Dark Oil (2 page)

“Is there any way I could come over later, perhaps on a midnight flight? It's my wedding anniversary today. We'd planned—”

“There is no midnight flight,” snarled Martin, his lips curling downwards with disgust. “Do you want this job or not? Some people would kill for it. In case you hadn't noticed, you're not particularly experienced.”

She'd never worked in Africa, or handled such high-profile matters, that much was true. But it didn't mean she had to let this pig of a manager walk all over her. Good resources lawyers were a scarce commodity right now, they always were and even more so with the mining boom.

If she'd got the job it was because she was the best person available for it, at least in someone's mind. She'd been a lawyer for over a decade and developed a whole host of skills, even if she wasn't used to negotiating with African governments. To start with, she could speak the language. Martin, with his air of superiority, was really starting to irritate her.

“I like to think I am qualified for the position. I don't see many people around here who speak Negalese.” It had been something fun to learn in her spare time when her career-driven parents had hired a non-English speaking Negalese refugee as an au-pair. And now it had come in handy.

Leaning against the wall, Martin looked her in the eye. “Look sweetie, we can always get a translator. What we need right now is a lawyer and a bloody good one. From what I hear, you're used to preparing pretty little contracts for coffee supplies and stationery. I give you a week playing with the big boys. Being a pretty Barbie doll isn't going to cut it here.”

He snorted as he unfolded his arms. “A week tops.”

She steeled herself. She wasn't going to let him make her feel small, and she sure as hell wouldn't sit back and let others think he had her under his thumb. They were all probably taking bets on how long she would last in the job with someone like Martin. He had a history of driving people away, she'd heard.

“I won't be the only one who'll be gone in a week if you don't start showing me a little professional courtesy. Judging me on my personal appearance, that's solid grounds for a discrimination case.”

Martin's eyebrows shot up, his jaw dropping as Lara turned on her shiny heels and strode confidently into her office.

Well, she'd last a lot longer than a week in this department. She'd be here as long as she wanted to, she told herself with a chuckle, remembering Martin's gaping mouth while she gathered her notes on the arbitrary withdrawal of Global Oil's title. But what about tonight? How was she going to break the news to her husband? That certainly wasn't something that made her feel like laughing.

She glanced at her watch. She had just enough time to call in at Tim's office. With a bit of luck he wouldn't be in a meeting. She'd get a hug and a kiss before she left, and the promise of a romantic night on her return.

She threw the Negalese contract and the latest correspondence into a manila folder and stuffed it, along with her laptop, into her leather satchel. She put away the other papers sitting on her desk, and quickly tidied the pencils. Then she locked her office door and took the key to Sam, her new and somewhat reluctantly helpful secretary.

Lara sighed. It wasn't going to be a pleasant trip, with bossy Martin. The other fellow, Jack Norton, didn't sound any better. She had to manage some time to herself. “Where does Martin like to sit on planes, Sam, the aisle or the window?” There was no way she was going to spend the next thirty hours beside him, and this was the best way to avoid it: pre-emptive action wherever possible.

“He always goes for the aisle. He likes to get up quite often, stretch those long legs. I'll book you the window seat next to him. There'll be an electronic ticket for you at the airport.” Sam smiled, eyebrows raised, and Lara could tell all she expected was a submissive nod.

“Actually, I'd like an aisle seat, too. In a different row, please. I need my space.” Lara tilted her head as she smiled back politely at the younger but imposing assistant.

Sam lowered her voice. “Martin won't be happy about that. I think you'd better take the seat next to him. Everyone else does.”

“He wouldn't like me asking him to move every two minutes so I can go to the bathroom either. Just tell him that. Well, I'm off. Anything urgent, you know where I'll be.”

Lara grinned as she stepped into the lift. It was a small victory, but a victory nevertheless. She wouldn't be putting up with Martin's snide remarks all the way to Zakra.

She hurried down St George's Terrace, fighting the gusts of wind that swept up and down the tunnel created by the sky-high concrete jungle regardless of the season, to Simon & Hunter's offices. She thought of Tim's lips, his warm embrace. Ten years together and she was happy with what they had. It mightn't be the most romantic of marriages, but it was solid, wasn't it? If only he were ready to start a family, she'd give all this up—the expensive suits, the power lunches and the fat pay package—without batting an eyelid.

All she really wanted out of life was to be a loving family and to spend her time making the best home for the three of them. She could see herself playing hide and seek in the garden with a giggling child whose smile would be her sunshine. Instead she was here, in the business centre of the city, making money. She entered Tim's building. It was modest compared to hers. The floors were a little worn, the walls mostly unadorned.

Tim's assistant busily tapped the keyboard in front of her. “Hello, Martha,” Lara said, “Is Tim available?”

Martha raised her eyebrows. “Tim?”

“Yes, my husband. He works here.” Lara resisted the urge to laugh. Martha, with her thick round glasses and endless bright pink outfits, seemed to be living on a different planet.

“Oh, Tim. Of course. He's home.”

Lara frowned. “He's gone home sick?” Things were becoming more complicated. How could she go off and leave him on their anniversary, alone and ill?

“No, he's just working from home, like he often does.” She stared at Lara, her eyes tripled in size behind her fish-bowl spectacles. “Well, sometimes.” She blinked. “I mean occasionally.”

Lara paused, not knowing what to say. Did this woman know something about Tim that she, his wife of ten years, didn't? Her mind raced. She felt a bead of sweat trickle between her breasts. She breathed in, trying her best to compose herself. “Of course. Thank you.”

It took Lara a few minutes to process the information. Back in the street, and then in the taxi home, she thought about what had just happened. Working from home? Often? Sometimes? Occasionally? Tim had left early in the morning, wearing his suit and tie. There had been no mention of him working from anywhere but the office.

In fact, she couldn't remember the last time he'd worked from home, except once about three years ago, when he'd had the flu. In the movies, this was how wives found out about. . . No, not Tim. He wouldn't.
Surely
he wouldn't.

Perhaps he'd set off for work, felt unwell, then had gone back home. They could have crossed each other. By the time he'd got back, she'd left for work. She took out her mobile phone to call him, but it wasn't worth it now. She'd be there in a few minutes. She'd kiss him. He'd give her an explanation. Everything would be fine.

She got out of the cab, and stumbled through the garden, past the palm trees and the blue-tiled waterfall fountain, to their tropical-style mansion. She usually loved coming home, always took the time to smell the heady perfume of the gardenias lining the limestone path to the door and admire the visiting Currawongs, with their beady eyes and
silver feathers. Today she didn't care about any of that. She walked in a daze, conscious only of the slight shaking of her hands, of the blood rushing to her face, as she dragged herself up the steps to the entrance. She flung open the door and called out his name.

“Tim? Tim!” All was quiet. She walked through the house and back again. There was no sign of him.

Ignoring the stiffness in her shoulders, she collapsed on the couch. She glanced at her watch. She had barely an hour to pack, shower and change into comfortable travelling clothes. It wasn't much. She could have done with the same amount of time just to find some inner peace before trying to get hold of her husband, but she had no such luxury.

She grabbed the phone and dialled his mobile. It went straight to voice mail. “Tim, if you get this, please call me at home. It's urgent. I'll be here until three or so.”

As she took her first blouse out of the wardrobe, ready to pack, the phone rang. She picked up the receiver, her hand trembling.

“Hi, honey.” Tim sounded concerned. “Are you all right? How come you're home?”

“How come you're not?” She didn't want to lash out at him, but she couldn't hold back. Now the cat was out of the bag. He'd understand she knew and he'd have to come clean. Or maybe, just maybe, there was a good explanation. She prayed to God there was.

Tim laughed. “I'd love to be home, but I have to work at least until five. It doesn't mean I'm not looking forward to our celebration tonight.”

“Where are you? Martha said you were home today.”

“What? Oh.” He paused, his heavy silence hitting Lara like a brick to the stomach. He finally cleared his throat. “God, she's useless! I told her I'd be with a client all day. She always gets mixed up. I should fire her, really. So how come you're home?”

Lara sighed with relief. Her shoulders relaxed, her pulse slowed and she suddenly felt stupid, blissfully stupid. “They're sending me off to Negala. You know we've got problems. Big problems. We've lost our permit, or at least it seems that way. The Minister's still not discussing anything with us over the phone, nor is the President, of course. We've arranged meetings with the government tomorrow, so I have to leave today.”

“Today? You're leaving today?”

She could hear the surprise in his voice. It was surprise, wasn't it? Or disappointment? His pitch was much higher than usual. “I'm really sorry, Tim. I was so looking forward to tonight. You have no idea. I just don't have a choice. My job's on the line with this. I'll make it up to you when I get back. Can we take a raincheck?”

“Of course, I understand. That's fine. Don't worry about it.”

She swallowed, trying to ignore her nauseating sense of guilt. “I had no idea the job would involve travelling at the drop of a hat. They never told me that. I'll look for something else when I get back, something that suits us better. I promise.”

He was a grown man, an independent man, who probably even enjoyed a little time on his own. He certainly loved going out with the boys whenever he could, yet she felt like a rotten wife for having to leave him, even though it was beyond her control. She wondered for an instant if there were women who didn't feel guilty of their own success.

“Nonsense!” cried Tim. “It's a huge pay increase. I don't want you to quit. I'll be fine. Besides, it'll be twice as good when you get back.”

“All right, then.” Tim really did sound fine. It made it a little easier for her. Still, having to leave on her anniversary was a bitter pill to swallow. She really would look for another job when she got back, especially if the trips were going to be frequent. Better still,
she'd talk to Tim again about moving to a smaller house, a cheaper suburb, and starting a family—because that was what she wanted. Money wasn't everything.

“Listen Lara, I have to go. Take care of yourself, OK? By the way, when are you coming home?”

“Hard to say. Could be three or four days, a week, maybe a bit more. . . depending on how long it takes to sort things out.”

“Let me know as soon as your return's booked.”

“I love you, Tim,” she said, longing to hear him say he loved her, too, but he'd already hung up.

She laughed out loud as she put down the phone. How stupid of her to even let it cross her mind that Tim might be a deceitful husband with a mistress hidden away somewhere! Too much imagination, she told herself. That was her problem. She should have been a writer.

She hauled down the suitcase from the top shelf of her walk-in-robe, placing it on the bed. She carefully packed a few blouses, a suit, and a couple of non-crease dresses.

Yes, there was someone in her life who wasn't to be trusted, but it wasn't Tim. It was crazy Martha. Lara would be going to Negala a contented woman. She had peace of mind, she told herself, nothing to worry about at all.

Still, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't ignore the niggling sense that a piece of the puzzle didn't quite fit. Even if Martha had got it wrong today, she'd said that Tim often worked from home. Often.

Lara shook herself. What was she thinking? Tim was a good husband who was supportive of her career. Martha was strange at the best of times. Tim had always told her so, and she'd seen it for herself. The woman never came up with the answer anyone expected. Lara was probably nervous about going away, reading too much into every tiny detail, and each inflexion of Tim's voice. That was it. She was being over-sensitive.

She finished her case, sparing a thought for her mother. Now, with her mother, there really was cause for concern. It had been years since her father had died, but Susan hadn't remarried. She was still on her own, and she might be sick, again, very sick. Lara sighed, not wanting to think too long about that. At least her mother could afford the very best doctors. In fact, she could afford the very best of everything. And she had Aunt Beth nearby to help when Lara wasn't there. It was something.

Lara checked her watch. Time had flown by and now she was late. She had to make that plane. She'd call her mother on the way to the airport. She rushed out of the house dragging her suitcase. It felt strange to be leaving the country without kissing her husband goodbye, without as much as a hug.