FUTURE PERFECT - Section I

Arrogant. Difficult. Surly. Bad Boy. Home wrecker. Arrogant.

I tried to remember everything I'd heard about the man in the past two years, and, aside from his phenomenal acting talent, the only things that came immediately to mind were the negative ones. Typical. The press loved to slap labels on people when they had the gall to try keeping some of their private life private. And "arrogant" had popped up from my memory bank twice. That meant something of the truth was probably in there somewhere. I sighed, staring at the most recent photographs in the file, all two years old or older, nothing more recent. I rubbed my temples where a headache was beginning to throb.

"Australia," I muttered to myself, shaking my head. "I must be nuts."

The head of the United Talent Agency had delicately referred to it as "an assignment", but we both knew it was a test of my mettle. As the newest member of the largest group of talent agents in Hollywood, despite my five years working in virtually the same job at another firm, I was being tested to see what I was made of. To do this, I had to handle some of the real problem clients. I knew that when I took the job; what I hadn't realized was that one of them was going to be THE problem client. I sighed again and slapped the folder of pictures closed.

I slammed the chair back from my desk and paced back and forth for a few minutes, alternately forming and discarding plans in my head. I could fly to Australia, I schemed, drop in on him unexpectedly, beard the lion in his den, so to speak. I snorted in derision at myself. The lion that got bearded in that den would much more likely be me and not him.

I sat down to plan, but after an hour, I was fresh out of brilliant ideas. I started to rethink the situation. Okay, I thought, the surprise visit might not be so unworkable. The man lived hours north of Sydney in the wilds of Australia. He was rumored to not come within miles of the city, and nobody had even seen him, except - presumably - his family members and any staff he might have, since his last film had premiered almost three years earlier. For all anybody knew, he had fallen down a gully and been turned into a crispy critter by the hot Aussie sun.

If I flew to Sydney, found some of his old mates and grilled them, maybe, just maybe, one of them would let slip the information I would need to find him. Once found, I would worry about how to get in to see him, and once seen. . .he'd be so smitten with my looks, brains and charm that he would fall all over himself to talk to me.

"Yeah, right," I said to my reflection in the window that overlooked the park next door. "And he's just as likely to shoot you on sight." Was he a gun freak? I couldn't recall. I made a mental note to find out about any weapons he might have. On this less than inspiring thought, I sat down and seriously began the business of tracking down someone who did not want to be tracked down, who had left no doubts about his feelings on the subject of anything to do with fame before he had melted into the private retreat he had built for himself in the middle of nowhere.

"If any of you (expletives deleted) assholes tries to find me, if you even come within ten miles of me, you will be exceedingly sorry." And that was one of the more polite farewells he had uttered.

I pressed the intercom button. "Sandy," I said to my assistant, "book me a flight to Sydney, I'm going to meet with Russell Crowe."

She didn't answer. Instead, she opened the door into my office and just gaped at me. I grinned and nodded, "Yeah, I know. But if I don't at least try, I'll never hear the end of it, not to mention that I have grown fond of receiving my paycheck."

She nodded at me, "True. And after all, how many times can he throw you out before the impact of hitting the ground kills you?"

"That was not encouraging," I called out to her retreating back. I heard her laughing even through the closed door. What was I getting myself into?
 

Three Weeks Later, Sydney, AU:

I was in a mini-suite at the Sydney Hilton, the desk cluttered with my laptop, my day planner and the remains of that day's breakfast and lunch. The wastebasket overflowed with balled-up paper. It was mid afternoon on the Monday of my second week there and I was no closer to figuring out how to get in to see the elusive, reclusive Mr. Crowe than I had been in Los Angeles weeks before. Well, truthfully, I was closer physically in that we now inhabited the same continent, but that was about it for positives.

Nobody would tell me where he could be found, or even if he was actually in Australia. For all I knew, he could be on Mars. The tight-shut lips of his circle of friends, acquaintances, former employees and even the head of his Sydney-based agency, had stayed tightly shut, despite all my assurances that I wasn't going to bring a horde of paparazzi in to take pictures of him feeding his cows or playing with his dogs, and that I simply wanted to make him an offer that might entice him to make a film. To add insult to injury, I had the distinct feeling a couple of them were on the phone to the target of my search just as soon as I left them, no doubt warning him about the nasty woman come to tempt him with beads and trinkets.

It was frustrating, but in a way, awe-inspiring, that he engendered such loyalty years after walking away from his career. The phone rang as I was gloomily wishing I had continued being an authors' agent, although that was a long way past. I was thirty four, single, and finding life oddly empty despite career success.

"Lynn Sykes," I barked into the receiver, then remembered where I was. "Hello?" I added in a slightly softer tone.

A raspy male voice heavy with Oz overtones. "Miss Sykes? Ira Trenary here. I heard you were lookin' for a former employer of mine."

Pay dirt! Ira Trenary was a man I had been unable to track down. He had, for a time, served as head of Russell Crowe's security team. They hadn't parted on good terms, so perhaps he would be willing to give with some information. Everyone who had known Trenary, however, hadn't known where to find him. I told him as much and was treated to a long dissertation on a trip he had just taken while working for some girl pop singers who were touring the Orient. My eyes crossed in boredom before he finished. "It was a bore," he finally told me, echoing my thoughts, "but a well-payin' bore."

"Well," I said, glad to get a word in edgewise, "at least the girls were pretty." I had no idea if they were or not, it just seemed an appropriate thing to say.

He snorted loudly into the phone, almost deafening me, "Not very, and two of them are dykes, but that's not why y'wanted to talk to me, now is it?" He was astute, was old Ira. He got right to the point, "Y'want to know how to find Russell and then y'want to talk him into goin' back to work, right?"

"Right," I responded. It was, after all, a pretty accurate description of why I was in Australia.

"Well," he said, drawing the word out as if he had to argue with himself about talking with me, when he and I both knew he was not at all a friend of his former employer.

"It's worth money to you," I said into the silence.

"Keep your money," he snapped back, "it'll be worth it to me to see his face when you knock on his front door."

I pictured that and a little shiver worked its way down my spine. "Y-yes, I'm sure that will be, um, special." I wondered what was between them, it sounded like more than a disagreement over wages or days off. Pushing that aside, I arranged to meet with him an hour later in the hotel bar.

He was late. I hadn't expected anything other than that, given what I had heard about him, but he did eventually show up. He was chunky, walked with a slight limp, and had nondescript features. He lit a cigarette without asking if I minded, but stubbed it out after a coughing fit drew attention from other patrons who had nothing better to do than be nosy. "So why come all this way?" he asked in his raspy, heavily Aussie accented voice.

"If I can convince him to do this film - even to look at the script and read the proposal - it would be a major coups."

He shook his head, staring into his beer bottle, not looking at me, but constantly scanning the shadowy bar. I wanted to ask him if the police were after him, but I was afraid he would answer in the affirmative. "A major coups," he mimicked, finishing his second bottle of beer and thumping the empty down on the table. A waitress promptly brought him another. "Is that the only reason?"

"Well," I admitted, "I'd have to say I am also a fan of his. I'd like to see him in a film again myself."

He almost choked on his beer laughing at me, then said mockingly, "Bleedin' Christ, another fan. You'd think the bloke did something special, play-actin' an' all that shit."

"He IS special, but I'm not going to argue with you about that, I just want one thing from you." I fixed him with my no-nonsense look. I had used it in the past with great success on rebellious actors, snotty secretaries, bratty children, and my cat. It didn't work so well on the cat, but it had on everyone else. Besides, to try to explain that no other actor alive conveyed such an aura of genuine manliness and strength tempered by vulnerability would be wasted effort with this guy.

"You want me to forget I promised to never reveal just exactly where the bloke lives," he said flatly.

"Yes."

"And you'll pay well?"

"I thought you didn't want money." Not that I was surprised by his greed, earlier claims to the contrary aside.

"Danger money," he whispered, looking up from the beer for once, flashing me a nasty grin.

"D-danger?" My voice squeaked a little bit, and his grin widened. I waved a hand in dismissal of any such nonsense. "Whatever, I'm sure this will suffice?" I opened my day planner and slid a fat brown envelope across the table to him.

One hand shot out, palmed the envelope and slid it into his lap where he peered down at it, riffling through the bills. He looked up, managing to wipe a look of - what was it? Greed? Surprise? - off his face before he squinted at me and nodded. "Okay, then. We hire a fella to fly us to the airstrip near the farm, then we drive half an hour or so to get to one of the side gates. Nobody guards them and we can nip over the fences and get in that way, I think."

"You 'think'? I thought you were positive you could do this?" I got up, leaned across the table and grabbed for the envelope in his lap. I got it, but also got a finger hooked in the belt loop of his disreputable jeans. Before I could get untangled, he had moved the envelope out of my reach, and was uttering words of mock encouragement in my ear. The more I flailed around to get loose, the more he managed to shove his 'lap' against my hand.

"Oh, that's it, c'mon love!" he purred, "If ya wanted to cop a feel, all ya had to do was ask, I'd have let ya do that for nothin'."

I got my hand free and sat down, glaring at him. "Mr. Trenary," I said in my sternest voice, "this is strictly a business arrangement, so keep your nasty thoughts to yourself." He looked somewhat contrite, so I went on, "If you can do this, say so. If you can't, give me back the money."

"Sorry," he mumbled. His dirty-brown eyes glinted with what appeared to be greed mixed with some malice and a lot of beer. "We go in the morning, " he announced. "Six a.m. Don't bring a ton of women's shit with you, and dress warmly, it's winter here." He got up, threw some bills on the table to pay for his beer, and was gone almost before I could say goodbye, not that I would have. He was a thoroughly unpleasant man. No wonder he and Russell had parted ways. Rumor had it they had traded fisticuffs before that. Having met the man, I could understand that a bit better.

I went upstairs to pack.

The Next Day, Somewhere North of Sydney:

The puddle jumper airplane rattled back up the pitted tarmac and bumbled its way into the air. I watched it leave, relieved to have made it alive to the dinky airstrip that was supposedly only a half hour drive away from Russell Crowe's property. A cold wind blew my ball cap off and I went running after it, much to the amusement of my "guide", who merely watched the recovery effort without offering to lend a hand. Cap retrieved and jammed firmly onto my windblown mop of curls, I heaved my canvas duffle onto my shoulder and did my best not to stagger after him as he strode to the tin building that a battered sign announced was the "Terminal".

"I must be terminal to be doing this," I muttered, fighting the wind, the bag, heavy wet mud, and an urge to run back to civilization as fast as my feet would carry me. We went into the building and Trenary got the keys to an ancient Land Rover that was to be our mode of transportation. It was painted in black and white zebra stripes where it wasn't rusted through.

I gazed at this improbable vehicle for a moment, gathering words to describe my feelings that wouldn't sound impossibly sissified and girly-snooty. "Ugly," I finally managed, climbing into the passenger seat. A spring promptly poked me in the hip. I did my best to ignore it.

"Yeah," Trenary answered - the longest speech I'd gotten out of the man all day - and turned the key in the ignition. Surprisingly, the heap started right up and we set off. Well, actually, it was raining so hard by then, it was more like we sloshed off, turning north onto a narrow ribbon of rock strewn mud that a sign announced was the Aronga Station Road. "Aronga?" I read aloud.

"Yeah," he said again, then added, "y'miss a coupla turns, you're goin' in a-wrong-a direction for sure." He cackled at his own humor, while I examined my map, ignoring panic that he had no real idea where we were headed despite his self-assurance. He saw my map and snickered a couple of times. No doubt he thought I was a complete fool, and he was probably correct. I folded the map, shoved it into a pocket of my duffle and stared resolutely forward through the rain. We were going in the right direction. After all, my companion had been there before, and how difficult could it be to find a 500 acre ranch?

"I thought to get to his ranch, you flew to this town, Coff's Harbour," I said after we had gone ten minutes without speaking.

He grunted non-committally, finally shaking his head in the negative. "Too exposed, he's got people there that'd warn him if they saw me comin'. The way we're goin', he won't know."

I digested this information. "So we could have flown into a regular airport, instead of that - that - cow pasture, and we could have rented a regular car, except you were afraid someone would recognize you?"

"Yeah," he rasped, wiping his side of the windshield with the sleeve of his green anorak, which looked as if he had worn it to roll in car grease and mud.

"What, exactly, went wrong between you and Mr. Crowe?"

He snorted, and I thought he wouldn't answer, but eventually he did. "Bloke's a right strong fancier of the sheilas, y'know. I rooted the wrong one. He didn't like sharin' , so he saw me off."

"Which one?" I asked, unable to resist.

He wiped the windshield again. "Oh, one of the American actresses - not that real bony one, can't stand her! That Jill something-or-other, the one with the big rack of tits and the nice round ass." He cackled, apparently enjoying some unsavory memories.

I wished I had kept my mouth shut. I knew exactly who he meant, but I hadn't known she had ever been involved with Russell Crowe. Were I him, I wouldn't have wanted to share anything with Ira Trenary, much less a bed partner. I suppressed a shudder and occupied myself with pretending to look out the windows at the rain-drenched scenery. We bounced over a huge pothole, slewed around a couple of times and trundled onward.

As if reading my thoughts, Trenary commented, "Y'shoulda come in December. It's nice then."

"Yes," I snapped, having heard this from everyone I'd talked to since I'd arrived, "I forgot June is winter here. So sue me." The Rover bounced around and through more holes, humps and bumps while I tightened my shoulder harness and pointedly ignored him for a while.

Trenary grinned widely, shook his head, and began humming under his breath. Off key. I hoped he wasn't planning on doing that the whole way. On the plane he had sat next to the pilot and they had yelled back and forth to each other over the roaring engine, their speech formed of so much local slang that I couldn't make out a word of it. Well, I had understood "crazy sheila" and "damn stupid idea", but I hadn't let on. By then, I was beginning to agree with them.

In the hotel and even before, on the flight over, my plans had seemed simple enough. Find someone who knew how to get to Russell Crowe's farm, and get them to take me there. Once there, I would somehow charm the elusive actor into listening to me without throwing me unceremoniously off his place. Just what I would use to charm him, beyond the proposal I had for him, I wasn't totally sure. After all, he'd been offered millions and turned it down. He'd been propositioned by - and no doubt availed himself of some - of the most beautiful women in the world. His penchant for willowy blondes was well documented in the press. What was I going to offer him that would induce him to expose himself to the kind of media frenzy and scrutiny of his every move that had finally ruined stardom for him and sent him back to Australia? I wasn't at all sure of that either. So what had caused me to think that I could make any kind of success of this venture?

It was raining so hard it was almost impossible to see the road. Furthermore, the clouds and mist were so thick, it was more like dusk than mid-day. I wiped the condensation off my side of the windshield repeatedly, as if my being able to see out would somehow enable my driver to see better. He seemed to be doing okay in that regard though, he hadn't slowed down all that much. My kidneys and teeth were getting rattled on a frequent basis as he hurtled forward over the pitiful road.

"I wish you would slow down a little," I finally commented. My seatbelt was as tight as it could go and my fingers were cramped from digging into the seat in fear.

"Nah," he growled, which I took to be Aussie for "No, we're just fine as we are, ma'am."

We drove through water a foot deep where streams flooded the road. The Rover handled them fairly well despite its age and battered condition, but what if the water were deeper? I daren't voice my concerns on that score. I might get another "Nah" out of him.

I settled for shutting my eyes and pretending I was back home, doing something safe and harmless. Like riding the biggest, baddest roller coaster in a lightning storm at Knott's Berry Farm without a safety bar holding me in my seat. The car slewed around violently, bringing my eyes open with a snap. A burst of creative cussing streamed from my "guide's" mouth, most of it unintelligible Aussie terms that sounded pretty gruesome.

"What?" I managed, then the Rover was lifted up, spun around again, and set back down at an acute angle, all this to a background of invective that would have made a dockworker blush. Our tires spun in the mud, then we crashed into something and stopped, canted onto one side. My duffle bag hit the back of my seat and I was glad of the shoulder harness, because I would have smacked into the dashboard without it. "What did you hit, an elephant?" I asked, naturally curious.

Trenary wiped condensation off the windscreen and peered forward. "Rock," he explained, and got out of the Rover, slamming the door as rain pelted inside in his wake.

"Thank you for that informative speech," I said to the empty car. I unbelted and fought the door open, wishing I hadn't as soon as the rain drenched me. The car was almost lying on its side, so I fell out and landed on my knees in gravelly mud. Grace was never my strong suit. Judging from my current situation, I told myself common sense wasn't high on my list of achievements either. I dragged myself up, buffeted by wind-driven rain, and tottered forward where Trenary was bent down, looking at something under the front end of the Rover. He scowled up at me, looking like a drowned rat and gestured back towards the door, no doubt his way of inviting me to get out of his way and get back inside. Stubbornly, I stood my ground - mud. I was knee deep in it.

"We gotta walk," he finally announced, zipping up the anorak he wore over faded black jeans. He looked a little odd, but I couldn't put my finger on it. He looked fatter, somehow, and not quite as old. I was obviously hallucinating, and it was no doubt caused by his last pronouncement.

"Walk? In this? Are you nuts?" That's me, always diplomatic.

"Probably," he grated, wiping his face again.

I couldn't help squinting at him, he looked decidedly weird. Even more so than the rain would account for. There were odd streaks across his face. He saw me staring and turned away, fiddling with the bonnet latch of the Rover. He slammed it down and I jumped back. He shot me a look, then rummaged in the car for my duffle, turned off the lights and locked it up. He set off, waving a hand in my general direction, which I took as a signal to follow him. At least, I thought, slogging through the sticky mud, he was carrying my bag.

He stopped about fifty paces up the road and I crashed into his back. Blowing out an exasperated breath, he set the duffle down in the mud. "Get rid of half your stuff," he ordered, "then you can carry this fucker."

Incensed, I started to argue. He shrugged and set off without me.

"Wait, wait!" He didn't, so I stooped down and began heaving items out of the bag. I kept a change of underwear, an old pair of leggings, my laptop and my makeup bag. Everything else I tied up in my plastic laundry bag and piled under the doubtful protection of a couple of bushes about a yard off the road. Then I grabbed up the duffle and sprinted after him, splashing muddy water all over myself. I couldn't get much wetter. And now I didn't even have decent dry clothes to put on later. Of course, "later" was liable to be in a cave, judging from my luck so far. "Dammit to hell," I muttered, panting as I caught up to him. He didn't even seem to notice I was there, the bastard. If I could have gotten hold of that money I'd given him, I would have cheerfully shoved it down his throat.
 

We hiked for what seemed like hours. I was chilled and wet through to the skin, on top of which I was sneezing. I kept quiet, though, and did my best to keep up even when he turned off the road into waist-high weeds. Twice, I stepped in deep holes and fell flat on my face. Both times he merely waited for me to pick myself up, before starting off again without comment. He apparently could see in the dark, because he never stumbled once. I was definitely going to enjoy watching Russell Crowe punch this guy in the nose, I thought. I might even punch him myself, if I lived through the greeting I was no doubt going to get for invading his privacy. I was so miserable, the prospect of that didn't scare me much.

It was full dark when we stopped. I sank down onto a large boulder, then saw that instead of resting, he had climbed over a barbed wire fence and was impatiently gesturing at me to hurry up. Sighing, I dragged myself upright, damned if I was going to whine about how tired, wet, cold and hungry I was to this boor. I stared stupidly at him from the opposite side of the fence.

"Throw the fuckin' bag, luv," he barked, "then heave that cute backside over the fence." I didn't want to throw my bag unless it was at him, but I did put my foot on the bottom strand of wire, where I teetered a minute, trying not to fall. He grabbed the duffle away from me and flung it down behind him. There went my laptop, I thought gloomily. Then strong hands came around my body just under my arms, and he lifted me bodily up and over the fence. Except my pants leg caught on a barb, throwing us off balance. He lost his footing in the muddy grass, and we both crashed to the ground. He rolled to one side, dropping me, and I thumped my head hard on a rock.

I thought dizzily that at least I would have an interesting epitaph. "Yank talent agent killed by a rock sneaking onto Russell Crowe's ranch." No doubt the press would twist that around and make that his fault. My head swam and I passed out.

I came to and found I was being carried. I had no idea where I was, but the person carrying me was warm and it was comfortable, so I drifted off again. Someone was talking to me, and I had the thought suddenly that it was very special of Russell to send Maximus to carry me. I'd know that voice anywhere. I curled closer to his warmth and listened to that voice, not sure exactly what it was saying, just knowing it was safe to be where I was.

I awoke with a crashing headache, reluctantly opening my eyes to find myself in a bed, covers tucked up to my chin, stark naked. Now, how the hell did I get here? I rubbed my aching temples. It didn't help. The last thing I remembered was being carried by Maximus Decimus Meridius, which had to be a dream since that was a movie role. I groaned and sat up, the covers falling down around my waist. I yanked them up and looked around.

I was in a small bedroom and it was daylight, but still apparently raining judging by the drops pattering against the windows. There were two doors in the wall opposite the bed, so I climbed out, wrapped up in the top sheet, and tiptoed to the nearest one. Silence. I opened the door and was faced with a closet full of clothing, mostly women's clothing, but judging by the styles, not the possessions of a fashionable woman. "No willowy blondes here," I muttered and shut the door as silently as I could.

Okay, so the other door must lead out of the bedroom. But to where? And whose house or cabin or hovel was this? I had no way of knowing. Beyond the clothes in the closet, there wasn't one single item in the room that I could see without doing a detailed search that identified either the location or the owner of the dwelling. I stood just inside the other door, one ear pressed against it, listening. Absolute silence. Could I be alone here? I decided to be brave, and I really had to use the bathroom, so I opened the door, hoping it didn't squeak. I was in a hallway, and right across from me was the open door of a bathroom. Nirvana! I had to pee so badly I almost cried when I saw it. I rushed inside and shut that door carefully behind me, turning the latch on the knob to feel a bit more secure.

Nature's calls aside, I couldn't resist the siren song of a large tub with shower. I climbed in, turned on the taps, and took the best shower of my life. There was herbal shampoo and conditioner in a basket hanging from the faucets, so I washed my hair as well. Luxury of luxuries, I felt almost civilized. I dried off, wrapped up in a terry robe I found hanging from the back of the door, and used my fingers to put my curly, unruly hair in some semblance of order. I looked less like a drowned rat now, at least. My head didn't ache as much either, although I found I was sneezing again. Wonderful. An Australian cold germ seemed to have pounced on me.

I stepped out of the bathroom and walked straight into a wall. A living, breathing wall. I stepped back and looked up into a pair of bemused blue-green eyes. Double shit. I must've said that aloud because the grimly set mouth beneath those eyes quirked in a half-smile, though it quickly faded.

"Usually a person asks before borrowing someone's things," Russell Crowe chided me. His voice went straight to my knees, which wobbled uncertainly.

The robe, I thought in some confusion, still mesmerized by a face I had only seen in photographs or larger than life on a silver screen. "Uh, er…I can take it off?" I managed, then sneezed on him half a dozen times.

He stepped back, grimacing, and I wanted to drop through the floor. Seeming to have reached some decision about me, he shook his head and grabbed my right hand. "Come this way," he ordered in a no-nonsense voice.

I followed. It was either that or lose the hand.

"Don't throw me out," I pleaded, sneezing for emphasis. Nothing like nailing the lid on my coffin. I hoped I wasn't contagious, but the way my luck had been running, I wasn't going to bet on it. I glanced around as we progressed out of the hall into a medium sized sitting room. It looked nice, but we passed through it so quickly I didn't get a chance to really look at anything. I stumbled over a rug, but my reluctant host didn't slow down. I decided I definitely preferred being carried by Ira Trenary the night before, bump on the head or no. And where was he? Had Mr. Crowe beaten him to a pulp and thrown him off the property? I hadn't a clue.

We arrived in a large kitchen where he pulled a chair out from a large wooden table, pushed me down into it, and slid a big empty mug in front of me. "Tea or coffee?" he inquired.

I gaped at him. Expecting to be unceremoniously tossed out a door, his polite question regarding something to drink took a moment to sink in.

One eyebrow rose slightly, then he repeated himself, "Tea or coffee? And are you hungry? I am addressing the living?"

It wasn't what I had expected, but I gulped, realizing that I was ravenously hungry. "Er, coffee, " I requested, and added, not too pitifully, I hoped, "By the way, I'm Lynn Sykes, and I'm really really hungry."

"Hello, Lynn. I expected you would be hungry," he said, and he actually smiled a little. The impact of that smile in person was like being hit with a bucket full of happy dust. If I had felt better, I might have simply thrown myself at his feet right then, begged forgiveness for intruding and taken my punishment. A simple flogging would have done nicely, administered lying across his lap, of course.

I rubbed my forehead and hoped he couldn't read minds. While I contemplated the strange twists and turns of my life in the past few days, he set a steaming mug of coffee in front of me, then added a cream pitcher and a sugar bowl. "You can fix it how you like it," he said, and set about making a lot of noise with pans, dishes and cabinet doors.

I wanted to cover my ears, the headache I had was worse than the worst hangover I could ever recall. A few deep draughts of the coffee, however, did a lot to soothe that, and then the aroma of bacon and eggs made my stomach growl so loudly that he turned to grin at me over his shoulder. "That bad, eh?" he asked, and returned to his culinary efforts.

"Yep," I answered, and was rewarded with a plate of buttered rye toast that smelled heavenly. I fell on it like a starving wolf, finishing both slices in record time. I resisted the urge to say "more please" and contented myself with watching him cook now that the edge was off my hunger pains. He was still easy on the eyes. Two months past his fortieth birthday, he looked years younger and his body was taut and muscular. When he brought plates of food to the table, however, I noticed he was limping slightly.

At my look, he shrugged and explained briefly, "Fell down a gully."

This was so close to the fate I had pictured for him before I ever left Los Angeles that I burst into laughter. He looked puzzled, and I had to explain. "Well, nobody knew anything about you," at which he nodded and commented, "Exactly what I wanted." I stopped, not sure if I should go on, but he gestured impatiently, forking up mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, so I continued, "and I told my secretary that for all I knew, you had fallen down a gully and been baked into a crispy critter."

He choked on a bite of bacon but managed to get it down before clarifying, "More like a mud pie, it's not hot enough here in the winter to bake anything outside."

"Well," I explained, "I got the seasons mixed up. I thought it was summer here like it is everywhere else." I was then treated to the inevitable Aussie lecture/explanation of the southern hemisphere's weather pattern. I could almost recite it with him, I'd heard it so often in the short time I'd been in Australia.

He finished his food and sat back, studying me. "Actually," he explained, "I twisted my leg and it's a little sore, no wuckin' forries."

I blinked. "Oh. Right, I see." At least I didn't go, "Huh?" like I wanted to.

I sneezed. He reached across the table to feel of my forehead. "You've got a temperature," he announced, and added, "finish that, and I'll get you some aspirins and Vitamin C."

I resisted the urge to salute. After all, he was being very nice, given that I had invaded his privacy. Which brought me back to Ira Trenary. "What happened to Ira?" I asked him.

"He left," was the explanation.

I examined his hands for skinned knuckles, but they weren't in evidence. He had nice big hands, long-fingered and clean, with neatly trimmed nails. Something rang in the recesses of my cold-fogged brain, but I couldn't put it together with what I was seeing, so I dismissed it. He brought me aspirins and a glass of water, then showed me back to the bedroom like any polite host.

I sat down on the edge of the bed still wearing his terry robe, and suddenly shot to my feet. "Who undressed me last night?" The thought that Russell Crowe had stripped off my wet, muddy clothes and tucked me into bed was too embarrassing.

"I did," he admitted, a wicked gleam in his eye, then he pushed me back down onto the bed and ordered me to get in it and cover up. "Don't get in a lather about it, I didn't take advantage of you while you were conked out. I prefer my women conscious, at least. Now rest, we'll talk later about your trespassing."

Trespassing, I thought morosely. Yes, I had done just that, and would no doubt deserve to be thrown out once he was sure I wouldn't expire of galloping pneumonia just over the border of his farm and be a further source of annoyance. He shut the door and I dimly heard the rattle of dishes as he washed them, but I was so tired that I slept almost at once.

It was dark when I awoke. I used the bathroom across the hall, and then padded out into the kitchen in search of something to eat. I was ravenous again, no doubt the cold demanding to be fed, and there didn't seem to be anyone in the house. There were apples in a basket on the table, so I helped myself, and walked into the sitting room with it, settling on a comfortable overstuffed sofa. As I ate the fruit, I glanced around the shadowy room, but all I could see were bookshelves and a large stereo system with stacks of cd's and cassettes. The couch was comfy, and I soon fell back to sleep, my head resting on a big pillow covered in satin embroidered with "Austin, Texas" in day glow colors. I wondered if it was the one thing in the room he picked out himself. At least it was comfortable.

I dozed off and on, waking occasionally - knowing I shouldn't be where I was, but too sleepy and logy from the cold to make myself go back to the bed. Then someone touched my face and I sat straight up, banging my forehead on something extremely hard. "Owwww!" I moaned, holding my head. There was an answering grunt of pain and I realized I had bumped heads with my host.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I stuttered, groping in the darkness to somehow assure myself I hadn't killed the man. Meanwhile, he was trying to make sure he hadn't killed me, and we managed to poke each other in the face a couple of times before we both realized how ridiculous we were and began giggling. "I'm still sorry," I announced when I had my breath back.

He rubbed his forehead, grinning wryly at me. His teeth flashed in reflected light from an open door on the other side of the room. He was in sweats, hair tousled, looking about twelve years old. Once again, the magnetism was palpable. Every thought in my head involved something that would have been illegal with a twelve year old. Good thing he was way past that age. I was blushing, and glad it was too dark for him to see it.

"I shouldn't have startled you like that," he apologized, sliding down to sit on the floor with his back against the couch where I was sprawled. His mop of dark blondish-brown hair was inches away from my hand. Why do men always get the good heads of hair? It's not fair!

"Oh, that's okay," I said, feeling very generous. "I must've been dreaming, thought you were the boogie man or something."

"Boogie man," he scoffed, chuckling. "Dream a lot, do you?"

His question surprised me, but after a moment I answered truthfully, "Sure. Take last night, after we climbed your fence and Ira dropped me on my head, he must've carried me for a while. I dreamed Maximus was carrying me, and it was all mixed up with the rain and the cold, but he was warm, and I felt safe, somehow. I guess I knew ol' Max was a good guy."

"The old roman bloke rears his ugly head." He sounded a little cynical, but thinking back over that time in his life - the press frenzy over everything he did, everything he said, every woman he even looked at for any reason, the first Oscar win - I could understand, I suppose, that Maximus and "Gladiator" had been the beginning of the most crazy, intense, wonderful and painful period of his life. Until he won his second Oscar a year later for "A Beautiful Mind", and it became impossible for him.

My thoughts must've shown on my face, even in the dark room, because he reached up and touched my wrist gently, "It had its good points too, y'know."

"What did?"

"That time after "Gladiator" and "Mind", it wasn't all a pain in the ass."

I recalled photos of him with his rock band, trying to get out of a hotel in Italy, surrounded by an almost impenetrable wall of press and paparazzi. He had looked exhausted, haunted by personal demons as well as public ones. The press had been brutal, refusing to let him pass. Finally, he had been bodily picked up by his security people and passed hand to hand through the throngs until they literally threw him into the back seat of his car. I remembered how ashen he was as the car sped off. "What about in Italy?" I couldn't resist asking.

"That part was pretty over the top. I think that was the first time I was really dead-out scared by the level of it, how intense it was. And I realized then that I didn't want to do it any more."

"I couldn't have done it," I admitted.

"But there were good times, I'm not so single-minded about it that I can't see both sides of it. It's just that, when it got dangerous, when the things that were said and written about me were so ridiculous and so far off the truth, and when the lies hurt people I love, well. . ."

His unfinished sentence hung in the air. He really didn't need to finish it, I knew he was thinking of all the private moments that had been interrupted, dissected, published, chewed up and spat out for anyone with a few cents to buy a tabloid or anyone with a television

I blew my nose and wished my cold to perdition. It was totally unfair to be sitting, in a robe, in the dark, in Russell Crowe's house, with him ensconced comfortably on the floor not two feet from me and be coughing and sniffling. I tried to look sophisticated, but it's difficult when your nose is stopped up and you have to mouth-breathe.

"You really should be in bed," he chided me. "And I'm talking too fuckin' much, but if ya wanna know the unvarnished truth of it, a lot of the time, I was damn near terrified."

I looked at him in surprise. "You?" He looked so sturdy and able to take care of himself. Of course, being chased by a group of rabid fans, reporters and photographers, all bent on tearing off a piece of him for their own purposes would be daunting to almost anyone.

He nodded, then patted my knee through the terry robe I still wore. "Well, best get you in bed."

I fought the urge to giggle at his unintentional double meaning, and got to my feet. "Whatever you say," I finally answered, suddenly very tired, but a lot less nervous. I had, after all, found Russell Crowe, gotten to his farm, slept in his guest bedroom, and so far anyway, had survived.

He pointed me in the direction of the guest room, then said goodnight. I heard a door shut on the far side of the house, and sighed as I got into the bed. I wondered what it would be like to be in his bed with him, then put that thought down to the fevered fancies of a woman with a head cold, and eventually, I fell asleep.

When I staggered out the next morning, he was busy working on something at his desk, barefoot, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. It was odd but touching, somehow, to know he did ordinary things like write in a day planner or type on his computer keyboard. I tiptoed past him and found coffee already made. Wonderful! I drank it with cream and sugar, feeling quite decadent. Just as I finished it, he came into the kitchen and proceeded to repeat the breakfast activity from the day before while I studied him like any fan would given the same opportunity. He wasn't vulgar or showy. He spoke quietly, politely, despite my being uninvited and certainly deserving of less than courteous treatment. And he cooked! For all I knew, he did his own laundry and washed dishes as well.

Then, of course, there were his looks. His face had been plastered on magazine covers, television and movie screens, newspapers and probably even candy wrappers all over the world. He was pictured in guises ranging from how he appeared in his film roles to au naturel, bearded, scruffy and rumpled. He had appeared at social functions in everything from a $5,000 Armani tuxedo trimmed with silk braid to a black leather biker jacket and ripped jeans. In one span of four weeks in 2001, he had appeared at no less than 6 different awards functions and looked totally different at each one, even when they were only separated by a day or two.

He had gone from his natural darkish blond-brown long hair waving over his collar and a good growth of beard, to trimmed, lightened hair with no beard, to very trimmed, lightened hair combed in a sort of 50's pompadour, wearing the aforementioned elegant Armani creation and his grandfather's MBE medal on his breast pocket. He went from almost thug to almost unrecognizable as himself (if he didn't speak, that is), looking about 28 years old the night he won his first Oscar. Famous for his eyes and his voice, as well as his body, which he had shaped to suit each different role, it appeared he was actually most comfortable off camera, at home and doing as he pleased. As a fan, I had always thought him the most attractive in the pictures where he looked much as he looked right now, seated across the breakfast table from me, stray waves of hair spilling over his face.

He looked up as he shoved the hair out of his eyes, caught me studying him and his lips tightened briefly. I turned red and stopped looking, embarrassed to have done exactly what I'm sure hundreds of other people had done - invaded his personal space and then gaped at him like he was a prize bull on display. I finished my meal and tried not to look at him more than was called for by our being in the same room, eating at the same table. After we ate, he pushed his plate back and fixed me with a serious look. "Right, now suppose you explain why you're here."

I'd known it was coming, had turned what I planned to say over and over in my mind, but facing him, pinned by the gaze of those incredible eyes, anything but the truth would simply not do. So I told him the truth. "I recently took over as your agent, which you probably already know." He nodded. I wasn't surprised. "I just started working for the firm, and they sort of challenged me with getting you back to films."

"I suspected as much," he said. "Go on."

"Go on? There isn't much more to it, really. I came and talked to a lot of people, nobody would tell me anything useful until Ira Trenary called me and said he'd get me here."

"For money," he said flatly. "Bastard would sell his grandmother for five dollars."

"I hope you didn't hurt him too badly," which I had been worrying about since I'd awakened the day before.

"He'll live," was all he would say. He finished his coffee. "So, what fantastic offer are you going to make me?"

I was a little surprised. "You mean, you'd listen?"

"Ask questions first, shoot later." He waved a hand, "So give. What pie in the sky do you have?"

"Whatever film you want, starring role and/or directing, your choice. Fully backed, with your choice of production teams, filmed on location or in Hollywood or wherever."

"I'm sure you didn't come all this way without scripts."

"Yes." My heart was thumping so hard I was sure he could hear it across the table. Was he going to actually ask about them?

He studied my face and I couldn't look away. With his hair long and curly, and with his soft growth of beard, he was the most delicious man I'd ever seen, and given the business I worked in, that was saying something.

"I have one, also."

What? My jaw must've dropped open because he grinned, dimples flashing, and nodded. "I wrote a screenplay. It's finished and I would like to see it done right." He got up, walked to his desk, and came back carrying a big 3-ring binder. It hit the table with a respectable thump. "That's it."

I looked at the cover. "Botany Bay" I read aloud, "by Russell Crowe." I started to open it, then glanced up for permission. He nodded at me, so I peeked at the first page. It was about the founders of Australia, the "criminals" and unwanted people shipped out to the Botany Bay colony in the early19th Century. I closed the cover and stood up. "I'd like my duffle bag, please."

He quirked an eyebrow, but went into what appeared to be a pantry and came back with my bag, which was very much the worse for wear from rain and mud. "Thank you, and now I'd like to shower, put on something besides your very nice robe, before I look at your script."

He grinned, "Ah, I see. You want to be in working mode. Okay, go ahead, but I don't think your clothes from that bag are going to do you much good, and the ones you had on when you got here are ruined."

"You looked in my bag?" I was irritated. "And you probably looked at the proposals too."

He looked offended, "I did not, I don't pry into other people's personal shit. But your bag was half open, so I took the clothes out and dried them. But all you brought was, er, underwear."

I pawed through the bag. "Oh, no! I forgot, most of my stuff is under some bushes out on the road by that stupid zebra car!"

"Well, it's probably still there, don't get in a tizzy. I'll go after it later. In the meantime, you can borrow some clothes."

"I've seen what's in that closet, I'm not into house dresses."

"Those are my mum's old things, that's not what I meant." He disappeared into what I now knew was his bedroom, and lord help me, I couldn't help following to peek inside. I didn't see much more than a neatly made bed before he came back through the door carrying some sweats, a pair of jeans and assorted other stuff. "Here, these belong to somebody's sheila, left 'em over New Year's, I think you're about the same size."

I looked at the size label on the jeans - American 10/12. Blessed be all "normal" size women in the world, I thought, very glad she wasn't a size 3 or 4. I had never been anorexic or petite, and a 10/12 was my normal weight. I tried to exercise on a regular basis, especially given the hours I spent sitting at my desk, eating and working until all hours of the night. I wasn't fat, and I did take care of myself, I just was not one of the stick figure women that seemed to abound in the entertainment business, particularly in California. I thanked him and headed for the bathroom to shower and put on something other than terry cloth for the first time in several days.

Emerging some time later, hair damply curling around my face, wearing the borrowed jeans and a pale pink sweatshirt, I grabbed the manuscript and settled down to read it on the couch. Russell was outside, making a lot of noise doing something involving a hammer and nails. As I read, though, his racket faded into the background and I forgot about it completely.

The screenplay was excellent. There were some rough edges, to be sure, but nothing unfixable, and the characters were interesting. The story had held my interest all the way through, and I had no reserves about it's making an excellent, if long, film. I wasn't sure which character Russell wanted to play - there were two that I could definitely picture him making his own. One was the Englishman who was sent to oversee the colony of criminals and societal rejects, and who had become a sympathetic friend instead. The other was one of the people transported, a once-wealthy man fallen on hard times, who had become a leader among the colonists. I closed the big notebook and set it on the coffee table, leaning my head back, eyes closed, picturing how it would play.

"Well?" his soft voiced question surprised me. I hadn't heard him come in. I wondered how long he'd been sitting at his desk, and if he'd been watching me the whole time.

I looked at him and smiled, "Well, it's very good. A bit long, but the story held my interest." I could see him sigh in relief. Somehow, it was very endearing that he had been nervous about my opinion, especially since I was still an uninvited guest in his home. "Which character?"

"Which? Oh, John Hamilton."

The colonists' leader, of course. I grinned at him, "I thought so. Him or Wentworth, the Englishman."

"Nah," he shook his head. "I figured somebody like Colin Firth or Ralph Fiennes for Wentworth, I can't play someone that, um, prissy."

I giggled, and he joined me laughing. "You could too!" I told him, "You can play anything."

He shook his finger at me, "Don't tell me! Another fan!"

"I confess!" I held up both hands, "Cuff me and drag me off to jail, I've been a fan for years."

Instead, he came over, took hold of my wrists and lifted me off the couch. I blinked, and, to my delight, he kissed me on the forehead. "I don't put fans in jail, luv, unless they deserve it. We'll talk more later. I need to go hunt up your things and get the dogs."

He made us thick sandwiches before he left, and while we ate them in the kitchen, I asked him where his dogs had been. I had expected him to have at least one with him, given his love of animals.

"They're over at the main house. I was gone for a few days, so my mum was feeding them for me."

I glanced around in confusion, "The main house? This isn't it?"

He grinned and shook his head, "No, no, this is the OLD main house. I built a big fancy one a couple of years back. My folks live there, and my brother Terry. It's a big colony of Crowe's. Sometimes it gets too busy, with all the rellies, so I keep this place mostly just for me."

It made sense. I didn't think right then to question where he had been when he said "away".

After Russell left, the house seemed smaller and a lot less friendly. A cold wind rattled the windows and it shortly began to rain again, so going outdoors was out of the question. I'd had enough of nature walks in the Aussie rain to last a lifetime already. I got out my laptop, found that the padded case had thankfully protected it, and set the battery to charge. Meanwhile, I used the adapter to plug it into the house current and was soon clicking away. The office was probably going bonkers wondering where I was. I sent an email telling Sandy that I had located my quarry and was engaged in talks with him and not to worry if I didn't get back in touch with her for a few more days. I read and answered a dozen emails, and shut the little machine off.

A muffled thump from the back of the house brought me to my feet, thinking Russell was back, although he hadn't been gone nearly long enough, I thought, to find my things and get his dogs and get back here. I went through the kitchen into the mud room by the back door and looked out through the window. A sawhorse and some wood had fallen over in the wind, thus accounting for the noise. The car park was empty, except - and this surprised me - the zebra Rover sat on the far side by an outbuilding that I took to be a barn. How had it gotten there? More importantly, if it was drivable, why hadn't Ira Trenary taken it back to that airport where he had presumably rented or borrowed it?

Confused, I stepped back and tripped over some muddy boots sitting just inside the doorway. As I got my balance, my eye alighted on a big washer and dryer. On top of a stack of sweat pants and shirts, neatly folded, were some clothes that seemed familiar. There was a pair of black denim pants several sizes larger than my host would wear, and a very well worn green anorak. The last time I had seen that anorak, it was on Ira Trenary. Okay, so had he sent Ira packing in his birthday suit? What the hell was going on?

I left the clothes where I found them, an awful suspicion beginning to take form in my head. I pictured my meeting with Ira in the hotel bar, how he had kept swiveling his head around as though someone were after him. And he hadn't looked me in the face the entire time. Nicotine stains on his fingers, but he had coughed on the first drag of a cigarette and quickly put it out. It hit me that Russell, well known as a long-term smoker, hadn't smoked once since I'd been there. Furthermore, there wasn't an ashtray in sight, and no smell of cigarette smoke in the house. I couldn't figure that part out, unless he'd actually quit smoking. That was the only thing that made sense. Then I recalled that Russell didn't have nicotine stained fingers. That stumped me for a minute until I realized that they were probably as fake as Ira Trenary's nondescript hair, raspy voice and extra poundage.

I had been had, and by an expert. I was furious. I marched into the living room and paced back and forth for a while, nursing my anger. Of course, I told myself after I had flopped down on the couch to rest, the cold still making itself known, I had invaded his personal space fairly shamelessly. But he had brought me here! The man had played me for a fool.

He had impersonated Ira Trenary, gotten me into that rattletrap of an airplane, and into that damned zebra painted Rover, and proceeded to wreck it on purpose so he could hike for hours in the rain before dropping me on my head over a barbed wire fence. The whole thing was so ludicrous that I was giggling by the time I reached the end of my mental journey. If he had planned to fool me, some of his planning had surely gone awry. I recalled Ira's limp, and that Russell had limped on the same leg. I doubted that he had really dropped me on my head on purpose or that he had planned on carrying me for whatever distance he had after I knocked myself silly.

Okay. I would concede that I deserved anything I got considering my plan to trespass on his farm and talk to him. I would concede that he didn't drop me on purpose. What puzzled me was his willingness to allow me to stay on and his openness to making a film after loudly "quitting the business" two years and more before. Perhaps he had gotten over his aversion to movie making. And he had known I was now his agent. That meant - he probably had been going to contact me and this whole fiasco was unnecessary. Damn the man!

I got mad all over again. I simmered for awhile, then heard an approaching car engine. I looked out through the mudroom door and sure enough, it was my host driving a nearly new cream colored Rover. A Dalmatian and a black lab sat on the front seat, jostling each other to look out the side window at me and bark. Then he turned off the engine and got out, releasing the dogs. They circled his legs, barking, then ran over to where I stood in the open doorway and barked some more, then they ran back and got muddy paw prints all over his jeans before he shushed them and came up to me. I swear, I saw him look sidelong at the zebra car and realize I was onto him. I kept my mouth shut and petted the two dogs, both of which were wagging tails and happily licking my hands.

"Heya," he greeted me, looking slightly cautious, then introduced the dogs. "The dal is Alice, and the lab is Max. They're big and clumsy but basically harmless."

I petted Alice and Max while he took off his well-worn leather jacket and hung it up. I walked over to the washing machine and leaned against it, arms crossed on my chest. He looked at me, down at the pile of clothes, and back up at me, for all the world like a small boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"You sent Ira away naked?" I inquired.

His face turned red. I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from laughing. "Er, not exactly," was his answer.

"Then how, exactly?" I was going to make him admit it to me. It seemed only fair after I had been so angry with him most of the afternoon.

He walked into the kitchen and I followed him, the dogs' toenails clicking on the linoleum as they followed him to the sink while he filled a big pan with water for them and set it down. "He didn't leave," he finally said, and turned to face me. "Ira - at least the one you met - is me. Ira is my middle name, y'know."

"And the real Ira?"

"Can go to hell."

"With that girl singing group, no doubt." I scowled at him.

He grinned at me. "That was a nice touch, don'tcha think?"

"You made that whole story up, bored me silly with it. And I bet two of those girls aren't even lesbians."

The grin widened, "I haven't a clue as to that. I was adding color, like a good writer does."

"So why the deception? You already knew who I was and why I was there. In fact, Mister Smart Ass Crowe, you were going to call me before I ever talked to 'Ira' the other day, admit it."

"Ooh, 'smart ass'…careful of your language." He was laughing at me, stroking the lab's silky black fur as he spoke.

I tapped a foot impatiently.

He sighed after a few minutes of this, and faced me more seriously. "I was havin' some fun with you. After Billy called, and then Mariah from Smithson's, I wanted to see what you were like before you really knew it was me. I wanted to see what you were made of, I guess."

I had been right that his cronies ratted me out. "So you deceived me. And you took my money!"

He nodded, then rummaged in a drawer, coming up with the fat brown envelope full of bills. "I wouldn't have kept the money, y'know. I don't need it, but Ira would have nicked it, the real Ira."

Mollified somewhat, I grabbed the envelope and shoved it into my waistband under the sweatshirt. "You deliberately drove off the road and made me walk through miles and miles of weeds and bush in the rain."

"No, that was not in my plan," he corrected me. He patted his leg, "Especially not with a pulled thigh muscle."

I remembered Ira's limp. "All right, I'll give you that. And you probably didn't drop me on my head on purpose."

He blinked. "Is that what you thought? Hell, no! I'm not that much of a hoon! Especially since I ended up carrying you the last mile."

I harrumphed, not wanting to let him know that I wasn't really very angry any more. "So how did you disguise yourself so well?"

"Make up. And hair tint, and a lot of padding. I had on two pairs of sweats under my other clothes. Made it bloody difficult to walk."

No wonder he had looked fatter.

"Except, the rain did in the padding, and it washed off the hair stuff, too. But, you saw that, remember?"

I did remember wondering about the strange streaks on his face and him looking different. The hair dye had begun to run in the rain. No wonder he had looked funny. "What do you mean about the padding getting, um, what did you call it? Done in?"

"Well, when I went out to check what we hit, it got all wet, and it swelled up. I could barely walk, so I was only too glad to get rid of most of it after you fell."

"But you had brown eyes!" I exclaimed, remembering him looking up at me in the bar in Sydney. "Oh, of course, how stupid of me. Contact lenses. My, my, aren't you resourceful!" He grinned unrepentantly. My stomach chose that moment to rumble, and we both laughed. "Feed me and I'll forgive you," I promised him.

He rubbed both hands together and set off for the kitchen. "Don't just stand there, woman! Come help me."

Always a polite guest, I did as I was requested. He hunted in his refrigerator, which was restaurant-sized, and reported that we could have lamb chops, beef steak or lobster. Lobster not being a favorite and lamb being one of my very favorites, I chose the lamb. "From your own sheep?" I asked.

He looked insulted. "God, no! I couldn't eat one of my own sheep, it would be like chowing down on a family member. This is store-bought, that way I don't know whose sheep it's from."

"Oh," I said, wondering how they managed to not be overrun with animals if they didn't eat what they grew. Maybe they were all on the pill or something. I decided to worry about that later, I was too hungry to work out anything that detailed. We feasted on broiled lamb chops and salad, finishing off with chocolate ice cream. I was too stuffed to move by the time I let my ice cream spoon plop into the empty dish. "I think I'm wounded," I commented.

He cleared away the dishes and let the dogs back in the house from a brief jaunt outside. They lapped up water and then padded into the living room and lay down in front of the fireplace, looking at him expectantly. "Okay, okay, I can take the hint," he chided them, then set about making a fire in the hearth. He lit the kindling and got the whole affair burning nicely before too much time elapsed, then came and sat in a big leather chair that faced the sofa where I half-sat and half-lounged. "So tell me about yourself," he invited.

I did. I told him about growing up in the Midwest, Indiana to be specific, the only child of parents who had given up on ever having a child, only to discover in their late 40's that they were going to have one after all. I had been studious, a bespectacled bookworm and honor student, but also had loved our farm and 4-H projects. I had even raised a couple of calves and shown them before going off to college on a scholarship. After college I had worked first as a reader at a publishing house, then as a literary agent. My parents had died when I was 26. My dad went first, of a quick moving cancer, then my mom a few months later. I always thought it was because she missed him so much, she just had to be with him and had willed herself to go. I had no other family, so, had poured all my energy into my career. I had moved from New York to Los Angeles to go to work for Creativity, Inc., one of the larger talent agencies.

"Then this past December, I moved to United Talent, and took over some of your former agent's clients. He retired, you know." Lame, lame, lame, I chided myself. You just bored the poor man half to death.

Russell merely nodded, then said, "So, that's your career, what about you?"

"Up until a year or so ago, I would have said my career was me," It was true. The last year and more, I'd been searching for something to do that was more personally satisfying than working with actors, actresses and other movie folk, not that the job didn't have its perks and its moments of sheer delight, which it did. It just didn't fulfill me like it once had. Something was missing, and at times, I felt an almost painful longing for something, only I wasn't sure what it was, whether it was for a person or a place or something different to do with myself. I found myself telling him all this, and I got the feeling he did understand, and that he knew I was sharing my very private thoughts with him.

He, in turn, shared some of himself with me, and knowing that he was such a private person, and that he almost never let details of anything truly personal be known to anyone not directly involved, I felt privileged and scared and honored all at the same time. He regaled me with a few stories about some of his early work, nearly all of which he claimed was spectacularly awful. He was the butt of his own humor, laughing about gaffes he had made on film sets, lines fluffed, and practical jokes he had played.

I don't think I've ever met another man so prone to laughter in all its forms as Russell Crowe, and especially not one who can giggle and poke fun at himself so wryly. To say that it was endearing is a major understatement. How could anyone ever call him "surly" if they had seen this side of him? Of course, I also realized that the surliness and the sometimes curt answers to questions were a defense mechanism. Like a porcupine: when threatened, show the world your quills and not your soft underbelly and they will most likely leave you alone.

During a lull for sipping hot tea, I asked him what he had been doing with himself for the time he'd been out of the spotlight. "Oh, sittin' around," he claimed, then added, "workin' on the screen play, mostly, and doin' some gigs with TOFOG. We've been bashing away at another album, it'll be out eventually. And I want to do some live shows again, if we can work that out. I think maybe things have cooled off enough now that we can do that with some semblance of sanity."

"And your animals?" I asked, knowing he had quite a menagerie. As if on cue, the two dogs came clicking their way in from the kitchen and flopped down at our feet. The lab lay with his muzzle resting on Russell's feet, while Alice, for some reason, came and leaned against my legs.

"Oh, I've got some of everything here. I've got cows and some horses. I even have some of those little, bitty horses the size of dogs, you know the kind?" I nodded, and he grinned, "Excellent, she's biologically knowledgeable. And I have more dogs over at the other house, and some chickens, ducks, cats, rabbits. And there's snakes and stuff out in the bush. Goanas, even a couple of platypuses."

"Snakes," I repeated. "Right, well, I hope none are venomous."

"Fraid so, love," he answered me, "but don't worry, they'll be too slow and sleepy in the cold weather to do much. Gives ya time to run."

"So, why didn't you just tell me 'no way' that night in the hotel bar?"

He grinned wickedly, "Cos you were so determined, I knew you had some interesting depths to you. That's why I came down to see what you were like. You were so outraged when I took the money, I could tell you were honest. If you were just a greedy bimbo, I'd have told you to piss off right then."

I guess I'd hoped he would say because I was attractive or some such, but he very quickly went on, "And once I saw you in that ball cap, trudgin' after me through the rain and the muck, lookin' like you were gonna get to this Crowe fella come hell or high water, and still so damned cute, there was no way I couldn't let you have your meeting."

He thought I was "cute"! I didn't know whether to be pleased or insulted. "So," I said, tackling a subject that had been bugging the hell out of me the whole time we'd been talking, "when and how did you stop smoking? Didn't you once tell someone you could make a film like The Insider and still not be wise enough to get its message?"

If my question irritated him, he didn't show it. He was obviously proud of what must have taken a prodigious effort to accomplish. "I just quit, cold turkey. It was to the point the ciggies were ruling me instead of the other way 'round. I had to quit, or think about permanent damage to my voice, never mind to my lungs and the other odd bits. I finally decided to take control over the smoking and stop letting it rule me."

"You quit a two pack a day habit cold turkey?" My hat was off to him. That must have been tough. I said as much, at which he modestly claimed it wasn't that much.

"I only died about twice a day, really," he added, giggling. I threw a cushion at him but missed, shamefully inaccurate from fatigue. He regaled me with stories about quitting smoking, "I would have smoked a shoe, if I could have lit the fuckin' thing," he said, shaking his head at himself, "I was a pitiful wreck. Once or twice, I found myself awake in the middle of the night, hunting for an ashtray to sniff, I was so bad."

"Mmm, " I commented, imagining Russell going through nicotine withdrawals. Not a pretty sight. I pictured a bear with a thorn in its paw the size of Ohio.

Another half an hour went by, after which I was too hoarse to talk more, and he brought me more hot tea only this time with lemon and honey in it. God, the man was almost too good to be true! "Keep this up," I teased him, "and I'll take you home to meet my folks."

"Not if I take you home first," he shot back.

I almost dropped the mug of tea. He grinned, knowing he'd surprised me. I gaped at him, then found myself smiling back. At that moment, though, the cold demon intervened and I started sneezing and coughing, finally ending up a miserable, weak heap that he guided back to bed and covered with a nice blanket.

"I'll check on you, luv," he promised, pulling the door almost closed. "I'll leave a night light on in the hall, for when you - er - have to go." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the bathroom.

I was too miserable to really care, I just waved a hand, shivering.

"Okay, then," he turned to go, stopped, and came back, "Y'want me to stay?" His soft-voiced query sent my toes into curling mode in spite of how awful I felt. I nodded weakly, and he smiled. "Right, just let me get another pillow and stuff. Back in 2 tics" He was off down the hall and I heard him rummaging in a closet, then he came back with a pillow, a couple of blankets and both dogs. He made a pallet on the floor next to my bed, settled down onto it, pulled up one of the blankets and reached up to pat my hand. "G'night then, luv. I'll be here if y'need anything."

I lay in the dark, listening to the dogs' tails thump on the floor as he stroked their ears. Then he turned on his side to face me and I caught the gleam of his eye as he glanced up to check on me. "Go to sleep!" he ordered in a whisper.

"Okay," I whispered back. I fell asleep eventually but dreamed fragmented, feverish dreams, tossing and turning. I kicked off the covers, then shivered and struggled to get them back over me. Russell was right there, rearranging the blankets, making me sip water, brushing my damp hair off my face. Every woman should have such a nurse.

I awoke once, coughing and dizzy, and he climbed onto the bed. He propped me up, rubbing my back until I stopped hacking. He was a great nurse, incredible bedside manner. If I'd been well enough to enjoy it, it would have been nice. "I am really sorry about this," I croaked. He just laughed softly, hunted up some cough medicine and made me take it. It tasted like dirty socks dipped in eucalyptus. I screwed up my face and held my nose, but swigged it down. "God awful," I managed, shuddering.

"That it is, but you'll see. The damn stuff works. Only kind I use m'self." He screwed the cap back on the bottle and set it on the night stand. "Now, lie back, and let the stuff work. I've got your pillows all piled up just right."

I don't know what was in that cough syrup, but it hit me like a ton of bricks. I recall him saying, "Oops, there she goes," then I sort of floated down into the depths of a huge pile of pillows. I grabbed his hand, and he squeezed my fingers reassuringly, then I was out until morning.
 

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