Five months earlier
Leila and Lucas were working late. The sky was dark outside the windows of the ninth floor and the city’s office buildings glowed with fluorescent lights. At street level, an occasional car horn could be heard as the peak-hour traffic extended past seven o’clock.
Leila was helping Lucas with a training manual for a new computer system that was being delivered to a customer next week. It predicted water flows and modelled stormwater movements.
‘Shouldn’t the IT guys be doing this?’ she said, her hunger audible now. Down the corridor, a vacuum started up as the cleaner began her nightly routine in the Strahan building.
‘The IT guys deal with numbers and dots and dashes. They can’t string a sentence together. That’s why we’re here,’ Lucas said.
Leila was tired. It had been a hugely stressful week so far and it was only Wednesday. She rubbed an eye. Her tights were sliding down her legs beneath her lined suit and the crotch had fallen to between her thighs and was irritating her. She’d long ago eaten the last muesli bar from the box she kept in her desk drawer and all she wanted was a curry, a cup of tea and a hot shower. But at the same time, she’d never turn down an opportunity to be with Lucas.
He grinned at her. ‘You look like you need a coffee.’
‘How can you be so cheerful?’ she grumbled. ‘And I need food.’ She groaned and leaned sideways, resting her head on his shoulder, whimpering like a child.
He patted her thigh, and his hand rested there, the warmth seeping through the material of her skirt.
Her heart accelerated, always waiting for The Moment to arrive. She wished he’d slide his hand further down towards her knee and then run it back up under that skirt.
She hastily sat upright and reached for the printout of the manual. ‘I guess we should get started.’ She chastised herself for letting her mind daydream. Lucas had made it clear he wasn’t interested in a relationship. She cast a quick glance at the framed photo of Achara next to his laptop. She was his motivation to keep going, accumulating more, working harder. She knew it was his daughter’s face and the emails from her mother that spurred him on when he was feeling down or tired. He was single-minded about what he had to do.
No complications, that’s what he’d said.
Leila was pretty sure he engaged in casual relations. There was a vibe sometimes that came off him. A mixture of distractedness, happiness and a pinch of guilt. An unexplained good mood. A failure to meet her eye and a vagueness when she asked what he’d got up to on the weekend.
Her insides burned with jealousy and resentment and she often got snappy with him and passed up that day’s coffee outing.
She had to force herself to stop thinking about it. It drove her crazy to imagine him with anyone else. Why wouldn’t he be seeing women on the side every now and then? He was a charming, good-looking, successful guy. He probably had legions of women ready to satisfy him whenever he needed.
Stop it, Leila.
‘So, which bits do you want me to look at?’ she said, focusing her exhausted eyes on the words in front of her. She stretched her neck, squeezed her eyes shut, looked off into the distance. There were only so many hours of staring at words she could manage before her accuracy began a rapid descent.
Lucas furrowed his brow. ‘How about I go get a real coffee from downstairs and a bite to eat? Then we can start on this refreshed.’
Leila rubbed her eyes again. ‘I think that’s a good idea. I might head to the bathroom and splash water on my face and slap myself around a bit to try and wake up.’
‘Okay.’ He rose, shoving his wallet into his pocket. She stood at the same time and they faced each other, the space between their bodies a little too close for professional distance. She took half a step backwards.
Lucas went to leave, then stopped and turned back. ‘Oh, I’ve just realised that the version you’ve got there—’ he pointed to the manual on the desk ‘—isn’t the latest. Mick Gee emailed me the latest just before he went home. Could you get it from my inbox and print it out while I’m gone?’
‘Sure,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’ He smiled at her, the kind of smile that said she was more than just a workmate; she was someone special. ‘Don’t know what I’d do without you.’ He strode off.
Leila inhaled a deep, energising breath. She took a few steps towards the bathroom, then decided she might as well set the manual to print to save time while she was gone. She plonked herself down in Lucas’s chair and clicked the icon for his inbox. It popped open and a dozen or so new, unopened emails sat waiting. She skimmed down the list, looking for the one from Mick Gee.
Lucas had his email preferences set to include a viewing pane down the bottom half of the screen so he could read a portion of an email without actually having to open it. She highlighted Mick’s email and began to read in the viewing pane: hey mate 3.2 latest version blah blah. Leila quashed her irritation at the lack of capitals, punctuation or correct grammar.
She opened the email properly, double-clicked the attachment, and sent it to the printer down the hall.
She was just about to get up when another email caught her eye. It was from Nootsara. Achara’s mother.
Leila hesitated, feeling the skin on the back of her neck prickle. This was Lucas’s other world. The world that kept him from her. What did Nootsara have to say?
She pushed aside any thoughts of ethics and instead highlighted the email so she could read it in the viewing pane below.
Sawasdee krup Lucas. I ponder long time whether tell you but feel it right to do so. I know you want come visit end year but Achara not want. She like my new boyfriend told you of and say want him for her Phor not you. Very sorry. Know this hurt. Maybe Achara change mind by end year. Thought you want know. I keep send updates because I think important to keep touch. Photo joined. La Gon, Nootsara.
Leila read and reread the email in horror. The air conditioning suddenly felt several degrees too cold. Lucas had mentioned a while back that Nootsara had been seeing someone new. He didn’t know much about him but had seemed pleased for her.
Leila scrolled uselessly up and down the viewing pane. This would absolutely destroy Lucas. She couldn’t begin to imagine the pain it would bring to him, to any parent, to hear those words. Even though Lucas had never met his daughter, she knew he lived for the occasional emails and photos and his parental responsibilities had become the driving purpose in his life.
It was also the thing that was keeping them apart.
Her fatigued brain, now jolted with a generous amount of adrenaline, raced through potential scenarios. If she deleted the email, Achara might change her mind down the track and Lucas would be spared the pain of knowing his daughter had rejected him. Then again, Nootsara might mention it again in a later email and Lucas would be confused and ultimately hurt anyway, both by the news of Achara and by Leila’s betrayal. If she left the email there for Lucas to read, his heart would be torn open, he would know the truth, she wouldn’t compromise her ethics, and he would then be free to begin a proper relationship with her, the way it should be. Anyone could see that.
She sat immobilised.
Then she heard the ding of the elevator, a creak in the heavy glass door to the foyer and a rustle of takeaway bags, Lucas was back. Leila had no more time to think.
She hit the trashcan icon and the email was gone.
Fullerton Frat House report: Washing training update. Sticking to my conviction that it’s character-building for boys to wear pink jocks and odd socks in face of Keats’s protest. xx
12
Quentin Ripp was the first angel investor to respond to Leila’s ad on the investor website. He asked her to meet him in a restaurant called Jim’s American Pizza. It seemed an odd location for a business meeting, particularly at eight o’clock in the evening, but Leila packed up her prospectus information and smoothed her hair, fastening it with a snap of a snakeskin clip, and made her way there by bus, nerves making her twitchy.
; Inside the pizzeria, she found Quentin at a red booth, hunched over papers strewn out across the wooden table, pen in hand. The place was warm, noisy, filled to capacity by the look of it, with lots of loud American voices, bright lights and USA memorabilia. On the walls were photos of Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, JFK, pick-up trucks, baseball games, New York skyscrapers, Texan cowboys and Southern belles. The smell of pepperoni, onion and frying cheese was thick in the air.
Quentin wore a schmick dark suit and a crisp white shirt open at the top two buttons, allowing her a glimpse of his tanned chest.
He rose, smiled broadly, and held out his hand. ‘Leila?’ His accent was also American, though she couldn’t pinpoint where he came from. He wasn’t southern, though.
‘Hi, nice to meet you,’ she said. She gestured to his paperwork. ‘Thanks for taking the time to meet me. It looks like you’ve got a lot on.’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ he said, nonchalant.
They sat and Leila reached into her messenger bag to retrieve the prospectus, printed in colour and neatly bound at an office supply store. She’d had such fun perusing the aisles of notebooks and diaries and coloured pens while she’d waited for it to be finished. And when they’d handed her the final product she had the thrill she always got when a bunch of messy notes, abstract ideas, late nights, intense meetings and drafts of plans all came together in one beautifully organised crisp and, hopefully, flawless product.
She passed it across the table to him, savouring the moment. There was nothing she loved more than the completion of a task, and this one was a big deal, more significant than anything she’d ever done before. At Strahan she worked in large teams, but here she was a key person in a small team’s survival.
‘Thanks,’ he said, and opened it immediately, turning the pages, nodding thoughtfully and murmuring in the right places at key sales targets and pie charts, investment return projections and the five-year timeline.
‘I’ve also brought along tea samples,’ she said, passing over a large box tied with ribbon. Inside were a dozen smaller, individually wrapped blends, hand-chosen by Kate.
To her delight, he held the box to his nose and inhaled. He nodded again. ‘Thanks,’ he said again. ‘I’m more of a coffee person but I will try each one.’ He flashed her two rows of white teeth.
‘Do you have any questions for me?’
‘Yes,’ he said, leaning back against the vinyl booth seat. ‘Tell me about you.’
The unexpected request made her baulk. She was instantly drawn back to The Incident at Strahan. It was like she couldn’t escape it, even on the other side of the world.
‘What do you want to know?’ she said, maintaining her calm and her smile.
‘I’ve already done my research. The Tea Chest has a strong, inspiring record in Australia and it’s set to be a strong leader here too. I’ve got all the data here on the latest business trends in London.’ He tapped the paper on the table. ‘What I want to know is more about the women behind the scenes.’
‘That’s reasonable,’ she said, though hesitantly. She wasn’t sure if he was intimating that he planned to invest or whether he was still waiting to make up his mind and now they had to pass his talking test. This wasn’t proceeding as expected. But then, she supposed, investors could likely act as eccentrically as they wanted.
‘Well, you must make a time to meet Kate,’ she said. ‘Let me know what works for you and I can set something up.’
‘Sure. Will do.’ Then he leaned across the table and his eyes took on a suggestive glint. ‘But let’s start with you. I want you to show me what you’ve got.’
Leila sat immobile, an involuntary smile starting to spread across her lips. Who did this guy think he was? But somehow his flirting didn’t turn her off as much as it intrigued her. She caught a faint whiff of the starch in his shirt.
‘Okay,’ she said, but then no more words came.
Quentin turned and looked over his shoulder towards the archway carved out of the back wall leading into the kitchen, where several chefs were in the throes of making pizza. Dough spun upwards into the air and landed on expert fists as someone else dolloped ladles of rich tomato sauce onto rounds of pale dough, smoothing it over with the underside of the ladle.
‘Come on,’ Quentin said, rising. ‘Let’s go.’
He led the way to the back of the pizzeria and shouts of recognition came from the black-aproned chefs behind the counter. Leila followed, wondering where they were going. Then, without warning, Quentin led them through the kitchen door and into the workings of the restaurant.
‘Howdy, brother,’ one of the men greeted, holding out a floured fist to shake.
‘Hi, Glen, this is Leila,’ he said. Glen nodded to Leila. ‘We’re here to make pizza,’ Quentin said.
Leila stared at Quentin. Make pizza?
‘Help yerselves,’ Glen said. ‘You know how it works.’
Quentin led Leila to a vat of flour and handed her a scoop.
‘What’s going on?’ she said, taking the scoop and turning it upside down as if the answer would be on the bottom.
‘This is one of my investments,’ Quentin said, pride in this voice. ‘This place. I’ve helped build it from the inside and that means I get to make all the pepperoni and clam pizza I like.’ He passed her a long black apron that fell to her knees.
‘Clam pizza?’ That didn’t sound appealing. Leila wasn’t even sure she knew exactly what clams were. Something like mussels, perhaps.
Quentin tied the apron strings around his waist then, to Leila’s shock, reached his arms around her waist and tied hers as well, crossing them over her back then bringing them to the front to tie in a knot above her belly button. It was unexpectedly exciting.
‘I figure the best way to get to know you is to throw you into something you don’t know anything about and see how we get on,’ he said gleefully. ‘You can recite all the info you like about your business. I’d expect nothing less. But I want to know there are brains, humour and a little bit of brawn behind the numbers too.’ He put his hands on her hips, spun her around to face a stainless-steel bench top with pans and tools hanging from the ceiling above, and guided her to its edge.
‘So let’s get started,’ he said. He dipped his hand into the container of flour, grabbed a fistful and sprinkled it across the bench, slowly running the flat of his hand around in it to cover the surface. He put her hands into the flour alongside his and they dusted the bench together.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But after this we get to talk numbers. Deal?’
‘Deal.’
The next day, Kate texted a reply to Leila.
‘Was that Leila?’ Elizabeth said, puffing with exertion.
They’d located a handyman with a battered truck, which was now parked illegally outside the store. They were hauling cement chips and plasterboard into the tray, regularly apologising to shoppers and shopkeepers who growled at them for the mess and the smashing sounds as the detritus hit the metal tray. Not Randolph and Manu, though, bless their Streisand-loving hearts. The couple from the deli next door were wildly supportive of The Tea Chest and sent the girls and the tradesman pink lemonade to keep them going. As for the rest of the shopkeepers, Kate made a mental note to send them all apology tea baskets.
‘Yes. She got back late last night but I was so exhausted from all this pretending to be a brickie’s labourer that I’d fallen asleep, and then I left before her this morning, so she’s just updating me now.’
‘I hope the olds aren’t driving her mad,’ Elizabeth said randomly, pushing damp strands of hair from her forehead. ‘It’ll be good once the internet’s done and she can work from here instead of at home.’
‘The olds have been a bit funny lately,’ Victoria chimed in, tightening the blue scarf around her hair. ‘Mum’s been really jumpy. Like I keep springing her doing something wrong.’
Kate registered Victoria’s comment about her parents but she didn’t really have anything of value to
add, since she didn’t know them that well. She let the comment lie. Instead, she ruminated on Leila’s activities.
It had taken her a few moments to reply to Leila’s news that she’d met the first potential investor and that she had a good feeling about him. An investor was good news, except that it was a huge leap into the unknown and her phone call to Mark yesterday to discuss it hadn’t gone as planned.
His phone had rung for a long time. And when it was answered, Mark wasn’t talking to her, he was talking to someone else.
‘Hello? Mark?’ she’d repeated, raising her voice. She was pretty sure the phone was in the pocket of his pants because there was a swishing sound like material rubbing across it as he walked. And she knew he was at home because she could hear the neighbour’s corgi doing the plaintive howling thing she did when they left her at home alone.
The other voice was a woman’s.
Kate froze, straining to hear beyond human limitations. Mark had a woman in the house in the middle of the day.
She kept listening, pushing the phone hard against her ear until it hurt. The woman’s voice was snappy and salesy and Kate definitely heard the words ‘property’ and ‘market value’.
With a jolt, she comprehended that the woman was a real estate agent and was there to value the house.
She hung up quickly, not wanting Mark to discover her spying. Guilt nipped her. By taking on this venture, she’d put them in such a desperate financial situation that he was doing what she should have been doing and thinking a step ahead, preparing contingency actions for the possible failure of The Tea Chest.
It was a huge, sobering reality check.
‘It’ll be great when we’ve got an investor sorted,’ Elizabeth said now, shoving a cardboard box out of the way.
‘An investor can give us a kick start and a big ride forward—like a rocket,’ Kate said, as much for her own benefit as anyone else’s.
She’d learned the language. She’d read all the info Leila had given her. And she’d agreed with Leila. They were faced with a unique opportunity right now and they could choose to contract in the face of unexpected obstacles or they could choose to take a leap and play in a bigger arena.
The Tea Chest Page 12
