A Case For Trust (18 page)

To hell with it. There was no point hanging around wasting time. She'd go home, change out of her overalls and suit up ready for the bank. If there had been a mistake, she figured they'd be faster sorting it out if she turned up in person and looked more like a businesswoman and less like a labourer. She might even shop for a frock for Justin's exhibition opening tomorrow night.

She packed up her ute, worrying over how she would reorganise the work schedule to start paving tomorrow, and started when Eleanor greeted her.

‘Good morning, Philippa! Just arriving, or just leaving?'

Pippa tried not to react defensively. ‘Just leaving, actually. There's an issue with the pavers order I need to sort out. But it won't disrupt the schedule too much.'

Eleanor waved a carefree hand. ‘I'm not worried about the schedule. We're already well ahead of where I imagined we would be by now. You should give yourself the day off. You work too hard. Why not come in and have some breakfast with me?'

‘Eleanor, thank you, but I've already had breakfast, before I started work. Perhaps another time?'

‘Of course. Don't let me keep you. Oh—but Philippa? Do you know what Justin's up to?'

Pippa paused in the act of opening her car door. That innocent-sounding question could have so many possible answers! She hedged. ‘Do I know what he's up to? What do you mean?'

‘He's booked a car to take me somewhere tomorrow night and won't tell me where. He's being very mysterious about it. Georgia and Marissa don't know anything either. And Matt's tied up with a case in Sydney and never answers his phone. I just thought you might …'

Pippa grinned. ‘As a matter of fact, I do know, but I'm afraid I've been sworn to secrecy.'

‘Is it something to do with Lucy?'

Pippa shook her head. ‘Nothing to do with Lucy. This is just about Justin. And you don't have to worry. You'll be very pleased, and very proud.'

‘Will you be there, too?'

‘I'll be there with bells on.'

Eleanor looked suitably mollified. ‘In that case, I guess I'll just have to wait until tomorrow night. It's a shame Matt can't be here. Justin values his opinion, despite all evidence to the contrary.'

‘I know. It
is
a shame. He'll be greatly missed.'

Eleanor raised one finely arched eyebrow and smiled, and Pippa wondered if her fervent longing for Matt's return was so transparent. She'd been trying to make polite conversation, but since the weekend, when Matt had left her for the airport, she'd been counting down the hours until she could see him again. They'd played phone-tag all week, between Pippa's early morning starts and Matt's late-night negotiations, and Pippa very much worried she'd betrayed her growing desperation for Matt's company, his voice, his touch. But Eleanor merely shooed her off, and Pippa made her getaway hoping she'd preserved her secret. It was too new, too fragile, to expose it to the air, let alone the curious and forensic excavation of Matt's loving family.

***

The grand sandstone columns and expansive marble floors clashed with the hideous neon-coloured signs of the bank's latest advertising campaign. Pippa noted the aesthetic discord with a mind increasingly agitated by her own inactivity compared with the busyness going on around her. She shifted on the low, scratchy woollen bench seat, unconsciously crossing and uncrossing her silk-lined legs in search of a more comfortable position. She'd been waiting quite some time now for the customer service officer to return, and the longer she waited, the more anxious she became. It should have been a simple matter to sort out, surely? What could be taking so long?

The teller suddenly reappeared at the doorway in front of her and beckoned imperiously, his formerly obsequious smile replaced with a grim solemnity. When she entered the room, a second man was there, introduced as the branch manager, and Pippa's nervousness ratcheted up another notch. She sat at the desk before him and watched him disassemble her file. Then page by page, word by word, he disassembled her life.

An hour or so later Pippa half-stumbled into the bright Brisbane sunshine and was nearly knocked off her feet by an impatient businessman striding down the mall. It took her a moment to get her bearings before she turned blindly south, away from the bank, away from the crowds, her head still swimming, still drowning, in the details of the disaster her meeting with the bank manager had unveiled.

The bank had cancelled her mortgages and wanted its money back.
All
its money. The business loan
and
her home loan. Even her credit card. She shuddered at the remorseless, remorseful memory of the bank manager pointing at her mortgage insurance application, his neatly groomed fingernail underlining the lie she'd told, the ‘no' she'd selected in a shameful, regrettable, impulsive, injudicious,
stupid
decision to not disclose her father's alcoholism. She'd never in a million years imagined they would make the connection. Now, with enough else to worry about, she forcibly shifted her mind away from the knowledge of
how
they'd made it. She'd think about that later; later, when she'd found solutions to the more urgent issues.

She'd drawn down scarcely any commitments against the business loan yet, so that was a blessing. Except that, of course, she no longer had capital or liability insurance to complete Eleanor's job, which meant she wouldn't be paid. But she couldn't leave the garden as it was, with the paths dug up and prepared for pavers that would never arrive. Perhaps she could put the pavers on her credit card—her
other
credit card, the one she kept only for emergencies. Well, this was definitely an emergency. Would it still work? Did banks talk to each other about their disgraced clients?

She'd have to sell the house. She couldn't keep it. The bank had reappraised her risk rating in light of the ‘irregularity' in her insurance application, and wanted the property revalued and the mortgage renegotiated. The bank manager had not been encouraging in his assessment of the likely outcome: the property market had dropped sharply since she'd bought the house, she would owe more than the house was worth, and the bank would not lend her the full amount nor offer terms as favourable as previously. Her emergency credit card limit wasn't high enough to cover that gap, and even if she could find another bank willing to lend her the money, the repayments would cripple her.

What in hell was she going to do?

As the scale of the nightmare threatened to swamp her, she staggered to a bench overlooking the river—how had she walked so far without realising?—and collapsed onto it, resting her head on her knees and fighting off the waves of nausea.

There was no other option. She'd have to sell up to repay the home loan. That was the first thing. Except that could take months, and the bank had given her just thirty days. With any equity she might have had already invested in the landscaping business, with agent's fees and bank penalties, even assuming she could sell it for what she'd paid for it, she'd
still
end up in debt to the bank. As well as homeless. As well as unemployed.

And then there was the matter of the mortgage insurance, which wouldn't be refunded despite the cancellation of the loan it was supposed to be covering—and as it had been rolled up into the loan amount, now had to be paid for separately. The mortgage insurance was for the bank's protection, not for hers, the bank manager had explained, and had merely shrugged when she'd argued that by cancelling the loan, the bank had cancelled its risk. Then he'd suggested a personal loan to cover the insurance payment, until the teller reminded him she'd have no assets to offer against it in security.

She needed to find a job. One she could manage in between doing whatever she could to patch up Eleanor's garden so it was at least safe if not beautiful, and making her own home as saleable as possible. A job that would allow her to afford somewhere to rent, as well as afford to pay off her debts. Weddings were lovely, but they weren't lucrative. Perhaps she could branch out into funerals, birthdays and bar mitzvahs? Her humourless laugh turned into a choking sob and she buried her head again in her lap.

A hand touched her shoulder briefly; she looked up, and shook her head at the woman who'd asked if she needed help, muttered a thank you and put her head down again. The woman moved away. She
did
need help, but there was nothing a stranger could do. Nothing anybody could do. For the first time in her life that she could remember, Pippa wanted to give up. Just … give up. She was tired of being the strong one. Tired of fixing things on her own. So very tired of always coping. For the first time in her life, she wanted to lie down on the scorching pavement, just lie there and wait for somebody else to come along and sort things out.

What she needed was a miracle. But she'd never believed in miracles, and she'd learned long ago she could rely on nobody for help but herself. After a long while she sat up straight again, and in her sternest internal voice told her trembling limbs to stop shaking. In the absence of miracles, what she needed was a plan. If only she could make her frantic, frazzled brain cease its catastrophising long enough to come up with one. But with so much to work out, she couldn't seem to decide where to start.

The sun wasn't helping. It beat fiercely down on her unprotected head, and with a start she realised she'd been sitting for an hour below its ferocious glare. She could get herself out of the sun. She could do that much. And then she'd work out what to do next.

***

Pippa ended the call wearily. Business hours were over, and she'd done as much as she could today. A real estate agent was meeting her at the house tomorrow afternoon to give a preliminary valuation. And after much wrangling, haranguing and begging, she'd finally persuaded Alec, the wiry, wizened old Scot who'd first hired her as a landscaper's labourer all those years ago, to meet her on site at Eleanor's tomorrow morning. Alec didn't want the job; he was semi-retired now, and only interested in prestigious, uncomplicated commercial work that paid well and required little from him other than directing his underlings and collecting the payments.

‘But that's all you'll have to do with this job, Alec,' Pippa had argued. ‘The designing's done and most of the complicated terracing is finished, all you have to do is get your team to execute the rest of the plan.'

‘It's not worth it to me, lass, not for the price you've quoted her. It'll barely cover the lads' wages, let alone return any profit. Anyway, I've got more work than the company can handle. I wouldn't have anybody free to start on it for weeks.'

‘I'll work on it,' Pippa blurted in desperation. ‘For free. You won't have to pay me. Just cover the equipment and materials costs until the job's finished, and let me access the company's professional liability cover. When the job's done, you get all the payment. You're not paying for labour, so there's your profit.'

Alec was sceptical. ‘Why in god's sweet grace would you work for free, lass? What have they got over you, for you to offer such a stupid deal?'

‘I promised the client I'd do it,' Pippa argued, ‘and I don't want to let her down. She trusts me to get the job done, so I'm going to get the job done. And you know I'm going to do it properly, you
know
me, you know how I work. Now, will you help me or not?'

‘You're bluidy soft in the heid, girl. I might be willing to cover it, and only as a personal favour to you because you're a sweet lassie, but I still need to cover myself. I need to be sure if I'm guaranteeing the job, I'm not letting myself in for a world o' trouble.'

That's when Pippa had managed to extract the agreement Alec would meet her on site early the next morning. Alec grumbled about a dawn start, he didn't even get up that early any more for his own jobs, but Pippa plied firmness amidst her pleading and eventually won him over. She wanted to avoid Eleanor if she possibly could, at least until she was sure she had a solution for her. In the end, Alec had relented, and she was sure that when he saw the garden tomorrow and her detailed plans for the work, he'd give her the security of his company's clout. Eleanor would get her garden, just as she wanted it. It would mean fewer hours available for Pippa to find paying work, but at least she could sleep at night knowing she'd fulfilled her obligation.

It didn't quite work out that way. By the time she'd allowed her exhausted body the luxury of a long, steaming shower and bundled herself up in her most comforting old pyjamas, her mind was again racing ahead, busily listing the repairs she'd have to make to the house before she could put it on the market, mentally taking stock of the belongings she could possibly sell if she held a garage sale, noting the shabby state of the paintwork and ruing the hours she'd have to put in just to make the house presentable. She could do that late at night, of course, if she was able to find a paying job in the afternoons. Tired as she was, distressed as she was, she stayed up to the point of collapse, eventually slumping on the worn couch in the living room and finally admitting to herself why she didn't want to go to bed, didn't want to let her mind empty of things to do.

If she wasn't thinking of things to do, she'd be thinking of why she had to do them. And she wasn't going to think about that. She wouldn't let herself think how it had happened, how her world had fallen apart in a single day. Wouldn't let herself remember what she'd seen on her file as the bank manager laid it out in front of her. Wouldn't acknowledge the bold black letterhead, the tersely worded letter, the scrawled, unfamiliar signature above the unforgiving, unforgivable signature block: Per Matthew E Mason, Solicitor.

He'd ruined her. Just as he'd threatened, just as he'd promised, Matt had ruined her.

Why?
Why?