Legally Addicted (5 page)

On her way out, she had walked past Brad’s office. She wondered if she should go in to offer words of commiseration, or whether it was too soon and Brad would misconstrue her comments as taking an opportunity to gloat about losing his client.

She was grateful to find that Brad had already left for the day, saving her the discomfort of having to decide.

The taxi turned into Dockton’s main street, and after the driver pointedly noted that Dockton was not a suburb he was familiar with, Georgia was forced to give him directions to the shelter a couple of blocks away.

There was a time when Georgia had walked the streets of Dockton after dark alone; not because she felt comfortable, but out of necessity. Now she had the luxury of alighting from the taxi right outside the building, and returning the same way, avoiding any contact with the streets that had once been her home. After paying the fare, she got out, closed the back door of the taxi, and stepped up on to the kerb.

For a moment she thought she heard a male voice call her name, but she dismissed it. She didn’t know anyone around here anymore. This part of Dockton had a highly transient population. It was years since she had lived in the area. Then she heard it again. She froze. This time the voice resonated; in a familiar, yet distant, way that sent the hairs on her neck standing on end.

A voice from her past.

‘Georgie — Maggie Murray’s little Georgie — I thought it was you.’

‘Jake.’

She shivered, gingerly sidling around him on the footpath, so that the last in the long line of her mother’s boyfriends no longer obstructed her way into the safety of the women’s shelter. But Jake followed her. He was far too close, all up in her face, her nostrils attacked by his rancid breath.

‘I heard you’re some hot-shot lawyer now, Georgie.’

‘I’m a lawyer — family work mainly — don’t know about the hot-shot part.’

She barely recognised him. Jake was only ten years older than she was, but he may as well have been in his fifties. Missing teeth and a face ravaged by drug use had prematurely aged him. His eyes darted around her, as if he were following a moving object, and his face twitched every few seconds.

‘We were a family once, Georgie. You, me, and your mother. You were like a daughter to me.’

Georgia bit down on her tongue. Literally holding it, gently but firmly, clasped between her front teeth. Jake was a disgusting creep, but he was showing the first signs of agitation due to withdrawal. She knew better than to say anything that might set him off.

Daughter, that was a joke.

He wasn’t so much a father figure as a lecherous pseudo-uncle. When her mother had found Jake, then a vaguely handsome twenty-something, roaming homeless in Dockton, she had teamed up with him to score and shoot up. By then Georgia was a teenager and had started to fill out. Jake was always perving at her.

Jake had soon moved in to their crappy dive of a house, but the abandoned terrace that was her mother’s squat had been her saviour. Built at a time when internal doors routinely had locks, somehow the key to her room had survived almost a century. Her room was a haven away from Jake. Many times she had silently thanked the unknown nineteenth century craftsman who had ensured her safety and probably her virginity until she could leave home. The thought sent nausea rising up in her throat and she fought the urge to wrinkle her face as if she had inhaled something putrid.

‘I have to go in, Jake. They’re waiting for me,’ she said, finally releasing her tongue, hoping the reference to others would send the message that she was expected by people close by. Nevertheless, she slid her hand into the pocket of her coat, gripping her mobile.

‘Can you spot me a fifty, darling — for old time’s sake?’

‘Ah, maybe, I’m not sure.’ Georgia backed towards the glass swing door that marked the entrance to the shelter, leaning against it until she felt it give against her weight. ‘Oh no, sorry, I forgot. I haven’t got cash,’ she said, bursting through the door into the shelter’s reception area.

For once she was grateful to run into Caro Marsden, who was leaning against the reception desk with stack of papers in her hands. She appeared to be waiting for someone, looking expectant for a moment as Georgia entered the reception area, then disappointed.

Despite taking a couple of deep breaths, the adrenaline the run-in with Jake had sent coursing through Georgia’s veins was still doing its work, her heart thumping out a thrash metal beat, her stomach lurching into her chest. She reached out to grip the reception desk for support.

Caro, who rarely seemed to notice Georgia, looked her up and down, her brows coming together in concern.

‘Are you okay, Georgia? You look very pale.’

Georgia took a deep breath and pretended to smile.

‘I’m fine, Caro. It’s just cold outside, that’s all.’

Caro shot her a look like she didn’t believe her, but thankfully didn’t ask any more questions. After a couple of minutes, when it finally seemed unlikely that Jake was going to follow her inside, Georgia began to relax.

She had been volunteering at the shelter since law school. To begin with, she had done cleaning and helping out in the kitchen, but now, as a trusted volunteer, she covered reception and the often delicate admissions process.

Women tended to arrive at the shelter for three main reasons: poverty, drug addiction, and domestic violence. The Dockton Women’s Shelter welcomed the victims of Sydney’s dark underbelly into a bright and welcoming reception area decorated with pictures painted by the children that passed through the shelter. Georgia studied some of the new paintings. They transported her back to her own visits to the shelter as a child; visits which coincided with her mother neglecting to pay the utilities or running out of money for food.

The shelter had been an oasis of calm, clean efficiency, with enough blankets and sufficient food to eat. Not exactly happy times, but safe times. As a child, being safe, warm, and full was as good as it had ever gotten for Georgia.

‘Bradley, how wonderful to see you again!’ Caro was gushing in the direction of the main entrance where Brad Spencer filled the doorframe. Her voice pulled Georgia back to the present.

Previously almost slumped against the high reception desk, Georgia had now straightened up, but seeing Brad she stiffened further, pulling herself up to her full height.

Brad noticed her straight away.

‘Evening, Georgia.’

‘Hi, Brad.’

What was he doing here? After only having just brought her ragged nerves back under some semblance of control, Brad’s sudden appearance threatened Georgia’s composure. It was bad enough working with him all day, without randomly running into him after hours.

Georgia slapped on a fake smile while she mentally calculated what Brad’s appearance might mean. Was he here to drop something off to his legendary socialite mother who acted as patron to the shelter? Georgia knew all of the other shelter board members, at least by sight, and he wasn’t one of them, so he couldn’t have been there for the board meeting.

‘Evelyn is such a dear friend, and she has done such good work here, Bradley. It’s a relief that there is someone to carry on the Spencer connection with the shelter while your mother is away.’

Caro, whose usual communication style with Georgia ranged from brusque to dismissive, was coming across as saccharine sweet.

So Brad was here for the meeting. Still, the volunteers rarely ran into the board members. They usually dashed in and out for their meetings. It’s not as if they helped out at the coalface, so it wasn’t like she would see much of him. Relieved, Georgia’s faux smile gave way to something slightly more genuine.

‘Yes, welcome to the shelter, Brad,’ she said.

Caro sent a festering look in Georgia’s direction.

‘So, I see you’ve met one of our volunteers already, Bradley. That’s wonderful. Georgia’s one of our best people. There’s nothing like personal experience, is there Georgia? The women really trust you.’

Georgia mentally swore a four-letter oath, inferring hasty and loveless fornication. Caro, the evil cow, was doing her best to ‘out’ her as a Dockton local and one-time client of the shelter, but Georgia wouldn’t bite. If she was going to convince the board of the shelter to run with her idea for the addiction centre, she needed to stay in this hideous woman’s good books.

‘Yes, I imagine Georgia’s knowledge must be a real asset to your organisation, not to mention her professional success; she’s quite an inspiration. But then, with your own experience, Caro…’

Caro silenced Brad with the look of a knife-thrower about to spear her target. Georgia was wondering what he could be referring to when Caro surprised her by taking her arm, steering her away from the reception desk where she was supposed to be on duty.

‘Yes indeed, Bradley. The other board members are already waiting in the meeting room. Georgia, we’ve lost our minute secretary, you don’t mind do you?’

‘But…reception,’ Georgia hesitated, worrying who would make the evening admissions if she left her post.

‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve organised for one of the other volunteers to cover reception.’

Caro released her arm and was already on the move, heading towards the meeting room in full expectation that Georgia would follow.

‘Yes, Georgia, I’m sure you have all the skills to make an excellent secretary,’ Brad said in an irreverent voice, pulling a silly face behind Caro’s back.

Georgia sniffed in mock indignation, trying not to laugh, but Brad had broken the tension. It was good to know she wasn’t the only one who found the woman tedious.

Moments later Georgia was sitting in the shelter’s small meeting room taking notes as Caro, imperious in her role as chair, took the meeting through the agenda.

For once, being cooped up in close quarters with Brad wasn’t a trial. With Jake possibly still lurking outside, it was good to have someone around who would have the physical strength to deal with him. While she doubted Jake would barge his way into a brightly lit, well attended building, you could never be sure with a drug addict. Substance withdrawal could make a person unpredictable. Brad’s six foot, broad-shouldered presence was reassuring.

The meeting progressed efficiently. Whatever else she was, Caro was an effective chairwoman who kept to the agenda.

Brad impressed Georgia by asking thoughtful, pre-prepared questions, as if he had done some background work on the organisation before the meeting, and more than once he stopped other committee members in mid-sentence to ask for information or clarification. He seemed interested and, for once, given the gravity of the issues being discussed, Georgia managed to keep her buzzing hormones in a holding pattern, fizzing just below the surface.

‘The last item we need to consider is finalising the arrangements for the annual gala dinner benefit.’

Caro ticked off a series of items previously discussed on the agenda.

‘Evelyn Spencer has always organised a spectacular event for us, but I appreciate that organising dinner dances might not be your thing, Brad,’ she said, with a girlish laugh.

‘That’s true. I don’t have the time to commit to a gala or possess, I’m sorry to say, the impressive social know-how that my mother would have brought to the task.’

Brad’s reference to Evelyn Spencer’s reputation as Sydney’s foremost society matron prompted a polite chuckle from the other committee members.

‘I thought, perhaps, we could go over the arrangements together, Bradley,’ Caro purred. ‘We could get started next weekend.’

Caro already had her diary open, poised to nominate the time and place.

‘I can’t, I’m afraid. Georgia and I will be away then, up at my shack, won’t we, Georgia?’

Brad sent her such an exaggerated pleading look that his dark eyes reminded her of a beagle, the only thing missing a set of floppy brown ears. Georgia laughed. She was about to protest, ironing out the false impression about the nature of their relationship that Brad had given everyone, until the mixture of curiosity and horror on Caro Marsden’s face changed her mind. After Caro’s behaviour out in reception earlier, there was a lot more satisfaction to be had in letting her think that Georgia Murray, daughter of an unknown father and a deceased drug addict mother, had breached the defences of Sydney high society.

Barricades specially designed to keep people like her out.

‘Yes, I see, any other business, no? That being all, the meeting — ’ Caro had gone into overdrive trying to wrap things up.

‘There is the proposal for the addiction centre,’ Georgia said, seizing the opportunity to raise her proposal for the establishment of a specialist addiction centre in front of the entire women’s shelter board.

‘I don’t remember us having discussed an addiction centre before, have we, Caro?’ one of the other committee members asked, with a look of concern.

Unleashing her over-whitened teeth in a crocodile smile around the meeting table, Caro finished with a warning look in Georgia’s direction.

‘It’s only very much in the preliminary discussion stages — an idea from one of our volunteers. If and when we have something firm enough to discuss, rest assured, I will put a report on the agenda.’

Satisfied with Caro’s response, the committee meeting broke up. The various committee members gathered up their papers, rushing to leave for their next commitment. Brad paused to give her a wink before doing the same.

With Brad’s exit from the room, it was as if a safety line had been cut, the security his presence had provided evaporating with his departure. Georgia shivered, pulling together her notes, hoping there would be plenty of people around when she went back to take over reception.

Caro lingered after the others had gone, standing in front of the door to the meeting room, preventing Georgia from leaving.

‘Georgia, I know this proposal is important to you, but I’m not prepared to jeopardise the relationship we’ve built up with the Spencer Charitable Trust so you can push your barrow. This shelter is almost entirely funded by Spencer money, and I refuse to risk that relationship by asking for more funding without a concrete plan. Even with a formal proposal, I understand what you’re suggesting is effectively a supervised injecting centre. And despite the add-on of support and educational services, that makes it too controversial, as far as I’m concerned.’