the street. ‘Maybe you can come back for the bag tonight?’
‘With police on every corner? In this mood they’ll be arresting people just for popping out for a litre of milk. I think not,’ he said. Cressida looked at him quizzically. ‘All along Cowper Wharf Road they were, this morning when I went out for my run,’ he explained, shaking his head. ‘Police. At least I think they were. Could have been army for all we know. Impossible to tell. Lots of black and self-important attitudes, anyway. The place’s barmy. Terrorism suspected, but have they arrested anyone yet? No. How can they tell it’s terrorism? Helena,’ he greeted her, peering past her into the back seat of the Fiat with a look of chagrin.
‘Felipe,’ Helena exclaimed, and swung her door open. ‘Hang on, you come in the front.’
‘Thank God,’ he muttered. ‘Cressida, you know I’ve said this isn’t the most practical car for a man of my size …’
‘Are you alright?’ asked Helena, squinting up at him with one hand shielding against the glare. ‘Was there a bomb?’ She levered the seat forward and climbed into the back as Felipe folded himself into the front.
‘Oh God no.’ He waved his hand dismissively, straightening. ‘Complete overreaction. The lady downstairs is Persian, always getting packages from Iran.’ He sighed. ‘Spices or some such. Cressida darling,’ he said, peering in through the passenger window as Cressida started the car, ‘there’s no way you’ll be able to turn around with all these emergency vehicles in the way … Anyway, one was misdelivered to another resident by TNT yesterday afternoon, left in the corridor and then this morning the recipient said it was ticking. Ticking.’ He accentuated the word with the click of the seatbelt as Cressida spun the wheel one way and then back trying to ease the car out of the space. ‘This isn’t Get Smart. She threw it back into the corridor and called the police. And look at this,’ he said, indicating another police car that was crawling past. ‘How many millions are we spending on this completely hysterical overreaction? What was it, three power stations? It was probably climate whiners, for God’s sake. Terrorism? Poppycock.’
Cressida glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Helena’s face still looking stricken.
‘But what was it?’ she asked, leaning forward. ‘The thing in the package.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ He sighed and squinted up the street at the apartment block. ‘Are you alright, Cressida? You seem to be taking rather a long time to …’
‘Sorry,’ said Cressida, peering over the bonnet. ‘With any luck this one’ll be it … Ah, yes,’ she said, breathing a sigh of relief as they made it out into the traffic again.
‘They’ve sent forensics up to find out,’ he continued. ‘Not that we’ll ever hear, of course. If the police have any pride they’ll be far too embarrassed to tell us. Sumac, probably. Anyway. How’s things back chez Helena?’ He attempted to turn to look at her but there wasn’t the room so he turned back. ‘Sweltering, I suppose? What’s that?’
Cressida followed his gaze. There was a large white object at his feet.
‘Block ice,’ said Helena. ‘There was a fellow on the footpath back there with a refrigerated trailer. There was a bit of a queue – but I got some while I was waiting. Twenty dollars a block, mind you.’
‘Gosh,’ said Felipe. ‘Enterprising.’
‘Felipe – how was the hospital? All those people on respirators, it must have been awful – what did you do?’
He shook his head. ‘Utter bedlam. Thankfully I wasn’t mid-operation, but I heard in Emergency they were hand-bagging people. Unbelievable. I mean, we have generators, but they kept cutting out …’ said Felipe, winding down the window. ‘Cressida, I might just turn that off – I feel like I’m parachuting,’ he said, turning the air-conditioner dial. ‘I think they’ve realised they need to upgrade the lot after this episode.’
There was a noise from the footwell and with surprise Cressida realised it was her phone, ringing.
‘Oh Felipe, answer that, will you?’ she said, navigating some cars double parked on Kent Street.
‘What? Oh,’ said Felipe, peering with difficulty between his knees. ‘I would if I could find the damn thing …’
Eyes still on the road Cressida caught the charger chord and fished the handset out of the footwell, handing it to him.
‘Oh, thank you.’ He spoke gruffly into it. ‘Hello? Cressida Mitsok’s phone. Oh. Yes, I’ll hand it right over,’ he said, and held it out to her. ‘It’s some fellow called Michael.’
They stopped, waiting for the traffic to move around an enormous personnel carrier mounted on the curb.
‘Can you put it on speaker? It’s just a tad hard to hold the phone right now …’
‘Hang on,’ he said into the phone again, fiddling about with the screen for a moment and then continuing loudly, enunciating every word, ‘are you there? I’ve put you on speaker.’
‘Er, yes? Hello?’
It sounded like the Managing Partner from work.
‘Michael? It’s Cressida.’
‘Oh good. Hope you’re nearby, Cressida. The CEO of SinoGen’s here from China. Private chopper from Melbourne, current mood foul. I’m not sure whether you knew, but they own the plants that were destroyed. All three. Eraring, Bayswater and Liddell.’
‘Shit,’ said Cressida. That answered that question. ‘All hands on deck, then.’
‘Meeting at my place. Twelve noon. We need you on planning law. Have you got a pen?’
‘Felipe – can you …’
‘Hmm? Oh, yes.’ He extracted a fountain pen from his breast pocket with a flourish. ‘Fire away.’
‘Seventy View Street, Woollahra. See you there.’
8
Following the sector’s recent privatisation, the newly-minted owners of the destroyed power stations were Chinese, and currently sat at Michael Roland’s glass-topped patio table looking decidedly anxious. Two pedestal fans and a portable air conditioner hummed beside them, and a spread of yum cha delicacies was mouldering untouched on the table. Around it sat a roll call of Sydney Partners relevant to energy law in the firm; with surprise Cressida noticed Pip was there, the only other Senior Associate. She sat on a seat between Brian and the air-conditioning unit, wearing her serious face. Cressida raised her hand in greeting, but her friend was engrossed in the conversation. She watched through the sliding doors from the kitchen for a moment, trying to assess the vibe. Butterflies flip-flopped in her stomach – the prospect of talking directly to a client when you weren’t a Partner, especially in front of those who were, was pretty intimidating. Still, she reassured herself, Michael seemed to think her China experience would mean something, so maybe that was her authority. Just don’t say anything stupid, she told herself. Her practice group’s supervising Partner, Richard, saw her through the glass and rose.
‘How’s it going?’ he said, entering the sliding
