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On the last page, after way too many useless misunderstandings that might’ve been fixed with a quick discussion, Antonio and Lucinda kissed. There was no tongue. There wasn’t a hint of moisture and definitely no grinding hip action, but it was oddly satisfying in a way he would never admit to a living person. Antonio was less of a desperado with Lucinda and Lucinda stopped being a stuck-up bitch and became, if not a cool chick, at least less of an airhead.
He looked across at Buster, her eyes were closed and her breath quiet. He didn’t know if she’d managed to stay awake till her happy ending, but he hoped so. He kissed her cheek and she didn’t stir. He went home via the nurse’s station. They were pleased with Buster’s progress on the new drug and urged him to get some sleep. In a day or two they could see about transferring her back to St Ags.
He drove home, relieved, belatedly remembering there wasn’t a lick of food in the house. The house phone was ringing when he put his key in the door. The hospital; they were very sorry, perhaps she’d been waiting for him to leave, it happened like that sometimes. It was an easy death. Would he be able to come back, they had paperwork for him to sign?
Fuck, fuck, fuck. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was getting better. She’d been able to talk and laugh today. He was going to bring her home.
She’d said it was a happy ending.
He hung up the ph
one and went to the yard. He didn’t glove up because he wanted the pain to come. He hit the bag until his shirt clung to him, till his knuckles split and bled, and he was a punch away from breaking a hand. He had to hug the leather to stay on his feet.
He went inside and sat on the floor in the dark hallway to call Dillon. He still didn’t feel anything, but his face was wet and his eyes stung. He could taste salt and bile. He needed to take great gulping breaths and his nose ran. He hugged his knees because there wasn’t enough air, and blood from his hands dripped on the floor.
And he didn’t feel anything, anything at all.
16: Seconds
Jacinta plunged a knife into the canvas and ripped it corner to corner. Why had she come into the room if not to torture herself? Nothing good happened in this room. She’d cried the last time she was here. Cried and let Mace, a virtual stranger, see her tears over stupid paint and idiotic canvas.
She stared at what she’d done. Grey and black and red so sharp it hurt your eyes to look at it, now ripped in half. A kindergarten kid could’ve done better. She could no more paint her way out of her angst than she’d been able to negotiate it, and she was a fool to try.
Tom. Malcolm was going to bring Tom into the board meetings. That could only mean one thing, the job she’d planned on having wasn’t as in the bag as she’d thought it was.
She should’ve found a way to deal with the Kincaid issue differently. Gotten under Malcolm’s claw less obviously. She’d been cocky and arrogant and hadn’t done enough pre-meeting lobbying. It was entirely her fault things had gone the way they did.
She’d been so busy fucking her one night stand she’d fucked her career.
That, and the board was a herd of gutless sheep, more interested in their annual payment and the kudos that went with being a non-executive director of Wentworth, than in leading the company with dignity, honour and compassion.
She dropped the knife and left the room, slamming the door. But there was nowhere else in the apartment she wanted to be either. In her office her phone and PC were quiet. After the mess of work she’d avoided last weekend, this weekend she’d have welcomed it to fill in the gaps, but it was as though she’d already been passed over for Tom; no one wanted to talk to her, no one needed her counsel, or felt the need to aggrandise themselves by demonstrating they were working on the weekend too.
In the lounge room, the television was airing interviews with Roger Kincaid’s family. His wife saying though they were estranged she was horrified because Roger wasn’t a violent man; that he’d been under too much pressure and snapped. His sons saying their dad was a good guy, and they were scared to go to school because other kids were beating them up.
All week the media had focused on the victims of the bombing, now those stories were all played out, it was the Kincaid family’s turn to parade their pain. Roger’s mother simply sobbed and tried to push the insistent camera away.
It was a miracle the link between Kincaid and Wentworth went uncovered. She had mixed feelings about that. It was better for the bank, but it made her look like a scaremonger, it weakened her argument.
Jay should’ve been here, in the kitchen, cooking, reading the paper, letting her rave till she’d exhausted her ranting and felt better. He’d have talked her out of the radical idea of leaking the Kincaid link herself. He’d have told her it was too risky. He’d have talked sense into her. But Jay was busy this weekend. And she was seriously considering going to a trusted media source with the inside story.
But if she did that, and she was ever revealed as the source, she’d be terminated with cause and her career really would be over. She couldn’t decide if that was a stupid or brave way to go out.
It was tempting to blame it all on Mace, but he’d done no more than distract her, in a way that left her unbearably unsettled. She kept seeing him sulking at the kitchen counter, sitting on the end of the lounge while he massaged her feet, and stretched out on her bed in all his muscle-bound naked glory that’d been so inspiring she’d wanted to sketch again.
Welcoming distracted thoughts of him had to be a reaction to the horror week; to the shock of Tom’s elevation, to the disappointment of not getting her way on the reforms she wanted.
Jay would’ve told her to focus on the new acquisition strategy and keep a clear head. Jay would’ve been right, and in his absence, and unable to banish the ghost shadow of Mace, she was climbing the walls. She spent too long at the gym and made herself sore all over.
She was back in the office Monday at 6am, grateful for the structure another busy week would provide. Grateful turned to anxious when Em told her a journalist was sniffing around the story the bank had a link to Kincaid, then suspicious when she said Malcolm was going to do the interview.
Malcolm as a rule only did specially selected interviews and never anything controversial. The fact he was doing this one was because he didn’t want her to. The way Em had difficulty making eye contact told her that guess was on the money.
She stood in front of the TV in her office and watched Malcolm on the midday news. The journalist had discovered Kincaid was a customer, and that he’d lost his job because Wentworth denied his company continued finance. A more experienced journalist would’ve looked deeper and found out about the home loan.
On camera, Malcolm came across as your favourite uncle. He’d had enough media training to fake an expression of concern and sympathy. It was chilling to see how convincing he was.
“You know he told me acting the part is as important as having the title.”
