by Bree Darcy
I forwarded the email to Nikki, saying thanks for blabbing (softened with a smiley face emoticon). She replied telling me to wear my sexiest underwear and ring her first thing in the morning (with a devil face).
I filed the Broadway story, only to have Lenny have a go at me for some careless mistakes, including the inexcusable crime of leaving the second ‘s’ out of Scarlett Johansson’s surname.
“Did you know there was a Bible printed once with an atrocious typo in it,” lectured Lenny, who was doing extra shifts this week because Zara was away and Adele was off with a throat infection. “Back in the seventeenth century. The word ‘not’ was left out so it exalted readers that thou shalt commit adultery. Caused a terrible fuss.”
Was there a reason Lenny was talking about adultery and a Scarlett letter to me?
I concentrated extra hard on my final story of the day, double checking every name, before telling Lenny I was heading off early. To see a doctor about a female complaint. Lenny flushed scarlet himself and said he’d cover for me.
* * *
“Didn’t you get my message?” Andy answered the door to hotel room 701 with a towel wrapped around his waist and dark circles under his eyes.
I rummaged in my handbag and sure enough my phone had a missed call.
“What’s going on?” I asked noticing a pile of clothes jammed into the suitcase on his bed.
Andy’s hand shook as he tossed the contents of a mini-bar bottle of Bacardi rum down his throat. Siena’s dad had suffered a heart attack so he was on the first flight home. It was touch-and-go whether Chandler would make it.
“Move over, let me do it,” I said, tipping everything out of his suitcase so I could repack neatly. I carefully wrapped a T-shirt around the silver photo frame of him with his daughters and wedged it in so it wouldn’t get damaged. Mackenzie, with her blood red lipstick, exquisite cheekbones and jet black hair, had inherited her mother’s sultry good looks while twins Neveah and Raven were the mirror image of one another, although Neveah had the tips of her peroxide blonde hair dyed in rainbow colours.
“I’m sorry we don’t get to do tonight,” Andy said, shrugging on a denim jacket as he emerged from the bathroom.
“Hey, it’s okay. Family comes first.” I was determined not to show how disappointed I was. “Let’s hope Chandler is okay.”
There was a knock at the door – the porter had come to collect his luggage. We followed him down in the lift.
“Well,” Andy said as we reached the lobby. “Take care.” He pulled me into a quick hug.
“See you. Hope everything works out. It was great seeing you again.”
“You too babe. Sorry but I gotta go.” A hotel staff member escorted him out to a waiting car. He didn’t even look at me as he drove off. His mind was clearly elsewhere.
I was halfway home before realising I’d forgotten to give him back the locket.
* * *
There was no time to mope about Andy’s abrupt departure because Zara was stuck in Thailand. Political protesters had taken control of Bangkok’s airport and since she was more likely to fly to the moon than take the twelve-hour bus trip to Phuket – standing room only – to fly out of the country, she was commandeering Starfix operations via email, holed up in a luxury hotel in the capital.
If it wasn’t for the TV footage of stranded travellers sleeping next to baggage carousels and red-shirted protesters waving placards, we’d all assume it was merely a ruse for Zara to score extra time lounging around the pool.
There were no stories about Chandler Ellement, which I took as a good sign. He must have pulled through otherwise we’d be running his obit.
Bethany plonked herself into Adele’s chair with a massive sigh. “Never work with animals, children – or WAGs,” she said, dropping her head into her hands in frustration. “Absolute nightmare.”
She had been covering a photo shoot with a group of sporting wives and girlfriends who had banded together to put on a charity event for the homeless. New mum Caroline Hagerty, who was resolutely standing by her cad of a husband Brodie despite three other women coming forward with their own kiss-and-tell stories, refused to wear the stylist’s clothing choice because she wanted to showcase a sequinned mini dress designed by a friend. It totally clashed with the autumn theme the stylist was aiming for.
Another woman had a meltdown because her rugby player boyfriend was not replying to her texts; and a cricketer’s wife was incandescent with rage because someone remarked on her baby bump – and she wasn’t pregnant. But things really got heated when model Petra Prochazka spotted her footballer beau’s name tattooed on his ex’s butt cheek as she squeezed into a tangerine bandeau dress. In the ensuing tussle, hair extensions and acrylic nails went flying.
“God knows what I can write,” Bethany moaned, chewing on her thumbnail. None of that behind-the-scene bitchiness could be used because the charity was chaired by our chief executive, Dudley Fenney – and it was a tacit rule that giving bad press to anything he was involved in was unacceptable.
Meanwhile, I had celebrity agent Digby Strause on the phone trying to sell me the weight-loss photos of a former Neighbours actress no one cared about anymore. Plus with Adele still confined to her sick bed, it was up to me to compile the photo gallery of best and worst dressed of the month. Worst dressed was a lot of fun – undisputable winner was an English singer channelling Bjork’s swan dress with a white feathery number, described by Sebastian Sloane as “a massacre of feather dusters”.
Siena Ellement could have been a contender for best dressed in a red-hot strapless Zac Posen cocktail dress at Incentive Magazine’s Women of the Year awards. The photo was taken the night before her father’s heart attack. She looked stunning but what’s the point in being acting editor if you couldn’t use your power to remove her photo from contention. At least I didn’t ask our graphic designer, Mike, to Photoshop a moustache on her!
* * *
Apart from a brief text letting me know Chandler was stable after a bypass operation, I didn’t hear from Andy the rest of the month. My life went back to normal. I sat in the bleachers watching Ciara swim lap after lap. I ran snacks upstairs to Ryan and Aariz whenever they holed up in his room for hours on end. I took to joining Curtis on his runs since it gave us a regular opportunity to catch up – although he tended to move at such a cracking pace I was often left trailing in his wake. I read every book my book club assigned, even Moby Dick, which had me so bored I was tempted to say “kill me Ishmael”, just to put me out of my misery.
If truth be told, I was miffed that Andy appeared to have forgotten me so easily again. I had gotten used to hearing from him these past few months and I missed our banter.
Tonight there was no way I was missing his first appearance on Hitmaker, where he was giving a master class in stage performance to the final eight contenders.
Ryan, Ciara and Jenna were glued to the screen, devouring crumpets dripping with butter and golden syrup.
“AJ Dangerfield’s blond,” Ryan said, glancing over at me.
“Who dear?” I queried, pretending I hadn’t been watching my ex’s every move, peering out from behind my laptop where I’d been following tweets about the show.
“The guy there in the leather jacket mentoring the bands. He always has dark hair but he’s dyed it peroxide blond.”
If only you knew that your grandmother once dyed it blue, I thought to myself. “I guess he fancied a change.”
“Why don’t they have someone good on?” Ciara chipped in. “Who wants to watch this has-been -”.
“AJ’s band can sell out any stadium anywhere in the world,” Ryan replied. “Any aspiring musician would give their right arm to get tips from him.”
“Whatever,” Ciara said. “The Warrior Legacy singer is awesome enough already.”
“Hotter than Harry Styles,” Jenna concurred.
I couldn’t tell the girls that Andy already had his money on Warrior Legacy, an alternative rock trio from a perf
orming arts school in Adelaide, winning the record deal with Atticus Records.
As the show went to an ad break, Ciara and Jenna logged on to Instagram to follow the Warrior Legacy singer. “Aw look, there’s one of him sleeping, with his cat curled up on his pillow. Too cute!”
Later when I went to say good night to Ryan, he cornered me. “When I dreamt AJ visited me in hospital he had blond hair. Which was weird because I’d only ever seen him with dark hair before. And now I find he is blond. And I checked up online – he was in Sydney filming around the time I was in hospital. You even did an interview with him. I didn’t dream it, did I? He did visit me. Why would you lie about it?”
“Ryan.” I grasped his hand, trying desperately to come up with a plausible explanation. My mind went blank. How could I explain it? So I employed the tactic used by great men under oath at government inquiries around the world: I faked memory loss. “I don’t remember much about that awful day – what visitor are you talking about?”
“Mummmm….”
“Okay, okay – I’ll tell you but this has to stay a secret between us. Oh wait … is that the phone? I’ll be right back-”.
“Mum!” Ryan gripped my arm, preventing me from escaping.
I locked eyes with Andy, staring at me from a poster on the wall. There was no way out of this, other than the truth. “AJ and I … you’re not going to believe this …”
“Try me.”
“We used to date when we were teenagers. A long, long, loooong time ago. Before he was famous. Before I met your father. But I never told your dad and now it would be kind of weird to say anything. I know I shouldn’t have lied to you about his visit. To be honest I wasn’t thinking straight, I was in shock …”
“So why’d you break up?”
Good question. I locked eyes with poster Andy again.
“We were young – just a few years older than you are now. Andy had to return to the US, and I had to stay here to finish school.”
“So you’ve always kept in touch?”
“Not really. Before he was in Sydney last month, I hadn’t seen him for a long time. Since before you were born.”
“Could I meet him again?”
“Darling, I don’t think he’s visiting any time soon. Now you have to promise me you won’t tell anyone about this. Not a word. Our little secret.” I made a zipping motion across my mouth.
Ryan nodded and slid down on to his pillow. I kissed the top of his head and went to leave his room.
“Mum?”
I paused at the door. “Yes?”
“If you want one of my posters of AJ, that would be fine.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary but thanks for the offer.”
* * *
Seeing Ryan calmly accept the news made me wonder if I should bite the bullet and tell Curtis too. What was the worst thing that could happen? Maybe all this time I’d been stressing about it and Curtis would simply shrug it off.
But by the time my husband arrived home from work that night, I’d fallen asleep and by morning I’d forgotten all about my resolution to come clean. Instead I had to deal with Curtis snuffling around with what he self-diagnosed as life-threatening man flu. He groaned as he forced himself out of bed, sneezing continuously and whining about his runny eyes and sore throat.
“Why don’t you take a sick day, and knock it on the head,” I suggested, squirting a generous dollop of honey on to his toast to help soothe his throat.
“I’ll dose myself up on flu tablets and struggle through,” he declared bravely. “I’ve got to run a team meeting this morning and client calls all afternoon. The world doesn’t stop turning just because I’m ill.”
“Surely someone can step in for you at the meeting and the clients can be rescheduled. If anyone’s off at my work, we all chip in to cover.”
“I’m presenting about Diavotech, the new diabetes tablets. And I’ve got all the research in here.” He tapped the side of his head. “How it shouldn’t be prescribed to people with existing heart conditions. That muscle pain is a common side-effect. That it works best on people with type 2 diabetes who aren’t obese. So it’s hardly the same thing as someone stepping in to write some nonsense about Neil Lucas being seen out shopping with a mystery blonde.”
I flicked him with the tea towel. “What’s that supposed to mean? Yours is such an important job that you’re irreplaceable, whereas mine’s not.”
Curtis gulped his freshly squeezed orange juice. “You said it, not me. Right, I’m off. I’m not in the mood for another argument this morning.”
* * *
If Neil Lucas was out shopping with a mystery blonde, we certainly didn’t hear about it. But Prince Harry was in town, charming everyone with his down-to-earth manner. Our report about him playing beach cricket with children affected by the recent bushfire disaster was the top hit of the day.
In honour of the royal visit, Lenny organised an afternoon tea. “Ladies, before we partake of this mouth-watering feast, first we have to introduce ourselves by our royal garden party name. For instance I am Lord Archibald Harrison. Archibald is one of my grandfather’s names, and Harrison is my mother’s maiden name. You must announce yourself as Dame or Lady, with one of your grandmothers’ name and your mother’s maiden name.”
There were quite a few laughs as people revealed their posh titles. Zara was Lady Lola Fox, which sounded more suitable for the stripper name game.
Then it was my turn. “I am Dame Eliza Beldon,” I said, with a quick curtsey. “Not very interesting, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you, Dame Eliza,” Lenny grinned. “It’s an extreme pleasure to meet you.”
* * *
The next day, we were graced by a visit from our own royalty, Dudley Fenney, making the rounds of his extensive interests before the board meeting.
Duds was not your typical staid businessman. Aged in his late sixties, he had a shock of fluffy white hair, wore thick black glasses, and favoured retro suits in bright colours. Today he was in a turquoise zoot suit. Quite the hipster in fact. Perhaps he, rather than Andy, should be picked as the face of the new Harold Hinter hipster-slash-rocker line.
The staff were all bashing away at our keyboards, trying to look exceptionally busy and worth every cent he paid us. Zara was prattling on to him as they came down the aisle with a few company suits trailing behind. Sir Dudley walked with a slight stoop, the result of some serious health issues a while back.
I held my breath as he paused a few cubicles away. “Go the mighty red and green,” he said to Lenny, who had a small South Sydney Rabbitohs flag flying on the top of his computer.
All I knew about the rugby league team was it was the one Russell Crowe supported.
“This could be our year, sir,” Lenny replied, falling into step beside him.
“I certainly hope so,” Sir Dudley replied. “A premiership’s been a long time coming.”
“I’ll be in the Burrow on Saturday, cheering loudly as we take down the Roosters,” Lenny said.
“Amen to that.”
“Have you meet Kellie Carmichael, sir?” Lenny propelled me forward to shake Sir Dudley’s hand. “You might have seen her piece this morning about the Hitmaker TV program?”
“Aaah, yes, of course,” he said, although everyone knew captains of industry didn’t have time to watch television, even if they owned the network. And with that Sir Dudley moved on. Zara shot me and Lenny a look – how dare we force him to chitchat – before scurrying after him.
* * *
I was caught totally off-guard the following Monday when I was called into Zara’s office. One of the women from human resources was sitting on the couch, wearing the multi-coloured Fendi platform pumps I’d been coveting for months.
“I need to inform you that an official complaint has been lodged against you,” Zara said, rattling the armful of gold bangles she’d bought in Thailand. “Tilly is here to record our conversation. Would you like to have someone else here as your adv
ocate? Adele perhaps?”
I shook my head, puzzled about what the complaint could be about. I hadn’t been late for weeks, I only occasionally photocopied stuff for personal reasons, and even though I knew Lenny was disappointed I’d missed his potluck lunch that was hardly a reason to lodge a complaint.
“What sort of complaint?” I inquired.
Zara flicked open a file on her desk, and the HR woman started recording notes. “The interview you did with AJ Dangerfield, he claims you fabricated certain statements.”
“You what? He claims I made stuff up? That’s impossible. I have our whole interview on tape, I double-checked every quote.”
“We will need you to hand over the tape for verification. But there have been other allegations …” Zara cleared her throat as she passed me a printed-out email.
I quickly scanned the document, becoming more alarmed by the second. Key phrases such as “inappropriate conduct”, “intimate texts” and “sexual harassment” leapt out at me. The email, from Atticus Records management, accused me of acting inappropriately during and after the interview – apparently I made several innuendos to his face and then continued to bombard him with sexually charged texts.
It was far too early for this to be an April Fool’s joke. And Andy would certainly never sell me out like this. Instead it had all the hallmarks of a Siena plot.
I thought back to the texts we’d exchanged. Him asking me to bring lotion for his sunburn. Asking me if I loved his Tiffany’s gift. Telling me not to come to his hotel room because he had to fly home. There was certainly some incriminating stuff there and presumably his wife had stumbled upon them.
“Have you seen any of these alleged texts?” I asked.
Zara said no screenshots had been provided and I breathed a massive sigh of relief. Maybe it was time to come clean about my past relationship with Andy. Surely I couldn’t get in trouble for something that happened years ago and it would certainly help me explain why Siena would be gunning for me.