by Bree Darcy
“Ryan,” I reminded her. “He’s doing fine. He’ll have the cast on for another month but he’s back at school.”
“How old is he – nine, ten?”
“Nearly fifteen,” I said.
Zara had an amazing recollection for every celebrity triumph and transgression dating back decades. She knew more about Jade Farrow’s criminal charges than the actress’ legal team. She could name every bloke Taylor Swift had ever dated (plus the hit song their break-up inspired) and could rattle off all of Brangelina’s offspring in age order. But her interest in her staff’s lives left a lot to be desired.
“So,” Zara said, having showing enough interest in my personal life to keep her going for years. “Todd Zuchetti. Interview at one o’clock.”
Todd had joined the cast of TV soap Acton Avenue last year and was probably now using his newfound fame to spruik his own underwear line or something. Last year the actress who played his love interest put her name to a perfume that smelled like cat pee.
“He’s launching an association called Stand Up Against Bullying. I’m looking for a tearjerker about how being bullied affected him.”
My eyebrows shot up in surprise. Todd looked more like the type to have been fighting off the girls at school, not the bullies.
Talk about serendipity at work. I hadn’t told any of my colleagues, not even Adele, about Ryan’s problems. Maybe this association of Todd’s could offer some advice about convincing a father it was an issue worthy of his precious time.
As Zara explained how she wanted the story covered, Bethany raced in, dressed in a fuchsia crop top and yellow yoga pants. A turquoise sweatband held her short blonde hair off her face.
“Is this Jillian Michaels’ new line of office wear?” Zara inquired cuttingly.
“I’m on my way to the locker-room to change.” Bethany bent over to catch her breath. “But first, I thought I might interest you in a little story about Brodie Hagerty. I overheard a girl in my CrossFit class bragging about this amazing guy she banged at the weekend. She didn’t mention him by name but described him as the rugby player from the Maxi Cola ad.”
There was a sharp gasp from Zara, who was still smarting over Reach magazine scoring the exclusive about Brodie and Caroline’s baby news.
“How can we be sure it was him?” Zara queried. She no doubt was recalling the strong lead we received a fortnight ago that Lady Gaga had slipped undetected into the country – only to find all the sightings were of a drag queen out and about posing as the pop star, looking to drum up publicity for his show.
“I saw the pictures on her phone,” Bethany answered, looking like the cat that got the cream. “It was definitely him, right down to the No Pain, No Gain tatt down his torso.”
“Any video of them in the act?” Zara’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of sullying the union between a sporting god and the daughter of Australia’s most-beloved television icon.
“Not that I saw,” Bethany said. “But I think for the right money this girl will be willing to share her night of passion with our readers.”
“How much money?” Zara said. “And does she have a name?”
“Crystal Jane Morgensen.” She passed over a flowery business card for a pet and housesitting service. “I do believe she’s desperate for a nose job. Maybe setting her up with one of Sydney’s finest plastic surgeons might swing it.”
“Is this her?” I asked, having looked up the name on Facebook. The profile picture showed a woman, in her early twenties, with curly blonde hair puckering up to the camera. Her nose looked perfectly fine to me. When Bethany nodded, I clicked through her photo gallery. It was row upon row of scantily clad selfies and partying shots.
“Zoe!” Zara called. “Pull the best photos of this girl before someone advises her to change her privacy settings. Then go through our archives for shots of Brodie and Caroline Hagerty. I’m going to call upstairs. This might need a joint deal with us and First Edition,” she said referring to the company’s current affairs show. “Good job Bethany. But please go change, that fluoro lycra’s giving me a headache.”
I was several notebook pages into my Todd Zuchetti research when I spotted Lenny – who had missed all the Brodie excitement – having some shut-eye at his desk. I snuck up behind him. “Hard night, Lenny?” I boomed into his ear.
He looked up dazed. “Sorry, feeling a bit faint. I’ve been at the blood donor van. I’ve got a rare blood type, AB negative, so I always donate, even though it makes me whoozy afterwards.” Lenny fanned himself.
“It can’t be that rare. I sure that’s what I am too,” I said, thinking back to the blood tests I had while pregnant.
“Really? You should go give blood. Sir Dudley’s the only other person I know who has that type. The van’s here until three o’clock.”
I explained that I couldn’t because I’d been in England during the mad cow scare so was blacklisted as a donor.
“Come on,” I said to Lenny. “Let’s go get a juice to perk you up. And you can fill me in on what’s been happening on Acton Avenue. I’m booked in for an interview with James, the sexy plumber.”
* * *
I was used to hanging around waiting for celebrities to turn up for interviews but Todd entered the harbourside restaurant bang on time, dressed in a white business shirt and tan trousers. As he shook my hand, he apologised for his wet hair, saying he’d come straight from the pool.
“Hey, I know you,” he said, peering at me closer.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, waving my hand. “The Neil Lucas face-plant. I get that a lot.”
“Huh?” Todd said. “I don’t know anything about that but I definitely remember you. You helped out a little old lady who ran out of money buying her groceries.”
After he prompted me with the name of the supermarket, I remembered handing over five dollars to pay for a can of corned beef.
“You have a good memory,” I said smiling.
“I do,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “Photographic. Helps me learn my lines. I never forget a face either. Or a kind act.” He smiled.
After a bit more small talk, Todd launched into telling me about his anti-bullying organisation, which was inspired by the death of a girl from his hometown last year. Fifteen-year-old Aleisha had thrown herself in front of a train on the way to school after being tormented via social networking sites. Part of the group’s campaign was pushing to get legislation implemented to make cyberbullying a crime.
“I used to have a stutter,” Todd revealed as he cut into his Angus rib-eye steak. “Made me an obvious target. I grew up with the kids mimicking me. And I couldn’t even reply with a witty retort as I would most likely stutter it and be teased even more. There was one boy who’d slap my face, pretending he was helping me get the word out. I used to dread school, having to read out loud or give presentations. We all know kids can be cruel but what was even more upsetting was a couple of teachers made fun of me too. One would call Zuch-Zuch-Zuchetti at roll call. I ended up leaving when I was fifteen.”
“No stutter now?”
“Only sometimes. I’ve had a lot of help from speech therapists. I still use breathing exercises when I feel myself getting tense. Even now my heart can skip a beat when I answer the phone. And the funny thing is I’ve chosen to make my living from speaking.”
Todd took a sip of water and cleared his throat. “The point I want to get across is bullying stays with you forever. I’m twenty-six and my life has moved on to bigger and better things, but it definitely scars you. And it makes me furious to see it still going on – worse than ever – and resulting in what happened to Aleisha.”
“It would be a parent’s worse nightmare,” I agreed, my stomach twisting at the thought of Ryan ever becoming that desperate.
“I went home for the funeral and one of the saddest things was her parents had been relieved to see her so upbeat that last weekend. They thought they had their happy, go-lucky daughter back. But they realise now she’d already made
up her mind she was never going back to school again.” Todd paused for a moment. “Their anguish is something I never want to see again. That’s why I started this foundation.”
When I commented that a lot of celebrities had admitted being the target of bullies, Todd explained that part of his mission was getting more well-known people on board, to share their stories and prove things did get better. That it was not worth ending your life over.
“You know AJ Dangerfield, the singer from Danger Game, he was bullied at school,” I said, quickly adding that I’d read about it somewhere. “That’s what their first album Mean Streets was about – getting picked on, being told you’d never amount to anything. Maybe he’d be happy to get involved.”
Todd leant back to allow the waiter to pick up his plate. “I’ll make a note of it. He’s exactly who’d appeal to a lot of these teens, show them that it doesn’t stop you becoming successful. You know, in a way I owe some thanks to the bullies. Who knows where I would be today without surviving all the knocks – maybe I wouldn’t have been so determined to make it in acting. Maybe I would have stayed on at school and ended up in a dull office job. What I’ve come to realise is you should actually feel sorry for bullies. Their own lives must be pretty dire to have to take it out on someone else.”
As we wrapped up the interview, Todd ordered coffees and encouraged me to talk about Ryan’s situation and how hard it was as a parent. “But there is one consolation,” I said. “I’d hate it much more if my son was the bully.”
* * *
Curtis was obviously looking to make amends for our argument the night before. He swung by my work to pick me up and listened intently as I told him all about Todd and his suggestions about how we could help Ryan.
At home, as Curtis freshened up for dinner with his Indian clients, he told me that although he still didn’t have time for a face-to-face meeting with the principal, he would compose a strongly worded letter outlining our concerns.
“Thank you. That means the world to me,” I said, looping a tie around his neck.
“I hate arguing with you,” he said, drawing me into his chest. “I am trying …”
“I know you’re very trying,” I grinned.
“You and the kids mean everything to me. I would be lost without you.”
Curtis shivered as I slipped my fingers under his waistband.
“I know I haven’t been around much lately but work has been even more hectic than usual. Hopefully it’ll ease off soon.”
I had made myself quite clear on this subject numerous times – Curtis should quit sales and go back into research. After all a Bunsen burner didn’t email you with queries around the clock.
“Speaking of work, you’re going to be late for your dinner,” I told him after emerging from one of the most passionate kisses we’d shared in a long time.
“Dinner? What dinner? I can be late for once in my life.” He eased me back on to the bed.
Half an hour later I watched Curtis go to his car and throw his jacket into the back seat. I opened the window and called down to him: “Any chance of getting home early?”
He smiled and gave the thumbs-up.
Meanwhile my phone beeped with yet another text from Andy, asking when could we meet again. I deleted it with barely any hesitation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The boys paced nervously on stage. A rock song blared out of the speakers, until Andy gestured for it to stop. He raked his hand through his messy brown hair. “Tucson, we’re Danger Game,” he shouted into the microphone. “And we’re from San Francisco.”
The small crowd responded with a few cheers but mostly boos.
“So we’ve been in Phoenix and now we’re hell sick. Think we ate some dodgy chicken.”
“Get on with it,” heckled someone from the back.
“So just a word of warning to those right up front, we may barf on you.”
“Play some fucking music,” yelled someone else.
Gerry and Heath started up a riff and within moments, heads started bobbing and by the end of the song there were only cheers. It was yet another night, at yet another venue, trying to win over yet another crowd.
If anyone ever told you that touring with a rock band was exciting, inform them they’re dreaming. It’s tedious, full of exhausting road trips, crappy accommodation, relentless rejections and pointless arguments.
As soon as my final-year exams were done and dusted, I was on a plane to Dallas to join the band part-way through their ‘will-someone-please-notice-us’ tour. Getting shows had been near impossible. Drummer Dom, acting as the band’s manager, had sent out scores of letters to venues and promoters detailing their travelling schedule but only had a few takers. But the boys refused to take no for an answer. Soon as we arrived in a town, they’d hit up the most likely venues, to see if they could tee up a last-minute show. Usually for peanuts. Literally. A bag of peanuts and a free drink at the bar.
But being back with Andy was worth it. Mostly. Now four weeks in, we were thoroughly sick of the sight of each other. And it had nothing to do with dodgy chicken.
* * *
“Baked beans, again,” Dom groaned. “I don’t think my digestive system can take much more.” His brow furrowed under his mass of Leo Sayer-like hair.
“Well, feel free to cook something else for yourselves,” I replied. “I’m pretty sure I don’t remember signing on as chief cook and slave for you boys. Back home I used to have a lovely guy who cooked for me. I wonder where he went?”
Andy shrugged, and lifted the newly lit joint to his lips.
“I’m pretty sure I don’t remember inviting you along on tour,” Heath said, flicking Andy on the head and indicating he wanted a drag too.
My irritation moved up a notch. “I don’t think my nasal passages can take much more. I’m living in a fog of noxious smoke and odious farts. Hanging out with a bunch of stoners in an old school bus ain’t my idea of a fun holiday, you know.”
“This is what it’s like on tour, baby,” Heath jeered. “You do know you’re with a rock band, not some church choir. Geez, AJ, why did you have to bring the nagging missus along? It’s not like she can even cook.”
“Shut up Heath.”
“Thank you Gerry. Nice to have someone stick up for me. Because my boyfriend is obviously too busy getting high.” I banged the pot of beans on the table and slopped out the serves. My rant was far from over, as I counted off my grievances on my fingers. “We have no money so we can’t eat properly. I haven’t had a decent shower in days. It’s bloody freezing getting out to the toilets at night. There is no privacy in the van and the only female company I get are the bimbos Heath hooks up with. There’s no way I can hack this for much longer, Andy. Dan was right, it was nuts to come.”
Andy picked up his plate, flung it against the wall and stormed out. Heath scowled at me before following him out.
Dom and his older brother Terry, a truck driver who was providing his services behind the wheel of the bus, continued mopping up their bean sauce with pieces of stale bread as if nothing had happened while Gerry knelt down to pick up the shards of crockery.
I sank on to the bench, pulling a girlie magazine out from beneath me. Grrr! I should have added the proliferation of Playboys around the van to my list of grievances.
“Kell, I know this is tough on you,” Gerry said. “But if you walk, AJ might too. And that’s the end of the band, just as we’re starting to get somewhere.”
He rummaged around in his knapsack until he pulled out a grungy sock. “Here’s my emergency fund,” he said extracting a wad of cash. “My folks gave it to me – probably the money they won’t be using on my college education. We’ll get a motel room at our next few stops, let the atmosphere chill a bit, give us all some space.”
“But Ger .. .”
“No arguments. I owe AJ.” Gerry pulled on his sneakers. “Come on, come for a jog with me. Work off some of that tension. AJ will come back when he’s good and ready.”
We turned left out of the caravan park, heading away from the highway. It felt good to have my body moving again, although I couldn’t breathe in too deeply because of the stench of trash cans along the pavement. It must be collection day. The yards in this area were large but mostly unkempt, full of car wrecks, broken swings and discarded furniture.
Gerry chatted away effortlessly as he ran. I was already feeling the burn and was reduced to nodding or grunting one-word replies.
“This is hard on AJ – having you here,” he said. “Trying to be your boyfriend and staying one of the boys.”
I flinched as a Rottweiler jumped up at a wire fence.
“You were all he talked about when he came back. Every week, no matter how broke he was, he’d always save enough to send you a package or letter. He’d even forgo another beer just so he had the money for stamps.”
Gerry cut the corner, springing over a low hedge. He waved at a young woman sitting on a rickety swing seat, watching her toddler play in a sandbox.
“Girls like you don’t normally give AJ the time of day. You’ve got this great future mapped out in front of you. AJ and me, we’re not qualified for nothing. Music is our one shot.” Since leaving school Gerry had joined the orange vest brigade directing traffic through road works. “He’s scared he’s got nothing to offer you and one day you’ll realise it and leave him.”
“But he’s everything to me. He should know that. And I do realise how important this band is to you all.”
Gerry came to a sudden halt, clasping his hands on the top of his head. “Did AJ ever tell you how he got that scar above his eye?”
I shook my head.
“Some guys at school were giving me hell as usual, and AJ came racing over to save my skin. He starts dishing back the abuse so one of them picks him up and dangles him over the balcony. Upside down. If one of his Converses had slipped off, he’d have been a goner. The girlfriend – she was like the hottest girl in school – told him to let AJ go.”