by PJ Vye
“Jack, I need the bathroom,” she said, wrapping her fingers tighter around the strap of her backpack.
“Let’s just check-in first, then we’ll have plenty of time.”
“I need to go now.” She gave him the kind of lady-look that men can’t argue with.
“Oh, ok then, but hurry. And leave your bag here so I can tag it.”
“No, I need it.” She gave him a challenging stare, daring him to deny her. His eyes narrowed as he regarded her. Was he reading her mind? She made an effort to look natural and said, “I’ll be back in a tick.” She scurried off, pretending to look for a bathroom, looking up and down the length of the building, but actually looking for an exit that wasn’t visible from where Jack was standing. She heard his voice booming behind her, making everyone turn and look at her.
“It’s right behind you,” he said, pointing.
Forced to nod and accept his directions, she headed into the bathroom, cursing him under her breath.
She splashed water on her face and waited, planning her next move. She needed a distraction. He would be watching the door, she just knew it. How was she going to get through it without him seeing?
This had been her one chance to escape. Now that the paparazzi were off her back, she was free to disappear again. But she needed Carl’s help. It seemed strange that he hadn’t answered his phone in weeks. Hadn’t answered her letters. He was the reliable brother, after all. Although it wouldn’t be the first time he went off the radar. That time he tried to sell Amway and he’d hit up everyone he knew to buy his product. He ended up making only a single sale and was left with a kit of cleaning products that one couldn’t’ possibly use in an entire lifetime. He disappeared from communication then for a while. Or the time he wrote a book and self-published a thousand hard copies, convinced he was the next Stephen King. He went quiet after that as well. She wondered what had been the cause this time.
If she could just find Carl, then she could get her life back.
First, she needed to lose Jack.
A large group of Japanese ladies assembled and she saw an opportunity.
“Do any of you ladies speak English?"
Slipping out with the Japanese tourists worked like a dream. She told them she was trying to escape a violent ex-boyfriend and they happily assisted. One lady gave her a dark scarf to wear over her head, another put a jacket around her shoulders with a scarf that read, “I love Australia.” They all chatted away as the spilled out of the bathroom entrance in a large group, and hustled her away to the arrivals on the first floor.
Grateful beyond words, Willa returned the make-shift disguises and made for the taxi rank outside. Slipping into the backseat of the first cab in line, she gave the man her brother’s address, trying to keep her head low so as not to be seen from the footpath and felt the first breath of release as she heard the gentle click of the indicator signal their departure. The smell of stale tobacco and body odour was somehow reassuring. She felt in control of her world again.
A sudden thought hit her like a drum. She threw open her bag and madly began shoving clothes and personal items aside, trying to find the one thing she couldn’t manage without. In the end she tipped the entire contents of the bag on the seat beside her, but there was no sign of it. And she knew. Like somehow Jack had anticipated her plan.
He’d stolen her wallet.
“I don’t have any money, but I can pay you when I reach my…”
The driver pulled back into his original park and turned off the engine. “Sorry lady.”
“I can pay you, I can. If you’ll just…”
“You gotta credit card, ok.” He stated in a thick foreign accent.
“No.”
He got out the car and opened her door. She sat staring at him for a while, hoping he would change his mind. He didn’t. She stepped from the cab and hitched her bag onto her back. Jack hadn’t won yet. She could walk. The airport wasn’t that far from the country. She would manage. What choice did she have? She couldn’t march back into the airport and demand her wallet back. Or could she? He couldn’t force her onto the plane.
She looked both left and right, trying to make a decision. But her indecision was her downfall.
“Excuse me, are you Willa Jones?” A tall woman in her twenties had her phone out, and held it in front of her.
Willa tucked her chin down and turned away from the woman, only to collide with another onlooker. “I’m not her. Leave me alone.”
“Did you say this is Willa Jones?”
“Willa, can I get a photo with you?”
A pen and a bare arm were thrust in her face, “Can I get your autograph.”
“It’s the hermit woman—.”
“The singing hermit, here—.”
Willa tried to move away from the crowd that was forming, but they wouldn’t let her go. Strangers hands were on her, people putting their faces besides hers, jostling for the best selfie position. She was pushed and prodded and the noise hurt her ears as the people became more and more desperate to score a memento of the star.
There was no hiding now. The frenzy was absolute. Jack would find her. She heard him before she saw him, yelling for the crowd to disperse, forcing his way through the horde with a team of airport security. When he reached her he put his arm around her shoulders as the officers created a pathway back into the building.
The stillness of the small, windowless room was a stark contrast to the rabble outside. She braced herself for Jack’s tirade but it didn’t come. He had to be angry, and yet he had expected her to run. Why else would he hide her money?
“You can’t make me go to LA. I don’t have a passport, anyway.”
“Where were you going?”
She saw no point in lying, “To my brother, Carl’s house.”
“Why?”
“To get some money. Disappear.”
“Disappear from me?”
“From everyone.”
“Do you really think that’s possible now?”
She did. She really did think it was still possible. “Maybe.”
“Listen, Willa. I need you to record this album. There are people’s jobs at stake.”
“Yours, I hope.”
“Yes mine. But lots of others. People with families. Mortgages. You need to make this album.”
“You expect me to believe you? To trust you? You stole my music, you stole my wallet and you blackmail me into coming with you.”
“Well none of that would have been necessary if you had just been more cooperative.”
“Why should I cooperate with a man I don’t trust?”
“What are you afraid of, Willa? What is so damn difficult that you can’t live in the real world for a while?”
“The real world is filled with people such as yourself. That’s why.”
“This brother, Carl. You think he can help you?”
“Yes, of course.” She lifted her chin, hoping it was true.
“Then let’s go find him.”
“Really?”
“Let’s go meet this brother of yours. See if he’s as impressive as your other brother, shall we?”
Jack handed her back her wallet and Walkman.
“Hey, I didn’t know you had that as well.”
“I thought you’d notice it straight away. Isn’t it your most precious item in the world?”
“Well yes, it was. But not since I only have the one cassette.”
“What happened to all your cassettes?”
She stared up at the brown watermark edges of the ceiling tiles, remembering the day all too clearly. “Gone…” She tucked the old, black Sony machine with the wire headphones into her bag.
“I’m so sorry, Willa. They didn’t even let you pack your things away? They could have given you some notice.”
“Apparently they did. The mail goes to Pete’s house. He didn’t pass it on.”
“Did you find out where they dumped it?”
“Don’t forget, I’
m followed everywhere I go. There hasn’t really been an opportunity to locate the scraps of my possessions without the press finding them as well. So I didn’t even try.”
Jack stood and spoke to the security guard on the door. He escorted them down a private path to a secure exit where the public were not allowed access. Willa could still hear her name being called in the distance, but she was safely from the masses now. A large, black car was waiting and drove them away from the airport towards the city.
Willa checked three times the address she had was correct. But staring up at the store with its door and windows boarded up, she knew she was in the right place. She had been here before, many years ago, and this was, indeed, Carl’s place. There was no way in. Entrance to his apartment was through the store, and the store was gone. The place was for sale and there was no sign of Carl. He’d moved, closed down his business and never said a word.
Willa got out of the car and stood on the footpath, listening to the engine noise and traffic signal beeps. She could taste the thick, heavy air on her tongue, the dust stinging her nose. Above it all she watched a small brown bird searching the pavement for scraps of food and wondered if that bird knew there was a life outside the city where an abundance of natural beauty and wonder lay waiting. Where a bird could find its own meal and not be at the mercy of a person who may drop the odd crumb from a sandwich. She really hated the city.
Jack didn’t bother to sound sympathetic. “You have three choices. Run away again and hope you can find somewhere to eat and sleep for the seventy two dollars in your wallet. Move back in with your brother, Peter, and enjoy his charming hospitality, or spend two weeks with me recording an album and then bank a cheque big enough to set you up on any river you desire.”
“You should pay me. Now.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? It’s my money, Jack.”
“It’s my only leverage. I need you to record this album, Willa.”
“I won’t go to LA.”
“We’ll do it here.”
“Not in the city.”
Jack screwed up his mouth. “Okay. We’ll work something out.”
“And I need some kind of guarantee you won’t run off without paying me.”
“Scouts honour?” he asked, indicating the code with his fingers.
“A little more binding.”
“A letter written in my own blood?”
“I’m thinking something somewhere in between.”
“Can you give me a minute to make a few calls?”
She watched him walk up the street with his phone on his ear and pondered her decision. She couldn’t live on the streets. She didn’t want to stay with Pete. She could do two weeks. And then she would have money. And then she really could disappear.
Where was Carl? Why hadn’t he sent a forward address? Or maybe he had and Peter just hadn’t bothered to open the mail. Or answer the phone. Who knew?
It was fifteen minutes before Jack climbed back in the car, an aura of control and calmness about him. “Phil will be here the day after tomorrow.”
“And a studio?”
“Have you ever heard of a guy called John Farnham?”
Chapter 12
Jack watched Willa wander the boundaries of the Farnham estate, absorbing the reflective beauty of the river that ran though the bottom of the gully. With no paparazzi to disturb her, he felt her begin to relax, as if the calm coolness of the late autumn breeze flowed through her very soul and eased the tension that had been her constant companion since the eviction.
The Farnhams had built themselves a private oasis; rolling hills, sweeping river through natural bushland, all within the confines of a large security gate system with high fences and closed circuit surveillance, to keep the world nicely at bay.
John and his wife were not in residence at this time, but they had graciously agreed to lease out the guest cottage and studio to the party, for as long as was required. And it was the perfect arrangement. Private, quiet and picturesque.
While waiting for Phil to arrive from the States, Jack and Willa settled into a moderately friendly working relationship. He was fully aware that Willa had a temper second only to his own, however, unlike his unforgiving ravings that held out for years when he was crossed, it wasn’t in her nature to hold a grudge for long. She seemed to be accepting her situation with barely a sign of any ill-will over the stolen wallet/recordings/walkman. Jack, finding it difficult to believe she could have forgiven him so easily, was careful to behave like the gentleman he rarely was. Drinking was out of the question. He wouldn’t make that mistake twice. Not when it seemed to carry some sensitive importance to her.
So they spent their days in relatively easy camaraderie, discussing and rehearsing potential song choices for the album. He consciously avoided any topic that might disturb their careful equilibrium. One wrong move on his part could potentially leave his professional life in tatters. With the late autumn weather being kind, they would sit on the banks of the river with the warmth of the sun on their backs, her with a guitar, him with a pen and paper, and reminisce through several decades of music. It was peaceful and pleasant—with neither of them eager to fill the long silences that seemed to naturally evolve between them.
The urgency that always played in the background for Jack, faded when they sat outside, and there were times when the stress of his executive life felt like a foreign concept to him. He could only account for it as being the Australian bush that made him feel like a different person entirely. If not, then this curious sensation had something to do with the girl. He spent a great deal of energy considering this.
Evenings were spent in front of the fire, and to the backdrop of an eclectic selection of recorded music, they prepared simple meals together, eating on the sofa. Afterwards, she would read from the odd collection of novels and dated magazines scattered around the cottage, and he would sit behind his screen, allowing himself to be drawn into the real world for just a few hours of the day.
By the second evening, with Phil’s delayed arrival expected the following afternoon, Jack was feeling remarkably calm and enthusiastic. He was confident the music they had selected would transfer well to the studio, and he was looking forward to his oldest working colleague and friend meeting her. Things were going to work out alright. Willa would take no time at all to record this album, her voice and style needing no careful considerations or modifications. It was a clear cut process and he might, potentially, end up ahead of schedule. He was almost whistling to himself, he was so delighted.
John Farnham’s stocked liquor supply in the corner bar unit was calling him for a congratulatory drink. He could almost hear it. He went back and forth in his head a few times—the pros, the cons. In the end, as if she had read his thoughts, Willa untangled herself from the couch, walked the short distance to the kitchen and asked, “Cup of tea, Jack?”
He answered quickly, ‘Yes that would be great.” Then in his best Australian vernacular he added, “Ta.”
To distract the devils in his head, he went rummaging for something to do. “Do you want to play a game of checkers?”
“Yes I would,” Willa chimed. “What’s more, I’d like to beat you at a game of checkers. Exact some revenge on you.”
“Bring it on, Sunshine.”
“Oh, I will.” She sat down with two hot mugs of tea and then added, “So what are the rules, again?”
“That is the oldest hustlers trick in the book,” he said laughing at her. “I’m not falling for it.”
She aligned her pieces into place and made the first move. “Your turn, Grandpa. Get on with it.”
He couldn’t believe how seriously she took the game—like she had something to prove. As with her privacy, as with checkers, she was a warrior and she desperately wanted to annihilate him. It took four games, only one of which she lost in a tirade of bad language, before she could unwind enough to have a conversation while they played.
“You know, we could
settle many of our differences over a game of checkers,” he said.
“How do you mean?”
“Like, I could say, for example, that if I win this game, you would have to record a second album for me before Christmas.”
“And if you lose, for example, you could pay me what you owe and I would never have to see you ugly face again.” With this, she jumped three of his men consecutively, and demanded a queen.
Eyes ablaze with amusement he admitted, “Of course, I’m not a betting man.” He took his turn.
“Is that right?” she said.
“Yes, it’s true. We are not betting on this game, just to be very clear.”
“So your addictive nature doesn’t extend to gambling, then?”
He was a little affronted but decided to let it pass as she took out another two of his draughtsmen, leaving him cornered. “Let’s play a different game. I’m sure I saw a pack of Uno cards somewhere.”
“Wuss.”
“Wuss? I am not a wuss,” he said, his mouth curling down. “What’s a wuss?”
“A cowardly weak, ineffectual person.”
“As opposed to you, the superhero.”
“Yep. They call me Super-good-at-checkerman.”
“I think I’ve heard of that.”
“Probably. I’m renowned.”
“It’s true, you are renowned. But not for checkers.” He’d said it before he could stop himself and watched in dismay as a curtain of withdrawal crossed over her face. Damn it, she was tricky to keep distracted. No point ignoring it now. “Why do you resist it so?”
“Resist what—you?” she asked with an nasty laugh. “Believe me, it’s surprisingly easy to resis—”