This was the breakthrough Emily had been working for. Charlotte didn’t want to feel betrayed, but she did. Emily didn’t need the Evans Gallery any more.
So if Emily didn’t need it, who did? No doubt there would always be a line-up of mediocrity outside the door, desperate to get in. But was that enough? Would that make Charlotte happy?
Emily was assessing her reaction, waiting for a verbal response. ‘Okay,’ was all Charlotte could muster, to reassure her she’d heard.
‘Charlotte, are you mad?’
Mad wasn’t the right word. ‘No, I don’t think so. Confused more than anything. But it’s great news, Em. It’s everything you've been working for. I’m insanely proud of you.' And she meant that.
‘Thank you, Charlotte. I’m so excited. These pieces are the best I’ve ever done. I feel like I’ve come alive again. Like Geoff was a weight holding me back, holding me underwater while I slowly drowned. It feels like things will fall into place for me and the end of my marriage is actually the beginning of my life.’
Charlotte smiled at her sister, pleased to hear the hope in her voice. If only she could bottle it and take a dose. She'd thought removing the distraction that was Craig would help her think straight, but evidently it wasn’t enough. Now Craig was gone, Emily was going and the gallery was still in the firing line, with Ben included in those sights. At this rate there would be nothing left, she thought morosely.
What the hell am I going to do? she wondered.
Chapter sixteen
Charlotte was having a shit week. It should have been a great week.
Staring at Tyson Heller’s gloriously kitsch sculptures, she made a mental list of all the things she should be celebrating.
Firstly, a very sheepish and apologetic Andy dropped in to the gallery on Tuesday morning, on his way to the airport for the flight home to Melbourne. Even the tinkle of the doorbell was hangdog when he walked in.
When she looked up and saw him, as much as she wanted to run to him and draw him into an enormous hug, Charlotte waited with a white-knuckled grip on the desk before her, to see what he had to say.
‘Hey.’
‘Hello.’
‘I fucked up, huh?’
Charlotte nodded, choking on the lump in her throat.
‘I’m sorry, Char.’
‘Me too,’ she managed, before she dashed across the gallery and drew him into that hug.
‘Please stop it, Andy,’ she begged.
After a pause he said, ‘I will.’
They shared a coffee at Bean Drinkin’ and talked for an hour about anything else: Emily’s exhibition, Emily and Geoff, Dianne and her refusal to date anyone, Ben and his willingness to date just about anybody. The discussion of the latter topic was stage-whispered while its subject regularly interjected from behind his espresso machine.
When Charlotte and Andy said goodbye, there were promises made: Andy agreed to try a counsellor. It was a small step, but enough for Charlotte. For now.
On Tuesday afternoon, a miracle walked in to the gallery in the form of Tyson Heller. M Talbot’s exhibition was due to come down on Friday, but Charlotte had been too distracted to organise another exhibitor. The chaos of her life was all-consuming. If she didn’t snap out of it soon, her financial reserves would dry up, and she’d be out on her arse, development or not.
Before Tyson walked in, it had just dawned on her that she couldn’t fall back on Emily any more when she came up short. Especially now Emily’s exhibition at the Moorehouse Gallery was less than two weeks away. Gareth Moorehouse would have her head on a platter if she tried that on. But then, in walked Tyson with his portfolio tucked under his arm, come to see if she'd consider exhibiting his work.
His work was brilliant. He was a junk sculptor who created oversized shoes, handbags and other fashion accessories exclusively out of old, classic 1980s toys. The effect was brilliant, colourful and nostalgic. The appeal would be broad. Charlotte asked him if he had enough pieces to open on Friday. He was floored, then overjoyed, and they agreed to a hasty and simplistic social media campaign by way of advertising. By Thursday, it was clear it was already working, and the possible turnout was looking promising.
On Wednesday, she lodged the Boundary Street Preservation Group’s submission objecting to Morgan Carmichael’s development proposal. After the workshop debacle; where, backed into a corner she discovered the secret to lying was to add a hint of ridicule; the group agreed to object on the grounds the proposed design didn’t fit with the existing streetscape. No surprises there. They also argued the building would be overdevelopment of the lot and drew attention to the heritage value of the existing building, although Charlotte wouldn’t rest their case on that. More and more she was noticing the ricketiness of the structure she spent her days within.
The pro rata legal advice she’d finally gotten from one of Ben’s regulars suggested they had a strong case, but her fate, and Ben’s, and the Hoangs, was now in the hands of the city council. They had to wait.
It wasn’t the only thing she was waiting for. And it was the other thing that was getting her down, despite all the wins that were coming her way. She hadn’t seen or heard from Craig since she’d turfed him out of her apartment. Sure, she'd told him to stay away, but her conviction was proving difficult to stand by. Was he feeling it too? Probably not, given he was doing exactly as she'd requested. So there was no point waiting, hoping he’d drop by.
Still, she couldn’t stop herself from looking up expectantly at the sound of her doorbell. Just as she did now, to see Ben walk in. She smiled a compulsive smile, which vanished when she took in his grave expression.
He was carrying a letter.
‘Oh no,’ she said and began rummaging through the mail she’d set aside for later. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s been approved,’ Ben informed her.
‘What? How can that be? The submissions only closed yesterday!’ Finding it, she ripped open her letter and scanned it, right down to Craig’s signature at the bottom. It was indeed formal advice the development had been approved. They had to be out in six weeks, before the building came down.
The doorbell tinkled again and Li and Jin bustled in, their eyes wide.
‘What does it mean, Charlotte?’ Li demanded, clearly confused by the cryptic piece of correspondence.
Charlotte needed time to read it properly. It was written in the technical language of planners she once knew well, but it had been a while since she’d been conversant. She needed some time to pull it apart.
‘I’m not sure, Li,’ she explained. ‘But I think it means the development has been approved. I don’t really understand how it could be though because I thought all of the objections needed to be addressed first. Given submissions only closed yesterday, they couldn’t possibly have done that. And this letter says nothing about a right to appeal. We should be receiving advice we have the right to appeal, not our eviction notices.’
‘So it is an eviction notice!’ shrieked Li. Jin put a soothing hand on her shoulder and consoled her softly in Vietnamese. It worked a little, her pitch dropped an octave. ‘It says six weeks. How can we find a new place in six weeks?’
Oh God. The weight of guilt increased exponentially on Charlotte’s shoulders. Li and Jin had apparently opted to ignore the development proposal in the good faith Charlotte would find an answer and rescue them. Their belief in her seemed perverse right now. They hadn’t even been working on their Plan B. Charlotte patted Li’s arm gently. ‘Let me see what I can find out. Something seems amiss,’ she said.
She wanted to tell them to go and get to work on that backup plan, but something held her back. Spinning with confusion of her own, she couldn’t bring herself to panic them even more by admitting she didn’t know what to do. Better to keep up the brave face and take charge attitude.
After several more minutes of questions and suppressed hysteria, Jin guided Li back to the restaurant to prepare for the lunch crowd. Once they were gone, Ben was a l
ittle more candid. ‘There’s something fishy in this,’ he said, staring blankly at the letter in his hand.
‘Mmm,’ Charlotte mused, staring at her own and feeling her stomach knot.
Ben read her mind. ‘Are you going to call him?’
Charlotte stared at the letter for a few moments longer before looking at her friend.
‘I don’t think I can,’ she mumbled. Was this why he was staying away? If so, it was a good thing she’d taken a stand when she did. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. It was only now, when he was appeared to be winning, that she finally accepted the truth Craig really was going to tear the gallery down. What had she been thinking? That he would fall in love with her and change his mind?
‘What happened?’ Ben asked gently, watching her inner turmoil play out across her face.
‘I trusted him,’ she said simply. But it wasn’t Craig who had betrayed her. She'd betrayed herself.
Ben, thankfully, didn’t press her. That was one of the perks of having a man in the role of best friend. He didn’t quiz her for her secrets. He just pulled her into a quick hug and squeezed her tight.
Releasing her, Ben suggested they fire up her laptop. ‘Let’s see if we can make any sense of it. Then you’ve got a launch to prepare for, don’t forget.’
Charlotte looked around the gallery. Most of Tyson’s pieces were already in place. Her favourite piece, a three foot high stiletto sculpted out of He-Man characters, held pride of place in the centre of the floor. The catering was due to be delivered at 4pm, and the little kitchen was stacked with wine and beer. There wasn’t much more than a last minute clean to do, leaving plenty of time to interrogate the council’s online decision records.
Chapter seventeen
Staring past the sulphur-crested cockatoo that had taken up residence on his balcony railing, Craig took in the cloudless sky and crystal clear ocean speckled with small, lush Whitsunday islands. It was a view that should clear your mind, but Craig’s mind was far from lucid.
He should be relaxing, or at least pretending to enjoy the annual Whitsunday Morgan Carmichael Christmas getaway. But he wasn’t.
Last Monday morning, the day after Charlotte Evans asked him to stay away from her, Keith had stormed into his office issuing orders.
‘I need you to go to Townsville and sort out those cowboys setting up the new office,’ he snarled.
Craig looked up from his laptop slowly. Cool and calm in the face of Keith’s red-faced blustering. ‘You need me to fix up other people’s fuck ups again, you mean?’ he said.
The flush of Keith’s cheeks deepened.
‘I don’t need any of your lip, son,’ he snapped. ‘Just get yourself on a fucking plane and sort it out.’
Margie booked his flight and accommodation immediately, and he was off just after lunch.
Over the course of the working week, he had ‘words’ with the ‘cowboys’ about the property market in regional Queensland, and ensured some of the acquisitions under consideration were withdrawn or renegotiated. His days were busy, and he spent the nights swimming laps in the hotel’s stunted rooftop pool, trying to wear himself out, so he didn’t lie awake at night obsessing about things out of his control.
Things like a certain woman who didn’t want him around. Too late, he remembered why he stayed away from people. In fairness to Charlotte, this time the disappointment was indirect. She didn’t actually let him down. It was the circumstances of their association that made things impossible.
She was right. No good would come from any intimacy between them. No matter how right it felt.
Getting out of town was a welcome distraction. A few thousand kilometres between them made it far easier to keep his distance.
But at night as he swam, he was haunted. The soft warmth of her in his arms; her jasmine-scented hair, the taste of her kisses, and the small sighs that escaped her as he explored her, consumed him as he counted the laps.
For an amateur, she was damn good at the game they were playing. She was easily as good as him, if not better, at manipulating crowds. He floundered when she turned it on, and that was unheard of. She kept him on his toes. Just when he thought he knew what was coming, she turned around and surprised him again. He never expected to find an amateur architect hidden in one of the Boundary Street tenancies. And a good one at that.
He considered what was driving her. It would be easy enough for her to relocate, so it wasn’t just self-preservation pushing her. And given she'd been willing to compromise, she wasn’t being resistant for the sake of it. Charlotte was looking out for her friends and neighbours: the ones who would lose a lot, if not everything, if they had to start over. She was looking after everyone else again.
All in all, her determination and her passion made her one intriguing woman.
That fortitude, and the glint she got in her eye when she was readying herself to take him on, was what he loved about her. Liked about her. Actually liking a fellow human being was novel enough. He didn’t need to overdo it.
He’d once had that vigour. His hunger was for placemaking: for making cities and suburbs extraordinary, not bland, carbon copies of each other. But with each passing year at Morgan Carmichael, his appetite waned. And now it had become an epic battle to get just one decent building constructed. Remarkable suburbs or neighbourhoods were nothing but a delusion.
Looking out over the top of his laptop towards the vista before him, Craig felt the weight of his fatigue. The cockatoo eyeballed him.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he told it.
After only one night of the annual company getaway, he was already suffocating in the hot air, both literal and metaphoric. With his impatience pushed to breaking point, for the first time ever, he refused to give a crap whose wife had already busted her husband copping a feel of the French activity co-ordinator, nor whose wife slipped off the dance floor at 2am to follow the Italian chef back to his kitchen. He was done covering other people’s tracks. This year they could sort it out for themselves.
Turning his attention back to the laptop, he started searching. The deeper he dug, the more intent he became on his task. He opened the archive folder first and explored the drafts stored there. Version after version opened and closed without showing him the figures he was looking for. He opened his email and clicked into the sent folder. He trawled through the ones he’d sent Keith. No luck.
Earlier that morning he’d received a phone call from the financier of the Crimson Street development. Although the figures had already been revised down once, they were being reconsidered yet again. He needed the precise calculations he'd sent through last time, but he wasn’t sure where they’d been saved, if at all, given there had been some ‘back of an envelope’ accounting involved.
He ran his hand through his hair. Where the hell were they?
They wanted to shave another $500K off the construction costs, and Craig needed to see where they’d cut the corners last time to determine if skimping on the tap fittings and door handles was still an option. He also needed to prove $150K for marketing was the revised figure, not the original, because they were trying to drive him down even further. Any lower and there was no point in doing any marketing. The apartments would have to sell themselves.
After another fifteen minutes of fruitless searching, he closed the laptop and went looking for help.
A collection of Morgan Carmichael employees were gathered by the resort pool, reclining on sun lounges. Some were sipping cocktails, although it was only just after 10am. Some were sensibly positioned in the shade, out of the burning sun, but most were not. He waved to Mark and Clare, but his eyes swept passed them, intent on his search. He found Simon, Morgan Carmichael’s most personable IT expert, basting on the opposite side of the pool, his pale skin turning a magnificent shade of pink.
‘Hi, Simon,’ he said, lowering himself onto the sun lounge beside him.
Simon turned his head in Craig’s direction and lifted his sunglasses. The pale skin
beneath them contrasted with the pinkness of his cheeks, making him look like an animated panda.
‘Hey, what’s up?’
Craig looked at the laptop in his hands. So did Simon. ‘Sorry to do this to you, but I need your help finding something.’
Contrary to Craig’s expectations, Simon’s face lit up. He all but bounced out of his chair. ‘Let’s set up inside,’ he said, heading towards the bar.
Craig explained what he needed. Simon, absorbed in the challenge, took the laptop off him and started clicking and digging.
Unfortunately, like Craig before him, he soon came up blank. After unsuccessfully trawling through Craig’s emails, Simon suggested they try Keith’s. They opened his account using Craig’s access.
Scanning through the subject lines Craig looked for anything that might be relevant. Then he recalled he’d tacked the figures on to an email chain about a corporate dinner at which he and Keith had shared a table with the financiers. Unable to recall the precise subject line, he had Simon open a few ‘maybe’ emails at random until they finally found what he was searching for in Keith’s trash folder. Craig breathed a heavy sigh of relief and reclaiming the laptop, saved it to his own files.
‘Cheers, mate,’ he said to Simon. ‘You’ve saved my arse from certain kicking.’
Simon smiled. ‘No worries,’ he said. Looking at his shoulders he added, ‘You saved my arse from certain roasting. If I had been out there any longer, this would be third degree burns.' Simon gingerly touched his forearms and watched the skin whiten momentarily before it returned to its fuchsia shade.
‘Why were you even out there anyway? Surely you know better than to sunbathe?’
Set Me Free Page 18
