ll find out what that something is...
‘Thank you all for coming today. Now I know the smell of Crew Dinner is highly distracting, so I’ll keep this brief…’
Eugenia smiles around at the gathered hordes in the mess. The dining room is packed, and from my vantage point, standing beside her at the front, I can see this is just about everybody.
Colm and Sorsha stand together off to one side, like Colossus and Thumbelina. Dee and Rueben and Luke are seated around a table nearby, with Ren Putri, our resident contortionist. Gabriella is squeezed in next to Dita, with Seb Patel on their other side–Dita and Seb round out the rest of the strength artists. Bill and Chester and Gordon, our ‘freak show’ artists, move into position near Fabian and Vi and Lee, who’s shielding a hugely-pregnant Annie from too much jostling. Winston has corralled the musicians near the back, and the clowns are fidgeting nearby. Mitch is standing with the mech yard boys–including Zep and Troy and Fraser and some of the roustabouts–over on the far right.
More workers and performers are bunched together at tables, or line the back of the room. All these faces are turned in our direction. They want encouragement, and some reassurance: that everything will be okay, that the show is still going strong, that they can be confident of their livelihoods and their safety. I’ve got makeup hiding the dark circles around my eyes, and my Be Happy face on. I hope that’s going to cut it.
‘Some of you long-termers will recognise the young man on my right,’ Eugenia says, beaming. She’s got her Be Happy face on, too. ‘Marco Deloren used to be a show resident, and now he’s come back to lend a hand. He’s been working with Cadell Event Management for eighteen months, and he’s well-equipped to handle things on the lot…’
I take a quick peek over Eugenia’s shoulder. Marco is wearing the same classy suit pants, although he’s lost the jacket. He’s now sporting a rakish-looking vest, buttoned up over his white shirt, with a silver chain looping out of one pocket. I’ve got to admit, he really knows his costumes. The suit would’ve made people think ‘corporate busybody’, but the vest is a dark paisley, and makes him look more like a performer.
He used to be a performer. I can’t help wondering if he can still do the kind of acrobatic tricks we used to practise as kids. He doesn’t seem to have lost condition, even after years of being out of the life. His pants hug his hips, and the vest emphasises his taut waist. He probably just goes to the gym, now–how depressing.
I look away, because I don’t need to be thinking about this stuff at the moment. But I’ve still missed some of what Eugenia’s saying.
‘…want you all to feel confident that we’ve got things organised, and Fleur and Marco will be working together to steer the show. Let’s give them a hand, people!’
Applause is thunderous in the mess–the echoing acoustics are probably why Eugenia arranged to have this meeting in the mess, in fact–as she lifts my hand on her left and Marco’s hand on her right. We stand there smiling, arms upraised, like we
’re on the set of Rocky. I feel ridiculous, but I’m giving it my all, and everyone looks excited. It always amazes me how show folks, who should know when a show’s being put on better than anybody, will still fall for the same tricks and cues as an audience in the Spiegeltent.
But there’s a reason for that. People want to believe in us. They want this to work, just as much as I do. I beam my smile, too, and try to project, We’ve got this.
Once the announcement’s over and everybody starts lining up for the dinner queues, Eugenia and Mitch and Marco and I head outside, making a beeline for the van I usually share with my father.
‘This was the only time I could get them to come by,’ Mitch says as we hurry our steps. ‘I told them it was better if they came here rather than us go to them, so they can get a better idea about the location. And I said we should all meet with them, but we couldn’t all leave the lot en masse to visit the police station. I didn’t like the idea of this ship sailing without a captain.’
I pat his shoulder as we walk. ‘That’s okay, Mitch. I was thinking the same thing. I’m glad they could make a house call.’
‘On the other hand,’ Marco says, as he comes up on my left, ‘are you sure people won’t feel more anxious, seeing police officers on the lot?’
I glare at him. ‘I think they’ll feel good that we’re finally doing something about this security issue that’s been driving us all nuts.’ I catch sight of Eugenia’s expression, and sigh. ‘But whatever.’
Two police officers are waiting outside the van, both of them a little impatient-looking. One of them–the older one in plain-clothes–takes the lead, making introductions and shaking hands as I unlock the door and encourage everyone inside.
The van is a bit of a mess; I haven’t had time to clean, mainly because I just haven’t been here. I throw dirty clothes hastily into the rear bedrooms, and sweep dishes and papers off the coffee table to more discreet locations, as the police officers start on a round of questions.
‘Tell us about the first accident.’ The older officer, Detective Pang, settles in the armchair and pulls out a notebook.
‘Oh, right.’ I clasp my hands together and make a short, humourless laugh. ‘Well, that would be the night when the trapeze net collapsed, and I nearly ended up as a red stain on the Spiegeltent floor.’
‘What?’ Marco’s head whips in my direction.
‘Didn’t Eugenia tell you? Yeah, it was…’ I turn my attention back to the police. If I’m going to talk about this I may as well explain the whole story, and I only want to do that once. ‘It was about two and a half months ago…’
I cover the trapeze disaster. Then we go through every detail, for every other ‘accident’. Mitch provides information about the rigging and technical aspects. It’s frustrating, because the cops keep pointing out things like mechanical wear, and the lack of hard evidence. What if it’s just that the show has been going a long time, and most of the equipment is under a lot of strain? But I know that’s not it. Mitch is meticulous about equipment, and insists on replacing parts and cables that are past their use-by date.
‘What about my father’s accident?’ I insist. ‘Even if the poles had suffered wear–and I’m not at all convinced they did–the bleachers wouldn’t have just collapsed like that unless they were deliberately cut or unbolted–’
‘Which we’ll never know, because we would have had to examine the scene at the time and check the poles,’ Detective Pang points out.
‘I checked the poles,’ Mitch growls, looking pissed-off. But he shakes his head. ‘After the collapse, there was no way to tell if poles had been removed or tampered with. It was just too much of a mess. Sure, poles were abraded, or snapped, but that could’ve happened in the fall.’
‘There’s nothing we can do without solid proof,’ the younger cop admits.
I don’t believe this. ‘So you’re saying you can’t do anything?’
Detective Pang is conciliatory. ‘Look, you’ve filed a report, and we’ll look into it more seriously. We have suspicions of sabotage activity. The timing is certainly worrisome–’
‘“Certainly worrisome”!’ I throw up my hands.
Marco cuts his eyes at me. ‘Fleur, you’re not helping.’
I round on him. ‘Do you think you could not act like a jerk, for just two seconds?’ I see his back stiffen, but I can’t stop. ‘If it was your family who got hurt–’
‘Fleur,’ Eugenia says warningly.
But I’m on a roll now. I stab my finger onto the coffee table, in front of the detective. ‘My father nearly died. If you think I’m going to take comfort from the fact that you’re “looking into it”, you’ve got–’
‘Excuse us.’ Marco grabs me by the elbow and hustles me bodily from the van, pulling the door shut behind us with a snap.
‘Get the hell off me!’ I pull out of his grip, my face flaming. ‘You can’t just toss me out of my own van! Who gave you the right to–’
‘Who gave me the right?’ Marco blocks me from walking back to the van door, stepping into my path. His eyes are flashing dark. ‘Well, that would be you, Petal, when you lost your shit in there. Fleur, come on. Do you really think antagonising the police who are investigating this will help? And what does a scene like that do for the show?’
‘You’ve only been here for five minutes!’ My emotions are derailed right now. I’m yelling into his face. ‘You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!’
‘I know more about bad PR and woeful administration decisions than the lot of you combined!’ His face is flushed, his lips thin. ‘Why the hell do you think I came? You’re in trouble, Fleur, and throwing tantrums isn’t going to make it better. Now take a few deep breaths and grow up. Because right now, you’re no use to anyone.’
I lurch backwards, shocked, and stumble on a tussock of grass. Marco steps forward and steadies me with a hand on my shoulder.
‘Asshole.’ I shake him off, my voice trembling. Embarrassment is starting to kick in, hard.
‘Oh, Fleur…’ He sighs, raking at his hair with one hand. He looks disappointed. ‘You haven’t changed at all. When we were kids, you used to crack a tantrum to get your own way, then act all insulted when I wouldn’t give in. I thought you would’ve outgrown that.’
‘I have.’ It’s none of his business, and why the hell do I care about disappointing Marco, of all people? I give him my back and look at the ground, so he won’t notice how my eyes are getting all wet. ‘I mean…I’m trying. And you don’t understand! Seeing Daddy fall from those bleachers…’
A warm hand settles on my shoulder again. My head is still facing down, but Marco turns me towards him.
‘I know, Petal. You’ve been through heaps, and I’m sorry. That must’ve been fucking horrifying.’ He squeezes my shoulder gently. ‘Not to mention nearly falling from the trapeze. I felt sick when I heard about that.’
My hands clench into fists as my eyes water the ground. ‘I can handle it if it’s just me. But Dad getting hurt? That was too much.’
‘Honestly? I don’t know how you’ve been coping with all this yourself. It’s bloody awful.’ He rubs small circles on my shoulder. ‘I know it’s hard. It’s personal. But this is about more than just you and your Dad, Fleur. It’s about the whole show.’
‘I know.’ I sniff, wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my T-shirt. ‘I know all that.’
‘I’m sure you do. And I’m sure you want things to start getting better.’ He tilts my chin up. ‘So would you please stop thinking of me as the enemy? I’m trying to help. I mean, I’m giving you my help on a platter. Please let me do what I came here to do.’
Seeing my father fall was absolutely terrifying. But looking into Marco’s eyes now is scary in a different way. Because I can see him, the boy he used to be. Memories of the two of us together–like two peas in a pod–assail me from all sides. I remembe
r his face before his cheekbones got sharp, when his mouth was only just starting to develop into that terse line, when his eyebrows were expressively shaggy rather than dark and commanding. He’s matured into this face, but it’s not the one I know.
Have I matured? I like to think so. But after the scene in the van just now, I can’t be certain anymore. Maybe Marco’s right.
What’s even harder to get my head around is…He’s handsome. Like, turn-to-look-twice-on-the-street handsome. I’m not used to thinking of him as handsome. He was always just…Marco.
My Marco.
But he’s not mine anymore. And I need to pull myself together and prove that I’ve got more spine than I used to have when we were children. I remember some of the naughty things we did, and how I’d sometimes run away if things got dicey.
I can’t run away from this.
‘Okay.’ I straighten my shoulders and step back. Swipe my face with my hand. ‘Okay, fine. You win. I’ll…I’ll let you help.’
He exhales, his expression relieved. ‘Thank you.’
‘No. I should be the one to thank you.’ I glance at him, away. ‘So, um, we should talk about a division of labour.’
‘Okay. Great. What do you suggest?’
He’s asking me? I gulp past the lump in my throat. ‘Well, I’ve already got most of the HR and administration side of things under control. How are you with promotion?’
His smile flashes white. ‘Promotion has basically been my area for the last year.’
‘Okay, perfect.’ My hands are still shaking. Calm down, Fleur. I force steadiness into my voice. ‘You can coordinate with Jones. Then if we let Mitch handle the engineering and mechanical issues…’
‘…and Eugenia can handle training schedules and costuming…’
‘…and we can divvy up the rest of the jobs, like H&S codes, and city regulations and general maintenance.’
‘Sounds good. Although we should all four of us team up to discuss security.’
‘Agreed.’ I rub my palms against my jeans. ‘Right. Well. That was easy.’
