Claudia's Big Break (2 page)

Of course, I'd neglected to mention to the girls how this little venture had really come about and that after our sojourn I'd be looking for a new job.

It wasn't as though I'd been sacked or anything. No, Marcus was too smooth for that. Instead, he'd orchestrated my removal from the office for two weeks so I could get over my ill-advised fling with him, by way of an all-expenses-paid vacation in Europe. Then he'd dropped hints about the difficulty of our working together after that.

I felt like such an idiot. Marcus, a self-made millionaire, had built up one of the largest importing firms (olives, oils, that kind of thing) in Australia. He was good-looking, charismatic, and for the past few months I'd been . . . well, I just hadn't been myself, and therefore I'd been vulnerable to his considerable charms. I'd slept with him once, a while back, even though I'd known it was wrong on so many levels. First level, he was my boss; second level, he was married — well, newly separated. And the levels went on.

I swear I'm not the sort of person who sleeps with married men, newly separated or not. And after that first time I promised myself it wouldn't happen again. But it did — a further dozen times. What was I thinking!

Anyway, it was over — well and truly. When Marcus's soon to be ex-wife, Trish, had come into the office a couple of weeks ago, I'd felt physically ill. It didn't matter that they were no longer together, our affair felt sordid and cheap. And I was past being sordid . . . and cheap. Truthfully, my feelings for Marcus had deepened, and there were moments (mostly after watching a Julia Roberts or Hugh Grant movie; definitely after watching
Notting Hill
) when I believed if I quit working for him we could have a real relationship conducted openly, sipping champagne at Belle Époque or margaritas at Cloudland. But Marcus wasn't interested. In fact, he'd been decidedly cool the previous few weeks. So before I really fell in love, it needed to end.

True to my good intentions, the day after Trish's visit I hung around the office until the other staff had left for the evening. ‘I can't do this any more,' I said to Marcus when he swung by my office.

‘And what might that be, gorgeous?'

‘Don't
gorgeous
me. You know what I mean — you and me. I think your wife knows. She looked at me —'

‘You're paranoid, Claudia. Trish doesn't know anything. Besides, it's none of her business anyway.'

‘I don't care. I'm not the sort of woman who goes around sleeping with married men.'

Marcus regarded me with his blue eyes, gym-toned arms crossed in front of his broad chest, and cocked his handsome head sideways. ‘Calm down. We're okay.'

I shook my head. ‘I don't think so.'

I mean, how could we be okay? Sneaking around, never going out in public. Tara and Sophie didn't even know about us. It was wrong. If we were truly a couple, I would have told them and Marcus and I would be dining at Aria Brisbane instead of eating takeaway pizza in the boardroom.

He took a moment. Several moments. Marcus likes to deliberate when it comes to making decisions. ‘I was going to head over to Athens to meet with a new investor, but quite frankly I think you could do with a break. Why don't you go instead?'

‘To Athens?'

‘For a day or two. Meet this guy, have him sign a slip of paper, and then take a holiday. The Greek Islands. Santorini maybe? Take your girlfriends.'

‘So you want me out of here? Got your eye on the new sales rep, is that it?' I was being irrational, thinking about how he'd held Maddie's gaze a bit too long at that afternoon's sales meeting.

‘Claudia, I thought you didn't care. Now that you mention it,' he said, rubbing his chin, ‘she's not bad looking . . .'

I shook my head. ‘I'm so glad I didn't fall in love with you.'

Marcus smiled at me in that provocative way of his. ‘Seriously, it's probably best that we —'

‘End it?' The
it
caught in my throat.

Marcus nodded and I willed myself not to cry. ‘Yeah, that's what I was thinking, too.'

He hugged me and then held my shoulders. ‘We good?'

I couldn't speak.

‘Go. Have fun,' he said cheerily. ‘Use the holiday to get over me. I know it will be damn hard, but you have to try.'

So that was it. Marcus, the Porsche-driving gazillionaire and I were kaput. And to soften the blow he was offering me a holiday in Greece, all expenses paid. I deliberated over the ethics of the situation for all of five seconds before accepting Marcus's deal. He knew I was totally cash strapped. I couldn't afford a holiday in Sans Souci, let alone Santorini.

So there we were — me, Tara, Sophie and Levi — filling out departure cards at Brisbane International Airport. (Well, obviously Levi wasn't filling out a departure card; he was too busy running around pretending to be an aeroplane. At least he was on theme.) So I had to do a little job for Marcus in Athens en route to Santorini? No biggie, I was used to running errands. But I was stumped on the sixth question — occupation?

‘Tough one?' The masculine voice came from behind my right shoulder.

I turned around, annoyed at the interruption even though I was holding up the queue at the bench. I think I had the only working pen. ‘Pardon?'

The smiling man standing beside me showed off his perfectly straight white teeth. ‘You seem to be having trouble with your departure card. Can I help?' As if this was the thirteenth century and helping damsels, whether in distress or not, was a man's everyday business.

I shook my head and moved away. I was too hungover to make idle chitchat with a man who was wearing an Akubra hat. Where was his stuffed koala?

‘Well?' he persisted, moving closer.

I studied his face. Tanned, even complexion, big brown cowlike eyes. Way too attractive.

‘I can't remember my passport number,' I lied, instantly regretting my stupidity. My passport lay open in front of me for all in the customs area to see.

‘Well, Claudia Marie Taylor,' he said with boyish enthusiasm, pointing to my passport number. ‘MC879045. Enjoy your flight.'

I glared after him as he strolled towards the security X-ray machines, then down at my passport photo. The day it was taken I'd had the flu. I looked fifty! My hair was a mess, my skin blotchy — and my nose? I looked demented.

I jotted down
Office Manager
in the blank space on my card (boring but true) and joined Tara, Sophie and Levi outside a duty-free shop where oversized bottles of gin, Scotch and other spirits clamoured for attention.

‘Where the hell is Claudia?' Tara was saying. ‘Don't tell me she's lost already. That'd be a record, even for her.'

I flinched. That's the thing about best friends — they know all your failings; thankfully they still love you anyway. Tara and I had met at school, in Year 10. We'd been partnered together in biology, first term, and dissecting frogs was our first joint endeavour. When I fainted at the sight of several dead frogs pinned to chopping boards, Tara threw a cup of cold water over me. By the time I came to, she'd made the necessary incisions in the dead amphibian and then she proceeded to tell me I was a retard for passing out. I still can't believe I was the only one of the twenty-two giggling fifteen-year-old girls in the lab who passed out. It's not like slicing open frogs' intestines is an everyday occurrence.

‘She was right behind us,' said Sophie. She was too busy struggling with her Prada carry-all, an assortment of stuffed toys and Levi to notice my arrival. She and I had met in homeroom, Year 9. She stood next to me during rollcall (Taylor, Turner) and we bonded over our mutual love for Michael J Fox and
Family Ties
. God, how we desperately wanted to slip into Justine Bateman's shoes!

Anyhow, Sophie, Tara and I had been best friends forever. We'd never actually lived together, apart from a very long four months in our late twenties. After that we'd come to the mutual conclusion that flatting together was one of those things we shouldn't do, along with sharing boyfriends or razors, doing the Hokey-Pokey and blowdrying our hair in the bath. Despite this, I'd ended up living back with Tara and had been sharing her small Queenslander in Red Hill for over a year.

‘Sorry,' I said, making my presence known. ‘Stress attack over the departure card. All sorted.'

‘I want chocolate,' huffed Levi as he threw his pink lollipop to the ground.

‘Well, you got strawberry,' said Sophie, sounding as though she'd already flown halfway across the world with a marauding toddler.

Tara nudged me. ‘Twenty hours on a plane with him!'

‘Nothing a few long movies and a sturdy set of earplugs can't fix,' I replied.

‘A litre of vodka wouldn't hurt either,' Tara added, only half-joking.

‘That's enough, Levi,' said Sophie, but her petite Kylie Minogue frame was no match for her son's energetic and noisy theatrics.

Generally Levi's antics were the kind that led strangers, childless strangers in particular, to believe that someone, in most cases his mother, was beating him. She wasn't, of course. When it came to Levi, Sophie had amazing self-control and love. As for today's airport display, fellow travellers soon realised it was only a tantrum and tsk-tsked as they hurried by.

‘I'm off for a spot of duty-free shopping,' said Tara, abandoning Sophie and I to our noisy fate.

‘Wait!' I said, frightened she'd disappear into the shiny rows of liquor and designer perfumes without me.

‘What?' Tara sighed. ‘He's started already. How am I going to find the solitude to write on this holiday? I need space and silence. Instead, there'll be tears and tantrums.'

‘Come on, don't be like that,' I said, wrapping my arm around her. ‘Levi's excited, he'll settle down once we're on the plane. Besides, you need us. Most of your ideas are stolen from Soph and me.'

‘As if,' she snorted. ‘You won't let me write down any of our conversations.'

‘You bet. Copyright.'

‘What's the point of having friends if I can't write about you?'

One of the things I loved about Tara was her forthrightness. She didn't pull any punches. A few years ago when I'd decided to go blonde in an attempt to win over a potential boyfriend, she had taken one look at me and declared, ‘Your hair's yellow. You look like a clown. Either fix the colour or shave your head and wear a wig for the next six months.'

Most of the time I admired Tara for her honesty. Sometimes, though, I wanted to slap her.

Nearby, Sophie was verging on tears as she continued trying to calm Levi.

‘I'm insane for thinking I can holiday with this monster. I should just turn around and go home.'

‘Don't be silly,' I said, watching Levi spin on the floor. ‘Can't we pretend he's not ours?'

She didn't laugh. So, being the attentive godmother I liked to think I was, I picked up the Chupa Chup (now coated in human hair and other vile detritus I couldn't make out) and sat down beside him. I held his head still and whispered into his ear. When he grinned, I scooped him into my arms. Tantrum forgotten — at least as far as Levi was concerned.

Sophie ran her slender fingers through her blonde hair, popped her sunglasses back on her head and gathered up Levi's discarded belongings.

‘What did you say to make him stop?' she asked.

‘Easy. I told him the reason chocolate is brown is because poo is mixed with it, but the strawberry ones are only ever made out of strawberries.'

‘He actually bought that?' Tara asked.

‘Of course. Kids love hearing an adult say
poo
.'

Levi turned around and giggled.

‘Okay, we get the picture,' said Sophie as she fossicked around in her enormous bag in search of boarding passes.

‘I won't be a moment,' I said, ducking into the duty-free shop and making a beeline for the Clinique counter.

Waiting in the queue, I saw Akubra guy hovering by the whisky section and I glanced around to see who, if anyone, he was travelling with. I handed over my credit card to the sales assistant and glanced down at my purchases. Bugger! How had I managed to spend four hundred and twenty dollars in less than two minutes? (Three Dior lipsticks, mascara and concealer for me; Clinique SPF moisturiser for Tara; funky Mac compact for Sophie.)

That side of me, the impulsive shopper side, would have to cease, I told myself sternly. I needed to be frugal, and I would be. Absolutely, definitely — after my holiday. A couple of weeks wouldn't make any difference.

The thing was, financially I was in dire straits. In fact, my massive debt was one of the reasons I was living with Tara. The other being that I'd had no other option when George and I had broken up. It was a long story, also a bit humiliating, and I didn't want to think about that right now.

But I had a plan. All going well, in two years' time, maybe less if I got my spending under control, I'd be debt free. Of course I'd have to move on from my job as well. Clearly, I wouldn't be able to stay there much longer. Even though I wasn't in love with Marcus, well, not desperately in love, office dynamics would be very awkward, especially if Marcus found a new fling . . . Besides, my job sucked. I was stuck in an office all day, reconciling olive oil accounts.

Yes indeed, a holiday was definitely what I needed to escape Marcus and the mundane, debt-ridden reality of my life.

Because the plane was packed to capacity, we struggled to fit our bags in the overhead compartments. Then the four of us fidgeted to get comfortable in the middle row of cattle class as the plane took off. I glanced across at the smug travellers lucky enough to have snagged seats in the exit row with the extra leg room. I'm sure they were only pretending to read their safety cards in the unlikely event of an emergency. Through the curved clear plastic windows, I could just make out the endless white clouds stretching beyond the horizon.