by Judy Nunn
I am not only bereft, I am overwhelmed with guilt. I should have recognised the threat to her life from the outset of our parenthood. I should have placed more value upon Sarah herself, for I now realise that I have lost the dearest friend I ever had ...
Again, Franklin was surprised that a man like George, whose actions had always been beyond reproach, should so question himself.
... My one comfort is that Sarah, in her wisdom, knew that I loved her. (Although, to my discredit, I rarely told her so.) It eases my remorse and my pain to know that she recognised my love and forgave me my selfishness...
Franklin closed the journal. It was time to dress for dinner.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘YOU SELFISH BASTARD!’ she hissed, her face white with fury. ‘You selfish, greedy, egotistical bastard!’
In all their years together, Franklin couldn’t remember ever having heard Penelope swear. And he’d certainly never seen her like this. Her beauty was distorted by rage. She was one of the most glamorous women he had ever known and now she looked positively ugly - it was very interesting. It was also very puzzling.
‘But why should you object to a divorce?’ he asked, genuinely bewildered. ‘We haven’t lived together as man and wife for over twenty years and you see me only three months a year anyway.’
Penelope fought to regain her control. Excessive emotional behaviour was not attractive, she knew that. She never laughed, cried or displayed anger to any great degree - it was too disfiguring.
She took several deep breaths before gracefully seating herself in her favourite writing chair beside the escritoire. These days she rigorously avoided direct sunlight, and the filtered glow through the rich red velvet drapes of the french windows behind her was a flattering shade of rose.
‘You are not only greedy, selfish and egotistical, Franklin,’ she said when she’d regained her composure, ‘you are ignorant. This action you propose is crass, vulgar and ill-mannered.’
‘What? To marry the woman I love?’
‘Oh, stop saying you’re in love, for God’s sake,’ she snapped, intensely irritated. ‘It’s not at all becoming for a man of your age. And particularly not for a man of your type.’
She wasn’t remotely offended by the fact that there was a mistress in his life – she’d suspected it for years and would have been surprised if there weren’t. But to have the woman openly paraded was deeply offensive. She’d credited Franklin with more style than that.
‘It is a crass and vulgar action to sacrifice a loyal wife and a marriage of fifty years in order to legitimise a grubby little affair with an employee,’ she said. Franklin had given her the details and, to Penelope’s horror, she vaguely remembered meeting Helen Bohan once many years ago. A young, efficient, no-nonsense woman. Extremely average-looking.
Franklin decided to skirt any discussion and get down to the practicalities. Penelope was choosing to overreact and it would be simpler to avoid questioning why. It was obviously a case of wounded vanity.
‘The Colony House will be yours, of course,’ he announced. ‘And I am prepared to sign over to you all of my Australian holdings, except Araluen. I think that’s more than generous.’
Penelope felt the muscles in her neck tighten and a slow flush creep into her face. Generous! Generous to pay her off because her services were no longer required. Generous to toss her aside after she’d sacrificed a career for him, given him sons, maintained the perfect image of glamorous, loyal hostess-wife. Good God, she’d even been running his Sydney production company single-handed for the past ten years.
She couldn’t trust herself to speak. Franklin continued, ‘I shall take Michael to the States with me when he’s finished this film in Perth. He’s been developing some bad habits here and I’d like to keep an eye on him.’
Her mouth was dry. She tried to swallow but found it difficult. Franklin, unabashed, was telling her that he intended to leave her, quite openly, for a younger woman, and then was going to rob her of her grandson. Having stripped her of her dignity, he expected her to face the humiliating gossip and innuendo without Michael by her side.
Franklin appeared totally unaware of Penelope’s growing outrage. He presumed that her silence was an indication of her compliance. Thank goodness she’s calmed down, he thought – the initial overreaction must have been simply due to shock. He was glad. He didn’t want to hurt Penelope. He was fond of Penelope. They’d been through so much together.
‘Ours has always been a courteous relationship, my dear,’ he said, ‘and I see no reason why it shouldn’t continue to be so. It has been a convenient marriage – for both of us – and it has served our mutual needs admirably.’
Penelope could take no more. She started slowly, evenly, determined to maintain control. ‘I have given you a great deal, Franklin … ’ she said.
‘We have given each other a great deal, my dear,’ he answered benignly. ‘As I said, it has been a mutually satisfying experience … ’
‘… my youth, my beauty, two sons … ’
Damn, Franklin thought, here she goes again. ‘I realise that and I’m deeply grateful, but – ’
Something snapped in her. Suddenly she could take no more of his patronising arrogance. She stood up so abruptly that the little writing chair toppled over behind her but she didn’t notice. ‘I sacrificed my career for you,’ she snarled.
Franklin felt a surge of irritation. It should all have been so simple. He didn’t want a scene. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Penelope,’ he snapped back, ‘what career?’
‘I could have been a star, damn you!’
‘You could never have been a star, my dear.’ He walked to the door. As far as he was concerned, their meeting was over. ‘You simply didn’t have the talent.’
‘I suffered childbirth for you!’ She was screaming now. ‘I didn’t want children but you had to have your precious sons, and I gave them to you!’
‘You didn’t give me my sons.’ The irritation was turning to anger now. ‘Curb your vanity, woman, my sons were God’s choice not yours.’
In an instant, Penelope knew how to wreak her revenge. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Franklin. It was God’s choice to take them from you. You could have had another five sons, another seven, but I chose not to give them to you.’ The steel-blue eyes burned into hers but there was no stopping her now. ‘You think God chose only two conceptions? Rubbish. I did! You could have had a son a year. Just imagine!’
Franklin said nothing. He wanted to strike her but did nothing while she continued her tirade.
‘I timed my two conceptions and then I finished it. Do you understand? I finished it!’ Still he said nothing. ‘There was no cancer. There was no need for the removal of two perfectly healthy ovaries.’ In her triumph, her voice was quieter now. ‘I paid the doctor, Franklin. And I paid him with your money.’ Her face was twisted with spite and revenge.
Franklin turned to leave the room. He knew if he remained for one more moment he would strike her.
‘You chose to ruin my life, you bastard, and I chose to ruin yours. Your sons are gone now and you have one grandson left, just one … ’
Her screams rang in his ears as he closed the door.
Michael had chosen to direct Blue Water History himself and he had been hard at work for a fortnight by the time Emma arrived in Perth. He’d filmed some general footage around the port of Fremantle and a lot of covering shots of the specific locations he’d chosen, and he and Stanley had set up the night shoot for the heist itself.
‘I thought we’d get the theft of the Cup safely in the can before the race is under way,’ he explained. ‘Stan’s done an amazing job. Just look at this.’
He crossed to a mysterious object, covered with a sheet, which was sitting in the centre of the table. Emma had commented on it the moment she’d walked in but he’d refused to explain. ‘All in good time,’ he’d said, ‘all in good time.’
Now he gestured impatiently to Stanley. ‘Stan, my man, come on
and show her our baby.’
The three of them were in the main lounge room of the luxury ten-bedroomed mansion Michael had rented in Birdswood Parade overlooking Melville Waters and the Royal Perth Yacht Club.
Between them, Michael and Stanley flung aside the sheet to reveal an impressive silver trophy, a metre high and ornately engraved.
‘My God,’ Emma gasped. ‘Don’t tell me they’ve loaned you the America’s Cup.’
‘No way,’ Michael said. ‘They wouldn’t let us near the real thing for love or money. This is a replica Stan had made up by a mate of his in the States. It arrived three days ago.’
‘And she’s a gem,’ Stanley said with pride. ‘Lou’s a genius, he’s got it all down to the last detail. No one would pick this baby for anything but the genuine article, believe me.’
‘The three actors playing the crooks arrived last week,’ Michael explained, ‘and Stan’s been taking them through their paces, showing them the layout of the Yacht Club and its security system. The Club’s been tremendously helpful … ’
‘Michael’s “donated” them a fortune, needless to say,’ Stanley added.
‘… and the security guys are going to switch the real Cup for the dummy just before we start filming,’ Michael continued, oblivious to the interruption. ‘Once they’ve locked it away in a vault or whatever, we have permission to use the display cabinet and the hall for the rest of the night. They’ve even agreed to release the locking system so our “burglars” can mime the cabinet break-in and they’ve agreed to switch off the alarms so they won’t go off by mistake when the actors “deactivate” them.’
‘That was the club’s idea,’ Stanley added. ‘I don’t think they want to risk calling attention to an action which would meet with disapproval from the visiting Cup officials. Of course they don’t approve themselves, but Michael’s made them an offer … ’
‘… too good to refuse. Right,’ Michael grinned. ‘One lesson I learned from my grandfather: anyone can be bought.’
That night, Emma and Michael dined at the Parmelia Hotel, where Emma was staying.
‘Why on earth did you book in here?’ Michael asked irritably. ‘I told you I’d rented a bloody mansion for key personnel. The pace we’re going to be working at we need to be close together.’
‘Yes, I realise that,’ Emma said apologetically. ‘I can move in for the first couple of weeks, if you like, but I’ll need a hotel for the rest of the time. Malcolm’s coming over for the Cup.’
Michael tried to keep his disapproving frown strictly businesslike. ‘Emma, our work on this movie is going to be very intense and if you’re holidaying with your lover I don’t see how – ’
‘I won’t be holidaying with my lover,’ she protested. ‘I didn’t even want him to come over. Honestly. I told him so. But he said he was coming for the Cup.’ Michael was obviously disbelieving. ‘It’s true,’ she insisted. ‘One of the yachts from his marina is racing and he has a share in it.’
‘Well, I don’t approve,’ he said sternly. ‘I find it totally unprofessional for you to shack up with your boyfriend in a hotel when the rest of the team is staying at the production headquarters on constant standby.’
Emma privately agreed with him and she was annoyed with Malcolm for placing her in such a position.
Malcolm had proposed to her before returning to Queensland. Well, first he’d proposed she come and live with him and then, when she’d refused, he’d proposed marriage. She’d refused that too. More or less. It was far too soon. She loved him, she said, but she was only twenty – she didn’t want to marry anyone just yet.
‘That’s all right,’ he’d answered. ‘I’m prepared to wait.’ Malcolm didn’t actually care whether or not they married at all. Just so long as Emma remained his.
Emma looked at Michael’s scowling face for only an instant before making a snap decision. ‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ she said. ‘I should be with the team. I’ll move into the house for the duration and I’ll tell Malcolm to keep his distance.’
Emma was immediately pleased she’d made the decision. Although she still loved Malcolm – well, she was fairly sure she did – lately she’d had the feeling that he was taking over her life. And, what’s more, she’d been allowing him to. What had happened to the strong, self-reliant Emma Clare? She seemed to have disappeared.
Not any more, she answered herself. I’m back. She felt stimulated by her declaration of independence and thrilled to the impending battle of wits which lay ahead with Michael, the two of them locked together, creating Blue Water History. Malcolm would have to wait.
‘I’ll move in first thing tomorrow,’ she said.
‘No, not tomorrow. Make it the day after, the day of the nightshoot,’ he answered.
Delighted as he was by Emma’s acquiescence, Michael had his reasons for not wanting her around the following day. That evening he had plans, dangerous plans, and he didn’t need the added distraction of Emma.
‘You’ve only just arrived,’ he continued. ‘Give yourself twenty-four hours to loll around the swimming pool or see the sights or whatever. Then we can move your gear in during the afternoon and you can come along and watch us steal the America’s Cup that night.’
‘You’re on.’
The following day, Emma took a taxi to Fremantle and wandered about the streets soaking up the Cup fever which was in the very air.
The city had tarted itself up beautifully to impress the influx of tourists. Old pubs had been restored to their former glory; new, trendy outdoor restaurants had opened; pokey cafes had expanded fashionably, spilling onto the footpath. The rough port town of Fremantle had become an outdoor city catering to an elegant sidewalk society.
She sat and sipped a cafe latte while she watched the fascinating potpourri of people from all over the globe who were already gathering for the Cup although the first of the trials wasn’t due to start for a fortnight.
She wandered along the forefront and gazed at the magnificent yachts in the marina. She browsed through the fish markets, bought herself a steaming parcel of fish and chips and sat on a bench looking out at the trawlers anchored in the bay. As she ate she fed the seagulls and chatted to an animated American couple who’d come over for the Cup. Then she walked for another two hours, exploring the old women’s asylum now converted to a maritime museum and the Roundhouse, once an army fortification, now also a museum. She had a delightful day.
When she arrived back at the Parmelia in the late afternoon Emma was exhausted. A hot bath, room service and television, she told herself. A bit of five-star hotel decadence to round off the evening, then tomorrow, the stimulation of Michael and his creative genius.
The following morning, when Michael picked her up, he was on a high. She knew he was. His eyes were dangerously bright and he seemed electrically charged.
Emma confronted him. ‘You’re back on the coke, aren’t you?’ she said accusingly. ‘You stupid bastard, you promised to lay off it.’
‘I’m not, Emma, honest,’ he said.
‘But look at you, you can’t stay still – and look at your eyes. Don’t lie to me, Michael, I know the signs.’
‘I swear to you I have not snorted coke,’ he said, raising his hand. ‘Word of honour.’ And he hadn’t. That morning. Of course, last night had been a different story. But, Christ alive, a night like last night demanded added stimulation; it was a once in a lifetime experience. ‘It’s a natural high, I promise.’ And he wasn’t lying. He couldn’t wait to tell her.
‘Oh Emma,’ he said, elated. ‘Last night we created history.’
‘What?’ she demanded. She’d never seen him so excited and she found it difficult to believe that it wasn’t drug-induced. ‘For God’s sake, what?’
‘No, not now. I don’t want to spoil it. I’ll tell you after the nightshoot. Come on, let’s get you settled in.’
Michael introduced her to the rest of the team, besides Stanley and himself, who were staying at the mansion. The three
members of the production department, the head of promotions, the caterer and the unit manager. The crew and the actors were staying at a hotel not far from the house.
Together with Stanley, Emma and Michael spent the afternoon sitting beside the swimming pool in the mansion’s landscaped rear garden. It was a burning late-January day and every half-hour they dumped themselves into the water to cool off. Well, Emma and Stanley did. Michael was happy to sit under an umbrella on the terrace and sip away at the Dom Perignon he’d insisted on opening and drag on the joint he’d insisted on lighting up.
‘For goodness’ sake, Michael,’ Emma scolded, ‘you’re working tonight.’
‘All the more reason to relax this afternoon,’ he said and then he laughed. ‘I can’t win with you, can I? This morning you tell me I’m too sped up and this afternoon you tell me I’m too relaxed. Besides,’ he turned to Stanley, ‘have I ever let the side down? Ever?’
Stanley shook his head. Emma decided not to remind Michael of the fiasco he’d made of his speech at the Halley’s premiere. Better the booze and the joints than the cocaine after all, she thought. But she was relieved to see him surreptitiously put the marijuana away when the three actors arrived at four o’clock.
‘I’d like you to meet our baddies, Emma,’ he said. ‘Of course you know Jonathan Kramer.’
‘Yes, hello, Jonathan.’ She kissed him warmly on the cheek. ‘Lovely to see you.’ Jonathan had played a leading role in Halley’s and she had known of his casting as the chief criminal mastermind. One of the country’s major character actors, Jonathan was heavily in demand, and it had been quite a coup to sign him up for Blue Water History, particularly as his role, although showy, was not a leading one.
‘To work on a Ross-Clare collaboration again, dear boy?’ he’d queried when Michael had approached him. ‘One kills for such opportunities. Besides,’ he’d added in a conspiratorial stage whisper that would reach the back row of any auditorium, ‘it’s a gift of a part and I might well steal the movie if you’re not careful.’
