‘Yes.’ It was Andrew Wright.
‘Go ahead, Mr Wright.’
‘The so-called Friends of the Emporium have spun a web of emotion around this DA, but the bottom line is exactly what Mrs Wallace has said. I can’t run my proposed wedding reception business in that old building. Not in its current form. I need more space and a new façade. I’d also like to freshen up the paint. Is that too much to ask?’
There were cries of ‘Hear, hear!’ from his supporters.
‘Anyway, who are these two people we keep hearing about? Amy and Charles. What is their relevance to modern-day Millbrooke? Do they bring money or jobs into the local community? If the renovations are approved, I’ll be operating one of the biggest businesses in this town. There will be four full-time staff and five casuals. I want to modernise a dilapidated old building. I don’t want to knock it down. I’m not talking about demolition, just alterations. It happens all the time in heritage-listed buildings across the country. We either look to the future or we’ll wallow in the past. It’s up to council to make the right decision and pass my DA.’
‘As the hour is late,’ said the mayor, ‘and we’ve heard from both sides, I will now put the motion to the floor, bearing in mind this popular vote is only an indication of the opinions of the audience present tonight and not binding on council in any way. Could we have a show of hands? Those in favour of the moratorium?’
Hands shot up.
‘And against?’
There was a group of raised hands around Andrew Wright.
‘The ayes have it. Therefore, I will put it to the councillors that we hold this matter over until next month and in the meantime we will look more closely into the DA and any alternative proposals. Mrs Wallace, do you have any options ready for our perusal?’
‘I think we would like to discuss that with Mr Wright and yourselves at a time convenient to all parties,’ replied Angie.
‘In that case, I will put the proposal for a moratorium to the vote.’
The FOTE committee held their breath. If there was no moratorium, the DA would go to the vote tonight. Angie’s legs were shaking, a tremor which she tried to quell by placing her hands firmly on her thighs. Bert was clearing his throat nervously and Moira was sitting bolt upright, staring into space. Meanwhile, Alice was pacing up and down in front of them.
‘I’ll need a stiff drink after this,’ said Angie.
It was passed by the councillors six to one, with the mayor abstaining.
‘It’s a reprieve,’ whispered Moira.
‘We have a month to come up with an alternative,’ said Bert.
‘Angie, you’d better use your influence with Richard Scott,’ added Alice.
Angie felt like responding: ‘What influence?’ She turned towards the back of the room. Richard was gone.
Angie had continued to obfuscate about the male model idea. Instead, they were painting mini-landscapes on squares of stretched canvas. She had spent the first hour showing her students images of rural landscapes by Monet, Pissarro and Sisley. Scenes painted around Argenteuil featuring poplar trees, wheat fields and, of course, the river. It resembled the Millbrooke landscape, especially after the recent rain, which had swollen the creek and greened up the paddocks. The poplars too with their newly minted leaves could have equally graced a French roadside. After Angie explained the concept of capturing light with dabs of colour, each woman found herself a seat on one of the boulders down by the creek. At lunchtime they gathered on a picnic blanket under the old elm tree.
‘Are we going to have another exhibition next Easter, Angie?’ asked Tanya.
‘How does everyone feel about that?’
‘It’s a great idea,’ said Jennie.
‘We’d need a theme,’ said Narelle.
‘What about something to do with Charles Junior?’ suggested Moira.
‘That sounds interesting,’ replied Angie, who was relieved the suggestion didn’t involve a nude male body.
‘Would that provide enough material for an exhibition?’ asked Narelle.
‘If we used Charles as inspiration, we could call it “Heroes of Millbrooke”,’ said Angie. ‘We could even include the other Millbrooke soldiers who died for their country.’
‘And everyday heroes like the SES and the Rural Fire Brigade,’ added Louise.
‘The schoolchildren could paint their own personal heroes,’ said Jennie.
‘They’d probably choose rock stars or footballers,’ said Tanya.
‘Or their parents,’ added Moira.
‘I wish,’ said Narelle.
‘If we chose to do this, it would involve portraiture and that’s the most difficult type of subject matter,’ warned Angie.
‘We know,’ said Narelle. For the last exhibition she and Jennie had created a huge canvas entitled ‘Faces of Millbrooke’, featuring twenty eminent Millbrookers.
‘We don’t really know anything about Charles Junior before he went off to the war,’ said Moira.
‘Should we delegate tasks, like we did with Amy and Charles?’ asked Tanya.
‘Why not?’ replied Angie. ‘So what do we already know about him?’
‘That he grew up in Millbrooke,’ said Narelle. ‘There might be school photos or other records.’
‘He was a minister of religion and served as an army chaplain in the First World War,’ added Jennie.
‘And he died in 1917 and was buried in France,’ said Moira.
‘Let’s work back from 1917,’ suggested Angie. ‘Firstly, who would like to research the grave?’
Jennie volunteered.
‘Jen, you might look into the places he served. The battles. Everything is in the documents I downloaded from the National Archives. Perhaps you could do a timeline of his war service.’
‘I’d like to follow up on his family,’ said Narelle. ‘The wife and any children.’
‘Thanks, Narelle.’
‘I’ll look at his career as a clergyman,’ said Tanya. ‘There could well be church records that I can access.’
‘Then I’ll do the school years,’ said Moira.
Louise was looking lost. ‘Is there anything I can help with?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Angie. ‘Would you like to check the digitised copies of the Gazette in the Millbrooke Museum? Bert will help you get started.’
‘Angie,’ said Narelle, ‘do you think we could all go to France and visit the grave?’
‘That’s a great idea,’ said Jennie.
At first Angie wondered if Narelle and Jennie were joking, but their faces had never looked so earnest.
‘We could visit the graves of all the Millbrooke boys who died on the Western Front,’ said Narelle.
‘Where would the money for the trip come from?’ asked Angie.
‘The exhibition,’ suggested Narelle.
Angie laughed. ‘We made fifteen hundred dollars from the last one. That’s barely enough for a single plane ticket. Anyway, we donated the money to the hospital.’
‘We could start saving now,’ said Tanya.
Diana hadn’t seen much of Richard in recent days. He and that attractive boy, Troy, had been in the shed from dawn to dusk, shearing the llamas. Diana had been obliged to make lunch for the two of them. What did Richard think she was? A shearers’ cook? To compensate, he had promised to take her to Granthurst on Friday. She needed to buy some clothes. There weren’t any clothing shops in Millbrooke, unless you were interested in farm wear or outdoor gear. While she was there, Diana planned to make discreet enquiries as to the location of beauticians who might offer cosmetic injections. It was now several months since her last treatment and she required a top-up. In a month or two the wrinkles would return. Fortunately it wasn’t a sudden thing. Not like a boy turning into a werewolf. The transition would be gradual, but sooner or later the enlarged po
res and nasty lines would reappear.
Sometimes she wondered whether the fillers, dermabrasions and phototherapies would continue to work into her sixties. By then, more drastic measures might be needed, like a full-scale face lift. Although the prospect of major surgery was off-putting, she had to keep up appearances, particularly when she was a woman whose life had been founded on physical allure. If she let the wrinkles deepen and the skin sag, men would ignore her. People might even find her ageing skin repulsive. If she were no longer gorgeous, how could she face the world? Imagine if she had lived in the era before cosmetic enhancements. Prehistoric times. Pre-HRT, pre-collagen, pre-laser. Diana wasn’t going to let ageing happen to her. She would fight the fading of her beauty to the very end.
10 DECEPTION
The drive to Flynns Bay was supposed to take two hours, but it took Angie and Moira two and a quarter. Neither of them liked the steep, winding road and the hairpin bends. When they finally saw the sign, ‘Flynns Bay 5km’, they both sighed with relief. Goodmann & Partners was located on the esplanade overlooking the ocean. Angie parked in a spot nearby.
‘There’s no point in waiting in the car,’ said Angie. ‘You might as well have a look around the shops. I’ll phone you when it’s over.’
‘Good luck,’ said Moira jauntily.
It was all very well for her, thought Angie bleakly. She wasn’t about to deceive Diana’s ex-husband. How had Angie let Moira talk her into this inane idea? She took a deep breath to calm herself and decided to focus on getting the will drawn up and forget the rest.
The waiting room was decorated with oil paintings and watercolours – all seascapes. Had Diana chosen them or was it her husband? If it was Geoff Goodmann, he had good taste in art. There were two sofas of plush pastel leather – expensive. And a huge vase of fresh flowers on the counter: fanned palm leaves and orange bird of paradise. Everything indicated a prosperous practice.
Behind the reception desk sat a pretty young woman whose dark hair was pulled into a high ponytail. Angie fondly remembered the days when she used to wear her hair in the same style, but once you reached a certain age, it was no longer becoming or appropriate. Nowadays she wore her hair in a shoulder-length bob, the style favoured by soccer mums and TV newsreaders.
‘Hi, I’m Angela Simmons, here to see Mr Goodmann.’
‘Of course. Please take a seat, Ms Simmons. He won’t be long. Would you like a coffee while you wait?’
‘No thanks. You’re Kim, aren’t you? I recognised your voice. It’s lovely to meet you in person. I’m sorry about that misunderstanding on the phone. Regarding Mr Goodmann. I hope you didn’t tell him.’
Kim lowered her voice. ‘Heavens no.’
‘I’m very relieved he’s still with us.’
Kim laughed. ‘Yes, Geoff’s the healthiest person I know. He swims in the ocean every morning. And goes to the gym twice a week.’ Kim lowered her voice. ‘It’s so good to see him out and about again. The divorce hit him badly. But I shouldn’t really be talking about this, Ms Simmons.’
Suddenly the garrulous Kim became terse and efficient, producing a clipboard with a sheet of paper. ‘Would you mind filling in your contact details?’
After a few minutes the door to the office on the right opened, and a man of medium height emerged. He resembled one of those old-time movie stars – Ronald Colman or Claude Rains. Debonair, distinguished, dark hair greying at the temples and a slightly ironic smile. Angie could see how Diana would have been attracted to him. Twenty years ago he would have been quite something; in fact, he was still attractive.
‘Ms Simmons, I’m Geoff Goodmann. Pleased to meet you.’ He shook her hand firmly. ‘Come in. Would you like a coffee?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Kim, I’ll have a long white, please. Are you sure you don’t want anything?’
‘Well, maybe a tea, please. White, no sugar.’
He showed her into his office which had a breathtaking view of the bay from a plate-glass window behind his desk.
‘Wow,’ she said.
‘Everyone reacts that way.’
‘But there’s one thing wrong.’
‘What?’ he asked with a frown that crinkled the olive skin of his forehead, making him look even more like Claude Rains.
‘It’s just that your clients have a monopoly on the view. You could orient your desk along this side wall with the bookcase behind you, instead of the ocean. That way you wouldn’t be directly facing the view, but at least it would be in your peripheral vision.’
‘Are you an interior designer?’
‘No, I’m an artist.’
‘Well, it’s not such a bad idea. Please take a seat, Ms Simmons.’
‘Call me Angela.’
‘And I’m Geoff. Kim tells me you require a new will, Angela.’
‘Yes, my husband passed away two years ago this coming November.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Thank you, Geoff. It hasn’t been an easy time, but I’ve come through it. My son says I’ve reached the acceptance stage. He’s studying Psychology.’ As soon as she spoke, Angie wondered why she was confiding in this man. Be careful, she told herself.
Kim arrived with mugs of tea and coffee on a tray. Angie noted the custom-inscribed mugs:
‘Goodmann & Partners – you can rely on us’.
‘I see that you live in Sydney, Angela.’
She had written her former address on the contact details sheet. The house was now owned by a family who had recently emigrated from Hong Kong.
‘So what has brought you here to have your will drawn up?’
‘I’m staying with friends – on and off – while I decide whether I want to make a sea change or not.’ Moira had prepared her for this one. All the same, she was astounded at how easily the lie had flowed from her tongue.
‘How does your son feel about you moving? I’m assuming he’s still in Sydney.’
‘Yes, both my boys live there. They don’t like the idea of me being so far away.’ She showed him her wallet photos.
‘Do you have any children, Geoff?’
‘Three. Two boys and a girl. The youngest was married in June. They’ve just bought a house in the new development at the edge of town.’ He indicated several photos on his bookshelves: the daughter in her cap and gown and a proud Geoff with his arm around her, and another taken on her wedding day with her father. Angie scanned the shelves for evidence of Diana. If she had once been displayed there, she wasn’t now.
‘Your daughter’s a beautiful girl, isn’t she?’ said Angie. It crossed her mind that Diana might have looked much the same, back in the days when Richard first met her.
‘Yes, indeed. She takes after her mother in looks, but she’s like me in personality.’
‘My sons look a lot like their father. They even sound like him. Sometimes when I answer the phone, I think it’s my husband. Only for a moment, of course.’ Why had she just said that? It was so personal.
‘You must have had a good marriage.’
‘Yes, it was. Very good.’
‘You were fortunate, Angela. As a solicitor specialising in family law, I tend to see marriages racked by acrimony and recriminations.’
‘How sad when something which was glorious at the start turns rancid.’
‘You’re right. It is sad.’ He returned his empty mug to the tray. ‘Well, I suppose we should get your will drawn up, or it will be lunchtime before we know it. Not that I haven’t enjoyed our chat. You’re an easy person to talk to.’
Angie felt ashamed. She hadn’t expected to like Geoff Goodmann. In fact, she hadn’t thought about her reaction to him at all. And although parts of her conversation with him had been honest, she had deceived him about many things. In a way, she wasn’t any better than Diana, weaving lies and manipulating people. For a m
oment, as he talked about choosing an executor and a range of other legal technicalities, she considered telling him the truth – that the motivation for coming to see him had nothing to do with her will. But if she told him those facts, she would have to tell him she’d lied about staying with friends, that she had no intention of making a sea change, that she was happily ensconced in a new life in his old home town of Millbrooke and most damningly, she had been recently ‘involved’ with Diana’s ex. After that, she would have to reveal that Diana was back in Millbrooke, living in Richard Scott’s house.
When Geoff asked about an executor, Angie nominated Vicky.
‘Now there’s the matter of your beneficiaries.’
‘I want to leave everything to my sons. Equally.’
‘Their names?’
‘Blake and Tim Wallace.’ As soon as she said the surname, she realised she hadn’t thought this through very carefully. But at least she had a valid explanation for the discrepancy in names. ‘It’s my husband’s name. I kept my own surname.’ To substantiate her excuse, she produced her driver’s licence. And there it was: Angela Simmons, together with her old Sydney address. Thank goodness she hadn’t got round to having it changed since selling the house in April.
He laughed. ‘If you move here, Angela, you should have that address changed at the RTA. It’s a legal requirement.’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said meekly.
‘So you intend to leave all your assets to the boys?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Mrs Lamb, as your executor, is aware of everything you own, including insurance policies?’
‘Absolutely. She even knows where the property deeds are.’ Angie kept them in a safe deposit box at the Millbrooke Community Bank.
‘In that case, we don’t need to list every item individually.’
What a relief.
‘But there’s another delicate matter I need to raise with you.’
Oh dear. Had he guessed she was up to something? Her heart began to pound against her chest wall.
‘It’s concerning your power of attorney.’
Thank goodness.
A Place of Her Own Page 11