Scarlet Stiletto - the Second Cut

by Phyllis King

  Lachlan James is a large man in every sense. He is both tall and wide, with broad, chubby hands, the sort that would, in childhood games of Snap!, submerge the piles of winning cards beneath them. They are hands accustomed to smothering. He has a wide mouth, fond of being heard, and a glowing expanse of forehead, like a stretch of wet, glistening sand deserted by the retreating tide.

  I’m making him sound like an unattractive man, because he is an unattractive man. But he is also one of the richest men in Australia, and wealth and power can achieve for an unattractive man what no amount of hairspray and make-up can for an unattractive woman.

  Women would do anything for Lachlan James. Women did do anything for him, constantly. He described it once to me as an analogy involving ping-pong balls. They hurled themselves over the boundary at him, and he backhanded them away, point scored. But he always made sure that he scored before returning.

  Lachlan James loathed women. And who could blame him? They lit up when he appeared at social events, lipsticked mouths gaping into smiles like those carnival clowns: feed me a ping-pong, any risk worthwhile when there are prizes to be won. They were willing to do anything to become Mrs. James, so willing that they generally negated their value within the first week. They threw themselves, prostrated themselves, spread themselves. And so he scored and volleyed, scored and volleyed, with such ease that he barely needed to raise his bat. He could play his shots still reclining against the bar, it was that easy.

  It was disgraceful. And so was I. Little Miss Blunt, Not A Hope In Hell, My Position Here Is As Legitimate As That Desk, was as callous as the man himself.

  Being off the playing field, I stalked its boundaries like some kind of daemon umpire, enforcing rules and penalties, no arguments tolerated. Teary phone calls I treated heartlessly, with the disdain he would have shown had I put them through. There were no excuses.

  ‘An honorable woman,’ he’d told me, ‘is as easy to find as a dinosaur’s fart. There isn’t a single one in existence who doesn’t have a price.’ And he’d pat my hand as if I shared in his knowledge, and I felt special, prized - honourable in fact.

  I felt as if he saw into me, appreciated my qualities, my difference and value, despite my dull face and clothes in shades of black and olive green. I despised the others for their weakness, for continually proving Lachlan James right.

  And then there was the business trip to the Gold Coast. The trip I tend to think of, with a hefty amount of bitterness, as Game Over. The government affair, where participation was expected and after-hours entertainment wasn’t supplied so secretaries were necessary, and then afterwards the only option.

  And I blundered into the situation like a dowdy schoolgirl on her first date, so excited at being somewhere I considered exotic, clomping down to dinner in my new heels, with my asymmetrical hairdo and my $89 David Jones dress.

  I remember feeling slightly perturbed at being at the dinner table with him, until Lachlan ordered me my first ever martini, after which my hair flowed from side to side and my wings unfurled at my shoulders.

  I’d always known he’d recognise me, one day, for what I was.

  Which he did. I woke the next morning to the foulest of mouths, a stained but barely disgruntled bed and, instead of a lover, a note instructing me to order breakfast to his room for 8.30, book a flight for him (first class) and me (economy), and organise a stockbrokers’ meeting for the end of the week.

  That marked the end of our collaboration. I had crossed the border, jumped the net onto the field, and become one of the fray, one of the ocean of women who disgusted him. I could no longer look down on these women because he now looked down on me, among them. And they, with barnyard instinct, knew this. They recognised weakness and their beaks were raised against my lack of authority. I was an object of contempt for him, and for the train of women desperate to be by his side.

  It was intolerable. I endured the cold amusement in his eyes, his sneering instructions to arrange his lunch dates and reschedule any afternoon appointments within an hour of the rendezvous, for less than a week.

  When I gave notice the Thursday after the conference he looked me in the eye and actually laughed. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  I felt my face betray me, the prickly blush rising along my neck, so unexpected was this cruelty. ‘I don’t think I really need to spell it out for you.’ But I’d lost my bearings and my words stumbled.

  ‘But I think you do. You’ve been an efficient employee (how he relished that description) for almost two years now.’ At this point he actually reclined in his chair.

  I actually twitched in the face of his smirk. ‘My position with you,’ I sounded shrill, how I hated the sound of my voice, ‘is no longer tolerable.’

  ‘No longer tolerable,’ he mused. ‘How strange. I can’t see that there’s been any change. So if you find your employment here “intolerable” now, I can only say that the influence is coming from you yourself. You are obviously not comfortable anymore. You,’ he repeated for good measure, ‘are obviously not comfortable anymore.’

  ‘I have nothing more to say.’

  ‘Then shut up,’ he said, crossing his legs, ‘and listen closely, because I will only make this offer once. You are perfectly good at your job and you are safe.’ His eyes touched me with a hint of disdain. ‘I do not want the hassle of replacing you. You know where your place is and where it isn’t and you will get over your sulks.’

  ‘I am not staying.’

  ‘Don’t interrupt. Your salary has just doubled.’

  My salary was generous to begin with. So there you go. Not only is every woman attainable, anyone can be bought, except him of course. When you’re wealthy already, it’s easy to be incorruptible. He had just, with complete indifference, given me the means to purchase, or at least realistically to save for, the home of my own I’d always despaired of having, as my savings fell further and further behind the property prices.

  What is pride when faced with the attainment of a dream? I did attempt it, but pride takes preparation. There was to be no delay; his car should have been there by then, a yes or no answer now please.

  I had already proved myself weak.

  ‘Right. Now see to the car.’

  So I learned to toughen. I endured his scornful disinterest as I endured the malevolent disinterest of the women who dropped in and out of his life.

  ‘Miss O’Halleron,’ he would mutter by way of introduction on his way past.

  ‘Miss O’Halleron?’ they would repeat vaguely, as if they had not noticed my presence. ‘Darling, can’t we have lunch at Macey’s today?

  He would turn briefly back in my direction. ‘Table for two, one o’clock.’ She would not look back.

  They were revolting, these women. Aghast at the sudden arrival of their use-by dates, their only avenue became to suddenly acknowledge me, a descent that was heartily resented. Some would attempt dignity, some were abusive: ‘Don’t you tell me I can’t talk to him, you’re just his bloody secretary’.

  But the worst were those who thought me so stupid they could undo a month’s rudeness by wheedling and cooing:’ Believe me, sweetie, I understand perfectly just how difficult that man can be’.

  I got no pleasure from each one’s demise now; each one’s tactics were simply a fresh wound to me because ultimately women like these will always fall on their feet. There are always plenty of rich men to whom large busts in flimsy dresses are assets. There would always be room for these women elsewhere.

  I would say I lived through those years, but it would be more accurate to say I survived them. I became an automaton, cold and distant and bitter, horribly bitter.

  And then, at the beginning of another year, Lachlan met Amanda, and suddenly it was a whole new playing field. Because, finally and irrevocably, Lachlan had met his match.

  Physically Amanda was no different from all the others, except that her flawless ochre was due to Polynesian blood rather than a spray gun. She sported the same long lacquered ha
ir and nails, the rollercoaster eyelashes, and carted round the same inflated lips and ridiculously enhanced boobs, cleavage as deep as an ATM. She was tall though, with narrow hips and long shapely legs. She strode into the room in enormous heels, on those legs so graceful and assured they looked as if they could just as easily lob a footy.

  But instead of striding past me as if I were a fixture, Amanda sashayed up to my desk with a smile that was a wall of teeth and took my hand between her acrylic talons.

  ‘But what’s your first name honey?’ she drawled, her voice deliciously guttural. ‘Miss O’Halleron sounds like some kind of dusty old maid.’ She looked deep into my eyes, her smile never wavering. ‘Jessica? Beautiful, much, much better.’

  Her handshake was almost a stroke. ‘We’ll be great mates Jessie. I’ll be needing someone smart and sassy to help me take care of this man.’ And she put one foot out and thrust a hip in a kind of Spice Girl pose that would have looked ludicrous on anyone else. Her laughter was deep and flowed languidly into a tinkle as she stalked over to Lachlan, whose customary exit had been delayed by her manoeuvre. She put both of her arms around his waist and beamed.

  And for a minute I thought he would die. Just the sight of her earlobe, that tender flap of skin pierced by a single pearl was enough to make him demented with lust. Because Amanda knew how to return a serve, she could volley with the best of them. She knew full well that the way to a man’s heart wasn’t by giving them everything, but by giving nothing. And so she posed and she embraced and she laughed. She glowed, she literally seethed with promise, which she withheld.

  Lachlan wanted, and he was used to having what he wanted. He was besotted.

  She allowed him so much. He could fondle and nudge those ridiculous boobs, caress her athletic arse, and her taloned paws would relieve him of the discomfort he lamented, but those were her limits.

  In desperate frustration one night he tried to overpower her, but Amanda was a woman of ‘principles’ (she always said this last word as an ironic sigh), with the strength to match. She king hit him and left. He sported a shiner for a week, while she returned his flowers but not his calls, until he presented her with a silver Porsche.

  ‘You big duffer!’ she gasped with delight, and laid her palm gently against his sore eye. ‘I didn’t really hurt you did I?’

  I know all this because Amanda kept good on her promise to me. She was determined, in her dizzying whirlwind way, that we would be mates, and frequently came early to meet Lachlan so she could perch on my desk for a chat, a ‘wee girly gossip’.

  She would always bring some kind of treat, a vanilla slice or a custard pie, something messy that left residue requiring a tongue or a finger to remove. But only ever one, whatever she brought would always have to be divided and shared between us.

  ‘To have a whole one to yourself would just be greedy now, wouldn’t it sister?’ she would say, and swing her long strong legs from her position next to my In tray.

  We did become close, strange as it might seem. Amanda was a carefully-created character, and while she kept up her act with me, the fact that it was a front was tacitly accepted by us both. We knew that she was larger than life, and we enjoyed it. I found, that in Amanda’s presence, I started to come back to life a bit. I told her one day, timidly, that it was my birthday, and she was like a volcano erupting.

  ‘That’s it!’ she shrieked, ‘lunch is cancelled. Sorry Lachlan my love, you’re on your own today. The table for two is ours and you can just cool your tootsies doing whatever it is you do here.’

  And she dragged me out from behind my desk with a vice grip and held her other hand out to Lachlan. ‘Money please. I’m taking our little Jessie shopping for a birthday present. From us.’

  And Lachlan, big powerful important Lachlan, handed over his wallet like a puppy dog. She selected several large notes, removing them slowly and elegantly with her shining purple nails (embellished with tiny gold stars) and handed it back to him with a long lingering kiss, before whirling back to me and dragging me from the office as if we were two schoolgirls let out early for the day.

  What a birthday it turned out to be. By this time Amanda had been around an uncharacteristically long time; so she was known, to those who need to know these things, as the woman who had Lachlan James in the palm of her hand. So that doors I would never have even dreamed of approaching suddenly swung wide for me. Amanda rang Dermott, at that time the most coveted hairstylist, from her mobile as we flew towards town in the silver Porsche; and he cancelled Susan Woodsborough, would you believe it, of all people, to fit me in. In the boutiques at the top end of Collins Street she flung designer outfits aside while immaculate women simpered. She had me try on half a dozen dresses, before choosing a loose, elegantly simple silk in a flowing blue. Stunning, the colour of river water.

  ‘That’s it,’ she nodded, ‘now you’ll match the silver Porsche.’

  I was enjoying all this immensely. ‘Oh yes,’ I agreed, ‘it’s vital that I match the silver Porsche.’

  Amanda chuckled. ‘But mais oui! You can’t settle for something that doesn’t suit you.’ The briefest of glances. ‘That’s for people who aren’t special.’ She dropped the car keys into my hand. ‘See if you like it. If it’s your destiny.’

  At the restaurant we clinked champagne glasses at a window table, while waiters hid their true feelings. ‘To destiny!’ sang Amanda, raising her glass.

  ‘Destiny!’ I echoed, raising mine.

  When she burst into Happy Birthday the ubiquitous waiters kept their frozen smiles intact and felt compelled to join in.

  It took Lachlan another five months to give up struggling like a dying fish and propose. Five months of gifts - everything from designer chocolates to dripping rubies - that would melt any normal woman, were mere aperitifs. He knew what she wanted. And he finally conceded Match Point.

  And she said no. Her father, she said, would expect her to return and marry within the community. That’s why she was so protective of her integrity. If she wasn’t married a virgin, her father would lose his position. For the first time since Lachlan had met her, Amanda looked lost. She loved him so much she would marry him in a shot she told him, but she couldn’t go against her father’s wishes or her family would disown her.

  Lachlan had always known this was coming, but he was too far gone to care. After all, this was his language. ‘How much?’ he asked her.

  ‘My father is already a rich man,’ Amanda bridled, then added quietly. ‘By Samoan standards.’

  ‘So consent will cost what?’

  ‘Oh!’ wailed Amanda, ‘he is such a stubborn man. To marry an outsider would be breaking with tradition, it would mean going against all his values.’

  Lachlan ran his large hand over his shiny expanse of forehead and arrangements were made. Amanda would fly to Samoa first, to prepare her family and convince her father of Lachlan’s standing and honourable character, ratified by Lachlan’s gift of a $500,000 bank cheque, to be handed over when he had agreed - in writing of course - to the marriage.

  After the old man relented - as of course he would, everyone can be bought - James would fly straight over to pay his respects to his future in-laws.

  When my phone rang just before lunch I expected it to be the travel agent with the flight details. But it wasn’t. It was Bob Hutchins, editor of the Herald Sun. They were planning to run a photo in their Society column of Lachlan and Amanda taken at the Crown casino’s gala ball.. But Bob wanted to check the wording of a caption. He’d heard a wee rumour that he wanted to confirm.

  ‘They wanted to know whether to refer to her as your fiancé,’ I told Lachlan. He kept his back to me, peering over the top end of the CBD. ‘I said no.’

  ‘Did you now?’ He turned and gave me a look of pure loathing. “Well you can just ring him back then, can’t you?’

  When I rang Amanda to say I had the flight options and would need her passport to do the booking, I felt compelled to warn her of Lachlan’s attemp
t at pressure. She was silent a minute. ‘He acts as if it’s a game of chess,’ I couldn’t help saying.

  But she laughed. ‘Oh well ma cheri, it’s all games really isn’t it? But making it public isn’t such a bad move. I’ll drop my passport in this afternoon. Is the cheque ready?’

  ‘I have it here.’

  ‘Shameful really, isn’t it, to have to buy yourself a wedding. Éclair or Danish?’

  She arrived around mid-afternoon, prancing into the office on her heels, lovely legs displayed to perfection. Lachlan had left for a meeting with his directors. She glanced over the flight options and handed me her passport, along with a huge slice of bulging cream cake and a printout.

  ‘I think these flights would be the most convenient, if it’s not too late to arrange.’