Late June
‘Stella, darling, that was brilliant,’ Gareth calls, walking across the set to where she is sitting in her canvas chair. ‘Really a touch of the old Stella there,’ and he leans over and kisses her on the cheek.
‘I am the old Stella,’ she says, patting his arm. ‘I think you mean a touch of the young one.’
‘Whatever! It was brilliant. Five perfect days, you are a warrior woman. I wish I thought I’d be half as tough and professional as you when I’m your age. So, we’re all done now, we don’t need you back until the wrap party, but we certainly want you here for that. You too, Polly, if you feel like it,’ he says, glancing up at her. ‘Maybe you could bring Stella along and stay for the party?’
‘Of course,’ Polly says, ‘if that’s what Stella wants.’
Stella looks from one to the other, not quite sure what’s going on.
‘So we’re done for now? But when will we shoot the other scenes?’ she asks.
Gareth looks surprised. ‘The other scenes?’
‘Yes, you know, when I’m a nurse. Goodness, I thought my memory was bad but yours is worse, Gareth, and you’re a lot younger than me.’
Gareth opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Stella feels quite sorry for him – perhaps he’s having trouble coping; it has, after all, been very tiring.
‘Ah! Well I don’t think . . .’ Gareth begins.
‘We can talk about that later,’ Polly cuts in. ‘We should get a move on now, Stella, it’s been a long day, it’s getting late and Gareth still has more to do.’ She slips her hand under Stella’s arm.
‘Oh yes, of course,’ Stella says. ‘Well just let me know when you want me back for that, my time’s my own.’
Gareth stands up and hugs her, then turns away slightly to face the cast and crew. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please,’ he calls in a faux authoritative tone. ‘Miss Stella Lamont is leaving the building!’
There is applause, and someone calls for three cheers.
‘What’s all the fuss about?’ Stella whispers to Polly.
‘It’s a tribute, Stella,’ she says. ‘A tribute to you for your wonderful work on Cross Currents.’
‘But it’s not over yet,’ Stella says, ‘the nursing part . . .’
‘Just enjoy it,’ Polly says reassuringly, although Stella thinks she looks a bit awkward as she says it.
‘Really? Oh well, you know best. Good gracious, flowers! Trixie, thank you, darling.’
‘They’re from Gareth and all of us,’ Trixie says, ‘to say how we all loved working with you.’
Stella is overwhelmed, it is reminiscent of the days of live theatre, and she shivers with delight at the memory of the smell of greasepaint, the view from the wings, the swish of the curtains, and the thrilling sight of the audience packing the red velvet seats. Inspired, she executes a perfect curtsey, and blows kisses with her free hand. She is still waving as Polly drapes her coat over her shoulders.
‘What about my make-up?’ Stella asks. ‘I like to get it off as soon as possible.’
‘Why not take it off at home?’ Polly says. ‘You should walk out of here looking like the star that you are.’
‘Yes, you’re quite right, I should.’ She turns to the cast and crew. ‘Got to go,’ she calls out, waving again. ‘See you soon.’
Escorted by Gareth and Trixie they make their way outside onto the street where Stan, the driver, is sitting waiting in the car.
Trixie, blushing, takes something out from behind her back and hands it to Stella. It’s a packet of Tim Tams tied with a silver bow.
‘These are from me,’ she says. ‘It was wonderful to meet you, my first job in television and I got to work with a famous star!’
Stella feels the prick of tears, she has grown quite fond of Trixie at the last few shoots. ‘Trixie, how lovely of you; but we’ll be working together again soon, on the nursing scenes.’ She sees Trixie look questioningly at Polly, then back again.
‘Of course,’ Trixie says. ‘I’ll stock up on the Tim Tams nearer the time.’
It all seems a bit confusing; the cheers, the flowers, everyone hugging or kissing her, the escort to the door – just like when someone’s leaving the series – but her energy is flagging now, it’s been a long day, and she’s glad when Polly helps her into the car and turns back to speak quietly to Gareth.
‘All done, Miss Lamont?’ Stan says, twisting round in his seat.
‘All done, Stan, but since when did you start calling me Miss Lamont?’
‘Ah well, special day today, isn’t it? End of an era.’
‘Yes indeed,’ Polly says, slipping into the back seat beside Stella. She seems to be glaring at Stan.
‘End of an era?’ Stella says, wracking her brains. ‘What era?’
‘I heard you were retir . . .’
‘End of an era, Stella,’ Polly interrupts, ‘is the name of the episode you’ve been working on. Can we get moving now please, Stan, Stella’s had a long day.’
‘End of an era,’ Stella says, twisting around to wave back at Gareth and Trixie as Stan pulls away up the street. ‘That’s a nice name for an episode, but it sounds a bit like the end of someone’s career really, doesn’t it? End of an era? Are you all right, Stan? The back of your neck has gone very red.’
Stan clears his throat. ‘Must be my hot flushes, Stella,’ he says, smiling at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘So here we go, driving Miss Stella – how’s that for a title?’
Stella rolls her eyes at him. ‘It’s Driving Miss Daisy,’ she says. ‘Try to keep up, Stan, or they’ll be putting you out to pasture.’
Beside her Polly has leaned back and closed her eyes.
‘It was lovely of you to help me with my lines, and to come along with me this week,’ Stella says. ‘I do feel I’m back on track now and I’ll be all right whenever Gareth wants me back. Something I kept meaning to ask you though: why does everyone call him Bloody Gareth? Have I missed something?’
*
Polly pours herself a large glass of red wine and sits down at Stella’s kitchen table. Her relief that the work on Cross Currents has finished, and finished on a high for Stella, is matched by her sadness that her friend’s career is over and her future uncertain. She’s faced with the dilemma of whether to let Stella continue believing that there are still more scenes to film, or confront her with the reality that she will never work again. Isn’t it her right to be allowed to face the truth? After all, so much of what she does is perfectly okay. How is it possible to weigh that against these random lapses? But if the night walk into Fremantle that ended at the police station is anything to go by, the random lapses could be increasingly serious, dangerous even.
Not too much reality, Alistair had suggested when she’d talked to him about it, and Polly understands why he said that, but it seems disrespectful not to try to set Stella straight about what’s happening. At any other time Polly knows she would be talking to Joyce right now but they’d spoken briefly yesterday morning when she’d been coming back from her early walk as Joyce was backing out of her drive. She’d thought Joyce looked wiped out.
‘I’m half dead, but loving it at the same time,’ Joyce had said. ‘Sounds ridiculous but it’s the truth. We’ll catch up when it’s over but I can’t think about anything else until then. Did I tell you Dennis has left Helen? He’s down in Albany with Mac, and she went off to Dubai to stay with Damian and Ellie, but she behaved so badly that Damian packed her off home early.’
‘Crikey,’ Polly had said. ‘So is she back here?’
Joyce had shrugged. ‘Should be by now according to Mac. He and I are still on stand-off, by the way.’
‘Still on . . . I didn’t know there was a stand-off.’
‘Oh no, of course not. Well I hung up on him. He wasn’t taking me seriously.’
‘You hung up on Mac!’ Polly had said. ‘My god, the world has gone mad. Dennis and Helen split up, you and Mac . . .’
‘And you fall in love in Hong Kong!’ Joyce cut in. ‘Gotta go. I want to hear about Stella going rogue, and about Hong Kong and Leo, so when we do catch up it’ll need to be a long one.’
It’s almost seven-thirty and she wonders whether or not Stella, who had gone for a rest when they got back from the studio, is still asleep. She walks through to the bedroom, taps on the door, and opens it slightly. ‘Stella,’ she says, softly, ‘Stella, are you awake?’ Crossing to the edge of the bed she can hear from Stella’s breathing that she is sound asleep. Not much likelihood of her waking up and wanting a full meal, Polly thinks. If she does wake now all she’ll want is a cup of tea. Polly stands there in the silence studying her, trying to match this aged face, slack with sleep, to the woman she has known through the years.
Back in the kitchen she covers the food, puts it in the fridge and picks up her glass but the prospect of the wine hitting her stomach makes her feel sick, and she tips it away down the sink. She wishes she could talk to someone, but Joyce is out of bounds, Mac is probably busy counselling Dennis, and Alistair has already told her what he thinks, which was exactly what Stella herself would have said. She could call Leo, but how would she talk to him about this? He doesn’t even know Stella, and his attention span for a conversation like the one she needs is likely to be pitifully short.
Polly sighs. Stella, she knows, is exhausted from the filming. Maybe I’ll give it a couple of weeks and see how she goes now it’s over, she tells herself. If things don’t improve, or if they get worse, I’ll call straight away, make an appointment and get her there somehow. It’s a relief to have made a decision, even if it is just a decision to do nothing yet. She fills the kettle, makes tea and toast and settles down at the kitchen table, thumbing through the unopened copy of The West Australian. At nine o’clock Stella is still sleeping and Polly decides that it might be best if she stays the night again. She goes next door to her own house, picks up her toothbrush, nightdress and her book, and slips back through the side-gate to Stella’s. Once again she opens the bedroom door, walks over to the bed and stands beside her sleeping friend. It’s right to give her a bit more time, she thinks, two weeks, maybe even three, because once I make that call, once I take her to the doctor, everything will change. Stella’s life will have to change in ways that she’ll hate, ways that will break her spirit, and my own heart. And she walks out, across the passage into the spare room, and a few minutes later she is sitting up in bed, her book open in front of her. Her eyes slide wearily across sentences and paragraphs, but the words mean nothing, nothing registers and eventually she closes the book, lies down and turns off the light. In her head the same questions and answers churn back and forth – what to do, when to do it, act now, wait a few weeks . . . and slowly her eyes close and she feels the blissful calming moment that releases her into sleep.