by Wendy Harmer
‘Or can I buy you lunch? Why not now? Do you have time?’ said Linda.
Jo had all the time in the world. She’d spent the morning furiously cleaning her unit and ruthlessly cutting back plants. When the courtyard was almost nude of vegetation she’d been regretful. That had given her the idea to buy the orchids for the wrought-iron table. She appraised her outfit—a tidy enough pair of flat leather sandals, three-quarter-length black pants and a not-too-crumpled pink linen shirt. Her hair was tied back. She felt for earrings. Two of them. That was good. She guessed she was presentable enough.
Then she surveyed the shaded street, busy with shoppers, and saw only enemy terrain. Every second woman flipping through racks of Italian shirts and trousers in the boutiques, purchasing French triple-cream cheese from the deli or buying Wagyu beef from the artisan-styled butchery would be a DPLC mother. And all of them, she supposed, would have read the item in the Sunday paper.
Linda must have read her mind. ‘How about we get a table in Bistro Moncur across the road? We’ll find ourselves a quiet corner down the back where no-one can overhear us.’
‘About a hundred and twenty million dollars, conservatively speaking. And half of that’s yours.’
Jo was glad to be seated in a corner, because it offered two walls to keep her upright. She abandoned her cutlery on the table, unable to spare even a single neuron to send a message to the remote outposts that were her fingers. She was barely able to gather enough brain cells to form a thought.
Linda, however, was well used to women being rendered speechless in her presence—although more often it was because wives had discovered their husbands were broke, or that some mistress had scuttled out of the woodwork wanting her share of the profits—so she kept on expounding on her favourite topic.
‘If you got it all, it would be one of Australia’s biggest divorce settlements. Although nothing like the sum Rupert Murdoch’s ex got. That was one-point-seven billion. He remarried seventeen days later.’
Jo noticed that Linda relished enunciating that sum. With an extra emphasis on the ‘b’ in billion.
‘Did he plead poor because of the global financial crisis? Because I’ve heard that about half a dozen times this year.’ Linda chuckled, stabbed a seared scallop and popped it into her mouth whole. ‘In his case? Total crap.’
Jo focused on Linda’s red lips, her noisy chewing, and it came to mind that Linda spoke with her mouth full. Ugly habit.
‘Of course, some bottom feeders lost a good deal in the GFC. And a lot of middle-sized species went extinct.’
Became extinct, Jo silently corrected her.
‘But it didn’t really affect the big fish much. They just swallowed up anything that came their way and got bigger. I can show you the stats if you like. The GFC was a godsend. There’s more millionaires in this country than there were before. All the smart boys got fatter and fatter. And your husband’s as smart as they come.’
First it was dogs. Now fish. Linda was a regular David Attenborough when it came to the lives of the rich and famous.
‘He’ll be on the BRW Rich List before long,’ Linda continued. ‘I think you need something like a hundred and eighty-five million to make the cut. You know what that is, don’t you? In Business Review Weekly. The list of the two hundred wealthiest individuals in Australia.’
Jo focused on Linda’s diamond ring. A huge thing. Too flashy by half.
‘Or he would be on the list in the near future...if he wasn’t about to lose half his fortune. I imagine that must be occupying his mind.’ Linda sighed with happiness and sipped her white-wine spritzer. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Jo. I’m doing all the talking. I’m sure you have a million questions.’
Jo could only ask one of them. ‘How much did you say?’
The way Linda told it—and she had been feverishly scampering through the warren of JJ Blanchard’s company assets; couldn’t tear herself away from the task—he hadn’t been particularly adventurous. The majority on the Rich List had abandoned the stock market and were now into bricks and mortar. They’d made their fortunes in much the same way he had. Taking big risks early, then consolidating. Going for assets, not cash. Having one good idea and repeating it.
JJ’s idea was retirement villages, and he’d used the same blueprint a dozen times in locations all over the country, from Proserpine to Perth. Then there were the luxury townhouses he’d developed in his own backyard, like the ones proposed for Watsons Bay. There was also the odd block of flats here and there in the suburbs that he’d bought cheaply and renovated for a good profit. Jo guessed it would have been because he could spot a ‘wood duck’ from a mile off. He’d honed that skill over the years from trading cars.
‘Why does he hang on to the car business?’ asked Linda.
This question was a surprise to Jo, because that’s what she’d thought his primary business was. While she’d known he was a self-styled ‘property developer’, she’d had no idea just how big his empire had become. She’d always presumed that he probably lost as much as he made, given his constant whining about the state of the economy. In the summer of 2008, when the spectre of the GFC loomed largest and JJ spent nights at his computer watching every move of the US stock market, Jo had even thought they might lose the roof over their heads.
So, he’d amassed a fortune of a hundred and twenty million dollars and was still trying to cheat her. How much money did he need to be satisfied? And if he had so much, why hadn’t he ever suggested they move on from Parklea? And what could politics bring him that he didn’t already have? Linda was right. There were a million questions. But Jo could answer one of them at least.
‘He just loves cars. His dad was a used-car dealer,’ she explained. ‘He gets a lot of joy from it and it’s a good way to get to know people. He’s a charmer when he wants to be. You can bet that most who’ve bought a car from him would vote for him.’
‘You wonder why he’d want to go into politics—but then, he’s not the first multimillionaire to go after the seat of Double Bay,’ Linda said with some amusement.
‘You probably won’t believe me,’ said Jo, ‘but he always had a sentimental side. You can still go to the showroom and he’ll be there on the floor selling. He can’t resist making a deal.’
‘Clearly,’ said Linda. ’Well, he might be making the deal of his life soon.’
Jo lapsed into silence again. JJ probably thought he’d already done the deal of his life. The one he’d offered her would save him fifty-five million dollars.
Linda saw that Jo looked stricken. ‘I really do think you need a drink to settle your nerves.’
Jo’s hands were trembling as she took her glass of wine. She went for a sip, missed her mouth then had to mop her chin with her table napkin.
A cheer from the balcony outside the dining room caught their attention. The balcony overlooking the street was now occupied with a group of ‘ladies who lunch’. Jo’s heart sank when she recognised a few of them as Darling Old Girls. It was a fair bet that Carol and Didi would be next to join the throng now laughing raucously and toasting each other with much tinkling of champagne flutes.
‘I see the DOGs are barking. Don’t worry, they’ll be pissed by the time we leave and won’t even notice us,’ said Linda. ‘And who cares if they do? Mostly poodles by the looks. Anyway, by the time we’re finished you’ll be able to buy and sell all of them. You’ll be one of the wealthiest women in the country.’
Who has sent her best friend to jail, Jo added silently.
Linda clasped her hands under her chin and regarded Jo with what seemed to be deep and genuine interest. And why not? thought Jo. Her fees on this gig would be substantial.
‘So did you go and see the house? What did you think? I can so see you there on that terrace with your paints and easel.’
‘I can too, but it’s about to be demolished,’ Jo informed her.
‘I know, but that’s no problem. Seeing it’s part of your shared assets, we’ll just apply to the co
urt for a caveat. That will stop any work on the site for development or stop it being sold.’
‘How long would that take? I imagine the bulldozer will be in there any day now.’ Jo was just repeating what JJ had
told her.
‘If we go to the district or magistrates’ court it could take up to a month. But that will give us thirty days to lodge the rest of the paperwork.’
Forget it. The place would be matchsticks by then.
‘Or, we could go straight to the High Court or the Supreme Court and we could get the caveat in forty-eight hours. That can cost you up to fifty thousand dollars—still, small beans with what you’ll be worth eventually.’
Jo had that amount sitting in her bank account right now. Then, remembering her near-fatal encounter with the Bondi bus the other morning, she said: ‘But what if I did get the house and then had to let it go? If I, say, got run over or became ill, is there some way I could make sure the house is protected from demolition forever?’
‘Well, “forever” is a long time, but I was going to say, the other thing we should do right now, simultaneously with the caveat, is get an emergency heritage order from the state government. That will stop demolition for at least forty days. Then we can come up with some reason why it can’t be knocked down. From memory, that includes “local significance”, “architectural merit”...blah blah blah.’ She waved her red-tipped fingers.
‘I imagine, though, that historical importance is the main thing,’ said Jo.
‘Did you discover something that might be of interest?’
‘I think that house was built for Eunice Walpole, the first headmistress of DPLC. I also think that her sister Augusta spent time there. That would make it very important from the college’s perspective, at least.’
‘No! Well, this gets better and better! Did I mention that the chair of the Heritage Council of New South Wales is Rosalind Calwell AO? From the Calwells? There were five sisters at the college from memory.’
‘You mean she’s a dog?’
Linda laughed. ‘Now you’re getting it! Didn’t I say that the DOGs were everywhere? Ros is one of our esteemed forward pack of cattle dogs. Did I mention them?’
‘No, I don’t think you did.’
‘They’re our “confirmed spinsters”.’
Jo couldn’t catch her meaning. ‘I’m sorry?’ she said.
Linda leaned forward and whispered, ‘The lesbians. They give us our muscle. Brilliant and brave. Good at rounding up the blokes. A lot of them in powerful positions in this state. Overachievers every one and, of course, when they were at college they all worshipped Augusta Walpole. Once we marshal all the Old Girls, there’ll be no stopping us.’
Jo was stunned. There was an Augusta Walpole fan club at Darling Point? She would never have suspected any of the girls took the slightest interest in the history of the college. Did the girls think Augusta might have been a lesbian? Did they even have a name for that sexual orientation back in Augusta’s day? Maybe not. But it was common for ‘spinsters’ to excel in one of the only career paths open to them, as educators in girls’ schools.
‘So, when do you want to get started on sorting everything?’ asked Linda. ‘I still think we should get a forensic accountant in. I’m sure there’s more to be found.’
More than a hundred and twenty million dollars? Jo didn’t want to know. In fact, she wished she’d never asked. ‘I’ll have to think about it all,’ she said as she fussed with her cutlery.
‘You...what?’ Linda was flabbergasted. ‘But I thought you said the bulldozers were coming in any moment?’
‘I know I said that, and it’s true. But I’m just going to have to take a few days to...Anyway, I want to thank you for everything and please send me a bill for your advice. I’ll call you when I’ve come to a decision.’ It sounded like she was dismissing Linda. Perhaps she was.
Linda frowned and pushed away the remains of her meal.
‘I just want to warn you, Jo. I’ve said this before, but forgive me if I say it again. Do not, under any circumstances, try to do this yourself. You will lose out. There’s nothing surer. I’ve already heard you defend him. You say he’s “charming” and “sentimental” and perhaps he is, but hear me—you don’t amass this amount of money without being a canny operator.’
Jo had certainly seen that side of him. In the meeting at Parklea he had also been ruthless, poisonous and unbearably cruel.
‘The fact that you, his wife, hadn’t any idea of what he was worth? Doesn’t that tell you something? Anyway, I’m sure your personal life is none of my business. I have to go,’ she said crisply. ‘Let me get the bill. I’ll just go to the ladies’ and meet you out the front. My car’s just near yours. I’ll walk with you.’
Jo fumbled for her handbag and extricated herself from her corner. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I never did ask. If the Canonbury boys called you “dogs”, what did you call them?’
‘Well, I can’t remember there was anything specific. But my husband went to Riverview and he reckons there was a saying around all the private-school boys: “If you can’t get a girl, get a Canonbury boy.”’
And that was one more thing Jo wished she didn’t know.
Holding her breath and ducking her head, Jo scurried down the front stairs to the street. Linda was right; the champagne was flowing and she made it past the chattering luncheon party unnoticed.
She was just breathing again when she looked up to see Carol and Didi barrelling towards her. Jo cursed her bad timing. There was nowhere to hide and Didi nailed her in an instant.
Jo attempted to step around her, but Didi took a quick sideways hop and was directly in her way. Carol was standing behind, effectively barring the other side of the footpath. And there they all stood.
The first to move was Jo. She edged back down the footpath, which was a stupid move, because now she was in full view of the gallery on the balcony.
‘Didi! Carol! Hi! Yoohoo!’ came the greetings, and Jo looked over her shoulder to see ten pairs of unblinking eyes taking in the scene. She registered that the women were nudging each other and whispering. This confrontation was going to make highly entertaining viewing. When she looked back, Didi had made a startling advance and was right in Jo’s face. Her stance—skinny arms thrown back and chest thrown forward like a Christmas turkey—was pure aggression.
Jo wished the ground would open up and swallow her. Here she was in her dowdy gardening clothes with Didi in front of her—a vision in a gold silk top and a scrap of a skirt. Her bare tanned legs were perched on huge, buckled, platform-wedge sandals that looked to be made of stainless steel. Ten tanned toes were gripping the soles for grim death. From head to toe, the whole prefabricated construction was rocking unsteadily on the uneven paving.
Or did Didi have a head full of cocaine? That’s what crossed Jo’s mind when she was close enough to look into Didi’s eyes and see that her pupils were the size of pinheads. Beyond her, Carol was a blur of leopard print, blocking out the sun.
‘You’ve got a nerve showing your face around here,’ Didi snarled. ‘I already told you, you’re not welcome.’
On another day Jo might have taken the moral high ground, let the remark pass and fled to her car. She would have driven to Suze’s place to drown her sorrows. But not today. She’d had a gutful of their preening pretensions. Didi hadn’t changed since Darling Point days, when she was one of a gang of girls who thrived on the sly humiliation of others.
Jo stood her ground. ‘Excuse me, I’ll go where I like,’ she retorted. Then something Linda had said—‘you’ll be able to buy and sell all of them’—was thrown up on a raging tide. If it was a fight about money, Jo had already won. She opened her mouth, about to fling sixty million dollars worth of ‘fuck you’ in Didi’s face. Later, she was grateful that Didi got in first.
‘Stay away from my family!’ Didi hissed. And then she tottered sideways. Just as she was about to pitch head first into the bonnet of a BMW parked at the ke
rb, Carol stepped in to take her arm and support her. The sight of The Dingo Holt looking at her with smug satisfaction made Jo want to put her in a headlock and choke her. Then Didi struggled out of Carol’s grip and lurched forward.
‘Didi! Forget it!’ Carol screeched a warning.
‘You sad bitch. I know you’re in there, trying to ruin my life. Keep away or I’ll rip your face off!’ she snarled in a low, menacing tone. Then raised her huge handbag as if she was about to belt Jo with it.
Jo deftly stepped aside to go around her. Didi pulled at her shirtsleeve and Jo shrugged off her grasp. It wasn’t a push, but it was enough to put Didi off-balance. She almost toppled, half righted herself, and then one of the heels of her platform shoes snapped with a gruesome crunch and sent her sprawling backwards onto her backside on the footpath, both legs swivelling in the air like rotor blades.
Suze was right. Didi did go commando...and Brazilian.
There was a shocked and appalled ‘oooh’ from the balcony. And it was then that Jo saw her moment and bolted up the street for her car.
When Jo fell in the door of her unit, legs still like jelly and her hands shaking, her mobile was ringing and Michael Brigden’s name flashed on the screen.
‘Gemma confessed,’ he said. ‘Her mother found some emails to Yoshi.’
‘So that explains it,’ said Jo.
‘Explains what?’
‘I met her in the street. She was incandescent. Said I was out to ruin her life. And I can see why she’d think that. Can’t you?’
‘Oh, Jo. I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this. Between us, the entire Brigden family is giving you a lot of grief at the moment. I want to apologise for that. The estrangement between Gemma and her mother is my problem, not yours.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate the call,’ said Jo.
‘And there’s something else. Didi and I have decided to formally separate. I think she’s going to put out a press release in the next few days.’
