Grand Slam (3 page)

My phone was ringing as I approached my desk and I ran to get it. Marcus was there, hands on hips, gawping at the fright that was my hair. I'd set it free from the ponytail.

I snatched up the phone, but before I could speak: ‘Erica!'

Jesus H. Christ. ‘Hi, Mum.'

‘What time will you be home? It's fish-and-chips Friday.'

Home
. Geez. ‘I'm not moving until tomorrow.'

‘Have you got plans tonight?'

No. I had no plans tonight. There was not one single invitation forthcoming from anyone. But there were plenty of things I'd rather do than spend an evening with my mother. I could meet Lucy and Steve after work, for example. Maybe hell would freeze over and Jack would invite me to some gorgeous, expensive restaurant for dinner. Maybe I'd sit on top of the Westgate Bridge and meditate.

‘No,' she said. ‘I didn't think so.'

‘Didn't think what?'

‘That you'd have plans.'

‘I might have plans.'

‘Well, tell me what you want so I've got it written down. In case your
plans
are cancelled.'

What to say? I found Mum's goading exhausting rather than irritating, and felt suddenly tired.

‘Piece of flake?'

‘You shouldn't be eating shark, Mum.'

‘Potato cake? Chippies?'

‘Look, I really don't think I'll be there for dinner. Please don't worry about me.'

‘Tsk-tsk.'

‘I'll see you tomorrow, okay?'

We hung up and I called Steve.

‘Have you finished my renovation?'

He laughed. ‘I'm not there today. Why?'

‘I'm serious. I haven't even lived there yet. I haven't even
been
there yet!'

‘Your mother's? What happened?'

‘She reckons I've got no plans tonight so I should go there for fish and chips. But she's right. I've got no plans.'

More laughing. The thing is, Steve has known my mother all his life. We were neighbours, in nappies together. Our mums were friends. His parents were the only normal people in our street. Steve knows what Mum's like. He used to laugh when we were teenagers too.

‘What are you guys doing?' I said.

‘Charity dinner for Lucy's work.'

‘Bugger.'

‘What about Jack?'

I shrugged, even though he couldn't see that. ‘Dunno.'

‘Spend the evening in your bathtub. It'll be your last opportunity.'

I told Steve about the loose tarp and he said he'd drop by and secure it.

‘What time are you coming in the morning?' I said.

‘Seven. It'll all be gone by nine. Be ready for a lot more dust.'

I did in fact get a phone call from Jack. He needed his security guy for something else tonight, and I told him the guy hadn't shown up last night anyway. I didn't mention the human-shape-at-the-window incident.

‘He was there, Erica. Might have gone for a bathroom break . . . how do you know, by the way?'

‘One of Steve's tarps came loose. I went out to check on it.'

‘I really don't like you being there on your own anyway. Your house isn't secure.'

‘I'm not moving until I absolutely have to. Which will be tomorrow after Steve demolishes my bathroom.'

‘I'd rather you move out today.'

Well then, maybe I should move to your house while Steve renovates. Or, maybe you shouldn't involve me with bad guys in the first place. ‘I'm excited by the idea of dust, rats and potential for murder.'

‘That's not funny.'

There was silence for a while, and then, I don't know why, but I said, ‘Anyway, I'm going out tonight and want to be close to the city.'

‘Where are you going?'

‘To a really expensive restaurant.'

‘Which one?'

‘Um, I can't remember.'

‘Who with?'

Who with? Who with? ‘Emilio Méndez.' Good one.

There was a long pause. ‘The tennis player?'

‘Yep. We're his sponsor, you know. I have to look after him.'

‘Okay, well, that's a shame. I thought you might spend the evening here, stay the night.'

I sensed this was an idea that had just popped into his head but still, bollocks on my stupid lie. I wanted to go stay at Jack's. It's the only way we got to be together. We never went out. I wasn't sure if that was because he wanted to keep our little affair quiet, or if it's because he just doesn't like going out because he's treated like a celebrity (because he's so hot), or if it's because he doesn't want me getting carried away thinking we might be in an actual relationship.

‘Yeah, shame. Are you lonely? What about the new recruit?'

Pause. ‘Out tonight.'

‘What about Joe?'

‘He snores.' I could hear the smile in his voice.

I laughed, but mentally kicked myself again. ‘Well, we might catch up one day. You never know.'

‘Erica?'

‘Yes?'

‘I thought you might like to go to the beach tomorrow. With me.'

The beach! Oh my God! An actual public appearance together. ‘Sure. I'm moving to Mum's in the morning but I'll be free after that.'

We arranged for me to go to his house at lunchtime and hung up. And I sat there, cross with myself. An opportunity to spend the night in bed with Jack Jones tossed carelessly away. And it would have been the
last
opportunity because once I was living at Mum's I wouldn't dare be such a hussy as to stay overnight with a man who wasn't my husband. Maybe I should call him back and say my plans had been cancelled. But then, I rather liked the idea of getting all dressed up and having dinner somewhere posh. What was I thinking? I wasn't going anywhere posh. I was planning an evening in my grubby bathtub.

I waited half an hour and called Jack.

‘You won't believe it. Emilio Méndez has cancelled.'

‘He got a better offer?'

‘No, he's . . . tired or something.'

‘Shame.'

‘But you know what I was thinking?'

‘What?'

‘I'd still like to go out. I'll buy you dinner.'

He laughed. ‘You'll buy
me
dinner? I couldn't let you do that.'

‘Good, so you can buy me dinner. Pick me up at seven?'

He didn't say anything for a really long time and I wondered if he was trying to think of a way to get out of it. I was tempted to tell him to forget it, that I'd just come over in my tracky dacks and spend the evening on the sofa drinking beer and eating pizza, but I kept pace with his silence a moment longer, holding my breath.

‘All right. Where do you want to go?'

‘Oh. Ah . . .'

‘Never mind. I'll make a booking somewhere. Somewhere nice.'

Wow.
Wow
.

‘I'll pick you up,' he said and we hung up, and I did a little tap dance by my desk, just as Rosalind wafted by with a champagne-induced grimace on her face. Or was that a smile?

For the umpteenth time today, my hair had cost me. This morning it cost me time and sleep. At lunch it cost me my dignity. And after work it cost me actual money because I'd been to my hairdresser to fix the mess. It was worth it, but surely there must be an easier way to have nice hair, daily, without all that sacrifice?

When I got home, first thing I noticed as I opened the front door was my footprints from the night before. I frowned, cursing the stupid fear that had sent me running into the house with muddy shoes. But, hold on, I took my shoes off just inside the back door, didn't I? They were still there, in fact. My stomach did one of those churning things and my skin prickled. I stuck my head in the bedroom, looked around. Nothing. I listened, holding my breath. Axle shot through the cat flap suddenly and dashed passed me, into the bedroom and under the bed. Something outside? I crept forward, along the passage, hesitated outside the spare room. The muddy prints got stronger as I got nearer the back door. I turned, placed my foot next to one. Similar size. Maybe they
were
mine. I was so stressed last night I couldn't remember what I did. I sighed, pushed open the spare room door. Nothing out of place, it seemed. Hard to tell anyway with all the crap in there.

On my knees, I peeped through the cat flap. Daylight makes things so different. I opened the door and saw that Steve had been to fix the tarp. So they were
his
prints in the house. I'd have to tell him off. The fact that the prints were about half the size of Steve's boots, I chose to ignore. I crossed the backyard, which now contained a pile of concrete stumps sitting to one side, and checked the padlock on the gate. It was locked, but one of the gates had been pushed as far forward as the chain would allow. There was a gap big enough for a slim person to fit through.

I called Steve. ‘I saw you fixed the tarp.'

‘Yep. No harm done.'

‘And you had the stumps delivered.'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘And you went into the house with muddy boots.'

‘Didn't go inside.'

‘But —'

‘Watch your language, by the way. I've got the kids in the van.'

‘Oh. Hi, kids.'

There was a chorus of chipmunks. ‘Hi, Aunty Erica.'

I made appropriate kiddie conversation without bad language and we hung up. I looked at the gate, and the set of footprints leading from it to the back door. Probably some curious teenager, checking out the building site, I thought as I adjusted the gate. Yep, that's what it would have been, for sure.

Jack pulled up out the front of my house in his sporty little Audi. He was fifteen minutes early, as usual. This was a nasty habit he'd formed, I suspected, after he was late for breakfast with his wife and parents in New York on September 11, 2001. They'd been waiting for him at the top of the World Trade Centre.

I watched him from my bedroom as he came through the front gate. My heart thumped and I felt faint. This was normal, of course. It's a wonder my body had survived it so far – the effects of seeing Jack. Tall with broad shoulders, the hottest body. Better than a footballer's. Eleven out of ten. Maybe twelve. I sat on my bed to recover.

Jack took me to a frighteningly expensive restaurant at Southbank, upstairs overlooking the river, Flinders Street Station and the lights of Melbourne, which were getting brighter as the orange sky faded, the ice-cold weather heading back to where it came from, having achieved its sole purpose: the destruction of my hair.

We sat by the window. Jack gave me the seat with the best view, my back to the restaurant entrance. He ordered me a glass of French champagne and I sipped on it, sighing with happiness. Waiters moved about the room, all discreet and efficient. The tables had crisp white linen cloths and napkins, and soft candlelight. Jack had told me once that candlelit dinners were foreplay, always. He'd said that before we'd actually slept together, when I'd wanted to go to a candlelit restaurant in Sydney during our first secret mission together to prevent the Opera House from being blown up. It was so romantic.

‘I don't think you and I have been out for dinner since Sydney,' I said.

‘That can't be true.'

I shrugged. ‘Can't think of another time.'

Jack's eyes moved from my face then and fixed on something over my shoulder. There was a slight smile in those telltale eyes. ‘Here's your friend.'

I whipped my head around, and was so shocked to see Emilio Méndez and entourage walk into the restaurant I lingered with my staring, and Emilio saw me, and grinned. I turned back, feeling the flood of heat course through me, prickling my face.

‘He told you a fib,' Jack said.

‘Where are they sitting?'

‘Behind you. He's coming this way.'

Oh crap, oh crap. And then, Emilio was standing at our table. Without acknowledging Jack, he took my right hand and held it. ‘You would like my autograph?'

He didn't recognise me? ‘Oh, um, actually, you've already asked me that.'

‘We have met before?'

‘Well, yes, Emilio —'

‘But I would remember such a beautiful woman!'

I thought I heard Jack's eyes roll. ‘We met at lunch. I'm your host from Dega Oil, Erica —'

‘Emily! It is you?' He released my hand and slapped his to his heart. ‘
Bella
! You have changed your hair like I suggested.'

I glanced at Jack. He was watching me with raised eyebrows.

‘Ah . . . Emilio, this is my . . . friend, Jack Jones.'

They shook hands.

Emilio kept his eyes on me. ‘A lucky man to sit with such a woman.
Muy afortunado
.'

Jack gave me a long look. ‘Yes indeed.' He seemed suddenly impatient, like if someone didn't leave soon, he might.

Emilio said, ‘Enjoy your meal, my friends. Emily, I will see you soon, yes?'

‘It's Erica.'

He took my hand again and bent over it.

‘Call if you need anything. You've got my number.'

‘It is most definite I will telephone you.' His mouth hovered over my hand as he spoke, then he kissed the back of it very softly. And lengthily. He returned to his table.

‘He didn't apologise for standing you up tonight, Emily.'

‘Very funny.' I shrugged, remembering my lie from earlier. ‘I don't care. I'd rather not be working tonight anyway.'

‘You'd consider that work? Dinner with Emilio Méndez?'

I glanced behind. Emilio had a line of fans waiting for his autograph. As he welcomed each one, another two arrived. ‘Probably not. He's pretty cute.'

‘He's got quite a reputation.'

‘I don't think he's a womaniser like people say. He's just young.'

‘You should be careful.'

A waiter arrived with a bottle of Krug champagne. ‘Compliments of Mr Méndez.'

Jack waved the waiter away. ‘We don't want it.'

‘I do!'

I turned in my chair. Emilio was signing autographs but watching me. We smiled at each other.

I mouthed, ‘Thank you.'

He gave me a wink.

Jack cleared his throat and picked up the wine list. The waiter poured me a quarter of a glass of champagne.

‘Why don't they just fill it up?' I muttered.

Jack took ages with the wine list.

‘What about a nice shiraz?' I said to hurry him up. ‘You like red wine.'

Jack ordered a French gewürztraminer. ‘I prefer white with fish.'

‘Delatite makes a nice gewürztraminer. I've tried it.'

‘I prefer French.'

Mr Prefer. ‘Well, I think you should buy more Australian things.'

‘I buy a lot of Australian wine.'

‘What about other things? Your cars aren't Australian.'

‘Soon there'll be no such thing.'

‘True. But you could get one now. It'll be a collector's item.'

‘What should I get? A Holden ute? A pretty green one?' He smirked.

‘You could fill the back of it with your guns.' I'd said that way too loud.

Jack frowned. Neither of us checked to see if anyone had heard. I finished my champagne and stared at the waiter across the room, willing him to bring more. He got the message, returning with the champagne and Jack's
preferred
French wine. Jack tasted it and nodded to the waiter.

‘I want some of that too.' I pushed my wine glass toward him.

The waiter poured a good thimbleful and walked away.

I took a sip. Nice. But now I was ready for more. I stared at the waiter again. Said to Jack, ‘I didn't think you spoke Spanish.'

‘I don't. Not really. When did I speak Spanish?'

‘You understood what Emilio said before. He said
afortunado
.'

‘It's pretty easy to interpret. I speak other Latin languages.'

‘And what does
afortunado
mean?' I felt pretty sure I knew exactly what it meant.

‘It means fortunate, as in, how fortunate you are to be sitting here with me, in this wonderful restaurant with a magnificent view and stunning wine.'

‘Yes, most
afortunado
.'

Emilio and co left before us. In fact, they finished their meals within an hour and didn't linger over coffee or dessert. As they left, Teresa gave me a small nod and Emilio smiled at me. I smiled back. Jack didn't acknowledge them, and he went all quiet over his fish.

‘How's business?' I said.

‘Which one?' He frowned, glancing up.

‘Any one. I'm just interested in what you've been up to. Conversation. You know how it works.'

He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin and tossed it on the table. ‘Pie business is going well. We've had a big order for the tennis.'

‘That's good. I'll skip breakfast on tennis days.' If you don't like a Pee Wee pie, then you're not Australian, I reckon. Imagine my delight when I discovered Jack owns the company, whose office also disguises the Team's shooting range. Jack occasionally gives me freebies. Pies, I mean. I'm also allowed to play at the shooting range, which I choose not to do. ‘And the
other
business?'

He looked around. I was so naughty tonight. We're not supposed to discuss the Team unless we're under the cone of silence. But I think I wanted to prompt some kind of response from him that wasn't . . . what? Bland. Always Mr Cool. Mr Understated. Mr
Prefer
.

‘Quiet.'

‘Business is quiet or I should be quiet?'

‘Both.'

‘Oh, well, that's good, if things are quiet.' No targeted baddies at the mo.

‘Perhaps.' He leaned in. ‘I've been thinking about tonight. About you being at home, alone.'

‘And?'

‘I want you to come home with me. Joe'll take you home in the morning.'

‘That's nice of Joe.'

He didn't respond, well aware of the sarcasm.

‘Anyway,' I said, ‘I need to be home for Steve. He's coming at seven.' I didn't need to be there, actually, but Jack didn't need to know that.

‘He'll get you home early.'

‘Why can't you take me home?' Erica. What are you doing? Why make a fuss? Just go home with Jack tonight and be happy. You love his bed, especially when he's in it.

‘I've got a training routine. Plus paperwork.'

‘Well, I have to demolish my bathroom.' The devil sitting on my shoulder gave me a nudge. I lowered my voice to a whisper, leaned in. ‘Besides, I'm safe because I've got a gun, remember?' Maybe I was a bit drunk.

Actually, I'd forgotten about my gun. I needed to do something with it. I couldn't leave it in my laundry hamper, but I couldn't take it to Mum's, no way.

Jack sat there for ages, looking at me across the table. He had his bossy-boots face on. ‘I assume it's secure?'

I drank some champagne. ‘Of course.' I had some wine.

‘Where?'

‘It's, um . . .' Where? ‘. . . in the drawer under my bed.' I hoped that was the right answer and made a mental note to move it over the weekend. Steve had built the drawer for me when Jack first gave me the gun but I'd never put it there because I was too scared to touch it. The drawer sat snugly within a section of the bed frame, was lockable, and you really had to know it was there to find it. Steve thought the drawer was for secret girl things.