Turning the Good Girl Bad

by Avril Tremayne

  ‘So are you ready to ditch the bitter and twisted now? Nell needed to learn the system—that’s the other reason I had her help you today.’

  She could feel her nostrils flaring. ‘Damian keeps his files separately.’

  ‘Nell is about to start looking after this office as well,’ Max said.

  ‘I don’t underst—’

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ve arranged with Damian for Nell to keep the office—my office—in order.’

  Catherine’s blood froze. ‘Are you telling me my services are no longer required?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I thought you said my work was perfect?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then why? Is it—is it about my book?’

  ‘I’m more than happy to talk about your book, Cathy, believe me—but what the hell does it have to do with Queensland? Unless... Are you putting that scene in? The cocktail party?’

  ‘Yes—yes, I am.’

  His eyes lit. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, it’s...good. It’s...’ But she was too distracted to think clearly and finish that. ‘So...you’re not sacking me?’

  Max stared at her for a moment, and then he laughed. ‘Do you want me to sack you? Because you ask about it every second day! The answer, for the next twenty times you ask, is no. I’m not sacking you. I’m just taking you to Queensland.’

  ‘Queensland?’

  ‘We’ll be away for a week.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes—we.’ Max favoured her with a fierce glare. ‘We—as in you and me. No—you and I.’ Hands in hair. ‘Oh, you know what I mean.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  Max shot her a look of pained patience. ‘It’s quite simple. I’m needed in Queensland for a series of meetings about Kurrangii. Everyone involved—the bankers, the solicitors, the architects, the lobbyists, the PR and marketing teams—will be there at some stage over the next week, so it makes sense to work from there rather than fly back and forth every day. And, frankly, I’m tired of being my own assistant when I travel. You said you wanted to be busier, and you know the project inside out, so you’re coming with me.’

  Max yanked open his desk drawer and pulled out a few sheets of paper, stapled together. He leapt from his chair, stormed around to her and waggled the document under her nose.

  ‘Take this.’

  Catherine took it, stunned to see it was a copy of her job description. Max had gone over two parts in hot pink highlighter pen: ‘Must be available to travel’ and ‘Required to act as hostess for extracurricular events on occasion’.

  ‘Well?’ Max demanded.

  ‘It’s my job description.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘But...the travel... You’ve never needed me with you before.’

  ‘I’m not in favour of disrupting the lives of my staff if I can avoid it. I can no longer avoid it.’

  ‘Okay, fine.’

  ‘Fine? So...that’s it?’ He looked wary. ‘You’ll come?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Aside from the fact that Catherine was so relieved she still had her job she would have flown to Pluto, it made perfect sense for her to accompany him.

  And in any case it was her favourite project.

  And it would be a wonderful opportunity to see her brother, Luke, who’d relocated to Port Douglas a year ago.

  And, if she were honest with herself, another week in the office without Max might just tip her into lunacy.

  ‘Do you have definite dates?’ she asked. ‘I’ll make the bookings straight away.’

  ‘I’ve done it,’ he said cautiously. And then made a faux scared face as he saw her reaction. ‘Uh-oh—the death stare!’

  ‘I do not have a death stare.’

  ‘Oh, you so do!’ he said, and laughed.

  Catherine had to basically choke herself from the inside to stop laughing, too.

  ‘Go on—laugh,’ Max said. ‘Dare you.’

  She pinched her lips in. ‘It’s not funny.’

  He looked at her for a long moment and then, with a shrug, strode back behind his desk. He picked up the report again, flipped through it.

  ‘There’s a lot happening in Queensland. Not only the meetings, but business dinners and a cocktail reception. The local team has managed the basics, but I want you to do the finessing. I know you have experience with that kind of stuff. I mean, from your last job with the airline—Samawi Air, right?’

  Catherine stiffened. She had to make a conscious effort to answer evenly. ‘Yes, I managed events there.’

  ‘I know that was in the Middle East, so I’m guessing very conservative...?’

  ‘Actually, I managed events for the airline globally, including Australia. Nothing in Queensland will be a problem.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, with a doubtful look at her. ‘It’s a luxury airline, right?’

  ‘Yes. It’s only small, and not well known, but it is a luxury airline,’ she said, knowing he was getting at something. It wasn’t like him not to just spit out what was bothering him. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just...’ Long pause. His hands were in his hair. Out. In. Out. And then he took a visible breath. The way you did before diving into a deep pool. ‘I’ve made arrangements for you to visit a boutique this afternoon.’

  Catherine’s mouth dropped open. She wondered for a moment if she’d misheard.

  But, no.

  Because Max made an exasperated sound and said, ‘A boutique. You know what a boutique is, don’t you?’

  He ran a discerning eye over her body, making her screamingly aware of the unattractiveness of her white shirt and tan wool skirt.

  ‘No, maybe you don’t...’

  And the fact that he said that last bit to himself was not a comfort.

  Her mouth snapped shut and her fingers reached for her shirt button as she took the insult on board. She reminded herself that her disguise was all about keeping her straight on the fact that work was work—signalling to Max that work was work. So nobody had to worry about fending off sexual advances. And it was obviously working brilliantly. Just brilliantly! She should be pleased. Very pleased.

  Instead she was so furious she could have leapt across the desk and ripped his hair out.

  ‘It’s on my account—all arranged,’ Max said. ‘So don’t worry about the money.’

  Catherine sucked in a sharp breath. ‘I don’t need new clothes,’ she said carefully.

  Max rose a second time from his chair, walked over to Catherine and plucked the job description from her hands. ‘“Required to act as hostess for extracurricular events on occasion”,’ he read, and then looked at her over the top of the page. ‘One of the terms under which you accepted your position with Rutherford Property, right?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  Max held up his hand. ‘I am getting so tired of that word. No buts, Catherine.’

  He went back to his desk, scribbled a name and address on a piece of paper and held it aloft.

  White-lipped, Catherine stood, came forward, and snatched the proffered paper.

  ‘We’re building an upmarket resort—way upmarket,’ Max said. ‘I don’t want anyone associated with the project to look like they’ve just checked out of a thirty-nine-dollar-a-night motel. This applies to every meeting, and it applies absolutely to the cocktail function, where we’ll need to wow potential investors—including the top executives from global airlines, hotel groups, tour companies. We all need to look the part or how can we be expected to sell it?’

  ‘Is that all?’ Catherine heard the tremor of rage in her voice but couldn’t seem to control it.

  Max peered at her, right into her eyes, starting to look a little uncertain.

  Catherine lifted a hand t
o her spectacles. No doubt he was going to suggest designer frames. Or contact lenses. And why stop there? Why not get some contacts that made her eyes violet or blue or green?

  But with an awkward shrug Max lowered his eyes and wrenched his mobile phone off the desk. ‘I’ll call Sandra—she owns the boutique—and brief her on the type of things you’ll need.’

  As Max started scrolling through his phone for the number Catherine digested the fact that Max was obviously on very good terms with Sandra (said as Saaandra, of course) and wondered how many other women she’d dressed for him. The thought of being one in a long line made her want to throw something at his head. Something sharp. Like a spear.

  ‘I’m sure you’re very well acquainted with women’s clothing,’ she said, allowing herself just the one dig.

  Max didn’t bother to look up. ‘I know enough to do the choosing if Sandra isn’t satisfied with what you buy.’

  Catherine very precisely folded the piece of paper Max had given her. ‘I’ll go now, then, shall I?’

  Max nodded.

  ‘And you can go straight to hell,’ she said under her breath as she sailed out of the office.

  FIVE

  That night Catherine said aloud the name of the tall, blonde—surprise surprise!—‘Saaaaaaaaandra’ with each item she removed from the shopping bags, relishing adding an extra ‘a’ each time until she felt as if she was gargling it. Gargling—and spitting!

  She was so furious! She was even furious that she was furious!

  But she couldn’t help it.

  The last time she’d been on a work-related shopping spree had been for her final Samawi Air event. A VIP dinner in Washington, D.C., celebrating the airline’s inaugural flight to America. She’d been so buzzed because it was the biggest event she’d ever been involved with and she’d worked incredibly hard to make it perfect. RJ had forced her to accept a clothing allowance—a ‘legitimate business expense’, he’d said—to ensure she looked perfect, too. Even though in those days she’d dressed beautifully, always, by both instinct and inclination.

  So she’d bought a new dress—and wowed RJ so spectacularly he’d all but ripped it off her. She’d ended up wearing an inconspicuous suit to the dinner, her glamorous hairdo replaced with a tight bun, any pride or pleasure she’d taken in the job gone.

  She shivered, remembering how powerless she’d felt that night. How sickened, and shattered, and enraged, and impotent. And...scared. Scared for the first time in her life.

  But that had been then; this was now. A totally different set of circumstances.

  If she hadn’t spent the past four and a half months dressing so deliberately badly Max wouldn’t have had to roll out the company credit card. He simply had no idea she already had a wardrobe bulging with possibilities. And Max’s brief to ‘Saaaaaaaandra’ had been clear: conservative, classy, stylish. There was nothing sexy or provocative about the clothes selected for her. No reason to feel like a call-girl being outfitted by her pimp. Nothing to trigger a bodice-ripping free-for-all.

  So why were those same feelings of shame and distress and anger and fear infiltrating her common sense as she looked at them? Why was she stuffing them back into their bags? Why was she pulling out woollen skirts, boring shirts and cardigans, low-heeled pumps and thick tights to pack instead?

  All the rage suddenly left Catherine and she slumped onto the bed. She knew why she was packing her ‘grandma’ clothes. She didn’t want to risk inciting another man to attack her because of the way she looked. It was about safety—not a word that had figured heavily in her vocabulary in the pre-RJ days, but one that seemed to dominate her life now.

  She saw her future, stretching ahead. The rest of her twenties, thirties, forties, fifties... Dressing as a ninety-year-old at the office but wearing a peignoir in secret at home, to remind her that she hadn’t always been ‘Miss Lemon’. Pathetic.

  Her doorbell rang and she sighed. It would be her neighbour Rick, who forgot his key so regularly she’d offered to keep a spare for him. He was always so jovial she’d get depressed just looking at him! She glanced down at her peignoir and managed a small laugh. There would be no ‘inciting’ going on in this get-up. Her biker’s leathers would be a different story!

  She hurried to the entrance hall, dug Rick’s key out of the dish on the console table and opened the door—and squealed with joy! Her brother, Luke, was standing there, holding a bottle. She threw her arms around him.

  ‘Careful, Cath, the wine’s Grange,’ Luke said. ‘I thought you could drink me under the table in style this time.’

  Catherine tugged him inside and closed the door. ‘What are you doing in Sydney?’ And then she looked at him in sudden dismay, said again, ‘Sydney?’ and punched him in the arm.

  ‘Um, Sydney, yeah...’ He rubbed his arm.

  ‘Yes—you’re in Sydney, and I’m flying up your way tomorrow! I was going to surprise you. Why are you here?’

  ‘I’m down for a book-signing—standard stuff. But what’s your deal?’

  ‘Work. One week. Travelling with the boss. We’re building a luxury resort in the Daintree Rainforest. When are you heading home?’

  ‘Monday.’

  Catherine relieved him of the wine. ‘Great! We have a night off on Wednesday.’

  ‘Book me in.’

  ‘But tonight...’ She smiled. ‘I have a new chapter for you to read. Stop groaning! It won’t kill you to give me some advice.’

  It wasn’t until they were settled on Catherine’s well-stuffed two-seater couch, wine glasses in hand, manuscript pages on the coffee table, that Catherine remembered she wasn’t dressed for visitors. She cast a rueful glance at her peignoir. Okay for handing Rick his key, but a little boudoir-ish for entertaining her brother.

  ‘One of the best things about family,’ Luke commented, catching her eye, ‘is I couldn’t care less what you’re wearing.’

  ‘It’s just a fancy dressing gown, really. But I should have dragged something a little less burlesque over the top before opening the door.’

  ‘Why? There are no rude bits showing or I already would have ordered you off to change.’ He looked searchingly at her face. ‘But on the subject of covering up—are you still playing dress-up at work?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  Luke’s eyes narrowed, his whole body tensing. ‘The new boss. He hasn’t tried anything?’

  Catherine laughed, a little forlornly. ‘I’m not his type. He’s so hot he’s boiling. His last assistant actually chased him around the desk! By comparison, today he told me I’m the Miss Lemon of Rutherford Property.’ She sipped, sighed.

  Luke stared at her. ‘Was that a sigh? Tell me you haven’t done anything as mundane as falling in love with the boss?’

  ‘It’s not love.’

  ‘Not love—but it is something? Crikey—you’re not chasing him around the desk, are you?’

  ‘Now, that would be mundane, since it’s already been done.’ Catherine grinned at him. ‘But the Dance of the Seven Veils has crossed my mind.’

  Luke choked on his wine.

  ‘He’d put the veils back on me, though. Quick-smart.’ Another sigh. ‘You know, Luke, I don’t make sense—even to myself. Dressing like I do to make sure my boss doesn’t touch me—and yet somehow...wanting him to. What’s wrong with me?’

  ‘Nothing. Not one thing. You’re just...testing the boundaries, maybe? Or perhaps your subconscious is giving you a nudge, telling you it’s time to think about escaping that gaol you’ve built around yourself, but you’re not quite ready to open the door. And it’s not about how hot your new boss is, or how hot or cold you are, either. It’s about trust. Do you trust him, Cath?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. I know—know—it’s not in Max to force himself on anyone. Even aside from the fact that he has women throwing the
mselves at him. But...’ Quick breath. ‘But what if RJ was right? What if it was what I did, how I acted, the way I looked, that made him do those things? What if I change my look, or do or say something now, with Max, and the things I want to happen do happen—and then I find I don’t want them to happen after all?’

  ‘Then you say stop. And if your boss is who you think he is he will.’ He looked at her, very serious. ‘What RJ said is what bottom-feeders say to justify themselves. You did nothing wrong, Cath. You have nothing to reproach yourself with—no reason to feel guilt or shame.’

  She felt tears prickle and blinked hard. ‘There is shame, Luke. Because I ran away and I let him get away with it. And it makes me so angry with myself. I’m so angry...so often.’

  ‘You couldn’t have done it any differently.’

  She shrugged restlessly. ‘Anyway, let’s not talk about it. It will spoil our evening.’

  ‘Maybe we haven’t talked about it enough.’ He took her hand, squeezed. ‘Cath?’

  Pause. Uncomfortable.

  And then Catherine shrugged again, moving her hand out from under his. ‘No, I’m good. And as for Max... Well, Max is nothing like RJ. I have no need to worry.’

  Luke sighed.

  ‘Please, Luke. Not tonight.’

  ‘All right.’ Quick, unhappy smile. ‘So, if Max is nothing like RJ, when is Catherine-the-Great coming out to play and putting Miss...Miss Lemon, is it?...back in the box?’

  ‘Catherine-the-Great is already playing. In Passion Flower.’

  ‘Where it’s nice and safe because you can live vicariously and remain in complete control of who does what to whom.’

  ‘Hey—some of my scenes are a little out of control, you know! There’s a scene on the boss’s desk that would make even your jaded eyes bug out.’

  ‘The boss’s desk...’ Luke gave her a long, musing look. ‘You know, I wonder if your boss sees more than you think? I have a theory that you can only hide your true self for three months and then the real you will leap out waving a flag, yelling, “It’s me! I’m back!” Nothing you can do to stop it.’

  ‘Well, I’m past four months at Rutherford Property—and counting. And I promise you the only thing my boss sees when he looks at me is my granny clothes.’