Good News, Bad News

by Maggie Groff

  As soon as I was back home I called Andrew to tell him that Harper wouldn’t be home tonight. Naturally, as I wasn’t buying into the affair story just yet, I refrained from calling him a bum-faced, cretinous bastard, but I couldn’t stop myself from exacting some revenge for having hurt Harper, so I told him that my sister had been out learning how to socialise like a good wife and was too tired to drive home.

  ‘Bloody hell, Scout, how am I supposed to take Fergus to school tomorrow?’ he responded angrily in his deep booming voice, obviously aware from my loaded sentence that Harper had confided in me. ‘I’ve got an early surgical list and Sam isn’t here.’

  Normally Harper drops Fergus off at his school on her way to Tattings. At other times Sam takes him before going on to university in Southport.

  ‘You’ll manage,’ I replied frostily.

  There was a long silence during which I pictured Andrew perched on a stool in his kitchen; big, strong, manly Andrew, dark curls framing his angry face.

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to,’ he said finally.

  ‘That you do,’ I shot back, and then I hung up.

  The tension had been toxic. In all the years I’d known Andrew we’d never had an unpleasant word. He hadn’t even asked how I was, but then I hadn’t asked how he was either. Actually, I was hoping he wasn’t at all well. Ebola. Typhoid. Nothing trivial.

  Toby rang at midnight while I was reading in bed and I grabbed the handset so that the ringing didn’t wake Harper.

  She had already woken up earlier on the sofa and had promptly downed another glass of port. Refuelled, she had then decided that I was also the enemy and, after accusing me of stealing her ABBA pencil case when we were at school, had vomited in the bathroom and then shut herself in the twins’ room and cried herself back to sleep on one of the beds.

  Chairman Meow, who had been snoozing beside me, lifted his head and stared blankly at the phone. He uttered a reproachful meow, twitched his ears back and forth and then resumed his slumber. I suspected he’d had enough adult drama for one day.

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked Toby, trying to modulate my tone to happy. I could hear a lot of background noise, music and laughter.

  ‘In Frankfurt. I’m having lunch with a couple of friends, Barney and Sonya. Sonya’s a real beauty. Smart, too.’

  I guessed that beautiful Sonya was sitting within earshot, and I could imagine Toby winking at her as he spoke. He was a master flatterer in mixed company, especially after a few drinks. Somehow, though, his remark annoyed me, and I wasn’t sure if I had seized upon it just so that I had something to be cross with him about.

  ‘When will you be . . . in Byron Bay?’ I had been about to say ‘home’, but stopped myself.

  ‘Saturday afternoon. We fly into Brisbane. I’ll hire a car and drive down. I should be in Byron by 4 pm.’

  Trepidation washed over me and I bit my lip. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I remained silent.

  ‘Are you still there?’ he shouted.

  ‘Uh-huh. There’s a bad echo on this line,’ I lied, hoping it would explain my less than affectionate manner. ‘Who’s the “we”?’

  ‘Barney and Sonya will be with me. They’ve booked into Sonnets for a week’s holiday in Byron.’

  ‘How lovely,’ I said.

  ‘Sonya’s never seen a whale.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can arrange.’

  ‘Sonya’s great. You’ll like her, everybody does.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Have I caught you at a bad time?’

  ‘No, sorry, Toby, I’m just tired.’ This, at least, was the truth.

  ‘See you Saturday,’ he sang out, and I heard a peal of girly laughter in the background as we said goodbye.

  Hmmm. After I’d hung up, Chairman Meow crept over onto my lap, meowed loudly and nudged my hand with his nose. Gently, I stroked his head. Cats know when things aren’t right.

  I sighed loudly and then, playing both parts, I recited,

  ‘Knock, knock.’

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Sonya.’

  ‘Sonya who?’

  ‘Sonya shoes, I smelled it when you walked in the door.’

  Neither Harper nor I slept well. Her sobbing woke me at 2 am and I went to the spare room armed with water and sisterly concern and sat on the bed and held her hand. When she finally fell asleep again, I squeezed onto the single bed beside her and drifted off.

  It was 8 am when I awoke for the second time. Harper was snoring like a rhinoceros, her sinuses blocked from crying. I crept out of the bedroom and Chairman Meow, who had spent the night guarding my bed, padded into the bathroom behind me. We exchanged morning kisses and he sat on the bathmat and cleaned his paws while I did the necessary with blood sugar tests, swabs and needles.

  Next stop the kitchen, where I breakfasted on avocado on toast while making tea for the Chairman and myself. He takes his tea in a bowl with milk and sugar, but doesn’t like the sugar stirred, preferring to lick it off the bowl at the end.

  After I’d poured tea for myself, I put the Chairman’s bowl on the floor and then sat down beside it, leaned against the fridge and wondered whether I should contact Miss Longfellow and defer this morning’s meeting. Then I realised I’d forgotten to take her number and had no way of contacting her. Hopefully Harper wouldn’t have the screaming abdabs halfway through my meeting.

  I left Chairman Meow to finish his tea and popped my head round the door to the twins’ room. Harper was still asleep so I carefully closed the door and went to the study.

  Ten seconds after I’d sat down at my desk Chairman Meow hopped onto the adjacent old Windsor chair, ready for work. He is second banana in my journalism business and this morning he was smartly dressed in his red collar with the blue diamantes. I think it’s important for the staff to look professional even though I, the boss, was still in my Target jimjams.

  Firstly, I called Harper’s school and spoke to the receptionist, Julia, who I knew. We ran through the usual pleasantries . . . how are you . . . good to talk to you . . . and then I explained that Harper was unwell and wouldn’t be in today.

  Then I stared out of the window.

  My desk overlooks Jonson Street, a venue that provides instant entertainment at any time of day. Storekeepers were arriving, unlocking doors and pulling racks of T-shirts and sarongs onto the footpath, and café staff were wiping outdoor tables. Up in the sky the sun was already shining down on my part of the world.

  At 9 am I had a brainwave and called Rainbow at the Rainbow Spa and booked Harper in for a hair appointment, facial, manicure and a massage.

  ‘Nothing too radical,’ I warned. In Byron, before you know it, you can be soaking in a vat of Himalayan yak’s milk infused with ground organic acorns.

  ‘Who, me?’ Rainbow said.

  I told her that intense nurturing was required, but not why.

  ‘Will I add champagne to the therapy?’ she asked.

  ‘Uh-huh. That would be good.’

  ‘Yellowglen or Dom?’

  ‘Very funny,’ I said. ‘And please put orange juice in it. And could an apprentice nip over the road and buy Harper a falafel burger with sweet chilli sauce. She’ll need to eat.’

  ‘I’ll add it to your bill. Pay me later. Ciao.’

  Harper would put up a god-awful scene about going, but I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

  Chapter 7

  I had a couple of hours until Hermione Longfellow arrived.

  Ignoring emails, I logged on to the Sydney Morning Herald website to access last Friday’s newspaper. I was impressed that I’d managed to wait until this morning before turning on my computer. Then again, I had been rather distracted.

  Until recently Toby’s photograph had stood beside my computer monitor: Toby in his camouflage gear standing in a bombed-out street; Toby watching me work; Toby who I would blow kisses to and make faces at. After the first night I’d spent with Rafe I had somewhat guiltily placed the photo
graph in a drawer, and I was now supremely conscious of the empty space on the desk. Embracing Miles’s opinion, I salved my conscience a little by rationalising that I wasn’t married to Toby and didn’t have a family with him. However, this didn’t make me feel any less guilty, so I admonished myself to concentrate on work.

  The article and accompanying photograph about the recent boating accident on the Great Barrier Reef were easy to find and I printed out a copy. Then I emailed the web link to Daisy, thanked her for the produce and informed her that Miles might pop by for macadamias. I also mentioned that I had repetitive strain injury from shucking broad beans and might have my lawyer look into it.

  Leaning on the desk, I studied the newspaper photograph. The rescuers were posed in a group—five men and one woman, who looked to be in her fifties, all dressed in black shorts and black polo shirts. They were standing on a jetty in front of a damaged motor cruiser.

  Peering at the men, I searched for distinctive features that would have provided Hermione with instant recognition. Four of the men were young and the older one, while he appeared vaguely good-looking, didn’t have extra arms, and I couldn’t see any obvious abnormalities.

  The article stated that two motor cruisers had collided near Hook Passage in the Whitsunday Islands within the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park. Rescue of the families on board had been effected by those pictured, who were described as the crew of a passing charter yacht. Oddly, none of those pictured was named, nor was the name of the charter yacht mentioned.

  The stricken vessels had been towed to Shute Harbour on the mainland and the injured had been taken to Proserpine Hospital. Details of the accident were sketchy at this stage. Police advised that it was too early to say if alcohol was a factor.

  With great satisfaction, and not a single regret about my holiday, I wiped leftover notes from my last story off the whiteboard and stuck the copy of the photograph and article in the middle. Then I drew a box around it with black marker pen and stood back to admire the possible birth of a new investigation. It’s always a celebratory moment.

  I’d had the whiteboard custom-made to fit the study wall and I use it as a working mind map, recording everything relating to a case. As well as providing a visual record of progress it occasionally acts as a catalyst, exposing links I might otherwise not have seen. It usually ends up looking like a frenzied resolution of a science experiment, but it works well for me.

  I searched for other articles on the reef accident and found a brief follow-up written by Dandy McCormack, who had covered the original story. It advised that the injured had been released from hospital and forensic police were investigating the scene of the accident. Amusing myself, I pictured uniformed men standing on the deck of a police launch, hopelessly searching for clues on a vast churning sea.

  I wanted to know the name of the charter yacht company and the easiest way to find that out was to call Dandy McCormack. As I was already in high-imagination mode, I formed a vision of Dandy as a slightly built foppish man wearing Cuban heels and a brocade waistcoat and waving around a lace-edged handkerchief as he spoke.

  Another internet search revealed that McCormack was also a freelancer, and I easily tracked down his contact number. He also had a post office box at Airlie Beach, Queensland, which is the mainland town of the Whitsundays.

  As a professional courtesy I would tell him that I was also a journalist, but I intended throwing him a red herring so that he didn’t get wind of my possible O’Leary story. If I asked for the name of the charter company directly it might arouse his suspicions. The O’Leary lead was mine and I wasn’t about to share it with anyone, especially a fop in Cuban heels.

  I called his mobile from my mobile. I didn’t dial the prefix to withhold my number as that might have made him suspicious.

  ‘Yes, mate,’ said a strong manly voice. ‘Dandy McCormack.’

  After introducing myself, I explained that I had read his article on the reef accident and had recognised the woman in the photograph of the rescuers as someone I was at school with, and would like to get in contact with her.

  ‘Her name is Alison,’ I said, plucking a name out of the ether. ‘I can’t recall her last name.’

  As there was only one woman in the photograph I didn’t think there would be any problem with this invented scenario. He would tell me I was wrong and advise me of her real name, and I would act stupid and say that, of course, that was her name, and then I’d ask for the contact details of the charter company so I could call her.

  He hesitated long enough to inform me that he was on guard.

  Damn!

  ‘Who did you say you were?’ he asked, and I repeated my name and waited while I assumed he was looking me up on the internet. He would find articles written by me and several journalistic references, so I waited patiently.

  ‘Yeah, okay mate,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t know her name but the rescue yacht’s called Amandine, and the charter company is Splash Charters. They operate out of Shute Harbour near Airlie Beach.’

  I was on high alert. Even though he had told me the name of the charter company, no journalist would have taken a photograph of a group of people without ascertaining their names and writing them down. He knew the woman’s name and for some reason he was keeping it to himself.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ I said, mirroring his lingo. ‘Cheers.’

  I hung up. So much for a fop in Cuban heels; I definitely needed to work on my visual interpretations.

  Shute Harbour, I knew, was the setting-off point for most of the boats plying the Whitsunday Islands, and I typed Splash Charters Whitsunday Islands into the search engine.

  It was the usual tropical holiday website, awash with pictures of yachts cruising on blue seas, aerial shots of pristine beaches, a magnificent turtle gliding through crystal-clear water and couples looking longingly at each other over champagne at sunset. There were no formal pictures of the crew of Splash Charters.

  They advertised daytrips that stopped at various islands, seven- or ten-day yacht charters that could either be skippered by Splash crew, or the yachts could be hired as bare boats, as in you sailed them yourself. The main office was at Airlie Beach and I wrote down the phone number on a post-it note. Then I drew two boxes on the whiteboard.

  In the first one I wrote the heading Splash Charters and noted the contact details, and that this could be Mick O’Leary’s employer. In the second box I wrote the heading Dandy McCormack. Underneath his name I noted his contact details, that he was the journalist who had covered the recent accident on the reef, that for some reason the names of the people in the photograph hadn’t been published and that he obviously knew the woman’s name and had not told me.

  Then I wrote WHY?

  I heard Harper in the kitchen and went to join her. She was standing in her underwear making tea and eating toast and marmalade. After giving her a hug, I told her that she had a date at the beauty parlour. As I had expected, the news was not well received.

  ‘You have to go,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s all arranged and paid for, and I’ve called the school and told Julia you’re unwell.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Efficiency,’ she said, scowling at me.

  ‘I’m not really efficient.’

  ‘Yes you are. You run your own journalism business, have lots of friends and a great social life.’

  ‘My life’s not as organised as it looks. You know that,’ I argued.

  ‘You’re so bloody thoughtful, always considering other people’s needs before your own.’ She made it sound like a major flaw in my character.

  ‘Harper!’ I said crossly. ‘I didn’t make the damn frittata or the hummus. Miles did.’

  It took a few seconds before a smile spread across her face.

  It was a good smile.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just . . . you know.’ She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘God, I’m hungover. I’ve thrown up twice.’

  ‘I know,’ I soothed, gently pointing her and her br
eakfast in the direction of the bathroom.

  Harper’s emotions were understandably all over the place. One minute she was weeping; the next, angry as hell. I wasn’t sure which I preferred, particularly as some of the anger seemed to be aimed at me. However, it was my job, I reasoned, to listen, provide support and offer advice where appropriate.

  Half an hour later she came into the study freshly showered and wearing my Calvin Klein jeans and a white T-shirt.

  ‘That’s better,’ I said cheerily.

  ‘Thank you. I’m going to get even with that bastard if it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘Harps, it’s not about getting even,’ I said. ‘It’s about establishing the truth before making decisions. I’m sure there is a perfectly innocent explanation why Andrew was with the young woman.’

  ‘I’ve decided to hurl his golf clubs in the sea,’ she said, completely ignoring me. ‘And pee in his Calloway golf bag and leave it in the boot of his precious BM bloody W.’

  I was mildly shocked. This was a side to my sister that I hadn’t seen since Keith Drew dumped her for Rebecca Featherstone in Year 11.

  ‘I’m going to de-ergonomic his friggin’ ergonomic swivel chair.’

  ‘Harps! Stop it,’ I ordered.

  ‘I’m going to put fertiliser in his Bircher muesli . . .’

  ‘Harper!’

  ‘And then I’m going to—’

  ‘Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!’ I shrieked. ‘You belittle yourself saying such things.’

  My sister glowered menacingly at me. Her eyes narrowed and she thrust her face towards me, saying rather nastily, ‘And then I’m going to nail his balls to the front door.’

  ‘Now you’re talking,’ I said.

  Five minutes later I was bustling Harper off to Rainbow’s.