Paycheque (19 page)

‘Okay, that sounds great – we might have decided on what sort of food to do by then.'

‘I'll bring some cook books just in case, shall I?'

‘Good idea,' Bernie said.

‘Thanks for including me, it means a lot. Sorry, gotta go,' he said, and left.

‘Isn't he gorgeous?' Bernadette crowed, still gazing after him.

‘Yes,' Claire said. And she meant it. Why had she been so harsh on him? She didn't even know him. She really must learn to be less judgmental.

‘You don't mind, do you?' Bernadette asked, suddenly aware of Claire's silence.

‘No, of course not.' Claire McIntyre wasn't sure how she felt. But one thing was for sure: whatever form the day took, she had to have fun and
not
think about what she was missing in a corporate box in Melbourne.

Claire drove home, her head buzzing with ideas for decorations, menus and guest lists. But behind the excitement there was a dull nag of something else. She realised she was annoyed with Bernadette. But why? So what if she wanted to invite David? David was the perfect guest – he could cook, was charming and, as a respectable business owner, was highly unlikely to get really pissed and make a fool of himself. Was she just jealous?

Claire felt a deep sense of impending loss. Telling herself how much she missed Keith, she channelled her grief in that direction and then swallowed it. Keith was gone and that was that. She and Bernadette had survived men coming and going from each of their lives before.

Claire thought about what Bernadette must have gone through when she'd gotten serious about Keith. She had no right to be such a selfish cow. She should be happy and supportive, the sort of friend Bernadette had always been. And she would be, Claire vowed, giving the steering wheel a slap, and then turning up the radio.

Claire pulled off the bitumen and onto the long dirt driveway. For possibly the first time, she didn't flinch at the pinging of small stones on the metallic paint she'd paid an extra eight hundred dollars for. She realised with a sense of both relief and misgiving that she must be finally settling into the rural way of life again. It was a little scary, but at the same time it felt nice not to have to answer to the bean counters and power-hungry corporate types. Maybe it was true what they said about taking the girl out of the country.

Claire noticed Paycheque off in the paddock, standing to attention with his ears pricked. She followed the direction of his gaze towards the house. Her foot eased off the accelerator as she processed what she was seeing: a battered horse truck, tailgate down; her father leading a bay off towards the stables; another man opening a divider and preparing a chestnut for its exit from the truck. As she rounded the corner to the carport, Claire noticed another head in the window. What the hell was going on? They couldn't afford to feed four horses.

She parked and pulled the handbrake on hard. She turned the key off and counted to eight before taking three deep breaths and stepping out. Maybe Jack had taken on some paid agistment – that wouldn't be a bad move. Yes, that's what was going on. Ignoring her usual routine of changing before venturing near horses and farm, Claire strode over. For the first time she noticed the name on the open driver's door of the truck: ‘T.D. Newman'. The bastard who'd almost cost Paycheque his life. She would not be involved with such a man. Why the hell would Jack be?

‘Miss,' the twenty-something lad greeted her with a nod, leading the last of the horses off the truck.

Claire opened her mouth but shut it again, the words ‘no point shooting the messenger' pounding in her head.

‘Hi,' she grunted through a grim smile. She moved in three long strides past the truck to where her father stood, arms folded, appraising the horses in their yards. Jack McIntyre turned at the thud of her R.M. Williams boots on the tightly packed rubble.

He was beaming and had more colour in his face than she'd seen since his accident. Even from under his Akubra, the creases around his eyes showed his smile was genuine. If his face wasn't shaded she knew she'd see the twinkle in his watery, weary, but still bright, blue-grey eyes. Her heart that had been stone cold since seeing the name on the truck warmed a little, and she took a deep breath.

‘Dad, can I have a word?'

‘Sure, Claire Bear. What is it?'

‘This might sound really petty, but I don't want us doing Todd Newman any favours like agisting his horses. Remember, he was the one who…'

‘Paycheque. I know.' Jack sighed. ‘But it's okay, they're not his.'

Claire was relieved. People borrowed or hired trucks all the time. She looked at the horses and for the first time noticed their starry, unkempt coats, and matted manes and tails. She hoped Jack had negotiated a good rate because this bunch sure needed a decent feed. She
bit her lip as she wondered why someone would care enough to pay for agistment, yet not enough to brush a bit of mud off.

‘Dad, I'm really not sure if taking on three horses for agistment is a good idea right now,' she said, shaking her head.

‘We're not…'

Oh right, Claire thought, they're in transit, he's doing a favour for a mate or something.

‘…I've bought them,' Jack said brightly.

‘You've what?' Claire was glad she had the yard railing for support.

‘Bought them – they're the next McIntyre marvels. What do you think?' Jack said, waving an arm.

Mongrels, more like
, Claire wanted to snap, but there were more important things to discuss, like where the money had come from and why the hell she hadn't been consulted. She could feel her blood beginning to boil and her face burn. She opened her mouth and then closed it again, and began trying to picture palm trees on a perfect beach. She could not lose her temper in public and would not – thanks to all those middle-management courses she'd attended. She would wait until the office door was closed and they were in a ‘quiet room' – metaphorically speaking, of course. She was vaguely aware of the truck tail-gate being wound up.

Claire watched, still in a kind of stunned haze, as Jack handed over a cheque and shook hands with the lad. ‘Pass on my best to Todd,' he said, slapping him on the shoulder in a gesture that threatened to be the final straw.

The truck was backing up and then turning around. Claire had abandoned the perfect beach island and was now counting, the numbers rolling in her head faster and faster, louder and louder, her jaw tighter and tighter. Fifty-seven. Finally the truck had started back down the driveway and the driver was out of hearing.

‘Dad, what the bloody hell are you thinking?!' Claire exploded.

‘It's okay, Claire, just calm down,' Jack urged, holding his hands up.

‘Don't bloody “Claire, just calm down” me. You've paid God knows how much for three horses with God knows how many problems. The man's a complete arsehole and just look at them!'

‘Claire McIntyre!'

‘Well he is. So how much have you spent?'

‘I wasn't aware
my
funds were any of
your
business,' Jack said, folding his arms tightly across his chest.

Claire stared at her father, her face becoming the shade of the brick that she felt had just hit her. Of course it was her bloody business. Who'd been running the place lately: cooking, cleaning, getting groceries, making sure the bills were paid? Unconsciously she adopted her father's defiant stance.

‘Look Claire, I really appreciate you staying to help me get back on my feet, but I'm fine now, fit as a mallee bull…' Jack continued to stand above her with his arms folded.

‘You don't even ride any more. How the hell are you going to work four horses without me?'

‘I'll manage.'

‘But…' Claire had to make a conscious effort to stop herself stamping her foot.

‘There's no corporate ladder here girly, so don't think you can control me like I'm one of your junior staff.'

‘Well
excuse
me for being concerned about your welfare. But you're absolutely right: it's none of my business.' Claire stalked towards the house.

‘Some mail came for you – it's on the kitchen bench,' Jack called after her.

‘Me, controlling? Pah,' Claire cursed under her breath.
Jesus, I'm going to have to cancel the Melbourne Cup
, she thought, climbing the two back steps. Bernadette will have a field day.

Claire was staring at the envelope on top of the small pile of mail when her mobile began vibrating in her pocket. She fished it out. Bernadette's name was lit up. Claire bit her lip, finger poised over the
button to cancel the call and send it off to voice mail. The last thing she needed was to confess and then have Bernie side with Jack. But it was nice to know she had a friend who cared and who she could tell anything to.

‘Hi Bern.'

‘Hey, you okay? You sound a bit down.'

‘Am a bit.'

‘Why, what's happened? It's not Jack, is it?'

‘No. Well sort of.'

‘Shit, has he had a relapse or something?'

‘No, nothing like that.'

‘Well what is it? You were fine at lunch.'

‘Oh Bern, we had a fight…'

Bernadette laughed. ‘Is that all? Jesus, and here I was worried it was serious.'

‘It is serious.'

‘Right, were there fisticuffs involved and was there bloodshed?'

‘Of course not, but…'

‘Well then it's not serious, is it? Look, it'll be fine. Come over, we'll have a glass of wine and you can tell me all about it. I'll make you see how ridiculous it was – fights nearly always are. You both just need some space and time to cool off.'

‘He called me controlling.'

‘You are controlling – in the nicest possible way, of course.'

‘Bernie!'

‘Just get your arse over here and let Auntie Bernadette restore your shattered delusions of self-perfection.'

‘I can't.'

‘Ah, been into the slops already – there's my girl.'

‘No, I just can't.'

‘Little miss feisty doesn't want to be seen as backing down, leaving the battlefield so to speak, eh?'

‘Something like that,' Claire said sheepishly, feeling totally
embarrassed at being so transparent. ‘I'll be fine, Bern, really.' Her voice quavered. The address on the envelope was becoming a mirage.

‘You don't sound fine – is it just the fight or is there something else going on?'

Claire swallowed hard. ‘There's a letter here from the insurance company.'

‘
The
insurance company?'

‘Yes,
the
insurance company.'

‘What does it say?'

‘I don't know – I haven't opened it yet.'

‘You know, it might just be your renewal or something.'

‘I don't have any other insurance with them. God, Bern. What if they've rejected my claims? I can't afford to…'

‘One step at a time, Claire. Just sit tight, I'll be there as soon as I can.'

‘Thanks, Bern. You're the best.'

‘And Claire?'

‘Yeah?'

‘Put the envelope down and step away slowly. Don't touch it again until I get there.'

Claire let herself laugh. ‘It's not a bloody bomb!'

‘It could be – in a manner of speaking.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Well there's nothing you can do now but open a bottle of wine and start building that silver lining. You know, just in case.'

‘Actually, I was thinking this warrants breaking out the sherry.'

‘Good girl – be there in a jiffy.'

Claire had downed a large glass of cream sherry and was feeling a lot calmer by the time her best friend arrived.

‘You do realise drinking sherry this time of the day is a classic symptom of old fartdom, don't you?' Bernadette said as she dumped her handbag on the floor and flung herself onto the couch. ‘Count me
in,' she added, grabbing the decanter and filling the spare glass on the coffee table. ‘That the offending article?'

‘Yep.'

They each took a slug of their drinks, both staring at the envelope on the woodgrain laminex surface.

‘Ah, I can see why all the old ducks go for this stuff – makes you feel all warm and fuzzy, right from when it goes down,' Bernadette said after a long silence. ‘Couple more of these and we might be able to face opening that letter.'

‘That's what I'm hoping,' Claire said with a tight smile.

‘Right, what scenarios do we have?'

Claire was now feeling decidedly tipsy. ‘Well, it's either a cheque for six figures or a letter saying the policy is null and void, in which case I'm poor
and
owe the bank for Keith's bloody four-wheel drive. You know I never wanted the damn thing – they've no place but out bush. And so much for being safer.'