‘Would you have room for one more in your class, Angie?’
‘I’d love to include you, Diana, but there’s a waiting list. Even the mayor’s wife had to wait until a place became available. I could add you to the list, if you like.’ The mention of Louise Brannigan was a nice touch. It implied Angie wouldn’t pull strings, even for someone so important. Except that there was no waiting list. There never had been.
The pout on Diana’s collagened lips had become more pronounced. She probably would have frowned too, if her frozen facial muscles had allowed it.
Well, Diana Goodmann, thought Angie to herself, you may have got your own way with Richard Scott, but now you’re dealing with someone who knows you for what you really are.
11 SAME TIME, NEXT WEEK
Although Diana had smiled politely about the waiting list, she was indignant. The llama lady acted as if she was running an exclusive private school where you had to enrol your child from birth. Didn’t she realise it was just a stupid art class held in a cruddy old barn in a town most people had never heard of?
When she arrived back at Millerbrooke, Richard was feeding his bloody llamas. Why was it that everyone in this town seemed to keep those stupid animals? She went inside and checked his phone, but there were no messages. Either he had deleted them, or his dearest Jennie was miffed that he hadn’t returned her call and was giving him the silent treatment. Served them both right. But it wouldn’t hurt to leave a little reminder on Jennie’s phone. Just a short warning to stay away from him.
Would Jennie show Richard the text message? Probably not. If she was already insecure about her weight, the ‘fat’ comment would make her more so. And even if she told Richard, it wasn’t a problem. Diana owned two mobiles: the one Richard knew about, and a prepaid. Nobody could trace it back to her.
Richard finally phoned Angie to arrange a meeting at ten-thirty on Monday at the emporium café. Since they were usually there at the same time anyway, the arrangement was merely a formality. When the time came, she decided to make him wait. People always valued you more if you weren’t at their beck and call. She ambled down Miller Street, looking in the shop windows and stopping to chat with Jonathan Taylor, who was coming out of the paper shop. When she arrived at quarter to eleven, Richard wasn’t there. No doubt he’d been delayed by a little roll in the hay with the faux widow.
As she drank her tea, she tried to visualise a Tuscan exterior and a second-storey addition. It would be a hybrid, a monstrosity. She was so lost in her daydream that she didn’t notice Richard had arrived and taken a seat at the other side of the table.
‘A penny for your thoughts, Ange.’
‘My dad used to say that. What would it be now, allowing for inflation? Ten cents? Twenty? A dollar?’
He smiled at her in the way people smile at lunatics. Indulgently.
‘You okay, Ange?’
Not really, she thought. Not at all. Nothing was right with the world. Aloud she replied, ‘Of course.’
‘You look stressed.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Well, your phone message was rather terse.’
‘The second one? Yes, sorry. It was just that you didn’t reply to my first message.’
‘What first message?’
‘The voicemail I left on Saturday morning. About coming up with options that might work for everyone.’
He checked his phone. ‘I didn’t receive it. Only the message you left about contacting you ASAP.’
Excuses, excuses.
‘Well, anyway, have you thought about leasing the mill to Andrew Wright?’
‘Yes, I’d be prepared to give him a six-month lease.’
‘He wouldn’t even consider that, Richard. Imagine relocating without any guarantee of long-term use.’
‘That’s all I can offer.’
Angie sighed out loud. ‘I thought we were going to try to be friends. When did things become so adversarial between us?’
‘You know when, Ange.’
Angie didn’t answer. She was recalling the moment of truth. It was when she discovered Diana on his staircase.
It was painting day. Everyone had brought their impressionist landscape for show-and-tell. Except Jennie. She seemed preoccupied, not her usual bubbly self. At lunchtime Angie took her aside.
‘Are you okay, Jen?’
‘Not really. Promise you won’t tell the others, Angie.’
‘Of course not.’
Jennie produced her phone. ‘I’ve been getting nasty text messages. Ever since Saturday. I don’t know what to do about it. Look at this. It came this morning.’
Leave him alone, you dirty slag.
‘There are worse ones. Using the “c” word.’
Angie wondered about the use of the word ‘slag’ – she’d only ever heard it on British cop shows. ‘Do you recognise the number?’
‘No. But I thought it might be Mark’s ex-wife.’
‘Have you told Mark about this?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, you should. He’ll know if it’s her number or not. When did she find out about the two of you?’
‘She’s known for months.’
‘So why attack you now?’
Jennie began to cry. ‘I don’t know, Angie. But what if it’s not his ex? What if there’s some other woman in Mark’s life?’
‘I’m sure there’s not. It’s obvious that Mark adores you.’
‘That’s what I thought. But men can be fickle, can’t they? I mean, look at your Rich – sorry, Angie.’
‘No, you have a point. But not Mark.’
‘So you think I should tell him.’
‘I think you have to. And you need to change your number ASAP.’
Angie was up early on Friday, feeding the alpacas and cleaning their water trough. Then she raked their droppings and went inside to have a shower. She didn’t have any guests staying, thank goodness. Not until tonight. A couple from Granthurst coming for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Angie and Phil had celebrated theirs a month before he died. She wanted the anniversary couple to feel special. She had filled their room with vases of roses and put a bottle of champagne and crystal glasses in the bar fridge.
She was almost finished getting dressed – white jeans, white T-shirt, not too low, and navy linen blazer – when she decided to phone Kim and cancel. Why had she offered a raincheck to Geoff Goodmann after tendering a perfectly adequate excuse? Was it because Geoff made her feel desirable after her recent humbling at the hands of Richard Scott? If that was the case, she must be more vulnerable than she realised.
It was nine o’clock. The office would be open. She really should end this thing before any further damage was done. She would tell Kim she had the stomach flu – it was going around – and then request the documents be mailed to her at the Sydney address. She could phone the new owners and let them know an envelope was coming and they could forward it to her.
She was part-way through dialling Goodmann & Partners when she put the phone down. There was no point in calling the couple who had bought her house – they didn’t speak English. She would have to go to Flynns Bay and collect the will in person. Then a quick lunch. No leading questions about his marriage. Just general small talk and as few lies as possible. And after today she would never see him again.
When she entered the reception area fifteen minutes late, Kim said: ‘I’ll buzz Mr Goodmann,’ before Angie could even apologise for being tardy.
Geoff appeared, dressed not in a suit, but a jacket and jeans.
‘Hi, Angela. I thought you might have had second thoughts.’
‘Sorry, Geoff. I lost track of time.’ She couldn’t very well say she was late because she got stuck behind a lorry on the mountain road. After all, she was supposed to be staying with friends in Flynns Bay.
‘It doesn’t m
atter. I’ve cleared the rest of the day anyway.’
He showed her into his office where she did a double-take at the way the furniture had been reconfigured. He’d moved his desk to line up with the side wall.
‘What do you think, Angela?’
‘I love it.’
‘So do I. Why didn’t I ever think of it myself?’
‘Sometimes you need an outsider to provide a new perspective on things.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
Kim arrived with a tray. She had even remembered that Angie took tea, white, no sugar.
‘While Kim’s here, you might as well sign the will. Then she can witness it for you.’ He made a quick call and another young woman appeared at the door. ‘Angela, this is Ellen, my partner’s assistant. She’ll be your second witness.’
After the signing was done and Kim and Ellen had returned to their desks, he asked, ‘Would you like us to keep it here?’
‘Is it possible to take it with me?’
‘Of course. As long as your executor knows where it is.’
‘I’ll make sure of that. And I’d like to pay you today.’ She didn’t want an invoice going to her old address.
‘You don’t need to do that. We’ll send you a statement.’
‘Could you email it to me?’ Angie asked, knowing her angie82 email address gave nothing away. ‘Then I’ll be sure to deal with it promptly.’
‘No problem. I’ll have Kim make a note on the file. It’s refreshing to have a client who’s so anxious to pay us. It’s sometimes quite the opposite.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I booked for twelve-thirty. We have an hour to fill. How about a drive? Do you like Pelican Point?’
She’d never been there, but if you had been staying with friends in Flynns Bay, it appeared you would be expected to know it.
‘Yes, that would be lovely.’ The pyramid of lies had become so big she couldn’t avoid the shadow it cast over every interaction between them.
His car was parked in the basement. It was a newish model, polished until it glowed. The interior was immaculate, as if it had been vacuumed that morning.
‘You certainly look after your car, Geoff,’ she said as he held the passenger door open for her.
‘Yes, I’m very particular when it comes to the BMW.’
They drove around the perimeter of the bay, heading south. It didn’t seem strange sitting beside him in his meticulously maintained car. In fact, if she glanced at him with half-closed eyes – in the way she sized up the light and dark values within a composition – he might have been Phil.
While Diana was lying in the bath on Friday morning, she came up with a devastating new message, polishing it in her head until it was word perfect:
‘You’re a big fat whore, Jennie, with your arrangements and secret meetings. If you see him again you’ll regret it.’
This time she would use the bitch’s name, just in case she thought somebody had sent her the messages by mistake. And it wouldn’t be a text; she would actually speak – in a raspy whisper that would be sure to unsettle dear Jennie. She climbed out, slipped on her Egyptian cotton towelling dressing gown and went to the bedroom, where her other phone was hidden in the pocket of her suitcase.
After she typed in the number, she took a deep breath, ready to conceal her voice when a message announced it wasn’t connected. Diana entered the digits again. Same thing. Then it struck her that Jennie might have acquired a new number. Did she really think she could put an end to this so easily? How naive.
This is only the start, Dearest One. Wait till you see phase two.
At Pelican Point they got out of the car and went for a walk along the beach.
‘They claim it’s the whitest sand in the world,’ Geoff said.
Angie bent over, picked up a handful and let it run through her fingers. A row of exclusive homes lined the shore with a strip of low scrub between the houses and the beach.
‘Are we trespassing?’ asked Angie when she saw a hand-lettered sign saying: ‘Private beach’.
‘It’s not private,’ replied Geoff. ‘The houses are on a waterfront reserve. The beach is public. The council will come and remove the sign, but he’ll just make another one to replace it.’
‘It sounds as though you know the person.’
‘He owns number two. I used to live at number six.’ He pointed to a big cream stucco house with vast balconies and a rolling green lawn currently being mown by a young man in a dark blue uniform.
‘I had to sell it earlier in the year. In the divorce settlement.’
‘Did your wife buy your half?’
He laughed. ‘My ex-wife did well out of the divorce, but not that well. Anyway, she didn’t want the house. Was never happy there. She prefers her new townhouse. And she likes to travel. She’s on a cruise right now. Around the world on one of those big ocean liners.’
Angie stifled a gasp. Diana had told Geoff she was going on a cruise when she was actually two hours away in Millbrooke. Then again, Angie had told him she was staying in Flynns Bay when she really lived in his old home town. Poor man. Two women were duping him simultaneously.
‘I don’t hear from her, of course, but she’s sent Kim a couple of texts.’
I can imagine, thought Angie. Honolulu is breathtaking. Wish you were here. Sent from Richard Scott’s house. No postcards, of course. That would be impossible, even for someone as ingenious as Diana.
Suddenly Angie felt sick. The feeling was so powerful that she bent over.
‘Are you all right, Angela?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, unbending slowly.
‘A muscle spasm?’ he asked.
‘Something like that.’
‘Come and sit down,’ he said.
‘No, I’m fine, Geoff. Really.’
She would tell him everything over lunch. It had to be done. The subterfuge couldn’t continue. When he found out, Geoff would be upset. Justifiably so. Who could blame him? He might even walk out, leaving her alone with her barramundi or whatever the specialty of the restaurant was. Being a lawyer, he wouldn’t rant and rave. Instead, he would be dignified throughout, making Angie feel even worse.
The seafood restaurant was located two doors from Goodmann & Partners. The maître d’ showed them to a table by the window.
‘Have you come any closer to finding your dream house, Angela?’
‘Please call me Angie. Only my parents and teachers ever called me Angela and that was when I was in trouble. And no, I haven’t found anything I like.’
‘What part of Flynns Bay do you like?’
‘The beachfront, I suppose.’
‘Is that where your friends live? The ones you stay with?’
She was about to confess when the waiter arrived to take their order. She hadn’t even looked at the menu. The first thing she saw was the drummer in beer batter. So she ordered that.
‘I’ll have the drummer too,’ said Geoff to the waiter. ‘And a bottle of the Flynns Bay chardonnay. I like to support our local winery,’ he added as an aside to Angie.
‘My husband sometimes caught drummer,’ Angie said, when the waiter was gone.
‘He liked to go fishing?’
‘When he had the time. He said it was the best way to relax. He would just sit in a tinny with his line and empty his head of everything that had happened in the emergency room. Painting works the same way for me.’
‘What do you like to paint?’
‘Portraits, old houses, landscapes.’
‘If you like old buildings, there’s a nice little town a couple of hours from here. Millbrooke. Have you heard of it?’
Each time the conversation seemed to move away from her axis of lies, he brought it right back to the centre. But she didn’t think he was doing it intentionally. It was just that the network of untruths had becom
e so gridlocked, there were no detours left.
‘Yes, it’s a pretty place.’
‘I used to live there, a long time ago. Even before I met my ex-wife.’
The waiter appeared with their wine. As he opened it, Geoff said, ‘The label’s damaged. Take it back.’
‘Sorry, Mr Goodmann. I’ll replace it,’ the waiter replied, looking embarrassed.
Angie couldn’t see how a slight tear in a label could make any difference to the contents, but she wasn’t a wine expert and Geoff obviously wanted things to be perfect.
When the waiter returned with another bottle bearing a pristine label, Angie reminded herself that she could only have one glass. She needed a clear head, and not just because there was a long drive ahead of her.
‘I was the town solicitor. Married with two kids. I know you think I’m a good person, Angie, but I’m not. I behaved very badly in the Millbrooke days.’
Oh no, he was about to confess his own indiscretions. Don’t do it, Geoff. I don’t want to hear any more of your secrets. Can’t you see that I’m a fraud, an undercover operative, a secret agent?
‘When I tell you, you’re going to be disappointed in me.’
‘Geoff, we’re all flawed. Everyone makes mistakes. I’ve made plenty. Big ones. That’s why I don’t judge others.’
‘You’re such a compassionate person. It’s a very endearing quality.’
Tell him now, Angie. Stop prevaricating.
‘Geoff, I’ve been less than honest with you.’
‘I know.’
She took a generous gulp of wine. What was coming next? Had he known all along?
‘You’re not going to move here, are you, Angela? I can see you’ve lost your enthusiasm. Have the boys talked you out of it?’
‘No, it’s not that.’ He was calling her Angela again. Perhaps he was of the same opinion as her parents that it was a perfectly good name – why shorten it? But she’d always preferred to be called Angie.
‘Please reconsider. It’s such a beautiful place. You would find plenty of things to paint.’
She sighed in frustration. ‘I’ll think about it.’
A Place of Her Own Page 13