Blaze (55 page)

‘They're here for an assessment interview that's necessary before you can leave,' said the girl at the desk. ‘They have a letter from Dr Brennan.'

‘No. Let me talk to whoever is running this operation.' Sally had no recollection of any such plan, but if it meant leaving this place, then she'd see them.

‘Hello.'

‘Miss Shaw, we have been advised that this morning was booked for our little session,' the woman's voice was bright and firm. ‘You may recall speaking with our medical superintendent, Dr Michelle Bannister?'

‘Miche? Is that you,' giggled Sally.

The girl lowered her voice and sounded conspiratorial. ‘I'm a close friend, she told us where you were. Said you might like company. Unfortunately she can't be here. Can we have a talk? My name is Heather. Don't let on about this. I'm pretending to be a therapist.'

‘Wild. Sure, come on down,' shrilled Sally. ‘I'm in a room in Frangipani House on the left of the curve in the driveway.'

Heather hung up the phone and spoke quietly to the receptionist. ‘The doctor briefed me that Sally is a little paranoid about her privacy. We'll just make our own way over there so as not to make any fuss.'

‘They all like to keep to themselves,' agreed the receptionist. ‘Oh, do you know where to go?'

‘Yes, we do. Come along, gentlemen.'

The sound recordist and cameraman, dressed in sober suits, followed Heather, who was wearing a white dress and navy jacket that hinted of a crisp, professional uniform. They slipped into the station wagon that had a sticker over the TV station logo on the door that read, ‘North Shore Medical and Therapeutic Assessment Services'.

Heather Race was all concern and caring charm. ‘Sorry about the subterfuge,' she said. ‘I work for a TV show and we want to do a story about how fabulously well you've done overseas. Miche told us the clinic is a bit thingy about the media. We only want what's best for you. I guess Miche explained how great it would be for you to tell a bit of your story.'

‘Sort of,' said Sally slowly, having no recollection of such a conversation. But there were a lot of blanks in her mind over the past few weeks. She eyed the two men carrying in lights and a tripod and several long metal boxes. Her mind was still fuzzy from the pills they gave her three times a day. She clung to the anchor of Miche. She trusted Miche. She was her friend. If Miche has sent these people, then it was all right. ‘Where is Miche?' asked Sally.

‘She's out of town, sends her best, said she'll come round and see you in a day or so. I gather you'll be out of here then,' said Heather cheerfully, hoping this was what Sally wanted to hear.

‘I will? Cool. This hasn't been the fun trip I expected. What a hoot you're here. So what are we going to talk about?' She curled up on her bed.

‘You've had a lot of experiences in the modelling world in a short time and maybe you can pass on a few pieces of advice to other young girls who want to do what you've done.'

‘I wouldn't do
all
of it again,' said Sally wryly. ‘I mean, I haven't done anything really bad . . . I'm just in here for a rest. My life was a bit out of control. The whole scene was fun at first, but it becomes a bit of a treadmill. I don't want to look like a flake or a druggie airhead, you know?'

Her voice was pleading. They knew and she knew they knew, that she had a serious drug problem.

Heather flattered, she listened, she nodded understandingly and promised to present Sally in a story that would make everyone appreciate what she'd achieved, how tough it was out there in the so-called glamour world of fashion, and how easy it was to slip off the rails.

Heather thought back to Miche's article that, reading between the lines, hinted at a few dangerous escapades.

‘Listen, Miche told us some . . . stuff. What really happened?'

Sally took the bait. ‘Look, I didn't do anything seriously wrong. I just had a fun time. I'm young – and look where I was at? It all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. Any girl would have grabbed it as I did. The trouble is that people take advantage, you're led astray. It's hard to say no to all this stuff. I'm not stupid. I don't want to look like a total victim. I made a few crummy choices and didn't pay attention when I should have. I think any other girl in my position would have done the same.'

‘So what did you do, Sally?' asked Heather softly. The two men were still setting up the gear. ‘Let's just talk for a minute, relax, before we do the real interview, okay.'

‘God, what didn't I do? Don't put this on air, but I mean, hell, those photographers and agency people rape you. I mean, your mind, your soul, and financially. Though there have been lots of cases of physical rape. Those old guys in the modelling business in Europe feed on new young blood like vampires. Anyway, what are we going to talk about on camera?'

‘How you were discovered, why you were successful, what you thought of the designers, stuff like that,' said Heather breezily. ‘Hey, we thought you might like a little present. Now's the time to give it to you – hey, Jonesy?'

‘You betcha.' Out of the metal box that held cables and spare lights, the cameraman pulled two cold bottles of champagne.

‘Wow! Groovy. That's banned in here. Pop the cork quickly.' Sally laughed, ‘I only have a toothpaste glass.'

‘We brought glasses, only plastic, but there you go.' Alan, the soundman, opened the first bottle and poured drinks as Jonesy set up the camera, peered through the Betacam eyepiece and adjusted a light. He leaned on the camera and took a glass of champagne. ‘Cheers, Sally.' At the same time, he switched on the camera, but Sally was unaware it was rolling. Or that Heather was wearing a hidden radio microphone.

Sally, sitting cross-legged on her bed, lifted the glass of champagne. ‘Up all their arses. When I'm out of here, I'm starting a new life. Don't know what as though,' she giggled as she gulped down the champagne.

Heather leaned forward, ‘Just between us, what was the deal at that chateau in France . . . ?'

Sally loved being the centre of attention again, so she began to enjoy regaling Heather with tales of the naked black jazz saxophonist and the dwarf and the horses razzing round the dining room, although she left out the part about the old Count. Heather and the guys hooted and topped up her champagne. Soon Sally was telling one outrageous story after another.

She paused and asked, ‘Gee, when are we going to do the interview? They'll be coming around on patrol soon.'

‘Right. Let's start.' Heather pulled her chair out to face Sally and the soundman fiddled with a large boom microphone covered with fuzzy fur fabric. Heather's manner changed from the intimate friend to the professional interviewer. Skilfully, she ran through standard questions that Sally had been asked many times before.

Sally struggled to say the things she felt were appropriate to go on air. ‘Modelling isn't the glamorous world you read about. You're put under a lot of pressure. You work up to eighteen hours a day. There're a lot of temptations out there. Unless you have someone who really cares about you, watching out for you, you can be led astray.'

Heather cut her off, switched tack and asked about her parents. ‘So, they aren't into this glamour world?'

‘God, no. Country people. Nice and sweet, but it's not my scene any more.'

‘What do they think about you being in here?'

‘I'm having a holiday at a resort for a bit. They think I'm too thin. I'm at a health farm.' She raised her glass and giggled. ‘Good health!'

The cameraman made a surreptitious gesture of scratching his head and Heather wound up the interview. ‘So listen, Sally, maybe we can take a few sneaky shots of you in the gardens. We need a few extra pretty shots to overlay the interview. Where aren't we liable to run into people?'

Sally rose unsteadily, the champagne had hit her hard after enforced abstinence and it was starting to mix with the strong medication she was taking. ‘Oops. We can walk around a little pond. It's hardly a foot deep, someone threw themselves in the other day.'

‘Deep enough to drown if you're stoned.'

‘No such luck here. They check visitors' bags. How'd you manage to bring all that stuff in?' asked Sally suddenly.

‘When you're a journalist, you can do anything,' smiled Heather.

Heather took Sally's arm and they strolled beneath the trees. To an observer, a child was being walked by a thoughtful, if youthful, protector. Using a long lens, Jonesy took shots from the trees.

Heather and Sally returned to her suite. ‘What's next?' asked Sally. ‘Have we finished the bubbles?'

‘I have to do my reversals and noddies.' Heather and the cameraman exchanged a look. They needed to film Heather asking questions in the same setting where the interview had taken place.

Alan had linked his sound gear to the camera. ‘Wanna come for a bit of fresh air with me? They can do it without me.' He grasped Sally's elbow and led her outside.

Sally was confused and tired, the champagne had gone to her head. ‘Sure. Whatever.' Obediently, she allowed Alan to take the lead.

Heather and Jonesy worked swiftly. He angled the camera around to face Heather as she scribbled notes, rewriting a few of her questions to suit Sally's answers. She would cut the questions and answers together in her own way, taking some of the replies out of context, if necessary, for maximum impact, even down to splicing widely spaced phrases together, making them quite different from what Sally had actually said. Pulling out her compact, Heather powdered down her face. ‘Set the camera up, Jonesy. Don't shoot low, it'll give me double chins.'

‘You gotta be on the same angle as her. She was low, on the bed,' he muttered. ‘You have some top stuff here.' He had an inkling of what Heather might do with all the secretly filmed and recorded pre-interview material that unaware young Sally had burbled on about.

‘Yeah, it'll rate well. Let me just run through a few questions and do a few nodding cutaways of me looking sympathetic, shocked, compassionate, caring, worried. That should cover it.'

‘You want a shot of you pouring champagne into the kid's glass?'

‘Get knotted. You do your job, I'll do mine. Here we go.' Heather composed her face and ran through a series of expressions, moving her head from side to side, looking up, pen to lips thoughtfully, hand up under her chin. Jonesy grinned to himself. Christ she was a pro. A bitch. But, good at being a bitch.

When Alan returned with Sally, Heather explained they were ready to leave.

Sally was upset. ‘But we've hardly talked. Can't you stay longer? I'm so miserable and lonely in here. It's like jail.'

‘Why stay then? You seem okay. Check yourself out,' said Heather.

‘Can I do that?'

‘How old are you?'

‘I just turned seventeen.'

‘Sounds adult enough to me. Listen, if you have enough up-front arrogance and balls, no one challenges you. Just tell 'em and do it.'

Sally was about to ask where she should go. Home to her parents wasn't an option. She'd consider the hideaway hotel in Elizabeth Bay as a first step. Then call Tony and Jacques, the good-time boys to organise something for her. ‘Yeah. I'll do that.'

Heather pulled out her business card and handed it to Sally. ‘I'll call you. Don't worry about anything. You're going to come out looking and sounding like an angel. Say hi to Miche for me.'

Heather sat in the car with the crew. ‘Drive around the corner. We'll wait while you take a couple more shots, Jonesy. Do you have the little digital?'

‘Yeah, the hand-held will do the trick in case someone walks in on me. Do I look like a specialist or someone supposed to be there?'

Heather reached into the back seat and handed him a starched white jacket. ‘Here, put this on.'

‘A doctor's jacket. What, no dog collar?' he grinned. He was referring to the fact that Heather used to have her crew carry around different religious collars and insignia to suit any occasion. It had allowed cameramen with hidden cameras into many homes and institutions uninvited. ‘So what do you want inside?'

‘Hospital stuff, rooms that look like treatment rooms, cupboards filled with drugs and medications, medical gear, whatever you can find that says rehab.'

‘You watch too much television.'

‘Shoot what you can. Alan, help me take this radio mike off.' Heather took off her jacket and unzipped the back of her dress revealing an elastic waistband holding the cables of the radio microphone in place. She unclipped the small mike from her bra. ‘How's it sound?'

‘Haven't checked it, should be okay. Boy, she sure was smashed quick. You're not going to take the boss's advice about talking to the hospital staff later, are you?'

‘Hell no, it could spoil the story,' Heather assured him. ‘Anyway there's not time for it. Two hours of her raving is going to end up a twelve-minute story. Maybe a little longer. I reckon it's a lead piece.'

 

M
iche had set out a work area on an old table in Larissa's sunroom that faced the small walled courtyard. Her laptop, borrowed from Dan, notebooks and tapes were spread around her. She slowly flipped the pages of her notebook, re-reading the interview with Dr Friedman, the trauma specialist. On the next page she found the details of the hotel in Elizabeth Bay where Sally was staying. Underneath it was the number for Jeremy that Sally had given her. Miche felt badly that she hadn't returned Sally's calls, but the Jacques and Tony party scene was not for her. From what Sally had intimated, it was pretty wild. She drew a little box around Jeremy's phone number, then doodled loops and squiggles for a minute, deep in thought. Finally she put down the pen and reached for the phone.