Set Me Free

by Jennifer Collin

  The attraction was irresistible, but even without the physical stuff, Craig was exceptionally charismatic. He was cool, calm and collected, confident and smart. How refreshing it had been to finally, after a long, long time, talk to a man with a brain! It was all well and good for Emily and Ben to suggest she had a commitment phobia, but she'd never been lucky enough to meet a man like Craig.

  The last time she'd attempted to talk about film with a man, Jackson had grunted something unintelligible about only liking big-budget Hollywood blockbusters for their awesome CGI. It had seemed at odds with someone who danced like him, but Charlotte soon discovered there wasn’t much more to Jackson than his footwork and lifts. And she was pretty sure he’d only perfected those in order to sustain his sex life. He might be drop dead gorgeous, but he couldn’t get by on his looks alone.

  Thinking some more about Craig, Charlotte also recalled how he'd surreptitiously looked over her apartment before they collided in the kitchen and made the mad dash for the bedroom. She’d seen appreciation in his eyes. Not only was he educated and cultured, he also appeared to have a pleasantly refined palate. And apparently he was all this and heterosexual too.

  Yes, definitely heterosexual. Charlotte couldn’t recall ever having sex like that. Was it unnatural for something so overwhelming to come from a one night stand? It should have been all sloppy and clumsy, but it was far from it. Magical sprang to mind.

  Charlotte lay back and indulged herself by reliving the experience. His hands on her skin had lifted her to new heights of pleasure, his mouth driving her over the edge. When he’d entered her, she'd felt herself evaporate, and when she climaxed, it was like an implosion. Surely they had recreated the universe last night.

  But apparently he hadn’t felt that way; otherwise he might still be here. It smarted some that the bliss hadn’t been mutual. If the choice had been hers, she certainly didn’t think she could have slipped out unnoticed. She actually wondered if she would've ever been able to tear herself away from him again. So it was probably a good thing he'd disappeared before she turned all clingy and creepy.

  Pity, she thought, thinking some more about his tongue on her skin.

  Charlotte dragged herself out of bed and washed the regret away in the shower. Discovering there was nothing edible in the fridge, she resolved to rely on Ben for breakfast again. As she threw on her favourite maxi-dress with the big, bold hot pink flowers, she added grocery shopping to her mental list of things she needed to do today. Although she was feeling mildly more human that yesterday, she was still a bit dopey.

  But life went on, and Charlotte soon found herself back in the gallery with a takeaway coffee, a piece of fruit toast and three weeks of mail spread out over the desk before her. Yesterday, she hadn’t dared to touch it, for fear of where she might have filed it. Today, she worked through it methodically. Much of it went in the bin, including the invitation from the Moorehouse Gallery, which Gareth just sent in order to rile her.

  Gareth Moorehouse liked to consider himself her rival, but it was one-sided on his behalf because Charlotte didn’t engage in specious competition. The Moorehouse Gallery was much more established and catered to a different crowd to the Evans Gallery. Charlotte supposed it was a sign of respect that Gareth considered her a competitor, but in her mind, there was no contest.

  About one third of the way through her pile of mail, Charlotte’s heart stopped as she read:

  “Following the recent purchase of the building located at 165 Boundary Street, Morgan Carmichael Property Developments wishes to advise tenants that plans are being prepared to redevelop the site. As the plans are developed, there will be ample opportunities for the local community to get involved in shaping the new development. The first of these opportunities will be at a community forum scheduled for 6:30pm on Wednesday 3 November. The CEO of Morgan Carmichael and the Director of our Infill Development Division will be in attendance to answer any questions about the proposal and seek community input into the design.”

  Charlotte was aghast. What the? Where did this come from? She had no idea the building was even for sale, let alone that it had been sold to a developer. She checked the date on the letter. It had been posted two weeks ago.

  She searched frantically through the remaining mail for further clues and found a letter from the building’s property manager.

  “We wish to advise you that ownership of the building at 165 Boundary Street, in which you are a tenant, has changed hands. We remind you that your current tenancy agreement concludes in December. Should the new owners wish to make any changes to this agreement, you will be advised in due course.”

  Well, they certainly were making changes to her agreement. Her gallery was about to be bulldozed. Why hadn’t Ben said anything yesterday? Bean Drinkin’ was part of the same building. As was Hoang’s Restaurant next door.

  An instant later, Charlotte was striding into Bean Drinkin’ waving the letter from Morgan Carmichael at Ben. ‘What the hell is this?’ she exclaimed.

  Ben raced around from behind the counter and escorted her to a table outside. ‘Sit down and stop scaring my customers,’ he commanded.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?'

  Ben took the letter from her and glanced at it. ‘Because you were so bloody spaced out, it wouldn’t have registered anyway,’ he answered.

  Fair enough.

  Hang on a minute.

  ‘Is this what you and Emily were whispering about?’

  ‘Yes it was. But like I said, Charlotte, you wouldn’t have been able to digest this yesterday.' Not sure what to think of that, Charlotte glowered at him for a moment.

  ‘What the hell do we do?’ she eventually asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I was hoping you’d have the answer to that. Li and Jin are completely freaked. We’ve all kind of been waiting for you to come home and figure it out.’

  ‘Why me? What do you expect from me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought maybe with your architecture background you’d have some knowledge of planning and development processes.’

  ‘Not in Brisbane I don’t.' She'd done planning as an elective as part of her unfinished Bachelor of Architectural Studies, but it was in a different state and a different time. Though thankfully, she did have some idea of where to begin researching. She began making a new mental list: of websites to visit.

  ‘That guy who came around yesterday was blithering on about community input and designing the development to fit in with the local culture, but you can bet all that was bullshit,’ said Ben as she tuned back in.

  ‘What guy that came around yesterday?'

  ‘That guy from the developers. Didn’t he come to see you?’

  ‘No…’ Then Charlotte suddenly felt nauseous. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I don’t know, a guy. Tallish, light brown hair.’

  ‘That’s really helpful Ben. So descriptive.’

  ‘I don’t know. He was just an average guy.’

  Okay then, thought Charlotte, and she released her breath. That description surely didn’t fit Craig Carmichael. He was anything but average.

  Hold on. Craig…Carmichael. Oh. No.

  Charlotte snatched the letter back from Ben and looked at the letterhead. Morgan Carmichael Property Developments. Slowly her eyes moved down the letter to the signature block.

  No. No. No.

  Charlotte leapt up from the table so fast that she knocked her chair over. ‘What the hell?’ exclaimed Ben.

  Not bothering to explain, or pick up her chair, she raced back to the gallery and fired up her laptop. Please let it be a coincidence, please let it be a coincidence, she chanted to herself as the machine slowly came to life. After three excruciating minutes, she was looking at Craig Carmichael’s handsome face smiling at her from the screen. All suited up and ‘I’m a serious contender’ looking.

  Charlotte slumped into her chair.

  ‘You prick,’ she said.

  Chapter four
>
  Craig’s day was turning out as bad as yesterday’s. Given the way that one had ended, he might have had some hope that things would improve. But remorse was a terrible thing, and it was holding hope at bay. The guilt of his early morning flight from Charlotte Evans’s bed, sans confession of his business interests, was weighing heavily on him. He was all but snarling his way through the annual Morgan Carmichael Melbourne Cup Garden Party. Then again, Craig feeling surly wasn’t so unusual at this kind of thing.

  Charlotte had fallen asleep purring like a kitten. Somewhere during the night she transformed into something else and her loud, drawn out snore eventually woke him at dawn. He might have been repulsed, but after the incredible sex, he found it cute.

  No sooner had he checked his phone to see what time it was, than the thing burst to life, heralding the start of another day trying to keep Keith off his back. He switched it off without answering, turned to watch Charlotte sleep and indulged himself in a few moments more of peace. He’d slept like a baby and for the first time in years had actually woken up rested.

  Charlotte shifted beside him but didn’t wake. As much as he would have loved to let her sleep, admiring her while she did, he had to get going and get himself sorted out for work. Lying naked beside her was scrambling his brain.

  Regretfully, he gave her a gentle shake.

  When she didn’t respond, he shook her some more but still she refused to rouse. His phone started up again, so he climbed out of bed and took it in her kitchen.

  ‘Craig Carmichael,’ he answered, automatically.

  ‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ barked Keith. ‘Never mind,’ he continued without pause. ‘I need you to get out to the Lakes site with Mitchell. These bloody jokers wouldn’t know how to manage a tradie if he was biting them on the arse. The bloody plumbing subcontractor is refusing to start on the site because he thinks it’s not ready. Can you get down there and sort it out?’

  ‘Is there a reason that Mitchell can’t sort it out himself? It’s his project.’

  ‘Yes, because Mitchell is an incompetent twat as you bloody well know,’ Keith snapped. ‘Now where the bloody hell are you, so Mitch can pick you up on the way.'

  Under normal circumstances, Craig might have enjoyed something akin to schadenfreude. Keith needed him to clean up someone else’s mess, again. But after the argument they’d had yesterday, this morning he just felt exploited.

  ‘Don’t bother. I’ll meet him at the office.'

  ‘Right, and once you’ve sorted that out I need you at my place to help me get this bloody Melbourne Cup thing set up. I swear, this will be the last of these bloody garden parties if I have anything to do with it.'

  Keith hung up, and Craig hastily dressed. He paused one last time to try and wake Charlotte. It was now or never. Charlotte, however, remained utterly unresponsive.

  His phone buzzed again, this time with a text message from Mitch, offering to pick him up. There was no way Craig was being picked up from here or anywhere near West End. Cursing, he texted Mitch back to say he’d be there in a minute, and raced out the door without looking back.

  It took two hours of negotiating to bring the plumbers around and get them to agree to start work. Once it was sorted, he drove home and showered and changed, then made his way to Keith’s. A clear head and a clean suit were essential to working the afternoon’s crowd. He hadn’t felt particularly silver-tongued in yesterday’s clothes while arguing with tradies about drainage trenches.

  The sweeping grounds of Keith Morgan’s Hamilton estate provided a magnificent venue for the Melbourne Cup party. Terraced lawns arced gently uphill from the back of the house, creating the perfect amphitheatre for the event. A large cinema screen set up on the edge of the expansive back patio televised the live broadcast of the horse races.

  Although business had been slowing for Morgan Carmichael, attendance was high this year. All of the usual suspects and more, were sampling the delights of Miranda Morgan’s best caterers. The champagne was flowing freely. The shrieking laughter of intoxicated wealthy women, and the guffawing of rich, fat, smug men filled the humid afternoon.

  Craig was working hard, sweating in his black Armani suit. His tie was off, and his shirt was unbuttoned slightly, in an attempt to get some air circulating across his chest. A subtle sheen of perspiration glistened there instead.

  The scene before him was one he’d grown up with but, much like Keith, he’d really rather be somewhere else. He moved from client to client, making small talk, and staying sober. The drunker the guests got, the harder it was to feign interest in their self-important narratives of their fantastically exorbitant business deals. The real estate agents were bragging about how much property they’d been turning over. The financiers chuckled gleefully about how much profit they were making.

  Craig couldn’t wait for the main race to start, at least then he would have three minutes of peace.

  His grandmother suddenly appeared at his side, the feather of her lilac fascinator tickling his ear. She wore a classic Chanel suit, also in lilac. Nana Gwen was always one to intimidate those around her with her quiet sophistication. She’d been intimidating him all his life, but less so since his parents died. Since then, she’d also been looking out for him.

  ‘Wipe that look of your face, darling,’ she said. ‘Your impatience is showing.’

  Craig ran a hand through his hair. ‘Thanks, Nana.' He forced himself to smile broadly. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Better. Your father used to love these afternoons,’ she mused.

  ‘I guess I’m different to him in that way then.’

  ‘In lots of ways, darling. You need a holiday, Craig. I can see the stress all over you from that spiky bit of hair sticking up to the lump in your shoes where your toes are curled. When was the last time you got away?’

  Craig tried to recall. It would have been the weekend he went to the Gold Coast with Lauren. The one where he’d fielded calls from Keith all weekend and Lauren had dumped him in the car on the way home. ‘I need a man who is present when I am lying naked beside him,’ she’d complained. When was that? Three months ago? No, it was summer and stinking hot so it must have been February.

  ‘I had a weekend away about ten months ago,’ he said.

  She gave him a look. ‘I mean a real holiday, darling.’

  ‘The company getaway is coming up. I’ll be in the Whitsundays in a few weeks,’ he offered, referring to Morgan Carmichael’s Christmas getaway.

  ‘That doesn’t count,’ berated Nana Gwen. ‘Every year you spend that weekend running around ensuring everyone else is amused. Sometimes I think the only reason Keith still consents to that holiday is so he can watch you run yourself ragged. It costs him a fortune, and he’s so tight, it’s hard to fathom why you’re still doing it.'

  It had been years since Craig had taken a true holiday. He’d done his share of backpacking through university, which gave him enough experience to talk credibly about having seen the world, but that had been a long time ago. Two years after he established his division in Morgan Carmichael, he’d forced himself to take a break, convinced he not only deserved it, but needed it to stay on top of his game.

  When he got back to work, he’d found one of his key projects had been cancelled and he was never offered an adequate explanation as to why. Taking a holiday was suddenly not a priority and, alarmingly, a risk. So he worked and worked, and focused on making sure he wouldn’t be undermined again.

  Although he didn’t think it was need of a holiday that was causing him stress, he humoured his nana.

  ‘Who would I take on a holiday anyway, Nana?’ he asked.

  ‘How about me?’ she teased. ‘Or Cassie,’ she suggested as Keith’s daughter ambled over to join them. In sharp contrast to Nana Gwen, Cassie was neither intimidating nor sophisticated. Her bottle-blonde hair gave her a slightly washed out look, which she thought to contrast with bright red lipstick. Her equally red Collette Dinnigan dress, all soft lace and intricate e
mbroidery, was dripping off her ungraciously. One of the straps kept dropping off her shoulder, and she was tugging it roughly back into place at regular intervals. Craig supposed she was sexy in a trashy kind of way, but she paled in comparison to someone like Charlotte Evans.

  Oh Cassie, he thought, as he did every time he saw her. She looked every bit of the emotional wreck she was. Not that she considered herself as such, but Craig had known her all his life and the happy-go-lucky kid he used to climb trees and dig up worms with, was long gone. Cassie Morgan never really emerged from her years of teen angst and she still carried on today like a spoilt child playing at being a grown-up.

  In her early twenties, she'd declared herself a performance artist and changed her name to Cassette. Although as far as Craig knew, Cassie had never actually been paid for a performance, nor had she ever been specifically asked to perform. Her ‘performances’ generally consisted of impromptu combinations of bad poetry and movement, which Craig hesitated to call dance. More often than not, her stage was busy footpaths or shopping malls, where she terrified unassuming shoppers. She was also quite fond of popping up in bizarre costumes at pubs and clubs and all kinds of cultural events.

  Not this kind of event though. Keith might keep a roof over her head and food in her fridge, but she'd never dare perform at one of these functions.

  ‘What about me?’ Cassie asked, snatching a sparkling wine off a passing tray.

  ‘You could take my workaholic grandson for a holiday,’ replied Nana Gwen.

  ‘Urgh. No way. That would mean trekking through a jungle or something exhausting like that. I’d much rather bask in the sun in the middle of the Pacific, and I know how tetchy Craig gets on the beach. That would not be a holiday.’

  ‘Well I guess that leaves me then,’ said Nana Gwen. ‘I’ll leave you to think about where you’re going to take me then, shall I?’ she said as she drifted off to chat to someone across the lawn.

  Craig turned to Cassie. ‘Having a good time?’ he asked.