The Driftwood Dragon

by Ann Charlton

  Dru cast him one look and hurried to the door. Locke's laughter echoed after her. But it seemed to her that it cut off before the door shut behind her.

  The play drew to a close. Locke had contracted to play only the first month of its run. Another actor would take over for the remaining Sydney season and take it on tour. Locke would have a week off when he finished at the theatre then he would go to Hollywood to re-shoot some film scenes marred by the presence of an actress who had been replaced by another later in the original filming schedule. He was going alone now. Eric's house, he told them apologetically, was occupied by some friends who were staying longer than he thought. Locke explained that it wouldn't be much fun for her staying at a hotel while he worked but Dru knew that it was her apparent gauche comment about the play that had changed his mind. He and Eric couldn't take the risk of having an outspoken, naive, plain wife on show in Hollywood.

  'What will you do while I'm away?' he said from behind his newspaper at breakfast one morning.

  'I might go up to the beach house. I'd like to see that Sam's place is okay.' They had arranged for an agent to check it out periodically until they decided what to do with it.

  'Pull it down,' he'd advised them. 'It's a fire trap anyway and not worth a cracker. The land is valuable though and would be worth more but for that creek and the swamp near it.' The extent of Sam's property had surprised Dru. She knew his cottage had stood on a sizeable block but hadn't realised that, apart from Sea Winds, Sam owned all the land along the beachfront. He must have resisted offers to live his simple life from choice and alone and she would never know why. He could have been rich. Her eyes were faraway. She thought of Mrs Pennington's comfortable, beautiful Ascot home and its heartless atmosphere. In a way Sam had been rich.

  'Dru—' Locke reached out and took her hand. He searched her face the way he did whenever she remembered and felt the loss again.

  'It's all right. I was just thinking about Michael's mother's house and how—' she stopped as her hand was crushed momentarily in his grip.

  'Put Pennington out of your mind. He forgot you easily enough.'

  'No, that's not what I was—' she began to say but Locke cut her off.

  'I don't want to discuss him or his mother. And I don't want you staying up at the beach alone. It isn't safe.'

  'You think some uncouth character might break in in the middle of the night?' she said sarcastically. 'Mistake me for someone else?'

  'If you go it will be with me,' he said, unmoved.

  We'll see about that, thought Dru.

  She drove him to the airport. By some system known only to themselves, the press knew of his departure and were waiting for him. Locke swept her up in his arms in one of those love scenes he did so well and she forgot that she was acting a part for the entertainment pages and T.V. magazines. Then he was gone, reluctantly leaving her to the mercies of the press who were a little more insistent and a lot less polite without his presence. She was, after all, a nobody, raised to prominence only by marriage. Eric was supposed to have been here to keep them at bay but there was no sign of him yet.

  'Some people feel you're an unlikely pair Mrs Matthews. How do you explain your marriage?'

  'I don't.'

  'Why did you marry him?' How did Locke keep smiling through these inane questions? Dru mocked surprise.

  'Why? For his mind of course.'

  A patter of laughter. 'What the fans would really like to know is why did he marry you?'

  'Isn't it obvious? For my looks, naturally.'

  More laughter. Dru began to walk and they followed her. Eric hurried towards her, all apology. He firmly stopped the questions and as he whisked her away gave her a curious glance. 'You seemed to be holding on your own.'

  'Didn't you think I could?'

  'Frankly no. You must be made of sterner stuff than I thought. I need to talk to you Dru, pet. I'll follow you home.'

  Dru couldn't have said why the sight of Eric's red Porsche in her rear vision mirror made her uneasy.

  Mrs Curtis was at work, oiling the leaves of the pothos that had created a jungle in a corner of the breakfast room. When she'd made coffee for them, she went back to work on the plant.

  'Could you do something else?' Eric said rather sharply to her. She threw him a dour look. Her cigarette tilted in her mouth as she left the room.

  'I guess you overheard Melanie at the theatre that night,' he said as the vacuum cleaner started up. Dru stiffened.

  'I meant to get you alone before this and tell you Sandy's nothing to bother about. Nothing at all.'

  He covered her hand with his. Dru looked down.

  No ruby ring today, she noticed in a detached way.

  'Believe me, Dru—it's rumours, nothing more than that.' He was protesting a great deal, she thought and met his eyes. Eric's slid away. 'Of course,' he said, 'I admit they had a thing going in the past…' he cleared his throat. 'But I just know he wouldn't have had anything to do with her since then.'

  'Is she an actress?'

  'No pet—Sandy Craig is a model—she's on the cover of one of the fashion glossies this month.'

  After a short silence he said: 'Hey, Van and I are throwing a party tomorrow night. Why don't you come?'

  'Thank you, but—'

  'Say no more,' he held up his hands. 'You think Locke mightn't like you going out without him, right?'

  Her chin snapped up. 'Wrong. I'd like to come. Casual or dressy?'

  'Anything goes pet. There'll be a few big names there if you know what I mean…' He patted her arm. 'Tomorrow night then, Dru. Around eight.'

  After he'd gone Mrs Curtis switched off the cleaner and returned to the pothos. Half the leaves glistened from her attentions, the others were dull.

  'I'm sorry Eric was so sharp with you, Mrs Curtis.'

  'No need for you to apologise Mrs Matthews. He's not one to waste his time on them that don't count.'

  'You don't like him.'

  Mrs Curtis wiped the excess off several leaves. 'Too much oil,' she muttered. 'It's not for me to like or otherwise. But its a pity he's not more like our Mr Matthews instead of acting like somebody out of a film.'

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Eric's house was a splendid architectural arrangement of tiers sprawled down a rocky slope at Whale Beach. He lived there a few months each year when he wasn't in the States or England negotiating on Locke's behalf. At present Vanessa lived with him. Dru wondered where all the blondes fitted in.

  Eric had a nose for moneymaking investments Locke had told her. He had acquired some very valuable properties for them both in the last few years. And not just properties. As Eric took her to the noise of the party they passed fabulous spotlit sculptures and paintings, glass cased antique pieces. Dru stopped at a triptych of blown up photographs that occupied most of one sweeping wall. Three studies of Locke— the action man, tattered shirt over oiled muscles—the playboy wearing a dinner suit and promise in his eyes—the adventurer in bush shirt and moleskins.

  'I always thought stars had pictures like these in their own houses,' she joked. 'Locke doesn't have any.' Eric smiled but didn't answer as he led her past the three faces of the Ransome Man. He opened a door and warm air blasted her. And music. There was a babble of voices and a scatter of colour around the aqua dazzle of an indoor pool. Movies were flickering silently over the far wall beyond a tangle of tropical plants and people danced, sat at tables, posed on sun lounges. Through the splash of several swimmers Dru noticed one thing in common. Everyone was wearing swim or resort wear. The long sleeves of her sapphire blue dress were suddenly hot and tight. It was, she had thought, a really nice dress even if it had lost some of its promise after she'd bought it. In this setting, it might as well have been fancy dress.

  'You should have told me it was a pool party—'

  'Pet, I'm sorry—didn't I say?'

  Dru turned clear grey eyes on him. 'No. You didn't.'

  He groaned. 'My mind's like a sieve lately. Van gets furious
with me.' He walked her to the bar and poured some wine, 'Drink this, pet, and forgive me.'

  He took her on a round of introductions. 'My sister-in-law,' he would say and introduce the other guest along with a resume of his/her accomplishments in the business. Dru smiled and sweltered in her blue dress, feeling her disadvantage. Her sole claim to individuality appeared to be her marriage to Locke. The guests were friendly and most unconsciously patronising to the mouse-haired girl who couldn't even wear the right gear.

  Vanessa emerged from the pool and wrung out her waist length hair, looking askance at Dru's dress.

  'Oh, don't you swim?' she asked. Dru felt the girl had held back an 'either' at the end of that question. Illogically she felt a spurt of anger. Had Eric said to her—Locke's wife doesn't seem to have any talents—I can't think what he sees in her? Well of course he had. It was exactly what most people would think—she'd known that from the start.

  'There are a couple of spare bikinis and towels in the dressing room if you're too hot,' Van offered.

  Dru decided she would change immediately before she melted. But on her way to the dressing room she looked up at the movie wall and saw Locke. He hacked his handsome way through bamboo jungle, stopped to fight off hordes of almost naked natives, swung from a vine over a gorge into a miraculous, luxurious bathroom. There was no sound but she saw his lips move in the famous catch phrase 'And if you think that was a close shave…' He shaved, aided by a busty blonde—another clone like the ones Eric had decorating his arms at the restaurant—and settled, suave and elegant into a wing-backed chair with a cigar, brandy and the blonde. It was one of the Ransome ads. Another of the series followed and Dru watched, admiring Locke yet wondering why she felt faintly repelled.

  'Not blue, darling—you should never wear blue.' A man stood near her. He was reed-slim, wearing a jump suit open nearly to the waist with an aviator scarf flung over one shoulder. Mort Flanagan, he introduced himself. Set designer, interior decorator, artist, sculptor and writer. 'And those are just a few of my talents,' he admitted.

  'I confess I haven't heard your name, Mr Flanagan,' she smiled. 'And if I had I'd be inclined to think it was that of an all-in wrestler or a boxer.'

  Mort laughed. 'With a name like Flanagan you wouldn't normally be far wrong. I come from a long line of brawling Irishmen. Of course,' he inspected his pale fingernails, 'I'm not—ah—typical of my family.'

  Reluctantly, she excused herself to change for the heat was oppressive in her long sleeved dress. All the spare bikinis looked as if they'd been designed with Cannes cameras in mind. Dru chose the one with the most fabric and wrapped a towel around herself, hoping that now she would simply blend in with the crowd. Mort strolled over to her when she emerged again.

  'Going in, Dru?' Eric called out across the plants. Dru turned to find almost every eye on her. She might not be shy as Locke pointed out but she didn't relish this kind of mass attention. 'Go on pet, take the plunge—if you can't swim Gale will rescue you.'

  Laughter greeted that. Some 'in' joke apparently.

  Dru felt a rank outsider. Gale came over to test the water. She had on a leopard skin patterned swimsuit that was cut high, high over the hips so that her legs looked endless.

  'It's warm,' she said kindly to Dru. 'And shallow up this end if you don't like getting out of your depth like me.' She sauntered off and slipped into the shallow end near the steps, looking back from the centre of the pool with a jungly smile.

  'Oh dear, oh dear, I think our Gale is going to be a bit bitchy again,' Mort murmured and glanced at Dru, 'She—er—had a bit of a thing about your husband a long time ago. He took her out a couple of times when she worked in a Ramage episode. Just between you and me she had hopes of a long liaison on and off screen if you know what I mean. Gale has ambition but not a whole lot of talent—love your suit, Gale darling!' he waved to the girl in the pool and mimed a kiss. At Dru's askance look he said, 'I know. I'm a dreadful hypocrite. I only get away with it because I'm talented and entertaining.'

  'And modest,' she said drily. Another ex-girlfriend of Locke's. The world was studded with them apparently. And not all ex's.

  'And modest,' he agreed just as a piercing scream came from the deep end. Gale's head bobbed above the water then she sank only to appear again bubbling a pathetic—'Help—it's dee-eep—'

  Dru dropped her towel. She didn't stop to wonder why a self confessed fraidy-cat should be in the deep end. Just as she dived in she heard Mort say, 'No, darling, don't—she's acting again—' But it was too late. Intrepid Dru was in the water and feeling an absolute fool as Gale surfaced again, laughed at her would-be rescuer and feigned more panic to the amusement of the onlookers. Dru had a vision of leaving the pool—herself the butt of an old joke and Gale, once a Locke Matthews girlfriend, wearing her jungly smile. She put her face down in the water and powered the length of the pool to the girl. She wanted to be rescued, so rescued she would be. Gale seemed a bit nonplussed when Dru reached her so quickly and grabbed her under the arms. She even struggled a bit and disappeared under the water in an unrehearsed flurry.

  'Don't panic,' Dru said soothingly, 'Otherwise I'll have to hit you.' It was so tempting. Gale, still resisting a bit but no match for Dru's superiority in the water, was towed to safety. Obviously her set scene had never included rescue—not by a woman at any rate. She was pouting when she was hauled up on to the poolside by some of the onlookers. Dru pulled herself out and stood over her. 'Do you think she needs resuscitation?' she said anxiously and Gale leapt to her feet.

  'It was a joke,' she snapped. 'I'm a good swimmer— I wasn't drowning.'

  Dru opened her eyes wide. 'Oh, weren't you? You made it look so real.'

  Several people laughed and eyed her with speculation. Mort murmured, 'Are you sure you haven't had any acting experience?'

  'You've certainly had plenty in the water. You can really swim, lady,' someone else said.

  'My father taught me,' Dru said and ruthlessly tossed her father's name in among these celebrities. 'Wes Winters.'

  'Well, for heaven's sake,' a peeved Gale said as the conversation hung around Dru's father's prowess and her own. 'If they make another Tarzan movie you've got a real chance. You've got the shoulders for it, darling.'

  Dru grinned and eyed the leopard swimsuit. 'I might have to borrow your hide though.'

  It was a small triumph. Very small. Dru was absorbed into the party yet remained conscious of a prickle of uneasiness. Eric circulated in his bouncy fashion, talking about motor racing here, skin diving there, about Monte Carlo and the Bahamas. And on the wall Locke paddled down white water, fought off two burly villains and escaped in a hot air balloon manned by another blonde clone…

  'I didn't know you were such a super swimmer pet,' Eric said later as he saw her out. They were in his foyer—a sweep of marble and glass with a bronze sculpture and a spotlit abstract painting of immense proportions.

  'Perhaps Locke told you and you just forgot. That sieve of yours,' she reminded him. His gusty laughter followed her to her cab. He'd forgotten to kiss her goodbye again.

  But Mort Flanagan hadn't. He'd given her a card with a friend's name on it and told her to go see him about her hair. 'And don't wear that ghastly blue again darling—peach or apricot or beige. Not blue.'

  Mort's friend called himself simply Drakos. He had a gaunt, olive skinned face and fierce, black brows. In one ear he wore a diamond stud. Drakos sat her in a chair in a private booth and walked around her for maybe five minutes. Twice she started to say something but he said 'Sssh,' and kept viewing her as if she was a piece of stone he planned to sculpt. He ran long, thin fingers energetically through her hair then clicked them and had her taken away to the basin for a shampoo. When she came back, wet hair slicked back he allowed himself a nod and began cutting. He never asked her what she might like and Dru closed her eyes when she saw great, crinkling falls of hair sliding down the silk coverall. At length he whirled her chair around to the mirror with the a
ir of a magician whipping aside a veil.

  'There. Now we see you.'

  Dru gulped. We certainly did. Her hair was shorn to an inch all over her head. Suddenly she had eyebrows and cheekbones. There was a young, vulnerable look to her. She felt naked and put her hands to her face. Drakos slapped them down and snapped his fingers again. Another girl took her away to a lay-back chair and began working on her face. Mort Flanagan, she thought, if this goes wrong you'd better summon up your Irish fighting blood. But it didn't go wrong. It went amazingly, incredibly right.

  Her brows, thick and several shades darker than her hair which now looked more caramel than mouse, had been sparingly shaped. The eyes that had always seemed small framed in an unmoving mass of hair, had grown larger. Even their colour looked right. Grey, she saw in surprise, was not such a dull colour. It was warm and sparkling. Her nose was as ordinary as ever and her mouth was still too wide but she had come into focus in some odd way.

  'Drakos,' she said as she left, 'You are a genius.'

  'But of course,' he said in surprise and executed a bow.

  Mort's friends she saw, were as modest as himself.

  She flew to Brisbane for a few days and visited Barry and Jan and the children. They were delighted but almost uncomfortable with her new image. As if she had rejected the role for which she'd been cast so long ago. Gillian was less surprised when Dru caught her with an hour to spare between sleep and schedules, 'I always knew you could be an eye-catcher if you found the right look. And you've found it.' She gave her a letter. 'I was going to mail it on. It looks like Michael's handwriting.'

  It was. Dru read it, feeling a certain unreality. To think that once she had anticipated spending her life with Michael.

  'What's it about?'

  'He'll be in Sydney soon. He gave me his hotel number,' she smiled, 'Michael wants me to have lunch with him.'

  'And will you?'

  Dru cast her an amused look. 'Of course not.'

  In defiance of Locke's wishes, she went to Sea Winds from Saturday night to Monday. Rather belatedly she painted the sign and hung it up, reflecting that she would have saved herself a great deal of torment by doing it long before. Then she couldn't have sent Shelley away and Locke would never have stood with her under a million stars in an April sky… was that the night Sam had told him he was dying? Perhaps that accounted for some of the pity in his eyes when he'd kissed her.