Blaze

by Di Morrissey

  He led her round the formal garden to the side driveway next to the walled kitchen garden, their feet crunching on the fine gravel. He opened the door of the old Citroen for her, bending down to lift the edge of her flimsy skirt from being caught in the door. It was a small but thoughtful gesture that registered with her.

  They drove across the north-east section of the estate, past the stables and fields with jumps and bales, along a small road through a gateway to where the fields gave way to the open hillsides with neat rows of twisting vines trained along trellises.

  Jeremy stopped and helped Miche from the car. He pointed to the distant buildings, ‘The crusher and fermentation vats are over there. The cellars are separate.’

  She followed as he began inspecting the vines, touching a leaf, pinching one of the hard green buds of baby shiraz grapes, running his hand along the thick twisted rope of the vine snaking along its trellis. ‘Imagine, these grapes have been grafted from Vitis vinifera that were being grown before white fellas ever settled in Australia. Mind you, as soon as the first settlers arrived in Australia, they planted grapes, though many didn’t survive. It’s taken a while to adapt the grapes to the soil and conditions back home.’ He gave her a grin. ‘But we’ve figured it out now. I’ve had to bite my tongue a bit these past months.’

  ‘Ah, now I understand. I thought there was a conspiracy between you Australians and the French. What is it?’ asked Miche as they strolled between the vines.

  ‘It’s hard for an old dog to accept the young pups might be racing ahead of him. And it’s hard for these guys to break old habits – like lunch,’ he chuckled to himself.

  ‘So, tell me the joke,’ asked Miche.

  Jeremy shrugged. ‘I don’t want to sound like I’m big-noting myself. But hell, a few months back the grapes had been picked – and knowing when to pick is an art,’ he said, warming to a subject he obviously loved. ‘So what do these characters do? They head off for lunch just as a load of grapes had been picked and brought to the winery and they leave the grapes in the bloody sun!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They start oxidising right away. But the pickers and the old men headed down to the local café to celebrate for a couple of hours. Crazy.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Made the wine. Well, started the whole process. The crushing takes two hours for four tonnes.’

  Miche laughed. ‘Flying winemaker strikes again. What did they do?’

  ‘Mumbled and muttered. They don’t like brash young Aussies coming in and telling them, the experts, how to do their job. Mostly, I love being here, but sometimes I can’t wait to go home,’ he suddenly added. He turned into the next row and they started heading back.

  ‘Where’s home exactly?’

  ‘My parents and sister live in St Kilda. It’s a suburb of Melbourne.’

  ‘I’m heading to Australia next. I’ll be in Sydney and I can’t wait to get there. I was glad for this detour, but now . . .’

  ‘You’re going to Australia?’ he asked in surprise. ‘I thought you worked in America.’

  ‘My mother died recently, and I was given a chance to start work on the new Blaze magazine in Australia. Seemed like the best way to go,’ said Miche quietly.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ said Jeremy. ‘What about your dad, do you have any brothers or sisters?’

  Miche’s voice was tight. ‘No. It was just my mom and me. My father is Australian, but he left Mom when I was small. I don’t even know if he’s alive or where in the world he might be. I probably have cousins somewhere. But I have a terrific godmother and my mom’s friends are like family.’

  They walked in silence for a few minutes. Jeremy didn’t know what to say. It seemed unfair to mention he came from a loving extended family, people who enjoyed spending time with each other and while not well-to-do, were comfortable. His life seemed uncomplicated in comparison.

  They arrived back at the car and, as Miche made herself comfortable, Jeremy exclaimed, ‘Oh hell, your shoes, they’re covered in soil. I hope they’re not ruined. I forgot it’s a bit gluggy down there. Here, let me.’ He bent down and pulled the soft kid shoes from her feet. ‘I’ll ask Hortense to clean them for you.’

  The gesture made Miche feel weepy. God, I must be drunk, she thought.

  As they drove back to the main château, the moon went behind clouds, throwing the vine-covered facade into deeper relief. But as they turned into the side entrance, lights were blazing in the dining hall, spilling out the open doors and down the stone steps.

  ‘Uh oh, here he goes,’ said Jeremy. ‘Stay by the car for a moment.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Miche getting out, thinking everyone must be looking for them.

  But as Jeremy came to stand next to her, she heard voices calling and the muffled sound of hooves. Before she could say anything, a large white horse came cantering across the lawn, up the driveway. Miche saw the old Count, wearing a plumed helmet, sitting comfortably on the magnificent animal which didn’t pause, but took the broad stone steps in its stride and trotted into the great hall to cries of delight from those inside. Miche went to hurry forward, but Jeremy held her arm. ‘There’s more.’

  Sure enough, a second horseman appeared. A black and white Shetland pony was being ridden by – Miche leaned forward to make sure she was seeing what she thought – yes, a very small man was standing on its bare back, holding the reins with one hand, waving a feathered cap in the other. He was a dwarf. The pony also clopped up the steps and disappeared inside. Miche broke into a run, ‘I don’t believe this.’

  There was music, a saxophone. She could hear Sally and Sophie’s voices cheering and laughing. As Miche came into the entrance to the hall, she stopped to watch the Count guide the huge white horse into the cavernous dining hall, around the table, weaving between a suit of armour and a white marble statue and past a tall black man who was playing a saxophone and wearing nothing but skimpy red satin shorts. The pony followed on the white horse’s trail, but now the little man was balancing on his head on the pony’s back, holding the reins between his teeth and kicking his legs. The horses seemed to know the routine and came to a halt before the enormous marble and local-stone fireplace. The Count swung from the saddle, took a bow, handed the reins to the saxophonist, who stopped playing. Waving the gold instrument, he jigged and sang as he led the horse back outside. The little man did a somersault and landed beside the Count and they both gave another bow as Pete, Monsieur Soulvier and the two girls cheered. The waiters and butler politely clapped. They had obviously witnessed the extraordinary scene before.

  Miche glanced around for Donald and saw he was standing on a chair with his pocket camera jammed to his eyes, his mouth stretched in a delighted smile.

  She turned to Jeremy, ‘What the hell was that?’

  He gave a slight grin. ‘Rocked me the first time I saw them.’ He handed her the brandy bottle and this time she took a swallow. The liquid was velvety smooth and warming.

  ‘That’s wild, just fantastic, Count. Brilliant,’ Sally pumped his hand. Looking pleased, he swept off the antique helmet and handed it to the butler.

  ‘That was José, our musician, who has taken my beloved Poirot back outside. And now permit me to bring in my friends.’

  The small man held out his hand with a big smile. ‘’Ello.’ he turned to the pony. ‘Say ’ello.’ The pony pawed the floor, scrunching the carpet.

  ‘How come the horses don’t slip on the timber floor?’ asked Sophie.

  The little man addressed the pony, ‘Shake ’ands.’ The pony lifted a hoof and the man grasped it, showing the rubber glued to its shoe.

  ‘Old circus trick,’ said the Count with glee. ‘Poirot, my horse, wears them too. My friends used to travel with a circus. Now they live here.’

  ‘Occasionally we perform, we miss the big tent, eh?’

  The butler handed the dwarf a bottle of wine from the sideboard. ‘Soixante six, monsieur.’

  The sm
all man set the pony’s foot on the floor and gave the label on the bottle a critical look. ‘A fine year for a Bordeaux, was it not? Merci, Monsieur le Comte. À bientôt.’ He bowed again and, leading the pony, walked from the great hall, the rubbery clops of his charge making strange noises on the wooden floors.

  Miche raised an eyebrow. ‘And the musician. What’s his story?’

  ‘My dear friend. He was in a band, he came to the village and . . .’ the Count gave an expressive shrug and lifted his arms, ‘he went no further. I need a refreshment.’ He turned to the butler who leapt to the sideboard to refill the Count’s glass.

  Sophie hissed to Miche, ‘Last dinner party I was at here, I sat next to that musician. Doesn’t say much. Maybe he was too cold. He was starkers as far as I could tell. Just had a white napkin in his lap!’ She burst out laughing and lit another handmade cigarette.

  Donald came to Miche and, swaying slightly, tapped his pocket. ‘More pictures, princess.’

  ‘Did you take shots of that? I won’t believe I saw it all by breakfast time.’

  ‘I may be somewhat smashed, princess, but they’ll be in focus. We’re partying on in the library. Some good stuff. You in?’

  ‘No, I’m going to bed.’

  She followed Jeremy out into the vestibule. ‘Thanks for the tour. Will you be around while we’re shooting?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. Speaking of shooting, they’re going after pheasants for you guys. If you want to come . . .’

  Miche shuddered. ‘I couldn’t face it. Right now, I just want to go to sleep. Thanks, Jeremy. It’s been quite a night.’

  ‘It’s morning. Sleep well, Miche. Nice meeting you.’

  As Miche went up the grand staircase, trying to remember which corridor to take to her room, the deep gongs of the grandfather clock on the landing told her it was 3 a.m.

  She splashed water on her face from the basin in her room and fell into the depths of the bed. Sleep came immediately. She knew she was too tired to dream. Besides, no dream could match the evening she’d just experienced.

  Sally was parading up and down the long dining room table, her audience clapping and singing to the throbbing music as she gyrated along the mini catwalk. Occasionally she stumbled, her glazed eyes barely registering the leering faces. The Count had a strange smile on his face as he peered up her long thin legs that ended in a flash of white panties.

  With a sudden movement Sally snapped the velcro waistband of the silver circle of fabric that passed for a skirt encasing her small bottom. Twirling it gleefully, she flung it into the shadows as the music reached a crescendo, then she flung herself in an attempt at a swallow dive off the end of the table.

  She was caught by the tall, near-naked black sax player who dropped her into the Count’s lap. Grabbing his champagne glass, she drained it. The Count reached for the small table beside his chair and handed Sally a chocolate as the jazz player refilled the crystal flute.

  Sally giggled as she drank, watching the dwarf undo her high silver sandals. If she noticed, it didn’t concern her that she was the only guest left with the Count, the dwarf and the sax player. Before she had finished the champagne, and as the dwarf slid the sandals from her feet, the glass fell from her hand onto the floor. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets before they closed and her head lolled loosely onto her chest.

  The sax player scooped her up like a broken doll in his muscular black arms and strode from the room. The Count grasped the walking stick the dwarf handed him and struggled to his feet. ‘It is time,’ he announced with anticipation and glee.

  ‘The bitch! How dare she! Who talked?’ Ali’s screams echoed from her office. Belinda, uninvited, hurried into Ali’s office, closing the door.

  ‘What’s up? Can I do something?’ she asked nervously. This was the maddest she’d seen Ali.

  ‘Do? Can you go and burn every copy of this rag this so-called columnist writes for?’ She flung the Sydney CBD’s favourite weekly, Exchange, across her desk. Belinda reached for the scattered pages.

  ‘Oh dear. April Showers again?’

  ‘If they write about Blaze it’s fair game, even if it’s wrong. But me! My personal life. How I run this place! How dare they!’

  ‘Oh. Did they get it wrong? Again?’ remarked Belinda blandly. ‘Shall I send for coffee?’

  ‘Call Larissa in here,’ muttered Ali. ‘Tell her I want a strategy meeting.’

  Larissa had read the column and was waiting for a summons. Belinda delivered it in person.

  ‘How mad is she?’

  Belinda rolled her eyes. ‘Steaming. What’s made her most cranky is the personal dig. About the staff supposedly calling her the Yank Tank. How all the goodies and tickets and so on end up on her desk.’

  ‘Someone has talked. Wouldn’t have taken Showers long to find out that kind of information,’ sighed Larissa, gathering up her notebook.

  ‘Publishing is so gossipy. And it seems to be a growing trend.’ Belinda shook her head. This would never have happened in the old days under Dorothy Power.

  ‘The April Showers column isn’t just gossip. It’s shrewd and influential, but biting. And the sources must be good because no one ever sues. April Showers hones in on hot issues and people. Clever writer. Funny, too. But not when you’re the target.’

  Belinda followed Larissa down the hall. ‘What are you going to say?’

  ‘Laugh it off and move on.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think that’s what Ali wants to hear,’ said Belinda.

  Ali strode around her office. ‘I wouldn’t be this upset if so many people didn’t read the damn thing.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Lightweight. Blaze is accused of being lightweight.’

  ‘April Showers’ report that we considered paying for a movie star’s wedding doesn’t put us in a positive light,’ agreed Larissa.

  ‘What I want to know is – who talked? I’ve sent around a stiff message to the staff. Anyone who leaks anything about internal matters and is found out will be out the door, on their ass, in a minute.’

  ‘It is a problem. If we let it be. This is what, the fourth attack?’

  ‘Larissa, it’s getting a bit close to the bone. I don’t like being caricatured.’

  In that morning’s paper, the cartoonist who illustrated April Shower’s column had depicted Ali at her desk, the door shut and a sign saying ‘Out to lunch’. Ali was depicted as a vampire, her trademark widow’s peak exaggerated, fangs protruding, slurping a straw from a bottle marked, ‘Staff blood donations’.

  ‘They’re not kind. Perhaps Showers will rain on someone else’s parade soon. I mean, they must be scratching around for material.’ Larissa lifted a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘People like that make up dirt when they can’t find any.’ Ali turned away thinking how this scurrilous campaign could damage her quest to win John O’Donnell’s interest.

  ‘The reason April Showers’ column is so popular is because it doesn’t appear to dish dirt. It’s clever and witty, and obviously people feed stuff to the column. It’s always timely with inside stuff. If the names weren’t powerful and it wasn’t smart, it would be just another gossip page. At least you’re not in there with soapie stars and models. You’re mentioned in the same breath as a media chairman, a politician and a new American CEO.’

  ‘That CEO isn’t going to last,’ said Ali curtly.

  Larissa blinked. ‘How do you know that? The Australian company is paying him several million dollars a year plus share bonus.’

  For the first time this morning Ali looked faintly cheerful. ‘I have my sources too. Besides, Australians don’t like Americans coming in and telling them how to run things. No offence to you, Larissa.’

  ‘I don’t run things, you do, and you’re as American as I am,’ said Larissa tartly.

  ‘I think I might need to remind everyone I was born and raised here. I have the advantages of American knowhow but I still qualify as an Australian.’

  ‘It might be an idea to do that.’ Lari
ssa was annoyed. ‘Why not get one of the friendly TV people to do a profile on you. Go back to your roots, all that. I mean, where is your family?’

  Larissa hit a nerve and was unprepared for Ali’s vehement reaction.

  ‘Don’t you DARE ever suggest that. My personal history, my private life, is totally private. I will not agree, under ANY circumstances to talk about it. Which is another reason this white-anting by April Showers angers me.’ She hurled the paper, neatly refolded by Belinda, into the wastepaper basket.

  ‘Did you ask me in here to yell at me or for constructive advice?’ asked Larissa icily.

  Ali’s anger dissipated and she slumped back in her chair sounding tired. ‘What possible strategy could we make? See what we can dig up on April Showers and attack back? I’m sick of taking the high moral ground.’

  ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Isn’t that the rule in publishing? Hire April Showers,’ said Larissa calmly.

  ‘What?’ Ali jerked upright in her chair.

  ‘Whoever he, she or it is, they’re good at what they do. People read that column. So buy it.’

  ‘Larissa, when you do have a good idea, it’s a great one. How much is this going to cost us?’

  ‘Do you care?’ Ali was reaching for the phone. ‘Of course not.’ Larissa walked thoughtfully past Belinda who looked up. ‘Manage to fix anything?’

  ‘Time will tell. I might have just invited the lion into our field of lambs,’ sighed Larissa, adding as an afterthought, ‘Put it on record that Ali thought this was a good idea. Not that I apparently have them often. But there you go. Write that down and date it. See you, Bee.’

  TAKE ELEVEN . . .

  Miche realised she’d overslept. It was past 7 a.m. She opened the door to go down the hall to the bathroom and brave a plunge in the wonderful tub . . . and tripped over her cleaned shoes. Jeremy. What a thoughtful person he was.

  Arriving downstairs she couldn’t hear anyone stirring. She checked the dining hall – it had been cleaned and tidied with the drapes drawn, blotting out the misty morning that threatened rain. No hint of the madness of last night.