Araluen

by Judy Nunn

  ‘It’s a fantastic offer!’ Michael had immediately called a meeting with Emma and Stanley. ‘We’re our own team, we call the tune – budgets like you wouldn’t believe. Emma, start thinking ideas, projects. Stanley, start thinking stunts, the bigger and the showier the better.’

  Stanley had caught Michael’s enthusiasm and the two men started talking nineteen to the dozen. Emma didn’t want to remind them about Malcolm. She was in a genuine quandary. She couldn’t help but be excited by the opportunity, but was she prepared to terminate her relationship? Because if she agreed to go with Michael that’s what it would amount to. She was sure Malcolm wouldn’t contemplate coming to America with her – his life was on the Gold Coast.

  Emma didn’t know what to think. Malcolm was her lover. She had even contemplated marriage with him – some time in the future, certainly, but she had accepted a commitment nevertheless.

  He was due to arrive in two days’ time. His yacht was sailing in the third day of the trials. She decided to postpone her decision until his arrival. She would talk it through with him. Perhaps she could go to America for a year only. Michael wouldn’t like that of course, but …

  ‘Well, say something, Emma.’ Michael had suddenly noticed her silence. ‘Isn’t it the most stunning opportunity? Aren’t you thrilled?’

  ‘Yes Michael,’ she smiled. ‘It’s stunning and I’m thrilled.’ And she was. For him. She’d worry about her own position in the scheme of things after she’d spoken to Malcolm. And she leapt into the brainstorming session, as usual enjoying every minute of it.

  But, as fate would have it, Emma’s decision was made for her. In the most shocking way. Just two days later, on the morning of Malcolm’s impending arrival.

  ‘GOLD COAST LAND BARON FOUND SHOT TO DEATH’ the newspaper headlines screamed. ‘The body of real estate millionaire Malcolm O’Brien was discovered slumped over the steering wheel of his car in the early hours of this morning. The vehicle was parked outside his Surfers Paradise apartment block. O’Brien had been shot twice through the head at point-blank range with a .22 calibre weapon … ’

  The article went on to infer political corruption, illegal land dealings and the involvement of several key figures from the underworld. Malcolm’s dirty linen was on full public display but there were no clues whatsoever as to the identity of his killer.

  The days that followed were a nightmare for Emma. The only thing that kept her going was the distraction of Blue Water History and she threw herself into her work with a vengeance. Despite the sympathy of those around her, there was really no one with whom she felt she could share her grief. None of them had known Malcolm.

  But she felt most alone when she flew to Queensland for the funeral. Michael offered to accompany her but she knew it was something she must do on her own. It was then that she realised just how much Malcolm had kept her to himself. She knew no one there, and started to wonder, indeed, whether she had ever really known Malcolm himself.

  When she arrived back in Perth later that same day, she was severely shaken. The shock had caught up with her and she could feel herself going under.

  Michael was waiting for her at the airport. He helped her into the car and said nothing as she wept silently all through the drive home.

  When they arrived at the door to her room he said, ‘Give me your key’, and when they walked inside, he sat her on the bed and took off her shoes.

  ‘Would you like me to stay with you?’ he asked. She didn’t answer. She could feel the tears coming on again and she knew she wouldn’t be able to control them this time. ‘I know you’re feeling alone, Emma,’ he said. ‘But you mustn’t be. I’m here. I’ll always be here.’

  The emotion she’d been suppressing for days finally escaped and she sobbed uncontrollably. He sat beside her and put his arm around her and she clung to him as she wept.

  ‘I’ll always be with you, Emma,’ he said. ‘Never forget that.’ He held her close to him. ‘I’ll always be with you.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BLUE WATER HISTORY premiered in New York in the spring of ’89 and, just as Michael had forecast, it was a runaway success.

  During the actual filming, Michael had prayed that the Americans would reclaim the Cup and he was delighted when they did. He was aware that the United States would show little interest in a film depicting the defeat of their sportsmen. At the time, he had wondered idly whether the fifty thousand he’d paid to a particular crew member had had any effect on the result. But it didn’t make any difference. Following his announcement that the heist had been real, that the America’s Cup had indeed been ‘stolen’, the film world was agog with conjecture.

  Was Michael Ross for real? everyone asked. Surely it was a publicity hoax. He’d not announced how the feat had been accomplished. Some believed it, others didn’t, but everyone went to see the movie. Everyone talked about it. Then word filtered out. Members of the film crew swore they knew for a fact that a dummy had been exchanged for the real Cup before the shoot. Had that been how he’d done it? No, surely it was just a scenario his publicist had spread around. But, whatever the actual story, it didn’t ultimately matter. Audiences flocked to Blue Water History.

  Franklin had generously allocated a whole section of his studios to Michael for use as a production headquarters.

  The studios were in central Manhattan. They were a rabbit warren – similar, Emma thought, to the studios in Sydney where she’d started her television career. But bigger, much, much bigger. They produced concurrently several game shows, two sitcoms, a top-rating daytime soap and, from time to time, various miniseries. It took her a week to find her way around the place.

  Michael immediately called Emma and Stanley together in the boardroom of Michael Ross Productions to start plotting their next creation. There was a new member of the team: Mandy Crockett …

  To appease his conscience, Franklin had promised Davy that he would find a senior position in a highly creative field for his daughter. No matter how hard Franklin explained it away as a business necessity, the dismissal and subsequent death of old Sam Crockett still rested heavily with him. It was the least he could do to look after the old man’s granddaughter.

  Although Michael had agreed to employ Mandy as a favour to Franklin, she proved to be very useful. She was only nineteen and not averse to the dogsbody work, taking notes during creative sessions and running errands. She was keen to learn the business and, as it turned out, she was great fun. A party girl – one of Michael’s kind.

  Davy was glad of the opportunity afforded his daughter, although he considered it the least Franklin could do. Mandy was the baby of the family, spoilt by her mother and father and two older brothers, and she had been a wayward child. She was Davy’s favourite, he couldn’t deny it, his little princess, and it had broken his heart when she’d insisted on moving into an apartment with a wild young bunch when she was barely seventeen. She was headed for trouble, he could see that. He knew she smoked marijuana and drank more than she should, but there was nothing he could do to control her.

  The job with Michael Ross’s production company appeared to have solved all that. She moved into an apartment of her own nearer the studios, which afforded her privacy so that she could bring her work home. She was totally committed to her new career; stimulated by the Michael Ross method of movie making.

  ‘He’s brilliant, Pop,’ she raved. ‘None of the bullshit about demographics and television ratings I copped when you gave me that work experience gig at Minotaur last year. He does his own thing and he’s stunning. You just wait till you see the movie we’re going to make.’ Davy was pleased.

  Mandy was an attractive girl. Fortunately her brothers had been the ones to inherit Davy’s physical bulk and square jaw. She had simply inherited the generosity of his features and his nature. She was not beautiful, but the immediate impression was one of sexuality. She was of average height and average figure but her mouth was full and her eyes held a wicked twinkle. She had an abun
dance of unruly reddish hair which, when worn up, untidy tendrils escaping the pins, reminded Franklin vaguely of Millie.

  Mandy wasn’t the only one who was finding the work at Ross Entertainments stimulating. With a massive production headquarters and a whole studio at his beck and call, Michael could barely contain himself. His ideas were grander and wilder than ever. His first American feature was going to be a massive ‘War of the Worlds’ epic, he said, an alien invasion which was going to be frighteningly real. ‘The Americans love that sort of thing,’ he insisted. ‘And whatever the Americans love, the world loves.’

  Emma suggested that maybe Steven Spielberg had beaten them to it and they should try something a little less competitive and more original, but Michael wouldn’t listen. ‘Balls,’ he said dismissively, ‘Spielberg’s stuff’s been fanciful and commercial – this is going to be real and horrifying. I want people wondering if it is actually going on in the world. Aliens taking over from the inside.’

  When she mentioned that it had been done in Village of the Damned and The Boys from Brazil, he again refused to listen and even started to get angry. Did she no longer trust in his originality? Why was she being so negative?

  ‘I’m not talking clones, Emma,’ he said impatiently, ‘I’m talking breeding. The aliens have been selectively breeding with humans for the past thirty years without the humans realising. It’s original – why don’t you trust me?’

  Eventually Emma realised that she had to let him go his own way and she hoped the whole thing was not going to be a ghastly mistake. Stanley and Lou were busy designing prosthetic faces, mechanised alien body suits and multitudinous special effects and, as Emma gave herself up to the plotting sessions with Michael, she found the old excitement once again returning. Many of his ideas were, as usual, original and exciting, and she told herself she must trust in his creative genius as she always had.

  It took Emma a while to adjust to New York. At first, she was a little overwhelmed by the jungle of buildings and the people and the pace. But, gradually, the electricity of the city won her over and she came to love its very size and turmoil.

  She would stand in the Avenue of the Americas, look up at the row of massive buildings and wonder at the fact that they were man-made. They were human termite mounds. And she marvelled at the steam that wafted up through the air vents in the pavement. The fact that a seething metropolis lay beneath the solid concrete and asphalt was a never-ending source of amazement.

  And there were the simple things too. The squirrels that stared back at her in Central Park. The daring ones that stayed their ground until she was only a metre or so away before they scurried up the nearest tree to sit laughing at her from a fork in the branches.

  After a month of searching, she found her ideal apartment. It was nothing to boast about, in a modest block on Jane Street, but it was the location which won Emma. She loved Greenwich Village. The little theatres and galleries and nightspots; coffee and bagels at Zabars and after-show singalongs with the showbiz crowd at Don’t Tell Mama’s. Yes, she decided, a month after she’d moved in, she felt at home in New York City.

  She may have adjusted to New York, but Emma was finding it a great deal more difficult to adjust to Franklin Ross. Of course her parting scene with Penelope had not helped. She could still hear the bitterness in her grandmother’s voice.

  When Emma had returned to Sydney to organise her belongings in preparation for the move to New York, she had seen Penelope and had felt duty-bound to tell her the truth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she admitted, ‘but I’ve broken my word to you.’ She waited for a reaction but there was none. ‘Michael knows the truth,’ she said.

  Penelope didn’t appear remotely interested. She was in a strange mood, Emma thought. Distracted. She sat there, staring out of the lounge room windows over the front lawns of The Colony House. ‘I don’t suppose it matters any more,’ she said.

  ‘But Mr Ross hasn’t been told,’ Emma insisted. ‘And I’ve sworn Michael to secrecy – at least until you think the time is right.’

  ‘The time will never be right.’ The eyes Penelope turned upon Emma were cold and accusing. ‘Michael has chosen to be with his grandfather. He is no longer a part of my life. And as you have opted to join them you too are of no further concern to me.’

  Emma was about to say something but Penelope continued regardless. ‘I can assure you, though – if you tell my husband about your parentage he will do one of two things: he will either claim you as his, in which case he will own your very soul, or he will destroy you. Franklin Ross is a cruel man. A tyrant.’

  Penelope rose to indicate their meeting was over. ‘Either way, the outcome is immaterial to me.’ She no longer looked beautiful. Her mouth was twisted with spite, her eyes narrowed and venomous and, for the first time, Emma could see the true age in the woman’s face. ‘The three of you can rot in hell as far as I’m concerned,’ she snarled. Then she nodded to the maid to see Emma out.

  At the hall archway, Emma turned. ‘I’m so sorry, Penelope,’ she said. She meant it; her heart ached for the woman. ‘I’m truly sorry that you’ve been so hurt.’ And she left, wondering if she would ever see her grandmother again.

  After she’d gone, Penelope wept. She sat looking over the lawns at the statue of the dueller and wept for her life.

  Now, whenever Emma saw Franklin, and she often did at the studios, she recalled the snarling, wounded animal Penelope had become and she heard the warning ‘he will own your very soul, or he will destroy you’.

  As a result, she tried to avoid Franklin whenever she could, but it was difficult. Particularly when he insisted on a welcoming dinner at the penthouse apartment he shared with Helen on 57th Street.

  ‘This is the gifted young writer who works with Michael, my dear. Emma Clare, Helen Bohan.’

  ‘Hello, Emma, I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she said, offering a firm handshake. Instinctively, Emma liked her. She knew she probably shouldn’t. Helen was ‘the other woman’, after all, and presumably the major reason for Penelope’s unhappiness. But something told Emma that Penelope had been unhappy for a long time before Helen Bohan came on the scene.

  There were a dozen people at the dinner, most of whom Emma knew. Michael, of course, and Stanley, Lou, Mandy and several heads of studio departments to whom she’d been introduced when she’d first arrived. The evening was ostensibly a belated welcoming party for Michael but it was also good for business relationships. Franklin only ever threw dinner parties when there was a political purpose.

  ‘And this is Mandy’s father.’ During pre-dinner cocktails in the sunken lounge Franklin had decided, for some unknown reason, to take Emma under his wing and introduce her around personally. She felt a little uncomfortable and wished Michael was by her side. He’d disappeared. He was probably in the bathroom hyping himself up for the night, she thought. For once she rather envied him; she wouldn’t mind a little artificial stimulation herself to get through this evening. It was somewhat daunting, particularly with Franklin paying her so much attention.

  ‘How do you do, Mr Crockett,’ she said, shaking hands.

  ‘Davy’ll do just fine,’ the jovial American pumped her hand effusively in reply. ‘Mandy never lets up about your talents, yours and Michael’s, and how great it is to be working with you two. I’m just so proud that you’ve taken her on, I surely am.’

  Davy Crockett was as big and loud and unreal as Michael had painted him, but then Michael had said his childhood memories of Old Sam were just the same. Emma liked him but she winced as she felt her knuckles grind against each other and she wished he’d let her hand go.

  She chatted to Davy and Franklin for a further five minutes then excused herself to talk to Mandy who was attacking the array of canapes in the open-plan dining room alongside the sunken lounge. But she didn’t join Mandy. She drifted to the massive penthouse windows instead, and stood there for a moment, gazing at the sea of lights sixty storeys below before looking back at the
surrounds and the assembled gathering.

  The penthouse was fascinating. It was a reflection of wealth and taste as Emma had expected it would be, but it reflected only Franklin. With the exception of the massive floral display on the central hall table, there was no evidence whatsoever of a feminine presence. The lounge suite was large and leather with mahogany armrests, the dining suite was magnificent but similarly large and bulky. There was a strangely colonial feel to it, as if Franklin had brought his private quarters from The Colony House and set them up in central New York. But Penelope’s touch had always been evident in The Colony House. Where did Helen feature here? Emma wondered if their bedroom would be the same. A massive wooden four-poster and a masculine chest of drawers? Or would there be a dressing table in the corner with an ornate mirror and a vanity set? Somehow she doubted it. Helen Bohan was not a vain woman. But she was not a weak woman either.

  Emma looked across the room at Helen chatting with Michael, who had just emerged from the bathroom. She was a matronly woman – in her fifties, and she looked it. But she was confident, at ease with herself. She wasn’t living in a man’s shadow, but she was happy to allow him centre stage. Her clothes were sensible, but of the finest quality, her hair beautifully styled but practical, and she obviously saw no reason to disguise the iron grey. What an amazing change from Penelope, Emma thought, and wondered at the relationship between Franklin and Helen.

  Suddenly she was aware that Franklin Ross was staring at her from across the room. The piercing eyes beneath the shaggy, lined brow had settled upon her and they refused to be distracted. Someone was talking to him but he wasn’t noticing. His gaze was fixed upon Emma.

  She felt her cheeks flush. It was ridiculous. The man couldn’t read thoughts, for God’s sake. So why was he staring at her? She turned and concentrated on the view.