ThornyDevils (27 page)

‘It’s your call, Bob,’ Peter replied. ‘I’ll go with whatever you want.’ He took a drink.

‘I haven’t heard from her for two whole days. I just keep hoping that she’s safe.

‘Why don’t you have some time off, Bob? Go to Sydney. See Stella.’

‘And what? Leave you in charge of the paper? You couldn’t organise a piss up in a brewery, Clancy.’

‘You’re the boss.’

‘Bloody oath. And what did the great Tony Donarto have to say for himself?’

‘He declared his innocence before God. We did the interview in Saint Francis Church. Strange.’

‘He’s slick,’ Bob shook his head. ‘And slippery. I have never heard of him being involved in anything illegal. You know that? He’s the Teflon man’

‘We’ll see,’ Peter replied.

‘What plans now?’

‘I’m meeting Poppy the solicitor for dinner tonight.’

‘Business or pleasure?’

‘Both, I hope,’ Peter confessed.

‘Just be careful,’ Bob lectured. ‘It’s a delicate balancing act. I’ve done it. Just be careful.’

‘When haven’t I been careful?’ Peter teased.

Bob rolled his eyes. ‘Try and get some information out of her before you jump into bed with her. Please.’

‘I’ll try,’ Peter winked.

Friday night. Lygon Street

The street was jumping as people strolled along the street looking for a restaurant to eat in. Adding to the buzz were the spruikers, the under-employed waiters urging them to come in and dine in their establishment. All very European.

Peter avoided the spruikers and met Poppy in front of Donnini’s. Poppy was dressed in her usual Lady Diana-inspired ensemble. Her dress was pastel again, but this time with a hint of cleavage. She looked absolutely beautiful. Peter could hardly look away as he opened the restaurant’s door for her.

‘You look fantastic,’ he said.
Steady on, bloke.

‘You look good yourself.’ Poppy looked Peter up and down. ‘You have the right body for a suit.’

‘Thanks. I get to buy a new one every other week.’

‘Really? You’re made of money.

‘Not really. In this job, I tend to go through them pretty quickly.’

‘Ah ha.’

An Italian waiter wearing a starched apron and a pencil thin moustache showed them to their table tucked away in a corner. Softly lit. A hint of Italian music playing in the background. It looked romantic. Felt romantic.

They sat down, ordered drinks and looked at the menus.

‘Ever been here before, Peter?’ Poppy asked, as she sipped her glass of Chianti. The waiter returned promptly to take their orders and place a small plate of homemade bruschetta on the table, which
Poppy pushed towards Peter. ‘I mean, have you ever brought any of your many, many dates here?’

Peter bit into a slice of bruschetta as she spoke. He chewed the mouthful as he considered how to answer her. ‘Only the ones who read Frederick Forsyth novels.’ He smiled. ‘Truthfully?’

‘I find the truth is always a good place to start,’ she purred. ‘Especially for someone who works there.’

‘Actually, the truth is, I’m too busy with work to stray too far from home. I’m always running on deadlines.’ In fact, Peter had last gone to Donnini’s with Michelle two years earlier at her insistence and on the understanding that she would pay the bill. How things had changed.

The waiter scurried over with Poppy’s entree and positioned it in front of her. ‘You work hard to avoid coming across as the romantic sort of guy,’ Poppy said. ‘So are you trying to impress me with your work ethic?’

‘I can be as romantic as the next guy when I need to be. With you, I’d prefer to just be myself.’

‘Can’t you be both? It is possible, you know.’ She slipped one of the plump oysters out of its shell and swallowed it. Whole. ‘It’s okay to admit to being romantic.’

Peter swallowed. ‘And what about you?’ he said. Do you have a romantic streak in you?’

‘With the right person, I can be persuaded,’ Poppy smiled, picking up a second oyster.

‘So, tell me about yourself,’ Peter asked.

‘Not many men ask that. They usually only want to talk about themselves. Does this have anything to do with you being a journalist and me being the O’Learys’ lawyer?’ she asked playfully. ‘Are you interviewing me again? Are you trying to soften me up so you can catch me off-guard?’

‘No. I’m interested in you,’ he replied. ‘I left my notepad at home. And I don’t use recorders.’

‘Okay. Not much to tell, really,’ Poppy began softly. ‘Grew up in a middle class house in Mont Albert. Went to Methodist Ladies College. Father a solicitor, as was Grandfather. Mother a housewife. Went to Melbourne University and got a law degree. My resume in a nutshell. And here I am. I love my job. Of course. I like expensive jewellery and designer clothes and going overseas every year. And you?’

‘I lived on a cattle station in North Queensland until my father was killed in a horse riding accident. My mother and I then lived in a small town. I went to a private school, which I hated. When I left school I studied journalism at Central Queensland University. I’ve had a few jobs but I’ve worked for
The Truth
longer than anywhere else. I used to do the big scandals but I’ve been promoted to crime. Apparently it sells more newspaper than scandals at the moment. I love my job too. I’d like more pay and more sleep, but I can’t imagine myself doing anything else.’

Poppy laughed. ‘You’ve led a rich and interesting life. And sounds like at times it was a sad one.’

‘It was hard to lose my father,’ he admitted. ‘I was very angry and sad. I took a lot of anger out on my mother. Poor Mum, it must have been hard for her. Funny, I’m only starting to realise that now. I envy anyone who had a stable upbringing. Yours sounds idyllic.’

‘Yes, sounds like it,’ Poppy said vaguely as she watched a couple entering the restaurant. ‘It doesn’t exist, you know.’

Peter was puzzled by her reply. As he was mulling it over, the waiter arrived with the main meals. Veal scaloppine for Poppy and lasagne for Peter.

‘Yours fine?’ Poppy asked as she cut at her meat slowly.

‘Really nice,’ he said cheerfully.

‘That’s good. It’s a nice restaurant.’

‘You really can’t go wrong here,’ he replied awkwardly.

They fell silent as they continued eating. Eventually Peter looked up from his meal to Poppy. She looked forlorn. He placed his knife and fork on the plate.

‘I can sense we’re falling into that horrible dilemma that first dates suffer.’

‘What’s that?’ Poppy looked up from her meal.

‘The dreaded small talk dilemma. And that’s the start of something far worse.’

‘What’s that,’ she grinned.

‘The awkward pauses that grow longer and longer. Pretty soon you’re trying to talk about the décor just so you can talk.’

‘No. We can’t let that happen,’ Poppy’s grin turned into a laugh. ‘Forgive me. I was thinking about work. It’s been a stressful week.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Peter asked. ‘Here’s my proposal:
Let’s talk about work now. Then it’s all out of the way. After we talk about work we’ll talk about politics and religion.’

‘Forget the politics and religion,’ Poppy said as she pushed aside her plate. ‘Not my favourite subjects. Let’s get the work thing out of the way. You go first.’

‘I don’t know if you know him…Tony Donarto?’ he began. ‘I did an interview with him today.’

‘Of course I know him,’ she replied, ‘but not well. I met him when I was doing the legal work for their business partnership.’

‘Your opinion?’

‘Do I have to assume you’re interviewing me again and I have to say off the record?’

‘I’m not at work. This is strictly social.’

‘What do you say in newspaper-speak? “A source has disclosed…”’ She folded her hands together and rested her chin against them. ‘I got the feeling that Tony Donarto didn’t know what he was getting involved in. He’s not an astute man that way. His father was the more business savvy of the two and Tony’s just been fortunate to inherit a sizeable fortune. And don’t print that or I’ll have to hunt you down,’ she laughed, and took a mouthful of wine.

‘I won’t. Promise.’

‘Here’s my take on things. Tony is just too successful a businessman to want to get caught up in illegal activities. Like him or hate him, he’s an identity. He has political aspirations. Do you know Tony Donarto wants to be the first Italian-Australian premier of Victoria? I bet you didn’t know that.’

‘No. I didn’t, but it figures.’ Peter said with a jolt. ‘You don’t want to share that source?’

Poppy smiled and continued. ‘The O’Learys are a very different kettle of fish.’ She rested her hands back on the table. ‘They’re a leftover from the old Painters and Docker’s Union, as you know. Their business methods are a lot different to Tony Donarto. I think it’s a shame they’re not as entrepreneurial.’

‘You’re being brutally honest. About your client, I mean.’

‘Funny, I needed to talk about that. It’s actually feels good. I don’t have anyone at the firm I can debrief to. I can’t tell the O’Learys, unfortunately. I’m their solicitor.’

‘You don’t like representing them?’

‘This is purely social intercourse, right? I’m very naughty telling you this,’ Poppy sighed, ‘but strictly on that basis, no, I don’t. I have to paint a picture that all my clients are innocent. The picture can be very abstract at times. The O’Learys, for instance. Enough said.’ She raised one eyebrow.

Peter had a sip of wine. ‘We both work with the public but you and I have different relationships with people. I’m an enemy unless they’re a source and you are like an ally.’

‘Yes, my relationship with my clients is like an uneasy alliance—or more like strange bedfellows.’

‘I guess so. People I deal with usually hate me and vice versa. It’s a great symbiotic relationship like that. Why are you telling me this, by the way? The other day you were keeping your cards close to your chest.’

‘All this small talk, all this verbal sparring—it’s not everything. You know why we’re here, don’t you?’ Poppy flicked her hair.

‘We enjoy each other’s company? We like Italian food?’ Peter suggested. ‘No, forget that. The truth is, I think you’re very attractive and I’m hoping we’re both on the same page. I’m going all out, here. I nearly walked off the wharf into the sea that day I saw you at the dock. And the coffee shop; my heart was running at a steady one hundred and fifty after five coffees and, when you came in, it went to two hundred.’

‘Most girls would think you’re crazy,’ she grinned. ‘I can imagine them saying they have to go to the ladies and then disappearing out of the back door.’

‘Then why aren’t you?’ Peter leaned across the table and fixed his blue eyes on her.

‘You’re a man who doesn’t give a shit. You’re a man who’s led a different life. Conventional men are boring. I find that rebellious streak very attractive. And the blue eyes—well, that seals it.’

‘Do you want dessert, then?’

‘I’ve had enough to eat,’ she said. ‘I’d rather relax at your place. Or mine, perhaps? Somewhere a little more secluded.’

‘If you come to mine my two flatmates would get in the way.’

‘Then it’s mine. I have a flat nearby. I live alone. Follow me.’ She picked up her handbag and stood up. ‘Are you coming?’ she said over her shoulder.

Peter’s Stag followed Poppy’s Alfa as closely as he dared, so eager not to lose her that he nearly rear-ended her twice. Was he excited? Yes. Was he aroused? Of course. He was thirty-something and he had just dined with a beautiful, sexy and intelligent woman. Of course. It was a warm, romantic Melbourne night. Or a warmer than usual winter’s night.

But he began to have second thoughts. Maybe it was too rushed. A great first date and then it all implodes. But then again, maybe he’d read far too much into it and Poppy was simply inviting him in for a nightcap and a play of her latest CD.
Why drag it out if you’re attracted to someone? Why go through the ritual of going out on five or six dates before the possibility of a passionate snog?
There was the possibility that after five dates it would fade out. As Peter’s hero, Hunter S Thompson, once said: ‘Buy the ticket, take the ride.’

They pulled up outside a nondescript block of flats. Three storeys of brown brick cubes stacked on top of each other. A 1970’s assault on architectural design. But while it was a nondescript building, it certainly wasn’t a nondescript address. No working class location for Poppy, no bohemian chic, oh no. They had pulled up in South Yarra—a blue ribbon, silvertail, top-end-of-town suburb. Home to powerbrokers, captains of industry, airbrushed celebrities and successful criminals.
This woman has style
, Peter thought as he stepped out of the Stag.

Poppy had parked in her bay and was waiting for him by a set of external stairs.

‘Nice place,’ he commented inanely. He accidentally brushed against her breasts and felt the heat of her body. He placed his arm around her shoulders and one around her waist and pulled Poppy closer until he could feel the contours of her body against him. He could feel the outline of those breasts. A romantic poet would liken it to being kissed on the face by a gentle breeze, but Peter was earthier. For him it was like being stung by a jolt of sexual electricity. He let his self-restraint slip. He wanted to kiss her.

‘You’re an impatient man, Mister Clancy,’ she cooed, easing away. ‘My neighbours might think we’re exhibitionists and that sort of thing simply isn’t welcome in this neighbourhood.’

Poppy’s apartment looked like a Laura Ashley showroom. There was an overabundance of floral and pastel, from the curtains to the cushions, from the coffee table to the couch. And all tied together
by a floral frieze that ran around the entire apartment. It was exactly how he imagined Lady Diana would decorate. A little too English, too twee. There were the obligatory travel statements: photos of Paris by night, and that black and white print of the young man and woman kissing in Paris. The one that seem to be displayed everywhere. Ad nauseam. Then there were the Lladró figurines a china cabinet. More nausea. A Melbourne University degree hung in pride of place next to the Paris pictures. It all set the scene. This was an apartment for a successful professional woman going places.
My place is a concrete tank compared to this place. You can have the floral shit and the dust collectors, though.