Matt Reilly Stories (9 page)

“Hey
now, you’re a rock star…”’

In
other circumstances, this would have been like telling an anti-globalisation
protestor that you adored McDonald’s, but she could see that he was—truly,
really, totally unselfconsciously—speaking honestly.

And
she liked that.

‘So,
do you have an album out?’ he asked.

It
was currently No.4 on Billboard.

‘Er,
yes.’

‘Cool.
I’ll buy it. I always bring my Discman with me when I’m touring and now that
I’ve met you in person, I’ll definitely check out your other songs.’

‘Great,’
she said. ‘So what do you do that brings you to New York?’

‘Oh,
I write books. I’m here on an author tour. Do the East Coast first, then
hopscotch across the country to LA.

Then
The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer back to Australia.’

‘What
kind of books?’ He looked kind of young to be a novelist.

‘I
write thrillers. Big blockbuster action adventure novels.’

She
read a little. Perhaps she’d heard of him. ‘Titles?’ she asked.

‘The
first was called Ice Mission. It was the one that got me my break. Then The
Curse of the Incan Temple.’

She
shook her head. ‘Sorry. I haven’t heard of them.

Besides,
they don’t really sound like my kind of book.’

‘It’s
okay,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Different people read different books. Some people
like romances, others like prize-winners. Different worlds for different
tastes. Sometimes inhabitants of one world never even know the other worlds
exist.’

She
liked the way he talked.

He
seemed relaxed, content, happy with who he was. Which was rare in her world.
She thought of Serious Music Dude. If he met someone who hadn’t heard of him,
he would simply turn away, ending the conversation.

But
then suddenly, to her dismay, he said that he had to go.

‘I’m
really sorry, but I have to be up early in the morning. Got to catch the 5 a.m.
train to Philadelphia.’

She
was also heading off the next day. But at the more civilised hour of 10 a.m.,
flying first-class to Chicago.

He
wished her well on her tour and said good night. And then he was gone.

She
looked at her watch.

It
was 2.30 a.m. They’d been talking for four hours.

The
next morning, as she was waiting in the foyer for her people to settle the bill
and take her bags to the waiting limo, she overheard one of the desk girls
talking to the female The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer concierge.

‘I’d
heard he was young, but I didn’t know he was so cute,’ the desk girl was
saying. ‘That’s the funny thing about authors, you never know what they look
like. Anyway, I recognised his name on the computer when he checked out and
asked if he was Mark Ridley, the author. He said yes he was, and I said that I
was huge fan. Then I just stammered and stuttered and I felt like such a
doofus, but he was so sweet. He even had a spare book in his bag and he gave it
to me. Signed it and everything. Look!’

What
struck the Rock Princess most of all was that this was a girl talking. When
she’d chatted with Author Guy the previous evening, his novels had sounded like
boys’ books, and (she had to admit) she’d dismissed them as stories for
Rambo-loving men.

As
she headed for the limo, she was joined by one of her back-up singers, a voluptuous
sort named Vanessa—all big hips, short skirts and a whole lot of Wonderbra.

‘Did
you hear about that writer who was staying here?’

Vanessa
said.

‘What
about him?’

‘Young
honey from Australia. Get this. Seven million books sold around the world, in
15 different languages. Movie version of his first book comes out next
summer—he sold it to Paramount for a bomb. Starring Brad Pitt. Just signed a
new book deal worth 14 million dollars. They say he’s on tour, too,
parallelling us across the country.’ Vanessa adjusted her bra, positioned her
breasts for maximum impact. ‘Have to make sure I’m ready in case we bump into
that young fella again.’

They
headed for the airport.

Separate
tours.

Bouncing
across the United States.

The
Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer For her: a blur of hotel suites, limos
at airports and screaming crowds at in-store and studio gigs.

For
him: a blur of hotel rooms, departure lounges, airport check-in counters.

In
his mind, hotels began to blend into each other. In Cincinnati, he mistakenly
went to room 405—he was actually in 715; 405 had been his room number in the
previous city.

His
bookstore appearances were solid if unspectacular. Fifty people here. One
hundred people there. Good showings for a ‘foreign author’ on his first US
tour.

For
her part, she began to notice something in airport terminals.

In
every single one of them, in the newspaper/book kiosks near the gates, she saw
his books. Constantly saw his name.

Over
and over and over. She’d never even noticed them before.

Different
worlds, she thought.

And
strangely, in quiet moments, she found herself thinking about his smile.

Their
tours crossed paths again in Dallas. They were staying at the same hotel: the
Magnolia.

The
thing was, they themselves didn’t actually meet.

It
was afternoon, and she was out doing a TV interview. He was in the hotel’s
library, working on some notes for a new novel.

It
was Vanessa who noticed him sitting there.

‘Hi
there,’ she said, coming over, eyes predatory, hips deadly. ‘Mind if I
join—wait a second. I know you. You’re that author. You’re Mark Ridley.’

It
wasn’t often that he was recognised. Sometimes people recognised his name on a
computer or when he used his credit card, but rarely did anyone spot him just
by looking at him.

The
Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer It got his attention.

She
sat down opposite him and started talking.

At
first, Vanessa spoke about him. She’d read his books (this was true: she had
bought one at the airport on the way out of New York), and loved them, she
said. They were so…so manly.

He
thought they were simply escapist entertainment.

She
gushingly professed her lifelong love of reading (this was not true) and the
importance of books on young people’s minds (also not true).

He
listened politely.

And
then she started talking about herself.

About
how this back-up stuff was just the beginning, how her first solo recording
would soon be produced by somebody named P-Diddy, how the Rock Princess was
overestimated, and let’s be frank, a little overhyped. So she’d sold three
million CDs. It wasn’t like she’d sold seven million books.

That
sort of thing made a difference.

In
the end, he had to go—to do some newspaper interviews in the hotel foyer. He
was courteous to the last, and as he left, he wished her well with her career.

Vanessa
asked the desk clerk when he was checking out and tried to catch him when he
departed the next morning, but she missed him. He’d left early.

On
the plane to San Francisco, he saw Her picture on the cover of People magazine.

Serious
Musician Dude had been photographed canoodling with a model in a nightclub in
LA that week. There was a picture of Her being whisked into a limousine, her
eyes clearly tear-stained.

He
shook his head. Her world was a strange one.

He
hoped she was okay.

The
Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer And then, that night, they found
themselves at the same hotel again.

This
time she found him.

He
was sitting in a corner of the restaurant, reading a book, nursing a coffee,
when a shadow fell across his table.

He
looked up. And an enormous smile spread across his face.

‘Mind
if I join you?’ she asked.

‘I
bought your CD,’ he said later. ‘It’s, er, different to what I normally listen
to. Very socially aware. I think I like the current single the best, so I just
play it all the time.’

She
nodded at that. She did that with her favourite songs, too. ‘I bought one of
your books.’

‘And?’

‘I’m
halfway through. It’s not Austen, but then again it’s damn hard to put down.’

‘That’s
what I like to hear.’

‘Why
didn’t you tell me you were some bigshot world-famous author in New York?’ she
asked.

‘I’m
not that big. And authors aren’t famous. You’re famous.’

‘But
why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Would
it have made a difference?’

‘It
might have.’

‘Then
that’s why I didn’t tell you. It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does make
a difference to some people. Like your friend, Vanessa.’

‘Ah,
yes, but I’m not like Vanessa.’

‘No.
No, you are definitely not like Vanessa.’

There
was a pause. He wasn’t sure how to say this.

The
Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer

‘I
read about your boyfriend.’

‘Oh.
Yes. That.’

‘He
looked to me like a guy who enjoys the parties, not the work.’

‘That’s
exactly what he was like. Do you have people like that in the book industry?’

‘Yeah,
a few. Especially with the movie stuff. But the way I see it, at the end of
even the greatest party, all the guests go home. It’s what’s at home that
matters.’

She
fell silent, nodding her agreement.

She
wanted him to ask her.

He
wanted to ask her.

But
he wasn’t sure if he should.

Wasn’t
sure if their worlds were compatible. Wasn’t sure if a rock princess—with all
her hangers-on and magazine articles and meaningful songs—would care for a
quiet guy who wrote action thrillers.

He
could walk away.

That
would be painless. He could never ask. And never know, and maybe never see her
again.

Or
he could ask…

So
he asked her.

To
dinner. In Australia. Two weeks from then.

And
so a fortnight later, they dined in Port Douglas, Queensland, and they talked
and they laughed and two years on, they were still together.

She
was still rocking, singing her songs. He was still writing, about action and
adventure. Their subject matter never matched, but that didn’t concern them at
all. It was what was at home that mattered.

The
music and gossip magazines didn’t care for their relationship, because authors
occupy a different orbit to rock The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer
stars and stories about them don’t sell magazines.

Which
was fine by him and even finer by her.

And
so they lived happily ever after.

The
rock princess and the thriller writer.

________________

(a
screenplay)

_____________

30 November, 1999

(first draft)

FADE
IN:

INT.
CELL - NIGHT

NEIL
CALLAWAY -- 34, handsome, but roughed-up, with bruises on his face -- sits tied
to a chair.

An
evil-looking BALD MAN crouches before him, rifling through A LEATHER BAG. He
looks up at Callaway as he extracts A SMALL CIRCULAR TAPE REEL (from a
reel-to-reel tape player) from the bag. He smiles thinly at Callaway.

CALLAWAY

The paper will come looking for me.

The
bald man stands. Moves over to a table. On the table is A STEEL CASE. The bald
man pulls A SYRINGE from it.

BALD MAN

No they won’t, Mr Callaway.

CALLAWAY

What about Danny --

BALD MAN

He is already dead, Mr Callaway.

Callaway
sighs, winces.

BALD MAN

No. I am afraid that you have seen -- and heard --
just a little too much.