There should be a warning on my car: Lunatic driver, fear for your life. I know I’m speeding, yet I can’t slow down. I’ve been hitting the steering wheel in time with whatever song is playing from the radio for the last five hours. Surprisingly, Artie hasn’t asked me to stop. My buzz is catchy and he’s singing loudly to the radio (when he’s not trying to get in contact with his mum; he’s left about ten voicemail messages). Energy funnels through my veins; it’s like I’m high on caffeine.
“But the girl,” I start the discussions again, talking about the long list of possibilities. “She could be his mistress?”
“He’s not married,” Artie replies. “So she can’t be the mistress.”
“Okay, girlfriend then?”
“More like a booty call.”
“He would have had to be present in his apartment at three o’clock in the morning for any booty to be had.”
Artie raises his eyebrows at me. “Good point,” he says.
“She could be a masseuse?”
“Again, three o’clock in the morning.”
“She could be a cleaner?”
“The three o’clock in the morning factor gets in the way here.” Artie grins and I can tell he’s enjoying this. “Didn’t she demand to know who you were and call the police?”
“Well I have no idea who she might be. It’s got to be a girlfriend, or lover,” I insist. Ever fibre in my body tells me. “Or new girlfriend.”
“Or an old girlfriend you know nothing about.”
“Ahhh…you are frustrating me.”
Artie’s expression is amused. “I’ll tell you what. When we find him at his mum’s we’ll demand an answer to our mystery. He’ll have to tell us who the strange girl in the apartment was. And once we know, we’ll drag him straight back to London. No stuffing around. It’s a snatch and grab job.” Artie talks in a conspiratorial manner. He’s finally given up trying to reach his mum on the phone and is focusing on the all-consuming mystery of the curly-haired woman.
“That’s if he’s even there,” I remind him.
“He’s got to be somewhere, and it makes sense that he’s at his mum’s.”
We drive in silence for a few minutes; we both know that it’s going to be late by the time we get there. I hope the trip will be worthwhile.
“He has been quite the bastard to you,” Artie says.
As much as I feel like bagging Clive, I refuse to insult him behind his back. “There’s a logical explanation about why he would take a few weeks off, I’m sure. There has to be.” I find myself curious about Artie’s antagonism toward Clive.
“Why don’t you explain one thing to me,” Artie blows out a breath. “Why don’t you have a career doing something else other than coffee?”
I shoot Artie a glance. “Like what?” I look back toward the road.
“You met him at university. So why don’t you do what you studied at university? Surely you didn’t study coffee. I mean, people don’t actually study coffee, do they?”
“I love coffee.” I swallow. “But if you really want to know, I studied English Literature and he met me in a bookshop.”
He nods his head. “Interesting.” Artie’s lip curls; there’s something he’s not saying. I feel him stare and I glance briefly from the road to see Artie’s eyes narrow. “So what do people do with English Literature if they don’t invest in a coffee shop?”
“We write.”
“Have you written anything?”
“I have actually.”
“What?”
“I’ve actually written three chapters of a book.”
“What’s the book about?”
“Coffee actually.”
“Oh God.” He grimaces. “You’ve got it so bad.”
“What do you mean I’ve got it bad?”
“I wondered, I really wondered, how a girl like you, who seems hard working and determined, would end up in a coffee shop, but now I know.”
“What do you know?”
“You fell in love with Clive. You got swept up in him. That must be it.”
“No, no, no, no. You’ve got it wrong. I went into the business because I love coffee and I thought it would give me the opportunity to write a book. I could write on weekends and in my spare time.”
“Yet you are writing a book about coffee. It doesn’t actually scream like the book you’ve been mulling around for the last decade.”
“It’s not like that. I’m hoping to make people more aware of what they’re drinking. People drink coffee every day and they have no idea about how much effort has gone into it.” My face feels quite red and blotchy, but I can’t help but lift my chin. “I’m also trying to make a little extra revenue.”
“So you definitely got caught in the industry then.” Artie nods his head slowly. “How is the actual practicality of writing the book working out for you?”
“Not as easy as expected. But I’ll get there,” I insist. I bite my lip and I’m beginning to feel a little shaky defending myself, but I’ve got to. “The thing is, the book is essentially based on experiences Clive has told me about in his travels, and of course I’ve done research. I haven’t actually been to coffee country before and Clive promised to take me because of all of his connections. Besides, he used to be a coffee buyer. So he promised to take me to one of his favourite plantations in the Cloud Forrest, Mexico. It’s this crazy coffee plantation on the side of the mountain.”
We both sit in silence for a while.
“You know, I honestly think you should go to coffee country on your own and finish the book.”
“I was supposed to go with Clive—we were going to plan a trip—but so far it hasn’t happened.”
“Quite a lot of things with Clive don’t ever happen, I’m afraid. If you really want to go, you’ll have to arrange the trip for yourself or write about something else.”
“Tough love, hey?” I laugh but it comes out all strangled.
“I guess three chapters isn’t an entire book.” He shakes his head. “You poor girl. My brother is truly a bastard sometimes.”
“I’m sure it will come good.”
“I tell you what, why don’t you send me your first three chapters to read? I’d love to read them, and besides, I don’t know much about Clive’s coffee-buying adventures.”
“You don’t want to read them.”
“No. I’d love to read them. Come on; send them to me when you get back home. Please.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Okay, think about it.”
“So what about you then? How did you end up being Managing Director of the Banks Property Development Group?”
“You make it sound like I had a choice.”
“Well Clive did. He’s in the coffee business with me.”
“He’s shirking his duties. Turn left,” he screeches. He gesticulates wildly, pointing toward the street sign. “It’s Winsnip Road. We’re here.”
“Okay,” I yell back and veer the steering wheel manically. The car screeches round the corner and the vehicle misses the curb by mere inches.
Immediately I break. The car jerks and we’re both flung forward in our seats. I’m gasping for breath and Artie’s laughing hysterically in the passenger seat.
“Close call.”
Artie nods and his expression sobers. He points over my shoulder. “We’re at number 12 but we’ve got to go to 200 Winsnip.” I notice a yellow letterbox.
“Only another 188 houses to go,” I say and slow the car to a crawl because I can’t help but gawk at the houses on Winsnip Road. Even though it’s dark, the car headlights show a tree-lined street. In the summer the street would be green and leafy. I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of places with windy driveways. The houses are breathtaking, more like villas or chateaus. I’m too awed to speak, and Artie looks nonplussed as he stares out the window. Eventually I slow the car and stop outside 200 Winsnip Road.
I throw Artie a glance. This address is supposedly his mum’s place. My gaze absorbs the extensive estate in front. My whole knowledge of Clive begins to slowly disintegrate. He never mentioned anything about wealth. “It’s like he’s the Great Gatsby.”
“Who?” Artie replies.
“You know Gatsby, from the book by F. Scott Fitzgerald?”
“Nope.” He pauses and scowls. “But anything you say, Miss Literature Major.”
“The book’s about rich people partying in prosperous Long Island’s north shore. There’s this mysterious character called Gatsby. He holds the most decadent parties in the area.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Never mind,” I say, oddly irritated. “You know, Clive never did mention anything about this type of life.”
“Nothing really to tell.”
“You do remember the way Clive dresses? You wouldn’t think he had a penny to his name because he always has holes in everything. None of this makes sense.”
The whole scenario’s hard to digest, and I get out of the car stuck on the thought that Clive invested the same amount of money as I did into Beans Café. I’d always thought he’d saved the cash, like I did. That’s what he always led me to believe, but I’ve an inkling that he quite possibly had some kind of trust fund or handout to invest in Beans Café. And maybe that’s why he’s disappeared…because he can.
Slamming the car door, I notice an iron gate barring the front of the house. There’s an intercom on the side with a small sticker reading Banks.
“Do you have a key?” I ask, but Artie’s still sitting in the car. He just looks at the house. I round the car and rap on the window. “Do you have a key?”
He simply shakes his head and takes his mobile phone from his pocket, dials and puts his phone to his ear.
I press the intercom buzzer and grin stupidly into where the camera probably is. While I wait for a response I push my face slightly between the fence bars as thoughts spin round my mind in a dizzying fashion. The size of the manicured lawns is baffling, possibly the size of football fields. They stretch toward a Victorian manor sitting stately at the top of the property. I gape like I’ve never seen a mansion or a manicured garden or a water feature. My foot taps in agitation as I try to gather how I’m feeling. How well do I know Clive? Has he just taken me for some kind of sap?
A few minutes lapse and there is no response. For a second time I buzz the intercom. I’ve driven for five hours; I can’t just leave without speaking to Clive’s mum and asking a few questions on Clive’s whereabouts and the woman with blond curly hair.
“Did she answer your phone call?” I ask, but I can tell from Artie’s face that she hasn’t. “I’m guessing no one’s home.”
“Guess not.”
“I know it’s really late but...” I pace the length of the gate, contemplating our predicament. “We can’t just leave. We just can’t.”
“We could wait in the car.” Both of us look at the car and realise how cold it’s going to get as the night continues.
“That would not be fun,” I say and realise I wouldn’t make a very good private eye.
“We’ve eventually got to go back to London.” Artie’s voice is barely audible. “I’ve got press hounding me, investors to find. All my beloved brother needs to do is sign over a few forms.”
“This whole thing is extremely frustrating.” I run my hands through my hair. “Wasn’t there a pub down the road? Pint while we wait?”
“I know…”Artie’s already rounding the fence and walking the perimeter of the property.
I follow Artie and the concrete fence. I don’t understand what he’s doing. “Is there a spare key under the doormat or something?”
“You think I’m looking for a doormat near the fence?” Artie laughs. “We need to just make sure there’s absolutely no one here.” We walk quite a distance from the road. It’s pitch black because we’re far from the street lights. I’m using my phone as a torch when he clutches the fence and, like an animal, scrambles over.
I blink. He’s gone. No. No. No. I shake my head, but just like that he’s up and over. Without saying a word—without any indication—he’s scaled the fence!
“Artie? We could have discussed this, made a plan?” My voice is uneven, my body jittery. “Did you really need to jump the wall?”
He doesn’t respond, and profanities speed round my head. He’s hurdled over the fence without saying anything. I jump from foot to foot like I’m warming up for a sprint. Do I follow or do I stay?
Blood pumps through my veins and my pulse is fast. I’ve never done anything like this. I’m not a live-on-the-edge kind of person. I know I wanted to let my hair down, but that was to go overseas, not to break and enter. I’ve just been to the police station about being caught in Clive’s house. But this is Artie and Clive’s mum’s place. I’m not going to get in trouble for jumping the fence…I can take this risk.
I’m going to throttle him when I reach him. My gaze assesses the height of the wall and how I’d manoeuvre over. If Artie can do it, I certainly can, although he is substantially taller than me. I’d have to use motion to pull myself over, because on my tip toes, if I stretched out my arms, I’d just reach the top.
I take a few steps back and launch. Wincing as the surface scratches my skin, I scramble to get over. There’s no dignity in fence jumping. My legs dangle momentarily and I call on whatever strength I might possess. I’m sweating and panting but I make it over.
I land on a weird angle, which causes darts of pain to volt up my ankle. I ignore it. It’s probably nothing. Artie’s nowhere to be seen on the football field of lawn, and at this moment I feel quite exposed. At any moment Clive or his mum could race down the lawn and shout at me.
So I run. Or rather I limp, struggling up the lawn. Finally, the yard finishes and I reach the manicured gardens. Rose bushes, lilacs and lilies circle the way to the entrance. There’s ivy growing by the front door, but I can’t just walk up to it, knock and introduce myself. That would be super creepy. I round the house, avoiding that option entirely. My ankle starts to feel better and my hobbling turns into a canter, and in the distance I see a small figure.
“Artie, what the hell?” I hiss into the night. I can just see the outline of his figure.
“I’m trying the back door,” he insists.
I try and make out his expression in the darkness. My whole body is stiff and tense because I’m livid. I suddenly feel so angry at his whole lack of communication that I want to hit him. My eyesight adjusts and I begin to make out what he’s actually doing. Artie’s running a credit card along the seam where the door closes. I shut my eyes briefly. This can’t be happening. Why on earth is he breaking into his mum’s place? He looks like an experienced professional. He throws his hand out. “You wouldn’t have a pin or anything?”
“Why don’t you just knock on the back door?”
“They’re clearly not home.”
“Jesus, we should try. And what’s the point of breaking in if he’s not even here?”
“Because I have to know whether he’s been here.”
“I just don’t know if this is essential. I mean we rang the doorbell and no one answered.” Yet I cave and remove a bobby bin from my hair and hand it over. “I’ve never broken into anywhere in my life.”
“There’s always a first time for everything. Now we can say you’re living.”
“This is insane. It’s your mum’s place,” I whisper hoarsely, trying to convince him to stop. I have to stop him and I start to try to use logic. “What are we going to do, race up to your mum’s bedroom? She’s probably asleep you know. We’d break in and scare the life out of her like psychos? She’s probably not even in there.”
He’s got to see my point. The whole mission is completely over the top and completely preposterous. Artie’s still jiggling with the bobby pin and I realise what I have to do. I rap hard on the back door.
Artie freezes and sends me a steely look. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“What? You can’t believe I dared knock on the door?” I ask. “It’s your mum’s place.”
“She’s my stepmum and she hates me.”
We both stare at each other in silence. “Were you ever going to tell me that?” I finally ask.
“I did say we were going to Clive’s mum’s place.” He looks away. “She doesn’t hate me but she doesn’t like me. I left messages for her, you heard, she just wouldn’t be overly keen to see me.”
“No…but still.” I pause. “Why does she hate you?”
“When Dad died she decided to get greedy. You see Dad had left me the business, but she already got all the other assets. Anyway, so lawyers got involved. It was all really tricky.”
“Wow. So what happened with the business then? You still have it?”
“I have forty nine percent of the company and Clive owns ten percent. Together we have majority share and we can maintain control. Clive’s really angry at my dad because he didn’t get left an equal proportion, but the thing is Clive never wanted it. Clive just spent the cash, and I think my dad left him ten percent so he could keep receiving a generous income for pretty much no effort. There’s no point leaving someone in control of a company they don’t want. Not that Clive will forgive me, mind you. But I need him now to sign over his voting rights for this meeting or we’ll both lose my family legacy.”
Artie’s breathing hard, and I wonder if he tells this story to many people. Somehow I doubt it. I suppose not many people would know Clive and Artie, so it probably doesn’t come up in conversation. Artie’s shoulders are hunched over and my hands run through my hair.
“What a complicated mess.” I reach out and touch his shoulder and give it a little rub. His face is crumpled and every fibre in my body wants to help him find Clive, wants them to work out some sort of resolution. But he can’t go breaking and entering into people’s places. “Do you think breaking in is actually going to give us a clue as to whether he’s here or not? I mean, it seems pretty obvious that the house is deserted.”
He barely meets my gaze. “I’m desperate to find him.” His voice is hoarse and choked up.
“We’ll find him. We still have time,” I say, realising I’ve promised him the impossible. Thoughts start whirring in my mind and I crouch down and lift the doormat. There’s nothing but dirt beneath it, and maybe for a mansion with a security system, there’s no point having a spare key, unless you’re in a situation like this one, where you’ve forgotten your key or something. I place the doormat back in its position and then notice a small potted plant. I lift the pot and it’s like we’ve won the lottery, because there’s a small gold key beneath. I grab the key with speed.
Holding the key out to Artie, a kaleidoscope of expressions transform his face, from anger to surprise to joy. He steps toward me and lifts my body into the air as though I were as light as a feather. He spins me round and plants a kiss on the side of my cheek. “My God you’re incredible, you God damn genius. You’re amazing,” he says, and I feel my cheek burn from where his lips have touched it. “Thank you. Thank you so much! I would have thrown a brick through the window before I used common sense. Thank you.”
Artie proceeds to open the door and we both walk inside, but this feels like déjà vu. My eyes are wide and in front of us is an expansive modern kitchen. I narrow my gaze, trying to determine the rest of the layout. A kitchen table is a few paces in front and I trace the top, revealing a thin layer of dust. Almost everything else is coated with dusty sheets.
Curiosity leads me toward a sweeping staircase. There are sheeted objects everywhere, probably statues and paintings. “It doesn’t look like your mum or Clive’s been having parties like the Great Gatsby.” I sigh and my gaze darts into the next room. From the shapes it appears to be a lounge room with a sofa and coffee table.
“It looks like she’s not even back from her summer holidays.”
“Maybe that’s why she didn’t answer your calls, because she’s somewhere else.”
“Maybe, but she still hates me,” he says. We move room by room through the mansion. I don’t know what we’re looking for, because we’re both pretty sure the house is empty. The mansion is a maze, corridors going in every direction, but there’s no sign of inhabitation. We finally end up back at the kitchen. The place is void of people, empty. Clive probably was never here.
“I guess we’d better go back,” I say, and Artie nods in agreement. “So can I call you a criminal now?”
“Ah, but I never went to the police station. I never got caught.”
“Thanks to me.”
“Yes, thanks to you.”
“So about you going overseas,” he starts. “I’ve been thinking about how you could actually go to Mexico.”
“If you’re going to harass me about this then I think you should drive.”
“Of course I can drive, but I don’t know if I’d make the same speed as you do.”
I can’t help but laugh, and I realise it’s going to be a long journey home.