Insecure

by Ainslie Paton

  In the lounge room, the television was airing interviews with Roger Kincaid’s family. His wife saying though they were estranged she was horrified because Roger wasn’t a violent man; that he’d been under too much pressure and snapped. His sons saying their dad was a good guy, and they were scared to go to school because other kids were beating them up.

  All week the media had focused on the victims of the bombing, now those stories were all played out, it was the Kincaid family’s turn to parade their pain. Roger’s mother simply sobbed and tried to push the insistent camera away.

  It was a miracle the link between Kincaid and Wentworth went uncovered. She had mixed feelings about that. It was better for the bank, but it made her look like a scaremonger, it weakened her argument.

  Jay should’ve been here, in the kitchen, cooking, reading the paper, letting her rave till she’d exhausted her ranting and felt better. He’d have talked her out of the radical idea of leaking the Kincaid link herself. He’d have told her it was too risky. He’d have talked sense into her. But Jay was busy this weekend. And she was seriously considering going to a trusted media source with the inside story.

  But if she did that, and she was ever revealed as the source, she’d be terminated with cause and her career really would be over. She couldn’t decide if that was a stupid or brave way to go out.

  It was tempting to blame it all on Mace, but he’d done no more than distract her, in a way that left her unbearably unsettled. She kept seeing him sulking at the kitchen counter, sitting on the end of the lounge while he massaged her feet, and stretched out on her bed in all his muscle-bound naked glory that’d been so inspiring she’d wanted to sketch again.

  Welcoming distracted thoughts of him had to be a reaction to the horror week; to the shock of Tom’s elevation, to the disappointment of not getting her way on the reforms she wanted.

  Jay would’ve told her to focus on the new acquisition strategy and keep a clear head. Jay would’ve been right, and in his absence, and unable to banish the ghost shadow of Mace, she was climbing the walls. She spent too long at the gym and made herself sore all over.

  She was back in the office Monday at 6am, grateful for the structure another busy week would provide. Grateful turned to anxious when Em told her a journalist was sniffing around the story the bank had a link to Kincaid, then suspicious when she said Malcolm was going to do the interview.

  Malcolm as a rule only did specially selected interviews and never anything controversial. The fact he was doing this one was because he didn’t want her to. The way Em had difficulty making eye contact told her that guess was on the money.

  She stood in front of the TV in her office and watched Malcolm on the midday news. The journalist had discovered Kincaid was a customer, and that he’d lost his job because Wentworth denied his company continued finance. A more experienced journalist would’ve looked deeper and found out about the home loan.

  On camera, Malcolm came across as your favourite uncle. He’d had enough media training to fake an expression of concern and sympathy. It was chilling to see how convincing he was.

  “You know he told me acting the part is as important as having the title.”

  She turned the TV off and faced Tom. This would be interesting.

  “You don’t have to congratulate me on being allowed to eat at the big kids table,” he said.

  “I’d only be acting the part if I did.”

  Tom grunted. “Very funny. But you know that’s your whole problem. Business is theatre, you never got that. You keep thinking if you work hard you’ll see the results, but it doesn’t function like that. It’s a confidence game.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Look at me; not half as talented as you, not as diligent, intuitive, or frankly all that interested. But I play the game better than you do.”

  “And one day you’ll play it right into a sexual harassment suit.”

  “What, like you’ve never used the business as a hunting ground?”

  She stiffened. It was possible he knew; that Mace talked, or someone hanging around the hotel last Friday put two and two together. Speculation was all that was needed to start a rumour, and it would spread so much quicker if it were about her. There’d be none of the eye-rolling acknowledgement of the inevitable that was allowed for Tom.

  “See, you’re hopeless. The fact I offended you is all over your face.”

  She turned away so he didn’t see relief. “Did you want something?”

  “Only to know how much you hate me now.”

  She went to her desk and sat. “I don’t hate you, Tom.”

  “You don’t love me.” He opened his arms wide, “And you don’t love this either.”

  “How can you say that? You’re my brother, and the only reason I work hard is because I love this business.”

  He folded into the chair opposite. Tom did everything slowly and with a deliberateness that dared you to watch him make the smallest movement. He was right about the acting. He had the ability to fascinate down perfectly. “The only reason you love me is because there was no one else except Bryan and me. The only reason you work so hard is because you want Malcolm to love you too.”

  “That’s ridiculous and you know it.”

  “It’s not. You were an abandoned little girl who loved ponies, things that were shiny and drawing pictures.”

  “You just described lots of little girls. And I grew up, so what are you trying to say? You were a neglected little boy who burned ants with a magnifying glass, the hallmark of a serial killer.”

  “I never killed cats and I’m too lazy to be psychopath. You gave up studying art because Malcolm said it was a waste of time. You gave up ballet because he said you had no talent. You were like your mother and he punished you for it. And you’re still trying to make him love you.”

  She blinked in surprise. “That’s rot, Tom. I still paint.”

  “Is it? When did you last paint anything you cared about?” Not paint, but sketch, body parts, a face, not well done, but their contours engraved on her brain.

  “I was never going to earn a living as an artist. Malcolm was right.”

  “Was he? You never tried, yet all your teachers said you were talented. You gave it up, like it meant nothing.”

  She pushed into her chair and it rocked backwards. “Why are we talking about whether I still paint or not?” She adjusted and sat up straight again. “If I wanted Malcolm to love me I’d be doing what you do; keeping the boat steady, no waves, no splashes, not a single water spot on his blue silk ties.”

  “That’s what I find interesting. You don’t simply want Malcolm to love you, you want him to respect you for who you really are.”

  She put her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on top of her folded hands, trying to show Tom she cared nothing for his opinions and was only humouring him, but her own acting sucked. “And who am I really?”

  Tom tilted his head. “I’m not sure.” He crossed his leg and clasped his knee. “I used to think you were going to be a brave artist, a woman creating her own destiny, but now I think you’re someone who’ll make do with second best.”

  “You mean second best to you?”

  “And other things.” He stood up, totally unruffled. “Mostly other things.”

  “What other things?” What else was there she cared enough about?

  He pulled the cuffs of his shirt down so they aligned properly with his suit coat. He was always so well put together, where Bryan always managed to look untucked and was the more loveable because of it.

  “What other things, Tom?”

  “Exactly.”

  She gasped a noise of annoyance, and watched him leave. He’d been able to get under her skin when they were kids as well, not that they’d grown up together, always living in separate homes; they’d had a holidays and occasions relationship before they had a working one, but he’d done it again. It shouldn’t have mattered what Tom thought and he was wrong anyway.


  “Mel.” She needed to eat something crushingly sweet to take away the bad taste of the morning.

  Mel came to the doorway. “Chocolate?”

  She rocked the chair back and sighed. There was no subtlety Mel missed. “Please.”

  “See Em while I’m gone.”

  Em peered around Mel’s shoulder. “Have you got five?”

  “Of course.” She waved Em in for the second time that day and for the second time, Em was unable to make eye contact. Either Malcolm did a number on her or she’d been poached and was about to quit.

  “Is there anything I should know?”

  Em sighed and put her notepad on the desk. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “So you’re not about to leave us for greener pastures?”

  “No,” she said that with an emphatic headshake and Jacinta believed her.

  “So what have I done?”

  “I don’t want to. I don’t.” Em sighed. “Sorry, I’ll just come out with it. Are you on the market?”

  “Me! You mean am I looking for another job? Hell, no. Where did you get that idea?”

  “Malcolm told me you weren’t to do any more interviews and to cut back on your public profile. He wants me to start raising Tom’s. I thought maybe you were.” Em plucked at the buttons on her red suit jacket. “I don’t know what I thought, except, wherever you go, take me with you.”

  Jacinta stood and walked around her desk to sit in the chair next to Em’s. “I’m not going anywhere.” Em swivelled to face her, their stockinged knees almost brushing. “Malcolm has decided to include Tom in board meetings now, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?”

  She shrugged. “It’s perfectly reasonable.”

  It was, and that was part of the problem. She might be jumping at shadows; Malcolm’s, Tom’s, her own and the one Em just dragged unwillingly into the room. She needed to stay focused, rational and unemotional. She needed Mel and whatever calorie laden atrocity she’d gone in search of.

  “You’d tell me if there was more to it?”

  Jacinta nodded. She twitched to tell someone, damn Jay for being unavailable this week, and though she trusted Em implicitly, spilling her fears on her media chief was both ill advised and unprofessional.

  Em left as Mel arrived. The woman was a saint. She’d added cream and brought coffee. “I’ll hold your calls till you’ve pigged out,” she said and pulled the door closed as Jacinta took a bite of the double chocolate custard cream pie. If she ate it all she’d feel sick, but no less woozy than she already did.

  She took another bite and imagined the sugar rushing around her body, giving her superhuman powers to detect bullshit and to make the right choices. She rang Henry. “Is there anything I should know?”

  “Jacinta, are you eating?”

  She swallowed. “My lunch, sorry, Henry. Don’t stall. Is there anything I should know other than I annoyed Malcolm enough to elevate Tom?”

  She heard Henry’s sigh and the sugar rush became a heart attack warning.

  “I think the best thing for you will be to lie low for a while.”

  “Lie low? You mean like a diamond thief?”

  “I mean you should keep clear of Malcolm and focus on the acquisition strategy.”

  “For how long should I lie low and avoid my chief executive? Henry, that does not sound good.” She pushed the half eaten chocolate triple bypass on a spoon away.

  “A year, maybe two.”

  “What?” Her eyes went to the door because she’d virtually shouted that, but it remained closed.

  “Jacinta. I’m sorry, but Malcolm is going to nominate Tom as CEO.”

  “No, that can’t be right.”

  Henry didn’t reply and all the shadows piled up together until they were one big monstrous, smothering mass, bearing down on her, crushing her. “That can’t be right.”

  Henry sighed. “I was due to come see you. Things moved faster than I expected. Malcolm feels that you’re discontent with the direction of the bank and, as leader, you’d endanger its profitability.”

  She put her hand to her forehead as if that might help contain the riot of thoughts in her brain. “Malcolm thinks.”

  “Malcolm and the board.”

  She slapped her hand on the desk. “And you, Henry, what do you think?” If Henry was against her, she had no chance of reversing this.

  “I think you’re an extremely competent and capable leader. I think you’ve proven your insight and intelligence and that you have a mind of your own.”

  “That doesn’t tell me anything.”

  Henry grunted. “You’ve proven difficult to control.”

  She stood up and turned to the glass wall behind her. The whole city spread out to enjoy. “You make me sound like a wayward horse.”

  “The Kincaid thing was... Well, it proved a sticking point for Malcolm.”

  She closed her eyes as the city and the truth became too hard to see. The Kincaid thing was her sticking point too. “What you’re really saying is Malcolm wants to live forever and never give up control, but the board won’t let that happen, so installing Tom is the next best thing.”

  Henry stayed silent.

  She leaned a hand against the glass, cool under her palm, then snatched it back. Mace had been doing that when the bomb went off, and now her own personal career bomb was timed to explode. “And you’re going to stand for that?”

  “I’m going to put it to a vote.”

  “And I’m going to lose, aren’t I?” She held her breath to see if Henry pressed the detonator.

  “You can continue to have a wonderful career at Wentworth.”

  And there it was—countdown to a spectacular career blowout. “But not as CEO.”

  “No, not as CEO.”

  It was over. It was a dust cloud in the distance; one she’d been too stupid, too arrogant to see coming.

  “You know this stinks, Henry.”

  “I know. It’s life. Nothing is certain.”

  She’d said that to Mace about her mother, she wasn’t thinking it applied to her, then, now. “I’ve given all of my twenties and the start of my thirties to this business, heart and soul.” Her voice shook and she hated that.

  “Would you have done anything else?”

  There was no answer for that. It was beyond her comprehension. Everything she’d worked towards was gone, what was left was second best.

  “Take it on the chin, kid. Don’t work so hard, have a little more of a life outside. Marriage, a family, the things you’ve denied yourself.”

  He thought she was going to let this go, be a good girl and do as she was told, take the leftovers and be happy. Could she wait Tom out? Could she manipulate him, lead through him; was it worth it anymore?

  “Don’t think about fighting it, Jacinta. It will only turn out badly for you.”

  “You say that as if you think it hasn’t already.”

  “I say that because this is a business and although I know it’s hard not to take it personally—”

  “You’re joking? How can I not take this personally? He’s my stepfather and—”

  “Family ties have nothing to do with this. Malcolm is the CEO and the board’s preferred leader.”

  She fisted her hand. There was nothing more to say.

  “Jacinta, are you still there?”

  She felt strangely disembodied, oddly heavy limbed and light-headed.

  “I want you to come and see me when you’ve had a chance to digest this. Jacinta?”

  Henry’s raised voice jolted her. She gave him an answer and rang off, but she couldn’t say if she’d agreed or not. She had a full calendar but no desire to see to it. She packed up her laptop—a reflex, then left it on the desk. She’d have no need of it tonight. She left her phone as well. She needed to think, be very sure what her next move was.

  Mel looked up with surprise then shut her reaction down. “You don’t look well. You should head home. I’ll cancel your afternoon.” She
said it as though it was a regular occurrence for Jacinta to go home in the middle of the day.

  She went to the lift and rode it to the car park, but it stopped on the ground floor. She got out. She could change towers, drop in to IT, tell them she needed Mace for a special project, tell him she was tense to her ears, and needed his help to be able to think straight again.

  She got back in the lift. He didn’t need that; for her to use the business as a hunting ground. Didn’t need his one night stand having a meltdown—again. As if the circumstances of their weekend hadn’t been odd enough.

  She got in her car and drove around, not sure where to go, what to do with the sudden freedom. On a whim she pulled up on a street that housed boutiques, cafes and galleries. She sat in an outdoor cafe, drank iced tea and studied the paintings in the gallery window opposite. There was a nude, nicely done, a young woman with Lady Godiva hair and a coy expression. There was a sign about art classes.

  She paid for her tea and drove home. She’d only kicked off her shoes before her buzzer went. She stared at it. It was after five, she’d wasted the afternoon doing God knows what. The figure in the video screen made a flush of heat travel through her body. She stood in her suit and bare feet and with her career in tatters and she didn’t feel so out of sync, so alone anymore, because somehow he’d known to come.

  And then he lifted his head.

  17: Loved

  Alicia Jennifer Lauder would’ve been pleased by the sunshine. She’d have been happy about the trees and the tulips, and the aspect of the plot where Mace had her buried. She’d have liked the church music, and his new suit, Dillon’s too, bought in her honour.

  He was surprised by the number of people who’d come to the service, who stood around now as her coffin was lowered into the earth. But he shouldn’t have been. Buster was loved after all, and until she began to fade had a large group of friends.

  The women from her craft group came, her book club, the library where she’d volunteered. Even a couple of old colleagues from the florist where she’d last worked introduced themselves and gave Mace their condolences.