Araluen (55 page)

‘Next week we’ll christen the pool,’ he said.

And they did. Many a party was held at the brownstone between 5th and Madison. Even as Michael agonised over the relationship between Emma and Marcel, he invited the crowd back to his home. He entertained them royally, all the while planning the inevitable. And after the crowd had gone, he’d party. Usually with the girl or girls he’d invited that night. And always with the video camera whirring. Always with the fantasy in his mind that Emma wasn’t with Marcel. Emma was here with him. And the following night he’d play the video and relive the fantasy. The girl’s face would be masked from the camera, and as he watched her writhing body and listened to her cries of pleasure he relived his night with Emma.

It was shortly after the new year, when they were well into post-production on
Earth Man,
that Franklin made his casual comment to Michael. ‘When do Helen and I get an invitation?’

Michael was momentarily confused. He hadn’t seen Franklin for over a fortnight. ‘Invitation? To where?’

‘The movie maker’s palatial mansion, that’s where.’

Michael smiled, aware that Franklin was attempting a reconciliation. Their argument after the inquest had left a feeling of animosity between them. ‘A two-bedroom brownstone hardly constitutes a palatial mansion, Grandfather.’

‘A brownstone with an indoor heated swimming pool sounds pretty palatial to me. So when do we get an invitation? I believe we’re the only ones who haven’t, as yet.’

‘How about Friday week? We’re viewing the rough cut and I’m going to ask the others over for supper.’

‘What others?’

‘Only Emma, Stan, Derek and Mandy.’ Michael was fully aware that Franklin would have preferred a more exclusive invitation, just himself and Helen, but that would leave the evening wide open for another lecture, or more probing discussion, and Michael wanted to avoid that if it was at all possible. As it was, he’d have to be on his best behaviour and it would probably be wiser not to invite one of his girlfriends. Damn it, he thought, Franklin had successfully ruined his evening already. Michael wished he hadn’t allowed himself to be pushed into making the invitation.

‘Friday week it is,’ Franklin said. ‘Excellent. We’ll look forward to it.’

‘Michael has invited us to supper Friday week,’ Franklin said to Helen later that evening.

‘How lovely,’ she replied, hoping it was a sign that the rift in Franklin’s relationship with his grandson was on the mend.

‘Only because I virtually told him to,’ Franklin grumbled. ‘And we’ll have to put up with his cronies.’

‘Who? Emma and Stanley?’

‘Yes, and young Mandy Crockett and that director bloke, whats-his-name. Michael’s determined not to be left alone with me.’

‘Well, they’re a nice crowd. It should be fun,’ Helen said briskly, refusing to humour him. He grizzled a lot lately, she thought. Grizzled and whinged and played the cantankerous old man more than ever. But she knew it was directly because of his worry for Michael – it had become so intense that Helen was starting to feel concerned for Franklin’s health. The indomitable spirit that was Franklin Ross was finally showing signs of tiring. He’d long since acknowledged the physical limitations of his age. He no longer refused to hold on to banister railings – indeed, these days he walked with the aid of a cane. But his fierce determination had never left him. Until now, Helen thought. Now, behind the steel-blue eyes which had clouded with age, she could detect indecision and uncertainty, two elements which had never been a part of Franklin Ross. It worried her.

Helen was right. It was Franklin’s indecision that so exhausted him. His divorce had been finalised for nearly two years now and he wanted to go back to Australia. He wanted to take Helen to Araluen. He wanted to marry her among the vines.

Franklin was obsessed with his desire to return to the land of his childhood, to prepare for a peaceful death, just as Grandfather George had done. Over the years he had lost count of the number of times he’d read and re-read the journals of George Ross. It had been a nightly delight to read aloud segments of them to Helen, painting her new home to her, feeding her anticipation. She had resigned her company directorship shortly after the divorce came through and, although she sat on several boards and kept herself busy with charity work, she was looking forward to the activity of taking over the reins of a vineyard. It was an exciting prospect for both of them.

But although Franklin ached to stand on the soil of Araluen with every fibre of his being, his wife by his side, he refused to leave New York until he was satisfied that Michael was in a fit state to inherit his empire.

‘I can’t leave it all to a junkie and a madman, Helen,’ he agonised. ‘And that’s exactly the way the boy seems to be heading.’

When Helen argued that he had dozens of directors perfectly capable of managing his interests, Franklin exploded. ‘I didn’t work my guts out for sixty years to hand it all over to a bunch of strangers, woman!’ he roared. ‘I built an empire to hand down to my son and my son’s sons.’

‘Don’t shout at me, Franklin.’ Helen refused to be bullied.

‘All right, all right. I’m sorry,’ he growled. ‘But until I know that Michael can take over I will stay at the helm – and that means we both stay in New York.’

‘Very well, we’ll stay in New York.’

Helen refused to be ruffled. The woman’s damn complacency was at once her most admirable and her most annoying trait, Franklin decided. He tried to persuade her to marry him in New York, thinking she would like that, but she refused. ‘You’ve always said that you wanted us to marry at Araluen,’ she argued, ‘and that’s exactly what we’ll do.’ He couldn’t budge her and when he tried his bullying tactics she actually burst out laughing. ‘For God’s sake, Franklin,
I
don’t even care if we marry at all,’ she said, infuriatingly. ‘You’re the one who’s so keen on the notion.’

Franklin was strangely shocked by her attitude. ‘Of course I am,’ he said. ‘If you’re going to be by my deathbed, you’re going to be there as my wife.’

‘Yes I am,’ she said and kissed him gently. ‘I think it’s a lovely idea.’

And time dragged on while Franklin worried about Michael.

F
RANKLIN AND HELEN
were the last to arrive at Michael’s for the Friday supper party. When Michael opened the door to discover Karol Mankowski with them, he was sorely tempted to slam it in their faces.

Franklin was fully aware of his grandson’s displeasure but he didn’t seem remotely fazed by it. ‘My driver has the night off,’ he said, ‘so Karol very kindly offered to drive for me. You don’t mind if he joins us, do you?’

‘Yes!’ Michael wanted to scream. ‘I can’t stand the man; get him out of here!’ Michael had been exuberant after watching the rough cut of
Earth Man
and the thought of sitting at a table with Karol Mankowski was an instant downer.

‘Hello, Karol,’ he said. ‘Come in.’

As he ushered them inside, Franklin murmured an aside to him. ‘Don’t be surly, Michael. I can hardly have him wait in the car outside – it’s freezing. Besides which, the man’s a business partner.’

‘The man’s a psycho, that’s what he is,’ Michael muttered churlishly.

Franklin ignored him. After exchanging greetings with the other guests, he accepted a drink from one of the two waiters in attendance and wandered over to the marble columns. ‘Very impressive,’ he said as he looked down at the pool. Personally he thought it was indulgent and ostentatious.

‘It’s beautifully designed,’ Helen said. ‘I think you’ve done a wonderful job –1 adore the marble.’

‘Thanks.’ For such an ordinary looking woman Helen really was very modern in her outlook, Michael thought. He knew Franklin didn’t like the place though, and it annoyed him. He watched Karol refuse the offer of a drink and he suddenly had the feeling that the entire evening was going to annoy him. Fuck you, Franklin, he thought. Fuck you, Mankowski. Michael’s intentions to behave himself flew out the window. Fuck the lot of them, he thought. It was his home and he’d bloody well do what he liked.

‘Hand around some hors d’oeuvres,’ he ordered a waiter. ‘I’ll be back in a tick.’ And he went to the bathroom to snort a quick line.

‘So how was the rough cut?’ Franklin asked the assembled company as he dug a wedge of toast into the bowl of caviar the waiter offered him. He wasn’t supposed to eat caviar – too much salt – but he loved the stuff.

‘Fantastic, Mr Ross,’ Mandy answered enthusiastically. ‘It’s going to be a masterpiece. Your grandson’s a genius.’

Emma, Stanley and Derek nodded their agreement. But they seemed a little subdued, Franklin thought. Perhaps they’d found the film upsetting.

They had. Even Derek, who’d been working with the editor for weeks now, had been deeply moved on watching the film in sequence. Despite the fact that it was only roughly cut together and there was no soundtrack, it was an emotional experience. And Emma, who’d made a point of keeping well away from the editing process, was visibly shaken.

‘It’s pretty shattering, Mr Ross,’ she said. She still couldn’t bring herself to call him Franklin. ‘But the editing’s tasteful. Derek’s deliberately kept away from using the more graphic material.’ Emma wished she hadn’t come back for supper. It didn’t seem right to be eating and drinking and discussing the film as if it were just another movie.

‘I think it’s bloody disgusting that Michael’s bringing the film out so soon after the man’s death,’ Franklin barked. ‘Bloody disgusting.’

Helen groaned inwardly. Not now, Franklin, she thought. Don’t start. Please!

Emma’s silence spoke her agreement but she didn’t say anything. They were a team. She must stay loyal to Michael.

‘Well,’ Derek explained, ‘as Emma said, Mr Ross, we’re keeping the death scene very tasteful and before we roll the titles we’re dedicating the film to Marcel Gireaux and his commitment to the environment… ’ Michael was coming out of the downstairs bathroom ‘ … so I think … ’

‘People will still say that’s a device to help sell the film,’ Franklin argued. ‘It’s tasteless. Tasteless, irreverent and downright bloody immoral if you ask me.’

‘We didn’t, Grandfather.’ Michael poured
himself a large straight iced vodka. ‘We bloody well didn’t.’ He downed it in one hit and poured himself another.

‘I believe the special effects are extraordinary, Stanley.’ It was a desperate interruption from Helen and fortunately Stanley rose to the occasion.

‘You’re not wrong there. Dynamic stuff.’ Stanley knew that he was being called upon to save the day but he didn’t mind. He’d always got on well with Helen. Surprisingly enough, he’d always got on well with Franklin too, although the old man had certainly soured of late, he thought. ‘Lou and the team did an amazing job,’ he continued. ‘We’ve got a nuclear explosion that’s unbelievable. And the aftereffects, the devastation … well, we used models of course but you’d never pick Lou’s work from the real thing.’

Emma looked at him with affection. Dear Stanley. He was always good value when he was dealing with his own world of make-believe. Whether it was throwing himself into a fearsome stunt or constructing some unbelievable effect, he was at home then. She’d long ago realised that Stanley was not arrogant at all. He was merely confident of his abilities and, outside of his own sphere he was, if anything, on the shy side.

The conversation remained in safe territory for the next hour or so, although Franklin’s silence was as conspicuous as Michael’s drinking.

The supper itself was superb – Michael only ever used the best caterers – but everyone was aware of the growing tension. The more Franklin glowered his disapproval, the more Michael
drank; although he was offering his guests fine wines, he himself stuck to vodka.

Towards the end of supper, when the waiters had packed up the warming ovens and departed, Michael rose from the table to open his second bottle. Franklin had only seen one person drink vodka like that. Solly Mankowski. But then Solly could handle it.

‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough, boy?’ Helen’s sidelong glance was palpable and Franklin knew he should have kept his mouth shut but he was finding the deliberateness of Michael’s drinking and his slide into inebriation intensely annoying. The boy was consciously setting out to aggravate him, Franklin thought. Even when he’d opened the wine earlier in the evening, his dig had been malicious. ‘No, Grandfather,’ he’d said, ‘no Ross Estate, only a rather good Bordeaux, I hope you won’t find that too offensive.’ But Franklin did. Not the wine of course. The comment. It was snide, unnecessary. Why was the boy needling him?

Michael himself didn’t know. Perhaps it was the sight of Karol Mankowski drinking mineral water, eating sparingly and missing nothing. Perhaps it was his grandfather’s silence which spoke volumes. But this was his house, he thought. His life.

‘Yes, Grandfather,’ he said, ‘you’re quite right.’ He turned, the second bottle of vodka opened in his hand. ‘I’ve had enough. More than enough.’ He poured the drink, slopping it over his fingers. ‘I’ve had enough of being treated like a child.’ He knew he sounded childish as he said it and that
infuriated him more. ‘I’ve had enough of never being able to do anything right … ’

He was whining now and Franklin, disgusted, shot a quick glance towards Helen. Michael followed the glance and, in doing so, noticed that Karol was not seated beside her. When had he disappeared? What was the man doing? Looking for incriminating evidence? Yes, that was it. The bastard was probably going through the bathroom cupboards at that very moment. Not that he’d find anything; Michael kept his drug supply under lock and key. But the thought of being spied upon, the thought of his belongings being searched … and by Karol Mankowski of all people …

Karol Mankowski had spied on Michael as a child and now he was spying on him here. In his new and wonderful home. Karol Mankowski was desecrating the very symbol of his independence, his success, his achievement.

Something snapped inside Michael. ‘Where is he?’ he snarled. ‘Where is the bastard?’ And there was madness in his eyes.