Paycheque (8 page)

Claire dropped her box on the kitchen bench, kicked her shoes off and threw herself on the sofa. Now what? She looked around for answers and spied the cordless phone on the tinted glass coffee table.

‘Hi Bernie, it's me, Claire. Look, sorry to disturb you at work but…' Claire's voice cracked.

‘What! What's happened? Are you okay?'

‘Um, actually no. I've just lost my job and…' The lump in Claire's throat exploded and the tears began to flow. ‘I don't know what to do,' she sobbed. ‘I feel so lost… I was wondering if… well, if…'

‘Don't be silly. Come straight up. Are you okay to drive?'

‘I think so.'

‘Come to the house, I'll shut the shop.'

‘I don't want to be a burden – I'm happy to wait. It's just…'

‘I know, and don't be ridiculous. What are friends for? Just throw together some clothes and toiletries and get in the car.'

‘Thanks, Bern.'

‘No worries. And Claire?'

‘Yes?'

‘Nothing is ever as bad as it first seems. I'll see you soon – drive carefully.'

‘Thanks, I will.'

Claire had been on the phone less than a minute, but just hearing her friend's voice was a big relief. She didn't feel so alone, so out of control. She smiled ever so slightly through her drying tears. Trust Bernadette to take charge. At least now she had a plan for the next forty minutes: she was driving up the freeway to the Adelaide Hills.

By the time Claire arrived at Bernie's house she was exhausted and dishevelled, as if she'd been physically fighting the goings-on in her head – the war the left and right hemispheres of her brain had been waging the whole way. She was still no more certain. Was the redundancy a good thing, a chance to take a breath and get her life back into order? Or was it the catastrophe she'd initially thought it was?

Bernadette ran down the steps, burgundy curls flying out like a cape behind her. Claire was quietly relieved at the prospect of shedding half her burden. She got out of the car, returned her best friend's hug, and burst into tears.

After letting Claire cling to her for a few minutes, sobbing, Bernadette gently turned her to the house. ‘Come on in,' she said.

Claire allowed herself to be helped like an invalid up the verandah steps and inside.

Bernie deposited her on the lounge and went out to boil the kettle. Claire listened to her friend pottering about in the kitchen and
thought to offer help, but felt fused to her plush surroundings. Her head was fuzzy.

Bernadette brought in a tray with some mugs, a teapot, sugar, milk and a plate of homemade Anzac biscuits, and put it down on the coffee table.

Claire frowned. She could see but wasn't really seeing; she could hear but it was a muffle somewhere in the depths of her brain. Distantly she realised Bernadette was pushing at her arm, almost hitting her. Claire shook her head, trying to shake the cotton wool from her ears and milky film from her eyes. She fought the urge to curl up and go to sleep, pretend this day hadn't happened.

‘Here, drink this. I've put some sugar in it to help with the shock.'

Yes, that was what was going on. Shock. How could she have forgotten? Not so long ago she'd been in a similar state after news of Keith, and then, not quite so bad of course, her father.

‘Thanks,' she said, accepting the mug. She wrapped her hands around it to try to draw its warmth into her. She took a tentative sip and ran the hot, sweet, milky liquid around her tongue before swallowing. She instantly felt comforted. No wonder tea was the first thing to come out in a crisis. Claire sighed and let herself relax slightly.

Bernadette, who had been watching and waiting for the right moment, spoke. ‘Now, starting from the beginning, tell me everything.'

Claire looked down into her cup, searching for the logical order of the day's events.

‘Remember how I told you I'd finally decided to take some time off? Well I went into Derek's office to get the form signed and instead I got handed my notice.'

‘He fired you, just like that?'

Claire took a sip of her tea. ‘Not fired, exactly: made redundant.'

‘Oh, well, that's a whole different thing.' Bernadette sighed and took a sip from her mug.

‘No, it's not. Either way I'm out of a job with a big fat mortgage to pay. I can't believe the bastard…'

‘Derek's not the CEO, is he? Orders are bound to have come from higher up. I doubt Derek's really to blame, as much as you want him to be.'

‘Jesus, Bernadette. Whose side are you on?'

‘Yours, of course. But Claire, you really need to get things into perspective. If you've been made redundant, that means you get a payout – and you've been there for ages.'

‘Twelve years, eight months, two weeks and three days to be precise – that's what the “offer” says. What's the point of calling it an offer if you don't have a choice? Derek said I'd be fired if I didn't take it. “Twelve months pay or two weeks, your choice.” The smug prick.'

‘I hope you took it,' Bernadette said, eyeing Claire suspiciously.

‘Of course I bloody took it – I haven't lost all my marbles.'

Bernadette visibly relaxed, sank back into the couch and put her feet on the coffee table. ‘Well, I don't know what you're so worked up about, except of course the initial shock.'

‘For a start, I'm jobless, Bernadette, with a mortgage I was having trouble paying alone in the first place. “It's not personal,” he says. I could lose the roof over my head. How much more personal can you get?'

‘Claire, you haven't lost your house.'

‘I might.'

‘You could always sell, move up here.'

‘And move into my parents' house? Great, then I really will end up the old spinster with the house full of cats.'

‘You don't have any cats.'

‘I'll get some. But seriously, how humiliating.'

‘Why? Who would care anyway? Claire, people don't waste as much time thinking about other people as we like to think. And Derek's right, it's not personal. Some bigwigs over in Sydney probably decided to do a shift and shuffle – people you probably haven't even met.'

‘Are you sure you haven't been speaking to him?'

‘Just because I'm not chained to a desk, doesn't mean I don't
remember how these things work. Personally I'd be taking their dough, saying “thank you very much” and looking forward to the opportunities that are about to come your way.'

‘What if there are no opportunities?'

‘There always are. In a matter of months you'll remember this conversation – actually, you probably won't but don't worry, I'll remind you – and you'll laugh at how paranoid you were because everything will have worked out for the best, it always does.'

‘I feel so lost.'

‘You just need a plan – a logical way forward.'

‘You're right. Do you have Saturday's career section still?'

‘Claire!'

‘What?'

‘Have you not listened to anything I've said?'

‘You said I need a plan, and my plan is to find another job so I can pay my mortgage.'

‘Would you shut up about your bloody mortgage?! With all the things that have happened to you this year, I would have thought you'd have learnt
something
.'

‘I have: that life could be over in a split second.'

‘Well thank Christ you've learnt that much.'

‘Which is why I'm going to live comfortably.'

‘Claire, forget the fucking money! Life is not just about money.'

‘There's no need to swear at me. Just because you decided…'

‘This is not about me – I'm not the one who's freaking out because she's lost her job and can't pay the mortgage.'

‘I'm not freaking out.'

‘Oh really?' Bernadette looked at Claire with raised eyebrows.

Claire paused for a moment and rewound their conversation in her head. She took a deep breath and pushed some loose strands of hair from her face.

‘Sorry, you're right, I am freaking out. But what else am I meant to do?'

‘Stop, regroup, have faith in yourself. Let the chips fall where they may.'

Bernadette grabbed a pen and lined pad from the pile of books on the coffee table. ‘Now, I'm going to make some notes for you to refer to whenever you start getting freaked. You mentioned twelve months pay, right?'

‘Yeah, about that. Why?'

Bernadette wrote as she continued. ‘So, in theory, you are actually gainfully employed for the next twelve months.'

‘I hadn't thought of it like that.'

‘No, because you were too busy freaking out.'

‘I guess so,' Claire said, looking sheepish.

Bernadette ripped the top sheet from the pad and handed it over.

‘What's this?' Claire said, accepting it with a puzzled frown.

‘Read it.'

She opened it and couldn't keep the grin from spreading across her face. In Bernadette's large neat script were the words,
I, Claire McIntyre, agree to take twelve months paid leave to recuperate from an extremely shitty year. Beginning today, October 7
.

‘Do you agree to take said leave, and promise not to look for another office job for at least twelve months?'

‘Oh, well, um…'

‘Do you agree?'

‘Yes, all right. I agree.' Claire laughed.

‘Right, now sign there at the bottom.' Bernadette handed Claire the pen.

Claire signed the piece of paper and handed back the pen.

‘Now, keep that with you at all times.'

Claire nodded and reread the note before folding it and tucking it in the front pocket of her jeans.

‘Now I don't have any jelly beans but I can, however, offer another cup of tea.'

Despite being exhausted and dropping off in front of the television, Bernadette and Claire remained in the lounge room until after midnight. Bernie didn't want to leave her friend alone lest she fall back into being terrified of the future. Claire didn't want to break the spell of feeling that things might just turn out okay after all. Without it being said, both knew this was one of those few occasions when it wasn't safe to ‘sleep on it'. So they huddled at their respective ends of the three-seater sofa, pretending the movie was enthralling.

Their silent trance was shattered by the phone. Instinctively, the first thing they did was check their watches. Claire's hand went to her pounding chest. Jesus, no! Not more bad news; not today, not tomorrow, not this year. Bernie's eyes were wide as she untangled her legs and went to get the handset from the small hallstand.

Claire watched her friend's back as she picked up the phone and answered, feeling guilty for bringing her bad karma to Bernadette's home. She felt a strange sense of relief when she heard her say, ‘Yes, I'll just get her for you.' Maybe she hadn't cursed her after all.

‘It's for you, the hospital. Your mobile must be turned off,' Bernadette said, handing her the phone. Claire's stomach knotted in dreaded anticipation.

‘Hello, this is Claire McIntyre.'

‘Claire, my name's Abby Lawson. I'm calling from the hospital. It's about your father…'

Claire held her breath and crossed her fingers harder than she ever had before.

‘We thought you'd want to know straight away…'

‘Yes?' Claire silently begged her to get it over with.

‘He's woken up, just a few minutes ago.'

For a moment, Claire thought her bowels might let go. She took a gasping breath.

‘Ms McIntyre? Claire, are you there?'