“I’m worried that Jason’s taking it to heart. And Sammy’s distraught of course.”
“Kaz, just let go,” said Paul. “The kids have got to learn that life isn’t all a bed of roses. Shit happens. They need to learn about the realities of day-to-day existence, warts and all.”
“Paul! You can’t do that. It might injure them emotionally.”
“Just, get a grip, will you Kaz. The kids are resilient; they’ll get over it. It’s a good lesson in life for them.” Paul was over his wife trying to wrap them up in cotton wool.
Paul’s mention of Rishi was a classic case of the grapevine working its magic: yesterday, Bec visited Jools for a naturopathic appointment, and when they were chatting afterward Jools gave her an update on how Rishi was recovering. Then that night Bec spoke to Sean over dinner about Rishi, who in turn spoke with Paul this morning about how Rishi wasn’t responding properly, not coming out of his induced coma at the expected rate, and now Paul was relaying the same information back to Kaz, which she already knew about because she’d talked to Bec during the day.
The circle was complete.
Apparently, Rishi’s prognosis for a full recovery was less than desired. Rishi had managed a few lucid moments before he drifted back again into that velvety black abyss that existed somewhere between the death zone and the real world, but the early indications were that he may have suffered some damage to the motor area of his brain. There was a strong likelihood that if and when he recovered, he well could have some physical impairment that would require medium- to long-term rehabilitation.
“That’s not good,” said Paul. “I hope they catch the bastards who bashed him and throw the book at them.”
The bashing had stirred a latent, deep-seated social conscience that Paul had suppressed over the years as he climbed the corporate ladder. It didn’t look good on your CV to be viewed as a person with a concern for humanity. Instead, profit was king at the big end of town, not social justice.
“And I hope for us that word doesn’t get out about this.” After his brief lapse of altruistic focus, it was back to business as usual for Paul. “The last thing we need is more fuel added to the fire with the damn Indian community. We’ve had enough bad press lately. Those bloodsucking journalists; they’re all arseholes. If they get hold of this they’ll have a field day.”
These days, Paul never really switched off; instead, he just changed venues. Somewhere along the line there was always a business slant put on whatever he said. With Rishi’s worsening prognosis, Paul was becoming concerned about the potential downstream effects on their business if the media got hold of Rishi’s bashing and difficult recovery, and then sensationalized it.
And news like this could jinx the China deal for the twenty mil they so desperately needed to enable them to finish the Carlton project.
”Another Indian student bashed!” would be a bad headline to wake up to in tomorrow’s papers.
“All we need is for some lefty like that bloody nerd Macillicuddy to get hold of the story and we’re buggered.”
“Funny about that. Did you see the article in the Australian Tribune today about why there never seems to be enough cabs on the road anymore? Here, I cut it out for you.” With that, Kaz fumbled around in the black hole again and pulled out a crumpled newspaper cutting, and with a”see, I’m not as dumb as you think I am” look, proudly pushed it across the table toward Paul, spinning it around so he could read the headline.
Driver shortage for taxis as Indian students shy away
The Australian Tribune, Friday October 28
Robert Macillicuddy
. . . Mr Collins, an operator whose family has been driving cabs since 1970, hasn’t seen it like this for years.
“This time last year I would have had 10 more drivers than I had cars. Now, up to 20% of my fleet is lying idle because I can’t get enough drivers.”
“The students just aren’t interested in driving cabs anymore, or they’re driving an Uber,” he lamented.
“. . . the (current) shortage is due to the sharp drop in the number of students from India driving cabs. They simply don’t feel safe driving around the streets of Melbourne anymore.”
Kaz liked to show Paul that she did have a brain and actually read the papers, so cutting out newspaper articles, which she then passed on to Paul, was a semiregular occurrence. Apart from anything else, it made her feel important in Paul’s eyes at least, and hopefully helped create an identity with him of her being an intelligent person instead of just”the wifey.”
Passing a cursory, rather disinterested glance at the article, Paul was about to dismiss it as another one of Kaz’s”look at me” moves when the author’s name jumped off the page at him, slapping him in the face.
“Fuck!” Paul exclaimed way too loud for comfort in a crowded restaurant, as diners’ eyes were drawn his way. “Bloody Macillicuddy again. What’s that prick up to now?” Paul had assumed that he’d put all this Indian-bashing to bed when Macillicuddy interviewed him a few weeks ago.
“Bloody upstart journo. He needs to get back into the cesspit that he crawled out of,” Paul hissed vehemently.
“Paul! Keep it down, will you. People are listening,” Kaz whispered for Paul’s ears only.
Paul’s day had been filled with meetings and a long lunch, and he hadn’t had time to read anything other than quickly skim through the news headlines on his iPhone and have a cursory read of the Financial Review, so the Australian Tribune article was news to him.
Snatching the article up from the table, Paul angled it toward the light so he could read the fine print.
“That nerd Macillicuddy. He’s sniffing around again. He’s a bloody loose cannon, that’s what he is. Like a dog with a bone. Prick! If he so much as prints one word that can be linked back to me, I’ll sue his arse off. Who does he think he is?”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, Paul. He’s not talking about us; he’s on about the way Indian students here are treated. So what’s his beef? And why are you so antagonistic toward him?”
Kaz’s antenna was receiving signals that she didn’t like. Something was wrong.
Paul’s body language isn’t right, she thought to herself. Why won’t he look me in the eye?
She took a quantum leap and asked, “Do we have problems with development?”
“No, everything’s on track. Why do you ask?”
Paul looked away from Kaz’s direction and glanced out the window at the Friday night revelers walking past, like a live movie happening before his eyes.
“Paul, look at me!” Kaz was getting serious.
“Don’t fob me off and don’t lie to me. I’m your wife. I can read you like a book. What’s happening with the development? Something’s not right.”
Kaz was now working from a sixth sense. There was something wrong. She could feel it, sense it.
Paul diverted his gaze away from some eye candy that was immediately outside the window and looked back at Kaz.
“You bastard!” she spat at him, looking into the man behind the eyes. “Why haven’t you told me? I’m a fucking director! What’s happening? You owe it to me, for Christ’s sake. Paul, tell me what’s wrong. It’s written all over your face that you’re hiding something.”
“Chill, Kaz. We’re just experiencing a few cash flow issues at present, which will all be sorted out when we get the next drawdown from the bank. So it’s all cool, okay.”
“Bullshit! There’s more to it than that.”
For the first time in a long while, Kaz was suddenly uncomfortable about their business. It was as if a warning light had been switched on, and it was shining through a crack in the protective armor that Paul surrounded himself with.
Although she’d never admit it, for the past twenty years Paul’s time at the top of his profession had enabled her to pursue a self-indulgent, almost hedonistic lifestyle, which Paul turned a blind eye to, just as long as she organized his home life. But the flip side to this gold c
oin was that she lost touch with the real world. Kaz may have done the home accounts, controlled their finances, paid the monthly mortgages on their numerous investment properties and looked after the macro side of their business affairs. Rightly or wrongly, she assumed she was in touch with what was going on in their lives.
But Paul was always the one at the top of the funnel, shoveling in funds each month to keep the wheels of commerce turning so they could meet their many commitments. And that’s where Kaz’s knowledge of their finances ended, as she really had no idea where his money actually came from.
His job as an investment banker? Well, that was a given and provided a regular wage.
But the deals he was always into? Now, that was an entirely different matter. Paul was constantly buying and selling something, and she found it difficult to keep up. All she knew was that if Paul was run over by a bus tomorrow she would inherit a significant amount of sexually transmitted debt.
Until tonight that was, when Kaz’s antenna was sending her messages: warning, warning, trouble ahead, things aren’t what they seem, beware!
“Not good enough, Paul. What’s the real story. You owe me that. You’ve got guilt written all over your face. What are you hiding? Tell me.”
Kaz’s intuition kept her pushing, as she was now convinced there was definitely something up. After all, she wasn’t a woman for nothing and the penny had dropped.
“All right. You want to know the reality of being in business? The project‘s only got enough funds left to last for four to six weeks max. Then we can’t pay the bills, and when that happens the shit will hit the fan in a big way.” Paul figured that if his wife wanted to know the lay of the land, well so be it.
And this will really screw up any plans of a nice, peaceful night out after a stressful week, Paul thought to himself, apart from the massive argument that was a certainty when they arrived home.
Women and business. They just don’t mix. Kaz’s going to be a pain after this. Paul just knew it.
“So if that bloody Macillicuddy starts publishing negative bullshit about Rishi’s bashing and the troubles with the Indian students it could be disastrous for us,” said Paul. “We don’t need more bad press right now.”
Paul paused and thought to himself that if Kaz really wanted to know what was going on, then he would lay it on the table for her. He was just so sick and tired of beating around the bush.
“The problem is, the banks are getting wind of our current financial predicament.” Paul looked over at his wife and saw confusion, disillusionment, concern: Kaz wasn’t absorbing this well, but as far as he was concerned, she wanted to know, so that’s what she was going to hear.
“They want us to find another backer. Looks like they won’t provide us with the full cash drawdown next month that we were expecting. They’re as nervous as a virgin in a brothel and are almost looking for excuses not to lend.”
Paul came up for air and took a large gulp of his shiraz.
“Paul. Why didn’t you tell me earlier? How dare you hide this from me! From all the girls.” Kaz was livid. “We’re co-guarantors for the loans. We could end up going down. Oh my God, I can’t believe you’d let it get to this stage.”
Kaz’s normal, pleasant face turned to steel, her features hardening. She glared at Paul with a laser-like intensity that almost burned her shock and absolute alarm into Paul’s distraught face, scaring him with her thoughts.
Although blinded by rage, Kaz was still too demure to verbally explode in the restaurant to the entertainment of the other diners, so instead she picked up her glass of wine and threw it in Paul’s face.
Paul just sat there, mouth open as if he was catching flies, flabbergasted, red wine dripping off his chin, creating tie-dye patterns on his white business shirt.
Kaz abruptly rose out of her chair, violently pushing it backward, the chair scraping across the wooden floor with an urgent scratching sound. Snatching up her bag, Kaz glared down at Paul with a look that would melt the polar caps and grabbed the newspaper clipping, tearing it into tiny pieces. As the paper floated lazily through the air like confetti and landed haphazardly over the table, Kaz stormed out.
“So how do you propose to get us out of the shit, Paul?” Kaz may have calmed down enough to think rationally about the bombshell that Paul had dropped at the restaurant, but she was still fuming.
They were at home, arguing. Their living area currently resembled a boxing ring with a contender in each corner facing each other, pacing back and forth, sizing up their opponent. Paul was bloodied with red wine, and Kaz was going for the king hit.
“There’s the China deal that Steve’s negotiating. Now that’s looking good. According to Steve it’s in the bag and just waiting on the contracts being signed. He’s going to China next week after the board meeting to catch up with Mr. Wu and finalize the deal.” Paul was trying to be upbeat and positive.
“Stop lying to me, Paul! Steve’s all piss and wind,” replied Kaz, scepticism dominating her voice. “All us girls think he’s suspect. I wouldn’t be putting so much faith in Steve if I was you. I just hope for our sake you’re right and he pulls it off.”
Kaz took a time-out momentarily to gather her thoughts.
“So, if it’s only a temporary hiccup as you keep saying, surely with Steve’s wealth he could tip in some money to keep things going until you sort it out?” Kaz had calmed down enough to think rationally and knew that continuing with her bitter onslaught wouldn’t lead them to a solution.
“No chance. He’s made it quite clear that he’s fully committed elsewhere and that he hasn’t got the funds available. I’ve already suggested that to him.”
“So it’s back to China. What’s the alternative?” queried Kaz. “You’re a smart man with lots of contacts. What are you going to do if Steve comes back empty-handed?”
“Well, I’m already putting my feelers out to maybe bring in another investor. It’d mean we’d have to sell down our shareholding, but it’s certainly better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“The project falling over. But really, that’s such a remote possibility, it’s not worth even considering. We’ve got the runs on the board, significant presales, and a great project. It’s all positive, Kaz,” continued Paul, trying his best to gain control of a bad situation.
“I’m actually more concerned medium-term,” said Paul, stabbing the air with his right index finger as if to make a point.
“What we really have to deal with is the negative sentiment in the economy toward investing in student accommodation. The bloody government’s making it really difficult by putting pressure on the banks to curb lending, and it’s getting harder and harder to get funding.”
“And Macillicuddy,” quipped Kaz. “He’s a loose cannon surely?”
Paul ignored Kaz’s comment and continued. “Plus there’s now a huge oversupply of apartments on the market. I actually suggested again yesterday to Steve that when he’s in China he seriously look at the Chinese investors as an alternative source of potential buyers.”
“Paul, I’m still not happy with all this. Why didn’t you talk about it with me earlier? I’m your wife, for Christ’s sake. I deserve some respect.”
“Because Steve and I decided after the last board meeting to protect you and also Sean, Bec, and Jo from worrying needlessly over something that we feel won’t eventuate. And besides, nothing’s changed. Look, it’s a blip on the radar screen that you’ll look back on in six months’ time and wonder what the hoo-ha was all about.”
“I hope what you say is correct, Paul. But regardless, I’m coming to the next board meeting.”
Paul was temporarily speechless as this was a totally unexpected, and unwanted, response.
Women and business don’t mix, he thought again to himself. And if Kaz attended the next meeting, Paul instinctively knew that Bec and Jo would no doubt be there as well.
Tread lightly. I need time to mull over this. And I need to speak t
o Steve and Sean to give them a heads-up.
“Yeah, sure. You know you’re always welcome. Why don’t you see if Jo and Bec want to join you. We could all go out to lunch after the meeting.”
Paul was trying to trivialize things and he figured this would give them back some control by making the girls’ presence at the board meeting more of a social occasion than a formal event. Legally the girls had voting rights, and that could be bad news if the girls decided to exercise their rights.
They just don’t understand.
The 4:30 p.m. sun was lengthening the shadow of the sails on the water as the lowering orb kissed the tops of the one-and-a-half meter windblown swell on Port Phillip Bay, bouncing the light off in a thousand directions as if it was shining through a prism. The lively effervescent sea was bathed in hues of red, orange, yellow, and white as the colors at the bottom end of the spectrum were playing games with each other, all vying for dominance. The freshening sixteen-to-eighteen knot southwesterly breeze was picking up the occasional crest of a wave, spitting it over the deck of Fig Jam and rudely slapping the crew in the face with its wet contents.
“For fook’s sake Dec, that one wasn’t in the guidebook. It went right down my neck, you little prick,” chided Sean to Dec in a teasing, yet almost fatherly manner. Declan was at the helm of Fig Jam, steering her on a fast broad reach with the asymmetrical spinnaker flying, guiding Sean and G’s boat back to the yacht club after a tough interclub race that had been staged in the middle of Port Phillip Bay. A twenty-knot bullet of wind had come out of nowhere, forcing Fig Jam to round up into the breeze slightly, slamming it into the side of a wave and sending a wall of water over the deck, drenching the crew who were all sitting with their legs over the windward side of the yacht.
The Cait Lennox Box Set Page 19
