by PJ Vye
But it didn’t end there. Carl began redrawing on his mortgage to keep himself in the share market, and while the bookstore continued its inevitable decline in sales, his financial status became chronic.
When the annual payment from Willa for the boy didn’t arrive this year, he had to file for bankruptcy.
The ironic thing was, Willa had written to Carl just that month, asking him for a loan, so that she could make the boys payment. Just twelve months ago, he would have had the pleasure of presenting her with a cheque that could have served the purpose he’d originally intended. Not to mention looking like the hero brother who knew what was best after all. But instead he’d left the request unanswered, too proud to confess his dire situation to his siblings. When the bank foreclosed on his home, he felt ashamed, pitiful and completely alone. Too ashamed to return home to Mapleton and too downtrodden to rob a bank, he saw only one option left. The day he filled the prescription of sleeping pills, was the very same day he received the magazine offer.
Chapter 11
Willa lay back on the grass, closing one eye and then the other, trying to block out any physical evidence that she was actually inside a suburban backyard, surrounded by ugly, metal eight foot high temporary fencing. If she closed her eyes just enough, she could see nothing but the sky and the branches of the lemon-scented gum above her, rustling gently in the breeze.
But the sounds betrayed her. The birds were silenced by the whine of a chainsaw, unpredictability biting the air with gusts of loud, belligerent cutting. And there was no escaping it. Out the front of her brother Peter’s house, were hordes of reporters, making it impossible for Willa to escape, or enjoy any semblance of normality. Her middle brother had organised the fences, albeit begrudgingly, to keep them away from the house. But this hadn’t stopped them from gathering on the nature strip all hours of the day and night, aggravating the neighbours—and who could blame them? It was impossible to find a car park for one thing, and the police had been called a number of times to move on the larger vans from peoples driveways.
No-one was happy, but it seemed there was little anyone could do. The press were allowed their freedom. And quite clearly, because of them, Willa would not be allowed hers.
She was angry. Everything was making her angry. Right now it was the obtrusive chainsaw revs that irritated and compelled her back inside the house. She muttered obscenities under her breath as she flopped down on the couch next to her brother. He was watching a restoration show on television whilst drinking from a can and was not pleased to be disturbed.
“Shoosh,” said Peter, leaning closer to the television.
“Don’t shoosh me, Peter,” said Willa.
“Then don’t be here, Willa. Bugger off, will ya?”
“Do you want something to eat?” she said between gritted teeth, counting the empty cans on the coffee table.
“Jeez, Willa, I’m tryin’ ta watch this, alright?”
She sat in silence for a while as he downed the last of another beer. If she didn’t intervene now, it would be a long, disastrous day.
“Let me make you some lunch.”
“I know what you’re doing, Willa,” he said, as he selected another can from the cooler at his feet and pulled it open. “I’m not hungry and I’m trying to watch this program.”
“You already watched that episode yesterday. Why don’t you have a glass of water before you drink that?”
“Because this is my house and I’ll do whatever I damn well please, Willa. Now bugger off.”
“I do appreciate you letting me stay, Pete.”
“I didn’t have much choice did I?”
“This was our parent’s house. It’s only fair.”
“Well stop doggin’ me and let me watch my show before I turf you out on your ear, will ya?”
“I’ll make you a sandwich.”
“Please yourself.”
The credits were rolling as she placed a cheese sandwich in front of her brother. “You need to go shopping.”
“Oh sure, spend more o’ me own money on ya.”
“You know I’ll pay you back when all this blows over.”
“What if it don’t, Willa? You can’t stay ‘ere forever.”
Willa stood up and walked back into the kitchen. “I’ll cook a stew for dinner.” She picked up a knife, found some old potatoes and began chopping. Keeping her hands busy helped to stop the flush of irritation that possessed her when Peter was drinking. Her father had been an excessive drinker, and before he died, somehow managed to hand down his struggle with excess to his younger son.
“A lawyer called here today,” Peter yelled from the couch.
She stopped peeling and held her breath. “And?”
Peter dragged himself from the couch, attempting to pull up his pants with one hand while nursing a drink in the other. “And I think you should hire him.”
“You’re friggin’ crazy if—”
“Just get off ya high horse for a minute will ya?” he said. “Don’t ya wanna know what your options are?”
“I don’t have any options, Peter. I have nowhere to live—.”
“So I should have to cover all the costs and all the bullshit?”
“I’m sorry,” Willa croaked. “I wish there was another way. I don’t have a place of my own, I have no income until next summer and I can’t leave the house without the reporters. I don’t need you to get a second opinion on my options, Peter. I have none.”
“Yes you do, Willa,” said Peter.
“It’s no choice,” said Willa. “You know that. Stop answering the phone.”
Willa went in search of a saucepan, allowing the pots to bang together loudly as she retrieved one, preventing Peter from answering immediately.
When the din had died down, he continued, “They don’t charge ya nothing to hire ‘em. They just take a percentage if ya win. It’s an open and shut case of copyright, he reckons. Ya can’t lose.”
“You know I can’t go to court, Peter. I can’t do it.”
“Will ya just shut up and listen for a minute?”
She felt a sudden, thick pressure pulsing in her head and rubbed her temples to soothe it. She did not want to be having this conversation, especially when the smell of beer on his breath was making her stomach turn.
“It’ll be settled out of court —just an agreement between you and them. No-one needs to know.”
She looked into Peter’s determined face and tried to think of a way to convince him. What a mess everything had become. She could never have dreamed that she would need a backup plan. Her life had been mapped out in front of her, never changing, safe and secure. She had always believed that nature could provide her every need, support her in every way. Her necessities were so few. She couldn’t have predicted this.
Peter was still waiting for a response. “Well?”
“Have you heard from Carl?”
“Jeez, Willa, will you do it?”
A knock at the front door startled them both. Before they even had the chance to move, it opened and a man in a dark, tailored suit confidently strolled inside and met them at the kitchen bench. Willa’s brother stood still, eyes wide at the shock of finding the front door hadn’t been locked, and seeing the stranger enter, uninvited.
Willa felt a rush of anger and resentment surge through her—what could he possibly want now?
“May I?” the man asked, and sat down at the table before either of the siblings had had the chance to close or then reopen their gaping mouths to speak.
Peter was not easily intimidated by an expensive suit—particularly in his own home. He demanded, “Who the hell are you? And do you always walk into people’s houses without bein’ asked?”
“Yes, actually,” said Jack. “It’s a terrible habit of mine. Isn’t that right, Willa?” He turned his green eyes on her and she found her tongue tied in knots.
“You must be Peter—my name is Jack Gilmore.” He held his hand out but Peter ignored him.
; “How did you get in here?”
“The door was left unlocked. Don’t worry, I locked it behind me.”
Peter gave his sister a look of utter astonishment.
“So, ya got through the front door,” said Peter. “But how did you get through the padlocked fences?”
“I paid the man who constructed the install to open the locks for me.”
“Bruce? You bribed Bruce? From Black and White Fencing?” Peter’s face contained an equal measure of annoyance and admiration.
“No, not Bruce. I believe it may have been his son,” Jack said, looking directly at Peter. “Everyone has their price.”
“Unbelievable.”
Jack turned in his chair to face Willa. “I must say, I was quite surprised to hear you had moved from the river, Willa.”
Willa gave him a long, piercing look, and then slowly took a seat beside him at the table. He looked genuinely sorry for her.
“I had to leave,” she said.
“Why? I thought you’d never leave.”
“She didn’t get a choice, mate,” said Peter, who joined them at the table.
“Someone—the local farmer I assume—had me moved on,” said Willa. “Apparently, there was a problem with all the extra traffic.”
“Oh Willa, I’m so sorry to hear that,” said Jack.
His compassion for her was etched in his face. “Not as sorry as I am,” said Willa.
“You couldn’t just relocate—further down the river?”
“The council wouldn’t have it. The media entourage made everything more difficult, as you can imagine.” Willa said.
“What happened to the chickens?”
“Why are you here?” she was tired of answering his questions and had a few of her own. She wasn’t about to play nice with the man that was the cause of all her trouble. His record label had released her music without permission and now the media were back, worse than ever.
More than that, she’d had to watch when the bulldozers come, tear apart her house bucket by bucket, allowing her to save only the things she could carry. She could still hear the grinding gear shifts, revving engines and tin walls as they were crushed, scooped and lifted onto a truck and driven away. The smell of dirt clouds and diesel, as unexpected in the bush as dinosaurs or dragons. Long, brown strips of tape from the broken cassettes hung from the bushes like badly decorated Christmas trees.
Peter had been unusually quiet. He must have sensed the tension. “What’s going on here eh? How do you two know each other?”
Jack reticently took his eyes from Willa and turned his attention to the brother. “I am the man who released Willa’s recordings without her permission.”
For a full moment, nobody spoke. And then they all started speaking at once.
“What the hell—”
“Can you both—”
“If you would just—”
“You’ve got a nerve.” Peter’s voice managed to rise above the din.
“Yes, that’s true,” said Jack. “But I’m here to make amends.”
The words were music to Peter’s ears. But he wasn’t about to let on. “Damage has been done, mate,” said Peter, drawing out the ‘m’. “And that’s because of you.” He pointed a determined finger in Jack’s direction.
“You know, most people would thank me for catapulting their singing career to the heights of—”
“You’ve got to be kidding me?” said Peter. “Is that why you are here? For thanks?”
“I’ve come to give Willa this.” Out of his pocket he pulled a cheque, folded in half. He handed it across the table to Willa.
“How much is it?” asked Peter, unable to keep the excitement from his voice, his eyes stuck to the bank note in her hand.
Willa slowly opened the cheque, read its contents, and then closed it again, placing it carefully on the table.
“It’s enough,” said Willa, eventually.
“Enough for what?” asked Peter, leaning towards her.
“Enough to solve all my problems,” said Willa.
“Enough to cover your cut of the royalties plus compensation for releasing without consent,” said Jack.
“How much is that?” Peter’s frustration at being kept out of the loop was beginning to show.
“It’s enough to solve all my problems,” Willa repeated, forcing back an unwanted smile at Peter’s frustration.
“I don’t understand,” said Peter, looking at Willa closely. “Is something funny?”
Willa held the cheque up for Peter to see. It was clearly made out to Willa Jones, but in place of an actual dollar amount were the words, ‘enough to solve all your problems.’
“What game are you playing at?” Peter asked Jack directly. “Is this situation not serious enough for you?”
“What is it you want, Jack?” asked Willa.
“Two weeks.”
“To record an album.”
“Yes. Our terms are generous.”
“You already owe her hundreds of thousands of dollars,” yelled Peter, getting to his feet. “How about you write a cheque for that first?” Willa could see the red swell in Peter’s cheeks. He loved the idea of easy money. Always had.
“We are quite aware of our financial obligations to Willa. And we plan to pay, in full. No question.”
“So what’s the holdup?”
“Willa, you need to come with me now, record the album, quickly with no fuss,” said Jack. “You can then come home with enough cash to buy a property on whatever river you choose. Disappear. And no-one will ever be able to ‘move you on’ again.”
“Or— you could pay me what you owe now, and we leave it at that,” said Willa, turning her head to the side, curious as to how he intended to play this.
“Damn right,” added Peter. “We already got us a lawyer, my crooked friend. So pay up now or piss off.”
“It’s true, you could just sue us,” acknowledged Jack with a slow nod. “But our resources are expansive. And my legal team can draw out settlement for months, years even, should I request it. Wouldn’t you rather have this over in two weeks?”
Peter looked from Jack to Willa and back again. “What about my pain and suffering,” he said, pressing his thumb to his chest. “This whole thing has put me out of pocket too, ya know?”
“Once the album is recorded, you will also be compensated.”
“In two weeks, you say?”
“Two weeks.”
“That doesn’t seem too bad, Willa. I think ya should jus’ do it.”
Willa sighed, disappointed but not surprised. She could have guessed Jack would be back. He was used to getting what he wanted, and he had no problem blackmailing her to get it He’d summed up her situation nicely—she was miserable living here and the promise of a quick settlement was appealing. Offering compensation to Peter was genius—now both men wanted her to make the record.
Financial independence would be nice but not if she was still a prisoner of the media army. Jack had offered her a choice—stay and be stuck in litigation for months, maybe years or make the record and have her money in a few weeks. What if there was a third option? An idea formed in her mind as she studied him. His phone buzzed in his hands and he checked it. Did he feel guilt? Guilt about the manipulation?
“Where would we do the recording?” she asked.
“Los Angeles.”
“Of course.” She gave Jack an understanding nod and sent her brother a silencing look.
Jack’s head lifted from his phone urgently as if the question had only just occurred to him. “Do you have a passport?”
“Of course,” she gave him a reassuring smile, grabbed a beer from the fridge and slammed it into her brother’s chest. Willing him not to speak, she pushed Peter onto the couch in front of the TV where, mercifully, a motorcycle race grabbed his attention.
Jack stood. “I’ve got a car outside, ready to take us to the airport today. Just say the word.”
“What about the media. Won’t they fo
llow us?”
“I would expect so. But they can’t follow us onto the plane, can they?”
“I guess not.”
“They’ll give up once we reach security.”
“Right, okay,” she said absently. “Well I guess I don’t have much choice, do I? Let’s go record an album.”
At first, the smile Jack gave her sparkled. But as she fussed around the kitchen, his smile faded into a faint sneer that looked an awful lot like suspicion. Damn it—had she been too quick to agree? How could he read her so well? “I’m still very angry with you though, you understand that right?” she said.
“Of course,” Jack said, as he watched her closely. “But in time you’ll see it was the right decision.”
“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” She slammed a cupboard door shut and gave him her best scorned look.
“How soon can you be ready?” he asked, looking slightly less doubtful.
“Well if you help with the dishes, we can leave in ten minutes,” said Willa.
Jack glanced in disbelief at the pile of saucepans in the sink and tried to excuse himself. “I’ll just need to makes some calls first and—”
Before he could even get his phone from his pocket, Willa slapped a pair of rubber gloves in the American’s hands, directed him to the sink and passed him the detergent.
To Willa’s incredible relief, Jack managed to lose the entourage of media that had followed her from Mapleton. He’d hired a car that looked like a thousand others and by the time he hit the city traffic, they had gone. Returning the car and arriving at the airport without being surrounded by a throng of cameras and microphones felt liberating and for half a second she was grateful to Jack. And then she remembered why the media were relentless.
The line that led to the airline check-in desk wrapped around itself like a snakes and ladders board game. It would be at least an hour’s wait and Willa smiled inwardly at her good fortune. It would give her the advantage she needed. She watched dumbstruck as Jack walked straight past the line to the business class desk where only one person was waiting. She looked around quickly, thinking fast. She hadn’t been in an airport for twenty years and had never flown international, so she had no way of knowing when she would have to supply her non-existent passport. Her heart bursting with adrenaline she watched as the gentleman ahead of her handed over his passport with his tickets. It was all over if she didn’t act now.
