by Judy Nunn
They talked shop for a while, then theatre, music and favourite actors. All the while Paul was giving the performance of his life. His intelligent comments on the business, his gentle humour, his lively debate, all covered an intense desire to grab Edwina there and then. As he watched her perfect mouth shaping the words, he longed to press his lips against hers and force them open. He knew there was no bra beneath the well-cut silk cocktail dress and he wanted to rip at the fabric and expose the firm breasts. He wanted to …
‘Are you sure you won’t have another one?’ he asked.
‘No, thanks,’ Edwina rose and gathered up the silk jacket.
Paul took it from her and helped her into it, trembling as he touched her shoulders. ‘Come on then, I’ll drive you home.’
‘No, thanks. Really. I’d prefer to get a cab.’
Her voice was decisive and Paul knew better than to insist. All right, not tonight, he thought, but I know you want me, Edwina. I know you want me.
There were a number of vacant cabs in the street but he walked her near to where he’d parked his car before he hailed one.
‘Thanks for the rescue mission, Paul. It turned out to be a very pleasant night,’ Edwina said as he opened the cab door for her. He leaned forward and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. She didn’t move but Paul read her enigmatic expression as a harnessing of her own desire.
‘For me too, Edwina. Goodnight.’
He helped her into the cab and watched for a while as it drove of. Then as it started to turn a corner he jumped into his own car and followed.
As he drove, keeping his eyes on the cab ahead, Paul had no idea what he was going to do. Maybe I’ll just find out where she lives, he told himself. He’d never experienced anything like this before. He knew he wasn’t in love with the woman; she was a mystery, he hardly knew her. What he felt for her was an unbridled lust of proportions he’d never even known existed in him. In the past when his sexual urges had driven him he’d chatted up the girl, won her, bedded her and that was that. And on the odd occasion that he’d actually suffered a knock-back he’d put it down to experience and moved on. But Edwina! Edwina was teasing him, tantalising him — like a siren she was calling him, perhaps to his very doom, but there was nothing Paul could do about it. He was obsessed.
The cab pulled up outside a small attractive cottage on Cremorne Point and Paul pulled into a side street two blocks away, watching as Edwina alighted and paid the driver. He waited till she’d gone inside before he got out of the car and walked the two blocks to the house.
There was a small gate and a narrow path leading down the side garden of the cottage. Still unsure of what he intended to do, Paul pushed the gate open and started walking quietly down the path. He just wanted to see her, he told himself, he wouldn’t do anything. He didn’t want to frighten her.
A light went on in one of the side windows. Paul crept past a set of French doors which opened onto the garden and peered in. Through the flimsy curtains inside, he could make out a dressing room: racks and racks of clothes, shoes, hats, with a door on the far side which obviously led to a bathroom.
He drew back into the shadows as Edwina entered from the bathroom, a towel in her hands. The silk jacket was tossed on the sofa, the cocktail shoes kicked onto the floor beside it and now Edwina reached behind her back and undid the zip of her dress. As she let it slide down over her hips, Paul caught his breath. She was magnificent. Small rounded breasts and long perfectly-shaped legs. Satin panties clung, glossy and inviting, to her tight flat stomach and narrow hips.
As Edwina stepped out of the dress she caught sight of his shadow at the window and froze. She didn’t attempt to cover herself but stared at the window.
Her voice was clear and demanding. ‘Who’s out there? Who is it?’
Paul felt a rush of humiliation. Oh God, she’d think he was some sort of Peeping Tom. Then he told himself, no, of course she wouldn’t. She’d read his desire for exactly what it was. And she desired him too. He knew she did.
‘It’s me. Paul. I’m sorry, Edwina, I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ He stepped in front of the window so that she could see him. It was difficult to read the expression on her face through the dressing room curtains, but she still made no attempt to cover herself, and after a few seconds’ pause she called, ‘Come in, Paul. Through the French doors to your right.’
Paul needed no further invitation. His heart was pounding as he opened the French doors and stepped into the darkened bedroom. The door at the far end which led to the dressing room was pushed open and Edwina stood there, bathed in light.
‘Come here, Paul.’ She stepped back invitingly and Paul crossed the bedroom to stand in the open doorway. His eyes caressed her half-naked body.
‘You followed me.’ He looked at her face. Her eyes were burning into his.
‘Yes.’
‘You were spying on me.’ And now he saw that the eyes were burning, not with desire, but with deadly anger.
‘No, Edwina.’ He took a step towards her. ‘I wasn’t spying. I … ’
But she stopped him in his tracks. ‘How dare you, you loathsome man, how dare you spy on me.’
Never before had Paul felt such hatred directed against him. ‘Edwina, please … ’
‘Time to go, Paul.’ Paul spun around at the voice behind him. It was Davey, standing only an arm’s length away. He must have been behind the bedroom door when Paul had come in. He was wearing nothing but pyjama pants and, even in his confused state, Paul was surprised at the well-developed body. Then the realisation hit him. My God, they’re lovers!
‘Davey. I’m sorry … ’ He turned back to Edwina. ‘I’m sorry, Edwina, I didn’t mean to … ’
‘You’ll pay for this, Paul.’ The eyes again, venomous with loathing. ‘I’ll make sure you pay for this.’
‘Please — I didn’t … ’ He turned to appeal to Davey but Davey stepped aside, reaching in to turn on the bedroom light.
‘Time to go.’
There was nothing Paul could do. He walked through the bedroom and out into the night air. They both stood watching him as he left.
The next day was Saturday. Edwina put down the phone and turned to Davey. ‘She’ll be here at one o’clock.’
Davey nodded. ‘I’ll pick up a quiche from the patisserie, shall I?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Do you want me around?’
Edwina thought for a second or two then shook her head. ‘No, not this time.’
The phone rang. It was Rosa. ‘I’ve booked a table for midday. I thought we’d try Azzurro at Bondi. It’s a heavenly day and we can sit outside and look over the beach.’
‘I can’t today, Rosa.’
There was a moment’s pause. ‘But we planned it. You told me to go ahead and book — last Thursday, remember?’
Edwina suddenly did. ‘Oh, yes, that’s right. I’m sorry. I’d forgotten.’
‘Azzurro has the most divine antipasto selection, you’ll love it … ’
‘I can’t. Liza Farrelly’s coming to lunch.’
The silence was palpable. It was broken by Rosa, deeply wounded. ‘I see. Well, I’ll cancel the table.’
Rosa hung up. Wounded? She was livid. Liza Farrelly? Liza bloody Farrelly? Edwina had never asked Rosa to lunch. What the hell was going on?
Liza wondered when Edwina was going to get to the point. She was fully aware that to be invited to the Dawling home was probably a first for any journalist, but knew there had to be more to the invitation than friendship. After the quiche and a bottle of chilled Frascati she waited patiently for Edwina to come out with it. Finally, over coffee …
‘I need a favour, Liza.’ Liza nodded and Edwina dropped the bombshell. ‘I need a story on Paul Sorell that’ll make the network drop him. A story that will ruin his career.’
Well, she certainly doesn’t mince words, Liza thought. ‘Am I allowed to know why?’ she asked.
‘That’s not necessary. Suffice to say I’ll m
ake it worth your while.’ Liza’s mind was racing. This was even better than she’d hoped. Edwina misconstrued the brief silence. ‘Very worth your while. I promise.’
‘There’s only one form of payment I’d accept, Edwina. That is, presuming I can get such a story,’ Liza added. Edwina nodded and waited for the terms. ‘I’d want the inside story on Edwina Dawling.’ Edwina said nothing and Liza continued. ‘The childhood, the parents, early career, love affairs … ’ Watching Edwina’s face, Liza suddenly thought she may have gone too far. ‘Well, views on love affairs, marriage, that sort of thing,’ she amended.
Edwina thought for a second, then nodded. ‘Done. You’ll get it.’
Liza had the feeling she was going to regret this. She’d never muckraked in her life before but the inside story on Edwina Dawling was worth it, she insisted to herself as she shook off her misgivings. She’d hold off and sell it overseas to the highest bidder. In six months when the show was to air internationally … She stopped herself. Time for that later.
She leaned forward over her coffee cup. ‘There was a story around a year ago that could have killed Paul Sorell if it had got out and still would,’ she said. ‘It involved sex with a minor.’
‘How come it didn’t get out?’
Liza shrugged. ‘There hadn’t been many leaks and the network bought off the one or two muckrakers who knew about it.’ Liza herself had been one of the few journalists who had heard the rumour, but the network hadn’t needed to buy her silence. Gutter journalism had been beneath her in those days. She shrugged to herself. Anybody had their price and Edwina’s story was hers.
‘Give me a week to dredge up all the details,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to put it out anonymously, of course.’ Edwina nodded in agreement. ‘But they’ll buy it once they check their facts and see there’s no libel involved.’
‘Right.’ Edwina rose and collected the coffee cups. ‘I’m away next weekend, so shall we say Monday week? You can show me your copy and then we’ll get moving. More coffee?’
Sensing that the meeting was over, Liza refused a second cup, and left.
Edwina watched her drive off with no misgivings. I said you’d pay, Paul, she thought, and pay you will.
Jim shifted restlessly in his seat. It wasn’t that the actors were bad. To the contrary, there were some lovely things happening on stage but how many times over the years had he sat through Twelfth Night?
He was at yet another production given by the final year NIDA students in his hunt for ‘Jodie’s brother’ and he’d nearly given Twelfth Night a miss until Sharon told him that it could be just the time he’d find what he wanted. She was right.
He checked out the wimp playing Orsino and heaved a sigh. Act II, enter Sebastian — Jim sat bolt upright. He looked at the leaflet in his hand. Simon Rothwell. Sharon nudged him in the ribs but he didn’t take his eyes from the stage. ‘OK, OK. You were right,’ he whispered.
It was not surprising that Sharon and Jim were impressed by Simon Rothwell’s performance. He’d topped his year at NIDA and had already been snapped up by one of the top agents. He was lean and wiry, of average height, with a shock of black hair, a sharp intelligent face and blue eyes. It was the eyes that got Jim. It was unusual to see the combination of black hair and blue eyes. It was the eyes that so reminded him of Vicky. Yes, they could certainly be brother and sister. And the boy could act!
As they waited to meet him in the foyer bar after the show, Sharon teased Jim. ‘See? You would have missed out if you hadn’t listened to me. What are you going to do when Auntie Sharon moves out next week?’
Jim smiled. ‘I’ll expect you to ring and nag me at least twice weekly.’
Sharon had recently had a whirlwind romance and was about to move in with her boyfriend. Jim was going to miss her.
‘OK, I’ll ring. Wednesdays and Fridays, I promise.’
‘And a Sunday drink at the Tilbury? You can bring Ted.’
‘You’re on.’
Simon proved to be just as attractive offstage as he was on although there was a touch of arrogance about him. Not to worry, Jim thought, the weekly grind of television with established actors will soon get rid of that. The boy wouldn’t be able to ‘bung it on’ with the likes of Edwina and company. The boy? Well, young man. Simon was twenty-two although he looked barely nineteen. Perfect age for the brother.
Simon was going overboard at playing it cool. Sure he’d turn up for a test tomorrow morning but he’d like to read through some scripts and check out the role before he accepted anything. He was really more interested in the theatre after all.
Well, up yours, Sharon thought and wondered why Jim didn’t tell him where to get off.
But Jim had met this reaction from young actors before, particularly those fresh from drama school. The kid hadn’t been out in the big world yet. He’d learn. He was aware that it may even be a cover-up, that the boy’s arrogance might be masking genuine excitement at the offer.
It was more of a cover-up than Jim knew. Simon was most certainly excited by the prospect of ‘The Glitter Game’. He’d seen a couple of episodes of the show, he’d seen the press and wanted nothing more than to be part of the new hit series. But he told himself not to let them know that. You’re a trained actor, they’ve just seen you on stage, you’ve got a top agent. Play it cool, man, play it cool.
The truth was that Simon would much rather be a television star raking in the money and the recognition than to have to suffer the grind of nightly performances and two matinees a week in the theatre. Television was why he’d trained to become an actor; it had seemed to him to be a pretty easy way to earn a living.
Simon had always had it easy. His family were wealthy graziers from whom he’d had very little contact but every financial assistance. They’d bought him out of a couple of tight spots during his boarding school days when marijuana was discovered in his locker and in his final year, when he himself was discovered, under a hedge in the school grounds with a girl from S.C.E.G.G.S. The family hadn’t been too disappointed when he’d opted for drama school. His older brother was more interested in taking over the property and Simon had always been trouble anyway, so funds for NIDA were made readily available. If only they’d realised that Simon’s intermittent bucking of the system was a plea to get their attention they might have saved him from his ever-increasing cocaine habit. As it was, they simply supplied the rapidly growing funds he appeared to need at drama school and never questioned why.
Simon didn’t consider his coke habit addictive in any way. In fact he didn’t even think of it as a habit. Just a bit of a social buzz, that’s all. And the line he had before he went on stage, well, that just gave an extra lift to his performance.
Jim and Simon chatted a little longer, then agreed to meet at ten o’clock the following morning at the studio. Simon Rothwell was to test for ‘The Glitter Game’.
Vicky spread the news to the rest of the cast during lunch break at the canteen. A new young actor called Simon Rothwell was lined up to play her brother. She’d seen Jim at morning tea break just after Simon’s test and nagged him incessantly. ‘What’s he like? Is he going to do it? How old is he?’
‘We’re talking to his agent now. I’ll let you know at lunchtime — bugger off, Vicky.’ Jim was actually very pleased by Vicky’s excitement over the new storylines. He was also very pleased with Simon’s test. His only reservation was a possible personality clash between the two young members of the company. Vicky, gutsy little number that she was, might not take kindly to Simon’s arrogance. Jim kept his fingers firmly crossed.
So Vicky galloped up to the cast in the canteen with the news hot off the press. ‘His name’s Simon Rothwell and Jim and Chris both say he’s terrific.’
‘Is he straight?’ Mandy asked.
‘Oh. Yes, I think so.’ That hadn’t occurred to Vicky but it didn’t really matter so long as he was a good actor.
Mandy hoped he was straight. That would give Narelle someone else to conce
ntrate on. Mandy had enjoyed a brief respite when the first assistant had fallen for Narelle’s charms but lately the first assistant had taken to ducking home early. Mandy had the distinct impression that Narelle had exhausted him too.
‘That’s great,’ Paul said to Vicky, who bounded away to tell Greg. Paul shared a smile with Edwina. They both liked Vicky and enjoyed her enthusiasm.
Paul had never known a day like the day before. The thought of facing up to Edwina after that awful incident filled him with dread and mortification — mortification as he recalled her loathing, and dread at the prospect of having his behaviour reported to the network. The drive to work on Monday morning seemed to take forever.
‘Good morning, Paul.’ Edwina’s smile was warm and friendly — one of her ‘special’ smiles and Paul was dumbfounded.
Then at morning tea break: ‘Paul, can I have a word with you?’ She took him aside to a corner. ‘I’m sorry about my behaviour on Friday. I had no right to overreact like that.’
‘You’re sorry!’ He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Edwina, I can’t tell you how mortified … ’
‘No. Please. I said the most ghastly things and I’m sorry. I was frightened, that’s all. Can we be friends?’
The relief Paul felt knew no bounds. Neither did his admiration for Edwina. The woman was a goddess. ‘Of course. But I really must … ’
‘Then we’ll say no more about it.’ She gave him a light kiss on the cheek and returned to her cup of tea.
Easy, she thought. When the story comes out he’ll have no idea I organised it. Edwina felt comfortable in the knowledge that she hadn’t jeopardised her own reputation. She’d be able to offer Paul all the sympathy in the world as she watched his career fail and his marriage crumble. And it served him right.
Greg noticed Jim at the coffee urn. He picked up his ham and salad roll with loads of hot English, gave Vicky a goodbye pat on the bottom and joined him.
‘Want to share a table?’
‘Sure.’
