Sharp Turn

by Marianne Delacourt

  Mum and Dad are comfortably off, semi-retired Euccy Grove gentry. While Mum worships at the sacred altar of snobbery, Dad is her quiet backstop, preferring Foxtel to the Euccy Grove social scene. I sometimes wonder how they ever got together, then I witness their perfectly complementary rhythm: Joanna says it and Bob does it. Unless, of course, he gets really ticked off about something. Then watch out!

  Unfortunately for them, they gave birth to a slightly offbeat, flaky daughter who showed an aptitude for contact sport quite early and got into frequent fights with the boys at primary school (usually, I might add, to protect my best friend, Martin Longbok). Joanna tried in vain to nurture a more ladylike and refined streak in me, but I just kept coming up with impulsive and boisterous. On top of that, I kept on growing – until I was bigger than either of them and most of the guys I knew. It was about then she gave up the battle and let me be. Well, sort of.

  My phone rang. ‘Sharp.’

  ‘Tara?’

  Every molecule in my body melted into one gooey mass. Nick Tozzi: hunky, filthy rich and married. Why did I keep thinking about him and wondering if he would work things out with his wife, socialite and cokehead Antonia Falk? I hadn’t spoken to him in quite a few weeks. Not since he’d brought me flowers in hospital to thank me for saving him from financial ruin and other things.

  ‘Yo, Tozzi.’

  ‘How are you?’ he enquired politely.

  Words poured out of my mouth like tap water. ‘I just ran into a policeman I know in a massage parlour in Leederville. Now he’s going to tell the entire force I’m a “working” girl. It’ll get back to my mother and she’ll disown me and throw me out of home. Apart from that . . . everything’s shiny.’

  ‘And you were in a brothel for what reason?’ I could hear the edge of laughter in his voice.

  ‘Business,’ I said stiffly. ‘Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m ringing on business as well.’ His voice sounded a bit strangled still, like he might let a guffaw slip at any moment.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s an unusual job. So I thought of you straightaway.’

  ‘I’m listening.’ It had to be better than Madame Vine’s offer, didn’t it?

  ‘I’m working from home today – what say I drop past and take you for a coffee? We can talk about it in person.’

  I sat up. This sounded good and bad. Seeing Tozzi was good. Not knowing what to wear was bad. ‘How do you know I’m even free?’

  ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ he said and hung up.

  TEN MINUTES! I needed longer than that to work a miracle on my appearance, especially when I didn’t have either of my two fashion advisors on hand. My best friends Martin Longbok and Jane Smith-Evans – aka Bok and Smitty – were busy being upright citizens. Smitty was at home being a three-sprog mother, and Bok was at his office being a hot-shot magazine editor.

  I checked the time. Noon. Smitty might have a window of opportunity. I called her.

  ‘Ya-a-s-s?’ Smitty always sounded her most la-di-dah when she was stressed.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘T,’ she cried. ‘Thank fucking buggery. I thought you were going to be one of the kindergarten mums.’

  ‘Nope. Definitely not. Problem?’

  ‘Yes. But I won’t bore you with it.’

  ‘Bore me,’ I said in my saintliest BFF manner. Eight minutes left.

  ‘Joe punched one of the other kindy kids and gave him a bloody snout. The mother’s been ringing me threatening legal action.’

  ‘Legal action!’ I shrieked. ‘That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’

  Smitty groaned. ‘Thank God you said that. I thought I was losing it. I have to meet with the mother on Thursday.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’

  I was offering out of guilt not saintliness. I was the one who’d taught Joe how to punch.

  I babysat Smitty’s kids when she went to Pilates, and occasionally when she and her doctor husband, Henry, had a dirty overnighter at one of the classier hotels. Champagne and Cock Night, Smitty called it, without even a flush of her expensively creamed cheeks. Anyway, babysitting was a chance for me to make sure Smitty’s kids learned some decent life skills. Some kid had been picking on Joe so I’d taught him how to defend himself. Xavier, his twin, wanted in on the action after that, and so did Claire, their gorgeous nine-year-old sister. Claire suffers from Crohn’s disease and her thin frame and constant fatigue meant she wasn’t up to punching, kicking and blocking. Instead I’d shown her the eye gouge (to be used only in case of assault, of course) and coached her in how to verbally tear shreds off bigots and bitches.

  ‘Would you really come along, T?’ Smitty said, her voice lightening. ‘I’ll love you forever.’

  ‘You already do love me forever.’ Four minutes. ‘Text me the time and place and I’ll be there. Now, I need some fashion advice. I have four minutes to make myself look good before Nick Tozzi picks me up to take me for a coffee.’

  ‘Tozzi!’ she squealed. ‘Why didn’t you say something? Okay. Listen. Sleeved white tee, blue jeans and your flat, strappy blue sandals. Don’t be a try-hard. What handbag do you have?’

  I swallowed. ‘My beach bag.’

  ‘The one JoBob gave you for your twentieth?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I said.

  ‘With the sequinned palm tree on it?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Okay. No bag. Phone and cash in jeans pocket. Lipstick and blush on at the last minute. Go!’

  I was already doing the jeans dance as I hung up, squirming and hopping about the place. With no minutes to go, I got up close to the mirror to daub on lippy and scrape some mascara across my lashes.

  As I tugged the brush through my hair there was a knock at my door. I didn’t have time for a JoBob lecture and an excuse was already tumbling off my lips as I swung back the curtain.

  Nick Tozzi grinned at me from the other side of the fingerprint-smeared glass.

  ‘You were supposed to ring!’ I said. ‘And I’m supposed to meet you outside on the pavement.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, conscious of the pile of dirty clothes spread across the couch.

  ‘Because that would be polite,’ he said.

  I couldn’t tell whether he was teasing me or chiding me, but polite was the farthest thing from my mind when I had knickers hooked over my bedhead and a bra dangling on the curtain rail above the sink. (Drying!)

  ‘Wait there!’ I said, before turning and grabbing my tragic bag – totally forgetting Smitty’s advice. I stuffed my phone and purse into it, then slid open the door and stepped out, forcing Tozzi to retreat. I locked the door before he could utter a word.

  ‘Right,’ I said brightly, ‘where are we going?’

  He was too polite to push it, but showed his annoyance at being outplayed by turning on his heel and striding off down the driveway. Fortunately, I could stride with the best of them and was in step with him by the time we got to the kerb.

  The Reventon – the latest Lamborghini – was parked there in all its silver, bat-winged glory. My dream car, owned by my dream man. (Did I say that?) Damn it, Tara, I scolded myself, get that man out of your head! But the thing was Ed and I were only casual still, and that kept allowing room for Tozzi thoughts to creep in.

  Tozzi knew I’d give my teeth and ovaries for a drive in one of these. He clearly wanted to sell something to me bad.

  ‘Dirty pool,’ I said crossly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said, innocently.

  ‘Bringing the car.’

  ‘It’s my car. Why wouldn’t I bring it?’

  ‘Because you know what effect it’ll have on my brain stem.’

  He grinned at that and pressed the key. The doors quooshed open and I peered into the boudoir of his sex-on-four-wheels. Trying to control my excitement, I lowered myself into the passenger seat. The leather glove-snugged around me.

  I sat
in orgasmic ecstasy as Tozzi accelerated out onto the highway.

  ‘Aaaah,’ I said involuntarily.

  ‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked as he slowed down for the traffic lights.

  I blushed and looked out the window. The driver in the next car was trying to peer in through the Lambo’s tinted windows.

  I sighed. ‘I suppose you get that all the time?’

  ‘Comes with the deal. And all the hotheads try to race me.’

  ‘I get that too,’ I sympathised. ‘Everyone wants to drag a Monaro.’

  He nodded, a smile playing around his lips.

  We pulled into a parking spot outside Latte Ole. I grappled for the door handle and couldn’t find it.

  ‘Wait,’ he instructed, and a moment later he was around my side of the car, offering his hand to help me out.

  I levered out one leg, then the next.

  His gaze fell appreciatively to the strip of flesh that momentarily showed between my top and jeans.

  I sprang up and into his face. ‘I could eat a horse. Hope you’re paying.’

  He took a quick step back. Seemed I had a natural talent for keeping him off balance.

  I strode off ahead of him into the café. It was one thing to be seen with a Tozzi, but another to be seen with a very married Tozzi. Last thing I wanted was his wife, Antonia, fronting up and causing a scene.

  Nick followed more slowly with his usual confident gait, smiling and nodding to people. When you’re that tall and that rich and you live in a small city, you can’t expect to go anywhere without half the room knowing you.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling you don’t want to be seen with me?’ he said as he folded his huge frame into the opposite side of the darkest booth I could find.

  I shrugged and did an average job of looking dismissive. ‘Think that if you want.’

  I glanced around the café. The closest table was inhabited by a middle-aged couple deep in conversation.

  Divorce negotiations, I guessed, from the way their auras were pounding at each other.

  The rest of the place was in morning beat. The slight scent of last night’s spilled beer clung to the furnishings but the refrigerated glass case displayed a mouth-watering collection of fresh cakes. I could forgive any odour for good cake.

  Nick scrutinised me. ‘You’re an old-fashioned girl at heart, aren’t you, Tara?’

  ‘If you’re alluding to the fact that I’m not comfortable having tea dates with a married man then you’d be right.’

  It came out a bit waspish, but now I was here with him I was nervous as hell. Thing was, Tozzi was so damn hot that I wanted to melt all over him. He wasn’t beautiful in the male model sense like Edouardo, with his dark curly hair, a darling face, killer abs and a fine round butt. Tozzi was a hulking man mountain packing just a teensy bit too much cabernet merlot and brie around his stomach. His face was strong rather than handsome, with a hint of the killer competitiveness that had taken him to the top levels of both sport and business. He had brown hair, brown eyes, and lips that could set in a firm, hard line or curve with sudden humour depending on the moment.

  Edouardo had beauty. Tozzi had presence.

  ‘Stop scowling, Tara. My intentions are honourable and harmless. I have a job offer for you. Firstly, what will you have?’

  ‘English Breakfast tea, and orange and almond cake with cream. Please.’

  He looked me up and down as if judging where the calories might go. He finished on my breasts.

  ‘And loving it,’ I said, doing my best Get Smart impersonation.

  When the waitress arrived he ordered for both of us. She flashed him a gorgeous smile and me a quizzical look. That was when I noticed all the heads swivelling our way: Claremont and Euccy Grove mums out for coffee with their toddlers strapped into big-wheeled running strollers. It wasn’t idle perving either; more like I-know-him-and-what’s-he-doing-out with-her? kinda scrutiny. I was grateful when the waitress returned and I could dive fork-first into my cake while Tozzi poured milk into his long black.

  ‘I have a work acquaintance who needs help,’ he said.

  ‘He was too shy to speak to me himself?’

  I smiled as I said it, but truth was I was curious. Tozzi wasn’t the kind of guy to act as a go-between.

  ‘I offered to sound you out.’

  It crossed my mind that maybe Tozzi was using this job offer as an excuse to spend time with me, then quickly dismissed it. That’s the sort of thing I’d do.

  ‘He could use your kind of . . . talents,’ he continued.

  My fork stopped in mid-air and I looked across at him. ‘What talents would they be?’

  ‘Someone who’s curious and . . . smart and . . .’

  I straightened up. ‘And?’

  ‘Left field,’ he finished.

  My smile turned to a scowl. ‘You mean like . . . flaky?’

  He took a sip of his coffee to give himself thinking time. ‘What I mean is . . . someone with a fresh, unique perspective.’

  I stared at him suspiciously. He was way too practised at tiptoeing around a woman’s sensitive spots. I sighed. Well, he was married.

  ‘And the deal is?’

  ‘He owns a motorbike racing team.’

  ‘Cool!’

  Next to basketball and fast cars, fast motorbikes were the thing I loved the most. I wasn’t stupid enough (or wealthy enough) to own a bike, given my lead-foot tendencies, but I did know how to ride. It was the one useful thing my crazy, bike-obsessed cousin, Crack, had taught me. He owned thirteen bikes in various stages of rebuild and used to sleep on a mattress in amongst crankshafts and a pile of slicks.

  ‘Not so cool at the moment. He has a decent rider who’s on track for the Superbike Moto-GP class – but some things have been happening around the pits: little accidents, delays, parts getting mixed up and putting them behind on their maintenance schedule. Last week, their new tyre order went to Adelaide . . . twice. Somehow the paperwork got mixed up.’

  ‘Could just be a run of bad luck.’

  ‘My acquaintance thinks it’s meant to look like that – enough to be disruptive, but not enough to pinpoint.’

  ‘Does he have any ideas on who it might be? Or why they’re doing it?’

  ‘I think the “why” bit is simple. He’s got the final race for the season coming up on Sunday. Someone wants to stop him winning it. As for the rest . . . you’ll have to talk to Bolo.’

  I watched Tozzi take the sugar sachets out of their holder and attempt to throw them back in one by one. Old hoopers never die; their rings just get lower.

  ‘Well?’ He stopped playing with the sugar and took another sip of his coffee.

  It sounded okay and, frankly, Tara Sharp’s Paralanguage and Kinesics Agency was in the market for anything investigative that paid, on the basis that I needed to eat, put petrol in Mona and quit living in my parents’ garage. Anything except pretending that I worked for Madame Vine!

  I’d met Tozzi on a job. He was the good guy, and I’d switched sides away from consulting for the baddies to try to help him save his business and his reputation. Tozzi kind of owed me, and he knew I wasn’t one to take unearned money. Finding this job was probably his way of saying thank you.

  ‘Did you discuss payment?’ I asked baldly. Some things weren’t worth beating around the bush about.

  Tozzi’s caramel aura warmed a little. I’d noticed before that the mention of money did that.

  ‘I believe he’s offering fifty bucks an hour spent on the job. Or a retainer of two hundred a day for a week, plus expenses.’

  ‘Which would you take?’

  ‘Both can work for you. I prefer the by-the-hour rate, but then you’ve usually got to justify it with a lot more paperwork.’

  He had a point. Paperwork and I were like oil and water.

  ‘How do I get in touch with him?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll have Janelle get him to contact you.’

  Janelle was Tozzi’s red-headed PA who had even
more of a lead foot than I did.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem.’

  He gave me one of those mouth-watering grins that he doled out sparingly. When he smiled like that and his aura went liquid caramel, I seemed to lose my spine.

  ‘How’s Antonia?’ I asked, deliberately dampening his mood – and mine.

  His aura blanched and a dark spot, which had been barely visible, enlarged. He frowned, opening his mouth to give me the usual fine-and-mind-your-own-business spiel. Then he seemed to change his mind. ‘Actually, she’s in rehab.’

  ‘Terrific!’ I said, feeling nothing of the sort. Tozzi’s wife had an A-plus cocaine habit and an even worse case of Material Girl. It was my secret wish that he’d ditch her and drive off with me (and the Reventon) into the sunset.

  Nobody, NOBODY, knew about that particular fantasy, especially the man himself. I knew he found me attractive in an opposites-attract or a boy-you’re-different-from-every-other-girl-I’ve-ever-met kind of way, but leaving his socialite wife wasn’t part of that equation.

  ‘In rehab in Perth?’ I asked politely.

  ‘In Brisbane. She doesn’t know anyone much over there; figured that would be best.’

  I knew I should have felt all poor-thing-good-for-her but the only thing on my mind was, he’s home alone!

  ‘How long for?’ I asked.

  ‘Two weeks with an option for three, and a follow-up program once she’s home. She’s already been there a week. I think she’s going to do it this time, Tara. I really do. It was her idea. She wanted it.’

  He looked so hopeful, so boyish, that the right words just fell out of my mouth. ‘I’m sure she will. It’ll be alright.’

  The self-assured grin was back. ‘Thanks. And a word of advice . . . the bike-racing crowd – it’s serious stuff to them. Lot of ego and money tied up there. Go carefully.’

  ‘Like I wouldn’t?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘You want a lift home?’

  I nodded. ‘Can I drive?’

  ‘Hell, no.’