Executive Affair

by Ber Carroll

  Donald changed hats from the bully to the negotiator. ‘At least wait until Cathair sign the contract … It’s only a matter of days now.’

  ‘Sorry, Donald. You’re too late. I spoke to the police this afternoon. I obviously asked them to be discreet. I’m sure you will be pleasantly surprised by their ability to keep it under wraps.’

  Julia’s movements were controlled and deliberate as she went upstairs. When she went into the bedroom, she felt the bareness again, his personal things noticeably missing. She didn’t understand how she had not seen it when she came up earlier. Sitting on the bed, she opened the bottom drawer of the bedside locker. The gun was there as it always was, despite the fact she had begged Robert on a number of occasions to get rid of it. Having a loaded weapon in their bedroom used to make her nervous. He would be sorry that he hadn’t listened to her. It was heavy in her hand. She fired it at their wedding photograph to see if it was working. She missed and the bullet bedded in the timber wall.

  It was raining solidly when she went outside. Her suit wasn’t much protection and was soaked within seconds. She was oblivious as the rain streamed down her face and flattened her hair. She knew where to find him: he would be in the damned office.

  Robert was drained when he got back to his office. There was a handwritten note on his desk to ring Tom. He remembered that he also owed Tom a call from yesterday. He dialled the number and sat down.

  ‘Robert, where the hell have you been?’ Tom was uncharacteristically frazzled.

  ‘I’ve had a lot of shit happening. Sorry it took me so long to ring you back.’

  ‘I was calling to remind you about the divorce papers – they were due to go to Julia today,’ Tom explained.

  ‘Christ, I totally forgot!’ Robert swore in annoyance at his own forgetfulness. ‘Damn. Damn.’

  ‘I thought you might have – that’s why I’ve been trying to contact you. I guess it’s no big deal … she’ll have them by now anyway,’ Tom replied.

  ‘It is a big deal, Tom. With all that’s going on, I didn’t have the chance to speak to her about the divorce. She’s going to get a nasty shock.’

  ‘Shit, man, I can’t believe you haven’t told her!’ Tom was amazed.

  ‘I know, I know … Maybe Donald is right and I am losing my senses.’

  Robert sat still for a few moments after the call, trying to collect his wits.

  How could he have forgotten that today was the day?

  He checked the Waterford crystal clock on his desk, a gift from Julia. It was almost five. He didn’t have enough time to call around to see her now. Claire’s flight was due in soon and it would take over an hour to drive to San Francisco to meet her.

  The pilot circled San Francisco, waiting for clearance to land. It was raining, just like the day Claire had arrived in Sydney. She stared out the window at the thick grey cloud, her stomach churning with a cocktail of emotions. So much had happened in the nine months she had lived in Sydney. Michael was a vague memory now, that pain replaced with the exhilaration of the rollercoaster ride with Robert. She realised she had no doubts about following him to California. Despite all the ups and downs and twists and turns of the rollercoaster, she had come out the other side with supreme confidence about their future. If it had been nine months ago she would have fallen off at the first dip.

  The traffic screeched to a halt. Burning rubber mingled with the streaming rain. Pedestrians scurried in all directions. Those who had lived in California too long watched from what they judged to be a safe distance.

  It took only a few seconds for the deafening noise of rush-hour traffic to be replaced with a tense silence. Julia stood unsteadily in the middle of the street, her hair sticking to her wet face, her suit crumpled, angry blots of red wine on the jacket. She pulled the trigger, laughing hysterically when she heard glass smashing. She fired at the building again, screaming a torrent of hatred as she stumbled across the street, oblivious to the crouched drivers of the stationary vehicles.

  The lift opened in the lobby, filled with a sea of weary faces holding bulging briefcases, escaping home to complete the work they hadn’t managed to finish within the constraints of the working day. It amused her to watch their expressions graduate from preoccupied to terrified. They didn’t run as she expected, but remained frozen, their eyes fixed on her, waiting for her instructions.

  ‘Get out of my fucking way …’

  They bolted, heads down, bodies stooped, selfishly pushing each other as they made their way to safety. She smiled, walked leisurely into the empty lift and pressed the button for level three. The ride was smooth and uninterrupted. She was prepared for the threat of a pre-alerted security guard as the doors opened slowly at the third floor. She came out cautiously but the reception area was deserted. She walked past the empty offices holding the gun rigidly out in front of her.

  Someone was walking towards her, his head down, reading. He didn’t see her, didn’t see the gun.

  ‘Julia!’ He looked up as they passed each other. It was Wayne. ‘What the hell …’ He noticed the gun and jumped backwards, dropping the document in his hand, his arms stretched in front of him, palms flat, as if they could protect him.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ she hissed, putting the cool barrel of the gun against the sweat on his forehead. ‘Get down on the floor and if you fucking move, I’ll blow your head off …’

  She knew Wayne would have taken great pleasure in telling her about Robert’s slut. It was good to be able to hit back.

  Donald was in his office, reading the evening paper.

  ‘Julia, how nice to see you …’

  She had the pleasure of watching his phoney smile slip as his eyes focused on the gun.

  ‘You bastard … It’s all your fault … Your company took my husband from me!’

  He wasn’t responding, wasn’t contrite. She fired the gun at the window behind him, to give her accusations weight. It shattered and there was glass everywhere, some pieces large and jagged, others tiny and glistening. Donald scrambled to the floor, seeking protection from the solid mass of his desk, his face whiter than the icy gleam of his hair. She left him there. He was too pathetic to waste any more time on.

  Exhaustion crept over Robert. His eyes watered. His head hurt. But soon he would see Claire. He logged off and shrugged on his suit jacket. It was pouring rain outside and he remembered that he had an umbrella in the closet. As he walked out, he saw Julia. She was soaked, her blonde hair dark from the rain. Even the gun she was pointing at him was wet.

  ‘My, my – it’s only five o’clock – aren’t you leaving early today?’ she said sarcastically.

  His face whitened under his tan but he didn’t flinch at the gun.

  ‘Aren’t you happy to see your wife, honey? Did you miss me? Or were you too busy with that Australian slut?’

  He didn’t answer. She couldn’t find emotion on his face. His self-control was freaking her out.

  ‘Answer me, you bastard! Did you think you could just discard me like that? Well, I won’t be thrown out like a piece of trash!’ She was screaming and his continuing silence was making her angrier. ‘Say something … say something, or else …’ she threatened hysterically. ‘Will you fucking say something?’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  She heard contempt in his voice. ‘Say you’re sorry. Say you’re sorry!’

  ‘Put the gun down, Julia. You’re only making this worse for yourself.’

  He wasn’t going to apologise. He didn’t leave her a choice. She watched in shock as vibrant red spread across the white of his shirt. He slumped to the floor and the gun slipped from her limp grasp as she was struck by the horror of what she had done.

  Chapter 25

  ‘I’m Officer Tim Hurst. What’s your name?’ He looked old, too old to be in the police force.

  ‘Julia.’

  ‘What’s happened here?’ He was softly spoken, a nice old man.

  ‘I’ve hurt him,’ she whispere
d.

  ‘You fired the gun?’

  She nodded. When she looked down she saw blood on her jacket – Robert’s blood had splattered her.

  ‘Put your hands behind your back …’

  She had heard that before, a lifetime ago.

  ‘You have the right to remain silent …’

  The paramedics came. They surrounded Robert.

  ‘Anything you do or say may be used against you in a court of law …’

  They pumped something under Robert’s legs with air. Then they put an oxygen mask over his grey, dead-looking face.

  ‘You have the right to consult an attorney …’

  They took Robert away.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  Donald was standing outside his office, an officer busily writing notes as he spoke. There was no sign of Wayne.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  She nodded.

  For an old man, Tim Hurst had an iron grasp. She didn’t resist, her silence almost demure. She was even more dazed by the rotating blue lights reflecting on the wet street outside. When they reached the car, he put paper bags on her hands, sealing them with rubber bands on her wrists. It was an odd thing to do and she smiled. He put her in the cage at the back of the car. She remembered the cage. The officers left behind had a hard time moving spectators out of the way as the car crept cautiously forward.

  Claire waited for Robert, watching the teeming rain through the glass front of the arrivals lounge. She felt conspicuous, people swarming around her as she stood close to the main entrance.

  Don’t panic. Trust him. Something must have happened to delay him.

  She waited for an hour before she tried his mobile. An unfamiliar voice answered after a few rings, a man.

  ‘I’m looking for Robert Pozos,’ she said, starting to feel desperate. ‘I thought this was his number.’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’ The voice was clipped and authoritative.

  She was hesitant to give her name to a stranger.

  ‘I’m a police officer – it’s safe to tell me your name.’ The voice had softened.

  ‘Claire Quinlan.’

  Where is Robert? Why does a police officer have his mobile phone? Claire felt herself fill with dread.

  ‘Are you a relative of Robert’s?’ the officer enquired.

  ‘No … I’m his … girlfriend.’

  ‘Where are you calling from?’ he asked, his tone now urgent.

  ‘I’m at the airport – in San Francisco – he was meant to pick me up – do you know where he is?’ Panic was making her stutter.

  ‘There’s been an accident, Claire. Stay where you are and we’ll send a car to pick you up.’

  The station was an ugly place at night: bright glaring lights, abusive foul-mouthed drunks, bad-tempered surly officers. They took Julia to a small room away from the chaos of the reception area. Tim pulled out a seat for her. A few other officers had followed them to the room but she just focused on Tim. He was a kind man. She could tell that. He crouched behind her as he removed the rubber bands and unlocked the cuffs on her wrists.

  ‘Hold your hands out straight.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Testing for gunshot residue … Hold still … This won’t hurt. It’s just sticky …’

  Wearing rubber gloves, he repeatedly stamped her hand with a plastic disc. He looked funny in the gloves. She smiled at him. He smiled back as he put the disc into a clear plastic bag. He handed it to one of the other officers who immediately left the room.

  ‘Okay … that’s over with … What’s your surname, Julia?’

  ‘Pozos.’

  ‘And age?’

  ‘Thirty-six.’

  ‘Next of kin?’

  She paused.

  ‘My husband, Robert,’ she answered, her voice strangled.

  Tim took hold of her hand again. She held her fingers rigid thinking it would make it easier for him to take the prints.

  ‘Relax. Don’t try to help me. I’ve been taking prints for years … I’m an old hand at this, if you’ll pardon the pun.’ He gave her another nice smile.

  ‘I’ve had this done before,’ she confessed, wanting to help him.

  ‘I know,’ he replied simply. ‘We’ll be taking a breath test next – it will be just like the last time.’

  Tim went away and she was left alone with a female officer whose grey hair was drawn severely back from her face. She wasn’t as nice as Tim.

  ‘Empty your pockets,’ she instructed in a hard, hard voice.

  ‘I have no pockets,’ Julia pointed out.

  ‘Take off all your jewellery.’

  Julia hesitated before slipping off her wedding band.

  ‘Bra and panty hose, now … we don’t want you doing anything stupid in that cell.’

  Julia didn’t know how long she had been in the cell. They had taken her watch. There was a lot of noise with the angry drunks shouting abuse at the officers and picking fights with each other. She lay on the bed. She was tired. It was surprisingly comfortable. She was almost asleep when they came to get her.

  Detective Wendy Dawson watched Julia with a mixture of intrigue and pity. Her suit was a good cut, her hair had subtle highlights that were the product of an expensive salon. Wendy had seen it all before, middle-class women going over the edge and, in one moment of madness, ruining the rest of their lives. She always felt helpless and depressed with cases like this one. Wendy nodded at the officer to leave so she could talk to Julia alone.

  ‘Hello, Julia, I’m Detective Dawson. Call me Wendy. We’re here because of what happened today,’ she began.

  Julia was looking around the room in bewilderment. Wendy couldn’t blame her. The acoustic ceiling and neon lighting were pretty dramatic.

  ‘Before we go any further, I need to read you your Miranda rights again …’

  Julia looked at Wendy as she recited her rights. Wendy was older than her. Her grey suit looked dull. She needed to wear some make-up to give colour to her pale face. She would be quite striking if she made the effort.

  ‘Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?’

  Julia decided she liked her so she said, ‘Yes’.

  ‘I’d like to find out more about you, Julia … How long have you been married to Robert?’ Wendy’s pen was poised to start writing.

  ‘Just over a year.’

  Wendy didn’t write it down.

  ‘Do you have kids?’

  ‘No.’ Wendy’s pen still didn’t make contact with the blank pad.

  ‘What happened between the two of you today?’ Wendy’s expression was sympathetic. She was her friend.

  ‘I found out he was having an affair,’ Julia said in a subdued voice.

  ‘That must have hurt you …’

  ‘Yes … he’s divorcing me …’ Julia started crying. Shock had cocooned her from emotion until now. Wendy was making her remember things. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking … I got really drunk, you see … I was upset … You can understand why I’d be upset.’ She looked at Wendy through her tears and Wendy nodded her affirmation.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him, though … I just went a little crazy … I still love him …’

  Wendy was writing in her notebook now.

  ‘What am I being charged with?’ Julia asked, her body taut with delayed panic.

  ‘I don’t know yet … It depends on whether Robert dies …’ Wendy’s words were followed by a terrible silence.

  ‘Where did you get the gun?’ Wendy asked eventually, her eyes drilling through Julia.

  ‘We had it at home.’

  ‘Are you familiar with guns? Do you practise at a driving range?’

  Wendy’s questions were getting more determined and less gentle. Julia could feel her panic rising.

  ‘I don’t want to talk any more,’ she said suddenly. ‘I want an attorney.’

 
; Wendy looked disappointed but her voice was kind. ‘That’s fine, Julia … The interview is over … Thank you for being so helpful.’

  The phone rang. They looked at it simultaneously. It was a dirty beige colour. Wendy answered it.

  ‘Okay … when? Right.’

  She put the phone down. Julia could read nothing from her expression before she said, ‘You’re one lucky lady … They say he’s going to make it …’

  Julia started to cry again, heaving sobs of relief and fear the only words she had in her. Robert was not going to die, and she was relieved beyond anything she could describe. But fear was her overriding emotion. She was frightened about being alone, going to prison, and, worst of all, giving up alcohol. She’d looked down on Amy and the others in the rehab centre, but for all their sad stories, there was nothing that came close to this.

  Julia finally found some words to say to the detective. ‘I’m an alcoholic.’

  It was close to midnight when Claire got to see Robert. Long spaghetti-like tubes connected his body to the machines around him. The bullet had been removed a few hours earlier and the surgeon was pleased with his condition.

  Tears trickled down Claire’s face as she looked at the man on the bed. His face was ashen, his lips colourless. He was less than a shadow of the vibrant man she’d fallen in love with. She held his hand in hers and eventually fell asleep in the armchair next to his bed.

  She woke, feeling pressure on her limp hand. His brown eyes were alert. He slid the oxygen mask down.

  ‘Hey.’ It was a croak.

  ‘Robert, you shouldn’t …’ She was terrified that he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

  ‘Don’t worry … It’s only oxygen.’ He was finding his voice. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ He clasped her hand as tight as he could manage.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re alive …’ Claire answered, her voice as broken as his. ‘The police told me that Julia did this.’

  ‘Yes …’