by Nicola Marsh
‘There’ll be other opportunities. Other auditions—’
‘For Broadway? Unlikely.’ She shook her head, wishing he understood how momentous this had been for her. ‘You think I’m being irrational and over the top but this is my life. Don’t you get that?’
He didn’t make a move to comfort her. Didn’t move a muscle. He just stood there, way too calm, way too controlled. Like a freaking robot.
‘I get it.’
When he finally spoke, his low lethal tone raised goosebumps on her arms.
‘I get that losing out on this one audition has sent you into such a tailspin you seem to be blaming me for it. I get that the thought of sticking around and having a relationship with me is seemingly abhorrent to you.’ His tone didn’t change but his eyes...his eyes turned a glacial blue that sent a shiver through her. ‘I get that maybe I was just a means to an end for you. That you used me to get the big break you’ve always wanted. That I mean nothing to you.’
He flung the hurtful accusations in her face clearly and concisely, each hitting home like a poison-tipped dart.
She hadn’t used him.
Had she?
This was Hudson, the guy she’d fantasised about as a teen. The guy who’d stood by her. The guy who’d left because of his own demons.
Ironic, that this time she’d be the one to end things between them. Not as payback, but as a way of assuming the control she didn’t have last time.
She’d still hurt. A thousand times worse this time, considering she’d fallen for him. But at least she wouldn’t be left feeling as if he’d never given her a chance.
This time, they’d taken that chance.
And failed.
‘If you truly believe all that BS you just spouted at me, you’re delusional. I don’t know what happened here tonight. I don’t know if the audition being cancelled was fate or you using any means possible to keep me around or just more of my crappy luck, but I’m done waiting for my big break.’ She tapped her chest. ‘I’m going to make it happen.’
Bitterness bracketed his mouth. ‘You’re still accusing me of being underhanded to maintain our status quo?’ He barked out a laugh devoid of amusement. ‘You really think I’m a shit, don’t you?’
She almost reached for him then, the bewilderment tinged with hurt on his face was that heart wrenching.
But she couldn’t back down now. She had to follow through.
She was done depending on others, particularly Hudson, for her happiness.
‘Once your show is done, I’m heading to New York.’ She squared her shoulders, the idea sounding less ludicrous articulated out loud. ‘I’m going to make it on my own, without help from anyone.’
Shock made his pupils dilate, eclipsing all that beautiful blue she’d miss so much. ‘So that’s it? You’re just going to head to the States with no job, no work permit and limited funds?’ Scepticism pinched his mouth. ‘How are you going to survive ’til you land your big break?’
He stared fixedly at some point over her shoulder, unable to meet her eyes, and in that moment she knew what had him so angsty. She just knew, deep down in that part of her that could never turn back time and change her decision.
Not that she would. She’d stripped that one night to honour her mum, to thank her for the many years of sacrifice, to give her the send-off she deserved.
Hudson knew that now yet he still didn’t trust her enough. He didn’t believe in her, that she could survive without spiralling into some seedy way of life he obviously abhorred.
She tapped her bottom lip, pretending to think, before snapping her fingers. ‘I know. If I can’t make ends meet I can always take off my clothes for money. Or even better, become an escort. Or something equally nefarious that you seem to think I’m one step away from.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he snapped, but the spots of high colour on his cheekbones belied his denial. ‘I’m just worried about you—’
‘I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.’ Hurting all the way to her soul, she made a grand show of glancing at her watch. ‘Better head home and start making travel plans. I’ll see you at final rehearsal tomorrow.’
She wanted him to say something, anything, to make her stay.
She wanted some kind of sign that they weren’t over, that there was the faintest hope they could still make this work somehow.
She wanted it all: Broadway, stardom, him.
Sadly, Makayla had learned a long time ago that what she wanted and what she got were poles apart.
Her heart broke anew as Hudson just stood there, radiating disapproval, a frown creasing his brow, as he watched her back towards the door, where she spun around and marched through it, head held high.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
AS IF HUDSON’S shitty week couldn’t get any worse, he’d received a call from his father’s special accommodation facility first thing this morning, asking him to come in. The nurse hadn’t specified the problem exactly but had forcefully suggested he pay a visit today.
This after the blow-up with Mak last night and a maximum of ninety minutes’ sleep when he’d finally made it home from work at four a.m.
He’d thought discovering her naked on stage that night years ago had been bad. It had nothing on the way they’d imploded last night.
The way she’d confronted him, not giving him a chance to explain, thinking the worst of him...he’d had that a lot growing up. Teachers not believing in him because of his home life. Friends judging him for not having a good enough home to invite them over to hang out. Bosses not trusting him because nobody trusted anyone in the Cross, until he proved himself many times over.
That lack of belief drove him to be the best. To show the world that no matter what hardships he faced as a kid, nothing or nobody could keep him down. He prided himself on his work ethic, his dependability, his honesty.
Apparently, it all meant jack to Mak.
He’d been wise to distance himself this week, to re-erect emotional barriers. Their relationship had ended as he’d expected. Well, not quite what he’d expected. He’d envisaged them staying friends. Good friends. The kind of friends who chatted regularly and did video conferencing and even hopped on a plane to New York if the impulse hit.
Who was he kidding? He’d hoped they could’ve been a hell of a lot more than friends but that had been shot to shit.
He was better off without her.
Then why did he feel so goddamn bad?
Pulling into the parking lot of the special accommodation home, he killed the engine. It usually took him a few moments of gaining composure before he could face his father. It was the same every time he visited. Too much had happened between them, too many bad memories, to forget.
He’d tried. Had gone through a rough patch when he’d hit eighteen and gone in search of his mum. What he’d learned had driven him to drink, spending night after night drowning his sorrows in a bottle. Until he’d taken one look in the mirror, seen the resemblance to dear old dad and snapped out of it, switching to OJ without the vodka.
He’d confronted his father with the truth. Had blamed him for everything. Predictably, his old man hadn’t given a shit. Had called his mother every name under the sun and accused her of driving him to drink.
Hudson knew better.
He knew the real culprit in his disastrous upbringing and it sure as hell wasn’t his mother.
Taking a deep breath, he blew it out, counted to ten and opened the car door. The first thing to hit him was the sea air. Tangy. Stringent. The second thing was the views. The endless expanse of Sydney Harbour, a perfect cerulean today, dotted with sailboats and yachts, with mansions scattering north shore in the distance.
Though his father didn’t deserve it he’d chosen one of the nicest accommodations in the city and paid the exorbitant rates for the privilege. Tanner accused
him of being a soft touch with a core of marshmallow and his friend was probably right. But the moment he’d set foot in this place after checking out six other dementia homes, he’d known this was the right one.
Maybe it was sentimentality, maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was a futile wish he could’ve done something like this for his mum; whatever it was, he’d handed over the hefty entry fee for his father and worked his ass off to keep paying the bills.
If there was such a thing as karma he’d be in line for a whole heap of good stuff coming his way. Though if that were the case, his relationship with Mak would’ve worked out.
Swiping a hand over his face, he slammed the car door, stabbed at the remote to lock it and strode towards the front doors. Perfectly manicured lawns flanked the terracotta-bricked path, wide enough to fit two wheelchairs side by side. Flower beds filled with a riot of colour edged the garden, with towering eucalypts casting shade over the lawns.
The entire scene screamed peaceful and he absorbed as much of the ambience as he could before the upcoming confrontation. He needed it, because his obligatory visits to his father only went two ways. His father having lucid moments where he’d berate him for locking him away in this ‘jail’ or a bad day, where the dementia would make him ramble, alternating between angry and recalcitrant. Exactly how he’d been as a mean drunk.
Hudson didn’t visit often. He felt he’d paid his dues by keeping his father at home for as long as he had and now, with this luxury accommodation. But being summoned by the nurses couldn’t be a good thing and he braced himself for what he’d find.
Squaring his shoulders, he strode up the front steps and the glass doors slid open soundlessly. The faintest waft of lavender filled the foyer, probably filtered through the air conditioning ducts to calm the residents. A gleaming mahogany front desk, reminiscent of a five-star hotel, ran the length of the foyer, with huge floral arrangements strategically placed at either end.
The place definitely had a hotel feel; until he stepped through the electronically locked doors and realised his father’s mind had deteriorated to the point he had to be confined.
Fixing a smile on his face, he approached the front desk. ‘Hudson Watt to see Wiley Watt, my father.’
He didn’t recognise the forty-something receptionist. Then again, considering his infrequent visits, it wasn’t unusual.
She smiled and pointed at the locked door. ‘Go right ahead. I’ll buzz you in.’
When he had his hand on the handle, she said, ‘You have the same eyes as Wiley.’
Blurry and nasty? He hoped not. He managed a terse nod and pushed open the door when it buzzed.
The lavender scent was stronger here, as if the cleaners were trying to drown out the smells of antiseptic and old people. It made his nose twitch.
The nurses’ station stood just inside the door, a central rotund area that resembled a high-tech spaceship. Its positioning gave the nurses full view of every room and every corridor leading to the rec rooms, the grounds and the dining area. Perfect for occupants with a tendency to wander.
He recognised several of the nurses, particularly the younger ones who never failed to flirt with him. But his heart wasn’t in it today so he offered them a grim smile before turning his attention to the matron who’d called him.
‘Thanks for coming, Hudson.’ She folded her arms, a defensive posture that wasn’t a good sign.
‘How’s Wiley?’
He never called him Dad any more. Wiley Watt didn’t deserve the title.
‘He’s been asking for you a lot lately. That’s why I called.’ She paused, as if searching for the right words. ‘He’s due for his annual check-up and we’ll wait to see what the doctor says, but the dementia seems to be worsening. Most of his ramblings centre on you and a woman I assume is your mother, Kim? It makes him very upset. To the point he cries.’
Hudson’s heart turned over. Bit late for dear old dad to grow a conscience. ‘Is he lucid today?’
She nodded. ‘It’s one of his better days, which is why I thought you should come in and have a chat to him. See if he can make peace with whatever is bugging him so he’ll be more subdued on other days?’
She didn’t need to spell it out. His dad must’ve been saying some pretty revealing, damning stuff during his demented ramblings and the nurses thought that talking to him might ease the guilt. As if. Wiley Watt would need a year’s worth of confessionals to bring some semblance of peace.
‘I’ll talk to him,’ he said, sounding like he’d rather have a root canal. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’
The nurse hesitated, before briefly touching his arm. ‘I’ve worked in dementia wards for twenty-six years and it’s rare to see people exhibit the level of regret your father is showing because they can’t usually process emotions for events in the past, particularly when alcohol is the precipitating cause of the dementia. So give him a chance, okay?’
Hudson couldn’t promise anything so remained silent.
The nurse sighed, her lack of judgement appreciated. ‘He’s in his room.’
‘Thanks.’
Nothing his father could say would change the devastation of the past but if it made the nurses’ jobs easier he’d listen to whatever the old man had to say.
The ten steps from the nurses’ station to his father’s room always seemed to take an eternity, as if his feet refused to move and dragged across the pristine carpet.
He knocked at the door, waited the obligatory five seconds, before opening it and entering. He’d learned early on during his visits that his father never answered his door and if he waited for him to open it he’d be here all day.
Wiley sat in a recliner armchair next to a large window, sunlight streaming through and warming him like a cat, bald head gleaming. For someone who’d imbibed enough alcohol in his lifetime to pickle his liver and his brain, he didn’t look too bad. Wrinkles criss-crossed his face, set in a perpetual dour expression, but he maintained a good bodyweight. He appeared fit for his seventy-eight years. If not for the dementia, Wiley would still probably be drinking himself to sleep every day.
Like every other visit, Wiley ignored him until Hudson sat in a chair opposite him. ‘Hey.’
‘What are you doing here?’ The same guttural tone, almost a snarl, that Hudson had endured every day growing up.
‘Came to see how you’re doing.’
‘I’m locked away in a loony bin full of stinking old fools, how do you think I’m doing?’
So he was having a good day. Completely lucid. Hudson didn’t know if that boded well or not.
‘This is a good place. You’re well looked after,’ he said, wishing he could rattle the selfish old goat and make him understand exactly how hard he had to work to pay the bills.
‘You still working odd jobs at the Cross?’
Wiley’s question came out of left field. In all the years he’d been here he’d never asked anything about Hudson’s job, let alone the jobs he’d worked as a teen to keep food on the table.
‘No, I manage a nightclub now. And I’m involved in theatre.’
Wiley screwed up his nose and snorted. ‘Pansy-ass occupations, if you ask me.’
‘I didn’t.’
Hudson waited, curious to see what else his father would say and more than a little hopeful he’d reveal more about his mother.
He’d never forget the day he’d found her. Far too late.
It had haunted him ever since.
He’d wanted to know more about the mother he remembered as a toddler, the mother who’d cuddled him every chance she could, the mother who’d smelled like exotic frangipanis, the mother who’d tell him bedtime stories and tuck him in every night.
That was the woman he wanted to remember, not the woman lying in a grimy bedsit with a needle sticking out of her arm.
‘Your mother wanted you to be a l
awyer.’
Hudson startled. As if Wiley had read his mind, he’d mentioned his mum.
‘Bloodsucking leeches, the lot of ’em, but would’ve paid well.’ Wiley ran a hand over his head, smoothing back non-existent hair. ‘She was dating one when we met. But couldn’t resist my charms so we got hitched three months later.’
Hudson couldn’t imagine his father having a single charming bone in his selfish body but he remained silent.
‘I’ve been thinking a lot about her lately. When I’m not...’ Wiley made loopy circles at his temple. ‘Hate how I can’t bloody remember my own name half the time.’
Another first, Wiley admitting he had a problem with his memory.
‘Docs say the alcohol did it.’ Wiley shook his head, having the guts to look guilty for once. ‘Looks like the alcohol did a lot of things to screw up my life back then.’
His father didn’t deserve an ounce of pity but for a moment, Hudson felt something close to it. ‘You could’ve stopped at any time.’
How many times had he tipped bottles down the sink in the hope his dad would stop drinking? How many times had he heard Wiley’s empty promises that he wouldn’t touch another drop of the demon drink? How many times had he propped him up on the way home from the pub despite Wiley saying he’d only popped in for lemonade?
Empty promises to match his empty life since his mum had left him to be raised by a mean prick.
‘I only drank to stop the pain here.’ Wiley thumped a fist over his heart. ‘Kim broke it when she left.’
He lowered his hand, shaking slightly. ‘My fault. I drove her away. Was never good enough for her, made her do terrible things for the money then hated her for it...’
Hudson knew his mother had turned to prostitution to survive. The woman who’d owned the bedsit had told him more than he’d wanted to know and then some when he’d tracked down his mum in Melbourne and found her dead.
But never in his worst nightmares had he suspected Wiley had made her do it while they were married.