by Di Morrissey
‘Why are you here, Nina?’
‘I was worried about you when you slipped away and came here. Can we talk for a minute?’
There was a pause, then, ‘Are you alone?’
Nina hesitated.
‘For God’s sake, I’m not going to jump,’ snapped Ali.
Nina threw a relieved glance at Reg. ‘Why the locked door, Ali? What are you doing? I just called in on my way home with Reg.’ Nina tried to sound conversational.
‘Reg! Is that bastard out there?’
Reg grimaced and gave a shrug indicating, ‘See what I’ve had to put up with?’
‘Ali, this seems silly, please come out,’ said Nina, sounding a little exasperated now.
‘Nina, send that prick home. And I don’t need to see you. I’m tidying up my office. Clearing out, if you must know. I’m on a plane to New York tomorrow.’
Nina looked at Reg.
‘I’ll be off then. See you round, Ali. Good luck with the new job,’ said Reg trying to keep the smirk out of his voice.
There was no answer but a thump that sounded like something going into the rubbish bin. ‘I’ll take a cab home, Nina. Thanks for a nice evening.’ Reg strode away. He went to his office to call a cab. He was tired now. He was sick of working with women – bloody neurotic hysterics most of the time. Why couldn’t Nina just go home and leave Ali to whatever she was doing? Ali was smart enough to know when not to hang around. Nina was such a mother hen.
He pushed open his office door and gagged.
His office was a shambles, everything was upturned, everything on his desk had been swept to the floor, including his computer. Files hung open, books and papers were thrown around, then his heart raced as he saw a huge overflowing pile of shredded paper. A quick glance at his files and drawers and he knew that Ali had run all the paper in his office through the shredder. It lay like spaghetti confetti all over the carpet. ‘Bitch!’ he screamed, falling on his knees, picking up a strand of paper. On it he could make out only a few letters, but he knew it was bound to be something important.
He started dragging the snowflakes of paper into a pile, cursing Ali, knowing it was a payback for his dumping on her sandpit.
His mobile phone rang and he scrambled to his feet, pulling it from his pocket. It was his wife. ‘Reg, you have to come home at once . . .’
‘I’m on my way, I was delayed. Nina asked me to come back to the office. I’m still here. Christ, what a mess . . .’
‘Reg, don’t give me that,’ her voice was weary, strained. She’d heard similar excuses over these past months when he’d come home smelling of Scotch and cloying perfume. ‘Tina isn’t well. I’m worried, it’s that appendix playing up again.’
‘I’m on my way. I’ll call a cab. Jesus, Lori, you can’t believe what that bitch, Ali, has done to . . .’
‘I don’t give a damn! I’m fed up with you ranting about that woman. She’s leaving Blaze. You’re not. Your kid is sick. Come home, for God’s sake. We need you,’ shrieked his wife.
Despite the hysteria and anger in her voice, it was music to Reg’s ears. ‘I’m coming, honey. I’ll be there soon. Don’t worry. Tell Tina Dad’s on his way. If she has to go to the hospital, I’ll take her. I love you, Lori. Look after our girl. I’m on my way.’ Reg poured out the breathless words as his anger at Ali slipped away and he surrendered to the warm feeling of concern for his family. He hoped it wasn’t too late to reunite with them. He’d been an arsehole. He’d make up for it. He punched in the cab number, gave them the address and, without looking back, left his office and caught the elevator downstairs.
Nina’s limousine still waited at the kerb. Reg stood in the shadows till the regular taxi slowed and, seeing him waiting, pulled up. Reg sat in the front and gave his address. He didn’t give Ali another thought.
Nina came outside alone a few minutes later. Tom opened the door for her and wearily she slid into the back seat, leaning her head on the soft leather.
‘Long day and evening, eh, Ms Jansous?’
‘Too long, Tom. Has Mr Craven left the building?’
‘Yes. Caught a taxi a few minutes ago. You working back late?’
‘Not really. Just a last goodbye to Ali. She’s packing up. Leaving tomorrow instead of next week. She’ll call you in the morning.’
Tom didn’t answer. Driving Ali Gruber to the airport tomorrow would be no different from when he drove her to her first day of work at Blaze in Sydney. After six months of driving her almost every day, he knew her no better.
Nina slipped between the white damask sheets, too drained to pick up the phone and talk to Lucien. This evening had been a strain and the final confrontation with Ali had put a cap on it. Ali had not packed up her office, but had stripped it by flinging everything in a giant rubbish bin she’d wheeled in. She’d said she’d been tidying up loose ends, ready to start afresh. Nina chided her gently for disappearing from the party and causing her concern, but Ali was adamant no one would have cared even if they’d noticed.
‘I’m sick of being in your shadow, Nina. I think it’s time I made a move.’
Nina had tried to reason with Ali. ‘This is not the moment to make such decisions, Ali. Give your new position six months and you’ll be able to think more clearly about where in the world of the Blaze network you want to go. An editorship could come up.’
‘I’m not prepared to wait thanks, Nina. I’m resigning from Blaze. The letter is on your desk, with a copy to Baron Triton.’
‘I see. Then there’s no point us discussing it at this time of night. I’ll deal with it and be in touch through the appropriate channels. This seems an emotional decision, so I will allow every opportunity for you to change your mind.’ Nina was not about to argue with Ali who nonetheless seemed sober, calm and determined.
‘I’m not changing my mind, Nina. I’ll send you my contact details when I have them.’
Nina fretted a while longer, becoming cross at herself for losing sleep over someone as selfish and ambitious as Ali. But she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. She remembered the scared yet tough and eager teenager who had pestered her for work, any kind of work, at Blaze in New York. How she had watched Ali slash and burn her way to the top. Ali had never allowed anyone to grow close to her. Now Nina wondered if there’d been a point when the girl was crying out for love and attention, but it was so deeply buried beneath the aggression, no one had noticed. She couldn’t help thinking of the parallels with Lorraine. Ali was still young, she would continue to fight for what she wanted. But, wondered Nina, how long would it be before Ali would be pushed aside by a new-generation Young Turk, and would she end up like Lorraine, bitter and lonely?
Ali dialled New York, the Baron’s direct line memorised long ago. ‘Oscar dear, it’s me.’
‘It must be late. How was the party?’
‘As one would expect. I told Nina I was resigning from Blaze.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘She is giving me every opportunity to change my mind.’
Baron Oscar Von Triton gave a low chuckle. ‘Always so thoughtful. Dear Nina. And did you tell her your future plans?’
‘She didn’t ask. And I’m not sure myself,’ added Ali lightly, but with an edge to her voice.
‘Chérie, I told you – no promises. Career-wise you will have many choices. Let us spend a little time on the yacht and in Europe first.’ Anticipating Ali’s interjection, he said, ‘I know, I know, you still want to carve out a career, go where no bright young woman has gone before, or something like that?’
‘I want you to be proud of my achievements, Oscar. And I want to do it on my merits.’
‘But being with me may help a little, perhaps?’
Ali laughed with him, but her eyes were icy dots. He was indulging her, sure she would find the lavish lifestyle more enjoyable than writing or perhaps, publishing. Ali had big plans, but she knew she had to go slowly and carefully with the Baron. There was no promise of a ring or formal co
mmitment either, but give her time. Once she was established and had eclipsed even Nina Jansous, anything could happen.
‘My driver will meet you at JFK. Sleep well, my dear Ali.’
‘I certainly will.’
Ali stepped into the rear of the limousine without a word. Tom handed her a manila envelope from Belinda as he went to put her luggage in the boot.
Ali glanced inside at several letters and papers from the accounts department. She put them in her handbag and settled back to watch the city slide past the tinted windows. It meant no more to her than the day she’d first arrived.
It wasn’t till they were well over the Pacific and she had eaten the specially ordered and cooked gourmet meal that Ali went through the mail Belinda had left for her. A few personal notes from corporate clients wishing her well, tax papers, and one sealed letter addressed in handwriting she didn’t recognise. Inside was a folded press clipping that turned out to be the recent weekend newspaper article about her and a handwritten letter. The steward arrived with coffee just as she was unfolding the letter and she didn’t notice a smaller piece of paper drop to the floor.
Ali took a sip of coffee then started reading the letter before she realised who it was from. But having begun, she couldn’t tear her eyes away. In the dim privacy of the first-class cabin she felt stripped naked without even the protection of her dark glasses.
Dear Alisson,
I read this article with a mixture of pride and sadness. How well you have done. Despite the terrible handicap I inflicted on you all those years ago.
I can’t blame you for never wanting to speak or write to me. But I want you to know – and maybe when you are ready – to understand how it came to be.
It should never have happened. It was a dreadful, horrible accident. I had a drinking problem long before, but the mine closing and no hope held out to me was too much to bear and I broke. And in doing so, I lashed out at your mother. I didn’t know how hard I’d hit her or that the fire would break out. They told me at the trial you tried to save her. God, I wish that it had been me who was taken. But Ali, the time behind bars, hard as it was, set me straight. I will never come to terms with what happened, but I have been dry for some years now, and have put my faith in the Lord for many years. I live quietly with an old cat by a pretty bay on the north coast. I couldn’t go back to the Hunter area. I make a modest living as a wood-turner, selling my work at markets. I learned the craft in the nick. I read a lot, another good habit I picked up in prison, and find some poetry quite moving. I’ve included a verse from one poet I particularly admire. The work sprang to mind when I read the newspaper article about you and decided to write this letter. The poem says it all. It may help you understand me.
You are leaving Australia again and going on to bigger things, I read. Well done. If at some stage you feel moved to at least acknowledge this letter, it would give me great joy. Even a postcard perhaps.
God bless you, daughter.
Your father,
Alex Vidal
Ali looked in the envelope for the poem he said he had included, but it was empty. She studied the address at the beginning of the letter, then very deliberately tore the pages into small neat squares and pushed them far down into the seat pocket. She leaned back and turned on the headset to listen to Maria Callas and shut her eyes.
The jet streaked into fast gathering night. To the east, a distant streak of lightning for an instant ripped across the night sky. Then all was darkness once more.
The next day, in Los Angeles, a matronly woman cleaner methodically worked through the first-class cabin. She removed the torn letter and a few foil chocolate wrappers from the seat pocket where Ali had been sitting, and tossed them into a plastic rubbish bag, then reached under the seat for another piece of paper. The only thing that stopped her immediately consigning it to the rubbish bag was the handwritten poem that took up most of the page. She leaned against the seat and read . . .
A Dead Past
Spare her at least: look, you have taken from me
The Present, and I murmur not, nor moan;
The Future too, with all her glorious promise;
But do not leave me utterly alone.
Spare me the Past – for, see, she cannot harm you,
She lies so white and cold, wrapped in her shroud;
All, all my own! and, trust me, I will hide her
Within my soul, nor speak to her aloud.
Cruel indeed it were to take her from me;
She sleeps, she will not wake – no fear – again:
And so I laid her, such a gentle burden,
Quietly on my heart to still its pain.
Leave her at least – while my tears fall upon her,
I dream she smiles, just as she did of yore;
As dear as ever to me – nay, it may be,
Even dearer still – since I have nothing more.
By Adelaide Anne Procter (circa 1858)
The cleaner folded the poem carefully and put it in her pocket. ‘So beautiful, so sad,’ she murmured. Then resumed collecting rubbish.
