by Judy Nunn
Narelle and Paul had intended joining Jane, Greg and Vicky for a sightseeing drive but the distracting sight of each other’s bodies in the pool and their physical contact as they splashed about made them aware of other things. By the time Paul had lined up the girls to stand behind each other down the centre of the pool and had swum two lengths underwater between their open legs, a sightseeing drive was the last thing he wanted.
And when Narelle straddled his shoulders to take on Vicky and Greg in a ‘cockfight’, the warmth of her thighs pressing against the sides of his face made Paul wish to hell the others would bugger off. Narelle was totally aware of the bulge in Paul’s bathers and it delighted her. What a lovely afternoon they were going to have.
And they did. As Mandy excused herself to have a lie-down before the formal dinner and the others left to change for the drive, Paul finally emerged from the pool, covered his embarrassment with a towel and bustled Narelle up to his suite.
As Vicky marvelled at the vivid aqua ocean stretching endlessly into the distance, Paul marvelled at the perfect breast offering itself to his mouth.
As Greg and Jane devoured the panoramic view from the island’s highest peak, Paul and Narelle, wrapped head to toe, devoured each other.
As Mandy tucked herself into bed, having arranged a wake-up call with Bryce’s housekeeper, Narelle and Paul repositioned three-way wardrobe mirrors and experimented with writing desks and glass-topped coffee tables.
As the housemaid tending the suite next door to Sidney’s wondered at the stentorian snores, Narelle and Paul met their perfect match in each other. They sucked, blew, nibbled, chewed, tantalised and heaved to their mutual delight.
It was only when the telephone buzzed in Mandy’s suite and the voice said, ‘It’s six-thirty, Miss Burgess’ that, nerves twitching and libidos screaming, they exploded in ecstasy.
Narelle and Paul were pleasantly tired when they came down to dinner.
Mandy and Sidney, to their mutual consternation, were the first to arrive and so had to sit together in the lounge chatting to Ray Chaplin as they waited for the others.
Sidney felt refreshed. He was raring to go after his afternoon nap and was drinking brandy alexanders as was his wont when he didn’t have to pay. Mandy delicately put a pink satin-gloved hand to her face while she talked to him. Sidney’s breath was very stale.
‘Hello, Paul, Narelle. Did you have a nice snooze?’ Mandy breathed a sigh of relief as they joined the table.
‘Lovely, thank you,’ Narelle beamed.
Edwina arrived, looking spectacular in a simple black cocktail gown, closely followed by Melanie and Robert Bryce who introduced themselves with a casual charm that immediately relaxed the others.
Greg, Jane and Vicky were profuse in their apologies as they raced in fifteen minutes late but the Bryces were gracious, insisting that it didn’t matter at all.
It was difficult not to be disarmed by Vicky’s enthusiasm. ‘I’ve never seen ocean that colour! I always thought they touched up the postcards.’
It was a pleasant dinner. Despite the six courses including sorbet and impeccable waiter service, it was hardly formal at all and this was mainly due to the Bryces. Melanie was relaxed and friendly, making sure she chatted individually to each member of the cast. But it was Robert’s speech which really warmed everyone to the couple. He made several humorous references to Melanie which she applauded and laughed at warmly and it was generally noted that this was the top of the pecking order. Unlike the executives at the network dinner, Robert and Melanie Bryce could afford to relax and be themselves and it was charming.
Robert Bryce, with Melanie firmly by his side, had most certainly built his empire but he was not entirely a self-made man.
One of five children, his father had inherited a wealthy farming property in the black soil belt of northern New South Wales. It was this same black belt which proved so successful in the cultivation of cotton and Robert Bryce Senior was one of the first farmers to refuse sale to an American combine and convert to cotton independently. It was an expensive conversion but proved hugely successful. So successful that Robert Bryce Senior became far more than a simple farmer. He bought himself a factory, became a major investor in a cotton manufacturing consortium and took a great interest in all facets of the stock market. Indeed, if the anchovies were not running down the warm Gulf of Mexico he planted soy beans that year in the knowledge that, second to anchovies, soy beans were the source of protein most sought by Third World countries and would therefore be heavily in demand. And, not only did soy bean crops thrive on the black soil belt, but a season of soy beans enriched the earth and ensured a bumper cotton harvest the following season. And above all, it was the cotton itself — white gold, as it was known — that mattered most to Robert Bryce Senior, the Cotton King. How he loved to see the uniform rows of silver-white bolls stretching away as far as the eye could see.
It was a disappointment to him when his eldest son didn’t want to work the plantation but one he rapidly overcame when that same son showed an early interest in the investment market and a keen desire to go into business himself. Bryce Senior was a hard man, but fair. His son Robert was to receive no share of the property either now or on his father’s death. If he didn’t want to work the land, he didn’t deserve to reap the benefits. He was, however, presented with $100,000 in stocks and shares and told he was to put himself through whatever business or university course he wished and then see what he could make of himself.
And he did. There was never any looking back for Robert Bryce Junior. It was just the start he needed.
After the dinner, Robert, like Melanie, made a point of chatting personally with each of the members of the cast but it was Edwina in whom he was most interested. He suggested they retire to the bar for a cognac with their coffee.
Edwina eyed him over the top of her brandy balloon. He was a highly attractive man, and looked a decade younger than his forty-eight years. Rather like a young John F. Kennedy, she thought: a thatch of sandy-coloured hair, a strong, slightly granite-jawed face and a devastatingly winning grin which he knew how to use.
‘Melanie tells me you spent a pleasant afternoon together.’
Edwina searched his face for a sign of disapproval but there was none. In fact there was something beyond the warmth he exuded — could it be gratitude?
‘Yes,’ Edwina replied. ‘She’s wonderful company.’
‘She says the same of you, Edwina, and I can see why. I’ve always admired your work, of course. And now I can admire you in person.’ He smiled and extended his hand. Yes, Edwina thought, he’s actually grateful. ‘If there’s ever anything I can do for you, I expect you to come to me, all right?’ The smile was still there but there was a ring to the voice that said ‘I mean it’.
Edwina took the card he offered. ‘Thank you, Robert. I’ll remember that.’
The rest of the weekend went by quickly. Paul and Narelle had a rematch that night, Sidney drank four brandy alexanders too many after dinner and passed out again and Jane and Vicky explored every inch of the vast mansion grounds Sunday morning while, surprisingly enough, Mandy and Greg enjoyed a game of euchre.
Suddenly it was three o’clock and they had to leave. During the flight home everyone compared notes and came to the conclusion that the Bryces were a terrific couple, that Bryce Holdings was a great management to work for and that they were all lucky to be in such a happy hit show. This conclusion had, after all, been the object of the entire weekend so Melanie and Robert, who also compared notes, were extremely delighted at the outcome. Robert was pleased too on a personal level. Another possible obsession of Melanie’s had been averted.
And Edwina was happy. During the plane trip home, she analysed the events and concluded they could well work to her advantage.
The first thing Edwina did when she arrived home was ring Liza. ‘I know I said Monday but I’m keen to see it. Is it ready?’
For some reason Paul’s obvious cavorting with N
arelle had fuelled the fires of Edwina’s desire for revenge. While he’d been contrite and continued to pay her homage, she’d regretted having to cripple his career. Not that she’d contemplated reversing her decision, of course, but she had regretted having to do it. Now that she’d witnessed him flaunt his lust with Narelle, Edwina was refired. How dare he forget that Saturday night? He must pay for his intrusion.
‘Yes,’ Liza said. ‘It’s ready. Do you want me to call around with it?’
‘Thank you, Liza. I’d be most grateful if you could.’
That’s what I want, Edwina, Liza thought. Gratitude is what I want. Liza hadn’t enjoyed doing the story on Paul but she knew that the sooner it was out and had its desired effect, the sooner Edwina would be forced to fulfil her side of the bargain and Liza would have the inside story that any journalist would kill for.
‘Another coffee?’
Liza nodded and watched as Edwina put down the copy and went into the kitchen to fetch the percolator. Nothing was said until Edwina had refilled both cups. Then she handed Liza her espresso blend and sat down.
‘It’s fantastic. Exactly what I wanted.’
Liza had known it would be. It was lethal. ‘I’ve already lined up the editor,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t seen it but he’s taking it on my say-so. He’s sworn to secrecy and it’ll be printed anonymously.’
‘When?’
‘He’ll run it tomorrow if you like. Morning and afternoon editions.’
‘The sooner the better.’
When Liza left, Edwina didn’t waste time gloating but picked up her script to study her lines, safe in the knowledge that the following day would see Paul Sorell’s life in ruins.
Paul felt good as he drove to work on Monday. It was a glorious day. He’d done his five-kilometre jog in record time that morning, cooled off with a dip in the pool — and had gained great satisfaction as he viewed his body in the full-length bathroom mirror. It could have been that of a twenty-two year old.
He drove past a newsagency and glanced at the billboard a man was putting on display. STAR’S SORDID PAST — TELEVISION’S BEST-KEPT SECRET! Some poor bastard was copping it, he thought, and wondered who it might be.
The traffic lights turned red. Good. He’d have time to buy a paper. He dug out a dollar and waved to the boy at the intersection.
‘Keep the change.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
Paul glanced down at the headlines. STAR’S SEX WITH MINOR…Young Enough to be His Daughter!
The traffic lights turned green. The driver behind Paul blasted his car horn but Paul remained transfixed, staring down at the picture of himself.
Monday was interminable for Paul. He tried to ring home as soon as he got to the channel but the phone was engaged. Some well-meaning creep ringing Barbie to commiserate, Paul supposed. The rest of the cast were sympathetic, of course, but it didn’t help. They’re just thankful it wasn’t some shit dug up about them, Paul thought. It wasn’t long before the summons came.
‘Alain wants to see you at lunchtime.’ Carol from the production office interrupted rehearsals.
The moment they broke for lunch, Paul again tried ringing Barbie. Still engaged! Why couldn’t they leave her alone? he thought. The bastards.
‘We’ll be terminating your contract, of course, with the customary four weeks’ notice.’ Alain leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ve already spoken to your agent but I decided, as a courtesy, to tell you myself.’
As a courtesy, my arse. You’re gloating, you smug hypocritical bastard. Paul studied the Pro Hart behind Alain’s head.
‘There’s nothing we can do for you this time, Paul. There’ll be a public outcry and the network can’t afford to let its moral standing … ’
‘Is that all?’ Paul rose.
Alain’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like being interrupted and certainly not in that tone. ‘There’s no call to be offensive. I’m merely pointing out —’
‘I said, is that all?’
Alain nodded curtly and Paul left.
He tried ringing home again. Still engaged. He tried several times during the afternoon to no avail. How much commiseration does the woman need? Then he realised. Of course! It would be the press. Poor Barbie, they were probably giving her hell.
‘I’m going home, Chris.’ There was a touch of defiance in Paul’s voice; there were still six scenes to rehearse for tomorrow’s taping and it was most unprofessional of him. But Chris understood. He even understood Paul’s peremptory manner.
‘OK, Paul. We’ll fly those scenes tomorrow, no worries.’
The first thing Paul saw when he opened his front door was three suitcases standing side by side in the hall. My God, what sort of drama was this? Was Barbie threatening to walk out on him? That sort of dramatic gesture was hardly her style but he supposed it was possible. Not to worry. He’d talk her around as usual.
‘Barbie?’
She was sitting in the lounge room, sipping a Scotch and ice.
‘I’ve been trying to ring you all day but the phone was engaged. Was it the press?’
‘No.’
‘Friendly advice from the shits, then. Great.’ Paul poured himself a hefty Scotch. ‘Barbie, honey. I’m sorry.’ He looked at her but she remained staring down at her glass, swirling the liquor over the cubes of ice. Hell, this was going to be more difficult than usual. He lifted the ice cube tray from the bar refrigerator. Empty. That was unlike Barbie, she knew how he hated running short of ice. He toyed with the idea of getting some from the kitchen then thought, no, he’d better give her his full attention.
‘Honey, whatever those shits said, don’t listen to them. It was a long time ago and —’
‘Those shits didn’t say anything.’
‘But the phone was engaged all —’
‘I had it off the hook.’
‘Oh.’ Paul sipped his Scotch, slightly unnerved. He didn’t like the expression on Barbie’s face. ‘Well, that was a good idea. The press would probably have … ’
‘I had it off the hook because I knew you’d be trying to ring.’ Barbie’s eyes were tired and drawn as if she were all cried out. And she was. She’d made her decision. It had been heartbreaking but not difficult. In fact she couldn’t think of an alternative and nothing Paul could say would make any difference. ‘I don’t want you to say anything, Paul, I just want you to go.’
Paul was dumbfounded. ‘But —’
‘I’ve packed your suitcases. They’re in the hall.’
Paul sat next to her but she turned away. ‘For God’s sake, honey, listen —’
‘If it was at all viable,’ Barbie continued, ‘I’d go myself but it’s not. The twins need —’
‘Stop it.’ Paul put his glass down and took her by the shoulders. ‘Look at me, Barb.’
She looked at him but the eyes were hard and unrelenting beneath the fatigue. ‘I told Jamie he could go with you if he wanted to,’ she said, ‘but he’s decided to stay here.’
‘Oh, come on, Barbie Doll … ’
He attempted to embrace her but she broke away from him, slamming her drink on the bar. ‘Don’t Barbie Doll me, Paul! Just get out. Get out right now.’
Suddenly Paul knew she meant it and, just as suddenly, he felt exhausted. Everything was falling down around him and there was nothing he could do about it. ‘They gave me the sack. A month’s notice.’
There was a glimpse of compassion in Barbie’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
Paul rose. ‘Barbie, couldn’t we —’
‘No. No, we couldn’t. Ring and leave a number so I can tell people where to contact you.’ She left the room.
Paul knew it was no good following her. He downed his Scotch, considered pouring another one, then decided against it. He took a full bottle from the grog cabinet and put it in his pocket. Better to get drunk on his own.
He walked into the hall and picked up the suitcases.
‘Dad.’
He turned. Jamie was at
the kitchen door. ‘I’ll give you a hand.’ Jamie took one of the suitcases, opened the front door and they walked to the car together. Paul didn’t know what to say. He felt like crying.
‘I hope you don’t mind my staying with Mum. She’ll need some looking after — the twins too.’
‘I’d expect you to, Jamie.’ Paul slammed the car boot shut and stood looking awkwardly at his son. ‘I’m sorry. It was a bastard of a story. It was true, but they made it sound like … ’
‘I know. I can’t say I really understand, but you’re right. It was a bastard of a story and it was a bastard who wrote it.’
Paul hugged the boy hard, willing away the burning tears that threatened to overcome him at any minute. ‘I’ll ring as soon as I’m settled. Everything’ll work out OK. You’ll see.’
He got into the car and drove off, not looking back for fear that the boy would see the tears coursing down his face.
Barbie wasn’t crying. Barbie was numb. There were no tears left. She eyed the bottle of Valium in the bathroom as she splashed her face with cold water. No, not this time. She’d sought solace in pills seven years ago when she’d felt she could no longer suffer Paul’s infidelities and they hadn’t solved anything. This time Barbie wasn’t going to go under. This time she was set on a positive course of action. This time was going to see the rebirth of Barbie Nelson, photographic and haute couture model. Barbie was going to become her own woman again.
Not that she’d regretted, in the early years, throwing away her highly successful modelling career in favour of Paul. There was simply no choice in the matter. Her love for him far outweighed any personal ambition and there was certainly never the option of having both. Paul had never demanded she give up her career of course but Barbie knew his ego would demand full attention and she’d been right.
Just as she’d been right when she’d told herself, a little later in their marriage, that his sexual dalliances weren’t a threat to their abiding love for each other. But repetition wore her down. Repetition of his women, his excuses, his declarations of undying love, until finally she could take no more. Then the twins. The amazing intervention of the twins and the God-given bond they brought with them. Paul changed. Oh, how he changed: faithful, loyal — a different man. Or so Barbie had thought. But how long had the change really lasted?
