by Judy Nunn
‘Let's go for a walk,’ he suggested, and he called for the bill. ‘I want to discuss the next concept with you. It's a ball-tearer.’ He'd hinted at another project on the phone and Emma couldn't wait to toss around ideas. She had never worked with anyone as stimulating as Michael.
‘We'll have another bottle to take with us, thanks,’ he said to the waiter, who took no notice as Michael slipped the champagne flutes into his pockets. Mr Ross was always good for a fifty dollar tip, after all.
Ten minutes later they were walking along the beach with their shoes off, the chill harbour water lapping at their bare feet. A late spring bite was in the air but it didn't bother them. They were sipping a fresh glass of Moet et Chandon Vintage and, as usual, the conversation was running riot.
‘The America's Cup, Emma. Probably the greatest historical sporting trophy in the world. Originated by Lord Lipton over a hundred years ago. It hasn't been out of the States since then and the first non-American challenger to win it was Bondy.’
‘And it comes to Australia next year and the challenge is in Perth,’ Emma said excitedly. ‘Great. So that's the theme, is it?’
‘Yes. We'll film the actual race. Imagine it! Twelve-metre yachts in full sail battling the Indian Ocean off the coast of Western Australia. The intrigue, the dirty play - everything that goes with the lust to win. But the major premise is the political effect it has on the country.’
Michael was firing. ‘Look at what happened when the Australians took it off the Yanks at Newport three years ago. No matter what the populace might have thought of Bondy as a shonky businessman, everyone knew that it had become a personal challenge of his to win the Cup. He'd been trying for over fifteen years and he'd spent a fortune. And then when he did it, when he created blue water history, the country claimed it as its own victory. Ticker-tape parades, screams of "We won the Cup", people chanting "We come from the land down under": the entire nation took a holiday and the prime minister himself said that any employer who didn't give his workers the day off was a bum. It was a farce. The whole country went apeshit over not only a mere sporting trophy, but a conquest to which they hadn't contributed at all.’
Emma was way ahead of him. ‘And when the next Cup challenge is held in Perth small business will be encouraged by the government to provide for the tourist trade. Which means everybody will put themselves in hock to make the big buck. Chaos. If the Australians keep the Cup, small businesses are left with a hugely competitive cutthroat market, and if the Australians lose the Cup, the majority of those businesses will go bankrupt. What an indictment. It's a great controversial issue.’
‘Spot on,’ Michael said approvingly. ‘That's the meat of the movie. That's what the critics will call "good comment", etc. But that's not the movie we're actually going to make. We're going to make something much simpler.’
Emma shook her head. ‘You've lost me.’
‘It's a heist movie. They're out to steal the Cup itself.’
They'd walked to the end of the beach and back and they were at Watson's Bay Jetty once again. ‘Now listen to me,’ he said as he sat her down on the jetty beside him. ‘This is the good part. It's a movie within a movie, you see. We open with a film unit making a movie based on the challenge for the America's Cup. Their intent is to portray all the personal dirty intrigue, the political and economic competition, but, in the meantime, the core of the film unit itself is a group of internationally accomplished masterminds - the whole thing is a well-orchestrated plan to steal the Cup. A multimillionaire's behind it all - he simply wants to own the bloody thing, to put it in the back room and look at it. The film production is an entire cover-up. But the audience doesn't know that until three-quarters of the way through the movie. And of course, it's all intercut with the reality of the race itself and the real Cup.’
Michael poured the last drops of champagne into his glass. ‘Mr Big is an oil billionaire, say, an Arab sheik or a Texan, so funds are - ’
‘I'd go with the Texan,’ Emma suggested. ‘Better for the American market - then we can import a legend: Lancaster, Douglas, Peck ... ’
‘Or stay with the Arab and bring in Sharif. Now stop interrupting and let me get on with the storyline.’
‘Sorry, sorry. Go on, go on.’
‘Mr Big's funds are unlimited so the international crooks have millions available to bribe cops, yacht club officials, security guys, you name it. They bribe them in order to gain access to the Cup. Access to use the Cup in their film, of course - no one has any idea there's a genuine plot afoot.’
‘Including the audience.’
‘Right. Until the actual theft the audience is watching the making of a semidocumentary-style drama based around the America's Cup challenge with footage of the actual race and fictional characters caught up in the competition and politics of it all.’
‘What about subplot action for the actors in the "movie"?’ Emma asked. ‘We could have an off-screen love affair between the leading lady and the skipper of one of the challengers or the near-death of a stuntie in a rigged yacht collision. That'd keep the audience occupied and make the disclosure of the film crew's plot more of a shock.’
‘Exactly! That's the sort of stuff I want you to start work on as soon as possible. Actors’ characters, relationships, storylines - the lives of the innocents caught up in the centre of the intrigue. Because the bogus film crew really only consists of half a dozen people. The rest of the cast and crew all believe they're making a heist movie.’
It was a wonderful idea, Emma thought. Like all Michael's ideas, it was original, again mirroring his fascination for the marriage of fact and fiction.
‘How are they going to do it?’ she asked. ‘The actual theft?’
‘I knew you'd come up with something as practical as that,’ he smiled. ‘Trust Emma Clare to bring me back to earth from my flights of fancy. It's one aspect I haven't figured out yet, but I'm sending Stanley off to Perth next week to work on it. It's more up his alley anyway. He's going to case the Royal Perth Yacht Club for me, their layout and burglar alarm systems. That's probably where they'll house the Cup during the Challenge.’
They sat on the jetty for a further hour until Emma was chilled to the bone, although she barely noticed in her excitement. They talked plots, characters and finally titles. Endless titles.
‘I've got it!’ she said suddenly. ‘Michael, I've got it. You said it yourself, and when you said it I thought it had a magic ring. Why didn't we think of it earlier? It's perfect.’
‘What, for Christ's sake, what?’
‘Blue Water History.’
A pause. He stared at her, then grinned. ‘Perfect. Says it all without giving away the heist angle. Blue Water History it is.’
Emma worked hard on Blue Water History. For the next three months, stationed in Queensland, she devoted far more of her time to the Cup movie than she did to the Great Barrier Reef series, writing well into the night each time she returned from the production studios. With all the frustrating parameters set by commercial producers making formula material for the masses, the series had become tedious to her. And, because she was the youngest writer Richmonds had ever employed (purely upon the personal request of Penelope Ross) she wasn't assigned original scripts. Her job was to work on endless rewrites and to edit other writers’ scripts which had come in under time or over time or simply not up to scratch. Then there were the boring production meetings and the budget discussions at which all she was required to do was sit and take notes. She was grateful to Richmonds for the experience, but Emma needed a greater challenge. And now she had one. To go home each night and lose herself in Michael's crazy movie was a great release for her.
‘Go mad with it, Emma,’ he'd told her. ‘And bugger the budget. My grandfather has promised me that if Halley's is half the success I’ve told him it's going to be, then Ross Productions will make Blue Water, no holds barred.’
Michael was thrilled that Franklin was prepared to place such faith in him but,
secretly, he knew that whether or not his grandfather came to the party, Blue Water History would still be made. The following year, when he turned twenty-one, the massive personal trust account Franklin had set up on the birth of his grandson would be turned over to Michael. He would be worth millions.
Emma's first draft of Blue Water History (minus the actual heist scenes) was completed within two months. The second draft was completed a month later and then there was only a month to go before her return to Sydney and the Halley's premiere. A month to edit and polish the Blue Water script. A month of excitement at the thought of seeing the final cut of Halley's. A month of tense anticipation at the prospect of finally meeting the fabled Franklin Ross. And a month of something else. Something totally unexpected. A month to fall in love.
Malcolm O'Brien came from the Gold Coast and was twenty-seven years old. He'd made his first fortune in Queensland coastal real estate when he was twenty-two and had never looked back. His contacts and dealings were shady but no one could put a finger on anything actually illegal, although his competitors had tried.
Emma knew little of his background but she wouldn't have cared even if she had. She was too busy being swept off her feet by the suave, sophisticated young businessman who looked like a Greek god and treated her like a princess.
Malcolm had pursued her from the moment she'd arrived in Townsville. He owned the nearby marina which the film unit had hired as one of the locations for the series and they'd met on the first day of filming. He rarely visited his marina and had only flown up to watch the film crew work as a matter of interest.
‘You're an actress, are you?’ he asked. Well, obviously she'd have to be, he thought. She was without a doubt the most beautiful woman there and there were a number of lookers around. He'd checked them out.
‘An actress? Good God, no,’ she answered. ‘I'd run a mile if they pointed a camera at me - not much talent in that direction, I'm afraid.’
The day's shoot was over and the company had laid on drinks and refreshments as an introductory goodwill gesture. Although the production staff and the key crew personnel had been setting up for a week, many cast and crew members had arrived just the previous day.
‘Wrap drinks will only be provided on Fridays in future,’ the producer was swift to point out. ‘But, in the meantime, get to know each other, gang - there's a heavy week's workload ahead.’
‘Oh.’ Malcolm was surprised. ‘You're one of the crew then, are you?’ What a waste, he thought. She should be in front of the cameras, not behind them.
‘No,Fm a writer,’ Emma smiled. ‘Well, they've employed me as a writer, but I’m a glorified secretary more than anything. No thanks,’ she shook her head as he offered to top up her glass, ‘it's a bit too hot for bubbly, isn't it?’
They were standing by the catering tent overlooking the marina. Although it was late afternoon, there was little breeze, the day was sticky and humid and the bulk ‘champagne’ and beer supplied by the production company was turning warm.
‘How about a freezing gin and tonic in my air-conditioned office?’ Malcolm asked. When Emma hesitated, he added, ‘Your producer's already agreed,’ and nodded at the dumpy dark-haired woman who was marching towards them.
‘Thanks,’ Emma smiled. ‘I'd love to.’
As they walked down to the marina Emma was aware of Monica's disapproval but she didn't care. Monica was a martinet at the best of times and a bully at the worst. Obviously she'd presumed her invitation had been exclusive. Not that her sights would be in any way set on Malcolm - she was a confirmed lesbian - but Monica liked people to know and to keep their place and Emma was not part of the company hierarchy. Emma, however, believed in equality. Besides, a gin and tonic and air-conditioning was too good to resist.
As she looked out at the first glow of sunset over the water and the millions of dollars worth of boats bobbing gently in their pens, Emma thought what a charming host Malcolm was. He was telling a tale about an arrogant American multimillionaire who kept his boat penned at the marina and used it just once a year for a week's game fishing.
‘He's utterly useless,’ Malcolm laughed. ‘Motherless drunk the whole time. We skipper and crew the boat for him and catch the fish and then prop him up and take photos of him with a Spanish mackerel in each hand so he can go home and boast about his exploits "down under".’
Emma laughed. How refreshing it was to be listening to someone talk about something other than the television and movie business. Movie people could be such an indulgent lot. Many of them took themselves and their business so seriously when really they had no right to. Not Michael, of course. Michael was a constant source of challenge and stimulation. He was also witty and amusing and Emma sorely missed his company. Yes, she thought, Malcolm O'Brien was a welcome relief. Charming, humorous and, she concluded, stealing another quick glance at him before returning to the sunset, devilishly handsome.
Half an hour later, when the sunset was at its gaudy, glorious peak, Malcolm offered to take the two women to dinner. Emma immediately declined. She used the film shoot and its gruelling schedule as her excuse but it was really Blue Water History which was claiming her.
Before Monica could accept the invitation, Malcolm rose to his feet nodding in agreement. ‘Yes, of course, you're quite right. "A heavy week's workload ahead", that's what the producer said.’ He flashed a winning smile at Monica. ‘Perhaps we'd better leave it till the weekend.’
‘Yes, I think so.’ Monica had no option but to agree, though she would have liked to dine with Malcolm O'Brien. Not only did she enjoy fine food, it would have been good for her image to be seen with such a powerful, high-profile man.
That night, Malcolm decided to stay in Towns-ville for the duration of the filming and the following morning he booked the penthouse at a nearby resort for three months.
It took him seven weeks to bed Emma. Not only was she playing hard to get, he thought, but she always seemed to be working. Undaunted, he persevered, never pushing too hard, never making too much of a nuisance of himself, until finally, what had started out as a bit of a challenge became a fixation.
He sent her red roses every day until she agreed to dine with him and, when she did, it was quite obvious she enjoyed his company. ‘So what's wrong with dinner again tomorrow or the night after?’ he asked. ‘You're not filming, are you?’ She shook her head and he concluded triumphantly, ‘Exactly! And you have to eat.’ But she continued to shake her head. ‘We'll make it a sandwich, for God's sake, Emma - what's the problem?’
‘I've set myself a deadline on the script I'm writing. If I have a sandwich at all it'll be while I'm belting away at a word processor.’
‘Then I'll sit quietly in the background and serve you coffee.’
But she just laughed and accepted another glass of wine. And, the next day, more red roses arrived. Eventually he wore her down and they dined together several nights a week. Emma still met her Blue Water History deadline. It simply meant that she had to work through till five in the morning on occasions.
Then came the expensive gifts. When he first presented her with a gold bracelet Emma tried to refuse but he took her hand gently in his. ‘Please, Emma, it gives me pleasure.’ Normally Malcolm's deep brown eyes were crinkled with laughter and the white teeth gleamed in a continual smile. Life never appeared to present much of a problem for Malcolm O'Brien. But now, as he looked down at her hand, his eyes were solemn and his voice was ardent. ‘Don't deny me that pleasure. I love you.’ He looked up. ‘You must know that I love you, Emma.’ And, as his lips gently touched hers, Emma felt herself start to melt.
They didn't make love that night. They didn't make love for another fortnight. The expensive gifts continued, but Emma didn't wear them - she wore very little jewellery. And Malcolm had the good taste never to press her on the issue: it seemed to be enough for him merely to have his gifts accepted.
But gradually Emma was weakening and they both knew it. From the outset, she'd felt fond of Malcolm
and, deep down, a little guilty about the attention and presents he lavished upon her. It was still no reason to go to bed with someone, she told herself over and over, until finally she asked herself ‘Why not?’ She was nineteen years old and all she'd experienced was a messy tumble in the back of a car - so why not? Her capitulation to the seduction was a very conscious act on Emma's behalf.
But from the moment Malcolm started to undress her, gently caressing every inch of her skin, Emma lost all conscious thought. At last she had stopped denying her sexuality and her body was making up for lost time. Her entire being was on fire at his touch. His hands, his mouth, his tongue seemed to be everywhere, more and more insistent. His lips surrounded one hardened nipple, his fingers caressed the other. His hand gently played along the line of her hip, slowly making its way between her thighs.
‘You're beautiful, Emma,’ he murmured. ‘So beautiful.’ And she moaned as she opened her thighs for him.
Emma's awakening had been a long time coming but it didn't disappoint her. The feeling in the very core of her being when he entered her was what she knew she'd been yearning for and she clasped him to her, wanting more and more of him.
She lost herself in her passion for him and, when she called out his name in climax, she felt wholeheartedly, achingly fulfilled. It was at that moment that Emma decided she was in love.
Malcolm was surprised to discover that Emma was so inexperienced - and even more so when he realised that she'd fallen in love with him. But, as she gave herself to him so completely, he realised with far greater surprise that he'd fallen in love with her. Despite his numerous affairs, Malcolm had never been in love before and it was a mystifying experience.
Malcolm returned to Sydney with Emma after the shoot. A month's holiday, he said, before he had to go back to the Gold Coast. He booked into a hotel, although he would have preferred it if Emma had invited him to stay with her in her newly acquired Neutral Bay flat. But she didn't. Not to worry, Malcolm thought. Before the month was out he intended to persuade her to move north with him. He'd even marry her, he decided, if that was what it would take.