‘Okay. I’ll drop around after school. But don’t worry too much. I can airbrush your face on the computer, if necessary.’
Angie and Moira exchanged smiles.
‘Mark, I want to look nice, but I don’t want to be airbrushed. That would be hypocritical. Particularly when we’re objecting to the modernising of the emporium. I need to look like me – a woman with some signs of wear and tear, not a new and improved version of myself.’
‘Or a waxworks dummy,’ added Moira.
At four o’clock on Friday, just as Angie was about to set off for her weekend in Flynns Bay, Geoff called. He always seemed to know when she was thinking about him.
‘Angela, do you like curry?’
‘I love it, as long as it’s not too hot.’
‘Then I’ll leave out the chilli.’
She smiled at his thoughtfulness. ‘I’ll be there in a couple of hours.’
‘So you’re already on the road?’
‘Yes,’ she lied, realising her mistake. The journey from Sydney to Flynns Bay was double the driving time of the trip from Millbrooke.
‘I hope you’re using a hands-free phone,’ he said, lawyer-like.
‘I always do. I should be there about six.’
‘Good. I’ll have a glass of champagne waiting.’
Before she started the engine, Angie realised she’d forgotten to line up Troy to look after the alpacas. She took her phone from her jeans pocket and dialled him. When he didn’t answer she left a message.
‘Hi, Troy. It’s Angie. I’m going away this weekend, and I won’t be back until Sunday. Would you mind checking on the alpacas for me? Sorry about the late notice. I’ll try you again later.’
After you’d driven to Flynns Bay several times, you would become accustomed to the hairpin bends and the steep inclines. You’d know where to engage second gear. You’d recall the location of the passing lanes and how long they were. You would even know where to look out for rock falls.
Yet, no matter how familiar you were with the route, it was a relief to see the sign saying: ‘Welcome to Flynns Bay’. Turning off the main road, Angie headed along the palm tree-lined streets towards Geoff’s beachside apartment and drove into the underground car park where she found a spot in the visitors’ section. She removed her handbag and a bottle of wine but left her overnight bag in the boot. The thought of arriving at his apartment with baggage made her uncomfortable.
She buzzed his number, waited for the door to click and took the lift to the top floor so casually she might have lived there. Geoff was waiting at the door. As he kissed her on the mouth, she felt shivers of anticipation.
When she handed him the wine, he noticed she was carrying only a handbag.
‘You didn’t bring any luggage with you,’ he said. ‘Have you changed your mind? You’re not planning to stay with your friends, are you?’
‘No, it’s in the car.’
‘Well, I’ll go down later and get it for you.’
Then he took her hand and led her into the living room. On the coffee table was a huge bowl of white roses. A matching vase on the see-through dining table looked as though it was suspended in mid-air. From the kitchen came the irresistible fragrance of cumin seeds. Although she offered to help with the cooking, Geoff wouldn’t let her. Instead she sat on a stylish steel bar stool and sipped champagne, leaning her elbows comfortably on the stone benchtop.
‘I’m not used to being waited on,’ she said.
‘Well, get used to it, Angela. I want to spoil you.’
In the background Tony Bennett was singing about San Francisco. Briefly it made her think of Jack Parker. A platter on the granite counter held rows of canapés, even more dazzling than those of her previous visit.
‘When did you find the time to make these?’ Angie asked.
‘Just whipped them up while the curry was simmering,’ he said.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to give up the law and become a chef instead?’
‘Not while the law brings me legal separations, decrees nisi, pre-nups, custody deals and AVOs. And that’s in the last three days. By the way, what’s happening with your friend, Jennie?’
‘Actually, things have been quiet lately. I think she’s just holding her breath, hoping it’s over.’
‘It’s never over. Never.’
‘That’s a bleak outlook, Geoff. Surely it’s not possible to maintain that level of acrimony indefinitely.’
‘Those kinds of emotions aren’t transient, Angela. They persist for years. Anyway, why are we talking about acrimony when it’s a perfect evening and we have it to ourselves?’
He came around to her side of the bench and kissed her tenderly. Then he returned to his lamb curry, tasting it and depositing the spoon in the dishwasher.
After the curry, Geoff served a lime tart from the patisserie down the road. Angie was relieved to learn he hadn’t made it himself. If he had possessed perfect pastry skills, he would have been – in the words of the old song – too good to be true. Then he served coffee in the living room, where they had a view of the bay.
‘It’s such a gorgeous aspect,’ said Angie, as they nestled into the generous sofa.
‘Why don’t you take a look at a few apartments on the bay front? We could drop into the real estate agent in the morning.’ He took her hand. ‘That is, if you’re seriously interested in living here.’
‘It can’t hurt to look,’ she said.
‘I’m so pleased you’ve come round to my way of thinking.’ When he looked up, his eyes were smiling. They were like Phil’s – eyes you could trust. This was the moment to tell him.
‘Geoff, there’s something I need to confess. I should have told you before. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it because I knew you’d be disappointed in me.’
He put his arm around her. ‘If it’s about your feelings for your husband, Angela, I know you still love him. And I’m not jealous of that. In fact, I would be disappointed if you’d stopped loving him. Love has a life of its own, even when someone is gone.’
16 BLINDSIDED
After they finished their coffee, Geoff collected Angie’s overnight bag from the car and showed her the spare room. With its smart beige doona and carefully arranged silk-covered cushions, it might have been an interior from a four-star hotel. She admired the large painting over the bed – a mixed-media canvas featuring a nude woman. Wouldn’t the painting ladies be impressed with this artwork? she thought to herself, except that they’d prefer the subject to be male. In the corner an elegant armchair was covered in the same fabric as the doona. Matching curtains indicated everything had been custom-made. A built-in wardrobe extended the length of the wall opposite the bed. Geoff opened the sliding doors one by one, revealing empty spaces so clean and uncluttered that Angie felt ashamed of her own wardrobe at the Manse, packed so tight with clothes and accessories she could never find the item she wanted. She envied him his tidy approach to life. Even the coathangers faced the same way.
‘Plenty of room to hang your things,’ he said.
‘I’ll do that later,’ she replied. Her own room. Whatever the outcome, she was pleased to know he had been serious about ‘on your own terms’.
‘Well, let’s have a liqueur on the terrace first,’ he said, taking her hand.
A breeze tussled the row of potted murrayas that lined the edge of the terrace, infusing the air with their orange perfume. The foreshore was lit by a constellation of lights, their reflections spilling onto the ocean. Beyond that, there was only blackness.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked, placing his jacket over her shoulders.
She couldn’t have imagined a more romantic setting or a more attentive man.
He lit candles and placed them on a stone table in the centre of the terrace. Tony Bennett had magically found his way outside, crooning abou
t taking a chance on love.
They sat together on a wicker sofa, plush with cushions. His hand caressed hers. Then he leant across and kissed her – the kind of kiss where their tongues entwined. She didn’t hesitate to respond. The smell of him was delicious, like coming home to find your favourite dish cooking on the stove. As they kissed, there was no awkwardness or lack of coordination – it was as if they had choreographed the movements in advance.
While he fondled her breasts with one hand and began to undo her blouse with the other, she ran her hand down his back, feeling his spine through the fabric of his shirt.
‘I remember the first day you came to the office,’ he said pausing for a moment, ‘and I asked you to lunch. You said no, but then you offered me a raincheck. You can’t imagine how exciting that was.’
‘I really did have somewhere I had to be that afternoon,’ she replied.
‘You don’t have to make excuses, Angela. I know you were playing hard to get to arouse my interest. And it worked.’
Angie couldn’t very well deny playing games. She was guilty of it, only in another sense.
‘Let’s go somewhere more comfortable,’ he whispered.
Before she knew it, he had scooped her up in his arms. How many sixty-something men could do that? Only someone who worked out at the gym and swam at the beach every morning. When they reached his bedroom, he slid her onto the king-size bed, where he deftly undid the rest of the pearl buttons on her silk blouse and removed the garment like a magician. Suddenly she felt a pinprick of doubt. A voice in her head was whispering, ‘What are you doing here? He’s the wrong man.’ But she dismissed the voice. That couldn’t be true, not when he was so much like Phil. As she lay on the bed, he took off his own shirt, revealing a golden chest. Then he began to undo her bra, the white lace one that had cost a fortune in a lingerie boutique in a city arcade. He seemed to be having trouble with the clasp.
At that moment an image flashed across Angie’s mind. It was Richard Scott kissing her in the kitchen of the Manse. Although she tried to delete it, it was like a wayward pop-up on a computer screen.
Geoff had abandoned his attempts to unfasten the bra. Instead, his hand was unzipping her jeans and reaching inside her lace panties.
‘Ninety dollars for a pair of underpants,’ she’d complained to Vicky, when they had first seen them in the same boutique.
‘You deserve them, Angie,’ Vicky had replied.
‘But nobody will ever see them now. Other than me.’
While Geoff was in the process of removing the pants, Richard was back in her head, kissing her in the alpaca paddock. Why was she thinking of Richard when a very attractive man was trying to seduce her? She knew the answer. She loved Richard. She always would. She couldn’t help it.
‘Relax, Angela,’ the voice above her commanded, as he tried to pull the lace pants down her thighs.
‘I can’t, Geoff. I can’t do this. I’m sorry.’
He paused in his efforts to remove her underwear.
‘I understand that this is the first time since your husband died. So just let me take the lead.’
‘Geoff, don’t you think we might be rushing this? After all, we barely know each other.’
‘Of course we know each other. I drew up your will, for God’s sake.’
As he returned to the bra, she tried to extricate herself from his grasp.
‘Geoff, there’s something I have to tell you.’
‘What now?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I love someone else.’
‘What are you talking about? I know how you feel about your husband. I told you I accept the fact that you’ll always love him.’
‘I don’t mean Phil. I love another man. I’m sorry, but I can’t go through with this.’
There was a pause which seemed to last a long time. Slowly his expression changed, until he wasn’t Claude Rains of the ironic smile and laughing eyes, but somebody else altogether. Then she heard a crack. Like a lightning strike coming after a thunderclap, it was a second or two before she felt a stinging pain below her right eye. Even then, she couldn’t bring herself to believe it had happened. Not to Angie Wallace. Not in Geoff Goodmann’s glamorous apartment. Not with a man who looked like Phil. Not with a respected solicitor, the principal partner of the firm which proclaimed ‘You can rely on us’. He would never hit a woman, would he? But her throbbing face told her otherwise.
‘You specifically said there was nobody else in your life. Were you lying to me?’ He sounded like a hostile prosecutor, cross-examining a defendant.
‘No, I wasn’t lying,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘And I didn’t intend to lead you on. I feel awful about this.’ She paused to catch her breath.
‘So you’ve been two-timing me.’
‘No, I’ve never slept with the other man. We haven’t even gone out together,’ she replied in a strained voice that seemed to belong to someone else. Then she remembered all those mornings at the emporium café and the dinner at Millerbrooke and added, ‘It’s difficult to explain.’
‘Why don’t you try?’ His voice had changed. The gentleness was gone. Only the authority remained.
She took a deep breath and willed herself not to cry. ‘I didn’t realise until now that a person I thought was just a friend was actually something more.’
‘What kind of crap is that?’
‘It’s the truth.’ The area under her eye felt as though it was on fire, but she refused to flinch.
‘Just a few minutes ago, you allowed me to carry you into my bedroom. What did you think I was going to do? Read you a bedtime story? Now, let me get on with it.’
Then she heard a ripping sound. He had torn the front of the ninety-dollar underpants. She pressed her thighs together, but he pulled them apart. She could feel his penis pushing against her pubic bone. His hand was down there, prising her open.
‘No, Geoff, stop!’ she screamed, wondering if anyone would hear her. Then she remembered it was a penthouse – there were no neighbours.
‘Shut up, you slag. You wanted it.’
For a second the word ‘slag’ triggered a memory in her brain, but it was gone before she could capture it. ‘Please don’t do this,’ she said, trying to wriggle out from under him, but his body was too heavy, pinning her down. So she tightened her muscles in an attempt to prevent him from entering her.
‘Stop playing games with me, you stupid bitch.’
Should she scream and struggle, or just let him do it? The thought of him invading her body was nauseating, but the alternative of further violence was even worse. Then she felt him jerk two or three times. As a sticky wetness seeped onto her legs, she knew it was over. He hadn’t been able to complete the act. Even so, she felt violated.
When he rolled off her, she managed to slide over to the edge of the bed and get to her feet. Her expensive bra was intact, but the lace underpants were in tatters halfway down her thighs and her jeans were wrapped around her ankles. As she tried to pull up the jeans, she felt him grab her left arm. He yanked at it so hard she thought it might come out of its socket, like a limb hanging loose from one of those plaster dummies in a shop window. In the process of pulling her arm free of his grasp, she heard something crack, the sound of a branch breaking underfoot, except that it wasn’t a branch. It was her upper arm. She tried to get away from him but stumbled and hit her head against the chest of drawers beside the bed. She must have lost consciousness because when she woke, the empty sensation inside her head reminded her of emerging from anaesthesia. She had no idea how much time had passed. The only certainties were that she was lying on the floor, and he was seated on a leather ottoman at the other side of the room. The grim expression on his face was one she hadn’t seen before. It frightened her.
Gripping the crumpled jeans, she struggled to her feet and pulled them up. There was an obstacle between
her and the bedroom door – Geoff Goodmann. But it was only two, maybe three metres to the bathroom. She knew not to make a sudden move – it would be like running from a savage dog – they always came after you. Slowly she reached for her blouse. Then she backed towards the bathroom, not taking her eyes off him. Perhaps he thought she needed to pee, because he didn’t stop her.
As soon as she was inside, she felt for the light, turned it on and locked the door behind her. How solid was that lock? she wondered. Or the door, for that matter. She put her ear against it. There was silence in the bedroom. All of a sudden, her legs crumpled under her and she collapsed on the marble-tiled floor. She wasn’t sure how long she lay there – it might have only been a few seconds; it could have been minutes. Gingerly she sat up. Don’t go into shock, she told herself. Stay calm. Make a plan. From her position on the floor, she looked around the bathroom. The window was sealed because of the air-conditioning. Besides, this was the ninth floor and it was night-time. She couldn’t very well scramble out and climb down the wall.
Although her eye was hurting and there was a sharp pain whenever she moved her left arm, she was feeling remarkably focused. The reaction would come later of course, when the adrenaline subsided. She ran her hand over her skull, only to discover a painful bump, wet with blood. The vision in her right eye was cloudy. But at least she was alive.
The silence continued outside. He hadn’t tried to jimmy the lock or break down the door. After all, he only had to wait – she would have to emerge eventually. Anyway, a man who was so meticulous about his apartment wouldn’t want to damage his door.
What was he doing out there? Was he still sitting on the ottoman? Was he considering his options? Weighing up the situation? Assessing the impact of an assault charge on his career and reputation? Plotting to get rid of her so she wouldn’t tell? The man had a lot at stake. That made him dangerous. Worse still, nobody knew about her being here. Not even Moira. Everybody assumed she was seeing someone in Sydney. And she wasn’t expected back until Sunday.
A Place of Her Own Page 18