Hiding Hollywood

by Paton, Ainslie

  I sat down on the edge of the bed and suddenly it was hard to take a breath. He hadn’t fought me last night, he knew what I was thinking and he hadn’t denied it. He’d just done as I asked, he’d left and now he was gone completely. What had I done?

  “Can we get to the airport before they take off?”

  “Let’s go,” said Helen.

  They had a forty five minute head start on us, but their hire car would stick to the main roads and Helen knew the back streets and short cuts. I dialled Rush’s phone but got the switched off message, no opportunity to even leave a voicemail.

  It felt like hours before the private airstrip came into view though we’d made good time. The jet was on the tarmac with its engines throbbing when we screamed to a stop. We’d missed them.

  This wasn’t Hollywood. This wasn’t like the final scene in a movie where the plane door opens magically and the hero steps out, wind in his hair, to grab the beautiful heroine in his arms and start their happily ever after.

  The jet taxied forward, turned slowly and then hesitated while the engines gathered energy. I could see movement through the porthole windows, but no one looked out. No one knew we were there. With a mighty roar, the jet rolled forward picked up speed and was airborne before I’d even managed to start thoroughly hating myself.

  If you asked me to recall a single detail about the trip back to Allambee, I’d fail the test. I don’t remember what road we took, what cars shared it with us, what the weather was like, if it was a short or a long drive. I don’t know if Helen spoke, if she had the car radio on or if we rode in silence.

  I do know that when we arrived I had a thumping headache and crescent shaped red indents in both my palms from clenching my fists so hard. I do know I was a bumbling sensation, a tour de force of destruction. I do know I didn’t cry. There was simply no amount of tears that could make up for the fact that I’d soured and damaged my relationship with Michael and misjudged Rush, pushing him away forever, on the same triumphant night.

  Over coffee, with pastries I didn’t eat, I read the news sites. Helen was right, Rush had given Roger Smyth an exclusive, explaining that he was in Sydney with Shane and Arch to celebrate New Year and that the mystery Cinderella was their tour manager and not the “other woman” as had been extensively reported. The story, complete with pictures of Rush with Roger and with Cathy, Helen and the Mayor went on to talk about the hall burning down and how Rush, Shane and Arch had lent a hand to help the community rebuild.

  The event itself was described in lavish detail as a social success and the story named me as the visionary event director. It was a story that would no doubt be picked up by radio stations and other publications over the next day. I had more than what I’d wanted. My name was cleared and my reputation was enhanced. But I’d never felt so miserable in my life.

  “Why did they go so early?” I asked Simon, who’d taken one look at me and sensibly kept his distance.

  “No one really slept last night. All the guys came back here after the show and I fed them a late night snack and when Rush got back they just decided they might as well get organised and go early.”

  “Was he very angry?”

  “He looked like thunder but he didn’t say much.” I knew that look, the one that carried its very own atmospheric system. “He left you a letter.”

  The last time I’d felt so nervous about opening a letter was at the end of school days when I was waiting to see if I’d qualified for my course preferences and university selection. It was suddenly easy to feel like that girl again, convinced that the rest of her life sat under the spittle licked seal of the envelope. Like that younger version of me did then, I tucked the letter in my pocket to carry around for a while, a down home, low tech version of the slow drip of water torture.

  Along with the letter, sitting on the bed was a pair of boots, a torn piece of note paper stuck out of the top of the left one.

  Andi remember the day we arrived the old Rush said the last one to call him old man had to buy you a pair of boots. Well I own up, it was me. I hope you enjoy these and when you walk in them think of us. Arch. PS: Shane left you a stick. Boots rule.

  They were black cowboy style boots with a Cuban heel made from softest leather and they were a perfect fit. Certainly not bought around here. Like Rush’s immaculate tuxedo they’d been conjured from somewhere special. Tucked into the right boot was a data stick. I logged on, popped the stick in my laptop and found it held a movie file. Shane, sitting on the front steps of Allambee, holding his video camera in his lap.

  “Day-oh! Day-ay-ay-oh. Daylight come and we gotta go home,” he sang. “Hey Blanche,” he grinned wickedly into the lens. He panned the camera across the verandah to show Bry and Dan and then into the house where I could see Arch and Jon with Simon and then back to a close up of his face.

  “We’re having a party here without you tonight, but you need your beauty sleep I’m told. We loved our trip to Australia and we can’t thank you enough for taking our crap and for smiling and hiding us away and for showing us a damn good time.

  “You’re a real pro Andi, and I mean that in the nicest sense of the word. No joke, we think you’re a fab chick. We’re all a little in love with you - some more than others it’s true,” he panned the camera wildly looking for something and then settled on the bike parked in the drive.

  “We’ll be in touch, yeah.” I could hear a guitar and a singer in the background, The Rolling Stones, ‘You can’t always get what you want’. He said, “Gotta go,” and flashed a big grin, “Some bastard is trashing one of my favourite songs.” And the file ended.

  “Forget Mick Jagger, what was it I wanted, what was it I needed? Rush’s letter was itching me though the fabric of my shorts. It felt right that it should irritate me, burn me as I expected his words to burn.

  If he rebuked me it would be a release. I deserved it for not giving him a second chance, for not letting him explain and for thinking so much less of him. But if he was kind, if he was understanding, I might just have to take myself out to the pool and figure out how to drown with as much panic as I could muster.

  It said: Whenever you’re ready Andi, there is a job with us waiting for you. All my love, Rush.

  Not too hot. Not too cold. Straight down the ‘just right’ middle. Now what was I supposed to do.

  32: Old Friends

  We met on neutral ground. The promenade at Bondi, the whole white sand beach spread out in front of us in the early morning, busy with joggers and surfers but not yet ripe for the sunbaking crowds.

  Michael bought coffee and raspberry muffins. He looked relaxed. I looked like a wreck. I’d been up half the night in nervous anticipation of seeing him. Fortunately my sunglasses did a good job of disguising my panda eyes and a cap took care of unwashed hair.

  I’d thought a lot about what to say, about what I wanted him to say. I knew I’d reacted badly to him being with Lainey, but that feeling of betrayal had lifted and the anger I’d felt seemed out of place now. I knew I needed to tell him that. More importantly, I knew I wasn’t in love with him and probably never really had been. Love him I did, care about him, want him in my life. Yes, yes, yes. But in love with him - no. I thought I knew the difference now.

  For a while, we sipped our cappuccinos and stared at the blue sea. Neither of us was sure where to go from here, it was our first serious knock down fight, making any important disagreements we’d had before now look frilly and frivolous.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, still looking at the white capped waves and then turning to face me. “I’m sorry. I never realised, I didn’t know. I thought you’d lied to me deliberately and then went behind my back to Tom. It made me slightly insane. I drove for nine hours straight to get to you and then the event looked sensational and you looked amazing and then I shouted at you. It wasn’t my finest moment,” he dropped his head into his hands.

  “I’m sorry too. I got a bit irrational when I knew you were with Lainey and I should’ve talked
to you but I pretended I was doing the right thing by keeping you out of it.”

  “I got a bit irrational when I thought you were with Rush,” Michael spoke into his knees and the pavement under his feet rather than look at me.

  “You know it was a misunderstanding, though it was done intentionally at first.”

  “That’s what Roger Smyth says.”

  “That’s what happened, strange as it seems, for Roger to have truth of it,” I shrugged.

  “Still, I have no right to be jealous,” he said, “and ah, um, there’s more. I haven’t been fair with you. I knew how you felt about me and I was a coward. I didn’t want to lose you as a friend or a partner and so I never told you. I should have told you.”

  He sounded miserable but I still needed him to say it and look at me when he did. “Say it.”

  He looked up, pulled his sunglasses down his nose, meet my eyes, “I love you Andi, but I’m not in love with you and I never have been.”

  I let out a puff of air, “That’s a relief.” And I knew it to my core, without a doubt.

  “But...” now he was looking at me, puzzled.

  “I’m not in love with you either. I thought I was. You’re a hard act to follow, but I confused best friend with something more. You’ll be happy to know I’m over that now.”

  “Oh.”

  “You sound disappointed,” I smiled.

  “Does that mean you’re over me altogether?” he asked, concern sounding in his voice.

  “Michael, I’ll never be over you, you’re my brother, you’re my family, but I don’t want you in my bed anymore.”

  “Did you ever?” he said, with an echo of surprise.

  “Yeah.” Now I was looking at the pavement, some old graffiti, anything but him.

  “That’s embarrassing,” he pushed his sunglasses back up.

  “Yeah for me. Not so much for you, stud,” I laughed and elbowed him.

  “And Tom?”

  “That offer came from nowhere and it’s typical Tom. I didn’t think it would affect you.”

  “It scared the life out of me. I’m no good doing this without you,” he said, reaching for my hand.

  “And Lainey?”

  A slow smile spread across his handsome features, “I love her. She’s...”

  “Totally perfect for you,” I leant over to kiss his cheek.

  “And Rush, is there really nothing going on? I looked for him that night. I was ready to hate him on sight. He has this incredible presence. You know, he was watching you the whole time we argued. Lainey saw him.”

  “Was he?” I frowned.

  Michael nodded, “So, is there something going on?” How to answer that? “Andi, tell me please. I want to know,” he said.

  I sighed, “I don’t know what I feel about him. He was the person I would most like to be stranded on a deserted island with.”

  “What, not me?” he said, comically disappointed.

  “No way! See, that tells you something doesn’t it. In my fantasy world, I want to sit next to Elvis Presley on a plane and have Bill Gates and Nelson Mandela to dinner, so it doesn’t really mean much to say I wanted to crash land on a deserted island with Rush Dawson now does it?” I explained.

  “He was this embarrassing daydream and then all of a sudden he wasn’t. He was in my kitchen, live and dangerous, and it was hard to keep a steady head. Then the fun and games really started. He used me for his media story and he made me so angry, I went from enchanted to repelled inside a few hours. But when he wanted to rebuild the hall and I had to work with him I figured out he wasn’t what I thought he was at all. Turns out he was truly sorry and was looking for a way to make amends. Turns out he is a good person. I didn’t make it easy for him.”

  “That’s my girl,” Michael gave my hand a squeeze.

  I had my best friend back and I needed him to help me feel less confused. “Oh Michael, I fell for him big time. He told me he was falling in love with me, but I thought he’d used me with Roger Smyth again and I sent him away and now I don’t know what to do.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Maybe. But it’s ridiculous, he’s Rush Dawson, he’s Hollywood. I’ve known him less than ten days and I’m just me.”

  “Ah Andi, what are you going to do?” Michael put his arm around my shoulder and drew me against his side.

  I rested my head on his arm, “I don’t know, but I can’t leave it this way. I have to apologise, assuming he’ll even talk to me again.”

  We sat for a while, digesting the details of the last week, like later that day, hordes of squawking seagulls would wrestle over tossed chips.

  “He offered me a job.” I had to get it all on the table. “Two job opportunities in one week, I was so hot I was on fire,” I said, trying to make light of it.

  Michael swore, something he rarely did, “What’s the offer?”

  “To run his charitable foundation.”

  “Are you interested?”

  “I might’ve been if it wasn’t so complicated,” I sighed.

  He let out a long held breath, “Thank God for that. And Tom, what are you going to tell Tom?”

  “I think I’ll just say I have a better offer.”

  Michael paused, said hesitantly, “To stay with me?”

  “To stay with you, partner,” I said, relieved that we’d made it through this awkward mess and out the other side together.

  He blew out a breath, “And we can do this, without it being weird, after you know...” he trailed off.

  “Oh it’ll be weird.”

  “That’s not good, we can’t...”

  “You’ve been weird ever since I first met you. What’s changed now?”

  “That’s unkind.”

  “Yeah, get over it.” And I knew he would.

  33: Post Event Blues

  When post event blues hits it’s like all the stuffing leaches from you. Bright colours go dim, sugar tastes sour and birdsong is a jackhammer. It’s too much trouble to pick up your feet and walk, shuffling makes more sense. To move from an uncomfortable position takes too much effort. To bother makes you weary. It’s the sting of being bored by real life and the irritation of ordinary things. And Sally was right. I had it bad. And I had it complicated.

  What was I supposed to do about Rush? It had been four days since they left. Four days since I came home, reminded Harvey who I was, missed Simon’s prepared breakfasts, bought the evening newspaper for Bert, made up with Michael, fended off calls from friends about my anti-Cinderella status and put on work clothes again.

  Four days. I hadn’t called. He hadn’t called. No emails, no texts. His pride, my prejudice or was it the other way around? We were a Jane Austen cliché. But the ball was definitely in my court. I owed him an apology, but what else?

  Let’s assume he forgave me. That he gave me that easy, slow spreading slightly lopsided smile that made it all the way to his eyes, resonating in his voice, the one that made me feel like melted chocolate and he told me it was all ok. What happens then? There was the two different worlds problem and I didn’t have a solution for that.

  Let’s assume he was mad as a thunderclap and had already dismissed me as not worth the effort. Wouldn’t that be better? It was a finish, a point of no return, a dead stop and maybe that was kinder – brutal, but kinder.

  Did I hope for chocolate and settle for being dismissed? Did I act on sensible and hope for sensibility? ‘Well, I never did care for wishy-washy people’ as Stanley would say, so I needed to grow a backbone and make a call in more ways than one.

  I’d tell him I was sorry. That I should have given him the chance to explain, should have trusted him. I’d tell him how nice it had been to meet him, how much I’d enjoyed working with him and that if he was ever down under again, he should look me up. There, that was sensible, truthful, crisp and professional. It would leave no doubt that the moment had passed and even less that I would ever take up his job offer. Suitably distant, remote and cool, yet pleasant
and efficient. Brutal but kind, here we come.

  But first a little message from our sponsors.

  “We have a situation,” said Michael, sticking his head around my office door. He had sunburnt nose from our beachside meeting and he needed a haircut, still.

  A week ago that little sentence might have convinced me I should’ve drowned myself in Allambee’s pool. The thought that it was now Rush’s pool had put me off that notion along with the whole, don’t be such a big wimp thing.

  Now in the depth of post event blues, the idea of a situation, that had nothing to do with what I was now back to thinking of as the Hollywood Problem, was just a little exciting. Sugar might have sweetness again.

  “Animal, mineral or vegetable?” I asked.

  “If I had to pick one – mineral,” he said sitting.

  “So, rock as opposed to paper or scissors?”

  “Geez. No, more paper,” he considered. “But I’ve changed my mind. We don’t have a situation that your immediate and permanent hospitalisation won’t fix.”

  “That’s unkind.”

  “Observant of you.”

  “Want to start again?” I suggested.

  “Not really that was exhausting. And it’s only January.”

  We sat across the desk from each other and looked anywhere but at each other, both of us trying not to smile and not to be the first one to talk. I cracked first.

  “So it’s a money situation then?” We’d invoiced the studio for the New Year’s trip and the Scratch Foundation for the fundraiser but it was at least thirty days before we saw that money in our accounts, possibly longer.

  “Get this,” Michael leant forward. “I’ve just got off the phone from a business broker. We have an offer to buy into the company, and I’m talking a significant investment.”

  “No way!” I leant forward too. Sugar had potential.

  “Way.”