Crossing Paths Read online

  Dianne Blacklock has been a teacher, trainer, counsellor, checkout chick, and even one of those annoying market researchers you avoid in shopping centres. Nowadays she tries not to annoy anyone by staying home and writing. Crossing Paths is her fifth book, and by the time you read this, she’ll be working on another one.

  www.dianneblacklock.com

  Also by Dianne Blacklock

  Call Waiting

  Wife for Hire

  Almost Perfect

  False Advertising

  DIANNE

  BLACKLOCK

  First published 2008 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Copyright © Dianne Blacklock 2008

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Data:

  Blacklock, Dianne.

  Crossing Paths/Dianne Blacklock.

  ISBN 978 1 74198 333 3

  A823.4

  Typeset in 12.5/14pt Bembo by Post Pre-press Group

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2008 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Crossing Paths

  Dianne Blacklock

  Adobe eReader format 978-1-74198-215-2

  Online format 978-1-74198-392-0

  EPUB format 978-1-74262-372-6

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  To Cate Paterson

  Acknowledgements

  It occurred to me as I came to write these once again, that trying to find a new angle on the acknowledgements is akin to coming up with a new storyline using the same characters. The same faithful band of long-suffering friends and family members buoy me up, keep me laughing, and give me some really good material, albeit unintentionally. Anyway, you know who you are, and I love and appreciate you all every day.

  There are, however, a few new twists to the plot. This book would have struggled to get off the ground if not for a stimulating and intense workshopping session over a bottle of something or other with Jeska Allan. I had all the separate ingredients but had stalled trying to put them together. Jeska is smart and insightful and quick as a whip, and we had it all sorted by the end of the night and the end of the bottle. Her input was invaluable, and I am genuinely indebted to her.

  Her partner and my son, Joel Naoum, is always one of my first readers, and always, always, a patient and intelligent sounding board. Second son, Dane, was studying in Portugal virtually the entire time I was writing this novel, and was sorely missed, but I couldn’t possibly mention him in the acknowledgements. Sons three and four, however, had to live with me, so they deserve a special commendation; in fact, Patrick sat his HSC and completed the transition to university smoothly, which is how Pat does things; and Zac persevered valiantly through his own particular teenage trials (he’d be embarrassed if I mentioned puberty).

  Cate Paterson makes an appearance around this point each time, because I wouldn’t be here still if it wasn’t for her. She is a peerless publisher and a dear friend, and I am eternally grateful that she brought me into the Pan Macmillan family, which really has come to be more and more of a family each year. Thank you particularly to the delightful and highly competent Louise Bourke for looking after all the details, and supremo publicist Jane Novak for looking after me in various locales around the countryside, till all hours (sorry Jane!). Julia Stiles has been my copy-editor since the beginning, and now I am incredibly privileged and thoroughly spoilt to have her as my structural editor as well. And thank you to the wonderful, hardworking sales team who actually get the books out onto the shelves – see, I do appreciate you all, Maria!

  Finally to all the lovely readers who write to me asking for the next book – here it is, I hope you enjoy it.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Dianne Blacklock

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  8:20 am

  8:35 am

  8:55 am

  5 pm

  5:17 pm

  7:20 pm

  Morning

  2 pm

  Sunday

  Tuesday morning

  9:30 pm

  Wednesday

  8 pm

  Next day

  Two weeks later

  Inaugural Australasian Summit on Climate Change

  Opening address by the Hon MP, Federal Minister for the Environment, Liv Khouri

  Day two

  Saturday

  Tuesday

  Friday

  Monday morning

  Tuesday morning

  That afternoon

  5:30 pm

  The following week

  Sunday

  Leura

  Wednesday

  The Tribune

  Leura

  Tomorrow

  Leura

  Saturday night

  Morning

  4 pm

  Next day

  Morning

  8:40 am

  3 pm

  Friday

  The Tribune

  Tuesday

  The Tribune

  Two weeks later

  The next day

  Sydney Airport

  Three days before Christmas

  The next day

  Christmas Day

  Leura

  Saturday night

  11 pm

  New Year’s Eve

  The Tribune

  Sydney domestic terminal

  The next day

  Eight hours later

  Katoomba Cemetery

  The Tribune

  Wednesday

  Jo decided she was getting old. She used to think moving was fun, a bit of an adventure, but that was when she was a student and she could fit everything she owned into one or two cardboard boxes and a couple of garbage bags. Now she had too much stuff. And she hated that. She had always vowed never to have so much stuff that it would weigh her down. She’d managed to keep that vow through her twenties, but inertia took over once she hit thirty. You had to stay put for a little longer. And staying put meant you needed certain things you’d never bothered about before. A dining table for example, once eating off a coffee table became too uncomfortable, and frankly, a little ridiculous. And matching plates and cups and glasses suddenly took on new importance. Jo di
dn’t want them to, they just did. Gradually her cast-off furniture was replaced with simple, quality ‘pieces’. However, the day she sent the futon to the tip and bought a Sealy Posturepedic queen-size bed instead, was the day she knew she had crossed over to the other side. But what was she supposed to do? Despite her twentysomething spirit, she had a thirtysomething body and it needed good lumbar support.

  And now she had bought her first apartment. She’d not only crossed over, she’d signed up for life. She was going to live here for a long time, longer than she had lived anywhere, more than likely. You didn’t go through all the rigmarole of purchasing a property to up and move any time soon after. Buying the apartment meant she was resigned to staying put, that erstwhile dreams of travelling the world would remain just that – dreams. It probably meant she was resigned to a whole lot of things that would no doubt make themselves known to her over time.

  Her mobile phone began to ring and Jo slipped it out of her pocket and peered at the screen. She smiled, sinking down onto the floor and resting her back against the couch.

  ‘Hiya Ange.’ Jo had lost count of how many times she’d called today.

  ‘How’s it going? Are you okay? Are you hanging in there?’

  The tangible concern in her friend’s voice always caught her by surprise. Jo had never been one to make friends easily. She put it down to her itinerant childhood; though her sister Belle had lived through the same childhood and didn’t seem to have any trouble making friends. She had hordes of them. Jo had met Angie when she first came to work at the Sunday Tribune. She had been given the sandwich orders, not officially, but stealthily, one by one. ‘Jo, you’re going down to Earl’s? Could you pick me up . . .’ By the end of the week Jo was taking nine regular orders and she felt like the office gopher. When Angie smiled at her from across the counter, saying something to the effect of ‘Hey, it’s you again! What would you like today?’, Jo suddenly blurted, ‘A little respect wouldn’t go astray!’ and proceeded to blather on about how she was a fully-qualified journalist and had done her time on regional newspapers and now she’d finally made it to the city, with a job at the Sunday Tribune, which while not a broadsheet, was nonetheless a reputable Sunday newspaper, and all she wanted was the opportunity to work hard and be taken seriously, not to have to fetch lunch orders like a kid on work experience. Was that too much to ask?

  Angie had been patient enough to sift through the babble and get to the gist of the problem. ‘I know how to fix it so they never ask you to fetch the lunches again,’ she’d told Jo, as she calmly proceeded to garnish each of the sandwiches with a generous smear of wasabi.

  Just as Angie had predicted, Jo was never asked to fetch the lunches again. And her wasabi-wielding accomplice turned out to have many more strings to her bow than just sandwich-making and vengeance-wreaking. A long-aspiring actress, Angie was working at the Earl of Sandwich while she patiently waited for her big break. Or even a medium-sized one would do.

  ‘Is the power on yet?’ Angie was asking.

  ‘Just,’ Jo said wearily. She’d planned this move with typical military precision, not leaving anything to chance; but much to her chagrin, chance had a way of tagging along regardless. The removalists had already been running behind schedule when a brief but significant downpour in the middle of the day had brought proceedings to a complete halt. On top of that, she’d discovered that the power had not been turned on at the apartment, necessitating a series of irate calls till Jo was finally put through to where the buck stopped and demanded something was done immediately. Which ended up being barely half an hour ago.

  ‘But it’s nearly ten!’ Angie exclaimed. ‘Jo, that’s a nightmare. You won’t have any hot water. You’d better come and stay at my place tonight; have a warm shower, get a good night’s sleep, and then you can go back and face it tomorrow.’

  ‘But I have to go to work tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t you take a sickie?’

  Jo was shaking her head, despite the fact that Angie couldn’t see her. ‘Everyone knows I was moving, I got my one day of leave, I’m not expected to require any more than that. Besides, Leo has called some extraordinary meeting first thing. I don’t want to miss it.’

  ‘You do realise the world keeps revolving even when you’re not there to spin it?’ said Angie.

  Jo ignored that, taking a swig from the bottle of champagne she’d opened. She hadn’t been able to find a glass, not that she’d spent all that much time looking.

  ‘Tell me you’re having a drink, at least?’

  ‘I’m having a drink,’ Jo confirmed. She’d bought the bottle to celebrate, a reward or incentive if she actually had managed to pull the place into some semblance of order. But when the lights finally came on and Jo surveyed the cardboard landscape of her apartment, she decided she needed a drink then and there.

  ‘Do you want me to come round?’ Angie asked.

  ‘No, it’s too much of a mess here. I’m not going to get much done tonight. I think I’ll just have to make my bed and then go lie in it.’

  ‘What do you want to do about breakfast?’

  ‘The usual. But let’s make it seven-thirty.’

  ‘Eew, do we have to?’

  ‘Look, you can get to Oliver’s whenever you like, Ange, but I have no milk and I’ll never be able to find the coffee –’

  ‘Okay, okay . . . I’ll see you at seven-thirty.’

  Jo hung up, slipping her phone back into her pocket. She gazed around the flat. No – apartment. She was only going to refer to it as an apartment. Her apartment. For every uncomfortable, niggling thought that crossed her mind about home ownership, there were three other secretly gleeful, slightly smug ones that stopped to dance a little jig. Angie didn’t quite get it, neither did Belle when she trekked all the way into the city with the twins in their hummer-pram to have a look. ‘It’s very . . . stark, isn’t it?’ was all she could say.

  Exactly. What you saw was what you got. There had originally been a three-storey department store on the site, one of the finest examples of Art Deco architecture in the city, apparently. Council bureaucrats insisted the façade be maintained, so the developer set about accommodating their request. Some kind of engineering miscalculation resulted in half the building collapsing when the interior was being gutted. It was naturally suspected the miscalculation was intentional, but that proved impossible to substantiate. So after some unavoidable delays, the developer was permitted to demolish what was remaining of the department store and erect a clean, soaring, symmetrical tower, free of its Art Deco shackles, like a sleek phoenix rising out of the rubble.

  And that’s what Jo loved about it. There was no history to this building, there were no features to preserve. There had been no other occupants. It was a blank canvas. She could paint the walls, hang pictures, put locks on the doors. Extra ones. And one of those chains. She could invite people over and keep people out. No one could tell her what she was allowed or not allowed to do in her own apartment.

  Her mobile phone rang again. Jo looked at the screen. ‘Not even you, Mr Barr.’ She pressed the button to answer and held the phone to her ear. ‘Hi Lachlan.’

  ‘How goes the move?’

  She grunted dismissively. She didn’t want to relive it.

  ‘I was thinking of coming over,’ said Lachlan.

  ‘Well think again.’

  ‘But I’m going away tomorrow.’

  Jo frowned. ‘Where are you going again?’

  ‘The premiers’ conference . . . in Tasmania,’ he said, in that exasperated ‘I’ve told you this several times’ tone. Lachlan rarely remembered anything going on in her life, but she was expected to remember every detail of his.

  ‘I’m really tired, Lach.’

  ‘But I won’t see you for nearly a week,’ he protested. ‘Come on, it’ll perk you up, I’ll bring some food, a bottle of wine . . .’

  ‘I have food here,’ she half-lied, rummaging through a box and unearthing a packet of pretzels. ‘An
d I’m already making my way through a bottle of champagne.’

  ‘Is Angie there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is anyone with you?’

  ‘No, I’m on my own.’

  ‘Well, you can’t be drinking on your own, what will people say?’

  ‘You see, the beauty of drinking on your own, Lach, is that people can’t say anything because there’s no one here to see you doing it.’

  ‘Come on, Jo.’ He was getting frustrated now. ‘Let me come over, I’ll help you unpack or something.’

  ‘I know what the “something” will be.’

  ‘Jo –’

  ‘Lachlan, I said no,’ she repeated, sounding a little like a parent. She cleared her throat. ‘I just want to go to bed –’

  ‘Fine with me.’

  ‘Lachlan!’ she scolded, sounding exactly like a parent.

  ‘Let’s talk about this when I get there. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘No you won’t.’

  ‘You can’t stop me coming over there, Jo.’

  ‘But I don’t have to let you in. You don’t have a key to this place, remember.’

  ‘Then I’ll be forced to stand outside and knock on your door until you open it.’

  No wonder she was sounding like a parent when Lachlan was behaving like a child.

  ‘And I’ll just have to ring your wife and ask her to come and collect her pathetic husband.’

  She heard Lachlan breathe out heavily. She had him there. Popular wisdom seemed to suggest that having an affair with a married man gave him all the power. But Jo didn’t see it that way at all. She wouldn’t be in it otherwise. She had relinquished her power in too many relationships to ever let it happen again. Jo knew where she stood with Lachlan, she had no expectations beyond that; and likewise, he could have no expectations beyond what she was prepared to give. It was a perfect arrangement. Lachlan was good for sex, very good for sex as a matter of fact. And he was intelligent, which was a huge plus for Jo. She could talk and discuss and argue and debate with Lachlan on almost any topic. He was good company, most of the time. But that didn’t mean she wanted him to leave his marriage for her. Not that there was any risk of that happening. Sandra Barr was a trophy wife of the highest calibre and Lachlan enjoyed nothing more than to walk into a crowded room with her on his arm. And there were two kids. Really sweet kids they were as well, entirely to Sandra’s credit. Lachlan was barely there to kiss them goodnight.