Black Ice (11 page)

Seren entered the store and went straight to the shirt. She flicked a fingernail under the fabric and plucked out the price tag.

Double what she could afford. If she bought this shirt, she'd have no money left for the laptop.

'That would look great on you.' The sales assistant stood at her side, a look of approval on her face.

'I'll just try it on,' said Seren. Might as well torture myself, she thought. There's no way I can buy it.

The shirt was white, the supple Italian fabric an alternating matt and gloss white pinstripe. The effect was of a male business shirt, the cuffs worn long, falling to Seren's knuckles. But the resemblance to a man's attire ended there. The cut was for a woman's body; it clung to Seren's ribs, fell snug across her flat stomach. She fastened the shirt, finding the top button almost too tight across her breasts. That wouldn't be a problem, she thought, it wouldn't remain closed for long. With a heart-attack bra, the outfit would have liquefied Christian Worthington. Pity.

And that was without even considering the shoes. When she thought about the shoes, she sighed and carefully unbuttoned the shirt. She changed back into her own clothes and left the dressing room.

She walked towards the expectant sales clerk, an expression of deep regret on her face.

'I'll take it,' she said.

Seren sat on a courtesy bench in the food hall, watching diners lunching in a small café. She held her shopping bags close. Way to go, Templeton, she told herself. First day of the plan and you've already stuffed up.

A couple at a nearby table picked pasta and salad from each other's plates. Her stomach grumbled. Nothing for you, she told it. How am I going to get a laptop now?

The clinking of the cutlery sent her mind back again, remembering the night of her twenty-third birthday, dining at Altitude, an intimate dining room balanced thirty-six floors above Sydney harbour, a black velvet jewellery box open and spotlit beneath them. Even though she had then been dating Christian for almost six months, she didn't think she'd ever grow used to the hushed opulence of such restaurants.

She'd felt a flush in the hollow of her throat. Candlelight shimmered in Marco's eyes, reflected back from his glasses. He'd never seen anything like this. It seemed that every couple of minutes he stared down at his clothes in astonishment. She doubted he'd ever even seen a child dressed as he was. Christian had taken them both shopping that morning.

She'd tried not to focus on her own gown. When she did, she'd experienced the panicky thrill of being virtually naked. Although the cream sheath fastened around her neck and dropped all the way to the floor, it left her back completely exposed to her waist. With her hair cropped close to her head, from behind every inch of her skin was exposed. When she moved even slightly, she felt the silk of the fabric slip across her nipples. Christian watched every move she made. She felt the flush at her throat spread.

She had never stayed the night before. Although Christian always paid for a professional sitter for Marco for the evenings they had spent together, he knew that she'd never leave her son overnight. So that night Marco's pyjamas, stuffed into his school backpack, waited in the boot of Christian's car.

Marco had fallen asleep at ten, drunk on the lights of Darling Harbour spread out beneath Christian's apartment, the Playstation console still in his hands. After Seren had tucked him into the spare bed, she'd gone to find Christian.

The next morning had been a blur. Leftover take-away Thai for Marco's breakfast; she'd have to be more prepared next time. Who didn't have bread and Vegemite in their house?

'Ew! Stop it!' In the car park at Central station, Marco had protested the parting kiss Christian gave her.

'Hang on, baby, before you go . . .' Christian had reached under his seat and brought forward a gift bag.

'No,' said Seren. 'Nothing else, Christian! You've already given me too much.'

'I'm going to be late for work, Seren, so we can't argue about it now. You're just going to have to take it.' He trailed a finger down her cheek, her neck . . . Stop it, she told him with her eyes, and pointed with her chin to her son in the backseat.

Her whole face a smile, she gave in and peeked inside the gift pouch. It contained a shoulder bag of the most velvety, yielding chocolate leather.

When she and Marco finally got out of the car, Christian cracked his window. 'There's a little something inside,' he said. 'Happy birthday, baby. Have fun shopping. I'll call you tonight.'

Ten one-hundred dollar notes.

When she had been around Marco's age, Seren had decided that every day she would deliberately expect something terrible to happen. That way, if nothing did go wrong – unlikely – she would have something to be happy about, and if a bad thing did take place, well, she'd have been ready. But every day for months now, only wonderful things had happened. Amazing things. Seren was beginning to believe it was time to develop a new policy.

She'd dropped Marco off at school and caught the train back into the city to do a little more shopping. She'd find something spectacular to make Christian's eyes light up. She was beginning to learn his taste.

The shoes had stopped her dead.

Syrupy patent leather, glowing like a just-rinsed blackberry. The heels were much too high. Ridiculous, really. Especially for a girl who'd never worn heels before meeting Christian. But he loved her to be tall, towering over all the other women. The shoes laced at the front like a camp parody of a man's business shoe. A cross between sensible schoolgirl and dominatrix.

The name of the shoes' designer clinched it. Christian Louboutin. Christian.

A sign. It had to be fate.

No price tag.

It didn't surprise her. She'd never set foot in a shop like this. A few months ago, she hadn't thought she ever would.

A uniformed security guard opened the door for her and Seren stepped inside, clutching her new handbag to her chest, using it both as protection and as proof that she had a right to be in a store like this. She had a brief glance around and then made straight for the shoes.

'Ah . . .' She cleared her throat, and tried again. 'Excuse me? How much are these shoes?'

For some reason it was so much more intimidating that the shop assistant was male. The suit and tie added to his daunting demeanour. He looked to have just stepped out of a magazine. Or Christian's office. The thought made her stand up straight and meet the man's eyes.

'The Louboutins?' he said.

She nodded.

'Nine ninety.'

What did that mean? It took her a couple of moments to comprehend the numbers and the realisation flared her pupils. Nine hundred and ninety dollars. For a pair of shoes.

Evil.

Nobody should pay a thousand dollars for one pair of shoes. Nobody should
charge
a thousand dollars for a pair of shoes. The store assistant dropped his eyes back to whatever had occupied him before she entered the shop. His studied, neutral stare very clearly stated,
Thought so
. He hadn't even moved from behind the counter.

Little prick, she said to herself. She looped the shoelaces around a finger and dangled the thousand-dollar shoes over to the counter. Dropped them in the middle of the open book in front of him.

'Got them in a ten?' she said.

And everything had gone to hell in a hand basket after that, of course. Her mother had always told her that pride comes before a fall.

The shoes were perfect. Freaking perfect. Even in her jeans. She towered over the shop assistant, who now seemed a little inclined to worship her.

It took him almost fifteen minutes to package them. An elaborate ritual of tissue, then a fabric slipper for each shoe, a huge, beautiful box, and, oh my God, the shopping bag! Focused on every step of the spectacle, Seren nearly swooned when he brought forward with a flourish the shining cardboard and ribbon carry-bag, expanding it with a crack and a flick of his wrists.

Her cheeks feverish with the sin of it all, Seren had felt almost loving towards the man at the cash register.

'And how will you be paying, madam?' He had smiled up at her.

'Cash.'

'Oh, of course,' he said. 'Very good.'

Seren reached into her delicious new handbag and pulled out the notes in a bundle. She handed them over to Eric, her new best friend.

'And all hundreds, too,' he said. 'Well, at least we won't be here all day.' He beamed at her and began to count. 'What the hell?'

A clear plastic snap-lock bag fell from the notes and landed on the counter. Several opaque pink-tinged rocks sat inside.

'That would be yours, I think.' Eric's voice had frozen.

Seren stared at the little bag. Fuck. What the hell was that? Nothing good. Her eyes darted from the bag to the store attendant, who now would not look her in the face. He flicked a glance over to the security guard.

Fuck. For fuck's sake.

She snatched the little bag up off the countertop, and dropped it into the carry case containing the shoes. She grabbed up the handles of the shopping bag and stared at the attendant expectantly. What else could she do?

He completed the transaction, his face a mask. They did not speak another word to one another. She left the store.

When she saw the uniformed cops waiting for her at the bottom of the escalators near McDonald's, Seren dropped her shoulders in resignation. Had to happen, she told herself. Shit was supposed to happen to her every day. Life had been stockpiling her daily dose for a good six months. This was going to be one crapload of faeces.

Sunday 7 April, 12.30 pm

Since the day, aged twelve, when her parents had brought her home from the hospital after she'd been kidnapped, Jill didn't think she had ever again communicated anything effectively to her sister. So how the hell she'd been able to make Cassie understand, without saying a word, that she should behave as though they didn't know one another in Nader's lounge room in Merrylands, she would never know.

But that was what had happened. Fortunately, everyone at Kasem Nader's house had directed their total attention to Cassie when she had walked through the door. By the time Cassie's eyes had met Jill's and registered instant recognition, Jill had steeled her own expression. She had drilled her gaze in her sister's direction, a stare of desperate, deliberate focus. She had shaken her head slightly – no – as her sister's lips had parted.

And, unbelievably, Cassie's expression of shock had disappeared, her eyes had glazed, and she had continued her appraisal of the room, giving a semblance of being bored and slightly disdainful. Jill knew that look well. Had she not become a model, she was certain at that moment that her sister could have made it as an actor.

Jill had exhaled carefully, her heart thudding, and turned. Half the men in the room had moved forward, a few steps closer to the door, closer to Cassie. But one man stood still, his arms folded.

Kasem Nader had stared at Jill, who had slipped instantly back into her Krystal Peters mask.

From then, the night had progressed relatively uneventfully. Cassie and her friend had spent most of their brief time in the house speaking to one of Kasem's brothers. Jill had watched the three of them leave together, her stomach a miserable, acidic knot. Her sister had not again glanced in her direction.

What are you doing, Cassie? Jill wondered. What?

Jill stepped off the train at Bondi Junction station.

At Sunday lunchtime the platform was busy, but nothing like the crush of people here from six until nine in the evening every week day. She had never travelled to her sister's apartment by public transport before, and it took her a little time to orient herself. When she left the underground platform, she searched the skyline and spotted the apartment building relatively quickly. On the way there, she stopped at a deli and picked up some fat, black olives, five or six stuffed artichokes and some char-grilled red capsicum, shiny with olive oil. She didn't know what Cassie had planned for lunch, but this would go with most things. She added to her purchases a bag each of hazelnut-scented coffee beans and powdered sugar-dusted crostolli. At least Cassie would drink the coffee, she thought.

'Hey, big sis.' Cassie stood back from the door to her unit, welcoming Jill in. She wore a gauzy, transparent caftan over a bra and knickers. Barefoot and make-up free, her bronzed hair tousled, Jill saw now, as much as ever, why her sister made enough money as a model to afford this gorgeous apartment. She glanced down at her own jeans and black tee-shirt and inwardly shrugged. At least it wasn't a Playboy tracksuit today.

'Hey, Cass.'

They air kissed and Jill moved into the unit, dropped her groceries on the dining table and walked straight out to the balcony. She breathed in the view. She preferred the natural expanse of her ocean outlook, but she guessed she'd be able to get used to this, if she had to. She smiled. This apartment was worth three, maybe four, times her own.

'Salad okay with you?' Cassie moved around her kitchen, gathering up items.

'Great.' Jill came in from the balcony. 'Here, let me help,' she said.

'Got it all covered, sis,' said Cassie. 'Been slaving away over a hot stove all morning.'

Cassie placed a long French loaf and a platter of cold, poached chicken pieces on the white marble table. On her second trip from the kitchen she balanced a huge bowl in one hand and clutched a bottle of wine and two long stemmed glasses in the other.

Jill hurried forward and took the bowl. 'Cassie!' she said. 'You'll drop something.'

'I've got it,' said Cassie. 'You sound like Mum.'

Great, thought Jill. Good start. 'Yum,' she said, 'this looks gorgeous, Cass.'

'Rocket, pear, fig and blue cheese salad,' said Cassie. 'From Belgiovani's. Blonde chicken from Kim Sun's. Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand – the Marlborough district, I believe.'

Cassie took a seat in a white leather dining chair and cracked the seal on the wine. She grabbed a glass and poured.

Jill walked into Cassie's gorgeous kitchen – she did so love appliances – and selected a white platter from a shelf. When she brought it back to the table a glass of wine waited at her setting.

Cassie gave her a cat-like smile.

Jill took her seat. Cassie knew that she didn't drink. At least she thought she didn't. Here we go again, she thought, using booze to break the ice. She took a sip of the wine and smiled back at her sister.

'Mmm,' she said, and laid out the food from the delicatessen.

They ate quietly for a few moments. Chill-out music drifted with fresh air through the apartment.

'So what were you doing there, Jill?' Cassie finally asked.

What were
you
doing there, Cassie? Jill knew the question she so wanted to ask was not the best way to get into this. She wanted this meeting with her sister to go well. For once.

'Cassie,' she began instead, 'thank you
so
much for not letting on that you knew me. You saved my arse. Seriously.'

'Yeah? I didn't know what you were doing there, but I could tell you didn't feel like a catch-up.'

Jill gave a short laugh and took another sip of wine. 'That's the understatement of the year,' she said. 'I'm undercover at the moment, and I was working.'

'No shit!' said Cassie.

Jill stabbed at a fig-half. 'Thing is, Cassie, I'm not supposed to tell anyone, even you and Mum and Dad, that I'm working this way. But because you saw me there, I had to explain. If you had blown my cover, I don't know what would have happened.'

'Oh my God. My sister's a super spy.'

'Yeah, yeah.'

The conversation stalled for a little with the unasked question hanging between them.
Why were you there, Cassie?

'Seeing much of Scotty?' Cassie asked. A dangerous enough question, given that the last time they'd seen Scotty had been in the hospital after Cassie's overdose. The Scotty issue was always loaded for Jill anyway. She slid her glass forward when Cassie wiggled the bottle at her, an enquiry on her face.

'I thought I'd catch up with him today, while I'm out this way,' Jill answered. 'I hadn't seen him for ages before . . . the other day.'

Cassie sucked at an olive pit. One song ended. Another began.

'What about you, Cass? You still seeing Aidan?'

'Aidan. No. Loser. There's a new guy, a lawyer. I don't know, I thought he was great, but . . . Are they all losers, Jill?'

'Did you just ask
me
that question?'

Cassie laughed. 'Well, you don't seem to have too many man disasters,' she said.

'You mean, I don't seem to have too many men,' said Jill.

'There's Scotty. He's a big hunk of yum.'

Jill's heart somersaulted. No please, Cassie, don't turn your radar in that direction. But why not, she asked herself, surprised at the strength of her reaction. Why shouldn't Cassie date Scotty? Because I'd never stand a chance again, she answered herself. So I want a chance? Jill hit the mute button on the dialogue in her head and watched as Cassie scanned the table for a low-kilojoule morsel, her shiny fringe hanging in her green eyes.

'Yeah, well. I'm not too sure what's going on with Scotty,' Jill said. 'I prefer working. It's so much simpler.'

'Oh, definitely,' said Cassie. 'Simple. It does sound that way, Jill. What is your job again? New South Wales police detective pretending to be a gangster, or a gangster's moll, or a prostitute or something?' Cassie laughed. 'That was
some
tracksuit, sis.'

'Mmm, Playboy. I can lend it to you if you like.' Jill felt a little irritated; the volume of her sister's voice was increasing.

'Maybe,' Cassie laughed again. 'It might be fun to role-play a skanky drug addict . . .'

Cassie's fork froze halfway to her lips, as she seemed to realise what she had said. Her cheeks glowed. She dribbled the last of the wine into her glass, raised the glass to her mouth and drained it.

'Dead soldier,' she said, standing up with the bottle. Jill remembered that Cassie always referred to empty bottles that way. 'Same again?'

'I'm right, thanks, Cass,' said Jill, tearing off a chunk of bread. She needed something starchy to soak up what she'd already had.

Cassie returned to the table and cracked open another bottle of wine; poured some for each of them. 'So,' she said, leaning back in the chair with her glass, 'who were you pretending to be anyway?'

'I can't go into it any more than I have, Cass, sorry. But I probably should ask how you ended up in that house.'

'What? I'm supposed to tell you all about what I get up to, but it doesn't go both ways?'

'It's a different thing –'

'I'm just shitting you, Jill. It's no biggie. Adele's kind of got a thing for one of those guys. She met him at a club.'

'Which guy?'

'I don't know. Why? Has one of them taken your fancy? I did notice the big boy seemed pretty interested in you, tracksuit and all . . . What was his name? Casper or something?'

'Kasem.'

'That's the one. Yeah, I can see that he might be worth the hike out to the sticks. Bit of rough trade.'

'Cassie, please . . .'

'I might have made a move if he hadn't been so interested in you.'

'Cassie. Would you just stop for a minute!' Jill put her glass down hard and wine sloshed onto the table. 'Sorry,' she said, reaching for a napkin.

Cassie leaned back in her chair, a resigned, sullen look upon her face, waiting for the lecture.

'Look,' said Jill, 'I can't tell you what to do, Cassie, but these are not people you should be fucking around with.'

'I know what I'm doing, Jill.'

'Oh, of course you do, Cassie. That's why we got called to St Vincent's in the middle of the night.' Jill could feel her temper rising, wanted to reign it in, but the words spewed forth of their own accord. 'That's why you had a
psychotic breakdown
, for fucksakes. That's why you nearly died, overdosing on God knows what. What, so you smoke
ice
now? Coke doesn't touch the sides anymore?'

Cassie sat quietly, raised her glass to her eye and peered through the pale lemon-lime coloured liquid, as though studying it for judgement in a wine competition.

'You know,' she said finally, 'you're not Ms Perfect yourself.'

'Look, I'm sorry, Cassie. It's the wine. I'm not used to it, I shouldn't have said that.'

'Oh, you wanted to say it. For once in your life you might as well say what you want to say.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' Actually, I don't want to know, thought Jill, but it was too late.

'It means that you never say what you really think. That you avoid any kind of adult conversation, as though you're still some fucking thirteen-year-old. That you sit in judgement about others, but you live like you have OCD, or you're a fucking nun.'