Araluen

by Judy Nunn

  ‘What are you going to do with the damn thing?’

  ‘Oh, give it back, of course. They’d be bound to find out eventually.’

  ‘You’re just going to hand it back tomorrow?’ Emma asked. ‘ “Here’s your cup, sorry we stole it"?’

  ‘Exactly. The Yacht Club’ll be furious, but what can they do about it? It would be far too embarrassing if the news got out. I’ll tell them we were testing their security system. Hey, that’s a good idea,’ he laughed. ‘I’ve done them a favour – they should consider it a very valuable exercise. Now drink. Come on.’ He tilted the cup in Emma’s direction. ‘We’re the only people in the world who’ll ever have a chance to do this, Emma. You first.’

  Emma looked at Stanley, who shook his head, gave a wry smile and shrugged back at her. Then she leaned over, took the Cup in her hands, and drank deeply.

  It became a ceremony. One by one they drank from the America’s Cup. Two more bottles of Dom Perignon and two joints later, they started to get the giggles. Mildly hysterical giggles.

  ‘Didn’t you ever wonder why I made all those dialogue changes from the original script?’

  Michael asked Emma. ‘I gave Jonathan virtually all the vocal stuff in the baddies’ scenes.’

  ‘I didn’t question it for a minute,’ Emma replied. ‘I thought it was because Jonathan’s agent had demanded a larger role.’

  ‘Nope.’ Michael passed the joint to Stanley. ‘Ben and Gussy’s specialised training didn’t include acting technique. I was playing it safe.’

  Stanley threw back his head and roared with laughter. It was uncharacteristic of him but the marijuana and the champagne had gone right to his head. ‘Poor Jonathan,’ he said. ‘Imagine the show he’d have put on if he’d known he was working with amateur actors – he’s such an old queen.’

  They all started laughing, very very loudly. ‘Oh, I did the right thing,’ Michael protested when they’d calmed down, ‘I signed Ben and Gussy up as members of Actors’ Equity.’

  The three of them burst out laughing again. ‘They were terribly good,’ Emma said when things were once again under control. ‘Both of them.’ The booze and joints had gone to her head too and she felt awfully silly. ‘You never know, they might win AFI awards for Best Support.’ She’d meant it quite seriously but it started them all off again and eventually Michael, the first to recover, suggested they open another bottle and throw themselves in the pool to sober up.

  It seemed a good idea. It was seven o’clock in the morning, they had a production meeting at midday and it would be wise to get a bit of sleep before then.

  It would also be a good idea, Emma suggested,as they started stripping by the side of the pool, to keep their underwear on. It was a bright summer’s morning, the entire household would soon be awake and the landscaped garden was overlooked by two other houses. She jumped into the water in her bra and panties and the boys did as they were told and joined her in their underpants.

  The shock of the cold water had a particularly sobering effect on Michael and he watched the other two as they splashed about childishly in the shallow end of the pool.

  Emma had never looked more desirable. The white panties were stark against her lithe, tanned body and the lace bra accentuated the swell of her breasts. Without a trace of make-up and with her wet hair plastered back from her face she looked like a healthy, vibrant young animal at play.

  Emma herself was completely oblivious of her appearance. She’d only been stoned twice in her life before and she’d certainly never drunk so much champagne in one sitting. The combination was a heady experience and she felt like a naughty, liberated ten-year-old.

  Stanley too was feeling the effects. But he wasn’t feeling like a ten-year-old. He was also aware of Emma’s near-nakedness. God, she was a beautiful looking creature, he thought admiringly. But he didn’t dwell on it. He never let himself dwell on the deep admiration and affection he felt for Emma. What was the point? She was unavailable and anyway, she obviously didn’t feel the same way about him. Stanley had long since decided that any pursuit of Emma would be a useless, painful and destructive exercise. So he joined in the games and the two of them splashed each other and raced each other and ducked each other until they were thoroughly exhausted.

  Michael was enjoying the sensation of the water caressing his body. He glided around the edges of the pool feeling the occasional contact of the smooth cold tiles against his skin and he basked in the sensuality of the moment.

  He looked at Emma and longed to touch her. The thought of that firm flesh beneath his fingers. The nape of that neck. The curve of that back …

  ‘I’ve had it.’ With her last ounce of remaining energy, Emma hauled herself out of the pool. ‘I’m going upstairs to pass out,’ she said, gathering her clothes together.

  Stanley also climbed out of the water and started drying himself with his T-shirt. ‘Me too,’ he agreed.

  Michael floated on his back and looked up at the two of them.

  Emma struggled into her shirt, still dripping wet. ‘Well, that has to be the most wonderful and indulgent night of my life,’ she grinned. ‘You are wicked men the pair of you.’ She blew a kiss to both of them as she turned to go. ‘But most of all you, Michael,’ she laughed as she disappeared inside, ‘you’re a danger to be near.’

  When Stanley had gone inside, Michael floated for a few more minutes then collected his clothes and went up to his rooms. He had to be with Emma. Alone. It was the right time now. The time he’d planned for so long.

  He dried off, donned a towelling robe and snorted a quick line to speed himself a little, then he went to Emma’s room and knocked lightly on the door.

  She, opened it. She’d showered and washed her hair and she was wearing a light cream-coloured silk wrap. He knew she was naked underneath.

  ‘No, no, no, Michael,’ she said with mock severity. ‘No more playing around. It’s eight-thirty and we have a meeting at twelve and I’m going to bed.’

  ‘A quick word, that’s all,’ he assured her. ‘Without Stanley around. I just want to see you alone for a moment.’

  ‘All right,’ she agreed, opening the door. ‘But no more joints and no more champagne, for God’s sake. I’m about to pass out.’

  He entered, closing the door behind him. She’d drawn the drapes preparatory to going to bed but a shaft of bright sunlight streamed in between them. It was going to be a hot day, he thought.

  ‘Want a glass of mineral water?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  He watched her as she took the bottle from the small bar fridge in the corner. The sunlight knifed through her robe and he could see the entire outline of her body. He crossed and stood behind her, his fingers aching to stroke the silk, to part the robe, to stroke the flesh beneath.

  She put the bottle on top of the refrigerator and turned to get some glasses. Their bodies were practically touching. He was standing in her way but he didn’t move and he didn’t say anything.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘I guess I just wanted to say … ’ What did he want to say? He didn’t want to say anything. His eyes travelled to her mouth. Her full, perfectly formed lips. He wanted to kiss her. That’s what he wanted to do.

  ‘I guess I just wanted to say, thank you … ‘He put his hand on her shoulder. The silk was tissue-paper thin. A soft loose skin covering the firm flesh beneath. He put his other hand on her waist and started to draw her to him, his mouth travelling slowly, slowly towards hers.

  No, Emma thought, oh please, God, no. ‘Stop it, Michael.’ She put her hands on his and tried to pull them from her but his fingers locked onto her body like talons. ‘I said, stop it!’

  His mouth was nearly upon hers. The hand on her shoulder slid to the small of her back and she was crushed against him while the other hand ripped her robe open. Then his lips were on hers, forcing them apart, and his hand was grasping her breasts, her buttocks. She could feel his erection hard against her. He tore
open his own robe and now his naked flesh was upon her flesh, grinding, insistent.

  She managed to tear her mouth away. ‘No, Michael,’ she cried, ‘we can’t! We can’t!’ Her hands on his shoulders, she pushed with all her might but she couldn’t escape, she was locked to him.

  ‘You love me, I know you do.’ His mouth was on her neck. He could feel his groin on fire and he groaned as he thrust himself between her thighs. ‘Say it, Emma. You love me. Say it.’

  ‘Yes, I love you.’ She stopped resisting. Michael in turn stopped forcing himself upon her. He raised his head and looked at her. It was true. She loved him. He’d known it all along. He took her face in his hands. ‘You’re my brother,’ she said, ‘and I love you.’

  He heard the words but he was confused. What did they mean? For a moment his passion was arrested. Their mouths were only inches apart and he watched her lips as she whispered again. ‘You’re my brother.’

  Confused, he drew back and looked into her eyes. ‘My father was Terence Ross,’ she said.

  The words hung in the air and time stood still. Somehow Michael knew it was the awful truth. He was frozen there, holding her face in his hands. Emma thought she had never seen such pain.

  Then he released her and turned away.

  She did up her robe. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. If I’d known you felt this way I would have kept out of your life. I should have known, I should have realised. I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry.’

  His passion forgotten, Michael heard her words and a feeling of panic overcame him. Emma out of his life? He couldn’t imagine his life without her. His mind raced. He couldn’t lose her now.

  ‘What do you mean, you’re sorry,’ he said. Keep it flippant, he told himself. He fastened his robe. ‘I’m the one who was” doing the raping. Shit, Emma, I’m sorry.’ He turned to her, deeply contrite. ‘It was the dope and the booze and the excitement and … I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I … ’

  ‘Michael, did you hear me? I’m your sister. You’re my brother. Our father was – ’

  ‘Sure. I heard you. I believe you. So, it means we can’t screw, for Christ’s sake. What does that matter? I was out of line anyway.’ He was getting desperate now. ‘I love you, Emma. It’s wonderful that you’re my sister. We can be together always … ’

  Emma was looking at him curiously. ‘Don’t you want to know the details?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you want to know who my mother is? Don’t you want to know why I didn’t tell you? Don’t you want to know – ’

  ‘Of course I do. I want to know everything about you. Everything about us.’ He knew he mustn’t let his desperation show. ‘Hell, it’s not every day a bloke finds out he has a sister.’ The smile was winning. Pure Michael Ross charm. ‘Come on.’ He sat on the bed. ‘Sit down and tell me all about us.’

  She stood, uncertain, disarmed.

  ‘Emma,’ he said gently. ‘I do drugs. Too many, too much. You know that. I had a momentary aberration. I love you. You love me. The greatest gift you could give me is the knowledge that you’re my sister. We have a bond, a blood bond. I will never abuse that again, I promise.’

  She sat on the bed beside him. ‘Now tell me all about us,’ he said.

  She did. They talked for an hour. She told him how Julia had been bought off by Franklin. She told him of her adoption as a baby and her determination as a child to trace her natural parents. She told him about Penelope and her oath of secrecy.

  ‘But why?’ he asked. ‘Why did she want to keep you a secret?’

  ‘She said Franklin would ban her from seeing me. She’s been very good to me, Michael. And then of course I worried that he’d ban you from seeing me as well and I couldn’t bear the thought … ’

  ‘Well there’s no chance of that,’ Michael assured her. He was trying to maintain a feeling of normalcy, trying to conduct a civilised conversation, but he was barely hearing her. Her words were jumbled in his head. All he could think was, ‘Emma is my sister. Emma is my sister.’

  He got up from the bed, unable to bear her closeness any longer. ‘And there’s no reason to keep you a secret now, is there? I must say I can’t wait to see the old bastard’s face when we tell him.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was sharp. ‘We can’t tell him,

  Michael. You must promise me that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I gave my word to Penelope. Until she releases me from my promise, we don’t say a thing.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Emma, what does that matter? You’ve kept quiet about it for three years. Surely … ’

  ‘And I’ll keep quiet about it for another three years if that’s what Penelope wants. Don’t you understand? I gave her my word, my word of honour.’

  ‘Oh, bugger your word of honour.’ Something in Michael snapped. Was he to be cheated of everything? If he was never to possess Emma was he to be denied the recognition of their blood ties? Was he expected to relate to her as an amiable writing partner and nothing more? ‘You sound like my grandfather. The bloody Ross honour - I’m sick to death of it.’

  She was studying him closely. Careful, he told himself. He was letting his desperation show again. ‘I need a piss,’ he said and he went into the bathroom.

  He stared into the mirror. His eyes were bright and agitated. He put his hands to his cheeks, spread his nostrils and inhaled deeply. He could feel the residue of cocaine and he wished he’d brought his dispenser with him – a quick snort would do him the world of good. Play it down, he told himself, she’s getting suspicious, go back in there, play it down and then get out quick. He couldn’t take much more.

  She was still seated on the bed when he came out of the bathroom and she was still watching him carefully. He grinned. ‘I give up. Like grandfather like granddaughter. You’re a Ross, all right, and if we need to stand by your word of honour then that’s what we’ll do. I won’t say a word, I promise.’

  An element of distrust remained in her eyes. ‘Emma,’ he said, sitting beside her and taking her hand in his. Oh, the touch of her skin! He took a deep breath, knowing he had to get out of the room. ‘All this has come as a bit of a shock, you understand. But you’re my sister and I love you as such. And you must trust in my love for you as a brother.’ He fought to stop himself from embracing her. ‘And I’ll keep the secret, you have my word.’

  He jumped up and gave her one of his magic grins. ‘Now, for God’s sake, woman, let me get some sleep – we have a production meeting in two hours.’ She smiled back at him and nodded and he went to his room, grateful to be alone.

  He didn’t snort a line. He forgot. He went out onto the balcony instead, his mind on fire. Emma was his sister. Emma was his sister. For three years she’d been his obsession, the object of his passion. For three long years every woman he’d made love to had been Emma Clare. He wanted to scream, to let out a howl of anguish. It wasn’t right! It wasn’t fair! Emma was his sister!

  He tried to lie down but he couldn’t get the vision of Emma out of his mind. The cream-coloured silk robe, the touch of the flesh beneath, the feel of her breasts, her thighs.

  He snorted two lines. Then, an hour later, freshly showered and changed, he bounded downstairs for the production meeting, a supply of uppers in his pocket to see him through the day. Life went on, after all. He forced the physical images of Emma out of his brain. As his sister there was an emotional bond between them, a lifetime connection that no one could break. He would have to school himself to live with the limitations of their relationship. It was one hell of a test, he thought, as he looked at her across the table. One hell of a test.

  As far as Emma was concerned, Michael more than met the test over the next week’s filming. He was his stimulating, creative, charismatic self. He was fun and exciting to be with. And he was something else. There was an added element to their relationship, an acknowledgement of love. Emma relaxed. She was finally relieved of the burden of her secret. Despite the awful circumstances of Michael’s discovery, she
was glad, so glad, that they could share their knowledge.

  But secretly, and at night, the images of Emma continued to burn in Michael’s brain.

  ‘Penelope and I are divorcing.’ Franklin had arrived in Perth unannounced and, as usual, he came straight to the point. ‘It’s not altogether amicable,’ he continued brusquely, ‘so I shan’t be returning to Sydney.’

  It was early evening and they were seated on Michael’s balcony watching the yachts return from their day’s training. The first of the Cup trials was due to start the following day.

  ‘I’m giving Penelope The Colony House and I think she expects you to remain there, but personally I don’t think that’s advisable.’ He sipped at his Laphroaig and milk. These days his doctors advised him to add milk to his evening scotch. What a thing to do to a pure malt, he thought, but he obeyed instructions. Michael waited for him to go on.

  ‘You’ve outgrown this country,’ Franklin continued. ‘There is a career for you in the States and I want you to come to New York with me. Just as soon as Blue Water History has finished filming.’

  ‘What sort of offer?’ Michael asked. It was a hell of a way for a man to say he wanted the company of his grandson but Michael was prepared to play it the old man’s way if that’s what Franklin wanted. ‘Assembly line studio stuff, or would I work on my own projects?’

  Damn it, Franklin thought, the boy should be jumping at such an opportunity – not questioning the offer. ‘Your own projects,’ he growled after a moment’s pause. ‘Provided Blue Water History comes up to the standard of Halley’s:

  ‘It will.’ Beneath his facade, Michael felt a surge of excitement. It was a God-given opportunity. ‘Can I take my co-writer with me?’

  ‘This Emma Clare girl, you mean?’

  Michael nodded. ‘We’re a great team. And Stanley too. I’d need to work with Stanley.’

  Franklin pretended to consider the terms for a second or so but secretly he was delighted. He wanted the boy in New York with him. He wanted to share the last part of his life with his grandson. ‘Done,’ he said. ‘Now bring me the bottle and a fresh glass. Skip the milk.’ And they toasted the deal with Laphroaig, neat.