heard that tune before. He knew all the words.
This time round, they hammered home hard.
He went to Borneo. He stayed the week and decided he had all the skills required to do good work there—if he had a mind to. Living conditions would be perfectly adequate. The seafood was exceptional. He’d be on the water a lot, and that always endeared a project to him, for the water was his home. He knew of half a dozen funding opportunities coming up. He should have been busy writing and sending out proposals.
And yet … a week passed, and then another three, and he still hadn’t written an outline for what he wanted to do in Borneo.
He tried telling himself it was because the PNG data had proved so richly rewarding, and he’d been distracted by that, and by all the research papers to be had from it. He even wrote some of those papers and was pleased with his efforts. Dr Grey Tyler was doing good work—work that, when reviewed and published, should make finding grant money for future projects easy.
Six months was all he’d allowed himself when it came to mining the PNG data for papers and two of those had already passed. He needed to get another project in place soon or he’d be out of work.
Being out of work held no appeal whatsoever.
Neither, he finally admitted to himself, did spending the next three years in a tiny fishing village in Borneo.
Something else, then. Something fascinating and captivating and a little more civilised would surely command his attention sooner or later.
And he wasn’t talking about Charlotte Greenstone.
With Greyson—and Gilbert—out of the picture, Charlotte attempted to settle back into her normal routine with joy, and, if not joy, then at least some measure of contentment. Alas, embracing her inner contentment really wasn’t going so well.
Restlessness plagued her. She couldn’t settle to her work.
For the first time in five years, the congestion of inner city Sydney got on her nerves, and the charm of her nose-to-girder view of the Harbour Bridge, and the vibrations that shook the windows with every passing passenger train, wore thin.
Life didn’t shine so brightly these days. Emptiness had crept back into her life and this time it stayed. Dreariness and weariness had crept in too—ugly unwanted companions that she couldn’t seem to shake.
Crankiness … Heaven help her, she had a short fuse these days.
The Mead had requested a meeting this morning to discuss a dig he was keen to find funding for. No guesses required as to whose job that would be. Following that, she had two undergraduate lectures scheduled for ten and twelve, and a doctor’s appointment to go to in the afternoon.
It was seven a.m. and all Charlotte wanted to do was crawl back into bed and relive a morning or two when she’d woken up in a strong and loving man’s arms and been treated to coffee in bed and pancakes with syrup, and a day of sailing and sunshine that she’d never wanted to end.
‘Damn you!’ she muttered to the man who’d given her that day. ‘A curse on you, Greyson Tyler.’ A really good curse, for having the temerity and the God-given attributes to worm his way into her psyche and stay there.
Greyson the gone—be he in Borneo, PNG, roasting over hot coals … wherever.
Gone.
Charlotte’s meeting with Harold Mead didn’t start well. She was ten minutes late, the smell of the coffee he handed her made her want to throw up, and there were two other suits in the room—one of them the head of university finance, the other one the Dean of Geology. She smelled collaboration and coercion and they came through on that in spades. A joint dig involving every geologist, archaeologist, and currently aimless dogsbody on the payroll of three different universities. Charlotte would not be in charge, of course. She wouldn’t even be required to step foot on site, if that was her preference. Nor would they utilise her field expertise, nor, by extrapolation, did they intend to credit her with any of the research.
No, Charlotte’s sole task was to shake the loose change from the private sector in order to fund the project.
She declined. Politely.
She damn near resigned. Not so politely.
‘Charlotte, I don’t know what to do with you,’ Harold Mead told her after the other two had left, his frustration and disappointment clearly evident. ‘You won’t commit to any field work, you pick and choose which projects you’ll support with no clear research direction that I can discern, you say you’d like to move into project set-up and administration and yet here I am offering that to you on a plate and you refuse. What exactly is it that you want?’
‘How about we start with some small level of input into the projects the Greenstone name is expected to sell,’ she countered hotly, knowing her words were unprofessional but powerless to stop them tumbling out. ‘An assurance that my experience might, at some stage, be valued when it comes to modifying a project plan, and not swept aside because I’m young and female and couldn’t possibly know better than you.’
‘Sometimes you don’t,’ said the Mead curtly.
‘And sometimes I do,’ she said. ‘You want to know what I want? Fine. I’ll have a proposal on your desk tomorrow morning, outlining my thoughts on project funding and administration in detail. I suggest you look it over rather closely, see if you can bring yourself to accommodate at least some of my suggestions, because if not I’ll be moving on and taking my family name and my cashed-up connections with me.’
Two lectures, a salad sandwich, and a hasty drive through the city centre later, Charlotte arrived at the Circular Quay surgery near her apartment. Twenty minutes after she took a seat in the waiting room, the doctor called her in.
The affable doctor Christina Christensen sat her down, looked her over and asked her what was wrong. ‘Lethargy, loss of appetite, and a tendency to get a wee bit emotional over the strangest things,’ she said.
‘What kind of things?’ the doctor asked as she reached for the blood pressure bandage.
‘Well … this morning I was howling along to a piece of music,’ said Charlotte.
‘It happens,’ said the doctor. ‘You should see me at the opera.’
‘It wasn’t that kind of music.’
‘What kind was it?’ asked the doctor.
‘Beethoven’s Ninth. Seriously, I’m getting more and more irrational of late. Short-tempered. Opinionated.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Cross,’ said Charlotte.
‘You already said that.’
‘It probably bears repeating.’
‘Tell me about your appetite,’ said the doctor as she pumped up the pressure wrap around Charlotte’s upper arm to the point of pain and then abruptly released the pressure.
‘What’s to tell? It’s gone.’
‘Any
