Araluen (43 page)

‘No, not tomorrow. Make it the day after, the day of the nightshoot,’ he answered.

Delighted as he was by Emma’s acquiescence, Michael had his reasons for not wanting her around the following day. That evening he had plans, dangerous plans, and he didn’t need the added distraction of Emma.

‘You’ve only just arrived,’ he continued. ‘Give yourself twenty-four hours to loll around the swimming pool or see the sights or whatever. Then we can move your gear in during the afternoon and you can come along and watch us steal the America’s Cup that night.’

‘You’re on.’

The following day, Emma took a taxi to Fremantle and wandered about the streets soaking up the Cup fever which was in the very air.

The city had tarted itself up beautifully to impress the influx of tourists. Old pubs had been restored to their former glory; new, trendy outdoor restaurants had opened; pokey cafes had expanded fashionably, spilling onto the footpath. The rough port town of Fremantle had become an outdoor city catering to an elegant sidewalk society.

She sat and sipped a cafe latte while she watched the fascinating potpourri of people from all over the globe who were already gathering for the Cup although the first of the trials wasn’t due to start for a fortnight.

She wandered along the forefront and gazed at the magnificent yachts in the marina. She browsed through the fish markets, bought herself a steaming parcel of fish and chips and sat on a bench looking out at the trawlers anchored in the bay. As she ate she fed the seagulls and chatted to an animated American couple who’d come over for the Cup. Then she walked for another two hours, exploring the old women’s asylum now converted to a maritime museum and the Roundhouse, once an army fortification, now also a museum. She had a delightful day.

When she arrived back at the Parmelia in the late afternoon Emma was exhausted. A hot bath, room service and television, she told herself. A bit of five-star hotel decadence to round off the evening, then tomorrow, the stimulation of Michael and his creative genius.

The following morning, when Michael picked her up, he was on a high. She knew he was. His eyes were dangerously bright and he seemed electrically charged.

Emma confronted him. ‘You’re back on the coke, aren’t you?’ she said accusingly. ‘You stupid bastard, you promised to lay off it.’

‘I’m not, Emma, honest,’ he said.

‘But look at you, you can’t stay still – and look
at your eyes. Don’t lie to me, Michael, I know the signs.’

‘I swear to you I have not snorted coke,’ he said, raising his hand. ‘Word of honour.’ And he hadn’t. That morning. Of course, last night had been a different story. But, Christ alive, a night like last night demanded added stimulation; it was a once in a lifetime experience. ‘It’s a natural high, I promise.’ And he wasn’t lying. He couldn’t wait to tell her.

‘Oh Emma,’ he said, elated. ‘Last night we created history.’

‘What?’ she demanded. She’d never seen him so excited and she found it difficult to believe that it wasn’t drug-induced. ‘For God’s sake, what?’

‘No, not now. I don’t want to spoil it. I’ll tell you after the nightshoot. Come on, let’s get you settled in.’

Michael introduced her to the rest of the team, besides Stanley and himself, who were staying at the mansion. The three members of the production department, the head of promotions, the caterer and the unit manager. The crew and the actors were staying at a hotel not far from the house.

Together with Stanley, Emma and Michael spent the afternoon sitting beside the swimming pool in the mansion’s landscaped rear garden. It was a burning late-January day and every half-hour they dumped themselves into the water to cool off. Well, Emma and Stanley did. Michael was happy to sit under an umbrella on the terrace and sip away at the Dom Perignon he’d insisted on opening and drag on the joint he’d insisted on lighting up.

‘For goodness’ sake, Michael,’ Emma scolded, ‘you’re working tonight.’

‘All the more reason to relax this afternoon,’ he said and then he laughed. ‘I can’t win with you, can I? This morning you tell me I’m too sped up and this afternoon you tell me I’m too relaxed. Besides,’ he turned to Stanley, ‘have I ever let the side down? Ever?’

Stanley shook his head. Emma decided not to remind Michael of the fiasco he’d made of his speech at the
Halley’s
premiere. Better the booze and the joints than the cocaine after all, she thought. But she was relieved to see him surreptitiously put the marijuana away when the three actors arrived at four o’clock.

‘I’d like you to meet our baddies, Emma,’ he said. ‘Of course you know Jonathan Kramer.’

‘Yes, hello, Jonathan.’ She kissed him warmly on the cheek. ‘Lovely to see you.’ Jonathan had played a leading role in
Halley’s
and she had known of his casting as the chief criminal mastermind. One of the country’s major character actors, Jonathan was heavily in demand, and it had been quite a coup to sign him up for
Blue Water History,
particularly as his role, although showy, was not a leading one.

‘To work on a Ross-Clare collaboration again, dear boy?’ he’d queried when Michael had approached him. ‘One kills for such opportunities. Besides,’ he’d added in a conspiratorial stage whisper that would reach the back row of any auditorium, ‘it’s a gift of a part and I might well steal the movie if you’re not careful.’

‘And this is Gussy and Ben Drummle – my co writer, Emma Clare.’ Michael introduced the rather dowdy little English couple who looked more like domestic help rather than master criminals. Emma wondered at the strange choice but she said nothing until, having talked through the night’s work ahead, the three actors left.

‘Why Gussy and Ben?’ she asked. ‘They’re straight out of
Upstairs, Downstairs,
not at all like the characters we conceived.’

‘I changed it,’ Michael said airily, rolling another joint. It’s much more innovative if the mastermind’s assistants are a colourless little married couple from the Midlands. I’m even calling them Gussy and Ben.’

‘You’re actually making the crooks a married couple?’ Emma was astonished.

‘Yes, original, isn’t it?’

‘Unbelievable, I’d say.’

‘Rubbish. Adds colour. Too late to change it now anyway.’

Emma felt a surge of indignation. They always conferred on script changes and she found Michael’s blase attitude irritating. She was about to retaliate when Stanley, sensing a confrontation, wisely defused the situation.

‘They’re good, Emma. We’ve been rehearsing the scenes and the stunts and they’re really good, believe me.’

Emma recognised Stanley’s diplomacy and backed off. Michael was right, it was too late to change it now and he was the producer and director, after all. She would have liked to have been consulted though. ‘I hope you’re right, Stanley,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have a shower.

Dinner’s at eight-thirty, right?’ ‘Right.’

‘See you in the dining room then.’

Michael wasn’t there at eight-thirty and when Emma phoned up to his room he told her that he wasn’t hungry and that he’d meet them in the lounge at ten. The six-hour nightshoot was scheduled for ten-thirty.

‘You’re going to go right through till half-past four in the morning without any food?’ she queried disapprovingly.

‘There’ll be caterers on location,’ he said.

‘Nevertheless … ’

‘All right, tell Tony to send me up a sandwich,’ he interrupted. ‘Now be a good girl and go and have your dinner, I’m taking a little rest just like you told me to.’

But Michael wasn’t resting and he didn’t eat the sandwich that the cook sent up to him. He opened another bottle of Dom Perignon instead and sat out on the balcony looking over the bay. Below him, he could see the lights of the Royal Perth Yacht Club in the early stillness of the evening and he recalled the excitement of last night. And he anticipated the excitement of tonight. His mind was buzzing.

The afternoon in the sun and the joints he’d smoked had left him a little weary so he’d taken two uppers when he’d returned to his room. Now he was feeling good.

At nine-thirty he snorted a couple of hefty lines and looked down once more at the lights of the Yacht Club. Tonight held such promise. Tonight was the true test, the culmination of months of planning. He was exhilarated.

‘Ready?’ Let’s go,’ he swept into the lounge room where Emma and Stanley were waiting. ‘Give us a hand, Stan.’ Together the two men lifted the dummy trophy, still covered in its sheet, from the table and they made their way out the front door to the waiting car and driver.

As they drove the short distance to the Yacht Club, Emma was sure she could read the unmistakable signs of cocaine. Michael was talking a lot and loudly. He was jumpy, charged with energy. When they arrived, however, and he introduced her to the gathering of people, he was instantly calm, the professional, efficient director, and she could only suppose that she must have been wrong. He was on a natural ‘high’ just as he said he had been that morning. She shook off her misgivings – it wasn’t for her to judge anyway.

Jonathan, Gussy and Ben were in the make-up van parked in the Yacht Club grounds and the rest of the crew were standing around outside waiting impatiently to set up the first shot of the evening. Several small-part players and extras dressed as security guards and policemen were also milling about. With the exception of Michael and Stanley, nobody was allowed inside the Club until the dummy Cup had been exchanged and the real one locked away.

‘Emma, this is Geoff Neilson, head of security. It’s all right if Emma comes in and watches the exchange, isn’t it, Geoff?’ Before the dour-faced guard could answer Michael continued, ‘Emma’s my co-writer and I’d be deeply grateful.’ The look indicated that there would be something in it for him. Geoff had already accepted a little extra on the side, a little personal something above the generous donation Michael had openly made to the Club coffers. He nodded and Michael grinned to himself. As always, Grandpa Franklin was right: When you’ve bought them once, you can always buy them again.

Two policemen carried the dummy Cup into the small viewing hall where three security men were standing beside a locked glass cabinet. Inside the cabinet was the America’s Cup.

Michael, Emma and Stanley stood to one side as Geoff unlocked the cabinet and nodded to the security men to remove the Cup. The policemen whisked the sheet off the dummy and stood by waiting to make the exchange.

There was something strangely ceremonial about it all, Emma thought, something reverent. As the Cups were exchanged in complete silence, she glanced at Stanley. The dummy was certainly magnificent – he’d been right: it was impossible to tell them apart. He caught her eye and gave her a returning wink of agreement.

As the dummy was placed in the cabinet and the security men carrying the real Cup slowly walked past Emma, she wanted to put out her hand and touch it. Silly, she thought, it’s just a trophy. But it did symbolise man’s struggle against the elements and there was something so solemn about the occasion that she felt she should pay homage to it. The America’s Cup. She longed to touch it. One look at the intractable Geoff Neilson, though, and she knew she’d be out of line.

Once the Cup was safely locked away, the night’s work started in earnest. There was a tedious hour or so while the lighting man set up the lights and Michael and the director of photography discussed their shots and the sound man rigged the actors with radio microphones.

Then they were ready to go. Emma heard the word ‘Action’, then she watched, spellbound in the dark, as Jonathan, Gussy and Ben, dressed in black and with blackened faces, crept down the corridor. Soundlessly, in single file, pressed against the wall, their masked torches affording them just the barest glimmer to see their way.

It was eerie. The lighting man had done a remarkable job. The rays of fake moonlight through the windows illuminated the burglars as they stopped at the entrance to the viewing hall. Ben and Gussy looked to Jonathan. He gave an imperceptible nod and they parted, Ben towards the alarm system and Gussy towards the cabinet.

‘Cut,’ Michael called. The first master shot was in the can.

They filmed the scene several more times from different angles. Then they changed the lens and the lighting and shot the close-ups.

A shaft of moonlight. Jonathan in command. The granite face, which Emma knew to be so impressive on camera, barely moved. The orders came through the eyes. And that one imperceptible nod.

Ben and Gussy. The close-ups of each of them a study in utter concentration. Senses quivering. Animals, alert for predators, sensing their prey.

Then it was time to film the deactivating of the burglar alarm. Again Emma watched fascinated as, in the gleam of Jonathan’s torch, Ben worked on the intricate alarm system. His fingers were dexterous. It was a surgeon’s operation, she thought, or the defusing of a bomb – Stanley had certainly schooled him well. But despite his confidence, the tension was palpable as the beads of sweat the make-up artists had applied to his brow and upper lip caught the flickers of light.

The next shot was Gussy picking the lock of the cabinet in the shielded glow of Jonathan’s torch. Obviously her research and rehearsal had been equally intense. She performed with utter concentration, deft and efficient and totally believable.

When Gussy was halfway there, Jonathan shone his torch onto his watch, then tapped her on the shoulder and nodded to Ben. In an instant, the torch went off and all three melted into the shadows. Ten seconds later, one of the extras playing a security guard wandered across the corridor and shone his torch briefly into the hall. The procedure was authentic. On the nightly rounds, at a quarter after and a quarter before each hour, a Yacht Club security man always checked the Cup.

They set up for the next shot. The security guard’s ‘point of view’. Emma remembered the script.

POV SHOT. TORCH BEAMS INTO HALLWAY, ARCS FROM CAMERA RIGHT TO LEFT, PAUSES, POINTS DOWN TO THE FLOOR AND STARTS TO MOVE BACK AS IF IT HAS SEEN SOMETHING. CUT TO: CLOSE-UP. THE GLOW IN THE MOONLIGHT OF THE TIP OF ONE OF BEN’S SHOES. HE HAS FORGOTTEN TO DULL THEM. THE SHOE EDGES ITSELF OUT OF SIGHT JUST AS THE TORCHLIGHT HITS THE SPOT. CUT TO:
MID-SHOT. SECURITY GUARD. CONTENT THAT IT WAS JUST A FLASH OF MOONLIGHT HE SAW, HE STARTS TO MOVE OFF.