Harry's Protégé Ch. 10

Sierra took calls from international media and flopped into bed at 1:48, phone switched off and was asleep within a minute of her head hitting the pillows, a smile on her face.

* * *

The still drained acting editor-in-chief was in the studios of TV4 just before 6:00 to be interviewed for a one-minute update on the channel's breakfast show.

After the short interview Sierra was having coffee with the bright young reporter, Linda Canon, who'd interviewed her the previous morning, when the producer's assistant rushed in.

"Miss Bycroft, all hell's broken loose; our switchboard is being flooded with calls - the public love you. Gaston our producer wants to know it you'll join our presenter and go live and answer viewer's questions for half an hour - he's prepared to scrap the news bulletins but we must run programmed ads and the weather updates."

Sierra said yes, on one condition - she'd do it if Linda sat with her.

The assistant returned beckoning them.

"Gaston agrees and has persuaded our presenter to allow Linda to run the question-answer session."

Sierra grabbed the gob-smacked young reporter by the hand. "Come on Linda - seize the moment. This could make you a star."

Sierra, wearing a black jacket and skirt with a brilliant red bra with lace top and matching half-slip peeping out at both ends looked gorgeous, but the strain was telling around her eyes though her smile remained dazzling.

There was no way Gaston could stop the question/answers - it was riveting TV, snappy and dramatic, with one questioner claiming to be a widow of one of the mining disaster victims thanking Sierra very emotionally, saying the result of The Sentinel's work, if the claims of gross negligence were substantiated by decisions of the court, would result in huge insurance payouts to the wives and children of the four dead miners.

"It will perhaps take years if the mining companies fight a rearguard action, my lawyer says, but our kids will benefit from big payouts eventually. We owe The Sentinel and particular you Miss Sierra so much."

The camera shot switched to Sierra, dabbing her eyes.

Lawyers got into the act, phoning in to debate why the 'villainous mining conglomerate' as another caller termed it, was entitled to fight court decisions.

Linda tried unsuccessfully to get the switchboard to filter the callers to avoid this hijacking of the phone-in. Sierra fixed it for her.

"Please, enough callers - no more legal crap. Let real people with real questions of concern have their say - I'll not answer any more questions that are not outcries from the heart. Let's not deviate, we're running out of time here."

The barrage of emotional questions continued and the delighted producer let them run until the breakfast show ended at 8:30, although he had to allow the later news bulletins and market reports to run as scheduled, realizing not everyone would be interested in the fabulous Miss Bycroft who ought to have her own TV show.

The highlight came near the end when a Mrs Hudson presented her question.

Mrs Hudson: Are you happy you've destroyed my marriage and publicly humiliated me among my friends you bitch?

Sierra: I gather your husband is one of those arrested?

Mrs Hudson: Yes, he's worked at the quarry for fifteen years.

Sierra: And you think someone indirectly involved in the deaths of four men, the huge costs of recovering those bodies, lost production time, ensuring the mine is safe and the official investigations, court hearings and insurance and penalty payouts, should walk away unchallenged?

Mrs Hudson (crying): When he's your husband, yes.

Sierra: Sorry but if he's committed a crime he pays for it. Surely you would be relieved to be no longer living with a wicked criminal if that's the finding of the court?

Mrs Hudson: How dare you say that, you posturing tart. Women like you are a (bleep!) disgrace to society.

Sierra: Let justice prevail Mrs Hudson. Good morning.

Linda the presenter reacted perfectly: "That attack was so unfair. Although I only first met you when I interviewed you yesterday morning, I can say you are a lovely person, one of the nicest older women I've ever met. I wonder what other women think?

"A nice older woman? Oh thanks sweetie."

The number of incoming calls to the studio jumped as callers came in punching in Sierra's defense. She answered seven callers then declared, "That's all we must end this dialogue now," Sierra said, reading a blackboard note held up by the producer's assistant. I thank everyone for their feedback but remember this issue is not about me - it's totally about a mining disaster that never should have happened. Thank you."

A studio car delivered Sierra to her office where she worked until Frank came in just before the 2 o'clock conference.

I

"Jesus, Sierra - you're almost out on your feet. Go - it's Thursday. I don't want to see you here until Monday morning. Just disappear - don't watch TV, don't read a newspaper."

"But, I..."

"Sierra, do I have to carry you out to a cab?"

"Okay, okay. Keep your hair on. I'll just..."

"I'm warning you Sierra. Hand me your phone and go."

Sierra trudged out to a cab, crying, cuddled by her PA.

* * *

Sierra's driver was one of those talkative cabbies.

"Tough night on the tiles last night, ma'am - oh my, you're that lady on TV who shafted those mining bastards."

"Not me, cabbie - it was our newspaper."

Sierra gave him directions to the beach cabin, stopping at a small village en route, buying shorts, shirt, a bikini, hat, comb, sunglasses and minimum make-up at a cheap store, asking the elderly assistant to toss it all into a shopping bag. Sierra handed her a $100 note, yawned, and said keep the change.

She entered the cabin, not even bothering to close the door, and throwing herself on the bed in the master bedroom; she slept till dawn. Feeling much better she cast a baited hook beyond the surf, using old salted fish and four minutes later had landed a fish big enough to fill her at breakfast.

Setting the radio to a light music station, she consumed the grilled fish, finished a flat bottle of Coke, letting her mind drift. The next thing she knew it was three hours later and her back from sitting so long on the uncomfortable wooden kitchen chair was killing her, but the tide was in, on the turn actually, so she swam away the pain body surfing.

She found her old sneakers and walked the eight miles to the village and at the pub drank beer with her plate of spare ribs and roast vegetables - something unheard of for her - and yarned with three old men content with a life of recreational fishing and drinking and telling tall stories to their mates.

She stayed until she fell asleep, overcome by liquor. She'd been so happy as no one here bothered with TV or newspapers and were only interested in her as a personality, rather than what she did or how successful she was in life.

But when the pub owner's wife arrived home late from an overnight stay in the city, she knew immediately who the drunk woman sleeping it off was - she'd seen her on TV and she'd been acting like a film star - a nice one.

Mrs Petrie remembered the name - Bycroft. She'd slept with Duncan Bycroft a couple of times at his cabin near the north head of the harbor. If she was here, with no vehicle, she must be his daughter, holed up at the cabin. Poor young woman, she must have walked to the pub hungry and in need of company.

Mrs Petrie found a wad of money in Sierra's wallet, took out a twenty and went to Mrs Chalmers' store and purchased a few basic provisions.

Mrs Petrie didn't say who the stranger was, only that she knew where she would be staying. Her husband helped load Sierra on to the back of the pick-up and his wife took her to the cabin almost at the sea end of north head.

At the cabin Mrs Petrie slapped Sierra half-awake, took her to the toilet and bullied her into cleaning her teeth, and then put her to bed, remembering the fun she'd had on that same bed.

The young woman's father was a real goer.

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