Meanwhile, On The Other Side Of The Tasman

36

Meanwhile, On The Other Side Of The Tasman

    Adam had managed terrifically well during the fortnight of rehearsals and the fortnight’s run of the play. Terrifically. The whole cast and crew were eating out of his hand approximately two hours after he’d officially joined the company. Since they were a repertory company (though not all of their productions ran for only a fortnight, as they hastened to explain) they of course began to rehearse for their next production a couple of days after Adam’s play started, and his self-deprecating offer of any help he could give them was accepted with overwhelming expressions of gratitude. They were planning a slightly modernized, slightly souped-up version of Arms And The Man, and he’d once been in it—he didn’t specify how many years ago or where. Or what part he’d played. As it turned out the Bluntschli, although he had a slight Australian accent, played the part better than Adam could have, besides being ten years Adam’s senior with a solid career in several media behind him. Rather reluctantly as the fortnight of Adam’s play progressed he admitted to himself (a) that the man didn’t need any hints from him and (b) that, actually, he’d make a damned good Bottom, possibly he ought to contact Derry and suggest him.

    He didn’t see anything of Joel, because he and Piggy-Whiskers were opening in Melbourne—according to Joel, trying it on the dog—before coming up to Sydney for a couple of weeks at a much larger, glossier and more central theatre than the aged, rickety, barn-like place where Adam’s new friends produced their mixture of brand-new daring intellectualism, tried and true favourites, and middle-class Australian Angst. After that Piggy-Whiskers and Joel would be off on tour to places like Adelaide, Wollongong, Brisbane, Perth, and what Joel swore was Newcastle-on-Moreton Bay. Not necessarily in that order.

    Adam of course had been much in demand for chat shows, which he’d turned down, quiz shows, which he’d turned down with a shudder, and interviews, of which he did several, first getting Jacky to vet the credentials of both the interviewer and the interviewer’s channel, station, mag or paper. And even then turning down two women’s mags: he didn’t feel whether or not Adam McIntyre wore tinted contact lenses was a need-to-know of the great Australian public, whatever the mags might have considered to the contrary. He did a frightfully intellectual interview for a frightfully intellectual leftist mag, which perhaps needless to say sold only to a tiny fraction of the country’s population. The function of drama as catharsis in modern society—that sort of thing.

    He also went on a very serious TV programme, which according to Jacky was a great honour, they usually only did high-up politicos and scientists who had won awards or made startling new discoveries or written best-sellers. And Germaine Greer. Adam didn’t admit he was impressed by this last name. The thing was in the form of an interview, in which the victim or interviewee had to face a compere with an incomprehensibly thick accent which Adam to his silent annoyance failed to identify, plus in Adam’s case three invited Press-persons. These apparently varied from show to show: he got one lady, one fattish, youngish man and one very fat elderly man who was apparently something of a doyen of Australian Press-persons but of whom Adam, of course, had never heard. This elderly man was largely interested in starting Adam off on reminiscences of what it had been like acting with various British theatrical knights and dames in order to interrupt with reports of his own encounters with these, or sometimes different, theatrical knights and dames. The lady was interested in finding out what it was really like acting for Derry Dawlish and what Adam thought of the new generation of Australian film makers. The younger man was interested in putting over his own opinion of Where Australian Theatre Today was Headed. It was difficult to tell what the compere was interested in, because of the accent, but he talked a lot.

    It was only after Adam had done this interview that Jacky divulged the fact that Piggy-Whiskers had also appeared on this programme. Incensed, Adam immediately told him he could push off home, but Jacky replied cheerfully that he was going on holiday to Surfer’s Paradise and the Gold Coast until it was time to nip back across the Tasman for Livia’s wedding, he’d okayed it with Clem. And Adam was not to do anything at all for cash money: remember his tax position. Adam shouted a few words about toy dollars which failed to impress Jacky and, not admitting that he didn’t have a clue where either the Gold Coast or Surfer’s Paradise were, expressed a wish that he’d fail off his surfboard. Jacky made a rude gesture and ran off, giggling.

    In the intervals of rehearsing, acting, being interviewed and helping with other people’s rehearsing, Adam was, of course, wined and dined royally and generally shown the town and given a marvellous time. The locals kept telling him he was lucky it was such lovely clear weather, but to him it was bloody humid and after he’d made this point several times they more or less got the picture and took him only to air-conditioned restaurants and tourist attractions. He might thus have missed out on a Blue Mountain or a Bondi Beach or two, but it would not have been true to say that he missed them.

    Several ladies made eyes at Adam during this period, but as they were either of the painted-tart variety, whether or not actressy painted tarts, or of the wrinkled-leotard, Method-intense variety, he wasn’t even slightly tempted. The famous Australian media personality of the actressy painted-tart variety who attempted to capture him at a party he successfully put down by becoming absorbed with some art-film types in discussing the talks he’d had with the inter-lek-tu-al New Zealand film people. Besides, she was fifty if a day, and the paint didn’t manage to conceal it. –In view of past history, some of it very recent, this whole performance might have been said to be extremely unfair. As well, of course, as unkind. Adam was fully aware of both these points.

    The play wound up with seventeen curtain-calls and a huge last-night party, to which not only the entire Australian dramatic world seemed to have been invited, but also the entire Sydney social scene. Well, they might not have been invited, but they were there. Plus innumerable Press-persons and cameras and etcetera. Adam was offered all the usual temptations but as the fizz was local (he dazedly verified Jake Carrano’s report that it dared to call itself “Champagne”) and the ladies were of the painted-tart variety, even those normally to be seen looking intense in wrinkled leotards having discarded them for the occasion, he resisted successfully. Besides, it wasn’t only the paint, and the large teeth which they all seemed to have, and the gelled, sprayed and frizzed hair which they all seemed to have, it was the accent. Certainly Adam was by now aware that there existed several variations on the accent, but he wasn’t admitting this to himself.

    He woke up around three o’clock the following afternoon, with a thumping head, his hair disgustingly full of cigarette smoke, and a hollow feeling in his stomach. A long lukewarm shower and intensive shampooing didn’t do much to improve the overall situation. Especially since he discovered several more grey hairs than he’d thought he had, when he was combing the hair into place. Came of burying himself in the Anty-podes on the other side of the world from his hairdresser for weeks on— Oh, dear.

    Adam went limply back into the bedroom and sat limply on the edge of the bed. God, what had he done?

    A week of misery followed. He retained enough energy to tell the switchboard of his hotel that he wasn’t taking any calls except from England; or New Zealand, he added hurriedly. Overseas calls only, then, Mr McIntyre? Overseas calls only, Adam agreed feebly. On the Wednesday, having done more than a bit of mental loin-girding, he rang Derry. The Royal’s switchboard informed him that Mr Dawlish was out but they could take a message. Adam lost his nerve completely, said there was no message, and hung up numbly. He’d fully intended eating humble pie, in fact crawling to Derry, and begging to be allowed to do the bloody Oberon, and then cunningly asking Derry how Georgy was...

    He didn’t sleep at all that night. The next day he went for a long walk, not bothering to shave and not caring that his shirt was crumpled and his jeans grimy. He got humiliatingly lost, couldn’t find a taxi, and had to ask several pedestrians for directions, all of which he either got hopelessly muddled or simply misunderstood. He ended up late in the afternoon somewhere on the waterfront, which was huge, why had no-one ever told him how huge Sydney Harbour was, sitting dispiritedly on a bench, wondering if he’d ever get back to his hotel at all. He hadn’t even been able to find a policeman. Drearily he supposed that they wore different uniforms here, and in any case were no doubt safely immured in their cars.

    After quite some time he became aware of excited whispering from his right. He looked up. Two small boys, aged about ten or eleven, in the sort of ill-assorted bright garments that Georgy’s little nephews wore. Adam swallowed.

    After some more whispering and considerable mutual pushing, one of the little boys burst out: “Hey, you are Adam McIntyre, aren’t you?”

    “Yes,” said Adam baldly.

    “See!” said the little boy to his companion.

    There was a short silence. Then the little boy who was possessed of the power of speech asked him about the gun he’d had in that film and Adam, with a strong sense of déja vu, said it had only been aluminium, wondering madly if the Aussies said that or if they used the American form, as everything else about their bloody country except the side of the road they drove on seemed to be Americanized, most certainly down to the tee-shirts the little boys had on. And the huge sneakers; oh, dear: just like Elspeth’s.

    “See!” said the little boy again to his companion.

    There was another short silence.

    “Er—look,” said Adam, taking his sunglasses off and, essaying a smile, squinting into the glare: “I’m afraid I’m lost. Where are we, exactly?”

    The little boys stared and he was afraid they weren’t going to answer. Then the articulate one said something incomprehensible and scornful, ending in: “of course!”

    “Oh,” said Adam weakly. “Um—well, look, I’ve got to get to—um—” He gave them the address of his hotel. “How would I do that from here?”

    “Um—dunno,” was how he’d do that.

    Silence. Adam replaced the sunglasses.

    Then a cross-looking young woman hove into view. “There you are!” she announced fiercely. “Where have you been, I told you to wait outside the Ladies’, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

    “Mum, it’s Adam McIntyre!” cried the articulate boy.

    “Yeah!” contributed the other one.

    The woman gave Adam an angry glare: obviously he wasn’t Adam McIntyre, he was a creep that sat around on park benches trying to pick up her little boys.

    “Come on!” she said crossly to the boys. “We’ll be late for the pictures, I thought you were the ones that were keen on seeing—”

    “Eet ees!” cried the little boys in agony.

    Adam deduced from this variation on the accent that they were probably locals: that was, not just Australians but Sydney-siders.

    He got up, smiled nicely at the woman and said: “I am Adam McIntyre, actually. I’ve been doing a play here. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m afraid I’m lost, and there don’t seem to be any taxis. Could you possibly help me?”

    “See!” cried both little boys.

    There was a short silence.

    “Where you want to go to?” said the woman numbly.

    Adam gave her the address of his hotel.

    “Oh, heck!” she said with a weak laugh.

    Both little boys burst into excited speech, assuring her they knew where that was, it was easy, see, ya just—

    “Shut up. SHUT UP! You do NOT!” she shouted.

    The little boys subsided.

    “Um—you’ll have to get a bus back to—”

    It turned out he would have to get two buses to get to his hotel. But if he got himself back to where the buses left from, she was sure he could pick up a taxi there. Finally she said: “Come on, I’ll show you the bus stop.”

    Adam was aware he was being entirely parasitic and probably making them late for their cinema but he was long past caring. He accepted humbly. They headed in silence for the bus stop.

    Finally the woman said desperately: “How do you like Sydney?”

    Adam replied untruthfully that he thought it was a charming city, more truthfully that he thought the harbour was beautiful, and added that everyone had been very kind to him.

    “Good,” she said, now very red.

    He asked her politely if she was a local and she replied with what seemed to be her entire life history. It was full of names of places he’d never heard of. They might have been suburbs of Sydney, but he thought it was her intention to indicate otherwise.

    The bus stop unfortunately catered for many other buses besides the one he needed, so the woman said firmly she’d see him onto the right one. Luckily, perhaps encouraged by the fact that their mother had had actual converse with him, both little boys filled in the interval by interrogating Adam about the film. They got him and his screen persona hopelessly mixed up, of course, but he was used to that. But in any case they were more interested in what they referred to as “Thuh Ef-Ex.” Being less up in with-it American movie terminology than they, Adam didn’t recognize that they were saying “the FX”, and pronounced very clearly for them, several times, the words “special effects”.

    By the time the wrong bus came and the woman prevented Adam forcibly from getting onto it, it was pretty clear that the boys knew more about special effects than he did. Desperately Adam offered them his autograph, if they’d like it? They accepted. Fortunately he had a pen in his pocket. Neither of the boys had any paper on them: in fact investigation of their pockets revealed only a small stone, a piece of used bubble-gum carefully wrapped in its paper, and a piece of Lego which the one whose pocket it hadn’t come out of indignantly declared to be his. Their mother, however, had a pocket diary which was last year’s. Would that do? By now Adam felt he was forcing the bloody autograph on them, but he could hardly draw back. He wrote one each for the boys, asking them their names and then weakly having to ask them how they spelled them: S,H,A,N,E, well, that figured, and M,A,L. Just as well he’d asked, he’d thought the child had said “Mel”, as in Gibson, and come to think of it, he had. After that it dawned that the mother was looking wistful, so, laughing a bit, he asked her kindly if she’d like one, too. She smiled sheepishly, but admitted she would. Her name was N,A,R,E,L,L,E, but anything less would have disappointed Adam considerably, even numbed as he was.

    Narelle then assured him that you didn’t have to have the correct change for this bus, the driver would give you change. Adam thanked her sincerely: it was exactly the sort of thing that phased him utterly. Unfortunately he made the mistake of saying so: she laughed awkwardly and went very red. Whether because she didn’t believe him, as it contradicted the image, or she did believe him and thought he was the wimp to end all wimps...

    At long last the right bus came and he got on it, thanking them all effusively and hoping he hadn’t made them late for their show, and giving the driver a twenty-dollar note on the strength of Narelle’s assurance, which got the reception he might have expected.

    He got off when everyone else did, without asking the driver where they were: he’d totally lost his nerve after the twenty-dollar-note run-in. But luckily it seemed to be downtown; and after a little wandering, sticking firmly to what looked like main streets, he found a taxi rank. It had a queue of people at it: what with that and the fact that the city was choked with traffic Adam realized it must be the rush hour. He looked at his watch and realized dazedly it must be the tail-end of the rush hour. He had to queue for twenty-five minutes and then the taxi driver made him share the ride with the next person in line, a cross-looking businessman in a suit, who might or might not have recognized Adam McIntyre but if so wasn’t letting on. The taxi driver took him what was clearly miles out of his way in order to deliver this man first. And then, Adam was pretty sure, charged him for the entire trip, but he was long past caring about such trivia. Or even telling himself it was typical of the sort of thing that happened to him but not to stronger personalities.

    He paused in the lobby, gratefully breathing in the hotel’s air conditioning, and then tottered over to the desk. A sheaf of messages. Any Overseas calls? No Overseas calls, Mr McIntyre.

    Adam went off to the lifts. As there was a rubbish bin right by the lifts, mainly for cigarette-ends, he shoved the messages into it.

    He slept for about two hours, flat out on the bed in all his dirt. When he woke up it was dark. He showered and put his dressing-gown on, and then rang for Room Service. Fortunately Room Service agreed to feed him: Adam in his time had stayed in hotels, mainly British ones, true, where they refused to feed you after a certain hour. Room Service quite speedily brought him a steak that was about the size of a normal dinner plate, on a plate that was about the size of two normal dinner plates and also contained immense quantities of chips that he hadn’t asked for and some small yellow squash of the tasteless variety that he hadn’t asked for, plus several dead-looking lettuce leaves, several cherry tomatoes, a slice of watermelon and a piece of possible chicory that must be the salad that he had asked for—kindly warning him as they brought it that the plate was very hot.

    By now Adam had looked at his watch and realized that it was not long after eight: it got dark very quickly in these semi-tropical climes. He turned the TV on but it was terribly blurred and it all seemed to be ads, American teeny-boppers and quiz shows, so he turned it off again. He ate all of the steak, neatly pushing aside its huge strip of fat and huge bone, most of the chips, all of the tasteless squash, the cherry tomatoes and the piece of possible chicory, but was defeated by the dead, and of course warm, lettuce. The watermelon he left severely alone. Even in the States he had never experienced watermelon with a salad and he had a suspicion that it had got onto the plate by mistake.

    After that, and a beer from the room’s little fridge, he felt quite a bit better. Braver, even. So, after some fiddling with the TV, which didn’t improve and didn’t show any news, especially not at nine o’clock, and after a lot of fidgeting and staring out at the very pretty view of a section of harbour ringed by sparkling lights, and as it was only a quarter to ten, Sydney time, which meant, there being a two-hour time difference, that it was only a quarter to eight, New Zealand time, he rang Ma and Pa.

    After quite some considerable time Christopher answered, sounding very acid. Was there something wrong?

    “No,” said Adam weakly. “Nothing. I mean, I’m fine... Why?” he ended weakly.

    “Why? Because it’s bloody nearly midnight, and your mother and I were asleep!” snarled Christopher.

    “I thought it was about eight o’clock,” said Adam numbly.

    “WHAT?” his father shouted furiously.

    In the background Adam heard Melinda’s voice saying groggily: “Who are you shouting at, Christopher?”

    “I’m sorry. I knew there was a two-hour time difference but I—I got mixed up,” he said numbly.

    “Imbecile,” said his father witheringly.

    At this Melinda’s voice said in the background: “Is that Adam, dear? Is anything wrong?”

    “No!” said Christopher crossly. “The blithering idiot’s got the time difference the wrong way round, he thinks it’s eight o’clock here!”

    “Well, that’s easy to do. Let me speak to him, dear.”

    “You’re welcome,” Adam’s father replied sourly.

    Melinda said composedly into Adam’s ear: “Hullo, dear. How are you feeling?”

    “I— Rotten, actually,” he admitted.

    “I see,” said Melinda.

    Adam swallowed. “Have you seen anything of Georgy, Ma?”

    “No. Well, Christopher saw her when he returned the car for you. He said she seemed shell-shocked. I haven’t spoken to Mrs Harris, I think she’s been avoiding us. But I saw Ngaio at the shops a couple of days ago, she said Georgy’s been going out a lot with her students and so forth.”

    “Oh,” he said numbly.

     There was a short pause.

    “She hasn’t rung us,” said Melinda. “I didn’t like to ring her, in case the poor girl thought I was prying. Though Christopher didn’t let any delicate scruples stop him, of course.”

    “What—what did she— Was she—” Adam broke off.

    “He couldn’t get through. First she had that machine on, and then the phone just rang and rang, she must have been out. Or that was the week that she was away with her students. –Christopher, was that the week of mid-term break that you rang Georgy?”

    “Don’t ask me,” said Christopher’s voice sourly.

    “Well, I’m not sure, Adam. Anyway, he didn’t manage to speak to her.”

    “No. Did—did Ngaio say she was well?” he croaked.

    “No. But then I didn’t ask her that.”

    Adam bit his lip.

    “Darling, if you want to know how she is, ring her yourself.”

    In the background, Christopher gave a loud snort.

    “Ye-es... Well, I just thought I’d—I’d find out... Um, you haven’t heard anything from Derry, have you?”

    “No. I did see Polly Carrano—when was it? After Easter, anyway, because they’d just got back from somewhere very glamorous; and she said he’s apparently still in the country, he’s staying on for Livia’s wedding.”

    “Oh—of course,” said Adam limply.

    There was a short silence.

    “Are you coming over for it, Adam?”

    “Um…”

    In the background his father snorted again and said: “You don’t expect him to have made up his mind about it, do you?”

    This made up Adam’s mind for him and he said angrily: “Yes, I am: of course I am! I’ve known her for years, and she’s quite a decent little thing under the airs and graces—and she’s got no family out here except bloody Amy; of course I’m coming!”

    “That’s nice, dear,” said his mother placidly.—Adam gritted his teeth.—“When is it?”

    Christopher gave a scornful crack of laughter.

    “Just a mo’, it’s in my diary,” said Adam weakly. He went and looked in it. Oh, not until— Hang on. Hell’s teeth, he thought numbly, staring at the date on his watch. Numbly he picked up the phone. “This Saturday.”

    “Yes, I thought it was quite soon,” said his mother placidly. “Are you coming over tomorrow, then, Adam?”

    “I haven’t booked yet,” he said feebly.

    “I see. Well, you should be able to get a flight, fortunately the school holidays are over. Ring us and let us know the time it gets in, dear.”

    “Yes,” said Adam numbly over the sound of his father saying acidly: “Give or take four hours either way.”

    “How did the play go, dear?” Melinda then asked. “I read a rave review in The Bulletin, but of course that isn’t necessarily any indication.”

    “What?” he said blankly. “Oh: it went okay, thanks, Ma. They’re doing Arms And The Man this week, the Bluntschli’s damn good. I think I might suggest him to Derry for the Bottom.”

    “Er—good,” said Melinda weakly.

    “Look, I’d better go, Ma. I’ll have to see about booking my ticket.”

    “Yes. Well, ring us tomorrow morning, dear.”

    “Six o’clock’ll be early enough: it’ll be eight o’clock here,” noted Christopher acidly.

    “Um—yes, very well, Ma. ’Bye.”

    “Night-night, Adam,” said Melinda placidly, sounding just as she’d used to when she tucked him up as a little boy. She hung up.

   Adam hung up, blinking a bit. Then he bit his lip. He got out his return ticket to England. He’d been supposed to take off on the Tuesday. Oh, well. Then he bit his lip again. How did you—?

    At home, Clem would have got his secretary to write out all dates neatly and make the bookings. On the rare occasions when Adam voluntarily went on a journey that had nothing to do with his professional life, he would phone his own travel agent, whose office was very near the flat. The travel agent would make all the arrangements, and Adam would call in at the bright little office in person to collect the tickets, and to give himself the simple pleasure of giving pleasure to the pretty girl who was on the counter, the faded lady who did typing and filing and so on in the background, and the travel agent himself, who would either be on the counter, too, or in his cubbyhole, in which case he would come out, beaming, to shake hands.

    After some dithering and much consulting of his watch, Adam rang the front desk. They were very happy to help—no worries, Mr McIntyre! Adam silently blessed Clem for having found him this wonderful hotel. The best thing would be to ring Qantas, and would Mr McIntyre like the front desk to do it? Adam thanked the front desk fervently.

    They rang him back in ten minutes. Qantas had got him onto a UTA flight to Auckland early tomorrow morning. (This seemed entirely odd to Adam but he didn’t object.) He would have to leave the hotel at around five-thirty, they were afraid: the plane left at eight but he would have to check in at six-thirty. And he could pick up his ticket at the airport. They would arrange for him to have a wake-up call. Adam thanked them fervently, refused their offer of breakfast but said he would like coffee, thanks, and hung up, feeling stunned.

    Normally he was an excellent packer, but tonight he just gathered up everything that was lying around, stuffed the lot into the case that seemed emptiest, and sat on its lid. Then he realized he didn’t have anything clean left out for tomorrow. Damn. He found a pair of cotton slacks, a shirt and a pair of underpants, then couldn’t find any socks and had to open another case. After that nothing seemed to fit back in any of the cases and he had to repack them. Then he panicked about his toilet things, rushed into the bathroom, shoved them into his zip-up bag, and then realized he’d need them tomorrow. Damnation. Well, they could go into his in-flight bag— Hell, the woolly! Feverishly he confirmed the woolly was still in his in-flight bag. So was Christopher’s David Of King’s. Adam hadn’t got round to finishing it. He looked at it with a very funny feeling in the pit of his stomach, remembering Georgy and Dad conferring over it the evening they’d got back from the Carranos’ bach... When he eventually got all the cases closed it was gone eleven.

    He cleaned his teeth and crawled into bed but tossed and turned, only managing to doze fitfully, until the phone shrilled with his wake-up call.

    During his wakeful night Adam of course envisaged endless scenarios for his meeting with Georgy. He knew he ought to eat humble pie but was afraid Georgy would think he was only rôle-playing and would duly despise him for it. On the other hand, if he didn’t apologize for his bloody beastly behaviour she’d think he was a heartless brute and—and not forgive him at all. ...Sweep her off her feet? That wouldn’t work with Georgy. Well, even if he did manage to sweep her into bed—and remembering their last encounter, he didn’t think that would work, actually—but even if he did, she’d come senses afterwards and—and accuse him of trying some sexual blackmail. Which in a way it would have been, only in another way, it wouldn’t, because, as he’d tried to explain to her during that walk back from the beach that time Elspeth and Puppy had been down there, what seemed like an eternity ago, you couldn’t separate your physical reactions to a person from your mental or emotional reactions. He didn’t think Georgy understood this yet, however. In fact, he had a pretty fair idea that she must have decided that all he’d wanted was the sex. Especially in view of that last performance.

    ... He could phone her. No, he couldn’t: she’d only hang up, if the bloody machine wasn’t on, which come to think of probably would be.

    Well, supposing he just—he just said he was sorry and he wanted her to come back to England with him... But if he said anything that concrete she would probably raise some bloody daft objection, such as she didn’t have a passport— Hell’s teeth: she probably didn’t have a passport, as not only had she never been abroad, she’d apparently never even travelled out of the city of her birth...

    Supposing he said he’d do the Oberon if she’d do the Titania .No, that wouldn’t work: she’d think he was only interested in her bloody acting talent, or in making a bloody hit for Derry, or some such similar crap. Hell.

    ... Okay, just say he wanted to try living together on a permanent basis?

    Adam didn’t see that he could improve on that. He could see that Georgy would immediately be able to rise a score of practical objections, such as what about her job and where would they do this living together, but... Well, it would have to do.

    Immediately he believed himself to have come to some sort of decision, however feeble, his brain started inventing further scenarios, or going over the ones it had already discarded...

    By the time he fumbled up the phone and said blearily: “Yes?” he had still reached no firmer conclusion than that he must say he wanted to live with her on a permanent basis—or with a view to permanency or some such phrase and—and take it from there. And hope to God she’d forgiven him and really did want him.

    It was still not light outside when he got down to the lobby but the desk was personed by a brisk, self-possessed girl who seemed to know all about his checking out, even though it hadn’t been she but a man to whom Adam had spoken the previous evening. Certainly he could use his Gold Card. Adam refused the offer to let him check his laundry bill and his telephone bill and his room service bill and signed where she indicated.

    His taxi hadn’t arrived so he sat down on a sofa next to the trolley-load of cases which the bell-boy had brought down for him. As he did so the big glass front doors burst open and in burst—

    “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN BY IT?” bellowed Derry. “I’VE BEEN TRYING TO GET HOLD OF YOU FOR TWO DAYS!”

    “Do you mean you’ve been in Sydney for two days?” said Adam limply.

    “YES!” he shouted.

    “Oh. Oh, well, that explains it: I haven’t been taking any local calls.”

    “I left umpteen messages!” said Derry through his teeth.

    “I didn’t look at my messages.”

    Derry breathed deeply.

    “Sit down. I’m afraid I’m just about to catch a plane, though,” said Adam politely.

    Derry breathed heavily. “So am I, what the fuck do you think I’m doing here at this hour of the morning?”

    “Er—not the UTA flight to Auckland?”

    “YES!” he shouted furiously. “Oh,” he said weakly. “Are you—?”

    “Mm.”

    Derry tottered to a seat beside him. “So you are coming to Livia’s wedding?”

    “Yes. Did you cross the Tasman merely to ensure my presence at it, Derry?”

    “Don’t be a bloody fool,” returned Derry tiredly, running his hand through his curls.

    Adam said nothing.

    “What do you intend doing about Georgy? If anything,” said the great director tightly.

    “I don’t think that’s any of your business, is it?” replied Adam politely.

    “Of course it’s my bloody business, I’ve just spent a week at the bloody thermal area with her, the girl’s looking like a stunned mullet, and I don’t want a stunned mullet for my Dream, thank you!”

    Adam was somewhat relieved to hear Georgy was looking like a stunned mullet, but very annoyed to hear she’d been jaunting off to the tourist spots with Derry. It had been bad enough when he’d just believed she’d been going out with her students, which he had decided must mean that creep Quince, after all he was a student, if he was her own age, curse the fellow, and it had been bloody obvious that he fancied her and— Well, it was obvious, when you came to think of it.

    He said nastily: “Has she agreed to do the Titania, Derry?”

    “NO!” he shouted.

    “No. Well, if she does, I’ll do the Oberon. If you still want me?”

    Derry’s jaw had sagged. He rubbed his hand over his face. “What brought that on?” he said weakly.

    Even although Adam had believed he meant to abase himself before Derry he found he was replying acidly: “Not a desire to ponce round the Anty-podes in tights, I can assure you.”

    “We’ve decided against tights, Roddy thinks the natural skin— Well, never mind that, just now. What did change your mind?”

    Adam hesitated; then he admitted: “It’s not that I particularly fancy the rôle, though I quite enjoyed doing it live with the students and Mac’s bloody Victorian fairies. And I don’t particularly feel that my career needs the dubious distinction of an Oberon in the silliest production ever to be recorded on celluloid. But if Georgy’s going to do it, I’m damned if she’s going to do it opposite anyone but me.”

    Derry’s jaw had again sagged but he made a quick recover and said: “Well, good! Fine!”

    “Added to which,” said Adam thoughtfully, “I’m damned if I’ll let the poor little thing be exposed to the bloody film world in general, and your gracious bullying self in particular, without me there to support her.”

    “I don’t bully my actors!” the great director cried.

    “Rubbish, Derry: you’re famous for it,” he drawled. “Raw material: that’s all we kittle-cattle are to your h’artistic h’eye.”

    “Well, at least I give you an over-all picture of my conception of the film, which is more than can be said for most!” he said heatedly.

    “I’ll grant you that. Then you ignore every timid suggestion we dare to make and tell us exactly how to play the part down to the last eyelash-flicker, and if we dare to deviate from the prescribed path by so much as one eyelash-flicker you bully us unmercifully until we’ve got the eyelash-flicker right.”

    “Bullshit! When have I ever bullied you?”

    Adam looked at him drily.

    “I only— Well, I don’t bully. But with cretins that can’t act for toffee,” said the great director with dignity, “I certainly make sure they put over my conception of the rôle—yes. I’ll grant you that.”

    “Bullying ’em into floods of tears in the process—quite. I’m not letting Georgy go through that alone.”

    The great director had forgotten the actual subject of the discussion and had opened his mouth to shout angrily at him. He shut it again. “No. Well, I’m glad to hear it,” he said weakly.

    Adam didn’t reply.

    “Have you rung her?” said Derry baldly.

    Before Adam could reply a fat man in a buttoned cardigan and denim shorts came in through the heavy glass doors saying “Taxi for McIntyre.”

    Adam got up. “Yes—here!” he called. The bell-boy immediately hurried over, grasped the trolley on which his baggage reposed, and wheeled it off. Adam called: “Thanks so much!” to the desk—the girl smiled and blushed: she couldn’t have been as utterly self-possessed as he’d believed—and hurried out.

    Derry leapt up and panted after him. “I’ll come in yours,” he decided. He rushed off to his taxi and gave the driver instructions.

    Adam leaned back in his seat and asked the driver to wait for his friend. The driver checked the time he had to be at the airport, nodded, and said they’d make it to Kingsford-Smith easy: nothing on the roads, this time of day. Adam hadn’t thought that was where they were going to, but he said nothing.

    Derry came back, beaming. “So you’ll speak to her as soon as we get in?” he said eagerly.

    “I doubt it. I haven’t worked out the effect the time difference will have but I seem to remember that she has classes all day, on Fridays.”

    “Well, when will you speak to her?” demanded the great director, his face falling ludicrously.

    “In my own good time. And if you dare to so much as breathe a hint—a hint—to her, Derry,” he said fixing him with an ice-cold blue eye, which Derry involuntarily wondered if he could use somehow on film, “not only will I not do the bloody Oberon, I’ll talk her out of the Titania and pull out of the bloody Henry James thing, to boot.”

    “You can’t do that!” howled the great man. “We’ve signed contracts!”

    “Yes, but my bank balance can take several broken contracts, Derry,” he said sweetly. “And there are a few other things I’d rather be doing this summer, actually.”

    Scowling, Derry retorted disbelievingly: “What?”

    Adam smiled. “I’d a million times rather be in rep here in Sydney in my new friends’ ugly barn of a theatre. Guess what they’re doing this week?”

    “I’m not interested!”

    Adam just smiled.

    After a moment Derry recollected what the actual subject of the conversation had been and said huffily: “Anyway, of course I wouldn’t dream of breathing a word to Georgy!”

    “That’s good,” he said placidly.

    Derry looked at him sideways. Adam’s face was quite calm but his hands were very tightly locked together on his knees. Considerately Derry, leaning back in his seat, began to tell him a lot about the sites he’d vetted in the thermal area, and Phyllis Harding’s friends’ garden that sloped down to Lake Tarawera, and the marvellous waterfall with the horrendous rock staircase going down virtually inside it—he was sure he could work it in somehow—and the eerie sight of the wisps of steam rising amidst the forest on the shores of Lake Tarawera, and—

    Adam at intervals murmured: “Tara-what?” and: “‘Bush’, surely?” and so forth, but Derry could see his hands were still clenched tightly, so he continued to chat smoothly, all the way to the airport.

    Adam’s seat wasn’t next to his but Derry bullied the UTA desk into changing them so it was.

    Derry then led Adam through passport control and so forth, still talking volubly. Once they were in the overseas transit area, or whatever it was called in Sydney, he headed for the duty-frees and since Adam wasn’t interested, bought twice his allotment and made Adam carry half. Adam didn’t bother to ask why Derry wanted to save ten dollars or so on French brandy which he could have bought in France for half the price, he just lugged the duty-frees obediently.

    On the plane Derry continued to talk until UTA served breakfast. It was actually edible, in fact it was excellent, and the coffee was actually coffee.

    “Shit: what is this airline?” said Derry numbly.

    “UTA. I don’t know why Qantas booked me onto it, but I’m sure it’s UTA. Those girls probably speak French: you could try out your accent méridional,” he said meanly.

    “Shut up.” Derry produced his Filofax and made a note. “UTA,” he grunted pleasedly. “I’ll use them in future.”

    “If you can ever find that note again.”

    “Rubbish,” he said genially, beaming.

    “They’ll probably serve actual champagne, too,” drawled Adam, yawning.

    “Yeah!” He looked at his watch. “Uh—oh. Hang on, what time have you got?”

    Adam told him the time, Sydney-time.

    Derry looked disappointed. “Oh. Bit early. Never mind, let’s have a nap, these early-morning flights are a killer.”

    Adam raised no objections. Derry let his seat right back and closed his eyes.

    Adam was by the window: although he didn’t particularly fancy having to clamber over Derry’s bulk in order to go to the lav, he fancied even less Derry’s bulk having to clamber over him, having experienced the phenomenon once or twice before. He leaned back and looked idly out at the deep blue wrinkled plastic sheet that was presumably the Tasman Sea.

    After some time white clouds drifted across this wrinkled blue plastic and then greyer clouds and soon the plane was shrouded in murk, but by that time Adam was fast asleep.

    When he woke up Derry was snoring. Adam let him snore on, he didn’t feel like talking. He stared unseeingly into the grey murk. He felt oddly settled and at peace with himself. He still wasn’t at all sure that Georgy would have him. But he knew that he was going to do his damnedest to persuade her. He didn’t exactly know why it had to be Georgy: he just knew that it had to. He didn’t try to figure out the reasons for it: if he analysed it there was always the chance that the phenomenon might dissolve into its separate parts and vanish. And Adam knew that he didn’t want it to do that.