Araluen (40 page)

Then Michael saw her. ‘Emma,’ he called. And he raced over. ‘Come and meet Grandfather. Sit down the front next to me; I need to be able to see you during my speech.’

The moment the Ross family had arrived, the theatre bells had sounded, announcing to the guests that proceedings were about to start. ‘Come on,’ Michael said, dragging her over to Franklin and Penelope. ‘We have to lead the brigade.’ He didn't notice the man beside her - he'd completely forgotten about ‘the friend’.

Suddenly Emma found herself staring into the eyes of Franklin Ross. They were shrouded in age. The epicanthic folds above, the bags below, the wrinkles to the side. But the eyes themselves were not old. They were unwavering and penetrating and the hardest steel-blue Emma had ever seen.

‘Grandpa, this is Emma Clare - you wanted to meet her. Emma, my grandfather, Franklin Ross.’

‘How do you do, Mr Ross,’ Emma heard herself say, unaware that Malcolm had arrived beside her.

‘Ah, yes, Emma Clare,’ Franklin replied, ‘the talented young writer Penelope allowed to get away.’

‘Hello, my dear.’ Penelope brushed the side of Emma's face with her cheek.

‘Hello, Penelope.’

‘The
Halley's
script was magnificent; I must congratulate you.’ Franklin's eyes hadn't left Emma's face. ‘I hope the cameras have done it justice. No, thank you.’ He brushed aside a waiter attempting to offer him a glass of champagne. Still his eyes hadn't left her face.

‘Thank you, Mr Ross. Oh ... ’ Emma dragged herself away from the eyes, suddenly aware of Malcolm at her side, ‘this is my friend, Malcolm O'Brien, Mr and Mrs Ross.’ Malcolm shook hands with Penelope and Franklin. ‘And this is Michael,’ she said. ‘Michael Ross, Malcolm O'Brien.’

Michael didn't feel his hand being shaken. He was too busy staring at Emma. He'd seen her as she looked at Malcolm. He knew she was in love. He was sick with the realisation. Emma Clare was in love. But she was his. She belonged to him. She always had.

‘Well, come along, you're the one who said we had to lead the way.’ It was Franklin himself who broke the moment and he started escorting Penelope towards the auditorium.

As Malcolm took Emma's arm she smiled up at him. Michael felt an almost overpowering urge to wrench her away. ‘Mine,’ he wanted to scream. ‘She's mine!’

‘You go ahead,’ he said, ‘I'll have a quick toilet break. See you in there.’ Franklin frowned disapprovingly. ‘It's all right for you, Grandpa, you don't have to make a speech.’ He smiled winningly. ‘Nerves. I'll see you in there.’

Behind the locked door of a cubicle in the men's lavatory, Michael snorted heavily from the small glass phial. She couldn't be in love, he told himself. Maybe he was imagining it. He always got a bit paranoid when he was speeding like this. He mustn't let it ruin his night. Emma loved him, he knew it. So what if she was having a bit of a fling? So what? She didn't have to be a virgin when she came to him. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He mustn't let anything matter. This was his night. He gathered himself together and went into the theatre to make his speech.

‘ ... and without any further ado, it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you the mastermind behind tonight's extraordinary cinematic experience, Michael Ross ... ’

Michael talked for a full ten minutes but he had no idea what he was saying. The house lights were half up and he could see Emma quite clearly. Malcolm was seated in the centre aisle seat and he held her hand in his lap.

Michael could sense a restlessness in the audience. He knew he was rambling. He normally enjoyed public speaking and he was confident in front of a crowd but tonight he was distracted. What the hell was he talking about? Oh, who gave a shit anyway, he thought and he finished abruptly.

‘So I'd like to say thanks to all those who contributed to the film and I hope you enjoy it tonight,’ he said and he walked back to his seat.

Franklin, seated beside him, gave him a questioning look as the lights dimmed, but Michael didn't return it.

Halley's
blazed across the screen. ‘Produced by Michael Ross’. Michael started to relax. Fuck the lot of them, he thought. Including Emma. Fuck her too. This was his night.

Two hours later as the credits rolled and every member of the audience stood to their feet and applauded, Michael was back on his high. The movie had been magnificent - a breakthrough, an original, and everyone recognised it as such.

Emma hugged him and there were tears of joy in her eyes. ‘You did it, Michael,’ she said.

Her face was so close to his. ‘We did it, Emma. It's us. Always us. And
Blue Water History
will be just the same.’ And, for those several seconds, there was no one else there. No one else for him and, far more importantly, he knew there was no one else there for her either.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.
‘Blue Water History
will be just as wonderful.’ And she hugged him again.

A huge party at the Hilton followed the premiere. Hundreds of people straggled through the streets of Sydney, many still with champagne glasses in their hands.

Franklin and Penelope were not going to the party and when Michael had finally fought his way through the mass of congratulatory back-slappers, Franklin was waiting for him in the theatre foyer with Karol at his side, the chauffeur having safely escorted Penelope to the limousine.

‘I want to see you when you get home,’ was all he said and he turned to go.

‘I might be late, Grandpa.’ Michael was feeling bold. It's going to be a big night.’

‘Fine. You've deserved it. Have a good time. I’ll be waiting.’

At the party Michael watched Emma and Malcolm dancing, and again his mood swung. This time to utter depression.

Then she was by his side. She and Malcolm were leaving, she said. ‘Do you want to come around to the flat tomorrow, Michael?’

‘What for?’ he asked sullenly.

‘To go over the script, of course, stupid.’

‘Sure you can spare the time?’

Emma put her hand through his arm and whispered in his ear. ‘Go home, Michael. Please. You've snorted too much of that filthy stuff.’ She pecked him on the cheek, sorry to see him down on such a triumphant night, but she recognised the signs and she wished there was some way she could help him stop his drug abuse. She whispered again. ‘You're brilliant and I'm very, very proud of you and I'll see you at the flat tomorrow and you make sure you come along straight, you stupid bastard - we've got a lot of things to talk about.’

Then she was gone and Michael felt very alone among the hundreds of revellers. They were all dancing and drinking and talking and flirting and they seemed to have forgotten
Halley's
altogether. This was his night and there was no one special sharing it with him. Wrong, he told himself, wrong. Stay on the high.

He downed a quick three glasses of champagne and asked a very pretty girl to dance. For the next four hours he drank and danced wildly with numerous attractive young women, most of whom would have loved to go to bed with him, but he wasn't interested.

A crowd of them went on to a club in Kings Cross. And then another club and another, each one seedier than the last. And then it was five o'clock in the morning and Michael was suddenly weary. Very weary. It was time to go home.

He quietly closed the front door and started to walk through the main hall towards the staircase. Christ, he was tired. Not drunk. No longer high. Just burned out.

‘Michael . . ?’ The voice came from the lounge room. Franklin was seated in an armchair facing the archway with a full view of the main hall. He'd been sitting there since well before midnight, lightly dozing on and off. He rarely slept these days. Catnapping seemed to be all his body needed.

‘Grandpa, you shouldn't have waited up. It's—’

‘I told you I would. Come and sit down. Just a quick talk.’

‘But it's five-thirty in the morning. Can't it... ’

‘Sit, boy.’ Michael sat on the sofa opposite him. ‘Just a quick talk, that's all.’ Michael squirmed under Franklin's close scrutiny. What the hell was this all about?

‘I didn't know you used drugs,’ Franklin said finally.

Shit, so that was it. ‘Hell, Grandpa, I don't, I...’

‘What were you on tonight? Cocaine?’

Michael knew there was no way out. ‘Just one little line, that's all.’ A pause. The steel-blue eyes staring at him. ‘Only every now and then.’ Franklin said nothing. ‘Everyone does it, Grandpa.’

‘I don't like cocaine, Michael.’ A flash. Franklin saw Catherine's face, white dust encrusted around her nostrils, saliva dribbling from the corner of her mouth. He remembered her radical mood changes, her seemingly endless energy. Michael's moods had vacillated of late, his energy had been boundless. Franklin asked himself whether it was his fault. Should he have read the signs? It was true he'd been away for half of the boy's life - he should have devoted more time to him, he should have ... He hauled his mind back to the present. Self-recrimination solved nothing.

‘You come of age next year. Next year your trust account is turned over to you.’

Michael could see it coming. He nodded.

‘It will be withheld,’ Franklin continued, ‘if I see any further evidence of drug abuse, do you understand me?’

‘Yes, Grandfather.’

‘That will be all.’ Michael rose to go. ‘You did well tonight,’ Franklin said. ‘Ross Productions will most certainly fund
Blue Water History.’

‘Great,’ Michael nodded. ‘That's great. ‘Night, Grandpa.’

‘Goodnight, Michael.’ Franklin sat in his armchair and watched his grandson as he walked upstairs. Such a fine figure of a young man. Hopefully the warning would be enough. If not, Franklin wondered, where could he go from here? Everything rested on Michael's shoulders. How had it come to this - what had gone wrong?

Franklin was tired. He felt old these days -except when he was with Helen. Helen made him feel young. No, that wasn't it exactly. She just didn't make him feel old. Well, she wasn't old herself, that was probably why. Not old and not young. Fifty something, wasn't she ... one or two. And she demanded nothing. She had a career and a life of her own, yet still she'd refused to leave him when he'd told her she should have children with a younger man. She'd refused to leave him when he'd insisted, only several years ago, that a younger man would surely give her more regular sexual satisfaction.

‘I'm perfectly satisfied with the sex I have, Franklin,’ she'd said. And it was true, they were still sexually active. Not frequently, but enough for Helen, whose passion was not demanding.

Strange, Franklin thought, as his mind strayed from Bronwyn in the upstairs servants’ quarters, to Millie, then Penelope. Strange how one's sexual demands changed over the years. But even as his mind strayed, his thoughts kept returning to Millie. They always did. Millie was the one woman he'd ever truly loved. And now there was Helen. Helen, who'd stayed with him while he grew old.

‘Why?’ he'd asked her. ‘Why do you stay?’

‘Because I admire you, Franklin. I admire you more than any man I’ve ever known.’

He'd offered to marry her if that was what she wanted and she'd laughed.

‘If you need to know what I want, Franklin, then forget it.’ There'd been no venom in her voice. ‘Leave things the way they are, I'm happy with that.’

It had been an easy escape for Franklin so he'd let things rest. Until recently. Recently he'd had a minor stroke. They'd rushed him to Mercy Hospital. He'd been fine. No aftereffects. And that's when Helen had said, ‘I'll tell you what I want, Franklin. I want to be by your side when you die. You figure that one out. It can be here in New York or it can be in Australia. You figure it out.’

Which brought it all back to Penelope, to a marriage in name only. Surely Penelope was happy with her lot, Franklin thought. She was secure with her position in life, she saw him only several months a year - surely she wouldn't mind agreeing to a divorce? If he was to move to New York and live openly with Helen, then he wanted to marry her. If Helen was to be by his side when he died, he wanted them to be husband and wife.

Yes, he'd have to tell Penelope this time around, he decided. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but it was a full two months before he was due to return to the States. He must tell her; it was only right for all concerned. Besides, he was running out of time.

Franklin hauled himself wearily out of the chair. Then there was Michael, of course. The boy must come to America. Living with Penelope had made him weak, spoiled, indulged. He was a brilliant film maker and there was a career waiting for him in America. Franklin could make a man out of him there.

He trudged upstairs, deliberately avoiding the railing even though his hip was aching. Franklin never held onto stair rails.

Besides, he told himself, he'd enjoy the boy's company. Since the death of old Sam Crockett five years ago, he'd had no male companionship outside of business. Except for Karol Mankowski, of course, and one didn't talk to Karol - one communicated. Telepathically at times. Karol often seemed to know what Franklin wanted before Franklin himself was aware of it.

Of course there was Sam's son Davy, who was now middle-aged. They worked closely together and they should have been friends - Davy was a replica of old Sam himself. But Franklin knew that Davy hated his guts.

‘You're a bastard, Ross,’ Davy had said. ‘You shafted him. He was your lifelong buddy and you shafted him.’

‘I merely agreed with the board that he had to go, Davy,’ he'd replied. ‘Sam himself knows he's too old - he doesn't have it in him any more.’

‘He could have stayed on the board, for Christ's sake. It'll kill him being out of the business - he'll die within a year.’ And Sam had.

Franklin had no regrets. He'd done the right thing. The day he himself felt he was too old to take the pressure he'd resign. And that's what Sam should have done. He'd tried to hang on too long and if Davy didn't like Franklin and his methods then it was just too bad. One didn't have to like one's business associates. Respect was enough.

But Franklin had to admit that he missed old Sam. Yes, Michael would be good company, he thought. As soon as
Blue Water History
was in the can he'd make the boy an offer he couldn't refuse.