Claire McNab: The Dingo Dilemma

"As Office Manager, I ordered the desk," said Fran. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes, there's a problem. I like my furniture just the way it is."

"We need continuity of decor," Fran declared. "The building itself is Spanish-influenced, and thanks to me the reception desk is now a genuine reproduction Spanish antique. Ariana's office is already Spanish inspired. Over time, I intend to carry this look through to each room."

"Not mine!" exclaimed Bob and I in unison.

Fran never took opposition well. "Neither of you has an ounce of interior decorator vision," she snapped.

"I presume Kendall & Creeling is paying for this furniture?"

"Of course, since it's an office expense."

I didn't lose my temper often, but right now I felt like I was about to blow a gasket. Making an effort to sound icy calm, I said, "Since this grand plan of yours is total news to me, I presume you've cleared it with Ariana. Yes?"

"Not exactly."

That meant no. I glanced at Bob. It wouldn't be good management to haul Fran over the coals in front of him. "Let's talk later," I said to her, "after we finish moving the disaster supplies."

"What about the desk that's already been delivered?" Bob asked. "Those guys were getting mighty impatient."

"Lonnie could take it while Bob gets used to the idea," Fran said.

"Lonnie!" exclaimed Bob and I, again in unison.

The thought of Lonnie coping in the chaos of his room with a gigantic Spanish desk, artificially antiqued, was irresistibly funny. Bob and I dissolved in laughter. Fran didn't smile.

I wiped my eyes, still giggling. "Bob, while you finish moving the stuff for Fran, I'll cancel the order and say there's been a mistake at our end."

Fran opened her mouth, but clearly thought better of it, as she closed it again without a word.

At the front desk, Melodie was charming two stocky delivery men, who were neatly dressed in khaki shorts and shirts. "Kylie, it's real interesting," she said. "Charlie and Pete say they've delivered furniture to tons of stars."

"Scads," said Charlie-I knew which was which because of the names on their shirt pockets-"most are nice, but some are real prima donnas."

"Madonna was a challenge," Pete chimed in. "And Keanu Reeves? Don't ask!"

"I don't doubt it," I said. "Now, about this desk you're delivering…"

"It's out in the courtyard at the moment. Where do you want it?"

"The fact is, we don't want it. There's been a mix up with the order. Sorry, but you'll have to take the desk back."

Astonished, Melodie exclaimed, "Take it back! Does Fran know?"

Charlie looked aggrieved. "You mean we've been cooling our heels here all this time, and you don't even want the Grenada?"

"The Grenada?"

"Every desk is named after a Spanish city," said Melodie. "Like, I'm sitting at a Madrid. And I think Fran has a Cordova in mind for you."

Hell's bells! I had to nip this Spanish furniture thing in the bud as soon as poss. "I'm really very sorry," I said to Charlie and Pete, "but we can't accept delivery."

"Throws the sked right out," said Pete lugubriously, "but I don't suppose you care."

"Do I have to sign anything?" I asked.

Charlie handed me an invoice. "Write that you refuse the delivery and give a reason." He added with stern emphasis, "A good reason."

When, grumbling, they had gone, Melodie said to me, "Fran's got her heart set on a Spanish furniture makeover. She's going to be real upset you sent the Grenada back. How's she going to explain it to Isabel?"

"And Isabel is…?"

"She and her husband own Maximum Spanish. Like, Fran and Quip are real good friends with Isabel and Spike."

A suspicion began to form in my mind. "Fran isn't getting commission for furniture ordered, is she?"

"Well…"

"So she is?"

Alarm filling her face, Melodie said, "Fran'll kill me. You didn't hear it from me. Please, Kylie."

"I'll try not to blurt it out."

Apparently content with this undertaking, Melodie said cheerfully, "Did I tell you? Larry-my-agent's got me lined up to audition for Darken Come Home. I'm just waiting for him to confirm where and when. I'll be playing Olive, Timmy's long-lost elder sister, come from Australia to visit."

"Bonzer."

Melodie clasped her hands and looked to the ceiling. Starry-eyed, she exclaimed, "Something up there is telling me this is my big chance to break into series television."

I glanced at the ceiling too, but it remained blank. "Some psychic connection has given you the news?"

"Fate, Kylie. You do believe in fate, don't you?"

A vision of Cousin Brucie danced in front of my mind. Fate had had a bit of a snigger, making him my rello. "I reckon I do," I said gloomily. "I reckon I do."

I went off to see Ariana to set her straight on Fran's Spanish phase, but she was just leaving her office as I got there. "Sorry, Kylie, something urgent has come up. I've got to go."

Her face was ashen. Concerned, I said, "Ariana?"

"I can't talk now."

This clearly wasn't the time to ask what was wrong. "No worries," I said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I looked after Ariana as she left. She had a lovely graceful stride, even when she was rushing, as she was now. I wanted to hurry after her and ask what was it that had upset her. A lover could do that. I felt my shoulders droop. I wasn't even a poor excuse for a lover. As far as Ariana was concerned, I wasn't a lover at all.

Before I could sink further in gloom, I went back to my office and tried Dingo's number again. I left a second voicemail message, a little more urgent than the first.

Soon Mum would be on the phone again asking what steps I'd taken to establish what the problem was with Harry and Gert's son. Merely leaving telephone messages for him wouldn't impress her. Obviously I had to do something more.

No way could I pick a blue with Fran before I told Ariana about the furniture situation, so that particular confrontation was on hold. I got out my Thomas Guide and looked up Dingo O'Rourke's address. It wasn't too far away, and driving there would give me something to concentrate on, other than the dire circumstances of my romantic life. Dingo almost certainly was at work on the set of Darken, but maybe I could find someone to give me some idea of when he might be home.

Dad's red Mustang was a challenge to drive, seeing as it wasn't an automatic, therefore I had to change gears while trying to remember to stay on the right-hand side of the road. In Australia, we drove on the left, like Britain, so I had to say "Keep right!" to myself, especially when making left turns at intersections.

I located Dingo's apartment building on Orange Grove Avenue-a misnamed thoroughfare if ever I saw one-and only had to circle the block a couple of times before I could snaffle a parking spot when someone pulled out.

Dingo's building looked tired, as though it was sick of enduring the summer sun all day while breathing exhaust fumes from the relentless traffic. Sitting on the steps leading to the front entrance was an old lady, her thin silver hair in fat blue rollers. She was wearing a voluminous housecoat and worn pink slippers. She watched my approach with the keenest interest.

"G'day," I said.

"I'm waiting for the mail." She clicked her tongue with irritation. "Postal service they call it, but there's no service to speak off." Squinting up at me, she went on, "They don't care, you see. It's the benefits. Get the benefits whether the mail is delivered or not. Do you know how much a mail carrier makes, with the benefits and all?"

'"Fraid not."

"My first husband was a mail carrier." She paused, apparently waiting for me to respond.

"Interesting," I said.

"Interesting? Not Hugo. No one would call him interesting. Now sexy-some called him sexy. Not me, but some did. Divorced him when I found the basement stuffed with undelivered letters. Thousands of them."