by Claire McNab
Any diffidence she had shown on the phone was gone. Her assured self-confidence had returned. She measured me with a long look. "I like your hair. It suits you short."
Brushing the compliment aside before it could embarrass me, I said quickly, "It was time for a change."
"You're changing a lot of things, aren't you, Victoria?"
I liked the way she said my name, crisply. "Things change, but I'm still the same."
She smiled, but didn't reply. I felt obscurely disturbed, as though I should have given another answer, so I said hurriedly, "Here's the room service menu."
We ordered extravagantly, and then talked about the Eiesley trial while we waited. Reyne's brief was to examine the impact of the trial and verdict from the point of view of the Church, which had been rocked with sexual scandals both in Australia and overseas, similar to the one that had led to the murder. "You can see why members of the Church hierarchy have made such a fuss over the religious erotica you examine in your book," Reyne said. "They have a long-standing policy of denial where sexual matters are concerned, and when it's actually sexual abuse, they turn their faces the other way and hope it will all go away."
"How can anyone ignore the abuse of children?"
My voice rang loudly in the room. Abashed, I said, "I'm sorry. It's something I feel strongly about."
There was knock at the door. The waiter steered in the wheeled table with impressive speed, then set it up for dining with a flourish of silverware and a haughty expression. I almost expected to hear dramatic music as he presented the wine for my approval, then removed the cork with showy expertise.
"We ordered far too much," said Reyne after he left. She smiled at me across the table. "It's fun, isn't it?"
And it was fun. I felt the satisfaction of doing something self-indulgent with a companion to share the guilt — not that Reyne seemed even slightly penitent about the size of the feast we were consuming.
As it had at her apartment, the time was passing too quickly. When we'd both eaten our fill, Reyne surveyed the table with satisfaction. "Let's push this out into the corridor for collection. Otherwise it'll sit here as a silent reproach for our gluttony."
Giggling like school kids, we maneuvered the laden table through the door. Reyne dusted her hands. "Mission accomplished."
Abruptly, unexpectedly, I wanted her arms around me again. "Reyne..."
She seemed to read something in my face. Without a word she embraced me, holding me tightly so that I could feel the steady beat of her heart.
"I don't know..." I said, as though she'd asked me a question.
She kissed me with care, then simply held me. I was in a dream, not of passion, but of nameless longing. "Don't stop," I breathed against her cheek, needing the heat of her mouth again.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
She laughed softly. "And if I want something from you, will you give it to me?"
"Yes." I could have added, "Anything you ask," so reckless was I for the taste of her mouth again.
Gentleness gone, she forced her tongue between my lips. When men had kissed me this way I'd recoiled at the need they displayed. When it was Reyne, I devoured her with equal ardor.
She was undoing my bra, sliding her fingers over my breasts. It distracted, annoyed me. "No."
Her hands stilled. When she stepped back from me her eyes were dark, her skin flushed. I was staring at her mouth, wanting her to kiss me again. Her lips curved in a smile that seemed half-resigned, half-bitter. "No, Victoria. A kiss isn't enough. Not for me."
Disappointed anger made my voice shake. "You're playing games, Reyne."
"I'm playing games?"
She was impatient to be gone, gathering her things swiftly and walking briskly to the door.
"Reyne... I'm sorry."
"So am I." She paused with her hand on the doorknob. "The pity of it is I've let myself get in so deep."
Chewing listlessly on a piece of toast, I glared at the headlines of the fat Saturday morning paper. The jury was expected to reach a verdict today on Vera Eiesley's guilt or innocence. The journalist clearly believed that the verdict was so obvious that jury deliberations should not be longer than decency required.
I folded the paper and dumped it in the middle of the ruins of a room service breakfast. Squinting through the over-cheerful glare of the sun I could see the greenery of one of Melbourne's many beautiful parks.
The phone rang: it was Hugh bubbling with enthusiasm to start the day. I broke into his exuberant dialogue. "I'm almost ready. I'll meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes..."
Pacing morosely around the room wasn't going to assist my preparations for the day's interviews. I cleaned my teeth, tried to hide the dark circles under my eyes with makeup and contemplated the selection of clothes without interest. I wanted — needed — to talk with Reyne. To explain...
I snatched up the receiver, scarcely requiring to check the telephone number of Reyne's hotel — I'd started to dial it several times that morning, but stopped myself before the digits were complete. She didn't answer, and when the helpful hotel voice broke in after the seventh ring, I left a brief message asking her to call me.
The phone rang just as I replaced the receiver. "Victoria? I'm in the lobby and you're not. Where are you?" Hugh sounded both anxious and slightly outraged. "Are you going to be long? We'll be late if you don't hurry."
When I joined him ten minutes later he said accusingly, "You've never been late before. In fact, you're always early."
"I'm sorry, Hugh. I slept in."
He accepted the lie with good grace. "You've been doing a lot, Victoria, what with your university work and all these appearances. We'll have to look after you. Make sure you don't wear yourself out..."
"Rampion Press has invested a lot in Victoria Woodson," I said acidly. "So it's essential I be kept in good condition."
Hugh looked worried. It was obvious he wanted to say something to placate, but couldn't quite decide what would be appropriate. He settled for a neutral sound and then a hurried comment on my first appearance on a morning television show. "Neville Tower just loves your work. I know you might think it unusual in a talk show host, but apparently he's really very interested in literature." Hugh flashed me a smile. "He's read The Erotic Muse cover to cover, not just the chapter headings and a few words here and there."
I was rapidly becoming an old hand at the activities associated with television programs. I sat patiently while television makeup was applied, and visualized the lines of Reyne's face. I waited obediently beside an earnest assistant director for my cue to enjoy my slice of electronic fame — and recreated the pressure of Reyne's lips. On the set, I watched Neville Tower's bouffant hairstyle while he smiled at the camera, and remembered the texture of Reyne's hair.
When I came off the set, Hugh was waiting for me. "Victoria, you're not..." He searched for a non-wounding phrase. "... you're not quite with it this morning. Do you know what I mean?"
"You'd better tell me, Hugh."
He patted my shoulder. "No harm done, but I did get the feeling you weren't really concentrating... Neville did have to ask you a couple of questions more than once before you responded..."
He broke off as the monitor above our heads showed an advertisement for a weight loss clinic fade out, but instead of returning to Neville and his next guest, it went to a newsflash.
"The verdict!" The woman on the screen looked well satisfied, as though she'd personally created the event. "The jury's back to deliver the verdict Vera Eiesley holds - her breath to hear," she stated confidently. "We're crossing live to our Steve Wax..."
Her hard glossiness was replaced by the soft good looks of a young man who had posed himself in front of the facade of the criminal courts building. "Well, Denise," he said portentously, "it looks as if the jury's gone against every prediction and believed the defense of temporary insanity. Vera Eiesley's been found not guilty of the willful murder of her parish priest..."
I scanned the crowd behind the young man, hoping, although not believing, that I'd see Reyne there. It was a waste of time, but I persisted, half listening to the newscast. "And how will Vera be feeling at this point in time?" was the fatuous question from the smiling anchorwoman.
"What a stupid question," said Hugh, as though he'd never been guilty of articulating anything of similar banality. He glanced at his watch. "Come on, we've got a schedule to keep."
I was bored and tired by the time Hugh released me into the tranquility of my hotel room to prepare for a reception in the evening. There'd been no message from Reyne and I sank, dispirited, onto the bed. Tomorrow would be more of the same, starting with a reporter from what Hugh called the mega-selling women's magazine of all time. "It's a coup!" were his last words on the subject, after he warned me, "Don't be too controversial... just a touch..."
When the phone rang I was so sure it was Hugh I said abruptly, "Yes? What is it?"
"That rather depends on you," said Reyne.
"I'm sorry, I thought was Hugh." Ridiculously, I added quickly, "Don't hang up."
"I got your message to call." Her voice was neutral, as though whatever I had to say was of little interest.
I knew what I should say — some careful, balanced comment. Instead I blurted out, "I was miserable after last night. I need to see you again."
"All right, but I'm pretty tied up — and so are you from what I remember of your schedule. Will tomorrow do?"
"Whatever suits you."
My sharp disappointment must have been evident because Reyne said, "I'll try and make it to your reception tonight, but it won't be until quite late. If I miss you, I'll leave a message at your hotel." She gave a short, bitter laugh. "I've no idea why I'm doing this. Have you?"
"No," I said, for the moment simply content that I would be seeing her.
The function was largely for what Hugh rather dismissively called "literary types." Among the writers there were some I admired, along with a few I privately considered to be merely adroit self-promoters. The rest of the gathering was made up of people associated with publishing — press journalists and a small sprinkling of critics.
One influential critic, renowned for panning anything written by those outside a particular literary group — I had received a vitriolic review — swarmed over to me with an ingratiating smile. "Professor Woodson! I do hope you've got something in the literary works just a tiny bit more weighty than the Muse. I mean, it was fun, but not really serious writing.'
"I consider it among my best work," I said levelly.
"Indeed?"
Hugh materialized beside me. "Sorry to interrupt, but you're needed, Victoria." As he steered me towards a knot of people in animated conversation, he said, "Thought a rescue was in order."
"I didn't need rescuing."
"Not you," he laughed. "I was rescuing the doyen of literary criticism from annihilation."
"That's quite an exaggeration. We were just chatting."
Hugh snorted his amusement. "Even from across the room I could see the formidable Professor Woodson gearing up for battle. I thought it would be wise to intervene before you drew blood."
It often puzzled me why I was so often described as tough or intimidating. "I'd only said a couple of words. What was so formidable about that?"
Hugh shrugged. "I don't know... something about the way you act. As though you feel secure enough not to care what people think of you."
I smiled wryly at his comment. Most of the time it was true — I didn't allow myself to get close enough to anyone for it to matter too much about the person's opinion. But I cared what Reyne thought of me — so deeply it was like a pain.
The evening to me was a blur of talking faces, snatches of conversation, politely insincere comments, a few moments of genuine pleasure when meeting individuals I admired and respected — all of this punctuated by offerings of food that tasted identical, and mouthfuls of anonymously excellent wine. "We can leave any time you like," said Hugh, as I took a furtive glance at my watch.
"I'll stay a little longer," I said graciously.
I saw Reyne before she saw me. Wearing a simple black jacket and pants, she stood at one side systematically scanning the crowd. I was absurdly pleased that it was me she was looking for, and I had to restrain myself from smiling idiotically when she located me and waved an acknowledgement. With impatience I watched her make a slow path across the room. Every few steps someone called a greeting and she stopped to say a few words. Then, when she reached me, I wasn't sure what to say.
Reyne looked serious and rather tired. "You ready to go?" she said.
I nodded. "More than ready. I'll just tell Hugh I'll make my own way back to the hotel."
In the cab she gave the name of my hotel without consultation, then sat back and shut her eyes. It was a silence we didn't break until we reached my room. "I'll order coffee," I said, "or do you want something stronger?"
"Coffee. Anything else will send me to sleep."
Room service was commendably quick, which was fortunate because pouring the coffee gave me something to do, other than watch Reyne as she stood at the window looking down at the lights of the Saturday evening traffic.
"Are you going to come over here for your coffee, or shall I bring it to you at the window?"
She smiled faintly at the bite in my tone. "When you put it that way — I'll come over there." She took the cup I handed her, settled herself into the chair opposite me and said coolly, "You're calling the shots, Victoria."
"Last night..." I stopped, uncertain of what I wanted to say. She didn't rescue me, so I tried again. "I think I gave you the wrong impression last night."
Reyne gave an infinitesimal shrug. "Perhaps it was my fault. I didn't take Pippa Blaine's gossip column seriously."
"About Gerald Humphries? You were right not to believe it. We're the proverbial good friends."
Her sigh seemed to blend resignation and tiredness. She didn't look at me as she said, "I simply read the signs wrongly. I thought you were... interested."
"I am, but perhaps not the way you mean. I feel a great deal for you, I can't remember being this way about anyone before..."
Now she was looking at me, frowning slightly. "You kissed me. I thought you wanted more." She took a gulp of coffee. "You have to admit you gave me every indication you did."
It seemed to me that every word we exchanged added to the confusion I felt. "I don't understand!" I said passionately. "I don't know what I want, or don't want."
Reyne put down her cup. Her dark eyes seemed even darker. "Tell me when you find out."
I was terrified that she might go, that I'd never be able to recreate this moment when we might be able to share a true communication unclouded by civility and self-protection. "Reyne, please. I must explain. I've always been cold... frigid. Physical love doesn't mean anything to me. There's something wrong. Something missing in me."
There was bitterness in Reyne's voice. "And so you decided to experiment with a woman."
"If it were only that easy." I was immeasurably relieved to have actually put it into words. I looked at her and imagined her arms around me. "If I did — it'd be you."
"Don't say that!" She got up and began to pace around the room. "It isn't fair, Victoria," she said harshly. "I'm not about to become your sex therapist." She glared at me. "I was stupid enough to believe..." With an exasperated sigh she broke off.
"Believe what?"
"I was looking for a relationship. Someone important in my life. God knows why I thought it might be you." She turned to look for her things. "This is pointless. I'll go."
I couldn't believe the storm of emotion that had overtaken me. "Please, Reyne. Please don't go."
"Why not?"
"I feel... I don't understand what I feel..." I had to smile at the absurdity of it all. "Reyne, I don't know what it is — but it's for you. And it's so strong." When she didn't move or speak, I said, "I'd call it love, but that would be maudlin, wouldn'
t it?"
She smiled at me — the first genuine smile I'd had from her that evening. "It might be maudlin," she said, "but I quite like the sound of it."
CHAPTER TEN
I sailed through the early morning interview in my hotel room with the brittle, over-dressed reporter from the women's magazine. I wasn't even ruffled when she asked for "the woman's side of being a professor" and whether I had any tips for aspiring bestselling authors, other than to "load the manuscript up with sex."
Reyne had only stayed a short while and had left after we'd agreed on a time for the interview on my early life that we'd discussed in Sydney. We hadn't embraced, but I felt much happier about our relationship. Relationship: it was a word of infinite possibilities — and threats.
Hugh was delighted by my change of mood — "See what a good night's sleep can do, Victoria" — and keen to review last-minute changes in schedule for my trip to the States.
"Hugh, we've already been through all this."
My protest made him purse his lips. "I don't want you to accuse me of not telling you everything."
"Have you sneaked in more appearances?"
"Well, since you're in New York for three days..."
"No."
Astonished, he repeated, "No?"
I had an ulterior motive for refusing more appearances in Rampion Press's home city. Reyne had told me last night that she was spending a week in New York visiting Millenium's head office, and as the time overlapped my visit, I wanted as much time free as possible so I would be able to see her.
"Hugh, Rampion's getting blood from me. I don't believe I need to do any more."
Looking sulky, he said, "You seem to forget they published your book."
I was suddenly impatient with him. "Hugh, Rampion Press has done very well out of The Erotic Muse. It wasn't printed out of charity. I'm willing to help promote it, but enough's enough."
"Okay," said Hugh, smiling brightly. I'd learned that he was as tenacious as a bulldog, so I expected him to return to the subject when I was jet-lagged, or maybe even slide the appearances into the schedule and not mention them.
"And don't," I said severely, "try to add anything without telling me."