She walked on.
Two hours out, she sat on a convenient rock, munched her bread and cheese, drank from her water flask and headed back.
The sun was sliding down the sky when she got home, the tide on its way out, the line she had left once again exposed to the air. She went to inspect, found two flathead flopping and flapping as they waged ineffectual war against the hooks that doomed them, and another fish that at first she did not recognise before realising, with some surprise, that it was a whiting.
‘What did you think you were doing down there?’ she asked the fish, because whiting were not usually bottom feeders. ‘Trespassers will be prosecuted,’ she told the whiting. ‘Or, in this case, cooked.’ Because whiting made good eating.
She gutted the fish, washing off blood, and went back up the shingle to the house. Generator fired up, the fire driving out the cold, she cooked the fish in half the remaining butter and ate them from the pan. Charlotte would not have approved.
Replete, she sighed back in her chair, cosy and content. One day down. On a six-month time scale, that left one hundred and eighty-one days to go.
‘If they’re all like this,’ Marina told the room, ‘you won’t be hearing any complaints from me.’
The phone rang.
CHAPTER 12
Charlotte often told herself she should have been an actress. In a sense, of course, she was: she’d been playing a part as long as she could remember, and had they awarded Oscars for it she would have scooped the pool.
She stood in front of the mirror, checking her make-up, checking her hair, checking the dress she was wearing was the right one for the occasion: a Dolce and Gabbana day dress in multicoloured floral lace that had cost Hector a thousand bucks and was worth every cent.
It was always important to look her best but that day even more so than usual. She was joining her husband and his guest for lunch and the guest was a hot shot from the New Jersey head office, a man called Tommy Mendoza, who had the power to make or mar Hector’s career.
Hector had broken the news to her at breakfast. It was almost unheard of for her to be included in business lunches, but Hector had said the American had made a point of asking for her to be there.
‘Why does he want me?’
Hector shrugged it off. ‘He said he’d like to meet you. He was just being polite. Think nothing of it.’
She didn’t believe him. Long before it had been in the papers, Hector had told her the company had a drilling rig in the Sorell Basin, off Tasmania’s west coast. Familiar as she was with the area, Charlotte knew Noamunga was by far the most convenient place, perhaps even the only place, where a pipeline could be brought ashore. That was why Mendoza wanted to see her, because of the importance Mum’s land might have in the future of Trident Oil Australia.
Which meant that, if the company did strike oil, the family could be sitting not only on an oil field but a gold mine.
Now she checked every inch of her complexion in the mirror. ‘Last-minute tittivating’ was what she called it, making sure—as she did every day—that she was perfectly equipped to play the role she had been performing all her married life, that of the quiet, subservient wife, filled with dog-like devotion to her husband, an everpresent help in time of need.
Had Charlotte been the sort to concern herself about such things, she might have been troubled by those friends—Miriam Handley, in particular, who was intense and fierce and heavily involved in what she was proud to call the far left of politics—who wondered, audibly in Miriam’s case, what purpose Charlotte’s life served, with no children or career of her own.
Fortunately, it was not in Charlotte’s nature to give a hoot about what people like Miriam thought. They were, after all, friends only in name, part of the deception she had practised all her life.
The Miriams of the world did not know it—Charlotte made sure of that—but she was doing exactly what she had set out to do years before, and if no one but herself was aware of it, that was all right, too.
She and husband Hector owned an imposing mansion, complete with Corinthian-style columns, that dominated one of the prime stretches of the Tamar River.
The house was furnished with impeccable taste. She had brought in the best designers and decorators to ensure her prized possessions—Chinese porcelain of the Ming and Kangxi dynasties, Persian rugs woven from the finest silks and too precious by far to be used as floor coverings, all selected by experts she had retained to advise her—were displayed to create a suitable impression on those fortunate enough to dine with leading industrialist Hector Ballantyne and his charming wife.
She had a fine car, a convertible BMW, which, like the house, was the envy of her friends.
She selected her clothes from leading fashion houses during her annual pilgrimages to Europe: garments she considered appropriate to her role as consort to the second most senior man in the hierarchy of Trident Oil Australia.
She’d made it her business to ensure that the husband she’d selected twenty-four years before, the car she drove, the clothes she wore, the house and contents and the staff she employed in the house, were of top quality, as she was, too: the top-quality wife of the man she was determined would become the top executive, not only of Trident’s Australian operations but of its worldwide empire.
In the world into which she’d been born, back in 1942, women had not been supposed to think like that. Custom in those days dictated they should subordinate themselves to their men, their only ambition directed to the raising of their children, providing a cosy home for their husbands, baking cakes and scones for the Country Women’s Association and the local church, and in general being as exciting as a loaf of stale white bread. Even now she found it incredible that she’d grown up at a time when most women and pretty well all men had held such ridiculous ideas.
From the first she’d thought differently. There was a huge world out there with a label on it saying Conquer me, and she’d seen no reason why she shouldn’t do exactly that. That had been such a revolutionary idea back in her early days that there’d been moments when Charlotte had doubted herself: did she dare have such ideas when the rest of the world thought a woman’s only proper role was to be subservient to her man?
Even her own mother seemed devoid of personal ambition, yet Charlotte’s whole being rebelled against such a notion.
Fortunately, she had never doubted herself for long, but she’d learnt that a wise woman kept her feelings to herself. To the outside world she was what people expected—respectful of authority, making all the right noises, modest and unassuming in every way—but inside she was a raging fire.
She’d fooled her family. Neither her mother nor her sister Tamsyn had a clue what she was like; the only reason she hadn’t fooled her brother was that Greg was so many years younger, so caught up in his own affairs, that she thought he was barely aware of her existence.
She’d fooled her husband, playing the loyal wifey to the point of parody, yet he’d never given the slightest indication that he’d realised what she was up to.
There’d been times when she had almost fooled herself, wondering whether she was truly the subservient wife the world saw or the focused person hiding underneath.
Kipling had written a poem about that, she remembered. For the Colonel’s Lady an’ Judy O’Grady / Are sisters under their skins … So different, yet the same.
She’d acted the part so long it would probably stay with her all her life. Well, she thought, so be it. The rest of the world might never be aware of who she was and what she’d achieved, but she would know, and that would be enough.
When she’d met Hector, he’d been a lecturer at the university. Safe and unchallenging job, mediocre pay, pension: a world vastly different from the minefield of commerce, of dog eat dog. Of power and serious wealth.
She’d seen something in him that no one else had, Hector included. She’d persuaded him he could make the transfer into the big time and he’d done it. Thanks to her.
> Of course she should really have been the one to go into business, but she’d been born too soon for that. A woman starting out now might have a chance, but to those of her generation it had been out of the question. Pushing her husband’s career had helped compensate her for what she’d missed, and getting him—slowly and very quietly—to tell her what was going on in the company had boosted her morale enormously.
Charlotte had not breathed a word about Noamunga’s potential importance, either to Marina or her husband, but in a careless moment she’d let something slip when she’d been talking to Greg. He’d been moaning, as he always did, about lack of funds and she’d told him, as she always did, that she had no spare cash to give him. To shut him up she’d said she thought there was a good chance Mum might soon be in a position to help him out. He’d wanted to know how, but she had refused to say any more. At least it had kept him quiet for the time being.
To that day Hector didn’t realise what she’d done to help him climb the Trident ladder: the dinner and coffee parties she’d held, the winning smiles she’d bestowed on all and sundry, the way she’d sucked up to influential men, praising him to the skies to any who would listen. In his ignorance he patronised her shamefully but she didn’t care. He never would know; that, too, would be her victory. She was the only person on earth who knew what a fraud she was.
She straightened her dress a fraction of an inch, checked her coiffure, styled by Gustav, no less, and glanced at the jewelled watch on her wrist.
Timing perfect; driving sedately down the highway, she should arrive at the restaurant five minutes late. Exactly as she’d planned it: the star of the show had to time her entrance to perfection, wasn’t it so?
She picked up her bag and headed out of her bedroom and down the stairs, where the perfectly trained maid was waiting to see her out and close the front door after her.
Charlotte gave her trademark smile. ‘I should be back about three, Maria. If Prudence Hawthorne is here before that, put her in the small living room and say I won’t be long. Give her a cup of tea or something.’
‘Yes, Madam.’
Unlike many women she knew, Charlotte had never believed in being matey with her employees. That, too, was part of the role.
She walked out of the door and crossed to the BMW parked outside. It was a lovely day, warm and sunny, and she would have liked to drive with the hood down, but instinct told her that this lunch marked the start of the last lap of the race to which she’d dedicated her life, and not a hair must be out of place for the occasion.
The restaurant was located in a converted warehouse not far from the Cataract Gorge and overlooked the basin where the South Esk River flowed into the Tamar. It was undoubtedly one of the best restaurants in Tasmania, and Hector and Charlotte dined there regularly. Always in the way of business: she couldn’t remember the last time she and Hector had dined anywhere just for pleasure.
She parked facing the water, slipped on the shoes that were far too good for driving and walked up the steps into the restaurant. Hector and the American were already there, at a table by the window near the far end of the long room. Smiling, she went to join them. They stood to greet her: one of the rituals of civilised living that made her feel delightfully important.
She sat down; the waitress brought the menus and the two men discussed what was on offer and what they might order, which in Charlotte’s experience men always did.
Play actors, the lot of them.
No matter; let them enjoy themselves. For herself, she knew what she wanted and was impatient to get on with it. There had to be business of some sort to discuss; she could think of only one reason why she should be there, but no doubt someone would tell her eventually.
She had the first hint of it when they were halfway through the main course. Tommy Mendoza turned to her with a sympathetic smile, and his eyes were kind.
‘Hector here’s been saying how your mom’s not been so good recently. I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘She’s home again now.’
‘So I believe. How d’you feel about having her so far away?’
The smile was still sympathetic but the eyes watched.
‘My feelings don’t come into it,’ Charlotte said. ‘My mother makes up her own mind about these things. The hospital wanted to carry out more tests but she wouldn’t have a bar of it. I suspect she had a fight with the doctor, checked herself out and went home.’
‘Just like that?’
‘That’s my mother.’
‘She’s a long way from anywhere, stuck out there.’
‘Like the middle of the Gibson Desert,’ Charlotte said.
‘That must surely concern you?’
‘She’s a free agent. She makes up her own mind about these things. And Noamunga has always been important to her.’
‘But even so, with her ill-health …’
‘It concerns me. Of course it does.’
‘Maybe you could prevail on her to move a little closer?’
If you really made the effort.
The unspoken words were clear but she was having none of it. The last thing she wanted was for this man to think Mum was a pushover. In the first place, it wasn’t true; in the second, it might affect the price Trident would be willing to offer her should they really strike oil.
‘Mr Mendoza, neither you nor I can influence my mother or what she does. She is a law unto herself and it would be foolish to pretend otherwise.’
He was watching her. His eyes had a mocking glint and she sensed he had done something no one else had ever managed, that he’d identified the woman behind the mask—and that they were allies. It was an odd feeling. She guarded her expression but, as they continued with their meal, she became increasingly aware of a mysterious bond between herself and the American, as though only they understood what the game was all about. Finally, she put down her knife and fork and gave him the slightest quiver of a smile. ‘I’ve told my mother again and again. I’ve spoken to her about it. I’ve pleaded with her. But she’s not a woman who likes being told what to do.’
‘I guess we’ve all known people like that. So what do you plan to do about it?’
‘I’ll keep trying. I guarantee nothing.’
For seconds, no more, they continued to look at each other, eyes deeply aware, sharing …
Charlotte did not know what they were sharing, but she sensed the power of his eyes and the way they drew her towards him, his physical presence, the strength of his neck and capable hands. For the briefest moment she felt hot under her gown as she wondered how she would react if …
She thought: this was how affairs began.
But that was nonsense, of course.
‘I think I may drive over to see her on Saturday,’ she said.
‘Good,’ Mendoza said. ‘Good.’
‘I’ll make it my business to talk her into it. For her sake.’
‘I have every faith,’ he said.
After lunch Hector and Tommy Mendoza returned to the office. Charlotte, still shocked by the effect the American had had on her, drove home to find Prudence Hawthorne quite put out at having had to wait, but Charlotte soon got rid of her.
It was late afternoon when Maria came and said a man had called and would like a word with her.
She went into the living room. Tommy Mendoza was standing at the picture window and looking out at the river flowing north between its tree-lined banks. She realised she’d been expecting the visit and her diaphragm tightened as she thought how, within the next half-hour, she would know whether her years of promoting her husband’s career had hit the jackpot or not. Unless Tommy Mendoza had another reason for visiting her?
‘Maria,’ Charlotte said. ‘Coffee for two.’
No attempt to pretend surprise at a meeting she now believed both had known was inevitable.
The coffee came with the special biscuits Charlotte favoured for important guests. She poured the coffee.
‘Help yourself to cream.’
‘I’m leaving for the States tonight,’ he said. ‘I wanted to stop by to say it’s been a pleasure.’
‘I hope your visit was successful.’
He smiled. ‘I hope so, too.’
Was there ambiguity in the words, in the way he was now looking at her?
He selected a biscuit from the plate. ‘You know Jim Bennett’s pulling out at the end of the year?’
Jim Bennett was the CEO of Trident Australia and, yes, she had known he was retiring. Edged out five years before his time.
‘I wanted to tell you how I admire your efforts to help your mother. To do what is best for her.’
‘It is inconvenient, having her so far away.’
‘I was sad to hear about her health. It must be a source of constant anxiety to you.’
‘The problem is she’s so attached to the place.’
‘But one must be practical.’
Fencing at shadows … The idea stimulated her. She said: ‘I read in the paper that Trident has a drilling rig off the west coast.’
‘The geologists thought it might be worth a try. No doubt Hector’s told you about it.’
‘Hector never discusses business with me. He thinks I’m too much of a homebody to be interested.’
‘Probably not a bad rule, to keep things to yourself in business.’
‘And in life.’ She refreshed their cups. ‘So tell me, Mr Mendoza, why are you really here?’
He added sugar and cream to the coffee, stirred and sipped. ‘Delicious,’ he said. ‘As I just mentioned, Jim Bennett is retiring at the end of the year. It’s no secret that your husband is one of those being considered to take his place. One of several, Charlotte; one of several. Giving the job to a local man has a lot to recommend it but some high-ups in New Jersey favour bringing in an outside face. A fresh approach, you know?’
That would be ugly news, if true, but was it? Why would this man be talking to her at all unless there was more to the story than he’d let on? Unless he was looking to her to give him something only she could provide?
Stars Over the Southern Ocean Page 10
