A Place of Her Own

by Deborah O'Brien

  ‘Oh no,’ said Angie, sitting down because her legs felt wobbly. ‘That’s awful. He hasn’t been sick, has he?’

  ‘It was a heart attack. He died in Granthurst Hospital early this morning.’

  The words ‘heart attack’ remained anathema to Angie, even two and a half years after Phil’s death.

  ‘Are you okay, Ange?’

  ‘I can’t believe it. He wasn’t an old man, by any means.’

  ‘Sixty,’ said Richard. ‘His youngest child is still in high school.’

  ‘I want you to have a check-up this week, Richard Scott.’

  ‘I had one, only a few months ago. Everything’s fine.’

  Neither felt like eating the pastries.

  ‘His poor family,’ said Angie wistfully. ‘Sudden deaths are doubly complicated. The sense of not having said goodbye. And afterwards the anxiety about saying goodbye to anyone because you’re afraid you’ll never see them again. Blake would have a name for that, I imagine. Most probably a variant of post-traumatic stress disorder.’ She felt tears pricking her eyes.

  Richard gave her hand a pat. ‘It’s okay to cry, Ange.’

  The funeral service for Millbrooke’s solicitor was held at St John’s. When Angie and Richard arrived five minutes before the starting time, the church was already packed. They took a seat in the third row from the back with Richard wedged against the aisle end of the pew. The organist was playing ‘Je ne regrette rien’ as if it were a dirge. Angie felt a nudge on her shoulder and turned to see Moira and Bert in the row behind.

  ‘It’s so sad. He was such a nice man,’ whispered Moira in Angie’s ear.

  As Angie flicked through the order of service with its gilt-edged pages, she noticed something that made her stomach flip.

  Eulogy: Mr Geoffrey Goodmann

  Damn. Why hadn’t she thought of it? Who else would they ask to deliver the eulogy but the man who had sold Jim Holbrook his practice? The man with the eloquent words, the distinguished career and the respectable demeanour. Angie looked for a way to escape, but she couldn’t leave, not without drawing attention to herself. Instead, she clasped Richard’s hand.

  ‘You all right, Ange?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Fine,’ she lied.

  As the organist played the first hymn, Angie mimed the words, missing whole stanzas as her thoughts wandered to what was to come. She heard only snatches of the sermon; even the moving tribute from the children seemed muffled. Then a man resembling an ageing movie star stood up and made his way to the lectern. Richard grabbed the order of service and checked the name.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he hissed, loud enough for Moira and Bert in the row behind to hear him. ‘The bastard. How dare he show his face in Millbrooke?’

  Angie felt a tap on her shoulder.

  ‘Can you believe him coming back here?’ whispered Moira.

  When he began to speak, Angie slipped lower into her seat, but she was safe – his gaze was fixed on the mid-distance and he didn’t see her. For her own part, she couldn’t bear to look at him. If she could have put her hands over her ears, she would have. His honey-toned voice made her nauseated. Beside her, Richard was reaching boiling point. Even his hand holding hers was sweaty. He’s going to make a scene, she thought to herself. She couldn’t blame him really, not after what Geoff had done to Diana. Thank heavens Richard didn’t know about Angie.

  The eulogy was over. There was another hymn, followed by the benediction and an announcement from the minister – a wake was going to be held at the RSL club immediately after the interment. The organist played ‘My Way’ and the congregation remained standing as the coffin was carried down the aisle with the family and close friends behind it. Angie leant back so that Richard’s tall figure concealed her. When she felt Richard grip her hand even tighter, she knew Geoff was level with them. Then the pressure on her hand eased. Row by row, the rest of the congregation began to file out of the church. Meanwhile, Angie tugged at Richard’s hand, indicating they should sit down.

  ‘We’ll see you outside,’ said Moira.

  After the church had emptied, Richard said, ‘He needs to be punished, Ange.’

  ‘I know you hate him for what he did to Diana, but this isn’t the time or the place.’

  ‘I’m going to confront him.’

  ‘If you go out there now, you’re likely to hit him and then he’ll have you charged with assault. And next thing Sergeant Peters will be putting you in the lock-up.’ She stroked his cheek, feeling the heat beneath her fingers. ‘Some day he’ll get his comeuppance.’

  ‘How? Diana is too frightened to put him in.’

  ‘Richard, did you ever consider he might have done it to someone else? Isn’t it possible there’s a woman out there building up the courage to come forward?’

  ‘Wishful thinking, Ange. Nobody’s going to come forward. Look at your own case. You didn’t do anything about the bloke who assaulted you.’

  ‘I was running for council, Richard.’

  ‘I’m not criticising you. In fact, I think you made the right choice. If the perpetrator is in a position of power, or if he’s a bloody solicitor like Geoff Goodmann, he’ll have every angle covered.’

  ‘What if a woman had solid evidence against him?’

  ‘I think it’s highly unlikely. Anyway, she’d need to have a video of the assault to nail him.’

  Angie squirmed as she thought about her own collection of images. ‘Look, Richard, I can understand your desire to be Diana’s knight in shining armour and I love you for it. But even if you denounce him publicly as a wife-beater, he’ll counter by saying you’re making it up to get back at the man who ran off with your wife.’

  She watched his face as he considered her words.

  ‘You’ll come out of it looking like a bad loser, Richard. The embittered former husband wanting revenge. The man who’s held a grudge for twenty years. You don’t want that, do you?’

  ‘So what do you expect me to do, Ange?’

  ‘We’re going to leave by the side door and drive back to ­Millerbrooke.’

  ‘And let him go unpunished?’

  ‘You have no other choice.’

  On the way home, Angie began to worry that Geoff might pick up a copy of the local newspaper and see a photo of the shire president. Her heart was pounding as she mentally scoured the pages of the latest issue. No, thank goodness, there had been no pictures. Not this week. As for Diana, she was perfectly safe, somewhere in the Pacific on the last leg of her cruise. She’d recently emailed Richard saying she’d like to extend her trip. Angie couldn’t have been happier. And although Diana hadn’t yet found her millionaire, Angie had a feeling it was only a matter of time.

  The next day Moira was the first to arrive at painting class.

  ‘We didn’t see you at the wake, Angie.’

  ‘I convinced Richard to go home. Not a good idea for him to be in the same room as you know who.’

  ‘You needn’t have worried. He left for Flynns Bay straight after the service. Didn’t even go to the interment. I overheard him telling Jim’s wife he was taking his lady friend out for her birthday.’

  ‘Lady friend,’ repeated Angie almost to herself.

  ‘He’s still a good-looking man, Angie. It’s not difficult to see why women of a certain age would fall for him. But in my opinion, a man who ditches his wife and two kids is a bastard. He and Diana deserved each other.’

  Angie didn’t answer. Her stomach was churning like a washing machine.

  When the others arrived, she offered tea and coffee and smiled at their chatter, but her mind was elsewhere, focusing on Geoff Goodmann’s new target in Flynns Bay. A few weeks ago Angie had hypothesised about an imaginary woman, but now there was a flesh-and-blood ‘lady friend’, someone whose skin could be bruised, whose bones could be shattered and worst of all, whose head m
ight be slammed against a wall, a floor or a piece of furniture. Was it still the honeymoon period, the phase in which he played the charmer? Or had the abuse already begun?

  While the painting ladies were putting the finishing touches to their ‘Heroes of Millbrooke’ artworks, Angie made a resolution. As soon as today’s class was over, she would call Samantha and move their next appointment forward. How odd that Sam had never broached the subject of going to the police. It had always been the elephant in the room. Then it struck Angie why Sam had allowed it to remain so.

  She was waiting for Angie to raise the subject herself.

  After her students left, Angie sat at the kitchen table, absently twisting her wedding ring. The one she had worn for over three decades. Before she took any public action, she would need to confess everything to Richard and the boys, not to mention the painting ladies and, of course, Vicky. After that, things would move inexorably towards a courtroom in Flynns Bay and the inevitable slurs on her character from the Goodmann camp. But somehow Angie would withstand the attacks. As a businesswoman and a community leader, she was a person with a public résumé equally as impressive as Geoff’s – she just hadn’t recognised it until now.

  Angie took a deep breath and phoned Sam.

  ‘Hello, Samantha Tibbett speaking.’

  ‘Hi, Sam. It’s Angie.’

  ‘Hi, Angie. Everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m feeling stronger.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. What can I do for you?’

  Angie cleared her throat. ‘I need to see you as soon as possible. It’s about the assault. I’m going to the police.’

  ‘How did you come to that decision, Angie?’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s the right way to go, Sam?’ Angie tried to suppress the panic in her voice. She had imagined Sam would be proud of her.

  ‘I’m not questioning the rightness or otherwise. I’m just interested in the process by which you reached your decision.’

  ‘It wasn’t really a process. More like an epiphany.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with epiphanies if they lead you to the truth. What did yours tell you?’

  ‘It’s so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.’

  ‘You have to be ready for it in an emotional sense, otherwise even the most dazzling light-bulb moment can be meaningless. It would be like me trying to give you advice before you were receptive to hearing it.’

  ‘But you never give advice, Sam. You just set essay questions.’

  ‘In that case, Angie, let me set one now. Tell me what you’ve discovered about yourself that has brought you to this decision. In twenty-five words or less.’

  There was a long pause as Angie placed the phone on the table and counted out the words on her fingers. ‘I can do it in fifteen. What I’ve discovered is that I’m the only person who can put Geoff Goodmann away.’

  ‘So there’s nobody else in a position to do it?’

  ‘No, Sam. It’s up to me.’

  There was a pause before Sam replied. ‘I’m glad you can finally say his name out loud.’

  It took Angie a few seconds to realise that Sam was right.

  ‘You’d tell me if you thought I was making a mistake, wouldn’t you, Sam?’

  ‘Angie, my job is to help you work through the choices and then support you in your decision. As you said yourself, ultimately it’s up to you.’

  That phrase had followed Angie around for a long time, building nuance and importance. Back in September, when Richard had said ‘It’s up to you, Ange’, the words had been a code she couldn’t quite decipher. Now they had become a password, both an invocation to act and a clear designation of responsibility.

  Having made her decision, she felt remarkably calm. Would this feeling last, or was she standing in the eye of the storm with all hell about to break loose? Whatever it was, she would make the most of it. An idea had been forming in her head, the kind that most people would deem ill-advised and unwise. But Angie didn’t care. Not if it meant making Geoff Goodmann squirm for a while. She looked up the phone number for Goodmann & Partners and dialled it from her landline, blocking her own number.

  ‘Goodmann and Partners. Kim speaking.’

  This time, when she heard Kim’s voice, Angie didn’t drop the phone. Instead she remained as composed as the Queen. ‘Kim, it’s Angela Simmons here. May I speak with Mr Goodmann, please?’

  ‘Of course, Ms Simmons. You’ve timed things well. He’s just between clients. Is it about altering your will?’

  ‘Actually, Kim, I’m phoning about another matter.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll just put you through.’

  As she waited, Angie breathed slowly and deeply. Then Geoff was on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Angela, how are you? It’s been a while.’

  His casual tone caught her off guard. She had been expecting to hear unease or at least surprise in his voice.

  ‘Yes, indeed it has,’ she said, steadying her own voice.

  ‘How can I be of help?’

  ‘Actually, I’m phoning as a courtesy. To give you forewarning of the charges I’ll soon be making against you.’

  ‘Charges? Is this some kind of practical joke?’

  ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten your attempt to rape me, or the injuries you inflicted.’

  The intake of breath was barely perceptible; anyone else might have missed it, but not Angie. For the first time in her dealings with Geoff Goodmann, she felt in command.

  ‘Angela, I’ve never committed a crime of any nature. I’m an upholder of the law, not a miscreant. I don’t wish to be unkind, but it seems to me that you’re suffering from delusions. I know of a good psychiatrist here in Flynns Bay. Why don’t I give you his number? He might be able to help you.’

  A few months ago, a statement like that would have intimidated her. Now it only made her more determined.

  ‘I fully expected that you would deny everything,’ she said.

  ‘What is there to deny? Nothing happened, Angela. It’s all in your head.’

  ‘So the photos of my injuries taken in your bathroom are a delusion?’

  This time the pause lasted for several seconds. Then he said, ‘Angela, I’ve been very patient with you because of your mental problems, but you really can’t go around making baseless accusations of this kind. There are strong libel and defamation laws in this state. I would bear that in mind, if I were you.’

  ‘Since there’s indisputable evidence to substantiate my claims, I don’t see libel as being relevant. As I said, just a courtesy call. Didn’t want you to be blindsided when the police come calling.’

  Then she hung up. There was nothing else to say. Let him feel powerless and scared for a change.

  From her wallet she removed the business card Martin Delamont had given her that Saturday in November. It belonged to his solicitor friend in Sydney. She phoned the office, mentioned she had been referred by Martin, and was put through immediately. Then she told him everything, including the fact that she’d just phoned Geoff.

  ‘You really shouldn’t have done that, Mrs Wallace. I don’t want you to contact him again. We can’t have a victim talking with a defendant. It could jeopardise the case.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said. There was no further need to contact Geoff. She’d had her say.

  ‘I’d like to talk this through with you before we go to the police,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can you come in tomorrow?’

  ‘I have guests booked at my B&B for Thursday and Friday.’

  ‘In that case, why don’t we make it Monday? How does two o’clock sound?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘That will allow you time to alert family members and friends. Always best to give them a heads-up.’

  ‘You don�
�t think Geoff Goodmann will take any pre-emptive action in the meantime, do you? Try to spin some kind of story about me before I go to the police?’

  ‘I doubt it, Mrs Wallace. He probably thinks you’re bluffing. Anyway, you have the evidence. He won’t be able to talk his way out of that.’

  Afterwards she considered calling the boys, but there had been enough phone calls for one day. Best to drive to Sydney on the weekend and tell them in person. They deserved that. Then she could stay on for Monday’s appointment.

  As for Richard, he and Troy would be back late on Friday afternoon from Cockatoo Ridge where they had been shearing a friend’s herd of alpacas. Making a confession to the man she loved about how she had sought out Geoff Goodmann and briefly become his ‘lady friend’ would be the most difficult thing she had ever done in her life. Those memories stung like a walk through a paddock of thistles. But she would have to tell the story in its entirety. No evasions or dissembling. And definitely no excuses or rationalisations, not even Blake’s substitution syndrome.

  25 DEUS EX MACHINA

  On Friday morning Angie headed to the Gold Rush Café for breakfast. Along the way she passed the emporium, which would soon be reopening as Millbrooke’s new art gallery. The front doors had been painted the original Chinese red, and the striped awning looked as jaunty as it had in the sepia photograph from the 1870s. While she drank her tea and leafed through the Sydney tabloid, Angie tried not to think about the days ahead. She was several pages into the newspaper when a photograph caught her eye. It was a grainy picture of Geoff Goodmann in his commodore’s outfit. She read the headline and then the article.

  Prominent Solicitor Missing After Morning Swim

  Police and the coastguard have been scouring the inlets around the popular coastal resort of Flynns Bay in the hope of finding local solicitor, Mr Geoffrey Goodmann, aged 64, who did not return from his morning swim yesterday. Superintendent Gary Grahame of Flynns Bay LAC said the search has been hampered by wild surf and rough seas, and police now hold little hope of finding Mr Goodmann alive.