“No, of course not. But if you don’t decide to keep it Aid, you’ll always have her. Both of us, we’ll always have her. She’s not in the things, she’s in me and in you and she always will be.”
Aiden forced a mouthful of coffee down past the lump in his throat. Olivia meant well, but it wasn’t true. Every day Shannon was a little less here, a little more gone, and now they were expelling what was left of her from her own house. How could that be what she’d want?
“Sometimes I have trouble believing that. It’s not that I’ll ever forget her, and when I’m ancient, and I genuinely can’t remember what her eyes looked like, there’s video and photos, and I’ve got her diaries, but I’m still finding it hard. I know she’s not coming back. I know she’d want me to get it together. I know I’m lucky to have had her. I know all the sensible things I should be feeling and doing, but none of that makes any difference. Something in me is off centre. I can’t seem to get back on track and I don’t know if I ever will.”
Olivia turned wide, wet eyes on him. She fished a white tissue from a dress pocket. “That’s the most you’ve said about how you feel since it first happened.”
It was hard to look at her. Something was infectious about her sniffles, and the sandpaper was back under his eyelids. He busied himself with pouring them both more coffee. “Sorry. I know I’ve worried you and Blake. I know I’m supposed to talk.”
“I saw a counsellor. I was having these nightmares.”
“About?”
She blew her nose and tucked the tissue away. “They’re a jumble of things. But there’s always a staircase, and it’s always dark, and there’s a smell of something burning. Sometimes it’s me who falls. And sometimes it’s Shannon.”
“Oh God, Liv.”
“And sometimes it’s Blake who’s crying. And sometimes it’s you.”
He turned his back to her, fumbled at the sink, dropped the plug so it clattered and turned the tap on for no good reason. That wasn’t his dream. In his dream there was death and blood and anger and screaming.
“And every time I wake up because I can’t breathe.”
He gripped the edge of the sink. He tried to remember why it was he’d argued with Shannon about not having a draining board when he was always going to give her what she wanted anyway.
“Aiden, it’s ok. It helped to talk about it. I’m better. I haven’t had the dream in weeks.”
What was the point in running the water; in trying to hide from Olivia? He turned the tap off and faced her again.
“Blake thought you wouldn’t let me help you with this. He thought you’d barricaded yourself in the house, and you’d want to keep it like a museum to Shannon. He thought if she’d left a lipstick on the kitchen counter, you’d want to leave it there forever.”
That was so close to the truth he glanced away. “I’m getting better, Liv.”
“I know. I can see that. You look better than last time we saw you.”
“I feel a little more, I don’t know, more capable.” If you didn’t consider how desperately in need of a subject change he was. “According to Cody there is a waitress who likes me.”
“Really? Isn’t he a kid?”
“Ten with an arrest warrant pending.”
“Is she cute?”
“Who?”
“The waitress, dummy.”
“Ah. To quote Cody, ‘I dunno, dude’.”
“Well you should know.”
“Ok, I’ll make it my business to find out if she’s cute. Her name is Willow. She might not be much older than the urban terrorist himself.” This was better. This was a conversation he was more equipped for. Olivia was smiling now, clearly amused.
“I didn’t say you had to proposition her, but you could do with some female company other than me.”
This was good, inconsequential chat. No one got their heart shredded by superficial banter. “If I’d had a sister I wonder if she’d have been like you—bossy.”
“No one’s like me.”
“That’s what Blake says.”
“Do you mind if I have that sexy black dress Shannon wore to the Kids Crisis Charity Ball?”
There, that didn’t hurt too much. Less of a knife to the gut, loitering as it did amidst the banter. He remembered that dress, cut just so, falling just so, setting off Shannon’s classic blonde beauty. He remembered taking that dress off her, sharp floral scents and soft, warm silken skin he could never get enough of touching.
“You should take her perfumes as well. I bought her Joy and Miss Dior and she loved that gardenia fragrance from Estee Lauder, and I know you wear White Linen, there’s a half bottle of that there too. And her jewellery. I want you to have her jewellery. Her sister took some pieces but there’s lots of it left. I’ve kept her engagement ring. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, but I’ll hang on to it.”
“If you’re sure, I’d like that. Thank you.”
“It’s the right thing to do.” Though it felt like burglary, desecration, vast, white pain. Olivia stood, unfurling the heavy-duty garbage bags she needed to pack up Shannon’s clothes. He rinsed their cups, left them in the sink because there was no draining board.
“Aid, why not sell the house. It’s a big house for you to keep going.”
She was fumbling with the bag, unable to separate the sides and open the top. He came around the bench and took it from her hands, rolled it, stuck a finger in the opening, and shook it out so it sucked in air and expanded.
“You mean it might be easier for me to be somewhere else. I’ve thought about it. I want to stay. This was her dream house.”
She took the bag and handed him another slick of green plastic from the stack. “But not yours. I remember you wanted all modern steel and glass and polished wood hanging off a cliff somewhere, not a restored Federation in the middle of suburbia.”
“I’ve got a cleaner booked to come regularly now, that’ll make it easier. This is my home, Liv. I’m not going anywhere.”
Olivia pressed a third plastic bag to his chest. “Well, let’s get your cupboards sorted out then.”
That night, with a clean house, a snoring cat and the bags of Shannon’s clothes, shoes and handbags stacked in the hallway ready to cart to Vinnies, Aiden felt sure he’d sleep. If only from the sheer mental exhaustion of keeping it together while he and Olivia worked to eject Shannon from the house.
Instead he was wide awake. Instead, he did something he hadn’t done since the weeks after the accident. He pictured Shannon lying crumpled at the bottom of the damp, poorly lit shopping centre car park staircase. Eight months pregnant, alone, bleeding, dying. He hugged that old t-shirt and cried himself to sleep.
12: Get Over Yourself
It wasn’t like the cancellation of State Bank’s launch of its spin-off insurance company had anything to do with the blackout. It had everything to do with the economy and other macro-economic indicators that were more explosive than a seven minute power failure. The fact the launch had slipped back into the New Year was no slight on Bailey’s reputation, but it was a huge dent in her projected income.
There was no projected income.
Until way, way too many months away. Now there was no chance to take it easy there was only the immediate need to hustle up work.
That morning she’d snapped a pic of graffiti on the painted wall of a pub. Whoever had done the job was skilled with a spray can. The lettering was narrow and angular, elaborate, with some letters overlapped and others ending in sharp finials. The script was red and black with curls and coloured in sections, it evoked the gothic and shouted playground taunts and was advice Bailey felt she had to take.
It said, ‘Get Over Yourself’.
Mum247 posted a shot of her kids doing head-rolls, their feet in the air. Weme pretended to be insulted and MacGuffin stirred for the first time in memory, to post the lyrics from a Rolling Stones song, ‘You can’t always get what you want. But if you try some times you might find, you get what you ne
ed’.
When she told Doug about going back to work, he ate his disquiet and made her promise to walk every morning, stand up a lot and rest on the weekends.
When she called Blake, he said, “When can you start?”
She gave herself a fortnight to rest, walk, swim, keep Doug happy with twice weekly massages and get herself organised for the whirlwind that would be working with Blake again. The penguin stayed around, always nagging, reminding her she still needed to find a way to balance work with being good to her body.
On the Monday Bailey presented herself at the groovy warehouse style split level offices of Heed Advertising, she was resigned to making the best of it, and swallowing down hard on the after taste of resentment she felt towards Blake for being the one with the power to keep her mortgage paid.
The fab office didn’t help with the indigestion. Blake called it a post-industrial, high-tech mash-up. It was a vaulting ceiling, wooden floor and rough wood beam warehouse, with floor to roofline glass walls that showed off a slice of glittering blue harbour. It was partially open plan, with a mix of single work cubicles with low walls and team spaces built to accommodate several people working together, as well as more formal client meeting rooms. The chairs were saddle style or Swiss ball and there were a couple of adjustable desks you could stand at. The computers were the latest on offer, all wirelessly connected and supplemented by tablets, huge flat screens and other connectivity hungry technology that called attention to itself by pinging, beeping and glowing. There was a two-wheeled, gyroscopic Segway parked in reception for quick trips to local shops and businesses. There was a ping pong table. There was basketball hoop. There was the hum of discussion, the buzz of thought mix in with the rumble of creative disagreement. The place looked like industry, smelt like fresh brewed coffee and fizzed with the business of ideas.
It all made Bailey’s tidy home office and her posh Aeron chair look prison cell cramped and dreary. An atmosphere so dull, a good idea would rather strangle itself at birth than be delivered.
The last stop on Blake’s grand tour, completed with the kind of haste you’d associate with boy bands falling of fashion, was the staff kitchen with its best view of the harbour and enormous farmhouse table. The coffee machine alone was probably worth more than a mortgage payment. Not that Blake knew how to use it. But he had Cara for that.
Cara Turner was Blake’s personal assistant and fancied herself so much more. She was a model attractive redhead, with pale skin and perfect make up. She was a good legs, short skirt, high heels, ‘yes you can look at me like that’ kind of assistant. She oozed ruthless efficiency along with ‘don’t cross me’.
She’d trailed along on Blake’s whistle stop tour making side comments Bailey didn’t understand and Blake ignored, but seemed to be designed to reinforce her ownership of the whole Blake show and flex her claws in the nicest possible way.
Cara was going to be a passive aggressive pain in the butt and Blake was never going to see it and Bailey cursed the coffee machine, the recession, the blackout, the Federal Government, and everything that had conspired to put her in this warehouse chic kitchen making nice with a woman who was territorial about the man she was jealous of. Especially now she’d seen his new office in all its detail.
Cara made coffee in a way that said, ‘just this once, you’re on your own from here’ to Bailey and ‘anytime you want’ to Blake. When she placed their cups in front of them, her free hand went to Blake’s shoulder where it lingered for what seemed to Bailey like a whole season of Young and the Restless where each episode was fundamentally the same. Blake ignored her. Cara didn’t seem to notice. He slid a folder across the table.
“Everything you need is in there. Org charts, staff profiles, policies and procedures, client lists, budgets, revenue projections. Once you’ve read it, you’ll know so much about the business I’ll have to kill you if you talk to anyone else in the industry without my approval.”
He wasn’t joking. Much. He passed a non-disclosure agreement across the table. It meant everything she learned was confidential. It was nothing she hadn’t expected. Flicking through the headlines on the documents she realised this was more than an admin role. Blake had opened the whole business up to her like it was a jewel box and told her to get inside the lid and pirouette till everything was tidy and shiny.
“Your call on how you tackle what’s needed. You’ve got my authority to make whatever changes are required. Keep me in touch with the big picture.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Cara will set you up with a desk and the gear you need.”
“I thought we’d give Bailey Tim’s old workstation on the ground floor,” said Cara.
“No. She can bunk upstairs in the office next door to me,” said Blake, turning to give Cara a quizzical look.
“Near you?”
“Tim’s workstation is in the open space. She can’t deal with confidential issues there.”
“But...”
“Don’t worry Cara, Bails and I have shared before.”
Judging by the look on Cara’s face she heard ‘shared’ and ‘before’ and processed them as satin and sheets. Bailey caught the flicker of annoyance in Blake’s eyes and waded in to save them. “We once worked for a whole week from the backseat of an old station wagon.”
Blake groaned, “Shit, remember that. Tamworth Music Festival.”
“Why didn’t you take the front seat, Blake?” said Cara, seemingly affronted on Blake’s behalf.
“The talent and the talent’s mother were in the front seat,” he laughed, and at the mention of the talent’s mother, Bailey tucked her head down and tried not to snort up the apple cinnamon muffin on the plate in front of her. She couldn’t meet Blake’s eyes. In what were his pre-Olivia days, the talent’s mother had worn very little clothing and thrown herself repeatedly at Blake, until he finally capitulated so they could get some work done.
He said, “Yeah, Bails, I remember how talented the talent’s mother thought she was. And if you ever tell anybody about that, I’ll make sure you never work in this town again. Shit! I’d forgotten how much dirt you have on me.”
“Just you remember that when I need sign off on some of this stuff.” Bailey brandished the briefing folder and thoroughly enjoying the scandalised expression on Cara’s face. Although that was a bad idea. If Cara was a gossip, she could easily make it hard for Bailey to work smart. If the rest of the staff thought she was Blake’s ex-girlfriend or worse, a piece of fluff on the side, she’d barely have enough credibility to do what was needed.
Blake’s office tour had featured facilities not people and Bailey still needed to be introduced to the staff, but now she didn’t want Blake to do the introductions. If they looked like they were having too much fun together that might raise suspicions.
“Can I introduce myself around?”
“I’ll take you,” said Blake standing. “Cara, can you finalise the Durban project document? I’ll be up in a minute.” They both watched her leave, swaying hips and look-at-me hair toss.
“She’s very efficient,” he said, when she was out of sight.
“Did I say anything?”
“I can see it on your face.”
“Muffin?”
“No. Never mind. Why don’t you want me to introduce you around?”
“Because if it looks like we’re too friendly it might be hard for me to do the tough stuff without it reflecting badly on you.”
“I’m not following.”
“I don’t want to look like your ex-girlfriend.”
Blake appeared to cop that like he would a body blow. He blinked hard and shook his head as though to clear his vision. “Why would you say that? Why would you even think that?”
Bailey was suddenly embarrassed. Why was she thinking that? Blake had never treated her as anything other than a colleague, had he? What she’d seen in Cara’s eyes had affected her more than she’d realised, but the only way people were going to think s
he was something more to Blake was if she gave them reason to. And she wouldn’t. There was no way Heed staff would see anything other than Bailey at her most professional. The fact that this was broadly an administration role would help. Blake and paperwork were criminal and avoidance so it’s not like they’d be teaming up to work and having fun doing it like the old days.
“I think it would be better if it didn’t look like we were too buddy-buddy.”
“Alright, your funeral. You want me to give you the Frosty the Snowman treatment in public you only have to ask.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?”
“Huffy. You still get huffy when you don’t get your way.”
“I get huffy when you cast aspersions on my honour.”
She almost said, ’What honour?’ but could see Blake really was annoyed and wouldn’t appreciate the joke. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry. I want to do a good job for you and I don’t want my ability to be undermined because people think I’m your old friend rather than the right person for the job.”
“Well, why didn’t you say that?”
“I think I’m thrown by the palatial surroundings. This is an amazing office, Blake.”
“It’ll be more amazing when I’ve finished with it. I still can’t believe you thought I’d show you off like you were a conquest.”
Bailey figured she deserved that. But to paraphrase an anonymous graffiti artist, she needed Blake to get over himself. “Heedonists. I’ve heard you call staff Heedonists. What does that mean?”
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