Araluen (33 page)

Emma was amazed. It wasn’t like Julia to laugh at her. And certainly not over something as serious as this.

‘Stop looking at me like that,’ Julia said when she eventually got herself under control. ‘I’m not laughing at you, honestly.’

‘What are you laughing at then?’ Emma asked, a touch sullen.

‘The story. The way it happened. I think just about every second woman I know lost her virginity like that. I sure as hell know I did.’

Emma started to relax. ‘It was all so tacky,’ she said.

‘Yes, not exactly the true romance one hopes for, but cheer up, love, the next time’ll be better. Oh dear … ’ Julia laughed again and there was sympathy in the laugh. ‘That poor little bastard. He was quite right, you were behaving like a prickteaser. You’ll have to put a stop to that, you know.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I tell you what we’ll do.’ Julia jumped up and went into the kitchen. ‘We’ll toast your womanhood, what do you say?’

She reappeared with a bottle of wine. ‘It’s only cheap stuff, I’m afraid, but it’s got bubbles in it.’

Half an hour later, Emma was completely cheered up. The following week she took Julia’s advice and visited a doctor for a contraceptive pill prescription.

Towards the middle of the year, the sub-editor of the
North Shore Times,
who had recognised
Emma’s diligence from the outset, decided to give her a break.

‘We’re bringing out a magazine around Christmas,’ she said. ‘A "that-was-the-year-that-was" type of thing, and the boss wants a feature on women in power. If you were to write a submission on someone you admire, and if he were to like it, he might use it. What do you think?’

What did she think? ‘Oh Meg, thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank … ’

‘I thought you’d feel like that,’ Meg smiled. She liked Emma. ‘Here’s a list of suggestions. Pick a person and see if she’ll grant you an interview. That’s half the test, getting your foot in the door.’ And she left, calling ‘good luck’ over her shoulder.

There were at least twenty women on the list. Politicians, magazine editors, fashion designers, business people. Halfway down the page, under the heading
Entertainment Industry,
was the name Penelope Ross, Chairman, Ross (Australia) Productions.

Emma stood staring at the piece of paper. She wondered whether she dared. For two days she wondered whether she dared and then she decided.

‘I’m going to interview Penelope Ross,’ she announced to Julia that Saturday.

There was silence.

‘For the paper,’ Emma continued. ‘They’re doing an end-of-year feature on women in power.’

‘Why Penelope Ross? Do you have an option?’

‘Yes,’ Emma answered.

Another silence. ‘Then why Penelope Ross?’ Julia asked again.

‘I want to.’

‘I see.’

Emma could tell Julia was angry and she didn’t know why. ‘I want to meet her, can’t you understand that?’

‘Are you going to tell her who you are?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe not.’ Emma felt uncomfortable. She didn’t want to anger Julia, but now that the opportunity had presented itself, she couldn’t wait to meet her father’s family. Not only Penelope, she wanted to meet the formidable Franklin Ross as well. Surely it was her right, after all.

Julia could sense the girl’s determination and she knew that any attempt at dissuasion would be useless.

‘You’re a fool, Emma, you’ll be hurt,’ was all she said and the subject was closed. It was true she didn’t want to see Emma hurt or humiliated but there was another reason altogether for her anger.

Julia had made a bargain with Franklin Ross and she’d read in the old man’s face his acknowledgement that she would keep it. He was a hard old bastard and she hadn’t liked him but there had been a flash of mutual respect between them which Julia had never forgotten. The thought that he would assume she’d reneged on their deal, that she’d sent her daughter to claim her place in the Ross family, was more than Julia’s pride could bear.

She knew she was being selfish. It was Emma’s life and she had a right to trace her antecedents –
it was a natural urge. But, to her dying day, Julia wanted no contact with any member of the Ross family.

‘Mrs Ross? Emma Clare.’

‘Ah yes, Miss Clare.’ The voice on the other end of the phone was cultivated, cool and efficient. It definitely belonged to the image Penelope projected in the various articles Julia had read. ‘You’re the young lady from the
North Shore Times.
Rhonda’s told me all about you.’

Emma had contacted Penelope through the correct channels, making an appointment with her personal press secretary, Rhonda Watkins. During the entire interview Emma had been aware that she was being carefully screened. But she got through. Not only had she observed protocol, she’d done her homework. She knew that Ross Productions were about to shoot the pilot of a series which would go to air at the start of the new season. Christmas would be a good time to promote it.

‘And the special on the making of the Snowy Mountains mini-series,’ she’d said. ‘I’d like a still of that if it’s possible.’

Rhonda smiled, aware that the kid had certainly studied up on the situation. ‘That shouldn’t present a problem. Mrs Ross doesn’t like to be represented as self-seeking. Any interviews granted must be solely for the promotion of Ross Productions.’

Emma nodded. She knew that. She also knew that, privately, Penelope loved publicity. At least
that’s what her informer at the studios had told her.

‘Would ten o’clock tomorrow morning be convenient?’ Penelope asked. ‘At the studios?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Emma said, her mouth suddenly dry at the prospect of meeting her grandmother. ‘Ten o’clock would be perfect.’

‘Fine. I shall see you then.’ And Penelope hung up.

Emma didn’t sleep soundly that night. Was she going to tell the woman of their relationship or wasn’t she? If so, how would she break the news? Blurt it out – ‘I’m your granddaughter’? Well, that’s what she’d done with her mother, hadn’t she, and everything had worked out fine? But something told Emma it wouldn’t work the same way with Penelope.

‘Mrs Ross will see you now,’ the secretary said. And Emma, in her sensible beige reporter’s suit, walked into the plush office with its original paintings, its objets d’art and its vases of orchids. Penelope liked to work in pleasant surrounds.

She was seated behind an elegant carved teak desk but she rose and offered her hand as Emma entered. ‘Do come in, my dear,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’ They shook hands and Penelope gestured towards one of the armchairs. ‘Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?’

Emma was surprised and delighted by the
warmth of her reception. Her informer at the studios had told her that Penelope was a hard taskmaster. ‘A right bitch at times,’ the informer had said. But then a lot of employees, given the opportunity, would like to badmouth their bosses, Emma supposed. And what a beautiful woman, she thought.

Penelope wore her rich auburn hair (still rich and still auburn through the diligent attention of her personal hairdresser) swept away from her face and held in a loose but immaculate bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a jade-green silk suit which hung in elegant folds accentuating her slender figure. As she sat in the armchair opposite Emma and crossed her long slim legs, she was the epitome of sophistication.

‘Jane will bring us tea soon,’ she said. My God, the girl’s a child, she thought. She can’t be more than eighteen. Rhonda had warned her Emma Clare was young, but not this young.

Penelope heaved an inward sigh. She hoped she wasn’t wasting her time, but Rhonda had also said the girl was smart and that she’d done her homework. And any good publicity was useful – for the company, of course. ‘You’re very young, my dear,’ she smiled. Penelope was always charming to members of the press.

Emma nodded. ‘I’m seventeen.’

‘And you’re a fully qualified journalist – that’s rather unusual, isn’t it?’ Penelope’s smile was warm and congratulatory but inside she was starting to feel angry. They’d sent her a cadet reporter. It was an insult.

‘Well, I’m really only a trainee at the moment,’
Emma admitted. It was best to be honest, she decided. ‘But they’ve been very kind to me at the paper and they’re moving me through the ranks quickly.’ Better not admit she’d just finished school, she thought. She smiled modestly. ‘I suppose they must think I have something. Certainly to allow me an assignment like this.’

‘I’m sure they do.’ Penelope recognised the ploy. The girl was smart but she was still a cadet and Rhonda was going to get a swift rap over the knuckles for letting her through. ‘Now, where would you like to start?’ she asked, hoping the tea would arrive soon and they could get it over with quickly.

An hour later, Rhonda’s reprimand was forgotten. The girl was impressive; her homework had obviously been extensive, her questions were intelligent and, furthermore, she was a very likeable and interesting young woman. Certainly attractive, Penelope thought. Although, with that ash-blonde hair, she should really wear brighter colours; beige was not her shade.

‘Tell me a little about yourself,’ she said as she poured them both another herbal tea.

Was now the time? Emma wondered. She was captivated by the woman’s grace and charm but she sensed the strength beneath the elegant facade. Which way would she react?

‘There’s not very much to tell really,’ she said, hedging. ‘I want to be a writer, well, a novelist actually … one day,’ she added self-deprecatingly in case it sounded a little over ambitious.

‘Excellent,’ Penelope replied encouragingly. ‘One needs to set one’s sights high to get on in this
world. But tell me a little about your background.’ There was something about the girl, something strangely familiar, she thought.

‘I was adopted as a baby,’ Emma said. Suddenly she wanted to tell Penelope. She felt deceitful interviewing the woman under false pretences. She wanted her to know the truth.

‘I traced my natural parents several years ago,’ she continued. ‘My mother’s name is Julia Bridges and my father … ‘ She hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. ‘My father was Terence Ross.’

Penelope said nothing. She stared down at her teacup. That afternoon in the lounge room at The Colony House. That hideous scene with that young woman who swore she was carrying Terry’s child. The girl wasn’t lying, Penelope knew it. She looked exactly like her mother.

‘I’m sorry,’ Emma said. She couldn’t bear the silence.

‘No, it’s I who should be apologising, my dear.’ Penelope put down her teacup. What to do? Her mind was racing. ‘It just came as such a shock, that’s all.’ She smiled at Emma, put her hands out and took the girl’s in her own. ‘So you’re Terry’s child.’

Emma’s relief knew no bounds. ‘Oh, Mrs Ross, I’m sorry. I really am doing the interview for the paper but I know I shouldn’t have … ’

‘I think, under the circumstances, we could make it Penelope, couldn’t we?’

Emma felt tears threatening. Julia had been wrong. Her grandmother was welcoming her. The relief was overwhelming. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Penelope. Thank you.’

‘Here.’ Penelope took a delicate lace handkerchief from the pocket of her suit and handed it to Emma. ‘There’s nothing to cry about.’

Emma dabbed at her eyes trying not to soil the pristine handkerchief.

‘Blow your nose, there’s a good girl,’ Penelope insisted.

‘No, it’s all right, I’ve got some tissues somewhere.’ She fumbled in her shoulder-bag.

‘Go on, silly, you can keep it. It’s a gift.’

‘Oh.’ Emma sniffed uncertainly.

‘Go on, go on.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. Nevertheless she blew her nose on the tissues and put the lace handkerchief carefully into the side pocket of her bag.

‘Now,’ Penelope said when the girl had fully recovered, ‘where do you think we go from here?’ What does she want, Penelope was thinking. What is she after?

‘I don’t know,’ Emma replied. ‘I just wanted to meet you, and to talk about my father a little. Maybe if you have a picture of him … ?’

‘Of course. I have many.’

Encouraged, Emma continued. ‘And I’d love to meet … ‘ She couldn’t bring herself to say ‘my grandfather’. ‘ … Mr Ross, if that’s possible.’

Here was where Penelope drew the line. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment; he’s in New York.’ Franklin didn’t return to the States until the following week but Penelope needed space.

‘Tell me, Emma,’ she continued smoothy, ‘how does your mother feel about your contacting us?’ The woman had put her daughter up to it, Penelope
was sure. But what did she want? More money? Not recognition, surely.

‘Oh, Julia didn’t want me to contact you at all. She said Mr Ross would disown me. She said he told her that he would.’

Penelope started to relax a little. The situation wasn’t quite as threatening as it had first appeared. She smiled sympathetically. ‘Sadly, my dear, that is the case. I was there when he said it. Mr Ross is an old-fashioned man in many ways and, in a situation like this, he’s not one to change his views, I’m afraid.’

Emma nodded, disappointed.

‘I think it’s best if we keep our knowledge of each other a secret, don’t you? For the time being anyway.’

‘I suppose so.’

Penelope needed a firmer assurance than that. ‘You see, I’d like us to meet from time to time and it would be most unfortunate if Mr Ross were to forbid me any contact with you. Which he most certainly would,’ she assured the girl. In truth, Penelope wasn’t at all sure what Franklin’s reaction would be to the discovery of his granddaughter. Most likely he would stick to his principles and deny her, but Penelope couldn’t afford to take any chances. Life was good for her now and she didn’t want it in any way disrupted.

With Franklin away so often, Penelope had become the matriarchal symbol of the Ross empire. She knew they called her the Ice Maiden, which secretly pleased her. She was a star at long last. Admittedly, not a movie star and, deep down, that would always be a regret, but she held a position
of power and she was the centre of attention wherever she went.

Then there was Michael. Penelope adored Michael. He’d grown into a charming, sophisticated young man, a perfect escort – and she was well aware that when he accompanied her to the theatre and gallery openings, people assumed he was her son at the very least, perhaps even her young lover, most certainly not her grandson.