Silent Heart Read online

  "The usual. Creative excuses why assorted theses are running late, tutorials where the only students who contribute are the ones who've done no preparation whatsoever, the customary skirmishes with Admin..." He grinned as the cork came out smoothly. "Pretty much an ordinary day. How about you?"

  "Lunch in the City with publisher, photographer and rabid journalist."

  Gerald possessed a deceptively mild appearance. I was accustomed to hearing what a nice man he was, expressed in tones of surprise that implied a professor of history could not normally be expected to have this quality. Nice was too weak a word to describe him — civilized suited him better.

  As he poured the wine, he said, "No doubt your publisher was represented by the attentive Hugh Oliver, but who were the others?"

  I hadn't enjoyed lunch, and wanted to forget about it. Equally strongly, I didn't want Gerald bringing up anything about our relationship. Deciding to skate over the information and then firmly lead us back to a reliable topic, such as university politics, I said, "Both from Millennium magazine. The photographer's an American woman, Christie O'Keefe. The journo's Reyne Kendall."

  He surprised me when he said, "Know them both."

  "Indeed? Is Millennium doing a cover story on Gerald Humphries?"

  He grinned at my tone. "No, darling, you're the one the magazine's profiling, because you're the one with the sexy bestseller."

  The word "darling" reverberated in the room. I was scrupulous never to use endearments, and his casual use of the term seemed almost to imply ownership.

  With his usual care, he settled the wine bottle into its bed of ice in the silver bucket he'd given me for my birthday. "The reason I know Christie O'Keefe is that she collaborated on Penter's book — she did all those moody photographs to match the moody poems." Dr. Penter, from the School of Computing Studies, was an officious, bustling man with an astonishing streak of literary ability in him. "And Reyne Kendall's done some sound work on street kids. Had a lead article a couple of issues ago that I thought was pretty good stuff."

  "I didn't see it." I had seen it, but couldn't bear to read about the misery of abandoned children's lives.

  Gerald was looking at me with a faint smile. "I get the feeling you didn't warm to Reyne Kendall."

  "She was confronting, pushy. I'm not looking forward to having her tag along to Brisbane and Melbourne."

  "It's the price of fame, Victoria. You better get used to it, especially when you tour the States."

  "If I tour the States."

  My prevarication didn't convince him. "You know the university will give you the time off, and you'll be surprised how quickly you become accustomed to limousines and luxury hotels."

  I sipped my wine. It disturbed my ordered world, but it was exciting — to be caught up in a round of interviews, of people wanting to meet me, speak with me, just because I had written a surprise bestseller. I heard Zoe's sharp words: "... selling sex, it's as simple as that." She had a way of cheapening things I'd achieved, but I refused to feel ashamed of what I'd written.

  "Gerald, I know it's got a catchy title, and I've rewritten some of it for the general public, but..."

  He touched my hand reassuringly. "Yes, your book's good, don't ever have any doubts. Good scholarship and good writing, and we both know those two don't necessarily go together." His expression changed. "Talking about going together..."

  "I'll check the oven."

  He followed me into the kitchen. "We need to talk about us."

  I tried to speak lightly. "No we don't. Everything's fine."

  "It isn't fine for me."

  I felt trapped, smothered by his demanding affection. Allowing anger to defend me, I said sharply, "What more do you want? You've got a companion, a colleague, a bedmate. You're not going to ask me to wash your socks, are you?"

  He put his hands on my shoulders. "I want a commitment."

  "Oh, come on!"

  "Don't dismiss what I'm saying without thinking about it, Victoria. It's what we both need — a permanent relationship."

  I had thought about it, long and hard. Keeping my voice level, I said, "I don't need it, Gerald. And if it's a condition of us staying together..."

  His short laugh was bitter. "Staying together? We're not together in any way I accept. So, we spend time with each other, we go to bed fairly regularly... in your terms that s a relationship, is it?"

  "I've got to serve dinner."

  Taking the chicken out of the oven gave me an excuse to avoid his accusing gaze, but his tone slapped me. "Jesus, Victoria! How do I get through to you? I care for you — but I don't think you love anyone, not even yourself."

  Fury made my voice thick. "Remember history's your forte, Gerald, not psychoanalysis."

  He leaned back against the kitchen bench and folded his arms. "Since you've brought it up, why not consider therapy?"

  I stared at him. "Therapy? Me? You've got to be joking!"

  His face was flushed with anger, but he kept his voice level. "Don't just refuse to consider the idea. It could give you some insight —"

  "Into what? Your delicate male ego?"

  "How many relationships have you had, Victoria, before me? I'm the last of a long line of men, and you've dropped every one of us the moment things got too intense. I think you've got a problem."

  "I have. It's you." I wasn't afraid of other people's anger, but my own rage terrified me. I took a deep breath. "I don't want to talk about this."

  "We have to."

  I wanted to smash something — a plate, a glass, his concerned face. "Gerald, please go."

  He was astonished. "Go? But we..."

  "Take the chicken with you, if you're hungry," I said with bitter humor. "But leave, right now."

  He closed the door behind him very gently, as I knew he would. I looked around the room, relief spiraling through me. Relief that I didn't have to go through the motions of a relationship. And, though I shied away from the thought, relief that I didn't have to share my bed tonight.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Chantrey's Bookshop was awash with people and the hum of conversation. Traffic noise filtered in from the busy city street outside. A long, fairly narrow store, it was organized with shelving that broke the flow, encouraging customers to eddy around strategically placed stacks. The book signing — my first major one — was to be at the end furthest from George Street, where an area had been cleared for a lectern and a microphone and a gaggle of chairs.

  As Hugh Oliver, flushed with self-importance, led the way, I glanced sideways at the large stacks of my book at the entrance. I couldn't get used to seeing my own face staring out from the back cover. Resisting Rampion's blandishments to wear academic dress — "Sex and a mortarboard! The contrast, don't you see?" — I'd finally agreed to what the photographer cheerfully called "a dramatic three-quarter face," the effect achieved by the interplay of light and shadow. I usually wore my long dark hair in a disciplined chignon, but for the photograph it was loose on my shoulders. Light ran along my cheekbones and hollowed my cheeks. To myself, I looked severe, controlled. My mouth was resolute, my hands were folded neatly in my lap. Yet there was a disturbing echo of my former self as I'd been captured in the photograph Zoe had given me the day before.

  "Victoria! In here." Hugh shepherded me into a small room used by the staff. "This will be a major appearance. A good dress rehearsal for the States. Do you have your notes ready? Is there anything you want?"

  "A gin and tonic."

  Hugh looked taken aback, then laughed. "We'll have a celebratory drink afterwards." He swelled a little. "This is going to be a great success — we should get coverage in the press. Did you see the size of the crowd?"

  Part of Hugh's enthusiasm had been generated by free publicity. My scheduled appearance had caused a small group of outraged citizens, complete with inflammatory placards, to picket the bookstore early that morning. They had thoughtfully contacted the media to make sure their protests that I was undermining the religious found
ations of society would feature in the early news bulletins. The leader had denounced both me and The Erotic Muse. "When the seats of higher learning in this country are corrupted... when the professors whose duty it is to teach our young are peddling filth... when base pornography is viewed as literature..." It was the type of publicity that couldn't be bought.

  "You didn't set that protest up yourself?" I asked Hugh as he checked the growth of the crowd outside for what seemed the fifteenth time.

  Hugh smoothed his sandy hair, as though soothing himself with the motion. "Of course not. Mind you, I suppose it's the success of the pre-publicity for this appearance that encouraged them, so maybe I did have something to do with it — but only indirectly." He caught my dubious expression, and added quickly, "I'd do a lot for publicity, but setting up a fake demonstration would be a bit much."

  I wasn't so sure. Early in my association with Rampion Press the company's highly regarded publicity manager had been headhunted by a rival company, and Hugh, as second in command, had leaped into her seat. It was clear that he felt he had to consolidate his position by proving himself equal, if not better, than his predecessor, and the success of the publicity campaign and the sales of my book were a means to that end.

  Hugh was beginning to sweat. He wiped his face surreptitiously, straightened his tie and frowned at me. "Victoria, you know Paul Chantrey will be introducing you himself... that is, the younger Paul Chantrey." Hugh was always delighted to have some tidbit of gossip, so he added, "There's some talk his second marriage to the ballerina's in trouble..."

  The Chantrey family was an institution in Sydney, having run family-owned bookshops for several generations. Having met Paul Chantrey on several occasions when he'd hosted popular literature seminars at the university, I was impressed by his utter superficiality. I seriously doubted if he'd ever read any of the books he sold — in my opinion, comic books would be a challenge to him.

  This was not to say that Chantrey wasn't presentable. Watching him as swept through the door of the staff office, Italian suit immaculate, face lightly tanned, I wondered why he'd never considered politics — he had that telling combination of height, regular features and a semblance of sincerity. Ignoring Hugh's attempts to introduce us, Chantrey said, "Professor! How wonderful to see you again! And what a privilege to have you here at Chantrey's major store..." He belonged to that group of people who love to repeat their own names, so he added, "I'd like to think that Chantrey's will always be your first choice when launching your books, Professor Woodson."

  And in his introductory speech to the not inconsiderable crowd that had collected at the back of the store, he managed to mention Chantrey at least ten times. "... and now, I'm sure you're as delighted as I am to welcome Professor Victoria Woodson to Chantrey's Bookshop..."

  Some people clapped. Some stared at me with bovine expressions. Alarmingly, a few faces held expressions of fervent, zealous interest. My career had made me relaxed about speaking to groups, large or small, but suddenly a thread of anxiety brushed me. I'd selected a short passage to read, and had my notes, prompts for a graceful little speech about the gratifying interest that publication of the book had generated in the Victorian literary period. Now, looking at my audience, I realized that what I intended to say was inappropriate.

  Somebody coughed. Paul Chantrey smiled in anticipation, no doubt, that I would use his name when thanking him. "Good morning," I said, opting for a non-controversial beginning. Over the heads of the people standing at the back I caught sight of Reyne Kendall. She was watching me with clinical detachment, waiting, perhaps, for me to make a fool of myself.

  Early that morning, over my usual breakfast of toast and tea, I'd read Reyne's Millennium article on street children, rescuing the copy of the magazine from the neat pile I had ready for paper recycling. I was right to have avoided the article before — it made me wince and, finally, moved me to tears. In her writing I saw a Reyne Kendall that surprised me. Probing, unsentimental, unbiased — yet keenly feeling the human cost of children our society had failed. And she used words well, writing supple, strong prose that caught and held attention.

  Thinking this, I smiled at her, and was rather unkindly amused when she was clearly disconcerted.

  Abandoning my notes, I gave a series of brief readings from my book on the subject of "the first kiss."

  Aware that some of the earlier protesters might have joined the crowd, I thought it was a safe, but interesting topic; I'd used it previously for a press article. It combined a wide variety of sources, including private pornography of the late nineteenth century, a dramatic extract from the twenties bestseller, The Sheik, a wickedly amusing poem about homosexuality in the navy during the Second World War, and an unintentionally ludicrous scene from a recent popular novel. I put each extract in perspective with a brief discussion of the social background, the author's purpose and the expectations of the audience, then sank into a chair behind a table, ready to sign my book for anyone prepared to purchase it. Hugh had already warned me, "Don't sign until they own it." When I'd asked if I had to check receipts, he'd been irritated. "You know what I mean," he said, frowning at my frivolity.

  Now he was beckoning me back to the lectern. "Answer questions," he said out of the corner of his mouth.

  The first one was from small mousy woman who clutched a copy of The Erotic Muse as though she thought it might flutter away if given the chance. "There's an awful lot of sex in your book," she said briskly. "I want to know why."

  "Well, it is on the subject of eroticism in literature..."

  "On what?"

  I was starting to lose confidence. "Eroticism?" I said hopefully, aware that Reyne was grinning widely at my discomfiture.

  "There's another question at the back," interposed Hugh. This one was from an earnest young man who'd apparently learned by heart a convoluted question of interminable length. I followed a rule taught to me by one of my university teachers long ago — "The longer the question, the shorter the answer. That discourages them."

  I was accustomed to questioning from my students, but this was a new experience. When someone asked how long I took to write the book, so many people nodded with approval that I realized this must be an important query, though why that should be I couldn't imagine.

  Signing was another steep learning curve. A line snaked away from the table, each person holding at least one copy of the book — some, amazingly, several. Hugh was expert at shuffling on the ones who were determined to linger, leaving me to wrestle with the unlikely spellings that perfectly ordinary names seemed to have. I was reminded of the story about the visiting British author who'd dedicated a book to "Emma Chisit" only to find the customer was actually asking how much the book was.

  At one point I looked up to see that Christie O'Keefe had arrived and was fiddling with an elaborate camera. I hated being photographed at the best of times, but felt doubly at a disadvantage when I was concentrating on inscribing suitable messages for those for whom a signature was not enough — "I'd like a few words, if you don't mind.”

  The line eventually grew shorter, dwindling to a few determined people, one a large man with bulging eyes who confided that he was writing a book on erotica. As I declined his offer of co-authorship, and he reluctantly obeyed Hugh's admonitions that the appearance was over, Reyne came up behind me. "I enjoyed that. You had them eating out of your hand."

  I'd expected a smart remark, but she seemed sincere. "Thank you."

  "Christie and I are meeting in the Strand Arcade coffee shop. Want to join us?"

  "I'm not sure..."

  "The invitation's open. We'll be there for the next half hour at least." She nodded to Hugh, who was looking pleased with himself. "It went well," she said to him, "and I saw Pippa Blaine herself had turned up, rather than send a cub reporter."

  He rubbed his hands. "Pippa Blaine..." In explanation, he said to me, "Pippa writes the Lifestyle column in the Courier. It's great press coverage and if we're lucky, she'll tie it
in with a photo."

  "Paul Chantrey spent of lot of time charming her."

  Hugh groaned at Reyne's comment. "He'll be pushing publicity for his bookstore, not for Victoria. I'd better call Pippa and make sure she's got the right story."

  "Feed her some juicy gossip and Pip will give you all the publicity you want," said Reyne with a mocking smile. She touched me lightly on the shoulder. "Coffee — if you want it..."

  Watching her walk away, Hugh said, "I suppose you know..." He looked at me sideways. "No doubt someone's told you..."

  "Told me what?"

  "It's not a secret. She's quite open about it." He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial level. "Reyne's gay... she's a lesbian."

  "Really?"

  I could hardly have conveyed less interest, but Hugh was determined to continue. "And I understand Christie's AC: DC — you know, both ways." When I didn't respond, he added, "Thought you should be told."

  "Why?"

  He was puzzled "Why? So you can..." He turned his palms up to indicate his point was self-evident.

  "It's nothing to do with me, Hugh."

  I could see he'd managed to embarrass himself. His color high, he blustered, "Now, how about that drink to celebrate your very successful appearance? The Hilton's just up the street and you might also like to look at where the literary luncheon is being held."

  I gathered up my things. "Thanks, but I have to get back to the university."

  As I made my way through the store, Hugh at my heels like an anxious-to-please Labrador dog, I overheard someone say, "See her? She's the professor who wrote that dirty book."

  "Public recognition!" said Hugh. "Doesn't matter what they say, Victoria, as long as they say something."

  The coffee shop was crowded, but Reyne and Christie had the best table near the window, where the constant movement of people walking through the restored Victorian shopping arcade provided a fascinating background. Looking at their casual clothing, I felt overdressed in my severely cut dark suit.