A dozen times Martin had sketched her like that, naked and smiling on the rumpled bed, hair tousled and cheeks flushed, a plate of food in her lap, the magic of his talent shouting that this was a woman who loved and was loved and who, unmistakably, had just made love with all the passion in her soul.
And it was true, it was true. Every time they were together Jennifer was transported into a place she had never dreamt existed and, knowing that this man had the power to take her there, was all the more eager to be guided, roused, tantalised and ultimately consumed in the furnace of their shared desire. She was redeemed, Venus rising from the foam, as Martin repeatedly told her.
‘What a job Botticelli would have made of you!’ he said, his pencil already at work.
Later she looked curiously at this latest sketch. ‘Are my breasts really as good as that?’
‘They are the queen of tits,’ he assured her, and kissed them both to prove it.
‘Leave him,’ he said each time they were together. ‘You know you can’t stand him.’
‘One day,’ she said.
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
She was braver than she had been but to walk out demanded a level of courage that for the moment was beyond her.
She had been overweight with a discontented mouth and haunted eyes; now she was transformed into a child freshly minted, for the first time transported to the land of love. Any man with half an eye would have recognised the signs but Davis never looked at her, so remained oblivious.
Now, as the taxi drew to a stop outside the house, she repeated to herself what earlier that evening she had told Martin.
‘Very soon I will leave him.’
She opened the door, walked into the house and stopped mid-stride. There was a silence about an empty house that was unmistakable; she knew at once she was not alone.
Her blood paused in her veins; she listened, holding her breath; she watched the shadows from the corners of her eyes. The living-room door creaked as it swung open.
Davis said: ‘Why are you so late?’
Shock was a drumbeat in her head. She thought: I am going to have a heart attack; I am going to have a stroke, fall to the floor, scream… While the sweat sprang icy cold beneath her clothes.
‘You said you were going to be away so I went out.’
‘Where?’
She dared not look at his eyes. ‘I was at Tessa’s.’
‘Until two o’clock in the morning?’ He stepped close to her; she sensed the air between them vibrating with his fury. ‘You are lying.’
She would have been less terrified if he had shouted at her but his voice was low, venomous, dangerous.
‘I am doing no such thing.’
The lie was risky, her story easily disproved, but she thought he would not risk the humiliation of ringing Tessa to find out. And at this hour? No, he would not do it. So she defied him.
‘Why are you behaving like this? And why aren’t you in Brisbane?’
Maybe the shock had sharpened her loathing; certainly she heard it in her voice and thought Davis must as well. Perhaps now the moment had come. Perhaps they had reached the point when after all the years of lies only the truth would do.
And he hit her. Not on the face, where a mark would be seen, but with his clenched fist deep into her belly.
Her breath fled. She was dying for lack of air, falling on the floor at his feet and fighting to draw breath while he stood over her. Through the pain she felt the shock and first hot fury of hatred but also, behind the fear and loathing, an awakening sense of triumph.
This was the catalyst she had needed; now she would be brave.
But only if she survived. Which was by no means certain as Davis Lander dragged her up by the hair, the pain excruciating, and hit her again and then a third time so that she cried out with the last of her breath and he turned from her and walked away, leaving her broken and helpless upon the floor, still fighting for the breath that his blows had driven from her body.
Through her pain she heard Davis say: ‘You needn’t worry. I won’t touch you in any other way, ever again. I wouldn’t demean myself.’
She had grown used to his psychological cruelty but had never expected this. She had never thought Davis a violent man but now realised that neither she nor her husband had understood the first thing about each other. The pain was terrible; she felt that physically she was no more than a husk of what she had been only minutes earlier, yet the humiliation was even worse.
When finally she crawled to a chair and, drawing up her legs, succeeded in clawing herself upright, she knew that staying in the house was out of the question. But where could she go? It was a quarter to three; Martin would be on the way back to the Dandenongs and out of contact; Mother and Sara were in Sydney; phone Tessa and she would dine out on the story for evermore. The ugly truth was there was no one she could turn to.
Acting on her own initiative was a new experience but she shrugged that off; determination had dispelled her old uncertainty. She knew that never again would she spend a night under Davis’s roof.
Aching all over, barely able to stand, she wasn’t up to driving. Luckily she had money in her purse and her credit card. Every step was agony but somehow she got to the phone and rang for an all-night taxi.
She waited outside the front door until it arrived, climbed painfully in and told the driver to take her to the hotel she had left barely an hour before. Oblivious to the concerned glances of the night staff, she booked a room.
‘Are you all right, madam?’
‘I am fine. Thank you.’ Her voice sounded frail even to herself. ‘No, I have no luggage.’
Not even a toothbrush or change of underwear.
Somehow she reached the room. She locked the door and leant against it while the room swirled about her. Summoning her last reserves of will she poured a bath, let her clothes fall where they would and managed to half-climb, half-fall into the hot water. She lay there, afraid she would pass out, while her body roared with pain.
Soaping herself was out of the question; even to touch her ribs or stomach was agony. She lay and soaked until the water began to cool. For a while she doubted she could get out of the bath but somehow she managed it. Gritting her teeth she patted herself dry; she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Already the bruises were purple blotches on her white skin.
I’ll be a pretty picture in the morning, she thought. She got to the bed, lay on it and drew the bedclothes over her. Delayed shock seized her and she began to shake, the movement so violent that even that hurt. I hope he’s done no serious damage, she thought. But whether he had or not, she would have to wait until morning to find out. At least for the moment she was safe. The shaking eased; even the pain eased a little provided she did not turn or move. She slept. Or at least passed out.
It was light when she woke. For a moment she did not feel too bad but as soon as she moved pain flared like a forest fire. Every part of her ached: even her neck and arms, which Davis had not touched. When she crawled out of bed she could not stand at first. She crawled to the bathroom and, inch by inch, clinging on to the door post, she levered herself upright. Her torso was black and when she looked in the mirror it was an old woman who looked back at her from the glass.
The question now was what she should do about it. She daren’t tell Martin. Do that and Martin might kill him. Not that Davis didn’t deserve it but she didn’t want Martin getting into strife. Instead she did what she had done all her life when trouble threatened: she picked up the phone and rang Mother.
‘I’m in trouble, Mummy…’ After years of silence, now the words spilled out.
‘He did what?’
‘Three times! He hit me three times –’
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m bruised and sore. But I’m all right, yes.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In a hotel in St Kilda.’
‘Does he know where you are?’
‘No
.’
‘Good. Now tell me: why did he hit you?’
‘I was late getting home. He was supposed to be in Brisbane but the trip was cancelled and –’
Again Hilary cut her off. ‘How late?’
‘Very late.’ It was hard to get the words out.
Silence for a moment. Then, voice decisive, Hilary said:
‘You are having an affair, aren’t you? An affair with Martin Gulliver?’
Jennifer gulped, sweat on her face. She did not answer.
Now Hilary’s voice was razor-sharp. ‘For God’s sake, Jennifer! I’m on your side, OK? Were you with Martin or weren’t you?’
A whisper: ‘Yes.’
‘Does Martin know what happened?’
‘No.’
‘Make sure you keep it that way. Now: stay put and don’t worry. I’ll handle it. I shall arrange for a doctor to give you a check-up.’
The thought of anyone seeing her like this threw Jennifer into a panic. ‘There’s no need for that.’
‘There is every need. We need to make sure you’re all right. And we may need a witness in case Davis disputes your version of what happened.’ There was no arguing with Mother; there never was. ‘What else do you need?’
‘I’ve no clothes. Not even a toothbrush.’
‘Money?’
‘Not much. But I have my credit card.’
‘Then this is what we’ll do…’
Jennifer listened. When her mother had finished she put down the phone, knowing that the weight had lifted from her shoulders. Thank God for Mother, she thought.
Ten minutes later she had a phone call from Brand’s Melbourne office, someone called Irene.
‘Tell me what you need and your size. I’ll bring out some clothes for you, toothpaste and brush. Anything else?’
2
In Sydney Hilary sat and thought, her face like stone. Finally she lifted the receiver. It was ten o’clock; if Davis wasn’t in court he should be in his chambers by now. She did not need to check the number; with her phenomenal memory she forgot nothing. And, in this case, forgave nothing, either.
‘Hello?’ His lawyer’s voice: lofty, a little patronising. ‘Who is this?’
‘Hilary Brand.’
Silence. Only for a second but it registered.
‘And how can I help you?’
Loftier than ever now, giving nothing. We’ll soon change that, she thought. ‘It is not a question of how you can help me but what you are going to do.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You beat up my daughter last night.’
‘I most certainly did not.’
Such indignation!
‘You beat up my daughter and I am warning you. You ever lay a finger on any member of my family again and I shall destroy you. You hear me?’
‘I assure you, Hilary –’ Not quite so lofty now.
‘I haven’t finished. You will grant my daughter an immediate divorce. You will pay her half a million dollars –’
‘Don’t you dare threaten me –’
‘As they say, it is not a threat, Davis: it’s a promise. Your assets must be worth well in excess of a million dollars. More than two, I would guess. I think half a million would be reasonable, in the circumstances.’
‘Now you listen here –’
A fly buzzing; she ignored it. ‘You will not see her or speak to her again, ever. You will clear out of the house long enough for her to retrieve whatever personal items she cares to keep, if there are any. You will make the settlement. You will not impede the divorce. If you do these things you will have no more trouble from me. If you do not, I promise you, Davis, you will have more trouble than you know how to handle.’
‘Planning to have me roughed up, are you?’
‘That is more your line than mine.’ She paused for a moment to give her next words greater effect. ‘Does the name Juanita Santos mean anything to you?’
‘I don’t believe it does.’
Defiant to the last: it was a quality she might have admired had she not detested him so much.
‘I find that surprising. I have in front of me a report from a private enquiry agent. With dates and photographs. Entering the St Vincent hotel in the city. Leaving it four hours later, again with Ms Santos. A room booked in your name. Many more instances of the same. Do I need to go on? Or remind you how your head of chambers might react to what I can assure you would be a huge scandal? What would Mr Hawthorn have to say about that?’
‘But that’s blackmail.’
‘Terrible, isn’t it? Terrible, I tell you.’
Over the years Hilary had learnt how to speak with maximum impact; now Davis’s voice was of a man shaken to his boots.
‘What do you plan to do?’
‘Provided you behave, nothing. Neither Jennifer nor I will mention it to a soul. I’ve got a photographer with her at the moment. She’s badly bruised so the pictures won’t be pretty but we won’t share them with the media unless you try and fight us. If you do, I will make it my personal business to destroy you.’
She phoned Jennifer ten minutes later. ‘It’s all sorted. I trust you will be happy with the arrangement I’ve made.’
‘What arrangement?’
‘I am talking about an arrangement whereby you have swapped your husband for an immediate divorce and half a million in cash. But not a word to anyone, now or ever. That was my undertaking.’
‘Davis will never agree to that.’
‘He’s done it. It’s over, Jennifer.’
‘But how…?’
‘Never mind how. Just accept that it’s done and be very, very thankful.’
‘I am. I can’t tell you how much. Will I really get that much money?’
‘If Davis knows what’s good for him.’
‘Martin will be over the moon,’ Jennifer said. She was pretty high in the stratosphere herself.
‘I’m sure he will be. But I’d give it a week before you tell him.’
‘Why?’
‘It might not be a good idea for him to see how badly bruised you are.’
‘No,’ Jennifer said. ‘I want him to know. To know now. Can you let me have some money?’
‘How much?’
Jennifer told her. ‘I need a car,’ she said.
‘I shall expect you to repay me.’
‘Of course.’
The first thing Jennifer did was buy a brand-new two-door Honda sports car, pillar box red. It gave her an odd feeling to have money to spend and know that Davis was not waiting to damn her extravagance. She was free. It was like picking up a Get Out of Gaol card.
The second thing Jennifer did was drive up into the Dandenongs. Martin’s place was on a ridge at the end of a steep track, a wooden house with a complication of rooms spread across a hilltop. It was completely isolated amid vast forest trees yet with views extending, it seemed, forever.
She knew she would have to be careful with Martin. He was big and strong. He was slow to anger but extremely protective of her and his anger, when roused, was like Vesuvius on a bad day. He was more than capable of taking Davis apart. That she must prevent yet he had to know what had happened.
‘Softly softly catchee monkey,’ she said as she bumped up the rutted track.
His ute was there. She parked behind it and climbed the steps to the entrance. Her feet echoed on the boards as she crossed the deck and went into the house. All was still. His studio was out the back. She went through and there he was.
And there, after all the wasted years, was she.
She couldn’t help it; when he tried to hug her she winced.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m a bit sore.’
‘Sore? Why?’
‘I want you to listen to me,’ she said.
A pause. His jaw clenched, but he was careful to keep his hands soft on her shoulders. ‘What’s he done to you?’
He wanted to see what damage had been done but she would not let him.
‘I
said listen to me. I mean it. Listen!’
‘Tell me.’ Nostrils flared; big hands clenched.
‘Davis never went to Brisbane after all. He was there when I got home. We had a terrible row.’
‘Did he hit you?’
‘Listen…’
‘Did he hit you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll fix the bastard.’
His rage was black and terrifying. At that moment she knew he would kill Davis Lander if he could get his hands on him. At all costs she had to stop him before he did anything stupid.
‘I said listen.’ Careless of her own pain she was shaking him. Luckily she had worked out in advance what she had to say. ‘Don’t you see? Davis has done us a huge favour.’
Martin was not listening. ‘Take off your shirt!’
‘No.’
‘Take it off! I want to see what he’s done to you.’
‘I haven’t finished talking! Now: listen to me!’ Escaping from Davis had done more than release her physically; it seemed all her inhibitions had vanished too. ‘Davis has agreed to give me an immediate divorce and a cash settlement.’
‘I don’t care about the cash.’
‘It will be nice to have. And I am free of him. Don’t you see? Free of him!’
‘Why would he have agreed to that?’
‘I don’t know. But Mother spoke to him –’
‘Your mother spoke to him? You told her before you told me?’
‘Because I was afraid you’d kill him and I didn’t want to lose you before we had even got together.’ There were tears now, a mixture of joy and pain unlike anything she had experienced before. ‘By hitting me he gave me the courage to do what I should have done long ago.’ Now was the moment. Careless of the pain she held him close, tearful face upturned. ‘Please forgive me for keeping you waiting so long.’
A huge sigh from the heart. Now Martin too was close to tears. ‘Forgive you? Good God, there is nothing to forgive. I love you, Jennifer.’
‘And I love you.’
And that, now they had finally come to it, was everything.
A Woman of Courage Page 33
