A Taxing Affair

by Victoria Gordon

  And I get fair-dinkum cranky when I’m being stuffed around, she wanted to say, but didn’t. She didn’t say a word, in fact, just nodded agreement at the first part of his statement.

  He frowned at her determination, but the frown changed to a wide grin of satisfaction as their starter arrived. ‘Saved by the bell,’ he chuckled, thanking the waitress, who, Vashti couldn’t help noticing, was wondrously appreciative of every morsel of attention Phelan Keene deigned to proffer.

  Style, she found herself admitting. And what’s worse, he does it without even having to think about it. The man’s a born womaniser; he flirts and flatters and manipulates just for the hell of it. So watch yourself!

  Which she did, concentrating on her scallops, while being only too aware that he was concentrating more on her than on the scrumptious-looking Barilla Bay oysters he appeared to so enjoy.

  But it was all too brief a respite. Vashti nibbled at the last tasty morsel and wished she’d claimed to be on a diet or something, so that this would be the end of the meal and she could then plead some excuse to return to work. And then asked herself why, because sooner or later she would have to deal with Phelan Keene and his damned book! Maybe the sooner the better, she thought; at least it’ll be over and done with.

  But it wasn’t. While they waited for their main courses, Phelan showed no sign of wanting to get down to business. He commented on the quality of the food, solicitously enquired whether Vashti wouldn’t reconsider and have wine with her duckling, but gave her no opportunity to force the conversation back on to purely business footings.

  Nor was she as ready as before to force the issue. Now her instincts told her to be totally cautious, to volunteer nothing, expect only the unexpected. I’m being set up, she thought, but I don’t know for what, much less why.

  Thankfully, she was able to devote her full attention to the delicious roast duckling when it arrived, impatiently putting aside a mild feeling of envy when she looked over at the thick rib of beef he was consuming with obvious pleasure.

  I’d feel the same way if he were having the duckling and I the steak, she realised; the issue wasn’t the dish on offer but the fact that Phelan Keene had taken the privilege of ordering for her.

  ‘You needn’t look so envious,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘All that talk about having to work this afternoon, I reckoned a steak this size would have you dozing in your chair by smoko.’

  Vashti nearly choked. What was it with this man? Surely he couldn’t be reading her mind? Then she sobered and glared at him across the table. Observant, that was all. Logical for a writer, she supposed, but unnerving for all that.

  She thought for an instant of asking him if he made a habit of verbalising his observations, then thought better of it; he’d probably only say what she’d been thinking, and she didn’t feel up to any cryptic references to writing or books just for now.

  ‘I’m a bit surprised at you,’ he said after a moment. ‘Either you hide your feminine curiosity rather well, or...’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or I’m losing my touch,’ he admitted bluntly. ‘I would have expected some sort of question by now about my comment at the bank, although I realise you’ve been trying hard to keep our relationship totally businesslike.’

  ‘Should it be anything else?’ she replied calmly. Phelan Keene might need food to keep from being cranky, but Vashti had just discovered how much a good meal improved her whole mental outlook. For the first time that day, she actually felt totally capable of dealing with his attempts to stir her up.

  ‘But OK, I’ll play your little game.’ She shrugged. ‘What did I do at the bank that so got on your wick? Wasn’t I secretive enough while I was punching numbers into that stupid automatic cash machine or something? If I was, it’s hardly anything surprising.

  I hate the damned things with a veritable passion, but, the hours I keep, there aren’t many alternatives.’

  Phelan grinned. ‘The issue wasn’t secrecy — just plain old inconsideration,’ he reflected. ‘Although I suppose you didn’t notice that there were six healthy, hale and hearty human bank clerks standing round that bank twiddling their little thumbs while you were standing out on the street in a line of people talking to a damned machine! It’s worse than just inconsiderate — it’s downright insulting!’

  His voice rose gradually throughout the diatribe, to the point where one or two people at adjacent tables actually looked up. Vashti sat there with her mouth open, absolutely stunned.

  All she could do was look at him, wide-eyed, a fork full of food halfway to her mouth, and — in her mind — gasp like a stranded fish. Phelan Keene, meanwhile, sat glaring at her as if she’d kicked his dog. They sat there for what seemed hours, silently looking at each other.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he finally said, voice thankfully lower now, although without a sign of real remorse. ‘One of my hobby-horses, obviously, and I did warn you that hunger makes me cranky.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that excuse,’ Vashti replied with a meaningful glance at his nearly empty plate. ‘And don’t you dare blame it on the wine, either; that’s Piper’s Brook, and I’m sure you know how good it is, considering you’re paying for it.’

  ‘And will end up taking most of it home with me,’ he snapped crossly. ‘You can see I’ve only had two glasses, and I’m damned if I’ll lay myself open to a drink-driving charge.’

  ‘I should certainly hope not. And don’t change the subject,’ she replied just as snappily, delighted at actually having him on the back foot for a change. ‘Don’t you think it’s just a bit much to invite me to lunch — to coerce me into having lunch with you, not to put too fine a point on it — and then start criticising my banking habits, of all things?’

  ‘I brought it up before lunch, actually,’ he replied without the slightest sign of contrition. ‘And, I might add, without so much as mentioning the fact that if you were going to use a machine that’s available twenty-four hours a day there was hardly the panic involved you tried to portray. You could have got your money any time.’

  ‘I don’t care when you brought it up,’ Vashti hissed. ‘I think you’ve got a nerve bringing it up at all! It is none of your business. None!’

  Vashti was working herself up into a frothing good rage, however artificial, when the waitress arrived to clear away their dinner plates. It was quite obvious that the woman was only too aware of the hostile atmosphere between them, but to Vashti’s astonishment the waitress looked at her as if she were the sole cause of the argument. Phelan Keene got just what Vashti would have expected, a look which clearly took his side entirely in the matter.

  And from the look on Phelan’s face, he and waitress agreed!

  That was enough to make her truly wild. Vashti found herself clenching and unclenching her fists beneath the table, her fingernails biting into her palms. Her breath came in short, sharp huffs, and it seemed as if the entire room were closing in around her, the very air electric with her anger.

  She was conscious, as the waitress turned away, of actually holding her breath, waiting for the woman to get just far enough before she let fly.

  ‘This, I think, is the moment where you’re supposed to throw something at me, grab up your handbag, and stomp out in high dudgeon, whatever that is.’ His voice was low, but with those rich chocolate-brown tones it carried across the table like a shout. Or a challenge.

  ‘In some pulp fiction epics, written by people who shall remain nameless, and present company definitely not excepted.’ Vashti spat out the words, her voice even more controlled than his. ‘But this isn’t fiction, Mr Keene; this is the real world. This is Hobart, Tasmania, and I’m a real person. I’m not so sure about you.’

  Vashti pushed up her glasses, instantly regretted the gesture, but only for an instant, then returned to the attack.

  ‘So how about you throw something and stomp off in high dudgeon? Presuming you can spell it. Try throwing money to pay for this ... this...’ She sputtered, but
not to a stop. ‘Because I’m going to have the biggest, richest dessert on the menu, and I’d like to be able to enjoy it without being hassled about my ... my banking habits!’

  She was half out of her chair now, one lacquered fingernail aimed like a gun between those fathomless grey-green eyes, her own eyes blazing and her words hanging almost visibly above the table.

  Phelan sat immobile, his long, craftsman’s fingers splayed on the table before him. His jaw was clenched, and she could see the muscles flexing, as if he was gnashing his teeth in a fury that matched her own.

  But when he finally spoke, it was in a voice of such soft, reasoned calm that she suddenly became aware of her posture, and quite quickly sat back down.

  ‘You’re right, of course. And I do apologise-honestly.’ He threw open his hands in a gesture that would have been provocatively flamboyant except that his eyes told her the truth. Under her glare, he paused, then continued, and this time his words confirmed it.

  ‘You said earlier you don’t go much on those damnable automatic cash machines,’ he said, steepling his fingers before him on the table. ‘Well, I positively hate the things, although I have to admit my feelings aren’t wholly altruistic. True, it really gets my dander up when I go into a bank and find half a dozen clerks standing around doing nothing while people line up outside to use machines. I think it’s a tragic sign of the times that so many people would rather deal with a machine instead of a person.’

  ‘When you work the hours I do, there often isn’t all that much notice,’ Vashti interrupted, only to have him shush her with one upraised finger, then at least have the grace to look slightly embarrassed when she obeyed.

  ‘After hours isn’t the issue,’ he said, eyes now blazing with what Vashti thought a writer would call impassioned fervour. ‘It’s during the day that I’m talking about; during normal business hours, when bank clerks are being paid to be there, to be of service, to do their jobs, for goodness’ sake. And nobody will let them. They have to stand there with fixed little smiles on their faces and watch — watch, mind you! — while people ignore them in favour of machines! How the hell can anybody get job satisfaction out of that?’

  Vashti shook her head, uncertain what, if anything, to say, not certain, indeed, if she was to be given a chance, until the waitress arrived with the sweets menu and she was able to echo Phelan’s earlier remark.

  ‘Saved by the bell ... again?’

  His grin was infectious.

  ‘Too right. And please, without any arguments, may I be permitted to order this wondrous dessert you’re going to have? It’s a small price for my sins.’

  ‘I’d reckon! Your sins, I suspect, would have a far, far higher price than that,’ Vashti retorted. But her grin matched his; she simply couldn’t help herself.

  ‘A deal, then? No names, no pack drill?’

  ‘Deal,’ she replied, but hesitated momentarily before reaching out to meet the hand he extended across the table. Their eyes met with, she thought, some unknown-as-yet message as his fingers closed around her own, and he held her hand just sufficiently too long, or was it not long enough?

  She was saved the problem of deciding with the return of the waitress, and Phelan’s grandiose announcement that he wanted the biggest, richest, most awe-inspiring dessert on the sweets menu.

  ‘And my mother’ll have the same,’ he said, flashing Vashti the most mischievous, devilish little-boy grin she’d ever seen.

  The waitress smiled; Vashti thought the woman would have smiled no matter what Phelan said. Chauvinistic bastard! Vashti bit her tongue but didn’t smile. Instead she shot Phelan a look of warning, in the certain knowledge that it was wasted.

  ‘You really do like living dangerously, don’t you?’ she muttered when the woman was truly out of earshot. ‘What is it — a death-wish? Or do you just like to stir?’

  ‘I sometimes wonder myself,’ he replied, leaning calmly back in his chair, as if the knives she was glaring at him couldn’t possibly get across the table. ‘You do stir awfully easily, I must say. I’d have thought a decent sense of humour would be vital in your job.’

  ‘And I’d have thought just some sense would be vital in yours,’ Vashti retorted. ‘Do you live your whole life in some fictional wonderland where you can just write your way out of trouble? I am the dreaded taxman, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  She put on her sternest face as she said it, the face she used when the powers of her office were needed in full to bring some really difficult client into line. It was needed seldom, but when it was...

  Stern look or no, it was supposed to be funny, supposed to match the mood Phelan Keene had created. But it wasn’t, suddenly. Something ... something she couldn’t quite identify ... came to life in his eyes, and Vashti instantly cursed herself for such an unprofessional gambit.

  You fool, she cried inwardly. Fool ... fool ... fool! She recognised the predator, the wolf that had so fleetingly stalked out to glare at her. She’d seen that look before, in a lonely cemetery where she’d been the subject of a longer, more thorough inspection.

  And just as quickly, the predator was gone. Phelan’s eyes now were bland, placid. She’d seen that colour, exactly, in the water over shallow reefs, and once in the wild eyes of a blue merle collie just before it tried to lunch on her left leg.

  Vashti shivered inwardly, still cursing herself for her transgression. She wanted to take it back, to say something — anything — but the chance had disappeared as quickly as that fleeting predator’s glance.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I should remember that, shouldn’t I?’

  Phelan’s expression was as bland as his eyes now, too bland. ‘Especially as we never did get to the real purpose of this luncheon, which was supposed to be business,’ he continued, voice calm, strangely flat.

  ‘Still,’ he said with a grin that never reached his eyes, ‘there’s dessert to come.’

  And come it did! The sheer size of the offerings was such that Vashti and Phelan could only stare first at their plates and then at each other, animosity forgotten, or so Vashti hoped, in the face of such gastronomic opulence.

  Each of them managed half their dessert, eating in silence at first, then with timid forays into the kind of small talk that the meal had begun with. There was no business, and now Vashti was glad of that. She felt embarrassed at having come the heavy; however frivolous the move had been it had been a bad one, seriously misinterpreted.

  Far easier to let Phelan relate the other reason he hated the automatic cash machines...

  ‘So there I was, Friday night of a long weekend, with not a single soul whom I knew within a thousand miles and no money worth mentioning, the damned car with a flat tyre and a flatter spare — just the scenario they advertise as being the time your cash card will save you,’ he said. ‘And what did the automatic cash machine do?’

  ‘It ate the card, of course,’ Vashti answered. ‘There’s nothing surprising about that; it’s hardly an uncommon occurrence. You probably didn’t get the PIN number right or something.’

  ‘I did too!’

  ‘Well, you must have got something wrong,’ she insisted. ‘These machines don’t just go around eating people’s cards at random.’

  ‘Want to bet?’

  ‘No, I don’t want to bet. What I want to know is what you did after the machine ate your card. It must have been a bit traumatic, to say the least.’

  ‘Traumatic? I was fairly ropable, as you can imagine, and on the Tuesday morning I had meaningful dialogue with the bank, let me tell you.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘Oh, I just checked into the best hotel in town and lived it up for the weekend.’ He shrugged. ‘They didn’t ask for any money until I checked out, and of course, by then I had plenty.’

  ‘Lucky for you.’ Vashti didn’t even attempt to sound sympathetic. She hardly knew anybody who hadn’t faced similar problems with the technology. ‘And I suppose you’ve never used a cash card after hours since, eit
her?’

  ‘Now you’re being sarcastic,’ was the reply. ‘Of course I have; that’s what they’re for. But I also’ … with a hint of smugness ‘… make sure I’m never caught quite that short of real, usable money. It meant I had to eat every meal in the hotel’s restaurant, and while it wasn’t bad or anything, it got a bit boring by the end.’

  ‘Not as boring as going hungry would have been. Or having to sleep in the streets.’

  ‘But the card, or lack of it, had nothing to do with that,’ he protested. ‘I could have stayed in the hotel and charged everything whether I’d had the damned card or not! And having the card stuck in the machine all weekend meant I had to stay. Even if I’d somehow managed to get the car fixed, I had to stay because of the machine. That’s the point!’

  Then he grinned, again with that light of mischief in his eyes. ‘Still, I got a scenario for a book out of it, so the weekend wasn’t a total waste. But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t like those machines, never have and never will!’

  ‘And you never, ever use an automatic cash machine during working hours, I know,’ she concluded for him. ‘And while I wouldn’t want you to get big-headed about this, you’ve actually converted me to that philosophy as well. I’m forced to admit it never occurred to me to consider how the bank clerks must feel about it.’

  ‘Well, there you go! A taxman ... person who’s human after all,’ he sad. ‘Will wonders never cease?’

  Vashti sighed. ‘I do wish you’d let up on that,’ she said. ‘It’s old hat to me, and I’m long past being offended by comments like that. Really.’

  He raised one dark eyebrow. ‘Well, let’s just hope the chef’s not easily offended either,’ he said, with a meaningful glance at their half-full dessert plates. ‘Because with the best will in the world I couldn’t finish this, and I don’t really think a doggy-bag is appropriate, somehow.’

  After the lunch, they walked together back to the comer of Collins and Murray Streets, where Vashti would turn north to return to her office.