by Judy Nunn
'I think we both have,' he said.
'Oh.' She felt silly for not having registered the fact herself. How typical of Hillary. But she wished he hadn't openly commented upon her mother's ridiculous attempt to manoeuvre them into bed. The effect had been instantaneous. The tone of the evening had changed dramatically.
'Would you like a cup of coffee while I ring you a taxi?' They would have had a cup of coffee with Hillary if she'd been here, wouldn't they? So why did the invitation seem to offer something more?
'I'll get a taxi in the street,' he said. But he made no move towards the front door, just as she had made no move to the kitchen. Did she want him to go?
They stood barely two metres apart, staring at each other.
'Do you want me to go?' he asked.
'I think it would be best.'
Both remained motionless.
'I'm getting married next year, Mike.' She said the words firmly, with resolve, as if she dared him to differ.
'So you told me. What's his name?'
'Andrew. Andrew Gaden. He's a lawyer.'
'What about Allie?'
'Oh, Andy adores Allie.' She looked away, flicking back her hair with a toss of her head. A rare gesture; she only did it when she was self-conscious, which was not often. 'In fact, Allie's probably one of the reasons he wants to marry me – he's put Donald Duck wallpaper up in the spare room.' She faltered slightly, realising that she was talking for the sake of talking.
He'd noticed the falter, just as he'd noticed the flick of the hair. He took a pace towards her and, leaning down, he kissed her, very gently.
She didn't respond, but then she didn't resist either.
'I'm getting married, Mike,' she repeated, although it didn't carry the same ring at all.
'Yes. Next year. To me.'
He kissed her again. She responded this time, her mind vaguely trying to encompass the complications. What about her plans? Her career? Andy? Then everything became blurred by the thought that perhaps Hillary, in her foolish romanticism, had been right all along. Perhaps a person only had one great love in their life. Poor Andy, she thought, she'd have to ring him tomorrow. But then Andy had known, hadn't he? Andy had known this would happen.
As they made love, Mike looked into her eyes. He'd never done so in the past.
'I love you, Jo,' he said.
She whispered her love back to him, over and over, the way she'd longed to in the old days but had never dared. Not for one moment did her eyes leave his, and she saw there something else besides love. She saw need. His need for her eclipsed everything, and she was transported. She couldn't offer him enough of herself. To Jo, love and need had become inexplicably entwined.
When it was over, they lay silently in each other's arms, both overwhelmed, both lost in their own thoughts.
Jo had never known how desperately she longed to be needed. She'd steadfastly refused to need anyone or anything herself. Why should she? She wasn't needed. So she'd put up her walls. But she was needed now. Mike needed her. And for the first time in her life, she was prepared to admit to a need in herself. She needed Mike.
Mike was thinking of the dead girl and how she hadn't been there. She hadn't been there for one second. There'd been only Jo and the love he felt for her and the love that he'd seen in her eyes. Even now, when he thought of the dead girl, marvelling at her absence, her image was no more than a blur from a past to which he didn't belong.
'Jo . . .' He turned on his side to face her. He hadn't known that he had a capacity for such love, and he wasn't sure how to express himself.
Apparently he didn't need to.
'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, I know.'
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The seventies was proving to be Spud's decade, just as he'd anticipated. Within five years, Farrell Enterprises had become the Farrell Corporation, and, at the age of thirty-two, Spud Farrell was not only a wealthy and successful businessman, but one of integrity – a fact that several of his contemporaries, who'd thought him dangerously on the edge of the law, found surprising. During the 1974 WA Royal Commission into Gambling, however, the name Farrell had not even received a mention. Spud was apparently as clean as a whistle. Furthermore, it was well known that he contributed generously to worthwhile charities and supported local youth sports groups and community projects like Rotary, the Lions Club and APEX.
Not so widely known was his largesse when it came to State Government campaign funds. The WA Labor Party had benefited very nicely from his contributions for several years, but he'd recently swapped allegiance. When the Liberals had come into power in 1974, their party campaign funds had received a healthy boost in the form of a personal cheque from Spud Farrell.
Spud had reaped the benefits of his support in any number of ways, from advance information to practical assistance. The government tenders received from Farrell Constructions – a major arm of the Farrell Corporation – regularly undercut the tenders submitted by other companies, there was rarely any trouble with development planning, and the normal petty objections to rezoning were quickly overcome.
'To the marriage of government and private enterprise, Howard,' Spud said with a brief salute of his champagne glass. He and Howard Stonehaven, MP, Minister for Lands and Works, were dining at the Oyster Beds in Fremantle. They'd become great mates.
'I've said it all along, Spud,' Howard smiled, joining in the joke, 'as well you know.'
They were both recalling Gerrard Whitford and how he'd been set up with the quote all those years ago, everyone knowing it to be Howard's personal catch phrase. The man had looked like the fool he was.
Howard forked the last oyster from his platter into his mouth. Poor long-forgotten Gerrard, he thought as he sat back and gazed contentedly through the window at the flotilla of craft passing by.
The restaurant was built out over the water, and they'd arrived there by boat themselves. Spud's company launch was berthed at the Oyster Beds' jetty, the skipper on board waiting to take them back to the pen at Royal Freshwater Bay Yacht Club. The Oyster Beds was a favourite haunt of Spud's. He regularly brought guests there in the company launch. It impressed them.
'You must come up to Queensland for the long weekend next month,' he said, nodding to the waitress to collect their platters. 'We're opening the new hotel at Surfers Paradise. Nothing too lavish to start with, only forty rooms, but great views. I'm sure you'll like it.'
'Got a finger in every pie, haven't you, Spud,' Howard said with begrudging admiration. He envied the lifestyle of businessmen like Farrell who travelled to lunch on corporate launches and popped overseas regularly for the tennis at Wimbledon or the cricket at Lord's.
'Oh ...just feeling my way, sounding things out, you know how it is,' Spud said airily. 'The hotel trade's lucrative, but it's my guess resorts are the way of the future.' He downed the last of his champagne and poured himself a glass of white wine from the bottle in the ice bucket. 'This country just cries out for resorts.'
He poured a glass for Howard as well, although Howard was barely halfway through his champagne. Then he leaned back in his chair, expanding upon his theme, a man of vision.
'Look at Fiji,' he said, 'we should be following their example. We've got the beaches and the climate, all we need to do is chuck in the palm trees and the swimming pools. Lots of glitz, gloss and glamour, that's what the punters want. The locals think they're in Hollywood and the tourists go apeshit.'
'You may have a point, Spud.' Howard's ears had pricked up. 'We need to attract overseas interest.' He'd have a chat to Max, the Minister for Tourism – there was bound to be something in it for them both, he thought. 'A resort would certainly be a boost to state tourism – where exactly did you have in mind?'
Western Australia hadn't featured in Spud's immediate plans, he'd been contemplating Queensland for his first venture into resorts, but noting Howard's interest he did a quick rethink. No harm in paving the way.
'Well, look at our coastline,' he said. 'North, south, tak
e your pick.' It sounded too vague, as if he hadn't given the matter much consideration, so he added, 'And then there are the city beaches . . . Scarborough . . . Cottesloe . . .' He grinned. 'Hell, we could mow down the old OBH and build a whopping great resort right there at North Cott. That'd rattle a few locals, wouldn't it?'
Howard's smile in response was smug; it seemed to say,
Nothing's impossible.
'Ah, the lobster.' Spud greeted the waitress, who placed two obscenely large crustaceans before them, and conversation came to a halt as they tackled their respective thermidor and mornay.
They skipped dessert and, over coffee and cognacs, got down to the purpose of their lunch – a feasible site for Farrell Towers. The high-rise office block, which would one day house the new corporation's headquarters, was in its early 'talk' stages as yet, but it was only a matter of time. Farrell Towers was Spud's personal dream.
One and a half hours later, the company launch safely penned, Spud and Howard shook hands in the yacht club's car park.
'Don't forget the long weekend and the hotel opening,' Spud said. 'I'll send you the official invite next week. I'm flying a gang of twenty up, and I can promise you three days you won't forget.' He winked lasciviously. 'And I mean real partying – wall-to-wall Gold Coast birds with big tits, you know what I mean.'
'Thanks Spud, sounds fun.' Howard smiled politely. He found Spud's manner truly gross at times, but he'd accept the invitation – it was one of the perks of his trade. And he'd accept all that the invitation inferred. The mention of Gold Coast birds meant high-class call girls – Spud Farrell certainly knew how to entertain. Howard just wished he wouldn't voice things so blatantly.
Spud grinned as he drove off; he'd deliberately bunged on the uncouth act. Howard was a snob and a hypocrite. His responsible MP image was that of a happily married man with three children, but he was always the first to avail himself of the call-girl service provided at Spud's events. Spud didn't mind, he was happy to oblige. What the hell, he thought, go for it, mate, just don't piss from such a bloody great height.
Spud never availed himself of the call girls he provided for others – he'd made it his policy over the years. He'd always been content with the service provided by his own girls at his own brothels, where discretion was guaranteed. But he no longer slept with his girls these days, not even Lolita, who said she was missing him when he called around at the Sun Majestic to talk business with Ruby. Spud didn't need the girls and he didn't need Lolita. Spud had Cora.
Cora Santos had been Spud's mistress for well over a year, although he hadn't intended to keep her for that long.
'You bring them in on a six-month visa, mate,' Len had advised, 'then you get shot of them. Saves any complications down the track.'
Len Baker was a mining magnate who'd cleaned up in the nickel boom. Like Spud and Pembo, he was one of the clique. Perth's rapidly burgeoning circle of wealthy gravitated to each other like members of an exclusive club. A seemingly classless society, their money was their bond.
'A quick turnover, that's the way to go,' Len had said. He had it down to a fine art himself, regularly importing a housekeeper from the Philippines to double as a mistress, then sending her home after six months and bringing out the next one. 'Don't hang on to them for more than a year at the most – you don't want to risk a de facto claim. And watch them with your money. They like to support their family on the sly and they'll bleed you for all they can get if you don't keep your eye on them.' Just when it had all started sounding too complicated for Spud's liking, Len had added with a leer, 'But I tell you what, mate, it's worth it. They're a horny bunch, those Filipinas. Best sex I've had in my life. Good lookers too, every one of them.'
Spud had taken on board Len's advice, which had appeared sound, and he'd intended to adhere to the six-month turnover. But he hadn't counted on Cora.
She was every bit as beautiful as her photograph, which he'd found surprising; he'd suspected that it might be touched up. She was smaller than he'd expected, indeed petite, and at first he'd been disappointed, until he'd discovered that her breasts were perfect, and proportionately large for a girl of her size. She wore her hair short and that, too, had been an initial disappointment. He'd told her to grow it long, the way it had been in the photograph, but he doubted it would achieve the desired length within six months. No matter, he'd told himself as heads turned in the street and he saw the envy in men's eyes, the impact of Cora's beauty on others was achieving exactly the desired effect. And she was amazing in bed – even better than Lolita.
But it was the impact of Cora herself that Spud hadn't taken into consideration. He found her personality utterly irresistible. She played her public role to perfection the way she knew he wanted her to – the shy, inaccessible beauty – but in private, Cora was fun. She was playful and effervescent. She bubbled with a simple, child-like vitality. Everything seemed a delight to Cora.
Spud had spent the first several months trying to figure her out. Was she clever? Was it all an act? Was she taking him for a ride? He really didn't know. But when the six-month term had come to an end, he hadn't sent her home, he'd been too intrigued.
Now, over a year down the track, he'd given up questioning her motives. He'd accepted that to Cora, life was genuinely uncomplicated. What the hell, he'd decided, she was great sex and good to be around – despite Len's dire warnings, he'd give her a while yet.
After leaving the yacht club, Spud didn't go back to the office. He had a good hour before his four o'clock meeting with Pembo and Phil Cowan, and he decided to pop home instead. Cora would be waiting for him and there'd be time for a quickie.
He drove down Bay View Terrace, taking in the old Claremont jetty dead ahead as he turned left into Victoria Avenue. It pleased him the way the jetty never seemed to change – their old stamping ground, Mikey's and his. He could still see them chucking bombies off the end. He passed the McAllister house, which looked shabby these days, he thought, but then perhaps it always had been. It certainly wasn't as imposing as his own house only several kilometres away. Who would have believed, all those years ago, when he'd lived in envy of Mikey, that he, Spud Farrell, would own one of the grandest riverside homes in Victoria Avenue?
Spud had built his two-storey mansion, which sloped down to the river, only the previous year. Befitting his station in life, it was his pride and joy, boasting marble pillars at the entrance, huge balconies overlooking the water, and landscaped gardens that ran from the down-stairs level right to the shoreline. He even employed servants. Not that he'd ever call them servants – he wasn't up himself like some of his mates. But if a live-in house-keeper and gardener weren't servants, then what the bloody hell were they, he asked himself. Hell, fancy having servants! How posh was that!
Natalija and Josef, the Yugoslav couple whose quarters were downstairs at the rear of the house, actually found Spud a most amenable employer. Josef sometimes doubled as a chauffeur, the requisite outfit hanging in his wardrobe, and Natalija was sometimes called upon to greet guests at the front door, but such occasions were rare. Spud preferred to drive himself, and he didn't stand on ceremony when entertaining his mates. Any show of pomp was strictly reserved for times when he felt it advantageous to impress prospective business associates.
As he pulled into the four-car garage, the double front doors of the house opened. Cora had heard the Merc's arrival, she'd been waiting.
He was barely out of the car before she'd run to him and covered him with kisses. Then they walked hand in hand to the house, Cora plying him with questions. He'd told her he was lunching at the Oyster Beds and she'd sulked when he'd said it was a business meeting and that she couldn't come along. But she'd only been pretending.
'You have oysters?' she asked excitedly as she skipped along beside him. 'You have oysters? Yes?'
'Yes, I had the oysters.'
'And lobster? You have lobster?'
'Yes, I had the lobster.'