Then one day, on another floor, Madeleine discovered the publicity department and had an epiphany. It was just like in the movies when they play that angel-chorus sound effect. That’s what Madeleine heard when she stepped into the big open-plan office, buzzing with activity. The women – and they were all women – were glamorous and confident and totally out there, and Madeleine was immediately in awe of them. She was seconded a few times to help out in the section, and although the work was boring there too – she was only temping, so it was mostly clipping reviews, answering phones, running errands – Madeleine was entranced just watching the publicists do their thing. It was like being in one of those old Hollywood screwball comedies with smart, sassy, fast-talking women in tight suits and high heels. If they weren’t on the phone, they were rushing off to lunches or launches, or meeting planes and ferrying authors around to ‘it’ restaurants and being on a first-name basis with everyone in the media. And to top it all off, they got to read books – they had to read books, it was part of the job! Madeleine had found her calling, now she just had to find a way in.
She began by dressing the part, transforming her look from ‘student on work experience’ to proper, fully fledged working adult. Considering she had been an adult for some time, that transformation was long overdue. From then on, she put up her hand to work in publicity at every opportunity. If she was working in another section, she would drop by after she was finished to see if they needed a hand with anything, like one of those goody two-shoes, schoolgirl teacher’s pets. Liv, the head publicist, started to notice her, and a kind of informal mentorship evolved. They often got to talking, late in the afternoon when no one else was around. Liv was going through a hard time since her marriage had broken down, leaving her holding not one but two babies – twins. They were school age by then and Liv was trying to juggle a demanding full-time job, which she loved, with raising her young sons, whom she loved much more. She constantly worried that she was a bad mother, and then she worried that she wasn’t giving her all to her job. She adored her boys, but she wondered when she would ever get her life back, and then she worried that she was being selfish even having that thought.
Madeleine was horrified that someone as accomplished and amazing and awesome as Liv should be second guessing herself that way. So she told Liv she wasn’t a bad mother at all, that her own sister was a married, stay-at-home mum and yet she, too, was constantly plagued with guilt that she wasn’t a good mother. That it seemed to Madeleine that guilt was the default position for all mothers, and she pondered the now rapidly becoming age-old question of why men didn’t have any guilt about juggling children and work. The two of them became fast friends, and the next time a position came up in the department Liv decided to give Madeleine the opportunity.
There was no way she was going to let Liv down, so Madeleine had literally thrown herself into the job – okay, not literally, she wouldn’t hear the end of it if she dared to utter that in front of an editor. One could not literally throw oneself into a job, that wasn’t physically possible, she got it. Anyway . . . the job, it consumed her life. It was more than nine to five, more than five days a week. She was on call nights, weekends, for days at a time at festivals, or weeks at a time on author tours, flying around the country, living in hotel rooms. There was one memorable stretch when she didn’t sleep a single night in her own bed for eight weeks. But it was exhilarating and Madeleine thrived on it. She didn’t have time any more to miss her dad, or feel guilty that she wasn’t spending enough time with her mum, or listen to Genevieve telling her that she ought to feel guilty that she wasn’t spending enough time with their mum . . . truth was she didn’t have time to stop and think about much of anything. Certainly not what all of this was doing to her health and general wellbeing. After a few years in the job she was drinking way too much, way too often, but it was difficult to avoid. It was a rare author who didn’t like a drink, and if you were accompanying them to events you had to be sociable. She even took up smoking for a while there; again, a fair proportion of authors liked a smoke, and with all the regulations they could only smoke outside, and Madeleine couldn’t let them stand out there by themselves. She had to go with them, and it was easier just to join them – it made them feel more comfortable, and that was her job, after all.
‘To get lung cancer?’ Margaret cried, the first time she smelt it on Madeleine’s clothes. Her mother was constantly worried about her. But her mother was constantly worried about everything: global warming, boat people, the Greens, bacteria on kitchen benchtops, you name it. She no longer had her husband’s voice of reason to calm her fears, and so they proliferated unchecked, a little like bacteria on kitchen benchtops. Ever since she’d taken to listening to talkback radio – she said it kept her company – Margaret Pepper was frightened of everything.
Madeleine’s lifestyle also provided her sister with endless opportunities to tell her what she was doing wrong with her life. Genevieve had the typical married-with-children mindset: everyone was supposed to settle down, because that’s what adults did, even if it made them miserable. Madeleine had no business at her age to be out partying and travelling and generally having a good time.
‘How are you ever going to settle down?’ Genevieve would commonly ask.
‘Who said I want to settle down?’ Madeleine would commonly answer.
To which Genevieve would commonly take offence.
Madeleine could never understand why people reacted that way. If you lived your life differently to them it didn’t mean you were casting aspersions on their choices. The logical conclusion of that line of thought would have everyone making the same choices, living the same lives. What a boring place the world would be then.
‘You can’t keep living like this, Mad,’ Genevieve would declare loudly down the phone, so that she could be heard over the cacophony produced by three little boys running amok.
‘It’s my job,’ Madeleine would reply.
‘It’s a young person’s job,’ Genevieve would counter. ‘You’re over thirty now, Mad, you’re going to burn out at this rate. You have to start thinking about slowing down, getting into some other line of work.’
Though Madeleine would never have admitted it to Genevieve, she’d started to suspect she might be heading for burnout. She felt as though she was suffering from a perpetual hangover, she had to buy concealer in bulk to hide the dark shadows under her eyes, and she was becoming forgetful and sloppy. She had arrived late for a number of early meetings, wearing clothes she had fished out of a pile on the floor. Liv had started to make the odd pointed comment, and she was a seasoned party girl herself. However, there was an unwritten code in publicity: party as hard as you like, but you must never let it affect your work the next day. Despite having twins to organise, Liv was never late for morning meetings, Madeleine had never noticed dark circles under her eyes, and she would never have been caught dead in the same clothes two days running. Liv had told Madeleine that she had to start looking after herself or she wouldn’t be any use to anyone. Then, with the Sydney Writers’ Festival fast approaching, she was assigned just one, solitary children’s author. Madeleine was dismayed; usually she handled three or four authors, depending on how big they were, if they had come from overseas, and how many sessions they were booked for. But Liv was adamant. Henry Darrow was very important, she explained; he made more money for them than most of the other authors at the festival put together. It was an absolute coup that he was coming at all – he was known to be a bit of a recluse, rarely attending festivals, and yet he was travelling all the way from the States for this.
Yay. A reclusive children’s book author. This’ll be fun, Madeleine had thought wryly.
‘I still remember the expression on your face when you were waiting for me at the airport that first time, holding the placard with my name,’ Henry said now. ‘You didn’t look very excited.’
‘I was just having a pout because I was going to miss the festival opening-night party, and I’d
never missed a festival opening-night party,’ said Madeleine.
‘Just because I didn’t want to go didn’t mean you couldn’t.’
‘Yes it did. See, it wasn’t just the party, there was the afterparty as well, and they go all night, and I had to pick you up at, like, eight in the morning.’
‘I’m sorry I ruined your fun.’
Madeleine grinned up at him. ‘I know, the sacrifices I’ve made.’
She’d had to remain on her best behaviour for the entire festival, which wasn’t too difficult – children’s authors were not exactly party animals, and Henry’s sessions were all scheduled in the morning. Madeleine offered to take him to lunch the first day, but he politely declined, saying he preferred to go for a walk, explore the city a little. The expression on her face must have given her away, because he quickly added, ‘It’s okay, you don’t have to come with me.’
‘But I do,’ she explained. ‘It’s my job.’
‘You’re not really dressed for walking,’ he said with a glance at her pencil-thin skirt and matching pencil-thin heels. ‘Seriously, Ms Pepper, I don’t need a minder. And I can make my way back to the hotel myself, there’s no need for you to wait around.’
Madeleine was perplexed. Liv would not be happy about this – she should be doing far more to promote him. ‘What if I set up drinks later, after you’ve come back from your walk?’ she suggested.
‘I’m not much of a drinker, I’m afraid.’
‘But there are lots of influential people here, I can arrange for you to meet some of them.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, so you can network, make contacts.’
He took his time to answer, and he seemed self-conscious when he finally did. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware, Ms Pepper, but I’m doing all right. I don’t really need to make “contacts”.’
Madeleine cringed inside. Of course he didn’t. He would be the star attraction at any meet and greet she could throw together, and she could totally understand why he didn’t want to be put through that, considering his shyness.
Though Madeleine wasn’t so sure she would call him shy. He was reserved, or maybe contained was a better word, but he seemed comfortable enough in his own skin. He led his sessions confidently, in a quiet but commanding voice that had his young audiences leaning forward in their seats to catch his every word. Even Madeleine had found herself mesmerised, and she was clearly not the only grown-up who was. The mothers lining up at the signings afterwards behaved like schoolgirls, giggling and flirting; one woman even leant right over the signing table to flash her cleavage at him, and she had a four year old with her! Madeleine had felt quite affronted, and then protective, and then outright possessive. Back off, ladies, she felt like saying, he’s mine. Um, as in, he’s my charge . . . my responsibility . . . Oh, just back off!
And it wasn’t like he was all smooth and flirty back at them; on the contrary, he often looked abashed, and a little overwhelmed by it all. There was something in that diffidence, in the slight, tentative smiles, that Madeleine found endearing. Or maybe it was his eyes, soft brown eyes you could get quite lost in. Or his dark hair that looked like it was overdue for a cut, and was always a little tousled, which made you want to run your fingers through it to straighten it up, or at least Madeleine did.
Whatever it was, by week’s end she’d decided she could not leave Henry Darrow to wander the streets again all day on his own. It was impolite, if nothing else, and he had shown himself to be polite to a fault. She felt he deserved the same consideration in return – indeed, it was her duty as his publicist.
So when she picked him up on the morning of his final session she was dressed in jeans and walking shoes. She noticed a faint flicker of surprise pass across his eyes.
‘I figured you must have walked the entire length and breadth of the city by now and you might want to go further afield,’ she explained, oddly nervous. ‘So after your session this morning, I’ll be at your disposal for the rest of the day. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.’
She was rewarded with a smile for that. Score. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’
Of course, not knowing the country, he couldn’t really say where he wanted to go, just that he wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, away from the city, and Madeleine knew just the place. Her father had been a keen bushwalker, and one of his favourite haunts was the Sydney Harbour National Park at North Head. It was just out of Manly, so it wouldn’t take them too long to get there. But it was surprisingly secluded and unspoilt, even rugged in patches, and as a bonus it had fabulous views to the city across the water. Henry was suitably impressed, and he seemed to be more at ease out there in the open.
Madeleine would later tell people that this was the day she started to fall in love with Henry Darrow, even though nothing particularly remarkable happened. Mostly they’d just walked and talked. She learnt that he lived in New York, but that he also had a place in the Hamptons – he needed to get out of the city to be able to get inside his head to work. He craved open spaces, which was partly what had prompted him to accept the invitation to Australia, but he was a little disappointed to find that the outback was a long way out back and that Sydney was as bustling and busy as any international city.
As they walked, Madeleine found herself telling him about her life, her family, and especially her dad, something she wasn’t in the habit of doing. Publicists were not particularly prone to talking about themselves, their job was to talk up other people, yet here she was, pouring out her life story to a stranger. But Henry didn’t feel like a stranger. She didn’t know exactly why; maybe it was because he reminded her a little of her dad, especially in that setting.
Perhaps the most surprising part for Madeleine was that they also walked for long stretches and didn’t talk at all, which was a whole new experience for her. But it was okay, she didn’t feel the need to fill up the silence with mindless chatter. And the silence, the stillness, was a revelation, clearing her head, giving her a sense of peace she hadn’t felt in a long time.
That night Madeleine had poured herself a glass of wine and opened the box of Henry’s books she’d brought home from the office. They had won awards in almost every language they had been translated into, but it wasn’t really about the words – the pictures were universal. His books were bought by new parents to be the first books they read to their babies, and they were cherished by those same babies as they grew up. You were unlikely to find Henry Darrow books in secondhand stores – they were kept, destined to become heirlooms.
Madeleine had flicked through them before, of course, but they were picture books, with barely more than a line of text to a page. They could be read in a couple of minutes, so she’d never taken the time to examine them closely. Now she saw that the pictures were exquisite, simple and sophisticated at the same time. Clean, elegant lines and smudges of colour – dappled pink for a child’s cheek, a blot of blue, and there was a baby with wonder in her eyes, so real that Madeleine could almost feel her breathing. On another page was a menacing sky in shades of grey and, unexpectedly, a splash of yellow. Again the colours were smudged on the page, with only a line and a couple of strokes to suggest the land below, or tufts of grass on the horizon. The colours darkened over the page, a storm was brewing, and Madeleine felt cold.
An hour passed, maybe two, and she hadn’t touched her wine. She usually rushed through books, gobbling up the words greedily, but here the words were sparse, every syllable intentional. Madeleine slowed down, savouring the images. They held stories too; she just had to be still and give them time to sink in.
On second thoughts, maybe that was when she fell in love with Henry Darrow.
The following day, Madeleine took Henry to the airport for his flight home. He tried to insist that she drop him off at Departures, but Madeleine wouldn’t hear of it. ‘They make you check in so early for overseas flights, I don’t want you to have to wait on your own all that time.’
Madeleine didn’t want to push it. Actually, yes she did. ‘The thing is, I was going to ask you to sign some of your books for me.’
He glanced at the pile on the back seat, then gave her a faint smile. ‘Of course.’
So after he’d checked in, they went to get coffee, and Henry signed the books, and Madeleine waited with him right up until his flight was called. They talked, or they didn’t, either way was fine – she had never felt so comfortable just sitting in silence with another person. Finally, when they stood facing each other at the departure gate, she was overwhelmed by an urge to grab him and hold him close to her, to keep a part of him with her. There was something he had that she wanted to hold on to. Although she had met him only a few days ago, she knew she was going to feel bereft without him. But she had no idea what to do about it; nothing remotely like this had ever happened to her before.
Henry was first to speak. ‘It was good to meet you.’
‘It was?’
He smiled. That smile. ‘Yes,’ he assured her, ‘it was very good to meet you, Madeleine.’
She loved the way he said her name in his soft Midwestern accent. Who knew Americans could be so soft-spoken?
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Because I don’t know if I come across all that well.’
‘Why would you say that about yourself?’ he asked kindly.
‘What I mean is,’ Madeleine quickly tried to explain, ‘I talk too much, like I’m going to talk too much now. I’m sure someone like me must grate on someone like you. I mean, you choose your words carefully, and you don’t need to yabber on all the time, whereas I don’t seem to know when to stop – you might have noticed. But I hope I didn’t grate on you, not too much anyway. Because I think . . . I think you’re nice, you’re very nice, and I’ve really enjoyed being your publicist, and getting to know you . . . and I really hope I see you again . . . sometime.’
The Best Man Page 2