by Judy Nunn
During the filming, Brett curbed his exuberance and watched intently. Making sure he was well out of the actors’ eyelines, he observed every move Sam and Mickey and Louis made, his eyes darting between them, noting even the tiniest nuance.
He himself was also being observed. Simon Scanlon was pleased with Brett Marsdon’s interest. So the kid wanted to learn, he thought with a sigh of relief. Thank God for that. Marsdon wasn’t going to be any trouble at all.
‘Action,’ he called.
‘A toast, Mr Blackston.’ The Frenchman gave a dismissive wave to the black maidservant who was hovering beside the dining table, having poured the wine. ‘To you and your beautiful wife,’ he said raising his glass. ‘Welcome to Vila.’
‘Thank you, M’sieur Macon.’ Hugh exchanged a brief glance with Sarah as they both followed suit and raised their glasses. ‘To your very good health, sir.’
Macon gave another peremptory wave and the maidservant, who had stood by the servery awaiting her orders, picked up the tureen of soup. ‘I can be a valuable ally, Mr Blackston,’ he said, studying the girl carefully as she ladled the vichyssoise into Sarah’s soup bowl, terrified of spilling a drop. ‘I carry much weight in the colony.’
The man’s charm was impeccable but his words inferred that he could also be a formidable adversary. His eyes continued to follow the maid as she moved on to Hugh. ‘Please do not hesitate to call upon me,’ he said smoothly, ‘should you need any assistance. As I mentioned to your wife, I am at your disposal.’
Beneath the lace tablecloth Sarah’s hand sought Hugh’s.
‘We are obliged to you, M’sieur,’ Hugh said, ‘both for your offer and for your hospitality. Tangkyu tumas,’ he said to the maid.
There was silence whilst Macon’s soup was served and, when the maid had retired, he smiled, the perfect host.
‘Bon appetit,’ he said as he raised his spoon.
Brett Marsdon had not been present during the previous scenes they’d filmed at Reid’s when Sarah had met Macon, and in the presbytery cottage when she’d warned her husband of the danger she’d felt in the Frenchman’s presence. But, as he watched the dinner scene progress, the tension between the three characters was palpable.
Christ, they were good, he thought. Durand, he’d expected, the man was a cinematic genius, in his opinion. But Mickey Robertson … So economical, so understated. And Sam … Well, Samantha Lindsay was a star in the making. She’d had little dialogue in the scene, just several lines at the end, but her eyes had said it all, particularly when she’d taken her husband’s hand beneath the tablecloth.
He’d have to lift his own game, he realised, couldn’t get by on tricks this time. He’d need to do more than just please the fans. The critics’d be watching Torpedo Junction like hawks; it was a Scanlon film after all. And up against competition like this lot they’d roast him alive if he just laid on the charm.
As they set up for the reverse shots, Brett studied Sam’s relationship with the two men. She wasn’t sexually interested in Louis, he was sure of it. Much as she admired the man, theirs was a strictly professional relationship. But he sensed a deeper friendship with Mickey Robertson. Were they an item? he wondered. Only one way to find out.
‘The chemistry between you two is so fantastic,’ he said to Mickey and Sam after he’d joined the actors during the lunch break and congratulated them all on the scene. ‘Have you guys worked together before?’
‘Oh yes, tons of times,’ Sam said. ‘We’ve run the gamut, siblings and spouses and lovers, you name it.’
‘I preferred the latter,’ Mickey said, putting a lanky arm around her, then adding suggestively, ‘but we never seemed to get enough rehearsal,’ his fingers snaking towards her breast.
‘Lecher,’ Sam laughed as she pushed his hand away.
‘I know,’ he happily agreed.
Well, that was easy, Brett thought.
Dinner back at the Crowne Plaza that night ended up a rowdy affair. The Australian stunt pilot who was to double for Brett had arrived that morning and he described, in detail, the Second World War fighter aircraft that were sitting out at Bauerfield Airport.
‘Grummans and P-41s and Mustangs. Warbirds lined up like there’s no tomorrow. Fan-bloody-tastic. And just you wait’ll you see your Corsair, mate,’ he said to Brett. ‘Beautiful-looking thing, in mint condition, can’t wait to take her up.’
Highly susceptible as he was, Brett Marsdon was soon carried away on his own wave of excitement. ‘I tell you, man, this movie is going to be the greatest,’ he raved to the stuntie and anyone else in earshot, ‘today’s filming really blew me away.’ And before long everyone, the crew included, was infected with his enthusiasm.
As they all left the dining room, Brett suggested an impromptu party down by the pool. ‘Open bar,’ he said, ‘drinks on me.’
The idea was welcomed by the crew, but Simon quashed it immediately.
‘Big day’s shoot tomorrow,’ he said to everyone. ‘Early start. And your first day on set,’ he added to Brett with a warning tone.
Who did the guy think he was? Brett wondered. He was only the director, when all was said and done. If I want to throw a party, man, he thought, I’ll throw a party, I don’t need your goddamn permission. He wanted to say it, but he knew it wouldn’t be a wise move.
‘Hey listen, Simon,’ he said, taking the director aside. ‘I think it might be a really cool idea if you let me pick up the tab for a few drinks.’
Simon looked at him through slitted eyes. Was Marsdon trying to put one over him?
‘It’s de rigueur, man,’ Brett grinned, dimples working overtime, ‘the star always picks up the tab,’ but he quickly abandoned the smile when Simon failed to respond.
‘Look, I know you don’t buy this whole star-system shit,’ he said in all seriousness, ‘and neither do I. But it keeps me on side with the gang, you know? I don’t want them to think I’m full of it. Gets us off to a good start, the crew and me. All buddies. You know where I’m coming from?’
Simon did. It actually made sense. If there was any antagonism amongst the ranks towards the American superstar and his multi-million-dollar salary, it would dissolve, in true Aussie tradition, once Marsdon had shouted the crew a few beers. And if there were some hangovers around tomorrow, did it really matter?
‘Okay, Brett,’ he said. ‘Very generous of you.’
‘Thanks, Simon. I appreciate your understanding.’ Oh thank you very much, Brett thought. Big deal, I have Daddy’s permission. He hoped the guy wouldn’t stay long.
Simon didn’t. He had two beers at the pool and left at ten o’clock.
‘’Night all,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget, sparrow’s tomorrow.’ ‘Sparrow’s fart start’ was his reminder that their call time was dawn.
‘’Night Simon,’ they all chorused like obedient children, and he grinned, aware they were sending him up.
Nick left shortly after. If Brett Marsdon wanted to ingratiate himself with the crew and give himself a hangover into the bargain, then let him. But Nick hoped he wouldn’t lead Sam astray. The scene they were shooting first thing in the morning was between Sarah and the American fighter pilot. It was crucial to the film and the characters, and Nick was angered at the thought that Brett Marsdon could jeopardise it.
‘Go easy, Sam, won’t you,’ he whispered to her.
She didn’t say anything, but raised an eyebrow by way of reply; it was the first time he’d ever lectured her.
‘I know, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s just that it’s a big scene first up.’ He wanted to say ‘and I don’t trust Brett Marsdon’, but he knew it would sound foolish. She’d only tell him she could look after herself, and she’d be quite right.
‘Of course it is,’ she said simply, wondering why he was behaving the way he was. ‘’Night, Nick.’ She kissed him on the cheek.
‘’Night.’ And he slipped away quietly, feeling like a fussy old aunt.
Brett watched him go. Good, he thought. He
knew the writer didn’t like him. The way was now clear.
‘Hey, Sam,’ he called. ‘Over here. Louis just told a great story about Gerard Depardieu and his first Hollywood gig. Come on, Louis,’ he urged as she joined them, ‘you have to tell it in English now.’
The stuntie left at eleven o’clock, tired of mineral water and cursing the fact that he had to fly the next day when it was turning into such a beaut party. Several of the crew ended up in the pool, some clothed, some not, and Mickey remained seated at a table overlooking the lagoon, in deep conversation with Elizabeth from the local radio station. She was teaching him Bislama and, always good with accents, he was getting it right, which delighted Elizabeth. But Mickey was wondering what it would be like to go to bed with her. He loved the glossiness of her skin and he wondered if she was that colour all over. He’d never made love to a black woman. She was so bloody attractive, and a really nice bird, would she be offended if he chatted her up? He looked at his watch surreptitiously. Couldn’t afford to have too late a night, he thought, he was second scene up for the day. Perhaps he should ask her how to say ‘I find you sexy’ in Bislama.
Louis Durand begged off at midnight. He would have retired much earlier if he’d been filming the next morning, but he had the day off and was going snorkelling at Hideaway Island instead. He wasn’t the least bit critical of the others partying on. They’d get by the next day with their thumping heads, they were ten years younger than he was – a little more actually, he reminded himself – and he’d done the same thing a decade ago.
‘Bon nuit,’ he said.
Sam looked about. She and Brett were the only cast members left; she’d noticed Mickey leaving with Elizabeth a good half hour ago. She glanced at her watch. Midnight. The crew were still skylarking about in the pool, an impromptu game of water polo in progress, others barracking from the sidelines. They were in for the long haul, she thought, as crews always were when it was an open tab. And Jimmy, the islander serving behind the bar, was still dishing out his cocktails, along with the Tusker, champagne, wine and anything from the top shelf.
Time for bed, Sam thought. The taste of wine was turning sour, she’d had more than enough.
‘Thanks, Brett,’ she said, ‘it’s been a good night.’
‘Hey, Sam, don’t leave me.’ He was in full party mode and wasn’t about to let her go. ‘How about a quick line,’ he said, taking a small leather pouch from his pocket. ‘Just a bit of a hit, c’mon now, I really want to talk to you.’
So that explained his constant energy, she thought as she watched him tap the white powder out of its tiny plastic bag onto the small square mirror. She should have known.
‘No thanks, I’m not into coke.’ She smiled as she said it, she didn’t want to sound censorious.
‘Oh well, each to his own poison,’ he grinned, taking the already rolled fifty-dollar note from the pouch. ‘One more drink for the road then. C’mon, Sam,’ he pleaded as she shook her head, ‘I’m the host, I can’t leave yet, keep me company.’
‘If I have one more glass of wine I’ll puke,’ she said bluntly, ‘and besides, I’m busting for the loo.’
Brett gave a joyful hoot of laughter. ‘God, how I love you Ossies,’ he said. ‘I really do.’
‘It’s Aussies, Brett,’ she corrected him. ‘Aussies with a zed.’
‘A zed?’
‘Well, a zee to you.’
‘Aussies,’ he said correctly, ‘and we’ll make it a cocktail, something exotic. C’mon,’ he urged, ‘you’ll never sleep with this racket.’
Sam looked at the pool awash with semi-naked crew, all laughing and yelling. Her bungalow was only twenty metres away. He was right, she thought, she’d never get to sleep, and sleep was the most important thing. One strong cocktail’d do the trick, then she’d go to bed and pass out for a good five hours.
‘Okay,’ she agreed, ‘something strong and sweet. I’ll be back in a tick,’ and she went off down the path that led to the toilet block.
‘Strong and sweet it is,’ Brett said when she returned five minutes later to discover a huge rainbow-coloured cocktail sitting on the bar.
‘What the hell is it?’
‘Don’t ask me. Jimmy’s special, whatever that is.’
‘It’s strong all right,’ she said taking a sip, ‘should do the trick.’
‘Let’s get away from the noise,’ he suggested, and they took their drinks to the table that Mickey and Elizabeth had vacated, overlooking the lagoon. Behind them the noise remained as loud as ever but, as they gazed out over the dark water at the lights still twinkling on Erikor Island, they could have been alone, just the two of them.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘It is,’ he agreed, staring at her. ‘To us.’ He raised his bottle of Tusker. She looked at him quizzically. ‘To Torpedo Junction.’
Well, she’d drink to that, she thought, and she clinked her glass against his beer bottle.
‘I can’t wait to work with you, you know that? Watching you today, man,’ Brett shook his head in admiration, ‘I really mean it, you are fantastic and I’m not bullshitting, I swear it.’ He wasn’t, he meant every word he said.
‘Are you trying to get into my pants?’ He was so intense that Sam couldn’t resist sending him up.
He didn’t laugh, but he wasn’t offended. ‘I sure am,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ She took another sip of her cocktail, buying time. Well, that was certainly direct, she thought.
‘I told you we’d have a ball here, you and me, and I meant it.’
‘And I said we’ll do some work first, if I remember.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, we haven’t yet.’ Why did she feel he had control of the situation? He no longer seemed like an eager puppy, his eyes were burning a hole in her skull. Maybe he was too coked up, maybe she was a bit drunk, but he was confusing her. ‘I mean we haven’t worked together yet.’
‘And that’s exactly why we should make love.’ Brett was accustomed to having sex with his female co-stars. As far as he was concerned it went with the territory, particularly when they were filming on location. It was a buzz and it helped his performance, added to the onscreen electricity.
‘I have a theory,’ he said. ‘I believe audiences can tell when people are lovers, there’s a chemistry that translates onscreen. I like to use everything, you know? Like all of this,’ he looked out over the lagoon, ‘and us,’ he looked back at her, ‘and the attraction we feel for each other.’
Why was such a clichéd argument sounding so persuasive? Sam wondered. There were any number of responses on the tip of her tongue. She could send him up about taking ‘method’ too seriously, or tell him to ‘just act’ — wasn’t that what Laurence Olivier had once said? But she realised that she did find him very attractive and, even as she considered a suitable retort, she was wondering what it would be like to go to bed with him.
He knew she was weakening. ‘Besides, it’d be fun, wouldn’t it?’ he said, his smile cheekily daring her.
Sam stared into the eyes that made female audiences swoon, and part of her wanted to laugh. She could see that same come-to-bed look in closeup on the screen, and she felt as if she was in one of his movies. Yet, at the same time, she was aroused. How extraordinary, she thought. She grinned rather inanely back at him and took a swig of her half-finished cocktail.
‘Your place or mine?’ he asked.
‘Mine,’ she said, ‘so that I can pass out.’
‘You lead the way, I’ll bring the drinks.’ He picked up her glass. ‘You want another one?’
‘No way.’
Brett grabbed a beer from the bar, instructed Jimmy to stop serving in an hour and followed her to her bungalow.
They sat out on the verandah and drank for the next quarter of an hour or so, in between kissing and fondling and teasing each other.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ Sam whispered. Her brain was spinning, either from the effects of the alcoho
l she’d consumed or the lust that now consumed her, but either way she desperately wanted sex.
‘Not just yet, in a minute.’ Brett was enjoying the seduction. She was getting hotter by the minute and that was the way he liked it, her desire was a real turn-on. ‘Finish your drink.’
She drained the glass, and moaned as she felt his hand go to work once again on her nipple. She felt utterly abandoned as she opened her mouth to his. We’ll be doing it out on the verandah in a moment, she thought vaguely, as his other hand found its way between her thighs, but she didn’t really care, the verandah would be fine. She moaned again and parted her legs.
Then, suddenly, everything went wrong. The hand that was thrusting itself through the crotch of her panties was vile and invasive. The fingertips that had been teasing her nipple were pinching it now, torturing her. And the tongue that had been gently exploring her mouth was threatening to choke her. Everything that had been erotic was hideous. She was under attack. She was being raped. She fought back.
For a moment Brett thought it was part of the game, that she was turned on and wanted it rough. He fought back briefly himself, enjoying the struggle, but within seconds he realised she was serious.
She was pushing against him with all her might and, as he broke away, she fell to her knees on the deck of the verandah. He went to help her up, but she backed away from him.
‘Get away from me, you bastard.’ Her voice was angry, but she was frightened, he could tell. Then he saw the paranoia in her eyes.
‘Oh shit,’ he said, recognising the signs. ‘Come on, Sam, get up.’ Once again he tried to help her, and once again she backed away.
‘You come near me, you creep, and I’ll scream rape!’
‘Sssh, keep your voice down, for Chrissakes, they’ll hear you.’ He squatted on the verandah deck, staying a safe distance away in order not to alarm her. ‘I wasn’t trying to rape you, Sam. You’re just having a bad trip, that’s all.’
She glared at him, still paranoid, still not trusting him, but listening.
‘Your drink had an e in it. Come on, baby, I didn’t mean to scare you, just a bit of fun.’