hard sometimes.’
‘Yeah sure, I understand,’ said Colin. He wouldn’t, though. None of them did. ‘I guess that’s why they got you to do it.’
10
On Monday morning Brian Prendergast’s ground floor looked to Cressida more like a hipster open-plan cafe than the back entrance to a Woollahra town house. Gigantic hardwood doors opened onto a blue-tiled plunge pool, itself ringed by wooden benches that backed onto a commercial kitchen and bar where, it was rumoured, cocktails had once been mixed for Emilio Dolce. In her opinion the head Partner of Mergers and Acquisitions was more Maldives than Byron Bay, but a hippie streak in corporate design was big at the moment and God knew he could afford to get an interior designer in every two years to tell him that. The most glamorous thing Cressida had actually been there for before were client cocktail parties where male reps made a fool of themselves in the pool and female solicitors tried to avoid getting thrown in with them; it was somewhat of a relief to be there in the daytime.
When it became clear that the blackout would not be sorted by the following week, the place had become a satellite office of Hannes Swartling M&A. When Cressida arrived at 7am, via her flat for something to wear, bacon and eggs brought by Tesla steamed in a row of bain maries on the breakfast bar, next to three types of cereal, a large bowl of yoghurt, and the glossy moons of several poached fruits. Outside the pool was one long, inviting slice of blue water reflecting back the sky. Misting pedestal fans circulated cool air across the room and black thickets of phone and laptop cords feasted like leeches on power boards against the wall. But aside from a waiter setting out cutlery, the place was empty.
From behind a sliding door at the back of the room came the sound of splashing water. Adjacent was a stack of bathsheets on a chair, next to a pile of bound documents. Oh, a shower. And a blowdry! Yes please. She snagged one of the towels and selected a licorice tea bag from the rosewood box on the counter while she waited, thinking back to the emergency centre they had visited the previous day; the hordes of overexcited children, feet bopping on the waxed gymnasium floors as they ran circuits of the basketball court, through the rows of camp beds and piled belongings, their dishevelled parents queuing for hot water and nappies. If only the perpetrators had given some warning, she thought, filling the cup and setting it down on a platform between two benches. But then, that probably wasn’t the point, was it.
There was one spot left on one of the overborne power boards and she plugged her laptop into it, flooded with a renewed sense of ease when it winked into life. Stage one of reconnection to the world, she thought, sipping her tea. Her plan was first to do some background reading on InterConnex, then start getting the legal team together and make contact with the project managers in each state to get in the loop on the stakeholder meetings. There were concept plans and options to review, geotech reports and environmental assessments to read, approval application documents to prepare, all towards the finalisation of the T & C document in time for the launch in May. If it was anything like the other State motorways, she thought, watching the light dance on the pool, the tendering alone would be a nightmare. One day, she reflected with an odd detachment as the printer doled out the finance documents Richard had emailed her, she and Felipe would be able to afford a place like this. He was already on four hundred k, and once she was a Partner, her income would be almost the same. It was a vertiginous feeling, to have everything she had worked for be so close. It was hers, hers. As long as nothing went wrong.
The water stopped and the door to the ensuite opened. Richard emerged with a towel around his waist. As he reached into the gym bag on the carpet he noticed Cressida.
‘Oh Cress, hi,’ he said. ‘Nice to see you. Brought you some light reading.’ He pointed at the foot-high pile of bound documents on a chair. ‘Road documents,’ he said with a grin. ‘Have you seen Michael yet? He really wanted to see you.’
‘Um, no?’ she said, glancing at the pile. ‘Is he around?’
‘Upstairs,’ said Richard, giving a can of aerosol deodorant a vigorous shake. ‘I’d take a coffee. He looked serious.’
‘Right …’ Cressida said. A meeting, upstairs, instead of down here where the business happened? Odd. ‘Thanks.’ It must be something to do with the partnership vote, she decided as she climbed the stairs with her tea. Telling her about when it was rescheduled for. Nothing worse than that, no doubt. Hopefully whatever it was would be quick – she was itching to get back to the road project.
Arriving into the foyer at the top of the stairwell felt like crossing into an inner sanctum. Gold-framed mirrors and hardwood tables were pressed against the walls, and a Persian rug lined the parquet floor that stretched to the front door. To her right was a loungeroom scattered with square leather couches and a glass-topped coffee table. The temperature was at least ten degrees lower than downstairs, and Cressida felt herself relax just from the feel of the air-con on her damp skin. On the far side of the loungeroom, Michael was standing by a large plate-glass window staring down at the pool.
‘Ah, Cressida,’ he said, crossing the floor. He clasped her hand. ‘Good to see you.’ He indicated a couch. ‘Take a seat. Had breakfast?’
‘Um, no, actually,’ she said. Unless you counted the apple she’d had in the car. Dinner the night before had been raw vegetables and tinned tuna. She was ravenous, but the thought of chowing down on a bowl of muesli and yoghurt in front of the Managing Partner was not appealing. ‘It can wait,’ she said.
He turned around and said, ‘Sandra said what, ten minutes, Brian?’
Cressida looked up to see Brian Prendergast standing in the kitchen at the cappucino machine. What was he doing here? Oh but it’s his house, silly, she remembered. He’s just making his morning coffee. Brian nodded. Cressida frowned and tried to read Michael’s face. The Managing Partner and a Senior Partner she didn’t know well, calling a private meeting with her? And with a person she didn’t know? The only time she’d heard of that was on Level 65 when people were given the shove. They’d call someone independent in to make sure it was all ‘impartial’ – and witnessed should there be a dispute over who said what later. Her heart dropped into her stomach. Was that why the partnership vote hadn’t been rescheduled yet? They were planning to sack her?
But as she stood up and reached over to shake Brian’s hand across the bench, the thing she noticed immediately was how distracted he was. It was like someone had flicked the dimmer switch on his usual energy. His smile as he held out a plate of croissants and danishes to her was only half its usual intensity.
‘Who’s Sandra?’ asked Cressida, taking a pastry and trying to sound offhand.
Michael lowered himself onto the couch opposite and ran a hand across his face. ‘It’s complicated, Cressida. I’ll explain when she gets here,’ he said. ‘How’s things?’
Brian sat at an angle in a chair on the other side of her and nursed his coffee.
‘Fine, thanks,’ she said, warily. ‘Except for my partnership application of course. When is the vote rescheduled for by the way?’ she said, taking a dainty mouthful of her tea as she looked at Michael over the rim. Instead of answering, Michael gave a pained looked at Brian, who gave a show of grimacing and took a swig of his coffee.
‘Such a ruddy cock-up, that,’ Brian said, finally, the English cut-glass curve to his voice pure Melbourne royalty. ‘If only that idiot Bollos had kept quiet.’ The accent made the frankness of his words compelling, cool almost, instead of uncouth. ‘If she had,’ he continued, ‘you’d already be a Partner by now. I’m sure of it. Things being
