‘No, I couldn’t.’ June tried to get Saskia to take the shimmering stones, but she refused. ‘I’ll pay you back,’ June said.
‘I don’t want you to,’ Saskia said, and hugged her friend again.
*
Andy broke the seal on the bottle of Scotch that had sat untouched on his office bar since he was given his raise, and poured a splash into a glass. It was only noon, but Harris had requested to see him when he returned from Sydney at 2 p.m. A small part of him felt confident that a single case would not cost him his job, even thought he’d lost the firm a big client too. Another part of him was marinating in dread. Either way, he should be making preparations for his next career move.
He swallowed the whisky and weighed up his options. He could chase the dollar at another big law firm, something he’d proven terrible at. Or he could do what he did best and go back to criminal work. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
He sat with his empty glass and thought back to his time at the Office of Public Prosecutions. Day, after day, after day, it was a relentless conveyor belt of misery. Assault, assault, abuse, assault. A stabbing. A shooting. More abuse. Multiple victims. Child victims. Unthinkable, unprintable things. Sometimes he saw his name in newspaper articles if he was working on a particularly high-profile case, and noticed that even the reporters blanched at the finer details.
‘The child was beaten,’ they’d write. ‘The man was injured.’
Andy knew the grisly truth. He’d read the medical reports. He’d seen the photos.
He was certain he couldn’t go back. It wasn’t a thought he liked to dwell on. It made him feel like a coward, like he was abandoning them — the women, the children, the grandparents he used to speak to and comfort when they were worried and scared. These bereaved people were willing to undergo cross-examination, and to have the details of their lives laid bare in a courtroom for a chance at justice. But Andy knew he couldn’t go back.
The crystal-cut glass shook in his hand. He poured himself another splash of liquor.
How long had the belief that he was doing something principled and useful sustained him? He felt the first crack in his resolve after his first sexual assault acquittal. The accused man had married a woman he’d met online. He moved down from Queensland and into her house, right next door to her seventeen-year-old daughter’s bedroom. And the jury, in the end, couldn’t reach that standard of proof that was nigh impossible in matters of such as these: beyond reasonable doubt. But Andy knew in his bones that the man was guilty. He had watched him, with his pockmarked cheeks and his angry hateful little mouth that gaped open like somebody had torn a hole in the bottom of his face, and he knew. When the jury had delivered the ‘not guilty’ verdict, that dark black hole had smiled. And try as he could to fight it, Andy had felt something inside him wilt.
Afterwards the family went their way and the offender, the acquitted man, went his. Out the same doors, into the same world.
Andy had never told Saskia the reason he left public prosecutions. How could he tell her that the man she married had quit the only thing he’d ever done that was worth anything because it scared him.
He had told Hugh about the nightmares, the cold sweats, the panic attacks, the shaking hands.
‘Post-traumatic stress,’ Hugh had said, and then lowered his voice. ‘You’ve got to go and see someone, Ando.’
Andy had quit and shifted to the private sector, and accepted a substantial pay rise. He’d sworn this would be his mission: he would be a provider, and shelter the ones he loved from all the evil in the world. And when he had built himself up more, he would use his power and wealth for good. Trusts. Foundations. Advocacy. Pro bono work. He would not squander his privilege.
He emptied some mints into his palm and popped them into his mouth, one after the other, then ground them between his molars, as he browsed the websites of a few law firms, searching for positions vacant.
At two o’clock he walked to Harris’s office. The daily noise of HM&L operations seemed to hush around him as he made the journey.
‘Sit down, Andrew,’ Harris said, indicating the chair.
Mary from Human Resources was already seated, looking up at him with earnest pity. On her lap was a wad of forms, and Andy knew his time at the firm was done.
Day 176, Sunday, April 5, Easter
The leaves of the trees that lined Millie’s street had turned the colour of marmalade and dropped to the ground, forming great golden drifts that crunched satisfyingly underfoot. The bare trunks stood evenly spaced along the length of the street, as if forming a guard of honour for the residents who travelled beneath the canopy of branches in BMWs and Bentleys.
Despite everything, Andy felt good. The air was bracing and with each day he put between himself and the failure at HM&L he felt his confidence return. Soon after Harris sacked Andy, Walter Burns — who Andy had met the Law Council ball — had contacted him and asked him to come in for a “talk about the future” the following week. Andy’s severance package had been more generous than he’d expected and he was hearing almost all his colleagues who’d been made redundant had now found jobs they preferred to working at his old firm.
He kicked his feet through the autumnal debris as he and Saskia walked to Millie’s, and let himself enjoy his time off, safe in the knowledge it was likely to be short-lived.
Saskia stomped through the leaves grumpily, swinging a bottle of Bordeaux by the neck. She was exhausted and stiff. A bone-deep ache had invaded her hands. ‘Doesn’t the council sweep the streets anymore?’ she asked, trying to shake off a wet leaf that had stuck to the side of her shoe.
‘I like the way the leaves crunch.’
Saskia had delivered her jewellery to Dressage but she still hadn’t gotten over her disappointment at losing her materials.
Andy put his arm around her and jostled her shoulder. ‘We haven’t had a great couple of weeks, have we?’
Saskia nodded and grumbled, pushing open Millie’s gate and led the way up the path. She was defiantly wearing green velvet trousers which she was certain Millie would hate. They were a deep jewel colour that Saskia considered very chic. Very Parisian. Particularly when matched with her black and white striped knitted jumper, which she had almost completely managed to rid of its naphthalene, op-shop odour by repeated dunks in sudsy water.
Millie answered the door in a vermillion dress. ‘Andy, Saskia,’ she purred, taking the wine and holding it up to read the label. ‘Come through, Paul and Elaine were just telling me about their latest acquisition.’
When they entered the lounge room Elaine stood and pressed her lips to Andy’s cheek, then Saskia’s, barely stopping to greet them properly before returning to her breathless account of the house. ‘As I was saying, it has a conservatory with a bay window and French doors. It would be perfect for afternoon soirees. I’m going to fill it with maidenhair ferns and white wicker furniture.’
‘Remind me which one that was again?’ Andy said.
‘Carson Avenue. Five bedrooms. Two-car garage. Room for a pool,’ said Paul as he shook Andy’s hand and kissed Saskia.
‘Or a tennis court,’ said Elaine.
‘Sounds grand,’ Andy said.
‘It’s more than grand, it’s got potential.’ Paul said. ‘It needs a new kitchen. Retiling. Cosmetic work. A lot of people can’t see through superficial flaws to what it could be. A little facelift and the value could skyrocket. I’m going to knock through some internal walls and open the place right up.’
‘You’re going to?’ Andy said.
‘Well, my contractors.’
Saskia zoned out. Charlie was sitting on the floor devouring a chocolate rabbit in his hands, a ring of chocolate around his mouth. A bib protected his blue linen playsuit.
She bent down and asked her nephew-in-law if he was enjoying his treat.
‘Why don’t you move out of that pokey little place?’ Paul bellowed at Andy. ‘Rent it out. Negatively gear it. Shift into something lar
ger.’
‘It’s not the right time,’ Andy replied.
‘Not the right time to be comfortable?’
‘We like our place in Toorak.’
Paul shook his head. ‘You need to see my finance guy. You’ll be able to keep the flat and live somewhere more suitable.’
Andy hated the way Paul explained his property dealings as if he had unlocked some secret of the market, when all he had actually done was pay for advice on how to invest his father’s money.
‘We don’t want to over-extend ourselves,’ he said.
‘Stop talking about property. It’s so boring.’
‘Juliet!’ Saskia’s face lit-up at the sight of her sister-in-law. ‘I didn’t know you were home.’
Saskia embraced Juliet who looked camera-ready even in jeans and a white singlet.
‘It’s a very quick trip,’ Juliet explained as she hugged Andy. ‘My agent got me an audition for a pure blond commercial. Millie doesn’t approve of course.’
‘It’s not that I don’t approve,’ Millie said. ‘I just wish you could find something other than beer to promote.’
‘It’s good for my profile,’ Juliet replied.
‘And think of the money,’ said Paul. ‘Right. Now we’re all here can we eat lunch? All that bidding this morning really worked up my appetite.’
*
Saskia had hoped the money-talk would ease off over lunch, but she was disappointed. As he carved the roast lamb, Paul explained how he was thinking he might go into property development.
‘Paul, everybody’s sick of hearing about property,’ Juliet said as she poured herself a drink and turned to her sister-in-law. ‘Sas, how are things going with your jewellery business?’
‘Well, it’s—’
‘Andrew told me about that nasty business with that junkie stealing your silver,’ Millie said. There seemed to be an accusatory undercurrent to her tone.
‘How terrifying.’ Elaine shuddered in her seat.
‘I wasn’t there,’ Saskia explained. ‘I found my studio ransacked when I arrived.’
‘Oh well. Your insurance would cover that, wouldn’t it?’ Paul said as he doled out the meat.
Saskia pressed her lips together and looked away.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t have insurance?’ Paul said.
Saskia studied her plate. ‘There’s never been much worth insuring until recently.’
Paul exhaled a puff of breath and dug his fork into a hunk of lamb. He addressed his brother. ‘How can you let her run a business without insurance?’
‘Now hang on,’ Andy began.
‘Excuse me, let me?’ Saskia said.
‘Now, now,’ Millie said. ‘What’s done is done. Paul, pass the potatoes, please.’
‘It was only a couple of thousand dollars’ worth of silver, and we got some of it back,’ Andy said.
‘Still. Every bit counts, doesn’t it? We got the Middle Park property by half a grand at auction. The auctioneer kept squeezing and squeezing the other couple. But I wouldn’t let it go. Imagine missing out of a home for a measly five hundred dollars.’
Elaine, in a rare moment of empathy, pressed Saskia’s arm and said, ‘I hope they lock up whoever did this to you and throw away the key.’
‘They won’t do that, Elaine,’ Andy said.
‘Well, they should,’ she replied. ‘Today he’s stealing little silver trinkets but who knows what he’ll go after tomorrow? Judges need to send a message about what the community will and won’t tolerate.’
‘They’re more than just trinkets,’ Saskia said. The momentary affection she’d felt towards Elaine evaporated. ‘Anyway, we didn’t press charges.’
‘Why ever not?’ Elaine put a hand to her chest.
‘He’s gone into rehab and he’s doing well,’ Saskia said. ‘We thought it might do more harm than good if he was hauled before the courts.’
Millie put her napkin to her mouth, dabbing at the corners. ‘Are you saying you know this criminal?’
‘Calm down, Mum,’ Andy said. ‘He’s not Vito Corleone. He’s another artist who’s had a few problems and who Saskia was unfortunate enough to have a run-in with when he was at his lowest ebb. His partner returned the stolen jewellery. Now, can we change the subject?’
‘Good idea,’ Juliet said.
‘Yes. I don’t want junkie thieves to become a regular topic of conversation at my table,’ Millie said.
‘Mum,’ Andy’s tone held a warning. It occurred to him that when he offered to back Saskia financially, he should have ensured she had proper insurance. The scale of her operation had increased rapidly once she had access to his resources. He felt he owed it to her to help manage the growth. ‘Paul’s probably right about the insurance,’ he mused.
Saskia’s mouth fell open. ‘Andy.’
‘Of course I’m right,’ Paul said. ‘What sort of Micky Mouse operation doesn’t have insurance?’
‘Mickey Mouse operation?’ Saskia said. She felt the eyes of the Colbrooks upon her. ‘Nobody plans to get robbed. It was a random crime.’
‘Yes, hence, insurance,’ said Paul, putting a forkful of fatty lamb into his mouth.
Saskia looked to her husband for support.
‘Anyone who has ever started a business from scratch would tell you that sometimes you have to compromise,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that right Andy?’
‘Well, yes, but Sas, to be fair we probably shouldn’t have compromised on insurance.’
Paul grinned triumphant.
‘Quite right,’ said Millie. ‘And it sounds like you needed it.’
‘Come on Sas, it’s not a big deal.’ Andy placed his hand over hers, which she angrily withdrew. Saskia felt hot tears of frustration gathering in her eyes. Exhausted, she put her hand to her forehead so they wouldn’t notice. She would not let the Colbrooks see her cry.
‘I have to . . . I’m not feeling very well,’ she said and quickly exited the dining room. She locked herself in the bathroom where jagged little sobs rose up in her chest. She wiped away a tear then ran the tap and splashed her face, hiccupping.
She sat on the edge of the bath. The vanity unit was a cast-iron antique. Three cornflower blue Majolica tiles formed a splashback behind the taps. Saskia stroked her fingertip over their raised detail and thought, wistfully, how if Millie was a different sort of person they’d probably get on famously. They both loved art.
There was a gentle knock on the door. ‘Sas, are you okay?’ Juliet whispered.
Saskia ran her hands under the tap and pressed her fingers against her eyes. ‘Come in.’
Juliet carefully closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her expression contrite, as if she’d been the one who’d lambasted Saskia about the robbery.
‘It’s such a nice bathroom,’ Saskia said, keen to avoid a serious discussion. ‘So tasteful. Even the liquid soap is Chanel.’
Juliette grinned. ‘No, it isn’t. Mum bought Chanel soap once about two years ago. Now she just refills the bottle with Palmolive.’
‘What?’
‘She’d kill me if she knew I told you,’ Juliette said conspiratorially. ‘We’ve got money, but we’re not made of it. Dad was the wealthy one. Mum got the house and some child support. I don’t know how she survives now, to be honest. He’d help us — us kids, that is — if we needed it. But none of us would ever ask. ’Specially not Andy.’
Juliet switched on the overhead fan and took a tobacco pouch from her pocket. She began to roll a cigarette. ‘Do you want one?’
‘I’d kill for one.’
Juliet started another, handed it to Saskia, then lit them both with a silver lighter.
‘I’m sorry about Camilla. She never used to be like this. When Dad left I think she wanted to save face. That’s what all this,’ she waved her cigarette above her head, ‘is about. She’s always been into money and status, but not in the evangelical the way she is now.’
She blew smoke up towards the exhaust fan.
‘It’s not her,’ Saskia said. ‘We had a bad week.’ She wondered whether to tell Juliet the full story, and then decided she could trust her. ‘Andy lost his job.’
‘Fuck,’ Juliet said, expelling smoke. ‘How’s that been?’
‘Surprisingly okay. He’s already been approached for an interview with another firm. If that hadn’t happened, I think he would have taken it very badly.’
‘I bet. Don’t take it to heart if he goes a little crazy for a bit. Between Lord Sir John Colbrook and the lady of the house he’s always been under a lot of pressure to succeed.’
‘Your mother made it clear she wasn’t thrilled with his choice of bride,’ Saskia said. ‘I’ve tried so hard with Millie but I feel like there’s nothing I can do to win her over.’
‘She’ll come around.’ Juliet sucked her cigarette. ‘Then she’ll start inviting you to fundraising lunches and regattas and you’ll long for the days you were disliked and free.’
They giggled, and Saskia felt lighter. ‘What was Mauritius like?’ she asked Juliet.
‘Cramped. They made all the models share a little cabin with bunk beds. You wouldn’t know it to look at the shots.’ She sat next to Saskia on the edge of the tub and showed her photos of the fashion shoot on Instagram.
Juliet smouldered in the images. Her skin was sandblasted with gold glitter and her eyes adorned with long feathered eyelashes. In the next series of shots, she and two other long-limbed women leaned against the rail on a yacht in over-sized sunhats. Further back in the feed history was a snap of Juliet, side-on, the Roman Wreath cuff on her ear.
‘Oh my God!’ Saskia laughed. ‘It was you?’
Juliet had two hundred and fifty thousand followers. More than three thousand had liked the photo of the cuff. The comments section was filled with people begging to know where they could buy it in Europe, the US, and Australia. About a third of the way down the feed, Juliet had answered that it was a Little Hill original and suggested people google the brand name.
The First Year Page 23