I’m standing near a bench that’s shaded by a Moreton Bay fig tree. Angelina hugs me so firmly that I’m almost lifted off the ground.
My speech is muffled. ‘Don’t yell my name like that, it’s embarrassing. And don’t press my face into your breasts. You’re suffocating me.’
She does her best to smile as we stare at each other. There’s a pleading expression in her dark blue eyes.
‘Will Tor find out I gave the money to Marc? Will he tell Dad?’
I go through all the possibilities, counting them off on my fingers. ‘One, Tor could look at your bank account and see you transferred money to Marc. But I don’t think he’d have the authority to do that unless he could prove you were associated financially with my father or grandfather, which you weren’t. Two, Marc could tell Tor you gave him the money. I don’t think he’d volunteer that information because it hardly shows him in a positive light, but I guess it could come up—you’re my sister, and I introduced you to him.’
She tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. ‘I’m sorry.’
I push her hand away. ‘Idiot. I told you I don’t care anymore. Let me finish. There’s a third way too.’
She groans, and sits on the bench. ‘Sit, Golden. What is it? Tell me.’
‘Eric told Tor about my debt to him, so he may also tell him that you gave me the fifty thousand. If that happens, Tor might ask me where the money ended up.’
‘It’s not fair that you’re the one in trouble. I’ll talk to Dad. I’ll tell him what happened.’
‘No you won’t. Not yet, anyway. Like I said, Tor may not even find out about the money. And if he does, he might not mention it to Eric, or to anyone else. Why would he? We’ll explain everything if we have to. In the meantime, leave Tor to me.’
Angelina hugs me again. She needs to be approved of by our mother and Eric. And he’s not helping her feel any less anxious by repeating daily that he wants to finish his parliamentary career on a high note.
‘You could ask Marc to keep quiet about the money,’ Angelina says.
‘I don’t trust him. He’ll want to know why, and then he’ll use it against us.’
‘He asks after you sometimes.’
‘I don’t know how you can even talk to him. He lost your money, and he’s never even offered to pay you back, has he?’
She shrugs. ‘I was an idiot to give it to him. And he is sorry about … everything that happened.’
‘I’ve moved on.’
‘You’ve never been serious about anybody else.’
I hesitate before I respond. It still worries me, how I let someone like Marc hurt me so much.
‘What about Leo Beresford?’ I say. ‘I went out with him.’
‘That was years ago. Anyway, you never thought of him as a proper boyfriend. I could tell.’
Leo is a talented vet. He was kind to me after Grandpa died. And he was patient. He was so concerned about how tense I was before sex that we hardly ever slept together. When we did, he was gentle, considerate.
‘We’re still good friends,’ I say. ‘That’s more important.’
Angelina shoulder bumps me. ‘It’s not like you don’t fancy men. You were embarrassed when I interrupted you and Tor in the stable. You’re attracted to him, aren’t you?’
‘I’d be delighted if I never saw him again.’
Angelina grimaces. ‘He probably wouldn’t be interested in you anyway. Even before I met him I saw him all over the place, and I’ve read about him in magazines. He dates lawyers, actresses and human rights activists, not ordinary people like us.’
‘He told me you’d met at a cocktail party. Did he approach you, or the other way around?’
She takes a deep breath. ‘It was me. He was with Sarah Adams, the actress—she’s a friend of mine. I knew you’d been avoiding him—Dad was angry about it—so I thought I’d introduce myself. We talked for ages. He acted like every word I said was interesting or clever, so even though he’s so serious most of the time, he was hard not to like. And of course he’s gorgeous to look at. I offered to bring him to your house because I thought if he met you, he’d work out how kind you are, and honest. Then he and Dad would leave you alone.’
‘Yeah. Like that’s going to happen.’
Angelina shrugs. ‘Sarah thinks he’s great. They dated for over a week, some sort of a record, apparently. She said he was upfront from the start though, making it clear he didn’t want a commitment. Sarah didn’t care anyway.’ Angelina nudges me and grins. ‘“Amazing in bed,” she said. “Absolutely amazing.” So if you change your career to actress, or lawyer, or human rights activist, you’d better watch—’
I get to my feet and walk away. Angelina takes a while to catch up, grabbing my arm when I’m almost at the footpath. I stop and face her.
‘Tor uses people,’ I say. ‘The fact you find him likeable means nothing to me. His sexual prowess means less. All I care about is getting him and your father off my back.’
Angelina swipes an arm across her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry.’
When I speak it’s not much more than a whisper. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just tired, I was up early. I’m sorry too.’
We walk silently arm in arm until we get to the hospital gate, and then I kiss her goodbye—left cheek, right cheek, left cheek, right—the way we kissed when we were children. It’s funny the connection we have, given the different ways we grew up. A few times each term, when we hadn’t seen each other for a while because I’d been at the track on the weekends and she’d been busy with Mum and Eric, Grandpa used to take me to meet her after early morning training. He’d drop me at her school gate and leave us to talk while he bought a coffee, then he’d pick me up and drive me home.
‘You’ll come to Dad’s retirement function the week after next, won’t you?’ Angelina says. ‘You said you would. I bought you a dress. I’ve had it taken up and everything. You’ll like it.’ She’s searching my face, making sure I really have forgiven her. ‘I promise you’ll like it.’
‘I guess I could try it on.’
‘I’ll bring it over on Saturday. And I’ll bring carrots for Peppercorn and Fudge.’
‘Don’t waste your money on organic carrots like you did last time.’
She smiles and kisses me goodbye. Left cheek, right cheek, left cheek, right.
CHAPTER
7
Eric and I are doing a two-step on the parquetry dance floor. I’d like to hide among the other couples because neither of us dances very well, but he keeps pushing me out to the perimeter. I think he wants to demonstrate to the people sitting at the tables nearby that we have a close and loving relationship.
‘Some of us are under sixty,’ I say. ‘When does the quartet go home? Can’t someone connect their phone, so we can stream decent music?’
He misses a step when he looks at the other dancers. Most are around his age. ‘You wouldn’t dance anyway,’ he says. ‘You never do unless you’re forced to.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘I approve of your dress. Did Angelina select it?’
My dress is long and the colour of champagne. It’s so tight I wouldn’t be able to walk in it if it didn’t have a split to the thigh.
When Angelina handed it to me, she said, ‘It was on special because of a tear on the hemline. But I knew that wouldn’t be a problem once it was shortened. And the split is on the right side, not the left.’
‘I’ve never worn anything like it,’ I said, tracing the neckline with a finger. It showed just a hint of cleavage. ‘Even if it was on special it must have cost a fortune.’
Angelina smiled. ‘It suits you.’
I take my hand off Eric’s shoulder and point to my hair. A loose braid winds its way around the top of my head. Sculpted curls fall down my back.
‘Angelina selected my dress and my hair. It’s Grecian. I don’t mind it too much. Makes me look taller.’
‘So do those ridiculous shoes. You won’t be able to
walk tomorrow.’
This is the first of Eric’s retirement dinners, held early in order to accommodate parliamentary sitting dates. We’re in the function room at the back of Parliament House. Once the speeches were over, Eric jovially demanded a dance with his wife and daughters. Mum had to make an appearance at a charity ball on the other side of the city so she left straight after her dance. Eric made a show of gallantly escorting her to the door and kissing her cheek.
Angelina cleared the dance floor when she danced with Eric. She made him do the tango. The crowd enjoyed it and so did Eric and Angelina, even though neither of them had a clue what they were doing. I insisted on waiting until other dancers had come back to the floor before I’d have my turn.
‘Thank you for coming this evening.’ Eric’s voice is gruff. ‘Particularly given our recent differences of opinion.’
I could accuse him of blackmailing me. But then he’d lecture me about neglecting to pay my debts.
‘Besides the music, it hasn’t been too bad,’ I say.
He barks a laugh. And then he looks over his shoulder, and squeezes my hand. ‘Just one more dance, Golden. Then you can put your feet up.’
Even before Eric spins me around, I sense that it’s Tor. He wasn’t on the table plans pinned to the noticeboard at the entrance but Eric doesn’t seem surprised to see him, so I presume he’s not gatecrashing. He’s making his way through the tables towards the dance floor. A dark-haired woman walks up to him and takes his arm. Her dress shimmers under the lights. I’m not sure who she is but she’s elegant and almost as tall as he is. He laughs when she tells him something. Then he disengages his arm and heads our way again. His eyes are on Eric. It’s like he doesn’t see me at all. He’s not looking at my dress, or my hair, or even at my face. Until he shakes my hand and looks into my eyes.
‘Good evening, Golden,’ he says.
He has a dark shadow on his jawline—he mustn’t have shaved for a day or two. The bristles are informal, yet his dinner suit and tie are conservatively cut. I wonder whether the contrast is deliberate. He must be aware of how attractive he is. He’s not smiling in the charming way he smiled at the elegant woman, or in the pleasant way he smiled at Eric. I get a cool, polite smile. So cool I don’t even bother to pretend to smile back.
I study Tor’s speech as he talks to Eric. I note his tiny hesitations, the way his lips open a little and close again. He’ll be searching his extensive English vocabulary for the words most likely to get him what he wants. In the end, he compliments Eric on his two beautiful daughters and then asks for Eric’s permission to dance with me. I’m almost certain this makes Tor uneasy—it’s a sexist comment, and guaranteed to antagonise me—but it’s the sort of thing that will get Eric on side. And it works. Eric kisses my cheek and says goodbye.
Tor holds out his hand. ‘Dance, Golden?’
I hardly have to raise my voice over the violins, viola, and cello. ‘No, thank you.’
I see Eric out of the corner of my eye, standing in front of the table closest to the dance floor, flanked by the Premier and another politician. They’re smiling as they watch Tor and me. It shouldn’t stop me walking off the dance floor—I’ve offended Eric’s guests and humiliated him so many times over the years that I’ve lost count. But the moment I take a step back, Tor’s hand slides down my arm and grips my hand. Three beats of the music later he lifts it and places it onto his shoulder. Then he takes my other hand and threads our fingers together. I should snatch my hand back but all I can think about is how his palm is pressed against mine. And how close my other hand is to the thick dark hair that skims his collar. When he rests his hand on my waist I feel the imprint of his fingers.
He takes control of my body. I can’t meet his eyes because I’m terrified he’ll see the expression in mine. I’ve been kidding myself that I’m not attracted to him just because I don’t like him. My heart is thumping and I’m hot all over and there’s a tingling sensation deep in my stomach. When I turn my head to the side his satin lapel brushes my cheek. I want to rub my face against it and nuzzle his throat and breathe in his scent. I force myself to step back. But then he moves his hand from my waist to my back and gently increases the pressure until I come closer again. His hips nudge my stomach and his legs slide between mine as I’m gently propelled this way and that. When I hesitate or get the steps wrong he masks it with his movements. Glide, step, step, glide. Glide, step, step, glide. Sometimes he lifts me so that only the balls of my feet touch the floor. When he rests his cheek against my temple I lean into it. His voice is husky. I can’t make out his words. I don’t care what they are. His breath, like mine, is unsteady.
The other dancers are a kaleidoscopic whirl of colour around us. The music is suddenly enthralling. I’m like a horse in a dressage arena. The equestrian’s signals are subtle—the pressure of a hand on a rein, the touch of a heel, the position of the seat in the saddle. Two bodies moving as one. It’s mesmerising and hypnotic and—
‘Golden?’ He whispers my name. His mouth is firm, but he’s smiling with his eyes. He’s trying not to smile. I hardly have time to process this when he says, ‘Thank you.’
The music has stopped and the violinists and other musicians are bowing. Everyone—except for Tor and me—is clapping politely. One of my hands has slipped from his shoulder and lies possessively on his chest. The other hand is still in his; our fingers are tangled and pressed between our bodies.
Even in the dim lights he must see that I’m blushing, that my breaths are spiky and I’m swallowing so often that it’s impossible to say anything.
I take a step back. Our eyes meet. His are so dark I can hardly tell the pupils from the irises, but for an instant I can read his expression. There’s desire and … confusion? Concern? When he blinks it disappears. He relinquishes my body but keeps hold of my hand. His tone when he finally speaks is casual.
‘Nate and I would like to speak with you. Would tomorrow be convenient?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m busy tomorrow.’
I have to chase up debtors so I can make a payment to Eric. And it’ll take the rest of the day to retrieve the boxes of paperwork Grandpa stored above the ceiling, near the gable. In the past few years the only thought I’ve given to the records he kept—receipts, reports, form guides and a hundred other things—was to worry they’d be a hazard if the roof caught fire. Now the thought of the secrets the records might reveal, secrets Tor wants to find out, nauseates me.
So why let him lead me around the dance floor like a ragdoll? I tug my hand back, stand straighter, lift my chin and look into his eyes.
‘I want to get this over with. I’ll talk to you tonight.’
CHAPTER
8
Tor and Nate are sitting on green velvet chairs, a low round coffee table between them, in the hotel lounge where I suggested we meet. It’s an expensive hotel, frequented by businessmen and women, so there’s hardly anyone here at this time of night. Nate is bowing his sandy blond head and listening intently to Tor. His darkest brown hair shines in the lamplight.
Tor didn’t want to meet tonight and made excuses about it being late in the evening, and me having to drive all the way home. The other dancers stepped around us as we argued, and finally he relented. Eric let me into his office where I’d left the clothes I was wearing when I drove into the city. My hair looked ridiculous with jeans, a T-shirt and riding boots, so I brushed it out and put it into a ponytail. Besides the curly ends, I look much the same as I usually do.
I doubt Tor and Nate are discussing plans for the weekend, or the weather. Tor looks up first. At the dance he didn’t seem to notice me until he took my hand; now he’s staring. Both men stand. When Tor and I shake hands the contact is only brief but it’s all I can do to maintain it. I refuse to meet his eyes, and pull my hand away as soon as I can, shoving it in Nate’s direction. His hand is even bigger than Tor’s; I welcome the way it dulls the tingling sensation Tor left on my palm.
The men watch m
e place my suit carrier and bag carefully on a chair, grip the back of another and sit. I do it reasonably smoothly considering how much my ankle hurts. The shoes were beautiful, but crippling.
Eric always says I’m my own worst enemy. Grandpa had another take on things. After I galloped on Fudge’s back, or Pepper’s when I was older, he used to say, ‘Do what makes you happy. Pain is a fleeting thing.’
Tor and Nate sit either side of me. Tor has removed his jacket and tie. The top couple of buttons of his shirt are undone and there’s a vee of skin at his neckline. I tear my gaze away and look out of the window. At street level, one floor down, the lights are bright. Pedestrians meander up the footpaths from Circular Quay. Cars compete for space on the narrow twisting roads.
Nate is wearing a fine linen shirt that pulls across his shoulders when he moves. It’s a wonder it doesn’t tear when he lifts a hand to summon a waiter.
‘Tap water, please,’ I say when he arrives.
‘Cranberry juice for me,’ Nate says, reaching for a bowl of rice crackers and taking a handful. When Tor snatches the bowl from Nate and holds it in my direction, Nate laughs.
‘Sorry, Golden. We’ve been staring at screens all day; I haven’t eaten since breakfast.’
Tor puts the bowl down when I refuse, and orders tonic water. He watches the waiter leave and then turns to me, serious but silent.
‘Well?’ I say. ‘You were the one who said we should meet again. What do you want me to do this time?’
One side of his mouth lifts, ever so slightly. I’m certain he’s thinking about our dance, but it’s too late to take my words back.
I turn to Nate. ‘I danced with Tor tonight.’
Nate smiles uncertainly. But then he glances at the suit carrier and relaxes a little. It’s conceivable I could have a dress in there. ‘Lucky Tor,’ he says.
‘I didn’t want to do it but once we got started I enjoyed it. He’s an excellent dancer. Is that part of his job as a UN investigator? Dancing with women in order to get the best out of them?’
On the Right Track Page 4