The apartment was furnished. She narrowed her eyes. Had she been expecting furniture? She wasn’t sure, but the fact there was stuff in there came as a bit of a surprise. Not that there was much, and it was unappealing. In fact, it was rather horrible.
She took a quick inventory: a black leather sofa, a cheap wooden coffee table, a bookshelf with a few books and DVDs scattered on it, and an enormous television on a stand that looked suspiciously as though it had come from IKEA.
Marigold hated IKEA, but Julian hadn’t. He liked words and languages, and said the names of the products intrigued him. He’d sometimes go at a weekend to browse. She always declined to visit, and warned him against buying anything that wouldn’t match their carefully-furnished home. If their interior designer could see this apartment, she would have a fit.
She put her handbag and the key on the bench. A kettle sat next to the stove, but nothing else. She ran her finger over the counter. It was clean, but had accumulated some dust, as though no-one had been here for a couple of weeks.
She opened a cupboard and peered inside, noting plates, mugs, a jar of instant coffee and several large blocks of chocolate.
Why did Julian have instant coffee? Julian never drank instant coffee. He’d allow himself one cup of real coffee a day, but he never drank International Roast. She had never known him to touch anything like this. Did it belong to him, or to someone else?
And so much chocolate? He usually ate so well. Sure, he’d put on a few kilos in recent times, but whenever she’d brought it up with him, he’d told her that it was stress and he’d watch what he ate. So what was he doing with blocks and blocks of chocolate here?
She closed the kitchen cupboard, opening a drawer to find a few knives, forks and spoons. She shut it again. The kitchen told her nothing. Perhaps she’d have more luck in the other rooms.
She walked through to the bedroom, and her chest tightened.
There was a bed.
A bed. Why did he need an apartment was an excellent question, but a bed? Her stomach flipped over. He was cheating on me. The realisation was exactly what she had been fearing, and felt like a swift kick to the stomach.
She walked around the bed, taking it in. Nothing about the bed screamed illicit sex. It was simple, with a small wooden headboard and a dull, cheap-looking blue and white striped quilt. There wasn’t anything else in the room. No side tables. No lamps. No candles. No massage oils. This wasn’t a love nest.
Yet, there was a bed.
She pulled back the quilt and sniffed the sheets. They smelled fresh and new. No perfume, no lipstick marks on the pillows. The sheets were cool and crisp to touch – almost fresh out of the packet. Had they been changed recently? Or had they not been slept in?
According to the lease, signed by Julian, he’d taken possession of the apartment three months earlier. She would review her diary for any nights he’d been away. She pulled the sheets back up again, tidied the quilt and smoothed it over to press out the wrinkles.
She moved back into the living area and inspected the contents of the bookshelf, which wasn’t full. Only a handful of spy novels.
Julian had never read anything other than a few political biographies or historical books since she had met him. Neither of them read a great deal, aside from files or reports for work, or keeping up-to-date with financial, political and economic news. Their lives were busy. Fiction reading was a luxury that time didn’t afford. Besides, for Julian, his life as a barrister gave him access to a regular confirmation that truth was stranger than fiction, thanks to some of the cases his clients brought in.
She picked one of the books off the shelf and skimmed the blurb. It read like a James Bond type thriller. She scrunched up her nose. Julian had never shown any interest in any books like that before. If he did read for pleasure, it would have been something literary: a Pulitzer winner, most likely, or one awarded a Man Booker Prize.
She replaced the book on the shelf and surveyed the room. Julian’s name may have been on the lease, but the place felt as if it belonged to a stranger. The instant coffee, the spy novels. It didn’t feel like Julian, her Julian.
But what did that mean? She didn’t operate on ‘feel’. That was for people who couldn’t make a decision or didn’t have the right information. She operated on fact. But nonetheless, the two were blurring together at this point. It didn’t have the feel of a place where Julian had set up or spent any time, and the physical evidence supported this.
Could someone else be living here? He could have rented the apartment on behalf of someone else. But who?
Julian had been a kind-hearted man. A ‘bleeding heart’, her brother had once called him. She was unsure if this was a compliment, an insult, or a mere observation, but regardless of her brother’s intentions, Julian was someone who valued justice and fairness. He took great pride in his job as a barrister, taking on a significant number of cases for people who couldn’t afford his rates, but he was dedicated to ensuring that everyone had adequate legal representation.
As a barrister, he was always prepared, eloquent and focused. In some ways, what had hurt the most was that not only had their lives been turned upside down but the criminal justice system had lost someone who was so fair and reasonable. He should have ended his career by retiring from a role as a judge or a magistrate. Or perhaps a QC, taking on a role as a semi-retired adjunct professor, teaching fortunate legal undergraduates the complexities of the law.
She took a breath as she felt tears stinging at the back of her eyes. She shook them off, and refocused her energies.
Maybe he’d taken out the lease in his name, knowing a landlord would approve him in a heartbeat with his financial track record, and then sub-let it to someone less fortunate. Perhaps someone with a poor credit rating? A client down on their luck? Someone recently released from prison after serving their time and seeking to re-enter the community?
That would be a completely logical explanation. Far more consistent with his nature than the notion he’d been leading a double life, or having an affair, or any of the terrifying thoughts that had been swirling around her head.
She picked up the key and her handbag, and returned to the foyer and knocked on a door indicating Apartment 208. A blonde girl wearing black active wear answered the door.
“I’m sorry. Were you about to go to the gym?” Marigold enquired.
“No?” A confused look spread over her face, as if she was perplexed by the assumption.
Active wear was for doing active things. It was the only time Marigold would be seen in Lycra. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m wondering if you know the tenant of 207 over there?”
The girl poked her head around the door frame. “Oh, Julian.”
Marigold’s stomach flipped. The way Active Wear Girl said her husband’s name had a familiar, jovial edge – one you’d reserve for someone you knew well and liked. “Julian, yes.”
“Yeah, nice guy.” Active Wear Girl’s smile shifted into a frown. “Haven’t seen him much lately.”
“Blond hair, blue eyes, about six foot?” Marigold gestured up above her head to indicate Julian’s height. She wanted to make sure that it was her Julian, and not a case of mistaken identity, or a less-fortunate sub-letter using Julian’s name to fool the real estate agent.
“That’s him. Are you looking for him?”
So maybe some beneficiary of Julian’s kind-heartedness wasn’t living there. The sinking feeling returned.
“No. Did you know why he was living here? Did you ever see anyone else living there?”
The girl pulled her arms over her Lycra-clad chest, almost protectively. “Who are you? Why do you want to know about Julian? Are you a cop?”
Please. Marigold gave an inward scoff. What sort of police officer wore Prada suits and Jimmy Choo shoes? “No. I’m not a police officer.”
“Look, if you know Julian, call him. Otherwise, I don’t think you should be asking questions about him. How did you get up here anyway? That’s
a secure lift.” And with a haughty sniff, Active Wear Girl closed the door firmly to return to watching television or whatever other non-active things she had been doing.
Marigold knocked on a couple of other doors. Only two other apartment occupants opened – the others must have been at work, or perhaps university. There was a large university campus nearby.
A kindly elderly lady said something similar to non-active Active Wear Girl – they knew Julian by sight but didn’t know anything about him. “Quiet, kept to himself,” she mused.
Marigold had often heard neighbours of serial killers or drug traffickers say that.
A young guy said something similar. He saw Julian ‘every now and again’, but only him. Never anyone else. He suggested he was a pilot perhaps, given that he wasn’t around much.
Marigold returned to the apartment and perched on the leather sofa. She hit Dial on her phone. “Sharon. Do me a favour, will you? May I continue the lease on this apartment for another month? It’s going to take me longer than I anticipated to sort everything out.”
She didn’t know what Julian had been up to here, but she’d figure it out.
Chapter Six
Marigold
Marigold maintained both an electronic diary and a paper one. Electronic was easier for Kendall to manage and update if Marigold was out of the office, but Marigold liked the ability to tick things off on paper. It was satisfying to look back over the days and see a neat row of ticks for all she had accomplished, and a clear action plan of what she needed to do. Sometimes she wrote down things she had already done just for the pure pleasure of ticking them off and reviewing the row of neat ticks: the rows of tasks completed and things accomplished.
Sitting in her study at home, a coffee in hand, she opened her white leather planner and flicked back over the last three months, searching for nights when Julian hadn’t been home. After a few moments, she decided there were ten nights where she and Julian were apart before he died.
Three were when she’d been in Bendigo for work and she’d spent the night with her parents at Mulberry Estate. The operations of D-Line were split between the Melbourne office and their office in Bendigo. She went there, sometimes returning within the day, sometimes the next, depending on her schedule.
Would Julian have spent the night at the apartment if she were away? She tapped her pen against the top of her desk. She wasn’t sure, but she marked them in her diary as possible.
There were further nights but they had been away together. Two nights for a friend’s wedding in Port Douglas, and four where she had needed to go to New Zealand for a work commitment, and he’d taken a few days off so he could tag along.
There was finally one night where he’d stayed at Mulberry Estate as he’d had a case in the Bendigo Courts and had stayed overnight to have dinner with a friend who lived in Bendigo. She’d had an urgent meeting in Melbourne so had opted to stay home.
He’d slept in one of her parents’ guest bedrooms and driven back the next day. She knew for a fact he had stayed there – her mother had called her while Julian was there and she’d briefly spoken to him.
Apart from potentially those three nights, it was highly likely he hadn’t spent the night at the apartment. If he had, was it for an affair? With whom? The few neighbours she had spoken to hadn’t seen anyone else coming and going, but it was hardly likely they would have been watching the hallway monitoring his movements.
She glanced at the clock. It was 11 am. She’d tried to keep herself busy that morning, but her exile from work was making time seem painfully slow. She’d left early to run to try to clear her head, but had only served in making her chest tighten with each step, having nasty flashbacks to the moment the police arrived at her door the night Julian died.
She’d abandoned the run and returned home to shower.
After that, she took her clothes to the dry cleaner, bought some groceries and checked the expiry dates of the items in her fridge and pantry. But it all felt pointless. She wanted to be at work. This exile was going to kill her. She needed to convince her father to allow her back to work, but in the meantime, he couldn’t stop her from doing work.
She opened her laptop. As she typed her password into the shared drive, it didn’t work. She typed it again. It still didn’t work. She opened her work email and it immediately demanded her password. She typed that in, but again, it didn’t let her log in. She picked up her phone, dialled Kendall and explained her quandary.
“Has there been a software upgrade in the last 24 hours or something? I can’t log in. Can you have one of the IT guys call me?”
Kendall was silent, before she finally cleared her throat. “Your dad asked IT to block your access.”
“What!” Marigold leapt up from her chair, her hand shaking as she clutched the phone. “He did what?”
“I’ll put you through to him.” Kendall said this so quickly it came out in a rush, almost as one long word. Marigold heard some acoustic music in the background. She was on hold. This was infuriating. She usually had people on hold for her, not the other way round. She clicked her tongue and waited for her father to pick up.
“Marigold.” Her father’s gravelly voice filled the line, cutting short the nondescript music. “Your access is blocked. You need to rest.”
“I don’t need to rest! I’m not sick!”
“You agreed yesterday.” Her father’s voice was firm.
“That’s because I thought I could do some stuff here,” she admitted. There was no point lying, since her plan had been uncovered. Trust her workaholic father to understand her workaholic mindset.
“That’s exactly why I’ve blocked it. Now, your mother will be by after lunch. She’s going to take you to high tea. She’s looking forward to seeing you.”
She didn’t want scones and finger sandwiches. She wanted to work. “That’s very nice, thank you, but I don’t need a babysitter.”
“It’s not babysitting. We all look forward to spending time with you. Your mother will be there at one o’clock. She’s even booked the Windsor for you. She knows it’s your favourite.” His tone was light and friendly.
Marigold put her head in her hands. Why was life so unfair? She’d lost her husband, she’d discovered he’d been keeping an entire, furnished apartment secret from her, she’d been barred from her work, and now she was going to have to spend all afternoon with her mother.
***
“And then I told them they need to move on from this ridiculous idea. Nobody wants to see a musical version of some silly teenage horror movie,” her mother said as she slowly deconstructed a sandwich with a knife and a fork, carefully and precisely spearing a sliver of smoked salmon.
Marigold had no idea what she was talking about. Something about the local theatre group in Bendigo, of which she was patron, along with a million other charities and arts and cultural groups.
She watched as her mother nibbled on the fish and pushed the bread to the side of her plate, before she commenced her painstaking surgery on another sandwich, this time a cucumber one.
That was the other thing Marigold lost track of. What her mother wasn’t eating that week. It varied. It seemed that this week’s no-no was bread. Whatever she did, it did work – Odette was as slim as she’d always been. The combination of those French genes and strange diets.
Marigold leaned forward. “Mum? Did Dad tell you about the Adelaide deal? Who’s looking after that? He mentioned some management consultant. Did he get Jonathan Carbine? He’s good, I mean, he’s ok. But still, he doesn’t know the background. I probably need to brief him. Can you ask Dad for me?”
Her mother raised the teacup to her lips and took a sip. She placed it back down on the saucer with a sigh. “Marigold.”
“What? I know he talks to you about work.”
Her mother let out another sigh. A longer, heavier sigh. An oh-you-children-drive-me-mad! sigh that been a consistent sound of their childhood. “You need to rest and look after yourself now. Pl
ease leave D-Line to your father.”
Marigold slunk back into her chair and crossed her arms. “I thought he would have been pleased about my dedication.”
Marigold knew that her father had once entertained ideas of all three Doyle siblings running D-Line together, but Frederick had scuttled that plan by starting a winery, and (much to everyone’s surprise) turning it into a profitable business. Rose had gone to work for him too, leaving Marigold as the sole Doyle heir at D-Line. The company had been started by her late grandfather. Her father was the CEO now, and one day Marigold would be CEO too.
It was one of the largest privately-owned companies in Australia. Marigold admired the way her father ran it, but she had bigger plans. He was too risk-averse for her. She would expand it. List it. Diversify. She would be the one who took a successful company to a whole new level. It was an intoxicating thought; one that kept her awake at night sometimes thinking of the dizzying possibilities. She’d talk to Julian about it, who’d nod along. He’d never been intimated by her wealth, and more importantly, he’d never been intimidated by her ambition. And that was actually more important to her than the money. She’d always had money. Ambition was what drove her.
Her mother’s voice interrupted her memories. “Your father is grateful and extremely fortunate to have you working for him, but you need to take a break – you’ve had a terrible shock and you need time to grieve.” Her mother’s phone beeped and she opened her handbag. “Oh my goodness!” She looked up at Marigold, holding her hand to her chest in a dramatic fashion.
“What happened?”
Had the merger fallen over? She knew it. Nobody other than herself could be trusted with a deal as big as this. Her father had been so wrong to send her off for high tea when such an important deal was in the balance.
“Amelia’s gone into labour!” Her mother’s hand was shaking, causing her diamond tennis bracelet to clink and clatter as she hurriedly typed something into her phone.
The Problem with Perfect Page 3