‘Ah yes, Andrew,’ Martin Morse said when Andy entered. ‘Thank you for coming along.’
Andy wanted to quip that he hadn’t realised it was optional, and now that he knew it was, was it all right with them if he RSVP’d no? Instead he cleared his throat, patted down his suit and said, ‘Of course.’
‘Take a seat.’ Morse indicated the chair at the southern end of the table.
Andy sat up straight, suddenly very aware of his posture.
‘Now, Andrew.’ Harris’s mouth was downturned. He lifted the top page of a document in front of him as he delivered a monologue he’d already given a dozen times that day. Blah-blah-blah economic pressure blah-blah-blah changing marketplace blah-blah-blah dynamism. Andy knew this was foreplay. ‘The upshot is we’re streamlining. Trimming the fat and ensuring we only have the leanest, the best team,’ Harris finished.
Andy instinctively sucked in his stomach. Was he fat? He hadn’t taken to the private sector as naturally as he had criminal prosecutions. In the public service his natural sense of justice had proved a trustworthy compass. After leaving, he’d discovered the good ship private enterprise set its course by a different set of coordinates. Here he felt like a featherweight.
He contemplated this as he stared at the partners, all well-fed and richly dressed. Shirts and shoes from the top end of Collins Street. Their impeccable taste suddenly seemed crass. And yet, Andy’s breath caught in his throat as he recalled his last six months in the quagmire of rape and murder in the office of public prosecutions. He couldn’t go back to criminal work.
He flicked his eyes skyward and sent up a quick prayer.
When each of the Colbrook children was born, John Colbrook had taken a portion of his inheritance and had it held in trust for them. Paul had sprinkled his into various investments — some fruitful, some not — and bought a home in Kew for his family. Juliet’s was funding her European jaunt, but Andy’s was untouched. He’d sooner starve than draw down on the trust fund.
Morse leaned forward in his chair. ‘In times gone by, we’ve been able to afford to have people who devote themselves to single tasks. Workers who were, say, not great at some things, but were kept on because they excelled at others. That time is over.’
‘Do you understand what we’re saying?’ Harris asked.
‘Efficiency.’ Andy nodded, conducting a quick mental audit of his skills.
‘We’re glad you understand,’ Harris said, his face grave. Deep furrows were etched in his brow.
Here it comes, Andy thought. Already he was mentally putting in calls to old uni chums and blokes he rowed or swam with. He’d invite them out for a Scotch, top-shelf stuff in a wood-panelled bar, then on the third drink ask if they had any good leads on jobs.
‘We know you’re fastidious,’ said Morse. ‘And you have a good sense of what a business like this needs.’
The kiss before the blow.
‘That’s why we’d like to make you an associate director.’
Andy had already begun his accepting nod when he realised what was being said. His head snapped up. ‘What?’
The partners smiled in unison. ‘Congratulations.’ Harris held out his hand. ‘You’re just the sort of man we want leading the firm into the next generation.’
*
Saskia’s phone lit up. She pounced on it two notes into the ring. ‘Andy?’
‘Sas. It’s okay. I’m safe.’ He released a sigh.
‘Oh, that’s such a relief. I knew they couldn’t fire you.’
‘They’ve made me an associate director.’
‘A director?’
‘Associate.’
‘Oh. Oh, Andy that’s brilliant. After all that worry, it turns out they wanted to promote you.’
‘Yeah. Hugh was promoted too. Still, it’s a funny way to treat your new directors, making us sweat like that. I suppose it’s protocol.’
‘Those sneaky fuckers.’ She felt relieved. But not as much as she would have thought. Associate director sounded like a lot of responsibility. A lot of overtime, and a lot of responsibility.
‘How about we go somewhere nice for dinner tonight to celebrate?’ he said. ‘Countermand all the stress from the past few days.’
‘I’d like that.’ She pressed her tongue to her teeth, nervous. ‘Andy . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I didn’t want to bring this up, what with the meeting looming, but I’m going to need to stock up on silver supplies . . . Did you get around to arranging that joint bank account?’
‘Oh damn, I forgot. I’ve been so distracted. When do you need it?’
‘It’s not urgent,’ she said. ‘But sometime this week would be good.’
‘I’ll transfer some money to you right now then get into the bank during the week. Will five-hundred dollars do?’
‘That’d be perfect, thanks. I’ll see you tonight?’
She put her phone down feeling not altogether right. She hated reminding him of the money, reminding herself she was relying on him. But it was more than that. A small part of her had hoped that maybe he wouldn’t have to keep going into HM&L for late nights and weekends. She picked up her pliers and continued to thread wire through the silver moon in her hand.
*
Hank was dispensing frothy cappuccinos and bitter short blacks from behind the counter at Northern Lights, the cafe across the road from the Barton Building.
‘She’s back!’ he pronounced when Sas walked through the door for her noon coffee. ‘How was Roma?’
‘Perfecto.’
‘Look at you, speaking Italian. The usual?’
She nodded, then gestured to her ringing phone. ‘I’d better get that.’ She grinned. ‘It’s my husband. Hello?’
‘Sas, you’re not planning anything special for Wednesday night, are you?’ Andy already sounded harried.
‘No, why?’
‘There’s a fundraiser for the Law Council that I promised months ago I’d attend. I completely forgot about it. Now I’ve got this promotion I really have to go and, you know, press the flesh.’
‘Mmm, flesh pressing. That sounds like it could be fun. What kind of fundraiser?’
‘It’s for cerebral palsy. That friend of yours from Australian Idol is going to perform.’
‘Matthew Nash? Is that supposed to be an enticement?’
‘Consider it fair warning.’
‘What do I wear to this thing? Is it fancy?’
‘Just one of your nice dresses will do. Maybe something black.’
‘Are you worried my colourful outfits are too garish?’
‘God, not at all. You should see what some of the older women wear. The president of the magistrates’ court turned up with peacock feathers in her hair last year. I should introduce you to her actually, she’s quite into fashion. You’d like her.’
‘Sounds like I would.’
‘When I worked as a prosecutor she’d always ask people what they were wearing. “Counsellor,” she’d say, “where did you get that jacket? I like the lapels.” Remind me to point her out. Oh, and Sas?’
‘Yes?’
‘If we’re going to have a late night on Wednesday, I’ll have to take a raincheck on dinner tonight.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s just there’s so much to do in the new role, and with all of the staff losses there’s a lot of restructuring going on.’
‘Oh, okay. So you’ll be late tonight?’
‘’Fraid so. But Sas, I put the money in your account.’
‘Oh, thank you.’
‘I’ll see you later tonight. Love you.’
‘I love you too.’
Saskia drank a coffee while catching up with Hank, then ordered a take-away to get her through the afternoon. Once back in her studio, she put the paper cup on her drawing table and kicked off her shoes. She climbed up onto her old vinyl bar stool and tucked her feet underneath like a stork nesting in a chimney. She liked to sit this way when designing.
She op
ened her handbag and turned it upside down. Out fluttered napkins and brochures she’d accrued in Rome — anything she could get her hands on — filled with ideas and sketches she could incorporate into her work. She slid off the rubber band that was holding together the leather notebook she’d trailed around the Forum and Vatican City and leafed through the pages. Their honeymoon had been barely more than a week ago but it felt like an age.
She chewed her lip as she sifted through the sketches, trying to recapture her half-baked design ideas. She put a couple of pieces of chewing gum in her mouth — the underside of her desk was tacky with abandoned gum — and fanned out her drawings.
Her favourite idea was for a pair of earrings modelled on columns that dangled from the bottom of the lobe. She opened her large design book to a page of fresh white paper and began to draw. She envisaged columns swinging from hooks. But as she sketched, her idea seemed trite, its expression tacky, like mass-produced souvenirs. Dated, but not yet retro or ironic. She ripped out the page, crumpled it up and started another.
She found the willow-leaf sketches inspired by the fountain she and Andy had stumbled across and tried to draw them as dropping pendant earrings — a bunch of foliage hanging from hooks.
‘Sas, did you steal my bolt-cutters again?’ Ziggy was at the door. A cigarette hung from his lips, another was tucked behind his ear. He was stringy like his wire creations and his tight jeans sat low, revealing two inches of skin between his waistband and the flannel shirt he was wearing in defiance of the heat.
‘Oh yeah. Sorry, Zig, they’re over there.’
‘Busy?’
‘Mmm.’
He entered and peered over her shoulder. ‘Why does that ear have a scrotum?’
Saskia scribbled over the sketch.
Ziggy chuckled. ‘Sorry, babe. I just call it how I see it.’ He had sour tobacco-breath.
‘No, you’re right.’ Frustrated, she scrunched up the page.
‘I didn’t say it was bad. It would have great appeal to a certain clientele.’
‘Yes, but that clientele doesn’t shop at Moon Beams on Bay Street.’
‘I’m going up to the roof for a smoke. You want one?’
‘No, thanks. I quit.’
After Ziggy left, Saskia wandered down the hallway to the bathroom, traversing vinyl floor tiles that had almost been worn away by years of roaming artists. She ran the tap above the pink porcelain basin and splashed her face. She patted her skin dry and examined herself in the mirror above the sink while wondering what she should wear to the ball.
Her rings sparkled in the reflection as she fiddled with her hair. They were a constant reminder she was an adult now. She couldn’t blow off the afternoon to drink margaritas with Hank like she used to when it was too hot to work. Saskia blew a bubble with her gum and watched it burst. She smiled so she could appraise the wrinkles that formed around her eyes, pushing her hairline back to smooth the creases in her forehead. Not too bad for twenty-eight, she thought. She turned her face left and then right, lifting her chin to give herself a thorough examination, then she saw it: her ear, and its cartilage full of tiny holes.
In the nine years since she’d stopped wearing studs they’d healed but not disappeared. She knew they never would, like the chicken pox scar on her cheek. She’d seen Millie stare at her earlobe more than once, disapproval plain on her face. Saskia covered it with her finger, and a vision of a piece of jewellery appeared in her mind.
She hurried back to her workshop and turned on the overhead light. The two fluorescent bars hummed. She took out some squares of silver foil and snipped them into a few different shapes, finally settling on one that looked like a half-moon. She moulded it to sit around her ear. It wasn’t strong enough to cling on of its own accord, but she liked the effect.
She picked up a square of silver, and drew leaves onto the metal. Then, using a pin saw she began to cut into it. Creating the outline of tiny leaves was painstaking. Lying flat, it reminded her of crocodile teeth. Once she had cut out the shape, she heated it and gently curled it to get a tighter coil, which meant it could be slipped over the crest of her ear. She tinkered until she had created a Rome-inspired cuff embellished with tiny leaves like a Colosseum victor’s wreath. When it had cooled she tried it on. It fit, sort of. But it wasn’t stable. She decided she could solder on some hooks, or arms, to hold it in place.
She brushed her fingertip over the ends of the spiky leaves. She had wanted to etch a print into their surface to give them texture. But now the metal was curved it would be too difficult and she risked warping its shape.
There wasn’t much smelter left. She would buy some on Thursday when her pay was deposited. Then it occurred to her that her pay would not be going in. She’d have to ask Andy.
She made another wreath, this time bending the silver before she cut it. This made it harder to shape the leaves and the result was clumsy.
She put down this attempt and cut four more crescent shapes from the metal sheet, humming Radiohead’s ‘Karma Police’ to herself as the saw blade sheered through the metal.
She worked quickly, eager to see how the next attempt, and the next, would turn out. She held the fourth cuff up to the light, admiring its elegant leaves. Excitement surged through her. She knew it was good.
By the time she was finished for the day she had a satisfactory prototype. She clipped it on and smiled. Her ear looked like it had won a chariot race. And best of all, her piercing scars were completely hidden.
Day 25, Wednesday, November 5
The scent of mothballs rose off the racks of pilling cardigans and padded jackets.
‘Sometimes I think it would be easier to wear a full Chador,’ Randa said, holding up a mustard blouse in the Armadale op shop. ‘Just cover it all up. No more of this fashion nonsense.’ She shoved the garment back into the forest of creased rayon. She was wearing a knock-off Yves St Laurent silk scarf around her head, pinned with a brooch Saskia had made.
‘You don’t mean that,’ Sas said, holding a hound’s-tooth jacket against Randa, who batted it away.
‘Too conservative. Why are we in this store anyway?’
‘I need something for this charity law ball.’
‘I know that. Why aren’t we trawling our regular strip? Everything here looks like it belonged to a colour-blind undertaker.’
‘The op shops near Andy’s house — our house — are an untapped resource.’
Randa held up a lavender power suit with gold rope buttons and 80s era shoulder pads. She curled her lip. ‘Since when did you dress for other people?’
‘It’s not so they feel comfortable, it’s so I do. Sometimes I don’t quite feel myself when I’m with his friends. Like this couple we met in Italy. He was very friendly, but the woman was a first-class bitch.’
Randa slung an arm around her old friend. ‘That’s not Andy’s friends, that’s all friends of our lovers. We’re always afraid of what they’ll think of us, that they’ll corner our beaus in the pantry and say, “God, she’s awful” and they’ll realise its true and leave us. Remember what you were like when you first saw Seth up on stage with your brother and Matthew Nash?’
Saskia grimaced. Ever since her wedding dress expedition with Millie, her mother-in-law’s voice had been ringing in her ears. You don’t want to embarrass Andy.
‘I have a secret weapon,’ Saskia said, taking a small quilted purse out of her handbag and removing the best of the silver cuffs she’d made.
‘Ooh, pretty.’ Randa fastened it to her ear and admired herself in one of the store’s mirrors. ‘It looks fantastic. Is this one of yours?’
Saskia nodded, proud.
‘Wow, well, this is . . . Sas, it’s next level. It’s the best thing you’ve done.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Randa was looking at herself in the mirror. ‘It’s amazing. This is going to be a game-changer. I can feel it.’
*
Saskia had found a high-nec
ked black dress in the third shop she and Randa visited. She hung a silver pelmet around her neck and attached her new ear cuff. She leaned towards the mirror and patted her lips with gloss.
‘Fuck ’em,’ she said below her breath. ‘Fuck ’em if they don’t like it.’
Andy was in the laundry buffing his shoes. He gave a low whistle of appreciation when Saskia walked in. ‘Very nice,’ he said.
He stood and brushed her hair behind her ear, admiring the cuff. ‘This is new.’
‘I made it on Monday. It’s inspired by Rome.’
‘You’ve done well. You look like you’ve just emerged victorious from mortal combat. Or at least your ear does.’
‘That was the idea.’ She grinned.
With her bullet holes hidden she was ready to face the legal fraternity. The last time she felt this transformed was when she got the earrings in the first place. She was sixteen and had strode out of the chemist, her ear ablaze with fiery pain where nine silver studs had been punched into it. Her father was back in prison and Lorna hadn’t come out of her room all week. Saskia had decided to do something to wrestle back control of her life. The studs were a badge, an insignia. They told the world she was tough. She wouldn’t take shit from anyone. She had all but forgotten the transformative power of fashion until she had slipped on the cuff.
She looked at herself critically in the bathroom mirror. The cuff was eye-catching. She would make more and hopefully they would sell and this spell of reliance on Andy would pay off.
She went into the bedroom in search of the bottle of Chloe perfume that would top up this heady self-confidence by reminding her of illicit, airborne sex.
*
Andy frowned at his reflection as he pulled the loops of his bow tie right, then left, then right again to even them out. Charity dinners and cocktail parties with stakeholders were about to become regular staples on his calendar, he sensed, and the fact irritated him.
There was something about drumming up business that ran counterintuitive to the reason he’d pursued law. He felt he’d become an ambulance chaser, but instead of chasing ambulances — and the possibility of someone in need — he was chasing chauffeured cars carrying fat men with business interests to protect. And representing them had nothing to do with justice.
The First Year Page 11