Jackal's Dance

by Beverley Harper

  Back in England, in Gayle’s cosy seventeenth-century Hertford cottage, which for the past fifteen months Matt had shared with the actress, the idea of escaping a dreary winter and doing something completely different seemed such a good idea. A film director friend of Gayle’s had recently been in Namibia and returned raving about Etosha and Logans Island Lodge. Gayle decided she and Matt should spend a week there. At first Matt rejected the idea. Although he couldn’t afford the trip Gayle, as usual, brushed aside any objections as if nothing but her own wishes counted. In a fit of uncharacteristic generosity, she offered to pay for both of them and turned a deaf ear to any further objections. And, as was her way, once she got an idea into her head Gayle talked about Etosha nonstop until Matt was actually looking forward to the trip.

  The planning was left to Matt and took on all the nightmare qualities that might be associated with the pre-production requirements of filming Ben Hur. Whenever he showed irritation over Gayle’s constant changes to a schedule that was hard enough to put together, due in no small measure to communication difficulties between London and Windhoek, she was quick to sweetly remind him who would be paying for the trip. It was Matt who had to inform Logans Island Lodge that the star drank Gilbeys Gin with Angostura, had to have sans gas Perrier and Harrods Blend No. 14 tea, insisted on Baxters chunky marmalade and used only Johnson & Johnson’s baby soap. It was Matt who dealt with the charter plane company in Johannesburg and he who had to keep their itinerary on track when Gayle changed dates for the fifth time.

  With a schedule finally set three weeks before departure, Gayle had hysterics over her wardrobe, consulted an astrologer to make sure the travel dates were propitious, dithered to the point where Matt felt like choking her over what books she might want to read in the air, flipped out totally about her hair and, two days before they were due to leave London, announced she couldn’t possibly leave her precious Pomeranian, Candy, in kennels. Matt dealt with each new crisis calmly. The dog nearly brought everything unstuck until Matt lied and told Gayle his aunt had agreed to look after it and then took it to the kennels anyway. Even though he was used to Gayle, by the time the two of them were comfortably seated in the first-class section of a British Airways jumbo jet with the ‘on display’ actress loudly demanding more champagne, Matt silently wondered how the hell they’d managed to get this far.

  Nothing about Gayle was easy. A star from the age of thirteen, everything she did became a drama. Chaos was drawn to her like iron filings to a magnet, though the truth of it was that an inability to make up her mind, coupled with thirty years of pampering and adoration, seemed to turn something as simple as ordering a pizza into a major production. She’d order, change her mind, ask advice and ignore it, change her mind again and then, if the unfortunate person trying to help showed the slightest hint of impatience, make a scene. Matt had lost count of how many times he had been with her in a restaurant when the previously gracious and sweet-tempered actress fired a broadside of the foulest of language at the top of her voice. She could snap in a split second.

  Those who had known her for a long time commented that she’d become worse over the past five years. Matt knew why. It didn’t excuse her behaviour but at least it was a reason. In two years, the rich, famous and extremely glamorous actress, Gayle Gaynor, would turn fifty. It was something she dreaded. Unable to accept the inevitable, she did everything in her power to turn back the clock. A discreet facelift, breast implants, liposuction, lavish and almost hysterical attention to her skin, and a punishing exercise program had kept her body tight and shapely, thus far holding any obvious wrinkles at bay. A string of younger lovers should have reassured the actress that she was still beautiful. But inside, Gayle knew she was fighting a losing battle. Evidence lay in the only roles she seemed to be offered. Those of supporting actress, invariably as the older woman.

  Not many burrowed under the surface of the brittle and sarcastic exterior. Gayle had never known her father and keenly felt a sense of rejection that he cared so little for her that he’d walked away before she was one year old and had made no subsequent attempt to contact her. No birthday cards, no Christmas messages, not even a telephone call. In the simple logic of a child’s mind, Gayle believed that her father’s defection had to be her fault.

  She had a mother somewhere but never visited her or communicated in any way, barring a generous allowance so that the older woman could end her days comfortably in the exclusive retirement home which Gayle also paid for. Only Matt knew the reason. Emotional blackmail is a cruel and powerful weapon in the hands of a vindictive mother. Gayle’s belief that she was somehow to blame for her father’s defection was fuelled constantly by bitter accusations from the older woman. The little girl was too young to realise her father’s weak character, in the face of her mother’s constant nagging and escalating alcohol problem, was solely to blame. So she accepted the guilt heaped on her and told herself that acts of physical cruelty were justifiable punishment. Gayle bore the scars on one shoulder from the time her mother deliberately poured boiling water from the teapot over her. She had been seven years old and her only crime had been to make tea to divert attention from the gin bottle. Other scars were emotional. Like the evening her mother turned up drunk at the school play where Gayle had the leading role. She created such a disturbance that by the time several teachers had managed to eject her, Gayle was so upset she was unable to perform. But when Matt asked her once why, after so much abuse and when Gayle obviously didn’t love her mother, she supported the woman in such style, Gayle shrugged and said, ‘She’s all I’ve got.’

  When Matt pressed her for more Gayle, with uncharacteristic candour, admitted, ‘She never once told me she loved me or showed pride or approval. I could never do anything right. Now she relies on me.’ She’d smiled cynically before adding, ‘That gets right up the old bitch’s nose.’

  The only thing that Gayle showed unqualified, selfless love for was her dog. After one of their many arguments, when Matt frustratedly accused Gayle of loving the dog more than she loved him, her answer both dumbfounded him and explained more about Gayle than anything else. ‘But of course, why wouldn’t I? Candy loves me with her entire being and wants nothing but my company.’

  ‘That’s all I want too.’

  Gayle’s throaty laugh held a derisive tone. ‘Of course, darling. You and every other fucker out there who’s after a piece of me.’

  After fifteen months of living together, Matt probably knew her better than most. Every now and again, Gayle would drop her guard and he’d glimpse the real person she kept hidden away. Rejection terrified Gayle so she took cover behind a protective barrier of indifference. She’d become so good at it that he doubted even Gayle could tell what was real about herself any more.

  Matt Grandville was twenty-six and could have had any girl he wanted. He stood one hundred and eighty-six centimetres head to toe, with swarthy but clean-cut good looks. The camera, when he found work, was kind to his sensitive face. Unfortunately, Matt’s physical attributes were a dime a dozen in an industry that fairly oozed tall, dark and handsome. In order to live, he sold real estate on a commission basis. There was no way Matt could live on his earnings as an actor. It wasn’t as if he had no talent either – he was good.

  When his agent sent him to audition for a part in a film that would star Gayle Gaynor, Matt had no idea how much his life was about to change. He’d arrived expecting the usual skeleton crew and a director. He was slightly daunted, therefore, to find the star herself, very obviously intent on having a say in the selection process.

  Matt knew his lines, listened carefully to the director outlining how the scene should be played, then listened again when the star interrupted with her version, which differed significantly. He made an on-the-spot decision about who to try and impress, and did the scene Gayle’s way. He got the part.

  Gayle was between boys. The last one had walked out, calling her a string of insulting names which she convinced herself stemmed from
his immaturity, not accepting them for what they were – an angry reaction to her difficult, demanding and excessively possessive ways. She took one look at Matt and liked what she saw. The audition scene was one where a young man got to grips with an older heroine. The director wanted it to look like the woman’s idea. Gayle thought the scene would be stronger if mutual attraction flared beyond the man’s control. The lines didn’t change but Matt managed, with body language and inflection, to give the impression that if she didn’t say yes he would curl up and die.

  After Matt left, Gayle and the director argued over his suitability. Not surprisingly, Gayle won.

  Filming began a month later. On set Gayle suggested to Matt that since the director still appeared unhappy with that particular scene, it might be a good idea if the two of them worked on it during the forthcoming weekend.

  Matt arrived at her house on Saturday morning, ready to rehearse. He was keen to see how the superstar prepared for her roles. Within thirty minutes he found himself between the silky thighs of one of the most highly acclaimed actresses in the world. They never even looked at the script. By Sunday evening, Matt Grandville had made love to Gayle Gaynor in every room of her house and in every position imaginable. He obviously got it right. Gayle found her next young man. And Matt was, rather unexpectedly, head over heels in love.

  Gayle saw no reason to treat Matt any differently from all the other young men who were, she was convinced, happy to be seen with her only because the association would further their own careers. Although the words were welcome, she didn’t actually believe him when he said he loved her. And even though Matt never once gave her cause to think he was in any way using her fame and connections, Gayle continued to assume he had to be. People used her, she used people. That was how it worked. The belief, though she’d held it most of her life, was of growing concern and yet another contributing factor to her difficult nature.

  An insecure, forty-eight-year-old actress, losing her former beauty, not getting the parts she wanted, alienating friends with tantrums, becoming increasingly unpopular within the film industry for being unreliable, arrogant, demanding and temperamental, Gayle was far from equipped with the characteristics necessary for dealing with what she perceived as a slippery slide into old age. She railed against it.

  Because of her mother, Gayle had a healthy respect for the detrimental effects of alcohol. She was convinced that she had the same addictive personality as the older woman and that was cause enough for her to avoid it as much as possible. But as self-doubt and depression increased, she told herself that two little drinks a day couldn’t hurt. Then it was three. Then four. Gayle began to drink more and more heavily. She was not a happy drunk. Every social occasion was a lottery as to whether Gayle behaved well or badly. Matt frequently had to make excuses and take her home after she’d insulted everyone within earshot, including him.

  In private, she broke down with each new offer of a supporting role. Matt was always on hand with assurances and ego strokes that she should have been offered the lead. Completely unwarranted bouts of possessive jealousy were treated gently and with patience as he told himself it was only because she cared for him. In truth, Matt had no way of knowing whether she did or didn’t, but it didn’t stop him caring for Gayle.

  The Piper Cherokee taxied back along the dirt strip to where a vehicle waited. Gayle unstrapped her seat belt, heaved a sigh of relief and announced in her gravelly screen voice, ‘God, lover, this heat is enough to make me fuck like a rabbit. Bloody marvellous.’ She threw back her head and gave the trademark cackle.

  It was a typical Gayle Gaynor remark that would have hardly raised an eyebrow with London’s film folk. Most of them, however, would have had the sensitivity to make such comments more suited to their company. Matt noticed a flush start at the pilot’s neck and creep to his cheeks. ‘Is that our lift?’ he asked, trying to ease the man’s embarrassment.

  He nodded. ‘Looks like it.’

  As the propeller came to rest a willowy girl left her vehicle and walked towards the aircraft. The pilot opened his door and heat rushed in like an eager bloodhound.

  ‘Christ!’ Gayle cried. ‘What happened to the air conditioning?’

  The man beside her was already writing up his logbook. He did not respond.

  Gayle pouted a little. ‘How do I get out?’

  ‘Same way you got in,’ Matt said. ‘Just open the door.’

  She tried the handle. ‘It won’t work.’

  ‘Other way,’ Matt suggested. He knew the signs. She was becoming cross. She did not like the way the pilot was ignoring her. She could go either way at the moment. Explosion or cutting comments hung in the balance. Whichever, Matt felt a bit sorry for the likely recipient.

  Gayle roughly rattled the handle. With a sigh, the pilot leaned across and flipped it up. In doing so, his shoulder brushed against Gayle’s breasts. She gave another of her suggestive chuckles, throaty and bawdy. ‘Watch it, Biggles. Don’t molest the merchandise. These assets are insured for a fortune.’

  And they were. But the pilot behaved as if he hadn’t heard. Matt wondered if the man knew how lucky he was. If Gayle had gone the other way and let rip, he doubted the pilot’s equanimity would have survived.

  Having recovered her humour, Gayle slid into performance mode. Exiting a small aircraft with any degree of elegance is virtually impossible. The low door and long step down were not easily negotiated in tight white jeans and high-heeled sandals. Most women would have made the undignified scramble as quickly as possible. Not Gayle Gaynor. She behaved as though the cameras were rolling. Several false starts, many expletives, wriggles, raunchy comments, loud laughter and little screams of mock horror accompanied the performance. It was all for effect, Matt knew, but what Gayle believed made her look like the life of the party often had others wondering if she was all there. The pilot winced as her stiletto heels scraped on the wing. ‘Whew!’ Another earthy chuckle as she finally made it to the ground. ‘Am I glad that’s over.’ She held out a languid hand to the girl who had become her new audience. ‘Hi. I’m Gayle Gaynor.’

  ‘Welcome to Etosha, Miss Gaynor.’

  ‘Oh, please. Call me Gayle. Everyone else does.’

  Thea Abbott was looking slightly stupefied but held her nerve and simply said, ‘And I’m Thea.’ Her look swung to Matt as he stepped down from the plane.

  Gayle tucked her arm possessively through his. ‘This is Matt Grandville. Eyes off, darling, he’s mine.’

  That’s two, Matt thought to himself, watching the girl blush. Not bad going in the space of two minutes.

  The pilot was anxious to leave. With very little ceremony he off-loaded the luggage, said a tight goodbye and was gone. ‘Surly bugger,’ Gayle commented, before turning back to Thea. ‘How far to the lodge, darling? I could use a little drinkie.’

  ‘About five kilometres. Say, ten minutes. Will you be requiring breakfast?’

  London, Matt noted, listening to Thea’s accent. And not afraid to remind the fabulous movie star that it’s eight-thirty in the morning and probably a bit early for alcohol.

  ‘Breakfast!’ Gayle tinkled out her second-best laugh, the one which said she was not really amused. ‘A gin and tonic, darling. I’ll eat the lemon.’

  ‘And you, sir?’ Thea turned to Matt.

  He nodded. ‘Whatever’s going. And please, it’s Matt, not sir.’

  On their short drive to the lodge, Thea Abbott was given a very good preview of what the next six days would be like. Gayle restated emphatically that hot weather made her horny, threw a, for her, mild wobbly that the requested tea and marmalade were not available, expressed theatrical shock at the time the early morning game drives started, screamed with staged delight over a herd of zebra, frightening them into panicked retreat and let Thea know in no uncertain terms that she was Gayle Gaynor, superstar, bosom-buddy of anyone worth a damn in the worldwide film industry. She was, Matt thought, at her nauseating best.

  To Thea’s credit, Ga
yle’s antics were dealt with quietly and politely. When they finally pulled up at the lodge and were shown to bungalow seven, the newest and most luxurious accommodation Logans Island had to offer, Thea merely smiled at Gayle’s, ‘Will you just look at this, darling. Talk about honest-to-God rustic. I love it.’

  Matt, who had remained quiet, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings, suddenly realised that Thea had sussed Gayle well and truly. No mean feat in such a short space of time. Cutting through the bad language, the need to impress and the outward performance, Thea actually appeared to be enjoying Gayle. His opinion of the girl rose considerably. There were times when Matt believed he was the only one in the world who saw the real Gayle Gaynor, or understood what lay beneath the public facade.

  Their luggage was brought in by two uniformed staff who Matt tipped generously in South African rands. He knew it was legal tender and neither he nor Gayle had, so far, managed to change their traveller’s cheques into Namibian dollars.

  ‘I hope you’ll be comfortable,’ Thea said, having shown Gayle the accommodation and explained where to find the bar and dining room. ‘If there’s anything you need just pick up the phone or pop into the office and let us know.’

  ‘I know what I need.’ Gayle winked at Thea. ‘Make yourself scarce, darling.’ She reached out seductively to Matt even before they were alone.

  James Fulton and Mal Black – Blackie to his friends and work colleagues – were stopped on the roadside just north of Outjo. Warm Coca-Cola from cans washed down cold bacon and tomato rolls. The roads were virtually empty and their hired Toyota dual cab four-wheel drive had been devouring the distance from Windhoek at over one hundred and thirty kilometres an hour. By Mal’s reckoning, they were about an hour from Etosha. Their conversation was the same one they’d been having since leaving the Namibian capital.