Famous (37 page)

I climbed into bed early that night and slept soundly, unperturbed by the silence. I’d had a wonderfully relaxing afternoon and was glad that I went. Ethan was great company and, although he wasn’t shag material, I had a feeling he and I were going to be good friends, even if he was a farm boy. At least he didn’t actually
like
line dancing.

12

Thankfully some more work came through from the office the next day, which saved me from perishing of boredom, and took my mind off the fact the insects inside the cabin appeared to be multiplying at a frightening rate.

Lizzie rang me in the afternoon for her day-about media update.

‘Rundown,’ I said.

‘Not too much to report today,’ she answered. ‘Just one shot of Alistair in his white shorts and one small pic of you.

Must admit he looked pretty hot.’

‘Brilliant,’ I replied, ignoring her observation. ‘Better than yesterday.’

‘Anything exciting to report at your end?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you know…endless parties, too many cocktails I can’t remember the names of, fine dining, gorgeous men galore.’

‘Poor sweets,’ she consoled. ‘But look on the bright side, at least you’re not spending any money.’

She was right. I had spent approximately twenty dollars in the past week. Aided by the fact there was absolutely nothing for me to buy, apart from food, and fertiliser (which I had no great need of at the present time).

‘Actually, I’m going out for dinner tonight,’ I confessed.

‘Fantastic!’ cried Lizzie. ‘Who with?’

‘Calm down. I’m just going round to Ethan’s house. With some of his friends.’

‘My God! This is fabulous news! Is foxy Ethan making you dins?’

‘Yes, he is. Trout. He caught it too.’

‘He what?’

‘He caught the trout in the river.’

‘My God! He’s a hunter-gatherer! I thought they were extinct!’

‘Settle down, Lizzie. It’s just a fish.’

‘A fish he caught and is cooking for
you
.’

The evening arrived and I hadn’t a clue what to wear. Whenever I went out for dinner at home it was to a nice restaurant, and I dressed up to the nines. Somehow I didn’t think that turning up to the farm wearing stilettos and a short black cocktail frock was going to cut it.

Should I wear jeans? I wondered aloud. Or is that too casual?

On the other hand I didn’t want Ethan to think I’d made too much effort and get the wrong message.

I finally decided on a red-and-white-striped rah-rah skirt, white sandals and a red silky singlet. Comfortable yet not too casual.

I grabbed a bottle of wine and hit the road. Ethan had given me very concise and accurate directions on how to get to the farm, which was a good thing considering my map-reading skills. About twenty minutes’ drive from the cabin I spotted the
Willow Farm
sign on the gate and pulled into the driveway. The long driveway was gorgeous, framed on either side by blooming magnolia trees. The cottage was the first house I came to and Ethan came outside to greet me. It was absolutely beautiful, surrounded by a gorgeous big garden and plenty of large shady trees. A scene direct from the pages of
Country Home & Garden
.

‘It’s gorgeous!’ I exclaimed, hopping out of the car with my bottle of wine.

‘I’m glad you like it,’ said Ethan, giving me a kiss hello.

‘Who’s the gardener?’ I asked, looking around at all of the colourful, healthy-looking plants.

‘Well my mother was, she planted it. But I guess I am now,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders.

‘Amazing,’ I said, looking around in awe.

It was difficult enough for me to comprehend that some people could grow and take care of plants, but to find out that Ethan, a man in his early thirties, was one of those people was extraordinary. If it wasn’t for MayBelle watering the few plants inside my apartment and the couple outside on the balcony, they would have died long ago.

‘Come inside and I’ll show you round,’ said Ethan, interrupting my spot of plant appreciation. ‘Mack and Abbie will be here soon.’

The cottage was just as gorgeous inside. It was clearly very old but had been renovated in a way which kept a lot of the beautiful old wooden features and combined them with all the mod cons, and a nice open spacious feel. It felt like a real home. The paint colours were light, soothing and warm. The house was a lot roomier on the inside than it appeared from the outside, with two large bedrooms, an office, a huge open-plan modern kitchen and dining area, and a large warm sitting room with loads of comfy old furniture and bookcases. It was the type of living room that made you want to snuggle up on the couch with a blanket, a good book and a glass of wine. There was a fairly substantial wine cellar to the side of the kitchen.

‘Wow,’ I said, standing in front of it and ogling at all the bottles.

‘I try to collect a bit,’ he said. ‘But that’s a very difficult thing when you like to drink a bit too.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I agreed. ‘My wine rack looks disturbingly skeletal most of the time, like it needs a good sandwich.’

Ethan sat me down at the dining table with a glass of wine and chatted to me from the kitchen, where he was busy chopping and slicing, and doing other cooking things. He even had an apron on.

‘Can I help?’ I asked.

I suspected my egg-poaching skills would be totally outclassed, but it was the polite thing to do.

‘No, you just sit back and relax,’ was his reply.

He obviously knew what was good for him. Or good for the meal anyway.

I couldn’t have been more relaxed if I tried. Sitting down with a glass of wine, listening to some soothing jazz music in the background, while a man cooked me dinner.

Mack and Abbie soon arrived, bustling into the kitchen with bottles of wine in tow. They both greeted me with gusto, yelling out, ‘Hiya Jane!’ as though we’d known each other for years and not just met one night in a pub. I immediately felt relaxed around both of them. Abbie came straight over to sit beside me with a glass of wine and before I knew what was happening the two of us were chatting away like old school friends, interrupted only by dinner. Whole trout, baked with dill and lime, fresh asparagus, new minted potatoes and a garden side salad (made with ingredients from Ethan’s vegetable garden no less). And no Tahitian vanilla beans in sight, thank Christ. With a home-baked brownie and cream for desert. It was all, quite simply, delicious. Manuel would have glowed fluro-green with envy.

‘How about a game of darts?’ asked Ethan, when we’d cleared the plates away.

‘A game of what?’ I asked.

‘Darts. You know, small metal arrows which you throw at a board.’

‘Oh.’

I had heard about darts before but it wasn’t something I’d ever played.

‘Don’t worry,’ whispered Abbie. ‘I’m crap.’

I had an overwhelming feeling I would be too.

‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘Why not?’

We walked outside into the games room, which was attached to the garage - a whole room completely designated to games and drinking. There was a small bar and a beer fridge, a large pool table, a couple of couches and the infamous dart board.

‘You have to make your own entertainment in a place like this,’ smiled Ethan, as I had a good nosy around.

‘Great pictures,’ I said, admiring the well-framed photographs which hung around the walls. Photos of old dilapidated houses, sheds and fences, taken in a way that seemed, well, beautiful. Old red sheds against green grass and bright blue skies.

‘They’re really great,’ I said, walking around them all.

‘Thanks,’ said Ethan.

‘Did you take them?’ I asked in wonder.

‘Over the years, yes.’

‘Wow.’

I wondered just how many other things Ethan was capable of. I suddenly felt incredibly uncreative. The only artistic bone in my body was the one that bought art and hoped like hell it was a good investment.

‘You ready?’ asked Ethan, darts in his hand.

‘Um…’

‘It’s very easy,’ he encouraged. ‘All you have to do is aim at the board.’

He gave me a brief demo, with all three darts effortlessly making their way to very respectable places on the board, and then handed the darts to me. The first one I threw went half a metre to the right of the board, into the wall. The second one hit the window, way to the left of the board. And the last one just sort of dropped onto the carpet, underneath the board, without even making it to the wall.

‘Wow,’ said Abbie, giggling. ‘I think you’re worse than me.’

‘Are you sure you haven’t played before?’ asked Ethan, trying very hard not to laugh.

‘Yep, positive,’ I replied, breaking into a fit of giggles myself.

‘Just a question,’ he asked. ‘But were you actually aiming at the board?’

‘As unbelievable as it may seem, I was.’

After another couple of games, where some of my darts even managed to make contact with the board, and much laughing, Mack, Abbie and I decided to head home.

Abbie and I arranged to go for a walk together the following weekend. I was sick of walking or running the same old route and there were a couple of bush tracks nearby which she was going to show me. She and Mack both seemed like lovely people, and the more friends I had to pass my time with, the better.

As I thanked Ethan and gave him a kiss on the cheek, I felt as though I should return the favour and ask him over to the cabin for dinner. Although there were two rather large obstacles: the first was that the cabin was a dusty hovel, and the second was that, although I had improved in leaps and bounds, I still couldn’t cook to save myself. Ah well, I thought to myself, I have a week to overcome them.

I drove home and climbed straight into bed, falling soundly and happily asleep in the dip. But not for long. I awoke a couple of hours later to a loud crashing sound. There was someone inside. In the cabin. Ohmygod! I thought in horror. An intruder. Thrashing about in the front room. Bloody hell!

I’d always wondered what I’d do in a situation like this and now I knew. It appeared I froze. Completely froze. Solid.

Suddenly the racket stopped. I began to breathe again, as quietly as I could. Until it started up again two minutes later. It sounded as though the intruder was having it out with the old wooden furniture.

I looked at the bedroom window in anguish. It was tiny. I was not. Plus, I seemed to recall trying to open it one day, only to find it was stuck in one position, and that was slightly ajar. Even if I starved myself for the next three months I still wouldn’t fit through it. I doubted my intruder would be happy just beating up the furniture for that long.

What the hell was I going to do? I fretted. I couldn’t ring anyone. My mobile was beside the bed but there was no reception. Plus, what if he heard me? Surely I’d be a goner.

All this way just to get raped and murdered in a tiny country cabin! It just wasn’t fair! I thought to myself. All those nights of living in a crime-filled city, alone, just to end it here, in this rural dust-hole.

It was incredible how many thoughts ran through your head, and at such a rapid pace, when you were certain you were about to be murdered. I even thought about my mother, and what she’d do in a situation like this. Would she cower in bed, frozen to the spot, just waiting for a stranger to attack her? Not very likely, I decided. She’d be straight out there, loaded .22 in hand, demanding an explanation as to why she’d been woken at such an ungodly hour. Suddenly, and for the first time in my life, I wished I was just a little more like my mother.

What are you going to do? asked the voice of reason. Sit here and wait for it?

Yes, I answered. It would appear so.

Shouldn’t you at least try to stand up for yourself?

Do I have to?

Yes.

And with that, the voice of reason (or complete insanity, depending on the outcome) won. Ever so quietly I slipped out of bed in the darkness and put a jersey on over my pyjamas. If I was going to die, then I at least wanted to be warm. I lay down on the floor and felt around under the bed. I was positive I had seen an old wooden bed slat laying under there. Finally my hand stumbled across it.

What exactly are you going to do with this? asked the voice of reason, as I stood back up. I am going to belt the living daylights out of whoever is out there, I replied. I think.

You don’t sound sure?

I am sure.

Sure sure?

Yes, I replied meekly. I will not die without a fight.

That’s the spirit!

I stood up straight, pushed out my chest, clutched the wooden slat in both hands and walked as slowly and quietly as I could out of the bedroom and into the front room, stopping when I reached the doorway. Suddenly the banging stopped too. All I could hear was my rapid breathing and my African drum of a heartbeat. I desperately urged myself to breathe quietly.

Now I was frozen in the doorway, staring into the pitch blackness of the tiny living room.

Are you going to stand here all night? asked the voice of reason.

Yes, I replied. I think so.

Is that what your mother would do?

I am not my mother.

Yes, I know that, but what would she do?