A Dash of Reality

by Murray, Lee

  The caption says Ruby McCabe. So she does exist then.

  Ruby is seated alone on a low bench, her back straight, as she looks wistfully across the wintry grey waters of Hamilton’s tiny lake.

  ‘It’s brilliant, isn’t it? The parallel. See it?’ says Kirsten, jiggling excitedly.

  I do. Ruby McCabe is meant to resemble Lady Diana Spencer as she contemplated the magnificent Taj Mahal palace in solitude. The low benches, the open space, the haunting sense of isolation and loss. Everything the world felt for poor Diana is cleverly bestowed on Black’s fiancée. Meanwhile, I’m cast in the role of the Rottweiler. On the one page adultery and on the other abandonment. It’s brilliant. Just not the angle I had in mind when I dreamed of featuring in Belle.

  ‘Gotta go,’ says Kirsten. ‘You can keep that copy if you like.’

  61

  Jack won’t speak to me. He refuses to answer my calls. I’ve turned up at his place a couple of times, but although the lawns are neatly mowed and the letterbox has been cleared, I know he hasn’t been staying there. The same red check tea-towel’s been hanging on his washing line for four days. I don’t know what else to do so I drive over to see Shane and Kelly. From the looks on their faces neither of them is too pleased to see me. They don’t invite me in, although from the porch I can see there’s too much baby flotsam in the lounge for me to sit down, anyway. Scowling, Kell scoops up Em and exits the room without saying a word. Shane walks me out to the driveway and away from his family. What am I? A bunny boiler?

  ‘He won’t talk to me, Shane. What am I going to do?’

  Shane runs his fingers through his flop of blonde hair. ‘I don’t know, Mel. He’s pretty cut up about those pictures. I guess he’s feeling stupid. I know I would, being dumped in the national papers. He probably wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole.’

  ‘I never meant to hurt him.’ Actually, I didn’t think about Jack’s feelings at all.

  ‘I just don’t get why you guys are breaking up. I thought you were really tight like me and Kell. I never expected this.’ He shakes his head sadly. I never expected this either. I want to tell Shane the whole Black Affair is supposed to be a charade and if Jack could be patient a little longer, until the marathon and the show are out of the way, maybe we could work things out between us. Suddenly I’m not sure we’ll be able to work things out. My heart tightens in wretchedness.

  ‘I really need to see him, Shane. Please. I know he’s been staying here. Why else would his bike be here?’ The whopping great clue to Jack’s whereabouts is leaning up against the wall of Shane’s carport. ‘Please, Shane I need your help.’

  ‘Jack’s willing to meet you. He said he made a promise to Caro that the two of you would take her to the riding arena.’ That’s right. We did. ‘Jack doesn’t want to let Caro down. God knows the poor little tike hasn’t been dealt the best hand in the world. So Jack’ll meet you there next Saturday afternoon. He’ll sort it with Janeen and text you the time.’

  ‘So neutral territory, and with a sharp-as-a-tack little chaperone.’

  ‘It’s the best I can do.’

  ‘It’s okay. Tell him I’ll be there. Thanks Shane…’

  62

  The horse snickers.

  Big and grey with doleful eyes and expertly applied lash extensions, his name is Prancer. Despite his name, Prancer appears languid and docile, but Caro still slips her hand into mine. I don’t blame her for being uneasy. I’m a bit anxious myself and I’m fully-grown and standing up. Being seated in a wheelchair has its advantages at the supermarket where retailers position pop-tarts, fruit wraps, cheese puffs, and chocolate buttons on the bottom shelves, but sitting at close quarters to the massive hooves of an animal named Prancer could be unnerving, even for a gutsy 10-year-old like Caro.

  ‘He’s big, isn’t he Mel?’

  I lean over and give her a quick hug around her shoulders, breathing in a delicious mixture of manuka shampoo and warm Milo. ‘S’okay, Caro. He looks big because you’re on the ground instead of up on the starting platform. He’s a lovely friendly horse.’

  Prancer snickers again. Louder this time.

  Caro looks doubtful, but then her face lights up as she catches sight of Jack.

  ‘Here comes Jack,’ she calls, flushing slightly as she waves to him. It occurs to me Caro might have a crush on Jack. I concede she’s developing impeccable taste as I watch Jack stride toward us looking very urban cowboy in his favourite stone-bleached jeans, white t-shirt, and jacket tied around his hips. I wonder what he’d look like in chaps. From behind. I might never find out now. Given he doesn’t appear to be talking to me. On the other hand his body is communicating. Muscling me out. It screeches ‘I promised, so I’m here. Don’t get any ideas.’ I could do with Australian body language guru Alan Pearse to pop up on the scene and show to me how to rearrange my own posture to shout ‘I don’t give a damn’ right back at him.

  But I do.

  That’s the problem.

  I swipe at my eyes, trying to pretend the wind is causing them to water. But Jack’s making a point of not looking at me, and when he reaches us he turns his back. Like I said, Jack’s body language is eloquent. With Caro though, Jack is up-beat and charming, the kind of behaviour that encourages little girl crushes.

  ‘I’ve got the map from Mr Bill. Look here, Caro.’ Opening out the concertina paper, Jack crouches next to the wheelchair. He traces his finger along a wiggly blue line. ‘There’s a shorter track over here, but Bill says it’s not suitable for Prancer.’ From behind, I have a magnificent view of the muscles of Jack’s back through his t-shirt. Looks to me like he’s holding a lot of tension. I resist a desire to run my fingers over those ridges and smooth away the stress bunching up his muscles.

  Jack folds the map and stuffs it into his back pocket. ‘I think Prancer here is ready to feel the wind in his ears. What do you say?’ Caro nods her agreement and Jack wheels her onto the raised platform, lifts her out of her chair into the saddle, and secures her withered feet in the stirrups. Then Jack takes Prancer’s reins and they lead off, with me following behind.

  ‘Tally ho, Caro,’ Jack booms.

  63

  An hour later we’re walking a fern-lined trail, Caro on horseback, and Jack and I in front leading Prancer. The two of us are in a full-blown row, but deadly quiet, so Caro can’t hear.

  ‘Let me tell you what it’s been like,’ Jack hisses. ‘To start with my girlfriend is plastered half-naked over billboards up and down the country for other blokes to gawp over. I didn’t think it could get any worse. Now, she’s having a torrid affair with a blatant Lothario and the whole fiasco is being played out nationally. Every time I open the newspaper I see you and Black in another clinch. And you have to make it look like you’re enjoying yourself. I swear, Mel, if I ever get close to that smarmy git again…’

  I feel myself getting angry. ‘So this is about your ego?’

  ‘No! It’s about the lies!’ he spits. ‘Our friends keep calling me up to commiserate and I haven’t got a clue what to say.’

  ‘Sorry, for putting you in an inconvenient position!’

  ‘Inconvenient!’

  ‘Shhh!’

  Jack lowers his voice to a murmur. ‘Shane and Kelly have been trying to make up for my having a faithless girlfriend. Kelly cooked me butterscotch pudding and I felt so bad that she felt so bad I had to eat half of it on my own. You should see the two of them, looking doleful, patting me on the back, insisting I have a wee cuddle with Emma. They keep telling me to get over you and move on because you already have. Kelly says she’ll come over to pack up your stuff if it’s too painful for me. She says she knows this nice girl…’

  ‘And then my brother Nigel rang me from the bowels of Abel Tasman National Park. Don’t ask me how he got cell-phone coverage down there. Nigel doesn’t even watch TV. He’s on a trail five days out of seven. He heard about you and Black from some tourists he’s guiding down there. Talk of the trip it was. S
o Nige phones me up pronto and suggests I come down there for a break when school’s out. Reckons I should cut myself off for a while. Get you out of my system, he said. And my mother…’

  Not Debra, too. I cover my mouth with my hand.

  ‘...yes, my mother phoned,’ he whispers fiercely. ‘She was crying, Mel. She thinks I’m a broken man, because she believed you were the girl for me. What am I supposed to say? That we never said we’d be exclusive? That we’re taking a little break? That everything moved too fast too soon?’

  ‘Jack. I never meant…’

  ‘Yeah, even those platitudes are better than the truth. How does it look if I say my girlfriend is having a deliberate affair with someone else in order to juicy up her career?’

  I agree, put like that it does sound shallow, but I’ve come too far to give up now.

  ‘Jack, you agreed! You said you’d let me see how far my career could go with the show. It’s not for much longer. The show’s practically over.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mel. The show’s already over. I’m bowing out. I can’t do this anymore. I’ll help you chase your dreams, Mel, but I won’t help you chase another man.’

  ‘But I’m not…’ I sound unconvincing even to myself.

  ‘Answer me this, Mel. Why did you introduce him to Colin?

  ‘I…I…’

  ‘You finally get a face-to-face with your biological dad and you prefer to take Rico over me? Did you intend to tell me, Mel, or was I supposed to carry on thinking you were away on a supplementary catalogue shoot, forever the gullible idiot, while you swan around with lover-boy!’

  ‘I knew you’d be angry, that’s why!’

  ‘Yes, I’m angry! It’s one thing to lie to all and sundry, Mel, but lying to each other?’ Disgusted, he shakes his head and turns his body away.

  ‘Jack please!’ I clutch at his arm.

  ‘Sorry, Mel. I can’t do it.’ He tears away from my grip.

  “STOP FIGHTING!!’ screams Caro.

  64

  Suddenly startled, Prancer leaps. Big hooves scramble over the uneven terrain, unearthing loose rock and turf. His great shoulder muscles bunch, his neck strains. Big eyes roll in fear. Jack tries to control the spooked animal, reining him in hard, but the horse stumbles, his massive torso twisting inwards, the exposed right flank thrown toward the ground. The horse shrieks, a strangely human sound, like the bloodcurdling scream of a Viking battle-lord. Through it all, I hear Caro’s gasp, and then I’m engulfed, winded, as I’m hit at full force in the chest. All at once, I’m on my back in the damp undergrowth and I can’t breathe.

  I inhale slowly and draw in a delicious lungful of cold air. I take a few more slow desperate breaths, moving each of my limbs gently, almost crying with relief when I discover they’re all there and they’re intact. I check myself over. I’m covered in mud and twigs and my neat little pony-tail is now a mess of tangled jungle. Dishevelled, but okay. I become aware of whumping noise. Maybe I’ve burst an eardrum? I listen again and realise the whumping noise is sobbing.

  Caro.

  She’s a few metres to my right, leaned against a rotting ponga, her legs splayed uselessly in front of her.

  ‘Honey, are you okay?’

  ‘Aunty Mel! I thought you were dying. I thought I killed you.’ Her sweet little girl face is full of distress.

  ‘It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s not your fault.’ I’m proud to say I only wince the tiniest bit as I haul myself up and slide myself over to her. I curl my arms about her. She’s beginning to shiver. Shock. I run the zipper up on her sweatshirt and plop the hoodie over her head because I remember a documentary which showed how most of your body heat is lost through your head.

  ‘See, I’m fine,’ I reassure her. ‘My chest hurts, but I don’t think I’ve broken anything. I’m only winded and bruised. Nothing to worry about. What about you? Do you hurt anywhere?’

  ‘No. I landed on you,’ she says.

  ‘Good,’ I say, brightly. ‘I might grow up and become a Bouncy Castle.’ This time my humour fails. Caro blanches. She looks like a terrorised rabbit on school pet day.

  ‘And Prancer…I saw Prancer land on Jack!’

  Jack! My heart explodes in a surge of adrenalin.

  I find him where ground slopes away the other side of the trail. He’s still. A terrifying cold permeates me. My heart is deafening, like Edgar Allen Poe’s tell-tale heart. I’m scared to touch him.

  Please don’t be dead.

  ‘Are you dead?’

  He opens his eyes. ‘Caro?’ Oh, thank God.

  ‘She’s fine. A bit shaken up, that’s all.’ I’m a bit shaken up myself. I hug my arms to my body and feel my clammy skin. It doesn’t help, so I sit down. I wave across to Caro and flash her a cheesy grin to let her know Jack is okay. She sends a hopeful wave back.

  ‘So clearly you’re not dead then.’

  ‘Nope,’ Jack says. ‘I performed a spectacular Flying Vallenda back-flip to avoid being squashed by Prancer. By the way, where is the big sissy?’ Jack asks, sitting up scanning the trail for signs of the faithless animal.

  ‘North Pole, I expect.’

  ‘So he’s gone then?’

  I nod.

  ‘Damn.’ Jack sighs. He pulls up the cuff of his jeans and frowns at his lower leg. It’s already fat and swollen, it’s colour deepening to the loveliest shade of pinky-purple. ‘I twisted my ankle,’ he says, voicing the obvious. We’re both silent for a moment as we consider the implications of his twisted ankle. ‘Mel, you’re going to have to go for help. I can’t walk out of here and you can’t carry Caro back without Prancer.’

  ‘He’ll find his way back and the people at the centre will send someone out to find us. They could be on their way already. All we have to do is wait.’

  ‘Even so, there’s a chance they won’t find us. There are heaps of different trails out here and they can’t know exactly which one we’ve taken. It’s getting late. I’m concerned about what might happen to Caro’s confidence if she’s stuck out here at night. Not to mention Janeen’s.’

  Janeen. I was supposed to call her! I have a sudden happy thought.

  ‘Jack! Your cell-phone.’ I feel a blissful rush of relief. One teensy-weensy call and the cavalry will be on the way. Jack tips his body to the left and pulls his cell-phone from his hip pocket. It’s totally squished. My shoulders slump.

  ‘I doubt we’d get a signal anyway.’ Jack tips his body again and this time pulls the map out from underneath him. He smiles wryly.

  ‘At least the map wasn’t crushed.’ He grins. He’s trying to make me feel better the way I did with Caro. I look over and give her another little wave. ‘I think we’re here,’ Jack says, as he starts ripping at the map. ‘This hole is our location, or as close to it as I can tell. So you can tell them where to find us. You’ll need to go back half a kilometre to the point where the track forks. Do you remember whereabouts?’ I nod numbly. ‘We can’t risk it getting too dark to get help in.’ Already the sun is like weak tea. There’s maybe an hour or so until the late afternoon greys, blues and blue-blacks merge to become solid impenetrable black. Caro is scared of the dark. A night in the bush will terrify her. I help Jack scramble across the track. It isn’t an elegant manoeuvre, but eventually he’s settled next to Caro, his big body protecting her small one. I untie my sweatshirt from around my waist and give it to him.

  ‘Keep her warm.’ Jack’s lovely blue-grey eyes look into mine.

  ‘Mel…’ he says softly. And I feel like I’ve been tasered.

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ll hurry.’

  65

  There’s no race gun, no television camera and no bevy of odd-ball opponents. Ignoring the rules about starting out slow, I race as fast as I dare back the way we came. At the fork in the path I turn. It’s a spindly goat track. Not far in it climbs steeply. I steel my mind and start my uphill-chugging technique. Scratchy ferns and shrubs send out groping fingers that tug at the hem of my flappy boot-cut jeans
and harass me. I can feel the denim gently burning a graze on my tailbone. This bloody diamante-encrusted Elle MacPherson masterpiece is carving great gouges under my breasts and underarms, too. What I wouldn’t do for a decent sports bra and a pair of compression pants? Even in orange.

  Pushing the ferns away in a swinging arc, I concentrate on getting into the zone. In my ears, my own regular in-in-out, in-in-out huffing starts to sound like the little-engine-that-could mantra. Think I can. Know I can. Halfway up this hill the gods throw in a clay bank. It’s slippery, so I haul myself up using the fronds of a vine, digging my running shoes into the soft loam and leaving long scuff marks in the earth. When I let go of the vine, the creases of my hands come away red and scratched.

  Now the path undulates, as I traverse a line of the foothills. I must be somewhere near the falls. I guess I’ve been gone about fifteen minutes. I push myself faster up another climb, then over a small ridge, down a couple of log steps as glistening and polished as a seat in the New York metro, and along a stretch of flat trail and…I stop dead.

  Please no.

  It’s a swing bridge. Traversing a small ravine the bridge is 15m across, sloping downwards toward its centre and out again to the other bank. The supports are strung with two thick reinforced steel ropes, and between them hangs a narrow footbridge made of planks.

  I sit down heavily on the track. Suck in big lungfuls of air. Try to calm myself.

  Shivering, I wish I had a sweatshirt and that gets me thinking about Caro, snuggled next to Jack. I can’t go back. I can’t let Caro cower in the bush in the dark because I’m too afraid to cross a little swing bridge. Jack will think I’m spineless as well as faithless. I have to go over.

  For Caro.

  I resolve to fix my eyes on the wooden planking, grasp the wire hand-holds and walk calmly over. I stand up. I’m going over. Hideous, overwhelming, crystallising fear of heights or not.