Friends Like These

by Wendy Harmer

  And then he hung up, leaving Jo standing panic-stricken with mobile in hand. What had she been thinking? Of course she would have had to face him sometime. But the prospect of explaining herself to Michael Brigden—former champion cricketer, keen yachtsman, managing director of Brigden’s, Sydney’s most venerable auction house, and, more importantly, Didi’s husband—made her feel ill.

  ‘I have to go out.’ She dropped her phone and knocked over a coffee cup.

  ‘Mum! Careful!’ Tory admonished. ‘Simon, get a cloth.’

  And at the sight of a man rummaging in her cupboards again, Jo stumbled to the bathroom.

  ‘Oooh! Michael Brigden! He’s just a bit gorgeous!’ Suze swooned. ‘Although I hope you’re meeting him somewhere private. Didi’s got spies everywhere in this town.’

  ‘Hardly! He’s asked me to meet him here in the bar in the Four Seasons.’

  Jo was whispering into her mobile. She couldn’t abide people sitting in public places and yammering into their phones while everyone within hearing range was ear-bashed by their tedious half-a-logues. She already knew that the businessman by the bar was attending a steel piping conference in Bundaberg next week and the one in the chair behind her was lying that he was stuck at the airport in Melbourne and might not make it home for dinner.

  ‘Bugger me, Jo! Could it be more public? But then again, that’s probably good. If you were seen somewhere intimate with him, it would be worse.’

  ‘Thanks, Suze! You’re being no help here. I just wanted to know if you knew anything else. I can remember Michael Brigden at the odd parent thingo with Didi, but he pretty much stayed in the background.’

  ‘Everyone’s in the background when they’re out with Didi. Honestly, imagine being married to her! Bet you he only gets sex on Good Fridays. That’d be the only night of the year she’s not out kissing someone else’s arse.’

  ‘Yes, yes, very amusing,’ Jo snapped. ‘But do you know anything else? Can you remember whether he’s particularly religious, or...?’ Jo didn’t know what she was asking.

  ‘What can I tell you? I know he adores Gemma. They’ve got two older boys, but she’s their only daughter, so I can’t imagine he’ll be all that pleased with you. I do know that he’s generous with his money. He made a lot of donations to the college—all anonymously, but I knew it was him. Doesn’t give many press interviews. Bit of an enigma, really. He always remembered my name when he came into the office. What he’s doing with a prize tart like Didi is an international mystery.’

  ‘Yes, well I might be able to solve that particular mystery in a moment when—’ Jo was inspecting her snakeskin slingbacks as a pair of highly polished black brogues came into view. ‘Bye bye, thanks for calling,’ she sang, and threw the phone into her handbag. Looking up from her armchair, Jo followed a long pair of legs to a trim waist and saw the somewhat amused face of Mr Michael Brigden looking down at her.

  ‘A mystery, Mrs Blanchard? Sounds like you’re fond of secrets. Are you marrying people these days as part of some romantic underground resistance movement?’

  Jo was moving her lips, but wasn’t capable of forming an actual word.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink? They make a fairly decent martini here and I could certainly do with one.’

  Jo nodded and he headed for the bar, giving her an opportunity to compose herself. She tucked her curls back and brushed a few of Calpurnia’s stray hairs from her cream linen skirt, adjusted her pistachio cashmere cardigan around her shoulders. She hadn’t worn much jewellery—no point in trying to compete with Didi’s dazzling finery—but added some antique gold chain necklaces and filigree drop earrings. She hoped she presented the very model of a modern marriage celebrant.

  Order restored, Jo could now sneak an appraisal of Michael Brigden. He was wearing the usual uniform of the city executive—she had laid out exactly the same battle dress for her husband year after year—but Michael Brigden didn’t wear his clothes in the same way JJ did. While for JJ the saying ‘clothes maketh the man’ was undeniably true, Michael Brigden looked like he was being held hostage by his and was desperate to escape. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up and his tie was loose. Jo entertained a fleeting image of him dressed in cricketing whites with the scarlet of the ball rubbed off in a pink blossom near his crotch. At that moment he turned and gave her a smile, and Jo could feel the warmth from it radiate right across the room to where she sat. A hot flush crept up her neck. What Suze had said was true. He was ‘just a bit gorgeous’. Thick salt-and-pepper hair grazed his collar. He had preserved his athletic physique and was lounging on a bar stool with the relaxed entitlement and confidence of a successful man. It was very appealing...Sexy, even. Jo was horrified to find herself thinking this way. Then he was back with the drinks.

  ‘So, as I said, are you planning to spirit my one-and-only daughter away to Switzerland, Mrs Blanchard?’ He handed over the frosty glass with a bemused expression.

  ‘Please, call me Jo.’ Her hand went automatically to her hair.

  ‘And I’m Michael.’ He sank back deep in the armchair, stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles with an ease that was disconcerting. Jo was still perching on the edge of her chair like a twitchy hen.

  ‘I’ll tell you frankly—I was sorry to see you leave Darling Point, Jo.’ He was looking directly at her with deep-blue, unblinking eyes and his frank appraisal did nothing to ease Jo’s nerves.

  ‘Your enthusiasm, dedication and way with the girls are sadly missed. I hope you won’t mind me saying that I think the time is well past for Patsy Kelly. She’s from another era, sadly, although she’s made a great contribution.’ It was a managing director’s speech. Jo could see him standing at one end of a board table, smiling graciously, as various heads were bloodily decapitated and went bouncing down the stairs.

  ‘Yes, well, I—’

  ‘And I also hope you don’t mind me saying that your “farewell speech” was one of the most gutsy performances I’ve ever heard of.’ He grinned and leaned forward here and offered his glass for a conspiratorial clink.

  Jo blushed to the roots of her hair. She clinked back.

  ‘I’ve dined out on the story, I’m ashamed to say. Which means I probably owe you dinner. So why don’t you let me repay the debt? We can talk at length then. I needed an excuse to get me out of this function, so I’ll just make a few calls.’

  And that’s how Jo found herself in the dimly lit back booth of a little Japanese restaurant in The Rocks with Michael (husband of Didi, best friend of Carol Bloody Holt) Brigden.

  ‘So the bride and groom take three sips each from the three sake cups. First is the small cup which represents their ancestors. They give thanks for their protection and nurturing and how they were brought together. The second cup is medium-sized, for their life as a couple and their promise to live and work together. With the third and largest cup they pray their lives will include children and embrace the world.’ Throughout this speech, Jo had demonstrated by taking a sip each time from her own sake cup—nine in all.

  ‘Well, that’s—’ Michael began.

  Jo held up her hand. ‘And it’s all done in sacred silence. The act requires reverence and devotion.’ Jo finally set down her empty cup and Michael poured more sake.

  ‘There’s also this little verse they have on the wedding invitations, which I love: The Bride and Groom, Sip about one dewdrop, Of the butterfly wine. Isn’t that wonderful?’

  ‘Yes it is. It’s charming.’ Michael nodded as he yanked his tie from his neck and crammed it into the pocket of his jacket, which was collapsed on the chair beside him. ‘You obviously love your work,’ he added.

  Jo was struck by that comment. It was the first time anyone she knew had thought, including her, that being a celebrant might be ‘work’. A proper job.

  ‘I do,’ she exclaimed. ‘I really do! There are all these beautiful marriage rituals. The Buddhists exchange white scarves; the Sikhs tie the couple together with saffron scarve
s; the Jews smash a glass; the Christians break bread; the Zoroastrians do this extraordinary thing with the elements and use rice, rose petals, rose water, sandalwood, coconut and fire—’

  ‘The Zaro...who?’ Michael was leaning across the table to catch the sparks of Jo’s enthusiasm.

  ‘And that’s just the religions! When you get down to all the world’s cultures, there are thousands upon thousands of symbols, precious objects, poems, music. You can invest anything with meaning, of course, but it all comes down to the celebration of one thing...’

  ‘I know you’re going to say “love”.’

  ‘It’s like the Prophet Mohammed says: “When they love, the angels circle the earth.”’

  Jo couldn’t quite believe she was spouting all this to someone she had only just met. It was so refreshing to be able to say it without Patrick, Suze and Tory making her feel as if she had lost her senses. Yes, she loved her work. She was crazy enough to think that she might have found her true calling.

  ‘You say Gemma and Yoshi are in love, but do you think they can make a go of this in the long term?’ Michael asked.

  It was an intimate question from a father and Jo was careful with her answer. She was already coming to the view that she was in no position to judge about love’s mysterious workings. Anyone had the right to make their own mistakes. And, as Father Patrick had pointed out, she was no priest and wasn’t representing a faith or calling on God as a witness. She was precise with her words.

  ‘I know they’re very young, by current standards, but from all those years of teaching I saw that young love can be deeply felt. I was married at twenty-three myself and that lasted...

  a long time.’ Jo ducked her head at the mention of her own marriage. She could still only regard her single status at forty-five as a failure.

  Michael gallantly came to her rescue. ‘Well, I’ve been married a long time too. Almost a quarter of a century. Although I have to stop saying that, it’s scaring the hell out of me!’ It was intended as a funny throwaway line, but there was a sharp edge to Michael’s tone that serrated the humour. He threw back his sake and gestured to the waitress for more.

  ‘Speaking of which, if Gemma is going to do this—and she only just told me today, so it’s come as something of a shock—I’ll have to convince Didi.’

  At the mention of Didi’s name, Jo looked to the door as if she might be standing there right now, loitering with intent. Jo’s fingers crept to the chair next to her and she felt for her handbag in the event she might have to make a fast exit.

  ‘So what else can you tell me about this Yoshi bloke?’

  ‘I like him. I like him enormously,’ Jo said steadily. ‘He has a Bachelor of Law from the University of Essex in England. He studied environmental law here for two years. He’s twenty-six and working with the Environmental Defender’s Office. I know he’s a good person. And I know he loves Gemma with all his heart. I saw that he’s kind to her. And I’ve always thought that kindness goes a long way in a relationship.’

  ‘Seems you know more about my daughter than I do.’ Michael shook his head and seemed to be reprimanding himself for some fatherly failing or other.

  A sweet-faced girl in a creamy kimono appeared at the table with another round of sake. Jo looked about and saw that there were only a few tables still occupied. Her watch read 9.30 p.m.

  Michael poured from the steaming bottle and Jo caught herself admiring his strong forearm and steady hand. His face was weathered, no doubt from many hours spent on the decks of yachts, but the lines had composed themselves in an attractive way that told Jo he had spent a lot of his life laughing. She guessed Michael was in his early to mid-fifties, but he radiated the energy of a man much younger.

  He pushed Jo to talk, devoured everything she offered and seemed greedy for more information. He was listening to her. Really listening. Although Jo thought she had probably been talking about herself for longer than was decent.

  ‘So, tell me about Brigden’s,’ she said. ‘From what I’ve heard it has an amazing history.’ She wanted him to keep speaking. She wanted to sit like this for hours, the hot sake turning her arms and legs pleasurably numb, just listening to the mellow, soothing cadence of his voice. He seemed pleased for the question and equally keen to linger.

  ‘Mr James E. Brigden—my great-great-grandfather—started out here in 1870 when Sydney was just a market town. He set himself up on the wharf, just down the street, and auctioned everything from chests of tea and bales of wool to sailing ships. There’s no item too big or too small to be auctioned by Brigden’s. We’ve done the lot. Art collections, houses, wine, furniture, jewellery, boxes of bananas.’

  ‘Just one family? All those years? What a wonderful tradition. There can’t be too many companies that can boast that.’

  ‘True. It is something to boast about. Been in the one family for generations. I got hooked on the excitement of the auction room when I was just a kid and still love it. It’s all there—drama, tragedy, ambition. People’s entire lives and family history played out through their possessions. Some auctions are pure theatre.’

  ‘I’ve never thought of it like that,’ Jo said.

  ‘I’ve seen wives and children in the front row, sobbing as they watch their grandmother’s engagement ring or their grandfather’s war medals sold off. Often because of the stupid ambition and ego of some arrogant...’ Michael stopped here as if the sentence he had been about to utter might be defamatory, which was odd, Jo thought, since his wife’s stock and trade was gossip and slander.

  ‘Do you have anything interesting coming up?’ she asked, to change the subject.

  ‘As a matter of fact we’ve just produced a five-hundred-page catalogue of rare antiques and artworks. Brilliant collection of English eighteenth- and nineteenth-century silver, furniture, clocks and paintings. It’s a shame to see it broken up. It took half a century and a king’s ransom to acquire, but it has to be sold to raise the dough for a hundred-million-dollar divorce settlement. The old boy’s devastated.’

  Jo nodded, reminded of her own looming negotiations. Thankfully she and JJ wouldn’t be squaring off over clocks and cutlery. She’d already taken what she valued from Parklea and JJ’s treasures were mostly sporting memorabilia. Rugby jumpers, balls and cricket bats in ugly frames. A hundred million dollars? The sum was astonishing.

  Michael was encouraged by Jo’s interest to continue. ‘It’s not as genteel as you might think. It can get really ugly. In this instance, you should have seen the fracas when trucks arrived at the valuer’s in Queen Street to try and get his stuff back from the receivers. Six blokes who looked like they’d come from rent-a-thug just walked into the premises and started carting these huge

  George III red-cedar display cabinets across the footpath. The wife turned up, the cops arrived. I thought I was going to get bashed! Me, a humble auctioneer, in the middle of a street brawl!’ He raised his fists, playfully parried and thrust, for Jo’s amusement.

  ‘The bidders are flying in from New York, London and Moscow, and the locals are fired up at the prospect of a bargain. There’ll be a feeding frenzy.’ Then he paused, adopted a more reflective tone. ‘I feel sorry for him. It’s sad when their lives come apart, even if their ivory towers are built on sand.’

  ‘But there must be joy too,’ said Jo.

  ‘There is.’ He brightened. ‘Every day is fascinating. Full of promise. I’ve turned up a few treasures that mean people will live in comfort for the rest of their lives. But I’m still searching for the Holy Grail. That long-lost Arthur Streeton I discover in a garden shed that’ll make me famous.’ He flashed a winning smile. ‘In the meantime, I’ve got the catalogue with me—can I interest you in a stuffed rhinoceros head for thirty bucks?’

  Jo laughed. ‘No thanks. Do you have much fine art for sale?’

  ‘A warehouse full! Some lovely things. Come and see sometime.’

  Jo imagined the two of them, hand in hand, gazing at her favourite Streeton pain
tings—Still Glides the Stream and Shall Forever Glide or Purple Noon’s Transparent Might—when Michael’s phone vibrated and he lunged for the device, switched it off and dropped it on the seat beside him. Jo’s romantic idyll in the art gallery came to an abrupt end. That would be Didi, looking for her husband. Dee-dee. The staccato double Ds reverberated in her head.

  ‘I think I’d better be going,’ she said.

  Michael held up his cup for another toast. ‘Kanpai!’

  Jo responded with one more guilty clink. It was the second toast for the evening and this time she thought it was perhaps the making of a pact.

  ‘I’d better meet this Yoshi then, hadn’t I? Dinner? The four of us? I’ve got a cocktail party at the Opera House before the auction on Monday, but after that—maybe sometime next week?’

  Michael leaned across the table and this time, if she wasn’t mistaken, Jo found herself the subject of an openly admiring gaze. She squirmed in her seat and lowered her eyes. Her entire body was suffused with a sensation that was unmistakably erotic—and she hadn’t experienced that for a long, long time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  That night Jo couldn’t sleep. The sake had done its work and she was up at 2 a.m. hunting out headache tablets. She plopped them into a glass and swished the contents. She had been lying awake and thinking about sex. Or, more specifically, about sex with Michael Brigden. Drifting off earlier, a torrid dream of strong hands on her bare breasts and knees parting her naked thighs had woken her on the brink of orgasm. That had caught her by surprise. She hadn’t dreamed anything so graphic for...well, longer than she could recall.

  Sex had been such a cheap commodity at Darling Point. In Friday-afternoon art classes Jo had watched innocent bubbles of girlish longing surface and burst with a fecund, febrile intensity. The girls were often glassy-eyed with erotic imaginings of the coming weekend and Jo had come to understand that these X-rated fantasies were the exclusive playground of young minds and nubile bodies. God knows, they told her so often enough.