‘Clients are often reluctant to discuss what might happen, should they be unable to manage their own affairs.’
‘You mean if I developed dementia or something like that?’
‘Yes, it’s not a nice thing to contemplate, but the issue needs to be addressed.’
When she nominated Blake as her power of attorney, she felt sick. Not from being confronted by the possibility she might one day be non compos mentis, but because of her guilt at the deception she had been perpetrating on Geoff Goodmann. After that, she must have answered his questions in a satisfactory manner because she heard him say:
‘Well, Angela, I think that’s about it. We’ll prepare the document and then you can come in and sign it.’
Another trip to Flynns Bay. She had imagined she would walk away with the will and never return.
‘Why don’t we make it the same time next Friday? Does that suit, or will you be in Sydney?’
She smiled weakly. ‘No, that’s fine.’
He stood up and came around to her side of the desk. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Angela.’ As they shook hands, he held hers for longer than was required for a polite farewell. ‘I’ll see you next week.’
He followed her out of the office and walked her to the entrance doors. She was feeling so guilty about what she’d done that she just wanted to escape to her car. Although undercover work might be exciting in the movies, it was bloody uncomfortable in real life.
As he opened the heavy glass door, he said, ‘Did you have any plans for lunch? There’s a nice seafood place just a few doors up.’
At first she didn’t realise it was an invitation. Then he continued. ‘I’m not married if that’s what’s bothering you. Well, not any more.’
She reminded herself she had to act as though she was just hearing it for the first time. What did you say when someone made an announcement like that? After seconds ticked by, she mumbled, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It was a divorce, there’s nothing to be sorry about, Angela. Now, I have a two o’clock appointment, but there’d be time for a main course and a dessert.’
Oh my goodness, he was persistent. If she hadn’t felt so embarrassed it would have been flattering. ‘I’m sorry, Geoff. I have something planned for this afternoon. Maybe we could do it another time.’ As soon as she said the last sentence, she could have kicked herself. Why hadn’t she just stopped at the excuse?
‘How about next week, after your appointment?’
‘Okay.’ What else could she say?
‘I’ll book at the Verona. You do like seafood, don’t you?’
‘Love it.’
‘Great. Well, I’ll see you next week, Angela.’
She practically ran to the parking area, unlocked the car door and slumped in the front seat. On the beach a cabal of pelicans had gathered, waiting to be fed by tourists. Before phoning Moira to let her know the appointment was over, Angie made a decision. She couldn’t possibly tell her friend about next week’s lunch. Moira would be appalled. Best to keep this latest development a secret.
As Moira drove home from the coast, Angie sat in silence, her mind wandering to the afternoon just passed. Telling lies always made her feel physically ill, and there’d been a surfeit of untruths. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Geoff Goodmann had been a shady character, the kind of person who was Diana’s male counterpart. Instead, he’d proven to be a decent man with no idea he was being deceived. There was something about him that made her feel safe. Perhaps it was the legal language, the calm voice, the reassuring words.
He reminded her of Phil. Nice-looking, good at his job, impeccable manners. But would Phil approve of what Angie was doing? In terms of the deceit, certainly not. He had hated lies, even when someone tried to persuade him that the potential end justified the means. As for Geoff Goodmann’s lunch invitation, Angie wasn’t sure how Phil would have reacted to that. The lunch next week wasn’t a date as such. She wasn’t interested in Diana’s ex. Angie still loved her husband – she always would. And somehow her heart had also found a place for scratchy old Richard Scott, the man who had recently dumped her.
Whenever Angie and Phil had talked about what each of them might do should the other die, the discussion had always been light-hearted and superficial. It was something neither had been prepared to contemplate, not as a serious subject, not even in the deepest parts of their subconscious. Phil had always said he would like her to be happy and if that meant another man, she should go for it. In reply, she had insisted she would never marry again, that he was the love of her life. Then they had both laughed and the conversation had invariably ended with them making love.
Geoff Goodmann was feeling more positive than he had in a very long time. Sitting in the living room of his penthouse overlooking the bay, he poured himself a beer. The lights of the apartment buildings lining the shore formed a glittering arc around an infinite black sea. Was he kidding himself, or was his meeting today the start of a romance? There was a vulnerability about Angela Simmons that he found appealing – the way she lowered her eyes when she spoke and the smiles so fleeting you thought you’d imagined them. He liked that she was a widow and that her children lived elsewhere. No ex-husband or offspring hanging around to take up her time.
And he had been intrigued by her response to his lunch invitation. Instead of jumping at it like a desperate widow looking for love, she had played hard to get, at least initially, and then indicated her interest by suggesting a raincheck. What’s more, he’d been impressed that she was a woman who had been happily married – you could tell by the way she spoke about her husband. Her marital success was a glowing reference, a solid credential. Geoff couldn’t say the same for himself. Two failed marriages. It wasn’t a good record, but it had all been Diana’s fault. He wished he’d never met her. She had poisoned everything.
A third marriage was out of the question, even to a woman who was good at being married. He never wanted to marry again. There was the matter of his assets. He wasn’t prepared to share them. Not after what had happened in the past. He wouldn’t even consider cohabiting with someone. Once the two-year mark passed, a de facto could make a financial claim against you in the event the relationship ended. And those two years could slip by before you knew it. He saw it all the time with his clients.
On Saturday morning FOTE held an informal meeting in the emporium café. Jennie was there with her partner, Mark. Everyone liked him. He was intelligent and kind. And apparently he looked like his great-grandfather, James Miller, who had two claims to fame – he’d been Millbrooke’s state member of parliament back in the 1930s, and he was the son of Joseph Miller, a member of Millbrooke’s founding family. Mark Miller adored Jennie. They could all see it in the way he gazed at her as if she were a priceless treasure he’d just had the good fortune to discover. As far as Angie was concerned, Jennie deserved a man like that, especially after her disasters in the precarious world of internet dating.
‘How was your meeting with Sam Porter?’ Alice asked Mark.
‘Hard to say,’ said Mark. ‘He was supportive but insists it’s essentially a local government issue.’
‘What’s happening with the T-shirts, Jennie?’ asked Bert.
‘The general store and the museum are selling them for us. And the tourist office has sold out of tea towels, so we’ve ordered some more. I’ll have them by Monday week.’
‘Good. That should provide enough funding to continue the ads. Any word from Richard Scott about the mill, Angie?’
‘No, I should have followed up on that. Sorry. I’ll call him now.’
She rummaged in her bag for her phone.
‘Damn. I forgot my phone.’
‘Use mine,’ said Jennie, handing her an object in a pink case patterned with fake diamonds.
Angie took a deep breath and dialled Richard. He wasn’t home. She tried his mobile inste
ad. No answer, so she left a voicemail.
‘Hi, it’s me. I’d like to discuss some options with you. I’m hopeful we can come up with an arrangement that will work for all the parties involved. I’ll be home tomorrow or we could meet in town. Give me a call when you can. Bye.’
Angie returned Jennie’s phone.
‘What if Richard doesn’t change his mind about the mill?’ asked Jennie.
‘We’ll be in deep shit,’ replied Alice. ‘Because that’s our only option.’
‘Richie, let’s go to Sydney for the weekend. If we left now, we could be there this afternoon. We could stay at one of those boutique hotels and have a romantic dinner.’
‘Di, I can’t leave the alpacas overnight. And the grass has to be mown. Anyway, we went to Granthurst yesterday.’
‘But there’s nothing to do here.’
‘There are books to read. And the newspapers. I thought you were enjoying Clochemerle. We can discuss it tonight. It’s such an interesting study of provincial life. The overarching themes are universal. It could be France or any country town in Australia.’
Diana yawned.
‘How about I take you to the pub for dinner? Lisa’s a great cook. She used to run a hatted restaurant in Sydney. She does the best lamb shanks I’ve ever tasted.’
‘Okay, but you won’t go off to the bar with your mates and ignore me, will you?’
‘Of course not. Wear one of those outfits we bought yesterday. You’ll turn heads.’ He kissed her on the forehead. ‘And, Di, there are plenty of things to do in Millbrooke. Why don’t you join a club or take a course?’
‘That’s not a bad idea. Angie runs a painting class at her barn. I saw the women arriving for it, while I was staying at the B&B. They had baskets full of paint tubes. Moira was there. And that pretty girl, Jennie, from the market stall.’ She slipped Richard a sideways glance. ‘I wouldn’t mind trying my hand at painting. If Moira can do it, I can.’
‘I was thinking of something like quilting or mosaics.’
‘What’s wrong with painting? Don’t you think I have any artistic talent? I used to be good at art when I was at school. But I’ve never had a chance to pursue it.’
‘I’m sure you’d be excellent. It’s just that those painting ladies are a bit of a clique. I don’t know whether they would welcome an outsider.’
‘I realise Moira wouldn’t welcome me. But she’s not the teacher. Angie seems okay though. By the way, did you pay for my accommodation when you collected my bag?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘I might drop around later today and sort out the bill. I’m surprised she hasn’t chased me for it before now. And while I’m there, I could ask about her classes. It can’t do any harm. After all, you want me to keep myself busy.’
Richard took himself outside to mow the lawns. As he steered his ride-on mower over the grass, carefully avoiding the garden borders, he ruminated on the state of his relationship with Diana. If he had pictured himself not so long ago as a kind of Jay Gatsby, having created a dream house in the hope he’d impress his long-lost sweetheart and resume their romantic idyll, he now grasped a reality that Gatsby never did – you couldn’t possibly recapture a past which had been an illusion in the first place. Once upon a time the love story between the architect and the girl with the amethyst eyes had seemed full of possibilities. Then he uprooted her from her life in the city – her friends and career – and dumped her in a decrepit old house in the middle of nowhere. The differences between them that had once seemed charming soon became the opposite. As for shared aspirations, there were none, other than their desperate and ill-fated desire to have a baby.
Why had he continued to convince himself it was a great love story? Was it the undeniable physical attraction between the two of them? Or was it something more complex – her innate vulnerability and his need to protect her? In the old days, whenever he’d had doubts, he pushed them to the depths of his subconscious, immersing himself in his consulting work and the restoration of Millerbrooke, but neglecting his fragile young wife in the process. So much for being her protector! No wonder she ended up running off with the solicitor.
Now, in welcoming her back into his life, he’d offered an implicit commitment – to resume his role as knight in shining armour. And even though the love story had proven to be hollow at the core, he couldn’t just turf her out and send her back to Flynns Bay. In some odd kind of way she’d become his responsibility.
While Richard was out mowing the lawn, Diana was lying in the bath, struggling through his tedious book about a public urinal. Richard wanted to discuss it with her tonight. Their own personal book club. Couldn’t they just have sex instead? Why did they have to talk about a stupid French book, or any book at all, for that matter? He had always liked reading novels. But, seriously, what was the point? They were just stories somebody had made up. It wasn’t as if you could learn anything from them.
When his mobile rang, she was still in the bath. Outside she could hear the drone of the mower. Once she dried herself, she went downstairs and found a voicemail. In spite of the clatter in the background, she could make out a female voice saying:
‘Hi, it’s me. I’d like to discuss some options with you. I’m hopeful we can come up with an arrangement that will work for all the parties involved. I’ll be home tomorrow or we could meet in town. Give me a call when you can. Bye.’
It was that woman again. She was sure of it. ‘Dearest One’. The person who didn’t need to identify herself. What a cheeky bitch she was, talking about options and arrangements. And how dare she refer to Diana as one of the parties involved? This time Diana was very careful to jot down the number before deleting the message.
She went to the phone in the hallway, blocked the number and dialled Dearest One. No answer. Instead, it went to message bank: ‘Hi, it’s Jennie. I can’t take your call right now so leave your name and number after the tone and I’ll be in touch. Bye.’
Well, well, Diana’s suspicions had proven correct. It was that fat blonde bimbo from the market stall.
Among the reeds down by the creek, a frog was mimicking the sounds of a boom box. Nearby, a flock of wattlebirds was singing in an off-key soprano, backed by the hum of distant lawnmowers. It was a Saturday afternoon symphony, Millbrooke-style. Angie hadn’t heard back from Richard. No doubt he was otherwise engaged. Probably the two of them had decided to spend Saturday in bed, ignoring the phone. She called his mobile again, leaving a curt message:
‘Hi. I know you’re busy, but please phone me ASAP regarding your decision. Bye.’
She had tried not to place undue emphasis on ‘busy’. It wouldn’t do to sound sarcastic, even though Richard had once used a generous dose of sarcasm and innuendo in his own allusions to Angie’s relationship with Mr Songbird. No sooner had she put down the phone than there was a knock at the door. When she opened it, who should it be but Richard’s ex.
‘Hi, Diana. Would you like to come in?’ she said with studied politeness.
‘Thank you. I’ve come to finalise my bill. You must think I’m awful, leaving it so long.’
‘No, of course not. Would you care for a cup of tea while you’re here?’ Angie had asked out of courtesy, not expecting Diana to reply:
‘Would you mind if I have a coffee instead?’
‘Not at all.’
‘How much do I owe you?’
Angie produced an invoice from a box on the kitchen counter.
‘I’m sorry for disappearing like that, Angie, but once Richard and I saw each other again, we were drawn together like magnets. An irresistible force.’
Did Diana actually believe what she was saying? It sounded like a line from one of those cheap romance novels.
‘I suppose it was a coup de foudre,’ said Angie. When she saw the puzzled look on Diana’s face, Angie explained: ‘It’s French for a bolt from the
blue. You know, love at first sight.’
‘That describes it perfectly. Except we weren’t meeting for the first time. I suppose you’ve heard that Richard and I used to be married.’
‘It’s hard to keep anything secret in a small town like Millbrooke.’
‘We don’t care if people know that we’re back together. It’s like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. Remember how they got divorced and then remarried?’
‘Are you and Richard planning to remarry?’ Angie tried not to gag on the last word.
‘We haven’t discussed it. Not yet.’
‘Well, you’ll recall what happened to Taylor and Burton the second time around.’
‘My Richard is different. He doesn’t drink and he’s not a womaniser.’
Angie noted the possessive pronoun.
‘I’m so fortunate to have found happiness again, Angie. After such a bad year.’ She lowered her voice as if someone might be listening. ‘I’ve been miserable since my husband’s death.’
Liar, liar, liar.
‘You would understand that, Angie, being a widow yourself.’
‘And now you’re reaching out to the world again,’ Angie replied with mock concern. It was the kind of thing Blake might say.
‘That’s a lovely way of putting it. Some people might think it’s too soon after Geoff’s death to become involved with another man, but it’s been six months. And I don’t find it easy to be alone.’
‘When you lose a partner, it’s important to keep yourself busy.’
‘You’re right. That’s the other reason I came to see you, Angie. I’ve always been interested in art and I heard about your painting class.’
Angie almost choked on her tea. How dare this woman try to infiltrate the painting class? It was Angie’s refuge, the ladies’ joint therapy session, the place where they exchanged confidences, knowing they would go no further. Besides, the women hated Diana – Moira most of all.
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