Grand Slam (7 page)

On Monday morning I was exhausted from lack of sleep. I'd tossed, turned and fallen out of bed, which I forgot wasn't queen size, screaming from the sunburn pain.

Mum was in the shower when I wanted it. Why did she get up so early? She didn't have to go anywhere or do anything. I lay in bed with Axle while I waited, and she finally stuck her head in my door. ‘You should be up by now! It's a work day, you know.'

‘I'm waiting for the shower.'

‘Well, you could be making your lunch while you wait. Plenty of things to do.'

Making my lunch? I think the last packed lunch I had was a Vegemite sandwich and apple, paired nicely with a box of juice.

I walked into the bathroom. Mum was putting her make-up on.

‘Have you finished?'

‘Just a few minutes.' She powdered her nose.

I sighed and went to the kitchen, made a cup of tea. Out the back I could see Mrs Booth's black cat sitting on the fence, staring at our house. It looked just like Axle, except Axle wasn't evil.

By the time I'd had my shower, dressed and come into the kitchen, Mum had her old orange crockpot going with tonight's dinner. She wore an apron, her hair was flawlessly coiffed, coral lippy outlined to perfection.

I put bread in the toaster, which had been a wedding present some thirty-five years earlier and still sparkled like a brand newie. I could see Mum's reflection in it. She stood behind me, watching, lips pursed.

‘Hmm.'

I looked at her. ‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Oh, for God's sake.' I turned away, put the kettle on.

‘I do wish you wouldn't blaspheme, Erica.'

I didn't respond.

‘All right, I'll tell you. It's your hair. You need to do something with it.'

I faced her, fiddling with a curl, standing under the full glare of her scrutiny. When Mum doesn't actually comment on my appearance I can pretend she's not giving me the thorough once-over, even though I know she is.

‘What do you suggest?' May as well give her carte blanche, she'll tell me anyway. And, a rare thing, I agreed with her. Since the haircut from hell about eight months ago, I lost sleep over it. If I didn't tame it with a gallon of product, hello broccoli.

‘I've been speaking with Joseph, my hairdresser in Carnegie. He says you can get hair extensions.'

I held up a hand. ‘No.'

‘You can get extra hair attached.'

‘Not having this conversation, Mum.'

‘Once it's attached, they perm it to match your curls!'

I turned my back, buttered my toast. ‘Let's talk about the weather.'

‘Well, if you won't get hair extensions . . .' I could hear her shuffling about behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. She pulled a Myer bag from her Tupperware cupboard. And from that bag, a wig. One that looked just like my hair before I chopped it all off. ‘Ta da!' She waved the wig around.

‘Did you buy that?'

‘Yes, dear.' She held it out. ‘It was very expensive, I have to say. But worth it in the long run, I think.'

‘I'm not wearing it.'

‘Just try it on.' She jiggled it. ‘Look how bouncy!'

‘No, Mum.'

‘But this is how your hair used to look! I'm sure Jack would propose if you had long hair again.'

‘I think I'm more than just a head of hair to Jack. He does actually like me as a person.' Maybe not. ‘Besides, I don't want to get married again. I keep telling you.' I say it so it must be true.

She came at me with the wig. ‘Just try it on.'

I ducked out of her way. ‘No.'

She tried to shove it on my head.

‘Mum!'

She wouldn't stop. I ran away. She came after me. I grabbed my bag and ran out of the house. She chased me onto the street to my car.

‘You haven't cleaned your teeth!'

I zoomed away, watching her in the rear-view mirror, standing in the middle of the road, arms forming a heart shape as she pointed to her head, like if she didn't point I might not notice that she was now wearing the wig.

I was at my desk before eight, a rare thing indeed. Marcus inspected my sunburn. ‘It'll fade to a fab tan, darling.'

‘What's the latest on the cylone?'

‘On top of our rigs —' he checked his watch ‘— right about now.'

‘Did we evacuate?'

‘Uh-huh. Skeleton staff only.'

It was board-meeting day – my favourite – so Rosalind would soon be disappearing upstairs. She called me into her office, and tossed a large envelope across her desk.

‘This is the graduate. Her curriculum vitae.'

‘Graduate?'

‘You might want to read it. She'll be here at nine.'

I picked up the envelope and peered inside. ‘What graduate?'

She clicked her tongue, rolled her eyes. ‘We
discussed
this, Erica.'

We so didn't.

She informed me, with a big sigh and another eye-roll as though she resented wasting precious oxygen on me, ‘We have a PR graduate starting. I want you to look after her. Mentor her.'

‘Hold on, is this the graduate position I'm meant to be interviewing for after the tennis?'

‘Where
is
that document?' She flipped through the papers on her desk, already thinking about the next thing. ‘She's starting today. Off you go.' She shooed me.

I dared to keep standing there. ‘What about the other applicants?'

Rosalind glared at me. I turned and left, made a beeline for Marcus in the kitchen. I flapped the envelope in his face.

‘Graduate!'

‘I know, honey. Painful, isn't it?'

‘Why wasn't I told?'

‘Wait, you didn't know?'

‘No! Last I knew we'd advertised and were starting interviews after the tennis.'

‘God, she's a cow.'

‘She's not a cow. Cows are
nice
, Marcus.' I stomped back to my desk and opened the envelope with the graduate's résumé inside.

Charlotte Johnson was her name. There was a photo of the girl. She'd provided her age, which she said was twenty-five. Quite old for a PR graduate – and in fact she looked older than twenty-five – but then people do go back to school. Her mousy hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was without make-up and quite pretty in a plain kind of way. Charlotte had completed a Bachelor of Arts (Public Relations) degree and passed all subjects with high distinctions. She listed her ‘interests and hobbies' as tennis and cooking. Well, there was one thing we had in common. Although I preferred to watch tennis than play it.

Marcus propped on my desk. ‘I hate board-meeting day. They're so demanding.'

I stared at Charlotte's résumé.

He gave me a tickle under the chin. ‘Don't worry. I'll help keep her occupied.'

‘Who did the interviewing?'

‘Rosalind. While you were meeting with the Tennis people. But there was only one applicant.'

‘What? Why? This role should have attracted heaps.'

He shrugged. ‘One got sick, someone's dog died, another moved interstate . . .'

‘Well, this one's certainly qualified.'

‘Get her to do your filing.'

Great idea! In fact, I thought, Charlotte could do all the crappy things I don't like doing. She could pretend to be me and go live with my mother.

At 8:45 a.m., I got a call from reception: ‘Charlotte Johnson here to see you.'

In the lobby, on the far side of the vast, granite space, Charlotte sat primly on the edge of an uncomfortable designer bench, hands clasped on her lap. She looked just as she did in the photo, with her hair in a ponytail and face without make-up. When she saw me approaching she stood, gathered her bag and mirrored my stride across the marble floor.

‘Hi, Charlotte? I'm Erica. Welcome to Dega.' I held out my hand.

Charlotte gave it a good shake. ‘Thank you for employing me,' she said with confidence but she was bright red in the face, embarrassed. Or maybe . . .

‘Are you sunburnt?'

‘Yes. I went to the beach on Saturday.'

‘Oh, me, too! Which beach did you go to?'

‘St Kilda. You?'

‘Same. Maybe we saw each other without realising.'

‘It was pretty crowded.'

‘Let's get you settled in, shall we?'

Charlotte followed me to the lifts.

‘Did you drive?' I said as we waited.

‘I came on the train.'

‘I prefer the train.' I smiled at Charlotte and she smiled back.

The lift whizzed us upwards and we stood side by side, watching the numbers as they lit up in turn.

Charlotte said, ‘I saw you in the paper.'

‘Oh, right. Emilio's lunch.'

‘You're lucky. Getting to meet Emilio Méndez.'

‘I suppose.' We reached our floor. ‘Here we are!'

At my desk I pulled up a visitor's chair and offered it to her. It was where she'd have to sit until I found another spot.

‘Well,' I said and smiled.

‘Well,' she said and smiled.

I stood and she stood. ‘Let me show you the ladies'.' After a few introductions and a tour of the toilets, the kitchen, Rosalind's office, the rest of the media and investor relations team, including Marcus's desk where he carried on and I laughed and Charlotte laughed, it was nine thirty. Only another eight hours till home time, during which Charlotte Johnson would presumably learn something.

I invited Charlotte to lunch, and made sure I had my corporate credit card with me. I'd booked a table at a café on the river, just down from the Dega building in Southbank. I ordered a glass of mineral water; Charlotte asked for Perrier. Gawd. Fussypants. We scanned the menu. I asked the waiter for his recommendation.

‘The seafood risotto's really good.'

‘Sounds good to me.'

‘And me,' Charlotte said. ‘But I want mine without mussels.'

‘So, tell me about yourself. Your family? Where did you grow up?'

‘East Malvern.'

‘Really? Me too. Well, Chadstone.'

‘I loved living near the shopping centre.'

‘It was the best.' Chadstone Shopping Centre – Chaddy – is the shopping mecca of the southern hemisphere, and I grew up walking distance from it. ‘I'm living back there at the moment. My house is being renovated.'

She nodded. ‘Lucky.'

I didn't mention the issues around living with my mother. Charlotte waited for me to make a move on conversation, so I prattled on about myself, telling her boring things about my family, including the issues around living with my mother. I told her how I got the job at Dega and all about my cat. I even complained to her about Sharon Stone and she sat there, sipping her Perrier, listening politely.

Our meals came, I talked and ate, Charlotte listened and ate, and we'd just finished when I got a phone call from Rosalind, who was supposed to be at the board meeting.

‘Hi, Rosalind?'

‘You need to get back here
now
.' She hung up.

It wasn't unusual for Rosalind to speak to me like I'm not worth the effort, and not even unusual for her to be abrupt, but it was unusual for her to leave the board meeting and want to see me.
Need
to see me. Something was very wrong.

We walked into the building; the atmosphere had changed. Something gripped my stomach – a sense of thrill and panic at the same time. I planted Charlotte at my desk and shoved the company policy and procedures manual in her hands, telling her I'd be back.

I stuck my head in Rosalind's office. ‘What's wrong?'

Her hands were flying over her desk. ‘What's
wrong
? Do you live under a rock? A rig's blown up. One of
ours
! God, I don't need this. I don't need this!'

‘An oil rig? Where? How? Was anyone hurt?'

‘We need a media release. We need a miracle!'

‘I'll call Laura.' Laura worked for the PR company we used when things were big. Bigger than we could handle. They were experts in crisis control.

Marcus rushed in with Rosalind's coffee and a sandwich. He gave me raised eyebrows and a pursed mouth. The board meeting had presumably been cancelled.

‘Don't you go calling Laura,' Rosalind said, phone to her ear. ‘John doesn't want them involved . . . Grant!' Her voice turned to honey. ‘You're first on my list, of course . . .'

I went back out to find Charlotte sitting with the manual closed on her lap, watching me. I left her and went looking for Marcus, who was at his desk.

‘Give me a quick run-down.'

He turned from his computer, eyes shining, in love with the drama.

‘Well, there was only skeleton staff, six people. We don't know yet if anyone was hurt but the explosion coincided with the cyclone, so that's what we're going with, honey. Better than admitting we might have done something wrong.'

‘We're saying the cyclone somehow caused the explosion?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘Do we know if that's even possible?'

Marcus shrugged. ‘I love the name “Sharon” for a cyclone, don't you?'

I went back to my desk. My phone was ringing and before I could get to it, Charlotte picked it up. ‘Media and investor relations, Charlotte Johnson speaking.' I snatched the phone off her. It was the
Herald Sun
.

‘No news yet. Something to do with the cyclone. We're investigating . . . you're first on my list when we get something . . . no, skeleton staff only . . .'

I spent the next hour on the phone with the media. I hung up from a call with the
West Australian
and watched my phone, waiting for it to ring again. The other two members of our team were taking calls from investors and the public. Rosalind would talk to the share-registry people; JD and the chairman would handle the super VIPs, the major shareholders. My phone was silent.

I turned to Charlotte. She'd lined up the pens, paperclips, stapler, sticky-tape dispenser, post-it notes, etc. in neat, orderly rows. The paperclips especially were impressive. Little soldiers. Hmm. Useful. As I stood my jacket swished across the desk, disturbing the line of paperclips.

‘Sorry.'

Charlotte stared at her destroyed artwork.

‘Have you read any of the manual?'

She looked up at me.

‘Okay, well, why don't you put that away for now. You can watch how we handle a crisis.'

I explained to Charlotte what I knew about the explosion, adding that this wasn't normal, in case she worried about regular blasts and panic around the office. I sent her home at 5 p.m. and started my day's work. Mum called my mobile at five forty-five.

‘I'm just dishing up.'

‘Dinner? It's not even six o'clock.'

‘Are you nearly home?'

‘Mum, no, I won't . . . it's been a terrible day at work. I'll be here for ages yet.'

‘Well, what time? Just so I know.'

‘Mum, please.'

She huffed into the phone.

I drew in a deep breath. ‘Just . . . please don't allow for me at meal times. I can take care of myself.'

We hung up, hopefully still friends. Taking care of myself would mean McDonald's drive-thru and I'd prefer Mum's cooking, but I needed her to back off.

At six o'clock, John Degraves, most of the company execs, a scattering of minions and the entire media and investor relations department met in the boardroom to watch the news. The explosion was top story. JD had been given a few seconds of airtime where he said the company was investigating the explosion, however ‘all evidence points to a terrible accident quite beyond Dega Oil's control'. What evidence? Because of the cyclone, no-one had been able to get out to the rig to investigate.

They'd interviewed Martin McGann, CEO of Australia's second biggest company, Mintin Mining. He also happened to be JD's archenemy and father of the very nasty Shane. Mr McGann despised John Degraves, for lots of reasons. JD had a bigger company, bigger house, better-looking wife, children who weren't in jail. JD had won the major sponsorship for the tennis, when Mintin Mining had wanted it.

Martin was telling the journalist that this was ‘clearly a cover-up'. That responsibility and fault lay firmly with Dega Oil, and that ‘cyclones do not cause explosions on oil rigs that are maintained to industry standards'. He'd added a brief laugh, as though the very idea of an explosion-causing cyclone was ludicrous.

But he had a point. How could a cyclone cause an explosion on an oil rig?