Bianca regarded her mother for a moment before grabbing the jumper and throwing it in the machine.
Christina watched her stomp into the house. Confused, she called out, ‘Bee? Are you okay?’ There was no reply and Christina reflected on how brief the respite from her sullen teenager had been.
chapter fourteen
Two Weeks Till Christmas
Coincidence or not, the two items arrive on the same day: a postcard from Bianca and a letter from Mary-Lou. It’s on company letterhead but with her own scrawl underneath, saying personally what she cannot say as Christina’s lawyer. Seeing Mary-Lou’s effusive scrawl makes Christina smile. The farewell party might belong to another lifetime but Christina never forgot how Mary-Lou refused to judge her then and has remained steadfast in that refusal.
Bianca’s postcard has a pair of iridescent macaws rolling about playing on the grass – or dead and discarded – it’s impossible to tell. They lie there, claws contracted to their breasts, blue eyes open and expressionless, beaks clamped shut. Somewhat revolted by the macabre possibilities, Christina turns it over and reads Bianca’s message.
Hey Mum and Nonna,
By the time you get this I’ll be in Hawaii. Woo-hoo! We decided we needed fast food and mojitos. Ha! Don’t worry – a bunch of us are going!! ♥
Christina sits on the edge of the kitchen table. This must mean Bianca is on her way home. Re-reading the postcard, she snags on the word ‘we’. Who is ‘we’? Phoebe? Maybe this Gijs person? Is ‘we’ a safe number? Bianca was always a bit of a loner. Christina shakes her head. She keeps doing this, making assumptions about Bianca’s behaviour as if she knows her daughter when the events of the last few years prove otherwise. Bianca being a loner was not a choice; it was survival.
The screen door wheezes as Rosa returns from the garden. By the softness of her tread, Christina can tell her mother has been communing with Massimo. If she had been forking hay to the cattle or feeding the poultry, her feet would beat a staccato rhythm across the timber boards. But as the anniversary of his death draws near, Rosa spends long afternoons sitting on the wooden bench in the shade of the bower talking to Massimo. When he died, she filled a deep hole with his ashes, a handful of lime and an old iron nail. Into this fertile mix, Rosa planted a frosted-pink rose. Now in its first bloom, she fills the house with its flowers, their delicious honey fragrance permeating every room.
‘Do you want me to run you a bath, Mama?’ Christina calls out, tucking Bianca’s postcard in her pocket.
‘Si. That would be nice, Tina.’ Rosa places stems of a golden yellow rose and a colander of pea pods on the kitchen table and continues up the hall.
Whilst Rosa undresses in her bedroom, Christina sits on the edge of the deep enamelled bath and watches the steam rise. Out of habit, she checks her feet are not touching the pink tinged spot where Massimo’s blood spilt the morning he crashed to the floor. Mama scrubbed it, Christina bleached it, but the florid bloom remains a stubborn testimony to Massimo’s last earthly moments. Christina shifts the bathmat with her foot so it covers the stain.
Rosa stands in the bathroom doorway dressed in a thick quilted dressing gown. It’s too heavy for such a hot summer’s afternoon but Rosa says the cold has settled deep in her bones. Christina helps her mother sit on the edge of the bath so Rosa can check the temperature of the water for herself. Satisfied, Rosa undoes her belt and Christina turns away to fold a towel and place it within easy reach on the vanity as her mother slides into the water. She hangs the dressing gown on the hook on the back of the door and tells Rosa to call if she needs anything, leaving her mother some privacy.
As her mother soaks away the day, Christina returns to the kitchen and prepares risotto, soaking the porcini mushrooms, measuring the rice and finely chopping the herbs and onion. She checks the heat of the pan with her palm before pouring in a slurp of olive oil and adding a pinch of salt to the onion mixture. She waits until the risotto is simmering before she reaches for Mary-Lou’s letter and reads through the official verdict of her relationship with Jackson. Whilst there are no divorce papers, there is still paperwork. Christina is no longer joint signatory on any bank accounts and the various powers of attorney have been revoked. Attached to the letter is a document with yellow ‘sign here’ stickers on various pages. It’s a deed of settlement.
Mary-Lou insisted Christina pursue a financial settlement with Jackson. It seemed wrong, bizarre even, considering they were in court against him, but Christina was, remains, broke. The rental property the next town over never eventuated. There were no funds locked away for a rainy day. Signing this paperwork will free Bianca of university fee debts, maybe buy her a little apartment somewhere, help her build some concrete foundations for her future. So why does signing this agreement feel as if Christina is acknowledging Jackson’s victory?
Stirring the risotto, Christina recalls the last meal she shared with Mary-Lou. It was in one of those swanky Sydney restaurants across the road from Mary-Lou’s office. There were white linen tablecloths and high ceilings from which hung pendulous chandeliers.
Pausing to tear bread from a warm loaf and mop the fatty juices from her plate, Mary-Lou said, ‘In so many ways, your case is no different from all the other women who walk through my door with a failed relationship. You are all betrayed and abandoned. However, you must remember this: no matter how bad your choices, no matter how awful a person you are, you don’t deserve this outcome. The men always want it both ways. They want their freedom and they want to keep their money.’ Mary-Lou pointed a manicured nail in Christina’s direction. ‘I will not allow you to become one of those women whose life is reduced to a spreadsheet. You were his partner, CC. It’s time to play hardball.’
Christina dabbed her eyes with her napkin. ‘But Mary-Lou, I don’t want to do anything that might jeopardise Bianca’s case. If I go after him financially, his lawyers might say that the money was what it was all about in the first place. How could I possibly accept a financial settlement from him after everything he’s done? It would be like hush money.’
Sighing as if her heart were too heavy a load, Mary-Lou leaned forward and clasped Christina’s hand in hers. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, CC. This isn’t about you any more. It isn’t even about Bianca. The situation has, if you like, assumed a life of its own.’
Christina snorted, wondering how she had ended up in a place where she had to rely upon people who saw everything as a process. Mary-Lou, like DS Rushmore, dissecting her life into steps to be taken to achieve a favourable outcome.
‘CC, let me put this to you another way. Jackson is fighting for his freedom. And who’s to blame him? At his age, he is literally at risk of spending the rest of his life in gaol. That is a terrifying prospect for anybody. Even assuming his lawyers are only half decent, they will tell him to throw everything he has at you to save his skin.’
Mary Lou searched through her handbag and passed Christina a man’s handkerchief that someone, not Mary-Lou, had ironed into a perfect square. She waited until Christina had blown her nose and wiped away the tears before she went on. ‘Jackson faces losing everything – his freedom, his power and his social standing. On the other hand, you and Bianca have already lost everything that matters. In this kind of battle, that gives you every advantage. By threatening you with financial ruin, Jackson is betting you will run to the DPP and beg them to drop the charges against him.’
‘But it’s not up to me. It’s Bianca’s case.’
Mary-Lou nodded. ‘But you’re Bianca’s mother. Pressuring you puts pressure on her. It’s his only option. At this point in time, the property settlement is his only leverage. Believe me, before this is over, he will call you an adulteress, a whore and a drug addict.’
Mary-Lou smiled as she said this but her words dug holes in Christina’s heart. If Mary-Lou’s summation was correct, how would this help Bianca? Christina had failed her once.
There was no latitude to fail a second time. She was in no position to take risks and she said so. ‘If I make a claim for a property settlement, Jackson will twist it around and say that it only proves this is all about the money and demand we drop the charges. It’s a waste of time.’
‘Precisely – but his, not yours.’ Mary-Lou drew two boxes on a legal pad with a spray of arrows pointing outwards from each box. ‘I want him to have a fight on his hands. I want him to direct his efforts towards defending an outrageously large property settlement. The more energy he spends protecting his wealth, the less energy he has to defend the criminal charges laid by the DPP. It’s hard to win when you have to spread your efforts across more than one front. Just ask the Nazis. My bet is he will fight for his money.’ A row of dollar signs completed her diagram.
‘I’m not so sure.’ Christina scratched her blistering hands. The peppered spots appeared the night she was summonsed to Bianca’s school. The rash flared across her body like spot fires raging in every crease and crevice and no amount of cream soothed the savage itch. ‘Jackson has worked hard to cultivate his reputation as a savvy businessman and philanthropist. He can be vicious towards anyone who tries to undermine that.’
Mary-Lou snorted. ‘Good. It will make his downfall of Shakespearian proportions.’ She tapped a fingernail on the table. ‘Listen to me. If Jackson Plummer has one brain cell in his head, he is going to throw a mountain of crap at you. We are going into battle and you must be prepared to fight and fight hard. If I hear you say one more time, “Oh but I don’t want Jackson’s money,” I will strangle you myself. They all want to keep a choke hold on the money, CC. Economic power is one thing all men understand. So just to make sure Jackson gets the message loud and clear, I am planning to claim half the value of Bartholomews Run, a lump sum financial settlement and the return of that ridiculous painting he bought you for your fortieth. That alone must be worth a lazy million.’
Other diners were listening to Mary-Lou all but pound the table in her declaration of war. ‘I don’t want the painting,’ Christina said under her breath.
Mary-Lou threw her hands in the air. ‘Christina! You will not see a single cent or one ounce of justice unless you develop a backbone. Do I make myself clear?’
Christina had spent countless hours at play dates, lunches and school assemblies in the company of Mary-Lou and had never once seen this side of her. Mary-Lou was intimidating in her single-minded pursuit of her quarry. Christina hoped Jackson would think so too.
‘Tina!’ Rosa warbles from the bathroom, startling Christina back to the present. She refolds Mary-Lou’s letter along its creases. The news is not unexpected. Jackson’s lawyer refutes her claimed contribution to Bartholomews Run. Furthermore, his letter goes on to state that she still owes Jackson money for Bianca’s school fees, the two motor vehicles he purchased on their behalf, as well as the purchase price and agistment costs of the horses. However, in a gesture of goodwill, his client is prepared to pay her a lump sum of one million dollars provided she signs the attached deed and agrees to forego all future claims against him or his estate.
The fire has ensured Bartholomews Run is now worthless. No amount of insurance money can replace such a house. Her mother was right. So the million dollars amounts to hush money. And so close to the appeal. Mary-Lou’s scrawl says, amongst other things, Painting??? Indeed, there is no mention of The Ravishing of Sophia, but after the fire, Christina is certain it has gone too. Mary-Lou advises Christina to accept the offer, scrawling, Darling he’s hiding money everywhere – Lichtenstein! She has a week to return the signed deed. His solicitor wants it lodged by Christmas.
But another thought worms its way into Christina’s brain. There may be another reason Jackson is offering her such a substantial sum. Despite everything – the betrayal, the court case, the incarceration – Jackson Plummer wants to be seen as generous in defeat. That way he can glow in the praise heaped upon him as people marvel at how big-hearted he is despite Christina and Bianca’s plotting. Not hush money then, something far more sinister. Jackson is holding on, still binding her to him. Every loaf of bread she buys, every new dress, even Bianca’s university fees will be a reminder that he is out there, that he is still a part of their lives.
She adds the letter to the pile on her dresser – on top of the DPP’s letter regarding Jackson’s appeal and the untouched transcript – and goes to help Rosa out of the bath.
As her mother dresses, Christina places plates of risotto on the table and dries rocket in the salad spinner, dropping the dark green leaves into a bowl and tossing them with her hands in a simple dressing of balsamic and olive oil. Rosa shuffles into her seat and Christina offers her the pepper and salt before sitting herself. Rosa slurps a mouthful, saying, ‘Bene.’ They finish eating without speaking. From the lounge room drifts the sound of a classical concert playing on the radio. A chorus of cicadas and frogs accompanies the bursts of applause. In the kitchen, the only sounds are the clink and scrape of cutlery, metal against china. Christina’s chewing is loud in her ears.
‘Bee sent us another postcard, Mama.’ Christina drops into the silence. She takes it from her pocket and gives it to Rosa. Christina describes the dead (or not) birds and then Rosa passes it back for Christina to read.
When she’s finished, Rosa says, ‘So, not long now, eh? I better start thinking about Christmas lunch.’
Now she’s re-read it, Christina realises Bianca’s postcard is open to interpretation. ‘She didn’t actually say she was coming home, Mama, only that she was going to Hawaii with friends.’
The shrug. ‘Where else is there for her to go, Tina?’
That is the question. Christina draws her spoon through the risotto. She no longer has faith in her instincts, they have failed her catastrophically. She grew up with a father who had a gift for raising impossible smiles with his gentle nature and insistent kindness. Massimo believed in the present and hoped for the future, the past reduced to a pleasant scroll of memories. Rosa was the one to inject the gaps with doses of reality, using the same brutal efficiency with which she drenched the cattle. Christina preferred her father’s truths, even though she knew they were generous.
She would never forget the day she had been in town with her so-called friends. They were lazing in the park opposite the shops when Melanie Woods started a game of truth or dare. After the usual questions about who had kissed whom, Melanie decided to dare the whole group. All of them had to go into the pharmacy and shoplift one item. Christina had tagged along wishing she could stay on the park bench and wait for them. Knowing they would call her a coward. She had no intention of stealing, instead hovering near the display of perfumes as the others pocketed nail polishes, lipstick and eyeliner. They were caught. The store owner locking the shop doors whilst he called the police. As horrified and humiliated as she had felt, Christina had taken comfort that at least she was no thief. Except in her pocket was a compact of eyeshadow. She had slipped her shaking hands into her jacket and felt the unfamiliar rectangle of plastic. When the police arrived, it was her they questioned first. She handed over the offending article without another thought, desperate to be rid of it. In the time it took for this small transaction, the other girls had rid themselves of their petty thievery leaving Christina alone to deal with the lecture and the warning that there had better never be a next time. Burning with indignation and injustice, she had trailed after the others back to the park bench where they, high on adrenaline, laughed at their close encounter. All Melanie said was ‘sucked in, Clemente’. When she confessed to her parents, she remembered the pucker of Rosa’s lips, the soft fold of Massimo’s embrace as she cried tears of humiliation and regret.
It was a mistake forgetting that for many people the truth is a tradeable commodity best kept locked up until absolutely needed. How had Christina forgotten that? Bianca had been more fortunate than others. She had convinced a jury in a court of law that her version of
the story was the undeniable truth. That was all that mattered to Bianca. Christina understood the importance of being believed.
She pushes her plate away. Despite the Melanie Woods of this world, somehow, Christina had grown up to be a person who took the truth at face value. Jackson’s charm, wealth and good looks were the veneer behind which he hid his true self. There was little consolation in knowing that she wasn’t the only person he fooled and none whatsoever in recognising the ease with which he had manipulated her. He had a talent for taking strengths and turning them into weaknesses. In Jackson’s hands, that she was hardworking, loyal and a peacemaker by nature became a weapon. But Jackson had his Achilles heel and that was his precious reputation. In the end, it had taken a child to bring him undone.
chapter fifteen
TBK was long sold, the proceeds split fifty-fifty, and despite Jackson’s dire predictions, Sarah had not squealed about getting a divorce. With the children grown and their accumulated wealth, Christina suspected Sarah was more than happy to have her freedom after devoting her youth and life to servicing the interests of the family. For a time Christina hoped Jackson might put a ring on her finger and formalise their commitment, but he never mentioned it and she worried she’d sound needy if she did. Anyway, he often said marriage was overrated, so she guessed that was her answer.
Leading up to their tenth anniversary Christina had nurtured a foolish hope that a decade was a significant milestone, one Jackson would surely recognise and honour, even if he wasn’t prepared to recognise her as his wife. However, it passed without a murmur. Likewise, her birthdays came and went, as uneventful as the days that preceded or followed them. Compulsory gift-giving rankled Jackson. ‘I’d much rather surprise you with the perfect present when you least expect it,’ he’d say. Last year he’d surprised her with a top of the line Range Rover but spoilt her joy by mentioning that he’d put it through the company for tax purposes. With her fortieth looming, Christina was torn between wishing it would pass unnoticed and hoping Jackson would surprise her with something special. Aeons ago, she’d been on a rare night out with Della and Mary-Lou. They’d seen that Bridget Jones movie, she couldn’t remember which one now. Anyway, this was way before Jackson, and Mary-Lou and Della had been comparing mere male stories about Tony and Brian. When Christina had ventured the question, ‘Why do you put up with it?’ they had burst out laughing. When she had recovered, Mary-Lou had said, ‘CC, hun, you’ve got to understand. None of them are Prince Charming when you get to know them.’
The Making of Christina Page 15
