“I love Australia.”
Jake shook How’s hand, shook Roley’s, and offered his hand to Rand, who knocked it aside and bear hugged him instead, saying simply, “I’m sorry,” before releasing him.
“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure,” said Jake.
The three men made a noisy exit from the lounge, with Rand coming back twice to kiss Harry. And then they were gone.
“You okay?” he asked Harry.
She sniffed. “I’m great.” She smiled though her snuffling. “I’ll see him soon and we’ll talk every day.”
“Been terrific to work with you, Harry. I wish you all the best in LA and with Rand. You both deserve to be happy.”
“Thank you. I’m so sorry about Rielle. I thought things would work out for you. I really did. I don’t know what to say except give her time.”
Jake nodded, more to be polite than anything else. The possibility that there was a reasonable explanation for what Rie had done was as slim as air. She’d cut and run; ruthlessly, stealthily, deliberately without a word. She’d thrown their relationship in his face by taking Jonathan with her. What explanation could she have for that, and how could he ever find it in his heart to forgive her?
When there were no more details to attend to back at the stadium, the hotel or with the crew, Jake collected Bonne and went home for the first time in over two months. There was a pile of mail stuffed under his door courtesy of his downstairs neighbour: flyers, bills, a second notice for the unpaid gas. There was a fridge full of condiments and nothing to put them on, and a dripping tap in the bathroom that needed a new washer. There was a musty smell, a blown bulb in the galley kitchen, a trail of ants and an unmade bed. He was tired, cranky and frustrated beyond words. And at the back of those feelings lurked deeper emotions: anger, bitterness and resignation.
He stripped the bed, realised he had no clean sheets and slept on the bare mattress, his phone by his side, hoping she’d call and wake him so he’d have the satisfaction of hearing her excuses and the pure pain of knowing precisely where they stood.
The morning’s heat building up in the small flat woke him. He was thirsty and disoriented. It took him a moment to realise he was looking at the rental beige painted ceiling of his flat and to understand she hadn’t called. He did a rough time conversion— maybe it was too early for her to have landed—but he knew that was a lie. He could call again, but that was the problem—again. She’d only earned so much forgiveness, and he was owed a call, a text, something. Surely she’d do that for him.
He dragged himself up, showered and dressed, shopped for groceries. He came home and stocked the fridge, swept, scrubbed and vacuumed, washed and dried sheets and towels. He made the bed, fixed the tap, logged onto his PC and paid bills, left the ants to their enterprise. He went back out for a coffee and dawdled over the newspaper. He made a mental list of people to call to organise work. He came home and chopped onions, cooked mince for spag bol—all the time waiting for the phone to ring. All the time thinking, this was the other side of purgatory.
It wasn’t til late that night, when he was almost asleep in front of an X Files repeat, that the phone did ring and after that he had a whole fresh hell to worry about.
46. Arielle
Los Angeles, USA. Ten months later.
Rielle finished the tour in a dazed, spaced-out state, like an accident victim struggling to process a catastrophic, life-changing event.
Because like it or not, her life had to change. Like it or not, he’d already changed it.
Being with Jake taught her how broken she was. How much her life was about playing a role, and how scared she was to step outside of being the Ice Queen and embrace her whole self and a real life. And if she doubted that, Rand, with a smug look on his face, was there to remind her.
It’s just that it took her months to face up to it. Months of hiding behind the rigours of touring: the tight timetable, full days, exhausting nights, the suitcases, planes, buses and hotel rooms, the different cities, almost identical interviews with different journalists, and the hundreds of times she’d performed the show to millions of fans, whose screaming sounded the same