at the gardens!’
Hackett shrugged at Ferdy and hastily chased after his wife. He didn’t feel any need to apologise to Jacinta, they hadn’t said anything more than hello. His best mate had been squiring ladies of a similar ilk – tall, model-thin and many years his junior – ever since Ferdy accumulated the first of his many millions.
Hackett always compared Ferdy to the debonair British actor Sir Roger Moore in his prime. Unlike the James Bond heart-throb, Ferdy never endangered his playboy lifestyle by getting married. Most lady friends were accepted by Marianne for the duration of the romance which was usually weeks and, occasionally, a couple of months.
Hackett caught up with his furious wife at their car. He opened the passenger door and looked back to see Ferdy pouring more champagne. Last drinks for Jacinta? Marianne’s only comment on the five-minute drive home was to declare that Jacinta was never to set foot in her house, and that Ferdy had some serious grovelling to make up for that social faux pas.
Hackett knew Marianne would eventually tell him the reason for her explosive exit. They had been few and far between in their 27- year marriage; or so he believed when he wasn’t the cause of them. After storming around the home, tidying benches and rearranging cushions on sofas that didn’t need attention, Marianne, still clutching a cushion, finally entered the office to release the pressure valve.
‘Do you know what that silly cow said?’
‘No, babe,’ Hackett patiently replied, knowing it wouldn’t have been wise to guess.
‘After two hours of her twittering on about her social life and trying to get me to tell her how rich Ferdy is, she says she’s off to Thailand for another boob and face job which, incidentally, she expects Ferdy to pay for. And then she suggested I might like to join her at the clinic. Get my boobs done. What a cheek! Does she want a group discount for Ferdy?’
‘Ahhhh.’ Hackett slowly nodded as the chair reclined, considering the best way to calm his wife. Marianne wasn’t a vain or shallow woman. But turning 50 had made her a tad more conscious of her body which, in Hackett’s opinion, was still sensational. Three sessions a week at the gym, regular squash matches, yoga, the occasional tennis game and annual visits to top-class spas ensured the attractive brunette could still turn heads in Toorak. However, Hackett knew that Marianne was sensitive about the size of her bust. For Jacinta to suggest Marianne should consider breast enhancement was more dangerous than playing with a hand grenade.
‘What a stupid bitch.’ Hackett assumed much of the steam had been vented. ‘I don’t know where Ferdy finds trash like that. Anyway, I’d never let those amateur-choppers touch your tits – I’d only send you to be the best Swiss surgical clinics. Maybe they could fill them with milk chocolate?’
Marianne’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared after a sharp intake of breath. She held the indignant pose for several seconds, but it was a waste of time. She couldn’t outplay her husband’s poker face. She giggled and threw the cushion at him.
‘You selfish bastard.’ Marianne launched herself into Hackett’s lap, almost tipping over the chair. ‘Always thinking of your stomach. I’d make them put soy milk in. At least you might get something healthy for a change.’
Hackett playfully cupped a breast as they cuddled. ‘You know I love you just the way you are, babe. Jacinta is held together by silicone. Give me the real thing any day – and chocolate milk?’ They laughed. Hackett’s gamble had worked and Marianne’s insecurities were tucked away.
‘I reckon Ferdy’s already trawling through his date book for a new dinner companion. And speaking of food, I have a couple of things to check before I fire up the barbie for those steaks.’
That was Marianne’s cue to exit and start dinner preparations. Cucumbers, courgettes, lettuce, broccoli and other healthy options would be chopped, cooked and served. Hackett would brush them aside, as usual. His wife had been trying to change his eating habits from rare steaks and potatoes ever since he turned 50. She would also regularly poke his middle-age paunch. The demands of the television job had restricted his gym visits to a couple of days a month, while the golf games were down to one a fortnight. Hackett believed he was still a healthy man and he would return to a stricter exercise regime once the AFL rights business was sorted.
He had a few minutes until the opening titles of the news, so Hackett listened to O’Malley’s urgent voice mail. To be fair Hackett gave it due diligence, listing the salient points for himself – extra chopper, extra camera, possibly an extra reporter. That was several thousand dollars he saved the company by not answering the phone earlier. And what would be the result if he had granted their wishes? One minute and 20 seconds of breathless reporting by a young Communications Studies graduate on a story that would be forgotten by the first commercial break?
Hackett barely registered the story was about a car crash on the Great Ocean Road. His priority was the cost. Nevertheless, it was almost six o’clock, so he thought he would justify his decision by viewing whatever the news department had scrambled together.
I’ll text O’Malley later, tell him it would’ve been wasted money anyway.
He reached for the remote and switched on the new Samsung 4K television that dominated the wall opposite his desk – paid for by the station, naturally. He swung the chair around and settled in for what he expected to be a few minutes of typical weekend news coverage: another horror road smash.
Hackett nudged up the volume. The first pictures looked like mobile phone video of a vehicle pancaked on rocks. Why are they begging for extra choppers and cameras? Those pictures tell the story.
Any minor pangs of conscience were forgotten as Hackett listened to the story unfold. An Aireys Inlet publican stopped a drunk from driving to his beach house, the idiot waited until the pub closed and used a spare key to resume the journey, but a few kms later drove over a cliff near Lorne. The story looked to be compiled mostly from a mobile phone, the pictures were wobbly and the sound was distorted. The aerials were the steadiest images and better illustrated the driver’s death plunge from the layby. Silly bastard.
Hackett reached for the remote to switch the TV off when a photo of the victim appeared on screen. He froze.
Fuck me! Tugga?
Kevin Tancred. The victim’s name at the top of the story did not ring any bells. Hackett probably never heard him called Kevin in the weeks they spent together all those years ago. He was simply known as Tugga. Hackett paused the TV on the driver’s licence image. Three decades older than the last time Hackett had seen the big fella, and the face was more weathered and carrying heavy bags under the eyes, but there was no doubt: that’s definitely Tugga.
When did you move here and why were you cliff-diving at Lorne?
A personal connection gave Hackett a reason to find out more about the story. He pressed rewind on the remote so that he could listen properly to the script. He learned that Tugga was an expat Kiwi landscaper who moved to Geelong in the late ’80s. He built a thriving business, which enabled him to create a luxurious beach house at Apollo Bay where he spent most weekends. He was well known in most of the bars along the coast – a euphemism for being a heavy drinker – and was occasionally known to be belligerent.
Most of that stacked up with the Tugga that Hackett knew. He loved his booze and could be boisterous if he drank too much. The “famous landscaper” profession was a few steps up from when Tugga and his two mates left New Zealand for their Overseas Experience. Hackett remembered the big fella earned his travel money chopping trees in North Island forests.
