Being a magazine editor who entertained visiting models, clients and industry people, Bok always kept the booze cupboard well stocked. He also shifted the hiding spot for the key on a regular basis, in case I found it. Not that I was a big drinker or anything but there are . . . occasions that require certain measures—of the spirit kind. Now was one.
‘Belle Bussey caught the same bus as us but she was a year older and went to another school. The father owned a bank. According to JoBob, the mother was connected to the Swedish royals, though I doubt it. Nothing naturally blonde about her.’
Bok looked thoughtful. ‘You mean Spanders Bank?’
‘Yeah. Wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole. Anyway, Belle had it bad for Henny. When we left school she offered to take him to Europe for summer hols.’
‘And he didn’t go?’
‘What? And leave Smitts here alone? Our girl was something else when we were teens. I mean . . . she still is.’
‘Yes, she’s always had the Grace Kelly look going on,’ he agreed. ‘So this Bussey bitch is a would-be ex-flame. If he didn’t go for it back then, why would he go for it now?’
‘Well, the summer we finished high school, Henny and Smitts had a huge fight. Can’t remember what about but it was epic. They didn’t speak for nearly two months.’
‘Don’t tell me. He slept with Belle.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘You got it. But it gets worse. Belle proposed to him.’
‘Sweet,’ said Bok, narrowing his eyes.
‘Smitts is sweet. Belle is a Venus flytrap.’
‘So what did our bachelor boy do after she got down on bended knee?’
‘What any average young bloke would do—he ran a mile. All the way back to Smitts.’
‘Did she welcome him with open arms?’
I remembered Smitty’s agonising. ‘Not one bit. She made him work for it, but the deal-breaker was Belle. He had to promise never to make contact with her again. Ever!’
‘Oh.’ Bok produced the key from his jeans pocket. ‘In that case there’re some decent reds on the bottom rack. Or we could crack a bottle of bourbon.’
I gave the pantry a quick squiz. Above the shelves of booze was a single shelf with two different breakfast cereals, six tins of salmon, a box of ginseng tea bags, an open packet of water crackers and some Tim Tams.
‘Remind me not to come here for dinner,’ I said, grabbing the bourbon. ‘Got any Coke?’
‘Dry ginger ale?’
‘Sounds good. I’ll get the glasses.’
I returned to our foetal friend and plonked the grog and glasses down. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘He’s up to speed.’
She uncurled, took a glass and held it out. As I poured, Bok appeared with the mixer and a plate of brie and stale crackers. We huddled in and got to it.
‘Could be a bunch of explanations, Smitty,’ I said. ‘Give him the benefit.’
She shook her head. ‘We had a deal. Never her. Never again. I can’t believe it.’
‘Tara is right, Smitts. There could be a good reason. Henny isn’t stupid. He knows what would happen.’
‘Maybe he’s sabotaging our marriage. Maybe he wanted me to find out. Have I got too fat? Am I terribly boring?’ Her lips quivered and she took a gulp of bourbon. ‘It’s the pearls, isn’t it? He always said he hated women in pearls because they reminded him of his mother. I wore pearls to the Maynards’ wedding.’
‘No, Smitty, it’s not the pearls.’ I sighed and topped up her glass, and my own. It was going to be a long night.
We talked back and forth for an hour or so, Bok and me defending Henny while Smitty vacillated between blaming herself and him.
When Bok’s art deco clock chimed 8 pm, I got out my phone to send Ed a text. crisis talks. cn u pick me up @ boks. drunk t-
Smitty bumped my elbow and I pressed send.
‘Whatcha doing?’ she asked, squinting at the screen.
‘S’posed to be meeting Ed.’
‘Oh my god!’ Her shriek had me plugging my fingers in my ears. ‘How selfish of me!’
‘Calm down,’ I said, unplugging. ‘He’ll come and get—’
My phone beeped a reply. My car is in garage. Anothertime.
‘Ooooorrr NOT,’ I finished lamely.
‘Nooo,’ moaned Smitts, rocking from side to side in the grip of alcoholic dramatis. ‘I’ve ruined your date.’ She’d never been able to hold her liquor as well as Bok and me.
‘Shall I slap her sober?’ whispered Bok from behind his hand.
I sighed and shook my head. ‘Put the kettle on.’
Bok nodded and weaved a slightly erratic path to the kitchen. As he disappeared Smitts grabbed my hand and hauled me close. Suddenly she appeared sober.
‘T, you have to do something for me.’
‘What?’ I asked, feeling slightly muzzy and annoyed by Ed blowing me off.
‘I want you to spy on Hen.’
CHAPTER 2
‘You’re kidding me!’ I croaked.
‘I want him followed. I want proof.’
‘I can’t do that. After you and Bok, he’s one of my best friends. Smitts, don’t ask me—’
‘Tara Sharp,’ she said in her most clipped and proper voice. ‘Do you love me?’
‘Smitts, please—’
‘Do you?’
I rubbed my forehead, feeling a headache coming on, one that wouldn’t go away any time soon. ‘But I can’t, he’d see me.’
‘Then put one of the others on him. I want my husband tailed.’
‘Wal can’t—’
‘Not the Russian mafioso. No . . . what about that young girl?’
‘Cass?’
‘She works for you, doesn’t she?’
‘Um . . . I guess so.’ There was no stopping Smitty once she made a decision.
‘I’ll pay you, of course.’
‘Smitts, I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘Shhh. Shush! ShhhhSH!’ She waved her finger at me. Maybe she wasn’t so sober after all. ‘Don’t you dare tell anyone. Even Bok. Client privilege.’
I took the cushion she’d been clutching and banged it against my head. ‘Arggh. This isn’t fair!’
‘What’s not fair?’ Bok was back with a tray of coffee and tea and some fancily wrapped chocolates. I took a mug and sipped away so that I didn’t have to answer. The tea scalded my tongue but it was better than admitting to Bok that I’d just agreed to spy on Henry.
‘To husbands who cheat,’ declared Smitts, knocking back the last of her bourbon. She crossed her arms and leaned back into the couch, her hair falling forward to hide her face. Before I could take another sip of my tea, her jaw sagged a little and she fell asleep.
‘Thank god,’ said Bok. ‘I was considering Valium.’
‘We’d better ring Henny.’
‘To say what?’ Bok was really short on sympathy sometimes. Other times he was overflowing with it. You could just never tell.
‘The truth . . . kinda.’
I decided Bok’s impatience with Smitts’ meltdown might have its roots somewhere in the fact that he hadn’t had a partner in a few years. No one who’d lasted more than a few weeks, anyway. I didn’t exactly have the best track record either, which was partly why I was miffed at Ed giving me the flick. I contemplated calling a taxi and just turning up on his doorstep but first I needed to sort Smitty out.
Scrolling through my contacts list I pulled up Henny’s mobile number. He answered quickly, sounding anxious.
‘Tara?’
‘Hi, darling,’ I said lightly. ‘Look, Bok’s had a bit of a crisis and Smitts and I have been counselling him heavily. Poor Smitty darling’s got all fagged out and fallen asleep on us.’
‘She’s drunk,’ he said flatly.
‘Well . . . yes. But all for a good cause.’
‘Matter of opinion,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ll come and get her.’
‘Look, Henny, she’s out cold. Why don’t you leave her here tonight? Bok will bring her
home first thing. Besides, Bok needs someone here. He’s in a bad way.’
Bok rolled his eyes and made throat-cutting gestures. His normally fresh blue aura darkened to cobalt with annoyance.
‘Why. Lost his favourite handbag?’
The jibe was unlike Henny, who really was a decent bloke. Bitchy cracks like that weren’t his style. Still, that didn’t mean . . . I refused to believe . . .
‘Claire has physio at 9 am,’ he said. ‘Make sure she’s back in time.’
‘Scout’s honour,’ I promised.
‘In which lifetime were you ever a bloody boy scout, Tara Sharp?’ He hung up.
‘Ow,’ I winced.
‘Should have taken her home.’
‘Not like this,’ I said. ‘She might have said something she’d regret.’
Bok sighed this time. ‘You’re right.’
He smoothed back Smitty’s hair then went and got a blanket from his bedroom. He tucked it around her and eased her back into a more comfortable position on her side.
‘She’s always so calm and perfect,’ said Bok. ‘I’m not used to seeing her like this.’
‘Henny and her kids are her entire world.’
‘But it’s not true. He’d never cheat.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘He wouldn’t.’
We both stared at our sleeping friend, keeping any other thoughts to ourselves. Henny and Smitts were the centre of our universe; all that was good, all that we aspired to. All that we aren’t. Any kind of rift between them was likely to break our universe in two.
I made a decision right then. I was going to get Cass to follow him. But if it turned out Smitty was right, I wasn’t going to tell her. I’d go straight to Henny and knock his head until he got some sense. Yes, that’s what I’d do. If there was a problem, I’d fix it.
I smiled at Bok, who was lost in his own musings. ‘I’ll call a taxi.’
He nodded absently. ‘I should get to bed. Early start tomorrow.’
I kissed him on the forehead. ‘Leave some water on the table for her and the bathroom light on.’
Another distracted nod.
I walked to the front door and glanced back. Two bottles of champagne and a bottle of bourbon sat empty on the coffee table among the broken crackers and scrapings of brie.
Maybe I wasn’t as sober as I thought I was.
I took the lift down to the foyer and dithered over what to do. The smart thing would be to cab straight home, but I had a sudden desire to walk. The evening air was fresh but not cold—a hint of summer on the way. And the nearby gardens were wafting the scent of early-flowering gardenias at me. Walking to my place would take nearly an hour, while Ed’s was only fifteen minutes away. I hadn’t exactly been invited over, but maybe a surprise visit was just the thing to break the ice between us. I figured it was time to at least press the flesh with him.
Taking a right turn, I began to wind my way down Queenslea Drive past Bethesda Hospital and Christ Church Grammar. The school’s night lights showed enough of the grounds to give me a giggle at times past. Christ Church boys always liked to party back in my day.
Before long I was almost at the Stirling Highway lights and the church. The memory that evoked was entirely different. Nick Tozzi had parked in the church driveway the night he’d rescued me from Johnny Viaspa’s front fence. I’d been snooping and slipped. Next thing I knew I was hanging onto one of the wrought-iron palings, swinging my butt above Viaspa’s dog.
Tozzi, being nearly seven foot tall and an ex-NBA basketballer, had been able to lift me bodily off the fence and whisk me to safety in his Lambo—but not before parking right here and giving me a serious talking to.
Aaah, Tozzi . . . What was it about that man that just wouldn’t go away? He was married, in love with his wife—sort of—and altogether too used to getting his own way for my liking. But he also had a great sense of humour and a goofy side that showed itself from time to time. Most of all, I loved his warm and sticky aura, which flowed around his body with the consistency of caramel topping. Sometimes, though, that aura would go hard and send sparks flaring off mine like flint and steel. On those days I’d learned to run and hide.
Oh, Nick. If only you were single and not so rich . . .
‘Tara?’
‘Why, Nick?’ I was so mired in maudlin thoughts that now my daydream was talking to me.
‘Tara!’
This time the voice was growly and insistent and jerked me out of my bourbon-induced reverie. I swung around to face the street and saw a car pulled up at the kerb next to me with the window down; a Porsche Cayenne that was all too familiar.
‘How did you do that?’ I gasped.
‘Do what?’ asked Nick Tozzi.
‘Appear when I was talking to you!’
I could barely see his face in the gloom but I knew he was scowling at me. ‘You’re not making sense. Why are you walking? Has your car broken down?’
‘Er . . . no. Jus’ needed some air.’
‘You’re drunk.’
‘No!’
‘Yes.’
‘Not!’
‘You shouldn’t be wandering the streets alone.’
‘It’s Claremont, for chrissakes. What’s going to happen to me? Gonna be attacked by an oc-to-gen-gen-ar-ian?’ I stumbled over the last word, spitting it out in half a dozen syllables.
‘Remember the Birnies. And the Claremont serial killer. You’re very stupid sometimes, Tara, for a girl who’s been through . . . stuff.’
He was right. The last few months I had been through stuff. A lot of it to do with him. Why oh why couldn’t I get him out of my head? Tozzi and I were never going to be a couple.
Then I thought of the best, happiest couple I knew—Smitts and Henny—and an unstoppable gush of self-pity welled. I jammed my fists to my eyes to stop it.
‘Tara?’ Tozzi sounded alarmed. ‘That wasn’t meant as an insult. I mean . . . I just . . .’
The car door slammed and a warm sensation flooded me. Nick was standing a breath away from me and his magnificent aura enveloped me in concern. I wanted to wallow in it but that would have looked pretty damn weird. So I settled for hugging myself and soaking up his settling vibes. I could never ignore Nick’s aura no matter what I did. The tears subsided and I felt myself sobering up.
‘It’s alright,’ I said. ‘Had a bit of a personal crisis in the family tonight. Smitty needed some . . . help.’
‘Jane Smith? It’s usually the other way around, isn’t it?’
‘Friends help each other.’
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘So let me give you a lift home. I mean . . . if that’s where you were going.’
I thought about Eduardo. I couldn’t really ask Tozzi to drop me there.
‘’Preciate that,’ I mumbled. ‘But I’m fine.’
His hand dropped onto my shoulder. ‘Actually, you’re not fine and I insist. My mother would never forgive me if I left you alone here in the dark.’
Nick’s mother terrified me. All four feet eleven inches of her.
I felt myself weakening. Ed might not welcome me lobbing on his doorstep in the wee hours, and I could score a ride home in Tozzi’s Cayenne. It was late and the beginnings of a nasty hangover were creeping up on me.
‘Well, I’d hate to upset Irene . . .’ I said. ‘Okay. But only if we can stop and get a burger.’ Bok’s brie hadn’t exactly filled the hollows of my cavernous stomach.
He sighed. ‘Is everything a deal with you?’
‘Only with people who think they know what’s best for me.’
‘Get in,’ he said, clearly exasperated.
I ambled around to the passenger side, got in and buckled up. The inside of the car reeked of perfume—not mine.
‘Smells nice in here,’ I said innocently.
Tozzi shot me a sideways look and started the car. I made a note to remember the scent for the next time I ran into his wife. Call me suspicious, but if Tozzi had a girlfriend, I wanted to know.
He dr
ove in silence after that until he pulled into the burger bar off the highway.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘Bacon and cheeseburger, no onion,’ I said. ‘And a vanilla milkshake.’
‘A milkshake?’
‘Calcium. Prevents hangovers.’
He rolled his eyes and got out of the car.
Nick Tozzi was the richest person I knew. It would have been easy to sit there and let him pay, but my stubborn self wouldn’t let my lazy self off the hook. I threw open my door and stumbled over to stand in the line with him.
‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.
‘You didn’t take the money.’ I fished around in my lovely Miu Miu bag—a present from Bok. ‘Here.’
His lip curled at the sticky two-dollar coins I placed in his palm. ‘I don’t—’
‘Yes, you do,’ I said, cutting him off.
Feeling very pleased with myself, I returned to the car. My mouth was watering from the delicious burned bacon smell coming from the van. I sat forward in my seat and peered through the windscreen, wishing it was daylight so I could see the ocean.
Suddenly, my eyes were blinded by a series of flashes.
‘Wha-a-?’ I gargled.
‘Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ That was Tozzi, but I couldn’t see him on account of the shapes still whirling in front of my eyes.
I heard a door slam and a car roared away.
‘Tara?’
‘Nick? What was that?’ My vision began to clear and I saw he was at my window.
‘Bloody journos,’ he hissed through clenched teeth.
‘Why would they take a picture of me in your . . .
Oh . . .’ I trailed off.
‘How the hell am I going to explain this to Antonia?’
The distress in his voice made me feel awful. Tozzi was trying so hard to save his marriage. She didn’t deserve him in my opinion. He didn’t deserve this, though.
‘I’m so sorry. Look, just tell her the truth. I’ll tell her if you like.’
‘Bad idea,’ he said quickly.
The burger guy called our number and Tozzi stomped off to fetch the food.
I thought about the last time I’d seen Antonia. She’d been snorting a line of coke with Johnny Viaspa in the backroom of a nightclub. I’d never told Nick because . . . well, it really was none of my business. Previous to that, we’d met on two other occasions—one time she’d turned on the snobbery, the other she’d turned on the waterworks. Either way, I found her the epitome of annoying. Tozzi was right—talking to her wasn’t such a good idea.
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