He strides towards the gate, slowing when he gets to Mattie. He squats and touches her baby’s leg, his foot. I’m not sure what he says but she laughs at him delightedly. He walks towards the house with Sam’s mother, slowing his pace and dipping his head. Angelina calls him over and touches his arm. He smiles at her and kisses her cheek.
Ramsay and I are the stragglers, following along behind everyone else. Ramsay’s hands are still out to his sides as he buzzes around me, taking twenty steps to every one of mine.
‘You have great breasts for someone with a small frame,’ Angelina says.
I straighten my nightie and adjust my position on the sofa. My ankle, weighed down by an icepack, rests on a dining chair. Angelina and I are eating takeaway Thai food out of tubs. After the last of the children went home we were both too exhausted to cook.
‘Forget global warming or the fact Eric’s after me again,’ I say, ‘the size and shape of my breasts is what’s important.’
‘I don’t have to worry about global warming because it’s cold tonight. And I’ve told Dad I’ll never forgive him if he sells this place. So you shouldn’t stress about those things either.’
Eric hasn’t told Angelina that our mother is pushing him to sell. I’m not going to break it to her either. She’d be much more worried if she knew.
‘Pass the noodles?’
Angelina gets up in one fluid movement and scoops the remainder of the noodles into my bowl.
‘Tor said you two are going out next week,’ she says. ‘You should see the way he looks at you.’ She fans her face with her hand and grins.
I wish Tor had given me a cover story before he spoke to Angelina. It’s not like I can tell her that all he and I will be doing is tracking down local criminals, now he’s got the international ones sorted out.
‘He had no right to turn up unannounced like that.’
‘He said Nate couldn’t come, so he came instead. I could hardly send him away. And I didn’t force you to dance with him.’
‘It would have been easier to dance with Nate. He’s nice to have around, kind and thoughtful, and—’
‘Like the brother you never had?’ She smiles unsteadily. ‘Why were you fighting with Tor?’
‘Was I?’
Her eyes fill with tears. ‘It wasn’t about the money I gave to Marc, was it?’
Not long before Grandpa died, I held onto his arm and we walked through the paddocks and over the log. We sat on my rock by the creek and he gave me a lecture about how a sweet pea’s fragile stems had to be attached to something strong, to support the weight of the blooms.
‘Lathyrus odoraus only grows to its full height if it gets a little help,’ he said. ‘You’re only small, Gumnut, but you’re stronger than your sister. Look after her until she’s grown up, there’s a good girl.’
‘But she’s twenty,’ I said.
‘Some plants take longer than others.’
I forgave Angelina for dating Marc.
The ice pack slips off my ankle. I readjust it before facing Angelina again. ‘I didn’t argue with Tor about the money you gave Marc. Promise.’
‘I don’t want to get you into trouble with Tor, or Dad,’ she says.
I do my best to sound reassuring. ‘What Eric is threatening has nothing to do with Marc, not really. He’s just using it as an excuse.’
The pitch of her voice gets higher. ‘Maybe I should tell him anyway.’
‘And get him into trouble? The money in your account was used for a speculative gambling venture. Eric failed to investigate where the money went. Your father has many faults, but dishonesty isn’t one of them. If you tell him what happened, he’ll go public with it, because that’s what he would have done five years ago. At best he’d be embarrassed, at worst it’d jeopardise the rest of his career. You’d never forgive yourself.’
‘Golden?’ Ange bites her lip. She doesn’t have freckles that stand out like mine do when I go pale, but her eyes appear to darken. ‘There’s something else. Something you don’t know. After Marc and I broke up, Marc senior came to see me. He said Marc didn’t know what he’d got himself into by investing my money the way he did, that there was a chance he was dealing with dangerous men. He also told me that he and Grandpa Saunders had sorted things out, but it was for the best that Marc didn’t know what they’d done. He said I should never tell anyone else about it either, not even you.’
I’m sure my freckles are showing. Angelina perches next to me on the sofa and rubs my back.
Finally I find my voice. ‘What do you mean, “dangerous men”? In what sense? And how was Grandpa involved? Marc senior wasn’t even talking to him when you and Marc split up.’
Angelina grimaces. ‘I didn’t ask for details. Grandpa Saunders was so sick by then I didn’t want to worry him. So I kept quiet, just like Marc senior said I should. The money was gone and I tried to forget all about it. Which I’d pretty much done, until Tor popped up and Dad started asking questions about Marc.’
‘Are you sure Marc knew nothing?’
Angelina nods. ‘That’s what Marc senior said. He only told me about it because he was worried I’d tell Eric the money was gone. He thought Eric would want to look into it and Marc might get into trouble.’
At Alessandro’s cocktail party, Marc said he had nothing to hide about the money he took from Angelina. The only reason he didn’t tell Tor about it at Randwick was because I’d told him not to. Marc was notorious for not being able to keep secrets when we were younger. Is that why Marc senior and Grandpa acted the way they did?
Angelina twists her fingers together in her lap. ‘This all sounds awful now I’m saying it out loud. But it was years ago. It doesn’t matter, does it? Not if you think we shouldn’t say anything to Eric?’
Does it matter? I’ve been telling Tor that what happened with Marc had nothing to do with anything he’d be interested in. Now I can’t be sure. If he ever does find out about it, he’ll think I’ve lied again. And to make things worse, Grandpa’s name has cropped up too. And there’s Eric. If his money was given to dangerous men—whatever that means—the implications for him could be serious.
The lump in my throat gets bigger. Tor said we had to be seen in public before we went to Bowral for the Bong Bong races. I don’t want to be caught out hiding something else. But if I tell him what I know, he’ll report it to Eric. I don’t want that either.
CHAPTER
28
Tor calls me a few days after my party. ‘I’ve booked a city restaurant, Pacific at The Rocks, for Saturday week.’
‘Can’t we go somewhere closer?’
‘Then we wouldn’t be seen.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’
‘I’ll pick you up. Be ready at five-thirty.’
I’m sitting on the doorstep with Seashell on my lap when he arrives—twenty minutes late. By the time I’ve brushed all the white fur off my black tights, he’s standing in front of me.
He nods. ‘Golden.’
‘Tor.’
He looks me up and down, and glares at my long black boots. My ankle is fine now; there’s no reason not to wear heels.
‘Nate is always early,’ I say as we walk to the car. ‘You’re perpetually late. Why is that?’
His lips thin as he opens my door. ‘I apologise.’ The radio is tuned to a news channel. When we turn left at the top of the driveway he glances at me. ‘Should I change the station? What sort of music do you like?’
I look out of my window. What should I say? Quintets and Disney when we dance? The Wiggles when we kiss?
‘This is okay. Have you finished up in Asia now you’ve arrested your Hong Kong suspect?’
‘We’re still not sure why he made the payment into your father’s account—it probably had something to do with the race fix. The form guide you found in your grandfather’s documents supports that hypothesis, but we didn’t find any other proof. We presume the subsequent payments came from the same source, but the way they were wi
thdrawn and deposited made them impossible to trace. All we have is hearsay evidence.’
‘So the smaller amounts could have come from a legitimate source, like Grandpa thought?’
Tor glances at me for a moment. It’s clear from his expression he doesn’t believe my scenario for a minute.
‘That’s highly unlikely,’ he says. ‘Shortly after the Hong Kong connection made the first payment, he went into politics and his reputation became increasingly important. We think the money was paid to keep your father and then your grandfather quiet about the first—traceable—transgression.’
‘But now the Hong Kong guy is locked up, why do I have to lie low?’
‘I’m concerned about local contacts who may have been in league with your father.’
‘Do you mean Alessandro?’
‘On the surface he’s squeaky clean, but he’s hiding something. Exposing whatever it is could provoke a response.’
‘And that’s why I have to do what I’m told?’
We’re approaching a ramp onto the highway and the traffic is heavy. His eyes are on the road.
Finally he speaks. ‘Yes, Golden. For once in your life, do as you are told.’
Tor and I haven’t spoken a word since the maître d’ sat us at our table. It’s a slab of glossy river redwood, positioned directly in front of a floor to ceiling window. We have uninterrupted views of the Opera House, and everyone else in the restaurant has uninterrupted views of us.
‘What’s worrying you?’ Tor finally says.
The floors are polished concrete. The ceilings are high and crisscrossed with exposed tallowwood beams. The walls are white. I lean my elbows on the table and link my hands.
‘Sitting here, it’s like we’re on a stage. It’s embarrassing.’
‘You don’t have to whisper. People can’t hear what you’re saying.’
Maybe he’s not sleeping well. The tiny lines at the sides of his eyes are back, not that it makes him any less attractive. When we were shown to our table Tor was walking behind me. Waitstaff and guests followed him with their eyes—a few openly stared, most were more discreet.
I raise my voice a little. ‘I think you’d be a better spy if you weren’t so good looking.’
He narrows his eyes. ‘If that’s a compliment, it won’t work. I’m still angry.’
‘Because I didn’t tell you about Grandpa’s folders?’
‘Among other things.’
‘You can’t yell at me in front of all these people.’
He speaks between his teeth. ‘I never yell.’
All the tables are set up to seat two or four diners, except for the large table on our right. There are ten people sitting there. Tor glanced in their direction as he sat down, and then looked away. I think he recognised someone. The women are very well dressed. The men have neatly trimmed facial hair. One man laughs loudly and the others join in.
‘I’d rather be with them,’ I say.
Tor gives me a fake smile. ‘Don’t be unpleasant, Golden. The purpose of this dinner is to set the scene for Bowral. We’re meant to like one another.’
I have a pathetic urge to throw my serviette on the table and run to the bathroom. I like him far too much. That’s the problem. He doesn’t look down on restaurant staff and carpark attendants. He’s kind to Sam’s mother. He likes children, even though there’s something that saddens him when he’s around them.
I smooth the serviette over my knee. ‘Can I have a drink? Do you mind?’
‘Why would I?’
‘Because you’ve got a thing about alcohol.’
‘What would you like?’
‘I don’t like spirits. Or beer, much. Cocktails are too strong. Do they have wine by the glass?’
He hands me the wine list. ‘Choose whatever you’d like.’
I point to a sparkling wine at the top of the page. It doesn’t seem to be as exorbitantly priced as the others. ‘That’ll do.’
When the waiter appears, Tor asks for something with a Frenchsounding name, but the waiter can’t understand what he says. Tor points to the bottom of the page. ‘A glass of this, please.’
‘Why didn’t you get the one that I chose?’ I say.
‘The one from Champagne may taste better.’
‘I think you just made a joke. Does your brother drink?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘So he has less of a problem with alcohol than you?’
The champagne, served in a tall crystal flute, is placed in front of me. I lift it to my lips and take a sip. Tor raises his brows.
‘What?’ I say. ‘Is it too expensive to drink?’
‘You winced before you swallowed. As if you didn’t like the taste.’
‘I don’t drink often. Grandpa put me off it.’
He’s suddenly alert. ‘Why?
‘Not because he had a drinking problem, or any other vice your suspicious mind is likely to come up with. It was something else.’
‘What?’
‘Tell me why you don’t drink and I’ll answer your question.’
He hesitates for a moment. Then schools his face into the expression of an Easter Island statue. Even his voice is granite hard, as if what’s behind his words isn’t painful at all.
‘I’ve already told you. My father was an alcoholic.’
‘Have you ever had a drink?’
‘No.’
‘Does your father still drink?’
‘No.’
‘Did he behave badly when he was drinking? Is that why you don’t drink?’
‘I’m not saying anything else.’
When the waiter appears we place our orders. Next time I look at Tor, he’s wearing his relaxed and urbane expression.
‘You said your grandfather put you off alcohol,’ he says. ‘Why?’
‘I haven’t finished questioning you yet. Did your parents divorce? Were you and Per separated as children? Is that why your accents are different? It’s exposure to language in childhood that often determines things like that. His English is excellent, but nothing like yours.’
‘Stop fishing for information.’
‘I’m practising being a spy. Is that what happened?’
He sighs. ‘Per and I were two years old when my parents split up. Per stayed with our father—he was a naval officer in Bergen. I lived with my mother. She remarried not long after the divorce, to a Frenchman who worked in the diplomatic corps. Mostly we lived in Russia and Ukraine.’
‘So that’s how you picked up French and Russian. What about English?’
‘Most Norwegians speak English. My mother was fluent. During term breaks, when I didn’t stay with Per and our father, I stayed with my cousin, who grew up in England.’
‘Is he the one with the horses?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did you learn to speak German?’
‘At university. It’s a useful EU language.’
‘Did you get on well with your mother and stepfather?’
‘Henri treated me like a son. Still does.’
‘Your mother?’
‘We’re close.’
I swirl my champagne around in my glass. ‘You were obviously talented. And you were loved. Why does thinking about your childhood make you so unhappy?’
A shadow crosses his face, before he masks it. ‘Can we talk about something else?’ he says.
‘Was it because Per wasn’t with you? Or because you were worried about him living with your father? How much did you know about your father’s drinking? Were you angry with your mother for leaving Per behind?’
‘Leave this, Golden.’
‘Why should I? You’ve spent the past eight months investigating my family.’
He tightens his lips and won’t say anything else. It’s a relief when the waiter appears with our oversized plates and puts them in front of us. Tor drinks his water and pokes his barramundi and Asian greens with a fork while I sip my champagne, eat my steak, and pick up sweet potato fries with my fin
gers.
He raises his brows. ‘Did you enjoy your steak?’
I point to my plate. I’ve eaten almost everything. ‘Excellent, thank you.’ I point to his plate. He’s hardly eaten anything. ‘Did the eye put you off?’
He looks at his fish as if this is the first time he’s noticed it’s staring up at him. ‘No. It’s often served like this.’
‘I saw a documentary once. Customers at a restaurant were taken to a tank with fish swimming around in it, and they were asked to choose which fish they wanted. The chef pan-fried the fish while they were still alive. It was horrific, the way the fish flopped around on the stove, looking up at the chef.’
Tor opens his mouth and closes it again. Finally he speaks. ‘Did that make you stop eating fish?’
‘I eat it when I know it hasn’t been cooked alive.’
He smiles. Then puts his knife and fork together and pushes back his plate. ‘Are you ready to answer my question yet?’
I finish my champagne. Tor knows too much about me already, but I suppose he’s answered some of my questions. There’s nothing too revealing in the answer to this one, anyway.
‘After my fall, there were a number of operations for the joints, and lots of plastic surgery as well. Rehab started in the hospital, and never seemed to end. Grandpa worried about me taking drugs. Prescription drugs I mean, painkillers. Or drinking alcohol to dull things at night, or make me less self-conscious. He said I should manage my leg by pacing myself. So that’s what I’ve done.’
‘By riding your horse? And wearing high heels?’
‘Grandpa also said I should do what makes me happy.’
Without warning, Tor reaches across the table and captures my hand. I watch as he strokes my wrist with his thumb. He feels for my pulse and our eyes meet. His gaze softens. I want to drag my chair to his side of the table and thread our fingers together. I want to lift his hand and rest my cheek against it.
His voice is quiet. ‘The night you saw Per, he said you looked like a baby zebra. Were you wearing what you have on now?’
I glance at my black and white dress. ‘Yes. Did you only just notice it?’
He slowly shakes his head. ‘Fuck, no.’
On the Right Track Page 19
