Set Me Free

by Jennifer Collin

  Simon snorted. ‘There’s nothing else to do,’ he said. ‘No offense, but these weekends suck. And I’m not just saying that because I’m an IT geek who’d rather be holed up in a basement. Seriously, who wants to come to North Queensland in December?’

  Resisting the urge to snort in agreement, Craig asked, ‘Why do you come then? It’s not compulsory.’

  Simon eyed him speculatively, assessing whether he could trust him with the truth. Seemingly he decided in the affirmative.

  ‘Rumour has it things aren’t exactly sailing smoothly between you and Keith,’ he said. ‘So with that in mind, I have no reservations in telling you the vast majority of the staff who come along, do so purely to piss Keith off. We know he hates it as much as we do, but he keeps on doing it thanks to his misguided understanding of modern corporate leadership. So we keep coming, eating and drinking our way through his profit margin, through some misguided need to be subversive little shits.’

  A laugh erupted from Craig’s belly, shaking him to his core and releasing some of his tension. If Simon’s shoulders didn’t look so pink and tender, he’d slap him on the back.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he gasped eventually, pulling himself back together. ‘We should drink to that.'

  ‘My shout,’ offered Simon with a wink.

  With one final snort, Craig turned his attention back to his laptop. As he moved the mouse up to the cross in the top right corner to close out of Keith’s inbox, a name caught his eye. Wally Carter.

  The remnants of Craig’s laughter faded immediately. Wally was the local councillor he’d been speaking with about the Boundary Street project. Why was Keith emailing him? Craig looked up. Simon was at the bar, and no one else was around. He opened the email.

  500K good. As planned.

  Damn it, Keith. Craig sat back in his chair and ran his hand through his hair, staring at the words on the screen.

  Over the years, the white noise of the last argument he’d had with his father had diminished to a dull hum. But now, it came rushing back, replaying word-for-word in his memory. Damn it, Dad.

  He ran his hand through his hair again. God, was he that naïve? No, he wasn’t. He knew the company’s success had been built on more than just buying land and building on it. Craig had grown up with Morgan Carmichael. He knew the business model included a few strategic payments along the way. It wasn’t uncommon for a diverse mix of people to come calling late at night. The whispered conversations in the front hall were most often followed by hasty departures. The rougher they looked, the faster they left. Occasionally someone in a suit might stay for a scotch in the drawing room. Someone like Wally Carter.

  As a young idealistic graduate, he thought he could stay removed from that side of the business. Until his father had dragged him into it. And now he was in the thick of it again. Approval for the damaged project that had his career hanging by a thread, was being bought.

  What was most disturbing was how easily he'd come across it. Wally Carter was newly elected and obviously an amateur, but Keith had done no better with his feeble attempt at erasing this record of the deal. Maybe he'd meant to come back to it. He hoped so, because he hated to think what else could be uncovered by someone who was actually looking for something.

  Craig stared at it for a while longer and then saved a copy a second before Simon sat a beer down in front of him.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ said Craig. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Don’t you dare report it,’ Nana Gwen said. ‘A payment to a pollie here and there is par for the course darling. You know that.’

  They were rocking gently in a canoe on the calm Whitsunday waters, a few hundred metres from the resort and out of earshot of anyone. Even with a life jacket over her pale-blue linen pant-suit, Nana looked formidable as she spoke.

  Craig sighed, ran his hand through his hair and leaned forward, resting his forearms against his thighs, his hands tightly holding his paddle. The pain of his secrets was piercing his heart. ‘There’s no honour in this business,’ he said.

  Nana Gwen’s stiff spine softened. She was thinking about his mother, and how much he was like her. She often remarked his principles weren't a Carmichael trait.

  ‘Of course there’s honour in it, love. Think about all the people you're building homes for. Think about all the people you employ and put food on their table and rooves over their head. Bypassing some bureaucratic red tape is not dishonourable.’

  Craig eyed her, one brow raised.

  ‘Well, accepting it might be, it’s a well-established and accepted practice in your industry,’ she amended.

  Craig studied his grandmother some more, wondering whose side she would've taken if she knew. There was no doubt she was more ruthless than he, so he suspected it wouldn’t have been his. She still loved her only son with the possessive kind of passion that assumed he could do no wrong.

  Craig ran his hand through his hair again. He would end up bald at this rate.

  ‘I can’t accept it, Nana,’ he said. ‘Not for this project. Six weeks ago Keith baited me into agreeing to either deliver it with a sizeable profit or leave the business. I accepted his challenge because I knew I could do it, but he’s since been actively working to sabotage it. I think this is a set-up, Nana. I think he’s out to pin it on me.’

  ‘That seems a costly exercise. Especially when he can just as easily undermine the project, get rid of you, and still make money.' She paused a moment and gazed out towards a distant island. ‘But I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s not always driven by good sense. Being the sensible one was your father’s role in the company. Darling, how did you get yourself into this mess?’

  Craig paused to ponder. It was true; the mess he was in was his own doing. His guard was down the day Keith threw down the gauntlet. Mad as hell at the time, he was ready to fight to the death, and that was even before he was distracted by a pair of grey eyes and curvy hips.

  Perhaps this was fate playing her hand, releasing him from his father’s legacy. Assuming of course, that he wasn’t about to be frogmarched off to jail.

  ‘I’m not cut out for this business.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate the value of what you do, my darling,’ Nana Gwen counselled, knowing his self-doubt well. ‘You're different to your father and Keith. Together they were like a pair of dogs pissing up against trees to mark their territory. You do more than that. You change the world with your work. You pick up what has been abandoned and discarded and give it new life. Those ideals of yours are precious, sweetheart. Where would we be without them?’

  Craig gave her a smile. ‘Thanks, Nana.' After a moment he added, ‘Though they don’t get me very far, and sometimes they’re bloody hard to live with.’

  Craig looked out across the calm ocean to the resort where the Morgan Carmichael staff were making the most of their all expenses paid mini-break. This was it. There was no salvaging the project now. He needed to find a way to come out of this unscathed and unimprisoned.

  A vision of Charlotte, smiling lopsided at him, swam into his mind. Where did this leave her?

  He would do something; he just needed to figure out what that was.

  Nana Gwen was studying him. ‘You’ll work it out, darling. You always do,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think it’s ever been this complicated before, Nana.’

  ‘Sleep on it, love,’ she said. ‘But row me back to shore first.’

  Chapter eighteen

  The noisy chatter drifting up the street from the Moorehouse Gallery greeted Charlotte as she made her way to her sister’s breakthrough exhibition. Laughter and the occasional chink of wine glasses suggested the evening was so far a success, although it was still early. Charlotte wasn’t exactly late, but she'd gotten caught up obsessing about what to wear. Tonight of all nights, she needed to look cool and composed.

  After several changes of clothes and several false starts with her hair and make-up, she believed she may just pull it off.

  In the end, her
hair bounced loose off her shoulders, pinned on one side with a bold, bright red gerbera flower clip. During the week, she’d been shopping at her favourite vintage store and purchased three new dresses. After much deliberation, tonight she’d settled on the cocktail dress; its pale pink taffeta overlaid with black lace and blown out to full 50s perfection by a black tulle petticoat beneath. It was impossible not to flounce in this dress.

  On her feet was a pair of bright red t-bar heels, giving her height and straightening her shoulders, so she could look the world in the eye. She carried a red clutch that was vinyl, but brand new, so it looked classier than it was. She felt great.

  Nonetheless, she still took a deep breath and put on her bravest face before she swanned into the gallery. Tonight, she'd hold pride of place as the sister of the artist, rather than the disgruntled former exclusive exhibitor.

  It took all her resolve to keep her shoulders back when the first person she recognised was Cassette. Honestly, the woman had no shame. What was she thinking, turning up here? And then, of course, standing beside her was Craig, who hadn’t failed to clock Charlotte’s entrance and was now watching her intently but without expression.

  The sight of him rocked her. Instinct sent a warm flush from her stomach to her neck. Over a week ago she’d been miserable because he was avoiding her, a circumstance she’d called for herself. Then the dreadful letter had arrived, and after the initial hurt, the anger she’d felt, when she first discovered who he was, had returned. Staring at him across the room, she found she had to conjure it now, and not be hoodwinked by his molten chocolate eyes.

  What was he doing here? Audacious prick.

  Charlotte scowled at him, to his apparent surprise, and scanned the room for a safe place. Thankfully, Emily appeared out of nowhere, negotiating her way through the crowd in a bright red 1970s kaftan, looking the part of a bohemian artist. She pulled her towards the bar. ‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ she said. ‘We’re both going to need a few drinks tonight.'

  Unsurprisingly, Cassette’s presence was wreaking havoc on Emily’s confidence. This was her biggest exhibition yet and the woman who stole her husband and inspired most of the pieces, was floating around as though she owned the place. Threatening to destroy something just by being there. It was not conducive to a successful and pleasant evening.

  ‘I can’t believe she is here.’ Charlotte hissed, reassuring Emily she had her back.

  ‘Stupid arrogant bitch,’ Emily barked angrily. ‘Seriously, what does she think she will achieve? Hello, I have the moral high ground here. Most of these people know what happened by now. Does she want to be treated like shit? And I can’t believe she dragged Craig here. I would have expected him to have more sense.’

  Charlotte snorted in derision and quickly sought solace in the glass of red she picked up from the bar. Emily knocked back a sizable swig of her own.

  ‘Okay,’ Charlotte swallowed. ‘Look at me.' She put her glass down on the table next to them and took her sister’s face in her hands. ‘You're an amazing woman. You're talented and smart and beautiful, and you're the star here tonight. All of these people want to talk to you. Most of them will be mortified Cassette is here and ready to jump to your defence should she try anything. You need to mingle and promote yourself. Dazzle them, honey, as only Emily Evans can.’

  Emily pulled Charlotte into a tight and hasty embrace. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘You look amazing, by the way. I think some of these people will want to talk to you tonight, too. Particularly the one heading this way now.' Charlotte followed Emily’s look and found Craig weaving his way through the crowd towards her, eyes fixed on his destination.

  Charlotte turned back to Emily quickly. They both straightened their shoulders, but Emily was the first to break away. She cast her eyes around the room. ‘Here I go,’ she said quietly and headed off in the opposite direction to Cassette.

  Before Charlotte could formulate her escape plan, Craig was upon her, intimately whispering in her ear. ‘What’s with the dirty look?’

  His warm breath sent a sudden jolt of electricity down her spine. It hit her tailbone and shot back up, slowly paralysing her as it went. She took a deep breath.

  ‘What’s with the skanky tramp?’ she snapped, whirling on him and stepping back slightly.

  Craig was taken aback. ‘What? Whoa. Nasty. Where the hell is that coming from, Charlotte?’

  ‘Why would you bring her here, Craig?’

  ‘What the hell? You think I brought her here? Jesus, Charlotte. Of course I didn’t bring her here. I couldn’t talk her out of coming, so I came with her to keep her out of trouble. I thought you knew me better than that.’

  Charlotte harrumphed, unforgiving. ‘I did think I had a pretty good idea of what kind of man you are, Craig. But as it turns out, I was wrong. So I’m really not sure what you're capable of.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Craig’s shoulders set and his face hardened.

  ‘Well, I have to wonder what kind of man would seduce a woman before kicking her out on her arse. Doesn’t sound like a very nice one does it?’

  ‘As I recall it, you were the one doing the arse-kicking. You asked me to leave, Charlotte. What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘The eviction letter, dipshit,’ interjected Ben, who had suddenly appeared at Charlotte’s elbow.

  Charlotte flushed hotly. How much of that had he heard?

  Craig’s face changed as he looked to Ben for more information. ‘What eviction letter?’

  ‘The one you signed and sent our way.' Ben was doing a great job of being deadpan. Thank goodness, because Charlotte was still trying to recover from the fact he may have overheard things about seduction.

  ‘When did you get this letter?’ Craig asked both of them, eyes moving furtively between them, his mind unmistakably going into overdrive.

  ‘Last Friday,’ Ben answered.

  ‘Right.’ Craig nodded and looked at Charlotte again, his brow furrowed, his expression stern. She managed to lift a defiant chin. He opened his mouth to say something but then thought better of it, and pulled out his phone. ‘Excuse me,’ he said and walked away, tapping at the keypad.

  ‘He’s either a good actor or he didn’t know about the letters,’ said Ben as they watched him go.

  Charlotte didn’t know what to think. How could he not know? Her mind simply went blank. The possibility that he didn’t was making this whole situation impossibly convoluted.

  She looked up at her tall, lanky friend and was surprised to note he’d dressed up for the occasion. Gone was his usual black t-shirt and jeans combination. Although the jeans were still in place the darkness and crispness of the denim suggested they were new. Tonight he’d paired them with a three button vintage Harris Tweed coat. Charlotte thought he looked a little warm, but kept that to herself. She had more pressing concerns to resolve.

  ‘How much of our conversation did you hear?'

  He grinned, almost triumphant. ‘Nothing that surprised me.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Your crush is pretty obvious, Charlotte. If you ended up in bed with him, I’m not surprised.’

  ‘I don’t have a crush!’

  Ben pondered her a moment. ‘No,’ he said seriously. ‘I don’t believe you do.’

  Flustered, Charlotte smacked him in the arm with her clutch.

  ‘Hey!’ he protested, rubbing his arm, his humour returning. ‘And here I was thinking I would volunteer to be your guardian for tonight.’

  ‘I don’t need a guardian.’

  Ben looked to the direction in which Craig had disappeared and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I don’t,’ Charlotte affirmed, looking anywhere else. Her scan of the room clocked another approaching threat. ‘But don’t go anywhere because Gareth Moorehouse is on his way over here.’

  Gareth ambled across the gallery towards her, the crowd parting like the Red Sea before his overweight figure. He wore a burgundy velvet smoki
ng jacket over a black skivvy and black slacks and commanded attention as he moved through the crowd. Pausing occasionally to air kiss cheeks, wave his fingers and acknowledge his guests, his destination was clear.

  ‘Charlotte, dear. I’m so pleased you could make it,’ he crooned when he reached her.

  Stiffly, Charlotte replied, ‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else tonight, Gareth. You know that.’

  ‘Of course not. She’s such a marvel that sister of yours. And she’s truly come into her own with this latest work. You know it did pain me to steal her off you.' He gushed far too enthusiastically for the sentiment to be genuine.

  Tense, Charlotte’s response was terse. ‘Oh it did not, Gareth. You made her an offer she'd be a fool to refuse. And one you knew I couldn’t compete with. I am very proud of her, you know. And happy for her.’

  ‘So stoic,’ he exclaimed, a camp hand going to his heart.

  ‘Don’t mock me, Gareth. It’s disrespectful.' She really was feeling intolerant tonight.

  Gareth paused a moment and looked at her afresh.

  ‘Why I do believe I've been put in my place. Good for you, my dear.' He kissed her emphatically on each cheek. There was no air this time. ‘You have a good time tonight, my darling. Hook into that bar and take care of your divine friend here.' Blatantly appraising Ben, he lifted a suggestive eyebrow before disappearing once more into the crowd.

  Charlotte immediately grabbed Ben’s arm. With no other threats making their way towards them, they finally had an opportunity to simply enjoy the show. ‘Let’s check what’s sold,’ she suggested and dragged him across the gallery to inspect the art.

  ‘You never told me how your date went the other night,’ she said, grateful Ben was here solo, and able to be her custodian after all.

  ‘You never asked,’ he said.

  She gave him a look.

  He sighed. ‘It was okay, I guess.’

  ‘I can’t tell if that means you ended up in bed with her or not.’

  His shrug was noncommittal.

  ‘Okay, I’ll drop it then,’ Charlotte conceded, and turned her attention elsewhere.