“What’s it feel like, Mrs Campbell? Walking all over us little people?” He released his grip, the door closed.
She sympathised. She’d once been one of the little people. Not too many years ago Luca would have treated her as he had the pugnacious young man. The gentle grandfatherly servant who’d waited on her was no different from everyone else. Money bought power and influence and deference and service. Was she willing to risk losing status? To again become a little person?
The elevator halted. Crossing the thickly carpeted passageway, she unlocked the door to the luxuriously furnished V.I.P. apartment. Carelessly shedding shoes, handbag and outer clothing, she entered the plush en suite. In the gold-framed full-length mirror, she critically inspected the beautiful face with the youthful skin and the disillusioned eyes; the slim creamy body clothed in the finest silk underwear; the elegant chignon of thick dark hair; the manicured hands and the single diamond ring. Turning away, she caressed the fine French perfume bottles standing on the rim of the wide gold-tapped bath. Could she again be a little person?
Returning to the bedroom, she loosened her hair, donned a rose silk gown, and picked up the telephone. If Jake wasn’t home, Jess would be. If they were not awake, she’d wake them. She’d tell Jake, or Jess, she wouldn’t be on tomorrow’s plane. Philip would be back in his two-room apartment in Richmond. She’d tell Philip she was sorry. She’d make the calls and set the wheels in motion – divorce and alimony – no matter how inadequate.
Selecting an outside line, she dialled. From the other end of the line came the rhythmic ringing of the desert phone, followed by Jake’s familiar, “Hullo.”
She could not answer. She could not hang up.
“Hullo!” He was impatient. “Cut out the games. Who is this? Is that you, Gail?”
She hung up.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
As always, she leaned to the window. Under the wings of the tiny plane was only withered desert until, nearing mid-day, they were flying over the broad brown river. Minutes later they were circling the oasis – trees, vines, palm-lined roadways, nestling houses – the outskirts of Belleville. Over two decades ago she’d travelled the nightmare train journey, and looked back along the retreating track to marvel at the dramatically abrupt transition from death to life.
As from the train, so from the plane. From whatever viewpoint, the mathematically precise demarcation between desert and oasis was breathtaking. She never tired of the sensational spectacle of millions of vines in hundreds of vineyards, and the sea of rich green with its islands of tall trees sheltering secret homes. Secret homes. Over two decades since she’d naively wondered – Who are they? How do they live? Where have they come from? Why?
Why …
Why, having come here, had she stayed? Why had she submitted to imprisonment in the merciless town in the merciless desert? Why, after yet again contemplating escape, was she again coming back?
She knew why. She shivered. Over twenty years since the first breath-taking view from the sky, since their return from the honeymoon. Since the birth of Jess, inaccurately pronounced premature by the ever-obedient Doctor James Walker. Since she’d accepted the bargain that had secured Jess’s future and ruined her own.
The lowering landing gear jolted and they floated slowly downwards, skimming the huge tracts of former vineyards Jake had bought and sliced. The profits from these residential subdivisions, too, had found their way into Jake Campbell’s coffers.
He’d done what he’d said he would do. He’d delegated the raising of the children, the frivolous socialising, the work on charitable committees, to his wife. Was he aware that this had provided the opportunity to win her own wide circle of loyal sycophants, to establish her own power base? Of course he was. Would it provoke him if she did anything that directly challenged him? Of course it would. What would he do? Different question. Unknown answer.
The wings tilted, the nose dipped, the runway loomed, and the plane slipped gracefully to the tarmac. Collecting her hand luggage, she left the plane. A wall of blistering air rose from the heat-baked tarmac, the overhead sun blasted from its white-hot furnace. Involuntarily, she turned back – towards the plane.
“Mum!” Jess was calling from the Mercedes, parked by the low fence that bordered the take-off area.
The luggage was in the boot and they were leaving the airport, when she asked, “Is something wrong? I expected Flo to meet me.
Where is she?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mum. She’s home. I missed you. I got time off.”
The car sailed smoothly through mid-day vineyards where the movement of an occasional bright sunhat proclaimed the work of picking. If it hadn’t been for the Campbell family, her life would have taken a very different course; she might well have been yet another unqualified labourer. But she wasn’t.
A half mile on, they passed the turn-off to the post-referendum aborigine housing development, another Jake inspired land deal. More significantly, another area where her position of power was revealing things the sea-coast people should know. And didn’t.
Skirting the corner where the old Sunview had been razed, they purred through the slumbering city centre, turned off towards recently subdivided river-bank land and into a court lined with architect designed mansions. A few miles away was the run-down Aborigine settlement, less than a mile away an ill-kept State housing project, within little more than a stone’s throw the makeshift camps of the homeless. The rapidly escalating divide between great wealth and severe poverty, so clearly defined within so confined an area, was obscene.
The Mercedes turned through wide open wrought iron gates, circled the broad driveway in front of the two-storey mansion, and pulled up at the shallow steps leading to the tall double front doors
“I’ll park the car.” Jess drove on to the adjacent four car garage.
The front door flew open. “Great to see you!” Flo raced down the steps. “Hang on, Jess! Give us the cases. They’re too heavy for you.”
The house was cool, shadowed, ostentatiously luxurious and smelled of scented furniture polish and summer roses. Flo and Jess had been busy. She paused by the gold-framed mirror in the chandeliered entrance hall. An import from Florence, Jake’s guests loved it. Jake’s guests. Flo and Jess had prepared as for another of Jake’s guests. She wasn’t needed here.
“It’s great to have you home.” Jess kissed her.
“You shouldn’t have taken time off, Jess,” she lightly reprimanded. “Flo could have done it.”
“Could have, would have!” A heavy case in each hand, Flo started up the broad staircase. “The kid wanted to do it.”
“It’s still above and beyond, Jess. You shouldn’t risk your job.”
“I wanted to, Mum. Really.” Jess was anxious. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
“It’s so damn hot. I’ll feel better after I change.”
“Why don’t you take a rest?”
“You’re going to work this afternoon?”
“Flo’s made lunch. I’ll leave after.”
“I’ll see you after work.” She needed time. It was impossible after the two-week break, and the freedom from Jake’s rules, to immediately adjust. She escaped up the stairs.
The house was huge, half as big again as the last one, twice as big as its predecessor, three times.
In the huge house was the huge bedroom. In the huge bedroom, traditionally built for husband and wife, was a huge custom-made king-size bed. Plenty of room to move, her own private space. The only place in the entire world that was her own private space; except when Jake invaded it. Not for sex. Making the point of ownership, he’d sit on the bed, demand her wifely appearance at a forthcoming dinner or meeting or family gathering or publicity event, and leave.
His own bedroom in his own suite, he’d told his children, was a matter of convenience. Easier to slip in and out of the house without disturbing everyone. Easier to quickly attend to international business. The additional bonus of it being adjacent to the ‘hou
sekeepers quarters’ went un-remarked. He fooled no one. But the pretence was essential to the maintenance of family solidarity.
Throwing her bags on the broad bed, she momentarily recalled Philip and the half dozen other ‘might-have-beens’ she’d rejected. Whatever her future held it was here in this place and, almost inevitably, in this house.
She had showered and changed into a flowing kimono when Flo called up the stairs, “Telephone! It’s Jake. Will you take it up there?”
Without word of welcome or interest in her break, he ordered, “I need you tonight. Dinner at The Sunset. I’ll change here. Be ready by seven.”
Damn. Tonight was to have been a time for recovery, for re-accustoming herself to her prison. No chance. Though she’d chosen it, the reality remained unbearable. It was prison, and its doors were again already firmly locked and the rules being rigidly re-enforced. Tonight, as always, she must play the role of dutiful wife, social companion and loyal support to her doting husband. Tonight, tired or not, she must resume the mask and play the role of elegant hostess to the circle of his increasingly important clients.
There was to be no time for recovery. To speed immediately from the plane to the restrictions of Jake’s command performances was impossible. Without time to adjust, especially after last night, she’d be incapable of instant obedience. The mask could well slip. Because of the encounter with the acutely attuned young man she’d walked away from, the young man who’d seen too deeply, tonight would be especially risky.
Still dangerously rebellious, she showered, sprayed her body with heavily scented perfume, applied heavy make-up, and brushed her hair into a soft full coil calculated to accentuate the youthfully slim curve of her neck. Her crimson silk gown, low-cut and tight-fitting, was calculated to enhance her creamy skin and tawny eyes. Her sandals were extraordinarily high-heeled, her rings deliberately ostentatious, and around her throat was a provocatively wide pearl and diamond choker. The full-length mirror reflected a garish image of poor taste. Well done. Jake would be ashamed.
Nearing six, she left the room.
“Mum!” Jess was waiting at the foot of the stairs. “You look fantastic.”
“I’d give anything not to be going out.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Flo and I’ll …”
“We’ll catch up, love. I promise. I promise.”
Flo and Jess, good friends. Thank God. If there was a God, He’d done right by Jess. Flo was stable. Thank you God.
“To Jake!” The guests, standing for the toast, tentatively sipped their expensively bitter champagne.
She grimaced.
“It is somewhat dry.” At her side George Walker, son of the ageing family doctor in Barclay, sympathised.
“It’s not the …” Damn! She dug manicured crimson nails into the palm of her hand; discipline was essential. Tonight, not only the champagne was bitter. Tonight, contrary to custom, she was at least feeling something more than excruciating boredom.
The ‘Rose Room’ at Belleville’s premier hotel was full, but not crowded. Designed to accommodate dinner for a maximum of fifty guests, this evening’s four course dinner catered for forty-eight. Six large circular tables had been astutely arranged so that Jake was in a position to supervise all present. The guest of honour sat at his right, a pretty young woman at his left, and his wife to the right of the guest of honour. Tonight’s guest of honour, Doctor George Walker, son of family doctor Jim, was an unanticipated surprise.
Jake was donating another wing to the town’s medical marvel – The Base Hospital. Celebratory wining and dining had become a habit. The sycophants would watch and applaud and laud and eat at his table and bask in his reflected glory. As so many celebratory dinners before, and undoubtedly so many to follow, this was merely another chapter in an ongoing saga. After all these years it seemed the majority of the locals still hadn’t worked it out. And even those few who might have retained a vestige of caution seemed to seriously underestimate Jake’s guile. The fawners selected for invitation to this dinner were losers.
The members of his personal clique had been chosen with equal care. In Jake’s exclusive circle were only men and women guaranteed not to rock his boat; men and women who’d been skilfully persuaded or hoodwinked – or blackmailed – into dancing to the tune he dictated. As he’d chosen her.
Though now she knew him well. When she could be bothered, which wasn’t often, she monitored his machinations; observing from a clinical distance sometimes eased boredom. Tonight she was too tired, too angry and way too close to eruption for clinical detachment.
Surreptitiously, she wound her lace handkerchief around the wound in her hand. Tiny spots of blood stained it.
George Walker was concerned. “You’ve cut yourself!”
“It’s nothing,” she snapped, and focused attention on Jake. Blonde curls greying but thick and strong, tanned face smooth and suave, muscular body strong and fit he was a handsome man; a hard man, there was nothing soft or gentle or uncertain about him. But only critical inspection under harsh light would reveal the fine harsh facial lines and the uncompromising slash of once full lips that betrayed the face of a zealot.
Inevitably conscious of his wife’s attention, he asked, “I trust everything is okay with you, Gail?”
His audience would think, as they were meant to, that he was concerned for her welfare. The truth was in the slight forward thrust of his head; he’d gauged her mood and was wary of an outburst. His question was a warning, even a threat.
Her response was critical. He must not guess she was close to losing control.
She flashed a practised smile. “Actually, Jake, I do feel a bit under the weather. Not to worry, I’m probably still tired from the trip. The night out will do me good.”
Apparently satisfied, he turned to the pretty young woman at his side. If anyone had been aware of the threat, there was no indication. More significantly, even if someone had recognised his intention, no one would ever know it. In their world, siding with his wife against Jake was not a consideration.
Politically naïve Doctor Walker junior remained concerned. “Are you sure you’re quite well?”
“Not at all.” She was brusque. “It’s unimportant.”
“But surely …?”
“It’s not important, Doctor.”
He flushed. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to …”
“Of course you were.” She placed a reassuring hand over his. “Why not lighten up? This is a party. The wine is excellent. You should make the most of it. It’s free.”
His flush deepened.
She removed her hand. “I expected to see your father here tonight.”
“He told me you are originally from Melbourne. He remembers when you first came here. Thirty years ago?”
“Not quite.”
“He sent me in his place. To represent the hospital.”
“He’s not ill!” Hospital Board President Doctor James Walker, a regular beneficiary of the Campbell hand-outs, never rejected an invitation to a celebratory occasion.
“Not at all. I think he wants me to learn the ropes, as it were. He’s not as young as he used to be.”
The arrival of the entrée was welcome relief from the effort of polite conversation. On either side her dinner companions seemed content, both with the silent interlude and the excellent cuisine.
The empty entrée plates had been removed, the wine glasses had been refilled and the main meal was not yet served, when George Walker casually remarked, “My father has been with your family for a long time.”
“A long time,” she sharply echoed.
“He told me he’s been attending them since Gus was boy. Since long before you arrived.”
“Before I arrived, yes.”
“I’d like to have known you then. You were a city girl, like Gus’s wife? I guess I must have been away at boarding school.”
“At boarding school, yes.”
“You remember!” His eyes lit up.
She hadn’t remembered, she should have said so.
“You remember,” he enthused. “You know, Dad often wonders if you remember those times. Those times. Ah! You know, the Campbell family has been very good to us, to the hospital. Dad says all this started way back then. Those days when you first met them. You must have found it very different?”
Don’t go there, Gail! Make him talk about himself. “You’ve only recently come back, George?”
“Consultancy actually.” He took the bait. “My practice is in Barclay with Dad. I’ll be taking over when he finally gives it up.”
The main course arrived. She ate little. She should not be here. Pushing her barely touched plate to one side, she deliberately turned away from the young doctor.
Aware of Jake’s renewed vigilance, she refilled her glass, moistened her dry lips, and ostentatiously returned to George Walker. “I expected you to stay in a city practice. Surely this place is too boring for a highly qualified young doctor like yourself?”
“Absolutely not! I’m known here. The practice is established.”
“I know how it is, George,” she conspiratorially whispered. “You’re happy to enjoy a free ride on your Dad’s reputation.”
“I’m sure you don’t mean that, Mrs Campbell!”
She emptied the unpalatable glass. “Oh, but I do – George.”
Jake scowled. Though the hubbub of general conversation may have drowned her insult, he would have noted the swiftly emptied glass. “You’re still tired from the trip, love. I’ll call a taxi.”
“Not at all, Jake.” Her glass was refilled by a passing waiter. “I’m just beginning to enjoy myself.”
“You’ve had a tiring day, Gail,” he steadily insisted. “An early night is indicated. I’ll call a taxi.”
Draining the glass, she beckoned to the waiter serving at the adjoining table. “Keep them coming, young man.”
Jake shoved back his chair, crossed to the bar, spoke to the head waiter, and strode from the room.
Her queasy stomach somersaulted. It was many years since he’d beaten her, many years since she’d publicly embarrassed him. She’d brought this on herself. He’d have to retaliate, but not publicly. He didn’t need to. Even the few in this room who’d witnessed the last few minutes knew who wielded the power in the Campbell household.
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