The Wall (28 page)

It could have been a celebration of her self and an adoration of his

self, and it had all gone awry.

But she did know herself, and she was no longer ashamed. Going

quickly out to the car, she hauled out her suitcase and handbag and

re-entered the cabin to closet herself in the bathroom.

Some time later, a slim, vibrantly beautiful woman with hauntingly

sad eyes came out. She was very chic and well dressed, and her hair

was coiled intricately at the nape of her graceful neck. Her make-up

was skilful and eye-catching, and her bearing distinctive.

Just as she was preparing to leave, the phone began to ring, and she

stopped with a suddenness that nearly cost her her balance. She

stared at the phone as if it were an apparition from the underworld,

and her lips formed Greg's name. She headed for it and nearly picked

it up, but then she thought that if he really had something to say to

her, he would be over in person.

She didn't really want to talk to anyone else.

The front door was locked quietly, closed against the interminable

ringing of the phone inside. Sara let herself into her car and drove

away without a backward glance.

She parked the car at the train station where it was to be loaded, and

filled in all of the necessary forms while waiting for the taxi she had

called. It soon arrived, and she climbed into the back while the driver

loaded her things. He had stared at her in that familiar, don't-I-know-

who-you-are look, and she had smiled at him wryly, knowing

instantly what kind of car ride she was to have on the way to the

airport.

Sure enough, the man asked her all sorts of eager questions, and she

handled them all with a charm and a patience that he would

remember for the rest of his life. She even signed an autograph

addressed to his teenaged daughter, for which he couldn't thank her

enough. He was completely captivated by her, but at the same time

he had enough perception to wonder at the almost unbearable sadness

in her lovely huge eyes and the lines of tiredness that marred what

otherwise he would have considered a perfectly featured face.

Sara stared out of the car window and silently wondered, when will

the world stop seeming so grey and dreary? An utterly devastating

depression had settled over her mind, a combination of lack of sleep

and the knowledge that every mile the taxi travelled, every mile the

plane flew, was a mile farther away from Greg.

She would never see him again. The thought made her nearly cry,

right in front of the cab driver. She would never look into the eyes of

the man who meant more to her than anybody else. She would never

know what it felt like to sleep in his arms again, to wake to his sweet

smile, to hear his rich warm laughter.

She missed the beach already, and she missed Beowulf. Would the

dog miss her? she wondered. The next natural thought faltered.

Would Greg?

Maybe he was relieved to have her gone at last.

She eyed the parking lot of the airport with loathing. The trip would

be hard, harder than the one coming back to Greg, when she had been

so ill. The taxi driver was extremely accommodating, opening her

door for her, like royalty, and carrying her luggage into the building.

He was a really nice man, she thought, as he deposited her bags next

to a luggage carrier with a flourish that could have been European.

She gave him a handsome tip for his kindness, and he shook her hand

vigorously in farewell. It was all very exhausting.

She had enough time for a meal at the airport's restaurant before the

flight left, so she headed in that direction after taking care of her

luggage. Everywhere she went, heads turned and whispers passed

from mouth to ear excitedly. Was it really she? Dare we ask for an

autograph? Sara was used to the attention and never even so much as

turned a hair at the amount of notice she was attracting. There was an

aura of reserve about her that kept people from coming up and asking

for her autograph. Aside from the constant, wearing attention she

received from a young giggly waitress, she was left strictly alone.

She toyed with her salad, eating only enough to keep herself from

collapsing from hunger, and she sipped listlessly at her coffee. The

brew was pretty terrible, and most of it was left to cool in the cup.

She wasted away the rest of the time she had left, and finally had to

leave her comfortable seat in the restaurant to board her flight. For

some reason the airport was crowded that day, and she had to push

her way through people to step on to the escalator that would carry

her to the second storey, where she would be boarding. Her heart

ached.

'Greg, she thought, and she could hear his voice calling her from

outside her cabin, that day when he had brought all the firewood over

to her place. A pity she hadn't been able to stay and use it up. The

gesture had been nice. Her eyes flooded with moisture. His voice had

sounded deep and hoarse from anxiety. '. . . Sara! Sara, listen to me!

Can you hear me? Sara!'

She gradually became aware of someone really and truly calling her

name, and suddenly the world whirled and her stomach lurched, and

she had to grab for the side belt for support as she turned to look out

over the crowd that she was rapidly rising above. She would have

sworn she had heard Greg's deep voice bellowing out over the babble

of the crowd.

Her eyes swept out over the people, and she shouted, 'Greg! Greg, is

that you?' and then her eyes found him. He was fighting to get

through a thick patch of people, his dark face grim, and his eyes

desperate. He found her as she called out, and for a split second they

stared at each other as she was pulled farther up and away. She

yearned with all of her being to push past all the people lower down

on the escalator and throw herself at him, but she just couldn't. The

first move had to come from him. He had to tell her.

Even at that distance, Greg must have been able to read her need and

uncertainties, for his head lifted and he shouted out, 'Sara—Sara

Bertelli, please don't go!' She stared, absolutely stunned to the core,

and heads lifted at the famous name, faces turning towards her and

murmuring. 'Sara,' it was a roar of, incredibly, exasperation, 'for

God's sake, I love you!'

He couldn't really get more public than that.

She was at the top of the escalator without realising it and tripping

over the stationary boarder, as she stared at Greg from the top of the

stairs. She was immobile, frozen, while she watched him struggle to

get to the bottom of the escalator. Someone came up to her and

touched her arm, saying, 'Gee, Miss Bertelli, I'd really love to have

your auto -' But the person was talking to empty air, for she suddenly

found the power of movement in her legs and was racing to the down

escalator, murmuring apologies as she wriggled through people. Then

she was stumbling down the moving stairs and pushing by two

outraged old ladies, squeezing past a portly gentleman, incredulous

joy beating at her temples, pounding in her veins. He saw her

approach, and changed direction to meet her at the bottom of the

stairs.

Then everything seemed to be going in slow motion, and everything

was incredibly clear. Sara was able to remember each movement and

jostle and expression on Greg's face for the rest of her life.

She reached the bottom of the escalator after an eternity. He came

forward between two people, thrusting his broad shoulder

aggressively through the slight space between them and ignoring

their protests. His dark hair looked ruffled as if he had ran his fingers

through it repeatedly, and it glinted like newly minted copper in the

harsh fluorescent light. His face was at once both haggard and harsh,

with lines running from his nose to the sides of his mouth and in

between his heavy brows, and yet at the same time his face was soft

and more open than she remembered it. His eyes blazed with a fierce,

radiant glow, expressive and vulnerable. Then his two hands were

reaching for her eagerly, as eagerly as she was reaching for him, and

they fell together urgently.

Her face was pressed painfully into his jacket as he strained her to

him, nearly breaking her ribs. She didn't mind; she wouldn't have

cared if the roof came crashing down around them; she would have

smiled sweetly if someone had come up and bashed her on the head.

Nothing mattered outside the press of his cheek on her hair and the

pressure of his arms around her. She knew that she must be holding

him as tightly and as painfully as he was holding her, but all she saw

when she lifted her head to
look
into his eyes was a deep and steady

strong glow of happiness.

. The murmurs around them and the fingers pointing didn't matter in

the least. Sara couldn't care less, and she was immensely touched and

amused to see Greg reacting with a supreme indifference as he tilted

up her chin with an exquisite tenderness to bring his mouth down on

hers in a gentle, giving, healing kiss that lasted just exactly for ever.

She never heard the scattered applause about them; she was too

wrapped up in the man holding her, and her own delirious happiness.

She could have sworn that she had literally seen the smoking ruins

that he had stepped over in order to reach her in liberation.

The wall had crumbled to rubble at last.

Excitement was tense within her, almost making her sick to her

stomach, heightening her senses. Her eyes, made up skilfully and

dramatically, were huge and brilliant, glittering and sparkling. They

were the focus of her face. When one looked at her compelling

features, the eyes always drew the gaze. Her black hair was styled

into a profusion of glossy curls cascading all about her face and

shoulders, and her skin-tight outfit was very, very black. It fitted like

a body suit, cut low on the shoulders and encasing the legs, and was

worn with a glittering silver overdress that was very transparent. Her

silver high heels were dashing, sleek, emphasising her height. She

waited in the wings, patiently submitting to the fussings of the make-

up artist, the hairdresser, and the costume designer, but she paid no

attention to any of these. She was alone, isolated, preserving the

build-up of power and energy that would spill out of her in just a few

moments.

People ran back and forth behind the stage curtain. Directions were

called out quietly, positions were being taken. The special was being

filmed live, and the months of work and creative output and musical

effort were coming to their culmination tonight. Sara listened to the

audience out in front with her breathing shallow and her luminous

eyes slightly dilated. It was almost exactly like a live concert, the

difference being that millions of people would be seeing her perform

instead of mere thousands. She was as tense as a live wire.

The celebrity guests were close by, being prepared just as she was,

but she paid them no mind either. All of her being was focussed on

herself, her hypnotic state of preparation. Nothing could go wrong,

she knew that instinctively, with that inexplicable, intuitive

realisation that sometimes comes to an artist.

It was almost time. Her heart thudded, roared, pounded. Her hands

shook and her lips compressed. She was sick, she was fine, she was

like a thoroughbred horse quivering and intent on the starting gate

opening up to the most gruelling and important and vital race of her

life. A few more seconds only, just a few more, then she would be

going out on that stage, moving in front of so many people, in front

of so many ... her head turned slowly, her eyes sought out the

darkness backstage, and she caught sight of the tall silent man who

stood in a small oasis of stillness in the frantic movements around

him. His eyes were on her and her only, fixated, concentrated. They

just looked at each other for a long moment when their gazes locked.

Her own were fierce, slightly mocking, strangely pleading and

compelling under delicate black winged brows. Greg's were dark,

intent, searching and approving. He nodded to her slightly, once, and

it was all that she had needed. It dispelled the doubts and fears of the