After Ariel: It started as a game Read online

  From Ariel’s perspective things were looking up. Her parents were away for the weekend and she had the house to herself.

  ‘This it?’ His gaze flicked over the neat house with its pretty garden as he guided her from the taxi. His beautiful, full lips moved as though he was counting.

  ‘Yeah.’ She paid the driver, who grunted, stuffed the note into his cash bag and embarked on a barrage of coughing as he waited for his remaining passenger.

  ‘Shall I come back for you about seven?’

  She smiled. Tonight dinner and who knew what would be next? Caught up in the excitement of her unexpected date, her parents request that she stay at home had flown her mind. ‘No, I’ll meet you. Seven in the lounge bar.’

  He gestured to the bag. ‘Shall I carry this in for you?’

  She thought quickly. What if they ended up back there? The house would be a tip; she had two hours to get it sorted. ‘No thanks, I’m good.’ For a moment, doubt crept into her mind but was swiftly dismissed. They’d be in the pub, surrounded by the Friday night crowd.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  CHAPTER 2

  Reunion

  Pamela Miller

  Friday, 4.30PM

  My mother, Rosalind, stands on a river bank holding a baby. It is early autumn and the trees are changing colour. Tears trickle down her cheeks and drip off her quivering chin to soak her chambray shirt. Sunlight glitters on her sequin-splattered denim skirt. As I watch, fascinated, willow trees appear from behind to shroud her from the world but just as her image fades into the cool green fronds, a man’s tall figure looms behind her with folded arms. She turns and clasps the baby tightly to her as he turns away from her and slowly vanishes from sight. Her pain fills my heart.

  My eyes snapped open, shaking off the recurring dream which I believe symbolises the loss of my father. As always, a feeling of emptiness engulfed me but faded quickly this time. I have at last a surrogate in the form of my much loved stepfather, John. I want this concert done with and I want my mum! Not necessarily in that order.

  My fellow passengers were gathering their belongings, bumping hips with each other as they struggled for luggage in the racks above. Thank goodness I got the last seat in Business Class. My long legs are not designed for “cattle.”

  I didn’t have to wait too long at the carousel, though I was entertained by the little beagle checking our luggage. I watched, laughing silently, as a young man with revoltingly large earrings set into his ears like an African woman’s decoration, was led away after an enthusiastic response from the dog.

  My laughing, noisy cousin, Marigold Humphries ran up to me as I wheeled my bag away from the carousel where I stopped to load my backpack over my shoulders. ‘Is this all you’ve got, Pammie?’ She gave me a big hug, almost knocking my spectacles off and then looked for what else I may have secreted about my person. ‘Got everything? How was the tour? Are you ready for tomorrow night’s concert?’She snatched the handle of my big case out of my hand and wheeled it toward the exit. I slung my backpack over my shoulder picked up my precious flute case and laptop, then trudged after her.

  Tired out, I answered as economically as possible. She nodded in approval, chattering over her shoulder – the family are fine and waiting eagerly for me to arrive and yes, she is off again on a new assignment! By the time we reached her car, I was reeling with information overload. She slung my case into the boot and climbed behind the wheel. I carefully placed my flute case and laptop in the back, shoved my backpack down behind the passenger seat and scrambled in. Goldie gunned the motor and lurched out of the parking lot, cursing as we reached the boom gate. Marigold – Goldie to her family and friends – is one of the two women with whom I can bitch about errant boyfriends, corporate sponsors, arrogant conductors, lack of time and currently, sex.

  We’re both tall, fair-haired and slim, but her bold and classically beautiful face marks the difference between us. She’s used to being approached by scouts for modelling agencies and other ‘would-be, could-be’s’ who back off pretty smartly when she delivers her standard reply: ‘Listen, Cuddles, I’ve had better wet dreams than what you’re offering!’ Her responses to hopefuls who approach her in bars don’t bear repeating. She’s an internationally renowned free-lance photo-journalist who’s much in demand, fiercely ambitious and will let nothing stand in her way of reaching the top of her profession.

  I took a long swig of water ‘So how have you been?’

  Goldie flicked the indicator for left and turned into the stream of traffic. ‘Oh fine! Fine.’ Oh yeah? Could have fooled me.

  ‘So what’s the latest on the ‘sig other’ front? You were pretty cagey when we spoke on the phone yesterday. What aren’t you telling me?’

  ‘Nothing, really nothing.’ Her face closed, her eyebrows drew into a frown. Something’s wrong...

  ‘Goldie, I know you too well.’

  She laughed and blew a kiss to a male motorist, who besottedly allowed her into the line of traffic.

  Men adore her. ‘I know you have someone in tow, you always do!’ Goldie goes through men like a lioness through a mob of gazelles.

  ‘Did, you mean.’ She chewed her lip briefly and then informed me that she has just dismissed her latest suitor two days ago and is ready to frolic.

  ‘For God’s sake, what was wrong with this one?’

  ‘He was a dickhead, love, but apart from that, nothing.’

  ‘So, what’s next?’

  ‘Well, I have to get back to Sydney earlier than I planned. KRL mag wants their photo-spread a lot faster than we thought. Someone has let them down, so it’s all a bit complicated, Pammie. The bottom line is I can finish up the river shots tomorrow morning, and then meet up with Jack Boode, the TV bloke, to plan for the Africa job and fly back to Sydney late Sunday night.’ She looked at me, guiltily. ‘I know we planned to have a few days together, but I’ll be back in a few weeks and we can do something then. I am coming to your concert tomorrow night, though!’

  I’d hoped that we would have a little time together. She appeared to have forgotten that I’m going overseas for a couple of weeks shortly, but of course work has to come first.

  ‘Pam?’

  ‘Sure, no problems.’

  ‘So what about tomorrow night’s concert? You’re all set, then?’ She threw a twinkling glance at me, as she swung the car around a corner, nearly taking out a cyclist.

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

  While I have been somewhat successful in the world of classical music, stage fright has been the bane of my life and until a short time ago, actually prevented me achieving anything like a sizzling career. ‘Puking Pam twelve o’clock’ is the favourite, a stage hand’s cruel catch-cry, as they bring out a bucket with great ceremony and place it behind the curtains at the entrance to the stage. I want to kick them up their well-endowed or otherwise, crotches. This tour, however, things are looking up.

  When I turned twenty six, I realised that if I didn’t overcome my affliction and get a grip on myself, I may as well toss in the towel and settle for a life in front of waist-high future stockbrokers, CEOs, lawyers and possible apprentice criminals. Not so you’d notice the difference. I decided stage fright would not – could not –get the better of me. Three years later and I’m all good. Literally hundreds of hours of practice and hard work with tutors have seen to that. A musician’s life is not the easy one people seem to imagine.

  ‘How’s the tour been so far?’ Goldie’s voice is a flat, Australian outback twang. Educated in one of the foremost private boarding schools in the country, one could be forgiven for wondering how she ended up with an accent like that. When asked, her reply is classic: ‘This is the result of screwing a shearer for three fucking years, darls.’ Her voice remains steady, but her eyes tell a story of grief and loneliness.

  The photographic record of their travels in the red, bull-dusted outback has won her accolades and countless awards, as has her stints in Iraq and Afghanist
an, the last almost ending her life with a stray bullet in the chest, but in Goldie’s own words, she wouldn’t give the Taliban ‘the satisfaction of knocking off a Western journalist and a woman at that!’

  ‘The hypnotism worked, but I have to keep working at it. So far, touch wood, I haven’t had a problem this whole tour, so let’s not tempt fate and talk about it.’

  ‘You said you were doing a number with a pianist. Who is it this time?’

  ‘Vladimir Rezanov.’

  ‘Oh my God, Pammie, he’s hot!!’ She turned to stare at me, narrowly missing oncoming traffic. I reached out to grab the wheel, but she recovered herself just in time. The blare of a horn pursued us down the street. ‘He’s so photogenic. I want an introduction!’

  Strangely, I have never met Rezanov who had studied at the Queensland Conservatorium a couple of years ahead of me. A somewhat Godly figure, he had been revered by all, surrounding himself with the most attractive of the students. Then he began to make a name for himself by winning the Sydney International Piano Competition which enabled him to enjoy the more glamorous aspects of what society had to offer and it wasn’t long before he headed off permanently overseas to further his career. By the time I arrived in London, he had established himself on the international stage, and since then his fame had grown. Recordings, concerts – he’d played for the highest in every land.

  ‘We’re supposed to be rehearsing the Haydn tomorrow morning. If you can’t come then, there might be a chance after the concert, but from what I’ve heard on the grapevine he’ll be crotch-deep in groupies.’ My sarcasm drew a startled glance from Goldie as we pulled up in front of her parent’s house.

  ‘I have things to do in the morning. What a bummer!’ She shrugged and turned off the engine.

  ‘You can come backstage after the concert and I can introduce you then, if we can find the bugger.’ If Goldie accompanies me to the concert, I don’t like even her chances of storming his citadel. My agent, Ann, said: ‘He’s a sexual predator. You girls should keep a safe distance from that young man,’ When I told my friend, Ally, she screamed with laughter. ‘Thirty centimetres would be about right! Anyway, eighteen to twenty year old teenies are his preference. We’re too old, Pammie!’ Twenty-eight is too old for another twenty-eight year old?

  Rezanov tends to remain in his dressing room until the last possible moment before his performance and vaporizes immediately the curtain falls on his last bow, if his agent and the management don’t catch him and haul him out to meet his fans. No doubt the sponsors get a tad restless from time to time. I must admit I’m curious about this woman-magnet who apparently dispenses his favours liberally. From his publicity photos, I can see what they’re raving about. Gorgeous, two metres tall and brilliant, from all accounts he’s a sexual hurricane. I promise Goldie I will do my best to introduce her.

  ‘Please God, the idiot won’t bring another artist along with him,’ I muttered, remembering a celebrity percussionist who spent all his free time frolicking with his partner, a blonde clarinettist whose boobs had the eyes of all the men in the orchestra – even the gays – sticking out like the proverbial organ stops. We women couldn't figure out how she managed to get her arms in front of her to play, but the unkindest cut of all was the undeniable fact that she is a fine musician.

  ‘Now you’re talking!’ Grinning with anticipation, Goldie leapt out of the car, slung her handbag over her shoulder, snatched her exotic shopping bags and headed for her parent’s front gate. ‘Mum’s expecting us to have coffee and then we can go home or out to the pub. Whatever you like! We’ll leave your things in the car for now.’

  I retrieved my flute case and laptop before some weasel stole them. The front door opened and my uncle and aunt surged out to greet us. All talk of Rezanov and the concert was put on hold while we had coffee and scoffed the cakes for which Goldie’s mum is renowned. Comfortably round, my mother’s younger sister fits neatly under the armpit of her husband. Every time I look at her face under strong, dark brows, hazel eyes and thick, fair hair, I see my mother staring back at me.

  ‘Pam...Pam?’

  ‘No more, thanks, Fiona,’ I started to gather up crockery, which she took from me with a no-nonsense wave of her hand.

  As Goldie and her father argued amiably about nothing in particular, I took the opportunity to look around. It was a long time since I had visited and nothing had changed. The wall was still covered with decorative plates painted with everything from portraits of the Royal Family, to flowers, landscapes and kittens. I am reasonably sure the curtains over the windows were the same lace rose-embossed ones. A huge urn of dried leaves stood in a corner.

  Millicent, Fiona’s beloved cat slept on a footstool, her long tabby legs dangling over the side. From time to time, she half opened her eyes, flexed her front paws and looked toward the kitchen. When my aunt came back, Millicent, who always has an eye to the main chance, staked her claim to a comfortable lap.

  My mind returned as always before a concert, to the program I am to perform. Haydn’s Flute Concerto would be my major work, but the Schubert – Shepherd on a Rock – was to be performed with Rezanov. Hopefully, the audience would call for at least one encore, and for that I’d chosen Dance of the Blessed Spirits, a huge favourite not only of mine but audiences as well. Fiona returned and interrupted my thoughts by joining in with my cousin and her father’s discussion about Goldie’s next job and whether she will ever go back to a war zone. It was not long, however, before their attention turned back to me.

  ‘So, you’re ready for the concert tomorrow night?’ Alex fished out a massive handkerchief with which he proceeded to clean his spectacles. Millicent turned around in Fiona’s aproned lap, puddling her paws while her mistress waited for her to settle.

  ‘Yes, I have to go over there in the morning and rehearse. It’s only a matter of running through the program and rehearsing one piece with the pianist.’ I hoped no one would ask me about him.

  Fiona looked concerned. ‘You really are over your stage fright, aren’t you, dear?’

  ‘Yes, it doesn’t bother me anymore. Of course, I’ll always be nervous before a performance, but at least I can get onto the stage without throwing up.’

  ‘Fancy being able to fix something like that!’ For my aunt, hypnosis comes under the heading of witchcraft. ‘Who’s on the program with you? I know you told me, but my memory isn’t what it used to be.’

  After I mentioned Rezanov, she looked at me with concern. ‘You mean the one who’s always on the tellie and in the paper with models hanging off him? Only last week, he had that Princess who was over here opening something – whatever her name is – besotted with him.’ She waved her hands, as she tried to remember the name of some minor royal.

  ‘Yes, Fiona, but don’t worry, I’m too old for him. He only likes teenagers.’

  ‘Oh dear, one of those is he?’Alex chimed in. The expression on his face said he was not sure whether to be relieved that I am too old or disgusted because the man in question likes younger women.

  ‘He’s not a dirty old man; he’s a dirty young one! He’s only the same age as me.’

  ‘Have you spoken to your mother lately?’ Fiona changed the subject. Something in her voice alerted me to a hidden agenda. ‘Er...no, not for a week or so. Why?’I knew mum was about to undergo an operation for cancer.

  ‘Well, you should because I think she’s sicker than she’s letting on. It’s not what she said, more what she didn’t say. I know my sister and when she’s covering something up.’

  ‘We know she’s having the op on Monday, but could it be worse than she’s saying? Or is something wrong with John?’ My mother married a widowed, retired Senior Constable only six months previously and had never been happier.

  ‘I don’t know, but the sooner you get home to her the better, dear. Are you two coming back here for tea, Goldie?’

  My cousin glanced at me. ‘Want to come back for tea or shall we go to the pub?’

  I let
the idea run through my mind. Knowing Goldie’s capacity to hold liquor, I decided discretion was the better part of valour. ‘Thanks for the invite, Fiona, but I need to get up early and I’m rather tired.’ I turned to Goldie. ‘Perhaps we could get a takeaway and knock off a bottle of ‘Red Ned’ at your place?’

  She lived a few streets away from her parents in a refurbished workman’s cottage. I would be staying for a couple of nights until my own unit became vacant on Saturday morning.

  *

  Goldie’s 1930s cottage was more of a two-storeyed home, painted a pale lemon, topped by a dark grey roof and with leadlight windows, behind a small lawn surrounded by tall shrubs. Because she is gone for months at a time, she prefers to keep her garden simple, knowing that her parents will be looking after it. She opened the glossy dark grey front door, stepped over the threshold and hurled her keys into a wide, shallow pottery dish on a side table. The natural light of a summer evening showed that nothing had changed since my last visit.

  Goldie’s decor revealed her penchant for all things big and garish – like herself, but in a comfortable way. The snug lounge room was, as always, strewn with newspapers and books, her small piano stood in the corner near the window next to a desk on which her laptop sat open, surrounded by papers and piles of what appeared to be photographs. A few crudely carved souvenirs of donkeys and camels decorate the tops of bookshelves. Of her numerous awards, there was no sign. Family photos adorn the walls and the top of a dresser. On the wall above the fireplace is a stunning portrait of Parry Reynolds.

  He was large enough to make my cousin appear petite, and I knew him to have been beautiful outside and within. My heart ached for her, as I tore my gaze away from his twinkling dark eyes and smiling, perfect mouth. Their love for each other was supposed to keep them safe. Goldie’s gaze travelled to Parry’s photo then swung back to me. ‘I’ll never find what Parry and I gave each other, Pammie. Sometimes I wish I could just lift that slab and melt down into the coffin with him.’ Great tears tumbled down her cheeks, falling to her shirt front.