by Liz Byrski
He shook his head and forced himself to turn on his side. He raised his hand to stroke the side of her face.
‘No,’ he managed to say at last. ‘No, darling Jill, it’s not you.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know how to explain it, but since the shooting I feel like . . . like I’m falling apart.’
‘And for some reason it’s worse since this Ellis person turned up?’
Adam nodded in the darkness.
‘But why?’ Jill asked. ‘What’s he got to do with it? You know he’s nothing to do with the shooting?’
‘I know. I can’t explain, Jill . . .’
‘But you know stuff . . . you and Heather know stuff that you’re not telling me,’ Jill said. ‘Do you have any idea how it feels to be shut out like this? But I’ve always been shut out of your secret bloody society with your sister, haven’t I? Your exclusive little club for two. Well, keep it all to yourself if that’s what you want.’ And she threw back the bedclothes, got up and picked up her pillow.
‘Jill,’ Adam struggled to say. ‘Jill, please don’t . . . it’s not like that . . . ’
But she was gone, and he heard her cross the landing to Kirsty’s old room and slam the door behind her.
EIGHT
Ellis was frustrated by his lack of progress. Sitting on a seat in Hyde Park, eating a sandwich between appointments, he reflected on the uphill job of finding a PR consultant. He’d been confident that, having had time to study his proposal, someone at Markson Sparks or the Harry M Miller Group would snap him up, but he’d been met with a disappointing lack of interest. This afternoon, though, he had an appointment with Luke Scriven, principal of Scriven Communications, who sounded promising. He flicked through the material he’d downloaded from the website: Strategic solutions for A-list clients in government, business and the entertainment sectors. Ellis wrapped the rather dry crusts of his sandwich in a paper napkin and tossed them into a nearby bin. The whole week had been a waste of time. He might just as well have gone to Newcastle.
He was torn between the longing to re-establish the past and the confronting nature of the present. In imagining this reunion he had not allowed for the changes that four decades had wrought or the irritating practicalities. Heather was, naturally, very busy and, not having fully recovered from the shooting, she tired quickly and her emotions swung between dramatic peaks and troughs. More difficult to contend with was the fact that the sweet, impressionable young woman he remembered made only fleeting appearances. Heather circa 2006 was very different: strong-minded, often outspoken and constantly challenging. He compared it to reaching out to stroke a cute kitten and being greeted with the hiss of a mature cat.
Not that Heather had actually been hissing, but the old (or rather, the young) Heather had been delightfully submissive and accommodating, had hung on his every word, whereas this one had a lot of words of her own and often disagreed with his. Ellis had imagined her stepping (or preferably falling) into his arms, declaring that she had always loved him. In his bed among the tree tops he had visualised the passionate lovemaking that would surely follow their reunion. But now it was harder to picture, because in imagination Heather was a lithe and beautiful girl keen to do his bidding, and in reality she was . . . well, what was she? Not lithe and not a girl, and apparently unlikely to do his bidding, but the magic of the past and the romance of recapturing it remained. Changed she might be, but Heather was still what Ellis wanted. He would just have to learn to adjust. And so, of course, would she.
The incident with the police, while unpleasant, had its advantages. It had allowed him the opportunity to be gracious; to smile and shrug and assure Detective Roussos, in front of Heather, that he was pleased to see the police were doing such a thorough job in trying to find the gunman. But nothing was really working out as he’d hoped, especially not his search for an agent.
Shortly after his return from the Blue Mountains, Ellis had offered his services to the rather elegant holistic health centre where he had been on retreat.
‘Well, of course I remember you, Ellis,’ Jean Carson, the director, had said. ‘But I’m not clear what it is you’re offering.’
‘Life-coaching,’ he’d explained, ‘a unique type of life-coaching that enables people to find their inner wisdom, and move into genuine selfhood. Byron Bay’s a fair way out from where you are but I could come down for, say, ten days at a time and you could put me up at the centre and I’d run a series of sessions. I’d be a coach in residence, so to speak.’
There was silence at the other end of the line and he wished he had mailed the proposal first and then called her. ‘Jean?’ he said. ‘Jean, are you still there?’
‘Yes, yes I am,’ she replied. ‘It’s just that I hadn’t realised you were . . . doing this sort of work. I thought you used to be a lawyer.’
‘That’s history,’ Ellis said. ‘Past life. These days I’m in the business of life-coaching.’
‘I see. Well, it sounds rather vague, but perhaps you could put your proposal in writing. Send me details of what you’ve done, and maybe some examples of people you’ve worked with, and I’ll think about it.’
Ellis was mildly offended at the idea of having to submit evidence as though he were applying for a job. For years in the law he’d asked the questions and demanded the evidence and others had done his bidding. But he’d faxed Jean Carson the same day, with a long description of the four-week course in life-coaching that he’d taken two years earlier at the Nirvana Haven in San Francisco. He wrote of the glorious sunlit studio overlooking the Bay at Sausalito, where they sat on rattan mats, reclining against piles of calico-covered cushions. He described the slow and rhythmic daily warm-ups, the group sharing sessions, and the fascinating discussions about the nature of health, mindfulness and the centre’s dynamic new concept of life-coaching as a means to achieving selfhood. Each time Ellis thought of it he recalled that blissful sunlit month during which they all wore simple white cotton caftans to break down the barriers created by perceptions about dress. He remembered the discussions of Tantric sex, and the ritual dances and bodywork designed to free repression and release the true self. It was, he explained to Jean, a life-changing experience, an interlude in which everyone seemed beautiful, youthful and golden, and just so . . . well . . . Californian. Before leaving the US he’d approached Zoran, the Jesus-like director of the retreat, about the possibility of a Nirvana franchise in Australia.
‘Sure,’ Zoran had said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Sure thing, Ellis, that sounds like a swell idea. Franchising isn’t something we’ve explored yet but it’s certainly a possibility. The best thing might be to write a proposal and make a donation to Nirvana and I’ll put the idea to the board.’
Back in Byron Bay, Ellis had developed his proposal and sent it to Zoran along with a generous cheque. For some time he assumed the lack of response indicated thoughtful consideration of his proposal. But, as time dragged on, and his emails bounced back as undeliverable and the phone line seemed to be disconnected, he knew there was something seriously wrong.
‘Can you do a bit of research for me?’ he’d said on the phone to one of his former clerks who was now, like Ellis, retired. ‘I want you to track down this company in Sausalito.’
‘Sorry, Ellis,’ Stan had said. ‘Got a lot on at the moment. Just heading off on the grey-nomad trail.’
So Ellis had had to do the research himself and he’d hit a dead end. Nirvana Mind-Body Haven had disappeared down the drain. Too much competition probably, Ellis thought, but here in Australia it would be a different story. There was no reason why he couldn’t go it alone, developing what he’d learned from Nirvana into a concept of his own. He envisaged a sophisticated clientele of professional people, the sort of clients he might himself once have been. Initially a peripatetic practice, he thought, seeing people in their homes or offices, and some residencies in existing clinics and holistic centres. His approach to the Blue Mountains retreat was his first foray into this new occupation. But, to his surpr
ise, Jean Carson had written him a very abrupt letter saying that as he had neither formal qualifications nor experience as a counsellor or life-coach, they would not be able to take up his offer. Rather short-sighted, Ellis thought, but then, some people were simply unable to think outside the square.
The trip to Sydney to meet up with Heather had fitted well with his need to find an agent or PR consultant to target a campaign at high-flying individuals in the corporate and government sectors. Ellis was not blind to the intriguing irony of a high-profile criminal lawyer turning life-coach. It had obvious novelty value as a marketing and promotional tool, and he visualised media interviews and double-page spreads in glossy magazines, all so much more effective than mere advertising. All he needed was someone with the insight and drive to grasp and run with the concept.
In the reception area of the Pitt Street offices of Scriven Communications, Ellis admired the colour scheme and the branding: ice blue and charcoal spoke to him of drive and efficiency, and he liked the edgy artwork on the walls. He strolled back and forth; courtrooms had given him a preference for being on his feet. He was not a tall man but what he lacked in height he made up for in confidence. A journalist had once described him as leonine, and he enjoyed that sense of himself as moving with grace and power, almost magisterial in his control of situations.
‘Ellis,’ said Luke Scriven, welcoming him into an office in which a granite plinth supported a huge slab of glass; it was, apparently, his desk. ‘What a pleasure to meet you, and to read your splendid proposal.’ He steered Ellis towards a coffee table and two low couches which occupied one corner of the office. ‘Please, have a seat and Lucy will bring us some tea.’ He curled catlike into a corner of one of the couches, dropping Ellis’s portfolio onto the table. ‘I can’t tell you how excited I am about this.’
He was dressed entirely in black: long-sleeved black, designer t-shirt; tight black jeans and leather boots. Rather affected, Ellis thought, as was the watery green tea in a square charcoal teapot with a cane handle, which was poured into tiny cups without handles. Ellis, who would have preferred a strong cup of English Breakfast, sipped it and smiled as though it were just what he needed. Pretentious clothes and wanker tea were easy to forgive in the warmth of Luke Scriven’s enthusiasm. Ellis had lived his working life in wood panelled offices with ornately patterned Persian carpets, polished mahogany desks and library lamps, and in high-ceilinged court buildings, their entrances flanked by fluted columns. His days had been spent knowing the rules and how to manipulate them, in unpicking the detail in complex information, and structuring it into argument, rhetoric and performance. The light, modern space and design of Luke Scriven’s office delighted him, just as California had done, with its difference.
Luke Scriven put down his cup and held up his two hands palms outwards, tips of his thumbs touching to form a viewfinder in which to capture Ellis’s face. ‘I can see it now,’ he said. ‘From head to heart. From the law to the spirit, from rat race to enlightenment and self-actualisation.’ He dropped his hands and smiled. ‘Potent, Ellis, potent! Let’s talk about how we could work together on this.’
*
‘Do you fancy lunch over the road?’ Shaun asked, and Diane looked up in surprise. It was the first time that he had ever suggested they have lunch together. ‘Stuff to talk about.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But we need to go soon. I’ve got an appointment later.’
He nodded. ‘Right, just got a couple of calls to make and then we’ll go.’
Diane had noticed a subtle change in Shaun since he had turfed Charlene out of his house. He was obviously exhausted by everything that had happened, but he was friendlier and she had warmed to him, especially since Gerry had come out solidly in favour of Shaun’s view that it was time for serious confrontation with Charlene.
For two years, Diane had gone to great lengths to avoid seeing Gerry, which was helped by the fact that he had moved out of town to what she referred to derisively as his ‘love nest in the valley’. But she made sure she never went anywhere near his office, the restaurants he frequented or the wine merchant where he would certainly still have an account. And she joined a different tennis club from the one where they had played together as a couple. Their social life had been as a couple too, a couple among other couples, and Diane had resisted the awkward but goodhearted attempts those couples made to straddle their loyalties. She turned down invitations to dinner parties, barbecues, tennis matches, Christmas and New Year drinks and the marriages of their friends’ children.
She resented the unfairness. She had stuck with Gerry through the hard times when he was a bricklayer trying to turn himself into a registered builder and then into a property developer, and now this bimbo was reaping the benefit. But the worst part was that she still loved him. So many of their friends were together through habit or lack of alternatives, but Diane had thought that she and Gerry were together because they loved each other. She had certainly continued to love Gerry for better or worse, and worse had included his legendary drinking and the emotional switchback on which she was alternately hurt by his drunken hostility and then seduced into forgiveness by the seemingly genuine remorse and promises that it wouldn’t happen again.
But since that hastily organised meeting to talk about Charlene, Diane was faced with a different problem. The moment she saw Gerry looking so much like his old pre-booze self, she felt something inside her snap like a rubber band. He had hurt her bitterly, embarrassed her, toppled her self-esteem and trampled over every emotion, but quite suddenly she realised she didn’t care anymore because she no longer loved him. Perhaps she hadn’t loved him for some time. She realised she didn’t give a stuff about Gerry and his girlfriend, his new life and his place in the valley. She actually thought that, commendable as it was that he was losing weight and had given up drinking, it was quite pathetic that he was doing it in an attempt to hang on to a woman who was less than half his age. What’s more, the style makeover was a disaster. He was a good-looking man and had aged well, but the diamond stud in his ear looked simply silly and, as she or any other decent hairdresser could have told him, while grey hair was attractive and sexy, dyed a nasty shade of tobacco it was death to style and made him look like a hamster.
Most of all, Diane realised she was tired of hating. Gerry was clearly unaffected by it, and it was poisoning her life. It was over. Thirty-one years of organising her life around Gerry, and more recently in opposition to him, were over. The realisation was shocking, like letting go of the rope in a tug-of-war: the initial relief was followed by the crash down into emptiness and failure. Hate and anger were very motivating; the loss of both left only a vacuum.
‘So, how’s it going?’ Shaun asked when they had placed their orders. He had told her that he didn’t want to discuss the Charlene problem in the office, and that he would not tell Heather about it. He felt that if it got out that her electorate officer had drugs stored in his house, it would be better if Heather could honestly say she knew nothing about it. Diane thought this might be one time when Shaun’s instincts were wrong. In Heather’s shoes she would have preferred to know what was going on, but it was his call.
‘Hard,’ Diane said. ‘She’s still very upset about you ending it and she’s very cagey about Danny.’
‘What’s happened to the stuff she had at home?’ Shaun asked.
‘She says she’s given it back to him and she won’t be seeing him again but I’m not convinced. Look, you were right, I can see that now, she’s scared of him.’
Shaun nodded. ‘He might lay off her for a while, but he’ll be back, that’s for sure. She must be a nice little market for him, lots of friends who’d be popping those pills at parties and clubs. He won’t want to lose that. What does Gerry think?’
‘The same. He’s threatened Charlene that he’ll go to the police about Danny but of course he won’t because he’d also be turning her in. He even talked about paying Danny off, but he knows that won’t work either. I just
wish we could get her away from him. I’m worried sick about her, Shaun.’
‘I know. Do you think she’d go away somewhere? A long way away, I mean.’
‘What – a holiday?’
‘Longer than that. Another state perhaps, get a job for a while. That might break the cycle.’
Diane hesitated. It made sense but getting Charlene to do it was something else. ‘It might work, I suppose, if she’d go. She’s never been away from here alone, it would be hard for her, somewhere strange –’
‘But Charlene’s not stupid,’ Shaun cut in. ‘She must know what a mess she’s in even if she’s not admitting it, and if she’s frightened and can see a way out she might take it.’
‘But where would she go? She’d need a job, somewhere to live . . .’
‘I might be able to help. My cousin is assistant manager of a resort on the Gold Coast. They’re always on the lookout for staff and Charlene’s good with figures and on the computer. She’s done payrolls too. I could ask Denise if there’s anything going. Charlene’s met her and they got on well. Maybe Denise’ll help her find something.’
Diane had often encouraged Charlene to travel, to try something new, to make the most of being young, free and single, but now her maternal instinct went into overdrive. ‘The Gold Coast. I could hardly keep an eye on her there.’
‘This is about giving her a chance to keep an eye on herself,’ Shaun said. ‘Getting her away is giving her a new start, without all the Danny baggage.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘It’s not all that far, after all. If we could fix it and Charlene agreed, maybe you could go with her for a week or two until she settles in. That might help her and you.’
Diane felt a huge lump in her throat. She wanted to put her head on Shaun’s shoulder and sob. This was a really positive suggestion, something that neither she nor Gerry had considered. ‘I suppose it might work,’ she said cautiously. ‘Let me talk to Gerry and see what he thinks.’
