Paycheque (3 page)

Feeling rejuvenated at home after a Radox bath and quick bowl of pasta, Claire got out her laptop again. She'd been putting it off for a few weeks, but now put ‘coma' into the search engine.

She'd heard lots of amazing stories relating to coma patients. Apparently there was a guy in the United States who had woken up after twenty years with no idea there was such a thing as email or the internet. Having never been in the shoes of a desperate loved one, she'd always been a little sceptical. Now she was beginning to understand the lengths people went to.

She read about Dr Fred Burrows' controversial Stimulation Therapy, where family members undertook a routine of controlled auditory, visual and physical stimulation to encourage the patient to wake up. Apparently some read the newspaper aloud every day, some sang, some had a positive mantra they said over and over. It was fascinating, and it made sense, but there was no way she had the time that was needed – up to six hours a day.

Claire felt as though she'd done nothing constructive so far except talk to Jack. She'd paid the odd bill and made sure the house was secure. Of course, she'd got rid of the horses, but that didn't really count, did it? She was beginning to think she'd been too hasty – maybe she should have at least waited a few weeks to prove to everyone it was the only workable solution. She vowed to make more of an effort trying to get Jack better.

The doctor couldn't tell her whether the kick from the horse had caused the stroke or if the stroke had made him fall under the horse's hooves. Though it didn't actually matter. From what she read, what mattered was getting him awake and out of bed. Apparently four weeks was okay, but much longer and the patient risked contracting pneumonia – the biggest killer of non-vegetative coma patients. It had
already been a month. Lucky he was a tough old nut and there was so far no sign of any other problems.

Claire shut down the computer. She needed something Jack would see as worth summoning every ounce of strength to wake up for. But what? There were no home fires burning, no warm bed and wife to return to. His beloved horses had been sold off and he'd recently lost his son-in-law – and with him the chance of grandchildren.

He'd adored Keith – had often referred to him as the son he'd never had. But the loss of the prospect of grandchildren had hurt almost as much as the loss of his ‘son' and best mate. Claire tried not to let herself think about the fact that she'd as good as forgotten to have children.

The next day Claire was pleased to be back at her desk where she could focus on her projects and paperwork and the upcoming Melbourne Cup. It was a struggle to get out of bed and into the shower in the mornings, but she always felt better when she'd escaped the house and its silent, haunting memories of Keith.

Obsessively organised and habitual, Claire started every day with a list. Her job at Rockford was to deliver advertising projects. Some of her larger clients had campaigns covering all media – television, radio and print – so she had a lot to keep track of: ensuring tight deadlines were met, pre-empting any delays, and managing everyone's expectations. It was a juggling act that saw much of her time on the phone with creative and graphics staff, and clients' personal assistants. It was a sign of a very, very bad day when the CEO of a client actually called her. The only way she could keep track of everything was with several lists.

Luckily, a lot of projects had been completed in the last few weeks. There was always a short lull while the campaigns were running, then afterwards when their success was being analysed. And then the chaos
would start all over. Before that she would make the most of the peace and quiet.

This morning, while she waited for her computer to boot up, she wrote ‘Client Phone Calls' and twice underlined the heading at the top of her company-issued A4 pad. Below she added the names of her top five clients. It was no coincidence that they all occupied corporate boxes at the Melbourne Cup. She'd already received a couple of invites, but she wanted to make sure she'd exhausted all options before making her decision.

Years ago, Keith had teased her for only staying in her job for the Cup. She'd taken offence at the suggestion she would be so shallow and calculating, and had taken a long time to realise he'd meant it not as a criticism but mere observation.

Anyway, there had to be perks – other than lots of pay that attracted lots of tax.

It wasn't that Claire didn't enjoy her job – aspects of it, anyway – but she certainly liked the personal recognition such invites implied.

The first time Keith had accompanied her he'd been blown away by the opulence, finally admitting through a mouthful of lobster that he could see why she spent a whole year waiting for this day.

Rather than being insecure, he'd enjoyed being her handbag for the day – especially being free to ogle all the beautiful tanned, touched-up and terrific women strutting about like the fillies out on the track. Later that night, when they were tucked up in their hotel's five-star sheets, Claire had teased him that it was lucky he wasn't expected to make intelligent conversation and represent a business.

Claire smiled sadly at the memory – this would be her first Cup without him in eight years. This time, when the horses thundered past the mirrored finish line and the nation finally let its breath go, the tears that escaped her eyes would be different. Nothing was the same any more. That was what she was having so much trouble with – the little things. She even missed his habit of leaving his shoes in the lounge room, having kicked them off while settling into the couch.

But Keith would want her to go, wouldn't he?

She felt guilty even thinking about leaving Jack – even if he was recovering at home by then. But what if he was still in hospital? How could she get all dressed up, sip free champagne, be merry? What would he want her to do? That was an easy one. Jack McIntyre was one of the most humble, gracious men on the planet. Not only would he urge her to go, he'd drive her to the airport himself if he could, and offer tips the whole way.

Claire was still lost in her thoughts when Derek Anderson – her boss – appeared beside her.

‘Morning Claire. I like the new haircut – it suits you.'

‘Hi Derek. Thanks,' she said, blushing slightly and putting a hand to her head. She'd completely forgotten that no one had seen her new look. Now she felt self-conscious. He looked like he'd had a recent haircut as well, but she wasn't about to say anything. His full head of thick, mid-brown hair, dusted with grey, was shorter on the sides and standing up a little more on top than usual.

‘Good weekend?'

‘Yes, thank you, and you?'

‘Good, thanks. My young colt had his first run at Morphettville. Thought we might have to cull him there for a while, difficult sod. My trainer thinks he's not worth the trouble, but something tells me he might do all right once we iron out the kinks. He'd better – he's cost me an arm and a leg.'

‘Hmm.' Claire was a little unsettled by the warmth in his blue-grey eyes.

‘Owning racehorses outright is an expensive hobby, but a man's gotta have one, right? Maybe I should sell some shares, set up a syndicate to spread the load. What do you think?'

‘Sounds good, Derek.' The last thing Claire wanted to hear about was racing, especially Derek's success – he was, after all, a rival to Jack. ‘Was there something you wanted?'

‘How's your dad doing?'

‘Same, but thanks for asking.'

Derek seemed uneasy perched on the corner of her desk. He hadn't casually picked up any of her items and wasn't swinging his leg like he usually did.

‘Was there something else, Derek? I have a heap of calls to make and a report due at twelve.'

‘Well, um, I…' Derek fumbled with the thick knot of his red and gold striped tie.

‘Yes?'

‘I was thinking it might be a good time to take some of that leave you're sitting on, since all those campaigns have been wrapped up. You know, spend a bit more time with Jack. Get your head around everything.'

‘Thanks, but I'm fine, Derek.'

‘Just thought a month or so would be good for you.'

Claire's hackles rose. She eyed Derek coldly, wondering if it was her imagination, or if he really was having trouble looking her in the eye.

‘Are you implying my work is not up to scratch? If so, don't be so gutless as to come in here suggesting time off…'

Derek held up his hands in surrender. ‘Your work's fine, Claire, as always. I just don't want you regretting your choices later. Family is important; don't use work as an excuse not to face certain things.'

Claire was almost touched by his words, but couldn't shake the feeling there was something else going on. He was definitely avoiding looking at her.

‘I appreciate your concern, Derek, but I've got everything under control.'

‘All right, I can't force you to do anything. Just remember, Claire, no one is indispensable. If any one of us got hit by a bus, this place would maybe skip a beat, but the powers that be wouldn't waste any time filling the role and getting things back on track.'

‘Jeez, thanks, Derek. Nice to know how valued we are. Now if there is nothing else…'

‘Well, there was just one other thing – sort of more of a personal nature.'

Claire's breath caught.

‘That colt, the one Jack registered as Paycheque…'

‘Yes?' Her ears pricked up. She straightened in her chair.

‘Well, I'm not sure how to tell you this…'

‘Don't tell me you've got him,' Claire groaned.

‘No. Personally I don't think much of him – too small. But that doesn't excuse what I saw.'

‘What? What did you see?'

‘I probably shouldn't say anything.'

‘So why are you?'

‘I honestly don't know – it's really none of my business.'

‘Derek, just tell me. I don't have time for games.'

‘Al Jacobs had him at the…'

‘What? Bill Parsons took him. Dad hates how Al treats his horses. Was he all right? Not that there's anything I can do.'

‘Skinny, scared shitless.'

‘He wasn't racing, was he?'

‘Afraid so. Well, they tried.'

‘But he's not ready – Dad said he needed another six months at least.' Claire didn't want to ask the obvious, but had gone too far not to. ‘So I guess he didn't do so well?'

‘No, wouldn't have a bar of the barriers, poor little thing.'

‘Oh God. After all the work Dad put in.'

‘I know, sorry to have to tell you.' Derek shrugged. ‘Just thought you should know. I must be going soft.'

‘Anything else I should know?'

‘Al did mention getting rid of him, but I'm sure it was just his temper talking. You know how hot under the collar he gets.'

‘Well, it's a pity, but there's nothing I can do about it.'

‘You could take that time off – get him back. I've heard you could have been a half-decent trainer if you'd stuck to it.'

‘Jeez Derek, you are going soft. But seriously, I don't think Dad would want me interfering.' Claire's desk phone started ringing.

‘Well if you change your mind,' Derek said, and left with a wave of his hand.

Claire stared after him for a second before picking up the phone.

Thoughts of Paycheque niggled at Claire all day. She saw his face in her mind every time she picked up the phone, every time she put it down, while she checked her emails, dealt with her in-tray, and added or scrubbed something from her to do list.

She'd sold all four of Jack's horses. So why was only Paycheque plaguing her? Storm had much more going for him than Paycheque did – he was the right size for a start. God, she really shouldn't have sold them.
How would Jack react?
He'd be angry, sad and disappointed. Of course he would. She'd known that and gone ahead anyway. Why?
Because I didn't have a choice
, she told herself forcefully and got up to make a cup of tea. It was three o'clock and she was sick of the distraction.