‘I’d like to think that if it was an accident the driver would have stopped. They must have known they’d hit you.’
‘So that’s a yes, then.’
‘I may have misjudged the whole one-murder-fine-two-murders-hard-to-conceal theory.’
‘Made sense at the time.’
‘Not so much from where we’re sitting now though.’
‘Hey, at least it means our plan worked! It reached the right ears.’
‘So now just the small matter of staying alive and hoping he – or she – goes for the paintings tomorrow night and we can catch them in the act.’
‘Pfft.’ John flaps a dismissive hand. ‘The staying alive part is easy, because our criminal mastermind will assume if I’m not already dead that at the very least you’ll be keeping a bedside vigil in one of Melbourne’s finer hospitals. Therefore, we’re both out of the picture.’
‘Nice.’
‘C’mon.’ John holds out both arms. ‘Help me up and let’s see whether they’re right and we’re going to the emergency department.’
I stand up and grab John’s hands. ‘Tell me if you want to stop.’
John inhales sharply as he puts his weight fully on his right leg and I tighten my grip.
‘Okay?’
He takes an experimental step and winces, but the leg does its job.
‘Just bruised I think.’
‘Can you make it to the van or do you want me to bring it over here?’
‘I can do it.’
I change my position and put an arm around John’s shoulders, bracing him as we hobble slowly toward the van. When we get there he leans against the side and rummages for his keys.
‘So do you at least want to get checked out by a doctor?’
‘Let’s see how it is in the morning.’
I look at him doubtfully. ‘You really didn’t hit your head?’
He shakes it in reply.
‘And you promise you’ll say if you think you need a doctor?’
‘Promise.’
‘And you’re not just avoiding hospital because you don’t want to give Sue the opportunity to step into the role of caring nurse?’
John hesitates. ‘Maybe a little.’
I tilt my head.
‘But not to the extent that I’d not go to hospital if I really thought something was broken or bleeding.’
I nod, open the passenger door for him and step back, closing it once he’s settled. As I walk to the driver’s side I glance around, but the place is devoid of other human life.
‘Where am I driving you? My place or yours?’ I don’t look at him as I ask the question, instead fiddling to fit the key in the ignition.
‘Would you mind? I don’t want to put you out, but if I go home in this condition it will be the Spanish Inquisition, and then I’ll be lucky to be allowed out to MIMA tomorrow to finish the work.’
‘You know what? I’d mind a hell of a lot more if you went back to Sue and I couldn’t check to see if you were okay. We just need to sort out some clothes for you, because that ensemble has reached the end of its useful life.’
John looks down at the grease stain on his shirt and the torn leg of his trousers. ‘Henry Buck’s, first thing?’
‘Deal.’ I twist the key and throw the van into reverse.
‘Thanks Alex. I think you saved my life.’
‘All I did was yell at you,’ I say, switching from reverse to drive, ‘and I do that all the time.’
‘And from now on I promise to always listen.’
I snort and press my foot lightly on the accelerator, rolling the van down to stop at the exit. As the boom gate slowly lifts for us, I turn sharply to John.
‘Don’t ever fucking scare me like that again.’
Suddenly he leans across and kisses me hard on the mouth. My eyes open wide with surprise and for a moment I lean in toward him. Behind us, another driver toots his horn. My foot slips off the brake and I jerk back to reality with a gasp, thumping back into my seat. John just smiles and closes his eyes as I manoeuvre the van out into Southbank Boulevard.
I put John straight to bed in the guest room with a hefty dose of paracetamol and a mug of sweet cocoa. Even though it’s still hot outside, I can’t get past that particular throwback to childhood, when Mum would make everything better with cocoa and Teddy Bear biscuits. We’ve hardly spoken since we left the Arts Centre car park.
‘So no slug of brandy?’ John sniffs the mug doubtfully.
‘Nope. Not till I know you’re really okay.’
‘So I get brandy at breakfast then?’
‘Doubtful, unless there happens to be a jar of brandied apricot jam loitering in the back of the cupboard. I’ll leave the paracetamol bottle here in case you need to dose up in the night, but call me if you need anything.’
John settles back on the pillows with a sigh and closes his eyes. He’s still cradling the mug in both hands, resting it on his chest.
‘Are you going to call Sue?’
He opens one eye and rolls his head toward me.
‘You at least need to tell her you’ve got somewhere to stay. Even if you don’t tell her about today. Or the fact that your place to stay is here.’
‘She’ll probably ask me that anyway.’
I shrug.
‘I suppose I should, shouldn’t I?’
‘If you want this to be as civil and low-stress as possible, then yes. Just be nice, give her the facts and keep calm. If she freaks out, say you’ll talk to her in the morning and hang up.’
He sits up a bit and takes a last swig of his cocoa, then reaches the mug out to me. I take it and move to the door.
‘You’d better give me my phone then.’
‘What? I don’t have your phone. Why would I?’
We frown at each other for a few seconds, then John’s face clears.
‘I had it in my hand in the car park.’
Which meant it was probably smashed on the concrete somewhere.
‘It never even crossed my mind at the time,’ I say. ‘Sorry. Maybe it got handed in to lost property.’
John shakes his head. ‘Better off without it. I don’t even know why I got one in the first place. Now clients just expect me to be available all the time.’
It’s not the clients that are John’s problem, but this is probably a bad time for me to remind him.
‘Use the phone in the study if you want. And call me if you need anything during the night. If I don’t hear you Hogarth will.’ I turn to leave.
‘Alex?’
‘Yes?’ I whip around so sharply it’s a wonder I don’t crick my neck.
‘How could anyone make Meredith take ethylene glycol? I don’t think the police believe she was forced to take it. They certainly haven’t said anything.’
I sigh and have to take a moment before answering. ‘One of Hogarth’s doggy friends got antifreeze poisoning a few years back. I remember his owner telling everyone in the park to be careful if they had the stuff, because it’s not only odourless, it tastes sweet and animals just lap it up. You could probably lace a sugary drink with it.’ For a moment, we look at each other in the dim light of the bedside lamp, then I step into the hall and close the door behind me.
***
When I check on him a few hours later John is snoring softly, and I stand in the darkness for a while, watching him sleep. It’s been a long time since John kissed me like that and I thought we were comfortably settled in our friendship – a friendship I don’t want to risk over what might be nothing more than John’s reaction to his brush with death. After a few minutes I creep out, leaving his door open a bit and doing the same with mine. I intend to check on him a couple of times during the night, but sleep overtakes me. At four a.m. I wake with a jolt, the image of a dark BMW sharp in my mind. I thro
w back the sheet and tiptoe as fast as I can – harder than it sounds – down the hall. Hogarth is stretched across John’s doorway, eyes gleaming in the half-light as I approach. Leaning across his shaggy form, I manage to poke my head into the room. I can hear John’s breathing, slow and regular, and I wonder if I should wake him. Maybe I should have done it before; I know that’s what you’re supposed to do with head injuries, to make sure the person hasn’t lapsed into a coma while you weren’t paying attention, but John was adamant he hadn’t hit his head. Still, better safe. Just as I’m about to properly step over Hogarth, John snuffles, murmurs something unintelligible and rolls over onto his side. That seems like normal sleep, so I retreat to the kitchen and put the kettle on. There’s almost fourteen hours before the exhibition opens tonight, and that means I’m going to need a lot of coffee.
Three hours later John limps into the kitchen and sits down heavily at the table.
‘I’d say you look as though you’ve been hit by a bus, but that might seem a bit insensitive. Coffee and pain killers.’
‘Two of everything.’ John rests his head on the table.
Hogarth and I have already been for a run and finished our breakfast, so there’s a plunger pot half-full of strong coffee already on the go. I pour John a mugful and set it in front of him, then slide the sugar bowl over.
‘You should eat something.’
John groans.
‘I’ll put some toast on. Even if you eat it dry.’ I drop a couple of slices of sourdough in the toaster and set out a plate, knife, marg and jam – just in case. When the toaster pings I put the slices in front of John and then sit down to face him. He’s straightened up now and grabs a piece straight away. Both of us have always liked our toast as hot as possible. After one bite he picks up a knife and begins to slather the rest in margarine.
I take a deep breath. ‘John, about yesterday –’
‘I called Sue last night.’ He’s still buttering and doesn’t look at me. ‘While you were messing around in the kitchen.’
‘I’m glad. She must’ve been worried.’
‘She was still mad when I first called, but then when I told her what happened …’ He stops and bites into the toast, chewing slowly while melted margarine drips onto the plate. I put my hands on the table and clasp them together, hard. I can feel a nerve twitching behind my right eye.
‘I’m going home.’ John meets my eyes across his toast.
‘Is Sue all right?’ It wasn’t what I wanted to say and it comes out tight and high. I wanted to swear, tell John he was a sucker and Sue a manipulative bitch who probably didn’t have an unhealthy bone in her body. I wanted to tell him …
John is staring intently at my face, and I try to keep it neutral but we’ve known each other too long.
‘She’s upset. Sorry we had a fight and although she didn’t say it,’ he nods his head a little in my direction, and I know he has followed at least some of my thoughts, ‘the strain has clearly had an impact on her health; she was coughing and breathless.’
I feel my hands clenching together and pull them apart, picking up the coffee pot and topping up John’s mug. I nod slowly. ‘Well that’s no good.’
Standing up, I take the pot to the sink, pull it apart and start washing. I can feel John’s gaze boring into my shoulders.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Alex.’
‘It doesn’t matter what I think, John.’ I keep my back to him. ‘I said I’d be here for you no matter what and I meant it. I can’t pretend that I’m thrilled, but you know me, I’ll get over myself soon enough.’
I hear the scrape of a chair and expect John to come over and turn me around, make me look at him. But instead his footsteps retreat.
‘Anyhow,’ he says from the doorway, ‘I’m just going to go home now.’
I nod, hope he’s watching.
‘But I can still pick you up for the exhibition opening tonight.’
I force myself to turn around but I focus on John’s chest instead of his eyes. Almost anything I say now will be a mistake and it’s taking everything I’ve got to keep my trap shut. I nod again. ‘If you’re sure you’re okay to drive, that’d be great, thanks.’ I press my lips together.
Now John nods, then retreats down the hall to the guest room. I stay in the kitchen tidying and stalling, and twenty minutes later the front door opens and closes and I hear the distinctive sound of John’s van starting up. I sit down with a thump and put my head in my hands. Nothing has changed, but everything has. John has gone running – or crawling – back to Sue again, just like he always does, just like I expected him to. But this time it’s hurting me so much more. I’m tired of being the focus of her vitriol, tired of not being able to see my best friend whenever I want to without feeling like I’m in a Cold War movie trying to shake counter-surveillance and not blow my cover, tired of John not sticking up for me with Sue. And most of all, I’m tired of watching John destroy himself in a toxic relationship because he’s too damn nice.
I’m standing in front of my wardrobe, trying to pick the perfect outfit. There’s still a couple of hours before John picks me up, but hair and makeup are not my forte so I’ve allowed plenty of time for do-overs. Clothing-wise, I need something suitable for a gala exhibition opening, with an extra wow factor in keeping with my triumphant return to MIMA. Mum always used to tell me to try to be just a little bit better dressed than everyone else in the room. Not so much that it’s obvious, but enough that you feel awesome. I’m also trying to balance that advice with the possibility I may need to move fast when the moment arises. There was no time – or cash – to go shopping, so timeless classics are the order of the day, if I have any.
I wish I could rock an Yves Saint Laurent Le Smoking jacket and satin trousers. But I don’t have the insouciance to pull off a suit jacket sans shirt, even if I could afford it. Instead I channel two of my favourite confident, gutsy women: Anna Zinkeisen in her 1944 Self Portrait, and author Jean Campbell in Lina Bryan’s portrait of her, The Babe is Wise.
Reaching into the wardrobe, I skate a bunch of hangers to one end. Black velvet dress – classy but too tight for fast movement. Navy dress, white trim – too corporate. Black stovepipe trousers – haven’t got the right top to go with. I keep dragging hangers from right to left, but there is nothing that fits the brief. I’m right at the end, in the dimmest corner of the wardrobe, and for a moment I think there’s nothing else; then my hand touches a black garment bag, almost invisible. I pull it out, trying to remember what I own that would warrant this extra degree of care. God knows every bridesmaid dress I’d ever worn had gone direct to the Salvos (while as much photographic evidence as possible was simultaneously destroyed).
I pull the bag out and unzip it and as the fabric comes spilling out I know I have my outfit. Christopher Graf, circa 1985. A Melbourne designer best described as whimsical, Graf had a boutique in Chapel Street that was all colour and crazy angles, Alice falling down the rabbit hole into Wonderland. I picked up this fire-engine-red jacket at an estate sale. It has a nipped waist, four oversized buttons, and a wide, low scoop neck for a hint of cleavage. Because of the high cutaway at the front, I always wear this with a pair of black wool crepe sailor-style trousers, their high waist and loose leg offsetting the fit of the jacket. Jewellery is easy. I don’t have real stones, but I do have some amazing paste pieces. A few years ago I was picking up bijou jewellery by people like Schiaparelli, Miriam Haskell and Nettie Rosenstein for only a few bucks, but now vintage is in, prices have soared out of my reach. Shoe choice is harder and I hesitate for a moment. Black flats would be practical, but the outfit calls for my red suede heels. And I do like to tower over people.
There’s time for a quick game with Hogarth before I need to shower, so I grab his soft Frisbee. It makes the tiniest crinkle and instantly he is by my side, tail wagging. We head out to the backyard and I stand at the bottom of the step
s, flicking my wrist to send the disc out again and again. Wolfhounds don’t generally retrieve, but Hogarth likes the challenge of catching the Frisbee on the wing, and he knows the golden rule is: bring it back or the game’s over. As it is, we only spend about ten minutes in the garden. Humidity is making the air thick and heavy, and the wind is picking up again, this time signalling an imminent change. Glancing at the scudding clouds, I wonder if I should wear something cooler tonight, a shift dress and strappy heels. But the air conditioning will make it cold in the Museum, and the change is sure to come before the night is over.
Back inside, I head for the shower while Hogarth plonks himself down on the tiles at the exact spot the cool air from the air con hits the floor. The bathroom is a bit of a contrast to the rest of my house. When I renovated, I gave a nod to the age of the house with the black and white chequerboard pattern of the floor tiles, but everything else is sharp and modern: hard lines, sleek chrome fixtures and a big mirror. Most important of all is the shower itself, which can be changed from a soft, rain-like fall to pounding needles of water with the twist of a lever. I opt for pounding and turn the pressure up as high as I can. Bugger the drought.
Next comes hair and war paint. My concession to night-time makeup is to use slightly darker colours, so it’s a blend of silver and gunmetal grey on my eyelids and a lipstick colour called Divine that’s dark enough to give drama without looking trampy or clashing violently with my jacket. I scrape my dark-chestnut hair back into a basic chignon. There’s a few wispy bits that refuse to behave, but I figure that makes it look soft and romantic rather than messy, and having my hair up will show off the jewellery.
Before I get dressed, I feed Hogarth, hanging around until he’s finished and I can wipe his whiskery face. For some reason he always likes to slobber on my going-out clothes, particularly if I’m already running late. Trouble averted, it only takes me a few minutes to dress and step into my shoes. Then I strap on my watch and pick up the collar-style necklace I’ve selected. Designed by Robert Goossens for Yves Saint Laurent, it resembles a sheaf of wheat made up of ruby-red stones in a gold setting. Or red glass in gold coloured metal, but I’m not planning on mentioning that; as far as I’m concerned it still counts as the jewellery equivalent of haute couture. It’s about three centimetres wide and I do up the clasp so it sits tall on my neck. When I check my appearance in the wardrobe mirror, light flashes off the facets like sparks. For a moment, I feel strong.
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