To Know My Crime

by Fiona Capp

  ‘I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘You were lost in your thoughts. Or perhaps,’ he teases, ‘this parade of handsome young men.’

  ‘I like my men . . .’ She pauses, then smiles. ‘To be experienced.’ She runs her eyes over him. ‘Thank God you haven’t rolled up your pants.’

  ‘Not my style.’ He bends to kiss her head. ‘Stone’s almost here. We’d better get going.’

  As the cruiser pulls up at the jetty, it dwarfs everything nearby. Angela has never seen a private boat like it. When a man lowers a gangplank, Richard pushes her up to the lower level and then around to a spacious deck at the stern. From the level above a large figure looms at the railing.

  ‘Oi, Dick, good to see you!’

  Richard winces, the boat dips slightly and his stomach sinks with it. Already he can tell he’s made a mistake. Trying to impress Angela with his powerful friends – although friend is hardly the word. And he doesn’t like the way Stone looks so pleased with himself. More than pleased, almost menacing. Like a man who holds all the cards. Richard can’t believe he didn’t see it before. Was it Stone all along? It’s the kind of thing Stone would do. Try to have it both ways. Shovel out money with one hand, and take it back with the other. You don’t get as rich as fast as he has without double-dealing along the way.

  The big man beams at them, pouches of skin hanging from his face and neck. ‘Be right down. Go in. Make yourselves comfortable.’

  The saloon is all wood panelling and brass trimmings, a curved bar at the far end. Everything is polished to a high gleam. As Stone treads the stairs outside, the bottles behind the bar start to shimmy. He lurches into the saloon and stops, staring at Angela, eyes veering wildly over her body and back to her face, as if he can’t reconcile the two. He takes her hand and booms hello, welcomes her in a slow, deliberate voice.

  ‘For God’s sake, man,’ Richard breaks in. ‘She’s not deaf. Or an imbecile. In fact, she’s a damn sight smarter than you. Angela’s a psychoanalyst. Probably read your head by now. No wonder she’s looking shocked.’

  Stone steps back, abashed, before muttering, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  Angela offers up a gracious smile. ‘Not at all. Pleased to meet you.’

  As if used to being berated for his boorishness, Stone quickly recovers himself. He puts an arm around Richard’s shoulder. ‘Dick here can’t help himself. Born to rule.’

  Morrow smiles coldly. ‘It’s Richard, Ralph. Like the kings of England.’

  Angela looks from one to the other, trying to fathom what’s going on. This is more than just blokey sparring. Stone’s fleshy face is impossible to read, but Richard, she can tell, is bristling. She hasn’t seen him like this before.

  Hoping to lighten the mood, she says, ‘You like the polo, Ralph?’

  The big man guffaws. ‘Boring as bat shit. Bunch of toffs playing croquet on horseback. You can’t even lay a bet. I go to do business. Talk to investors for this eco-resort I’m building there.’

  ‘In the national park?’

  ‘Yep, that’s right. Thought everyone knew about it. Been protesting their hearts out down this way. Your man signed off on it a few months ago.’ Stone smirks at Morrow.

  Richard stiffens and is about to speak when Stone, suddenly distracted, excuses himself. Says he has to have a word with the captain. ‘Help yourself to the bar. Club sandwiches in the fridge.’

  As soon as Stone is out of earshot, Richard curses under his breath. He crouches in front of her, his lips pressed tightly together. ‘I’m sorry you had to put up with that.’

  Angela smiles and shrugs. ‘It was nothing. The chair does that to people. They don’t know how to act.’ She touches his hand. ‘But what’s going on between you two?’

  Richard stands up abruptly, as if, Angela can’t help thinking, he doesn’t want to meet her eye. He stares out the window.

  Angela follows his gaze. They are passing the mock-Tudor pub on the foreshore that she and Matthew used to go to occasionally. And what’s left of the beach in front of it, which has been fortified with sandbags and rocks.

  ‘You have to be blunt with a man like Stone,’ Richard says eventually. ‘It’s the only language he understands.’

  Angela is conscious of how little she knows of his world and the way he works. What’s this development Stone mentioned? Richard has shielded her from this side of his life, almost as if the facts of it are distasteful to him, as if his professional self is someone he would rather she didn’t meet. Perhaps that’s why he’s edgy. This will be the first public event they attend as a couple and this public self will be on display. Perhaps he’s worried what she will think, and worried about how people will react to her, which is why he pounced on Stone like he did.

  ‘Richard.’ Angela smiles up at him. ‘Just remember I can look after myself.’

  Outside, the houses on the waterfront have disappeared, replaced by the naked cliffs and bushes and trees of the national park that stretches to the end of the peninsula. They move out to the rear deck for a better view. Helicopters buzz in the blue sky above them, heading to and from a spot just around the next headland. Angela has never seen so many of them swarming in one place.

  A collection of limestone and red-brick buildings glides into view: the old quarantine station. And next to it, a rectangular grassy clearing the size of a football field almost completely surrounded by tents and marquees of blue and white with fluttering flags on top. From a distance it has the look of a medieval jousting arena. There is even a tiered platform where the king and queen could sit. The boat arcs smoothly towards the pier where a number of equally large cruisers are already anchored.

  Once they are off the boat, they take leave of Stone. At the entrance to the event, their importance is ascertained and they are given complimentary glasses of champagne. They pass tents selling sponsorship merchandise, umbrellas and sunshades, and even ‘Gumboots of Distinction’, which bear two royal seals and are worn, according to the horsey-looking woman who waylays them, by the Queen and Prince Charles.

  Richard and Angela make admiring noises and move on, suppressing smiles. The pavilion they are heading for is on the far side of the ground, which gives them time to watch the polo as they go. Nobody else seems to be taking much interest in the men, and one woman, Angela notices, pounding by on their sleek-flanked horses. She is struck by their speed and the sudden turns of direction, and wonders at the skill that must be required to avoid collision. They move in a tight, swirling constellation, looming over the small object of their pursuit like gods toying with something mortal, something almost beneath their attention. And yet they thunder in on it, again and again. Or is it each other they are drawn to, the thrill of the near miss? Stone wasn’t doing it justice when he called it croquet on horseback.

  Over the public address system, someone is calling the game, trying to whip up audience enthusiasm after a goal has been scored. And all the wives and girlfriends go wild on the sidelines!

  Angela laughs out loud. Most people have their backs to the game, caught up in drinking and talking, or scrutinising, with feigned indifference, the passing fashions. Some take photos of themselves and their friends, the polo a mere backdrop.

  Richard squeezes her shoulder, lowers his head to her ear. ‘I did warn you.’

  The path around the ground takes them past the general admission area with its simple marquee bar, a booth selling takeaway food and a few umbrellas sheltering plastic tables and chairs dotted among the moonahs. Angela is struck by how young most of the crowd are and how much trouble they have gone to with their attire to appear as if they’ve gone to no trouble at all. Everyone adhering to some unspoken code of ‘smart casual’ that identifies them as in the know.

  They have almost left the general admission area when they pass what can only be a hens’ party, a raucous group of young women – one of whom is wearing a pink veil – undaunted by the studied efforts of those nearby to pretend that they don’t exist. A plum
p young woman in a tight strapless red dress leaps out of her seat. ‘It’s that politician, Richard Morrow! I saw him first.’ She is waving a sheet of paper which she thrusts under Richard’s nose and pleads for his autograph. When he has obliged, she squeals, ‘I’m finished! I’ve won!’

  Richard waves politely as they move on.

  Angela smiles. ‘You’ve made someone happy.’

  By the time they reach the restricted pavilions, Angela has finished her champagne and is pleasantly light-headed. The closer they get to the top pavilion, which – so Richard tells her – costs thousands of dollars a ticket for entry, the more buffed and beautiful the people become. Every second woman looks like a model and the men, equally handsome, all seem to be wearing aviator glasses. Angela has never seen so much bronzed flesh, so many dazzling white teeth.

  Richard leads the way past tiered viewing platforms and terracotta pots of red and pink geraniums to the entrance to the premium pavilion. No plastic furniture here. People lounge on comfortable couches and in soft-looking armchairs while waiters hover with drinks and plates of smoked salmon, cured meats and artisanal crackers.

  A young man guarding the entrance stops Richard and demands identification. Before he can reply, a woman with spun-gold hair that doesn’t move in the breeze bustles forward, apologises profusely and ushers Richard in. ‘These security types haven’t a clue,’ she says.

  When it becomes apparent that the woman has failed to register Angela’s presence, Richard introduces her. ‘This is my partner, Angela Coleridge. Angela, this is Caroline, my personal assistant.’

  For a split second, the woman is stumped, almost looks like she’s about to protest that it cannot be. Then she quickly recovers herself and beams as she bends to take Angela’s hand and effusively welcomes her before leading them through the crowd of suave young men and women with long blonde hair and towering brown legs. They pass a man in a kilt talking to a woman wearing a Cleopatra-style headdress, and two men in pale linen suits and boater hats.

  Most people are still standing, sipping champagne, beers and neon-coloured cocktails. Even as the crowd makes way for her chair almost everyone looks studiously away, suddenly engrossed in their conversations or in the now empty playing field or the cloudless sky. A few direct their gaze at Richard, some nodding hello.

  Angela parks herself at the back of the pavilion where she has a good view of the whole gathering while Richard goes for a quick word with the premier, who has just arrived. She is halfway through her second glass of champagne when a bored-looking Ralph Stone catches her eye and blithely barges through the throng towards her.

  He sweeps his glass at the gathering. ‘The beautiful people.’

  ‘Not your crowd?’

  Stone snorts. ‘Don’t have a crowd.’

  ‘No one you trust?’

  ‘Don’t trust anyone.’

  ‘Is that advice?’

  Stone chews his cheek and says nothing.

  Angela studies him. ‘No crowd, no one you can trust. Sounds rather lonely to me.’

  He sinks into an armchair next to her. ‘It simplifies things. You might want to be more careful about who you trust.’

  ‘So you are giving me advice.’

  An announcement comes over the public address system, advising that it is time to stomp on the divots. People pour out from the other pavilions and into the middle of the ground and mill around in search of clumps of dirt to flatten, wine glasses still clutched in their hands. A few wander out from the top pavilion, but the general consensus seems to be that stomping on the divots is an amusement for those with nothing better to do.

  Angela watches a waiter whose tray of champagne empties the moment he begins to circulate, and another with canapes who is constantly being lassoed by grasping hands. The laughter grows louder. Napkins litter the ground like crushed white roses amid fallen food and glasses knocked over or dropped. When a woman in high heels steps on a pastry, she looks down in disgust and kicks it away with one elegantly shod foot, sending it flying through the air. As it disappears into the crowd passing outside, the woman and her friend turn quickly away, bent over and braying loudly as if they’ve never seen anything funnier. A waitress wearing rubber gloves has started moving among them collecting the rubbish. She is watched by a young man with a square jaw and a smirk on his face who drops his empty bottle of European beer right in front of her just for the entertainment of seeing her bend over to pick it up.

  As the noise level spirals, Angela withdraws into silence, sinks deeper into her chair. For a while there, she was almost enjoying herself, buoyed by the fizz of champagne, happy to observe the human comedy unfolding around her. But the more she sees of these air-brushed faces and the casually dropped litter, the more sober she feels, the more aware that all this glamour and perfection is an expensive disguise. This is not the human comedy in all its variety. In fact, there is very little variety at all. These are people with serious money and influence, or those who aspire to it. People who will one day, if they aren’t already, run the country. Make decisions in her name. It is a depressing thought.

  As if sensing her mood, Stone leans towards her with a conspiratorial air. ‘What do you make of this lot? In your professional opinion.’

  ‘You have time for my profession?’

  ‘In your case, I’ll make an exception. What’s the word for a bunch of narcissists?’ He is watching a group of young women with blank brows and inflated lips who are trying to catch the eye of an official photographer wandering the tent.

  ‘A pond, perhaps? You know, the myth.’

  Stone guffaws and pounds the table in front of him. ‘A puddle!’

  They both break up. People peer over their shoulders to see what the fuss is. Angela is still laughing when she notices Richard approaching from across the pavilion, a look of alarm on his face.

  He apologises profusely for leaving her and glances darkly at Stone. ‘You’ll have to excuse us.’

  The billionaire pushes himself up with a grunt. ‘She’s more than you deserve, Morrow.’

  Richard turns his back, as if he hasn’t heard, and wheels Angela away. They head towards a group gathered around the premier. ‘You and Stone seemed to be having a fine time together.’

  ‘Richard,’ Angela says, ‘can we stop a moment?’

  They come to a standstill. Angela says quietly, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have left you alone like that. I’m sorry. The premier wants to meet you and then we can go.’

  A head taller than those around him, the premier spies them and waves them over. He bends towards her, offering a large and – she can tell just from the look of it – soft hand. ‘Delighted to meet you, Angela. I hope you realise what a spring you’ve put in Morrow’s step.’

  He stops for a beat and his smile congeals. She knows what he’s thinking. He’s kicking himself about the metaphor, worried it might cause offence. He quickly pulls up a seat so they can be eye to eye. As they talk, Angela is vaguely aware of Richard patting her shoulder and saying he’ll be back.

  ‘I know someone,’ the premier confides, ‘who was your patient. Said you did wonders for her. And Morrow tells me he’s never met anyone who understands him as well as you do.’

  An advisor approaches and whispers something in the premier’s ear. He stands, smiling. ‘If that’s not the definition of love . . .’ He leaves the sentence hanging and shakes her hand once again before striding away into the crowd.

  The definition of love. Angela wishes she knew what it was. She searches for Richard and spots him near the entrance with Stone who is wearing an expression as hard as his name. Richard, too, is scowling. They are so intent on their conversation that neither of them notices her approaching. She is almost upon them when she hears Stone muttering, ‘If you’re so high and mighty, why did you take it? What makes you think your shit doesn’t stink?’ He looks up and sees her. His eyebrows flicker slightly, as if to say, I warned you. When Richard swings around,
there is panic in his eyes.

  The horses and riders are back on the ground for the final game, a blur of movement in the background, churning up what’s left of the grass. As she takes in the swirl of horses and gaudy pavilions and revelling people, Angela is seized by an urgent need to get out. She jerks her chair around and pushes so hard on the wheels that bolts of pain shoot through her shoulders and neck. Although the operation restored her strength, there will always be a degree of pain, especially at tense moments like this. Head lowered, she forces herself so violently over the bumps in the path that she almost runs down a man who leaps out of her way in mock horror, as if she were an oncoming car.

  ‘You got a licence to drive that thing?’ she hears him yell as she passes, but she doesn’t bother looking up. She’s beyond caring what anyone thinks.

  Beside her, Richard has been buttonholed by a society type whose bright red nails are firmly gripping his arm. These are his people. This is his world. Never has so much beauty looked so bleak. How could she have imagined it was ever going to work? She moves out through the exit and sits waiting for him in the carpark, a sob rising in her throat. There are hurried footsteps behind her. It is Richard and he is apologising all over again.

  ‘My God, I thought I’d never get away from that woman.’

  Angela stares past him. ‘Should I call a taxi?’

  ‘No need. The premier has offered his chauffeur.’

  Richard ushers her towards a government car and helps her in. They sit in silence as the bush rolls by, carved into solid, undulating waves by the ocean winds. The road dips and curves until they are out of the national park and onto the highway. Five minutes later they are back at the Anchorage.

  ‘I imagine you’ll want to have a lie-down,’ Richard says. ‘You must be exhausted. I shouldn’t have put you through that. I wasn’t thinking straight.’ He promises he will never drag her along to anything like it again and begins pushing her towards the house.

  Angela puts her hand on the wheel. ‘I’d rather sit outside.’ She gestures towards the lawn overlooking the bay and tells him she has texted Ned and that he’s coming down to take her home. He should be here within the next two hours.