Araluen

by Judy Nunn

  Far below and to her left was the blackness of the Hudson River. In the centre, the massive square of the park, outlined by the endless lights of upper Manhattan. And, to the right, the unbroken blaze of Fifth Avenue.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it? She turned. Franklin was at her side. ‘I bought the apartment for the view. The lights are spectacular but I prefer it in the daytime. On a clear morning one can see right up to the top of the island. Although personally, I think nothing quite matches Sydney Harbour.’ Despite the fact that he was talking about the view, he wasn’t looking out of the windows. His eyes hadn’t left hers. And she had the feeling that he wasn’t so much looking at her, he was looking inside her. He was trying to read her thoughts. Why? What was his interest?

  She smiled politely and turned her attention once more to the view. ‘Yes, it’s most impressive,’ she answered.

  Franklin was indeed trying to see inside her head. There was something about the girl that he couldn’t quite fathom and it annoyed him. Despite her youth, she was strong and resilient; he could sense that. Yet she avoided him. He knew he could be a little daunting to the younger ones, but not to this girl. This girl wasn’t frightened by him, she didn’t like him. He sensed an animosity which both intrigued and irritated him.

  He smiled as amiably as his stern features would allow. ‘Michael tells me the movie is coming along famously.’ His tone was as jovial as he could make it.

  Emma turned back to him but again her smile was remote, polite. ‘Yes, Mr Ross, you should be extremely proud of your grandson, he’s very clever.’

  Franklin felt a flash of annoyance. He was doing his best and the girl was closing him out. He didn’t like social games, and was never comfortable playing them. He preferred people who called a spade a spade. He wanted to ask her straight out, ‘What is it you don’t like about me, girl?’ He wanted to bark, ‘Spit it out.’ But he decided to try another tack instead.

  ‘Franklin. Please,’ he smiled. ‘And I have a favour to ask.’

  ‘Of course. Franklin,’ Emma replied. Charm didn’t sit well on Franklin Ross, she decided. She could sense the tyrant beneath the pleasant social exterior and she felt awkward calling him Franklin. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s Michael.’ She was relieved when Franklin finally turned his attention to the windows and the view. ‘Of course I’m proud of him, but I’m a little worried also.’ Franklin was no longer smiling. This girl was the closest person to Michael and he needed her as an ally. He dropped the social pretence and made a genuine plea. ‘I know he uses drugs and I’m worried about him. I wondered if you might help me.’

  Emma could see the concern in the old man’s face and for the first time she felt a stab of sympathy. But what could she do? What did he expect of her? She herself had nagged Michael constantly about his drug abuse but, until he himself recognised it as a problem, there was nothing anyone else could do about it. She’d even discussed it with Stanley, the only person she could trust, and he agreed with her. ‘Michael has to clean up his own act, Emma,’ he’d said. ‘You can’t do it for him.’ She was, however, certain of one thing. Threats from Franklin Ross would not solve the dilemma.

  ‘I only work with Michael, Mr Ross … Franklin,’ she answered. ‘I don’t know what he does in his spare time.’

  ‘Oh, come on, girl – of course you do,’ Franklin snapped. ‘If the boy’s a bloody junkie, I want to be told.’ The genuine fear for his grandson brought out the harshness in Franklin. Why were they pussyfooting around about such an issue? Enough niceties, he decided. ‘I’ll have none of my kin using the filthy stuff. I’ll have his guts for garters. I’ll have him signed into a clinic so fast his eyes’ll water.’ Franklin sensed her withdrawal and he knew he’d sounded overharsh. He didn’t want to frighten her off. He tried to soften his tone. ‘Don’t you see, it’ll be the best thing for him? Tell me the truth.’

  ‘I don’t know. I seriously don’t,’ Emma answered, and she wasn’t lying. She rarely went to the discotheques and nightclubs Michael frequented and he never openly took drugs when they were working. ‘As I said, I only work with him. I don’t socialise – ’

  ‘Then start.’ It sounded like an order. ‘Start socialising. You can tell me what, when, how much. How great a control these drugs appear to have over him. I need to know.’

  She stared back at him. It was a confronting experience. The steel-blue eyes demanded obedience. After what seemed an age, she heard herself say, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do that.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘It’s a matter of honour, Mr Ross. Michael is my friend and my work partner. I can’t spy on him.’ Emma turned. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom.’

  Emma’s heart was pounding as she walked away. That was it. She’d probably just talked herself out of the greatest job opportunity of a lifetime. Not only would she be sacked from Ross Entertainments, Franklin would most likely have her blacklisted throughout the entire industry. ‘He’s a tyrant,’ Penelope had said. ‘He’ll destroy you.’ But it wasn’t just the threat to her career that had set Emma’s heart pounding. It was the man himself. Her grandfather. She had just felt the force of his power, and to deny such power was truly frightening.

  Franklin had felt a similar force. ‘It’s a matter of honour, Mr Ross’, she’d said. She’d met him blow for blow and he admired her for it.

  When she returned from the bathroom, Helen was calling people to the table and Emma wondered whether she should stay for the dinner. The decision was made for her.

  ‘Emma, you must sit by me – I insist.’ Franklin was pulling her chair out for her and his expression was benign, welcoming. It was as if their exchange had never taken place.

  Michael was sitting opposite her and he gave her a wink which said, ‘How did you do it? How did you charm the old man?’ She gave an imperceptible shrug back, the dinner party commenced, and the rest of the evening proved to be most enjoyable.

  Franklin and Helen were excellent hosts. The food was superb and the wines, all Australian and all Ross Estate, were magnificent. It was one of the rare occasions when Franklin actually seemed to enjoy a social gathering. He spoke of the Ross wines and his pride in acquiring the old family vineyards and he even talked briefly about his childhood at Araluen.

  ‘When you’ve made your movies and you decide to settle down one day, Michael,’ he said, ‘you should bring your children up on the land. Among the vines. At Araluen. It’s the perfect childhood.’

  The look of fondness on Helen’s face as she looked at Franklin did not escape Emma. It was a look she had never seen on Penelope’s face when she spoke of her husband. This woman truly loved Franklin Ross.

  Helen was proud of Franklin that night. Proud that people could see the man she knew. He’d become cantankerous in his old age and he rarely displayed the side she knew best – the man from the land who loved the vines and wanted to share them with his family. She was the only one who saw that side.

  ‘Oh, if we’d had children, my dear … ’ he’d say regretfully from time to time. Then he’d change the subject. ‘It’s not too late to return to the land though. As soon as the divorce comes through and we can marry … ’

  It was his grandson’s presence in New York that was bringing out the softer side of Franklin, Helen thought, and she smiled gratefully at Michael. Franklin loved his only grandson with a passion which quite possibly Michael himself did not even realise.

  Michael was having a wonderful evening. The ecstasy he’d taken before he left home was helping him find everyone interesting, and everyone seemed to find him interesting. He was the centre of attention as people talked about Blue Water History and asked him about the present script. He played it secretively, though, hinting at the convoluted plot and the wonderful special effects. ‘A visual feast, that’s what it will be,’ he announced.

  The only dampener was the presence of Karol Mankowski opposite him, seated beside Franklin. Every now and the
n, in one of his flights of fancy, Michael would catch Karol’s eye. The dour, immovable, implacable shadow. Why the hell his grandfather had to invite the man to a private dinner party was beyond Michael. Christ, his presence was a downer. Michael tried to avoid eye contact whenever possible – it wasn’t good to get paranoid when on a high.

  Michael loved New York. From the moment he’d arrived he knew that this was his city. It fed his craving for excitement and stimulated his desire for adventure.

  It also catered to the party animal in him and encouraged his drug habits. His wealth and newly acquired fame opened every door he wished to enter. Cocaine was plentiful, as were the designer drugs which often replaced his speed pills. He avoided heroin and any form of mainlining, persuading himself that, as he didn’t use a needle, his indulgences were not addictive. He was confident that his drug abuse didn’t affect his work but he nevertheless hid his habits from Emma. She’d only start nagging again, he knew.

  In fact, he monitored his social behaviour in general. He knew how unwise it would be to appear totally bombed in public. Word got around quickly in this industry and he couldn’t afford to have people misconstrue his drug use and assume that he had a genuine problem. Most of his heavy-duty partying was done in his hotel suite, either with a gang of similarly inclined friends, or with whichever girl he’d met earlier that evening at Doubles or Tatou or a late private gathering in a basement apartment at The Village.

  ‘Let’s party,’ he’d say, lining up the coke on the special glass cutting board.

  Michael was content for the moment in his hotel suite. He was taking his time finding an apartment. He knew exactly what he wanted and, until he found it, he wasn’t going to settle for second best.

  He wanted somewhere even more luxurious than Franklin’s. Well, more luxurious by his standards. He didn’t need Franklin’s views of Central Park and he certainly didn’t want colonial surrounds. Australia was a lifetime ago. He didn’t care if he never went back. New York was his town.

  Michael’s idea of luxury was a party palace. He wanted an indoor pool and a spa and a circular bed with surrounding mirrors. And he hunted for a place he could convert to his fantasy.

  In the meantime, he was happy enough with his hotel suite. He’d shifted the queen-sized bed in front of the two large mirrors on the built-in wardrobes and he’d set up a video on the top shelf in one of them so that, if he opened the door, he could film his bedtime activities. The girls always found it great fun and it was harmless enough. What they didn’t realise was that, more often than not, Michael would mask their faces from the camera so that, when he watched the film the following day, he could fantasise that it was Emma he was making love to.

  He saw no harm in it. He was happy to have Emma as his sister, his love for her was genuine. And if a little erotic fantasy helped keep his sexual yearning for her under control, then surely that was healthy.

  Life was good for Michael. And in twelve months’ time it was going to be even better. In twelve months’ time, when The Breeders came out, he’d be the toast of New York City. He’d own this town.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BUT THE BREEDERS WAS not the massive success Michael had vowed it would be. Two years later, twelve months behind its planned schedule and three times over its original budget, The Breeders premiered in Hollywood to a lukewarm reaction. Over the next few weeks, it proved to be a monumental disaster. Stanley’s and Lou’s special effects were nominated for awards, certainly, but the film itself was labelled ‘derivative’, ‘uncoordinated’ and ‘indulgent’, just as Emma had first feared it might be. The ‘moments of great flair and originality’ the critics mentioned couldn’t save it and Michael sank into a deep depression. Again and again he asked himself, how had he so totally lost the plot?

  But he knew the answer. He’d tripped too far and too often. He had to clean up his act. He called a meeting - just Emma, Stanley and Mandy. He wasn’t going to admit his errors to all and sundry - these were the three he needed on side.

  ‘I fucked up,’ he announced. ‘It’s my fault and I take full responsibility. You advised me against it, particularly you, Emma, and I wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Oh, I think we all went off the rails a bit,’ Emma said, and she looked at Stanley, who nodded in agreement. It was true. Stanley too had had his misgivings at the outset of the venture, but both he and Emma had allowed themselves to be caught up in Michael’s madness, and had allowed their work to become inconsistent and indulgent.

  Michael laughed. ‘Bullshit,’ he said. ‘What egos you people have. I insist on taking full credit for the stuff-up.’ Secretly he was delighted by their loyalty. ‘Besides,’ he added with an impish grin, ‘that way I can take full credit for the mammoth success we’re about to create.’ He leaned over the huge boardroom desk which was strewn with notepads, pencils and jugs of water and glasses. A session was about to get under way. ‘I have ideas, masses of them, and I need input. Everybody ready?’ Emma and Stanley nodded and grabbed pencils and paper. ‘Mandy, take notes,’ Michael ordered and Mandy sat, poised, in front of the computer at the other end of the table.

  ‘Stuff the glossy unlimited-budget crap,’ he said excitedly. ‘This one’s going to rely on content. Original, topical content with a moral theme. And an actor who’ll blow their tits off. Modest budget. We’re going to show them that we can really make movies.’

  Michael saw no reason to share Franklin’s threat with them. ‘You’ve got one more chance, boy,’ Franklin had said. ‘I know I gave you free rein to produce your own projects and I’ll stand by my word. I shan’t interfere with your next film, but I’ll not have this company made a laughing stock, do you hear me?’

  Franklin was in a genuine dilemma. He still worried about Michael’s drug intake and he wondered whether it was responsible for the film’s abysmal failure but, despite Karol Mankowski’s continued surveillance, nothing could be proved. Michael’s ‘party’ friends were loyal - after all, Michael was a very generous provider - and his creative associates assured Franklin that Michael was never drug-affected during working hours.

  ‘Another monumental mistake like that last fiasco and you’re out,’ he growled. ‘This is your second chance and you’d better make it count. And you’d better make it count on one-tenth of the budget – you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, Grandfather.’ Michael had understood him all right. And the prospect was strangely exciting. A movie free of tricks. No Halley’s Comet to film. No America’s Cup to steal. Not even a massive budget to impress. Yes, it was exciting. He’d prove to the world that he was a true movie maker. ‘So we need a topic and we need an actor: let’s start from there,’ he said, jumping out of his chair and pacing around the boardroom. He always liked to move when he felt a creative surge.

  ‘Let’s look for the actor first.’ It was a bizarre way to go, he knew, but he was warming to his theme and there was no stopping him. ‘We’ll pick an actor that this country loves – male or female, it doesn’t matter – and we’ll write the perfect vehicle to fit the star. An English actor. Or a European, with international appeal. Americans take the English and the Europeans so seriously. Emma, you first, what do you think?’

  Emma was a little bemused. As usual Michael was moving at a pace that was very difficult to keep up with. ‘Well, I think we need to at least have some idea of what sort of comment we’re going to make before we start choosing an actor.’

  ‘Rubbish. The choice of actor’ll do that for us.’ The others gazed back at him, bewildered. ‘Look,’ he explained, just a little impatiently, ‘to the Americans, the English are aristocrats and the Europeans are lovers. If we pick an Italian star we head for a sexual comment. If we pick an English star we head for a class statement. Simple.’

  Emma nodded. Yes, it was simple. Michael’s basic ideas always were simple. Simple and clever. ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘What do you think, Stanley?’

  ‘This is a bit out of my league,’ Stanley smiled. ‘Can y
ou come back to me when you want a few stunts?’

  But Michael wasn’t in the mood for jokes. ‘Call up the B-list star file, Mandy,’ he instructed, ‘and then go and get me the newspapers. We’ll marry the star with the topic. Something current, something global.’

  They studied the computer screen while Mandy fetched the papers. The B-list star file was a comprehensive record of actors who commanded top billing but didn’t demand top dollar and a share in the profits. ‘Can’t afford the A-list – they’re too commercial anyway,’ Michael insisted. ‘The bigger they are the bigger they can flop at the box office. We need someone the public takes seriously.’

  It was Emma who came up with the ideal candidate. Well, Emma and Mandy together. Mandy was scouring the papers for issues. ‘Hey, there’s an editorial here on the French nuclear testings in the South Pacific. That’s a helluva hot one.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s been going on for years,’ Stanley said. ‘Maybe we should head for something more current, more headline…’

  ‘No,’ Michael disagreed, ‘if we go for something headline it might be yesterday’s news by the time the movie comes out. It has to be an ongoing issue. Good one, Mandy.’

  ‘Marcel Gireaux!’ Emma yelled it out and they all jumped. She’d been rolling through the actors’ names and biographies, starting with the Europeans. She’d done the Italians and was into the French. The name leapt at her from the screen. ‘Marcel Gireaux,’ she said again. ‘You won’t find a European actor the public will take more seriously than Gireaux and you get the two elements in the one bloke. Sex appeal and political commitment. He’s one of Greenpeace’s major spokes-people. We’d gain fantastic press from the fact that he’s allied himself to the movie because he believes in the cause.’

  ‘Bring us the composite file on Gireaux,’ Michael ordered. As Mandy left, he started prowling the room again. He could feel the familiar buzz. It was an excellent idea. ‘But could we get him? He’s France’s major classical actor, and he’s shunned Hollywood for years. The only movie directors he’ll work with are Truffaut and Zeffirelli and Malle and … ’