by Diana Fraser
Zane did know, he’d heard the gossip, but didn’t feel as excited as Jim appeared to be about it. He held up the file. “Jim, I need to see Rachel for something but I missed her before she went to Wellington.” He paused but, from Jim’s expression, Jim had no idea that Zane and Rachel weren’t still the best of friends.
“Oh, that’s a shame. She’ll be back in a few days.”
Zane knew that but wanted this sewn up before she re-appeared. “Look, I wanted to ask her permission to use some of the photos which were taken at the school fundraiser. The publicity officer for the council’s asked if they can use them and I have to let them know by this morning. Can I leave them with you for her to sign off? If she could email me a response on her return, that would be great.”
Jim waved his hand in the air. “No need to ask, my boy! She’s a pro, she’s used to photos being taken.” He paused. “I assume it’s for some kind of promotional deal?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then it will be fine.”
Zane hesitated. He really didn’t want to force Rachel to contact him if she so obviously didn’t want to.
“Really, Zane, it’s no problem. I’ll let her know you’ve come around and asked. She’s in Wellington at the moment. No doubt sorting out the details of the US contract.”
Zane’s heart plummeted. He’d known it was in the offing but he’d hoped that he’d misunderstood, that somehow she was going to refuse it. But who would? Realistically, who on this planet would refuse a lucrative and career changing opportunity to appear on prime time TV in the US—the biggest consumer of Rachel’s product in the world? No one.
“Right.” He backed away. “Right,” he repeated as he looked around, wishing he’d never come. There’d been no point, no reason on this earth that Rachel, who was, at present, negotiating international deals, would worry about him using a few photos for promotional purposes. It was the reason she’d done the thing in the first place, wasn’t it? “Right,” he said again.
“That’s a lot of ‘rights’,” said Jim, uncharacteristically gently. “Would you like to come in and have a drink?”
Zane forced a smile. “Thanks, Jim. I’ll get along now. I only wanted to sort this business out.”
“Right. You are and Rachel are…”
“Just business. Yes.” He stepped away.
“Hm.” Jim rolled back on his heels but kept his gaze on Zane. “She’ll be back soon, you know.”
Zane was about to leave, but paused and looked up at Jim. “When?” He hadn’t meant to ask the question and was immediately annoyed with himself for showing interest.
“Sunday night. Then she has a week’s filming.”
“And then?”
Jim grimaced. “Not sure what’s happening after that.”
She wasn’t coming back. Why he’d ever thought there was a future for them both was a mystery to him. “Right. See you in a few weeks, Jim. I’ll come and finish off the garden after Rachel’s gone. The place will be too busy before then.”
Zane walked away, aware that Jim hadn’t moved from the spot on the top of the veranda. Jim was fond of him, Zane knew that. And it was reciprocated. In Jim, he could appreciate the qualities which Rachel exhibited—the extrovert side, the unashamedly performer side. All the things he couldn’t appreciate in a partner. Because that was what he’d hoped Rachel would become.
Rachel glanced up at the rapt audience of teenage girls, some chewing gum, others feeding babies, and yet others filming her on their phones, but all of them watching every move Rachel made. Celebrity had some advantages, Rachel thought. Particularly when it came to snagging the attention of the vulnerable, who needed every bit of knowledge they could glean; particularly when it came to fundraising for those people.
“And then…” Rachel paused as she ladled the vegetarian cassoulet into individual dishes and smiled up at the camera which was filming this segment as part of a documentary to raise awareness and funds for the school. “It’s ready to eat.” She looked up at the small group of girls, holding their babies, who were watching her every move. “Come and try some.”
The teenage moms didn’t need asking twice. With their babies either asleep in prams, or on their hips, they gathered around the teacher’s desk which had doubled as the table for the cooking demonstration and accepted a bowl of cassoulet. Amid growing chatter, murmurs of approval, and squawks from the babies, Rachel stepped back and the teacher approached her. She always enjoyed coming to the school which taught teenage moms, He Huarahi Tamariki—A Chance for Children. Apart from the wonderful selflessness of the teaching staff who were constantly trying to raise funds to provide an education for the teenage mothers, the place had a feeling of real joy about it.
“Thanks again for doing this. The girls can’t get enough of you.” Lauren, the principal of the school, joined the girls in tasting the inexpensive dish, complete with homemade stock, and pulled an appreciative face.
“I love it. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. And thanks for agreeing to have the cameras here, too.” She gestured toward the two cameramen.
“Are you kidding? The girls would love to appear in your TV series. They can’t stop talking about it. Of course they’d prefer it if you combined it with some kind of reality dating game.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “Me and dating don’t go. I wouldn’t touch that concept with a barge pole. Seriously, I’m happy to help. I love coming here and if there’s anything else I can do, let me know.”
Lauren hesitated.
Rachel frowned. “Is there something?”
“I didn’t know how to ask you. But I wondered if you’d do something on a more personal level.”
Rachel’s stomach tightened, afraid of what was coming. But she didn’t let it show, she was too much of a pro for that. “Like what?”
Lauren’s gaze didn’t waver. “Tell them your story.”
Rachel broke eye contact and moved some empty bowls onto a tray. “Story?” she muttered.
She felt a hand on her arm and she turned to Lauren, someone she’d come to know well over the past five years of her involvement with the school.
“I know it’s hard, Rachel. But it would mean a lot to the kids. And I think it could be helpful to you.”
“Helpful?” Rachel felt vaguely irritated. She really liked Lauren but she didn’t need anyone’s pity or understanding. She bristled. “I can’t see how.”
“You told me what happened to you early on in our friendship, but I doubt you’ve told many others.”
Rachel was torn as to whether to continue the conversation or nip it in the bud. But when Lauren’s hand squeezed her arm in a gesture of sympathy the remaining barriers fell. She drew in a deep breath and nodded slowly. “Okay, what do you want me to do?”
* * *
There wasn’t a dry eye in the classroom as Rachel twisted her hands together in an uncharacteristically unsure movement. “And that was that. I left my baby behind. I walked out and I never saw her again.”
“What, never?” asked one of the girls.
“No. Her adoptive family didn’t want our involvement. They thought it would be disruptive.”
“I’d give them disruptive!” said one girl, sitting back in her chair with a grunt. “I’d go round there and demand to see her and there wouldn’t be anything they could do about it. And if they tried anything, I’d get my brother to sort them out. You want to borrow my brother, miss?”
Rachel laughed. “I have four of my own, thank you. But I don’t want anyone to sort anything out.” She glanced across at the cameraman. “You’ve stopped filming.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And I’m going to delete what I have done.”
“Sean?”
As the girls were talking, she walked over to Sean who was fiddling with his camera lens and putting things away.
“Sean?” she repeated. “It’s not like you to not film something like that.”
“You mean something private? Something th
at meant something to you?”
“Yes.”
“No, you’re right. But, you know, even dumb-asses like me know when something’s not right. And it’s not right for you to bare your soul to the world. That’s private. That’s your business.”
“My business,” she repeated. “Yes, but maybe it’ll help others to know about it.”
“You’re doing enough, Rachel. You don’t have to put yourself out to public scrutiny to help these girls. You’ve helped them already by telling your story to them. They’ll probably tell people, but I won’t, and my camera won’t.”
She squeezed his hand. “I appreciate that, Sean. Although, you know, it’s time I moved on and was more open about my past.”
He shrugged. “That’s your decision. But baby steps, yes? Baby steps.”
“Yeah. And I want you to take the film and use it as part of the documentary. Because it’s not only about me. It’s about sharing my story and maybe, just maybe, helping other kids like me to move forward.”
“Okay.” He kissed Rachel on the cheek. “Good on you, Rach.”
Not so good, maybe. But perhaps she could change that. And it had to be where it all started… in Akaroa.
And as Rachel walked away, his words repeated in her brain. Baby steps. And her next baby steps would be to return home, back to Akaroa, to Belendroit and to Zane. To explain and, hopefully, to gain some answers.
Rachel desultorily flipped through the airline’s magazine as the Christchurch-bound flight took off from Wellington. It had been an interesting week one way or another. After her initial reluctance to tell the girls at the school about her personal history, Rachel had found the experience liberating. She hoped that by the time the documentary was aired, she’d be in touch with her own daughter, one way or another.
She’d managed to delay her decision about the States for another month. The response to her request for access to the tribal authorities would be available any day now and, once it was, she’d tell Zane. If she had the backing of the authorities, she’d be able to talk it through with Zane from a position of strength. And if she didn’t, then she’d talk it through with him anyway, because she’d be investigating her rights under the Guardianship Act. Either way, it wouldn’t be easy. Either way, Zane would hate her. She could imagine Zane’s expression—cold, distancing, and full of disdain—as his opinion of her plummeted into the gutter. Either way, she had no future with him. And the thought devastated her.
She felt more for him than she had meant to, than she’d wanted to, than she had any right to. But she couldn’t avoid the confrontation. Not only because of Etta. But because she was the reason she’d returned to Akaroa in the first place—to face up to her past, to uncover the secrets and weed out the pain and self-hatred she’d planted so many years ago.
She sighed and opened the magazine once more, trying to distract herself from her thoughts of Etta, so tantalizingly close now, and of Zane, a man whose principles ruled his life and therefore ruled her, out of his life.
Akaroa. The headline focused her immediately. She opened out the double-page spread of publicity material and photos and did a double-take when she saw images of herself dotted across the pages. It was of the fundraiser—her in a raft of situations, with the kids, the mayor, the teachers, cooking. Whoever had written the article was spinning her involvement for all it was worth to raise the profile of the area. And expensive advertisements adorned the article from various wine and food producers in the area, obviously attracted by the placement beside a global brand like hers. She was surprised that her agent had agreed to it, given the forthcoming US work. She was usually more protective of the brand.
When Rachel landed, the first thing she did was phone her agent, who apparently knew nothing about the feature, and had certainly never given permission for the photos to be reproduced. The memory of her ex publishing personal photos of her around various social media came back with full force. Not that these photos were so personal, but it still felt like an invasion of her privacy. It still felt like a betrayal.
Then she rang her father. When she finished with that call, she knew exactly who’d arranged the spread. The person who’d betrayed her now had an identity. Seemed the principled Zane Black had forgotten his principles when they were applied to someone else.
She drove her Mini Cooper into the empty driveway. She switched off the engine and simply sat for a few moments, trying to control the tumult of emotions which raced through her. He wasn’t here. Zane wasn’t here. Why she’d half-expected him to be, she didn’t know. But relief and disappointment battled equally in her head and her heart. She opened the car door and took a deep breath. Summer had slipped away without her noticing, and there was a definite autumnal feel in the air. Leaves, now yellowed and amber, still clung to the trees, and there was a new mellowness, reminiscent of a vibrancy which had passed, of a life that had been lived, which filled the place, robbing her of her indignant mood, replacing it with a feeling of resignation.
Resignation and poignancy. Belendroit had always been about fitting in her family around her schedule. But, some time in the past six months that she’d been based there, it had become a home to her, in a way Wellington had never been. And she knew, in a big way, that that was down to Zane. But even as she acknowledged that to herself, she stopped it from becoming too important. She couldn’t afford to. Once he knew what she’d done so many years before, he wouldn’t want to know her.
As she got out the car, music greeted her, spilling out into the garden as per usual. A little louder now that her father was older.
She took her bag out of the boot and slammed it shut. She walked up to the veranda and saw why she hadn’t been greeted. Her father lay on a sunbed, fast asleep, his mouth open. She stayed there for a moment before plucking a crocheted blanket from the back of a chair and carefully laying it over him. He looked old. Much older than he did when he was awake, and she felt an overwhelming tenderness for him. How could she leave him now, even if she wanted to? He might be a mercurial man, subject to short outbursts of temper but, like a brief rainstorm, they were always followed by brilliant sunshine which only seemed brighter in contrast to the preceding gloom. He also might be vain, easily swayed by flattery, with an eye for a beautiful woman. She remembered when she was young, her mother’s consternation at her father’s charming ways with one woman in particular. But she doubted he would ever have acted on it. It would have broken her mother’s heart and she knew her father had loved her mother dearly.
He opened his eyes suddenly and Rachel cleared her throat and blinked away the pinpricks of tears which had arisen at the memory.
“Darling!” His face lit up and her father was back. He pushed himself off the chair and gave her a hug. Then he held her at arm’s length and, with his bushy eyebrows dipping in the middle, he studied her face. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve lost a quid and found a penny.”
She smiled and pulled away. “Nothing.” She looked around, unable to meet his direct gaze for fear he’d see right through her. “It’s been a long week in Wellington.”
“Everything sorted now? With work, I mean?”
“Yes. Amanda is pressing me to sign the US contract, but I’ve delayed it a month.”
“A month? Oh. I hoped that… I don’t know… I hoped that you might stay.”
“It’s an incredible opportunity, Dad.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said sadly.
“But the location for the filming hasn’t been nailed down yet.”
“Amanda seemed pretty keen on the idea of filming here, if I remember right.”
She grinned. “And you always remember right where a pretty face is concerned, don’t you, Dad?”
“It’s been a lifelong hobby of mine. I don’t intend to stop now.”
She shook her head. “You’re incorrigible.” She got out her phone and scrolled through the messages. “Anything happen while I was away?”
“Happen? We’re in Akaroa, don�
��t forget, Rachel. Not a lot happens here, thank goodness.”
She rolled her eyes and found Zane’s number, considered calling him and then clicked off her phone. “Of course. Silly me.”
“I’ll go and put the kettle on.” He paused on the threshold to the hall. “Unless you’d like anything stronger?”
“No, thanks. Tea will be fine.”
She was slipping her phone back in her bag when her father called out from the hall. “Oh, by the way, there’s a letter here for you.” He emerged, brandishing it like a sword. “Don’t often receive letters these days. Might be important.”
Rachel took it from him. “Or it might be the opposite—junk mail.”
“Or maybe fan mail?” he said, as he stomped toward the kitchen.
“Looks pretty official for fan mail.”
She turned the letter over in her hands and glanced at the official words on the front and her heart froze. It was from the Maori tribal trust board, the people she’d approached requesting information about her child, whose name she hadn’t even known at that point.
Her legs went to jelly and she sat in the nearest chair, heart thumping. She took a deep breath and unpeeled the gummed flap and withdrew two sheets of thick white paper.
A quick scan of the covering letter revealed that it was, indeed, about her request for information about her child. It was short and to the point—it denied her any information, or access, whatsoever.
She leaned back against the wall, as all the energy drained from her. She might know the name of her child now, but tears of frustration and rage and sadness threatened to overwhelm her, because this negative response would surely make it harder to connect with Etta. Harder, but not impossible.
She read through the second document, which was a straightforward form with the only identifying factor being her reference number, hoping against hope that she’d read it wrong. When was it dated? She looked at it again and this time she looked down at the date and signature. It was signed with the unmistakable large, legible and contained signature of Zane Black.