Shane Maloney - The Brush-Off

With a dull thud, Tiger Eastlake slumped back against the wall opposite. He swallowed, caught his breath. ‘You came?’

‘Uh-huh.’ She might have fooled him, but she wasn’t fooling me.

‘You sure?’ His voice was post-coitally dreamy.

‘Would I lie to you?’ Her real love, I knew, was lying on the dining table. The knee-trembler had kept him out of the living room for a while. But what was she going to do now? Push him out the door? Her back was still pressed against the closet. ‘Now I really do need a drink. Be a darling. There’s an open bottle in the fridge.’

Eastlake’s hands came down and his pants went up. A zipper zipped. He took a step closer. Nuzzling sounds. He was compliant. His shoes swivelled in the direction of the kitchen. As he moved away, Fiona’s back came off the door. I sensed, rather than heard, her flit across the living room.

From the kitchen came the rattle of a refrigerator shelf. Bottles clinked. A cork was withdrawn. A cupboard opened. Glass nudged glass. I could have done with a drink myself. And a cigarette. I like one afterwards.

‘I don’t suppose Max Karlin personally delivered the painting, by any chance?’ called Eastlake. There was a well-practised familiarity at work here. The easy way the switches went on and off. This sex business between him and Fiona had been going on for some time. But the casualness of Eastlake’s question was a little too studied. He had something on his mind.

‘Max?’ Miss Innocence was relaxed. The dough must have been safely out of sight. ‘Haven’t seen him since Saturday. Why?’

She came over, picked up her knickers, went back into the living room. ‘Where’s that drink?’

‘I’ve been trying to contact him all day.’ Eastlake came out of the kitchen. ‘He’s not returning my calls.’

I remembered his anxious grab at the phone when I’d rung. Poor Lloyd. His timing was lousy. Thirty seconds earlier and he’d have run into Karlin on the stairs.

‘I really should be getting back to work,’ Fiona said. Not, of course, with any of her previous door-blocking urgency. They were like a married couple. He wanted her to listen while he complained about his hard day at the office.

‘Sorry to burden you with my worries,’ he said. ‘I know you hate shoptalk. But if you hear from Max, tell him to call me immediately. There’s a rumour going around that he’s getting cold feet. The Karlcraft Centre is at the don’t-lookdown stage. The whole thing is in danger of falling over if Max loses his nerve right now. Obelisk has sunk a lot of money into Max Karlin. More than I was authorised to lend him. I’ve staked Obelisk’s whole future, and my own, on Max’s success. If he goes belly-up, he’ll take me with him. The least he could do is return my calls.’

‘You worry too much.’ Fiona played the wifey part, smoothing his fevered brow. ‘He’s probably just in a meeting or something. It’ll be okay, you’ll see. If he rings to check that Our Home has arrived okay, I’ll tell him to call you straight away.’

Eastlake was pacing about while Fiona made reassuring noises. I couldn’t quite make out what was being said. My whole body ached from the effort of standing to attention. Carefully, I moved my wrist into a position where I could read my watch. Thirty minutes I’d been standing there. It felt like years. I needed to urinate. Suddenly, something jolted my heart back into my mouth. I heard the sound of my own name.

‘That reminds me,’ Eastlake was saying. ‘You don’t have to worry about Giles Aubrey any more. That Whelan guy rang me, said he was dead. I knew I shouldn’t have told you what Whelan said Aubrey told him. You’ve probably been worrying about it.’

‘Dead?’ she said, only mildly curious. ‘How?’

‘Whelan didn’t say. All very enigmatic, he was. I’m meeting him later, so I’ll find out then, I suppose. Anyway, there’s one less problem.’

‘Oh, I was never really worried about Giles Aubrey.’

Yet again, I couldn’t believe my ears. But the logic was overwhelming. The story Aubrey told me-whether true or not-had the potential to derail the CMA’s purchase of Our Home. Lambert had put a great deal of effort into making sure the sale went ahead. She had a lot riding on its successful conclusion. She could hardly just stand by and let Giles Aubrey ruin her plans. A woman as young, fit and ruthless as Fiona Lambert would have no trouble pushing a frail old man down a steep riverbank.

‘I’ll just try Max again.’ Eastlake came closer and I heard a distinct grunt as he bent to pick up his hastily shed suit jacket. Blip, blop, blip. Mobile phone dialling noises. Silence. Glasses tinkled. The kitchen tap ran again. Fiona, clearing up. Eastlake got through, asked for Karlin. ‘Still not back? Okay. Same message.’

My bladder was full. If I didn’t get out of that fucking closet soon, I’d have to start paying rent.

They were at the door. ‘Remember, if Max calls…’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell him…’

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ Eastlake spoke in tones of unalloyed affection. Jesus. The schmuck was in love.

The door closed. Lambert waited a beat, then let out a long sigh of relief. She moved down the hall. Seconds later, the pipes in the wall behind me started up. From the direction of the bathroom came the sound of running water, then of teeth being brushed. Brush, brush, brush. Then the shower started. Above the cascade of the water, I heard the screech of a curtain being tugged along a metallic rail.

Leaning lightly on the cupboard door, I popped it open. Reassuring myself that no-one was coming up the stairs, I drew the flat door shut behind me. My shirt was drenched in sweat and draped with cobwebs. My hands were shaking. I gulped air. My breath came in short pants, dressed for the weather.

I hurried downstairs, gripping the banister.

Droplets of moisture flashed in the sunlight. Sprinklers played across the lawns of the Domain. Children ran between the trees squirting each other with water pistols. Senior citizens at picnic tables poured streams of steaming tea from thermos flasks. After what felt like an eternity trapped in that broom closet, my bladder was about to explode.

Tilted forward at the waist like a particularly obsequious Japanese, I scuttled across Domain Road and cast about for a public convenience of some description. The only facility in sight was a shoulder-high bed of red and yellow canna lilies. Advancing into its leafy interior, I proceeded to irrigate its tuberous root structure.

Below the waist, I sighed with relief. Above the neck, I struggled to make sense of all that I had just observed. Some things were crystal clear. Others were murky and obscure. I had a growing sense of dismay and responsibility.

That Fiona Lambert was some piece of work. And she definitely had Lloyd Eastlake’s measure. Our Man in the Arts, puffed up with smug vanity, was a soft target. Particularly by the time Fiona Lambert had finished working her charms.

Scam one was the CUSS set-up. Eastlake, doing his girlfriend a favour, had put the art investment business of the Combined Unions Superannuation Scheme her way. This entailed a conflict of interest on his part, both as a director of the CUSS and as chairman of the Centre for Modern Art, but he had probably done no more than what a thousand other company directors did every day of the week. His hot-shot lover, however, had taken full advantage of the opportunity to slip the unsuspecting CUSS an entirely fabricated art collection. The sheer scale of her audacity was staggering.

Scam two was the Szabo deal. Eastlake, persuaded that Our Home was an absolute must for the CMA collection, had exerted his influence with both the government and Obelisk to fund its purchase. Fiona, meanwhile, had forced Max Karlin to sell the picture and cut herself in for a piece of the action.