by Maggie Brown
“What about Dad?” said Sophie anxiously.
“I’ll have a talk to him, though I suspect he already has an inkling, so don’t worry. He was always telling me what a tomboy you were when he took you out fishing. He used to say you were a better second mate than any of your brothers.” Valeria twisted the gold ring on her finger with a tight smile. “We both know who’s going to be the problem, don’t we?”
“Aunt Angie.”
“Exactly.”
“So how do you think I should break the news?”
“Hmmm. Let’s think about it. Maybe you could do it at your thirtieth birthday party. She won’t make a scene with all the family present. You could bring a girlfriend. Have you anyone you can ask?”
Immediately the image of Eleanor flooded her mind. With a determined effort she said nonchalantly, “No.”
Her mother pounced. “But you like someone, don’t you? Hence this out-of-the-closet discussion we’re having?”
“I do like someone but…well…I’m not in her league. Anyway, I won’t be seeing her again.”
“Are you going to tell me who she is? You never did let us know where you’ve been for the last two months. Now you’re back, is it still a secret?”
“It actually is.”
“But you met her there?” her mother persisted.
“Yes. Now, no more questions.”
“Okay, but you’ve got me curious. Are you staying tonight?”
“I like to stay until my party if that’s all right. I want to take a break away from my flat.”
“It will be wonderful to have you home again, dear. Take your bag up to your old room and settle in. When you’re ready, come down and I’ll fill you in with the family gossip.” As Sophie turned to go, Valeria added, “I’ll ask Jolene to bring her boss to the party. She’s a lesbian.”
With a shake of her head, Sophie walked out to the car for her suitcase. Not only had her mother taken her news remarkably well, now she was going to set her up with a date. Unbelievable. She gave a shudder as she visualized her family vetting her prospective lovers. They wouldn’t be able to help themselves. Though it would be a step into the unknown for them, they wouldn’t take long to formulate a set of guidelines. Eleanor would have been horrified.
* * *
Sophie jogged down to the news agency the following Wednesday morning—today the article was coming out. Next to The Courier Mail and The Australian, a stack of Globes sat neatly on the rack. A picture of Austen took up the entire front page. She picked up one from the top of the pile, feeling a buzz to see her work so gloriously displayed. Paying for the paper, she retired to the bench seat on the footpath. To her relief, her article was on the third page, and to give Owen his due, although it hadn’t made the front page headline, he had given it a large spread. An old, unflattering picture of Fortescue was centred above the write-up, one taken at the site of the coal gas controversy. He looked flustered as he argued with a landholder.
She felt a spurt of satisfaction reading the text, aware she had published something that would cause a controversy in Parliament. And it was her exclusive. The Opposition would latch onto this blatant misuse of public funds, especially so close to the election. They would be foolish not to use it to their advantage. Social media would go crazy, and it would likely head up the evening TV news.
She flicked to the middle to admire her photos of Austen displayed in a four-page glossy insert. She really was a fine-looking woman and extremely photogenic. A wave of agony hit as images of Eleanor wavered there too as if they were superimposed on the paper. She snapped the pages shut. Just looking at Austen was enough to trigger thoughts of Eleanor.
Back home, the smell of bacon cooking hit her when she walked down the hallway to the kitchen. Her mother, father, and youngest brother Danny looked at her expectantly when she settled down onto a chair at the table.
“Is it published?” asked her mother.
Sophie pushed over the paper with a smile. “Yep. It’s on page three.”
It gave her a flush of pleasure to see the admiration in her father’s face after he read her exposé. “Good reporting, Soph.” She loved when her father was proud of her. Daniel Marsh was a big jolly man, with a wide smile and a twinkle in his eye. When the Italian relations got too much for him, as they often did, he would disappear on his boat, taking one or two of the children for an afternoon of fishing. Sophie missed those carefree days.
“Hey,” exclaimed Danny, cocking his head sideways to look at the front page. “Isn’t that Austen Farleigh?”
Sophie rolled her eyes. A typical adolescent uni student, more interested in a hot woman than good reporting. “There’s a centre insert with a lot more photos.” Then not being able to help herself, she added, “I took them.”
“Really, sis?” he said, clearly impressed as he ogled the pictures. “There’re awesome. How come you got to take these?”
“She’s a friend. Now let’s get back to my article. Do you think it’ll stir things up, Dad?”
“Sure to. The pollies are coming under greater scrutiny these days.”
“Austen Farleigh is your friend?” interrupted Danny. “Where did you meet her? Shit, she’s famous.”
“Watch that language,” said Valeria sternly, and turned her attention to the photos. “They’re excellent. I didn’t realize you were such a talented photographer, dear. She’s stunning, isn’t she? Rather unusual looking though.”
Danny gave a snigger. “Mum, she’s a lesbo.”
Sophie shot him a dark frown. “That hardly defines her. She’s an amazing singer, one of the best I’ve ever heard.”
“Of course it has nothing to do with her talent. And I’m not a fool, Danny,” Valeria said and turned to eye Sophie thoughtfully. “I presume you met her on your last assignment, because I’ve never heard you mention her before.”
“Yes, I met her when I was away. She’s really very nice.” Sophie couldn’t help smiling. Austen would be appalled to be described as nice.
“So you were taken with her…ah …personality?”
Sophie felt heat rush to her cheeks as if they’d been suddenly doused with hot water. Damn, this was getting complicated. Now her mother thought her unrequited love was Austen. She’d better nip that one in the bud. “She’s fun, but nobody in their right mind would take her seriously, especially anybody with brains.”
“Good to hear. She looks rather wild and brazen. Now eat up, Danny. Your ride will be here soon.”
After her father and Danny disappeared out the door, Sophie helped tidy the house. When her mother left to visit a friend, she sank on the couch to watch TV. After a flip through the channels, she settled on the Today Show to catch up with current events—she’d barely looked at the news for months. There was a lot of congenial banter between the presenters, but not much of interest. She was just about to give it up for a good book, when their next guest was announced. Sophie jerked upright, her heart thumping as the camera panned to Eleanor in a studio chair. She looked poised and elegant as she reclined back waiting for the questions.
“You’re here in Australia for the premiere of your new film, Eleanor?” one of the presenters asked.
A smile touched Eleanor’s lips, so lightly it was barely there at all. “Yes, it’s on Saturday night.”
“I’m sure it’s going to be a huge success. From all accounts the film is a winner.”
Sophie didn’t register any more of the conversation as she gazed at Eleanor. On the surface, the lovely cameo face was calm but her fingers moved restlessly on the armrests of her chair. And underneath the perfect makeup, there were stress lines on her skin and puffiness under her eyes. Sophie felt a tremor of concern. Hadn’t she been looking after herself properly since she left? Hadn’t she kept up her stamina with decent meals? It wouldn’t take too much neglect to have a relapse.
Worry raced through her mind until Sophie drew back in alarm. What was she doing? Eleanor wasn’t hers to love and cherish anymore.
She’d blown it.
She wanted to scream. How long would it be before the dreadful ache vanished? By the way it felt now, it wouldn’t be for a long, long time. Surlily, she watched the interview conclude. So much for falling in love. This was the worst agony she’d ever endured.
Chapter Thirty-One
In Sydney now, Eleanor watched impatiently as the room service attendant wheeled in her breakfast. Once he’d left, she hurried to pick up her Morning Globe, which she had specifically ordered to be delivered every morning with her meal. As yet there had been nothing published about her since she arrived back on Thursday, or in the back copies while she was still on the island after Sophie left. Now three days before her premiere, she wondered if there actually was going to be an article. Sophie surely would have to write something. She was employed to get an exposé and Eleanor imagined if she didn’t, she would likely lose her job.
She felt a wave of disquiet. The thought of Sophie not being able to pay her bills was unsettling. Then she told herself to get a grip and face facts. Sophie wasn’t hers to look after and love anymore. She had pushed her away.
When she glanced at the headlines, she stared dumbfounded. A picture of Austen in all her glory, took up the entire front page. She was perched on a chair, her guitar resting on her knee as she plucked out a tune. Whoever took this had a natural aptitude for lighting and atmosphere—it was a stunning piece of art. She followed the directions on the top of the page and flipped to the centre to view the rest of the photo shoot. It was an exciting display, not garish and loud, but subtlety captured the essence of the singer in a harmonious and intimate way. Talented, brooding, and dangerous. The photographer obviously knew Austen.
Curiously, she searched for the name of the photographer, finding it at the bottom of the last page: Brie Simmons. Sophie’s friend. Eleanor refocused on the shots—this had to be Sophie’s work. But when did she take the photos? Then it came, the night she went alone to Austen’s for dinner. And that begged the question. What did Sophie give Austen in return for the pictures? Eleanor pushed back the nagging jealousy—it wasn’t her business anymore.
Another puzzle presented itself immediately. Why give someone else the credit for such fine work, when she should have taken the accolades herself. Puzzled, Eleanor buttered her toast and settled down to read the rest of the paper. When she came to the picture of the obnoxious politician from Eurydice, she sat up straighter in her chair. Quickly she read the article, which took up most of the page. When she reached the end paragraph where he was accused of paying for his holiday travel out of his parliamentary allowance, she chuckled. He had cooked his own goose.
She read the byline, feeling a flush of pride. There was no doubt Sophie was a first-class reporter and she had worked out a way to fulfil her obligations to the paper without printing a word about Eleanor. She had managed not to mention Eurydice either by giving the rights of her photos to her friend, thus further distancing the publication from the resort. Sophie had been careful to protect Eurydice’s reputation as a discreet destination. A wave of loss so acute snapped through Eleanor that she grasped the edge of the table for support. What an imbecile she had been.
But now was not the time to wallow in self-pity—she had to do something constructive to get Sophie back. Taking the phone from her pocket, she dialled the number of her press secretary.
It only took a few seconds for the voice to come on the line. “Anita McMahon.”
“It’s Eleanor, Nita. I wonder if you’d do me a favour.”
“Of course, Ellie. What’s up?”
“Would you send an email to Brie Simmons, a reporter with the Brisbane Morning Globe, and invite her to the premiere and party afterwards, please? All expenses paid. Drop a line stating I saw her photos of Austen Farleigh in the morning edition and would like her to do a spread of the premiere.”
Disbelief resonated in Anita’s voice. “You’re giving the shoot to an unknown reporter? From Brisbane? We were inundated with requests from bigger publications. And they were willing to pay for the privilege. You knocked them all back.”
“I know,” said Eleanor soothingly, “but she is a talented photographer. The others will no doubt be there snapping away anyway, but I’m going to pose for this woman later in the night. It’ll be good publicity.”
“Good lord Ellie, what’s got into you? I’ve been trying for years to persuade you to get more exposure. Have you seen the light at long last?”
Eleanor gave a little chuckle. Anita was the exact opposite of Carol. Everything about her smacked casual, from her low flat heels to her loose untidy plait, but she got the job done with a minimum of fuss. “Don’t get too excited. I thought I’d be cooperative for once.”
“By giving some unknown an exclusive?”
“Did you see the photos of Austen?”
“No.”
“Go online and check them out.”
“Okay, I will. She better be good.”
“She is. Can you set up a room with lighting for some intimate shots?”
“Will do.”
Eleanor put down the phone with a satisfied smile. Now all she had to do was work out a way to pump Brie for information about Sophie. She’d have to Google the woman to see what she looked like.
* * *
Eleanor stepped from the limo in front of the Sydney State Theatre. She knew the iconic building well, with its gold and red lavish décor and grand staircases. The early twentieth-century architecture and ornate cultural fabric was like stepping back into history. What better place for a premiere?
With a deep breath, she braced herself for the walk past the gauntlet of press and fans in solid blocks that lined the red carpet. Her dress, of a similar red hue, clung to her slender figure in flowing waves, its strapless bodice covered by the sheerest of short jackets. Sergio Rossi high heels, also red, completed the ensemble. Her hair was loose, left to fall just below her shoulders in a mane of gleaming golden-honeyed curls. She was the epitome of sophistication. This time she rejected a male escort, opting to enter the theatre alone. She was done with all that subterfuge.
No matter how blasé she tried to be about the whole affair, she still had that slightly giddy feeling when she took the red carpet walk. From the catcalls and applause as she progressed to the entrance, she doubted the absence of a man beside her was even noticed. Amidst camera flashes, she took time to sign autographs before she continued to the main foyer. Carol was there to meet her, and stood by her side as Eleanor was greeted by the dignitaries and fellow cast members. Twenty minutes later, they had the nod that the last guest was seated. It was time for the cast to go onstage to introduce the movie.
After the speeches, she was escorted to a seat for start of On the Edge of Life. Eleanor had not seen the final print. It was better than she remembered. She squirmed after an hour, not from embarrassment about her performance, but because the seats weren’t really made for a tight long dress. After it finished, she waited anxiously for the crowd reaction. When the whole theatre erupted with applause and the audience stood en masse, she breathed a sigh of relief. They had a hit.
An hour and a half later, after doing enough networking to satisfy Anita, they left for the party, which, at her request, was to be a small affair. She was tired of big galas that usually disintegrated into a free booze-up for every hanger-on in the industry. A hive of paparazzi swarmed forward when they emerged from the theatre, nearly jostling them as cameras flashed. Two burly security guards were immediately at their side to force a pathway, and with some dignity intact they managed to slide into the limo.
“Flipping hell,” gasped Carol. “I’m glad we’ve seen the last of those pushy bastards for a while.”
Eleanor eyed her in disbelief. “Where’s the, you must be more out there Ellie, now?”
“Yeah, well. Sometimes it gets a bit too much.”
“Like all the time,” growled Eleanor. “I’m glad Anita arranged for us to get out of the car in the hotel’s underground
parking.”
“So am I now. Look, we’re here already. Be a good star and wave to your fans through the window, just like the Queen.”
Eleanor was pleased to see the steel security gate close behind them as they nosed underneath the building. They were ushered out the door to the lift, and with her arm hooked through Carol’s, she entered the reception room. Decorated with glitter, it was already full, with waiters moving through the crowd offering refreshments.
“What will you have to drink?”
“One of those glasses of champagne will be fine,” replied Eleanor, pointing to a waiter with a tray of drinks. “Let’s go outside and you can give me your verdict.”
Carol took two glasses and followed her to the balcony. She handed a flute to Eleanor with a wink. “You were marvellous. This is going to net you an Oscar, Ellie.”
“You think?”
“You know it, so don’t put on that innocent look. From the reaction of the audience, it’s going to be a multiaward winner.”
Eleanor glanced over the Sydney night skyline. “I hope it will for Nigel’s sake. It’s a very powerful film. He invested a lot of time and energy into it, besides being the best director I’ve ever worked with.” She turned back to Carol with a sly smile. “You’d have to be happy with your investment.”
“Too right. The best thing I ever did was sign you up, my dear. Now we’d better mix to sweet-talk the reviewers. I see that smarmy Walter Drummond from the Lyric Review is here. Go make him happy…he’s been ogling you since we arrived.”
“Ugh! If I must, I must.”
“Good girl. See you later.”
Drummond watched her approach, arrogantly sure of himself. Eleanor inwardly groaned, but clamped on a smile. If she had to be charming to the know-all, then so be it. They were discussing the movie, or at least he was and she was listening, when she looked over his shoulder and caught a woman studying her. She was attractive, tall, model-thin, and immaculately dressed. Eleanor idly wondered if she was gay—she’d suit Carol to a tee. Then she realised it was Brie Simmons.