by Wendy Harmer
By 3 a.m. it was quiet. Jo turned on the lamp and stared up at the blank, white ceiling, pulled the covers up to her chest, smoothed the sheets and wove her fingers, left and right, in repose. As if she was holding her own hand. This was the way she would lie in bed when she first left home and went to college as a boarder, just eleven years old.
She could see her uniform laid out at her feet. Purple blazer, grey felt hat and tunic in winter. Purple and gold gingham dress, cream straw hat in summer. Black shoes. White socks. All year round.
On the wall she saw the timetable that told her exactly what would be happening tomorrow. Where she would be, at what time. And when she followed the old stone path from the dining room to the classroom, she knew who would be waiting for her. Miss Jensen for maths. Mr Collins for English.
She’d had friends, of course. Not the wild girls who flirted with the boys and smuggled cigarettes and alcohol into the dorm. Not the rich girls like Carol and Didi who were never there on weekends, but nice country girls from good homes who, like her, made lots of lists and were always on time.
It was a comforting, orderly script she had followed for years. Class monitor, house captain, prefect, head prefect—
it had all unfolded in a predictable and satisfying fashion.
‘And this year’s award goes to...Josephine Brown.’ She’d come to expect that she would be rewarded for her discipline and diligence with the appropriate book prizes, ribbons and trophies. If she gave her all, the world would give back.
‘Well done, Josephine. Good work this year. Congratulations.’
As the years passed, it was the train trip back to the Blue Mountains on school holidays that made her anxious. Now she thought of it, she’d felt a bit like Harry Potter travelling home to the Dursleys’. Not that she was a changeling who’d ended up in a parallel universe via some supernatural device. Far from it. She loved that she had her father’s tall, upright bearing and her mother’s serene grey eyes. What she didn’t look forward to was the way the days stretched out before her, formless and unknowable.
Jo’s older brother Phillip had stayed in the mountains living at home to attend the local high school. He was hoping to be one day taken on as a mechanic’s apprentice. He teased his sister for her perfectly made bed and her neat row of stuffed toys. Sometimes he secretly exchanged a teddy bear for a furry giraffe on the shelf, just to see if she noticed, and Jo always did. Instantly. Her nerves jangled until the order was put right again. Big eye, small eye. Fat and skinny. Tall and short. Brown and orange. Teddy sat next to giraffe. Alphabetical order. That was how it went.
At the end of the street where the concrete footpath ended, the land fell away into dark, impenetrable scrubby gullies and
sheer escarpments that changed their aspect with the sun
and passing clouds. One moment it was all a plain brown and
ordinary green and the next a brooding, shifting bruise. She often chose to stay inside the house. In her room. Drawing and reading while her mother nagged her to go outside and play. Play? What point was there in playing? Her mother should have known she hadn’t done that since she’d left home to go to boarding school. At what time should she play? With whom? For how long? Wearing what?
Jo never stepped off the path. When she was old enough to arrange her own life, it had again been tidy. She studied to be a teacher at her alma mater. Married a boy from a fine school who had prospects as a good provider. He had agreed with her and her parents about the way things should proceed and they went on to be married and have two children. A boy and a girl. The perfect ‘pigeon pair’. All in chronological order. That was how it was written.
Then one day Suze had walked into her office. She was wearing a swirling red skirt and a necklace of tiny bells that tinkled when she moved.
Jo had hired her, and kept her, almost as a child might keep a pet to see what it might do next. Jo had been rewarded, because Suze was endlessly fascinating. She was loud and uninhibited. Funny and profane. She was unlike any friend Jo had ever had, and Jo loved her for that. She admired the way Suze grabbed at life and took a bite out of everything that came her way. Through Suze’s eyes Jo saw just how predictable her existence had become, and she’d begun to snap and worry at the heels of the life she’d made.
What Jo hadn’t seen, or perhaps hadn’t wanted to see, was how greedy Suze could be. She’d always said ‘the universe will provide’, but, clearly, Suze had no intention of waiting for divine providence. Somewhere along the way, she’d decided to hurry things along by taking more than her earthly share. Jo now knew the ‘how’ and the ‘when’ and ‘where’...but as for the ‘why’? Suze had spread the blame around. It was Jo’s fault, or Rob’s, the burden of her motherly duties or ‘the system’ with its pretensions about class and wealth. While Jo could understand the pressure Suze was under, the decision to lie and steal had come from her. And her alone. Even the most abject victims of an earthquake or tsunami were condemned for looting. That’s what Suze had done, and when she had been discovered with her arms full, she’d defiantly declared that she was justified. Now she wanted to take her punishment, but that didn’t sit right with Jo. It was the easy way out.
As for the evil, nasty things she’d said? Jo refused to let the drunken oaths of a thief and a liar bring her down. Better people than Suze had tried and failed. She got up for a glass of water, came back into the room and saw that the clock now read 3.30 a.m.
By the time she’d got back into bed, smoothed the covers again and turned off the lamp, she’d made her decision. Suze would not be allowed to give herself up to the authorities. She wouldn’t learn anything from that. Instead, she’d be rescued and would have to live with the lessons it taught. She would have to cry tears of forgiveness, gratitude, repentance and love. Through her theological readings, Jo knew these were the requirements for absolution of sinners. And, she would add to that, as Father Patrick had suggested, amendment.
If paying back the money at fifty dollars a week took Suze—Jo had never been good at maths—until she was an old-age pensioner, then that’s what would happen.
Jo rolled over in bed, away from the luminous dial on the clock that was now counting down the minutes until dawn. She might have the money, and she would see to that first thing. What she didn’t have was a store of bravery. She’d have to find that too.
The next good while was subscribed to thoughts of Michael and that kiss. It wasn’t just one kiss. Night after night she’d imagined lying in his arms and couldn’t let go of the hope that they might find a way to be together. If she was honest, she was planning to steal him from Didi. That’s why she wanted to go on with Gemma’s wedding. She would be up there talking about everlasting love and he’d see her and want to be with her forever. But now she had to let that hope go. Otherwise she’d be no better than Suze.
Like her, Jo had to fight the temptation of bitter resignation and search her heart for forgiveness, gratitude and repentance. She was frightened to think that she might have already found love.
Chapter Thirty-two
Parklea. The brass plate beside the front door was freshly polished. Jo banged the knocker and knew it would reverberate through the whole house. Even when she had been sitting in the sunroom overlooking the back garden, the echoing clang from the front door had made her jump from her chair with fright.
Jo recalled what Linda Priestley had said—that most wives didn’t have the courage for a face-to-face encounter and would be bullied into a bad deal, but Jo couldn’t see she had any choice in the matter. She didn’t have the luxury of time and couldn’t get forensic accountants or lawyers involved. She had decided to do the deal this morning at Parklea. In private. Anyway, after more than twenty years of marriage she had JJ’s measure.
The burgundy Bentley was in the driveway but that was no indication he was home. He was often chauffeured to and from the airport. He had no patience for others on the road. Especially for the ‘silly tarts’ in tiny Japanese and Korean c
ars he liked to monster with the Bentley whenever he was behind the wheel.
The last time Jo had seen him—apart from regular sightings in the media—was when they had crossed paths on the occasion of Tory’s birthday. Their encounter on the footpath outside the restaurant in Surry Hills had been...What was the word? Cordial. The word used to describe meetings between US and Iranian politicians. It was a contact that had been brief, cordial, but insubstantial.
Given it was a Sunday morning, Carol Holt could well be inside the house, even now wrapping a bath towel around her ample middle. Jo wasn’t looking forward to confronting the new mistress of her old domain, especially after yesterday’s fiasco at the bowling club, but these were extraordinary circumstances and she’d mustered all her courage to make the unannounced house call. She prayed that Carol didn’t answer the door.
Rap! Rap! Jo banged the door knocker again and heard the heavy tread on floorboards that could only be made by JJ.
So he was back from China—if he had ever been there—and if he was jet-lagged, he would be extremely ill-tempered. The door was flung open and there he stood in a crushed green-and-gold Wallabies rugby union singlet and white boxer shorts. He was unshaven, his close-cropped grey hair flattened and whorled. But he still managed to be imposing—sturdy legs apart and broad, bare feet firmly rooted on the brass-plated top step.
‘Josephine.’ No hint of surprise in his voice. In all the years she’d known him, Jo had never seen James Johnathon take a backward step.
‘I have to speak to you. May I come in?’ said Jo.
His brow furrowed and he glanced over his shoulder. That told her he did indeed have company. Her stomach cartwheeled but she was determined to go on with it. ‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.’
‘Give me a minute.’ He pushed the door to, leaving Jo contemplating a monumental slab of cedar. From down the hall she heard muffled voices and more footsteps. It sounded as if The Dingo Holt had been tied to a post in the bedroom or the kitchen until further notice. Jo hoped so.
JJ returned and ushered her into his study. The room was chilly, gloomy, and Jo was reminded of why she despised the place. The heavy antique sideboards laden with crystal decanters and silver jugs; the vast, lumpish writing desk; chocolate Persian rugs; dreary landscape paintings and framed cricketing memorabilia—all chosen by JJ—gave it the ambience of a musty gentlemen’s club. The brown leather Chesterfield under which Jo had found Carol’s underwear still sat in pride of place.
If Carol’s decorators had been here ‘for weeks’, why couldn’t she have given the clichéd décor of this room the Holt treatment before she turned her gimlet eye to Jo’s lovely garden?
‘So. What’s up?’ JJ slapped two hands on the back of a hulking armchair. Even half dressed and half awake he was formidable. But—Jo entertained a brief image of him naked—nothing she hadn’t seen before.
There was no invitation to sit, or an offer of refreshment, so Jo stood where she was. ‘I want to get the settlement underway. Sooner rather than later.’
‘You want to talk about this on Sunday morning? Here at home? What’s this about?’
Now he was surprised, and wary. Jo knew she’d made a mistake coming here. She’d panicked. Done exactly what Linda had told her not to and let her emotions get in the way. She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. ‘I’d like to work this out between ourselves. Without bringing in the lawyers.’
‘You can bring them in if you want, because there’s bugger-all left to fight over.’
Jo had anticipated this particular gambit and went on with her rehearsed speech.
‘I want two things—’
He talked over her. ‘Oh, yes. I imagine that would be everything I have now and everything I might have in the future.’
‘Don’t, JJ. I’m trying to work this out between us and save us both some money.’
JJ stepped around the armchair and sank into dark-green leather. The air exhaled from the cushion. A loud fart of derision. He looked at the wall above Jo’s head. ‘So, you’re taking some interest in the family finances at last. I suppose you have to, now you’re unemployed.’ He had a deep and abiding loathing for ‘dole bludgers’. It was one of the worst insults he could hurl at anyone. ‘Don’t fret.’ His tone was condescending. ‘You’ll get enough money to buy all the paintbrushes and paper you want.’
She stiffened at his casual dismissal of her lifelong passion for art. His bulldog head and contemptuous upturned nostrils put her in mind of Lucian Freud’s Lord Goodman in his Yellow Pyjamas—a classic portrait of excess and entitlement. In the past year JJ’s embrace of the good life had done him no favours. His waistline was expanding to match his gargantuan ego. Jo had at least managed to herd him into Centennial Park over the road for a daily constitutional.
‘I want what I’m owed. You owe me and I—’
JJ sprang out of the chair with an impressive sprightliness. ‘Don’t you dare barge in here and tell me what I owe. I don’t owe anyone anything. In this entire fucking world!’
He marched and halted at the edge of the Persian rug. Clasped his hands behind his back in a stance that indicated he was marshalling his wits, preparing for a fight.
‘You listen to me.’ His bare heels spun on the rug. ‘In case it’s escaped your notice, Josephine, there has been something called a global economic crisis out there...Out there!’ JJ strode to the window and pulled the curtain. Light speared through the glass and they both recoiled from it.
‘The arse has fallen out of the world. The car yard in Parramatta? Gone. The yard in Kogarah? Almost gone. The commercial property market in Sydney? A hell-hole. The family investment portfolio? It’s evaporated like the frigging morning mist!’
Jo didn’t believe him. JJ would make a good politician. Backed into a corner his first impulse was to bluster and lie, but she was practised in his various deceptions and found him easy to read. Would the voters he courted see through his fakery? In private he hadn’t bothered to disguise his contempt for the hapless buyers at his car yards, mocking them as ‘wood ducks’.
‘I want the house in Watsons Bay and five million dollars,’ she said.
‘Oh, ho ho!’ he bellowed as he strode through the room and took up a position behind his carved desk, using it as some sort of mahogany shield.
Jo advanced to the perimeter of the rug. ‘It’s reasonable,’ she said. ‘You know it is. This house is worth at least fifteen million and then there’s the rest—the car yard and, don’t lie to me, I know there’s more. Just give me The Cape and the cash and that will be the end of it.’
JJ leaned forward, his gut resting on the desk like a bag of dirty linen. His eyes bored through Jo’s skull. ‘Of course I’m not going to give you the frigging house! I’m doing you a favour. It’s a dump! The redevelopment’s worth twenty mill on the market. Anyway, too late. The bulldozers fire up soon. If you wait, you’ll get more.’
‘Forty million,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You’re selling those units for ten million each. You’ll get forty million. And if we don’t settle now, I’ll get half of that, on top of everything else.’
JJ fell back into his chair and drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘So, you think you know my business, do you? Perhaps you’d like to give me an estimate of exactly how much the development’s going to cost to build. And then have a look at how far the bank’s into me. What I mortgaged to get the money for the bricks and mortar. How much I’ve shelled out already. What the tax bill will be. Come on, have a guess.’
Jo was silent. It wasn’t the simple equation Suze had come up with on Friday. She knew that. She took another step forward and then saw, in the corner of the room set up on a trestle table, a white cardboard model of luxury townhouses complete with plastic palm trees. A stack of glossy brochures sat next to it. JJ obviously thought he was on a winner. The vile, arid ugliness of the thing made her clench her fists with determination.
&n
bsp; ‘I want the house. As is,’ she repeated, and took a chair opposite him. ‘And I want five million dollars, in cash.’
He leaned back even further and heaved his sturdy muscled legs onto a pile of stacked folders. Jo was now addressing the crusty soles of his bare feet.
He exhaled slowly. She knew he would be now counting down—five, four, three, two, one. Taking stock. Trying to calm himself. Just like she’d taught him to when his blood pressure made the veins in his forehead throb and his jaw clench with fury.
‘What I’m trying to do here, Josephine, is the right thing. I’m trying to dig us—me, you and the kids—out of a canyon. And all you’re doing is standing on the edge shovelling shit on my head.’
‘I want to live there. It will be a place for Tory and James to come to.’
‘Don’t try to drag the kids into this. They’ve already got a home. Parklea. Tory’s T-shirts are in the laundry basket. James’s pushbike is in the garage. Like I said, it’s not possible. I’ll give you three million. That’s half what the joint’s worth before redevelopment. Take it or leave it.’
‘It’s worth a lot more than that, JJ. Stop lying to me.’
‘Alright, four. And you have to sign a confidentiality agreement. I don’t want you wandering around with your big mouth telling people I haven’t discharged my responsibilities as a husband and father.’
Jo recognised she had an advantage here. His public reputation was all-important with the pre-selection vote looming.
‘I want the house as well. Otherwise I’ll go through the courts and have this house put on the market.’
‘You are not getting Parklea!’ he thundered, and thumped the desk. ‘Have you been paying attention at all? There are hapless bastards going to the wall in the property game all over town. Read the papers. Follow the court cases. There’re any amount of stupid bitches who are feeding on the carcasses of the family business and trying desperately to cover their fragrant arseholes, their botox and colonics bills and their fucking French hatboxes. They clean their husbands out and the kids get nothing. Is that what you want?’
