Home Truths

by Louise Forster

  ‘And who’s going to oversee the work?’ Sofie asked.

  Jennifer rubbed the back of her neck. She was letting Sofie down by leaving. ‘Calum will be there, I’m sure he’s up to it. I’m sorry to rush off like this, Sofe, but I’d like a couple of days to recover from the flight. I don’t want to be throwing knives around when I’m jetlagged. And probate will give us time to decide what we want to do.’

  ‘What about the wine in the cellar?’ Sofie asked.

  ‘Get ready, Aunt Jen.’ Claudia looked up from texting on her mother’s mobile. ‘Mum’s going to tell you again that she wants to do something with the shop.’

  ‘Sofie? What were you thinking — a bottle shop? A good quality one, of course.’

  Sofie shook her head. ‘I don’t think that will work, the locals will continue getting their wine at the pub. I haven’t thought it through yet, but my brain’s grabbed hold of several ideas and won’t let go.’

  ‘Sofie, if there’s anything you want to create with the shop, you can!’

  Claudia pulled a pissed-off face. ‘Mum can. I’m staying near Manly and Skids.’

  *

  Nikolay arrived in Canberra, hot, tired, mean and nasty. After enduring the baking ute for nearly two days, he was ready to make mincemeat of anyone who crossed his path. First, he would kiss his wifey and swap this old bone-crushing oven-on-wheels for his air-conditioned embassy sedan.

  Every time he recalled his last conversation with Boris, frustration rose like heartburn. Wifey might have to wait. Best blow off some steam and get his friend sorted first. He parked under the building in a reserved space that wasn’t his, and didn’t care. Lucky for Nikolay there was an empty lift waiting. He strode in, jabbed at the fourth floor button and with growing irritation waited for the doors to close.

  Exiting the lift, he glared at his plush surroundings; he’d been working in a shit hole while everyone here worked in air-conditioned comfort. Nikolay’s anger spiked and with a dismissive wave he strode past the receptionist. He hitched his pants up as he stomped down the hall. Reaching Boris’s office, his blonde secretary Katya surged out of her chair and stuck her hand out to stop him from entering.

  ‘You cannot go in,’ she ordered. ‘Go sit, wait in chair.’

  ‘He has person in office?’

  ‘Nyet. He asked not to be disturbed.’

  ‘That is bullshiiit.’ Nikolay clipped Katya’s hand away and ignored her protestations. He was in no mood to be nice. He turned the brass handle, and pushed the heavy timber door open and slammed it shut behind him on the advancing Katya.

  Boris looked up. ‘Nicky.’ He smiled, genuinely happy to see him. ‘Have you good news?’

  ‘No, I fry in bloody car, and drink bad, bloody wine, then fry in bloody car, watching bloody police and fry in bloody car. You okay, sit here in cool office while I fry on bloody pavement.’

  Katya opened the door, fire in her eyes. She held one hand to the bump on her head, the other had a death grip on a long silver envelope opener. As she was about to speak, Boris waved her off with a backward flutter of his hand.

  ‘Katya, bring cold drinks, please.’

  Katya glared at Nikolay, swung around on her black, patent leather stilettos and disappeared, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Nikolay moved closer to the gleaming desk with its photographs in silver frames, and elaborate desk set. He took a chair by the picture window that overlooked the beautiful, lush garden.

  ‘You are my only hope, Nicky,’ Boris pleaded.

  ‘I have done everything — everything — to find this photos, discs you talk about.’ The sweat had dried on Nikolay’s face, his shirt was crusted to his back and underarms. He flexed his shoulders in an attempt to get some relief. ‘There is nothing. Nothing, I tell you. He destroyed them before he kick bucket.’

  Boris gasped, eyes wide, tears welling. He looked as if he were about to say something, then decided against it, shut his mouth and sucked on his bottom lip. Nikolay wondered what the hell was going on. There was no doubt Boris was in some sort of pain. Okay, he conceded, emotional pain. It must have something to do with that woman. Veronica.

  Boris slumped back in his chair, which suddenly looked too big for him. He swung around to face the window. Nikolay moved to the side of the desk and stared at him. After a long pause, Boris pulled a monogrammed handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. Nikolay had never seen such an emotional display over someone who’d died and a missing woman, neither of whom were relatives.

  ‘What is with you?’ Nikolay asked. He had to stop himself from grabbing his friend by the shoulders and shaking sense into him.

  Boris’s fingers trembled as he meticulously folded his handkerchief, which gave Nikolay the opportunity to notice the gold embroidered letter V.

  ‘This woman…’ Nikolay made a slow va-va-voom hand gesture, indicating Veronica must be every man’s dream. ‘I have not found anything of her. She vanished.’

  Boris stood and grabbed Nikolay by the shirt. ‘You and I, we know each other thirty years. You have not tried hard enough. If found out, my whole life will be in ruins. My wife and children will be persecuted for the rest of their lives. No job opportunities for them.’

  ‘You don’t have wife and children.’

  ‘Not yet, but one day there will be and, because of me, our wives will not talk to each other.’

  The enormity of Boris’s dilemma hit home. Nikolay put his arm around his friend’s shoulder and patted Boris in there-there fashion. ‘How can affair do such damage — huh?’

  Katya sashayed in with a tray and stopped in her tracks. Nikolay gave her a fierce look.

  ‘His dog died.’

  ‘Nyet,’ Katya said. ‘Boris has no dog.’

  ‘No-no, his doc died.’ Nikolay slapped Boris on the back a few times, his way of saying, get a grip. He gave Katya the hard stare. ‘You need to get English lesson.’

  Katya put the tray on the desk, raised her chin and eyed them both. ‘You weirdos,’ she mumbled, and left.

  ‘Let go of me.’ Nikolay uncurled Boris’s fingers from his shirt. ‘Come sit, have cold drink. Pull self together. You look like doorak. Not good image for diplomat in foreign country — not good in Moscow,’ he nodded, wiry eyebrows raised. ‘You will have to tell me what is on disc and USB. What are these photos? Was Bob working on chemicals, bacteria — what?’

  Boris did not look the least bit happy.

  *

  Jennifer trudged up four flights of ancient timber stairs to her London apartment, lugging a grocery bag filled with essentials to restock her fridge. She felt exhausted after a stressful night at her boss’s restaurant, where every presentation had to be perfect, and on time.

  She sighed and stepped inside. Her home had a sense of light and space and greenery to look out on — well, in spring and summer, anyhow. Right now, though, she wondered if she’d ever come to terms with the depressing winter grey. Jennifer shut the old door behind her with a sharp swing of her hips. She ambled to the tiny kitchen. Every inch of wall had cupboards, hooks or shelves. A window above the deep granite sink gave the tiny room some welcome natural light. Dropping her shopping bags on the bench, Jennifer dug out her perishables and put them in the fridge. Moving back into her living room, she went through the ritual of unwrapping her body of winter clothes.

  She slipped on a pair of thick socks to warm her chilled feet, grabbed a couple of tissues, and blew her nose. The cold air always made her nose turn pink and drip. ‘Here I am,’ she sniffed, ‘on my own, working long hours and too tired to enjoy life unless I’m on holidays — when I’m alone again,’ she told the walls.

  She opened her bag and pulled out her mobile, turned it on and listened to Calum. ‘G’day Jen. I wished you’d ring. Just ring, say hi. Tell me you’re okay.’ Tears burned. She pressed her lips together, forcing the emotions back, but her chin crinkled and the lump in her throat thickened. She should delete all his messages and te
xts, but she just couldn’t bring herself to cut that last link. She took a few deep breaths and turned her attention to some of her travel photos of Paris, Venice and Rome. A weak smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Next time she would head for Greece and Athens.

  Her flat was a great find. For a single person. The four walls were barely four metres apart and lately they seemed to be closing in on her. Hoping to stop that sensation with a distraction, she threw her arms in the air and, standing on tiptoes, she stretched to get the kinks out of her body. Her fingertips brushed a beam. So what if the place was small, it had never bothered her before. So what if it took only three strides to cross the room, they were big strides. She was on her feet all night and it was a lovely to come back to her cosy flat, where she didn’t have to move far to reach anything.

  But none of it helped. Long minutes passed while Jennifer felt the fabric of her life unravel a little further. Suddenly, her pulse rate increased and a horrible tightness in her chest sucked the air out of her lungs. She slumped onto her blue mini-sofa and broke out in a cold sweat. She held her hand against her chest and tried soothing herself with logic.

  ‘It’s a panic attack, that’s what it is. You’ll be fine, just take it slowly, nice easy breaths.’ She sat for a while and concentrated on relaxing.

  She sat in quiet desperation listening to the tic-tic-tic of the clock almost in rhythm with her heart now. It took time, but the moment passed. Relief made her feel weak. She was glad to be sitting down.

  As normality returned, Jennifer grabbed her stuffed hippo cushion and hugged it to her chest. ‘What’s happening to me?’ She felt her forehead: it was cool but clammy. No fever. This could not be happening — to Sofie maybe, but not to Jennifer Dove, who could cope with anything. She threw the hippo aside, headed for the kitchen and poured herself a glass of cold water. It helped her dry throat, but it didn’t change how she felt. Cut adrift. Aimless and empty.

  She had to take control and focus on what she’d always wanted.

  Her own restaurant.

  *

  On a hilltop lookout twenty kilometres south of Tumble Creek, Calum opened the glove compartment in his truck and pulled out the small leather purse he’d never had the chance to return to Jennifer. He held it to his nose and took a deep breath. It still held her distinctive scent that was out of this world and filled him with a longing he’d never experienced before. It ripped him apart that she hadn’t stayed, hadn’t given him a chance to tell her the truth. He had to stop beating himself up, damn it. The pain of wanting her so badly almost crushed his chest. God, he missed seeing her quirky ways, and the smile that lit up her face. It screwed with his head so badly he’d nearly electrocuted himself — twice.

  He beat his hands against the steering wheel, stopped, and dropped his forehead on his knuckles, and mumbled, ‘Gotta switch the mains off or you’ll die, you fuckwit.’

  Why didn’t Jennifer answer his calls or at least text him back? Her accusation about him fathering a child cut him deep. On reflection, he understood that her doubts and his pride had her fleeing the country. Though at the time he thought explaining shouldn’t be necessary. Not one person who knew him would even consider the rumour to be true. Not one man pointed the finger at him and told him he should grow some, man up and acknowledge that he’d fucked up. But Jennifer hadn’t known him since childhood, as most honest folk in the town had. He should’ve taken what she’d said on the chin and explained, all of it.

  Calum put the tiny purse back in the glove compartment, stepped out of his truck and roared at the surrounding hills. ‘Ahhhggggg! You’re driving me nuts, woman!’ Then he took the path along the ridge and jogged hard until he could barely breathe.

  He stopped and, chest heaving, looked out over the stunning escarpment. It was time to arrange for a passport. And as soon as it arrived, there was nothing going to stop him from taking off for London. Nothing, damn it.

  *

  Jennifer lay under a bulky feather quilt, staring at the ceiling, hoping it wouldn’t drop on her head. A mindless, clog-wearing idiot in the flat above didn’t know the meaning of quiet. She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep. It didn’t work. Irritated, she turned from side to side. She pummelled the pillow. She stuffed earbuds in her ears, thumped her CD player until her favourite soothing music clicked on, and hoped it would lull her to sleep.

  During the early hours of the morning, she had dreamt of being with Sofie and Claudia, sharing jokes and laughing in the Tumble Creek pub. Calum was sitting next to her. She could almost feel his warmth and the heaviness of his arm around her shoulder. Then her dream jumped to when he’d installed the smoke alarms. Jumped again to the quirky electricity in her uncle’s home. The toaster on fire. Hairdryer on fire. With every jump, her dream became darker and more worrying until she was standing outside the building watching it burn. She was screaming at a fireman who looked just like Bruce, but he wasn’t being at all helpful. When she asked him to, please, put the flames out, he shook his head, saying it was too late — it was all too late. Jennifer thrashed under the quilt, her breathing laboured. Adrenalin surged and her heart thumped. She woke with a start, hot and sweaty, the horror of her nightmare still vivid. She had neglected the wiring in her uncle’s heritage-listed home, and now the flames were threatening buildings up and down the street. She clutched the quilt up under her chin. ‘Holy crap!’ Cold air in the flat was seeping in through her night-time Betty Boop T-shirt. In the dim light, she peered at her bedside clock. Should she ring? Who would she ring — the Tumble Creek police? What could she say? ‘Oh hi, Brock, I was having a nightmare and wondered if there’d been any fires lately.’ Sofie had said she would get onto the wiring, so maybe there was no need to worry.

  By late morning, Jennifer couldn’t take it any longer. Not only did she feel a wreck, but the terrible sense of loneliness was getting worse. She was so jacked off by her own inability to make something of her life, she decided to go out. A little retail therapy would do her a world of good. She began the wrapping ritual, starting with her boots, winter coat, beanie and scarf. Rugged up, she was ready for the great outdoors of London’s winter.

  She opened the door and…

  Chapter 12

  ‘Hello, darlingk,’ Vladimir’s smarmy voice purred. Arms outstretched, he stepped over the threshold, forcing her back into her flat. Sleet sprinkled over his Russian fur hat, with earflaps, was already starting to melt.

  ‘Hold it right there! I told you it was over and I meant it. I’m in no mood for your Machiavellian ways.’ To drive her point home, Jennifer hit Vladimir squarely on the chest with both hands. She thumped him again, harder. Caught unawares, he teetered. A stunned expression slipped across his granite-like features. How quickly he recovered: in a blink the seductive look returned. He should be an actor, she thought.

  Jennifer was so awake to his tricks now it was a joke. How could this twit ever have duped her?

  ‘I’ve missed you, darlingk,’ he said, chin down, peering at Jennifer through his lashes. Cold grey eyes zeroed in on her, adding just enough hangdog look to the seduction. In a flash, he shrugged off his coat and tossed it. In her crowded, tiny flat, his coat was bound to land on a piece of furniture. ‘You have missed me too, I see.’ He raised one eyebrow for effect.

  ‘Huh?’ Jennifer backed away until her bum hit the back of her mini-sofa.

  ‘You’re hot for me. You want me to talk dirty Russian,’ his voice rumbled, dark and thick like molasses, sticky. ‘We can have so much fun, Jennifer.’

  Disbelief and a healthy dash of cringe cooked up a storm inside her. How could she have allowed this gigolo into her life? Wait a minute, gigolos were more honest than this blatant lounge lizard. He came closer, bending over her. Jennifer’s back arched further away. With a swiftness she hadn’t seen in him before, he grabbed the end of her scarf and in a couple of twists had it off her face. His other hand yanked her beanie off; her hair crackled and stood out with static electricity. He
moved in closer until Jennifer flipped over the back of the couch and fell, head and shoulders onto the seat, her legs in the air. In a flash, Vladimir was around to the front of the couch, gathering her upper body in his arms.

  ‘You want to play games, heh? I like games.’ His hand slid under her neck, his face above hers reminded Jennifer of the cartoon character Pepé Le Pew. She snort-giggled. Vladimir looked both confused and amused, but that didn’t stop him. He was on a mission. He brought his face in closer and stroked her hair while murmuring his Russian grocery list, which Jennifer interpreted as: I want money, sex, food, freedom, and the key to your flat.

  Jennifer shoved him aside and rolled off the sofa.

  ‘Vladimir, you’re a liar and a cheat. Please leave before I get angry — trust me, you don’t want to be around when I’m angry! In the last couple of weeks I’ve had a taste of real honesty, which only makes you look more like a real arsehole.’ Jennifer’s sudden realisation that Calum was her ideal, was like a smack up the back of her head.

  ‘You-you kicking me out into ze cold?’ His incredulous, arrogant expression didn’t surprise her. She knew that Vladimir wouldn’t give up his meal ticket easily.

  ‘Yes. Again.’ She slipped her index finger under the collar of his jacket. Handing it to him transported Jennifer to another place, another time, another jacket — Calum’s.

  What was she doing here? Sofie and Claudia wanted her home. Calum was never out of her thoughts.

  ‘Get out before you make me cry for all the time, energy and trust I wasted on you!’ she yelled at Vladimir. ‘You rat!’

  ‘Ah see, you all confused,’ Vladimir smiled. ‘I will stay and make you happy.’