Hiding Hollywood Read online

  So what did I think of them so far, away from their media manufactured images? Shane was a complete character, a rake, a scoundrel, brimming with confidence and self-assurance with an eye for a lark. He was a ‘what you see is what you get’ type of guy and I did like him for that and, no escaping it, for that kiss. I felt more relaxed about the kiss now. I figured it was so ‘of the moment’ that it almost had nothing to do with me and everything to do with his natural exuberance. But heck it was fun, a story to tell the grandkids.

  And Arch. He’d been watching out for me since the airport when he’d helped me into the front seat of the bus, he’d cleared a space for me at the pub and he’d protected me in the crowd at the foreshore. He looked like an action hero and he acted like one too. He was sweet, considerate and a gentleman.

  The one I was wary of was Rush. In the flesh, outside the fantasy state, he had a strange effect on me. I felt completely star stuck stupid when he was close, like I was sixteen years old again with a crush on the most handsome boy in class, but struck dumb when he was around. How embarrassing, let alone unprofessional.

  There was also the matter of his temper. Sudden, sharp and very black. He had seemed fine earlier in the day, joining in the jokes, smoothing the rough patches, making a fuss over Bert, and being nice to me, but there was obviously another side to him. He’d had a rumbling storm cloud raging above his head tonight and I hoped I wouldn’t be the one hit by lightning.

  My last thought for the night was about Michael. I wondered who he was with and how serious it might be. He’d not been in a relationship for a long time and was determined to stay unattached while we were in business start-up mode. He’d sent me a cute text message with a photo of the massive hotel pool and a single towel on a deckchair. The message said simply, ‘Mine’.

  Of course I knew he meant the deckchair, the one he’d aspired to when I’d first raised taking a holiday, but if I was truthful with myself, I wished he’d been talking about me.

  For a very long time now I’d wanted Michael to be more than business, to be mine in as many ways as possible. I knew he felt a kind of love for me, but was I just his mate, his buddy, his business partner? Just what did we really mean to each other? I was long overdue to find out and it was just the right time of year to make it a resolution.

  13: A New Day-Oh

  I’d set my alarm to wake me at 8.00am. Not too early, not too late, and I lay a while contemplating getting up. The house was quiet, but still no telling what I might find outside my bedroom. I slipped on a sleeveless cotton sundress and barefoot and bootless went to investigate.

  There was a lovely breakfast spread in the kitchen with summer porridge, fresh fruits and pastries.

  “Happy New Year!” said Simon. “Do you think anyone will want breakfast?”

  “You mean other than me? Are they back do you know?”

  “The gorgeous one is. He’s on the deck.”

  “Which is the gorgeous one?” I laughed.

  “Yes, they’re all gorgeous. It’s too much. And to think I could have been cooking Five Spice Duck and Saigon Crispy Chicken all week instead,” said Simon, fanning himself as if to starve off an attack of the vapours.

  I took a cup of coffee and went through to the deck and there, quite possibly comatose, was Arch lying shirtless in a pair of shorts in the sun. He had one arm thrown across his eyes and headphones in his ears. There was nothing about him that wasn’t nice to look at. He was like my own personal unconscious centrefold. Simon who’d followed me out was also studying him and biting his bottom lip. Ah, happy New Year!

  “Mmm is that coffee?” the centrefold spoke in a gravelly voice.

  “Would you like some?” I suspect I squeaked.

  “Kill for a cup,” he said, sitting up and blinking in the sun. “Hey, no boot?”

  “From today I’m allowed to spend time with it off,” I said, turning back to the kitchen to pour him a coffee. He padded in behind me.

  “Andi, I want to do something for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yep.”

  “You know I’m being paid to be here for you.”

  Arch studied me with slightly bloodshot eyes, “Yeah, yeah, but I look at you and I see tight muscles.”

  “Oh.”

  “Tight muscles, a really fit bod, but mostly tight muscles. You need a massage. Not the leg itself, I’ll leave that to your physio. But with the boot and the crutches you’ve had to use the rest of your body differently to get around and I can see you’re sore. I can fix that,” he said confidently, sipping his coffee.

  “Oh,” was all I could think of saying and I ate a strawberry to cover my embarrassment.

  “You’re really tight here and here,” he said, poking me in the thigh of my good leg and then in my backside. I jumped like Harvey when he saw that demon orange cat and Arch laughed. “Andi, I’m not trying to pick you up. I know what I’m doing and I can help you feel better.”

  Before I could make an excuse about needing to do something, anything, he was issuing instructions and buzzing around. “We can use the dining room table, not ideal but not too bad. I need a mat, towels, oil and you need to strip off.”

  “Strip off?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You.... you’re kidding right?”

  “Nope, down to your underwear girl.”

  “My underwear.” Oh my God! “Look, I really don’t think this is necessary, I mean it’s not something you need to do and really I....”

  “Andi.”

  “Yes.”

  “Strip.” He handed me one of the new big white fluffy towels.

  What’s the right response when a drop dead gorgeous, half dressed man tells you to strip? I stripped.

  I’d had massages before but never on my own dining room table, never from a client and never ever from someone who looked like Arch. But he was right, I was sore and he was standing over me with a ‘brook no nonsense’ look on his face. How bad could it be?

  I didn’t think he was going to hurt me or molest me. Simon was within shouting distance and I was sore and well, what the heck, I could think of half a dozen friends, including my own mother, who would have stabbed me dead without so much as a ‘sorry’ to take my place.

  When I got back to the dining room, Arch had put on a fitted white t-shirt and lit a scented candle. He had music playing, John Mayer. He had me climb on the old wooden table and lay face down with my forehead resting on a rolled up towel. Getting me to loosen my own towel was another challenge. I’d kept it firmly wrapped around me. It was so long it virtually covered me from underarm to ankle.

  “Let the towel go Andi.”

  “Ah - do I have to,” I said, face down, voice muffled.

  “I want it across you, not wrapped around you. I need to be able to get to your body.”

  “Ah....!”

  “Either you lose the towel or I’ll lose it for you.” Yes, that was definitely a threat.

  I made him turn around while I wriggled out of the knot of towel beneath my arm and spread it over my back. I was still perfectly covered and wearing underwear but feeling much more vulnerable. This was probably a very bad idea. He started at my feet working his thumbs into my insteps and under my toes. Then he left off the damaged leg and worked the calf muscle of my good leg, feeling across the long muscles finding places to prod and tease at soreness.

  Without warning he flipped the towel to expose my thigh and despite the heat I shivered. He worked strong fingers into the back and side of my leg circling higher and higher. His hands were warm and fluid and fully in control of my body. He moved to the other leg and did the same finding places I hadn’t known were sore.

  “Andi, I’m going to do your glutes now and it’s gonna hurt. Just keep breathing.” With that he used his elbow to set the big gluteus maximus muscle alive with fire and possibly brimstone. My head shot up and I gasped and his only response was to say, “Breathe.”

  When he moved to the other leg I rasped,
“Mercy.” But he gave no quarter and kept up the pressure.

  Glutes elbowed into submission, he moved the towel again, covering my legs but exposing my back from the waist up. He dribbled cool oil on my shoulders, and then with the heel of his hand he worked the muscles that attach to the spinal column and drew his palms around the side of my ribs. At each point he worked, I felt sensitised, I felt my spine release and lengthen under the attention of his hands. When he got to my bra strap he flicked it open in one easy movement. I sucked in a breath and flinched.

  “Ok?” he said, stopping and flattening his hand on my mid-back, holding still.

  “Ok,” I murmured and it was. I could tell Arch knew exactly what he was doing and it was all business. He was treating my body as a therapist would, focused on me not as a women but as a collection of muscle, tendon, sinew and fibre. The only sensual part of this massage was in my head, but boy was my head in the boudoir.

  John Mayer sang, “I’m in repair, I’m not together, but I’m getting there.”

  “Keep breathing Andi and try to relax.”

  An instruction I thought I could manage. Now past the embarrassment, the awkwardness, the uncertain expectations and safe in his expert touch, I had fallen in love with the movement of his hands, thumbs that pushed and prodded, finger tips that fanned and travelled, knuckles that kneaded, palms that rubbed. I luxuriated in the force of his touch and was breathless now for a whole different set of feelings that had more to do with my heart and soul than my extremities.

  “You ok?”

  “Hmm.” To talk would be to break the spell. I was far away in a world that was always warm and flowing and sinuous and smelt of lavender and bergamot.

  “I want you to roll over,” he said softly beside my ear. He could have been telling me to put my head in a lit oven and I’d have done it with a smile. He did a clever thing with the towel, disappearing behind it, to shield me and I rolled over so that I was facing upwards.

  He started on my neck, taking my head in both hands and gently stretching to right and left and then running strong thumbs up to the base of my skull. I was ready to purr. He ran his fingers through my hair and pulled gently to lift my scalp. The feeling was so good, my eyes flew open and I looked into his upside down face. If he’d asked, I’d have died for him. Then he ran his palms across my forehead covering my eyes and placed his fingertips on both my temples, pressing firmly and holding still. I was floating in a beautiful realm of calm and softness and then I realised his fingers had gone and I was alone.

  “Get up slowly Andi,” he called from the other room. “You are going to be sore tomorrow, but you’ll be better for it.”

  I lay on the dining room table with my eyes firmly closed, not wanting the experience to be over, wondering if I’d ever be able to stand up again let alone walk. It would have been nice to just continue to lie here and forget about the things I should be doing, like finding a way to say thank you without blushing, checking the morning’s media and putting out an all points bulletin for the missing parties.

  “Slowly,” said a voice above and behind me, it was Rush in a well crushed straw cowboy hat and a singlet with a beach towel over his shoulder. He smelt of salt water, sand and suntan lotion and had obviously been for an early swim. “Arch’s massages have a way of making your bones turn to jelly,” he said with an upside down smile. “And when you’re ready I need you to set me up with internet access please.”

  “Of course,” I said, back to earth, thinking that’s twice this man has stopped me drifting off to dreamland in less than one day.

  Up and dressed again and feeling surprisingly taller and thinner, how did that work I wondered, I organised a wireless internet connection for Rush and was about to check the key media websites when I heard a decidedly raw voice from the back door.

  “Day-oh!”

  It was Shane, in last night’s clothes, looking incredibly rumpled. His hair was every which way, his shirt was buttoned wrongly and he seemed to have lost his belt, his jeans hung down low on his hips showing his hip bones and the edge of his underwear.

  “Day-ay-ay-oh,” answered Arch.

  “Daylight come and I wanna come home,” sang Shane huskily, virtually falling into the room.

  “Do we want to know?” said Rush.

  “I want to know,” said Arch. Me too. What had Shane been up to and who knew about it?

  “Big. It was big. Legendary, but what happens on Oxford Street stays on Oxford Street,” he finished.

  Oxford Street. He’d been to Oxford Street, home of the gay and lesbian Mardi Gras, famed for its pubs, clubs and night scene. There was no way this could be good.

  “What’s been going on here? Oh I see, Arch put the move on you Andi,” he said, gesturing towards the towel laden dining room table, “Quick work, my friend,” he slapped Arch on the back.

  Was he drunk, angry? I glanced at Arch to see his reaction. Arch was grinning. “She’s too good for me, buddy,” he said, “and if you don’t take a shower I’ll have her throw you out.”

  “Be cool, I’m going,” said Shane and he looked down and seemed to notice for the first time that his buttons were done up oddly. “A great night,” he said with a big grin, wavering on his feet. “And don’t worry, it’s all done, all done,” he said, looking at Rush before he stumbled towards the bathroom.

  I didn’t understand that last exchange, what did Shane mean ‘all done’? Was it my imagination or did Rush look relieved? Well at least they were all accounted for. Home safe and if not completely sound, at least in one piece.

  14: Sudden Squalls

  My most pressing post massage task was checking the morning’s media. Given the public holiday this was a much easier task than usual.

  I spent a good hour checking the most obvious websites, blogs, online newsletters and twitter feeds and found stories on all manner of things but none that threatened the safety of our incognito mission.

  For lunch Simon served enormous king prawns with a selection of sauces and toppings with a light salad of fennel and rocket. There was much talk about Australian seafood, wine and fruit and our love of barbeque and eating outdoors. While this went on Rush pulled me aside.

  “We need to be out of the city by tomorrow,” he said abruptly.

  “Ok. I wasn’t sure exactly when you wanted to go, Shane said....,” he cut me off with, “Forget what Shane said, I’m telling you now we need to be out of the city tomorrow.”

  “I....,” he cut me off again. “Tomorrow, Andi. We don’t care where we go or how we get there, we just need to be gone. Can you manage that?” and with that he turned, shot a hard look at Shane and went inside the house.

  I could feel the tips of my ears burning, but this time not from schoolgirl lust, I’d just been struck by lightning, dressed down in public. Behind me Simon started clattering plates and taking coffee orders nervously. What was Rush’s problem? He blew hot and cold, one minute sunny, friend to neighbours, dogs and cockatoos and the next sudden black storm clouds and drenching squall. Well I didn’t have to like it, but I did have to find a solution for this problem and luckily I think I had one. Thank heavens for big promising real estate agents.

  A big promising real estate agent had just made life for my Aunt Helen sticky. Dad’s sister Helen had a guest house at Possum Creek just outside Bangalow in the NSW hinterland. The guest house was one of those rambling wide verandah surrounded country homesteads. It was originally built in 1890 but Helen and her second husband Christopher had virtually reconstructed it, planting lush gardens and a pool on the property which they‘d furnished with fantastic period pieces as well as all the comforts of a luxury boutique hotel.

  Chris died two years ago and Helen’s heart went out of managing the business on her own and she put it on the market. Mr Big Promises, the agent found an overseas buyer who wanted to come and stay in the homestead over Christmas and confirm his offer. But by Christmas Eve, the buyer had pulled up stumps leaving Helen with no prospect for a
sale and no tenants either, until now. The homestead had five bedrooms which meant we could take Simon too.

  I made one aunt a very happy person when I said we were coming to stay. And I made her nearly hysterical when I said who ‘we’ were.

  “Does your mother know?” Helen demanded.

  “No and she is not to know either, she thinks I should be resting.”

  “Well she’s right, but I won’t tell. When she asks, I’ll say it was a matter of national security.”

  With accommodation fixed, I needed to charter a light plane to take us to Coolangatta airport and hire a car to get us into Possum Creek, but the house was ominously quiet so I went to check on things and talk to Simon.

  Rush’s bedroom door was closed. Arch was asleep on the back sofa and Shane was in the kitchen with a beer. “Hair of the dog,” he said, as I came in.

  “I’ve found us a guest house. I think you guys will like it.”

  ‘Andi, sorry about Rush, he shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. He’s not normally like that. He’s going through a rough time.”

  “Hey, that’s ok. You don’t have to apologise. This is my job.”

  “No, I do have to apologise. There is something you should probably know.”

  “Ok,” I said warily. Did I really want to know?

  Shane sighed, “There is a reason we made this trip. We did it for Rush. He, ah, well, you probably know he is married. So here’s the thing, his lawyers are about to announce a split and the attention is going to be intense. I’ve been there, done that, so I know. Arch and I decided he’d be better off on the other side of the world, where no one could find him, when it went down. So we made the decision to come and here we are.”

  “Is he very upset?” I simply couldn’t help being interested in Rush’s private affairs. Harriet Vale was a successful actor in her own right. She was billed as America’s sweetheart. Together they were a golden couple, a latter day Paul Newman and Joanna Woodward, a rival Brad and Angelina. A split was big news. Big.