had a collection of entirely new songs. Once she’d found the voice and music in her head again, fresh sounds and words poured out as though they’d been there all the time, stored up, waiting for her to be ready to receive them. They were different; lighter and freer. Songs for Arielle, not for an ice queen; simple songs for a singer with a guitar and not much else. Songs that weren’t anthems or chart toppers, but shone unaccompanied with little pieces of pain and truth and daring. They were songs about fear and having courage. Songs about unflinching honesty and unconditional love. Songs inspired by her time with Jake that proved she didn’t have to be the Ice Queen anymore unless she wanted to.
Going back seemed like the right thing to do. She couldn’t do it in LA, or New York or anywhere else in the US, too much risk she’d be caught out and the media frenzy would be intense, especially on the back of the continuous break-up rumours. But in Sydney it would be easier to hide and there were people she trusted, so Sydney made sense. It would give her cover in every respect but one, but then, it was a long time now and she wasn’t going to search him out anyway. She’d made her peace with that, as much as it was possible to and still be listening to his wretched voicemails.
It was Bodge who set it up for her. He got a little blonde folk singer called Arielle a gig at a mate’s pub. She could barely remember being so excited, but the dread was there too. Fear of failing, fear of falling—which is what she’d have called the album if it ever got recorded, if it survived being played live.
47. Jake
Sydney, Australia.
The call from Glen was a pleasant surprise. The building site was noisy, and Jake almost missed the phone ring under the squeal of an angle grinder. From his perch on top of the scaffold, four storeys up, where he was threading electrical cable, Jake told Glen how his dad was doing. Thankfully much better, with movement restored to his right leg and arm and cheekier every day now that he was getting his speech back after the stroke.
That’s what the shouting the night Rielle came to dinner had been about. Dad working too hard and not taking care of himself. They were lucky he’d survived. His recovery was going to be slow and frustrating, but he’d get there. He was a tough old bugger. They’d had to make changes of course, maybe take on a partner for the business or sell it, because much as Jake was happy to carry things, it wasn’t what he wanted to do forever.
He had no idea what he wanted to do next week, let alone forever. He was distracted, unanchored; bouncing between the business and helping Mum and Issy take care of Dad.
It was good to be busy. Too much thinking time was bad for his soul, because in his quiet moments he thought of Rielle.
He had an endless loop of mental images to call on. Rielle in every mood and manner: the mystery Gym Girl, the fiery hellcat, the tempting seductress, the electric powerhouse performer. The girl he’d loved. The girl he hated. Rie on the back of Bonne. Rie in lycra and leather, and Issy’s flowery dress. Rie in his arms, in the cage, in her bed. Rie as the moth goddess. Rie as a bitch and a sweetheart, an idol and a lover and a nightmare.
When he remembered how she looked that night with the Bogongs, or seducing him in the St Kilda alleyway during the video shoot, he felt nothing but anger with himself for being so taken in by her. She was a fake and an actress and a liar, and he’d known it from the first. The only thing she’d been brutally truthful about was the one thing he’d chosen to conveniently ignore—the fact they didn’t have a future. That she would use him and leave him without a backwards glance.
He was a fool and a sap with a straw heart like she’d once accused him of being. Too angry to forgive her, too craven to forget her and perversely grateful that what happened to Dad prevented him from abandoning all pride and going to her so she could humiliate him all over again.
Talking with Glen felt good. He was full of industry news. The coming tours planned,