‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for quids.’
After more play with the boy, they’re finally able to talk, sitting across a low table from each other.
‘How’s it going?’ he asks.
‘Not so bad. Once word got about I was somehow connected to Henry Livingstone, the ladies left me in peace. I’ve been getting a lot of reading done. I’m going to kill uni this semester.’
‘What’s Winifred say about parole?’
‘No different. Out in about three months. Provided I keep my nose clean.’ She smiles now, her eyes warm and her dimples easy and unforced. For someone incarcerated, she looks more relaxed than she ever did outside. Maybe even more beautiful.
‘It still shits me that they locked you up.’
She shrugs. ‘I guess they needed to make an example, demonstrate they weren’t playing favourites.’
‘I know. But even so.’
She changes the subject. ‘I got a postcard. It’s inside. Wish I could show you,’ she says.
‘Who from?’
‘Zelda Forshaw.’
‘Seriously? Where is she?’
‘In rehab. A private centre down in Sydney.’
‘Let me guess—you’re paying.’
‘Seemed the least I could do. I couldn’t exactly give her money.’
‘What does she say?’
‘Thank you. And that she’s doing well. Training via correspondence. Forensic accounting. I think working out what was really happening at Mollisons gave her a taste for it.’
‘Really? That’s good. Will she be able to practise?’
‘I’m not sure.’
They don’t speak for a period now, happy in each other’s company, happy to hold hands like teenagers while they watch Liam. He’s spotted another toddler, a little girl, and has gone to investigate.
‘You look happy,’ he says.
‘You know, I think I am.’
‘In here?’
‘It’s given me time to think. To work through it all. It’s been bottled up inside me for a very long time now.’
‘That sounds good.’
She grows serious; the dimples withdraw back into the cheeks. ‘I was in love with him, you know. Or so I thought.’
‘Richard Bright?’
‘No. Not him. Not the real man. With Tarquin Molloy, the fake. I bought into it. I believed in him, all the bulldust, all the stardust.’
Martin says nothing, knowing his role is to listen.
‘I owe him a lot, Martin, in a strange way. I wasn’t coping. Drifting with Billy. Lost. Sinking. Tarquin lifted me up, showed me a different world, a different me. Made me believe I could be beautiful, gave me a glimpse of something better.’
Martin is reluctant to point out the obvious but can’t help himself. ‘It was all bullshit, though. None of it was real.’
‘I know that. Of course.’ She hesitates, smiles at Liam, who’s now chatting away happily with his new friend. ‘It really hurt when it all turned to shit. I really believed he had played me, taken the millions, gone overseas. Left me behind after I reported him for the passwords. The promised life, it was shut off from me again.’ She looks at Martin, calm and assured, as if she is talking about someone else. ‘I drifted down, drifted about. Ended up back in Riversend, looking after Mum. You know the story after that.’
‘Do you believe in karma?’ he asks.
She smiles again, the lovely dimpled glow that first hooked him back in Riversend, and she laughs, her own words turned back on herself. ‘I do, you know. I really do.’
‘You once said that we were barricades, preventing the past from infecting Liam,’ says Martin.
‘True. I did. But that was when the past still had the power to hurt us, before we brought out our secrets and dealt with them. Now, there are no more secrets, nothing in our pasts. Your family history, my lies about Tarquin and the money, the Turtle, everything. They’re all out in the open now. Karma has come full circle. It’s satisfied; we’ve paid our debts.’
‘You believe that?’
‘I do.’
Liam is back with them now, eyes wide with the thrill of a new friend, jogging up and down on the spot. Then he’s up on his mother’s lap, hugging her close. Maybe he senses it’s almost time to go.
‘I thought I loved them all, you know,’ she says, looking him in the eye. ‘Tarquin. Byron Swift. Even Billy the bass player. But I don’t think I ever did. Not really. Not like you.’
Martin blinks. ‘I’m not sure I’m so very different.’
‘Oh, you are. You are.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Because I know you. Because I can trust you.’
And to Martin, no words have ever sounded so good.
acknowledgements
First and foremost, a thank you to all the booksellers, far and wide, who have done so much to connect my books with readers. May you all emerge from the shadow of Covid-19 to recover, grow and prosper!
My thanks to everyone at Allen & Unwin: such a brilliant and dedicated group of people.
Heartfelt gratitude to the same amazing editorial team that finessed Scrublands and Silver: Jane Palfreyman, Christa Munns, Ali Lavau and Kate Goldsworthy. You are the best!
My thanks, as always, to agent Grace Heifetz for her friendship and support, as well as Felicity Blunt in the UK and Faye Bender in the US.
Thanks to Christine Farmer in Australia and Caitlin Raynor in the UK for doing so much to publicise the books.
And a big shout-out to Kate Stephenson and the whole Wildfire team for bringing Martin Scarsden and Mandalay Blonde to readers in the UK.
Kudos to Alex Potočnik for his wonderful maps, to Luke Causby who has created the eye-catching covers for all Australian editions, and to Mike Bowers for his friendship and his photographs.
And, of course, love to my amazing and supportive family: Tomoko, Cameron and Elena.
