It’s Love, Dude Page 13

  ‘I was going to talk to you about that.’ There was the noise of a restaurant or party around Max. It grew quieter, so he’d clearly found some privacy. ‘Cloo-in haven’t contacted me yet, but they’re not going to like the suggestion that you’re using a girl for your image.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Truth, fiction. It’s what people believe that counts.’

  ‘I am not using Molly. Kill the story.’

  ‘I’ll look into it.’

  ‘Do that.’ Zane disconnected. He immediately dialled a new number. ‘Granddad, what’s the situation with Molly?’

  ***

  Molly hid out at Tom’s house. The journalists had found her at her house and her parents’, but Tom had two dogs that looked fierce, even if they were softies where friends were concerned. Molly was halfway through a packet of chocolate biscuits. She’d discovered that having your house and car staked out by journalists, especially those with tele-photo camera lenses, was a stressful business.

  She watched Tom as he took a phone call from Zane. That Zane had called him meant he’d picked up on the stress in her voice.

  The story of the naïve small town girl used by the sports star playboy had caught the attention of the Australian media. She had never expected to be door-stopped. That happened to politicians. She’d been caught without anything to say, and ‘no comment’ could be twisted so many ways.

  Damn Tony Umble. It was that horrible Australian Tall Poppy Syndrome or the politics of envy. They were so eager to tear down Zane that they were willing to use her and her relationship to do it. If Zane lost this competition because he was worried about her, then they really had won.

  There were still days to go in the event. It was a major one and she’d learned they took time, even with the weather cooperating.

  ‘Molly’s cranky,’ Tom said. ‘No one likes their private life spread across a newspaper. But she’s not stupid. She knows it’s all lies.’

  She nodded encouragement. The important point was not to let Zane know the extent of the media’s harassment. There was nothing he could do except get angry and lose the competition.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll keep an eye on her,’ Tom said. ‘No, it won’t be difficult.’ He winked at her.

  At least that was one bright point. Far from taking this furore as confirmation that Molly should have steered clear of his grandson, Tom was solidly on their side. Ironic, since Molly was starting to think his original objections had validity. Not that she believed the horrible article, but she did accept the truth of its underlying argument: she didn’t belong in Zane’s world.

  Asher Rae thrived on and sought out the publicity. Molly was hiding out, miserable and trying not to show it. People were worrying about her because she obviously couldn’t cope.

  ‘I’ll phone you if there’s anything you can do. No, boy, I don’t need to reverse the charges. See you.’ Tom hung up. Expression serious, he looked at Molly. ‘Zane’s got his knickers in a twist about you.’

  ‘I know.’ She hugged her arms around herself. ‘I don’t think I can do this.’

  ‘What?’ Tom thundered.

  ‘This is the sort of article Zane can shrug off, but he knows I can’t. So it’s messing with his mind. A relationship is meant to make both people stronger.’

  ‘Don’t give me psychobabble. You’ve got more guts than to crash at the first oil slick.’

  She shook her head. ‘Tom, they’ve been phoning me. Journalists. They want me to go on the TV morning shows, do interviews. They’ve phoned my old high school teachers and they’ve even tried to infer something sleazy with Greg. Julie dealt with that. But I’m not like Julie. She’s a brilliant partner for Greg. She can stand up for herself and — ‘

  ‘Hold it right there, Molly.’

  She sniffed and caught the box of tissues Tom threw at her.

  ‘Zane will deal with this,’ he said. ‘Give the boy a chance.’

  ‘But he shouldn’t have to deal with it. Don’t you see? Tony Umble might be a snake, but he saw that I’m Zane’s weak point. If I stay with him, I’ll drag him down.’

  ‘You’re being girly. Stop that and think.’

  ‘I am thinking.’

  ‘You’re not. You’re playing the self-hating game this journalist bloke wants you to. He can’t hurt Zane, but you can, if you let this bloke break you up. You heard Zane phone me. I saw him with you the last few days. The boy is wrapped up in you. There’s the promise of something good there. Something that’ll go the distance. But you have to make a commitment, too.’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘No.’ He held up a large hand. ‘Too much talking in the bad times can really mess things up. You have to make a decision. Are you with Zane or not?’

  ‘We’re different people, Tom.’

  ‘Different doesn’t matter. If you love him, you’ll find a way to make it work.’

  Chapter 14

  Molly ended up at Big Swamp. After Tom’s laying down of the law, she couldn’t stay there, and besides, she needed to confront the central issue she’d been evading: did she love Zane?

  Was the sky blue? Were journalists persistent?

  Of course she loved Zane. All her talk of a fun relationship had been cover; careful self-protection so that she wouldn’t see how deep the water was that she’d dived into. She loved him for his humour, his strength, the kindness and the simple fact that being with him felt right, felt wonderful.

  But loving someone didn’t mean you fit their world.

  Molly dug a torch out of her glove box. She’d promised Zane she wouldn’t venture into the swamp after dark. But there was maybe an hour of light left. At least in the swamp, in the familiar western side away from the cave, she’d be safe from journalists. From everyone.

  Out of habit, she followed her and Tom’s trail to the fallen log and sat there in the small clearing. There was something primeval about swamps. They were ageless and enduring. The froggy chorus slowly re-started — and halted abruptly.

  ‘Rotten phone.’ She nearly jumped out of her skin at the alien intrusion of tinny sound. She reached to switch it off; certain it would be either a journalist or worried friends and family. At this hour, Zane would be — should be — sleeping. Still, she checked the name.

  Oliver Trelawney.

  Oliver, Zane’s friend, the photographer. She opened the text.

  He’d sent her a photo. ‘Don’t believe the lies in the media, honey.’

  Her breath stopped.

  He’d taken a photo of her at the formal dinner on the Gold Coast. She’d been wearing the borrowed dress and Zane stood beside her.

  She looked glamorous and relaxed, leaning into him as she laughed. She remembered the moment. Carly had been describing her six year old niece’s determination to surf. Zane wasn’t laughing, though. He was looking down at her with an expression of love and pride, possession and awe, raw desire.

  She hadn’t noticed at the time. Or rather, she hadn’t noticed consciously. Unconsciously, she’d known and given herself and her trust to that emotion. Zane would fight the world for her. He’d shown her that when he’d rearranged everything to have time in Jardin Bay with her.

  Molly looked up with eyes unfocussed with tears.

  His commitment wasn’t in question.

  Tom was right.

  She blinked.

  No way! She raised her smartphone on instinct and took two photos. Then she fell off the log.

  ‘A woylie!’ She’d seen a woylie. She scrambled to get back off the ground. Muddy jeans didn’t matter. Nor did a frog hopping madly away from her. She wiped her hands on her jeans and fumblingly called up the photos on her phone.

  The woylie had vanished, undoubtedly freaked by her scream and the crash of her fall. But there it was on screen. A woylie. Adorable.

  The impossible was true.

  ‘There are woylies in Big Swamp,’ she whispered.

  She flipped the photos back from the woylie to Oliver’s photo of her and
Zane.

  If you dreamed huge, anything was possible.

  ‘Oh my goodness. I have so much to do! And now I’m talking to myself. Ssshh, idiot, you’re scaring the woylie.’ She was so hyped, she couldn’t help but talk to herself. ‘First, I have to get out of the swamp. Okay. I can do that.’

  It was tricky navigating the narrow, winding path through the swamp and looking at the photo of Zane and her, and her own photos of the woylie. But she had to look at the photos because she couldn’t quite believe they were real. It was a relief to be out of the paperbarks and at her car.

  She hesitated. She could start phoning people now. Annie Reece would be over the moon to hear that there was photographic evidence of a woylie sighting. But that wasn’t thinking. That was just reacting.

  How often had Greg and Julie said, ‘We have to take control of the story’? Either you controlled the media narrative, or it controlled you.

  She had to protect Zane and her by proving to him that she could handle his world. Being with her had to make him stronger, just as being with him made her feel divine, a goddess.

  There was so much to do that she didn’t know where to start.

  She found Stuart’s number on the phone. As the local conservation officer she needed him to confirm her identification of the woylie. She’d have to swear him to secrecy. That woylie was going to be famous. Just wait.

  But she couldn’t swear Stuart to secrecy or convince him to fall in with her plan if she didn’t have her plan mapped out crystal clear. The broad outline was obvious — the media wanted to interview Zane’s ‘Small Town Girl’ and they’d get the chance. But she had to exploit the fleeting moment of celebrity status. For that, she needed expert advice.

  Molly got in her car and zoomed out.

  A lightning-split tuart tree loomed ahead of her at the T-junction. She turned right instead of heading for home.

  Trish lived with her partner Rob out of town. Rob owned alpacas, so they needed space. Their Jack Russell terrier announced Molly’s arrival.

  ‘I’m sorry to barge in on you.’

  ‘Barge away. Coffee?’

  Molly nodded. Normally she was a no-caffeine-after-3-o’clock kind of girl. But tonight sleep was optional. All that mattered was engineering her own miracle.

  ‘Trish, I have some news, but more than that, I need your help.’

  ‘Handling the media?’ Trish looked sympathetic.

  Molly grinned. ‘More like exploiting them.’

  Trish’s concerned expression turned to wonder. ‘I thought you’d be in hiding.’

  ‘I was. But I had an epiphany.’

  Rob laughed. ‘Planning on turning the tables?’

  ‘Planning on proving something to myself and Zane, and maybe to everyone.’

  ‘If I can help, I will.’ Trish sat down at the table. ‘What do you need?’

  ***

  Zane fought the urge to throw his phone at the wall. He’d damn near dropped out of the event. Not by choice, but because his head wasn’t in the game.

  The story of him ‘using’ Molly had hit the international media. They had one-upped the original pest, Tony Umble, by getting feminists to weigh in on the sexist portrayal of women in surfing.

  What the heck?

  Maybe they had a point. Right now, he didn’t care. One of those academic types had called Molly ‘deluded, weak, and defined by the men in her life’. Molly! Who was intelligent, passionate and wonderfully, if shyly, herself.

  Worse, when he phoned his manager, Max, to demand why he hadn’t shut down the circus, Max wasn’t taking his calls.

  If Zane could have reached through space to strangle his manager, he would have. He paid his manager to stand up in a time like this. The next time he spoke to Max, the man better have a flipping hell of an excuse or his ass was gone.

  Worst of all, Molly wasn’t taking his calls.

  It was unheard of, impossible. It was killing him.

  Zane had left the event and retreated as early as he could to his hotel room, but it was a cage. He needed to be out on the waves. He needed to be back in Jardin Bay. He needed Molly.

  The night closed in on him. He called a different Australian number, one that answered.

  ‘Granddad, Molly’s not answering my calls. I need you to go see her. I need to know she’s okay. I have to talk to her.’

  Tom cleared his throat. No words. He cleared his throat again.

  Zane’s own throat tightened. He braced with one hand on the wall. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Molly’s left Jardin Bay. I’m sorry, boy. She’s gone.’

  ***

  The television studio lights were hot. Molly wondered why Zane hadn’t told her that. She’d seen him being interviewed once wearing a leather jacket. He’d looked cool, but he must have sweltered.

  She was wearing a carefully chosen outfit. Trish had tracked down Maureen, owner of Jardin Bay’s sole boutique, to open the store just for Molly. Then the three of them had chosen the outfit she now wore.

  ‘You have to look like a sexually confident woman,’ Trish had said. ‘The clothes will help, but it has to come from you. Shy is fine, but you have to show the world that you’re strong in who you are. You want everyone to see why Zane loves you.’

  Molly had opened her mouth to say that she didn’t know Zane loved her. Then she thought of all that he’d shared with her and of Oliver’s photo. She had to trust, she had to believe and act, that he loved her.

  ‘All set?’ The television host was famous but friendly, an older woman who had a glossy shell of confidence. She was dressed professionally in a tailored pink jacket over a paler pink camisole and black trousers.

  Molly hoped Maureen and Trish had been right that she needed to be more adventurous. She wore a summer dress that hinted at cleavage but didn’t look desperate. It was patterned in swirling blues and greens with hints of pink — perfect for the camera, according to Trish. The make-up artist had drawn Molly’s hair back and up in a high, casual ponytail and emphasised her eyes and mouth with dramatic make-up. To Molly, it looked overdone, but apparently the camera ate it up.

  And then there wasn’t time to worry anymore because the pre-recorded interview started.

  ‘How does it feel to be called a ‘small town girl’?’

  ‘It feels great.’ Smile. ‘I love Jardin Bay. Zane does, too. It’s home. The people are friendly, the place is gorgeous.’

  ‘And the waves?’ A coy question.

  ‘You’ll have to ask Zane that.’ Smile harder. ‘But I do have a secret I can share with you.’

  The host leaned forward, looking interested, although this had been rehearsed.

  ‘Jardin Bay is in the south west of Australia. Apart from being famous for the surf, the great food and the friendly welcome, we also have a sadder side. Like so many places around the country, we’ve lost a lot of our native flora and fauna. Which makes what I’m about to show you all the more remarkable. We’ve found woylies in Jardin Bay!’

  The screen shot would show her photo of the woylie in Big Swamp, then flick to a more professional photo of a woylie in a zoo. Molly continued to stare at the red light on the television camera.

  ‘So cute,’ the host gushed. ‘They remind me of bilbies.’

  ‘They’re somewhat similar, although I think woylies are cuter. Then again, I’m biased.’ Molly fumbled at the side of her chair and her hand closed on Dude. ‘Zane gifted me my own woylie.’

  ‘Aww. Now that’s cute. What a wonderful present. You can tell us, Molly. Is Zane a secret romantic?’

  Molly stroked Dude’s soft fur. ‘Oh yes.’

  ***

  ‘Hell, yes,’ Max shouted when he saw the clip. ‘You gorgeous girl.’ He kissed his computer screen. ‘You’ve just killed the trash story and written one that is going to sell like ice-cream on holidays.’

  It was Sunday evening, but Los Angeles never slept. He started setting up interviews for Molly. Zane’s celebrity status was going to be sky-hi
gh after this. Forget winning a surfing competition or even the World Championships, what the ordinary person wanted was romance!

  ***

  Molly stumbled off the plane into the warmth of the Hawaiian afternoon. It was strange to have two Sundays, but flying against the clock meant she’d achieved it. Immediately after the television interview in Sydney, she’d taken a taxi to the airport. Now wasn’t the time to muck about. Greg had called in favours, and she had the paperwork to enter the US. Thank goodness she’d had a passport.

  She wished she’d been able to sleep on the plane, but the most she’d managed had been a doze. Nerves, excitement, the sense that she’d risked everything kept her awake. Flying to the Gold Coast to catch up with Zane was cute and flirty. Flying to Hawaii shrieked of commitment.

  Now her eyes screwed up at the bright glare of the airport lights. Ugh. Why couldn’t they have pity on exhausted passengers?

  It took forever to get through Immigration. Molly shifted from foot to foot and seriously contemplated sitting on the floor.

  Finally — finally — she was free.

  Her suitcase on its dinky wheels rattled behind her, and hit her calves when she stopped suddenly. ‘Zane?’

  He couldn’t possibly have heard her breathless whisper in the vast, chaotic airport terminal, but his eyes met hers right then. He closed the distance between them in a dozen long strides.

  ‘This is not fair.’ Too tired and disappointed to process that Zane looked shocked to see her, she launched into something perilously close to a tantrum. ‘I told Tom not to tell you I was flying in. I told him it would be — ‘

  He hugged her tight, lifting her off her feet. ‘Molly.’

  The sheer affection in his voice killed her tantrum and vanished her weariness. ‘Hi, Zane.’

  He put her back on her feet, leant in and kissed her. Hard.

  Fireworks dazzled the edge of her vision. Then as Zane released her a fraction, she realised the ‘fireworks’ were flashbulbs.

  An opportunistic photojournalist was recording their reunion.

  Zane noticed the guy, too. He angled his body to block her from view and picked up her suitcase. ‘Let’s get out of here. I don’t know how or why you’re here and I don’t care. I just want you to myself.’