by Judy Nunn
The rugby had become golf, the socialising was now more on a one to one basis than the uni bashes, but the concentration on the good life remained the same.
As in his university days, women remained top priority. Darren was devastatingly attractive to women and they were devastatingly attractive to him.
Not that he considered himself promiscuous. In fact, he believed implicitly in monogamy. Whether an affair lasted a week or six months he remained faithful to his lover. Six months was roughly the limit to which his interest could be maintained and, in the past few years since he’d turned forty, he rather regretted that fact.
He’d never married and, during his thirties, he had felt a touch superior to many of his friends who were going through the traumas of divorce. Since turning forty, though, he’d noticed that those same friends were happily remarrying, usually fellow divorcees, and that the few friends who’d managed to weather the youthful marital storm were now happier than they’d ever been in their lives.
Darren began to feel there was something missing in his life. Was it perhaps time for him to contemplate marriage and children? He started to view each affair in a different light and several times even asked his lover to move in with him, an arrangement he’d assiduously avoided in the past. Each time it was a disaster. Within a month she was making a nest, spontaneity went out the window and days became programmed. Worst of all, the endless preoccupation with sex that had been the basis for the relationship started to take second place to so many things which Darren considered mundane.
The more his friends told him that he simply hadn’t met the right person, the more Darren was convinced that he was the problem. Most of the friends were women and most of them were ex-girlfriends. Darren always remained friends with his ex-lovers, all of whom had the perfect advice. ‘If you can only learn to hang in there after the first flush of sexual delirium, Darren, you’ll find it’s replaced by something far deeper, far more meaningful.’ All of his ex’s were extremely fond of him but their fondness was tainted by a touch of superiority. Superiority at the fact that they’d had the wisdom to outgrow him. Even those whose hearts he’d unintentionally broken at the time.
Darren couldn’t understand why the first flush of sexual delirium should ever have to go but he tried to act on their advice nevertheless. He hung on desperately to the next several affairs way beyond the time he felt they’d died a natural death. He discovered no miracle replacement though. Neither did the women. They appeared to be just as dissatisfied with the living arrangements as he was and eventually were only too happy to move out.
After two years of serious spouse-seeking, Darren gave up, accepting the fact that he would never be a father and that he could anticipate a lonely old age but deciding that between now and then he’d continue to have fun. Somehow though, the merry-go-round wasn’t quite as satisfying as it used to be and Darren was forced to admit that, every now and then, he was just a little bit lonely.
‘What do you want out of life, Narelle?’ he asked, gently tweaking her nipple. It wasn’t a leading question, just idle interest — Darren had never met a screen sex-goddess before.
It was late on the Friday night and they lay naked in delicious exhaustion on the queensize circular bed looking up at the mirrored ceiling.
‘Nothing really,’ she answered, idly playing with his penis. ‘Just to keep doing what I like doing.’
‘And what’s that?’
Narelle thought for a second, then became aware of the penis in her hand. ‘This. Making love. Using my body for pleasure.’ Darren’s penis started to swell. ‘Again? Already?’ Narelle smiled at him delightedly. ‘And then one day I’ll use my body to have babies.’ She threw her body across his as if by way of demonstration. ‘I’ll settle down with a lovely man and have four babies.’
As he engulfed her breast in his mouth, Darren gave a sigh of happiness. It appeared that life was just as simple for Narelle as it was for him.
For the next two days, they loved and laughed and continued to delight each other and by late Sunday afternoon, as they climbed out of the jacuzzi, Darren had decided that he was the man to give Narelle her babies and that Narelle was his ideal mate. He’d take it slowly at first, though, he didn’t want to frighten her off.
‘Would you like to move in with me for a while, Narelle?’
‘Oh, that would be nice.’
He’d give it a week, maybe two, and then he’d propose.
George Glassberg pressed the remote control button, watched the twin garage roller door close then started his weary walk up the terracotta tiled pathway lined with the tubs of cumquat trees, Rosa’s pride and joy.
It had been an exhausting four-day business trip to Melbourne and he didn’t need the added irritation of discovering that Rosa wasn’t home. She knew he was booked on the six o’clock flight. It was dark, too; she should have left the house lights on if she knew she was going to be out this late. George was tired but he didn’t dare put himself to bed before she got home or there’d be hell to pay.
Mind you, he was also hungry and Rosa was a superb cook. She was bound to have something special lined up. He peered in the oven, nothing there. No saucepans on the stove, nothing exciting in the refrigerator.
Then he realised. That was it. Of course! She was out buying takeaway at their favourite Thai restaurant. George felt much happier at the thought and poured himself a large Scotch, turned on the television and settled back to watch the news.
It was nearly midnight when George awoke. On the television screen, an earnest, spindly man with an American accent was talking enthusiastically about movies. Rosa still wasn’t home. George wondered if he should start to worry. Whom should he call? He always kept well out of Rosa’s social life and he had no idea who her special friends were. They were all connected with the agency, clients and casting people and … Yes, of course, that’s who he’d call. Rosa’s secretary, Dee. She’d know if Rosa was out feting some important client. Mind you, if she were, why hadn’t she left a note?
‘Hello, Dee? … George Glassberg here … Very well thank you, and yourself? … Good, good … I’m so sorry to ring you so late, but I’m a little worried. You see … You were? Oh that’s good, I’m glad I didn’t wake you … You see, I just got back from a business trip and Rosa hasn’t left me a note which isn’t really like her and I’m presuming she’s been detained at some business meeting and I thought you might … you what?!!’ George nearly dropped the phone. ‘Since Thursday!’
As Dee raved on, saying she’d presumed that Rosa had taken Friday off, George’s mind raced. The car had been missing since Thursday evening too, Dee had said. Then it had to be a car accident. But why hadn’t anyone got in touch with him? Should he ring the hospitals first or the police? Four days, for God’s sake! She’d been missing for four days! He’d ring the police.
And the nightmare began.
It was three weeks before they discovered Rosa Glassberg’s body. Her Alfa Romeo was hidden in thick bush well off the beaten track in the Blue Mountains. Rosa was slumped over the wheel. A garden hose led from the exhaust pipe to the driver’s side window. The petrol tank was empty, the ignition was in the ‘on’ position and the police naturally assumed suicide. The pathologist was quick to correct them. Rosa Glassberg’s neck had been broken.
The murder of Rosa Glassberg shocked the industry and for a month general gossip took second place to endless conjecture as to who the killer could be.
Three months after the event, when the initial horror had died down and the word ‘murder’ aroused only an impersonal reaction, it became more or less a party game to play Rosa Glassberg ‘whodunits’.
Finally, six months after the murder, the police were no closer to solving the mystery despite endless harassment of half the entertainment industry. Indeed the police had virtually closed the books on the Glassberg case and Rosa barely rated a mention any more.
After all, it was the end of the non-ratings period. The long hot summer
was at its height, soon it would be Academy Awards time and not long after that, the Logies. Certainly not the season for discussing sordid murders, particularly long-unsolved ones.
This year the Academy Awards were being discussed with particular interest. After all, Australians were hot contenders in two of the major categories: Peter Wainwright for Best Screenplay and Anna Bowrey for Best Actress.
And as for the Logies, Australian television had certainly come of age. The British ITV conglomerate had bought the Logies telecast and for the first time the UK would witness an Australian television awards ceremony.
The success of ‘The Glitter Game’ was acknowledged as being responsible in no small measure for this. Not to mention the fact that ‘The Glitter Game’ had also sold to CBS and had been to air in the States for two months now. Who could say, maybe next year the Americans would also want the Logies telecast? Whatever the outcome, Australian television was on a high.
And if Australian television was riding high, then Edwina Dawling was undoubtedly its high priestess. She was the name on the nation’s lips. The international recognition accorded her was also phenomenal. The sales of her LP had broken all records in the UK when ‘The Glitter Game’ had gone to air and, at her request, the network was only too happy to send her to London for a fortnight’s promotional tour. Any promotion of her record could only further the show’s popularity, and the fact that she was willing to break her trip for a frantic three days of promotions in America en route home was an added bonus.
The network didn’t know that Edwina was interested in only one interview in the States. The interview pertaining to a release through the CBS network of a potential vehicle written for and starring Edwina Dawling.
A CBS spokesperson had contacted her immediately after ‘The Glitter Game’ special had gone to air in America. It was around the time that every client on Rosa’s books, including Edwina, was being endlessly questioned by the police and she’d had to arrange special dispensation to leave the country but the concept breakdown CBS has sent her certainly appeared to make the whole process worthwhile.
When she’d approached Robert Bryce about her ‘availability’ (a euphemism regularly employed by stars meaning ‘I want’) to do a UK promotional trip, he had been surprisingly amicable. She’d decided to bypass Alain, of course, but was not prepared for Robert’s effusive welcome of her approach directly to the top. She was sure she’d crossed him when she’d reminded him of ‘favours owed’ and demanded Jane’s downgrading.
But Robert couldn’t have been more amenable. ‘Any time you feel you want to bypass normal channel procedure, Edwina, do come to me. I’d like to think we’re all one happy family after all and that we don’t have to stick to any particular form of protocol.’
The King would have been furious to know he was being dismissed as ‘normal channel procedure’, Edwina thought. She remarked to Davey that Alain must have crossed Robert Bryce, but then gave it no further thought. She was only too happy for the chance to get out of the country for a while. Not only to chase up the American deal but to get away from the pressure of working with Paul.
Fortunately the relationship of their characters had drifted a little so that they weren’t working together on a daily basis but, when they were, it was an untenable situation and, as soon as ‘cut’ was called, Edwina dived for the shelter of her dressing room. As soon as the next scene was called, she would breathe a sigh of relief. Paul’s hatred seemed to grow daily and Edwina was in fear of being caught alone with him. Even though Davey stayed with her at all times, her hand kept darting to the pistol she kept in her purse whenever there was a knock on the dressing room door. Yes, it would be a relief to be out of the country, albeit for only a fortnight and, quite frankly, it would be a relief to be out of ‘The Glitter Game’. Roll on CBS, Edwina thought.
Tim Arnold, the queen of the publicity department, had been none too happy with Alain’s peremptory manner. ‘It’s all very well to say “Do it Tim”,’ he complained, tapping the desk top, ‘but an international promotion campaign! I mean, you know what that costs? I mean, what sort of budget do I have? I mean, what about Princess Davey, does he go? Personally I don’t think she’ll wear it without him. And do they travel first or business? And is accommodation four star or five? I mean, it’s all budgetary and I need to —’
‘Fuck the budget. I said, do it!’
Tim was torn between two reactions, shock at hearing an executive producer say ‘Fuck the budget’ and genuine offence at Alain’s tone.
‘Very well, fuck the budget it is.’ And he sailed out of Alain’s office, all three chins quivering with offended dignity.
‘The Glitter Game’ had made life confusing for Tim Arnold. He’d been a Channel 3 marketing influence for years. He’d been a publicity demigod, held in terror by the transitory soap ‘stars’ he could make or break. But the unprecedented success of ‘The Glitter Game’ had totally undermined his power.
Right from the start he’d been offended by the special status accorded Liza Farrelly as personal publicist to Edwina Dawling. It was rare that Channel 3 employed stars of the status of Edwina Dawling and, as head of Channel 3 publicity, it was Tim Arnold’s privilege to serve her.
Tim’s double standards were extreme. While maintaining it his right to condemn many young actors and ruin their chances with chilling comments like ‘No charisma, pet’ to his many mates in the press, Tim considered it his duty to glorify the Edwina Dawlings of the world. Just as he’d glorified the Joan Crawfords and the Judy Garlands when he was a young man. There were certain stars, he maintained, that lightened the firmament of the entertainment world and should only be handled by those who fully appreciated them. Naturally if a Crawford or a Garland beckoned, Tim Arnold would be there. Just like he’d be there for Edwina Dawling.
So when Tim had to come to terms with ‘old vinegar tits’ Farrelly’s appointment, it certainly hadn’t been easy.
As it turned out, though, the huge success of ‘The Glitter Game’ had one compensatory aspect for Tim Arnold. The ingratitude of the actors in refusing to agree to an across-the-board merchandising deal offered by the channel meant that there was a massively lucrative business in pirate merchandising. Of course Tim didn’t dare to be too bold, but the discreet release of various production stills for illicit use in magazines, portrait photographs for T-shirts and badges, and details on stars’ personal lives for swap cards guaranteed a healthy income and, so long as he dealt purely with the overseas market, such transactions were virtually untraceable to him.
Indeed, so lucrative was his business sideline that Tim’s offended sensibilities at Liza’s appointment were completely repaired and, by the time Liza was given her walking orders, he had to entirely rethink his position. He didn’t have time for Edwina Dawling and star treatment now. He didn’t even have time for the show. Indeed, ‘The Glitter Game’ had become its own self-promoting publicity machine and didn’t need his constant input. He was halfway through compiling a pirate magazine, ‘The Game Behind The Glitter Game’, for a fifty-fifty split with a British tabloid journalist who was willing to put his name to it.
And now he had to organise the Edwina Dawling promotional trip. Life really was becoming complicated and the workload was altogether too much. Tim called a conference.
The junior assistants were put in total control of the ‘treadmill’ areas: the handing out of current storylines to soap mags, the TV and radio promos, the daily press ads and competitions and all personal appearances. Tim then set specific tasks for his assistants, Lois and Val, thereby leaving himself apparently free to handle Edwina and the promotional tour but, in actuality, to get on with ‘The Game Behind The Glitter Game’.
‘Val, you take over the TV Week feature article on Jane,’ he ordered. ‘They wanted Edwina but she’s refused so they’ve agreed to take second best. It’s a cover story so you’ll have to work a half-day photo session around her taping schedule.’
Tim’s dismissive
attitude toward Jane had only developed over the past few months since she’d been demoted to semi-background. Pity, he thought. She’d certainly looked like power material at the start of the show and Tim would have been only too happy to hitch his wagon to her and cry ‘star’. Now that her storylines were diminished, he’d decided she was wimp material instead and he couldn’t be bothered.
‘And what’re the latest polls on Mandy and Sidney?’ he barked at Lois. ‘Are they being axed? Have you checked with Evan?’
Lois nodded. ‘The storyliners want to keep them.’
‘I know that, pet,’ Tim snapped impatiently, ‘we all know that. But Evan’s been told they’re down on points lately — he’s been told directly by the producers to isolate their storylines and prepare to kill them off. Why the —’
‘Well, he hasn’t,’ Lois interrupted. She was a feisty little thing and, when Tim’s irascible temper came into play, she had difficulty controlling herself. ‘And it’s probably just as well,’ she continued before Tim could reply, ‘their popularity points have picked up ten per cent.’
‘Does Alain know?’
‘Yes, he said to hold back on “sad to lose them” press but he won’t renew their contracts until the next survey — if their popularity count isn’t up by then he’ll kill them off.’
‘Oh, Mother Mary, what a farce. Why not send the tired old farts over a cliff and be done with it?’ Tim heaved a weary sigh. ‘OK. Give them a miss for a fortnight. That’ll force the issue. No press and their points are sure to be down.’ He noted Lois’s disapproving look. ‘Don’t give me girly-glares, pet; someone’s got to take some positive action around here.
‘Narelle!’ Tim snapped his fingers. ‘We’ll do a before and after on Narelle, change of image routine. Any one of the women’s mags’ll want that. Give it to the one that’ll run a cover.’