A Woman of Courage

by J. H. Fletcher

  It still tasted like instant to her but one-upmanship had become important to her new image.

  ‘It will be interesting to compare,’ said Tessa, pursing acid drop lips. Control was Tessa’s middle name. Perhaps that was why, having lost out over the coffee, she now said: ‘I am so glad you phoned. There is something I have to tell you.’

  Having said so much she shut up, waiting for Jennifer to show interest, possibly even alarm. But Jennifer ate cake and sipped coffee and waited.

  ‘I wondered whether I should say anything but then I thought, she is my friend and it is my duty to tell her.’ While her eyes watched.

  Greedy vulture eyes, Jennifer thought. She knew her own face showed nothing. ‘This cake is delicious,’ she said, brushing crumbs from smiling lips. ‘You really must try some.’

  Tessa’s mind was on things other than cake. ‘Have you heard of Juanita Santos?’

  Every woman in Australia had heard of her. Supermodel Juanita was famous.

  ‘I may have done. Portuguese?’ Jennifer guessed.

  Had Tessa not been determined to be in control she might have shown exasperation. ‘She is a model from the Philippines,’ she said. ‘You must have heard of her.’

  ‘Possibly. As I said. What about her?’

  Tessa leant across the table and lowered her voice, the better to share the drama of this great secret. ‘I hear Davis has been seen with her.’

  ‘She is probably a client,’ Jennifer said.

  ‘Seen several times. Sometimes at night. At Withershins once, I believe.’

  Only one of the smartest and most expensive venues in town.

  ‘Thank you,’ Jennifer said. She had a sick taste in her mouth and her heart was thundering but she managed a smile, secure behind the distance that since this morning’s episode was keeping her safe. ‘I am always telling Davis he works too hard.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Tessa said. She drank from her cup. ‘Do you really like this coffee?’

  ‘It is truly aromatic,’ Jennifer said.

  Tessa pushed away her cup. Jennifer saw it was still half full.

  ‘To trust is a truly Christian virtue,’ Tessa said. ‘Provided it is not carried too far.’

  ‘Like all virtues,’ Jennifer said and smiled. As a true Christian should. ‘I am grateful for your concern. It can’t have been easy for you. You are a true friend.’ And if I never see you again, she thought with a viciousness that surprised her, it will be too soon. ‘Your coffee is cold. I’ll order you another cup on the way out.’ She raised her hand as Tessa tried to speak. ‘No, I insist. I’d love to stay and chat,’ she said. ‘But unfortunately I have things to do.’

  And twiddled affectionate fingers from the taxi as it drove away.

  Later, her mind once again in turmoil, it was another story. The naked woman baying at the clouds had learnt belatedly that if she didn’t look after her own interests no one else would do it for her. Anger bubbling, she stood in the middle of the living room and looked about her. This was her home. It might be Davis’s house but it was her home. She would permit no one and nothing to destroy that. She had been too tolerant in the past. Too submissive. That would stop. The new Jennifer would put her foot down. She would be strong, her own woman. Juanita Santos indeed… They would see about Juanita Santos.

  She picked up the magazine she had been glancing through last night. She turned the pages, looking at the clothes and the models wearing them. Not that one. Not that one. There. She stared at the woman. What was she going to do about it?

  She thought of the two occasions she’d met Anthony Belloc and the question he had wanted her to ask Mother. She’d felt uneasy – she had sensed something underhanded about it – but had asked anyway and got nowhere. Mother had fobbed her off with some story but Jennifer had a hunch she’d not told her everything. She didn’t know what was missing but if there was something, she wanted to know about it, right? Was she not Mother’s daughter? Her elder daughter? Didn’t she have the right to know? Didn’t she have the right to do what she could to protect her own interests? Very well.

  Mouth set, she sat down and drew the phone towards her.

  FORWARD INTO THE PAST

  1

  Sara had texted Millie to say she was having breakfast with her mother and would come straight to the studio afterwards. When she arrived at ten o’clock, her mind seething with everything Hilary had told her, she found Millie pacing like a tigress. Millie was dressed to punch your eyes, a study in scarlet and black: flame-coloured hair, high peaked shoulders on the wide-lapelled black tunic, high-heeled scarlet boots, an expression to make Lucrezia Borgia proud.

  ‘What time do you call this?’

  Sara looked at her watch. She smiled pleasantly. ‘I make it two minutes after ten, Millie.’

  ‘Why are you late?’

  ‘I told you. I was having breakfast with my mother –’

  ‘Until this hour?’ Millie raised her voice. ‘I don’t care if you were having breakfast with the fucking pope –’

  ‘I doubt he’d be doing that,’ Sara said. ‘Certainly not supposed to, is he?’

  Millie stared at her. Sara stared back. Millie was used to people being frightened of her manner, her ratchet voice, most of all her power. Sara wasn’t frightened. She never had been frightened but now, after this morning’s talk with Mother, she felt a sense of relief. She was free. She saw that Millie knew it too, without knowing quite what she knew. Sara hadn’t decided whether to go along with Mother’s proposal and had made up her mind to say nothing for the moment. It didn’t bother her; this too was power, to know and stay silent.

  ‘I am here now,’ she said. ‘Let’s get to work, when you’re ready. What have we got lined up for today?’

  It became the usual pressurised day with Millie putting on her drama queen act. She was intolerable yet Sara admired her almost as much as she despised her: a powerhouse of relentless energy that would drive her programme up the charts. Her programme, her studio, her vision. A force of nature or maybe of hell, she would make money for the company or die in the attempt. You had to admire such energy. Misguided, yes, but try telling her that.

  And Mother had to know by tomorrow. Resentment flickered. Another force of nature. But Sara had no time to think about Mother now, or her future. Millie demanded not one hundred per cent but more like five hundred per cent concentration, expecting no less than she was willing to give, and Sara respected her for it. Responded, too, and until eight o’clock that night, with the final credits running, that was her world. An attack dog in an electronic universe.

  It was an exhausting business but once again she couldn’t afford to ease up. Off with the make-up, then, down in the lift to the garage and up and out into the maelstrom of Sydney traffic. She was putting the key in the door of her house twenty minutes after leaving Channel 12. Up the stairs and into the shower, then make-up, keeping an eye on the clock. Sexy underwear next. What dress to wear? She hesitated, chose one that she had picked up recently at Imogen’s, a deep emerald item with some cleavage and embroidered with silver thread. She put it on and studied herself in the mirror. OK. Enough on show to be interesting but not too much. An antique silver necklace to complement the trim in the dress and she was ready.

  By five to nine she was downstairs and glancing through the paper. She needed to think around what Mother had said this morning, but not now. Now she had a date. She shook her head as she thought about that.

  When she had gone into television people had warned her you never dated people you interviewed; it made life too complicated and could cause all sorts of problems down the track. How right they’d been. She’d known it even at the time yet when Emil had offered she had barely hesitated before heading north with him. A gamble it had certainly proved to be, times of wonder and ecstasy, but many more when she had been tempted to murder him for his arrogance and the contempt with which he had treated her. Finally, when she had at last mustered the strength to break away from him his
last words had been to tell her she would come back to him. And now, after a single phone call, she was willing to prove him right? Was she crazy?

  ‘No,’ she said aloud. ‘He is offering me the possibility of an exclusive interview with a world-famous man who in the past has done everything he could to avoid giving interviews. Why should I not take advantage of his offer?’

  The doorbell rang. She went and opened the door.

  There had been a light shower and Emil had raindrops shining in his hair. She looked at him, then looked again, hoping she was able to conceal her shock. She had lived with this man for a year, had known every inch of his body. Now a stranger faced her. He stood in the doorway like a withered oak. His face and eyes were yellow and he had lost a lot of weight. This was a shadow of the man she remembered.

  ‘Have you had jaundice?’

  He gave her a sardonic smile, shaking his head slowly. ‘Not jaundice, no.’

  This had always been his way: feeding his ego by giving half answers, forcing her to come to him, but she was no longer willing to play his stupid games.

  ‘Let’s go then,’ she said with a gaiety she did not feel. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  The restaurant was full but the tables were well spaced so there was no sense of crush. The table linen was white and spotless and the cutlery genuine silver. Beyond the picture windows the lights of Darling Harbour gleamed in the darkness.

  Sara had not believed anyone on earth could make her this nervous but the way she felt now she might have had briars down her back. Again she asked herself what she was doing, having a meal with this man. And such a meal. Oyster soup, escargots in a curry sauce, rack of lamb: Emil was pulling out all the stops but she noticed how he only picked at his food. She reminded herself she was there to discuss the possibilities of an interview, only that, but in her heart knew that was nonsense. She’d known it from the moment she had returned his call the morning before: the lurch of the heart, the tightening of the breath warning that even now she was not totally free of Emil Broussard. I am a sorry case, she thought.

  Conscious of his dark eyes watching her, she fought for something to say, remembering how at their first meeting she had also found words hard. ‘I have never been here before.’

  He nodded but did not speak: which was probably all the inane remark deserved. He was obviously ill yet after his initial rebuff she would not ask him again.

  They ate; they shared a bottle of chardonnay; gradually the atmosphere eased.

  He told her his latest book, Snake Country, had sold over half a million copies in the States. She had known that already but allowed herself to be impressed.

  ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘Two weeks ago.’

  ‘I thought you had settled there.’

  He had moved to California shortly after they broke up. Now, after two films and another novel, he was back. Had he returned to Australia because he was ill? Was it serious? It certainly looked serious. Was that why he wanted to be interviewed, a man who had done his best to avoid publicity in the past? To place himself and his achievements on record, while he still had time? She had no idea about any of these things.

  ‘The interview,’ she said.

  ‘I shall ask my agent to speak to your producer,’ he said.

  It seemed he might be serious about it, after all. He did not say why it had been necessary for them to meet first nor was she about to ask him. If Channel 12 got the interview that would be justification enough, she thought. Yet it did not explain her challenged breath or the tremors she continued to feel, conscious of his eyes watching her.

  A taxi took them to Sara’s house.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ Sara said.

  She did not move. Neither did he. Seemingly from nowhere the past had joined the present, laying its quiet hands upon them. Wide-eyed, they looked at each other in the taxi’s dim light.

  2

  Next morning Sara lay in bed and watched through the bedroom’s closed curtains the silent coming of the dawn. She listened but at this hour in her side street all was still.

  She was later than usual and there would be no time for her early-morning jog yet still she lay and did not move while her mind replayed the events not only of last night but also of that day, so long ago now, when she had first arrived at Emil’s beachside house and he had quoted Yeats to her.

  That Fergus poem had been the start of it, she thought. The beauty and passion of that first night was what had endured: the joy of possession and being possessed, of being one. Whatever had happened later, that sense of fulfilment had remained. That had been at the root of what had happened last night. Sitting in the taxi, watching each other, that was what prompted her to say: ‘Do you fancy a nightcap?’

  Emil had not answered but continued to look silently, his eyes intent upon her, until she opened the taxi door and got out. He had followed, not a word spoken. He had paid the driver and they had gone indoors together.

  His body was much diminished yet he still bulked large in the living room. She did not ask herself what she had done; she did not think but gestured at the easy chair, waiting until he was seated before fetching glasses and bottles, not thinking at all, barely breathing, and came and sat down and watched him, the drinks on the table that for the moment separated them.

  ‘Johnny Walker Blue?’ she said.

  It had always been his favourite.

  ‘I’ll give it a miss,’ he said.

  This, from a man who used to drink like there was no tomorrow? Now Sara was certain he must have something seriously wrong with him. But until he was willing to talk about it she would say nothing.

  She poured herself a Jägermeister. They sat and looked at each other.

  ‘This television programme you are engaged with,’ he said. ‘It satisfies you?’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  He continued to watch her, his yellow features drawn, but with the air of patient observation that she remembered so well. ‘But?’

  ‘No buts. It’s the best current affairs programme on the box.’

  And still he watched. ‘My information is that its format is about to change.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  She would neither confirm nor deny but he must know someone at Channel 12 to have heard the rumour. That had always been his way. He had remarkable sources of information but would never say what they were.

  He waited but she said nothing.

  ‘Always you have been in love with the ideal,’ he said. ‘Always you expect more than the world can deliver. That is your great strength and weakness. Therefore I question whether your commitment to the programme is as strong as you suggest. If it is indeed the best in its field, why is there need to change the format? Unless the intention is to make it more popular.’

  Still she said nothing. Outside the window, tyres screeched as a car roared past: another drunk heading home.

  ‘You are strong,’ Emil said. ‘I have always known that. The strongest woman I have ever known.’

  ‘Because I walked away from you.’

  ‘Because you thought you had walked away from me. The question is whether making the programme more popular will compromise its quality – as I believe is inevitable – and, if it does, what you intend to do about it.’

  ‘Why should you care?’

  ‘Because you and I have always been custodians of quality, which is the bedrock of civilisation. For people like us compromise is impossible.’

  ‘And that is important?’

  ‘Not important. Essential.’

  He reached across the table and took her hand. She could have moved it away but did not. He was still strong, his hand still warm, and his warmth and strength communicated themselves to her fingers and her body. ‘We are one,’ he said. ‘We have always been one. That is why we fight, but in our unity is our strength.’

  That was nonsense. One when he had thrown her stories in the bin? When he had abandoned her without explanation fo
r days on end?

  Still holding her hand he moved the table out of the way and stood up, drawing her with him. They stood body to body, very close, her hand held by his, her eyes held by his.

  ‘We are prisoners,’ he said. ‘Prisoners of each other and the ideal.’

  He took her other hand in his free hand and lifted them to his cheeks. They stood unmoving. He had released her hands and she could have taken them away but did not.

  Prisoners of each other and the ideal.

  For a minute longer they stood, Sara feeling the growing tension of nerves and breath. Then his lips were on her throat.

  3

  Sara slept again and woke at seven o’clock: suddenly her disciplined existence was a shambles. Since breakfast with Hilary she had become a traveller in an unfamiliar country where even the language was foreign to her ears. Phrases like I am saying I can offer you a way out; like I don’t care if you were having breakfast with the fucking pope; like I don’t believe I have ever met a woman who has excited me so much.

  Unfamiliar country indeed.

  Was that why she had been so quick to embrace her old lover, to seek refuge from the challenge that Hilary had flung in her lap?

  The trauma of Emil’s confession was with her still. She had taken it for granted they would make love, yet nothing had happened and eventually he had explained why.

  Naked on the bed, she had stared at him in horror. ‘Liver cancer?’

  ‘They diagnosed it in California,’ he said.

  ‘Can nothing be done?’

  ‘They told me it was inoperable.’

  ‘Have you sought a second opinion?’

  ‘The specialist who examined me is the best in his field. He told me there was nothing to be done and I believe him. I feel it in myself.’

  ‘How long?’ It was a question she had to ask although her lips were so stiff with shock it was hard to speak at all.

  A Gallic shrug. ‘Three months, perhaps. As a maximum. Quite possibly less. I had thought that with you I might pretend I was whole again. Even if only for an hour. After all, I don’t believe I have ever met a woman who excited me so much.’ Again the shrug. ‘But now I find I am no longer able to do even that. Even with you.’