The Hermit Next Door: A Rise To Fame Romance Read online

  The Hermit Next Door

  PJ Vye

  Copyright © 2015 by P.J. Vye

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  Cover Design: PJ Vye

  ISBN-13: 978-0-6485053-2-7

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  PJ Vye

  I Bury Dead People

  Make Me Famous

  About the Author

  Dedication

  This isn’t a perfect story.

  Neither are the characters in it.

  For my Jack, and all his imperfections…

  1

  It was one of those perfect days where everything was going right. The sun was sparkling and warmed her right through to her bones, the breeze drifted in gently over the water, and the daily tasks seemed to align with the universe in perfect calibration. Her morning egg contained the miracle of two golden yolks instead of one, last night’s log on the fire still burned coals, and a patchwork red pair of rosella birds performed a musical conversation just a breath away, completely unaware of her presence.

  But the very best, most perfect thing of all—the cameras were gone.

  An entire week she’d had to endure them, trapped inside her home, hiding from the noisy, littering, invasive beasts that filled her perfect space with chaos and blanketed her mind so that she couldn’t think.

  Yesterday they’d packed up and moved away. Today they were gone. It was a perfect day.

  “You’re gonna want to see this,” said Phil, tossing a thin folder on the empty desk of the EP Records CEO.

  Jack was lying back in his chair, dozing away his hangover. This wasn’t unusual for three in the afternoon on a weekday. He wasn’t pleased to be disturbed, but neither did he wish his leading engineer and executive producer to catch him asleep—again. So he faked a pose of interrupted reflection and turned slowly in his chair to read the file.

  “The Hermit Next Door. Why are you bothering me with this, Phil?” he said, as he cast a sneaky look to see if he’d fooled him over the sleep thing. Phil had a wife and five kids at home, three of his own and two fostered, and the only man Jack knew who would return to a supermarket to pay for an item he’d accidentally missed. He was Jack’s most senior engineer, they’d worked together for fifteen years and though they rarely saw things the same way, Jack respected the man’s opinions. Phil knew Jack better than anyone. It was unlikely he’d gotten away with the sleep thing.

  “Read it and I’ll show you the footage,” said Phil.

  It had to be something good for him to be standing here personally, but the double kick drum in Jack’s head was giving him all the pressure he needed right now, and he just wanted to be left alone.

  “I don’t want to read the file, man. Just tell me what it’s about. In twenty-five words or less if possible. I’m busy.” He purposely avoided eye contact, knowing the other man would be silently judging.

  “It’s a reality TV show from Australia,” said the engineer, speaking rapidly, “the show finds and follows hermits who’ve chosen to live a private, solitary life. It’s not great TV, to be honest. The whole concept is a little awkward.”

  Jack leaned back in his chair and wondered why the hell he should be interested in an awkward reality TV show from Australia. “Get to the point, man.”

  “There’s a woman on it you need to hear.”

  “Well hurry up. I have work to do,” Jack said.

  Phil plugged the thumb drive into the computer and spent an insane amount of time tapping insistently on the computer keyboard, each sound a hammer to Jack’s pounding head. He resisted the urge to shut his eyes.

  When the recording finally played, Phil stood close, waiting. It didn’t take long.

  “What the fuck?!”

  2

  Willa Jones packed her cucumber and carrot salad into the basket of her bike and headed off on the long ride into town for her first day of the factory season. The first few days back were always the hardest, learning to interact with people again, saying enough to be courteous but not enough to encourage conversation. Remembering to smile, take turns, wait in line, and be flexible, cooperative. For ten months of the year she could do away with social conventions, but for the next eight weeks, she belonged to them, the system. This would be her eighteenth year packing tomatoes and she knew most of the people on the line; many of them had been working longer than she had. The factory stayed loyal to its regulars, but every year there’d be a few newcomers, and every year when they tried to be friends or make conversation, she’d give them one-word answers until they understood she didn’t want to pass the time with general chit-chat and preferred to remain in her own head, the repetitive nature of the work allowing her mind to disappear into a trance-like state.

  Mapleton, Victoria was a small, sleepy town, where few things changed from year to year. This suited Willa’s needs well. Stable, consistent, predictable. However today, as she parked her bike in the racks outside the factory, she sensed something was different. The usual smell of stagnant, fermented fruit hung in the air, and the rhythmic whir of machinery was the same, but the people behaved strangely. They watched her, gathered in small groups and spoke in small voices. People she’d worked with, who had known her for years, stared.

  She lowered her eyes and pushed past the ladies clumped by the ticket machine to clock herself in. In the locker room she found a gown and hair net, and with shaky fingers, tied them into place.

  Then, cursing the seven minutes she’d have to wait until changeover, she sat on a bench as far from the others as possible and tried to turn invisible.

  Darlene, a veteran worker, approached her, pulling her gown over her shoulders as she walked. “Howdy, Willa.”

  “Hi, Darlene.”

  Darlene busied herself with the ties as she stood. “Don’t worry about them, Willa. It’ll pass soon enough, luv.”

  Willa’s eyes shot up at the woman standing above her. “Why do they keep looking at me?” she asked.

  Darlene regarded her for a long moment, as Willa’s knees bounced uncontrollably.

  “Willa, they’re all talkin’ ‘bout ya because you were on TV, luv.”

  “What? It wasn’t me.”

  “Sure it was. A reality TV show,” explained Darlene.

  “No, I wasn’t.” But her voice cracked as she spoke, remembering the cameras. “What?”

  “They filmed you, luv, where you live. You must ‘ve seen ‘em.” She put a comforting hand on Willa, who moved it away as if Darlene herself had filmed her.

  “I saw the cameras, but I hid from them. They got nothing of me. Why were they there? What do they want?”

  Darlene glanced across at the enormous wall clock above the door frame, let out a loud sigh and flopped down beside her. “The show’s called, The Hermit Next Door. They find people who have rejected, you know, society and that, an’ try to discover what makes ‘em choose a life of… of…”

  Willa watched her searching for the right word. What would Darlene call it? A life of loneliness…despair…isolation…

  “Solitude,” Darlene finished her thought.

  A red rash of heat flashed over Willa’s face as she realised the significance of this. It was the worst kind of invasion possible.

  “How can they do that, without my permission? Don’t you have to sign some kind of release? It’s illegal, isn’t it?”

  “Not if it’s news and current affairs, luv. They can film anyone they please if they’re in a public space. Freedom of the press, and all that. It reminded me of the time when me Uncle Frank was in a bit of trouble last year an’ them reporters came an—”

  “But I wasn’t in a public place. I was in a very private place. My place.”

  “You live on the river, tho luv,” said Darlene.

  “Near the river, yes,” corrected Willa. “But it’s a long way from anyone.”

  “It’s on government land, so it’s a public space.”

  Frustration made it hard for Willa to concentrate, but she forced herself to piece together the events as they happened. She spoke aloud and tapped her leg to help focus.

  “They could only have caught me on camera a couple of times, before I realised what they were doing. There can’t have seen much of anything. Could you tell it was me?” Her desperate eyes lay on Darlene’s conflicted face, already knowing the answer. “Tell me, Darlene.”

  “We knew it was you, yes.” She clicked her tongue, stalling to find the right words. “And these programs do more than film the… ah… hermit.”

  Willa felt the sting of the ‘hermit’ label. Personally, she preferred recluse. “Tell me, what did they do, Darlene
?”

  “They interviewed people who know ya... or at least, knew ya.”

  Air escaped from her lungs and refused to re-enter, just as the siren indicating the shift changeover sounded. Her chest was tight, pounding and loud, and a flush of anger consumed her. She could sense a crowd gathering around her, but she didn’t look.

  “Sod off, will ya? Nothing to see here, girls. You got somewhere to be, ain’t ya?” said Darlene, shooing the workers like pigeons in a park. She sat back down and continued on. “You should know they interviewed lots o’ people from the factory as well. Workers and management.”

  Willa shot her a glare hot enough to fire cannons. But Darlene was not one to take the path of least resistance and bravely told her what she needed to know. “They got me to talk about ya too, on the camera, but I can’t ‘ave said anything of much interest—they edited me out of the program anyways.” Darlene patted her hair down as if the sight of her greying, wiry strands were the reason she hadn’t made the final cut.

  Willa grabbed her water bottle and took a long drink.

  “Come on, luv. You’re better than this. It’s not like you to be all weak and dramatic. Just cop it on the chin and let’s get to work eh. Boss’ll be here askin’ questions if we don’t get a wriggle on.”

  Willa stayed silent, wanting to know every detail of what was said, but at the same time afraid of hearing it.

  “Willa, please listen to me. It’s not as bad as you think. These people are all staring because you’re a little bit famous.”

  “Twenty seconds of footage on the TV doesn’t make me famous, Darlene. Even I know that. What did they say about me? Just tell me now, please.”

  “I swear, it was all good. They recorded ya singing… You sang wiv’ ya guitar... It was really beautiful. Everyone’s talkin’ ‘bout it. On the radio and on the news. The Singing Hermit, they call ya.”

  Darlene gave Willa a slight punch on the arm as if in congratulations. A group of women finishing their shift gathered around, clucking insistently, asking her questions she couldn’t answer.

  “Would you sign an autograph for my daughter...?” “What made you move to the river...?” “What happened to you...?” “What are you hiding from...?” “Is it true you killed someone…?”

  Finding her feet, Willa did what she always did in situations of high stress and pressure. She fled. Pushing past the growing throng of onlookers, she heard Darlene calling behind her.

  “Willa, where’re ya going? The boss won’t hold ya job, ya know that. Stay and do your shift. What’re ya doin’...” Darlene’s voice fell away.

  Willa ignored her, all the while knowing she spoke the truth—she’d be replaced at the factory in a second. In her desperation to escape, she’d turned her back on her only source of income. Too bad. This madness could not be endured. On shaky legs, Willa fled from the building, still in her blue apron and cap, jumped onto her bike and peddled down the unlined street, back to the only place where the questions faded, and the world whispered its solutions in gentle, easy waves.

  Jack took his business class seat and cursed the reduction in expense allowance that prevented him from flying first class. Los Angeles to Melbourne was a ridiculously long way, and to spend hours jammed in an oval booth only inches from another person was a come down. Still, the liquor flowed just as freely, and he was well used to sleeping in a chair anyway.

  He downed his first gin and tonic before most of the travelers had even boarded the plane, and he felt the calming effects of the second drink settle over him as the coach passengers filed past, envy written all over their faces. It wouldn’t happen in first class, he lamented. He opened an in-flight magazine as a prop and then went through a best-case scenario in his mind.

  EP Records needed a hero. He’d had so many misses over the last few years that finding a fast money spinner had become essential to keeping the company viable. The parent group were ready to cut them loose, and that would be the end of his six-figure salary and high-profile career. The shame of having to start again was unthinkable.

  He’d played the three tracks too many times to count since Phil had first suggested her. And every time he listened, he noticed something new—a phrase, a variation, a tone. It was extraordinary. He hadn’t heard anyone bend a vintage song like this woman since Eva Cassidy.

  Jack had already sent a man already to make an offer, but with no success. The woman had rejected all offers and completely cut herself off from society. He’d have to play his A-game to win her—find that schoolboy charm that had served him so well in the past. Trouble was, that handsome, humorous, spirited man with dangerously green eyes was getting harder and harder to find, hidden behind the expanding waistline, greying temples and drink dependency. Still, a few days in the country might be just what he needed to get himself nice again.

  3

  Carolyn Bunting had dreams of becoming a national news reporter. A local girl with a solid work ethic, she’d a face for television and a natural instinct with people. She’d spent twelve months chasing interviews and leaving resumes before, unsuccessful, broke and despondent, she’d returned to her home town to work a minimum wage job at the local newspaper; The Mapleton Free Press.

  She’d reluctantly moved back in with her parents and tried to avoid her old school friends because after graduating high school, she’d boasted she’d be a famous news presenter on a national network and would never again have the need for her hick, country friends. She also pronounced she’d never return to the small-town vacuum that was Mapleton. Yet here she was. It was easier to avoid her old friends than eat the humble pie that had come her way. Since her return, she’d thrown herself into the mundane country news and spent a lot of time playing games on her phone.

  Willa Jones was the biggest story to hit town since Peter Grunt won the AFL Brownlow medal in 1968. The town had embraced its connection with the man, having every signed entrance proclaiming Mapleton, birthplace of Peter Grunt. They’d named the football field in his honour and a street or two, despite the footballer having said the town was a hole he’d never climb back into.

  After the Hermit episode aired, the public reaction exploded. Every news network and newspaper wanted the scoop. Carolyn watched the crews drive their vans and Winnebago’s to town, all hoping for an exclusive with the recluse, only to find that their vehicles couldn’t pass down the narrow path that led to the woman’s home. They had to carry heavy equipment in by hand, often in inappropriate footwear, to discover the woman had shut herself inside her rusted galvanised iron shack and refused to come out. They knocked, of sorts. They tried to peek through slots in the tin. They shouted, threatened to enter, poked around her stuff, spooked her chickens, and basically prevented her from having any sort of privacy. With no running water or power supply, Carolyn could only assume the woman was doing it tough, locked up in the heat.

  After a week with nothing to show, the big names left, and with them their impressive vehicles and equipment. Carolyn watched the coverage at work, secretly delighted they’d nothing much to report. Instead, they interviewed other personalities and industry professionals to gauge their reaction to the recordings. Kylie Minogue called her fresh and innovative; Glenn A. Baker said her interpretations were classic and arguably better than some of the original works. Ronan Keating reported he felt a deep connection with her music, and that her voice gave the lyrics new depth of meaning. Joel Madden was widely reported as saying the hermits voice was like steel wool, leaving you feeling raw and exposed but washed sparkling clean.