The Naked Room (10 page)

CHAPTER 17

Retreating from the Heat

Ally

Tuesday: before dawn.

Time is divided into light and dark. The same car comes and goes, but I’ve given up trying to see it. My eyes are swollen. It’s hard to breathe and my face hurts so much I can hardly bear it.
Got to get out, got to get out.

I lie in total darkness as soon as the sun goes down and have no idea what day it is. They haven’t been in since yesterday afternoon. No food, only water. I try not to take more than a sip at a time and ignore my stomach’s pleading. I can only see out of a corner of my left eye. I’ve poured a tiny amount of water onto the towel and dabbed some of the blood off my face. The front of my camisole is stiff and dry. It stinks; I stink.

The bare walls feel as though they’re shuffling closer, like in the movie, Egyptian Mummy, which I saw when I was fourteen at the Saturday afternoon flicks. This woman was trapped in a tomb—she was the evil one— and the walls crushed her for her sins. Yuk. Don’t think about it. ‘Think about your music. It calms you down,’ I tell myself.

All the times I’ve moaned for a bit of peace and quiet come back to haunt me. Ironic. Traffic noises, boom boxes, endless music in shopping malls…once it drove me mad, but now I would give my eye teeth to be listening to the poxy stuff. I close my eyes and clamp my lips together to keep them from trembling. Terror freezes my belly; I can hardly breathe. I can’t do this.

Chopin’s Etudé. I’ve played it thousand times and now my lips are too dry to hum the melody. My mind flits from one thing to another, like a demented moth. How long, then for—
don’t even think it.

Regrets, regrets. I try to remember the happy times in my life, like times with my friends, the concerts I’ve played and the awards I’ve won, with mum, Georgie and Aunt Rosalind leaping out of their seats, screaming and clapping their hands.

What about the times Pam, Jess and I went out clubbing, laughing like hyenas, pretending we were secretaries or nurses so the blokes wouldn’t think we were too high-brow to dance with. The times we dragged each other home, half out of our minds—Pam and I almost got caught peeing in someone’s front garden one night. The security lights came on outside and we fled, pulling our knickers up as we ran. A bad moment…

I remember the times on Masters Island, when mum and I would sit at home reading while the wind rocketed around our cottage or digging in the garden, planting seedlings with the cats coming along and squatting in the holes we dug. We laughed ourselves sick one time when we went mad and re-arranged our whole cottage. ‘Ally, you’ve got muscles like spider’s kneecaps!’ she laughed, as we struggled with a particularly heavy piece of furniture. Why couldn’t I be content with our family of two? Mum loves me and still I yearn for more. Ally, Ally, you greedy pig…

Regret surfaces in my mind, sorrow for the times I was nasty, when I could have said a kind word and didn’t. The stupid choices I made years ago. Why can’t I forget them? I can hear myself screeching at mum: ‘You wouldn’t know what it’s like to be dumped!’ after my first boyfriend, Larry, sauntered away with Mary Roberts, who smirked at me over her shoulder as they went. I slammed my bedroom door in mum’s face while she was trying to comfort me. Perhaps my father dumped
her?

How could I have been so mean after mum spent thousands of dollars she could ill-afford on music lessons for me, beautiful clothes which she spent hours sewing for me to wear at school piano recitals. What about the times she sat waiting while I rehearsed or played in a concert? Or when I was in my teens and needed picking up from a party on the mainland, she would stay with Aunt Rosalind, get into the car at midnight and arrive at the house where the party was held.

I remember squirming with embarrassment when my friends saw her parked out the front in pyjamas and pink fluffies. Of course, I ignored the fact that my friend’s parents were doing the same. It was only my mother who looked like an idiot.

But I can’t get past the fact she’s obviously lied to me my whole life. Who is my father? Is he going to pay the money? What if he refuses? No, they would have done something to me by now—like kill me.

Am I really Ally Parker? My red hair comes from mum, so what do I get from him? My musical talent? I can only think about how he looks in the photo. Has mum kept in touch since I was born? How do these people know who he is to demand money from him? Who told them?

‘Stop it, Ally. You may never know what happened between them. You can’t allow yourself to sleep because the dreams will come.’ Is the drug they’re putting in my water making me hallucinate? I have to take a sip now and then to keep from getting dehydrated. I have to get strong again, in case there’s another chance to get away. I want to smash their faces in and just run and run…

Memories trickle, willy-nilly, into my mind, things that happened years ago.

Calne, Wiltshire: 2004

‘Now you listen here to me love, you’ve got to find yourself a man. Your music won’t keep you warm at night, you know. You should be out dancing and enjoying life like the rest of the girls.’

‘But Mrs Gordon, I’m quite content the way I am. I’m not prepared to massage their egos, or anything else for that matter.’ I grin smugly as I toast myself by the fire, watching my landlady ironing the shirts which she takes in for extra money. The cat in my lap stirs, sticks out a paw and hooks a piece of wool in my sweater. We purr in unison.

I was living in a ‘bed and breakfast’ in Calne at the time, standing in for the music teacher of a local school who had tripped over a hockey stick on the sports ground and broken her leg. I was ready to face raging fires for my career, but unfortunately it had hit a short hiatus. After being sacked by a bloke I was mad about, I decided all men could get stuffed. Most of the ones I’d met could fill their own lunatic asylum, and Franco, a horn player with delusions of grandeur, hadn’t lived up to his instrument’s reputation, which would seem to be indicative of all of them.

The applause of audiences more than made up for the lonely hours spent in hotel rooms, being concertinaed into cattle class in aircraft and rehearsing in cold, bleak theatres or halls.

I lived in student digs in the UK before Pam and Jess arrived. Firmly etched in my memory are sparsely furnished bedrooms and communal kitchens with bottles dripping HP and tomato sauce over vinyl tablecloths. If I close my eyes, I can hear the hiss of a gas heater and the smell of fish and chips at the end of the day. Please God, I will never have to go back to that way of life.

Musicians are nomadic and mostly nocturnal. Broken artistic marriages litter the concert stage like pieces of smashed glass. Perhaps one day I’ll meet someone and marry him. Brie. Is he the one? I’m so lucky. I have my career, friends, mum…but is it all over? What if I can’t get out of here?

I’ve blown my chances of getting away, but if they don’t come back no one will know where I am. How would anyone know where to look? I could starve to death. If I get out of this alive I’ll never, ever take anyone or anything for granted again. And treasure every day I’m given. An image flashes into my head of a dried out frog I once found under a cupboard in our cottage. Fresh waves of terror bunch in my stomach and spread outward. What if my—father—refuses to pay them?

What can I do to save myself if they get the money and abandon me? Surely mum won’t stop looking for me? People go missing and then the police give up and the case is closed for years and a year…until a mummified body is found in the bush somewhere.

I can’t breathe.

Calm down.

Brie. Will he forget me eventually? Like everyone except mum, Georgie and Pam and Aunt Rosalind. Jess might not care—she actually might be glad. That’s an awful thing to think about one of your closest friends. But is she really my friend?

I’m so frightened. Slowly. Breathe slowly. Yoga breaths now, forget your ribs and think happy thoughts.

How did I manage to fall for a gorgeous rogue like Briece Mochrie? When I discovered he wasn’t just eye-candy, I freaked out. Brie is as patient with people as he is with his work, a scary attribute when I don’t want involvement right now.

‘But why does he hang out with me when there are lots of younger and prettier musicians in the company?’ I asked once of an older musician in the Pacific orchestra.

‘You’re a challenge, love. You’re fun to fight with because you keep him on his toes. His groupies worship the ground he walks on. He always goes for the young chicks and you are…er…ah…’ Realising where this was leading him, Patrick, a much-married man, heeded his instinct for self-preservation and trailed into silence.

‘Getting on for twenty-six, Patrick?’ I asked, grinning.

He smiled ruefully.

‘Well, let’s face it,’ I went on, knowing it would get back to Brie, ‘some men just aren’t capable of coping with a fully grown woman.’

The side door at the theatre was often knee-deep in admirers of the younger members of the orchestra. Occasionally, because security is tight, the lads would invite girls they knew backstage and these girls would sometimes leave a keepsake for the object of their affections. The story of when Brie opened his cello case at rehearsal and found a red lace g-string tied around the end of his bow has passed into company legend. Apparently he’d been talking to someone at the time, not paying attention to what he was doing, whipped the bow out and flicked the g-string onto the conductor’s podium.

‘Mr Mochrie,’ said Sir James McPherson—the story went—’ I didn’t know you cared.’

The orchestra roared.

‘We didn’t realise Brie still had a blush in him,’ chuckled Patrick.

It wasn’t until we were on the outback tour that I allowed Brie to get nearer than talking distance. When we left Brisbane, I chose a seat next to a window on the bus and was secretly pleased when he threw himself into the seat beside me.

‘You can keep me amused on the way,’ he announced gleefully, leaning closer than necessary. Blimey.

‘In your dreams, Mochrie,’ I snarled.

‘What have you got against me, Ally? I’m house-trained, love animals and I’m kind to my family. I’m not bad-looking either,’ he added, and winked.

I could see myself reflected in his dark blue, thickly-lashed eyes focused on my mouth. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve seen better.’ Liar, liar, pants on fire.

‘And I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could kick you,’ I thought, as I turned to the window to hide the blush suffusing my breasts, creeping inexorably throughout my body. His muscular, denim-clad thigh pressed against mine and I could smell the maleness of him, clean and fresh-smelling, like a newly washed sheet drying in the sun.

As he lifted his arm to wave to someone at the front of the bus, his t-shirt rode up to expose his tanned, six-pack stomach. A thin line of silky, dark hair marched under his jeans toward his obviously well-endowed crotch. Warm twitters scudded around the centre of my femininity. I squeezed my thighs together. My breasts swelled, my nipples hardened…damn…I couldn’t help watching those beautiful, strong hands, imagining them holding my…

He turned and looked down the contours of my face, coming to rest on the flushed skin at the opening of my shirt, and smirked.

I didn’t want to stuff up my reputation by becoming a Mochrie groupie, but after that, he played me like a fish on the end of his line. He would retreat a little, giving me breathing room and then stare at me until I looked over the top of the piano and meet his sexy, killer smile. He’d wink or raise an eyebrow, almost causing me to lose a note.

I was ready to go to bed with him last Friday night. ‘If you hadn’t been kidnapped, you would have fallen right into it and he’d probably be looking for someone else by now,’ I chided myself. Isn’t that what they always do? Once the excitement of the chase is over?
Grow up, Ally!

At the moment, there doesn’t—didn’t—seem to be enough he could do for me. My lawn mowed, the drain under the sink unblocked; I don’t “do” drains. He’s a farmer’s son and knows how to fix things, but the times I most want to remember are when we’re practising our music together, or sitting in my lounge room reading or listening to music…

What are you thinking? Marriage? Babies are not on my agenda. A couple of weeks ago, one of the clarinettists asked me to mind her three-month old son while she went to the dentist. I’ve never changed a nappy, let alone a pooey one, so I practically hurled. One thing’s for sure, I didn’t end up with any maternal urges.
You might never get the chance now to have any.

Scarpia and the Cow burst into the room. It’s barely daylight now. They’re agitated, their usual air of confidence missing. Her surgical mask is slightly askew. For a split second, I think I’ve seen her before, but then it’s gone. He makes no attempt to bait me but examines my face thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed and dangerous. Icy fear trickles through me.

Something has happened.

CHAPTER 18

No Fresh Flowers by Request

Jessica

Tuesday: 9.00am.

I sit staring into space, too frightened to move.

Pam phoned just a few minutes ago to tell me that Georgie Hird is dead. Why would Georgie go to Wild Pony Rock? And after dark? I’ve never been to the rock when I visited the Carpenters on Master Island. The rotten thing terrifies me.

The pulse in my throat throbs; I take deep breaths to steady myself.

I’ve left a piece of dry toast and a half-empty cup of cold coffee on the kitchen bench. I need to clear them away and scrub the surface. I leap to my feet, don my rubber gloves and run the hot water into the sink. I have to keep control of the fear which threatens to dismantle my very being.

Clean, clean.

It’s Ally’s fault. If she hadn’t been so full of herself, so damn self-righteous, I would have never gotten into this mess. From the moment I first met that girl, the day I answered Pam’s advertisement about sharing the flat, Ally has dominated my life. I know she doesn’t realise how pathetic she makes me feel. I couldn’t bear it if she knew, but not because she’d be snide. Oh no, not Ally. She’d be so nice and understanding. Her mother loves her. She’s got the mother I want.

My own is a cold, unfeeling bitch. She has never really allowed me into her life and only lets me know her when she feels like it.
Well, Mother, I no longer want to know you.

Her favourite role is that of Mrs Lynda Rallison, solicitor and wife of Harold Rallison, architect and social climber.

She hired nannies from the moment I was born. I remember my sister sitting in her cot, wet and crying for hours while the latest nanny was off somewhere. I got into trouble for climbing up, letting the side down and trying to drag her out. I wanted to change her, but mother accused me of being jealous and attempting to hurt her. It was the pattern of my relationship with Lynda. A couple more times of trying to help my sister after that, and I got the message along with the beltings. I left Julia alone from then on and in turn was so lonely, that sometimes I wanted to die.

Mother is still as remote from me as the bird of prey she resembles. A stickler for convention, it was always, “What would the neighbours think?” if we wanted to do something even a bit out of the ordinary. As if they’d give a flying fuck what we did. But oh no, nothing must be out of place, “in case people will think I haven’t brought you up properly.”

‘Manners, Jess, manners. Look how well your sister behaves!’ she’d snarl, poking me in the middle of my back with a red claw.

It was easy once I got older and worked out how to keep out of her way, but by then she didn’t seem to care whether I was there or not. So I behaved badly just so she would notice me. Even punishment was better than being ignored.

I’d steal a glance at Julia and want to hit her as she sat beside me, eyes narrowed to slits, slyly watching the world go by. Now, I understand it was my sister’s way of protecting herself from our mother’s carping criticism and relentless drive for social dominance. Does she share the memories which butterfly through my consciousness?

Because of the circumstances of our childhood, we’re not close. I’m afraid to ask. Her answer may throw open a closet from which the bones of our family skeletons will pour out and engulf me.

Our parents actively discouraged us from bonding and I realise we’ve grown up like playground acquaintances, forced by the teacher to share a text book. I know that’s not normal for sisters, but I don’t have the skills to circumvent it even now. Julia and I were just two girls who inhabited the same house. We were sent to different schools, rarely visited each other’s bedrooms or gossiped together, borrowed clothes and make-up.

Of course there were no pets in our house. I longed for a warm, furry creature to love, but I didn’t dare bring any stray cats or dogs home. Once a neighbour offered Julia and me a kitten and when I asked our father if we could have it, he said, ‘Bring that thing here and I’ll wring its neck. Better still, I’ll make you two do it.’ Oh, God.

So on the rare occasions I visited friends’ homes, I played with their animals, then fibbed when my parents asked what I had been doing. I’m an expert liar.

During holiday breaks and the times we flew back to Australia, I cadged invitations to Ally’s or Pam’s homes. My parents never made my, or Julia’s friends welcome.

Music saved my life. While I was having lessons, Julia was doing her homework as though her life depended on getting it right, and it did. While I studied at the Con, Julia worked like a demon at medical school—Doctor Julia Rallison. Even now we communicate only by Christmas card and the occasional phone call or letter.

When I was five years old, it was as though a pane of glass came between me and other people. At first I tried to shatter it, to break down the invisible barrier which prevented me from making close relationships and threatened my ability to cope with the outside world. Later, I found it a comfort and protection from emotional involvement. Oh, I knew all the methods of interaction, how to smile, giggle, flirt—all the attributes which made up the normal young girl. Inside, I was frozen, and so very, very, afraid of getting too close to anyone.

I don’t remember when I first heard classical music, but one of my great-aunts gave me a violin which had been stashed in a cupboard by a long-dead relative. My father wasn’t keen on hearing me learn to play it. ‘For fuck’s sake, Lynda, send Jessica to lessons or I’ll throw that bloody thing on the dump.’

It wasn’t long before I was besotted with the instrument. When I played, I escaped in a world of light. Without it, I had to confront the darkness within my frozen soul where, I was sure, dangerous ectoplasm nestled, waiting to seep into my heart and destroy me.

Nothing has changed.

I didn’t have a choice in being friends with Ally. Not if I wanted to keep Pam happy and she is the sister I need. Ally is the hanger-on, the one with whom I compete for Pam’s love and approval.

When I visited Masters Island, Eloise Carpenter tucked me, old as I was, under her wing, as if I were another daughter. Every chance I got, I cornered Eloise for long chats. She was endlessly patient, listening to me when I was miserable, which was pretty often. Sometimes I think she suspected my trouble, but in spite of carefully worded hints, I couldn’t even confide in her.

I was the one who helped Eloise make scones, the one who went along when she walked the dogs along the cliffs, while Pam and Ally went to the only pub on the island or lay reading in the hammocks on the front verandah.

Men think I’m beautiful, but they eventually gravitate to Ally. Keeping dates away from seeing her was my main goal when we three lived together. I knew that once they met Ally, I’d be abandoned. She never bothered with them, but like leaves in the wind, they were sucked in by her personality. The only way I could compete was through music. There I could hold my own. Ally is no violinist.

But she gets me in with her charm. There are times when I would do anything for her, but deep down, I wish she’d just go away. And die. Since Ally has come back to Australia, I can hardly control myself. She’s got Brie chasing after her now, and I can’t even say she took him from me, because it was never going to work with us.

I can’t keep my mouth shut when Ally’s nearby. My venom edges around every word I utter. Dear God, what sort of a monster have I become? Sometimes I catch her looking at me, puzzled and hurt, but then I make a joke or get her a cup of coffee and hand it to her with a hug. Pam and Ally have tried to get me to open up and talk my problems through, but there is no way I can admit about my shameful secret. If I tell, it’s going to diminish, to expose me.
I want to be normal, like everyone else.

There’s no way I can admit the truth about why my agent requests the bouquet which is presented to me after a concert has to be of artificial flowers. Everyone, including him, believes I’m allergic to pollen. I made Pam and Ally keep the flowers they’d receive in their bedrooms or the laundry when we were sharing rentals.

Professionally, I held my own until two years ago. I don’t really know why things started to go wrong for me. Too many concerts? Too many hours in recording studios? I needed to get away from my friends, with time out to hide so no one would realise I was falling apart.

When I left London for Australia earlier this year, I held my breath until I could get safely on the plane. Then I heard Ally would be joining the Pacific Orchestra as guest artist under contract for six months and I wanted to scream.

God, I hate her so badly I can taste my own bile.

But I hate myself even more.

I am so confused and frightened. My solo career is up the creek. My CDs are selling, but only because they’ve recently been played on ABC Classic FM. Fortunately, the Pacific Orchestra pays well, so I can keep the roof over my head and buy myself the clothes, perfume and jewellery I deserve.

Michael Whitby is fairly attractive in a blonde sort of way and filled the gap after Brie dumped me two months into our relationship, but now he’s become a nuisance. Yesterday, he overheard me talking on the phone, but he wouldn’t dare tell. He knows I’d fix him with Sir James and the directors. Taking drugs means instant dismissal and Michael is hooked on a lot more than the weed.

I will not allow him to destroy me.

A few weeks ago, I met my soul mate. He thrives on playing games—dangerous games—as much as I do.

Take deep breaths and just keep cleaning.

They promised faithfully nothing’s going to happen to her. I tell myself it serves Ally right for all the years I’ve listened to her whining.

She should be so lucky.

She didn’t have a father who, from the time she was five until she was fifteen, slithered into her bedroom under cover of darkness bearing a posy of fresh flowers wrapped in cellophane, complete with gift tag, for his sweet, “princess of the night.”