A Woman of Courage (8 page)

Her voice was not exactly unfriendly but not warm either. It was unsurprising. Hilary said nothing, her eyes moving between her two subordinates. Different though they were, they complemented each other and she had the highest regard for them both. They were both senior directors but only one could expect to step into her shoes when the time came. Maybe neither – that would be Hilary's decision – but a measure of rivalry was inevitable between two such high-flyers.

‘But is she?'

‘The agent seems to think so, if you read his report.'

‘All I am suggesting is there may be a way to turn this loss to our advantage.'

The hint of a curled lip. ‘To get our money back? I doubt there's much chance of that.'

‘Not recover the money, no. But maybe use the problem to obtain some other benefit?'

‘Get back to me on that,' Hilary said.

The door opened; Desmond Bragg was not a man to knock. He came into the room. ‘Here I am. What's the problem?'

‘Sit down, Desmond. Vivienne, tell him what you've just told us.'

Desmond listened. Physically he was a slob but his mind was a razor. When Vivienne had finished he smiled, teeth sharp in the soft face. ‘If it stinks like a skunk…' he said.

Hilary nodded. ‘My thoughts exactly.'

‘How did Willy Montgomery get himself suckered into a deal like this?' he wondered.

‘I don't know and I don't care,' Hilary said. ‘What matters is what we do about it.' She pressed the conference button on her telephone. ‘Come in please, Janet.'

The dark-eyed young woman opened the door. Hilary handed her the enquiry agent's report. ‘Four copies of this document, if you please. Priority and confidential. Quick as you can.' Hilary turned to the others. ‘Go through it line by line. I want your recommendations on my desk by eight o'clock tomorrow morning. We'll meet at nine-fifteen and decide what we're going to do. Now, what else is on the agenda?'

‘You have a finance committee meeting at three,' Vivienne said.

‘Reschedule it to five-thirty. Martha and Vivienne, I want you to stay back so we can talk about what's been happening while I've been away. Desmond, please send me up your report on what Channel 12 has been up to. And copy me your suggestions on the programming schedules for the next three months. Soon as you can, all right? We'll discuss them after tomorrow's meeting.'

They heard the authority in Hilary's voice. After her Asian walkabout, the boss was back and, by the sound of her, ready for war.

Vivienne and Desmond had both adopted Martha's name for her and all used it now.

‘Yes, towkay neo.'

Jennifer's plane was on time. She retrieved her bag from the carousel and walked out of the terminal, looking hopefully to see if Mother had sent a car for her, but there was nothing. Why would she have expected anything else?

There were plenty of taxis but the trip into town set her back a packet and she knew Davis would not be happy about that. Too bad, she told herself. These days Davis was seldom happy about anything but after her meeting with Anthony Belloc that troubled her less than it might have done before.

The taxi drew in beneath the hotel portico. She paid the driver; a uniformed porter took her case from the boot; she climbed the steps into the imposing entrance hall and walked to the reception desk. Members of the hotel staff smiled politely, waiting to do her bidding. It was a refreshing change from how she was treated at home and she was determined to make the most of it. Anthony Belloc had also treated her with respect and – yes! – a measure of admiration. Having coffee with a friend in the middle of the day was hardly a hanging offence – but Davis would have hated it and the thought pleased her. A delightful rebelliousness stirred her blood as it had not been stirred for a long time.

With her room door closed behind her she sat on the king-sized bed, kicked off her shoes and stared about her with pleasure. She got up and inspected the marble-tiled bathroom, checked the goodies in the bar fridge, looked at the magazines displayed on the little desk.

She looked at her watch. Six o'clock. She unpacked; daringly she raided the fridge and helped herself to a miniature bottle of scotch; she undressed and snuggled into the luxurious bath robe she had found hanging in a cupboard; she sipped the whisky from a crystal goblet as she waited for the bath to fill; she poured in one of the essences she found on the bathroom shelf; she shed her robe and lay back in the steaming water. Bliss…

Dreamily drifting, half-asleep, she thought back to that morning's meeting with Anthony Belloc.

He had chosen a side-street coffee bar where she had never been. She was glad of that; there was little chance of being spotted by anyone who knew her. She giggled drowsily; she had always had a weak head for spirits and as a result seldom dared touch them; now the whisky fumes swirled in her head as she thought what Davis would say if he had any idea his wife had been consorting over coffee and delicious cakes with another man – and one of his firm's clients, at that!

The giggle deepened to a laugh. She tipped in the last of the scotch, telling herself she should have told Anthony what Davis had called him.
My husband says you're a crook.
She decided he would have laughed too. He might have asked whether being a crook made any difference to Jennifer's friendship with him.

‘Not
friendship
,' she announced to the steam-filled bathroom. ‘More like
lust.
' And laughed even more heartily than before.

It was amazing what a hot bath and a glass of whisky could do. She thought of her husband without affection. She knew in her mind she was being unfaithful to him. So what? Exactly what he deserved. Davis was a bully. Davis did not appreciate her. Anthony Belloc, on the other hand…

A passing fantasy made her breasts tingle: of Anthony taking her in his strong arms, naked as she was, and telling her how precious, how truly wonderful, she was. She did not allow herself to pursue the vision but it created in her a moisture and warmth that had nothing to do with the bathwater. Which in any case was beginning to cool.

She got out, towelled herself dry and dabbed herself here and there with perfume. It was strange how the thoughts she'd had in the bath – foolish daydreams with no foundation in the real world – made her fingers more sensitive to the tenderness of her skin. More than that: to the hopes, fears and desires that flowed like blood through the flesh beneath.

She put on the towelling robe, inspected the fridge and found a second whisky miniature. Did she dare? She decided yes, she did. She unscrewed the cap, emptied the contents into a fresh goblet and carried it with her to the armchair closest to the window. It was seven o'clock and would be full daylight for another hour yet she could see lights shining in some of the rooms of an adjacent hotel. She could see no one in those rooms but had no way of knowing whether the occupants, if any, could see her.

A thought struck her, so startling she could barely believe it had entered her head. She wondered what any unseen watchers would think if she stood up now – she did so – went close to the window – she did so – stripped off her towelling robe and stood there in the window for the world to see. Stark naked, free of constraints and unashamed. Defiant.
Here I am. See me for what I am.

She would never do it, of course. She took a mouthful of scotch and laughed, shaking her head. Never in a million years… Her hand toyed with the towelling belt that secured the robe. One gentle pull… Her fingers tightened.

The telephone rang.

Jennifer paused, caught in the moment that divided fantasy from reality. The tension that until that moment had tightened every sinew relaxed. For an instant she staggered, barely able to stand. Then she turned back into the room and picked up the phone.

‘Hello?'

‘Good evening, Mrs Lander. Hilary asked me to check that you were safely booked in.'

It was that Chinese woman who worked with her mother. Martha something. ‘Please tell
Mrs Brand
I am fine.'

‘I shall indeed.'

Jennifer detected something in the voice. Surely the girl was not laughing at her?

‘The Seven Stars at eight-thirty,' the Chinese woman said. ‘Hilary –' was there the tiniest emphasis on the first name? – ‘asks me to say we'll send a car to pick you up. Eight-fifteen. Is that OK?'

‘That will be fine.' She spoke clearly, separating each word so the woman would be able to understand. Perhaps the whisky might have had an effect also.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Lander? You sound –'

‘I am fine,' Jennifer said. ‘Perfectly fine.'

And put down the phone.

Nearly did a strip tease in front of half Sydney but nothing to worry about. Just losing my mind, that's all.

Perhaps that second whisky had been a mistake. She decided she would lie on the bed for half an hour to help clear her mind for the evening ahead.

She did so. She dozed – something she had warned herself not to do – and it was ten past eight when she came to with a headache and a foul taste in her dry mouth.

‘Damn and blast!' said Jennifer.

She brushed her teeth, which helped a little but not enough. She inspected her unpleasantly red eyes and put in some drops, hoping they would do the trick. She was getting dressed when once again the phone rang.

‘Reception here, Mrs Lander. Your car is waiting for you.'

‘Tell him I'll be down directly.'

She slapped on make-up, stepped into her dress and forced her feet into too-tight shoes. Ten minutes later than intended, she took the lift to the ground floor.

Sitting in the rear of the big Mercedes – black as night and shining like the moon – she watched as the driver manoeuvred her way through the traffic. A woman driver; trust Mother to do things differently. Jennifer drew a deep breath and tried to collect herself. She asked herself whether she would have the courage to carry out the favour that Anthony Belloc, smiling at her across the coffee-shop table that morning, had asked.

‘It's a simple enough question,' he had said. ‘A loving daughter's natural concern. Who could take exception to that?'

She had said nothing at the time but now permitted herself a cautious grimace. Who could take exception? Mother could; she had never welcomed anyone prying into her affairs.

The car came down the hill towards the harbour, the sails of the Opera House luminescent in the darkness, and Jennifer had another thought. How typical of Mother not to send someone to meet her at the airport but arrange a car to bring her to the restaurant. Jennifer might have wanted to walk or pop into a shop or two – anything. But no. Mother had to have her way even in this. It wasn't good enough.

Was it the whisky that had given her this sudden feeling of independence? It was certainly an unfamiliar frame of mind for someone who as long as she could remember had been treated as a doormat by just about everybody, but did her new-found courage excite her or scare her half to death? Or both?

Confused and apprehensive, Jennifer sat on the edge of her seat as the vehicle drew to a stop in front of the Seven Stars.

The uniformed driver got out and opened the car door. Jennifer stepped out into the warm night air and saw her sister crossing the car park.

1

At the studio Sara spent the morning developing that night's stories. She liked to come in hard at the start of her interviews, pose a question designed to rock the person being interviewed. She always spent time working on that and on a choice of follow-up questions depending on the initial response. She thought of it as polishing her sabre. That night her first interview was with the professor whose recent statements implied that politics could justify rape. She checked out his biography and the sensationalist utterances that over the years had become his trademark. God, he was a snake: but their sort of snake, at least in Millie's view.

‘He's by way of being a mate,' Millie said. ‘So go easy on him, OK?'

No way, Sara thought. Opinions like that could not possibly be justified. She was not going to let him off the hook, whatever Millie might say. Her opening question laid out the battlefield.
Professor Wilkins, do you believe that murder of the innocent is justifiable?
Whether he answered yes or no, she'd got him. Because rape was murder of the soul, was it not, and could never be justified by any society that had the remotest claim to being civilised. Professor Wilkins, a man, trying to justify the gang rape of Sydney teenagers? She would take him apart.

If Millie didn't like it, tough. Because Leanne, Sara's best friend, had been raped on her way to Sara's fifteenth birthday party. Her attacker had never been caught and Leanne had never recovered. Twelve months later she had walked under a bus.

A tragic accident was what people called it.

Eighteen years later the pain still brought tears to her eyes. Professor Wilkins with his smart-aleck theories, she thought savagely; he wouldn't know what hit him. She was looking forward to that.

2

One of Sara's most useful skills was her ability to compartmentalise her life. Having taken the professor apart on schedule it was as though he no longer existed and she turned to the sexual antics of the errant politician. By comparison he had an easy ride. Deservedly so; a minute before they began the interview Sara had a slip of paper put in front of her saying that the police had established that the girl's accusation had been part of a failed blackmail attempt. Luckily a minute was long enough for quick-thinking Sara to turn the interview around and discuss with the accused-now-victim the vulnerability of public figures to such false accusations and what they could do to protect themselves.

Millie was looking daggers. Tough. Given the circumstances there wasn't much she could say about the politician but she no doubt intended to give her a clip on the ear for the way she had eviscerated the professor, but clips on the ear would have to wait. Within minutes of the programme going off air Sara had shed her make-up and was heading for the exit. The programme and the faces of those she had interviewed were gone.