Bite The Wax Tadpole (28 page)

“Sorry, sorry. Not too late, am I?”

“I was beginning to get worried but no, you haven’t missed anything. We were about to get started on the read through. If you’d sit over there next to the girl in green we can have all the witches together.”

“Great, Thanks.”

Charlea smiled and mouthed hellos as she made her way to her seat. The girl in green was a quite stunning redhead who reminded Charlea of Cate Blanchett. She didn’t know who she was but if looks and poise were anything to go by she had it made already. And in this production she wasn’t going to have her looks hidden by wiry hair and warts. Alex had explained at the audition that his version of the Scottish play was going to be set in the Sixties with the witches as hippies, obtaining their visions as the result of LSD trips. They were also going to be bare breasted. Well, not entirely. They would have saltires painted on their chests. Charlea wasn’t entirely sure what a saltire was but Alex had assured her the dark blue paint would preserve her modesty should her grandmother see the production. The girl in green was staring intently at her script as Charlea sat beside her.

“Hi, I’m Charlea.”

The girl in green took in a breath and looked up, slowly. Her lips parted in a deliberate smile. Her opalescent eyes seemed to appraise Charlea in the way a hawk might size up a rabbit running through the corn.

“How nice to meet you at last. Harriet. I’m playing Hecate.”

Niobe had always loved the “Badly Foxed” Second Hand Bookshop. To her it was the Jewel in the Crown of the unfashionable end of Glebe Point Road. To enter its doors was to be enveloped in a poetic tubercular mustiness, to be drenched in a mist of shredded paper and printers’ ink, to step aboard an ark of literature and learning, of knowledge and destiny, of romance and love and death. The books were very cheap, too.

She hadn’t been in for a while, not since the disaster at the studio, in fact. Having escaped with only minor injuries she’d taken the opportunity to take stock of her life. The thing with Rob was never going to go anywhere and neither was the novel she was writing. So she’d chucked him over and it into the bin. While she was rearranging her life she hadn’t quite felt up to reading anything more challenging than “The House at Pooh Corner” or an Agatha Christie. But now that she’d got the job at the advertising agency and taken up zumba, deep, dark, sombre literature was calling to her again. Russian literature had an alcove all to itself and she was browsing along the warped shelves when someone else squeezed into the narrow space, nearly colliding with her.

“Sorry”, said the young man.

“That’s all right”, she smiled. He was dark haired and good looking, bespectacled with an air of rugged intellectuality. Not that she was at all interested, of course. She shook her head and reached out to take down a copy of “Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka” just as he did. Their hands touched.

“Sorry”, said the young man again.

“Gogol, eh?”

“Yes, Gogol.”

He had a very cute smile. “Tell me to mind my own business, if you like”, she said, “but have you ever considered living on a Greek Island”

“Mr McGuire, if you could try not to dribble too much that would be just fantastic”, said the Director. Mr McGuire sucked his dentures back into place and nodded as the pretty make-up girl touched up the beads of sweat on his forehead. If there was an upside to metastatic cancer this was it. Mr McGuire liked being a TV star. He’d even had fan mail and an offer of marriage from a woman in Darwin who assured him that a colostomy bag was no barrier to a fulfilling relationship. In fact, he thought the TV cameras were doing him more good than the medication they were constantly dripping into him. Appearing in the next episode gave him something to look forward to. He most definitely didn’t want to be the one who went next.

“Ready? And... action!”, called the Director. Malcolm walked into shot and sat down on the edge of Mr McGuire’s bed. “Well, well, John, you’re looking much better I must say.”

“I’m feeling much better, Thank you, Malcolm.”

Malcolm had never presented a show before and he’d found his forte. A bit late in his career, perhaps, but he still had a few years left in him. It was ironic how close he’d been to appearing in the show rather than fronting it. The operation to remove the tumour had been a complete success and his fame, call it notoriety if you will, following the live episode debacle had made him the ideal presenter for “Who Goes Next?” which had been taken up by Channel 12. It was a new lease of life and he was determined to make the most of it.

“I’ve just been talking to the doctors and your neutrophil count is apparently excellent.”

“Oh that’s good. What’s neutrophils?”

“White blood cells.” This was the bit that Malcolm particularly liked, where he went into the medical side of things like he knew what he was talking about rather than having merely learned the lines. But learning the lines at least showed that his brain was fully functioning.

“It will have blood, they say; Blood shall have blood”, said Norman, lying on the bed beside Mr McGuire.

Of course, there were still one or two side-effects that lingered on.

Phyllida stood in front of the full-length mirror, her eyes travelling up and down the elegant dress that Madame Lacrosse (Paris, Milan and London) had insisted could have been designed with her expressly in mind. It was a one-shouldered chiffon evening gown with ruffle beading and a sweep train and came, Madame had assured her, in a choice of 32 colours. The price was not discussed. Phyllida just adored shopping in boutiques where none of the goods had anything as sordid as price tags on them.

Being attacked by her cross-eyed sister and having red-hot pieces of helicopter rain down on her head had been the final straw for Phyllida. Fate was trying very hard to tell her something. That acting was not for her. She could see now that she’d had a false expectation of its glamour and sophistication. It had been a way of escape that turned out to be going nowhere.

She’d suffered more injuries from Melissa’s assault than from the studio disaster but it was while she was in emergency that fate had stepped in. She’d got talking to an elegantly dressed lady, Sarah, who’d been brought in following a minor car crash. Sarah had bruised some ribs but told Phyllida that she was more worried about the Ferrari, her pride and joy. It turned out that, quite amazingly, Sarah had once been an actress, too but had since found her true vocation, a job which took her all over the world, one where her stage craft came in very handy. “And what might that be?”, Phyllida had enquired.

Her mobile rang and Phyllida left off her consideration of the gown to answer it.

“Hello there”, said a husky male voice with a Scottish accent. “Is that Antoinette? I was given your number by a pal. Only I’m coming down to London on business next week and I might be in need some company, if you get my drift.”

“But of course. Are we talking accompanying you to business dinners or something more intimate later in the evening or both?”

“Well”, said the husky voice, “that all depends. What are your rates?”

Melissa stood in front of the mirror and looked herself straight in the eye. Well, eyes, really. She still found it strange that she had never noticed anything wrong with them and odder still that no-one had ever mentioned it. It was only when she’d read the papers in the aftermath of the studio disaster and found herself referred to as the “psychopathic, cross-eyed sister from hell” that she realised that her pupils led independent existences. And now, following a simple operation, they didn’t. Maybe that was the cause of all her “issues” all along. It certainly explained a lot of her trouble with men. When they’d gazed into her eyes after a romantic dinner she’d be seemingly more interested in what was on the dessert trolley. Now, she was looking forward to starting all over again, the only fly in the muesli being incarcerated in a secure hospital until the trial. But her lawyer had assured her that her chances of being released into the community were excellent. Her sister had disappeared so wouldn’t be around to testify with regard to the kidnapping and what else had she done really?

And she’d got her future plans all mapped out. When she’d appeared in court the day after the studio disaster she’d got talking to an elegant woman called Sarah who was up for drug possession. “Had a bit of a bump in the Ferrari and the cops found a smidgin of coke in the glove box. But with what I know about the sex lives of the cops and lawyers in this city I think we might find that the evidence has been unfortunately mislaid.”

Melissa had been intrigued and pumped Sarah for more information which had been freely given along with her business card. “Look me up when you get out. You’ve got the looks to make a fortune in this business. Although you might give some thought to getting something done about....”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing, never mind.”

Yep, as soon as she was out she was going to become a high-class hooker. But not here, not in Sydney, not in Australia. No, a change of location was definitely called for. London, that’s where she’d go. Sarah had plenty of contacts there. And she’d change her name. To something more exotic. French, perhaps. Antoinette was a name she’d always fancied.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

A somnolent dusk was falling over the city, a dusk made hazier by the couple of drinks Rob had downed on his way into the City. Sally had asked to meet him at Hornsby RSL and they’d sat in the glow of the pokies as she outlined her idea for a sitcom to him. She’d changed since the incident. She’d come out of the closet for one thing. Her air of being a spinster of this parish was, it seems, engendered by her being the only child, and therefore carer, of aged parents who took the Bible quite literally, to the point of shunning mixed fabrics. The near approach of the Angel of Death (well, Nev Beale in a helicopter) had opened her eyes to the brevity of life and she now lived happily with a lady plumber who sang baritone in the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Choir. But it had been an epiphany in more ways than one and she was now determined, she told him on the phone, to do something with her own writing instead of editing others’. And so, accompanied by Miss Givings, his usual companion on such occasions he’d agreed to listen to her pitch and give what feedback he could.

Sally sipped nervously at her gin and bitter lemon as she handed him some sheets of paper.

“Just rough at the moment, of course. Lots of work to do but... anyway, basic idea is this lady, this woman, high powered lawyer, middle aged, gives it all up to open a home-birthing business. Of course, her husband, he’s a judge, thinks it’s menopausal and embarrasing, her children think she’s mad but... hey, plenty of scope for comedy.”

“Right...”

“It’s called “Mid-Wife Crisis”.

“Very good. I was going with “The Orifice”.

Despite this unpromising beginning he’d actually warmed to the idea over two large glasses of merlot. He’d ended up by promising Sally he’d read through everything and get back to her.

“Thanks”, she’d said as he’d left. “You were one of the better bosses in TV, you know. Good luck with tonight.”

He’d sat on the train as it swayed towards Central thinking how difficult it was to escape television. His own epiphany, as a piece of rotor blade has sliced the Bowling Club bar in two, had been along the “someone’s trying to tell me something” lines. Working in TV was dangerous to his mental and physical health. Get out. Go. And he had. Yet here he was on his way to the AWGIEs, scene of so many previous disappointments.

Lights began to gleam in the greyed-out skyscrapers hemming the Harbour, their reflections trembling in the flinty waters. Breezes with the threat of winter in them flicked at the many and various restaurant awnings as Rob limped along the Quay’s dark timbers towards the crowd mingling in the subdued glow outside the Destiny House Bar and Conference Centre. The ebony walking stick was a bit of an affectation as the physiotherapy was coming along nicely but why not milk the ambient sympathy while you can? He had thought about donning a silk-lined cape and a fedora as well but he didn’t want to risk the murmurs of sympathy turning to whispers of “tosser”.

The first person he recognised was David Williamson who was probably in line once more for the award as Outstandingly Tall Playwright of the Year. As Rob closed upon the chattering, glass clinking throng Gloria, nearly as broad as Williamson was long, appeared from behind a row of potted fig trees.

“You’re on the mend then?”

“Just a flesh wound, really.”

In fact, everyone in the studio had been remarkably lucky and all the casualties had only suffered minor injuries. Except for Nev Beale, of course, who had been reduced by the explosion to his constituent atoms. The studio had been a write-off like a car with too many dented panels. Which meant, perversely, that things turned out well for Stan Drake who pocketed the insurance, sold the land for housing development and used the profits to save his business empire from collapse. Perhaps he was still reflecting on this bit of good fortune during the tedious hours he was having to sit through during his trial for bribery, fraud, corruption and general dirty dealing in the recycling game.

“Still not interested in doing “Bayside Mall”?”, inquired Gloria as she shovelled a brace of canapés into her mouth.

“Not really. Nice to see you’re still interested, though.”

“Bloke we ended up with is a complete wanker. Couldn’t plot his way across George Street with a cattle prod up his arse.” She spotted someone behind Rob and gave a wave. “Marieke, sweetie, how are you?” She inserted another canapé. “Must mingle. Good luck with the award. About time you won.”

As Gloria lumbered aside he could see Adam sauntering towards him smiling in the way that a nephew smiles when encountering a bereaved Aunt Gladys at Uncle Bob’s funeral.

“Well, well, my former subordinate. How goes it?”

“Oh you know...”

“I hear the show is rising like a phoenix from the ashes.”

“Yeah, literally, I guess.”

The live show had not been the death of “Rickety Street”. There had, of course, been a hiatus in production but there were sufficient episodes in the can to keep it going for the following couple of months. In the meantime, the Network had been bought up by Murdo Hacker, the aspiring media mogul from Western Australia who, rather unbelievably, was a fan of the show. Plans for a new studio were drawn up and only a few weeks were lost on air. Some recasting was inevitable, of course, and the gaps in continuity had to be roughly plastered over but the show rolled on.