by Vicki Tyley
“Shit!” He flung it to one side and kicked at the pile of rust and steel, dislodging a pair of heavily corroded hedge clippers. The remaining clutter was in no better condition. Odds were that any one of the neglected tools would give before the door ever would.
With his frustration growing, he turned and faced the doorway. To the door’s left, past the stack of garden stakes, was a set of grey painted, steel shelves laden with dust-covered paint cans and other home improvement paraphernalia. To the right, an old push-mower leaned against the wall along with a roll of fencing mesh. It wasn’t until he was about to concede defeat that he actually thought to look up. A nail stuck out at an obtuse angle from the timber doorframe’s upper-left side. Edging closer to the frame, he peered up at the nail. A small metal ring looped through two bronze-colored keys hung from the makeshift hook.
Greg felt a glimmer of hope that fizzled just as fast. It was illogical to expect that one of a pair of old keys hanging in the shed would fit the back door. Nevertheless, he reached up and unhooked the keys. No harm in trying and if, by some extraordinary stroke of luck, one of them unlocked the door he wouldn’t have to resort to brute strength. And more importantly, the door would remain intact. Greg was more than aware of the countless hours Sam had spent sanding and oiling that door and knew she would be hard pressed to forgive him if he damaged it.
Leaving the shed door open, he returned to the house. He studied the two keys. They looked similar, nothing really distinguishable to tell them apart. He inserted the first key into the lock, holding his breath as it slid all the way to the hilt. Exerting a slight pressure, he tried to turn the key clockwise. It didn’t budge.
The next key slid in just as easily. When the key actually turned in the lock, he could barely believe it. He opened the door with a gentle push.
“Sam? Are you there?” Even though he didn’t expect a reply, courtesy dictated that he call out before entering.
He removed his shoes and stepped over the doorsill onto the kitchen’s polished timber floorboards – more of Sam’s hard work. The kitchen, like many of its era, was spacious, high ceilinged and quite separate from the living areas. Whilst Greg preferred the open-planned dynamics of more modern houses, he had to admit that Sam had created a real feel of home within what she called the hub of the house. Living alone, she tended to live in the kitchen. Although, he thought, that might change once the renovations on the rest of the house were completed.
He didn’t loiter in the kitchen, pausing only long enough to take in the dishes stacked in the dish-rack and the lone coffee cup sitting in the sink. Once through the kitchen, he faltered. Technically, he might not have broken into the house, but he still felt like a trespasser in his sister’s home.
Reassuring himself that he was only there out of brotherly concern, he took a deep breath and moved forward. Sam wouldn’t think twice if their positions were reversed so why should he? After all, they were family.
All rooms in the house opened off an expansive hall. Greg poked his head into what would eventually be the lounge room. The cold stale air smelled of decaying plaster. Sam hadn’t progressed any further with the wallpaper stripping since his last visit. She was probably waiting for her big brother to front up with a wallpaper steamer. It was the same story in the large front room his sister had nominated as the formal dining room.
He didn’t cross the threshold of her bedroom, instead pushing the door wide open so he could take in the whole room. The queen bed’s bedding had been thrown together in the usual Sam style, a book lay open and face down on the bedside table, and a black handbag sat on the floor beneath one of the double-hung windows. Handbag? Did that mean that wherever she was, she didn’t have her handbag with her? Experience told him a woman never left home without her handbag. But then again, some women collected handbags like he collected CDs.
A quick check of the other bedrooms didn’t shed any light on Sam’s whereabouts either. Nor did he find her slumped on the floor in the bathroom or toilet. Which in itself was good news, but where the hell was she? She couldn’t have possibly forgotten her plans to spend the weekend with her mother, could she? Maybe it was the other way round, and their mother had the wrong weekend. He shook his head; he didn’t know what to think anymore.
In desperate need of a caffeine hit, Greg headed for the kitchen. Although Sam might be miffed at having what she would probably call her interfering brother let himself into her house, he knew that once there she’d expect him to make himself at home.
At the sink, he filled the aluminum and stainless steel espresso maker’s bottom half with water. With the coffee grounds added, he screwed on the top and set it on the element.
While waiting for the coffeepot to bubble and hiss, he wandered around the kitchen, hands in pockets. He breathed a little easier knowing that at least his sister wasn’t lying unconscious — or worse — on the floor.
The fridge with all its magnets, bits of paper and photos beckoned. He wondered if Sam realized that her power bill was past due. The date on the bill stood out in bold numerals, but he guessed if you were looking at it every day for a week or more it would soon become insignificant. A photocopy of a duty-roster told him Sam wasn’t due back at work until Wednesday, reinforcing his notion that there really was nothing to worry about. His sister was just making use of the extra long weekend. Who wouldn’t?
Working his way down the fridge door, Greg came to a glossy brochure for Dinner for Twelve. His hands came out of his pockets, his initial sense of unease returning.
CHAPTER 4
Megan emerged bleary eyed from her bedroom, her thought processes not fully functional as she lurched blindly towards the terrace house’s security doorphone.
“Yeah, what?”
“Room service. Wakey, wakey,” responded a sickeningly cheerful voice through the intercom.
Megan was not a good morning person at the best of times and being rudely awakened at daybreak on a Sunday morning didn’t help matters any. “Oh God. Brenda, do you have any idea what time it is?”
“I sure do. It’s nearly eleven o’clock.” Brenda paused, her voice dropping an octave. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Eleven o’clock?” Megan screwed up her eyes, opened them again and peered into the kitchen, trying to focus on the wall-oven’s clock. “You can’t be serious?”
“Deadly. Are you going to let me in or not?”
“Aw, sorry.” Megan pressed the door release button and immediately heard the distinctive clatter of Brenda’s heels on the downstairs slate-tiled entrance. Yawning, Megan straightened her robe, pulling the tie tighter as she waited to greet her friend.
Brenda soon appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in a tailored navy blue suit, her leather holdall slung over one shoulder and a shallow cut-off box balanced precariously in her palms. She smelled clean and fresh, the faint scent of toothpaste lingering. As usual, her hair and makeup were immaculate. Megan patted her own hair. Although Brenda had made no comment, it suddenly occurred to her what she must look like. Sleep-tousled hair and puffy, bloodshot slits for eyes did not make for a good look.
Megan closed her eyes for a moment, praying for the infernal pounding in her head to let up just a fraction. At the age of thirty-two, she ought to have learnt the penalties for overindulging in alcohol. And even more so on an empty stomach. Maybe she was a slow learner, but it’d been a long time since she’d experienced a hangover of this magnitude. Never again.
She smelled coffee and opened her eyes. Brenda was busying herself in the kitchen. Cupboard doors opened and closed. Megan leaned against the countertop, watching as Brenda removed the plastic lid from the second foam cup and decanted its contents into a ceramic mug.
Accepting the proffered cup, Megan inhaled the coffee aroma before taking her first tentative sip of the still steaming creamy latte. She licked her lips. “You know I’m capable of making coffee, right?”
“In your state? And besides George’s coffee is worth d
ying for.”
Megan started to nod her head, but the resulting stabbing pain quickly curtailed the movement. It was all she could do to carry her mug over to the massive solid-oak kitchen table she’d inherited from her grandmother. Pulling out one of the hefty chairs was almost more than she could manage. She sank gratefully down onto the chair, propped her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands, blocking out the light. The chill in her bloodless fingers soothed her fevered forehead.
“Here, get this into you.”
Oh God, it was that cheery voice again. Megan squinted through spread fingers at the tray Brenda had placed on the table. On one plate were wedges of fresh rockmelon and on the other a toasted sandwich of some description. A glass of water and two white tablets sat between the plates.
“Thanks, Mum,” Megan mumbled as she popped the two Panadol into her mouth, washing them down with a gulp of water.
“Someone has to look after you. You’re not doing a very good job of it yourself.” Brenda slipped off her suit jacket, hanging it on the back of one of the other chairs before joining Megan at the table.
In between mouthfuls of rockmelon and latte, Megan apologized to her friend for leaving her in the lurch the night before. “There was no way I could’ve remained in the same room, let alone the same table as Mr Ginger Moustache—”
“Robert.”
“What?”
“Robert. His name is Robert.”
“Whatever.” Megan had endured her fair share of oglers in the past, but there was something about the guy that made her feel distinctly uncomfortable. Something she hadn’t yet been able to put her finger on. “Did you see the way…”
The corners of Brenda’s mouth twitched, her caring look morphing into one of amusement.
“I’m glad someone is enjoying this,” Megan said.
“C’mon, laugh. It really is rather comical, you know. Think of it as another of life’s adventures.”
Megan gave half a laugh and stopped. “Laughing hurts.” The painkillers and breakfast had helped, but any sudden movement was still out of the question. “How come I ended up like this and you look like you’ve just spent a month at a health farm?”
Brenda tapped the side of her nose and chuckled. “I stopped drinking early on in the night. I knew I didn’t have the luxury of a long sleep-in today, so I was extra careful.”
It wasn’t until then that the reason why Brenda would be wearing a suit registered with Megan. Brenda’s job as a real estate agent meant more often than not, she had two or more homes scheduled to be open for inspection on a Sunday. She, on the other hand, with her job as a recruitment consultant for PTS Personnel, worked comparatively sane hours.
Brenda set her mug of half-drunk coffee down on the table. She settled back into her chair, a smug smile spreading across her face. “C’mon, ask me.”
“Ask you what?”
“What I found out last night.”
“Okay, what’s the goss?” Megan asked, playing along. “What little scandal have you managed to uncover now?” Her friend reveled in gossip, the juicier the better, but of course, there was no pleasure in it unless she could share it.
Brenda needed no further prompting. “Our dating-for-the-desperate proprietor is a widow. Her husband was killed in a car accident early in their marriage. She never remarried. Still too much in love with her husband, so she says. Started the agency because she wanted to give other people the opportunity to experience real love for themselves. Apparently.”
By this stage, Megan was starting to think she should be hearing violins. It all sounded like something you’d read in a cheap romance novel. “And why did she tell you all this?”
“I asked. How else would I find out these things?”
“You’re not just winding me up are you?” Brenda was a natural born prankster, so fairy tales were right up her alley.
Brenda’s eyes widened. “Me? Would I do that? Never. Seriously though, that’s exactly what she told me.”
“Okay, so where does Lawson fit into the equation?”
“That’s still a bit of a mystery. As far as I can work out from the little I managed to wheedle out of him, Lawson’s been going to those functions on and off for quite some time. From what I can gather, he has no problem attracting the opposite sex. It’s keeping them that’s the issue. And it’s not him doing the dumping either.”
Megan cocked an eyebrow. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“Yep. There’s something wrong with those women.”
“Forever the optimist, aren’t you?”
It was more a statement than a question, but Brenda answered anyway. “That’s me, but,” she paused as she groped in the pocket of her suit jacket hanging on the chair beside her, “I’m also a realist.” Brenda waved the silver-colored card she’d extracted from the pocket under Megan’s nose.
Megan plucked the card from Brenda’s fingers. She was surprised to see it was Lawson’s business card. According to the card, Lawson Green was a systems programmer for Frey Technology. It even listed his after hours number. “Unbelievable. When did he slip you this? What, with Linda all over him on one side and Pauline on the other mothering him, I wouldn’t have thought the poor bugger would’ve had the opportunity.”
“Ah hah, you forget there was one small window,” Brenda said, drawing a box in the air with her index fingers, “when we came back from the ladies just before they served the first course.”
That one small window, as Brenda referred to it, had been evidently enough time for an exchange of business cards, if nothing else. Then there was the thorny matter of the competition. “I hate to burst your bubble, but what about Linda? She and Lawson looked pretty tight from where I sat.”
A slight frown creased Brenda’s brow. “Yeah, but I’m a patient girl. I don’t really think they’re a match made in heaven, do you?”
“You? Patient? Now you are being funny.” Patient was not a word Megan would’ve ever used to describe the impulsive Brenda De Luca. Everything in Brenda’s life had to happen instantly and if it didn’t, she drove herself and everyone around her crazy trying to make it happen.
“How about I rephrase that and say: all’s fair in love and war.”
“Now that’s more like the Brenda I know.” Megan chuckled as she returned Lawson’s business card to Brenda’s outstretched hand. “Any other cards?”
“I don’t collect them, you know.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Megan winced. Even raising an eyebrow was too much in her state.
Brenda smirked. “What about you? Don’t pretend that cute guy with the glasses I saw you talking to wasn’t interested.”
“Who knows? Mr Hotshot Property Entrepreneur came back before Nick and I even had a chance to talk.”
“Nick, eh?” Her friend’s eyes gleamed. “Not Mr Square Eyes or Mr—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Well, he obviously took your disappearance as a brush off. Can’t say I blame him?”
“Why?”
“Blame him?”
Megan flapped her hand. “No, no, the bit before that. What happened after I left?”
“Oh, not much. Since you were gone, I guess he thought he’d try his luck elsewhere.”
“Let me guess – you?”
“Nice guy but not my type.” Brenda sipped her coffee. “Don’t worry, I let him down gently.”
“Then?”
“Then he tried chatting up that Linda wench. She didn’t give him the time of day either. A shame really, because that would’ve killed off two birds with one stone. So to speak.”
“I’d call that wishful thinking.” Megan picked at the edge of her toasted sandwich. “From what I saw, Mata Hari isn’t about to let go of Lawson without a fight.”
“Bring it on.” Brenda’s face perked up as if she’d suddenly remembered something.
A quick glance at her watch and she was off again. “You weren’t the only one to sneak off without saying goodby
e. Silly me just assumed he’d gone to the men’s. But you should’ve seen Pauline when she couldn’t find Lawson. Talk about frantic. I think she checked every centimeter of that place, inside and out.”
“Why didn’t she just phone his mobile?”
“Like I phoned yours?”
“You did?”
Brenda folded her arms. “Of course.”
Unable to summon the energy to get up and check her phone, Megan took her word for it, before remembering that she’d switched her phone to silent soon after arriving at the function the night before.
“Forget that.” Brenda dropped her arms and leaned in close to Megan. “I was just getting to the best part. When Pauline realized Linda had also gone, she went ballistic, ranting and raving about God knows what – I certainly didn’t. She was one pissed off lady, but what could she do about it? Ground them?” Brenda glanced at her watch. “Oh shit, I’m going to be late.”
After Brenda had taken off, Megan remained seated at the table, breathing in the silence. She closed her eyes, her fingers running over the timber tabletop, feeling the dents and bumps of decades of use, as she cast her mind back to the previous night. It was like watching a video with whole series of frames missing. She remembered snippets of conversation, but that was all. Her heart really hadn’t been in it.
Megan had long resigned herself to being single. Her history with men had seen to that. Every man she’d ever been involved with had walked all over her, to such an extent she thought she must have doormat tattooed on her forehead. If that was what being in a relationship was all about then forget it.
CHAPTER 5
Wednesday morning, Greg woke tetchy and far from rested. With still no word from Sam, his mind had been working in overdrive, conjuring up all sorts of explanations for why his sister was being so irresponsible. It had to be that. The alternatives didn’t bear thinking about. Anyway, she was due back at work today and he had a few choice words to deliver her way.