John Mayer sang about being in repair.
“Keep breathing Andi and try to relax.”
An instruction I could manage. Now past the embarrassment, the awkwardness, the uncertain expectations and safe in his expert touch, I’d fallen in love with the movement of his hands, thumbs that pushed and prodded, finger tips that fanned and travelled, knuckles that kneaded, palms that rubbed. I luxuriated in the force of his touch and was breathless now for a whole different set of feelings that had more to do with my heart and soul than my extremities.
“You okay?”
“Hmm.” To talk would be to break the spell. I was far away in a world that was always warm and flowing and sinuous and smelled of lavender and bergamot.
“I want you to roll over,” he said softly beside my ear. He could’ve been telling me to put my head in a lit oven and I’d have done it with a smile. He did a clever thing with the towel, disappearing behind it, to shield me and I rolled over so I was facing upwards.
He started on my neck, taking my head in both hands and gently stretching to right and left and then running strong thumbs up to the base of my skull. I was ready to purr. He ran his fingers through my hair and pulled gently to lift my scalp. The feeling was so good, my eyes flew open and I looked into his upside down face. If he’d asked, I’d have died for him. Then he ran his palms across my forehead covering my eyes and placed his fingertips on both my temples, pressing firmly and holding still. I was floating in a beautiful realm of calm and softness and then I realised his fingers had gone and I was alone.
“Get up slowly, Andi,” he called from the other room. “You’re going to be sore tomorrow, but you’ll be better for it.”
I lay on the dining room table with my eyes firmly closed, not wanting the experience to be over, wondering if I’d ever be able to stand up again let alone walk. It would’ve been nice to continue to lie here and forget about the things I should be doing, like finding a way to say thank you without blushing, checking the morning’s media and putting out an all-points bulletin for the missing parties.
“Slowly,” said a voice above and behind me. Not Arch. Rush in a well crushed straw cowboy hat and a singlet with a beach towel over his shoulder. I could see traces of salt in the crinkles of his eyes and he smelled of coconut suntan oil. “Arch’s massages have a way of making your bones turn to jelly,” he said with an upside-down smile. “When you’re ready I need you to set me up with internet access if that’s okay.”
“Of course,” I said, but I lay there until I heard his bedroom door close, thinking that’s twice he’d stopped me drifting off to dreamland in less than one day.
Up and dressed again and feeling surprisingly taller and thinner, how did that work? I organised a wireless internet connection for Rush and was about to check the key media websites when I heard a decidedly raw voice from the back door.
“Day-oh!”
It was Shane, in last night’s clothes, looking incredibly rumpled. His hair was every which way, his shirt was buttoned wrongly and he’d lost his belt, his jeans hung down low on his hips showing hip bones and the edge of his underwear and skin and muscle and sigh.
Arch answered Shane’s call and he responded with, “This daylight is too fucking bright and I wanna come home,” before virtually falling into the room.
“Do we want to know?” said Rush.
“I want to know,” said Arch. Me too. What had Shane been up to and who knew about it?
“Big. It was big. Legendary, but what happens on Oxford Street stays on Oxford Street,” he finished.
Oxford Street. He’d been to Oxford Street, home of the gay and lesbian Mardi Gras, famed for its pubs, clubs and night scene. There was no way this could be good.
“What’s been going on here? Oh I see, Arch put the move on you, Andi,” Shane said, gesturing towards the towel laden dining room table, “Quick work, my friend,” he slapped Arch on the back.
Was he drunk, angry? I glanced at Arch to see his reaction. Arch was grinning. “She’s too good for me, buddy,” he said, “and if you don’t take a shower I’ll have her throw you out.”
“Be cool, I’m going,” said Shane. He looked down and appeared to notice for the first time that his buttons were done up oddly. “A great night,” he said with a big grin, wavering on his feet. “And don’t worry, it’s all done, all done,” he said, looking at Rush before he stumbled towards the bathroom.
I didn’t understand that last exchange, what did Shane mean ‘all done’? Was it my imagination or did Rush look relieved? Well at least they were all accounted for. Home safe and if not completely sound, at least in one piece.
14: Sudden Squalls
My most pressing post massage task was checking the morning’s media. Given the public holiday this was a much easier task than usual, even journalists took New Year off. I spent a good hour checking the most obvious websites, blogs, online newsletters and twitter feeds and could find nothing that threatened the safety of our incognito mission.
For lunch Simon served enormous king prawns with a selection of sauces and toppings with a light salad of fennel and rocket. There was much talk about Australian seafood, wine and fruit and our love of barbeque and eating outdoors.
While this went on Rush pulled me aside. “We need to be out of the city tomorrow.”
“Okay. I wasn’t sure exactly when you wanted to go, Shane said—”
He cut me off with, “Forget what Shane said, I’m telling you now we need to be out of the city tomorrow.”
“I—”
He cut me off again and his voice was raised. “Tomorrow, Andi. We don’t care where we go or how we get there, we just need to be gone. Can you manage that?”
What I couldn’t manage was feeling like he’d slapped me. All the other conversation stopped. We were the lunchtime entertainment. Rush shot a hard look at Shane and went inside the house. I could feel the tips of my ears burning, but this time not from schoolgirl lust, I’d just been struck by lightning, dressed down in public. Behind me Simon started clattering plates and taking coffee orders nervously.
What was Rush’s problem? He blew hot and cold, one minute sunny, friend to neighbours, dogs and cockatoos, and the next sudden black storm clouds and drenching squall. Well I didn’t have to like it, but I did have to find a solution for this problem and luckily I think I had one. I was beyond caring about the nepotism and thanking heaven for big promising real estate agents.
A big promising real estate agent had made life for my Aunt Helen sticky. Dad’s sister Helen had a guest house at Possum Creek just outside Bangalow in the NSW hinterland. The guest house was one of those rambling wide verandah surrounded country homesteads. It was originally built in 1890, but Helen and her second husband Christopher had reconstructed it, planting lush gardens and a pool on the property which they’d furnished with fantastic period pieces as well as all the comforts of a luxury boutique hotel.
Chris died two years ago and Helen’s heart went out of managing the business on her own and she put it on the market. Mr Big Promises, the agent found an overseas buyer who wanted to come and stay in the homestead over Christmas and confirm his offer. But by Christmas Eve, the buyer had pulled up stumps leaving Helen with no prospect for a sale and no tenants either, until now.
Unlike Nana’s house Helen’s was celebrity ready and she’d already had her share of notable guests—though none this famous. The homestead had five bedrooms which meant we could take Simon too.
I made one aunt a very happy person when I said we were coming to stay. And I made her nearly hysterical when I said who ‘we’ were.
“Does your mother know?” Helen demanded.
“No, and she is not to know either, she thinks I should be resting.”
“Well she’s right, but I won’t tell. When she cuts me off later for keeping secrets, I’ll say it was a matter of national security.”
With accommodation fixed, I needed to charter a light plane to take us to Coolangatta airport
and hire a car to get us into Possum Creek, but the house was ominously quiet so I went to check on things and talk to Simon.
Rush’s bedroom door was closed. Arch was asleep on the back sofa and Shane was in the kitchen with a beer. “Hair of the dog,” he said, as I came in.
“I’ve found us a guest house. I think you guys will like it.”
‘Andi, sorry about Rush. He shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. He’s not normally like that.” Shane frowned. “He’s going through a rough time.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to apologise. This is my job.”
He shook his head then winced. “No, I do have to apologise. There’s something you should probably know.”
“Okay,” I said warily. Did I want to know?
Shane sighed. He pointed to the chair opposite and I sat. “There’s a reason we made this trip. We did it for Rush. He, ah, well, you probably know he’s married. Here’s the thing, his lawyers are about to announce a split and the attention is going to be intense. I’ve been there, done that, so I know. Arch and I decided he’d be better off on the other side of the world, where no one could find him, when it went down. We made the decision to come and here we are. That’s why it was all so quick.”
That explained the suddenness of their arrival and maybe it explained Rush’s moodiness. “Is he very upset?” I simply couldn’t help being interested in Rush’s private affairs now they were being spilled in my kitchen. Cecily Vale was a successful actor in her own right. She was billed as America’s sweetheart. Together they were a golden couple, a latter-day Paul Newman and Joanna Woodward, a rival Brad and Angelina. A split was big news. Big.
“It’s complicated. That’s probably all I should say. Just give him a chance. He’s not a bad guy. And Andi, any chance of an icepack?”
Icepack sorted and with new information to digest I went back to my desk to finalise our arrangements. It’s not that I was happy Rush was romantically troubled, but it did make me wonder. If even Hollywood’s finest had trouble keeping a relationship together perhaps there was no hope for star crossed lovers like Michael and I.
Late that afternoon I roused the guys and we walked down to the beach. It was impossibly crowded with picnicking families, none of whom paid us in our hats and sunnies, the slightest bit of attention. We found a slice of golden sand to call our own and spread out in the sun. Shane and Rush hit the surf and Arch stretched out with a hat over his face.
“You live in a great city Andi,” he said. “A coast full of beaches like this and an international city all within fifteen minutes of each other. Brilliant.”
“Speaking of brilliant, thank you for the massage.”
“My pleasure.” His voice was muffled under his hat, but I could hear him smiling. “Happy to be of service.” We were quiet then, the sounds of kids playing, surf crashing and a radio somewhere kept us company until he said, “Andi, if you don’t mind my asking, is there a man in your life?”
Thank Bondi markets for my big brimmed sun hat and dark glasses. What was it with these guys constantly hyping my temperature with their wits, temper, touch or state of undress? Arch had propped up on one elbow to look at me. After this morning, it didn’t seem like it was possible to hide anything from a man who could understand your body the way he could.
“There is a man, my business partner Michael, but we’ve been so busy being colleagues and best friends we put anything more personal aside. It’s my New Year’s resolution to sort that out.” Just saying it aloud made me feel the rightness of it.
“Oooee, I’m glad about that. I’ll stop feeling sorry for you now, girl. Shane will make a play for you, you know that, don’t you? That kiss was a start and he was annoyed about the massage.”
Well knock me over and build a sandcastle on me. “No, really? I thought the kiss was just, you know, ‘of the moment’ high spirits.”
“Yeah, well, Shane specialises in high spirits so when he ‘of the moments’ you next, tell him where to get off, or come get me and I’ll tell him for you. You remind me of my sisters, Andi and I miss them so much. I’m travelling most of the year. I hardly get to see them anymore and you remind me of home.”
How impossible was it not to fall a little in love with Arch?
Less impossible than believing what he said about Shane’s intentions that’s for sure.
I read for a little bit and he dozed and then I woke him so he wouldn’t burn and he joined the others in the water and I had time to call Michael. Now that it was clear I really could pull this tour off and without being discovered it was time to fess up.
Michael would huff and puff about being left in the dark and he’d even be genuinely angry with me, and the later I left it to tell him the worse it would be. In the end, I knew he’d come around and even be excited that we’d cracked the Hollywood A-list after all.
Lainey’s sarong was a great asset at the beach. I tied it on over my swimmers and walked up to the promenade where I was away from prying ears. I rang Michael’s number and hoped I wouldn’t get the message service. I was looking forward to hearing his voice. It rang and rang and just when I thought it would switch to his message bank a voice said, “Hello, this is Michael’s phone.”
It was that same voice, the voice of the tinkling glasses, the voice of the tickles. I was stunned into silence.
“Hello are you there? Hello can you hear me? Hello.”
It was Lainey. Without the shadow of a doubt. Michael and Lainey. I pressed end and knew it was probably more than just the call that was over.
15: Thunder and Lightning
It was truly hard to credit my own stupidity. Shortest ever New Year’s resolution, maybe I could claim a record and win a prize. Here I was thinking Michael and I were destined to be a happy couple and all we were was a big bag of lies, a pile of betrayal, a tower of manipulation. He lied about not wanting a relationship. He betrayed me with Lainey and he manipulated me into thinking I was special to him. He must have been laughing his head off when I pressed a holiday on him and helped him straight into Lainey’s arms.
Was I blind as well as stupid? Did I have a flashing neon sign behind my back saying, ‘Go ahead, take advantage of me’? I felt sick. I wanted to scream and kick. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to break something. Instead I gathered towels and suntan lotion, which Arch immediately relieved me of, and herded my charges back up the hill to the house.
Feigning a bigger limp than I had, I let them walk ahead, because I was scared the ugly roiling feeling inside me might burst out and splatter them with scalding bile.
Back at the house, Shane and Arch started a ball game with a now bucket free Harvey and Rush hit the shower. I threw myself on my bed and breathed fire at the ceiling, filling my body with heat, until I was in a sweat. Anger was surely better than tears and would serve until I could find a practical way to deal with this. Meanwhile, Michael could drown in his resort swimming pool and if Shane Horan did make a play for me, he just might find I was willing to play back.
My ringing phone brought me back from alternating feelings of humiliation and vengeance. I checked the screen. Michael. I pressed end call. He could talk to my voicemail till time ran backwards. It rang again, so he was going to persist, bastard. But a quick look told me this time it was Tobias.
“What the fuck are you doing, Andi?”
“Toby, what?”
“Have you got any idea how angry the studio is about this? I thought you were a professional?”
“What? Toby, now hold on. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the TV footage, it’s everywhere. You’re fired, Andi. I’m on the next plane. I’m taking over and I’m going to make sure your business has trouble getting work again.”
Oh, fill the fucking swear box with fucking coin. Fuck.
“Toby, what footage, we’ve seen nothing here. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve checked every source. We’re clear.”
“Then you’d
better check again. Meanwhile keep them away from reporters, photographers or news crews, or I will sue the skirt off you for breach of contract. Do you hear me? Do not, for one second, think I’m joking.”
Toby hung up over my protests. What fresh hell was this? In the lounge room, I turned on the TV in time to catch the evening news and five minutes into the broadcast I stopped being a functional human being. There was Shane, Arch and Rush signing autographs on people’s bared body parts, shots of Arch dancing, shirt flapping on the street with several intoxicated women in his arms and then of Shane crowd surfing—crowd surfing in a bar on Oxford Street.
There were no hats, caps or disguised accents, they were deliberately playing up to the cameras and these weren’t opportunistic amateur grainy camera phone images, this was professional news reel stuff. This was no accident. This was deliberate and these pictures would be worldwide in twenty-four hours.
“We need to talk,” said Shane, leaning casually on the doorjamb.
How many times in one day was I going to learn I’d been lied to, manipulated and used? “I’ve just been sacked, so right now I’m thinking about throwing you out of my house. Talk all you want, I’m not listening.” I couldn’t even look at him.
“Andi, Andi, please don’t be mad,” this from Arch, ducking under Shane’s arm and coming into the room towards me. I flinched away from his touch.
“Of course she’s mad and she has a right,” said Rush flatly, from behind Shane. Shane moved aside and let him through the doorway.
“Why? I just want to know why you’d risk the studio’s wrath and lie about wanting the trip to be secret?” I said.
“Take a seat, Andi,” said Shane. I stood my ground. This had better be good.
“They did it for me, because I have a problem and—” started Rush.
How to Hide a Hollywood Star Page 7