by Fiona Lowe
He folded his arms across his chest, an immoveable force. ‘This is my house too, Harriet. My name’s on the title.’
She wanted to scream, she wanted to throw things, she wanted to hit and scratch him, but she knew none of those things would move James. He had a stubborn streak a mile wide and while so much about him today was unrecognisable, she doubted that particular characteristic had changed. But she needed him gone. Staying in her beloved house with him right now was asking far more of her than she was able to give. Plus, she didn’t want Charlotte anywhere near him. She didn’t trust him not to spew his vitriol about her to their daughter.
Her mind spun, flitting from thought to thought without gaining purchase. Oh Dad, what do I do? She missed her father so much and more than anything she wished he were here to put his solid arms around her and hold her tightly against his chest. Wished he were here to give her his practical and no-nonsense advice. Did she have any legal rights to force James off the property? Xara would know but she needed something to get him out of the house right now.
‘Fine,’ she said as an idea formed that would give her some breathing space. ‘You can stay on the property, but you have to move into the guest house.’
‘I could,’ he said coolly, ‘but then again, I could stay in the house and you could move into the guesthouse.’
‘No! I’m not the one who fucked up our lives!’
He shrugged. ‘We can debate that another time.’
She stared hard, trying to read him, trying to locate the source of his anger and resentment. ‘Why are you doing this?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t want to fight you, Harriet, but if you push, I’ll push back. You’re my wife and things will be a lot easier if you support me on this.’
She snorted. ‘Support you? How on earth can I do that and keep my professional reputation intact?’
His demeanour changed completely and the light of a plan lit up his face. ‘Come on, H. You know better than I do that it’s all about the spin. I’ll plead guilty to taking and losing the money. You tell people I did it because I was trying to keep the McCluskey development afloat and viable for the economic good of the town. That puts everything in a totally different light. It makes people stop, think and consider.’
The idea stunned her. ‘You want me to encourage the town and the district to think of your theft as philanthropic?’
He nodded, his face flushed with the excitement of the idea. ‘How we deal with this together determines our future. People have come back from worse. I’ll use the time before the court case to do a lot of volunteering. We’ll get some photos of you, Charlie and me doing community activities. Remember D’Angelo? He survived. He’s back working in town.’
Astonishment and disgust made her slack jawed. ‘Yes, but you didn’t take from the rich and give to the poor. You used the money to try to save yourself. There’s no way in hell you’re using our daughter to improve your public image.’
‘Harriet, you love me.’
It wasn’t a question. His voice was the honey smooth of old; the seductive tone he’d always used as a prelude to sex. The one he whispered into her ear, warm, enticing and full of promise. The one that made her melt into him every single time. She felt the familiar visceral tug; the longing for him spiralling up from deep down inside her the way it always did when he was close. She felt herself waver.
The passion in his eyes held her in its grip. ‘Harry, if you want any chance of us redeeming our place in the community, we need to be the partners we’ve always been. We need to work together to minimise the fallout and maximise the effect. We can pull it off. We always do. This plan will work. Trust me, babe.’
Oh. My. God.
The spell was broken and she suddenly itched like crazy, her skin crawling with his audacity. ‘Babe’ was a word he only ever used when he was trying to sweet-talk her into something. He’d used it for years and she didn’t think he was even aware that he did it. It had become a flag for her, a sign that whatever the topic, it was something he wanted badly or something he needed her help with or her approval for. Like his purchase of the classic Porsche, the month riding a motorbike alone around Chile, and using her family connections to entice new clients.
Only now he was asking her to lie to her family. Lie to her friends and to the district. Possibly lie in court. He was manipulating her unconditional love for him, expecting her to set aside truth and cross the moral boundaries that framed her life. He was finessing their marriage and using their commitment to each other—something she’d valued as much as life itself—as leverage to drag her down to his level.
The realisation slammed into her like a punch to the solar plexus, winding her and leaving her gasping. This was ten times worse than discovering he’d stolen the money. She suddenly saw him in a totally new light. Traits she’d once admired and considered astute and perceptive, she now saw as hard-nosed self-interest with a take-no-prisoners approach. Did he have any remorse for what he’d done? Any sympathy for the people whose lives he’d reduced by stripping them of their money? Was his plan to plead guilty utterly self-serving, driven purely by the fact that it would gain him some credibility? Would he really sacrifice their daughter on the pyre of his own making?
Her breath quickened and the walls of the office closed in on her, pushing down and stealing her air. She tried to suck in a deep breath but her chest burned and raged against it as the questions went around and around in her head. Amid the tumultuous noise, a faint but stern warning somehow managed to penetrate the chaos.
This is not a good time to have a panic attack. Breathe and leave. Protect Charlotte.
She focused on Charlotte, gulping in air against the pain. One breath in. One breath out. Another in. Blow it out. Slowly, the room came back into focus and when she finally managed to speak, she hardly recognised herself.
‘I’m going to stay with my mother.’
CHAPTER
11
At the end of what Harriet had dubbed ‘shit-storm Sunday’ she was in Glenora’s library with Charlotte having the most difficult conversation she could remember with her daughter. The man they both loved and trusted had betrayed them in the worst way. It made the sex and drugs talks seem like a walk in the park.
Sticking to the facts was the only way she knew to keep her emotions in check. ‘The police have charged James with stealing money from the council, the rural relief fund and from four people who’d trusted him to invest their money. But the detective told me these charges are just the tip of the iceberg.’
‘What does that mean?’ Charlotte asked.
‘It means they’re certain your father has stolen money from a lot more people and they’re investigating. This means it’s not over. More charges will be laid in the coming weeks and months and your father will back in court.’ The calm restraint she’d imposed upon herself cracked. ‘Your father’s a criminal! A thief! I don’t want you to see him.’
‘Isn’t that my decision?’ Charlotte’s arms crossed with teenage truculence.
‘Not now, Charlotte, please.’ Harriet rubbed her throbbing temples. ‘It’s been a shit of a day. All I’m trying to do is protect you.’
‘Mum, I’m almost eighteen.’ There was an edge of desperation to her voice. ‘You keep telling me that I’m almost an adult and you expect me to behave like one. If you use that logic then I don’t need protecting. Besides, I’ve watched the news and read Twitter.’
‘Fine,’ Harriet said, hurt that her best intentions were being summarily dismissed. ‘I’ll be perfectly blunt then. Don’t let him use you.’
Frown lines pulled at Charlotte’s smooth brow. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He wants us to help him improve his image. An image, I might add, he’s tarnished all on his own without any help from either of us. Whatever you do, don’t let him sweet talk you into having your photo taken or talking to the press.’
‘Dad wouldn’t do that.’ Charlotte vibrated with indignation.
‘Yes, well, I never thought he’d steal more than a million dollars either, but there you go. I was wrong.’
Charlotte’s mouth settled into a mulish line. ‘I have the right to see my father if I choose to.’
Harriet thought about all the hurtful things the stranger who was her husband, and Charlotte’s father, had hurled at her in the study. She knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use Charlotte if he thought it would advance his cause. She wanted to wrap her innocent daughter up in cotton wool and shield her from hurt, disillusionment and pain. But given how erratically Charlotte had been behaving before James destroyed their lives, she couldn’t risk alienating her. Couldn’t risk James poisoning Charlotte against her.
‘I don’t want to see him but I suppose I can’t stop you.’ A sigh crept past her lips as she leaned forward. ‘All I ask is that if you do see him, do it at Glenora when Mardi or Georgie are at home. I don’t want you going to Miligili.’
‘But that’s home. All my stuff’s there,’ Charlotte wailed. ‘I need my stuff to feel like me.’
So do I. Harriet had only been at Glenora a few hours and she already missed her stuff too. She’d put her heart and soul into restoring Miligili to its former glory along with putting her individual stamp on it. ‘Talking about stuff, the police have your computer.’
‘What?’ Charlotte shot to her feet, her face suddenly ashen. ‘But it’s mine. It’s private. I don’t want strangers reading my—’ She sat down abruptly, her eyes round and imploring. ‘You have to get it back.’
‘I’ve spoken to a lawyer. We’ll get your computer back but it might take a while.’
‘You don’t understand.’ Agitation whipped off Charlotte like choppy waves on windblown sea. ‘I need it. It’s got all my schoolwork on it. It’s got everything I need to study. You know how much work I have to catch up on.’
Harriet was both surprised and reassured by Charlotte’s reaction. Despite everything that was going on around her, she was finally showing some concern about her schoolwork. Unlike everything else that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, this situation was easily solved. ‘Don’t stress. Isn’t all the holiday prep on the school website? We’ll email your teachers and your friends to catch what isn’t. I promise you, it will work out.’
Charlotte’s thumbnail crept to her mouth. ‘What will the police be looking for on my computer?’
‘I don’t really know. Emails probably.’
‘Do they tell the press what they find?’
‘I really don’t know. We can ask Xara.’
‘I hate this.’ Charlotte’s voice broke and her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I really hate this.’
‘Me too.’ Harriet leaned over and gave her daughter a hug. Unexpectedly, Charlotte dropped her head against her shoulder and snuggled in just as she’d done when she was a little girl. In a sea of despair, Harriet treasured this moment and wished she had the power to turn back time.
* * *
‘I’ve written up IV antibiotics for Mrs Grant, starting with a stat bolus dose,’ Harriet told the unit manager. ‘Call Blake if her temp goes over thirty-nine.’
‘Will do, Harriet.’ As the nurse walked over to the drug cupboard, keys jangling, she called over her shoulder, ‘Have a good afternoon.’
It was Monday and Harriet hurried toward the lifts, stabbing the button twice as if that would summon them faster. It didn’t and she decided to take the stairs. Her afternoon session at the practice started at two and although running late was all part of the job, she preferred to start on time if she possibly could. Pushing open the heavy fire door, she ran down two flights of stairs and out into the sunshine. Her practice was only a short walk away and it made crossing back and forth between the hospital and the clinic easy.
This morning had been predictably busy and Harriet was thankful for that small mercy. It had allowed her to block out the weekend and all her associated thoughts. This was absolutely necessary because if she allowed her thoughts to riot, they threatened to immobilise her. When the alarm had gone off this morning, it had woken her from the only deep part of a fitful night’s sleep. As consciousness had slowly claimed her, it had taken a few moments for her brain to compute that she wasn’t in her bed at Miligili, but back in her childhood bedroom. It took her another two seconds before she was flooded by the reality of her new situation. Her life and everything in it that she’d considered solid and true forty-eight hours ago was no longer.
With her thoughts whizzing wildly in her head she’d lain rigid in the single bed for two long minutes before she’d realised it was Monday. She’d grabbed that welcome fact with both hands. Monday meant a morning session of surgery and surgery meant routine, order and control. She’d gone to the hospital, held her head high, done her job and ignored the sideways glances and the conversations that had fallen silent when she walked into a room. After all, as a consultant, she was used to ignoring the edge of whispered conversations. The only difference today was that she’d had to do it a bit more often.
When Harriet had left for work this morning, Charlotte had been asleep so now, while she walked to the clinic, she tried ringing her to check she was okay. Charlotte didn’t pick up. She left a message and as she lowered the phone from her ear she heard someone calling her name. She swung around to see a man was hurrying across the street towards her—a patient. His badly infected gall bladder had caused her some angst during a tricky cholecystectomy last year, but his name escaped her. Used to people approaching her in the street, she gave him a practiced smile.
He didn’t smile back. ‘I see you’ve got yourself some Euro trash.’
His belligerence reached out and slapped her. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me. That bloody expensive brand new German car you’ve been driving.’ The veins in his neck stood out. ‘You’re livin’ the highlife by ripping off decent people.’
Her stomach lurched and pins and needles raced across her skin. Stay calm. ‘I paid for that car with money I earned from my medical practice.’
‘Yeah, well I don’t believe ya. My sister trusted that bastard of a husband of yours and now she’s got squat.’
Harriet wanted to attack. Wanted to use her best icy voice to freeze his unfair fire but she understood his anger despite its misdirection. ‘I’m very sorry, Mr—um …?’
‘Perkins,’ he spat out, ‘and sorry don’t cut it. You know she’s diabetic. You know she’s got heart problems and now she’s probably gonna lose the house.’
Silver spots flashed in front of Harriet’s eyes and she swallowed against a dry mouth. ‘I realise it’s no consolation, Mr Perkins, but I had no idea about my husband’s business practices. I’m as shocked as everyone else. Has she reported the theft to the police?’
‘Of course she bloody has but it won’t get her life savings back, will it?’ His eyes narrowed and his voice dropped to a threatening timbre. ‘You better put that fuckin’ mansion of yours up for sale, lady, because you owe this town a shitload of money.’
He moved abruptly, catching her shoulder on his way past as he stormed away from her. Harriet stood in the street shaking, her heart pounding and the sandwich she’d eaten for lunch a solid lump in the back of her throat. She forced her trembling legs to cover the short distance to the clinic before stumbling inside. The cool air and soothing pastel colours greeted her, enveloping her with the calmness of a sanctuary.
Thankfully, the waiting room was quiet, with only one elderly man sitting in one of the eight chairs. She gave him and her receptionist, Nicki, a nod and said overly brightly, ‘Won’t be long!’ before disappearing into her office and closing the door behind her.
With shaking hands she poured iced water from a jug. Some of it sloshed down the sides of the glass and pooled on the silver tray but she didn’t mop it up. Instead, she gulped the water down and concentrated on trying to breathe away the angry and vindictive sound of Perkins’ voice. When she’d seen him crossing the road it had never occurred to her that his intent
ions were to publically accuse and berate her. His attack had brought the whole sordid story of James’s treachery flooding back.
Focus on the patients. She set the glass down and checked her hair and makeup in the small compact mirror she kept in her handbag. A pale face with startled violet-blue eyes stared back at her. Patients expected their doctor to look less sick than they were so she reapplied her blush and lipstick, powdered down and spritzed on some perfume. Looking and feeling more like herself, she walked over to her desk and as she waited for the computer to boot up, she glanced at her afternoon appointment list. Nicki always printed a copy for each session and placed it on the centre of her desk. Today the list looked a little different and she picked it up for closer inspection.
For years it had been rare to see any empty spaces on the sheet. Since her father’s death, vacancies had become almost nonexistent and she was now the only general surgeon within a hundred kilometres. If anyone cancelled an appointment, it was quickly filled from the long elective surgery waiting list. On today’s sheet, red lines crossed out four names and there were two empty spaces. She thought about the chatter that had rolled around her in theatre this morning. There’d been the discussion about the shock elimination of a favourite on The Bachelor, the high hopes everyone held for the Billawarre Panthers in the upcoming footy season and the fact that a nasty virus was causing chaos with staffing levels all over the hospital.
She rubbed the bridge of her nose. When patients made their first appointment, Nicki always explained the cancellation policy to them over the phone and then she mailed a physical copy. As there was a financial penalty to deter last-minute cancellations, they didn’t happen often. Her fingers traced the names under the red lines and she picked up the phone.
