by Judy Nunn
'Thermidor?'
'Yes, thermidor.'
He'd promised he'd have the oysters and the thermidor, they were Cora's favourites. Cora was obsessed with food. She ate voraciously, morning noon and night, her appetite seemingly endless, but she never gained weight. She even loved talking about food. After a full lunch, Cora could quite happily discuss in detail exactly what she planned to have for dinner.
'And ice-cream? You have ice-cream?'
'No, I didn't have ice-cream. I had coffee and cognac instead.'
'Ah.' Cora would have had ice-cream herself.
As they stepped inside, a pleasant sea breeze wafted through the open doors to the balcony, and beyond the massive plate-glass windows the wind-rippled river glistened silvergrey.
Natalija greeted him in her broken English as she passed by with a wicker basket of bed linen. She headed for the rear stairs that led down to the laundry, making herself scarce as she usually did. Her employer and his mistress didn't restrict their lovemaking to the bedroom, nor to any particular time of day.
Spud took off his jacket and tie and draped them over one of the leather lounge chairs. 'Did you buy anything this morning?' he asked.
'Yes. I go shopping like you say. And look, Spud . . .'
She disappeared into the main bedroom and he heard her voice calling back to him.
'You look what I get. Is beautiful . . .'
Spud took a Montecristo from the humidor on the sideboard and clipped the end. He'd given up cigarettes lately. He found he preferred a good Cuban cigar anyway, and they suited his image. He had them imported.
'Which you like best? Red? Yellow?'
She appeared, holding the dresses up one by one against her body and twirling about before him. The vivid colours looked glorious against her dusky skin. Cora loved bright colours.
'Very beautiful, yes? Very expensive. Which you like best?'
'They're both nice,' he said, striking a match and dragging on the cigar, seeing the end glow. The dresses weren't expensive. They were pretty little summer frocks, couldn't have been more than fifty bucks each, he thought. He'd given her five hundred in cash that very morning when he'd dropped her in St Georges Terrace on his way to the office. He knew where the rest of the money had gone. She'd sent it home to her family. Well, Len had warned him, hadn't he? Spud had been annoyed by the deceit at first, but it didn't bother him these days. He told himself that he respected the way she supported her family.
'And for you. Look . . .' She dumped the dresses on the sofa and once again raced off to the bedroom, reappearing with a tie which she held out to him. 'For you, I buy this. Very, very expensive.'
It was. Pure silk, imported. Cora knew the difference. She never bought him cheap presents.
Spud threaded the tie beneath his collar. 'It's great,' he said. 'I like it.'
'Yes.' She took over for him, tying an expert Windsor knot, then stepped back, thoughtfully appraising the effect. 'Is good colour for you, this blue, I think.'
She looked so adorably serious. He was about to kiss her, but she turned away and picked up one of the dresses.
'I put on for you. Both dress I put on.' When she turned back to him, the light of play was in her eyes and her smile was cheeky. 'Red . . . yellow . . . you say what you like best.'
Then, very slowly and teasingly, she started to strip.
Spud poured himself a generous nip of Hennessy XO from the bottle beside the humidor and settled back on the sofa to watch.
He was over half an hour late for his four o'clock meeting.
As he pulled up in the car park of the city office block, three floors of which constituted the head offices of the Farrell Corporation, Spud was annoyed with himself. He was a stickler for punctuality and demanded it in others. His tardiness would therefore require an apology, and he never apologised to business associates unless it was absolutely necessary. He blamed the cognacs. Cora's strip and its aftermath had been a distraction admittedly, but it was the cognacs that had done it. He rarely drank spirits in the middle of the day and they'd affected him, he'd lost track of the time.
When he arrived on the fifth floor, he found that his secretary had settled Ian Pemberton and Phil Cowan comfortably in the boardroom and was in the throes of serving them a second pot of coffee.
'Thanks, Marge,' he said with gratitude, then briskly to the others, 'Pembo, Phil, I'm sorry to keep you waiting. The lunch with Howard went longer than I'd intended. Inexcusable nonetheless, my apologies to you both.'
Ian wasn't in the least bothered. 'What the hell, Spud, it's only us, hardly a meeting of the board.'
But Phil Cowan wasn't about to let such an opportunity slip by. An apology from Spud Farrell was rare, and he decided to make the most of it. He looked ostentatiously at his watch, then at the pot of percolated coffee hovering in Marge's hands.
'Does a thirty-five-minute wait warrant the offer of something a little stronger?' he asked in his New York twang, perfect teeth flashing a grin that was meant to charm, but which grated on Spud.
'Of course it does, Phil.' You piece of shit. Spud would have liked to say, 'Bit early in the day, mate, got a problem with the grog, have you?' Christ, he thought, Phil had a problem with far more than the grog. Under the circum-stances, however, he was left with no option.
'Marge, would you do the honours? And how about you, Pembo, fancy a beer?'
'Sure.' Ian was worried. He'd suddenly realised why Phil had made a quick trip to the lavatory only ten minutes ago. Bugger it, he thought. Phil had been straight as a die when they'd arrived.
'Grab us a couple of beers too, thanks, Marge,' Spud said as his secretary crossed to the concealed bar in the corner with its drinks cabinet and refrigerator. 'The usual for you, Phil?' he asked. He kept every one of his business associates' favourite tipples in the bar, and Phil was a bourbon man, Jack Daniel's on the rocks.
'You're a good man, Spud.'
Again the grin that grated, but then Phil Cowan's flashy charm had been grating on Spud for some time now. In the early days, along with everyone else, he'd been taken in by the likeable American. Phil was fun, a party animal, although his constant energy was at times exhausting. But Phil had ceased being fun, and the source of the man's indefatigable energy had become a genuine worry to Spud. He was regretting now that Ian had brought Phil Cowan in on their joint business ventures.
Spud and Ian no longer competed. There was no point – their strength lay in joining forces. Spud had made a fortune in the nickel boom through Ian's expert advice, both blithely ignoring the insider trading laws, and when the Farrell Corporation had been formed, Ian had invested, becoming a major shareholder. The only fly in the ointment appeared to be Phil.
Spud had voiced his worries only several months previously, after Phil had arrived at a board meeting suspiciously high.
'Isn't he a bit old to be popping pills?' he'd said deri-sively. 'I thought that sort of stuff was for kids.'
Ian had recognised the direct reference to his own use of amphetamines and had tried to make light of it. 'I wouldn't worry, Spud. He'll grow out of it. I did.'
Spud had considered the response far too blasé. 'Well, if you want an addict for a partner, that's your business,' he'd said, 'but you keep him on the straight and narrow when he's anywhere near me. We don't tolerate junkies on the board of the Farrell Corporation.'
'Sure, Spud. Don't worry. Phil's fine.'
Phil wasn't fine, and there was every cause for worry. Phil had developed a heavy cocaine habit. But Ian didn't dare tell Spud that.
Ian Pemberton had been in a quandary for the past several months. He felt sorry for Phil Cowan. Phil was a man with a brilliant mind – he'd topped his course at Harvard and had been the power behind the throne in the creation of Excalibur Holdings – but he was ruining his life. Ian didn't know what to do. He couldn't afford to risk any damage to his relationship with Spud and the Farrell Corporation. He'd warned Phil to keep himself clean when he was around Spud, and Phil had seemed to to
e the line for a while. Yet here they were, just the three of them, and Phil was as high as a kite.
'How did the lunch with Howard go?' he asked, hoping that Spud hadn't noticed Phil's dilated pupils and the telltale signs, which he himself recognised only too well.
'Excellent – had him eating out of my hand. Literally. Champagne, oysters, lobster, cognac – he loves the good life, that one.'
Phil brayed a laugh that was unnecessarily loud. Having downed his bourbon in one swift gulp, he held his empty glass out to Marge, who was about to leave with the coffee tray.
'Hey, Marge, honey, any chance of a second? That one didn't touch the sides.'
Marge glanced at her boss. Ian watched anxiously, waiting for Spud to blow a fuse. The brassy laugh, the hyped-up behaviour, they were dead giveaways.
Spud had noticed the signs all right, but he decided to wait for Phil to hang himself. He gave Marge a curt nod.
'Good on you, sweetheart,' the American said amiably as she crossed to the bar with his glass. 'You're a national treasure, that's what you are.'
Just one step further, you slimy piece of shit, and I'll throw you right out on your junkie arse.
'Thanks, Marge,' Spud said when she'd prepared the drink and was about to leave.
For the next ten minutes, Phil appeared to be on his best behaviour. He didn't say a word while Spud and Ian discussed the two locations Howard Stonehaven had suggested as possible sites for Farrell Towers. Instead, he gazed across the boardroom table through the windows that looked out over the city waters. Something had caught his attention. A small sailing boat with a lone man at the helm was battling against a stiff sea breeze, tacking back and forth, gaining just a little distance each time, inexorably making its way downriver. Phil found the sight mesmerising. The lone yachtsman's fight against the elements was noble, profound. It was an allegory for life. It symbolised man's struggle through the winds and tides of his existence.
'So what do you think, Phil?' Spud stood and leaned across the table, barking the query right into Phil's face. He wanted to punch the man's lights out. The vacant stare had annoyed him even more than the hyped-up performance.
'Eh?' Phil was jolted back to the real world. He was expected to reply. But what had they been talking about? He hadn't heard a word.
'Farrell Towers . . .' Spud pushed back his chair and started pacing the boardroom, as he often did when expounding upon a theory or revving up his colleagues. 'Farrell Towers will one day become the symbol of the Farrell Corporation. It will also house the headquarters of Excalibur Holdings. I'd say it's a pretty important project for us all, wouldn't you?'
'Yeah . . . sure . ..'
'So what do you think about the sites we've discussed?' He'd circled the table now and was beside Phil's chair. 'We'd like your input, wouldn't we, Pembo?' His smile was dangerous and he didn't look at Ian. His eyes, glinting ominously, were focused on Phil. Ian made no reply, but cringed, waiting for the inevitable.
'Come on, Phil, old buddy boy, whiz kid, genius,' Spud said with fake heartiness. 'Let's hear from you, what are your views?'
Phil appeared to register neither the danger in the smile nor the glint in the eyes.
'God Almighty, Spud, you don't need my input.' He laughed. 'Christ, man, you're the whiz kid. You're the genius.' He'd forgotten the question – what the hell had they been talking about? He'd found it boring. So what? Who cared? Spud had it all figured out. 'I mean, look at you, man! Spud Farrell, youngest corporate boss in the country. Hell, youngest corporate boss in the whole god-damned world. You got it made, buddy, you don't need my input.'
'You're dead bloody right I don't.' Spud exploded. He grabbed Phil by the lapels of his jacket and hoisted him to his feet, the chair toppling over on its side. 'Get out of here, you useless piece of junkie shit.' He hauled the American several paces from the table and swung him with all his might at the closed wooden door.
Phil staggered forward, losing his balance. He crashed into the door and ended up on the floor, bewildered. What had gone wrong? What had he done? He climbed to his feet.
Spud squared up to him in a fighting stance, fists clenched. He was a lot shorter than the American but barrel-chested and pugnacious. Phil wouldn't have stood a chance if he'd dared to take him on.
Phil looked at Ian. What's happening, his eyes asked. What's this all about? But Ian wasn't saying a thing.
'Go on, you useless bastard,' Spud snarled. 'Piss off before I beat the crap out of you.'
Phil fumbled for the door handle. Whatever the hell was going on, whatever the hell was bugging Spud, he was far better off out of here, he decided. He left as quickly as he could.
Spud closed the door calmly, his anger abated. 'You've got to get rid of him, Pembo,' he said. 'You've got to get rid of the prick – he's no use to you.'
Ian picked up the chair that had toppled over, wishing that the whole situation would simply go away. Of course he wanted to get rid of Phil – Phil was even more of a wild card than Spud realised. But the man was his partner. They'd built their business up together from absolutely nothing. He owed Phil Cowan.
Spud was studying him shrewdly; he could read Ian's mind. Of course Pembo wanted to get shot of Phil Cowan, he just didn't have the guts. Poor old Pembo, that was always his problem.
'You don't owe him a cent, mate,' he said. 'Do whatever you have to do. Phase him out, buy him up, pay him off – doesn't matter how you go about it, but get rid of him, Pembo. He'll bring you down if you don't, I'm warning you.'
Ian didn't take any immediate action. He didn't know how to. Spud had made it sound easy, but it wasn't. Instead, he advised Phil Cowan to sever all relations with the Farrell Corporation. Phil happily obliged. He resigned from the board and brokered his personal shares over to his partner for cash – he needed the ready money anyway. Ian left it at that for the moment. At least it kept Phil away from Spud.
Then something occurred that put the problem of Phil Cowan right out of his mind. It happened on a Sunday, during the family roast dinner at the house in Peppermint Grove.
The weekly roast had become mandatory, Cynthia gathering together her son, his wife and their children the way all good families did. To everyone's surprise, not least her own, she'd embraced grandparenthood. She adored the twins, and when she took little Gordy and Fleur to play on the grassy riverside banks of Peppermint Grove, she delighted in telling people, 'No, I'm not the mother, I'm the grandmother', knowing that it seemed barely believable.
Gordon was seated at the end of the table, waiting to carve the leg of lamb, the twins perched on the edge of their seats either side of him. Gordy and Fleur were nearly four years old now and no longer needed high chairs. Ian had just finished pouring the shiraz when Cynthia arrived with a platter of vegetables, closely followed by Arlene with a bowl of peas and the gravy boat, which she placed beside Gordon. Gordon was particularly fond of gravy.
'Arlene made the gravy today,' Cynthia announced, seating herself at the other end of the table, 'with rosemary and red wine, it's absolutely delicious.'
Cynthia always went out of her way to praise Arlene, whom she considered the perfect daughter-in-law. Ian couldn't have found a better wife if she'd handpicked one for him herself, she thought.
'Uh-uh,' Gordon said, 'naughty.'
A little hand had crept out to grab a fistful of peas, and Gordon rapped his grandson over the knuckles with his bread knife. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to discipline. Gordon believed in discipline. For boys, anyway. Particularly feisty little boys like Gordy.
Gordon was inordinately fond of his grandson, and he was pleased beyond measure, although he never let on, that Ian had named the child after him. The idea had actually been Arlene's, but she allowed her father-in-law to believe it had been his son's. She considered it wise to keep the old man indebted to Ian and aware of his obligations to the next generation.
