by Lena Dowling
Caro beamed into the audience. A graceful saltwater croc with her eye on its prey, she continued speaking.
‘And now I’d like to call Georgia Murray, one of our fabulous volunteers and a former resident of the shelter, to speak to you all about her firsthand experiences of the marvellous facility you’re all here to support.’
Georgia almost dropped the tray of remaining dishes she was carrying, barely managing to thrust it into another server’s hands before the whole thing crashed to the ground. Despite releasing the burden, she still couldn’t move. Fury coursed up through her, exploding in a hundred shades of vermillion as she discovered the saying ‘to see red’ actually had some basis in fact.
Then the spotlight that had been engulfing her moved across the room, and without thinking she followed it. Before she even realised she had flung off her apron, she was halfway to the stage. And within seconds she was standing at the top of the steps beside the lectern. By the time she found herself leaning into the microphone she hadn’t even considered what she was going to say. Still furious, she opened her mouth and words tumbled out of their own accord.
‘You want me to tell you how it was, using the shelter facilities, Caro? I’ll tell you alright.’
The audience gasped, reacting to the hostility of her tone, and Georgia had the satisfaction of seeing the spotlight hurtle across the stage and fix on Caro who, having relinquished the lectern to Georgia to stand off to the side of the stage, now looked more like a possum caught in headlights. The spotlight illuminated the shock on Caro’s face as Georgia prepared to attack.
She had been holding back, but not anymore. Caro was going to get it with both barrels, and if that was in front of over two hundred dinner guests, then she only had herself to blame. A backlog of words: hypocritical, mean-spirited, self-serving, evil female canine specimen, all jostled for position to be the first to leave her mouth, providing sufficient pause for Brad to step out of the darkness and seize the microphone from her.
Everyone in the audience took a simultaneous breath, creating a multi-layered swooshing sound, and any remaining chatter ceased as everyone redirected their attention towards Brad.
Brad gently tapped the microphone.
‘Very few of us could lay claim to the grit and determination shown by Georgia Murray, and yes it’s true, as a child Georgia was, through no fault of her own, a sometime resident of the Dockton Women’s Shelter, but she is now a highly successful family lawyer and partner at Dayton Llewellyn Murray and Spencer.’
Brad’s emphasis on the ‘Murray’ prompted the crowd to erupt into spontaneous applause, drowning out his own surname in the partnership line-up. Gesturing downwards with his hands Brad quietened the crowd enough to continue, ‘But Georgia is not one to dwell on her past, and what she is really here to do tonight is to announce the launch of an appeal to fund an addiction centre that will address the cause of why so many of the women use the shelter in the first place. In a minute, I’ll hand over to Georgia to give you a summary of the research into these types of centres, what makes them effective, and why we think one is right for Dockton. But before I do, I want to announce sponsorship by the Spencer Charitable Trust to the tune of — well — that’s entirely up to you ladies and gentlemen, because the Trust will match every donation, dollar for dollar, achieved by her tonight. Georgia…’ He handed her the microphone and stepped back.
Relief swept through her. He would be at least partially funding the centre, and deep down another thought tugged, a lone persistent thread jerking at her heart, suggesting — well she couldn’t think about that now.
With the focus on her pet project, and with the benefit of her skills in courtroom oratory, Georgia had no trouble making an impromptu speech about her proposal for the centre.
When she finished, the guests rose in a standing ovation and for a moment her body slumped as if her feet might go out from under her. In a second Brad was there to put his arm around her and to guide her back down the stairs. Gratefully, she leaned on him for strength, but while he ostensibly held her to him, the tension emanating from his body repelled her, shocking her back upright.
‘Don’t think this changes anything between us, Georgia,’ he hissed through a fixed smile, as he let her go to stumble back out into the kitchen.
As soon as she stepped through the swing doors, releasing them behind her to beat back and forth, she collapsed against the nearest wall and closed her eyes.
‘My dear, you were wonderful.’
Her eyelids flew open at the familiar sound of the older man’s voice.
‘Jeffrey?’
‘Here, drink this. It’s just the thing for a shock.’
Jeffrey handed her a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. Without hesitating she gulped a good portion of it back. The drink tasted like brandy and it imparted a warm mellow feeling of wellbeing almost as soon as it hit her stomach.
Brad scanned the crowd looking for Caro. He’d had quite enough of this. He might not be seeing Georgia anymore. He might still be furious with her, in fact, but he sure as hell hadn’t lost his sense of fair play and human dignity. Caro was only lucky he hadn’t decided to ‘announce’ her resignation as chairman of the Women’s Shelter Board along with the impulse donation for the addiction centre.
The woman was poison. The way she constantly dumped on Georgia was outrageous, and she of all people had no right to carry on as if she were vastly superior. He had held his tongue and kept Caro’s dirty family linen, well known but only among a select few, firmly in the hamper, but it was high time it came out for an airing.
He found Caro at the back of the function room and grabbing her by the arm, he pulled her back against the wall, away from the crowd.
‘You owe Georgia an apology. You have no right to carry on like this, Caro. You and I both know the only thing separating yours and Georgia’s upbringing is a decent bank balance.’
Caro gave an indifferent shake of her head.
‘You can talk, Brad, with what your father got up to. I don’t know how your mother held her head up.’
‘Oh no you don’t, Caro, don’t you dare try to make this about me. I’ve never denied it. My father was a dirty, cheating dog. Time you faced up to your past too, Caro. Patronising the women’s shelter isn’t enough. You need to own your mother’s legacy and be honest about what’s driving your philanthropy, instead of hiding it, and projecting on to people like poor Georgia. You’re behaving no better than a playground bully. But you know, you’re actually doing good work, or you would be if you would stop being such a…’ he hesitated, not wanting to say it, but when he couldn’t think of another description as fitting he went ahead and said it anyway, ‘First-class bitch.’
Caro’s face sagged.
‘That’s how people see me, isn’t it?’
‘It’s never too late to change, Caro.’
Having said all he had to, he turned on his heel ready to find his date and take her home. As far as he was concerned the evening was over.
‘Georgia. There you are.’
Georgia shuddered as Caro approached. She wished the woman would just leave her alone.
‘I know that the coffee’s ready to go out to my table, Caro, but I’m taking a moment.’
Georgia hadn’t moved since Jeffrey handed her the brandy, enjoying the warm glow radiating through her, a glow that was neutralising the last of the emotional upset she had sustained: first being hauled up onto that stage, and then experiencing Brad’s coldness. Somehow the alcohol was filtering all of that out, allowing her to accentuate the positive; Brad stumping up with some of the cash for the addiction centre.
It might still be over between them, but at least that was something.
‘No, you stay here, Georgia. Coffee can wait,’ Caro backed up against the wall beside her. ‘Can you give us a moment, Jeffrey?’
‘Of course, Mrs Marsden.’
Georgia took another decent swig of the brandy as Jeffrey left, abandoning her to Caro. Part
of her wanted to throw herself at the kindly old man and beg him to stay. She steeled herself, hoping the brandy had sufficient powers to repel the accusations she suspected were coming about manipulating Brad into giving the donation for the centre.
As if.
Ironically, Caro had managed that all on her own. The only reason Brad had pledged to match each donation was his reasonableness and fundamental decency. For a second she had been stupid enough to think that it was because he still had feelings for her, but he had dispelled that theory pretty quickly.
Georgia drained the remainder of the brandy, suspecting that whatever it was that Caro had to say, she was going to need it.
‘I owe you an apology, Georgia.’
‘What?’
Georgia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She looked at the empty glass, disbelieving. How strong was this stuff? Had Brad’s butler drugged her?
But Caro continued, her face serious, her lips briefly pressing down together in a line of contrition before she spoke again.
‘The truth is, but for my family’s money, I would have had the same start as you. The only difference was my mother’s opiate addiction was enabled by some sympathetic doctors through prescription medications, and funded by my father’s money. Until now, I’ve never been able to face it, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.’
Wow.
‘I don’t know what to say, Caro.’
‘You don’t have to say anything. Just take this cheque. If Brad’s going to match every donation, he can start with this.’
Caro handed her a slip of paper and Georgia stared at the generous six figure donation on the cheque.
Wow. Just wow. Miracles happened after all.
‘I would have liked it to be more, but this is the most I can pull together at short notice.’
‘No, Caro, this is amazing. Thank you.’
‘I know it’s none of my business, but I hope this announcement means you and Brad have resolved your differences. Brad’s never been impressed by money or connections. It’s one of his most attractive qualities; well, apart from the blindingly obvious of course. You make a good couple — better than that blinged up opal tree he brought with him tonight.’
Blinged up opal tree.
Something hovering around in the recesses of Georgia’s mind dropped into a waiting slot.
‘Caro, what business is Douglas Walsh in, exactly?’
‘What business is he in, or how does he actually make his money?’
‘Both.’
Caro gave her a crooked smile as if she was about to be taken into some secret known to only those in the right circles.
‘Officially he is in the business of quarrying stone for landscaping. The real money comes partly from the opals, but mostly from a uranium mine he has an interest in.’
Suddenly it all made sense. Walsh could control his profits by managing how much he mined. With a divorce on the horizon, he was stockpiling his assets, leaving minerals in the ground and trading only at break-even, and the uranium meant his mining operations could be legitimately kept secret.
‘Thanks, Caro.’
‘Ruby told me you were her lawyer. She is always singing your praises, but I’m guessing she’s as clueless about her husband’s business as her daughter is when it comes to how much jewellery can be tastefully combined for one occasion.’
Georgia smiled.
As Ruby’s lawyer she couldn’t possibly comment.
‘More coffee, sir?’
The morning after the gala fundraiser, Jeffrey was at his side with a large gleaming coffeepot. For some reason the sight of the reflective ornament that Jeffrey had obviously spent some time on with the silver polish, irritated the hell out of him.
‘Yes, thank you, Jeffrey. And in future I think we could just go with a simple glass plunger in the morning — we should save the silver for a special occasion.’
‘Yes, of course, sir, and how was your evening? I trust you found Miss Walsh’s company agreeable,’ his butler said, pouring the hot liquid into his cup.
Brad would much rather not have recalled the gala that Caro had single-handedly managed to derail into a very expensive train wreck for the Spencer Trust to clean up, but Jeffrey’s polite morning chitchat was as much a mandatory part of the butler code of practice as his heat pressed newspapers.
‘She was fine.’
‘More ornamental than cerebrally engaging, then, sir?’
‘I think we both know she’s not likely to be the next Mrs Spencer, but as an escort to a society function, she handled herself appropriately, Jeffrey.’
‘Yes, no doubt she would lack the intellectual sparkle of…Miss Murray, for example. If you don’t mind me asking, sir? What was it that Miss Murray was after in the end? Your money or your contacts?’
‘The money.’
‘For clothes, diamonds, or travel, sir?’ Jeffrey asked.
‘A hefty charitable donation — very hefty.’
‘So only money for this addiction centre that got announced at the gala, nothing for herself then, sir?’
‘She asked for money, Jeffrey, and a lot of it.’
‘Yes, and I do know how you hate that, sir. But could this situation be seen in a different light from the others, given that there was no personal gain involved?’
‘No financial gain that’s true, but she’s emotionally invested, so ultimately the donation was for her benefit.’
‘I see sir, self-serving altruism, selfish unselfishness, if you will. Yes, I understand. I think. Actually, I’m not sure I do, sir.’
‘Damn it, Jeffrey.’
Brad took a long sip of his coffee. The last thing he needed right now was a lecture from his butler.
‘Very good, sir. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’
Chapter Thirteen
The gala dinner had raised three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. With the Spencer Trust donation to match, there were enough funds to open the addiction centre for a couple of months.
They had two or three precious months to prove its worth, while Georgia and Caro made applications to all the main social funding agencies to keep it going. But the signs were positive. It was only tentative, but a local health authority had expressed interest in funding the centre for at least a year to pilot the centre’s programmes.
With the information from Caro about the Walsh finances, Georgia had finally been able to elicit statements of previously forgotten Walsh assets, including a uranium mine and an opal business that had in the past generated multimillion dollar profits, from Douglas Walsh’s lawyers. As a result, Georgia had negotiated a settlement for Ruby that ran into seven figures, resulting in a very healthy fee for the firm.
Overall, her life had never been better, but Georgia had never felt worse. It was as if she had lost something as integral as one of her own limbs, and yet, as she kept reminding herself, she had never really had Brad in the first place. Waking up in his apartment a couple of times and going on a Pacific Island minibreak hardly qualified as a full-blown relationship.
It had been almost two months since the break-up and, even with the added complication of running into Brad on a daily basis, she should have been well over him by now, but somehow, forgetting what had happened between them was much harder than she expected. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. In the past, she had peeled men off with barely a backwards glance, whereas the residue of what had occurred with Brad had stuck as if with indelible adhesive.
‘You’ve got a walk-in. Cherie Buckland. She came in asking for Brad, but his secretary says she’s your client now.’
Miriam had swivelled around in her chair to deliver the message. Since Brad had elected to stay on in the partnership, Georgia never did manage to get her office back, and was still working out in the open-plan.
‘She is my client, or was. Brad gave her to me, so I’m not sure if he’ll want her back now.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Miriam asked
She would rather she didn’t have to sit through an entire meeting with him, but if Brad wanted his client back again, Georgia wasn’t going to meet with Cherie Buckland alone, only to have him later accuse her later of ripping off one of his files.
Georgia reached for the Buckland file and a box of tissues. Client meetings immediately after a break-up often got emotional and she had learned to be ready, but pushing open the frosted glass door into the conference room, Georgia was anything but ready for the scene that greeted her.
Cherie Buckland sat at the conference table. She wore jeans, a long casual slouch top and no make-up, save the remains of a previous application, which looked to be at least twenty-four hours old, now smudged dark under her eyes. Her long hair hung in unwashed ringlets. Six designer suitcases stood in a row against the far wall of the conference room and two small children played with a box of toys the receptionists kept for clients who arrived with kids.
While she had never owned designer luggage, the woman’s circumstances struck her directly in the solar plexus. Homelessness looked the same, no matter what the label on the suitcase was or even if the owner could afford a suitcase in the first place. Presumably this woman ultimately had somewhere she could go, but right now she was without a home, all her possessions piled up in some strange office.
Watching the children play, it was as if Georgia had shrunk down to kid size — her feet dangling into the gutter, her few things beside her, tied up in a supermarket bag — killing time tossing a handful of stones as she and her mother waited for the Dockton Women’s Shelter to open for the night.
The younger child, a little girl with curly dark hair that Georgia assumed might approximate Cherie’s in a happier state of grooming, stood up, her hands on hips.
‘Mummy’s run away.’
‘Shush, Katy.’ Cherie stood up and turned to face her. ‘You must be, Georgia? Brad’s secretary said that you’re my lawyer now.’
‘If that’s okay with you, Mrs Buckland? Brad’s client list is overloaded right now.’