tiredness than from any rift between them, and thoughts of sexual activity other than a cuddle by the fire had disappeared on a lonely road under an avenue of eucalypts rustling in the chill night air.
When they were finally sprawled together on cushions by the fire, too tired to bother with eating, Jack spoke. ‘I can’t do it any longer. I’m not going to have my family subjected to this harassment. Particularly the kids. I don’t care anymore what these people have done or haven’t done. I’m out. I’ll tell Hedley Stimson on Sunday and that’s the end of it.’
She pushed away his comforting arm and turned on him like a female lion snarling at an intruder. ‘The hell you will. You mean I go through the humiliation of all the snide rumours about you and other women, the kids have to put up with stuff they barely understand, but they wear it because they love their father, and it’s all for nothing? It’s too hard for you to bear? How is it too hard for you? You’ve forgotten about us, have you? You’ve forgotten about all the little people who are getting ripped off by these greasy pirates lining their own pockets. It’s all difficult now so Jack’s picking up his crayons and running off to draw nice pictures where it’s quiet and easy. That’s the idea, is it? The hell it is. You’ll fight this thing to the end, whatever end it may be, if I have to drag you through the courtroom door.’
He hated it when she was like this, even while admiring the fierce spirit. He hated it being directed at him. He knew she’d defend him with the same courage and passion, take the bullet if she had to, but when she attacked him, she diminished him in some way. He’d always looked for her approbation, always placed the plans under her eyes for praise, always checked to see if she was watching from across the room at a party, without wanting to know she was focused on him. He knew she would forgive him many things, but never weakness of spirit.
‘I’m not concerned for me-I’ve put all that aside a long time ago. But I can’t put our whole family life at risk on some unproven matter of principle, can I?’
She stood over him. ‘Really? And do we have any say in this? You decide to enter the battle, you decide to abandon it. We just stand around and provide sustenance for the great warrior when he needs it. You think that’s the deal? Who am I then, Maid Marion? Bullshit. I’m a fucking Amazon and I ride in front. We fight together or we’re not together.’
She saw the shock and fear on his face and waited a moment before she knelt and held his head in both hands, looking straight into his eyes. ‘You’re my man. I’m your woman. Nothing can change that, nothing can hurt us, or our family, unless we damage ourselves. We can’t lose against these people. Whatever happens, we win because we fight. You see?’
chapter twelve
Laurence Treadmore sat, at dawn, in the study of his apartment and watched the sun rise over the palm groves of the Botanic Gardens. He normally rose promptly at eight o’clock and the romance of early morning light was entirely lost on him. Indeed he stood and closed both the louvres and the thick curtains over the casement windows. The dark room was now lit only by a desk lamp. Sir Laurence reached behind him to one of the twenty- two filing cabinets and withdrew a thin white folder. He’d already taken two phone calls, one from London, one from Geneva, and although these had been the purpose of his early rising, now that he was up there was no point in wasting these unwanted hours.
He looked at the name on the folder with some distaste. It was one of the burdens of his life that he had to deal with, even to promote, people of such undistinguished character. Sometimes it was necessary in order to resolve-or create-an intricate dilemma, but one hoped that one could redress the balance at a later time. How any person with a name like Popsie could expect to be taken seriously was beyond him. Of course, as the file demonstrated, she appeared not to have any desire to be taken seriously-just to be taken. She was an opportunist with money problems, some of which he’d helped to alleviate, briefly. It wasn’t a recipe for admiration, but it was for usefulness.
He read the document carefully, then wrote a name and a phone number on a notepad. He replaced the folder, opened the second drawer and removed a similar, but much thicker, file. As he slowly leafed through the file, a steady stream of entries flowed into the notepad. Nearly two hours had passed by the time he’d read and re-read the document and then distilled his note-taking onto one page. It was eight o’clock and Mavis would be bathing downstairs. She’d be surprised if he didn’t emerge shortly from his quarters, showered and dressed, and he never liked to surprise Mavis. He was unaware that he had done so many times in their early years, but not for a long time now. He rang his office number in order to leave a message for Mrs Bonython to make separate appointments for the two people he’d just been reading about. He would see them later in the morning. And he had no doubt they’d be there, even the second one. Proud, and a stiff neck he might have, but he’d be there. But first Sir Laurence would breakfast at the club. Eggs, he felt like scrambled eggs. The croissant on his desk could sit there or Mrs Bonython could have it for her dinner. On a day like this, Sir Laurence Treadmore would eat eggs in the main dining room at the Colonial Club, cholesterol be damned.
He arrived at his office only five minutes before the first of the two appointments. Mrs Bonython became flustered when told to remove the newspapers from the desk and take the croissant home. Sir Laurence was a man of strict habits and any interruption to his rituals was unusual and disturbing. As was the appearance of the woman who arrived promptly at ten o’clock. She was not the sort of person who usually entered these austere and sombre rooms, dressed expensively but showily in a frock more suited to a romantic picnic than a business meeting with a Knight of the Realm. It was also unknown for Sir Laurence not to keep a visitor waiting, but there he was at the door to his office calling, ‘Come in, dear lady, do come in,’ before Mrs Bonython could reach for the intercom. If it had been any other employer she might have thought Sir Laurence was engaged in a liaison of dubious nature, but some things were not possible.
‘What a delightful office, Laurence,’ said Popsie Trudeaux as she looked around with distaste at the bland interior. No colour. Popsie liked colour, loved colour, what was life without colour? Her present attire was ample evidence of this passion and Sir Laurence recoiled from it surreptitiously. It was still early in the day, and it was upsetting an excellent breakfast.
‘And how is your new business progressing? I only hear most impressive reports.’ Sir Laurence was seated behind the exceptionally wide desk and had pushed his chair back towards the window as if to situate himself as far as possible from both the violent kaleidoscope of contrasting hues and the sizeable bosoms encased in it.
‘Thanks to you, Laurence, it’s a triumph. I’ve been showered with work by everyone. I really can’t handle it all.’
Or any of it, thought Sir Laurence grimly. It was true the work was pouring in, his sources confirmed that, but Popsie’s ability to administrate and control costs appeared to be in inverse proportion to her ability to conjure up bizarre concepts.
‘Indeed, how wonderful. I’m so glad to have been of minor assistance. And I hear you’re bidding for some of the Grand Prix work. Now that would be a major project and a tremendous coup. The chairman of the committee happens to be a personal friend of mine. Should I mention it to him or would that be indiscreet?’
Discretion was not a consideration that had weighed heavily in any previous concern of Popsie’s. It was certainly not a factor she wished to play a part in deterring Sir Laurence from mentioning her favourably to the chairman of the Grand Prix Committee. The chairman of this committee could save her life. She’d never met him, whoever he was, but he could have it all, on a plate, if he’d just give her this contract. She couldn’t believe it had come to this. It had never occurred to her you could lose money running a successful business. The money poured in one end, a veritable tropical thunderstorm of dollars thundering into the bank accounts, but then it seemed to wash away down some stormwater drain and she was left with unpaid bills and an overdraft. At first she thought her accountant must be stealing it. After all, he was also her husband’s accountant, and now that she had pretty much told Angus to fuck off-because why would a successful, creative businesswoman need a dull lawyer husband with a limp dick hanging around?-well maybe the accountant was siphoning funds off to Angus. So she’d hired another accountant and he’d said the same thing-cost control was not one of her skills. He’d also said if she didn’t hire a professional manager and win a big contract instead of just parties and weddings, she’d be begging Angus to represent her on reduced fees in a bankruptcy court.
As these thoughts were tumbling through her mind, she examined Sir Laurence in minute detail. Was he gay? He looked gay. Neat as a hotel bed, all those pink shirts and flowers in the buttonhole. He was married, but that
