by Carla Caruso
‘Ursula, er, fancy seeing you in Astonvale.’
‘I know, right? I’ve just got a job as a reporter at the Astonvale Press. I start next week, so I’m looking for furniture for the new place I’m renting.’
Obviously Ursula had been hired for her journalistic know-how rather than her style. Celeste had just noticed a stain, which she suspected was marmalade, on the front of Ursula’s white shirt.
‘It’s funny to bump into you,’ Ursula continued, ‘because I just saw you in the paper’s social pages today.’
‘Oh, I haven’t seen the paper yet today.’
Perhaps she’d been avoiding it. Flip sidled forwards with her phone, and with a few taps of her fingers held it up. ‘Here’s the money shot.’
Celeste squinted at the miniature screen. Well, there was no sign of the bit of green allegedly stuck between her teeth, but she’d done a good impression of a stunned mullet. Shocking was one word for the picture, although Imogen had come off okay. Where was the justice?
‘Thanks, Flip,’ Celeste said through a grimace. ‘Ursula, um, this is my … my assistant, Filippa Belmont. And Flip, Ursula’s an old friend of mine from school.’
‘Hey,’ Flip nodded nonchalantly at Ursula.
The journalist responded with a ‘hi’ and faced Celeste again. ‘So what exactly are doing with yourself these days, Celeste?’
‘I’m a professional organiser.’
‘Oh … right. You mean, like, a life coach?’
‘No, actually I help people get organised at home or at work by de-cluttering their spaces. My business only officially kicked off this month. Before that, I worked in interior design.’
‘Oh, I get it. I think. You know …’ Ursula chewed on an already stubby thumbnail, ‘maybe I could do a feature on your new business for the lifestyle section? I need some stories to pitch. It could sell it as one of those rah-rah local-woman-done-good pieces.’
‘Oh, wow, um, it’s just it is very early days—’
‘She’ll do it,’ Flip jumped in, turning to face Celeste front-on. ‘You’re not savvy enough for any social media yet, but it’s obvious from that photo that you need to improve your media presence, pronto. That is if you want to lure more customers and offer me more work. Give Ursula your business card.’
‘O-kay.’ Celeste fumbled in her tote, unsure at that point who was the boss and who was the assistant.
Ursula accepted Celeste’s card. ‘Uh, great, well I’ll run the idea past the features editor and let you know how I go. Maybe you and I can even catch up for coffee sometime. You can introduce me to the neighbourhood and we can reminisce about old times.’
‘Sounds….’ she cleared her throat, ‘marvellous. Although, even though I’ve worked here a while, I only moved to Astonvale a short time ago myself.’
The move away from her father had been in gradual steps — a homette near the city in Magill before she’d landed in the ritzy, inner-southern suburb of Astonvale.
‘No matter. I’m sure in the line of work you’re in you know your way around.’
As Ursula wandered away — a white thread stuck to the back of her knee-length, black skirt — Celeste turned to, at last, properly address Flip. ‘Right. Can you help me lift this box onto the trolley?’ She tapped the top of the cardboard.
‘I would, but …’ Flip pulled a face. ‘I have major back pain from menstrual cramps.’
Funny the cramps hadn’t stopped her from doing a cartwheel in the bedding section earlier, but Celeste was too spun-out from seeing Ursula again to argue.
‘Fine.’ She tugged at the box. ‘Can you go get me a hot dog from the bistro, then? I gave you a break, but forgot to have lunch myself. It’ll have to pass for a meal today.’
‘All right.’ Flip stood there for several long seconds, just watching Celeste groaning and grunting to get the box onto the trolley.
Celeste stopped mid-action. ‘Now would be good.’
Flip shrugged. ‘I need the money for the hot dog.’
‘They cost a dollar. I’ll repay you later. I’m kind of in the middle of something.’
Another shrug. ‘I don’t have any change.’
Grr. Flip was more of a tightwad than Seinfeld’s George Costanza. No wonder she could afford so much barely-there clothing. She was obviously used to being thrifty on student income support.
‘Fine. Try my purse in my tote — on the trolley.’
Flip fished around in the contents, finally holding up a two-dollar coin. ‘Might get one for myself, too. Thanks!’ Then she skipped away, her back seeming to have miraculously healed.
Celeste straightened the abstract painting on the wall and stood back, surveying her handiwork. All her labour in Natalia’s home office was now complete. And she had her fingers and toes crossed that the fitness guru would be happy with the result.
It would be Celeste’s first ‘reveal’, and could determine whether Natalia would let Celeste loose on the rest of the mansion and gym, as planned, or show her the door. Naturally, Celeste was a tad nervous. A small part of her was excited to take Natalia through all her organisational magic, but mostly she was terrified. The fitness guru was her one and only client, and could signify many more to come with her recommendation — if only things went well.
Oh dear. There was a bit of balled-up paper far under the desk Celeste hadn’t noticed before, ruining her neat-as-a-pin masterpiece. It must have been knocked out of the wastepaper basket. Flip had toddled off to the bathroom to redo her eyeliner, so it was up to Celeste to get it.
Dropping to her knees, Celeste stretched her arm beneath the desk. It took a bit of exertion, but finally her fingertips came into contact with the paper. The crunchy ball in hand, she moved to bin it, then had second thoughts. What if it was something important of Natalia’s that was meant to be filed but had somehow gotten mistaken as rubbish? There was no harm in just checking it first.
She straightened out the sheet on the rug. A bunch of multi-coloured magazine letters glared back at her. She put a hand to her chest as she read the message they formed:
N, IT’S TIME TO UP THE STAKES. LEAVE 10K @ THE USUAL SPOT, SAME DAY, OR I’LL HAVE TO RUIN YOUR PARTY. NO HANGING AROUND EITHER — I HAVE EYES EVERYWHERE. AND REMEMBER: I KNOW WHO YOU REALLY ARE.
With trembling fingers, Celeste scrunched up the paper again, as though the very action would delete all she’d just read. Surely it had to be some sort of joke—
‘Lost something?’
Swivelling, Celeste looked up and up and up. A muscly stranger with spiky, dark hair, in a midnight-blue singlet that drew attention to the naked girl tattoo on his arm, loomed in the doorway. Celeste swallowed hard, but tried not to show her fear. Dusting herself off, she got to her feet, discreetly dropping the paper back on the floor and kicking it behind her under the desk.
‘No, no, nothing’s been lost.’ Her chirpiness belied her unease. ‘I was just checking for … for dust. You’re a friend of Natalia’s, I gather?’
The guy strolled forwards, extending a meaty hand. ‘Fiancé. Not that we tell many people outside Natalia’s professional circle. She prefers to keep her private life private.’ Aha. ‘I trust, as an employee, you’ll keep that information to yourself. Mike’s the name.’
‘Yes, of course I will. And nice to meet you.’
So this was the fiancé Lenny had mentioned. Well, he was more GI Joe-style than she’d expected. Likely, he was also the guy she’d overheard conversing with Natalia in the library. Could the blackmail note be the reason for the pair’s intense exchange of words, or was there a logical explanation for the note she’d laugh about later?
‘Oh … I should introduce myself,’ she continued, flustered. ‘I’m Celeste Pretty, the professional organiser Natalia hired.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard all about you.’ His blue eyes were unsettlingly piercing in a hulking, bad-boy type of way. ‘I was just walking past and thought I’d stick my head in to see what Natalia was getting for her dollars.
’ He glanced around the room. ‘You’ve worked miracles. Natalia never was the tidiest of girls. She’ll love it.’
‘Oh, uh, thanks.’
With a nod, Mike shot her a ‘see you around’ look and swaggered out of the room as quickly as he’d entered — almost flattening his hair spikes on the way through. Flip sashayed back while Celeste clung to the desk, her head spinning.
‘Flip, shut the door!’
Her relative raised her eyebrows, her eyeliner looked decidedly more winged. ‘Did you fart and don’t want Natalia to come past and know you tainted the room?’
‘Just shut it!’
Literally and otherwise.
For once, Flip did as requested and then headed towards Celeste, a hand on her hip. ‘So why are you acting so weird — sorry, I mean, weirder than normal?’
Celeste dived under the desk, reaching for the ball of paper, stood again, and silently handed the note to Flip. ‘Open it.’
Flip did so, finally looking up again, seeming unfazed. ‘Well, they could have done a better job cutting out the letters.’
Celeste sucked in a sigh. ‘What about the message itself? Do you think it’s real? That Natalia’s being blackmailed?’
Flip eyed the crumpled paper again. ‘Nah, there are more high-tech ways to send anonymous threats these days. Haven’t you seen Gossip Girl? It’s probably just some kinky foreplay between Natalia and her fiancé. I just met him on the way up the stairs. Or — I know! — a prop for an edgy viral advertising campaign to give Ballet-Tastic some street-cred. Now that’d be cool.’
Celeste shook her head. ‘I don’t know …’
Flip shrugged thin shoulders. ‘I guess you could always ask her.’
‘No. No way. I— I’ll just put the note back where I found it. Say nothing. You do the same, please. It’s really none of our business. I shouldn’t have opened it.’
‘Whatevs. You’re the boss.’
Celeste was surprised that Flip remembered. ‘Can you help me move the lamp over to the other side of the desk? I’ve changed my mind about it.’
‘All right,’ Flip said with her usual enthusiasm.
As they transported the pink-spotted lamp to the left, Celeste tried to blot from her mind any thoughts of possible blackmail letters and secret identities. Complications for her only client were something she didn’t need. Not when she was just starting out in the biz, when she’d already put in days of work.
The nest-egg she’d saved for while she built up her business would last only so long.
7.
Lenny didn’t usually like to do anything physical unless he got a tangible result from it, like a brand-spanking extension added to an old home — okay, aside from activities in the boudoir, of course.
But jogging was something he did on occasion when he needed to clear his head, to nut out a business matter. Or, that Saturday afternoon, jog out his irritation at not getting a better deal on building materials. Even so, he did his best not to look the part, clad in all-navy and never Lycra.
A bleached blonde in fluoro pink power-walked past the football oval he was running around, her elbows swinging manically. Ridiculous. She may as well have been sprinting.
Rounding the corner, he noticed some colour, noise and movement at the lawn tennis club end, wedged between the local football clubrooms and the lawn bowls club. The smell of sun lotion hung in the air. Tennis must be starting up again. It was good to have all the sports in the one place — at least it wouldn’t be far to go to bowls in his twilight years. When his grandkids had kids.
He stopped for a breather at a sign on the chain-link metal fence, which read: ‘Social season kick-off: charity tennis challenge! One set, tiebreaker at six all. Play against a local star & help raise money for the homeless.’
Lenny had to swallow a laugh. It was funny how the Astonvaleans did fundraising. It usually involved them going about their usual business — playing élite sports, frocking up for dinner parties, and buying expensive items under the hammer — while never getting within ten feet of the sort of people they raised money for. Still, whatever helped them sleep at night behind their satin eye-masks.
Many of the locals weren’t really his kind of people, but if his father had taught him one thing it was location, location, location. Land in Astonvale was worth a pretty sum — and would keep on giving — and living there kept him close to his target client base.
A familiar name caught his eye in a list in smaller print on the banner. Mitchell Craven. Why did that name ring a bell or five? He looked beyond the fence to the court and immediately got his answer. The man in question was warming up, a blue-and-black chequered sweat headband keeping his floppy fringe off his forehead, Pat Cash-style. Celeste Pretty’s snivelly boyfriend, of course — obviously first out of the blocks in the challenge.
‘Want to have a game?’ a freckly, young redhead, who’d suddenly appeared at the gate, asked Lenny.
‘Uh … me?’
His instant reaction was to say no, but then Lenny had a sudden, crazy thought. Even if he hadn’t picked up a tennis racquet since PE in high school. Even if he’d rather watch house-paint dry than the Australian Open. He was in the mood for a thrashing, skilled or not as he was. Jogging hadn’t proved effective enough yet that day. And something about that Mitchell guy irked him. Reminded him of all the silver-spooners who acted like they owned the Earth, even though they’d never done a hard day’s work in their life. His parents had worked hard for everything they owned and Lenny was expected to do the same. There were no handouts.
He looked back at the redhead. ‘Actually, yeah, I might give one a try.’
‘Great! The registration booth’s just over there.’
Before he could second-guess himself, Lenny strode in the direction she gestured, joining the other non-club members lining up for a hit. Even though spontaneously taking part in a community event was entirely unlike him. He blamed Celeste. Already he’d helped her climb down from a client’s balcony and as good as abandoned a date in her presence. And he’d thought he wasn’t easily impressioned.
Maybe Celeste would even be cheering Mitchell on that day. He hadn’t seen Celeste on Friday at work. He’d been too busy helping get things started at Natalia’s new fitness studio while leaving Bill in charge at the mansion — doing commercial and residential work for Natalia kept things interesting. Bumping into Celeste was always amusing, even if she didn’t mean for it to be.
Soon enough, it was his turn at the head of the queue. A dark blonde, wearing a purple sun-visor, flashed a megawatt smile at him, which hinted at expensive dentistry work. ‘Lenny Muscat, we meet again!’ When he frowned, the woman rushed on as though to jog his memory. ‘I’m Imogen Karmel. We met at that paint company launch the other night.’
‘Oh … so we did.’ Another bell rung. ‘You play for the club?’
‘Just joined. Celeste was pleasantly surprised. She plays here, too.’
Lenny bet Celeste was surprised, although not pleasantly. She’d looked pretty uncomfortable in the chick’s company last time.
‘So would you like me to explain how the tennis challenge works?’ The blonde bird was fluttering her eyelashes at him again, like she had a tic.
‘Sure, why not?’
‘Okay, well, you pledge a chosen amount of money to play a set against one of our club members. If you lose, you have to pay that sum to charity. It’s an annual fundraiser and just a bit of fun.’
‘And if I win?’
Imogen pulled a sad face. ‘Then the charity loses.’
That didn’t sound fair, but he’d come this far, who was he to argue? ‘Right, I’ll pledge a thousand bucks to play against Mitchell Craven, then.’
Hey, he liked to give back and it would be tax-deductible. Plus, taking Mitchell on was going to be priceless, whichever way the game went.
‘A thousand?’ Imogen practically purred. He imagined she was impressed by his generosity, not the size of his wallet — she didn’t loo
k like she wanted for money. ‘Done. Just wait in that shelter over there for your turn on the court. Oh, and before you go’ — she turned to rummage in her bag — ‘I really should have given you my business card the other day. With your building work and my interior design, there’s sure to be a future project we can work on together.’
What was it with women throwing their business cards at him lately? Some he didn’t mind, but this woman …
‘Unnecessary,’ Lenny said already moving on. ‘I never know where to keep them. I can always look you up if need be.’
Unfortunately, he wasn’t quick enough to miss the pink-painted pout. Her sort of charms might have worked on The Bachelor or whatever show it was, but they were as useless as bullets rained on Superman to Lenny.
With barely time to chug down a Pimm’s Cup from a stall, Lenny found himself due on court, a loaned racquet in hand and a fruity taste lingering in his mouth. He still hadn’t seen Celeste yet. Maybe she’d be watching from the growing crowd — which he hadn’t counted on — in the stands. He was beginning to regret his moment of impulsiveness.
‘Hello again,’ Mitchell called out from across the net. ‘What a coincidence. I didn’t pick you for a tennis man. Leslie, isn’t it?’
Lenny didn’t bother to correct the guy, just surprised Mitchell hadn’t tacked ‘old chap’ on the end for good measure. The guy reminded him of all those posh-sounding Astonvale ladies who seemed to only know one adjective: amazing.
‘I’m not a tennis man,’ Lenny replied coolly.