I call Derek a few times over the weekend but his phone rings through to voicemail. I don’t leave a message; what I have to say can’t be summed up in one or two sentences. I spend a lot of time in bed, resting, reading, and dreading Monday. I rehearse what I’ll say to Jarrod, trying to anticipate how the conversation might go, visualising his angriest expression and searching for the right words to soften it. It doesn’t help that the biweekly sales meeting is on first thing and Jarrod, along with everyone else, will expect a full update on Telelink.
On Monday I wake to a bright, blue-skyed morning, a good omen I hope. I get out of bed earlier than usual, expecting that my morning routine will take a little longer. My body is stiff and sore and would like a few more days in bed but the rest of me is ready to get the confrontation with Jarrod over and done with, to suffer the inevitable reprimand and then get on with doing whatever is necessary to save the deal.
I wash at the basin, my limbs clumsy and uncoordinated, but my biggest challenge, I quickly find out, is finding something to wear. I pluck a black A-line skirt from my wardrobe, slip it on and begin to search for a top. I try on a few things, fling them across the bed when it becomes apparent they won’t work, and yell out for Jeanie’s help.
‘Nice look,’ she comments dryly when she sees me in my bra and skirt.
‘Nothing fits over the bandage. Do you have anything?’
‘Let’s take a look.’
I follow Jeanie to her room, hopeful even though I’m a few sizes smaller and so clothes swapping has never really worked for us before. Like mine, Jeanie’s bedroom is a reflection of her upbringing: chaotic. Clothes are strewn across the bed and chair, and shoes are scattered on the floor, presenting a safety hazard that I must negotiate my way through. The laundry hamper overflows onto the floor and the bed is made in such a half-hearted manner that just looking at it gives me the urge to straighten the pillows and quilt.
Ten minutes later, I’m down to two choices: a silver ABBA-style top that’s too long in the sleeve and looks more appropriate for a disco than the office, and a white frilly blouse that only someone with Jeanie’s unflappable personality could pull off. I decide that the frilly blouse is the lesser of two evils. Substituting my usual heels for black flats, I move as fast as I can out the door and down the stairs. My legs are stiff and the ten-minute walk to the tram takes closer to twenty. A tram hurtles into view and I breathe a sigh of relief, smiling as the queue shuffles forward a few anticipatory steps. But when I go to get my ticket the smile freezes on my face: in my haste to get out the door, I picked up the wrong handbag.
When I finally get to the office I’m over an hour late. The meeting has already broken up and the sales team, including Jarrod, are back at their desks and perfectly positioned to witness precisely how late I am. I put my bag on the floor – the correct bag, the one that cost me precious time in retracing my steps to the apartment and then back to the tram stop again. I can’t tell Jarrod that I’m late because of my handbag; he’ll blow a fuse even before I tell him about Friday night.
I flick the switch on my PC, mentally preparing myself while I wait for it to start up. I’ll go in there, I resolve, and take it on the chin. I’ll agree with everything Jarrod throws at me, be contrite in the extreme, and then I’ll set about doing what I can to redeem the situation.
Zoe pops up on the other side of the partition. ‘You didn’t miss much at the meeting.’
‘Good.’
‘Jarrod does not have a happy aura today.’
Zoe is rather fascinated with auras. She’s been to aura-reading retreats and workshops and finesses her skills on unsuspecting colleagues. From what I gather, auras vary in colour and structure, and reflect one’s true nature. But rather confusingly, they can change with time, sometimes very quickly, and thus indicate mood. Given that I can usually read Jarrod’s mood directly from his face, I’m not convinced of the need to analyse his aura.
Still, I play along. ‘And what colour is Jarrod’s aura today?’
‘Predominantly black. A sure sign of anger.’
I pull a face. ‘I expect his aura will be a lot blacker after I see him.’
Jarrod’s door is ajar and he’s frowning at his screen, typing with two fingers. I knock, take his glance as an invitation to come in, and shut the door behind me.
‘I’m sorry about this morning,’ I begin, joining my hands as I walk towards him. ‘I have an excuse – but you’re not going to like it.’
He says nothing. Jarrod isn’t one to prompt, at least not with words; the expression on his face is quite sufficient.
‘I was in an accident on Friday night – with Derek Jones from Telelink.’
He’s shocked, so shocked that his frown momentarily clears. ‘What?’
‘We were in a motorbike accident. Derek was taking me home. We came off the bike.’
Jarrod pushes back his seat from his desk and looks me up and down. ‘Were you hurt?’
‘We were able to walk away. But we both have cuts. I believe that he might need a skin graft.’
He nods slowly, ominously. ‘Friday night? You met him for dinner, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had you been drinking?’
‘Not a lot.’ I sigh. ‘But, yes, we’d both been drinking.’
Fury rushes to fill the blankness on his face. ‘Fuck it, Caitlin. What were you thinking?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘He’s a client. You knowingly put yourself and him in danger!’
‘All I can say in my defence is that he was close, so close to committing …I thought the ride would seal it …’
It had been close. There could have been an order on the fax machine this morning. Jarrod could be slapping me on the back right now.
‘That’s the problem with you, Caitlin – you don’t know where to draw the line.’
‘I –’
‘You didn’t need to be on the bike. If he was going to crash, you didn’t need to be there!’
‘Yes, but –’
‘You don’t know how to hold back, do you? Wine them, dine them, get them drunk – you don’t seem to know any other way to do business!’
Despite my earlier resolve to take his chiding with good grace, my temper stirs. ‘I do what it takes, Jarrod. Sometimes it involves pushing boundaries –’
‘Boundaries? You don’t know the fucking meaning of boundaries! That’s why you’ll never go any further in your career, why you’ll never become a manager.’
That’s unfair, very unfair, and I have to bite down on my lip so that I don’t retaliate.
‘I don’t want you to have any further contact with Telelink or Derek Jones. I will handle the client from today.’
I gasp, the sheer injustice making tears sting my eyes. I’ve done all the ground work, all the hard work, to get to this point and now Jarrod is going to swan in at the eleventh hour and take credit for it all.
‘And you can consider this a verbal warning. If you ever blur the lines between business and personal again, you can go and look for a job elsewhere.’
I bite down harder on my lip. Part of me wants to tell him exactly what he can do with his job – and with himself for that matter. But another part, the part that’s my father’s daughter, knows that I’m getting exactly what I deserve. An action can be judged by its consequences, my father would say self-righteously. My actions were unquestionably out of order and the consequence is that my job and everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve over the last four years is now in jeopardy.
I nod to show him that I understand the warning and then I back out of the room, appropriately chastened. It’s my deepest fear, losing my job, a paranoia that goes all the way back to Liam, aimless and chronically bored as he mooched about the house; unworthy and useless, at least in our father’s eyes. I can think of nothing, nothing worse than losing my job, but nobody on this side of the world, least of all Jarrod, could begin to understand my fear, where it originates from or how deep it goes.
For the rest of the day I keep a low profile. I don’t dare to call Derek again but still hope against hope that he will call me and that we can put things right between us; then Jarrod, faced with the evidence that Derek still wants me on the account, will have to back down. Derek doesn’t call, however, and by the end of the day the writing’s on the wall: my client doesn’t want to speak to me and my first multimillion-dollar deal has, as a result of my own stupid actions, spun out of reach. Almost worse, if the deal is somehow salvaged it will be Jarrod who gets the credit and not me.
I visit my GP on my way home from work. When she enquires about the accident, I give her an edited version of events at which she looks up from her examination of my arm, her eyes full of reproach.
‘It sounds like you were incredibly lucky.’
I know she’s right, but I don’t feel very lucky.
‘I’m going to put on some lighter bandaging,’ she continues. ‘You can take it off at the end of the week, but come back to see me if the wounds don’t seem to be healing or if you have any other concerns. And make sure that you take the full course of antibiotics that were prescribed.’
The phone is ringing inside the apartment as I turn my key in the door. I hurry, kicking the door open with my leg and dropping my bag on the floor inside before dashing to the kitchen.
‘Hello.’ My voice sounds a little breathless from the rush.
‘Caitlin …’
For a moment my heart stops beating. Time and distance fall away and it feels as though my father is here, right in front of me, not on the other end of the phone.
‘Caitlin, I want to –’
I jab the ‘end’ button, cutting him off. The few words that he uttered seem to resound in the silent apartment and I resist the infusion of memories they carry. Every few months he does this, phones me. I miss the calls more often than not and only have to deal with the voice messages, his tone familiar and authoritative as he announces himself and asks me to call him back, which I never do. He sends letters too, short ones, a few paragraphs scribed in his exacting handwriting. Contained to paper and thus indirect, the letters are easier to face, and I skim them before throwing them in the bin.
In my bedroom I change into a loose summer dress, the jersey fabric soft against the fresh bandaging. As I pull my hair back from my face, I notice that my hands are shaking. He always has this unnerving effect on me. His timing, as usual, is spot on. How very apt that he should choose today of all days to call. It’s as though he can sense the very moment I put a step wrong.
During my first few months in Australia I still maintained some contact with my father. I remember stilted phone conversations, animosity on my end and preoccupation on his, but communication nonetheless. But as my parents’ marriage began to unravel, our communication became more and more strained. Over that same phone line I had listened to my mother’s despair and heartbreak and I couldn’t forgive him for causing it, couldn’t forgive him for abandoning her when she needed him the most, when she had already endured so much, for so ruthlessly putting the ‘cause’ before his own wife and family.
By the time the divorce was finalised, I had severed all contact with him and since then Mum has taken it upon herself to be the mediator between the fragments of what was once a family. Every Saturday morning she keeps me abreast of what’s happening, whether or not I want to know. Now, as I loop a band around my hair and slip some thongs on my feet, snippets of old conversations with Mum replay in my head, conversations that bridge the years since I’ve spoken to my father and form some of the tapestry of our estranged relationship today.
From one such conversation, out on the balcony of the unit in Bondi Junction, I recall Mum blurting in my ear, ‘I saw your father during the week.’
‘What?’
‘We met. We discussed what to do with the house and everything else. It was quite civilised.’ She was pretending to be pragmatic but I could hear the unevenness under her efficient tone. ‘He said I can stay in the house.’
‘That’s the least he can do!’
‘He’s being quite generous. It’s his house too, you know.’
‘For God’s sake, Mum. Fuck his generosity!’
‘Don’t use that kind of language, please!’ Mum’s voice had an edge of authority, something I hadn’t heard in a long time. ‘Your father is generous. He’s put everything, his heart and soul, into the support group. He and the others in the group have talked to politicians and police on both sides of the border. They’ve driven up and down the country, had secret meetings with all kinds of shady characters, put their own safety at risk trying to get the names of the men who put that bomb in our town.’
I couldn’t find words to formulate an answer, overcome by a variety of emotions: defensiveness, anger, resentment, mostly incredulity. How could she sing his praises like this? How could she act like she had forgiven him, absolved him of everything? She wasn’t hoping to get back with him, was she? Surely that wasn’t on her agenda.
‘He has the names, Caitlin,’ Mum said in a gentler voice. ‘Your father has the names and he’s given them to the police. Those murderers will be brought to justice.’
I stayed out on the balcony for some time after that phone call, feeling disturbed, off kilter, almost as though I was leaning too far over the railing and not sitting safely on one of the deckchairs. I told myself that I should be happy my parents were on speaking terms again and that Mum was starting to move on. She was sorting out her accommodation and her finances and, in the process, her future. It was all good as long as she didn’t do anything stupid like taking Dad back. As I sat deep in thought, the wind whipped up, tossing my hair and bringing goose pimples to my arms. Rain clouds gathered in the slice of sky visible from my seat, and suddenly I didn’t feel far away from Ireland, I felt close, frighteningly close.
Leaving that particular memory behind in the bedroom, I pad to the kitchen to make a start on dinner. I extract some vegetables and meat from the fridge and a thick wooden chopping board from under the sink. Methodically, I peel the outer skin from the carrots and chop them into slices, then cubes. Next I deseed and chop a green capsicum into similar-sized pieces, the irony of the orange and green sitting side by side on the chopping board not lost on me. As I slice an onion, another old conversation begins to play in my head, once again my mother the messenger, the go-between. This conversation occurred later on in the piece, around the end of 2001. Mum and Dad had not reconciled. Mum was adamant, though, that she regarded her ex-husband as a friend, a close friend, and she continued to tell me of his achievements and challenges, defending him fiercely whenever I dissented.
‘It’s been a big week here in Clonmegan, Caitlin,’ Mum had said in opening.
‘Why? What happened?’
‘There was an important report published. Have you seen anything about it in the news over there?’
‘No, Mum, I haven’t.’ I didn’t admit that I rarely watched the news. Too often it brought on flashbacks of my younger self standing in my room at the Elms, practising sign language from News for the Deaf, a memory from what seemed like a lifetime ago but was so easily and readily retrieved.
‘The report was from the police ombudsman,’ Paula continued, her voice threaded with an emotion that I couldn’t quite identify. Was it nervousness, or a sense of excitement? ‘The ombudsman criticised how things were handled on the day of the bombing. She said that had the authorities acted with more urgency and transparency things could have turned out differently, and that there at least wouldn’t have been so many fatalities.’
I was silent. I didn’t want to hear this kind of news. The notion that the fatalities could have been prevented was too unsettling and confronting. If I thought about it for any length of time, it could tear me apart, destroy me.
‘Now, it doesn’t change the fact that the terrorists who planned and executed the bombing were the ones really responsible. We all know that.’
The terrorists. Those faceless men who lurked in the recesses of my mind. I thought of them randomly, like when I was grocery shopping or sitting in a café or on the tram. I imagined them going about their daily lives, shopping for milk and bread, stuck in gridlocked traffic, drinking mugs of tea, just like me. I imagined their routine being disrupted by their sudden arrest, their hands cuffed as they were walked away from their families and everything they held dear. It was just a dream, though. In real life only one of them had been arrested and tried, and there were already rumours of a mistrial. A conviction, if I read between the lines of what my mother had previously reported back, seemed unlikely.
‘This formal acknowledgment by the police ombudsman that things weren’t handled the right way has brought great comfort to the town.’ Mum hesitated for a fraction of a second. When she spoke again I was able to identify the emotion that had been present in her voice from the outset. It was pride. Exhilarated and unadulterated pride. ‘Your father made this come about, Caitlin. He and the others in the group. They have been pressing and pushing and pleading. They’ve not let up.’
‘Good for him.’
‘You should be proud of him, too.’
‘Well, funny how I’m not,’ I retorted like a sullen teenager.
I hung up the phone, fresh anger and hurt snarling inside me. I couldn’t begin to fathom that my mother had forgiven my father so far as to be proud of him. He’d done nothing to deserve such a civilised relationship with his ex-wife. He didn’t deserve to be forgiven or to receive accolades for his supposed achievements. I could never be proud of him, not after what he did to our family.
In the years since that particular phone call, my father has continued to lecture at Queen’s, drilling his students on ethics and values. In every spare moment, he pursues justice for the bomb victims and their families. The list of names that seemed so promising at the start has come to nothing but he still continues to do battle, with the police, the politicians, the media, in the vain hope that someone will eventually be brought to justice. A few years back, frustrated by the lack of progress with the criminal system, the support group began civil action of their own against the individuals on the list. Had I been talking to my father, I would have advised him that this was taking things too far, that it was time to stop his crusade, to put the past to rest and move on.
I tip the diced meat into the wok and it lands with a hiss against the hot metal. I stir for a few minutes before adding the vegetables. Jeanie will be home soon and I’ll have the stir-fry ready as a surprise. Jeanie is the closest thing I have to family in Australia. It’s like having another sister, or at least all the positive aspects of a sister, such as dependability in a crisis, familiarity, no need for pretence, and without any of the negative aspects, like sibling rivalry, teasing, grudges that go back to when you were kids. Though I’m not confiding by nature, I have involuntarily revealed a lot of myself to Jeanie over the years. I’ve told her about the controlled environment in which I grew up, my father preaching and hammering values into us from a young age only to throw aside many of those values – along with his wife and family – in the pursuit of ‘justice’ and his personal goals. I’ve laughed at Jeanie’s tales about her seven sisters, the fighting, one-upmanship, conniving and ever-changing allegiances, and in turn shared the odd anecdote about Liam and Maeve, including how much I miss them. I’ve even told Jeanie little things about Josh – songs he liked, aspects of his personality, the things he cared about – and once, when I was rather drunk, I admitted to feeling him with me, on a different plane but there nonetheless. Jeanie has taken my confidences on board, filed them away in her oh-so-logical mind, and never takes them out for reassessment without my instigation. Jeanie isn’t about wanting to change the world or other people. She’s practical and accepting, and if I don’t want to talk, which is usually the case, then that’s perfectly okay with her. Whenever I do want to talk, she’s there to listen.
The phone begins to ring over the hissing sound coming from the wok. I eye it warily. It could be Jeanie announcing that she’s either delayed or on her way, but I don’t risk answering it. My father is persistent if nothing else. For the last eleven years he has doggedly pursued those terrorists to the detriment of everything else. When I’m at my most negative, I liken him to them. They too believe in a higher cause, blur the lines between right and wrong, and convince themselves that the end justifies the means.
‘My round.’ Jeanie slides off her stool. ‘Same again?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
As she saunters towards the bar, I glance around. Only a few patrons are sitting down like me; most are standing, clutching glasses, their conversation and laughter rising into the canopy of stars and black sky. It’s surprisingly busy for a Tuesday night: Coldplay thumping from the sound system, girls dancing provocatively, men sizing them up through slightly bloodshot eyes, bouncers prowling in black suits and white shirts, soberly scanning the outdoor scene.
‘One vodka and Diet Coke for you,’ Jeanie puts a glass in front of me a few minutes later, ‘and one big pint of beer for me.’ She sits down, tucks her blonde hair pragmatically behind one ear, and takes a swig of beer. She doesn’t have a preferred brand: beer is beer, and as far as she’s concerned all the various brands taste just as good.
‘It’s getting quite rowdy over there,’ she comments, glancing over my shoulder.
I swivel in my seat to take another look. Two bouncers are having an exchange with a group of men at a neighbouring table. The music swallows their voices but it’s obvious the men are being asked to leave.
I turn back to Jeanie. ‘Yeah, it’s getting to that point in the night. Might go after this, okay?’
‘Sure.’ Jeanie takes another swig of beer. ‘Not like you to be the one to call it a night.’
‘I shouldn’t even be drinking,’ I say wryly. ‘I’m still on antibiotics until tomorrow.’
‘I’d forgotten about that.’ Jeanie frowns and looks at my drink as though she’d like to take it back.
‘Besides,’ I add, ‘Tuesday night’s a school night and maybe the last few days have taught me the error of my ways.’
I’m not joking. I have, in fact, done a lot of self-examination since the accident. I’ve replayed what everyone said: the police officer, the paramedic, the doctor, Jeanie and, of course, Jarrod. They’re right, all of them. I went too far. If Derek didn’t want to negotiate, I should have stepped back. If I had bided my time, the accident wouldn’t have happened. It’s that simple. Of course, Derek was in the wrong too. He should have turned me down, knowing that he was a relatively inexperienced rider and that his reflexes could be affected by the alcohol. But that’s almost beside the point.
I sip my drink. The Diet Coke is flat and reflects exactly how I feel. ‘Jarrod says I’ll never go any further in my career, that I’ll never become a manager.’
Jeanie shrugs. ‘Jarrod’s pissed off with you and so he’s not being very nice.’
‘He also insinuated that the only way I know how to make a sale is by wining and dining my clients – with the emphasis on wining.’
‘As I said, he’s pissed off.’ Jeanie is matter-of-fact to the point of being snappy. It would be interesting to see her up against Jarrod in a conflict situation. Or a scenario, like my own, where Jeanie had done something wrong and was in a position of disadvantage. I’m quite sure that Jeanie would come off the better of such an exchange. Not only is she strong and direct with her opinions, she somehow still manages to be warm and endearing, which has a very disarming effect. There’s a lot I could learn from Jeanie.
I swirl the drink in my glass. ‘He said that I don’t know the meaning of boundaries. I don’t think that’s true or particularly fair …’
Jeanie considers this at more length. ‘I would say that your true nature is to be compliant and very respectful of boundaries and such,’ she muses, cocking her head to one side as she looks at me. ‘But there’s also this rule-breaking streak in you – it’s like there are two very different Caitlin O’Reillys.’
‘You’re making me sound schizophrenic!’
Jeanie grins in response. ‘You said it, love. Though I do think that this wild streak goes against your true nature and that in your heart of hearts you’re more of a good girl than a party animal.’
‘And what about being a hard worker, super-intelligent and a good friend?’
‘Oh, I’d say all that too,’ Jeanie replies in a tone that suggests the opposite.
I pull a face. Even though Jeanie’s succeeded in making me laugh, I’m still extremely peeved with Jarrod and the comments he made about my career.
‘Party girl, smarty girl, what difference does it make?’ Jeanie asks, seeing the shift in my mood.
‘Party girls don’t get promoted.’
‘Ah. I see.’ Jeanie is suddenly distracted by something over my shoulder. ‘Hey! The cops are here!’
I turn in my seat and see two police officers walking towards the group of men who were asked to leave earlier but obviously haven’t budged. My eyes are instantly drawn to one of the officers. He’s tall and broad with a distinctive square jaw and blue, blue eyes.
I turn back to Jeanie, my face bright red. ‘I don’t believe it! That’s the officer – I mean, the sergeant – who was there on Friday night.’
‘Really? Which one?’
‘The taller one.’
‘A fine, strapping fellow,’ Jeanie states in her woeful Irish accent.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask urgently, afraid to look over my shoulder again should the officer see and recognise me.
‘Looks like they’re all willing to go home except for one of them. He’s talking back. Uh-oh …’
I swing around, curiosity getting the better of me. The man Jeanie mentioned has sprung forward, his friends holding him back by his arms while he snarls his displeasure. He’s dressed respectably enough but is drunk to the point of being obnoxious and abusive. The sergeant nods calmly, as if taking the man’s viewpoint on board, and says a few words before jerking his head towards the exit.
‘He’s going,’ Jeanie breathes.
But just as his well-meaning friends loosen their grip, the man lurches forward again, burrowing his head into the sergeant’s midriff, taking him down along with a table of drinks.
Jeanie scarpers from her seat. ‘Get out of the way, Caitlin!’
I get up more slowly, my eyes transfixed by the rolling bodies on the ground. Another table goes down in a ruckus of shattering glass and spraying liquid. Onlookers gasp. Some barstools are the next casualties, toppling down and bouncing off the ground, the legs dislodging on impact. The bodies on the floor twist through the debris, the sergeant on top then under the drunk, and then on top again. He somehow manages to get the drunk in a headlock and soon it’s over, and the man is being handcuffed by the other officer. Both policemen pull him to his feet and, taking an elbow each, march him outside. Bouncers usher spectators back from the scene and bar staff move in to begin the cleanup.
‘Fight over,’ says Jeanie, gulping the last of her beer. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Just a minute.’ Picking my way through the broken glass, the ground wet and sticky against the soles of my shoes, I retrieve the sergeant’s hat from under one of the toppled tables. It’s soaked through and smells like a brewery, but I assume that he wants it back.
Outside, the drunk is already in the paddy wagon, screaming abuse as he kicks and pounds the back door, the vehicle rocking from side to side with the onslaught. The sergeant stands close by, notebook in hand as he takes a statement from one of the bouncers. A cocktail of spilt drinks splotches his shirt and glistens in his hair. He looks up as I approach and I notice a small cut over one of his eyebrows.
‘Excuse me …’ I begin.
‘Yes?’
‘You lost this.’ I hold out the hat, my heart beating erratically and a little too hard. The intensity of his gaze is unnerving.
Blue eyes flick from my face to the sodden hat in my hand. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’m Caitlin. You probably don’t remember me –’
‘I do remember. The motorbike, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ I’m acutely conscious of the bouncer and Jeanie looking on, but there’s something I have to say. ‘Look, I just wanted you to know that I’m not usually that stupid.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Well, goodbye …’ I turn to go.
‘How are your injuries?’
Surprised at the question, I turn back to him. ‘Much better today, thanks.’
‘Good.’
I take a step back, attempt another goodbye. ‘Bye … officer.’
‘Matthew.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Matthew. That’s my name.’ A smile sparkles into his eyes. ‘Bye, Caitlin. See you around.’