Blaze

by Di Morrissey

  She opened doors to a library, a small sitting room and a formal drawing room, until she found the airy conservatory. Several small tables by bay windows were laid for breakfast. The morning papers were spread on a small wicker table and cut fruit, croissants and preserves were set along a sideboard. She helped herself to a few pieces of fruit and sat at a table. The maid instantly appeared holding a pot of steaming coffee.

  ‘Bonjour mademoiselle. Voulez vous un café?’

  ‘Mais oui. Merci. Où sont les autres visiteurs? Les hommes?’

  ‘Ils ont fini le petit déjeuner.’

  Already. She had slept in if the men had finished breakfast and were out setting up the shoot.

  ‘Et les jeune filles? Sally? Et Sophie?’

  The maid shrugged. ‘Elles dorment.’ She tapped her head. ‘Une mauvaise nuit.’

  Miche nodded, wondering how late and how bad a night it had been. She didn’t expect they would be photographing Sally this morning. Just as well. This was Donald’s territory, deciding where and how to photograph the series of pictures to illustrate her article about Sally.

  Miche began to feel nervous as she finished her fruit. There was a lot of effort and money behind the story she was putting together. But what was she going to write about? Should she tell everything that had happened – and was still happening – to Sally? While parts of it were funny, parts were awesome with the powerful ambience of moving at the top of the fashion world. There was a dark underside to the modelling business that scared Miche. She would be glad to leave this scene for Australia. At least she knew Larissa and Ali out there. And now Jeremy. Donald rarely went back home. He moved in the heady world of international cities and famous faces. And Sally wouldn’t be returning to Australia in a hurry.

  As Miche finished her breakfast, the maid began clearing her place then asked, ‘Vos chaussures, sont-elles assez propres? Ça, c’ést la fange de la vigne.’

  That was too much fast French for Miche’s basic vocabulary.

  The maid pointed to her shoes.

  ‘Oh yes. My shoes. Thank you very much. They’re fine.’

  Miche wandered outside, taking an umbrella from the entrance.

  The air was warm, a drifting rain mist beginning to lift, the light hazy and mysterious. The vineyards marched up the terraces on either side of the narrow valley. She headed down the driveway with no plan in mind and within minutes, as she went around the stables, she came across Donald and Pete. Each lifted an arm in greeting and, although they looked seedy, Donald was all business.

  ‘This is great. Check if this weather is going to hold. I love this light. Be bloody marvellous for what we have in mind.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Fantasy, you said. What could be more dreamlike than this?’ He waved a hand at the landscape. ‘Plus our props and extras.’

  Miche gave him a questioning look.

  ‘Chateau and cast. Trust me.’ He crossed himself, throwing his eyes heavenward. ‘You do the words, babe. I’ll do the pictures.’

  Miche wasn’t in a mood to debate. Donald was one of the world’s top photographers – stars would kill to be profiled by him, especially for a quality magazine. Miche changed the subject. ‘So how long did you guys bat on for last night?’ she asked cautiously. ‘I’m surprised you’re even awake.’

  ‘Been in training for years.’

  ‘Those girls are wild,’ added Pete. Donald gave him a glance and returned to the theme of the pictures.

  ‘Sally is prepared to do a Lady Godiva – jump on Poirot bareback, naked, with hair covering her tits, and ride through the dawn mist with the dwarf leading the horse. The guy still has a few of his circus outfits.’

  Miche saw the image he described. ‘Hmmm. Could look effective. What else?’

  ‘The musician as the Black Knight. He’s a good-looking guy with fantastic skin and with oil on him he’ll look ebony. Might do a “rescuing the damsel in distress” scene, use the lake and the moat around the old mill by the orchard.’

  ‘What about something contemporary?’

  ‘Back in the studio for that. Turn her into a holograph as a space chick.’

  ‘Or spaced chick,’ laughed Pete.

  ‘Listen, I don’t think she should be doing drugs. She’s too young to handle all this so soon,’ began Miche. Donald held up a hand to cut her off.

  ‘Don’t preach to me. If that’s how you feel, you speak to her.’

  Miche looked at Pete who gave a half-smile. ‘It’s the way, this modelling is a crazy world. All the girls do it. The pressure . . . or something.’ Miche was no puritan, but she couldn’t help feeling protective towards Sally. She tried to think back to what she was like at sixteen. Not like Sally, who was so small, so light, so fragile, so innocent.

  As if reading her thoughts, Donald grinned. ‘Listen, she’s a great little Aussie kid from a country town. She’s not as impressionable as you think.’

  ‘I’m a New Yorker and I don’t know how I’d deal with all this sudden fame and attention,’ said Miche.

  ‘Enjoy it – and sock the money into a Swiss bank account like all the girls. I need coffee. Let’s go.’ Donald headed for the car.

  They spent the rest of the day lining up locations, choosing two inside the chateau. The first was the formal eighteenth-century sitting room with its high, domed ceiling painted in blue and gold, valuable Louis XV furniture, Greek vases and classical marble figurines from mythology. French doors led onto a small terrace and formal garden.

  ‘Blue filter,’ said Donald to Pete, who nodded. The second choice was the library and Indian room, which was darkly lit, the floor covered in fine Persian carpets and skins of endangered rare animals. Indian tapestries hung on the walls beside trophy heads shot on safari. Stepladders leaned against tiers of tomes. In one corner centuries-old books were sealed behind locked glass doors. The air smelled of moth-eaten animals, a place where the breath of infrequent visitors did little to disperse the dust or dispel its mustiness. ‘Red filter,’ said Donald. ‘Now we need to talk to Sophie about wardrobe, styling and so on.’

  ‘Who’s doing hair and make-up?’ Pete asked Donald.

  ‘Some chick sent by Piste is arriving this afternoon.’

  At sunset Miche went for a walk. At the end of the driveway she stopped as a car swung through the gates. Jeremy leaned out.

  ‘Hello there, just the person I was looking for. How are you?’

  ‘A bit tired. Having an early night, we have a dawn start.’

  ‘Oh. Well, if it’s not too early, Monsieur Soulvier was hoping to reciprocate for last night. Thought you and your friends might like to come over to the winery for dinner. There’s a small dining room in the cellars. How about it?’

  ‘Sounds fun. Don’t think I could cope with another weird meal at the chateau. Or the after-dinner entertainment.’

  Jeremy nodded. ‘Know how you feel. Fellow who was here before me ended up in a drug rehab unit. The old Count has the money to indulge his passions. All kinds of them.’

  ‘So where, what time?’

  ‘I’ll pick you up. Say, two hours? Maybe the others had better come in their car, it’s a bit too far to walk. I’ll bring you back anytime you want, just give me the word.’

  ‘Thanks. Oh, and thanks for having my shoes cleaned.’ She looked down at her grey kid ballet flats. ‘I’ll wear my boots next time we go climbing around vineyards.’

  ‘Come and visit the vineyard when you reach Australia. No boots required.’

  The supper in the cellars was more festive than the previous formal dinner. Without the Count in attendance, everyone felt more relaxed, the mood informal and jolly. They related anecdotes, trivial details that gave glimpses of their lives, and the protocol of wine appreciation was put to one side as the team drank as much of the wine on offer as fast as they could. Madame Soulvier kept putting out dishes that were passed up and down the long wooden table . . . asparagus, mushroom tart, green beans and veal in a ho
llandaise sauce, garden salad, fresh figs and local cheeses. The black musician and dwarf clown joined them halfway through the meal.

  ‘We ’ave been readying the ’orses,’ said the little clown.

  As the joke-telling and singing began in earnest, Miche glanced at Jeremy who gave a nod of acknowledgement. ‘I’m going to bed. I want to be up at dawn to see the photo shoot.’ Miche gave her thanks and said goodnight.

  Yvette, the hair and make-up girl who’d arrived in the late afternoon, looked at Sophie. ‘Perhaps I should also leave. I should start working on Sally at 3 a.m. Those hair extensions and make-up will take ages.’

  ‘Oh, God, that’s the worst part of this job,’ cried Sally.

  ‘Can’t I just lie on my bed in the morning and you do it all? In the meantime, guys, I need another drink to cheer me up. I must have had an awfully heavy night last night. I can’t remember anything and I still feel dreadful.’

  ‘You’ll be able to grab some sleep in the make-up chair in the morning, Sal. We’ve improvised a room for make-up et cetera in the milking shed,’ said Pete. ‘And now here’s your champers. This party’s about to get serious. The Count is coming down for a nightcap with some stuff.’

  ‘Then I’m outta here. Do you want me to get you guys up?’ asked Miche pointedly.

  ‘Who’s going to bed?’ asked Donald. ‘But sure, you can get me up any time!’

  Miche ignored the innuendo. ‘See you at sunrise. Jeremy is going to drive me back up the hill.’

  Miche and Jeremy sat in his car talking for half an hour, finding a lot to share, until she yawned and apologised. He opened the car door as the Count suddenly appeared around the east wing of the chateau driving a small sulky pulled by two Shetland ponies.

  ‘Tally-ho, as les Anglais say. À bientôt!’ He cracked a small whip.

  ‘He lives in a perpetual world of make-believe. Don’t think he’s ever thought of putting in a day’s work. The estate managers, accountants, banks seem to run everything,’ said Jeremy.

  ‘Must be nice, I suppose,’ said Miche. ‘On second thoughts, I don’t think so. This trip has shown me how old-fashioned I am. When I was a rebellious teenager, I messed around in the club scene with the wrong kind of guys, made my mother nervous that I was in with wild, rich girls. Now here I am fussing about a teenager trying a few drugs.’

  ‘Just as well someone is . . . some pretty kinky things are whispered about the Count and his strange pals. Sleep well. I might come and watch part of the circus – though from what I’ve seen of other photography sessions around here, there’s more standing around than action.’

  ‘Goodnight, Jem. And thanks.’

  Sally was naked, tied to a four-poster bed. The Count, wearing a ludicrous nightcap, was beside her. The musician was holding a strange farm implement and bending over her as the dwarf danced and sang, trailing with him the saxophone that was almost the same size as the little man. Sally appeared drugged, drunk, struggling slightly, unaware of her situation.

  ‘NO!’ Miche sat bolt upright, shedding the horrific vision. She wiped her forehead. Her head was thick with sleep and wine. But she was alert enough to realise that it was after midnight and something had awakened her. She stumbled out of bed and looked out of the windows into the cool clear night. Nothing stirred and she couldn’t hear anything. But her nerve ends tingled and she felt fearful. Wrapping her robe around her, she opened her door and went to the top of the stairs. All was silent.

  On impulse, she hurried down the hallway to Sally’s room and tapped lightly at the door. There was no answer. Not wishing to wake her, she cautiously opened the door and peered into the room. Immediately she knew Sally wasn’t there. She stepped into the room. Clothes were flung on the bed, and she could tell it was as Sally had left it before dinner. Miche began to panic. It was 2 a.m. While Sally was sure to be still partying with the others at the winery, an instinct was telling Miche to check it out, to ignore the rationale that it wasn’t her problem. She hurried to her room, threw on clothes that were to hand and rushed into the night.

  In the shock of the fresh air, Miche took stock, finding her bearings. The winery was at least a twenty-minute fast walk away. She set off at a jog.

  She saw the lights and heard the music and started to relax. They were still at it, partying or who knew what. She relaxed slightly, feeling somewhat embarrassed at bursting in on the party.

  Further on she saw the cottages where the winery staff lived. Jeremy had pointed out his place. A light was burning. Miche felt silly now, having fled the chateau, imagining wild scenes of bacchanalia. She hesitated, then walked closer and tapped at the door. To her relief Jeremy stood blinking in the light wearing shorts and a T-shirt, holding a book.

  ‘Miche! What’s up? Come in.’

  ‘Sorry, Jeremy. I feel so stupid.’

  He took in her appearance and asked softly ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing. I woke up. I had this awful dream and I checked Sally’s room, she wasn’t there and . . . I panicked.’

  He reached out and took her arm. ‘Sit down. I was in bed reading. Do you want something to drink? Tea, coffee, brandy?’

  ‘No thanks. I’m sorry. I saw the lights on in the winery and heard the music. I guess they’re all still at it. God knows what is happening with the dawn shoot.’

  ‘Come on. I’ll take you back to the chateau. Unless you want to stick your head into the winery and remind them they have an early start?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m resigning from being mother superior.’

  He chuckled as he pulled on a sweatshirt and gym shoes. ‘Let’s go. I left the car outside the cellars.’

  They walked in silence and he took her hand. It seemed a natural thing to do.

  But as they sat down in the car Miche suddenly said, ‘Could you peek in, see if she’s there? How she is.’

  Jeremy gave a resigned shrug. ‘Sure.’

  Miche felt she had overreacted, but wished she could shake the feeling of gloom that hung over from her dream. Jeremy slid in beside her but didn’t speak.

  ‘So what are they doing?’ probed Miche.

  ‘She isn’t there.’

  ‘Oh God, I knew it. Hell, where would she have gone? What did they say?’

  ‘Not much. They’re all stoked. Bombed out of their brains.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Not sure. Could’ve started walking back to the chateau and become lost.’

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  Miche leapt from the car and started up the laneway leading from the cellars. ‘Where does this go?’

  ‘To the storage tanks. Where the wine matures before bottling.’ Jeremy became concerned and quickened his step.

  Miche was about to rush ahead when something made her pause and put herself in Sally’s head. She is walking along here, and what does she see? A small path in the moonlight. It looks inviting. She follows it. Miche turned down the path. Jeremy was about to say something, but silently followed.

  Miche walked without reason and seeing a dim, intriguing doorway went through it. She was in a cavernous cellar. A small light burned and moonlight sliced through the narrow windows high in the walls, shining on the rows of old oak storage vats that held the vintage wines. As soon as she stepped inside she felt she hit an invisible wall. The heady, rich smell of wine almost overpowered her. Then her instinct drew her forward. With one hand attempting to shield her nose, she looked around.

  The closest vat was open and empty, ready for cleaning. A small door at the base was latched open, like the entrance into the White Rabbit’s warren. It looked mysterious and inviting. Miche knew, just knew . . . that Sally, stoned, might curl up in such a comforting dark nest. It was an opening only a small adult could crawl through. She leaned down, imagining a girl, confused and in a dream state, unable to resist the invitation. Intuitively, Miche poked her head through the doorway that came to her shoulders.

  ‘Miche, don’t go in there, it’s dang
erous . . .’

  Miche’s head spun and she straightened up. ‘Wow, what an incredible smell – it’s kind of nice, but, whew . . . Why is it dangerous? It’s empty.’

  ‘Those vats are only used periodically, they’ve been cleaned and are drying out, but the fumes are very strong. They can asphyxiate you.’

  ‘What if Sally is in there?’

  ‘Why would she be in there? She’d better not be . . .’ Jeremy moved closer to the vat entry and stared into the massive oak barrel. But Miche elbowed him aside. ‘I have to check, I just feel she’s gone in there.’

  ‘Mad, bloody madness,’ muttered Jeremy as he rushed to where he knew a torch was hanging.

  Miche was on her hands and knees crawling into the dark, seemingly airless, space. It was womb-like, protecting. The wine-soaked wood smelled sickly sweet and blood came to her mind. Her head started to reel. God, what would the sensation be to come in here high on drugs? She felt dizzy, but then the beam from the flashlight shone on her, fixing a link between herself and Jeremy. He reached her.

  ‘Let’s leave. Now.’

  ‘Sally . . .’ mumbled Miche.

  ‘Forget it, turn around, the door is behind you.’

  Miche felt disoriented. She grabbed Jeremy’s wrist, insisting he wave the torch around the chamber. And in that swift arc of light they saw a crumpled flash of white. Jeremy caught his breath and focused the light as Miche stumbled forward.

  ‘Sally!’ Her voice boomed in the vat, but there was no answer. Jeremy thrust the torch into her hands and shakily Miche aimed it at where Sally lay only feet away from them. Jeremy scooped Sally up and pushed Miche towards the tiny doorway. She scrambled through and held the torch as Jeremy pushed Sally’s head and shoulders through the opening. They laid her on the cold stone floor.

  ‘CPR. Start CPR,’ directed Jeremy.

  Together they began pumping and breathing into Sally’s still form.

  ‘There’s a pulse. She’s alive . . . Just . . .’ said Jeremy.