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If she wasn’t Jacinta Wentworth, corporate heiress, who was she?
“I’ve got a hint for you. You don’t want to be him, not ever.”
Bryan knew the score. It was time to find a new dream, not one that accepted second best.
“And before you get sick of Bryan’s advice for good living,” he made finger quote marks above his head, “Don’t rush into a new job. Smell the flowers.”
“Bryan’s advice is full of clichés.” And home truths that stung like needle pricks in a hundred uncomfortable places.
He grinned. “They cost less on the family discount plan. I’ll be sending you my bill.”
They moved to the lounge and talked more; Kath and Brianna. Tom. Bryan’s new business and how happy he was to be his own boss, make his own mistakes and make good money too. It was a long way from the C-suite role he’d had, but he spoke about it with such enthusiasm and light in his dark eyes that it was impossible not to see his happiness.
Jacinta Wentworth, corporate heiress, usually looked like she spent a lot on clothing, had somewhere else important to be and could do with a good laugh. Jacinta Wentworth, thwarted businesswoman, had a headache, stiff neck, tense ears and toes, the beginning of a permanent frown wrinkle between her brows.
When Bryan left she felt calmer, not so keen to tear things into little pieces or scream at the walls. Not yet resolved on her next move, but there was less steam clouding her thinking, less molten lava gurgling in her veins.
She heated a casserole for dinner and watched the late news: sextuplets born in the back of a car, a new, thinner, faster, better gadget, a movie starlet’s surgery scandal, sport, lots of sport, and a whale that swam down a river and made friends with a cow.
Yes, it was hard to keep your perspective when there were few reminders that the world wasn’t a fair and equitable place, but Bryan had managed it and so could she.
She reached for the remote to turn the set off and a breaking news item aired. Roger Kincaid was found hanged in his prison cell. He’d made a noose of his own uniform.
She stared at the screen, knowing her career was as good as strangling her and whatev
er decision she made, she needed to avoid the same fate.
19: Flamethrower
Dillon did a double-take like in a bad comedy with a laugh track when he saw Mace waiting outside his office building. “Oh fuck, they sacked you.”
“I got in first.”
“You quit?”
He nodded and held out a takeaway coffee.
Dillon face-palmed, sitcom style. “Oh man.” He took the coffee but eyed it suspiciously. It’s not like Mace had ever shown up at his work with beverages before.
“I’m scared to ask.” He took an exploratory sip through the slot in the plastic lid and nodded his approval then said, “Shit, man you quit.”
Yeah, it was up there with dramatic gestures, but it was done now. It’d take a long time to forget the look on Nolan’s face when he stood on a desk and made his goodbye speech. Standing with Dillon on the street while the peak hour rush built around them, it was hard to believe he’d done that. He’d even bowed like a busker who believed he was on the verge of the big time when the rest of the team started hooting, cheering and throwing things. It was a moment of insanity with the kind of popularity he’d never experienced. For a full ten minutes he was everyone’s hero.
He’d arrived back at work after Buster’s funeral with every intention of keeping his head down, staying out of Nolan’s way and hoping the less said about his absence the better. He had a leave pass from Dr Dark in his back pocket and a death certificate if anyone pushed him, but his preference was to slip quietly into the stream and get on with things.
“Screw coffee,” Dillon chucked the empty in a bin. ”You quit. I need a drink.”
They decided on food as well. A laneway bar, modern Chinese and imported beers. Mace looked at the prices on the menu, realised he no longer had an income and laughed. “I might’ve just fucked myself.”
But if he could sell Buster’s house, his house now, he’d have money to live on; they’d have money to work with, and time to approach other investors. The experience with Summers-Denby had taught them about the requirements and rigour venture capitalists used to assess the projects they invested in. They could apply that learning and get serious about finding funding.
“You went back too quick, dude. Tell them about Buster. Say it was the stress. They’ll understand.”
“I burned them.”
“You mean you got a little angry; lost it like you did with the priest.”
“The priest was a warm-up. I pretty much took a flamethrower to the place.”
