They spent much of the night doing this. Both on a high at the discovery, they were too stimulated to consider sleep, and the imminence of his departure seemed to inhibit them from making love. So they had sat by the window and waited for the dawn, neither of them wanting to speculate on the future, watching the streetlights along the river begin to pale while Patrick held her in his arms, trying to forget this was his last day.
His taxi had been late. He’d already persuaded Claire not to accompany him to the airport; it would be a fruitless journey, Heathrow would be packed with queues. He would have to join one as soon as he arrived, then go through security, which meant she’d be left standing in the crowded terminal with nothing achieved, except a distant glimpse of him looking fed-up and vanishing from sight.
The lateness of the taxi created extra tension, prolonging the pressure of their parting. Patrick went out to the balcony to look for it. The morning was overcast and cool; a low grey sky seemed to match his mood, and Claire’s, who joined him shivering. She said the change in weather was a hint of what lay ahead. It was all downhill from now on; their Indian summer had been wonderful but winter was imminent. In the parks the leaves were not just falling, they were literally cascading off the trees. Soon every branch would be stripped bare. At the weekend the clocks would go back to winter time. It would be dark by four each afternoon. Maybe by three-thirty in the depths of December. That, plus icy winds blowing across Europe from the Russian Steppes to cap it all; she told him he was making his escape just in time.
Normally they would have been laughing at this doleful litany, but it didn’t feel like a day for laughter.
‘It’s not an escape,’ Patrick tried to assert. ‘I have to go. But you do know I want to come back.’
‘Wait till you get home,’ Claire insisted vehemently, ‘before you decide anything. That’s what we agreed.’
‘Claire, please…’
They’d talked it over while waiting for the dawn. But calmly, not like this. With no sign of the cab, the stress was becoming palpable. Patrick tried vainly to think of something cheerful to say.
‘Perhaps you’ll have a white Christmas.’
Claire told him that white Christmases were not always that crash-hot. Good for the royalties of the Bing Crosby estate, but not so brilliant when it melted. The last time they’d had a white one in London, it had been horrible. Slush everywhere. Cars skidding. Actually more like a dirty brown Christmas, with the streets a lethal mixture of thawing snow and slippery dog shit.
Not knowing what else to do, he put his arms around her and felt her trembling.
It was almost a relief when the taxi finally did arrive. The driver, a cheerful West Indian with a pronounced cockney accent, apologised that he’d got lost, but promised they had heaps of time. He loaded the suitcase and laptop in the cab while Claire and Patrick stood and hugged in mutual misery.
‘Take care,’ she said, trying to prevent tears that were filling her eyes as she held him tightly and kissed him.
‘I’ll ring you when we land,’ he promised, and looking out the rear window he could see her, shivering in the cold and waving until they reached the end of the street. He wanted to tell the driver to stop, to go back; he had a vivid recollection of Stephen’s anguish at having to leave the farm, and how Marie-Louise had stood like this waving to him. He felt the same pain his grandfather had known as the taxi turned the corner and he could no longer see her.
Joanna left Fox Studios and drove home to their new apartment. It had been a long day, her last day, for her director’s cut on the picture was complete, and others would finish the sound edit and deliver the film. She parked her Porsche and took the elevator to the penthouse suite.
There were phone messages, one from her father. Was she feeling better, and please ring him? The others could wait, she decided; she and her dad had never fallen out before, and there were some fences to mend. But the phone rang unattended; Carlo did not believe in answering machines. If he was home he picked up the telephone, or the caller could ring again if it was important. This was important.
Dad, she wanted to say, please forgive me…
She knew Patrick would be landing tomorrow before breakfast and had sent him the new address, for they preferred taxis to the hassle of picking each other up from the airport. Parking was hell, and the plane was bound to be late. Patrick would not expect her.
She had moved furniture from Neutral Bay and set up a large study with their computers. There was some email for him; two of them contained attachments. The first was labelled ‘Treatment’ and came with a note hoping he’d had a good trip, to keep in touch and remember they had a deadline for the screenplay at the end of next month. Money for his expenses to date and the script advance had been sent to his bank. It was signed, ‘Affectionately, Lottie’. Joanna was intrigued. It was her first indication that a deal had been struck; their last phone call since her return from America had suggested the opposite.
The second attachment was something different. Headed ‘Georgina’, it was many closely typed pages and certainly not the project he’d gone overseas to discuss. She scanned the first page. What she saw there made her decide to print it. She went to the fridge and poured herself a glass of wine, then sat down to read it.
It was a surprise to Patrick, being met at the airport. Waiting at the end of a long line for a taxi, he heard his name called and turned to see Joanna waving as she hurried from the direction of the car park. A man near him in the queue gazed at her admiringly, looking envious as Patrick waved a reply and went to meet her. He realised she had caught the attention of other male eyes; her trim figure and good looks always attracted attention.
They met and kissed. ‘This is nice,’ he said. ‘Unexpected.’
‘I set the alarm to wake me early. Good trip, darling?’ She glanced at him with a grin. ‘Or just a long one.’
‘Fairly long. Not much leg room at the blunt end. All those extra seats might help the company’s bottom line, but don’t do much for the travellers’ bums.’
She laughed and hugged him. ‘Did you manage to sleep?’
‘Not a lot. Still, it’s only twenty-four hours out of my life, and El Cheapo saves heaps.’
She kissed him again. He smelt her familiar perfume, felt the touch of her lips, and was assailed by memories.
‘Never mind, my pet. Next time you can travel up-market in a comfort zone. There’s money in overnight from the BBC.’
‘Already? Good old Lottie.’
‘They seem keen. I’m not surprised.’
‘You read the treatment?’
‘I sure did,’ she agreed. ‘Glanced at it, then got hooked. And read the other attachment sent by Claire — whoever she is.’
They reached her Porsche. Brand-new, with the hood down, it looked spectacular. A perfect match for Joanna, he thought, as eye-catching as its owner. They left the airport and headed for the freeway.
‘You went to meet on one story, and seem to have sold another,’ she observed. ‘A better one.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’ Patrick told her of his encounters with Charlotte Redmond while she drove, sharing her laughter when he related the visit upstairs to God.
‘Fabulous!’ She eased the car past a line of traffic, then dropped back to the speed limit. ‘Sounds like it might actually happen.’
‘It must happen,’ he said, and the new assurance in his voice made her glance thoughtfully at him. ‘It’s become personal. The unnamed, unknown soldier who was kicked around and ill-treated will have a name at last. And my contract has a clause that says the film will be dedicated to the memory of Stephen Conway.’
Joanna was quiet until they came out of the harbour tunnel, then she turned to him and asked, ‘Do you need a director?’
He began to realise there was an agenda behind her meeting him, and felt uncomfortable. He had not anticipated this.
‘What about your big movie in the States?’
‘Nine months, th
en I’ll be available. It’ll take you that long to get up and running.’ She sounded buoyant. ‘The two of us. It’d be a team effort.’
‘Jo, it’s not your kind of picture,’ he replied carefully. ‘And the budget can’t afford your kind of money.’
‘Put it this way, Patrick. It’s clearly important to you, which makes it important to me. I’d do this for whatever the budget can afford.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Why not call your friend Charlotte and ask if they want me? At a bargain price — for one film only. Tell her I’m inspired by the story, and I’ve never worked with you.’
‘Let’s talk when I’m over the jet lag.’ He was uneasy, for he suspected Lottie would embrace the idea. ‘Later today,’ Patrick added, ‘there’s a lot of things we need to talk about.’
They drove the rest of the way to their new home in silence.
The sunlight lit the harbour like a glittering prize. Ferries crossed from Mosman and Cremorne Point, while a sleek hydrofoil slid past on its way to the city. In the distance a fleet of eighteen-footers unfurled sails, and way beyond this activity, off the wooded hillside of Middle Head, a huge container ship stood waiting for its pilot.
A view without parallel, Patrick thought, admiring the vista from the penthouse garden where he stood amid its lush foliage. The photographs she’d emailed him could not do justice to the reality. The glimpse of muddy river from Claire’s bathroom, he reflected ruefully, could hardly compete with this astonishing panorama.
‘What do you think?’ Joanna asked, and he became aware she’d emerged from the living room with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
‘It’s sensational,’ Patrick said. ‘Fantastic.’
‘I told my father you’d like it.’
‘He approves of it?’
‘Darling, he found it.’
‘Oh?’
‘Raved about it. Declared it ideal for my new status. The kind of high-profile place that’d always bring me home between my work in LA, which would mean we’d never lose touch. And, since it occupies two floors, he pointed out there are enough bedrooms for lots of children.’
‘What did you say to that?’
‘I said perhaps one child. Maybe another later on… I’m afraid he took me literally.’
‘He did. So literally that he told my sister you were pregnant. Which is how the news spread to me before you added that postscript to your email.’
‘So I gather.’ Joanna shrugged. ‘I should be angry about it, but I’m determined not to be.’
‘About a rumour?’
‘No, about Sally voicing a suspicion I might’ve had an abortion. That my food poisoning might’ve been a cover. She as good as insinuated so to my face. But we’ve never exactly been best friends, have we?’
Joanna opened the champagne while Patrick considered how to reply. He watched as she poured each of them a glass, handed him one and smiled. ‘Welcome home, darling.’
‘Joanna —’ he began, but she interrupted.
‘The truth is far less dramatic than your drama-queen sister would like it to be. There was no child — and never a pregnancy. I told her if she had trouble believing it, I’d email the Cedars Hospital for my medical records.’
‘I’m sure there’s no need for that,’ Patrick replied. ‘But how did Carlo of all people get it so wrong?’
Joanna finished her drink before replying. She put the glass down on the table beside her and spread her hands in what seemed a friendly plea for forgiveness.
‘My fault,’ she told him. ‘When Dad showed me this apartment and wanted me to buy it, I did point out your immediate reaction that it was way beyond us. Which, of course, it was. We’d have been saddled with a mortgage the size of the national debt. But I kind of hinted there might be a grandchild soon…’ She hesitated, as if that was all she intended to say, then came to stand alongside him at the roof garden railing, her gaze avoiding him and fixed on the sails of the Opera House across the water. ‘I might’ve overdone it. Suggesting I wasn’t looking forward to morning sickness, and how we’d stopped bothering with precautions… He straightaway insisted on helping me pay for the place. When he started planning which room would be the nursery, I realised I’d gone too far and that he’d leapt to the obvious conclusion. That night I had to leave for Los Angeles. By the time I came back he’d spread the news, so I had to lie and tell him it’d been a false alarm.’
‘Not very fair to Carlo.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘But I suppose by then he’d paid for all this. Not just “helped”, as you’d like me to believe. Paid for the lot. Dug into his deep pockets, because whether you were pregnant or not, you made him believe he was going to be a grandfather.’
She turned and stared at him. ‘Whether I was pregnant or not? I made it clear to you I wasn’t. Jesus Christ, don’t you believe me?’
‘What I believe isn’t important any longer. I’m just sorry for Carlo, because one way or another, you conned the poor old bugger.’
‘Is that a sin, a wealthy father wanting to buy something for his daughter? To protect my future, he said, so I’d always be secure, no matter what lousy tricks life or the film business might decide to play. We all know you can be sky-high one minute and on your arse the next.’ She seemed impatient, as if wondering why he couldn’t understand. ‘Look, I was going to tell you the sordid details, but in my own time. And if it sounds a bit grasping, it really wasn’t at all. He wanted this place for me from the moment he saw it.’
How you rationalise so glibly, Patrick thought, gazing at his beautiful and acquisitive wife. He’d never really seen that side of her before. Manipulating her own father, surely unnecessarily, for he would have given her whatever she wanted.
‘What’s more, I did promise him we’d try for a baby. I’ll play fair with him on that, but after I finish this movie.’
‘Well, that’s something you’ll have to sort out with Carlo,’ Patrick replied as gently as he could. ‘Because fabulous as your new home is, I won’t be living here. I’m sorry, Jo, but it’s time I told you about Claire.’
EPILOGUE
The grave looked different now — unlike the disarray they had encountered the first time Claire had brought him here. She had traced it from Georgina’s description of the funeral, and soon after his return to London she and Patrick had paid a visit to the tiny churchyard outside the town of Leatherhead. Stephen’s name was barely legible; the headstone was thick with lichen and embedded with the grime of years, while surrounding it was a wilderness of straggling dock weeds and blackberry that had grown unchecked, almost obscuring the site. It was clear that for a long time, ever since Georgina had been unable to visit here, no one had cared for this resting place.
Their first task was to restore it. They spent days gouging the algae from the stone, after that using acid to scrub away the dirt until the granite slab looked like new. Then they chopped down the weeds, brought tools to dig out the roots, and sprayed the ground to prevent new growth. Over the earth they laid a cover of ornamental pebbles on a surface of wet concrete. They were both resolved that never again would Stephen’s grave be allowed to look derelict.
Patrick watched Claire sitting on the ground with her camera as she took shots to record their progress. Wearing an old pair of jeans and a floppy turtlenecked pullover, her auburn hair tied back and her face bare of makeup, he thought she had never looked lovelier. Except perhaps, on New Year’s Eve. He smiled at the memory of it. Arriving at her flat in Ashburton Road, anticipating her surprise when she opened the door to him, the surprise had been his, for he found she was not at home. After repeatedly pressing the bell, he wondered what to do. That was the trouble with surprises: they sometimes rebounded with a clang.
He had telephoned her from Sydney at Christmas to say he was spending a last week with his mother and sister, and was booked on a flight leaving on New Year’s Day. When the chance of a business class seat suddenly came up two
days earlier, Patrick took it and enjoyed the thought of startling Claire with an earlier arrival. Which was why, along with his luggage, he was standing outside the entrance to her building, wishing he had accepted her offer of a set of keys and trying to decide whether to find a hotel for the night or sit on his suitcase in the winter dark and wait for her return. In fact he had done neither. When the owner of the downstairs apartment had emerged and recognised him, Patrick asked if he might store his cases inside the building, and had then set off to find a taxi.
He had only been to Claire’s office once before, but felt sure that was where he would find her. The building was in Brompton Road, Knightsbridge, not far from Harrods. He arrived as a drunken group emerged from a noisy New Year’s Eve party, and he made his way past them towards the elevator in the lobby. Moments later it arrived on the ground floor and the doors slid open to reveal only one occupant, a rather sober one intending to make her way home, who stared at him in delighted amazement.
‘Patrick! You’re supposed to be in Australia!’ Claire exclaimed. ‘I thought you were leaving tomorrow.’
‘I decided to leave yesterday so we could celebrate the start of a new century,’ Patrick told her. ‘Don’t you realise in an hour it’ll be 2001 and the first day of our new life together?’
‘You are completely nuts and I absolutely love you,’ she told him, putting her arms tightly around him. This prevented them leaving the elevator as the door slid shut, and they were taken rapidly to the top floor and then slowly down again, as drunks from various parties stumbled in at each floor. Many recognised Claire and kept wishing them a happy new year, as well as trying to pronounce ‘a smashing new millennium’. Everyone was in a festive mood. It seemed the world was not going to end. Computers would not implode or explode, planes would not fall out of the sky, all predictions of disaster were cancelled. During this slow descent Patrick and Claire were wrapped together in the back of the lift, their lips joined, their hearts beating, hardly able to breathe in the crush that compressed them.
Barbed Wire and Roses Page 33