Malcolm Torrent spoke without looking away from the screen he was squinting at as Maserov sat down. ‘Sorry, Maserov, that call took a bit longer than I expected.’
‘Oh, no problem at all.’
‘No,’ interrupted the older man, ‘I mean I no longer have time for you to sit down. What else did you want to talk to me about, other than your private investigator?’
Maserov stood up. ‘Well, sir, I think these cases and the matter generally, and the culture surrounding it . . . I think we’d benefit from a woman’s perspective.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘There’s someone, someone that you already employ, that I’d like to have working on this; a woman.’
‘We don’t have any women working here, do we?’
‘Um, in Human Resources you do.’
‘Oh yes, there are women there. What do you want the woman to do?’
‘A couple of things; it might happen that there could be some kind of face-to-face negotiation, not just between lawyers but with the plaintiffs there. We wouldn’t seek that but it might be a condition precedent to settling, letting the women air their grievances in a secure environment. And having a woman there as part of our team could make the difference. A softer presence, seeming perhaps almost like an ally, expressing understanding, something along those lines.’
‘So, if the women or their lawyers want a meeting, yes, of course, you can take one of the girls from HR. Not likely to happen though, is it?’
‘It might and we need to be ready, so I’d like to have the female HR representative fully briefed and up to speed on each of the cases. Additionally, and now I’m thinking longer term, even if we can get rid of these particular cases —’
‘Even if?’
‘When, when we’ve dealt with these cases, after we’ve dealt with them, we need to address the culture of the corporation to prevent these things from happening again.’
‘Well, boys will be boys, but you can draft a memo telling them to keep their hands in their pockets, not that they will, and I’ll be happy to sign it. That it?’
‘Not quite,’ Maserov continued. ‘In the event that anything remotely like this surfaces and reaches the market, the media, the shareholders, even the public, we want to be on the front foot with this.’
‘Meaning?’
‘We want to have a well-worded, carefully drafted anti-sexual harassment and anti-discrimination policy ready to put to everyone and anyone we need to show it to.’
‘Do we have to enforce it?’
‘It would definitely help if we can show that we took steps to enforce it.’
‘Okay, make it look like we enforce it. What do you want exactly?’
‘The same woman from HR whom I brief on these current cases can help me draft the policy and even, if necessary, be the public spokesperson for the company on these issues.’
‘That’s smart thinking, Maserov. Well done. Okay, get the head of HR, Aileen van der Westhuizen, to help you with all of this.’
‘No, she isn’t the one I have in mind.’
‘Who’ve you got in mind?’
‘Jessica Annand.’
‘Which one is she?’
‘She’s got a background in psychology, very well-spoken —’
‘Is she the um . . . the brown one, tall, big attitude in her . . . chest?’
‘I wouldn’t say she’s tall.’
‘Brown?’
‘She’s Indian.’
‘Oh yeah, I know the one. She’s a looker, alright.’
‘She’d make a very good human face for the company should it ever come to it.’
‘You’re right.’ Malcolm Torrent was thinking. ‘But I don’t want to put Aileen’s nose out of joint. After all, she’s the Indian girl’s boss.’
‘Yes, but my thinking was that Aileen needs all her time to run the department and this is going to need the relevant HR person to put aside everything else.’
‘Really?’
‘I think so.’
‘Maserov, this whole MeToo thing; it’s big, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not going to go away.’
‘No, the change it’s ushering in could well be profound. Torrent Industries needs to be on top of it, especially because it’s a construction company. The potential for public relations disasters in a male-oriented industry is enormous, a minefield, really. You need to be ahead of the curve. Torrent Industries should become the poster child for correct practice in this area.’
‘You really think it’s that important?’
‘I do, Mr Torrent. The world is changing.’
Malcolm Torrent sat back in his chair and glanced out of his floor-to-ceiling window as though checking whether he could see the world changing. His view was partially obscured by cranes with his company’s logo on it.
‘Well, Maserov, you’re a younger man, younger than me and younger than Hamilton. I’m paying you to tell me what’s up ahead.’
‘You are, sir.’
‘But tell me, Maserov, do you think there’ll be a backlash against all of this MeToo stuff?’
‘There probably will be,’ said Maserov.
‘Couldn’t we be ahead of the curve on that?’
‘On the backlash?’
‘Yes,’ said Malcolm Torrent, confirming Maserov’s understanding.
‘No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Leaving aside the legal implications, because of course judges and juries walk into court with unstated preconceptions about different corporate entities before any evidence has been led, and leaving aside any moral implications, there are of course share price implications from these sorts of things.’
‘Yes, of course, you’re right, Maserov. And you think the Indian girl should be the human face of our response to this, should we need one?’
‘Should we need one, yes.’
‘Hmm, just between you and me and the lamppost, Maserov, Aileen, her boss in HR, she can be a pain in the arse when she gets her nose out of joint. You know what I mean; that classic female passive aggression? Can be a real bitch at times. She can’t get to me directly, of course, but she pisses off my secretary.’
‘I do, Mr Torrent, entirely. But then there’s the anti-discrimination aspect of all of this. You could tell Aileen van der Westhuizen that for public relations reasons it would be better for the firm to have her lieutenant in the role, not to mention the benefit arising from the business the company does directly with India.’
‘To hell with it, Maserov, you’re right! Let’s go with the Indian girl. If Aileen gets her rag we’ll tell her she’s simply not an Indian.’
‘Oh and I’d like to draft a memo from you, if I may, that makes it clear to anyone in any department that this work is Jessica Annand’s priority until you say otherwise.’
‘Jessica, that’s the Indian girl?’ Malcolm Torrent said, picking up his phone to begin talking to Joan Henshaw about something else entirely.
‘Yes.’
‘Do it, I’ll sign it.’
III
Having, together with Eleanor, fed, bathed, read stories to and kissed goodnight both Beanie and Jacob, Maserov was on his hands and knees in the kitchen for a second go at what seemed like a newly created rice paddy on the floor, when Eleanor told him not to bother about it. She would finish the cleaning.
‘Oh, that’s okay, I’m already down here,’ he said, but Eleanor seemed even keener than she usually was that he leave.
‘My mother’s coming,’ Eleanor said in a tone that suggested it was an explanation for wanting him to leave sooner than usual.
‘Are you preferring your mother’s floor cleaning techniques to mine?’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘Well?’
‘I thought you’d prefer . . . not to see her.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought it might make you uncomfortable. You haven’t seen her in a while.’
‘I haven’t seen her in a while because you kicked me out.’
‘Let’s not start that again.’
‘You always say that, as though my drawing your attention to what you’ve done to me and indirectly to the boys is somehow the wrong that’s been committed. You know what? I don’t mind seeing your mother. It’s you who doesn’t want me to see your mother. You don’t want me to see her because she always liked me and she wouldn’t agree with what you’ve done. If she comes and has even a short chat with me, sees me cleaning the house with you, she’s going to give you a hard time in the days to come. She’s going to redouble her efforts to get you to reconsider this separation and, you figure, if I’m not here and she doesn’t see me, it will make your life just that little bit easier.’
‘If you want to see my mother, fine. Why don’t you call her and ask her out on a date?’
‘A date, where did that come from?’
‘Stephen, my mother’s coming to babysit. I’m going out and I need to get ready.’
‘Oh,’ said Maserov. All the possibilities contained in her last statement seemed to dance before him, above the former rice paddies and over the kitchen table where they had once eaten as a family every day.
‘Are you going out with Marta, the woman who’s taken the teaching of Geography to a new low?’
‘What is it with you and Marta?’
‘She’s always hated me. Is that why you’re going out with her?’ Maserov was looking for confirmation that Eleanor’s evening companion was indeed Marta with an urgency that bulldozed subtlety beyond the confines of a conversation whose agreed-upon subject was up for grabs.
‘It might be Marta. What does it matter? It shouldn’t matter who it is.’
Maserov wished for a service along the lines of Google Translate only instead of translating from foreign languages it would take something his wife had said and instantly tell him what it really meant. Forget the human genome project, where was the algorithm for determining what his wife meant?
‘You want me to go before the kitchen is all done?’
‘If you don’t mind, yes.’
‘I think I mind.’
‘One day you won’t.’
‘Can I leave then?’
‘Stephen, I need a shower.’
This was a bad development. It was unlikely Eleanor needed a shower to see Marta the geographer, although Marta probably had her standards. It was possible that the shower wasn’t for Marta per se but was just the ablution Eleanor needed to wash her children off her before going out, just to be comfortable. It was also possible she wanted to be clean for someone who wasn’t Marta, wasn’t even a woman. She might want to be clean to go out with a man.
Maserov sat in his car discreetly parked across the street from the home he was trying to pay off, listening to a BBC podcast called In Our Time in which Melvyn Bragg took it in turns with various aspects of himself to berate mild-mannered, learned academics who had the audacity to say something he wasn’t expecting. As comforting as it was, nothing could distract him from the anxiety in his stomach as he waited to see who it was that was coming to the house. It was dark but the street light illuminated his mother-in-law’s arrival. He wanted to tell her that Jessica Annand had praised the aftershave she had got for him with her pharmacy bonus points. Maybe his mother-in-law could pass news of Jessica’s existence on to Eleanor and that would make his wife think twice about finding some other man. Some other man. It was unthinkable. Yet, there he was. Maserov watched in the half-light as some other man came to his house and left again soon after with his wife.
IV
‘So your wife’s dating the PE teacher,’ said Betga. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’
‘I don’t know that it’s the PE teacher. It could be the drama teacher.’
They were sitting in the front bar of the Grosvenor Hotel. Maserov had not known what to do with the information that his wife seemed to have a date with another man so he had called Betga.
‘I think it’s worse if it’s the drama teacher. You’d better hope it’s the PE teacher.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if it’s the PE teacher it’s almost understandable. You have the body of a lawyer or even an accountant. The PE teacher is, I imagine, someone with a body that’s qualitatively different. The drama teacher, on the other hand, no matter his body shape, would pride himself on being well-spoken and somewhat cultured, if not steeped, in the written word. These ought to be your strong suits. If she’s sleeping with the PE teacher it’s just variety. If she’s sleeping with the drama teacher, you’re being replaced.’
‘I don’t know that she’s sleeping with anyone,’ said Maserov to Betga and to himself.
‘Maybe not,’ said Betga. ‘Not yet, but you’ll know.’
‘How will I know?’
‘There’s always a tell, even when they don’t want you to know. And she’ll want you to know.’
‘What kind of tell?’
‘I don’t know exactly. She might be less interested in sex.’
‘We’re separated. How can I know?’
‘So you’re not sleeping together, ever, not at all?’
‘Betga, we’re separated, of course we’re not having sex with each other.’
‘Oh, okay, I thought that was marriage. Separation, I imagined, might spice things up. You could maybe cheat on each other with each other. Too late to suggest that now, I suppose. Well, then she might spend more than usual on clothes, start exercising more or she might tell you she’s fucking the PE teacher.’
‘You’re a lot of help. I don’t know why I expected you to have any insight into this.’
‘Or . . .’ said Betga as though he’d just recalled something brilliant. ‘She might show you unusual kindness. You’d better pray she doesn’t show you unusual kindness. I’ll see what I can find out from Carla. They’re seeing each other a bit, talking on the phone.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She told me. I’ve been going over there ever since you got her to confirm that I’m Marietta’s father.’
‘How’s that going?’
‘Fatherhood is great but the circumstances are, as you’d imagine, a little uncomfortable. Carla is still pissed off with me for being unfaithful and the sad policeman is better at changing Marietta than I am. He’s not lording it over me exactly but it hurts to be out-changed by a cop, especially a sad elderly one. He’s devilishly clever, using that sad maladroit elderly thing to his advantage. It’s a killer. I’m currently being outdone by pathos.’
‘With Marietta?’
‘No, with Carla. Marietta presents her own challenges. She doesn’t know me and it’s hard to bond with her in an hour or two in the living room with Carla watching me like a hawk and occasionally the sad cop too.’
‘Incidentally, I’ve got something for you.’ Betga pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket of his jacket, unfolded it and handed it to Maserov. It was a photocopy of a Notice of Discontinuance in the name of Jane Ode, signifying that the fictional character he had created had ended her litigation for sexual harassment against Torrent Industries.
‘What am I meant to do with this?’ asked Maserov, looking at it.
‘You take it to Malcolm Torrent, show it to him from a distance and with your finger over my name and start my retainer. Tell him it’s best for him not to ask any questions and that you don’t know how I did this.’
‘What if he now wants you to get rid of all the pending cases against Torrent Industries without paying anything to the plaintiffs?’
‘Tell him I told you that I checked the other claims and that it’s my considered opinion this is the only plaintiff whose case can be settled without an offer.’
‘What if he reads the Notice of Discontinuance and sees your name as the lawyer acting for her?’
‘He won’t. He’s a big-picture man, remember, and you’ll be holding your thumb over my name. You want it just close enough for him to read the heading, “Notice of Discontinuance”. Then be sure to take the document with you.’
V
It was night and Jessica was alone in her apartment, half-undressed and lying on her bed, her head propped up on a small pile of pillows that she would otherwise have deemed superfluous. She took a sip from her wine glass and then placed it down on the book her book club was forcing her to read. The novel was about a woman who eventually found love on a small boat that cruised the canals of Paris in search of bookshops only to dock, somehow, in Tuscany. It managed to have ‘bookshop’, ‘Paris’, ‘Tuscany’ and ‘love’ in the title. The book was written by a trusted and experienced author, someone who had written this kind of book many times before and could be relied upon to do it again. But this wasn’t what she was going to read, not tonight.
Maserov had copied and given her all of the affidavits in support of each of the four women alleging sexual harassment at Torrent Industries. Finally, she was going to see what was done, or was alleged to have been done, and who it was that the women alleged had done it. She was hoping to see Frank Cardigan’s name on the pages.
Each of the four women were support staff. With her laptop beside her on the bed, Jessica was able to log into the Torrent Industries HR database remotely and see a photo of each of the women within minutes. None of them worked there anymore. Jessica wondered if they had found work anywhere else. Was it any different anywhere else?
Jessica looked at a photo of the first plaintiff in the pile, a Ms Pauline Hart, twenty-six years old with mousey-brown hair and a diploma in secretarial studies and office management from McPhersons Secretarial College. She had seen Pauline, she recognised her from the photo, but couldn’t remember ever having spoken to her. Jessica wanted to get a better sense of Pauline before reading her affidavit but there wasn’t much about her in her file. She lived or had lived in Croydon, took the Lilydale line to Flinders Street. She had gone to Croydon Primary School and then to Lilydale High School, where she left at seventeen before undertaking a twelve-month diploma course that Jessica estimated would have cost somewhere around $18 000. She learned to type up to ninety-five words per minute before there was even slight diminution in her accuracy. She had worked at Torrent Industries since McPhersons Secretarial College had managed to get her placed there. When asked if she had any dependents, Pauline had listed her cat. She lived at home with her mother and certain minimal, never-articulated hopes that dared to surface only at night and on public holidays in the bedroom she had slept in all her life and she was not even infinitesimally responsible for what happened to her at the hands of an older, wealthier, more powerful man at the headquarters of Torrent Industries.
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