Christina cannot help staring at Sarah’s mauled chest. One breast sags under the wrinkled nipple that once gave life to her children. The other has been ripped from her body, leaving a puckered scar that travels into her armpit. Sarah sits there half naked and unashamed. Christina remembers her when she was an elegant woman in expensive heels with a perfect manicure. That woman would never have stripped to the waist and bared her disfigurement.
Sarah smiles. ‘I know, I’ve become repulsive.’ Her hand fumbles over the buttons.
Only when she has finished does Christina breathe again. ‘You haven’t told me why you came here today.’
Sarah smiles. Christina is sure she can see the red welt pulsing beneath her cotton shirt.
‘Josh kept diaries. After he tried to,’ Sarah gestures, she will not say the words again, ‘he showed them to me. I could only read a few pages. That Jackson could do that to his own son.’ A sob escapes her lips. She clasps her hand over her mouth as if to catch it. Christina feels a lump rise in her own throat. Too much pain, so much failure.
Sarah clears her throat. ‘I’ve asked him if he wants to press charges. Josh says he won’t. Not after what he saw Bianca go through.’ Sarah smears her mascara as she wipes away the tears. ‘You’ve survived, Christina. You should be proud of Bianca, she is a brave young woman. After everything he has put you through, that’s worth holding on to.’
But Christina finds it hard to accept that Jackson’s ex-wife has travelled all the way to Tasmania, ill as she is, to sit on their front verandah and seek absolution for her part in this singular tragedy.
‘I don’t blame Josh for not wanting to dig over the past, but maybe if he’d said something sooner, we could have helped you.’ Sarah cannot hold Christina’s eye. She searches her pockets for the car keys before realising they are still in the ignition. Struggling to her feet, she walks to the car.
Christina watches her, unable to think what comfort she can offer this broken woman.
Sarah pauses once she opens the car door, swipes against the tears. ‘I’m sorry, Christina, I truly am. But please make peace with yourself. You cannot let him win,’ and then she climbs into the car and rolls down the hill in a cloud of dust.
Christina watches Sarah open the paddock gate, drive through and return to close the gate. Sarah gives a wave before climbing back into the car, not waiting to see if Christina returns it, then drives away.
Christina moves into the shade of the verandah, listening to the whining thrum of the cicadas and the cackle of distant hens. Sarah Plummer had no right to come back into her life, to say those things, to bare her brutalised chest. No apology will ever be enough to make up for all the damage Jackson has done, for all that Sarah should have done, for all that Christina did not do. The past is a place she’d prefer never to revisit but it dogs her, refusing to let her go.
chapter two
Christina stood on the pavement as her boss Oscar squeezed his 4WD into an impossible parking space. It was the only one within cooee of the Plummer’s house and, like a lot of streets in Sydney’s salubrious beachside suburbs, parking was at a premium. She studied the bland veneers of the expensive houses separated by clipped hedges and expanses of glass. The surfwear millionaire wasn’t the only one around here making money hand over fist. In preparation for today’s meeting, Christina had done her research and knew that his company TBK had been bounding up Business Review’s Fastest Growing Aussie Companies list for the past three years. He counted entrepreneurs, fund managers and CEOs as neighbours. Maybe that’s why he was so blasé about leaving his garage door wide open exposing the two Mercedes Benz, the Porsche, the Range Rover and the sunflower yellow Lotus to the passing public and potential thieves.
Walking down the front path, she caught a glimpse of the sparkling ocean. Two attractive ceramic pots filled with agaves guarded the front door, but those aside, the house was horrible. Christina pressed the doorbell, frowning at Oscar who was poking the end of his pencil into the failing mortar. When the door whooshed open, Christina stepped back in surprise. The man standing before her looked nothing like his corporate headshots. Jackson Plummer was wearing board shorts patterned in pink elephants and an oversized crimson shirt. His blond hair stuck out from his head like a cartoon character that had stuck its finger in an electrical socket, and when he smiled, his whole face crinkled up like a walnut. It reminded her of her father.
‘Jackson Plummer. Come in. Come in,’ he said, shaking their hands before bounding down the stairs shouting, ‘Coffee?’ over one shoulder. Oscar shot Christina an amused smile and they followed the millionaire down to an open-plan living area carpeted in olive-green shag pile.
Once Jackson had produced them each a mug of coffee from an expensive-looking machine, he took them on a tour of the house. He entered each room with a flourish, his pride louder than his shirt. A king in his castle, Christina thought. They ended the tour on a vast timber deck. Below, a lawn sloped down to a wooden gate hanging from its hinges. Beyond lay the sands of Forty Baskets Beach. The location, unlike the house and its seventies sensibility, was spectacular.
‘So you don’t need me to tell you the house is crap.’ Jackson grinned, balancing his empty mug on the handrail, and collapsed into a director’s chair. ‘But this is what I think we need to see.’
Christina sat too and took notes as he laid out his ideas for the house’s makeover. He spoke with his hands; hands with broad palms, manicured nails and a wedding band that flashed in the sun. Even his feet fidgeted, wiggling inside battered docksiders as he spoke. Jackson Plummer was a man in constant motion and it made her want to be quiet and still.
Oscar, clearly put out that the entrepreneur had not once asked for his expert advice, injected himself into the monologue. ‘So to summarise, Jackson, you and your wife Sarah want the house to allow space for your three children to grow, to be able to entertain clients and to reflect the relaxed feel of your business. Less seventies chic and more beach culture.’
Jackson frowned at the interruption. ‘Not just beach. We manufacture snow gear as well as surfwear and next year we’re launching our range of casual apparel. Hello, Princess!’
A dark-haired child slunk from the shadows of the house and burrowed into her father’s embrace. He stroked the nape of her neck and the little girl’s eyelids fluttered with pleasure. Unbidden, an image of Jamie sprang to Christina’s mind. The way he always clutched Bianca in an awkward A-frame hug, patting her back as if he were burping a baby. It hurt Christina that Jamie could be so unfeeling as to keep his only child at such a distance. Since the split twelve months ago, Bianca needed her father’s reassurance that she was still loveable, that the collapse of her parents’ marriage was not her fault. One thing for certain, Jamie would never let Bianca curl up on his lap as content as a kitten.
The little girl stayed there, twirling a strand of hair first one way then the other, until on impulse she slipped from her father’s lap and disappeared into the shadows from where she had first arrived. Christina realised that this was the problem with the house – too many hidden corners.
‘What are your initial thoughts on this, CC?’ Oscar asked, drawing her into the conversation.
Christina smiled at the two men, wondering if they were even conscious that their body language sent a clear signal that they would never be able to work together. Too much ego between them. ‘The house is a rabbit warren. Opening up the public areas will maximise the natural light and create a flexible living space for the family and entertaining. Using different textures will add warmth so you don’t feel like you’re living in a specimen box.’
Jackson Plummer grinned. ‘Sounds perfect,’ he said, and she basked in the warmth of his approval.
A week or so later, Oscar popped his head over her cubicle wall and shared the news. Peterson Partners had won the Plummer contract. Christina was surprised and then embarrassed when Oscar added there was
one proviso. Jackson Plummer had insisted that Christina manage the project. As the senior partner, Oscar had every right to have his nose firmly out of joint, but if it was, he had the good grace to hide it. Later, Della reminded her that Oscar Bennett never let anything stand between him and a pot of gold, so perhaps it was less graciousness than pragmatism.
Whatever the reason, Christina was glad it was she who had to spend the following weeks walking through the rooms of Jackson’s home. She had done as much as she could with her tiny two-bedroom apartment and being unleashed on Jackson’s seaside home was heaven. Together they despaired at the stench of mildew pervading the ground floor and argued over colour charts and fabric swatches as if it were life and death. Jackson railed at Christina’s attempts at economy, refusing to compromise on quality. His natural instinct for design was obvious, although at the time it surprised her. In years to come Christina would tire of Jackson’s need to constantly remind people that he was the creative brains behind TBK and Sarah was the bean counter. How he’d then laugh and, of course, his audience would always laugh with him.
In all those weeks, Christina only saw Sarah Plummer the once. One day Sarah came home when Christina and Jackson were outside discussing decking options. Christina watched her fling her car keys on the kitchen bench and pour herself iced water from the fridge before leaving the room. Not even a hello. Jackson just shrugged and said, ‘Design makes Sarah’s eyes glaze over.’
She told Della later that Jackson’s wife was a cool blonde who hid her dumpiness behind expensive linen and high heels. But in a funny way, Christina was grateful to Sarah. Without a third party to appease, Christina was free to help Jackson realise his vision. This was his personal domain, the expression of his achievements. And she was the woman he had chosen to make that happen.
Around them, builders demolished walls, jimmied up burnt sienna kitchen tiles and lifted the olive green shag pile. Every day Christina and Jackson shared a coffee and the thrill of watching the deconstruction of the house. Working with Jackson was an inspiration. Christina was sure that a part of it was Jackson’s super abundance of charisma. His energy was infectious. He made her feel that she was the linchpin of the project, critical in the fulfilment of his dreams. It was tempting to believe Jackson when he told her how fabulous she was, but she had already noticed that he tended to shine a light on everybody within his orbit. There was a very good chance she was imagining Jackson thought she was someone special.
As Christina returned to her modest apartment after another long day on site, she reflected that this was another problem with spending so much time around Jackson. Keeping up with his boundless energy was exhausting enough but it had also become an exercise in severe contrasts. For instance, she had spent the day ordering the very best Italian tiles for the bathroom floors at an exorbitant cost per square metre and arguing the importance of fair trade timber with a man who cared less for cost than aesthetics. Now here she was, trudging up the darkened stairwell to her apartment, weighed down by a tired and grumpy Bianca, her school backpack and her own shoulder bag. How she wished she were coming home to a house where the lights were on and the scent of a delicious meal wafted from the designer kitchen. And it was all very well Rosa tut-tutting and saying she should have stayed with Jamie for the sake of Bianca, but even if Christina had stayed, she’d still be coming home in the dark with no better prospect for dinner than scrambled eggs on toast.
After she’d tucked Bianca in bed, Christina poured herself a glass of wine to steel herself for the weekly chore of sorting the mail. The sight of a window envelope always chilled her heart. It didn’t matter how hard she worked, mortgage repayments, childcare, utilities and groceries absorbed her monthly salary. Opening another envelope, she saw her car rego was due and the insurance premium had risen again. Christina thought of Jackson and the way he bandied about his black American Express at the tile shop. The difference smacked her in the face. Her life and Jackson’s were worlds apart.
And so it might have continued except that one day something happened that changed everything. She was rechecking the measurements of the narrow walk-in wardrobe off the master bedroom when she heard Jackson arrive. Christina always knew when he was on an international call because he had this habit of talking louder as if his voice would carry across the oceans. She was reading the plans as she walked out to greet him and hadn’t realised how close he was. She walked around the corner and straight into his arms. ‘God! Sorry, Christina. Misjudged that one by a mile,’ he grinned as he shoved the phone back in his pocket and gestured for her to go ahead.
Christina rubbed her arms to smooth the goosebumps that had risen at his touch. She was mortified by her reaction, grateful that walking in front in some way hid her embarrassment.
‘What about these wardrobe railings, Christina?’ Jackson had ducked into Josh’s room.
Christina turned and gripped her clipboard to her chest. ‘Yes?’ It was an accident but she was sure he’d held on to her, maybe just a heartbeat too long. Jackson was a bit of a flirt. It didn’t mean anything.
Jackson cocked his head, ‘Are you with me? You look like you’re miles away.’
She blinked and smiled, glad he could not read her thoughts.
‘I said, can we make the top rails in the boys’ wardrobes higher? They’re both already over six foot tall and bloody Josh is only twelve.’
She was probably reading way too much into it. Jackson was like her father. One of those guys who could make an old lady with her hair in curlers feel attractive. He wasn’t trying to charm her in particular, that was just his nature. Clearly Christina needed to get out more. She made a note to alter the railing heights.
Christina revisited the incident as she flicked through the TV channels that night. Bianca had insisted on three stories, Christina had only had the energy for two. There’d been tears. Christina had given in and not for the first time felt the burden of being the centre of her child’s unrelenting attention. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was Jackson had held her when she ran into him. The question was why. Jackson was a wealthy and influential client. Crossing the line would put a lot at stake for both of them, but especially for Christina. Jackson was a married man. She could lose her job.
Christina and Bianca sat on the floor with their backs against the hallway wall waiting for Jamie. By the door was Bianca’s overnight bag with Bluey Baa-Baa tucked between the handles and one of Bianca’s paintings from preschool Christina had framed for her father. To pass the time, Christina played ‘This Little Piggy Went to Market’ with Bianca’s stubby toes sticking out from their sandals.
Bianca wriggled away from her. ‘Where’s Daddy?’
The question set Christina’s teeth on edge. Sighing, she said, ‘He’s late, sweetheart.’ Jamie was always late. He had a casual disregard for the value of other people’s time, coupled with an obvious reluctance to spend any of his with Bianca. ‘Do you want an apple juice?’ Christina offered as a distraction. Anything to avoid the threat of heartbroken tears.
She sat Bianca at the kitchen bench and whilst her daughter was preoccupied poking her straw at the ice cubes bobbing in her juice, Christina tried to get hold of Jamie. His mobile went straight to voicemail, the home phone rang out. Christina checked the time. She was supposed to be at Jackson’s house in half an hour. Their weekly project meeting with the builder had been shifted to Saturday to accommodate Jackson’s travel schedule. There was no way she could miss it. She tried Jamie’s numbers again, fighting the rising tide of desperation.
‘Mummy, I need a wee.’
Christina threw the phone on the bench and followed Bianca to the toilet.
She helped Bianca pull down her pants and popped her on the seat. Outside she was calm but inside she seethed. Once again, Jamie was so wrapped up in his own life that he had forgotten about Bianca. Why couldn’t he see that even though she was only two, Bianca sensed
that she was not important to him. One day she’d be twelve and refuse to have anything to do with Jamie and he’d be asking Christina why. Jamie had put her in an untenable position. She had no choice but to take Bianca with her to the meeting. It was unprofessional to let down a prestigious client at such short notice. Between flushing the toilet and washing Bianca’s hands, Christina sealed their fate: she would take Bianca with her, just this once.
‘A bridge, Mummy,’ Bianca shouted as they approached the gangplank connecting the footpath to the Plummer’s front door. She pulled Christina across, chattering away about billy goats and trolls. Veering around the skips overflowing with scraps of timber, bricks and broken glass, Christina steered Bianca down the side path to the garden.
Jackson and the builder had set up camp under the ancient Norfolk pine. Hunched over plans weighed down with a coffee pot and mugs, they didn’t acknowledge Christina’s arrival. She settled Bianca on the grass with crayons and a colouring book before pouring herself a coffee. As had become her habit since the wardrobe incident, she stood at a point furthest from Jackson. Any closer and her mind wandered to the golden hairs springing from his forearms or contemplated how the slight hawkish bent to his nose made him seem patrician rather than calculating. Maintaining a physical distance kept her focused. She tuned into the conversation.
‘It’s all going to have to come up and be laid properly with a waterproof skin,’ the builder drew his finger over the plans to emphasise his point.
Jackson tilted back in his chair, squeezing the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s not the money, it’s the bloody time. How many weeks d’you reckon?’
Christina stayed silent. She’d warned Jackson about downstairs right at the start. Some bright spark had cut corners by laying the original concrete floor directly onto the ground. This allowed the damp through, hence the mildew and the awful smell. It was a specialist job. More to the point, they would have to allow weeks for it to cure before they could continue the works.
The Making of Christina Page 2
