Scatter the Stars Read online

  Australia’s most popular woman novelist, Di Morrissey is well known as a TV presenter on the original ‘Good Morning Australia’. She has also been a journalist, screenwriter and advertising copywriter. Di now lives and writes in Byron Bay, NSW, in between travelling to research her books. She is the author of seven previous bestsellers, Heart of the Dreaming, The Last Rose of Summer, Follow the Morning Star, The Last Mile Home, Tears of the Moon, When the Singing Stops and The Songmaster.

  Di Morrissey can be visited at her website:

  http://www.dimorrissey.com

  Also by Di Morrissey

  Heart of the Dreaming

  The Last Rose of Summer

  Follow the Morning Star

  The Last Mile Home

  Tears of the Moon

  When the Singing Stops

  The Songmaster

  Scatter the Stars

  Blaze

  The Bay

  Kimberley Sun

  Barra Creek

  The Reef

  DI MORRISSEY

  SCATTER

  the

  STARS

  First published 1998 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  First published 1999 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Reprinted 2003,2004,2005 (twice)

  Copyright © Di Morrissey 1998

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Morrissey, Di,

  Scatter the stars.

  ISBN 0 330 36158 9 (pbk.).

  I.Title.

  A823.3

  Typeset in 11/13 Sabon by Post Pre-press Group

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  These electronic editions published in 1998 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Scatter the Stars

  Di Morrissey

  Adobe eReader format: 978-1-74197-048-7

  Online format: 978-1-74197-651-9

  EPUB format: 978-1-74262-200-2

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Heartfelt thanks to all those who answered questions, shared knowledge and experiences.

  Especially the men who shared – Tony Coote, Michael Pate, Rod Taylor, John Allen, Scott Parker, Charles McCall. And Errol Flynn!

  Wise and loving women – Julie Hutchinson, Anne Maria Lee, Sherry Geyer, my New York agent Caron K. (and daughter, Ariel).

  My family – my daughter, Gabrielle, who gives from the heart in all she thinks and does and who has shared so much with me. My son, Nick, whose friendship, love and caring soul gives me strength. My mother, who’s always there for me. Jim Revitt for pushing me that extra step.

  And good friends – my publisher, James Fraser, and all at Pan Macmillan, Australia.

  Carolyn Beaumont for her thoughtful editing.

  Liz and Richard Adams for PNG expertise. (For literary licence, I have moved the date of the 1951 Mt Lamington eruption.)

  And, as always, special thanks to my own best friend for his unwavering love, advice and humour.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About Di Morrissey

  Also by Di Morrissey

  Title page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘. . . We come whirling out of nothingness,

  scattering the stars like dust . . .’

  Jalal-ud-Din Rumi 1207–1273

  ONE

  Rincon Beach, California 1998

  He was a beautiful man. No matter what your ideal of male beauty. His body was silhouetted against the sunrise water of the deserted beach. Tall and lean, firm muscles delineated but not overly developed. Fair skin, lightly brushed with golden down, the thick head of hair tinged with bronze, eyes as deep a blue as the warming sky. He dropped a towel on a rock and walked to the water’s edge. He had a swimmer’s body, broad shoulders, narrow hips, long legs, flat strong stomach. If there was a flaw, it was the pale scar on his lower back.

  It was a morning ritual, this swim. Whatever the weather. The day was never right unless he’d lost himself in the sensuousness of becoming immersed in the ocean. Not a pool, not a bath, not a shower. The ocean gave him a sense of abandonment in an infinite womb where all was safe, protected. The wet, silken, unbroken touch on each cell of his body connected him to other worldliness. Water wrapped him in a holy blue light. Sheer, shimmering, cool water caressed his body as he moved through its endless curtain with rhythmic strokes. Sex couldn’t fulfil him this way. He arched and thrust his hips, copulating, undulating with the currents. Then he heard the voices. Then he saw the City.

  It had begun months before, as glimpsed shadows in the depths, that were at first the worry of monsters lurking. Fleeting images of the swift movement, or the unseen hit, as a leg was wrenched from his body, blood clouding the water, a flash of jaws, the rows of triangular teeth extended to jag and rip prey. But he’d continue to stroke forward, merely closing his eyes and breathing quickly. He’d count the overarm strokes and by the time he got to seven the fear would begin to subside. But he was aware the shadows were still there. Gradually he’d change to breaststroke and peer more intently at the distant ocean floor.

  A pattern had begun to emerge. His breathing would rush noisily in his ears, like wind down a tunnel. Then it’d seem to stop. He’d have no sensation of breathing and there’d be no sounds around him. He’d float on the surface, his face in the water as he found his underwater vision slowly settling, quivering molten glass freezing to clear hard sight. Then he would make out the shapes of the City. But they were distant, at the far end of a telescope.

  This morning, as Michael passed through the pattern of the barrier like an athlete hitting a high, the external present world fell silent and he waited for the clarity of the water to steady. His City was closer and he wondered had he drifted down to it, or had it floated up to him? In the instant of that thought, the sounds came. Voices, faintly calling. It was no language Michael knew, but i
n a rush of comprehension he understood what they were saying.

  ‘Go, it is no longer safe.’ He felt their fear. The urgency in their voices grew louder. Then, silence. What did it mean? He must find out.

  He was gliding down and down. The City rose to meet him. And he knew it like his own. A turn here, a curve there and before him would be the fortified walls, the main gateway. Through the giant arches and into the avenues where all was familiar; the cathedral spire, the columns of the grand proscenium, the ornamental lake with its shimmering white rotunda, the lush gardens, the terraces and columns topped with great statues. He turned towards the main temple. He knew it was his favourite; a flight of wide stone steps led to the eight Ionic columns flanking the entrance with another set of identical columns at the rear, each sitting upon its moulded base which grew out of the arms of carved nymphs. The length of the column fell in graceful folds, the head of the shaft, a carved block, waved like the hair of a nymph, the cornice delicately decorated with mythical creatures. Inside, the central chamber faced the rising sun, its rays lighting the painted timber figure of Athene. The gold leaf glittered brightly and the blue stones glowed in her eyes. The temple had a porch at the eastern end with a sacrificial altar, and another porch for meditation and lectures at the western side. The chamber at the rear of the temple held the treasury and the ancient texts, the utterances of the oracle that were only to be consulted in times of great danger or disaster.

  It was a City he knew intimately. But while he had this knowledge, he knew nothing of what had happened to its inhabitants. It was as if, in a moment, they had been sucked from their daily lives, everything left as it had been in that fraction of time. The smell of fresh oranges, a fire in a hearth, baking bread, a baby’s rocking cradle. Why had they fled? Why had they not learned from the ancient tomes of Cumae of impending destruction? The City was sad and lonely, but so beautiful. As he drifted without effort past lush trees and splashing fountains, he called out. And his voice echoed. He drifted with little conscious motion, floating, upright, without steps or stumbles, through the City where nothing should ever change. Was he the one to find the people, to bring them home? Or was he, alone, privy to a portion of the past, suspended forever in this state between planes of then and now?

  There was the noise of rushing water and, like fingers disturbing a reflection, all quivered and disappeared. He was methodically swimming, arm over arm, face forward and to the side, one, two, three strokes, a breath and hold it. It was as if some sort of short circuit had taken place. He’d become disconnected from the City. He swam till his feet touched the shore, and he stood and rubbed his eyes. The City would be here tomorrow. And he would visit it again. Only in the secret City did he feel such calmness, peacefulness, knowing here was a higher sense of self.

  But now, twentieth century California awaited. And his footsteps back from the beach dragged.

  He was at his truck, parked at the edge of a cliff. He shook his head, tipping water from his ears and drops flew from his golden hair. He roughly towelled his body and tried to make himself stop thinking about the City. He wondered how he’d mark the hours until the following morning’s swim.

  Soon he’d have to get back to work. Los Angeles. Rincon Beach. Two hours and two worlds apart. There was little back at his office in the TV studios that appealed to him. He’d taken this month off after the break-up of his marriage. He wanted to use it to think of new directions for program ideas, which were better formulated away from the giddy merry-go-round of LA’s incestuous back-stabbing, back-scratching, bum-licking, selfish thinking.

  His beach house was a fishing shack of the thirties, patched up, dressed up, added onto, painted and landscaped, so that it had a romantic if shop-worn facade. Inside it was simply and tastefully decorated, a few expensive rugs and pots, exotic pieces collected on the occasional overseas assignment. That and his truck were all he had salvaged from the marriage. The large Brentwood home, the series 7 BMW, the condo in Maui, had all been handed over to his wife. It seemed a small price to try to erase the bitter hurt, angry and accusatory tightness from her face and body. There wasn’t anyone else. Not really. The marriage had been over years before but neither had wanted to admit it. When he raised their lack of fun together, of joy and spontaneous laughter, of delight in each other’s company, the stimulation of talking, doing things together, she told him he was being childish and idealistic. No marriage kept that going. She was convinced there was a secret woman. ‘Young, I suppose. Who is she, Michael? For God’s sake, you can’t throw away the life we have for some bimbo. You’re forty-two years old. You shock me, I never thought you’d do this, be such a . . . typical bastard of a man, for God’s sake.’

  He’d managed to convince her there wasn’t another woman standing in the wings. This had been even harder for her to accept. ‘This is how it is, Michael. This is life. You want the impossible. Don’t be stupid.’

  She’d stormed off, moving in with their best friends, waiting for him to come to his senses. He’d stayed at home with their daughter, Shana, trying to explain to her the need for he and her mother to give each other space. The fifteen-year-old had burst into tears. ‘You’re getting a divorce. Now we’ll be just like everyone else. We were special . . .’ She slammed her bedroom door, sobs bouncing off the walls, unmuffled by a pillow, their deep hoarseness accusing, blaming. He’d called his wife and told her to move back in, he was moving out. He’d driven to Rincon Beach and started swimming again. He’d missed the swimming in the sea. The pool at home in Brentwood gave no release, no escape. No glimpses of the City.

  There had been women other than his wife. But only in the past two years. Brief, short-lived flings. Some were young TV reporters and researchers, others divorcees his own age. For a moment or two he’d feel fulfilled, but it had never lasted long. It wasn’t the sex, it wasn’t the guilt, these transient arms held no answers, offered no future for him. Some of the women were bewildered, hurt, unable to comprehend why these relationships faltered and faded so quickly.

  There had to be a solution. He couldn’t be the only one. To ache and feel so alone. To know he’d caused unnecessary pain. That he’d gone backwards. Where was the key to unlock the City? He longed to hold onto its serenity, carry it back with him from the beach, back to this godforsaken life. Who was there to take him by the hand and say, ‘Michael, it’s easy. Follow this path, go over that bridge, through a field of flowers and you will find a gate. Go through the gate and there will be all you’ve ever wanted.’

  Then Michael froze. He realised he could not imagine what it was he wanted. There was no perfect relationship, there was no happy ever after, there was only the treadmill of daily existence where he trudged and wandered, never leaving the same spot.

  So why was he here? He thought about his mother more and more. She’d left him and gone off with another man. His father had railed at her, blamed her. Any ripple or devastation in his life was always conveniently manipulated to be her fault, he the victim. Michael, young as he had been, had sympathised with his mother. His father’s constant demeaning and whining attitude, refusing to accept any form of blame or responsibility on himself, had caused Michael to despise him. But Michael was just a little boy. Just six years old.

  At night, huddled in his bed, he’d also begun to blame his mother for taking away smiles and cuddles, he even missed the firm slaps and admonishments. ‘Come back, Mommy, and I’ll be good, I promise,’ he’d cried in the beginning. And when he had been allowed to spend time with her, he’d felt smothered. She’d clung to him, babbling how it hadn’t been her fault, how she loved her little boy, but Daddy was so mean, and she loved Uncle Frank too, now didn’t he think Uncle Frank was lovely? Look, he’d bought Michael a new basketball. Michael had thrown the gift against the fence, then ignored it and stomped inside to cries of ‘You spoiled and ungrateful little monkey’.

  Later she’d sat beside him, stroking his back as he hid beneath the bed cover and, in a weepy voice, she
would ask didn’t he love his Mommy any more, wouldn’t he like to stay with Mommy and Uncle Frank?

  He’d kicked a leg against her and snuffled, ‘No, I want my dad.’ But he’d never told his father he was unhappy, that his mother made him uncomfortable, that he disliked the stranger, Uncle Frank, and he never told him either that he’d said he wanted his dad. He played his mother and father against each other and everyone was miserable. He had promised himself that when he grew up his marriage would be different.

  Michael turned the ignition key with unnecessary force, the sound of the motor drowning the sea behind him.

  Michael Matthews’ wife, Barbara – elegant, glamorous, at great cost – had always been dependent on him. His income, his show-business connections, his lifestyle, had dictated her life. She had little interest outside this. She played tennis at the Brentwood Club, joined the gym at the LA Sports Connection, lunched and shopped in Beverly Hills, or sat at home with campari and grapefruit juice in the day, pinot grigio at night. Michael stayed in his den evenings, channel surfing between current affairs programs, reading newspapers, talking on the phone or writing scripts. When they came together in their bed, Barbara was generally snoring lightly, unwakeable from the alcohol she’d consumed. Sex had been an occasional, swift morning event, cleansed in the shower. Michael was a sensual man, who pleasured and pleased women. His sexiness, his manner that made every woman he met feel desirable and weak-kneed, was a trait that came naturally, it was not created. Unfortunately women read more into his manner than he intended. Barbara had long ago dismissed his appeal to women as ‘that’s how he is and they’ll learn it doesn’t mean anything’.

  He now recognised he was what the sexual therapists called a giver. A caring lover who gained pleasure by giving pleasure. One can give selflessly for just so long. He wished the same could be reciprocated. He wanted a woman to nurture and pleasure him. To massage his body, rub his head, sit on the bed and give him a pedicure and tell him funny anecdotes, share a bubble bath, make love to him and then, flushed with being so loved, let him make deep caring love to her. Where was this woman? He wanted someone to talk to about story ideas, discuss the strengths of an interview. He didn’t think he was being unreasonable in wanting to hang onto romance. Women were too pragmatic. And Barbara was boring, drank too much and maybe that was his fault. But whatever they’d had in the beginning, and now he wondered how special even that had been, was diluted and faded. Like a once blue shirt, the colour was washed out, buttons were missing and the cuffs were frayed. Despite the difficulties of the shell of the life in which he now found himself, it had to be better, would get better than the life that had gone before. It was an article of faith he recited every day.