CHAPTER 23

Viv was at the epicentre of a force field of gloom. Those up the other end of the hall were chatting and laughing like they would at a party, but the closer people were to him, the more solemn and depressed they seemed to feel they had to act. Periodically, they would tap their partner on the shoulder, nod in his direction and slowly, as enthusiastically as if coming to give blood, shuffle toward him and start moaning about how tragic it was. If he was the one who was supposed to be the most bereaved, surely they should be trying to cheer him up, not drag him further down. A few minutes ago Ethel Turner had opened with, ‘Such a shock’. Really? Most addicts relapse. Sometimes they overdose.

When he was racing in a pack with riders who talked too much, he just sped up until they either fell back or didn’t have enough breath to speak. Here, though, he was trapped.

Over by the bar he saw Leanne grab a glass of wine. He’d always liked Leanne. Not in a romantic way. She was just one of the few women he felt relatively comfortable around. They had both been outsiders in the band, her because she was a year younger, him because he was two years older, and because he was him. One of the many reasons he had grown angrier with Joe over the years was because of the way he had dragged Leanne down with him.

Next to her was a group from his cycling club. Why were they here? They didn’t even know Joe. He realised it must be to offer him support. Unless it was to assess his condition before Sunday’s forty-kilometre race from Ettalong to Terrigal and back.

He had been the undisputed champion of the Southern Central Coast Cycling Club for the last few years. He loved racing; working out tactics, hiding in the pack until the optimal moment to make a move, riding hard enough to break away, but not so hard that two or three others couldn’t come with him so they could share the lead, until it was time for him to make another move, usually up a steep hill close to the finish. He was twenty-nine, which he had discovered was two years past his physical cycling peak, but he still won more than he lost. Until recently.

In the last six months his win percentage had dropped from fifty-eight per cent to twenty-one per cent, purely because of new member Sam Delaney, twenty-two, very fast and irritatingly friendly. Viv was training harder than ever, but Sam kept beating him. Worse, Sam was still approaching his peak as Viv slid down the other side.

‘Hey, Viv, sooo good to see you,’ soothed Dev, almost elbowing someone else out of the way and placing her hand on his arm. ‘You poor, poor darling.’

Her dark hair was swept back, and as always her long-lashed eyes, deep red lips, curvy figure and overpowering confidence made him feel unsteady. She smelled of something good. He was just over six feet, but in heels she was nearly as tall. She wore a black pantsuit tighter than some might think appropriate for a funeral, and looked broad-shouldered and gym fit. He quickly raised his gaze. He found eye contact difficult at the best of times, but knew it was important not to glance below neck level.

She leaned in and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘How are you doing?’

He felt her warm, sweet breath.

His mouth seemed to have gone dry.

*

Gary kept moving, flitting from one group to another, staying long enough to graciously receive compliments about both his eulogy and Which Duck?, but not long enough to get sucked into anything boring. It was nice to be back on top. He deserved it. Yes, he had been born with talent, but he had also worked bloody hard. Most comedians were too lazy or too precious to be successful. Or not talented enough.

When he started doing stand-up he had thrown himself into it. He knew how to work a crowd, but struggled writing good jokes. He wrote loads of material, and performed the hell out of it, but he knew it wasn’t quite good enough to get his head above the throng of comics striving for recognition.

Then he had a thought. Yes, comedians were supposed to write their own material, but was that really essential? He knew stealing jokes from other comedians was frowned upon. Every group of backstage comics formed their own unit of the comedy police, naming and shaming thieves. ‘He stole that sports bit off Bill Burr.’ It was a fine line, though. Comics were always looking for material, and there are only so many subjects. As long as you didn’t lift a joke word for word, you had plausible deniability. ‘Bill Burr also does a routine on sport’ was very different from ‘That’s a Bill Burr joke’.

He started watching and listening to comics online, but not the famous ones. More obscure ones, with good material and poor stage presence, ideally with not many YouTube views, sometimes from Europe, Asia and South America with subtitles on. He picked the best jokes, kept their essence but reworked the words, and started to get bigger laughs. He even made a Spanish comic’s routine about siestas work for him. Even if the comedy police caught him, he made his routines different enough to plausibly be parallel invention, not theft.

He started to get noticed. He was booked to do paid spots – fifteen-minute supports at first, then thirty-minute headlines. It happened fast. Other comics got jealous, which he didn’t mind at all. Then a television producer approached him after a gig, invited him to audition to host a new prime-time panel show, and he got it. The big break. He knew television lifted you above the chaff, shone a light and made you a ‘name’ that, even if the show bombed, you could trade on for years.

Now, seven years later, he was a seasoned television performer. A safe bet, in the networks’ eyes. He had worked out fast that in television, compromise was part of the game. Television existed to serve your profile and your wallet, not your art. Take his new show. Many comedians would turn their nose up at hosting a late-afternoon game show. Well, they were welcome to keep trying to get laughs from drunk punters at Toukley RSL for one hundred and fifty dollars a night. Meanwhile, he had a house, a boat and a potentially lucrative investment in Dev’s development, although that depended on Viv now.

He felt fairly confident that Viv would sell, but … what if he didn’t? Could he actually lose money? How much? He scratched his wrist hard. Calm down. Dev would work her magic on Viv. He looked around. There she was, talking to him now. Good. If there was a prize for Hottest Wake Attendee, Dev had it in the bag. Poor Viv didn’t stand a chance.

A late middle-aged woman he didn’t know was eagerly pushing her way through the crowd toward him, eager smile and puppy-dog eyes. He would have to get used to that again, now he was back on the box. Which reminded him, ratings from last night would be in. As she reached him, he pulled out his phone. ‘Sorry, urgent text from the producers,’ he said, rolling his eyes. He turned and fled to an empty corner where he opened his tax-deductible ‘Real Time Ratings’ app.

Down a bit. Fuck. What if this was the beginning of the end? What if ‘down a bit’ became ‘down a lot’, became a trend, became a disaster? What if his re-rising star had reached its zenith, run out of whatever it was that powered stars, and was about to plummet?

He stopped himself. What had the therapist said? Try to relax. But that was a contradiction in terms. Was there a routine in that?

What else had she said? Distract yourself from worrying thoughts by thinking about something else. Something nice, like … pelicans. Not ducks. Pelicans. And have another wine. The therapist probably hadn’t said that, but surely if she was suggesting he relax, it was implied.

He gulped the remainder of his glass, got two more from the bar and, trying to look as if one was for someone else, headed outside and down to the jetty to look for pelicans.

There weren’t any. Plenty of fucking ducks, though, both in the water and paddling around in his head.

When worries come, don’t engage with them. Let them float past. Fuck that for a joke. He rang Dom.

‘Hi, Gary.’

‘Howdy. Just had a quick glance at the ratings. A bit down, but nothing to worry about?’ He tried to phrase it as a statement, not wanting to sound needy, but his voice betrayed him by rising at the end of the sentence.

‘Yes, all good, I think, mate. These sorts of ups and downs are normal in this timeslot. You get the halo effect starting to wear off after about a month. It’s to be expected. We’re weeding out the visitors and building a committed audience.’

‘Great, yes. And the network are good?’

‘They understand. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Yes, I thought that. Just wanted to make sure we were all on the same page.’

He rang off, relieved. Nothing to worry about. Couldn’t get more definitive than that.

But if there was something to worry about, would Dom tell him? No, he wouldn’t, because the first job of a TV producer is to keep the talent happy, even if that involves lying to them. Dom’s words were worthless.

Gary’s stomach started to gnaw again. He finished the first wine and took a gulp of the second. It was lonely at the top, but he really wanted to stay there.