Blaze (68 page)

But Ali didn't hear him. Or if she did, she took no notice. Ali's mind was on other matters. She had to find a replacement for Larissa before Nina did. And now she'd have to replace Eddie too.

 

I
n one respect Larissa felt she'd never been away. Leaning back in the dim cab it was as if Sydney had never happened. She felt like she was trundling home, late in the evening, after a long day at
Blaze USA
. In a few minutes she'd walk into the loft apartment and there would be Gerry with a glass of wine and dinner ready.

The reality shook her.

The loft was cold and almost bare. One light was left burning and most of their furniture had gone. Some of her favourite personal items were piled in a corner – rugs, photos, books, vases. She assumed her clothes were still in the closet in the bedroom loft above. The TV, sofa, kitchen table and chairs and the microwave remained. What chilled her the most was the absence of Gerry's paintings. His huge, bold and vibrant canvases, which had hung everywhere and been stacked in his studio area, were gone.

Larissa dropped her bags and, still in her coat, walked around the near-empty apartment, suddenly remembering the stack of his paintings left behind in the house in Paddington. In the couple of weeks he'd been in Sydney, he had tried to capture the clear, bright light that glittered over the harbour and city.

Had Gerard already settled in New Hampshire? She had no idea where he was, who he was going to work for. He could have just dropped out of her life, swearing his mother to secrecy. Silly, perhaps, but looking around the shell of their former life, it didn't seem impossible. She sank onto the sofa and huddled in her coat. The apartment was chilly. There were no familiar smells. ‘Oh, what have I come back to?' she wondered.

Larissa began to berate herself. She should have waited till she had spoken to him, found out what he really thought, what he really wanted. Had he meant what he'd said? Had she read more into his remarks than was there? Had it just been a flippant remark with no serious intent? She felt like he was the boy who cried wolf . . . good old Gerard, always there for her, making idle ultimatums which she didn't take to heart. Until this moment. Alarm bells were ringing in her head, her body was tense and fearful. The way forward was uncertain and she knew she could not, did not want to, go back to Sydney – or to
Blaze USA
.

And there was no one who could advise her. A face-to-face, heart-to-heart with Gerard was the only solution. She recalled their parting in this apartment. Nothing much had been said, so much left unsaid. Neither of them was adept at really saying what they felt. Sure, he'd said toss up Sydney, come back and marry me. But the way he'd said it had irritated her. She didn't like the idea she had to choose, or his attitude that she was being a silly woman . . . ‘Now pull your act together and come back here. Be sensible.' As if her career hadn't meant as much as his life. She'd so wanted to make it to editor by the time she was thirty-eight. Well, by forty. It had been a goal that once achieved could then have been put to one side. Forty wasn't too late to do the marriage and motherhood trip. And she did want kids. She knew many of her peers didn't, and Gerard was right about her being basically old-fashioned. All the arguments over nuclear and extended families, over the selfish choices of baby boomers, the issue of care and support in declining years;
Blaze
had discussed these issues. Now it was a reality in her life and she was very sure this was what she wanted. But had she put Gerard on hold too long? She didn't care who else was out there to answer her needs – Gerard was the one she wanted.

Larissa's chin slumped on her chest, her eyes filled with tears. She was jet-lagged and weary. It had been a non-stop flight from Sydney to San Francisco, then a change of planes to JFK.

Her departure had been quick and low key. She didn't want a big party or even the small gathering Belinda had arranged, preferring instead to say her goodbyes informally one by one.

At the last editorial meeting Ali had made the announcement of Larissa's departure, saying it was personal, that she was leaving ‘to marry and we all wish her well'.

By then most of the staff knew Larissa's plans, so they hadn't reacted with the shock and sadness they'd felt when first hearing the news. Ali hadn't dwelt on it and moved on to the next point on her agenda.

Bob had walked beside Larissa as they left the meeting. ‘Have you been in touch with Nina? Won't she shit a brick –'scuse the expression – when she finds out you're gone? We all figured she had you in here to keep an eye on Ali and the magazine for her.'

‘That was the general idea. But I'm capitulating. I can't fight the Ali syndrome any more. I'm tired of being the ham in the sandwich. And frankly, I want a life of my own, Bob. I've given all I can to
Blaze
. I adore Nina and I'm proud of what I've done. I had dreams once of running the magazine, being editor of
Blaze
is the icing on the career cake. But I've discovered I don't have what it takes.'

‘You're too nice, Larissa. Talented, without a doubt. I wish you well. I wish I could walk away.'

She gave him a grin. ‘And write the great Australian novel?'

‘You mean fall in line behind all the other ex-journos writing out their fantasies?'

‘You're turning cynical on me, Bob.'

‘Hell, you gotta laugh or you go mad. Just in case we don't catch up for last drinks . . . It's been a real pleasure knowing and working with you.' He held out his hand and kissed her cheek.

Tears had sprung to Larissa's eyes. How she liked the down-to-earth Aussies. The reality that she was leaving Australia hit her. As if to confirm it, when she reached her former office she found two painters in there, rolling yellow paint over the walls.

Was she asleep, or sunk in a tired stupor? Was she dreaming?

Gerard crouched before her, concern in his eyes as he took her hands and rubbed them between his own. Larissa stared at him, slowly taking in his unshaven face, the jacket with an upturned collar, the tousled hair and a strong smell of . . . Chinese food.

‘Is it really you?' she whispered.

‘I was about to say the same thing. What on earth are you doing here? Oh, Riss . . .' he swept her in his arms and she tumbled from the sofa and they fell to a tangled heap on the floor, laughing, kissing, crying.

‘Where have you been? The place is deserted. I thought you'd gone . . .'

Gerry sat up, smoothing her hair, studying every feature of the face he had etched on his heart. ‘I've found us a place . . . nothing permanent – I want us to find our more permanent home together . . . if you ever came back. I was so worried you wouldn't come back. I've just driven from New Hampshire. I just had this feeling . . . it's been crazy lately what with moving . . . my work . . .'

‘Why didn't you call me?'

‘I had this big struggle with myself and, inevitably, decided on putting it off for another day, convinced that you would call in the meantime, or convinced that if I called I'd find you with someone else . . . and that was too hard to live with. But yesterday I actually tried your house and Miche's voice was on the answering machine. That almost destroyed me. I was worried that you really had moved in with another guy.' He paused to kiss her tenderly on the forehead, then the lips. ‘God, it's wonderful to see you here,' he said softly.

‘Oh, Gerry. How stupid we are.' They kissed again, long and hard, until Larissa pulled apart. ‘Gerry, what's that smell?'

He leaned over and waved a paper bag. ‘Chinese takeout. A late supper. Come on, we'll heat it up. There's a bottle of champagne in the fridge. Not much else, I'm afraid. But our bed is still here. Let's light the candles and picnic in bed.'

‘Sounds terrific.' Larissa dropped her coat and kicked off her shoes. ‘Tell me all about my new life.'

*

Miche missed Larissa, but not as much as she would have without Jeremy. They spoke for an hour at least several nights a week. Jeremy confessed he'd never had such long – or intimate – conversations with anyone before. They shared dreams, hopes, fears, family anecdotes and the events of the day. It was different from the closeness Miche had shared with girlfriends, but she had come to regard Jeremy as somebody very special. She hoped the friendship would continue when she moved to the Hunter.

‘Where are you starting these stories?' asked Jeremy.

‘Well, it's going to be a personal account of my discovery of the place and the wines and the people, so I may start at the beginning and relate my impressions of that first day I drove into the valley, the weekend I met you again. Then pick a town to focus on. John Sandgate suggested Cessnock.'

Jeremy tried to be helpful. ‘It doesn't matter which town you start with – Newcastle, Morpeth, Pokolbin – they all have a connection with wine in one way or another, and no doubt more stories than you can handle. It really is an exciting idea.'

‘Yeah, it is. But it's also challenging in so far as I have to develop a style of story-telling that is a long way from the publicity handouts and well-rehearsed trade blurbs. It has to be more than a travel-guide drive around the old wineries in the Hunter. Fortunately, I already have a list of a few old guys to interview. It's a very macho industry, isn't it?'

‘Sure, the men dominate, as almost everywhere, but there are a few women forcing open the cellar doors. Hearing from them should be worth a column or two.'

‘Working on this made me think about the Napa Valley in California. I went there when I was a little girl with my mother. I don't know why, maybe she was writing something. She was very down on Californian wines – Americans drank sodas, not coarse rough reds in bottles with handles and straw wrapped around them and made by families whose names ended in vowels,' laughed Miche.

‘How times have changed. Didn't she move out of the sixties?'

‘She drank French wines. She would never have considered Australia a fine wine producer.'

‘An odd prejudice to hold onto for so long,' observed Jeremy.

‘Yeah. Anything to do with Australia was
verboten
in our lives,' said Miche, a sudden bitter ring to her words.

‘Your old man?' said Jeremy softly.

‘Obviously. It's one of the reasons I'm so interested in learning about this country. It's part of me. The part I don't know,' sighed Miche.

‘What are you doing to find out about him? You mentioned in France that was a reason for coming here.'

‘Sometimes it seems less important, other times I feel really sad and angry. That makes me feel mad at my mom and I don't like that. I'm torn between feelings of disloyalty to her because she was determined to shut him out of our lives, and yet he's an important part of my being. But all that's there is a gaping hole.'

‘Miche, I hope you don't think me out of line, but I don't believe one parent has the right to deprive a child of knowledge of an unknown, absent mother or father. Knowing one's total identity gives you a full sense of who you are. God, look at all the trauma caused by our stolen generation of Aborigines.'

‘At least it's now recognised. I was thinking of working that into my piece on children of violence.'

‘I thought you'd put that article to one side?'

‘Only while I do this Hunter Valley story. I'm still working on it in my mind.'

‘Miche, if you want me to help, hold your hand as you ask the questions, I'll be happy to do it. I have such a big, happy family, I think it sad you're so . . . estranged.'

Miche could just imagine the jolly, easygoing, loving family that surrounded Jeremy. He couldn't begin to know the depth of her sense of loss the absence of a father meant. Or know the bitter anger she harboured towards him and, sad to say, that she also felt towards her late adored mother. She'd always felt it unfair that she, the only child, had to suffer because of the rift between the parents.

‘What do you know about him, Miche?' Jeremy suddenly asked as if reading her mind.

She rattled off basic facts. His name, place of birth, age. A few anecdotes from her mother. ‘They met in the States, married, separated then divorced. She was a New Yorker, he wanted to move to California. My mother always said he made her choose between her career and him. To her mind it was unfair. To quote her, “You can't transplant a career Manhattanite to somewhere in the southern Californian boonies.” She always said he was probably lazing on a Pacific atoll. I was given the feeling he was never as driven as my mom.'

Jeremy was silent.

‘You still there?' asked Miche.

‘Yep. So . . . and who do you take after? Are you the driven career girl or the casual Californian?' asked Jeremy lightly.

But the question made Miche pause. ‘I thought I was ambitious. Look at my mother and Nina Jansous, my godmother. I grew up surrounded by achieving women. Now I look at women like Larissa and Ali and I don't know any more.'

‘Listen, stop worrying about all that stuff. Just enjoy each day. Too much wallowing makes you stuck in mud, or some such saying to quote my mum.'

Miche laughed, but couldn't help thinking that was how men dealt with heavy-duty issues – by avoiding them. They changed tack. They waded out into clear, fast-flowing water that took them away from the muddy foreshores.

‘When are you coming to see us? Steve and Helen have a spare cabin you can stay in. They're keen you write about our neck of the woods.'

‘That's so sweet. As an unbiased
Blaze
journalist, I'm not supposed to accept free hospitality.'

‘You're coming to see me. That's different. Pay for your own motel in Cessnock or wherever,' countered Jeremy. ‘Say, I've just had a thought. I have a mate who lives in Cessnock. His wife, Jane, works for the local newspaper, the
Advertiser
. She might be a help to you. How soon before you're coming? I'm starting to forget what you look like,' he teased.