This wasn’t the sort of thing you did on your own. In theory of course, with enough experience and actual sweat, you could pull it off, but theory was never my favourite subject and with no wingman there was no margin for error.
By lunchtime I was Mother Hubbard hungry. The cupboards were bare and the hamper was down to some very sugary red and white striped candy canes that I didn’t fancy. Phone in pocket, I hobbled next door to see if Bert might let me scratch together a sandwich in his kitchen.
Over a cup of tea at his yellow Formica and chrome table, a sister to the red one I had next door, I spilled my news.
“I’ve got a tour program to manage in a couple of days.”
“Shame you’re not getting a proper holiday.”
“It’s pretty important. It will be good income for the company. In fact we could do with the money.”
“That’s good then. Do you want a top up?” Bert jiggled the teapot at me.
“Yes please. It is good, but I’m worried, we’d usually have a whole team working on this but with the holidays it’s just me.”
Bert blinked at me and re-settled his battered cap on his head. I’m pretty sure he had no idea what my company did even though we’d discussed it before.
“The people coming are really famous.” Talking about it was making me feel better.
“Would I know them then?”
Now that was a good question. Bert was eighty two years old. I don’t imagine he’d been to a movie in a very long time, had ever read People or Now magazine or put any store in best dressed lists.
“Shane Horan, Arch Drummond and Rush Dawson.”
“Never heard of ‘em. They any good? They been on TV?”
“They are pretty good. They’ve won awards and two of them sing as well.”
“They don’t play them on my station.”
Bert’s station did a lot of weather, news and talk-back. “No.”
“So watcha worried about? They’re not that famous.”
You had to laugh. Maybe Bert was right. Not that famous after all.
By 4.30pm there was still no word from the hotel. I called them. By 4.33pm the sun had disintegrated, the air was foul, the goblins at the bottom of the garden were plotting a takeover, animals were speaking in tongues and fruit had learned to fly backwards. The Prince was coming. Enid Blyton was officially a hobo.
9: Renovation Rescue
Didn’t a wise man say for every problem there is a solution? Well be damned if I could find one for this particular problem. I was back on the phone to every hotel, motel, rest stop, guest house, real estate agent and miracle worker I could find. My best option was one room at a truck stop outside Ulladulla, a mere two hundred and sixty six kilometres out of the city. I needed help.
Resolve in tatters I sent Michael an email. Phrasing it to get his attention, but not alarm him took some thinking about. I tried variations of ‘Help, the world as we know it is about to end’, and finally settled on:
Hi, hope you are getting R&R. Had an enquiry about accommodation for a couple of minor celebs in Sydney for NY. Have tried everything I can think of. Got any brilliant suggestions?
I got a message back a couple of hours later that said, Andi – are you kidding?
Was it ok to have a cry now? Not kidding, I typed back.
OMG, LOL, he responded.
Not actually laughing.
And then my phone rang.
“Hey, told you we needed someone in the office,” he sounded smug.
Way not the time to argue that one out, I was on dangerous ground.
“So, any bright ideas Einstein? I’m busy not being in the office and I’d like to get back to it,” I said.
“No, not one, sorry. Except, we could charge them a fortune to rent my place.”
“Your place is a poorly ventilated studio apartment that backs on to a bus depot.”
“It is not poorly ventilated,” he said defensively. “Or you could have them at your place. It’s a falling down Federation with rising damp and frequent electrical shorts that backs on to a roundabout isn’t it? Should be perfect.”
“You used to be a nicer person.”
“That was before you made me take a holiday. Speaking of which, can you hear that?” he paused. The sound of a female voice, along with what might have been glass tinkling. “That’s the sound of my holiday calling.”
“Well off you go, I’ll deal with this, and hey, thanks for calling.”
How does that saying go, ‘Life sucks and then you die’. Michael was on holiday and was clearly enjoying himself and I was last one on deck, with a huge, really huge Hollywood sized problem, rising damp, only one functioning Achilles tendon and a dog wearing a bucket.
But Michael had given me an idea, a desperate, last ditch stand of an idea, maybe just crazy enough to work.
Enid could stay at my house.
On the plus side it was big enough. It was close to the city and up the hill from the beach. It was private, my nosiest neighbour wasn’t about to alert the media and it was available. On the negative side, well we really didn’t have all day to think about that and the rising damp was the least of it.
Over the next three days every plumber, tiler, electrician, carpenter, painter, interior designer, cleaner, gardener and gourmet food purveyor I could haul out of their respite was on the clock to transform Nanna’s old house into the celebrity bed and breakfast de jour.
In reality that meant, Max the plumber, Dave the sparky, George the handyman, Maria the cleaner and Simon the chef.
Simon in particular was a find. He was Australian born Vietnamese in his mid-twenties and with his black hair gelling into spikes and his pierced eyebrow, he was ready to rock a frypan and roll a blender in the kitchen.
I took on the interior design and after loading up on new linen, bathroom accessories, and flowers, I remembered why I largely lived in only three rooms of the house in the first place. Domestically challenged meets no clue. It was like one of those reality TV makeover shows without the actual makeover.
But the house was in better shape. The plumbing no longer groaned, the walls were freshly painted and every room had working lighting. The wooden floors shone, you could see out the windows, the cobwebs had been chased away, the scent of furniture polish had replaced the usual musty overtones and there was edible food of sufficient quantity and quality to make me momentarily confident I could pull this off.
Bert who’d volunteered his services in the garden was stunned by the whirlwind of activity. He judged the effort ‘bloody miraculous’, and would have said more but for me encouraging him to finish off pruning around the front entrance. Even Chook was uncharacteristically awed. After an initial bout of ‘Who’s a pretty cocky?’ he retreated to a power pole to supervise from afar.
By New Year’s Eve, we’d bashed, tweaked, rubbed, scrapped, scrubbed, painted, polished, smoothed, swept or vacuumed every appropriate surface and we’d reached the point of as good as it would get.
We were standing in a one hundred and ten year old house that had seen more glorious days but at least it was clean and safe from things smelling, tearing, falling, dripping, breaking or exploding.
With Simon and Maria sticking around to staff the kitchen and keep things tidy and Bert volunteering to keep Harvey next door we had the half credible appearance of a proper guest house. It was show time.
Since the accommodation drama unfolded I’d not had time to worry too much about the first meeting at the airport. Now waiting for the hire limo to collect me from home, I was anxious. Enid was flying in on Dawson’s jet which meant they’d land at a private airstrip and we’d avoid the usual airport mayhem. So far so secret.
Waiting for the limo, wait! I shouldn’t be waiting. It should have been here fifteen minutes ago. I got a recorded message on the call to the company. I got voicemail on the driver’s own number. I waited another five minutes and tried both numbers again. Nothing. I got acid reflux and sweaty palms. I had three choices,
and being late wasn’t one of them. I could wait and hope the driver arrived in a screaming hurry, call a couple of taxis, or do something left field. I went left.
Five minutes later Bert was backing his old mini bus out of the driveway with me riding shotgun. We weren’t elegant and it would take some explaining but we wouldn’t be leaving Hollywood’s finest on a steaming tarmac at the back of nowhere.
10: Stranger than fiction
I figured this was one of those occasions where the truth was probably stranger than any fictional story I could make up about arriving at an exclusive private airport terminal in a mini bus emblazoned with the words Seniors Day Tripper.
The bloke on gate security wanted to know if he was being ‘punk’d’ to which Bert, unfamiliar with the lingo, indignantly replied, “If I was punching you, you’d know about it young man.”
I think we were waved through because I had the right flight number details and the guard didn’t want a hyperventilating senior making a day trip to the hospital on his hands. We parked beside two stretch limos and a Bentley that was so highly polished it hurt to look at it and Bert grumbled that he’d have washed the bus if I’d have given him any warning.
In what would probably be my last few minutes of stillness for the foreseeable future I realised I’d moved beyond severe nervousness to a state of professional catatonia characterised by an out of body feeling, a void of mental faculty and alternating excitement and terror.
I was also wondering what it would be like to share a bathroom with three men for whom millions of women around the world would commit a serious crime just to be near. My last coherent thought, before I saw the door of the freshly landed jet open, was about famous whiskers in the sink.
“Hello. Welcome to Australia. I’m Andi Carrington from Arrive. I’ll be managing your stay in Sydney,” I used my best tour hostess voice.
Three well built, casually rumpled, designer stubbled, undeniably drop dead gorgeous guys looked at me. Who was Enid Blyton again?
I extended my hand to a life size action figure. Arch Drummond gave it a vigorous shake, “Glad to meet you Andi,” he gestured to my leg, “What have you done?”
“Fight. Should have seen the other guy,” I responded, earning a warm laugh.
“The dude in the hat who looks like a walking hangover is Shane,” said Arch, inclining his head. “The old guy is Rush, but you can call him Pops if you like.”
“How about we do something about getting me an actual hangover to go with the look?” said Shane, flipping off his cap, flashing those much remarked on blue eyes and extending his hand. “Good to meet you Andi.”
“The next person who calls me ‘old’ buys Andi an expensive pair of matching boots,” said Rush. He took my hand in both of his, looked me straight in the eyes and made me blush tomato red. Blush, like a kid. I didn’t know I was still capable of it. It was as though he knew about my deserted island partner short list of one and the thing about the mangoes and blue skies. Well blushing was going to be the least of the sticky emotional responses I was going to have. I still had to explain Bert, the bus and the house.
“You’re kidding us right?” said Shane incredulous, when I presented the bus. As though he was in league with the guy on gate security, he looked around for a hidden camera recording the surprise of the moment. Arch lowered his head and laughed and Rush hefted his bag and said, “Andi, it’s perfect.”
“You’re right old man,” said Shane, tracing a finger in the grit under the word Seniors. “It’s got your name on it”.
Over my shoulder I saw the jet taxi towards a hanger. Perhaps they could just jump a return flight and in about a hundred years I’d be over the embarrassment.
“I’d like you to meet my neighbour Bert Johnson,” who I’d just noticed was wearing tartan bedroom slippers. “When our hire car didn’t arrive, Bert volunteered to come and pick you up, I didn’t want to leave you standing here, I’m terribly sorry about....”
“Andi, it’s perfect,” broke in Shane, “no one is looking for us in a seniors’ bus.”
“That’s right, it’s inspired,” said Arch.
“Bert and I can have a grown-up talk on the way,” said Rush, stepping forward to shake Bert’s hand.
Ah too easy, deceptively so. It felt like I was ahead on points for a moment there, but now comes the real body blow.
“There is one other thing,” big deep breath, come on, out with it. “Accommodation is very difficult to get on short notice at New Year so I wasn’t able to get you into a hotel.”
“Hey a private home, that’s cool,” said Shane.
“I like a house better,” said Arch, “more relaxed.”
How to tell them this wasn’t going to be the sort of house they were used to, with Jacuzzi, theatre and games rooms. That guaranteed hot and cold running water was a recent improvement and the furniture wasn’t fashionably retro, just unfashionably original from fifty years ago.
“It was also impossible to get a suitable house.” I could feel any confidence I had left draining out through my toes, any minute now there would be a wet stain on the tarmac. “But my own house is available for us,” I finished, knowing we still weren’t at the place of jaw dropping understanding and a quick decision to summon the jet again.
There was an exchange of unreadable looks, then Rush said, “Oh Andi that’s very generous of you,” and he bundled the other two and their baggage into the back of the bus.
Bert’s bus was noisy and as Arch had helped me into the front seat, it was impossible to carry on the suicidal act of explaining our no star rated accommodation. I guess seeing would be believing. But first we had to get past Harvey.
Harvey had escaped from Bert’s place, which meant a new hole in the fence somewhere and he was guarding the front door. It’s hard to imagine how a dog with a plastic bucket around his neck could look fierce, but Harvey managed it, baring his teeth and growling, the hair on his back standing straight up. The effect of rabid dog did momentarily cause a distraction from the effect of near to derelict house, which was useful for all of ten minutes.
“Harvey, it’s ok, Harvey,” I said, and got a cranky yap for my efforts. Arch stepped in to try and tame the savage beast as well, only to have Harvey snap at his outstretched hand. It was Rush who had the magic touch. He walked straight up to Harvey, crouched down, offered his hand for examination and said, “Good boy.” Harvey, traitorous mongrel, rolled over at Rush’s feet, offering his belly for a pat.
And there we were. A dog with a bucket on his head, a playboy/athlete, a hero/action man, a thespian/diplomat and me and we were all having a sleep over at my house.
People can be different types of silent. They can be feigning sleep, hushed with awe or still in anticipation. I think the type of silence that filled the house as we entered was more the silence of being smacked in the gob. But Simon had drinks and light snacks prepared and I had a tour to run.
“My grandmother left me this house. When I couldn’t find any suitable accommodation I thought this might be better than nothing at all,” I said, in the hallway as the men fanned out into various rooms. “It’s clean and mostly everything works. Simon is here to organise our meals and we have a house keeper, the beach is just down the road, but I understand perfectly if you would rather not stay. Perhaps you’d prefer to go home.”
“Home! Hell no!” boomed Shane from one of the bedrooms. “This is cool, we can cope. We’re not complete jackasses. We know we didn’t give you any time to organise this.”
“We’re surprised you agreed in the first place, but Toby said you’d work a miracle and here we are,” said Arch, opening his arms to indicate the orange vinyl lounge suite, the elephant leg coffee table, the pianola and the grandfather clock.
“And we’ve been here two hours now and no one has noticed us,” said Shane, “that’s a record for us. What do you think Rush?”
“I’ve got a problem,” commanded Rush, stepping into the hallway with a severe expression.
Oh no, here it comes. It’s over, I’ve blown it. Next stop unemployment queue.
“What?” said Shane, in a fair imitation of a mother dealing with a tantruming toddler.
“I’m an Academy Award winner. I don’t share my bedroom with complete strangers.”
“Oh yeah?” Arch laughed.
“What?” I said, not sure what was going to come next.
“There’s someone already in my room and I don’t like the look of him,” said Rush.
Then we heard, “Who’s a pretty cocky? Who’s a pretty cocky?” Oh no!
“And I think he’s insulting me,” said Rush, over stunned laughter from Shane and Arch.
The only way out was to tough it. “I thought you might like to meet the local wildlife.” I slid past Rush into the bedroom and retrieved the bird, “Meet Chook.”
11: Fireworks
Chook was an instant hit and waddled from room to room supervising unpacking and bathroom visits. While everyone seemed to accept being at the house, I took Shane aside to have a more specific discussion.
“I just want to say again I know how unorthodox the accommodation is and I fully understand you might not want to stay. At worst I can place you in a suitable hotel by January third.”
“Andi, it’s not a problem. You know you can get jacked off with hotel rooms, they’re all the same after a while and we’d be sneaking about using back entrances and avoiding the public spaces,” said Shane. “Besides we’d like to spend a few days in Sydney and then get out of the city somewhere. What do you think?”
I thought someone might have told me this before now. Did that truck stop outside Ulladulla count I wondered? Hmm, probably not.
“I’m sure I can come up with something,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “Tonight we have a choice of activities. We have an invitation to a party on a yacht. It will be moored in front of the Harbour Bridge where the fireworks take place and we have tickets to an exclusive event at the Opera House, which is the premier party in the city. In both cases, there is the risk you might be recognised, but we have a cover story about you being lookalikes here to pre-promote your movie.”
Hiding Hollywood Page 4
