by C. A. Larmer
She suddenly had a yearning for Mozart or her then-favourite Chopin. Instead, all she could hear was the lapping of the waves nearby and what sounded like laughter. Again, she couldn’t work out if it was the couple or the goats.
Zoe’s face had darkened. “I can’t help wondering,” she said, “if I could have done more. Perhaps I should have whisked her out of that old castle and dragged her here.”
“She seemed invincible,” Millie said again, and it was her way of redeeming them all.
The older woman nodded. “We thought she was. Thousands came for the funeral, and not only patients, not only Greeks. They poured in off the boats and the airplanes. Young and old, men and women, lots of children. Every nationality. So many souls, saved by one little lady.”
“I wish I’d known,” said Millie, “about the funeral that is.” But would she have flown out from Australia? Probably not. She was still caught up in her own lies back then. She was only working out how to shed them now.
Millie sensed a mood change and noticed that Zoe was now watching her carefully. Her eyes were not unlike Agnetha’s. They seemed to be having a conversation of their own, and Millie wasn’t sure she liked where it was heading.
She placed her cup on the table in front of her and said, “I’ve probably taken enough of your time. Thanks for letting me know about Aggie and what happened.”
Then, cutting off Zoe even though she hadn’t actually spoken, she quickly said, “I really just wanted to see her again, that’s all. I wanted to say thank you. Wanted to say goodbye.”
But they both knew that was a lie. She wanted a lot more from Aggie than that, and now it was too late.
On the windy walk back to the jetty, Millie let Zoe do all the talking—about her artwork and her students—and she let her mind stray. Not to ugly thoughts, she couldn’t go there yet. Instead she remembered the first time she met Sister Agnetha or at least the first time she remembered clapping eyes on the elderly Greek.
Zoe was only half right. It wasn’t just the habit that hid Aggie’s age, her energy and optimism also camouflaged her wrinkles and frail bones.
“You want to hang around this time?” were the first words Agnetha uttered or at least the first Millie could remember. There was no judgement, just inquiry.
She managed to nod.
“Good! We’ve been waiting for you. Welcome back.”
And the smile she offered Millie was like an elixir.
Thinking about it now, she knew that it was Aggy who got her through that coma and kept her alive. Not through any medicine or even silly magic—although God knows what she’d tried while Millie was unconscious those first three weeks—but through gentle hands and nonjudgemental care.
Millie felt a sob catch in her throat. Those were the very things she needed now, and she suddenly ached for a woman she had known less than a year and not seen or spoken to in over a decade.
“Millie?” That was Zoe and she must have asked a question, her eyebrows high.
“Sorry, Zoe. I’m a bit distracted.”
“You have reason to be, my darling. It has been a shock.”
She nodded as they reached the jetty and noticed that Giannis’s boat was already closing in. Zoe must have signalled for them.
As they watched it approach, Zoe grabbed Millie’s hand and pulled her close.
“I’m sorry I cannot give you all the answers you need, my darling girl, but it is not my place. I hope you can understand that.”
Again Millie was bemused, but she saw that the older woman was looking more worried, her tone growing in urgency.
“But you must keep going,” Zoe said. “Do not turn back now.”
“What do you mean—?”
“I know you have given so much already, Millie, but sometimes you have to give it all—every last bit of it, no matter how painful, how heart-wrenching—in order to be truly free. It might be time to face the beautiful, brutal truth.”
Then she pulled her into a hug, waved at the approaching vessel, and swiftly turned away, leaving Millie feeling like she’d been slapped with answers to questions she had never asked and couldn’t begin to comprehend.
EVE
“Excuse me, Monty. Monty? Monty Brennan! You cannot go in there… Monty!”
Ignoring the increasingly shrill tones of the publisher’s bouncer, Monty strode straight towards Gerry’s closed door, turned the brass knob and pushed it open.
Barging in like this was probably a sackable offence, Monty realised as she proceeded. It was certainly sure to put her on Lizzie’s black list for the rest of her career, yet she suddenly didn’t care. She was furious. Her anger so intense it shimmered from every pore.
No wonder Amelia had walked out! No wonder Amelia couldn’t face her when she returned from the shoot. Her dear friend, her boss, must have heard about the move from Gerry or Willow and felt deeply, desperately betrayed.
Yet it wasn’t true! Monty hadn’t requested a move to the design magazine or anywhere for that matter. She would never do that to her friend. It was a pact she had made not so much to Amelia as to herself many years ago. No matter how many times she was headhunted, she always said no. She was there for Amelia; she had her back. She had been missing in action once, had let her down with almost fatal consequences. She would never make that mistake again.
The publisher was at his desk, feet up, phone at one ear, eyes fixed on Monty. He seemed curious at this stage, probably the result of hearing his normally phlegmatic PA screeching, but he wasn’t angry, at least not yet. The surprise was holding that at bay.
“I’ll call you back, Ted,” he said before clunking the phone onto its hook and dropping his feet to the floor. “Monty Brennan, what can I do for you?” And then, “Did you find her?”
For just a moment Monty had no idea what Gerry was talking about, and she stopped mid-march. “What? Oh, no, Amelia’s still… well, no.”
“I’m so terribly sorry, Gerry,” came Lizzie’s breathless voice behind her, but Gerry already had a hand up and was waving her back out.
Monty heard the door click behind her and exhaled.
“There better be a bloody good reason for you—” he began, but she couldn’t wait for a dressing down.
“What’s this I hear about House?”
“House?”
“I just ran into Willow. You’re moving me to House & Feather?”
“Ah.”
“Ah indeed, Gerry. When were you going to tell me?” She took a deep breath, remembering he was her boss and quickly added, “Sir.”
“So you don’t want to work on House?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just…”
“Just nothing. Finish the latest issue of Eve, and we’ll get you across.” He reached for his mobile phone as if the conversation was over, but Monty wasn’t finished yet.
“But we’ve discussed this before, Gerry.” Many times in fact. He tried moving her to House three years ago and then last year to the new men’s title he had in the works, but she always put him off. No amount of money would change her mind.
“You know I can’t leave Eve,” she said now. “You know very well that I would never desert Amelia.”
He looked up from his phone. “And yet she’s left you, has she not?”
“No! I mean, well, I don’t know. I have no idea what’s going on, but she wouldn’t leave me either, and she’d be furious if she learned you had moved me across.”
“Don’t see why. She was the one who suggested it.”
“Sorry?”
He sighed. Annoyance had edged out his curiosity. “Take a seat, Monty, you’re giving me the shits.”
She dropped into a plush chair in front of his enormous glass-topped desk just as the door swept open and Lizzie reappeared, her face an icy mask. “Can I get you anything?”
Monty assumed she was talking to Gerry but he was now stabbing away at the phone, oblivious to her presence so she waved a hand to her breast. The woman stared at her. There
was something disturbing about that stare.
“Oh, um, no, thank you, Lizzie. I’m fine.”
Lizzie pushed her lips into a smile as foreboding as the stare and then turned and closed the door again.
Eventually, after several more stabs at his phone, Gerry flung it back on his desk and sighed.
“I don’t know what the hell’s been going on down there at Eve. It’s chaos by the sound of it, but I figured Amelia would do the honours and let you know about the job before she pissed off. But, like I say, chaos!”
“But I don’t understand. Why would Amelia want me to move to House?”
“Beats me. She swept in here last Friday and demanded you be moved off Eve. When I asked what the problem was she said, ‘I want her gone.’ That’s a direct quote.”
Monty crumbled at that, her chest caving in. “But…?” But why? What could she possibly have done to make Amelia push her away like that?
Gerry was still talking. “Willow’s been after you for years, and she’s dead right. You’re wasted on Eve. I mean, it suits our girl Amelia, she lives and breathes that commercial crap, but it’s not your style. House & Feather is your style. And now that Willow’s head designer is up the duff, well, it a win-win.” He stopped. “You’re not bloody pregnant are you?”
She shook her head although she felt like vomiting.
“I figured you girls must have had yourselves a catfight, but I wasn’t gonna lose sleep over it. So you want the bloody job or not?”
Monty shook the nausea away. Yes! No. She didn’t know.
“Work it out, Monty.”
He grabbed his phone again and she stood up, her legs shaky. As she reached the door he called out to her.
“You ever storm in here again uninvited, it’ll be the last time you come in. I don’t care how good you are. Got it?”
Her legs shook again as she left the office.
By the time Monty found herself back at Eve, Lizzie had already enacted her revenge. During the long elevator ride down—it was lunchtime and stopped at every damn floor—Monty’s mind was racing and she wracked her brain, trying to make sense of it.
Why would Amelia secretly oust her from the magazine and so unceremoniously? She was a bloody good art director, she knew that. It was the reason Willow was so thrilled to have her on board. So what happened to make Amelia turn against her?
What had she done?
She trawled her memory, trying to think of something she had said or done, but kept coming up blank. The last time she saw Amelia, the woman was putting her in a cab and hugging her goodbye. No anger, no animosity. Then six hours later she was plotting her removal. It was absurd.
“This one’s got your name on it, honey.”
Monty looked up as she approached her desk to find Alex hovering, a gilded invitation in one hand.
“Well, it’s really for Amelia, but there’s no way I can manage it. A meet and greet tonight, would you believe? Six p.m.! How can I possibly make that? I’ve got groceries to buy, children to feed. It’s ridiculous, and it’s for some digital technology company. I’m not even sure why she was invited to this!”
Monty exhaled loudly. “It’s the life of an editor, Alex.” The life I thought you wanted, she would have added if she had an ounce of Amelia’s gumption.
Alex was already dumping the glossy invitation onto her desk. “Well, I’m not going, and it doesn’t matter anyway because Lizzie said to give it to you. Said it’d be your reward, whatever that means.”
Monty winced. “I bet she did.”
She glanced at it and then away. Then back again.
“Tower Global Solutions?”
“Yeah, that’s the bonus I suppose. You get to meet the dishy CEO. I hear he’s hot. Might snag yourself a hubby if you’re not careful.”
Alex sniggered as she walked away, but Monty’s mind was off and racing again, this time in a very different direction, backwards, towards some Spanish Steps.
She madly tapped at her keyboard, starting a Google search, and sat back, stunned, when the results came in. It was just as she thought.
This wasn’t any old public relations event. It was a corporate meet and greet with Tower Global Solutions CEO, and the last time she looked there was one man who ran that company. A university student she first met on some crowded steps in Rome and got to know a whole lot better on a boat to Santorini.
Well isn’t that interesting. She tapped the invitation against her lips.
TOM
The woman with the dusting brush was closing in, and he gave her the evil eye.
“It takes the shine off,” she said, but he held a palm up.
“This isn’t a fashion shoot, love.” He knew all about fashion shoots. Amy used to do them in a past life.
The woman smiled, dropped the brush. “Fair enough. Can I just…?” She indicated his hair and he scraped some fingers through it. She gave him two thumbs-up and backed away.
“You ready?” This was Geoff, seated at the trestle table beside him, his official uniform on, hat in front. He had opted for the powder and looked like a clown.
“As I’ll ever be,” Tom said, regretting this instantly. Oh, who was he fooling? He’d regretted it all night, ever since he’d agreed to the publicity stunt. He knew how these things worked. Parade the poor husband across the telly and hope to God somebody, preferably the wayward wife, would see the heart-shattering story and return home promptly. Or perhaps someone would ring in and reveal her whereabouts. Might have seen her wandering the corridors of their local supermarket. He wondered if it ever worked, and glancing about now, he also wondered how far the coverage would get them.
There was only one camera crew for the regional TV news and a young guy with bad acne holding what he assumed was a tape-recorder for the local paper.
“Radio’s late,” said the makeup woman who now had a clipboard and a mobile phone in her hand. She was also the police media manager. That is, when she wasn’t at the front desk answering phones.
“We’ll give Claude another five thanks, Ommie, and then we’ll start without him,” Geoff said, turning back to Tom. “He’s always bloody late.”
“So how does this work?” Tom asked.
“I’ll start us off, throw some questions at you and— Oh there you are Claude, great.”
A thin man with a wispy ponytail rushed in with his microphone and straight to the desk where he set it up at the midway point between both men. Then he held a hand up and reached for something in his bag. It was the SunshineFM logo, and he clipped it to the microphone, for the benefit of the camera no doubt.
Tom saw the cameraman roll his eyes and then wondered whether there was a TV reporter, when a blonde strolled up. She was thin and pretty but not quite thin and pretty enough for the metropolitan stations. Had ample confidence, though, and was offering them all a wide, smug smile as she dragged a chair noisily to the side of the camera and sat down.
“Nice you could make it, Nene,” Geoff said.
She winked. “It’s not every day we get a missing spouse.”
He saw her flash Tom a look then, but it wasn’t one of sympathy. It was more like curiosity, followed by something else. Excitement maybe? Delight? He guessed this kind of story was leaving all the local media salivating.
“Okay, people, let’s make this happen!”
That was Ommie, and Geoff cleared his throat and gave a quick nod as the camera light flashed on and left everyone looking startled.
“Thanks for being here, folks,” Geoff began. “We have a matter of great urgency that we’d like the public’s assistance with. I will read a short statement, and then we can throw to some questions.”
Nene’s eyes glinted wickedly, like she’d just been offered a line of coke.
***
The shoot had run over, and once again, he was racing to meet the three-o’clock school bell, only just making it. Scarlett had offered to collect Phil for him, but he saw that as a statement on his parenting and was determi
ned to step up.
“Hey Tom,” came a high, melodic voice he instantly recognised. He felt that slithering feeling in his stomach again.
“Hi, Belinda,” he said as they reached the school gate at the same time. “How are you today?”
“I’m good, honey, how are you? We’re all so worried.”
“Don’t be. I’m fine.” He knew Belinda and he knew it wasn’t his wife she was worried about. She already had a hand on his bicep and was squeezing it, as if sizing him up.
“Need anything?” she was asking, her hand rubbing the bicep now. “Anything at all?”
He stared at her. It wasn’t a casserole she was offering, and he knew it.
Belinda had been a shameless flirt since they’d met at the local swimming pool nine years earlier when he first dropped his son off for swim class. She’d idled up in a bikini two sizes too small, oblivious to the leering looks from Phil’s teenage swimming instructor and offered him a look of her own. He had laughed her off at the time, laughed her off for years, but now he wondered whether he should have taken it all a little more seriously. Perhaps he should have let her lead him into the changerooms or the back of her Mazda or wherever the hell it was her mind was wandering.
But he didn’t do that. Of course he didn’t do that. He was the good husband. He was the devoted one. Faithful. Yet now it stood for nothing. Now he wondered why he’d bothered. His devotion to his wife felt about as useful as that bloody jewellery tree. He turned to Belinda and smiled.
From a distance Polly was watching, mouth squished to one side. She reached for her mobile phone and stabbed at some buttons. When it picked up, she covered the mouthpiece with her spare hand.
“Hey, I’m at the school gates,” she said. “Yep, can see him now. Hm-mm, usual stuff. … What? Oh, I guess he’s collecting Phil, but… Yeah, yeah, you should see Belinda having a crack.” A chuckle then deadpan: “No, I don’t think so. I mean, he wouldn’t, would he?” She listened for some time, nodding like a yoyo as if the person on the receiving end could possibly see her. “I will. I promise. You take care and be safe, yeah? And don’t worry. I’ve got a plan. You’ll see.”