Before the Storm

by Morrissey, Di

  About Before the Storm

  Face her demons? Or run?

  After being double-crossed by a devious colleague, career woman Ellie Conlan quits her job on principle. With no idea what to do next, she retreats to Storm Harbour, an idyllic Victorian beach town.

  Ellie’s grandfather runs The Storm Harbour Chronicle, the trusted local newspaper. As Ellie is drawn into a story about a development which could split the coastal community – and involves her with the influential O’Neill family – an event she has long suppressed threatens to overwhelm her.

  Dark clouds gather as rumours fly and tensions mount. And when a violent storm breaks and rages, Ellie will finally have to confront her past.

  ‘There’s no denying the beauty and opulence of Morrissey’s rendering of place . . . She is a master of the genre.’ Weekend Australian

  Contents

  About Before the Storm

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About Di Morrissey

  Also by Di Morrissey

  Imprint page

  Newsletter

  To all my friends and colleagues around the world who work in all forms of media, and to those who have lost their lives seeking to tell the truth and shine a light in dark corners.

  Without free and independent journalism our world is threatened.

  Honest, independent media is our voice. Please support your local newspaper, TV, radio, public broadcasters and trustworthy online news organisations.

  Di Morrissey, 2020

  Acknowledgements

  For my (late) Uncle Jim Revitt, country newspaper reporter, foreign correspondent – radio and TV, ABC TV producer/reporter, the inspiration to all his ABC cadets over the years . . . and who marched a young girl into the heart of a newspaper empire to learn to be a journalist before she became a novelist. How right you were, Jimbo!

  My children, Dr Gabrielle Morrissey Hansen and Dr Nicolas Morrissey, who teach and give back to society and the world we share, and for my grandchildren, Sonoma, Everton, Bodhi, Ulani, who are learning about our world through reading a book, seeing in real life, talking, sharing and doing.

  Darling Boris, who carries the burden of oiling the wheels, keeping the garden growing, and is there with love and support each and every day.

  To editor and friend Bernadette Foley, who has helped me through many books on and off over the many years. Thanks, B!

  Brianne Collins, whose sharp eyes and gentle wisdom picks and polishes pages as I go.

  The Pan Mac family: Ross Gibb, Katie Crawford, Georgia Douglas, Tracey Cheetham, Milly Ivanovic, Adrik Kemp and my roadie publicity buddy, Clare Keighery.

  Those friends you can call and bleat to as well as have a laugh; agent supremo Jane Novak, Jeff Balsmeyer, Joan Frare, Liz Adams. Also Kristy Swift for holding my hand through the world of IT.

  To all my compatriots around Australia running independent regional newspapers – good on you. We need you!

  With best wishes to my new friend Dan Meehan, in memory of his beloved Sam.

  And in memory of a devoted reader, Sharon Kelly.

  Prologue

  It was the plumes of dust rising into the setting sun that announced that the local Bachelors and Spinsters Ball was underway.

  Trucks, utes and cars made their way along the dirt road to the glamorous property where the huge hundred-year-old woolshed waited for the youth of the local farms, towns and cities to descend and party till dawn. Tradition demanded that it be an excessive night of drinking, dancing, throwing up and sex.

  Inside the great wooden shed, with its lingering smell of lanolin from the thousands of sheep shorn over generations, a DJ was controlling the music and light show. The bush bands of the revellers’ parents’ generation had given way to technology.

  The bonfire in the yard illuminated the long bar where barrels of beer, an array of good wines, cheap plonk and in-demand spirits were being consumed as fast as the bartenders could pour. Figures settled around the fire, on the trays of trucks or in the woolshed to watch the dancers. The party was just beginning.

  For one night it was a blending of the privileged, the locals, visitors and city friends, where letting your hair down took on a whole new meaning. The dress code was fluid – formal, fancy dress or fun.

  She was seventeen and this was her entrée into a new world. She’d been invited by a girlfriend from school whose family knew the hosts, and they’d made the trip north in a froth of excitement. The two girls were thrilled to be included and had gone to some trouble with their hair and make-up. Together they giggled at the sight of a burly ringer wearing what might have been his grandmother’s emerald tulle ballerina ball gown over jeans, cowboy boots and a T-shirt. Many of the girls had dressed in expensive formal wear, the boys in good jackets, shiny boots and ties, which would gradually be abandoned through the evening.

  A pick-me-up breakfast would be provided in the morning for those conscious and well enough to eat. The shearers’ accommodation had been flung open, though many guests came prepared with swags and blankets in the back of their vehicles.

  *

  It was late. There’d been dancing and then eating and sitting around the fire in various groups as shrieks and laughter came from the darkness and inside the woolshed. She was a little taken aback when a well-known heart-throb, tall and good-looking, started paying attention to her. This was someone you could take home to impress your parents. She found his interest and flirting flattering.

  When he handed her a glass, clinking his own against it and waiting for her to drink, she took a cautious sip, swallowing hard at the stinging taste of what he said was a rum cocktail. He made her laugh. She felt clever and funny and . . . attractive. His arm was around her shoulders and her glass never seemed to be empty.

  He took her hand and they danced in the shadows outside the woolshed. As they moved together, he pulled her tight against him and kissed her . . . her first real, grown-up kiss.

  But in minutes – was it only minutes? – everything was spinning and her knees felt as if they’d buckle. He led her to the dim light of the empty men’s quarters – the quiet would be good for her, he said. Her head was foggy and she couldn’t see properly. Was she going to vomit? Oh no, that would be too embarrassing. She saw a narrow bed and gratefully fell on it.

  But then he was on the bed too, rolling on her, and she felt his naked legs as the room continued to spin. She pushed at him to get off and leave her alone, but then his hand was on her mouth, the other up her skirt, pulling at her underwear. She kicked frantically as he pushed his face into hers, biting her lips.

  ‘Hey, mate, she doesn’t want it! Let her be, c’mon . . .’ There was the thud of footsteps in the room and suddenly he was off her.

  She heard a low laugh outside as she rolled on her side and threw up over the side of the bed.

  She ached all over, but the pain in her head was only beginning. She had to get away from here. Stumbling off the bed, out of the room, she somehow found her way outside. Where was her girlfriend? All she knew was that she had to leave.

  When she reached the dark dirt road, she began to walk, but knew it was hopeless. She was over a hundred kilometres from home.

  Soon a car skidded to a stop ahead of her, and a figur
e jumped out and hurried towards her as she stood shaking. She had no idea who the couple were who helped her into their car and asked where she wanted to go.

  They came to a stop outside her house just as the sky was beginning to lighten. After the woman got out and opened the back passenger door, she rested her hand on the girl’s shoulder and spoke firmly.

  ‘Looks like you had a bad night, love. My advice, try to put it out of your head. You’re fine. Take care now.’

  The girl mumbled her thanks and quietly went inside to her room.

  She never told anyone about that night. She buried it deep inside herself, never to think of it again.

  Or so she thought.

  1

  The route to work was etched into her being. Ellie Conlan had walked the same streets for five years now. If it rained too hard, she caught the tram for four blocks, alighting almost in front of the anonymous steel and glass building.

  Sometimes she passed familiar faces in the lobby or elevator – familiar only by the fact that they too occupied some small piece of this tower. It seemed an unwritten rule: you might smile or nod, but stepping out onto your floor, you disappeared from everyone else’s radar.

  Ellie had been swept wholesale into this world, her hours always filled with tasks, meetings, problems and paperwork. It was a consuming life with little else on the fringes – she had lived alone since her divorce.

  But she loved her job, spent a lot of time with her team, and caught up with friends when she could, which admittedly wasn’t often.

  She had learned to tune out distractions while inside the glass and bright lights of the open-plan office. It had seemed cutting-edge when she’d first started but now felt outdated. Open-plan offices didn’t work, Ellie had decided long ago. Loud music from the week’s soundtrack always competed with snappy chatter, and working sessions took place on the scattered lounges and tiny coffee tables that masqueraded as informal creative hubs, people’s laptops perched awkwardly on their knees. Like a motel room on a highway, the space was impersonal and there was no privacy; the hot-desking required that nothing denoting the individual, no photos, favourite objects or personal computers, could be left around the place. You finished the day and the next morning another slick empty desk awaited. Ellie had learned to erect a mental wall around her when she needed to think, create, concentrate.

  As a project manager she led her team of developers to write and code, designers to create the look and feel of the user experience, analysts to research the market needs, software engineers and architects to deliver the project on time and to gain a competitive advantage. She often felt like an orchestral conductor, guiding her group to be cohesive and in tune with one another.

  Ellie and her team had been working on the rollout of a big new program for a major network, and today was D-day; she was going to present the final project to senior management. On her way to work, her colleague Sophia had sent a text telling Ellie to come to a meeting the moment she arrived. Like Ellie, Sophia was also a project manager, but new to the firm and obviously determined to make it to the top, Ellie thought. Ellie hadn’t warmed to Sophia. She was five years younger than Ellie but was always patronising, treating Ellie as if she were a junior.

  Without a word to her team, Ellie put down her bag, collected her notebook and pen and headed to the boardroom to meet with Sophia and Roger Gladstone, a senior director. The abrupt text had unsettled her, but she didn’t want to worry her teammates, whom she had worked with for years and who trusted her judgement. She knew they would have guessed that something wasn’t right, as she usually greeted them when she arrived and checked in to see if they had any questions for her before she started her own work.

  ‘Morning, Sophia, Roger,’ she said as she walked into the room.

  ‘We need to talk.’ Sophia sat down at the long table and nodded for Ellie to do the same. ‘Roger has something to tell you.’

  Roger tossed a newspaper and an industry magazine on the table. ‘Just in case you haven’t seen them, there’re stories in here about your project. Online as well. Evidently the product is not fit for purpose. There is a flaw in it.’

  Ellie’s stomach dropped. ‘What is this about?’ she asked, as calmly as she could.

  ‘We’ve been sabotaged. It’s bad press,’ said Roger. ‘Got our clients running scared.’

  ‘About what?’ demanded Ellie. ‘This project has been under wraps. If there’s a flaw, and I don’t believe there is, my team could have fixed it.’ She looked at Sophia, who shrugged.

  ‘Bit late now for a post-mortem,’ said Roger. ‘There’s so much doubt about the efficacy of the project now, you’ll never be able to convince the clients to back it.’

  ‘But how is that possible? Someone must have deliberately told lies about the project, although I don’t understand why. Anyway, whatever has happened, it wasn’t done by any member of my team,’ snapped Ellie.

  ‘Actually, it could only have been one of your team, as they were the only ones with access to the details,’ said Sophia with a tight smile.

  ‘No one on my team would leak this. And they weren’t the only staff with access,’ said Ellie, her eyes narrowing. ‘You’re able to access it, Sophia.’

  Sophia shrugged. ‘Are you suggesting I’m a saboteur?’

  Ellie suddenly realised that ambitious Sophia might well be exactly that.

  ‘With big money at stake, the competition is going for us. Which leaves us with no way to catch up. I’m sorry, Ellie,’ said Roger, ‘but the whole project has to be scrapped and your team dispersed. We need to start again.’

  Sophia jumped in. ‘It looks bad, but we have to make a stand.’

  The injustice rocked Ellie. For a moment her mind was blank with fury. She’d been sabotaged and every fibre of her being knew this smiling assassin of a woman was responsible. With enormous effort, she pushed down her rage.

  ‘You expect me and my team to just walk away? What exactly are you asking me to do? The loss of this project affects the whole company, not just me,’ said Ellie evenly.

  ‘Indeed. That’s why we need to make a gesture to show that the problem has been rectified,’ said Roger. ‘We have to show upstairs, the CEO and the clients, that the matter has been resolved.’

  ‘What! What are you implying? Are you going to make me the scapegoat for this mess? Or get rid of me altogether?’

  ‘Oh, you’re far too valuable for that,’ soothed Roger. ‘You’re always welcome as part of the company, Ellie. But I’m bringing in a new project manager.’ He nodded towards Sophia.

  ‘I’ll take good care of things,’ said Sophia. ‘And I’m sure we can find another project for you.’

  Ellie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘If you can’t recognise the advantages of our concept and let me and my team see it through, that’s your loss,’ she snapped. ‘Plus, if the project’s been leaked and we’ve not even been given the chance to address the so-called flaw someone has found, then there’s no point my being here.’

  Roger shrugged. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way. Nonetheless, Sophia will be taking over.’

  ‘So, just to clarify, I am to be moved sideways and my team disbanded to fulfil your ambitions, Sophia, is that correct?’ said Ellie, finding it hard to get the words out. In spite of her efforts, she could feel herself losing control of her temper. ‘You won’t replace me easily, you know. Vision, leadership and my skills and expertise are hard to come by.’

  She glared at the senior executive, who looked startled.

  ‘I feel sorry for you, Roger. One day you’ll find out how you have been manipulated.’ Ellie gave Sophia a steely glance and took a deep breath. ‘Consider this my formal resignation. I can’t stay here under any circumstances now. I feel badly for my team, whose hard work all these months will have been for nothing. I can see how and why you’ve done this, Sophia. But I can’t continue to
work in a place that is so dishonest.’

  ‘I think you’re being rather rash –’ began Roger.

  Ellie cut him off. ‘I won’t work with liars and cheats who sabotage what would have been a fantastic project to further their own careers. I hope it’s worth it, Sophia.’

  Ellie was churning inside but she held her head high as she walked purposefully from the room.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be this way, Ellie –’ started Roger, but as Ellie turned at the door and gave him a contemptuous look, he stuttered and stopped.

  She returned to her desk, snatched up her bag and jacket and walked to the lift. She was too furious to talk to anyone on her team; she’d call them all later. Right now, she needed some air.

  Waves of anger washed over her as she walked outside onto the footpath.

  Suddenly the street around her looked foreign. Her routine had lost its usual direction. Checking her watch, she saw that it wasn’t even 9 am. Slowly she walked to Degraves Street, a popular gourmet foodie area, and sat at a footpath table in the lull before the coffee and lunchtime crush.

  She dropped her head into her hands.

  What the hell had she just done?

  Where to from here? What to do now?

  *

  Reaching the warm glow and buzz of the Magic Lantern Café in Fitzroy, Ellie closed her umbrella, shook raindrops from her shoulders and stepped inside.

  The smell of coffee, cake and damp coats was welcoming. She pushed her umbrella into the holder by the door and, glancing around, headed to the corner where Mike had commandeered their favourite table.

  He rose, towering over her, and gave Ellie a quick hug. ‘Hey, you. I ordered coffees.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’ She shrugged off her jacket as she sat down. ‘It’s so good to see you. It’s been ages.’ She smiled at her former colleague. ‘Too long.’

  ‘It has been. How was your holiday?’