by Brandy Scott
She’d been his one indiscretion. Pete listened to Lou’s footsteps disappear down the concrete path, quick and light, as though she’d got something off her chest. His only infidelity.
Cameron had been right: not about Aimee, or Suzanne, but Pete had cheated. He’d justified it to himself at the time. Cameron was a difficult toddler; he and Julia were snapping and fighting. Pete hadn’t been sure his new marriage was going to make it, or even if he wanted it to. And Lou had been there, cheerful and carefree, hanging out at the rugby club that had become his refuge. The drunken walk down by the river was a one-off, he’d told himself. As he did the second time, and the third. She’d sent him back to his wife in the end. Surprisingly sensible, even at that age.
‘Did you tell her?’
Pete’s head swivelled, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from.
‘Behind you.’ Sharna sounded like she was standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘I saw you talking to Lou,’ she said. ‘Did you tell her about the money? The stroller you bought her?’
Pete shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
CHAPTER 41
She could hardly not have gone. Melinda had stared at the invitation on her desk for the past week, deciding and re-deciding as she signed off the paperwork divesting the shares in her company. But in the end, there was no decent reason she could think of not to be there, other than fear. Melinda didn’t do fear. She parked up under a tree and joined the stream of people picking their way carefully across Aimee’s lawn. I’ll sit at the back, she told herself. And if it gets too uncomfortable, I can always leave.
She could hardly not have invited them. Although Aimee had thought of a dozen reasons why, and a dozen reasons more not to have the party in the first place. But Nick had intervened.
‘It’s all about extending hospitality,’ he’d said. ‘Even when you don’t feel like it. And it’s not like we’re going to be able to discriminate.’
A vineyard in the Clare Valley was in the news for refusing to host a pagan wedding. Aimee’s new psychologist gave her exactly five minutes each session to discuss any irrational fears, no more, no less. Being set upon by angry Wiccans hadn’t even made this week’s cut.
She could easily have stayed at home. Lou stood on the edge of the crowd, feeling conspicuous in her best crepe dress. Tansy had proper morning sickness now. ‘All day sickness, Mum.’ No one would have judged Lou for choosing to take care of her instead. But she’d had Sharna on the phone that morning, checking she was coming, reminding her that you didn’t get to pick and choose when you wanted to be part of a community, and hadn’t they all benefitted from generous community spirit and open minds recently? Lou had got the message, and so here she was, heels sinking into the earth.
‘Yes, I’m chief commercial officer now,’ Melinda told a gaggle of curious curators, all bedecked in LoveLocked jewellery. ‘No, not the CEO any more. Yes, it was my choice. I’m going to set up LoveLocked’s operations in America.’
She’d proposed it to the new board herself: organic growth, boots on the ground. And a fresh start for Melinda. The old hotel was on the market; someone was coming to pick up the car on Tuesday.
‘I’ll be based in Iowa. I know, not exactly New York. But we wanted to start with real women, rural communities, like we did here. Stay true to our roots.’
Lou watched Melinda speak to her admirers. Letting go of the reins obviously suited her — she looked softer almost, as though she had fewer edges. Lou had seen the outrageous asking price for her building, had read about the new LoveLocked structure, including the CCO package. Melinda might have given up control, but she hadn’t sacrificed much in terms of salary. Still, that didn’t stop Lou from going into the bank and requesting that one hundred thousand dollars be transferred to Melinda Baker’s personal account. Or doing it again, one week later, when Melinda transferred the money back.
‘Testing, testing.’
The microphone squawked and Aimee recoiled. Growth opportunity, she reminded herself.
‘Hello,’ she said, heart thumping. ‘Thank you all for being here on such a big day for Verratti Wines.’ Beside her, Nick gave a small nod: Go on. ‘Today we’re opening our cellar door, a passion project of my husband’s that he’s finally managed to talk me into.’ Soft laughter from those in the know. ‘Eleven till three, six days a week, we’ll be open for tastings, coffee and light lunches. And don’t be scared, but I will be the one in the kitchen.’
Counter food, not à la carte. Only a dozen tables. For tour groups, they’d get in a chef. There’d been a number of compromises, on both sides.
‘You’ve really got to stop sending the money back,’ Melinda said quietly. ‘The bank thinks I’m involved in something dodgy.’
Lou gave a small snort. ‘I can’t keep it,’ she said. ‘You’re not the one who owes me. It’s not fair.’
‘I thought you’d say that.’ Melinda kept her voice low as Aimee began to talk them through the war exhibits the cellar door would display. ‘Which is why the Baker family would like to set up a trust for Tansy and her baby. With you and me as the trustees. The whole Baker family will contribute, by the way. Which I think is entirely fair.’
‘We’d also like to give you a sneak peek at our new labels.’ Aimee’s voice shook slightly as she took the bottle Nick handed her. ‘This is the Verratti prosecco, which this year will be sold for charity, with a hundred per cent of the profits going to the Lincoln Kasprowicz memorial fund for training new pilots.’
All the profits? Nick had asked. What about just a percentage?
All, Aimee had insisted. Compromises, on both sides.
‘Do you think we got off too lightly?’ Lou asked quietly as they admired the renovations. ‘I feel like we slipped through the net a bit. I feel like we didn’t really pay.’
Lou had spent the week following the inquiry waiting for a phone call or a knock on the door. But there was only silence, broken occasionally by Tansy bolting for the loo. A sign of a healthy pregnancy, according to their nice new doctor at Queen Margaret’s.
‘Oh, everyone’s paid,’ said Melinda. ‘One way or another.’
Pete tipped his face towards the sun, waiting for everyone to finish looking round the new cellar door. There were more people here than there’d been at the funeral, but they’d kept that deliberately small in the end. Just close friends and family. ‘Been enough of a circus already,’ Arthur suggested, and Pete agreed. The ceremony had been cathartic but it was still hard, listening to people enjoying themselves, making plans. Moving on. Aimee’s kids, excited about going back to school. Lou off to New Zealand with Tansy and her wrongful dismissal payout to meet this long-lost brother.
‘Finally getting out of Hensley,’ Lou had joked. But she’d be back in a fortnight, and Pete was having them round to dinner before they left. Tansy wanted to make an announcement. Not another memorial, hopefully. Pete wasn’t sure his emotions could take it.
Melinda watched as Aimee popped the cork on a bottle of prosecco and let it fizz over the entrance to the cellar door. Everything had changed and yet nothing had changed. Aimee and her family clustering together as the local newspaper took photos — a little warier than before, maybe not standing quite as close, but a unit nonetheless. Lou and Pete gossiping with Sharna, an unexpected threesome. And Melinda, alone as always. Well, not exactly alone.
‘Drink?’ a waiter asked, brandishing a glass.
Melinda wrapped a protective arm around her stomach. ‘Not for us,’ she said.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As Lou would say, this isn’t the Oscars — but there are a number of people I need to thank.
Firstly, my agent, Vicki Marsdon, without whose encouragement, belief and occasional hand-holding there wouldn’t be a book at all.
Thank you to everyone at HarperCollins Australia and William Morrow in the US who took a chance on Not Bad People when it was only a few chapters old. A special thank you to Catherine Milne for all her insightful advice a
nd support while I was writing, and to Carrie Feron for her enthusiasm. I’m also extremely grateful to the many talented people inside those publishing houses — copy editors, designers, publicists, sales — who’ve done so much to get this book on the shelf, especially Scott Forbes.
Outside the publishing world, so many people have been amazingly generous with their time and knowledge.
Thanks to Nick Humphrey for his legal expertise, and to my pilots Andrew MacKenzie, Nathan Muller, Russell Jenkins, Robert Ball, Charlie McQuillen and Lynne and Paul Napier. While I have at points wilfully ignored their advice for the sake of plot and characterisation, it’s all hugely appreciated. It goes without saying that any mistakes are mine alone. More on that below!
Thank you to Dr Stephanie Kerr for patiently answering a million medical questions; Dr Jacques Kobersy; Nurse Emma Hedges; the Victorian Law Reform Commission; Josh Collard at the ASX; the helpful folk at CASA for giving me my own plane registration number; Morgan Lonergan for steering me right on superyachts; the talented Ebony Lamb of Eb & Sparrow for allowing me to borrow a line from one of her songs; and Dr David Lee for advising me on what might be going on in Aimee’s head. Again, all errors are mine.
As part of the research for this novel, I spent a thoroughly enjoyable month driving around country Victoria hanging out at wineries. (Top tip: always set a book somewhere with great food and drink.) Thank you to all the winemakers who so patiently answered my questions: Julian and Adam Castagna of Castagna Vineyard; Barry and Jan Morey at Sorrenberg; Ben Clifton at Amulet Wines; Daniel Balzer at Willem Kurt Wines; the team at Morrison’s Winery (Moama); and the lovely Deborah at Munari Wines, who didn’t know it but gave me Aimee’s sheep. Also Praew Jitjuajun and the team at Ford who kindly provided the wheels for my road trip.
Thank you to my first readers and sounding boards — Fionna Cumming, Jennifer Boddicker, Bron Colgan, Sonia Kerrigan and Craig Gamble — who must all be completely sick of this book by now. Special mention must go to the real Sharna, Sharna Benton, who spent a year answering ridiculous questions about speedcamera positions in country Victoria.
Despite all this fantastic expertise, there are things in this book that are not true to life. I’ve taken a number of liberties, especially with the roles and procedures of the police and the ATSB, in order to keep the timeline and number of characters tight. I’ve also made them quite unprofessional in places — sharing confidential reports! Interviewing traumatised people in hospital! — which I hope casts no shade on their organisations. It’s certainly not intended to. This is fiction, and a book about people behaving themselves — Very Good People — would be dull indeed.
On a personal note, I have to also thank my employers and cohosts for being so tolerant over the past year while my head has been in this book; the International Institute of Modern Letters for such a good grounding on the how-to-write-a-novel front; and my whole family — mum, dad, sister, brother-in-law, stepmother — for the pep talks and unflagging support. I can’t overstate how much I appreciate my parents making books such a big part of my life. I can’t order a pizza without opening the front door to check what number I live at, but I still remember my childhood library card number. On that note, a big shout-out to all the amazing library spaces, from Echuca to Bendigo, that this book was written in. Libraries rock.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BRANDY SCOTT is a radio journalist based in Dubai, where she hosts a news and interview show, The Business Breakfast. Her twenty-year career as a journalist has seen her work across radio, newspapers and magazines in several countries. Not Bad People is her first novel.
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, events, business establishments or localities is entirely coincidental, and where an organisation name is used all events depicted are entirely fictional.
HarperCollinsPublishers
First published in Australia in 2019
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited
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Copyright © Brandy Scott 2019
The right of Brandy Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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