The Woman Next Door

by Liz Byrski

  ‘But you could go on like this forever,’ Stella says, ‘and I might die before I know what happens!’

  Polly smiles as she thinks of it now. Stella was joking, but there is also a serious undercurrent to her impatience. Stella, fiercely independent as she is, fears what is to come, and having Polly close by tempers her sense of vulnerability; similarly, Stella is Polly’s foundation stone and her sounding board. Neither has spoken of it but Polly knows that any radical change in her own life could have implications for Stella’s. She checks the email again but there is still no message and she reminds herself that Leo is in Hong Kong now, at a conference, and perhaps won’t get a chance to email for a while.

  Standing by the sink, staring out across the back garden, her mind ranges again through the weeks of emails, what’s been said and what left unsaid, what it all might mean, but she’s jerked suddenly out of this by a fierce hammering on the front door.

  ‘Polly,’ Stella calls through the letterbox. ‘Polly, are you there?’

  It’s only a few hours since Stella left for work, expecting to be there until at least early evening. Polly hurries along the passage and opens the door, and Stella almost falls through, tears running down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh you’re here, thank god,’ Stella says, as Polly grabs hold of her. ‘It was awful, I can’t tell you how awful it was.’

  ‘Whatever’s happened?’ Polly asks, leading her through to the sofa. ‘Here, sit down, do you need something? A glass of water, should I call a doctor?’

  ‘No, no,’ Stella says, shaking her head. ‘No, nothing like that. Oh, Polly, it was mortifying. You know how I’ve been struggling with my lines. Well last night I had today’s scenes down pat. And then in the car this morning I went through them carefully and I was feeling quite confident – all the time I was in make-up I was running through them too. But when I went out on the set I started saying something different. It had all disappeared, just like that, the whole scene had disappeared and I didn’t even realise it. Gone, just like that, everything stopped and they were all looking at me as though I’d gone mad.’

  She stops briefly, taking a couple of deep breaths. ‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘then Gareth says, “You’re on the wrong page, Stella, we’re shooting the scene in the bedroom. So let’s go for another take”. So off we went again and I came in on cue with what I thought was next, and everything stopped again. And Gareth told everyone to take a break, and he came and sat next to me. I knew it was serious because he was speaking so quietly, and he said, “Stella, you’re starring in the wrong movie. What you just gave me came from something else. Maybe that film you made about the World War I nurses, but it sure wasn’t from Cross Currents, so let’s just talk through the lines together”. He was so kind to me but I couldn’t do it, Polly, I had no idea what I was supposed to do and I still don’t, it was all just gone. All I had were lines from that film – remember? That’s years ago. I kept trying but it was as though that was all that I had in my head. I didn’t even know I still knew that stuff . . . I . . . oh, Polly, you can imagine . . .’

  Polly puts an arm around Stella’s shoulders. ‘Yes I can imagine how that felt. But these things happen, it’s probably just a glitch . . .’

  ‘They cancelled the whole day’s filming; we lost a whole day because of me and you know what a disaster that is.’

  Polly does know, but she also needs to wind Stella down. ‘But it happens, Stella; everyone has a day like this sometime and you’re a real trouper. You have such a good reputation, and decades of good will and admiration to lean on. What did Gareth say?’

  ‘Bloody Gareth, he was lovely. Well you know what he can be like, but he was so patient. That was the thing, you see, it was all very low key, no shouting or swearing, everyone was so kind. Normally they’d all be effing and blinding, especially Gareth. So I could see I was some sort of special case, they all know I’m past it, losing my marbles. The shame of it, Polly, the awful shame.’

  *

  Later that afternoon, when Stella is back in her own house, Polly returns to her desk but the drama of the morning’s events has destroyed her concentration. How bad is it really? How much of Stella’s memory problem and her confusion can be attributed to age and how much to something more sinister? She and Stella had often joked with Mac and Joyce about forgetfulness and the tendency to do weirdly unpredictable things as they got older. They related instances of locking themselves out of the car or the house, losing their keys or their glasses, forgetting names and appointments; sharing it normalised it as not just old age, but part of contemporary life. Too much information, too many things to remember from pin numbers to passwords to tasks that need to be done. But last week Stella had let a saucepan of potatoes burn out on the stove, and not even the smell of burning had alerted her to seek out the source. Fortunately, Joyce, who was watering her garden, had smelled it and nipped through the side-gate and into the house, and found Stella sifting through a box of old scripts, seemingly unaware that she had even put the potatoes on to boil, or indeed why.

  ‘We need to watch out for her,’ Joyce had said to Polly later. ‘This was more than forgetfulness. We all forget stuff all the time, but that loss of insight could be a sign of something more serious.’

  Today’s incident was more serious but not dangerous, at least she has some insight into what happened. And that, Polly reassures herself, is significant. Stella understands what happened, and her sense of shame comes from being able to understand the disruption for the rest of the cast and crew, and the implications for Gareth’s schedule and budget. Polly fills the kettle to make herself some tea, wondering whether she should encourage Stella to get some medical advice or if even the mention of this could make a delicate situation worse. Maybe she’ll discuss it with Joyce first. Leaving the tea to draw she goes back to her desk hoping for a message to lift her spirits.

  Nothing. Polly’s chest tightens with tension and she sits there, staring at the screen, hating her own vulnerability. This is ridiculous, she tells herself, he’s only an acquaintance and we barely know each other. But even as she thinks this she feels that she does know him, and that he knows her; that something special has developed between them, something she doesn’t want to lose. Shit, she says aloud, the last thing I need is a man distracting me from what’s really important. Still swearing, only silently now, she returns to the kitchen to pour her tea and carries it out to the verandah to sit in the fading light, staring out at the garden but not really seeing it.

  It’s almost six years now since, at the end of her last disastrous relationship, she had vowed never to get involved with a man again. This time she had confronted her own innate tendency to adjust to someone else’s expectations at the expense of her own sense of herself, and then later to resent it. Never again, she had said, and she had believed it, but now . . . Polly sighs; but you’re not in a relationship, she reminds herself, it’s just a long, ongoing conversation, stimulating, amusing, energising, it doesn’t have to have anything else attached to it. But she has attached more to it and so too, she thinks, has Leo.

  Inside the house her mobile rings and, sighing again, she sets down her cup and goes to answer it.

  ‘Polly darling, how are you?’ Gareth says.

  Polly’s heart sinks; had she stopped to think about it she could have predicted that he’d call her. It’s a couple of years since they were last in touch and they talk pleasantries briefly, but she has no doubt about where they are heading.

  ‘I’m wondering if you’ve seen Stella and whether she’s told you what happened today.’

  ‘She has, she came here straight from the set, very distressed, but she’s back home now and I think she’s gone to bed.’

  ‘Poor love,’ Gareth says, ‘she completely lost it and it really shocked her.’

  ‘What actually happened? Did she just go blank?’

  ‘Oh no.’ He gives a short sharp laug
h. ‘She had lines, plenty of them, from all sorts of things. Some of them I remember from working with her – there were a few snippets from Neighbours in there, and then a chunk of stuff from that World War I movie. The thing is, Polly . . .’

  ‘Would you be able to give her a break?’ Polly cuts in. ‘I know it’s a pain, the schedule and everything, but . . .’

  ‘Well that’s what I was going to suggest,’ he says. ‘I’ve been looking at the schedule and I could actually give her a week, or I could re-do the schedule. Ted Schmidt hasn’t been well and needs to have surgery within the next few weeks. If I re-work the schedule to accommodate him I could do it so that we also leave Stella’s scenes until later.’ He hesitates and Polly holds her breath. ‘It means I wouldn’t need her again until the end of June, possibly early July. It’s difficult, you know what it’s like, the time and money issues, other people with other commitments. But I can do it. But the thing is . . . did Stella tell you about Albany?’

  ‘What about Albany?’

  ‘Oh, you don’t know. I thought you might not because I don’t think she knows either.’

  ‘Knows what?’

  ‘Well a similar thing happened a couple of times while we were there. She lost it completely, came up with all sorts of weird old dialogue from years ago and she didn’t seem to know she’d done it. Everyone sort of froze, it was a nightmare. I didn’t say anything, just asked her to do the take again, and the next time she got it right. But later it happened again, very early one morning out on the rocks, and again she’d clearly no idea that anything was wrong. I called a tea break, said I wanted to wait for better light, and I got one of the girls to take her tea and Tim Tams, but then it happened again and I chickened out again and decided to send her home. The next day she didn’t seem to know anything about it. Just turned up as usual and did a good job.’

  Polly closes her eyes, here it is then, the lack of insight that is so chilling. She imagines the confusion on the faces of the cast and crew, the highly charged silence as they waited for Gareth to do something, the tension and frustration of the delays. ‘She didn’t tell me that. I think she would have done if she remembered,’ she said.

  ‘Mmm. Well today she did know, and it was awful to see her so upset and embarrassed. So, of course, I’m worried about this, worried for Stella. I thought it might be just the disruption in Albany; it was a bit rugged. But now I just don’t know . . . and I have to think of the production. I mean, today she couldn’t get it back at all. I had to send everyone home and you know what it means to lose a day’s shooting . . .’ his voice trails away.

  Polly grips the receiver. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘yes of course. It’s a nightmare for you but a long break may be just what she needs. I’ll keep an eye on her and we’ll do the lines together. I could even bring her along myself when you start shooting again, hang around the set if you didn’t mind. That might help. And imagine trying to replace her now, Gareth, you’d have to reshoot everything she’s done so far, including the Albany footage.’

  ‘God forbid – besides, there’s been a lot of media interest in her comeback. What with Stella and Ted the dollar signs and ratings are disappearing down the drain before my eyes, closely followed by fearsome producers and network execs with hatchets baying for my blood. It was me who insisted on getting her back for this, so . . . okay, let’s give her a break. It’s Stella, we all love her to bits, no one wants this to happen but at the same time . . . well, everyone’s getting a bit jittery. Will you tell her?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ Polly says. ‘You have to talk to her yourself. Say you think she needs a rest and you have Ted to consider as well. She’s sure to tell me and then I can offer to help her with the lines and so on. I just hope . . .’

  ‘Me too,’ he cuts in. ‘Okay, I’ll call her first thing in the morning. Thanks, Polly. Let me know how she goes, will you?’

  Polly puts down the phone and stands there in the darkened study thinking over the conversation. She needs to talk to someone, someone who will help her work out how to deal with all this. Times like this are when being confidently single and independent is not such a great way to be. Times like this are when you need someone close to work things through with. Someone to hold you in the middle of the night, someone whose sleeping breath is a reassurance of understanding and support. She wonders whether Leo would be any good at this. How can you tell until a person is tested; and by then you might have made the wrong decision. You know nothing about him, she tells herself now. You don’t know how his life works, the pace and pattern of his days. He has given her a vision of himself as frequently in demand and on the move. Tedious really, he insists, how nice it would be to stop, draw breath, not always be so much in demand; but Polly is not sure she believes this. He doesn’t ever seem to decline the invitations; she wonders if it is like a drug to him, this sense that others are always seeking him out, waving business class tickets and five star hotels before his eyes. She knows his views on the state of the world, on politics, art and literature, on the British and even the Australian governments and, of course, on faith and God, but she doesn’t know how he likes his tea, whether he snores or has acceptable bathroom habits, or if he can, as he claims, make a mean osso bucco. I am such a fool, she thinks, I’ve let myself get hung up on him and here I am again waiting for a man whom I barely know to send me an email. And she abandons her mobile and goes through to the kitchen. The landline rings immediately. Joyce, she thinks, or Stella; they’re the only people who use the landline these days. And she crosses to the other side of the kitchen and picks it up.

  ‘Polly,’ a voice says, ‘Polly, is that you? It’s an awful line, I can hardly hear you. It’s me, Leo . . . Polly, are you there?’

  And as she struggles to find her voice she knows that the long email conversation is over and something else is about to begin.

  Chapter Seven

  North Fremantle, May

  Helen takes a last look at herself in the hall mirror and smooths her hair. She thinks she looks pretty good, considering. Considering what?, some treacherous voice inside her asks. ‘Well,’ she says aloud, ‘considering how hard it’s been to make myself do this when it should be Joyce taking the first step.’ She smiles into the mirror, liking what she sees, the well-cut straight skirt in a deep claret with its coordinating cream shirt patterned with claret coloured roses. She likes this more tailored look these days. Dennis thinks it’s all ‘a bit done up’, ‘a bit not really Fremantle’, but what does Dennis know? Nothing about women’s clothes or fashion, that’s for sure. And she walks out of the front door, down to the car and heads off to the main road, across the bridge and up to the Arts Centre to meet Joyce for lunch.

  Helen is pleased with herself for organising this; it hadn’t been easy. All her instincts told her that it was up to Joyce to try to forge some sort of reunion – after all, it was she and Mac who had caused the trouble in the first place. Admittedly Joyce had left a couple of messages on her phone and Helen hadn’t called back, thinking she’d let Joyce wait and that she would certainly call again. But she hadn’t. And so, after considerable pressure from Dennis, Helen had texted Joyce and suggested lunch at the Arts Centre and Joyce had texted back, OK, Tuesday 12.30. This had annoyed Helen, who had planned to set the day and time herself, so she’d sent an equally blunt message in agreement.

  It’s a bright day but the wind is surprisingly cool and as she locks the car Helen wishes she’d added the jacket that matches her skirt. She’s a bit edgy because she’s got another headache; she’s had a quite a few recently – tension perhaps? Anyway, it’ll be nice to get this sorted, she thinks as she crosses the road and walks towards the courtyard café. I’ve done the right thing, created an opportunity for Joyce to apologise without embarrassment. And she feels a pleasant glow of self-righteousness. She glances around the courtyard and as she spots Joyce sitting at a table in the shade, she feels a stab of nostalgic pleasure at
the sight of her. Joyce, she notices, looks the same as ever, no change there: jeans, white shirt, with a navy sweater draped over her shoulders. Helen waves. Joyce does not wave back, just smiles in a restrained sort of way, slips the book she was reading into her handbag and takes off her glasses. She’s embarrassed, Helen thinks: a few weeks with Mac away and she probably realises now how ridiculous it all is. And reminding herself to be firm but gracious, Helen weaves her way between the tables and sits down.

  It’s awkward at first and she’d expected that, but somehow they get through the first five minutes by consulting the menu. A waiter appears and takes their order, then gathers up the menus and leaves and they are alone again, facing each other across the table.

  ‘Well,’ Helen says brightly, ‘this is nice, and long overdue.’

  ‘Sure is,’ Joyce says. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to come around, but I never imagined it would be this long.’

  Helen is completely taken aback. She jerks upright in her chair, her mouth drops open and she struggles to catch her breath. ‘Well, really . . .’

  ‘Oh come on, Helen,’ Joyce says, ‘we’ve known each other for donkey’s years. I know you can do a good sulk, but this one’s been epic.’

  Helen feels her mouth tighten. ‘I wasn’t sulking, Joyce, I was hurt, very hurt. How could you make such a big decision without discussing it with me? In fact why didn’t you and Mac discuss it with both of us?’

  Joyce tosses her head, clearly unmoved. ‘You mean like when you decided to move out of Emerald Street without mentioning it until the day before the estate agent’s board went up?’

  Helen blushes, immediately wrong-footed, remembering the shock and dismay on Joyce’s face when she had broken the news to her. But backing down is not one of her finer qualities. She tilts her chin. ‘I see, so it was tit for tat, was it?’

  Joyce sighs. ‘Mac and I made our plan just as you and Dennis made yours. I was stunned when you told me you were going to sell and move away, but I did understand why you had to sort things out for yourselves first. And forgive me if I’ve forgotten, but I don’t think I was openly rude, hostile or aggressive about it at the time. And I didn’t walk out on you.’