‘Must be a misprint,’ he suggested.
‘You mean they were trying to say “medallions of truffle hindquarters with braised alpaca jus and marinated cumquats”?’
He burst out laughing—and everyone stared. You don’t snort and honk in the Al Fresco café.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, smothering a grin. ‘Maybe the prawns are stuffed with pheasant livers, or something.’
‘You’d hope so, for the price.’
‘Are you going to get them?’
‘Shit, yes. Live dangerously—that’s my motto.’
‘You said it, sweetheart. Not me.’
‘Yeah, well.’ My one and only encounter with food poisoning had resulted from a dish of English scampi. ‘At least I’ll be able to sue. At least these guys will have some money.’
‘I hope so. I wouldn’t want you sticking your head in a toilet for less than fifty thou.’
In the end, it turned out that those prawns didn’t contain pheasant livers. Nor were they a misprint. No—they were an amusing, retro homage, with pink sauce and everything. Very nice too, I might add, though the iceberg lettuce was nothing special. I mean, it hadn’t been pickled or spiced or rolled around a few scallops, or anything. It was just lying on the plate. Chopped.
Maybe there was a joke in that somewhere, and I didn’t get it. I’m not really an Al Fresco kind of girl, I guess—not any more. But even if the chef ’s humour escaped us, Matt and I still had a good laugh.
Those were the days.
I arrived in the café about ten minutes before Jim did, and ordered myself a mineral water. Then I perused the menu, looking for something inexpensive, before deciding on the pumpkin soup. I was informing the waiter of this decision when Jim McRae appeared; without warning, he seemed to materialise in the seat opposite me. He gave me quite a shock, I can tell you.
‘God!’ I exclaimed. ‘Did you beam down, or what?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing. I didn’t see you come in.’ He was wearing a raincoat, I noticed—a trenchcoat-style raincoat. Beige and everything. It made him look quite different, somehow. Seedy.
‘A raincoat.’ I couldn’t believe it. ‘At last you’re wearing a raincoat!’
He blinked at me. ‘Eh?’
‘You know. Like Columbo.’
‘Oh.’ For the first time, I saw him grin. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘But I only wear a raincoat when it’s raining.’ He turned to the waiter, who was hovering impatiently. ‘I’ll just have a coffee please. Black.’
Black. But of course. No lily-livered milk for Mister Bland. Suddenly I’d run out of steam. Reaching my destination, even after such a brief trip, had filled me with a sense of warmth and hilarity which had evaporated quickly in Jim’s presence. I don’t know what it is about that guy. He has such a squelching effect on me.
‘Have you ordered?’ he asked.
‘Soup,’ I replied, lowering my voice and glancing warily at the service counter. ‘You said it wouldn’t take long.’
‘It won’t.’ He dragged his little blue book from an inside pocket of his raincoat, flipped through the pages, read an entry, and returned the book to its original hiding place. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Well I had a bit of luck, as it happens. I was in Darlinghurst on another job, and I dropped into that café your friend saw your husband in. To ask about a girl with purple hair. Regular customer, perhaps? Turns out she used to work there. Josephine Cleary.’
‘You mean that Josephine Cleary—’
‘Dyes her hair purple. Though she used to dye it pink.’
‘Oh.’
‘I had a bit of a chat with the manager. He’s an old acquaintance of mine from my days on the Darlinghurst beat. Reformed alcoholic. Nice bloke. Had to sack Josephine because she was so unreliable.’ He began to shrug his raincoat off. ‘Drugs,’ he added.
I just stared at him. Then his coffee arrived (they’re very quick, at the Al Fresco—I’ll give them that) and he sipped at it cautiously.
‘I got a bit of a description,’ he finally went on. ‘Purple hair, fair complexion, tattoos on her left upper arm, no definable track marks, about five foot four, which would translate into . . . let’s see, now . . . around 165 centimetres. Does that sound like your girl?’
I nodded.
‘When Dick realised what was going on with her, he got rid of her before she had a chance to start robbing the till. It wasn’t hard, because she was always taking sickies. Showing up late. Locking herself in the toilet. He thinks she might have hepatitis.’
‘Oh my God,’ I breathed.
‘He had an old address—wasn’t the one you gave me. She’d been arrested, according to Dick, but he couldn’t remember the details. He wasn’t interested, at the time. He’s been arrested himself.’ Jim sipped at his coffee again, and carefully placed the cup back onto its saucer. ‘I could probably find out the details, if you want them.’
‘I—I don’t know.’ I was still busy absorbing the information; I didn’t know what I should actually do with it. ‘What do you think?’
‘Well, it’s leverage. If your husband’s involved with a junkie—’
‘Yes, yes.’ I put my hand to my forehead. ‘I see.’
‘That’s all I’ve got. It was sheer luck. Dick didn’t remember seeing your husband in the place, with or without Josephine, but they get a lot of people through there, and not many regulars. He said Josephine comes back every now and then because she knows it bugs him, so he said he’d keep an eye out. I don’t know if he will.’
‘Right.’
‘When do you think they actually meet? Josephine and your husband?’
‘Lunchtime,’ I answered. ‘Maybe . . . sometimes he’s home late after work. His shift finishes at about half past eight or nine, but he doesn’t get home till half past ten or eleven. He reckons it’s drinks . . . meetings . . .’ I was so reluctant to say all this. It was private stuff. ‘On Mondays and Thursdays he’s got about two hours between dropping the kids at day care and going to work.’ I looked up suddenly. ‘You’re not going to follow him?’ I gasped.
Jim studied me with his bland, brown eyes.
‘Would that be a problem?’ he queried.
‘Well . . . no, I . . .’
‘Might be the best way to tackle things. Might not be.’
‘Couldn’t you follow her, instead?’
‘I could. If that’s what you’d prefer.’
‘I would. Very much.’
‘But if it’s not Josephine he’s seeing, you’ll be wasting your money.’
Covering my eyes, I swallowed. It was all too much. ‘Do what you think,’ I said shakily.
‘Your husband will be easier to track. He hasn’t a lot of time to play around with. I can make sure someone’s on his tail at those specific periods that you’re worried about.’
I nodded again. I couldn’t speak. Blinking back tears, I stared at the tablecloth.
‘Cheer up,’ said Jim. All at once he leaned forward, and squeezed my wrist in a reassuring fashion. ‘I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised. I think this is all a beat-up.’ He released me. ‘You heard anything about that friend of yours? Miriam?’
I shook my head. ‘No,’ I squeaked.
‘Well, like I said, remember the source.’ Glancing at his watch, he clicked his tongue, and rose to his feet. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he added. ‘You okay?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘This is why I do mostly insurance work, these days,’ he said casually. ‘Not as stressful as domestic cases, one way or another. I’ll get back to you in a couple of days. See what I can dig up in the meantime.’
‘Okay.’
‘Thanks for meeting with me.’
He dragged his raincoat back on. He took a last swig of coffee. And then he did something really, really weird.
He picked up my hand, and kissed it.
So now I had even more to worry about. Suddenly, in the midst of all this other chaos, a private detective decided to
kiss my hand. He didn’t do anything else. He just kissed my hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the rain. But it was so bizarre. So unexpected and out of character. For a few minutes after he left, I just sat there, gaping, until my soup arrived.
I thought: What was that about?
I thought: Uh-oh.
I thought: I must be imagining things.
Needless to say, I burned my mouth on my lunch—which I couldn’t seem to finish. I was in a state of complete abstraction, functioning on automatic pilot; I ended up paying for Jim’s coffee without feeling even a twinge of irritation. On my way back to work I kept bumping into umbrella spokes and traffic-light poles, and finally found myself at my desk without being consciously aware of how I’d got there. I had been too busy pondering, with growing alarm, the possibility that Jim McRae had just made a pass at me.
The usual things went through my head (I’ve heard them a million times before): Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe it was just a bit of Olde World courtesy, employed by a man with an eccentric streak—or a weird sense of humour. Maybe it was a gesture of genuine respect, and he doesn’t realise that it’s likely to be misinterpreted. Maybe I’ve worked on too many sexual harassment cases . . .
Then along came the more uneasy, second thoughts: He walked off before I could say anything. He didn’t give me any warning. He surely can’t have thought that I’d welcome a stupid piece of bravura like that, in the circumstances? For Chrissake, I’m his client! He’s been entrusted with my personal details— my marital problems, my work address, my home telephone number—and should therefore behave with the professional circumspection of a doctor or a massage therapist. His detachment might have been a bit disconcerting, at first, but it had been reassuring as well. Why had he suddenly blown it all with this ill-judged flourish?
A cold sense of dread began to invade my gut. I had laid myself wide open to this man. I had given him a foothold into my life, and now I didn’t even know if his intentions would stand up to close scrutiny. How could I possibly trust him, after that hand-kissing business? How would I know where he was coming from? Suppose he made a habit of hitting on women who approached him with the fear that their husbands were unfaithful? Suppose he was always on the lookout for vulnerable, confused women who couldn’t exactly complain to the Equal Opportunity and Human Rights Board, unless they wanted the fact that they were employing a private detective to be widely and publicly known?
Not that I think I could have lodged a formal complaint with any success. I wasn’t sure of what Jim’s intentions had been—not really. After all, kissing someone’s hand wasn’t exactly offensive. It wasn’t like pinching bums or exposing genitals. Some people might argue that it was charming. Sweet. Funny, even.
And then it occurred to me that Jim McRae might have been indulging in a little joke. Maybe he had been kissing my hand because I worked for the Equal Opportunity and Human Rights Board. Maybe he disliked the whole premise—the whole concept—and was daring me, consciously or unconsciously, to make a ‘big thing’ of his sly little peck.
Was that possible?
It didn’t seem possible. It’s often difficult to believe that an ordinary working man, striving to do his job, improve his prospects and juggle his schedule, could find the energy to squander that much attention on a woman he might encounter at brief intervals while earning his pay. Most men don’t seem to end up lavishing a lot of attention on their own wives (and I can attest to this); what makes some of them suddenly wrench their thoughts away from food, football or office politics long enough to make themselves offensive to some poor woman they hardly know? I often ask myself this. I’ve discussed it with people like Amelia, who will also look nonplussed. A lot of the policy officers, who are single, high-powered women with feminist outlooks, maintain that once men get married, they don’t feel that they need pay attention to their wives, who have effectively been ‘conquered’. It’s a power thing, say Judy and Trish and Bebe and Kate. But Amelia and I still have our doubts. We still nurse the suspicion that women in general just aren’t that important to most men; hence our unfailing astonishment at the behaviour of stalkers and womanisers and people of that sort. How could they be bothered? Where do they get the energy, when our own husbands seem to be so utterly exhausted at the end of every working day that they can’t get off their backsides long enough to change a light bulb or put the garbage out?
On the other hand, we might be underemphasising the importance of sex. You tend to do that, when you become a mother. Sex tends to get sidelined—first, because of hormones; second, because of sheer fatigue. (I’ll never forget the snorts and rolling eyes of the mothers at Tresillian whenever the subject of sex was raised.) You often forget how prominent a part it plays in some people’s lives—or indeed in your own life at one stage, before you grew so old and weary. When sex is way down at the bottom of your ‘Things to do’ list, below ‘Write to Auntie Beth’ and ‘Visit the optometrist’, you find it hard to understand why someone as neat and calm and competent as Jim McRae would be secretly stewing over some unresolved dilemma or sexual defeat to the point where he’d be jeopardising his own business just to throw you off balance.
I might have been overreacting, of course. My job was probably causing me to build mountains out of molehills. But I wondered, in that case, whether I should have a word with Jim McRae on the subject of acceptable and professional behaviour, lest he was stupid enough to believe that kissing hands, in this context, was appropriate. Was that the answer? A few firm, well-chosen words?
The trouble was, I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to see him again. For one thing, raising the subject at all would be acutely embarrassing, and would have an effect on our association just as destabilising as the kiss itself. For another thing, I didn’t know if I wanted to employ a man who needed a few firm, well-chosen words to set him on the right path. If he was so badly attuned to the wishes and needs of his clients, was he actually the sort of man I could trust?
I was sitting there, trying to work out whether I should call him again and cancel the job, when my phone rang. I picked up the receiver.
‘Hello, Equal Opportunity and Human Rights Board, Helen Muzzatti speaking.’
‘Hi. It’s me.’
‘Oh.’
‘I called you earlier, but you weren’t there.’ Matt’s voice sounded strangely flat and expressionless. ‘I wanted to meet you for lunch.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry. I was out.’
‘Who with?’
I wasn’t about to tell him that, needless to say. ‘No-one you know. A woman from work.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Silence. My neck muscles began to tense. ‘What is it?’ I said. ‘Is anything wrong?’ I realised, suddenly, that there was a lot of background noise at the other end of the line. ‘Where are you? At your office?’
‘I just wanted to have a talk.’
‘A talk?’ Now I was really worried. ‘What about?’
‘Things.’ He made a funny, strangled noise. ‘Not over the phone, though. It doesn’t matter. I’ll see you tonight, and we’ll talk then.’
‘Matt—’
‘I can’t talk now. It’s not a good time. I’ll see you later.’
‘Wait!’
‘Helen, I told you. We can’t talk now.’
‘About what?’
‘Things.’
‘What things?’
‘I’ll tell you later. At home. In private.’
‘Why? What’s wrong?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
That’s all I could get out of him. He hung up, and I was petrified. Matt had never behaved like this before. Not once had the soap-opera phrase ‘We have to talk’ ever passed his lips. It was out of character. It was a danger signal. I thought: He’s going to do it. He’s going to walk through the front door tonight and tell me that he’s in love with someone else. That he needs time to think. That he has to move out.
That he wants a di
vorce?
It was too much. Suddenly, for the first time, my fears seemed terribly real. I could feel the full weight of the dark shadow that had been creeping across my sunny horizons.
I tried to call him back, but he wasn’t at work. He had gone out for lunch, I was told. So I left a message, put my head down on the desk, and cried.
It was Cindy who found me there, sobbing amongst the Post-it notes and lime-green complaint files. She’s one of the younger administrative assistants, a nice little thing from Jannali, who has fluffy brown hair and a sweet voice and favours barrettes, lockets, jabots, and shirtmaker dresses with narrow belts. I don’t know quite what she makes of her job, or some of the people she works with. When one of our policy officers, a fervent lesbian separatist, was hospitalised with meningococcal meningitis (she got better, fortunately), Cindy visited her with a copy of the Women’s Weekly, a manicure set and a pair of fluffy pink slippers.
‘Oh. Um—your complainant is waiting for you in conference room three,’ she said, hesitating on the threshold.
I made an incoherent noise.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Yes.’ I straightened, and rubbed my hands across my face. ‘PMT.’
‘Oh.’
‘Thanks, Cindy.’
She moved a tissue box from Amelia’s desk to mine, and I thanked her again before blowing my nose vigorously.
‘I think—maybe you should do your make-up again, before you go in,’ Cindy suggested. Thank God she wasn’t one of the assertive and opinionated policy officers, who would have been far more intrusively helpful, raising the subject of stress leave, sympathising with my plight as a working mother, or offering me some kind of strengthening herbal compound. All I wanted was to be left alone for a minute.
‘Yes,’ I told Cindy. ‘I’ll do that. Thanks.’
She departed apologetically, and I checked the hand-mirror in my purse. As expected, I looked like a disaster area. So I went to the ladies’ to ‘freshen up’.
The rest of the afternoon was a nightmare. It felt as if a leaden ball was sitting in my stomach; I could hardly concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing. I was all right during the conference, when people were talking and required answers. But as soon as it finished, I was left with enough time to contemplate the full extent of the damage being done to my life. Miriam had pulled a major rug out from under me. Jim McRae was a possible threat, with his seedy hand-kissing habits. My husband was almost certainly an adulterer, unless he had something even worse that he wanted to tell me. That he was a serial killer, perhaps? That he had been diagnosed with some terrible disease?