Claire McNab - Quokka Question

"Deposition in a blackmail case, and while I'm there I'll follow up on a witness in a case of political corruption Bob's investigating."

Ariana's phone rang. It was Melodie to say Chantelle was calling me. "United Flair's taking everyone to Big Sur for the weekend," said Melodie, "that's a real nice place. Chantelle has all the luck."

I told Melodie I'd take the call in my office. Before I left Ariana, I said, "Where's Big Sur?"

"Big Sur? It's on the coastal highway about two hundred miles north of here. It has the most beautiful scenery."

There was something in her voice that made me ask, "Have you stayed there?"

Her face closed. Turning back to her briefcase she said, "Yes, many times."

Crikey, I'd touched a nerve. I trotted down to my office to pump Chantelle about Big Sur.

"Oh, it's gorgeous," she said. "A wild rocky coast and loads of great big trees. The lodge where we're having our company retreat is right next to a national park. We've got scuba diving and hikes and stuff like that lined up for when we're not getting in touch with our inner animals."

Chantelle had mentioned this before. Over the weekend everyone at United Flair, from the talent agents right through to people in the mail room, would join in mind games designed to help each person could get in touch with his or her inner animal. This was supposed to markedly improve relationships in the workplace, although I couldn't quite see how.

"What if you turn out to be a rattlesnake, and your boss a timid lit-de mouse?" I asked. "Or maybe you're a hummingbird, and your boss is a crocodile. One snap and you're gone."

"I've already decided what I'm going to be," Chantelle announced. "A big cat. A black panther, to be precise."

"You're choosing what you want to be beforehand? Aren't you supposed to go through all these tests and exercises to find out what you are?"

Chantelle gave one of her warm, dusky chuckles. "Honey," she said, "no way am I going to be some creepy, second-rate animal. I'll play along with everything and voila!-discover I'm a big cat at just the right moment."

"Black panther does suit you," I conceded, thinking of her sleek, dark skin.

"Keep that thought," she purred.

I hung up the phone, smiling. Then I thought about Big Sur and Ariana's reaction, and my smile went south. The place must mean something special to her. Perhaps it had to do with Natalie Ives.

To keep my mind on business, I took out my trusty copy of Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook and turned to the chapter tided "Stalking the Stalker." I discovered that stalkers could be divided into three types: former intimate partners, delusional individuals, and avengers.

I saw why Ariana had asked Pen if her stalker could be someone she'd had an intimate relationship with, as well over half of stalkers fell into this category. Intimate stalkers, I read, refuse to believe a relationship is over, no matter what the object of their obsession says or does. There is no reasoning with them. They hear what they want to hear, twisting outright rejection into a declaration of love.

The second type, delusional stalkers, my handbook pointed out, were quite different. Generally they had had no personal contact with their victims. Unable to form real, rewarding relationships themselves, they opted for imaginary ones, almost always with celebrities or other people of much higher status than they were. Many stalkers in this category were mentally ill, often suffering from erotomania, where they were totally convinced the victim fervently adored and desired them. Most were convinced their loved one was beaming them hidden messages, encoded in public statements.

The third type of stalker was the avenger. This was a person who had become furiously angry with someone because of a real or imagined slight. Politicians, judges, bosses, and colleagues at work were often victims of these stalkers, who saw themselves as justified in getting even, and having revenge upon those who had enraged them.

I'd just turned the page to the section on advice to give stalking victims, when there was a knock at the door, and Fran waltzed in, her expression determined.

"Had time to look at the garden sheds?" she asked, staring pointedly at the untouched pile of brochures she'd left for me to read.

"Not yet. Sorry." I thought of my conversation with Fran at the reception desk a little earlier, and felt a dash of determination myself. "Please close the door and sit down," I said, as cool as Ariana. "There's something we need to discuss."

Fran seemed puzzled. "Apart from the sheds-and you haven't even looked at anything yet-what is there to discuss?"

I'd had enough of this sheila. "Do I have to fight you every centimeter? Please shut the door and sit down."

Fran complied with bad grace. "OK," she said, glaring at me. "Door closed and I'm sitting."

I took a deep breath, not quite sure how to begin. I'd just play it by ear and see what happened. "If you were picked up and plunked in the middle of Wollegudgerie, my hometown, you'd be a fish out of water."

Fran squinted belligerently at me. "So?"

"So you wouldn't like it if Aussies mocked and scorned you because you didn't understand everything about the place."

Fran's china-doll features were showing a glimmer of understanding. "So?" she said, less emphatically.

"So I've had it with you," I said, quite calmly. "I'm still a stranger here, and I'm trying to learn the ropes as fast as I can. Sure, I don't understand every cultural reference, but you wouldn't either if you were in Oz."

I expected an argument, but Fran was looking at me with something close to respect-an unaccustomed experience for me.

"OK, Kylie, I'll cut you some slack."

"Meaning you'll give me a fair go?"

"I guess that's what I mean." She gave me a faint smile.

Now I was at a loss for what to say. I'd been ready for a donnybrook, and Fran agreeing with me took the wind right out of my sails.

"Right-oh," I said. "Good."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Fran paused at the door. "We must have these little chats more often." Her tone was sardonic.

She was gone before I could have the last word. Wouldn't it rot your socks?

Thursday and Friday I worked flat out at UCLA, having been co-opted by Professor Yarrow to help the committee running the Global Marsupial Symposium. Any worries I had that someone would catch me out about the research paper I was supposedly writing under Rube Wasinsky's supervision receded, as everyone was totally concentrated on the myriad organizational demands created by such a prestigious international conference.

I checked list after list of attendees to ensure no one would be insulted by receiving a misspelled name tag. This task was more demanding than it sounded, as many countries were represented and so many people had, for English speakers like me, challenging names. Then I was set troubleshooting problems that had occurred with catering for all the different cultures. I was kept so busy that I hardly had time to say hello to Rube or work on becoming friends with Erin Fogarty so that I could pump her some more about the quokka research Oscar had said she'd stolen to give to Jack Yarrow.

On Thursday I did manage to fit in my appointment with Georgia Tapp, Yarrow's administrative assistant. We chatted for a while about how wonderful the professor was, how his keen, incisive mind and forceful personality had elevated me Global Marsupial Symposium to the must-go event in the scientific world. Then her cheerful, dimpled face grew grim. "Such great success breeds envy. Little people try to drag the professor down."

"You mean Dr. Braithwaite?"

"That creature! You heard him yesterday in his unwarranted, intemperate attack upon Professor Yarrow, a man whose boots he's not fit to shine!"