Araluen

by Judy Nunn

  ‘I want to.’

  ‘I see.’

  Emma could tell Julia was angry and she didn’t know why. ‘I want to meet her, can’t you understand that?’

  ‘Are you going to tell her who you are?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe not.’ Emma felt uncomfortable. She didn’t want to anger Julia, but now that the opportunity had presented itself, she couldn’t wait to meet her father’s family. Not only Penelope, she wanted to meet the formidable Franklin Ross as well. Surely it was her right, after all.

  Julia could sense the girl’s determination and she knew that any attempt at dissuasion would be useless.

  ‘You’re a fool, Emma, you’ll be hurt,’ was all she said and the subject was closed. It was true she didn’t want to see Emma hurt or humiliated but there was another reason altogether for her anger.

  Julia had made a bargain with Franklin Ross and she’d read in the old man’s face his acknowledgement that she would keep it. He was a hard old bastard and she hadn’t liked him but there had been a flash of mutual respect between them which Julia had never forgotten. The thought that he would assume she’d reneged on their deal, that she’d sent her daughter to claim her place in the Ross family, was more than Julia’s pride could bear.

  She knew she was being selfish. It was Emma’s life and she had a right to trace her antecedents – it was a natural urge. But, to her dying day, Julia wanted no contact with any member of the Ross family.

  ‘Mrs Ross? Emma Clare.’

  ‘Ah yes, Miss Clare.’ The voice on the other end of the phone was cultivated, cool and efficient. It definitely belonged to the image Penelope projected in the various articles Julia had read. ‘You’re the young lady from the North Shore Times. Rhonda’s told me all about you.’

  Emma had contacted Penelope through the correct channels, making an appointment with her personal press secretary, Rhonda Watkins. During the entire interview Emma had been aware that she was being carefully screened. But she got through. Not only had she observed protocol, she’d done her homework. She knew that Ross Productions were about to shoot the pilot of a series which would go to air at the start of the new season. Christmas would be a good time to promote it.

  ‘And the special on the making of the Snowy Mountains mini-series,’ she’d said. ‘I’d like a still of that if it’s possible.’

  Rhonda smiled, aware that the kid had certainly studied up on the situation. ‘That shouldn’t present a problem. Mrs Ross doesn’t like to be represented as self-seeking. Any interviews granted must be solely for the promotion of Ross Productions.’

  Emma nodded. She knew that. She also knew that, privately, Penelope loved publicity. At least that’s what her informer at the studios had told her.

  ‘Would ten o’clock tomorrow morning be convenient?’ Penelope asked. ‘At the studios?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Emma said, her mouth suddenly dry at the prospect of meeting her grandmother. ‘Ten o’clock would be perfect.’

  ‘Fine. I shall see you then.’ And Penelope hung up.

  Emma didn’t sleep soundly that night. Was she going to tell the woman of their relationship or wasn’t she? If so, how would she break the news? Blurt it out – ‘I’m your granddaughter’? Well, that’s what she’d done with her mother, hadn’t she, and everything had worked out fine? But something told Emma it wouldn’t work the same way with Penelope.

  ‘Mrs Ross will see you now,’ the secretary said. And Emma, in her sensible beige reporter’s suit, walked into the plush office with its original paintings, its objets d’art and its vases of orchids. Penelope liked to work in pleasant surrounds.

  She was seated behind an elegant carved teak desk but she rose and offered her hand as Emma entered. ‘Do come in, my dear,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’ They shook hands and Penelope gestured towards one of the armchairs. ‘Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?’

  Emma was surprised and delighted by the warmth of her reception. Her informer at the studios had told her that Penelope was a hard taskmaster. ‘A right bitch at times,’ the informer had said. But then a lot of employees, given the opportunity, would like to badmouth their bosses, Emma supposed. And what a beautiful woman, she thought.

  Penelope wore her rich auburn hair (still rich and still auburn through the diligent attention of her personal hairdresser) swept away from her face and held in a loose but immaculate bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a jade-green silk suit which hung in elegant folds accentuating her slender figure. As she sat in the armchair opposite Emma and crossed her long slim legs, she was the epitome of sophistication.

  ‘Jane will bring us tea soon,’ she said. My God, the girl’s a child, she thought. She can’t be more than eighteen. Rhonda had warned her Emma Clare was young, but not this young.

  Penelope heaved an inward sigh. She hoped she wasn’t wasting her time, but Rhonda had also said the girl was smart and that she’d done her homework. And any good publicity was useful – for the company, of course. ‘You’re very young, my dear,’ she smiled. Penelope was always charming to members of the press.

  Emma nodded. ‘I’m seventeen.’

  ‘And you’re a fully qualified journalist – that’s rather unusual, isn’t it?’ Penelope’s smile was warm and congratulatory but inside she was starting to feel angry. They’d sent her a cadet reporter. It was an insult.

  ‘Well, I’m really only a trainee at the moment,’ Emma admitted. It was best to be honest, she decided. ‘But they’ve been very kind to me at the paper and they’re moving me through the ranks quickly.’ Better not admit she’d just finished school, she thought. She smiled modestly. ‘I suppose they must think I have something. Certainly to allow me an assignment like this.’

  ‘I’m sure they do.’ Penelope recognised the ploy. The girl was smart but she was still a cadet and Rhonda was going to get a swift rap over the knuckles for letting her through. ‘Now, where would you like to start?’ she asked, hoping the tea would arrive soon and they could get it over with quickly.

  An hour later, Rhonda’s reprimand was forgotten. The girl was impressive; her homework had obviously been extensive, her questions were intelligent and, furthermore, she was a very likeable and interesting young woman. Certainly attractive, Penelope thought. Although, with that ash-blonde hair, she should really wear brighter colours; beige was not her shade.

  ‘Tell me a little about yourself,’ she said as she poured them both another herbal tea.

  Was now the time? Emma wondered. She was captivated by the woman’s grace and charm but she sensed the strength beneath the elegant facade. Which way would she react?

  ‘There’s not very much to tell really,’ she said, hedging. ‘I want to be a writer, well, a novelist actually … one day,’ she added self-deprecatingly in case it sounded a little over ambitious.

  ‘Excellent,’ Penelope replied encouragingly. ‘One needs to set one’s sights high to get on in this world. But tell me a little about your background.’ There was something about the girl, something strangely familiar, she thought.

  ‘I was adopted as a baby,’ Emma said. Suddenly she wanted to tell Penelope. She felt deceitful interviewing the woman under false pretences. She wanted her to know the truth.

  ‘I traced my natural parents several years ago,’ she continued. ‘My mother’s name is Julia Bridges and my father … ‘ She hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. ‘My father was Terence Ross.’

  Penelope said nothing. She stared down at her teacup. That afternoon in the lounge room at The Colony House. That hideous scene with that young woman who swore she was carrying Terry’s child. The girl wasn’t lying, Penelope knew it. She looked exactly like her mother.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Emma said. She couldn’t bear the silence.

  ‘No, it’s I who should be apologising, my dear.’ Penelope put down her teacup. What to do? Her mind was racing. ‘It just came as such a shock, that’s all.’ She smiled at Emma, put her hands
out and took the girl’s in her own. ‘So you’re Terry’s child.’

  Emma’s relief knew no bounds. ‘Oh, Mrs Ross, I’m sorry. I really am doing the interview for the paper but I know I shouldn’t have … ’

  ‘I think, under the circumstances, we could make it Penelope, couldn’t we?’

  Emma felt tears threatening. Julia had been wrong. Her grandmother was welcoming her. The relief was overwhelming. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Penelope. Thank you.’

  ‘Here.’ Penelope took a delicate lace handkerchief from the pocket of her suit and handed it to Emma. ‘There’s nothing to cry about.’

  Emma dabbed at her eyes trying not to soil the pristine handkerchief.

  ‘Blow your nose, there’s a good girl,’ Penelope insisted.

  ‘No, it’s all right, I’ve got some tissues somewhere.’ She fumbled in her shoulder-bag.

  ‘Go on, silly, you can keep it. It’s a gift.’

  ‘Oh.’ Emma sniffed uncertainly.

  ‘Go on, go on.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Nevertheless she blew her nose on the tissues and put the lace handkerchief carefully into the side pocket of her bag.

  ‘Now,’ Penelope said when the girl had fully recovered, ‘where do you think we go from here?’ What does she want, Penelope was thinking. What is she after?

  ‘I don’t know,’ Emma replied. ‘I just wanted to meet you, and to talk about my father a little. Maybe if you have a picture of him … ?’

  ‘Of course. I have many.’

  Encouraged, Emma continued. ‘And I’d love to meet … ‘ She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘my grandfather’. ‘ … Mr Ross, if that’s possible.’

  Here was where Penelope drew the line. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment; he’s in New York.’ Franklin didn’t return to the States until the following week but Penelope needed space.

  ‘Tell me, Emma,’ she continued smoothy, ‘how does your mother feel about your contacting us?’ The woman had put her daughter up to it, Penelope was sure. But what did she want? More money? Not recognition, surely.

  ‘Oh, Julia didn’t want me to contact you at all. She said Mr Ross would disown me. She said he told her that he would.’

  Penelope started to relax a little. The situation wasn’t quite as threatening as it had first appeared. She smiled sympathetically. ‘Sadly, my dear, that is the case. I was there when he said it. Mr Ross is an old-fashioned man in many ways and, in a situation like this, he’s not one to change his views, I’m afraid.’

  Emma nodded, disappointed.

  ‘I think it’s best if we keep our knowledge of each other a secret, don’t you? For the time being anyway.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Penelope needed a firmer assurance than that. ‘You see, I’d like us to meet from time to time and it would be most unfortunate if Mr Ross were to forbid me any contact with you. Which he most certainly would,’ she assured the girl. In truth, Penelope wasn’t at all sure what Franklin’s reaction would be to the discovery of his granddaughter. Most likely he would stick to his principles and deny her, but Penelope couldn’t afford to take any chances. Life was good for her now and she didn’t want it in any way disrupted.

  With Franklin away so often, Penelope had become the matriarchal symbol of the Ross empire. She knew they called her the Ice Maiden, which secretly pleased her. She was a star at long last. Admittedly, not a movie star and, deep down, that would always be a regret, but she held a position of power and she was the centre of attention wherever she went.

  Then there was Michael. Penelope adored Michael. He’d grown into a charming, sophisticated young man, a perfect escort – and she was well aware that when he accompanied her to the theatre and gallery openings, people assumed he was her son at the very least, perhaps even her young lover, most certainly not her grandson.

  Emma posed a potential threat in a number of directions. Should the story of a bastard granddaughter reach the press, the unpleasant stigma of illegitimacy would tarnish her image and (of far greater offence to Penelope) it would remind everyone of her true age. But above all, there was the feminine competition Emma could pose. Competition which could affect not only Penelope’s relationship with her husband and grandson but her status within the Ross household itself.

  Even colourless little Vonnie, who had always remained in the background, had been an annoyance to Penelope. ‘But I believe young Mrs Ross doesn’t fancy kidneys,’ the cook might say as Penelope drew up the week’s menu. Or, ‘Young Mrs Ross has asked if breakfast might be served on the terrace,’ the maid might say. The ‘young’ so rankled with Penelope that she wanted to snarl, ‘Tell her to leave the kidneys on the side of her plate then’, or ‘Tell her she can breakfast in the billiard room or the bathroom for all I care.’

  Penelope hadn’t wished it upon poor Vonnie, who was definitely strange and lived in a world of her own, but it had been a relief when she was diagnosed with a mental illness which made it necessary for her to be transferred to a home where her condition could be properly monitored.

  It was a comfortable home in pleasant surrounds an hour’s drive out of the city. For the first six months, Penelope had visited her fortnightly, for appearances’ sake. But Vonnie never seemed to know she was there – indeed she had never seemed happier – so eventually Penelope had stopped going.

  Since then, no other woman had been in a position of command in the Ross household. Penelope reigned supreme and that was the way she intended to keep it.

  The status quo must be maintained, she decided. She must keep the girl a secret. And to keep the girl a secret, she must keep her on side. They must become friends. If she dismissed her the girl might well approach Franklin or, God forbid, Michael.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to visit The Colony House and see where your father grew up?’ she offered. That would mollify her surely. ‘And I can show you some photographs of him,’ she added for good measure.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Ross … Penelope,’ Emma corrected, ‘that would be wonderful!’ She was thrilled by Penelope’ s offer and the fact that her grandmother wanted to maintain contact. It was far more than Julia had led her to hope for.

  ‘I have a rather full itinerary for the next week or so,’ Penelope said, rising. ‘Shall we say the Tuesday after next?’ Franklin would be out of the country by then and Michael always worked late at the studios on Tuesdays.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Emma jumped to her feet. ‘What time?’

  ‘Make it mid-afternoon and we’ll have tea. Say around three? Here’s my card.’ She handed it to Emma and they walked to the door. ‘In the meantime,’ she continued, ‘I’m sure I could find you a little more writing work if you’re interested. I have many contacts.’

  ‘You mean … here, at the studio?’ Emma couldn’t believe her luck.’

  ‘Oh no, dear, I’m afraid that would be quite impossible. Not only are there no openings but television scripting is very specialised work and we have a full team of highly qualified, experienced writers.

  ‘However, I do a lot of readings for the Blind Society,’ Penelope explained, ‘and I’m sure there would be some freelance work available for you in the way of book precis and the like.’ It would be a good idea to develop a neutral ground for them, Penelope thought, somewhere well away from any possible contact with Ross family or staff.

  Emma nodded eagerly. ‘That’d be fantastic’

  ‘Yes,’ Penelope smiled. ‘Very good training, I would think, for a future novelist. Ring me here at the studios tomorrow morning and I’ll give you the contact name and phone number. I’ll have had a chat with them by then – they’re bound to have something for you.’ Penelope would make sure they did; she was a generous benefactor of the Blind Society.

  ‘Thank you, Penelope, thank you so much. I’m sorry for … ’

  ‘Not at all, my dear. It’s a delight to meet you.’ Penelope kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘It’s sad that we must keep our little secret but you understan
d, don’t you, it’s for your own good?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’ She opened the door. ‘Goodbye, Miss Clare,’ she said for the sake of the receptionist.

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Ross,’ Emma replied.

  On the morning of the designated appointment at The Colony House, Emma awoke a little nervous at the prospect. She didn’t know why. Perhaps it was Julia’s negativity. Julia hadn’t been remotely impressed by Emma’s ecstatic account of her first meeting with Penelope.

  ‘Don’t trust her, Emma,’ she warned. ‘The woman’s up to something. She has her own motives for wanting to see you again and it has nothing whatsoever to do with grandmotherly affection. She’s a hard bitch.’

  Emma found her mother’s venom unreasonable. Julia herself swore that Franklin would most certainly disown her, so what possible motive could Penelope have for their meeting other than a genuine desire to get to know her? Besides, when Emma had telephoned the following day, she’d received a warm and generous reception.

  ‘The Blind Society has some work for you, dear. The head of the book reading department is waiting to hear from you,’ Penelope had said. She gave Emma the details, wished her luck and told her not to hesitate to ring should she need any help or any further details for her article. Then, before hanging up, she reminded Emma of their appointment at The Colony House the following week.

  Still Julia was not impressed. ‘I don’t care what she says. She’s hard and cunning and she’s up to something.’

  ‘But you only ever met her once,’ Emma argued.

  ‘I only need to meet someone like Penelope Ross once to know that I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could spit,’ Julia said.

  Emma decided not to push the matter further. Julia’s dislike for the Ross family had become an obsession, she decided, and it was impossible for her mother to see reason.

  Nevertheless, as she walked up the circular drive to the main doors of The Colony House at precisely five minutes to three on Tuesday afternoon, Emma felt a certain foreboding.