Traces of Red, page 10
Or maybe my particular look would be chosen to create a contrast with Janet’s youth and glamour. Maybe I’d wear black suits and flat shoes and conduct interviews with the doctor who went to a Third World country twice a year and did cataract operations without payment or with the eighty-five-year-old marathon runner. Leaving Janet to flirt and snigger with the real celebrities.
Or maybe while I was away relaxing, becoming refreshed and acquiring my whole new perspective they’d actually find they didn’t need me after all.
What would be worse? Losing my job entirely or working on the kind of banal, grandstanding, trifling programme I’d always despised? Working with Janet. Working, in fact, for Janet. Fuck, I could only imagine the responses from everyone when it started showing. Saw the new programme, Rebecca. A change for you, isn’t it? Oh, but I really liked it. It was very, it was very … entertaining. Or, then again, perhaps people would pretend they hadn’t seen it or me and scuttle off in the opposite direction.
What would Dad think? David? Mum? Anna?
What is Rebecca doing with her life?
I couldn’t simply pack up my desk and walk out. I had debt. Not a lot, but my credit card was near the limit and I had a mortgage. It wasn’t large, but even so it had to be paid every month. Insurances. Rates. Electricity. Phone. I had to run a car. All those boring but expensive essentials and, as well as that, I’d become accustomed to nice things. Nice clothes. Nice shoes and bags. Coffees and lunches out, theatre, concerts, indulging myself in the extravagance of seeing every film festival showing I could get to. Occasional weekends away. Let’s face it, I’d got used to a certain lifestyle and, as shallow as that might seem, I didn’t want to give it up.
But neither did I want to act Supporting Bimbo for a crap programme starring Janet Beardsley.
I had to face the phone calls, but next morning I braced myself first with a double-shot black from the espresso machine. Thank god for that sunshine pouring across the deck that morning and for the silky sea gleaming in the light. Thank god there was only the faintest wind and I could sit out there in a T-shirt and shorts, my bare arms and legs and feet getting a sun-fix.
The first to get through was Margo, and though she’s just about my closest friend I gave her the spiel I’d decided on. I had to swear I wouldn’t say anything to anyone about Saturday Night finishing, yes I was sorry to see it go but it’s been nearly six years, time to take on something new, yes there is something ahead definitely, but it’s classified information, you know, all I can say is it’s coming up and it’s a big challenge.
Then Mum. Why didn’t you tell us, darling? We got such a shock and then all we got was your voicemail, oh, you were out, I see, uh huh, uh huh, well that sounds very exciting, you will be there for dinner tonight? Anna and David are coming with the children. Oh, that’s lovely, darling, see you then.
I answered the phone, sounded optimistic and cheerful, drank copious cups of coffee and got through another day. At 5:30 I put on my new shirt and best jeans and tied up my hair the way Mum likes it and drove across town. Flowers are always good for a diversion so I picked up some gorgeous, bright tiger lilies on the way and presented myself and them at the living room door. Ted and Lily were watching The Little Mermaid and sharing a packet of Krispies. Anna, David, Mum and Dad were talking quietly.
They looked up. They stopped talking. Mum stood, came swiftly over to me, gave me a quick, hard hug and took the flowers. Lovely, thank you darling.
Dad was far too jovial. ‘Wine? I’ve got a nice pinot in just for you.’
‘Sounds great.’
He handed me a glass. ‘I think you’ll like that. Just discovered it last week. The Wine Club sent it. I’m wondering if I should get in a case for Christmas. Tell me what you think.’
I sipped. ‘I like it.’
Mum offered me a plate of cheeses, crackers and olives. Lily came over and stroked the sleeve of my shirt. Pretty. We bombarded her with questions about The Little Mermaid and pre-school. We admired her new skirt. We admired the beads around her neck that she’d made. We fell into silence as she went back to the TV.
What was going on? My family was not like this. My family talked, they said what they thought. What was everyone waiting for?
I kept my voice light. ‘Did Mum tell you I’m starting work on a new programme next year?’
‘She did,’ Dad said. ‘Sounds interesting.’
‘You’re sure of that?’ Mum said. ‘This new programme, it’s definitely going ahead?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I’m working on it with another woman. It’s quite different from what I’ve been doing but, well, that’s not such a bad thing.’
I looked around. Mum, Dad, Anna, David, they all looked so awkward. David hadn’t said a word.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘What is this?’
Anna said miserably, ‘I’m afraid it’s my fault. I wish I hadn’t said anything.’
‘Said what?’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’
David looked at Anna. ‘Better tell her, Annie,’ he said gently.
It seemed that Anna had a friend whose boyfriend was a cameraman at the network. Anna’s friend’s boyfriend had been talking. About me. About the rumours presently buzzing about. Anna’s friend had repeated them to Anna who repeated them to David. Who had insisted she told Mum and Dad. When I also insisted, Anna repeated them to me.
I’d been neglectful of Saturday Night at a time when the studio had needed me to give it my full attention. I’d been so hung-up with the Connor Bligh story nothing else had mattered. I’d become so rude and disagreeable people didn’t like working with me. The general understanding around the studio was I’d been sent on indefinite leave to ‘sort myself out’.
Anna’s cheeks were burning as she finished. She looked directly into my eyes. ‘I’m so sorry I repeated what she told me. I told David because I was concerned. Then, of course, we heard the news about Saturday Night and, well—’
Mum broke in. ‘We just want to help in any way we can.’
I looked around their troubled faces. Rebecca’s fucked up again.
‘I can’t believe you’d discuss this without asking me what’s going on.’
‘We’ve been trying to talk to you, Becks,’ David said. ‘We’ve all phoned and we’ve all left messages. The only reason we’ve been talking about this is because we’re worried.’
‘David and I felt responsible,’ Anna said. ‘Originally we came up with the idea for the story and we’ve both been very aware of how involved you were in it and how hard you were working. I feel like we haven’t been giving you enough support. I know from my own work it’s huge taking on something like the Bligh story and it’s very difficult not to get personally involved.’
I’d turned into such a loser. Irresponsible, obsessive and downright nasty. And now I needed my family to hold my hand.
‘We’ve been a bit preoccupied,’ David said. He looked at Anna and took her hand.
‘I’m pregnant again,’ Anna said. ‘It was actually quite a shock and we didn’t tell anyone at first because I took some time to get my head around it. Then I had some trouble, we came close to losing it and that made me realise I really did want this baby. Anyway, everything’s fine now and we’re very happy about it.’
Dad was beaming. Mum was somehow managing to smile and at the same time cast caring glances towards me.
‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘That’s fantastic.’
‘This thing with your job, Rebecca,’ Dad said. ‘It’ll all turn out, don’t you worry about it. I’ve been around long enough to know what may seem like a setback most often works out for the best. Opens your eyes to other opportunities.’
Mum was nodding. Then she said it and I felt like crying. Darling, you’re a very talented, capable and beautiful young woman. Something else will come along for you.
I swallowed hard. ‘I’m not sure about the beautiful, talented and capable, but something will come along. If not this new programme then something else.’
‘Take your break and have a think about things,’ David said. ‘That always works for me when something doesn’t work out.’
But what doesn’t work out for you David? What hasn’t worked out? You get whatever you aim for; you always get exactly what you want. Okay, you work hard and you’re the most loving and caring brother I could wish for. But don’t preach to me about what I should do. Don’t patronise me.
We ate dinner. Mum’s famous lamb casserole. Apple pie and cream. We talked of politics and babies. Do you have any names yet, Anna?
I drove home, burrowed into my bed. I’ve lost my story. I may have lost my job. Anna’s pregnant.
Anna’s pregnant.
Joe hadn’t phoned.
19.
I did my best over the next week. I blobbed, sleeping late into the mornings, watching DVDs, walking along the beach. I read the three novels I’d bought months ago on friends’ recommendations. I met Margo for early dinner followed by a film. I had coffee with friends I hadn’t been in contact with for months and listened to their advice. I went to this naturopath, this Bowen therapist, this reflexologist and … I met Mum for lunch. Just try to relax darling, everything will be fine.
I bought shoes. I had my hair cut. I allowed George, my hair-dresser, to add the dark copper streaks he wanted in my hair, darling it’ll give you a lift. I bought a dress. I bought a jacket. I bought a belt and earrings and green glass beads.
I did my best and I felt fidgety, restless. I itched to be working. I’d come so close to doing the Bligh story. At night in bed all those facts, all that information buzzed about in my head. I’d been cheated.
Paul left a message on the answer phone, ‘There’s nothing we need you for here right now, Rebecca. Why don’t you just continue on with your leave? We’ll be in touch.’
We’ll be in touch.
I texted Joe. He didn’t answer. I phoned his office. He wasn’t in.
Was it that he no longer wanted to see me? Would he simply put an end to it without telling me? Had I misread this man I’d loved and trusted for the past three years? I seemed to have misread everything else.
On Sunday, though the day was grey and overcast I wrapped up and sat outside on the deck. Somehow it felt better out there with that chill on my face. I’d made a pot of tea and loaded a croissant with butter and strawberry jam. To hell with the diet, at least I don’t have to worry any more about fronting up on TV every week.
I glanced idly through the Situations Vacant section in the Sunday Star-Times. A newsreader for Greymouth’s Community Television station. Reporters wanted for the Waikato Times. The Westport News. The Mountain Scene in Queenstown.
What would it be like to just go away somewhere I’d never lived before and take on a job I could do with my eyes half-shut? 8:30 a.m. start, 5:30 p.m. finish. Weekends off. Queenstown was pretty. I could meet new people, go skiing.
The Interislander was coming in, see-sawing through the waves. Get on a boat. Get into your car. Just drive away.
But I loved Wellington and my house and my family and my friends. I loved my life.
I loved my life the way it had been.
I heard the four-beat rap on the door and there he was at the door. I’d always smiled at the surprise and instantly slid my arms around his body. I’d always been so happy to see him there.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘Can I come in?’
I stood aside, shut the door after him and he followed me into the living room. I took the chair opposite the sofa we always sat on together.
‘I needed you,’ I said. ‘Just for once I needed you. Couldn’t you have at least phoned?’
He was sitting slightly slumped on the sofa, his head down and he straightened and looked at me. His expression was slightly inquiring. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Yes, something’s happened. Don’t you watch television or look at the newspapers? My job’s gone and you’ve ignored me for the past two bloody weeks.’
He shook his head and closed his eyes. ‘I’m truly sorry. I just didn’t know.’
He was still and silent for too long.
‘What’s wrong? What is it?’
He opened his eyes and looked at me. I saw the gentleness and love that was so familiar. Gentleness, love, keen attention and good humour; all of that was there again in his eyes and I started to loosen up, to see that everything after all was all right. Joe was here. Things would work out.
I hardly heard him say it. ‘Michelle has cancer.’
He told me slowly. His voice was his barrister’s voice, measured, calm and rational. Initially when Michelle had checked in with her doctor after she’d been so ill on Waiheke he had agreed that the cause most likely had been food poisoning. But Michelle hadn’t recovered and when the pain she’d tried to ignore had intensified alarmingly one night two weeks ago Joe had phoned for an ambulance. There’d been tests. Michelle had ovarian cancer. She was presently in hospital recovering from the surgery. They’d start the chemo later in the month.
‘Rebecca, I have to give her all my support. I have to help her fight this thing.’
‘You’re not going to see me any more?’
He nodded. His eyes were fixed on my face.
‘Why, Joe?’
‘I can’t see you,’ he said gently. ‘Rebecca, I just can’t.’
‘I’ve lost my job and I’m losing you as well? You can’t leave me. Not now.’
I hated myself for that panicked, wretched wail. Hated that tears were pouring down my face, that my voice was clogged up and desperate.
‘It’s not what I want,’ he said gently.
‘So why are you doing it?’ I was huddled up, my hands pressed against my face, sobbing like a child.
‘There’s no choice. She’s very ill and she needs me.’
‘Just go then.’
He got up from the sofa and came and stood beside me his hand hovering towards me. He’s going to touch me. If he touches me he will put his arms around me. If he puts his arms around me we’ll be okay. We’ll work this out.
He thought better of it, withdrew his hand. ‘I hate leaving you like this. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Just go.’
And then I stopped being brave. I closed the curtains, holed myself up and scarcely got out of bed. I didn’t read, didn’t watch DVDs, I just lay in bed and looked at the ceiling. When people phoned, my thick, strained voice convinced them that it was as I said, I had a virus. Mum came round every other day with juice and grapes and oranges. As the days passed she began to hover anxiously saying this was going on far too long, I didn’t look at all well, I should see my doctor. I said it was just flu. I said I was better left on my own to rest.
Mum approved of resting. ‘Well if you’re sure,’ she said. She’d drop a kiss on my head. ‘Keep drinking, won’t you? You need to keep up the liquids. You will phone if you need anything?’
One morning she came with chicken soup. She pulled the curtains open in my bedroom, opened the window then she heated up the soup, made toast and stood over me. ‘I’m not leaving until you’ve eaten.’
I said I’d eat it later. She held out the plate. I hauled myself up and spooned chicken soup into my mouth. When I’d finished she went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle.
I remembered when I was little Mum had seemed to have an inbuilt aerial which picked up when I was about to get what she described as ‘over-tired’ which was, basically, me making a lot of noise and bouncing off the walls. ‘You need a rest,’ she’d say firmly, picking me up and laying me struggling on my bed and covering me up with my own red mohair blanket. She’d give me warmed milk, stroke my head, read me stories and I’d drift into a dazed, heavy sleep as I listened to her voice.
She came into my bedroom with two mugs filled with tea and handed me one. She sat on my bed. ‘Is this about your work?’ she said quietly. ‘Or is there something else?’
I wanted to be that child again. To cry and creep into her arms and tell her everything and have her make it right again. But I was an adult.
An adult.
‘It’s a virus,’ I said, ‘I’m a bit run-down, that’s all.’
‘Promise me,’ she said, ‘you’ll start eating. I don’t know what’s going on, Rebecca, but you’re making yourself ill.’
She left shortly after that. I went into the bathroom and stared into the mirror. My face looked scrawny and my hair stuck out and I looked like shit. I realised I was hungry. I filled another plate with soup and made more toast. My bed had been positioned to face the sea and I propped up the pillows, tightened the sheets, got back into bed and ate slowly, looking out at the still, steely water and seagulls and the dull sky.
A couple of well-placed punches and there I was, down and out.
Maybe I’d had it too easy. An indulgent family and a dream job. A dream job that’d fallen so easily into my hands.
Back then all I’d had to do was hold out my hands. But I wasn’t that girl any more and television was overflowing with women who were getting a bit older and trying to hide it behind girly giggles and gymned-up bodies and Botox and spray-on tans.
If I did this thing with Janet that’s exactly what I’d become. They’d dress me up, tell me what to do and what to say and next thing I’d be smirking my way through the New Zealand version of The Bachelorette – ‘Is Jade really into Callum and what will Brady think about that?’
Saturday Night was over. Joe was gone. But Saturday Night was always going to finish some time. I’d known that. Just as I’d known Joe would never leave Michelle.
So what are you going to do? Hide in your bed and keep on crying?
I made coffee. More toast. Toast and honey. Toast and jam. Toast and cheese and chutney. I ate Mum’s grapes. I showered and shoved the pyjamas I’d worn too long into the washing machine. I dried my hair, pulled on my trackies and went down onto the beach and walked until my legs were aching. My lungs had filled up with hard, cold air and my heart was pounding.
