The door opened. Coffee Guy appeared. So she’d been right, he was a security guard. There was a quick exchange between him and the director. Genevieve heard just part of it. It was enough. ‘Get her off the set. Now.’
Outside, people still stood in groups. She heard snatches as she made her walk of shame to the edge of the set. The usual early-morning tourists were lined up against the temporary cordon, waiting for a glimpse of a famous face. They gave her only a passing glance. They probably thought she was a trespasser being escorted off the set. They were right.
They reached the barrier.
She turned to him. ‘Are you going to throw me over it?’
He shook his head. ‘Unless you want me to?’
‘No, thanks.’
He moved it aside and then handed over her bag. Not her handbag, which she had with her, but her work bag, all her brushes, scissors, combs, the tools of her trade. She must have left it in the director’s trailer.
‘I thought you’d need it,’ he said.
‘Thank you very much.’ His unexpected kindness almost made her cry. She hurriedly blinked away the tears. ‘I’m sorry to ask, but could you please do me another favour?’
‘I’m not allowed to. Of course. What favour?’
‘Megan, in Make-up. She only has my work number. Can you please give her this?’ She hastily scribbled her personal number on the back of a receipt.
He put it in his jacket pocket. ‘You did the right thing, by the way.’
‘What?’
‘You saved everyone’s jobs. Thanks.’
She stared at him. ‘You’re welcome.’ She had to say it. ‘I didn’t mean to make all this happen. I’d had too many cocktails. I thought it was common knowledge. That it didn’t matter.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘On this show? A few weeks.’
‘In New York?’
‘Two years.’
Behind them, a voice shouted, ‘Matt!’
He turned, gave a wave to say he’d be right there.
She’d taken two steps when she heard her name. She turned. He had his hand out. He wanted to shake hands with her? Then she realised.
‘Your pass. Sorry.’
She lifted it over her head and handed it to him. She’d loved that security pass. She’d loved what it meant. She was part of the American film and TV industry. Part of a closed world. Not any more.
‘Don’t worry too much.’
She made a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. ‘Sure. Thanks.’
‘I mean it. It’ll all blow over.’
‘But in the meantime, I’ll never work in this town again?’
This time he gave her a proper grin. ‘Worse things could happen.’
She stood and watched as he walked back onto the set. At least he’d been kind. Treated her with some dignity. The crowd near the barrier looked disappointed. Not only was she a nobody, she hadn’t even been manhandled off the set. She stood for a moment longer. Beside her, two curious onlookers were watching her. One of them came over.
‘Did you get kicked off the set for doing something?’
She shook her head.
‘So what were you doing in there? Do you work in TV?’
Not any more, she thought. ‘I was delivering something.’
‘To that actress?’ the woman’s friend asked, excited now. ‘What?’
Oh, what the hell, Genevieve thought. ‘Drugs,’ she whispered.
As both women’s eyes opened wide, she walked away. Through a gap in the parked trailers, she saw signs of action, lights being moved, sets being shifted. The actress must have accepted her apology. The show was back on the road.
She had turned the corner when she heard a phone ringing. For a second, she was confused. They’d taken her phone, hadn’t they? Then she realised it was her personal phone. She knew who it would be even as she scrabbled for it in the bottom of her bag. It wasn’t something she and Victoria ever admitted to the twin-obsessed people they met, but this happened all the time, one of them phoning the other just when she was needed. As if they sensed something was wrong even as it was unfolding. Like right now.
Genevieve answered. ‘Victoria, you won’t believe what’s just happened.’
‘It’s not Victoria. It’s me, Lindy.’
‘Lindy?’ Lindy never rang her. She was always in too much debt to be able to make expensive phone calls. ‘What’s happened? Is everyone all right?’
‘No! You won’t believe what happened to Ig! It was disgusting! Can you talk or have I rung at a bad time?’
Genevieve was now unemployed. Untouchable in her industry. She dropped her bags and sat down on a nearby stoop. ‘Go for it, Lindy. I’ve got all the time in the world.’
CHAPTER FIVE
It was a blue, cloudless day in Sydney. As Victoria had done every morning for a month, she pulled back the curtain and checked her front garden for photographers. It was ridiculous. The world was in economic recession, injustice was rampant around the globe, yet she had somehow made the news. Her picture had appeared on front pages. Entire columns had been devoted to her. And why?
Because she had been silly enough, trusting enough, stupid enough to believe a string of silky words from a man she knew was a coked-up, megalomaniacal, lying, egotistical married idiot.
Never again. She’d learned her lesson. She was the one paying for it, out of work, unemployable. As for him – the whole incident had proved to be just one more rung on the ladder of success. If she chose to, she could turn on the radio beside her, tune it to a station she’d considered her competition, wait until after the nine a.m. news and there he’d be. His voice. His opinions. Mr Radio himself, broadcasting all over Sydney, all over New South Wales.
While here she was, humiliated, hiding in her tiny rented flat. The scapegoat.
On the table beside her, the phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID. It was Lindy. It usually was at this time of day. Since Lindy had moved back home, she’d taken to phoning Victoria every morning, ostensibly to see how she was. It always turned into a Lindy WhingeFest instead. Victoria would ring her back after breakfast.
It was Genevieve who Victoria really wanted to talk to. They spoke every day, sometimes twice a day, even if there wasn’t a drama in their lives. They weren’t just twins. They were best friends. Unfortunately Genevieve had been distracted today. It didn’t matter. They’d talk again later. Victoria knew what her twin would say, too. She’d been saying it to her since it happened: ‘Yes, it was horrible, Victoria. Yes, it was unjust. But you have to get over it. And you will.’
‘But how could he do that to me?’ Victoria had sobbed during one of their calls. She’d had too much wine that particular night and been very maudlin.
‘Because he’s a cad. That’s what cads do. Seriously, Victoria, you do need to get over it. Get over him.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. It’s all right for you, Miss Hair Queen. Miss Successful.’
Genevieve laughed. ‘I love you in this mood. But you’re right. It is all perfect for me. So why don’t you come and stay with me for a while? You can’t use work as an excuse now. Come back with me after Christmas. We can have New Year’s in New York together.’
‘I can’t afford it. I haven’t got any money left.’
‘Nor have I. I’ve spent all mine on my wild lifestyle. Let’s borrow some from Dad, if Lindy’s left any for us.’
Victoria had thought about her sister’s suggestion constantly since then. It was a great idea, she finally decided. She could get out of Sydney. Escape the media world. Leave behind all her friends who’d turned out to be her friends only when she produced Mr Radio’s show. She hadn’t heard from any of them since the blow-up.
She’d rung Genevieve not only to confirm her flight time, but also to give her the big news: she’d go back to New York with her. Not just for a holiday, but to try for work. She couldn’t wait to hear Genevieve’s excitement. To start planning. She’d t
ry her again soon. Once her own morning routine was out of the way.
Step one, check the front garden. It seemed to be clear. There’d been no photographers for days, in fact. She’d sneak out, get her post and be back inside within a few minutes. Step two, something nice to eat. She’d already had a bowl of cereal that morning, but that was more to wake herself up. For fuel, rather than pleasure. What she was looking forward to now was a proper meal. A lovely fluffy omelette, she decided. With smoked salmon, cheese and chives. And buttered toast. And a pot of coffee. She had to take this crisis and turn it into an opportunity. It was time to spoil herself. She had been working too hard. She had been burning the candle at both ends.
She had been sleeping with Mr Radio. She had nearly fallen in love with Mr Radio. Yes, he was arrogant, egotistical, out of control at times. But he was also smart. He’d made her laugh. Told her she was a great producer. Given her other, sexier compliments when the two of them were alone . . .
But none of that changed her situation. She had clearly meant nothing to him. She had to take Genevieve’s advice and move on. And she would. Literally. To New York.
She was out to the postbox and back within a minute. Three letters, and no photographer, thankfully. They’d probably got enough unflattering shots of her to fill their image files. She’d been shocked to see the photos. She knew she’d put on a bit of weight recently, and they were taken at a bad angle, and she was also in her pyjamas, but still . . . Once she got to New York, she was seriously going to do something about it. Genevieve said she walked everywhere, that’s how she kept her weight down. Victoria had laughed and said, So it’s got nothing to do with the coffee you live on? The fact you don’t actually eat?
She put the letters to one side for the moment, unable to get the image of that fluffy omelette out of her head. Yes, there were definite advantages to being publicly humiliated and losing her job. She now had time to enjoy cooking again.
The eggs were free-range. The omelette was soon a rich golden yellow at the bottom of the pan. The smoked salmon turned from orange to luscious pink as it cooked. She sprinkled on some grated cheese and some freshly cut chives, gently folded it over, waited a moment, then lifted it onto the warm plate just as the toast popped. Two generous spreads of butter, a hot cup of coffee. She took a bite. Heaven. Who cared about work? Who cared about humiliation? Nothing mattered when life still offered pleasures like this.
It wasn’t until she’d eaten a third piece of toast that she opened her mail. Within seconds, she wished she hadn’t.
Her landlord was putting up the rent. It was already expensive, but she’d justified it to herself. She had to pay high rents if she wanted to live close to the city and have a sliver of harbour view. Even if she’d still had a job, she would have been stretched to cover the new figure. She put the letter back in the envelope. Then she put her empty plate on top of the envelope.
The second letter was worse. Her lawyer was writing to tell her that she wasn’t eligible for compensation from the radio station on account of her freelance status. He was also advising her that if she were to take the matter further, the station was within its rights to pursue her for compensation, on the grounds that she had ‘clearly been in error for allowing an intoxicated presenter to go on air’. The presenter who had subsequently left the station and taken hundreds of thousands of advertising dollars with him. But what could she possibly have done to stop him? The bill for her legal fees was also enclosed. She gasped out loud when she saw the figure. It was more than she had expected to get in compensation. It was five times the amount she had in her bank account. She put that letter back in its envelope and put a different plate on top.
The last letter was from Ig. Postmarked Adelaide, sent last month. It had obviously taken the scenic route to her, no doubt due to the incomplete address. She’d received quite a few of these from him this year. The latest message was just five words. He’d cut the letters out of a newspaper.
GeT mE OuT of HeRE.
Victoria already knew his plea had been answered. She’d received an email from her mother the previous week letting her and Genevieve know the latest about Ig’s ongoing battle with boarding school. On the principal’s advice, we’ve decided to keep him home for another year and review the situation after that.
Genevieve and Victoria had immediately forwarded it to each other.
He’s run away a third time?? Victoria had emailed.
The Houdini of the South Australian school system strikes again! Genevieve had written back.
Dear little Ig, Victoria thought. Dear mad little Ig. It would be so good to spend time with him over Christmas too. She clearly remembered the first time she’d seen him, in her mother’s arms at the Port Augusta hospital. At twenty-two, she and Genevieve had been old enough to be having their own babies, not welcoming a little brother. Her mother – and her father – had looked shell-shocked that day, she recalled. Happy, yes, but definitely shocked. As Genevieve had said, too often and too loudly, that would teach them to still be having sex at their age.
She’d picked up her phone to try Genevieve once more when it rang. Their twin ESP at work.
Victoria didn’t waste time with a greeting. ‘Genevieve? I’ve decided. I’m coming back to New York with you after Christmas. But not just for a holiday. To live.’
An unexpected voice replied. ‘It’s not Genevieve. It’s Lindy. And you can’t do any of that.’
‘I can’t? Why not?’
‘Because I’ve just hung up from her. She’s been sacked. She’s coming home too. For good.’
CHAPTER SIX
When Angela and Nick first married, he gave her a puppy as a combination wedding present and welcome-to-station-life present. It was a black-and-white collie with different-coloured eyes, one blue, one brown. All day it followed her around. Every time she turned around, it was there. At night it whimpered until she came to it. It whimpered during the day too, if she didn’t give it enough attention.
Having Lindy at home again was unfortunately reminding Angela of that dog.
Especially at the moment, when it was Ig who needed her attention. Angela had been surprised at how quickly he was allowed home, only three days after the surgery, but the doctor was relaxed. ‘You’ll be amazed how soon he’ll spring back, thanks to you,’ he said. ‘The old finger-in-the-freezer-bag trick never fails.’ Ig would have to wear a finger splint and a sling for six weeks, have his dressings changed regularly and start physio down the track. It could all be done locally. For now, it was business as usual. She’d looked in on him just a few minutes before. He was in his room, working one-handed on a jigsaw. He’d glanced up, shaken his hair out of his eyes – she still hadn’t got around to getting his hair cut – and smiled. ‘All okay, Ig?’ she’d asked. ‘No worries, Mum,’ he’d said. As she’d walked away, she heard him talk out loud. Not to her. To Robbie. But that was a worry for another day.
Not for the first time, she was thankful she’d made the decision to host her station-stay visitors only from March to November. There was enough going on without extra guests to look after. But she would still be getting enquiries via email. She always made a point of replying to them all within a day or two. That hadn’t been possible this week. She hadn’t been near a computer since the night of Ig’s accident, and hadn’t had the opportunity since she’d come home, either. When Nick wasn’t on it, Lindy was. The one time it had been free, the satellite connection had been down. It was a regular occurrence up here, one she had long grown used to. The phone line often dropped out too. They weren’t completely isolated, of course. All their vehicles were fitted with UHF radios, the main transmitter in the kitchen, but it was an open line, not one that Angela liked to use to conduct private business.
She’d get to her emails as soon as she could. For now, she was doing her best to keep up with Lindy’s litany of woes. Had Lindy always been this needy? Angela had probably been too busy to notice. She knew she should make the time to sit Lindy do
wn, have a heart-to-heart, give her the space and support she needed to feel comfortable and confident enough to share all her worries in one fell swoop. But there never seemed to be time. The day before, Angela had promised herself she’d give Lindy all the attention she needed once the party was over and the twins had left.
Except now the twins weren’t going anywhere.
They’d delivered their bombshell news the previous evening. Nick had been away, checking the boundary fences with Johnny, their now only part-time stockman. One of the local Adnyamathanha people, he had worked with Nick for more than twenty years. Angela was in the kitchen when Genevieve rang to say she and Victoria wanted her to skype them. Ig set up the computer. The video part never worked, but she could clearly hear their voices. Ig told them about his damaged finger, describing the accident in gory detail, then went to his room.
Angela heard the twins’ news alone. Genevieve had lost her job in spectacular fashion. She now had no choice, she announced cheerily. She was coming home for good.
‘It’s like fate, isn’t it, Victoria?’ she said to her twin. ‘The universe telling us to spend more time together.’
Victoria joined in. It was all brilliant news, in her opinion. As usual, the two of them talked as one, finishing each other’s sentences. They were, of course, sorry to land all this on Angela on top of Ig’s accident, and the big party, and Christmas, but they’d both made some life-changing decisions. They’d decided the time was right for them to come and live on the station again —
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