Blaze

by Di Morrissey

  Even when they went somewhere special it was generally connected to Blaze. The magazine world followed them home as Lorraine had vented her frustrated anger over the male hierarchy who treated her so badly. The constant refrain of her mother had been the fear of age, losing her beauty, and her job. Miche hadn’t understood, she’d seen her mother as beautiful and talented and clever.

  In this reflective state, Miche thought about the staff at Blaze in Sydney. The same problems her mother had faced years before in New York were still alive and well Down Under. Men ruled. Girls had to flirt or be devious and stab each other as well as their male competitors. The pretty, soft, new girls landed the best jobs over the experienced, better writers. She remembered one time in New York her mother and Nina becoming angry over a strong suggestion from a male executive that they find a woman psychologist to write a column – ‘Someone who is young and pretty.’

  Lorraine had slammed her hand down on the table as she’d related the episode to a less than interested Miche – ‘And not a flicker of embarrassment when he said it! They still haven’t learned!’

  When Miche told her mother she wanted to write, Lorraine had urged her to keep away from the newsrooms of the metropolitan dailies. ‘It’s usually a cesspit of piranhas,’ she had warned. ‘Survival depends on the men’s club. A mistake by a woman means a blotted copybook for years. The same mistake by a man is simply a learning experience that can be smoothed over with a beer or two.’ Miche had found it difficult to believe until she started her career in print. Still, she hoped the new and fast-changing world of magazines, into which she was trying to make her way, would somehow find a solution to many of these issues and provide a more satisfying and fulfilling opportunity for women who wanted to write, to communicate in the mass media. At this stage, she wasn’t quite sure how it was all going to work out. But she was glad she was freelancing, rather than being tied to one office and its internal politics. Miche was determined not to touch the nest egg her mother had left, and while it was a struggle to find the rent, she had flexibility and freedom.

  It was with an effort that she forced her mind back to the necessity of focusing on the Hunter Valley research and, after a concentrated effort, was able to nut out a concept of how she could structure a fairly interesting yarn. But then, as she packed up her notes and laptop, once again into the forefront of her mind came the knowledge that in a day or two she would be meeting her long-lost father.

  Ironically there was only one person in the world Miche felt she could share her fears with who would truly understand how she felt – and that was Ali.

  This time when Nina and Lucien embraced at the airport departure lounge, it was not tinged with overwhelming sadness, but with joy knowing they would soon be settled together in Sydney. They had been back in touch with Mara in Croatia to confirm that the local authorities had suspended the casino proposal pending Nina’s application for restoration of her family’s home. Nina had no doubt she would win. Now Nina’s energy and enthusiasm was directed at setting up a village school. A teacher had returned to her family home in the village and was willing to run it. Nina and Lucien agreed to help. Nina had already begun to make notes about the logistics of establishing schools at the two new children’s homes. ‘We’ll be out in the spring, Mara, laden like pack mules,’ promised Lucien. He was writing a character into his film based on the indomitable Mara.

  *

  Back at Blaze, Belinda, who was privy to Nina’s plans, was having trouble keeping her mouth zipped. Instead, she kept smiling and looking, Barbara declared, like the cat who’d swallowed the cream. Plans were under way for Ali’s farewell bash and a favoured newspaper journalist had been given the exclusive about Ali’s promotion to splash in a positive spread. News about Ali’s replacement was being down-played, though columnists speculated the new editor of Blaze was unlikely to be a major high-profile appointment.

  Nina, publisher and editor-in-chief, was back at the helm, and the trade assumption was that the magazine would hum along quite smoothly and competently.

  Jeremy tried to be as attentive and caring as he could towards Miche in an effort to make the coming meeting of father and daughter as amicable as possible. Without elaborating to Miche, he had many long conversations with Gordon Birchmont, telling him what he knew about Miche, how they’d met, what she was like and, without breaking personal confidences, what he thought Miche’s fears and dreams may be.

  ‘Look, Gordon, I have to confess I’m rather smitten with Miche. She’s very special to me. It’s early days in our relationship, but I’ve never felt like this about a girl before.’

  ‘I appreciate your sharing that with me. I have to confess, Jeremy, that I haven’t had anyone with whom I could talk about the sudden appearance in my life of the daughter I last held in my arms when she was five.’

  Jeremy was glad he had a professional friendship with Gordon that had allowed him to step into this sensitive area. His role of bringing Miche and her father together was now weighing on him. It brought a huge sense of responsibility and the fear he might lose her. What if there were animosity, pain, guilt and anger between Miche and Gordon that could then be directed at him? Meddling in people’s private lives, crashing through barriers in place for years, made him feel like the proverbial bull in a china shop. The fact that Miche stubbornly rejected the idea that she speak on the telephone to her father before the meeting worried him. The stand suggested a tension that Miche was not able to explain to herself, let alone Jeremy.

  It was arranged that Gordon would arrive ahead of the other delegates at the mini wine convention and stay at a motel nearby. Jeremy had told Helen and Steve about the circumstances – with permission – of Miche and Gordon. Once over the initial shock and delight, they were supportive and offered whatever help they could. They refrained from making any judgements, even though they knew and liked Gordon Birchmont, were fond of Miche and privately thrilled about the obviously growing attraction between Miche and Jeremy, who had become more of a surrogate son than employee.

  Feeling the need to unburden himself about the situation, Jeremy had talked it over with his parents in Melbourne. And, while they didn’t know Miche and were a little concerned he might be interfering too much, they believed he had done the right thing.

  Miche changed clothes four times, trying to decide what to wear. She was shocked at how nervous she felt. ‘This is worse than going to the dentist, a job interview and to court all rolled into one,’ she told Jeremy.

  He stood back and threw out his arms. ‘Miche, you’re gorgeous. You look lovely. Just right.’ She’d chosen a simple dark wool skirt, a soft pale blue cashmere sweater and the unusual blue bead and gold earrings designed by Kevin Friedman she’d bought in Paris. Her blonde hair fell smoothly to her shoulders and she’d taken pains with her make-up – a subtle look that was artfully achieved. Jeremy took her hand, ‘Anyway, he’s bound to be more nervous than you are.’ While he had no idea what had happened between Gordon and Miche’s mother, he imagined Gordon was the one on the defensive.

  With Jeremy acting as go-between, they agreed to meet in a small restaurant near Gordon’s motel. Gordon had suggested eleven-thirty for an aperitif rather than lunch, leaving Miche the opportunity to escape early depending on how their meeting went. Jeremy knew the owner of the restaurant and he reserved a table on the terrace that was secluded and promised not to book other tables close by to give them privacy.

  It turned out to be a magnificent sunny day and Jeremy was in high spirits as he drove Miche to the restaurant.

  ‘Fantastic day, isn’t it,’ he enthused. ‘This is when the Hunter is at its best. And I think it augurs well.’

  ‘I hope you’re right‚’ replied Miche softly.

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I’d be surprised if you weren’t. Remember, I’ll be right alongside you in spirit.’

  ‘You’re a sweetie,’ said Miche affectionately and leaned over and gave h
im a quick kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Careful now, you may make me lose control.’

  Miche could not help laughing out loud at his response. ‘One day I may. One day!’

  Jeremy joined in the laughter, and when he dropped her off at the restaurant she was a lot more relaxed.

  He took her hand and walked her to the door. ‘Good luck, kid,’ he said with feeling. He didn’t know what else to say, so he kissed her and walked quickly to his car.

  The hostess smiled at Miche. ‘Are you meeting someone?’

  Miche nearly crumpled as her assumed calm disintegrated and she felt like bursting into tears. ‘Yes, I’m meeting my . . . er, Mr Birchmont.’ She managed to say before words deserted her.

  ‘Oh yes. On the terrace.’

  For Miche it felt like the longest walk she had ever made, but it was over in less than thirty seconds as the hostess led her out to the terrace. Miche had gone through this moment in her mind a score of times, trying to visualise the man she was about to meet, rehearsing many introductory remarks, and now she was desperately hoping the girl would leave them and let them meet alone.

  Once outside, the hostess indicated the furthest table, where a gentleman was seated. ‘Over there. Best table on the terrace.’

  At that moment the man looked up from the wine list that he had been studying and saw her.

  Everything went into slow motion for Miche – she’d heard that often happened in accidents. The background hum of voices around the terrace and birds in the garden seemed to be suddenly switched off.

  She was aware she was walking forward, but it felt like she was stepping through glue. And for a moment she thought her eyes were failing her too, for she couldn’t make out his features. She had a blurry impression of someone tall, a navy jacket and blue shirt, silver hair. Suddenly he was no longer an imagined being but a real person, right there slowly rising to his feet. The distance between them closed, sounds of low talk, clinking of glasses and plates, background music slowly returned. He was standing, smiling, slightly tremulous, a little awkward.

  The hostess pulled out Miche’s chair and suddenly glanced at them. There was not the easy normalcy of two people greeting each other. The tension between the man and the young woman communicated to her and she too felt suddenly awkward.

  She leaned forward to take Miche’s napkin, which was twirled in her wineglass, at the same moment that Gordon stuck out his hand towards Miche. The momentary confusion when Gordon’s hand collided with the hostess was the trigger for a small release of tension and father and daughter were both smiling when their hands first touched. The hostess laughed and excused herself, retreating to fetch the menus.

  ‘Hello,’ Miche managed in a small voice.

  ‘Hello to you too. And thanks so much for letting this happen.’ He gave her hand a little squeeze then withdrew it. ‘Sit down, sit down.’

  Miche sat and found herself desperately needing to do something, so she reached out and took the stiff white linen napkin and began fiddling with it, then quickly put it down again. Her rehearsed lines just wouldn’t come out.

  Gordon knew he had to say something and all his practised opening lines were forgotten. ‘I thought long and hard about what I’d say at this moment, but I’m damned if I can remember,’ he said in a low voice.

  Miche couldn’t yet look at him, she straightened the fork by her bread plate. His voice was softly modulated, a pleasant Australian accent. A voice she didn’t know, yet every syllable rang through her head in an echo.

  She surprised herself by suddenly finding her voice. Found herself able to respond. ‘I’m having the same problem.’ She managed a weak smile and was able to look him in the eye to see the relief he obviously felt.

  ‘Would you like to choose a wine? Or something else, perhaps?’ He looked at the wine list rather than at his daughter.

  ‘I think you know more about wine than I do,’ she said.

  He nodded in acceptance and gave her a quick smile.

  With a shock, Miche now saw that his eyes were the same colour as her own. His face was weathered, slightly rugged and attractive. Pleasant was the adjective that came to mind.

  ‘Does a light dry white sound appealing?’ Miche nodded in agreement and he indicated the selection to the hostess. ‘A local vintage Jeremy recommended,’ he added. ‘I have to say, I’m very grateful to Jeremy for arranging this.’ When she didn’t answer, he steered away from the subject. ‘Jem says you met in France?’

  ‘Yes, I was writing a story on a young model. We did the photographs at the chateau where Jeremy was working. Very different from the vineyards around here.’

  ‘Australian winemakers have a different ethos in many respects. A lot of blokes in the business now learn the European techniques and then adapt them to our conditions. Jeremy is good at that. He will go far if he sticks at it.’

  ‘I don’t know much about winemaking and vineyards. What are your prospects when you work for someone else? Sounds a bit like being a hand on a ranch. It’s not like you own the property,’ said Miche.

  ‘Depends on your abilities. Vignerons, or those who have the nose and specialist knowledge, are far more valuable than the guy who owns the dirt,’ said Gordon. ‘It’s more intricate than farming. You don’t just plant the vines and a vintage wine ends up in a bottle.’

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me‚’ she said a little defensively. And suddenly the easy flow of words between them seemed to run into a dry patch. There was brief silence that was instantly awkward.

  He sipped his glass of water. ‘Michelle, I know this is hard. Where do you want to start?’

  She took a deep breath, ‘Well, for a start I’m called Miche. Michelle seems so formal. Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself? All I know is where you were born.’

  ‘Fair enough. I was born in Adelaide, but grew up in the hills behind the city. On the edge of the grape country. I loved the area, so always hankered to go back there. But as a young man I wanted to see what was on the other side of the world. Did a bit of travelling, then came home and was conscripted. I was caught up with the war in Vietnam. When that was over, I took off for the States. I particularly wanted to see my best buddy’s sister. I had made friends with an American helicopter pilot who spent time at Nui Dat, the Aussie base camp. He was killed and I went over to the States to look up his sister. He’d talked about her, showed me her picture. They were very close. She was a budding big shot in journalism. Guess who?’ He gave a wry smile.

  ‘Yes, Mom talked a little about her brother,’ said Miche.

  ‘So that was how we met. New York was a buzz to a country bumpkin like me. I landed a job with a pretty far-sighted Aussie fellow who decided to export Australian wines to England and the States and I was hired as a salesman trying to persuade liquor outlets to stock Australian wine. Quite a challenge at the time. However, thanks to my mates in the New York Rugby Club, who did a lot of serious drinking at the Mad Hatter’s Bar, we started to spread the word.’ He chuckled at the memory, then paused as the girl brought the wine, showed him the bottle and asked if he’d like to try it. ‘The lady can be the judge,’ he said gesturing to Miche.

  She took a sip and nodded. It was a lovely wine. ‘So how come you’re back here?’ It was an oblique question that, translated, meant, ‘Why did you leave my mother and me?’

  He didn’t pick up on the subtext and continued chattily, ‘Big cities didn’t suit me. And when some friends back in Adelaide told me about an opportunity to buy a few acres in the Barossa I was dead keen. I’d always had it in the back of my mind to be a winemaker. I was working my way around the Napa Valley in California by that time. Spent time in a handful of the wineries there. I figured the Barossa property that came up was about as cheap as it was ever going to be, so I went out on a limb financially and had a go. It was hard for a while, but we seem to have come good.’

  ‘Wine all over Australia seems to be doing okay. But everyone I talk to here says the best yea
rs are yet to come,’ said Miche.

  ‘Yeah. Could be. No argument that the product is top quality, and we have a lot of land that’s every bit as good as the best in France and California when it comes to wine production.’

  There was a brief pause as they both searched for a neutral topic.

  Gordon plunged ahead. ‘Can I finish telling you my story?’

  She nodded, glad he was doing the talking.

  ‘Look, Miche, what happened between your mother and me was sad, but it wasn’t any horrendous event or mystery . . . I always assumed you knew what happened, which was simply, that our worlds didn’t mesh. We were young, in love, having fun and suddenly there was all this responsibility of finding work, supporting a wife and a baby in a culture completely alien to a boy from the Adelaide Hills.’

  Miche was silent for a moment. Her mother had said something similar about the country boy not fitting into New York as if it were a fault on his part.

  Miche had sometimes found it hard to settle into Australia with its idiosyncrasies and so many little things that were different from America, so she could imagine how it must have been for her father. ‘So why did you leave us, if you loved us?’ she blurted out, terrified she was going to cry.

  At the sight of her hurt and bewildered face, Gordon longed to reach out and hug the daughter he hadn’t held for so long. But he kept his fingers tightly interlocked – he hadn’t earned that right yet. He spoke quietly. ‘I didn’t think of it as leaving in any permanent sense. It was difficult when the New York job didn’t work out, so I went out to California with the idea of seeing what I could find out there and my plan was that you and Lorraine would come over. Well, as you probably know, your mother was working in newspapers and then she moved onto Nina Jansous’ magazine – they were good friends. She told me in one of the last letters she wrote to me that she’d asked Nina to be your godmother, your protector, even though she didn’t believe in religious ceremonies. Anyway, Nina’s magazine became her life. She loved it. She didn’t want to move to southern California. All the action she wanted was in New York.’