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This is a work of fiction, loosely based on the real
person, Russell Crowe. I do not know Mr. Crowe, although
I certainly would like to! and do not intend any insult
or invasion of his life by writing this story about
totally fictional characters and invented events.
©2003 by WILDBEARIES |
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 "Change of Scene"
by Wildbearies |
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I've been really stupid. Stubborn - bull-headed - dead
set against admitting fault - have I left any adjectives
out that describe my temperament? I don't think so, but
if I have, I'll add them in before I finish this
section.
Now, you might think that Jessie and I solved all our problems that time in Rome, and we thought we did - for awhile. Then, I reverted to type, cheated on her and lied about it, then didn't have the grace to admit it when she called me on it. Can I blame her for telling me where to go, how fast to go there and by what exit to leave? No, I can't. I crawled home to the farm with my tail between my legs - a novel approach, not really. I'd done it so many times before, with so many different women. You'd think I'd have learned by then. Christ, over 40 and still fucking myself up by not keeping my dick in my pants and my eyes and hands off the first hottie to walk past me with a flirty manner. This time, though, I stayed home for almost a year. During that time, I got some counseling, gained some insight into why I always ruined things for myself, and I reacquainted myself with a woman from my past. Granted, we'd kept in touch during the fiasco of failed love affairs I'd had, but each time, I'd left Australia for a film and she'd declined to go. She hated travel. I thrived on it. She wanted me home. I wanted to be gone. Stupidly, despite the counseling I was getting to not make rash decisions, I allowed sentiment and guilt to goad me into making a commitment to her that was neither wise nor particularly fair to her. I proposed. She accepted. It was autumn in Oz and cooling off after another hot summer of brush fires - both the arboreal and romantic kind. My farm was combed, trimmed, decked out within an inch of its life. Every walkway was swept clean, every building freshly painted, even the little chapel I'd built for my mum had received a refurbishing and aggrandizing that made it - and I knew it - the joke of the territory. St. Russell's Basilica, they called it. To me, it looked like a giant tit, only the roof was green not flesh pink. I sat at the highest point of the property, far away from the bustle going on in the outbuildings and in the houses, distancing myself from events mentally and physically. Guests were already quartered there and in Coffs Harbour and surrounds. Press and photographers were hanging from the trees outside the front gates. The wedding was the subject of endless tabloid speculation, exaggeration and hyperbole. The bride and her gown, her attendants, her family were lavished with praise and attention. She didn't seem to need me, and that was good because after almost 6 solid months of similar hysteria, I wasn't even sure I still liked her, much less that I loved her. And yet - by this time tomorrow, we would be married. My stomach lurched. "Idiot," I called myself yet again, and pulled out my cell phone. I still had Jess's number on speed-dial and I pressed her combination yet again, although without much hope she would answer. She hadn't before, and had never returned any of the numerous messages I'd left for her. After all, why should she? She had eyes and ears - I'm sure she'd heard enough about this wedding-to-be that by now she was as heartily sick of it as I was. The phone rang. It was her apartment in New York. I knew she was back there because she'd just finished working on Ron Howard's latest film and it was done right there in her stomping grounds. "Hello?" Her voice startled me so badly I almost dropped the phone. "Jess? Jessie?" I cleared my throat and tried again, not sure she had heard me, "Jess, it's me. Don't hang up - please." Silence, and then, "Russell? Why are you calling me now? Aren't you in the middle of a marriage ceremony?"
Trust
Jess to get the time zones all backwards. "No - 24 hours
from now - that's when it's scheduled anyway." "Don't be sarcastic - I'm serious." I took in a deep breath and asked, "Jess - can I see you?" "What? How can you do that? You're getting married tomorrow - Russell, just stay the hell there and make one woman miserable instead of punishing our whole gender, okay?" Ouch. "I don't want to make her miserable," I countered, trying not to sound petulant. It was full dark now and I could see light shining through the stained glass windows of the chapel as a crew worked decorating it. I turned my back to it. That was better. "What I mean is - I'm not sure I've done the right thing here. I don't love her, Jessie - there's no spark, no thrill there. She's just, well, safe. And I don't think I want safe." "Safe - that doesn't sound like you, Russ," she agreed. "What makes you think you can just call me up, tell me you're going to dump your bride at the altar and think you can waltz back into my life?" I clenched my eyes shut, pressing my right thumb and forefinger into the bridge of my nose until I stopped the tears that were blurring my eyesight. "Because you love me?" "Damn you," she whispered, and I knew I had said the truth. "Damn you a hundred times, and damn me for being a stupid wuss for admitting it." She was sounding as shaky now as I was. But then she said, "No - Russell - you may NOT come here. Do you understand me? Not! And if you do, I won't let you in the door." And she hung up. "Jessie. . ." I whispered into the buzzing hiss of the empty line. "Shit." I clicked the phone shut and lay back in the grass, my forearm flung over my eyes. I don't know how long I lay there - long enough that the dew wet my clothes and hair before I walked back down to my house. The Bride was in Coffs Harbour with her mum and girl friends. I was, for once, alone in my house except for Mark, who was off on some errand or other. I sat in the den listening to music without turning on any lights. I looked out the big window that overlooks the pool house, where lights were on as some guests swam. I had no urge to join them, and when Mark came in and turned the desk lamp on, we both jumped in surprise. "Shit - what are you doing sitting here?" he wanted to know, dropping his keys on the desk. He set down a big folder of papers and hitched one hip onto the corner of the desktop so he could give me a good look-see. "You look like crap, mate." "Thanks," I answered. I imagined I did. Lack of sleep and emotional dudgeon will do that to a fellow. I sighed and put my head against the chair back. "Mark - is the plane ready to go?" He blinked owlishly. "The plane? What the fuck...sure, yeah - but I thought you two were going off by car and then flying from Port Douglas?" He stopped and gave me another look. "Oh, fuck me - tell me you're not thinking about what I think you're thinking about - there'll be the shit storm of the century here. . ." I gave him an encouraging grin, "And who better than you, king of shoveling up shit storms, to handle it, mate? Earn some of that fantastic salary I pay you. . ." That was a joke - Mark and I were much more mates than business partners, and we both knew it. He was still shaking his head. After all, he had seen The Bride in full temper tantrum, and often, here of late. I couldn't really blame her - she knew she didn't have my full attention. She wasn't stupid, if a bit self-centered. "You aren't going to really do this are you?" He studied me and I just grinned at him. "Shit," he muttered after a bit, "you really are...Russell, I wash my hands of you!" He got up and paced back and forth. "I really mean it this time - if you pull this stunt and leave me to put out the fire, I won't work for you any more." "Sure you will," I said. I knew it. He knew it. "Call the pilot - tell them I'm coming." Mark shook his head all the while he was dialing, "Oh, fuck me, fuck me swinging, you asshole, I'm going to fuckin' kill you when this is over. . .hey, Dave, this is Marcus. I've got a request for you, mate. . ." I was already down the hall to my bedroom, thrusting several pairs of jeans, some shirts, socks, my traveling kit into my big leather carryon. By the time I came out, Mark was standing by the door with the car keys in his hand. "If you're really doin' this, let's get before anybody comes wanderin' down here, drinks in hand, lookin' for a celebration." "Good thinking," I agreed, and we were out of there. We used one of the old farm trucks, me hunkered down on the passenger side floor until we were safely out the gate, and then we were off down the road to the harbourside. It felt like when you're a kid and you know you're getting away with something that's eventually gonna get you in so much trouble you'll wish you'd never thought of it - only this felt good, not scary. "Faster," I urged Mark, and we sped on into the night. I rolled my window down and laughed as the wind whipped my hair around my face. "Faster. . ."
The knock on my door woke me from a doze. I had been reading, all comfy on my sofa with some favorite music on the stereo, and had drifted off to sleep. I was half-stupid with sleep as you often are when you've only dozed for a bit, and it took me a moment to recognize the pounding as a fist on my solid oak door. "Yeah, yeah, stop banging - who the hell is at my door at this time of night anyway," I muttered, getting to my feet. I limped to the door on sleep-stiffened legs and peered through the eyepiece. "Oh, for fuck's sake." Instead of turning him away as I had said I would, I opened the door. "What in the hell?" Russell, grinning from ear to ear, looking like some fugitive from a Napoleonic mental ward, came bursting into my apartment. "Jessie!" he greeted me, sweeping me off my feet to swing me in a wide circle before shutting the door behind him. "I've run away," he confessed, "I'm in deep shit - and you know what? I don't give a flying fuck - can I stay here?" I gaped at him. I hadn't watched any tv that night or I'd have seen at least the lead-ins for the tabloid shows and seen just how deep the shit was he was in. Probably just as well - if I had, I'd have had armed guards patrolling outside and my door firmly locked and barred against the nitwit. Instead, I just nodded at him, "Yes, you can stay here." He set me on my feet and hugged me so tightly I squeaked. "Thank God - thank YOU, Jessie - Jessie - God, I've missed you!" It was like being in the teeth of a tropical storm. I was battered, shaken, tossed up into the air emotionally and so mad at him and myself that I was speechless. All I could do was shake my head at him. Nothing came out of my mouth for almost half an hour. By then, we were sitting in the dark, me on the couch, him on the floor in front of it with his head resting against my knee, talking. We talked all that night. By dawn, both of us were exhausted and we dragged each other to bed, falling into it half-dressed. I had enough sanity to turn the ringer off on my phone and set it to take messages, and Russell sent a brief voice mail to his family apologizing and telling them he was all right. "I've hurt them all," he said with his lips trembling, but then he took a deep, weary breath and gave me a shaky smile. "But - it wasn't right, for either of us. She'd have known I don't love her enough - it wouldn't have been fair." I nodded, wishing he'd be quiet. Finally, I just rolled over, put my hand over his still-moving lips and told him to shut up. "Sleep - you're babbling. Tomorrow we'll sort things out, or make a start at it. For now, sleep. Things are always better after you rest." He nodded, kissed my fingers, and spooned into me. "Jess . . .I do still love you so much. . ." he mumbled, and then he was out. "And I love you," I answered, putting my palms against his big hand which rested at my waist. I snuggled back into him and, even though I thought I wouldn't, I slept. After sleep, after some rest, we'd sort it out, I told myself. It wasn't that easy, but we managed it.
The Bride even forgave me - eventually. Now I have a real bride - a wife - Jessie Halliwell Crowe - and I've never been so happy.
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