The Mak Collection

by Tara Moss

Bijou, her still-beautiful face set in a pout, stalked off, her silk robe trailing behind her. The hectoring was over. For now. Arslan squinted darkly as he watched her. The contortionist rarely spoke, even when his sister was picked on in such ways. He understood English and French, but Russian was his first language. Bijou spoke Russian too. She had travelled through Russia as a performer for a time. But Arslan and Yelena had been banned from speaking it. Now he sat in a lotus pose, his arms folded tightly. Yelena’s grip on his biceps was beginning to ache.

  It was Michel who was always the voice of reason in these moments. ‘Arslan and Yelena, your act is tight.’

  ‘She’s not even watching. She’s too busy with that kid,’ Lara complained. She was the rebellious one in the troupe. She always spoke her mind, though perhaps not in front of Bijou.

  That kid.

  ‘That kid’ was Adam Hart. Arslan, though merely five years older, was envious of the boy’s fresh-faced appearance. Bijou had pointed out the lines on his own face. The aging. The slow and irreversible loss of tone. More than that, though, Arslan was envious of Adam’s place in Bijou’s affections.

  He had not at all recovered from being cast out of her bed.

  He wanted Adam gone.

  Adam waited in Bijou’s trailer with an agonising sense of excitement.

  His lover had stepped out to attend to business with the troupe, and he had been trusted to remain there alone—an honour. Basking in fresh love, he soaked in the atmosphere of her private space, and decided it was the next best thing to being with her. Every detail spoke of her—the lingering scent of her perfume, her silk-and-lace slip hanging on a doorknob, her gowns and costumes hanging against the cupboard, her makeup and creams on the dressing table. This was a woman of sophistication. Never before had Adam been given the time of day by someone like her.

  What will Mum think of her?

  It might take some time, but he was sure she would be happy for him and this new love he had found. Yes, it would just take time and some planning. Amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all. With a love like this, surely she would see the importance of what he had found. Who cared about age gaps or differences of culture? His mother would understand. And even this strange beginning could be forgiven one day.

  A wistful look came over his face as he admired the many magazine covers of Bijou framed in a clever wooden foldout screen she dressed behind. He stepped closer and looked carefully at each one. One cover showed Bijou standing in a white medieval-style gown, with a flowing fabric belt. Another was of Bijou with some ghoulish-looking players performing a dark horror piece. Before she’d left the trailer to rehearse with the others, she’d thrown a silk slip over the edge of the screen and Adam gently pushed it aside to take in his favourite cover of her. In this one she posed, hands on hips, in a burlesque showgirl outfit on the cover of SHOW. He could not understand the headlines, as they were written in French. She looked younger, and her dark hair was pixie-short. The paper was faded. He recognised that most of the covers were decades old, but he thought she looked just as beautiful now as she did in the pictures. Even more so.

  Adam felt he was in a time of great growth. Once he’d met Bijou he’d realised that he’d never been in love before. What he’d felt and experienced with Patrice paled by comparison. Every moment of his life before Bijou had been nothing, he now realised. It was as if every minute of his young life had been leading up to their meeting. He had never felt anything remotely like this before—this longing and painful need to be near someone.

  Adam was overwhelmed.

  It was such a glamorous, free life the troupe lived. A life to be envied. Especially Bijou’s. She was by far the most elegant and glamorous. She was a star.

  Adam ran a fingertip over the stage photos she’d propped up against her mirror. She had a stack of magazines on her makeup table and he flicked through them, aching for her return. Underneath the magazines he found what looked like a photo album.

  He opened it, and found it contained a number of newspaper clippings.

  COMÉDIEN A ATTAQUÉ, a headline declared.

  The string of words made Adam uneasy, though he did not know precisely what they meant. He did not have much French, but he knew that the word for actor in French was comédien. And was attaqué like the word ‘attack’? He flipped the page over and found another clipping slipped into the plastic sleeve on the other side.

  It looked to be a scrapbook of the troupe’s reviews over the years. He turned the book sideways to read the next page. There was a large picture of Bijou, looking glamorous.

  ATTAQUE A L’ACIDE! LA REINE DU HURLEMENT GRILLÉE SUR ENROULER DE SON AMANT

  He squinted. Grilled? and amant…Didn’t Bijou use that word as some sort of endearment when they were together?

  His brows pressed together. He looked at the face of the young man in the newsprint. The caption said ‘Jean-Baptiste Trevillie’. Jean-Baptiste was blond and young. In fact, Adam himself looked passingly like the young man in the photo.

  Jean-Baptiste…He had heard the name somewhere.

  A small yellowing photograph fell out of the album. He picked it up.

  Bijou?

  Adam smiled at this one. It was a happy-looking snapshot. In this photo she was much younger, and there was a little boy by her side. He was dressed in a leotard and was folding his leg over his shoulder and behind his head. She was holding his hand affectionately. A little girl of about the same age was in the background, clothed in a tutu and caught unawares by the camera.

  The door of the trailer opened, giving Adam a start. He quickly closed the book and put it back where he’d found it, under the magazines. He shoved the photo underneath.

  Bijou looked magnificent.

  ‘Mon ami…What are you doing?’ she purred in her intoxicating voice.

  He smiled nervously. He could not lie to her, but he sensed that she would not be pleased that he’d been looking through that book. She might accuse him of snooping. He hadn’t meant to snoop. He had come across it innocently. Maybe it was nothing at all, but something told him to keep quiet about what he’d seen.

  He continued smiling at her, terrified of upsetting her. He was relieved when her expression softened. ‘Mon ami, come here,’ she said, walking over to the bed, and gesturing for him to join her. ‘You love me, non?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘Oh, Bijou. You have no idea how much I love you. I have never loved anyone before you. You are everything to me.’

  He had so hoped that she would want him to stay with her, and she had been adamant that he not tell his mother where he was, but how long could he keep this going? As each day passed he fell further in love with her, and slipped further into a state of guilt about his selfish abandonment of his mother.

  ‘The ticket will be secured.’

  A knot formed in his stomach. He would do anything to be with Bijou, but he was nervous. He had known her less than two weeks and already he was planning to run off with her. For good. The idea was exciting, but troubling.

  Go with your heart. Don’t be a coward.

  Perhaps he was not as brave as the heroes in the novels he loved. He wanted to be a great adventurer, but…

  Bijou moved in close to him and he felt a warmth spread over his skin. As she began smothering him with little kisses his concerns became less urgent.

  ‘Oh, darling…’

  Who cares what anyone thinks, he decided. Who cares? His parents had never let him do anything exciting. With uncharacteristic bitterness he remembered how his mother had admonished him for his desire to travel instead of going straight to university when he finished school. Just because she’d chosen that for her own life, why should he? He was his own person. He had his own life to live. Where did she get off telling him he had to go to uni? Adam didn’t want to be a chartered accountant like his late father had been. He didn’t want to be surrounded by boring numbers and papers and files and the dusty smell of libraries. He didn’t want that. He wanted something more.<
br />
  He wanted life.

  Again, the feeling in him shifted, and his youthful anger was quickly overtaken by the weight of his guilt. His mum deserved better. She would be so worried already. And when he did call her, how would he explain where he was? How would he explain her missing things? Had his mother even noticed? How could he make her understand what he was going to do with these strangers?

  But Bijou was not a stranger. Adam loved her.

  Love is never wrong.

  She pulled away from him a little, her eyes intensifying. ‘You have your passport?’

  He nodded. He had brought his EU passport, and left the Australian one at home. His mum hadn’t even known he’d obtained the second passport, thanks to his father’s English birth.

  It seemed that Bijou could sense that something was wrong. ‘Mon ami, you look sad.’

  ‘I…’ he began, then faltered, concerned that he might put her off the idea if he said the wrong thing. ‘I think…maybe…’

  He trailed off, trying to choose his words carefully. He didn’t want Bijou to think that he didn’t love her. He did love her, so, so much. It wasn’t puppy love like he’d had in Year Eight. Not a crush. This was true love. He didn’t want to risk anything ruining that.

  He sat upright on the corner of the bed, not wanting to seem weak. ‘My mum will be really worried. I should call her first, I think. Just to let her know that I’m okay. I won’t tell her where I am, I promise.’

  ‘You said you wanted to run away with me. You don’t wish to? You don’t wish to come away with me, my lover?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. No…don’t be upset,’ he pleaded, trying to reassure her. He had been afraid of this. What if she rejected him, like Patrice?

  ‘You promised me you wouldn’t,’ she reminded him.

  He had. She was right. At the time he was furious that his mother did not want him to go out. His late father had always insisted that he stay home at night to study, saying he needed to improve his marks, insisting that he follow in his footsteps as a successful accountant. After his death, Adam’s mother continued to enforce that discipline. But Adam did not want the life of an accountant. Or a teacher. He wanted to escape, he needed to escape, and he had promised Bijou he would escape with her. That was only a week ago, and already he could see that it would be more difficult than he had imagined. It would be hard for him to carry through his plan of forsaking all he knew. The conundrum of what to do was troubling him more by the day. He was torn.

  ‘I love you, Bijou,’ he said. He clung to her hand.

  ‘Good. Then get the champagne. We will toast our trip.’

  Paris.

  The knot in his stomach pulled tighter. He hesitated.

  ‘Oh, my beautiful darling, my beautiful delicious boy…’ Bijou purred, softening his hard thoughts—unravelling them—as she clung to him, looking impossibly beautiful and arousing, and smelling of freshly applied perfume. It was something by Nina Ricci, she had told him. None of the girls he had met before could wear a real perfume from France. None of the girls his age would do or say the things Bijou did, he felt sure. No one could do what she did to him. She was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Her sophisticated scent curled into his brain and rested there, as she took possession of his body.

  ‘Je t’aime,’ she whispered, her fingers caressing him, running over his hairless chest, pulling his shirt open. With her other hand she gripped his hipbone gently, then slid her fingers across to feel the form of his erect penis. Her fingers seemed to know exactly how to touch him. He throbbed and grew even more painfully hard. The excitement of her presence was almost too much for him to bear.

  With the last of his mental clarity he tried again: ‘My mum will be getting so worried…’

  Bijou cut his words off with a moist kiss that tasted of strawberries. She always tasted so good.

  ‘You don’t tell her anything, darling. Come away with me!’ she murmured. ‘Live! Love! In Paris we will drink champagne and have adventures and make love all day…’

  She slid her silky hand into his pants and touched him, running those long, delicately painted fingernails through his pubic hair, then teasingly caressing his hardness one centimetre at a time. His mind turned to mush.

  ‘Oh, my lover,’ she whispered in his ear as she stroked him. ‘We will flee this place and live happily in Paris. You mustn’t contact anyone. Stay with me. Will you stay with me?’

  He nodded, and licked his lips.

  ‘Stay with me…only me…’ she sighed, her lips gobbling up little portions of his naked skin, trailing lower, lower…

  She unbuckled his belt. ‘Je t’aime,’ she whispered again, tugging at his pants and sending him into ecstasy.

  CHAPTER 27

  The diaries. I have him.

  It was already late and Makedde Vanderwall did not expect to sleep. She pulled into the garage of Loulou’s building, excited about what she’d soon be reading. In the passenger seat beside her was a satchel full of photocopies of Adam Hart’s every intimate diary entry for over a year. It weighed a tonne. Marian had insisted that she photocopy all 356 pages and leave the originals at the office in case they became of police interest. Mak was fairly certain that the past two hours spent photocopying on that clunky old machine were among the most tedious of her life. But now, finally, she had a night of reading ahead—reading Adam’s mind. She had been sleeping badly as it was, but tonight she fully intended keeping herself up with coffee. It was a pity, though, that some of the most recent pages appeared to be missing. She’d noticed at least three ripped paper edges, torn close to the binding, in the latest diary. Either Adam had felt confident to leave all but his final entries behind, or someone else had found the diaries and ripped the pages out.

  Mak hauled herself and the satchel up the stairs.

  Bugger.

  A dozen long-stemmed roses were waiting just inside the front door.

  She sighed and plonked the heavy satchel on the steps while she put the key in the lock and let herself in. With a sense of sadness, she saw the writing on the little card attached to the flowers. It was addressed to her, as she had feared. And she recognised the writing, too. Building security is not so great here, she thought. Someone must have let him past the front door. Her ex could be pretty good at talking his way into places when he wanted to.

  Juggling the flower bouquet and heavy bag, she teetered down the hall and unlocked the door to Loulou’s apartment.

  At the sound of the door a pleasant voice rang out. ‘Hello.’ Bogey emerged wet-haired from the bathroom in a T-shirt and tight black jeans. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have,’ he joked, seeing the bouquet.

  Mak smirked.

  ‘Here, I’ll help you with your flowers.’ He searched around in the cupboards and found a water jug. He cut the roses down to fit, and when he was done they looked beautiful, each silken petal a wonderful luscious red. Their fragrance was intoxicating. It was a shame, because Mak was not sure she wanted them, considering who they would be from. She pocketed the card, not wanting to look at it.

  ‘I didn’t wake you, I hope?’ she said. It was after eleven.

  ‘No. I don’t sleep much, and rarely before midnight.’

  ‘You don’t seem to,’ she agreed and laid the photocopies of Adam’s diary on the kitchen benchtop. She began preparations to brew a large pot of coffee.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Bogey offered.

  ‘No, it’s okay. You’re too kind.’ She realised she felt tense in his presence. Andy’s flowers had put her on edge. She’d always found Bogey attractive, though she’d never acted on it, and now she felt guilty enjoying his company. It was silly.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here. We haven’t really had a proper chance to catch up,’ she told him. ‘Things were pretty crazy when I saw you last.’ She had been living with Andy in Sydney, party-crashing the Cavanagh heir’s big thirtieth, and recovering from her motorcycle crash. ‘How are things with the shop?’

  �
�Going well. I think I’ll have a few pieces in a couple of galleries here later this year.’

  ‘That’s great news.’

  ‘And how are you? I heard that things in Canberra—’

  ‘Didn’t work out. Yeah. Andy and I split. It’s for the best.’ She found her eyes drifting to his flowers on the coffee table. She felt the urge to throw them out. ‘I’m sorry we lost touch when I moved.’

  ‘I understood. It’s okay. I just hope you’re okay. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know. You might want an extra set of eyes looking out for properties, or—’

  ‘Thanks. You don’t have to do that.’ Mak felt flat. It was as if Andy’s note was burning a hole in her pocket. ‘I insist on taking the couch tonight,’ she went on. The coffee was ready and she poured herself a cup. ‘I’ll be up for a few hours reading as much of this diary as I can.’

  ‘That bedroom is yours. I belong on the couch. I insist.’

  Mak sighed.

  ‘Really. I insist,’ he reiterated. He looked at her over his vintage-style black-rimmed glasses, and she knew she could not convince him otherwise. It didn’t seem right that she would be on the comfortable bed, working, when Bogey was stuck sleeping on a saggy pink couch.

  ‘It’s probably against regulations, or something, but I could help with the reading, if that would make it easier for you,’ he went on. ‘I have a pretty light couple of days coming up.’

  Mak paused. It was tempting. She ran a hand across her forehead. ‘There must be something wrong with you,’ she finally said. ‘You are too…’ Perfect. ‘…nice.’ She took a large swig of hot coffee and felt her blood warm. ‘I’ll let you off this time, though.’ She smiled.

  Hours later, Makedde’s last cup of coffee was cold and her eyes hurt. She sat perched on Loulou’s bed, riveted to Adam’s diary.

  Absent-mindedly, she raised the cold, half-full cup to her lips, sipped at it with disgust, and set it on the floor. It was nearly two. She’d lost track of time.

  Adam Hart, she’d discovered, was a young man who lived in his mind. As she’d suspected, he had written his every intimate thought in his diaries. Unlike his impossibly neat room, his journal was a swirl of ideas, disconnected thoughts and observations, things he’d read online or in textbooks, things he’d overheard at uni, things he had dreamed and imagined. For a beautiful-looking young man, who was obviously smart, he was surprisingly antisocial. He seemed to have few close friends, and kept mostly to himself. But he had a life rich with adventure in his mind, and his diary entries were filled with references to everyone from Jack Kerouac to Harry Houdini.