After Ariel: It started as a game (2 page)

‘Hi, it’s me, Ariel. Doing anything tonight?’ Her face scrunched as she listened. ‘Oh, well it’s like, I can’t go out. Have to be home ...yeah, it sucks.’ She listened for a moment or two more, then trilled, ‘Okay, by-ee.’

Snapping her mobile shut, she sensed someone watching. She turned her head and smiled. A thrill shot through him. Heat spread throughout his body, pulses of excitement flooded his limbs, chasing prickles of perspiration out to the tips of his fingers and toes. He clenched and unclenched his hands and shifted in his seat. ‘
Don’t be so ready to assume, love. Not everyone wants to
play.’
The stricture was angrily dismissed.
Get away from me, Mum. Onetwothreefour...

 Exhaling slowly he allowed his gaze to wander back to Ariel, intending to make an opportunity to talk to her when they arrived in Brisbane. He glowed with anticipation.
‘Don’t
get excited, love. You’re too impetuous!’
Shut up, Mum.
Leaning back into his seat, he allowed his eyelids to drift shut.

The announcement over the address system to fasten their seatbelts jolted him awake. He leaned forward and gazed out of the window, counting the airport buildings and as they taxied to the terminal, including the planes parked along the side of the paved access roadway. Once the seatbelt light went out, he got to his feet and reefed his backpack down from the overhead locker, stepped across the aisle and dragged her faded tote bag out of the locker. Ariel’s hazel eyes, framed by long lashes, met his. ‘Thanks. It’s like, too high for me.’

‘I’ll carry it for you.’ He cast a husky tone into his voice.
Girls like that.

   ‘Thanks, like, millions.’ She threw him a flirtatious glance as she stuffed her iPod and the paperback into her tote bag, picked it up and got into line to edge down the aisle.  Shrugging himself into his parka, he pulled the hood up and led the way to the luggage carousel, studying Ariel as she stood beside him, chattering into her phone. Her denim jacket partially covered a white camisole top. Her long legs were encased in “skinny” jeans with sexy, high-heeled ankle boots. A line of bags came into view and he tapped her on the shoulder.

‘Which one’s yours?’

She snapped her phone shut and looked at him through half-closed eyes. ‘You gunna help me with it?’ Her lips twitched.

‘Sure. No problem...’

‘That one!’ she squealed, pointing to a pink, soft-zipped bag wending its way toward them. He lunged for it and whipped it off the carousel, followed by his own plain black case. Ariel laughed up into his face, clutching his arm. ‘Hey, cool!’

‘How’re you getting to the city?’

‘Catching the train in and then a cab,’ she said, grinning. ‘You coming?’

‘Sure. Let me carry these...’ He settled his backpack over his shoulders, handed her his music case and picked up the large bags. ‘Lead the way!’

A chilly breeze swirled around the platform for the air-train. The girl dropped her backpack, dragged a denim jacket out and struggled into it, giggling as he tried to help her. He heaved their luggage into the carriage and up onto a vacant rack.

They didn’t speak as the train raced toward the transit centre. Ariel stood close and texted her friends while he hovered, inhaling her scent, so engrossed that he even forgot to count the people in the carriage, the stations or the buildings zipping by below.

As they left the station, the girl introduced herself as Ariel Maxwell, announced that she only lived fifteen minutes away and then kept up a steady stream of chatter as they headed for the cab rank. Hefting her case into a taxi, he confided that he needed to find somewhere to stay overnight, a pub or motel.
Easier to keep her away from my unit.

‘That’s all right, there’s a good pub just near us. The Commercial on Grey. It’s pretty posh,’ she chirped. The jewellery in her ears flashed. ‘We’ll share a cab if you like?’ She gave her address and settled back into the corner.

‘How about dinner later, then? We can eat at the pub, or we could go somewhere else if you like. Perhaps to the city.’ His gaze skittered away from hers and then, almost reluctantly, back to her.

‘Maybe. What’s your name?’

   ‘I have a nickname.’ He told her, watching as she put her hand up to her face and giggled. ‘You’re joking! What’s your
real
name?’

Warmth spread from his neck into his face. ‘You don’t want to know. A nickname’s more fun!’
It’s better I remain anonymous
. Who knows where this game will end? It mightn’t be worth it anyway. ‘I’ll go on to the pub after this.’

Ariel didn’t want to appear too eager, but she couldn’t help regarding him with keen interest and growing excitement. His lightly bronzed skin set off his handsome features. She wondered how much time he spent on the beach. His glossy, longish hair and small gold stud in one ear gave him a rakish, unreliable appearance. She wondered what it would be like to run her fingers through those silken strands. What would Deanna say, when she heard what a prize she, Ariel, had discovered – a gorgeous, tall, broad-shouldered hottie? Not the usual ‘ocker.’ No, this one was a
man.

   From Ariel’s perspective things were looking up. Her parents were away for the weekend and she had the house to herself.

   ‘This it?’ His gaze flicked over the neat house with its pretty garden as he guided her from the taxi. His beautiful, full lips moved as though he was counting.

   ‘Yeah.’ She paid the driver, who grunted, stuffed the note into his cash bag and embarked on a barrage of coughing as he waited for his remaining passenger.

‘Shall I come back for you about seven?’

She smiled. Tonight dinner and who knew what would be next? Caught up in the excitement of her unexpected date, her parents request that she stay at home had flown her mind. ‘No, I’ll meet you. Seven in the lounge bar.’

He gestured to the bag. ‘Shall I carry this in for you?’

She thought quickly. What if they ended up back there? The house would be a tip; she had two hours to get it sorted. ‘No thanks, I’m good.’ For a moment, doubt crept into her mind but was swiftly dismissed. They’d be in the pub, surrounded by the Friday night crowd.

What could possibly go wrong?

CHAPTER 2

Reunion

Pamela Miller

Friday, 4.30PM

My mother, Rosalind, stands on a river bank holding a baby. It is early autumn and the trees are changing colour. Tears trickle down her cheeks and drip off her quivering chin to soak her chambray shirt. Sunlight glitters on her sequin-splattered denim skirt. As I watch, fascinated, willow trees appear from behind to shroud her from the world but just as her image fades into the cool green fronds, a man’s tall figure looms behind her with folded arms. She turns and clasps the baby tightly to her as he turns away from her and slowly vanishes from sight. Her pain fills my heart.

 My eyes snapped open, shaking off the recurring dream which I believe symbolises the loss of my father. As always, a feeling of emptiness engulfed me but faded quickly this time. I have at last a surrogate in the form of my much loved stepfather, John.
I want this concert done with and I want my mum!
Not necessarily in that order.

My fellow passengers were gathering their belongings, bumping hips with each other as they struggled for luggage in the racks above. Thank goodness I got the last seat in Business Class. My long legs are not designed for “cattle.”

I didn’t have to wait too long at the carousel, though I was entertained by the little beagle checking our luggage. I watched, laughing silently, as a young man with revoltingly large earrings set into his ears like an African woman’s decoration, was led away after an enthusiastic response from the dog.

My laughing, noisy cousin, Marigold Humphries ran up to me as I wheeled my bag away from the carousel where I stopped to load my backpack over my shoulders. ‘Is this all you’ve got, Pammie?’ She gave me a big hug, almost knocking my spectacles off and then looked for what else I may have secreted about my person. ‘Got everything? How was the tour? Are you ready for tomorrow night’s concert?’She snatched the handle of my big case out of my hand and wheeled it toward the exit. I slung my backpack over my shoulder picked up my precious flute case and laptop, then trudged after her.

Tired out, I answered as economically as possible. She nodded in approval, chattering over her shoulder – the family are fine and waiting eagerly for me to arrive and yes, she is off again on a new assignment! By the time we reached her car, I was reeling with information overload. She slung my case into the boot and climbed behind the wheel. I carefully placed my flute case and laptop in the back, shoved my backpack down behind the passenger seat and scrambled in. Goldie gunned the motor and lurched out of the parking lot, cursing as we reached the boom gate. Marigold – Goldie to her family and friends – is one of the two women with whom I can bitch about errant boyfriends, corporate sponsors, arrogant conductors, lack of time and currently, sex.

We’re both tall, fair-haired and slim, but her bold and classically beautiful face marks the difference between us. She’s used to being approached by scouts for modelling agencies and other ‘would-be, could-be’s’ who back off pretty smartly when she delivers her standard reply: ‘Listen, Cuddles, I’ve had better wet dreams than what you’re offering!’ Her responses to hopefuls who approach her in bars don’t bear repeating. She’s an internationally renowned free-lance photo-journalist who’s much in demand, fiercely ambitious and will let nothing stand in her way of reaching the top of her profession.

I took a long swig of water ‘So how have you been?’

Goldie flicked the indicator for left and turned into the stream of traffic. ‘Oh fine! Fine.’
Oh yeah? Could have fooled me.

 
‘So what’s the latest on the ‘sig other’ front? You were pretty cagey when we spoke on the phone yesterday. What aren’t you telling me?’

‘Nothing, really nothing.’ Her face closed, her eyebrows drew into a frown. 
Something’s wrong...

‘Goldie, I know you too well.’

She laughed and blew a kiss to a male motorist, who besottedly allowed her into the line of traffic.

Men adore her. ‘I know you have someone in tow, you always do!’ Goldie goes through men like a lioness through a mob of gazelles.

‘Did, you mean.’ She chewed her lip briefly and then informed me that she has just dismissed her latest suitor two days ago and is ready to frolic.

‘For God’s sake, what was wrong with
thi
s one?’

 ‘He was a dickhead, love, but apart from that, nothing.’

‘So, what’s next?’

‘Well, I have to get back to Sydney earlier than I planned. KRL mag wants their photo-spread a lot faster than we thought. Someone has let them down, so it’s all a bit complicated, Pammie. The bottom line is I can finish up the river shots tomorrow morning, and then meet up with Jack Boode, the TV bloke, to plan for the Africa job and fly back to Sydney late Sunday night.’ She looked at me, guiltily. ‘I know we planned to have a few days together, but I’ll be back in a few weeks and we can do something then. I am coming to your concert tomorrow night, though!’

I’d hoped that we would have a little time together. She appeared to have forgotten that I’m going overseas for a couple of weeks shortly, but of course work has to come first.

‘Pam?’

‘Sure, no problems.’

 ‘So what about tomorrow night’s concert? You’re all set, then?’ She threw a twinkling glance at me, as she swung the car around a corner, nearly taking out a cyclist.

‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

While I have been somewhat successful in the world of classical music, stage fright has been the bane of my life and until a short time ago, actually prevented me achieving anything like a sizzling career. ‘Puking Pam twelve o’clock’ is the favourite, a stage hand’s cruel catch-cry, as they bring out a bucket with great ceremony and place it behind the curtains at the entrance to the stage. I want to kick them up their well-endowed or otherwise, crotches. This tour, however, things are looking up.

When I turned twenty six, I realised that if I didn’t overcome my affliction and get a grip on myself, I may as well toss in the towel and settle for a life in front of waist-high future stockbrokers, CEOs, lawyers and possible apprentice criminals. Not so you’d notice the difference. I decided stage fright would not –
could not
–get the better of me. Three years later and I’m all good. Literally hundreds of hours of practice and hard work with tutors have seen to that. A musician’s life is not the easy one people seem to imagine.

‘How’s the tour been so far?’ Goldie’s voice is a flat, Australian outback twang. Educated in one of the foremost private boarding schools in the country, one could be forgiven for wondering how she ended up with an accent like that. When asked, her reply is classic: ‘This is the result of screwing a shearer for three fucking years, darls.’ Her voice remains steady, but her eyes tell a story of grief and loneliness.

The photographic record of their travels in the red, bull-dusted outback has won her accolades and countless awards, as has her stints in Iraq and Afghanistan, the last almost ending her life with a stray bullet in the chest, but in Goldie’s own words, she wouldn’t give the Taliban ‘the satisfaction of knocking off a Western journalist and a
woman
at that!’

‘The hypnotism worked, but I have to keep working at it. So far, touch wood, I haven’t had a problem this whole tour, so let’s not tempt fate and talk about it.’

 ‘You said you were doing a number with a pianist. Who is it this time?’

‘Vladimir Rezanov.’

‘Oh my God, Pammie, he’s
hot
!!’ She turned to stare at me, narrowly missing oncoming traffic. I reached out to grab the wheel, but she recovered herself just in time. The blare of a horn pursued us down the street. ‘He’s
so
photogenic. I want an introduction!’