Grand Slam (8 page)

It was after ten o'clock when I packed up my desk. Marcus had left at nine. Rosalind was still there, probably waiting for everyone to disappear so she could hang upside-down from the ceiling. I stuck my head in her door and said I was going. She gave me a wave without looking up, and without a word of farewell.

In the car I got teary. It'd been a big day. We still hadn't had the full story from the oil rig because no-one had been able to get out there.
Sharon
was a slow-moving monster and hadn't yet crossed the coastline; it was expected to do so overnight. Lots of people lived in that area. Someone had called in from the rig to say the six people on board were all safe, but they hadn't been able to check the damage from the explosion. So no injuries or deaths. There'd been a fire but the skyscraper waves crashing over the rig had apparently put it out. I'd been able to report all that to the media, and that was something. We wouldn't know about oil spills until maybe tomorrow.

I decided that ten thirty wasn't too late to call Jack. I needed to talk to someone who'd understand about explosions and disaster. I wanted to hear his voice. I dialled his mobile and put mine on speaker, resting it on my leg as I drove. It went straight to voicemail so I called the house phone, hoping I didn't wake Joe. I did wake Joe. He was sleepy sounding. Maybe Jack was already in bed? Next door to Shaz. She was probably lying there, trying to decide if she should sneak into his room and jump on him. Like I used to do.

‘Sorry, Joe, it's me. I woke you.'

‘It's all right.' He yawned.

‘Jack must be in bed?'

‘I wouldn't know.'

Oh. ‘Um, is he out?'

‘He's in WA.'

‘What? Why?'

Another yawn and I felt a bit guilty but not enough to let him go back to sleep. Not when I wanted to know what Jack was doing on the other side of the country.

‘JD sent him to investigate the explosion.'

‘Why? I mean, why Jack?'

‘Because . . . it might have not have been an accident.'

‘You mean, deliberate?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Like, terrorists or something?'

‘Something like that.'

‘Shit.'

‘Yeah.'

More brain chewing. I should let Joe go back to sleep. But the cyclone . . .

‘Joe, how could he fly there with the cyclone?'

‘They had to fly to Broome —'

‘
They?
'

‘— then Sharon flew them as close as they could get and they drove the rest of the way.'

‘What do you mean she flew them?'

‘Helicopter.'

‘Sharon's a
helicopter
pilot?'

Yawn. ‘Yeah.'

‘Is that how she knows Jack? She was a helicopter pilot in the air force?'

‘US Navy. She flew hornets.'

‘What's a hornet?'

‘F/A-18.'

Silence from me.

‘Did you ever see
Top Gun
?'

Top Gun
 . . . ‘I'm going to kill myself.'

Joe let out a laugh. ‘Like I said, you don't need to worry about Sharon.'

I tried to sneak into the house but Mum was still up, waiting for me in her hair rollers and dressing gown, defrosting the fridge. The same fridge she used to defrost when I came home after midnight when I was eighteen. She really needed a new fridge. A frost-free one.

Mum turned on me. ‘You could have called.'

‘I didn't know you'd still be up.'

‘I thought you were dead!'

‘Why didn't you try to call me if you thought I was dead?'

‘What time do you call this?' She pointed at the clock, which said 11 p.m. ‘Coming home from work at midnight!'

I plonked my bag on the kitchen bench. ‘It's just . . . this is what my work's like, Mum. Sometimes I need to work late.'

‘Well, we may as well have a cup of tea.' She put the kettle on.

Mum had left the wig on my bed. She'd laid it out with her favourite dress of mine, an empty body under the headless hair. She'd even set a pair of high heels on the floor so I could get the full picture. It's a wonder gloves and hat weren't included. I shut my bedroom door, picked up the wig and tried it on. I wriggled it around, poked my escaping curls under. It did look nice, actually. When my hair's long it looks pretty good. The weight of it pulls the curls out so they're soft ringlets, rather than tight little spirals as they are now. I should make more effort, I thought. I should straighten my hair. I wondered if you could straighten a wig. Why not? I could straighten the wig and wear it so I didn't have to worry about my own hair. It'd be so much easier. But if I turned up at work with hair suddenly twelve inches longer, people would guess it wasn't real. Imagine Marcus! He'd give me hell, unless he thought it looked real, and fab, then he might think it was okay. I suppose I could cut the wig to the length my hair is now and wear it. Maybe no-one would guess. I could get it done professionally at my hairdresser in Richmond.

I said to Axle, who was asleep in the middle of my bed, ‘What do you think? Should I get the wig straightened and cut?' No response. I leaned in and tickled behind his ear. Without opening his eyes, he stretched his front legs and paws, claws extended, then curled up and went back to ignoring me.

‘I bet if I was Jack Jones you'd have something to say.'

Nothing.

I lay in the dark in my single bed thinking about the wig and if Jack would notice or mind. I supposed he would if we were in the throes of passion and he accidentally pulled it off. Surprise! There was a bit of occasional hair pulling when we were in bed together. And spanking. Not really. Well, a bit.

I huffed a huge sigh. I missed Jack. Black bloody Jack and Sharon bloody Stone, on a romantic holiday together in Western Australia. I sat up, turned on my bedside lamp and opened my laptop. I googled images of hornets. A whole lot of bees came up. I googled ‘hornet aircraft' and there they were. Images of F/A-18 hornets landing on big ships, taking off from big ships, bursting through the sound barrier. Those sound barrier pics were pretty awesome. So this was the plane Sharon used to fly in the US Navy. She was a fighter pilot. Holy crapping hell. Jack must be impressed. If I didn't hate her so much, I'd be super impressed. If he was Black Jack I wondered what her call sign was.

I checked the news to see the latest on the weather in Port Hedland. They were bracing for the other Sharon. Maybe not so romantic there at the mo. I checked the time. Nearly midnight here, so only 9 p.m. in WA. Not too late. I tried Jack's mobile again. Straight to voicemail, but I didn't leave a message. I googled hotels in Port Hedland, and checked the images. Lots of photos popped up, even ones guests had posted. There was a close-up of a toilet with brown marks in it. Jack wouldn't stay there. I called the Esplanade. It looked like the best one. And it looked romantic.

Bingo. They put me through and as the phone in Jack's room started to ring, my heart started to pound. Why was I calling him? Because I wanted to make sure my friend was safe in the cyclone? Because I have Team business to discuss? Because I'm jealous and insecure?

‘Hello?'

Sharon. Not the cyclone. Which means they put me through to the wrong room. The only explanation, of course. Both rooms were probably booked in Jack's name. Her accent was really annoying. I wondered what part of America she was from.

I cleared my throat. ‘Hi, Sharon? It's Erica.'

‘Who?'

‘Erica, um, Jewell.'

Silence.

‘Jack's . . . friend.'

‘Oh, right.'

‘They put me through to the wrong —'

‘Y'all hold on.'

There was a muffled, ‘It's Erica Jewell,' and then I heard Jack say, ‘Thanks, sexy, see you for breakfast,' and then he was talking to me. ‘Hey.'

Sexy
. I forced a smile, hoping it would penetrate the tone of my voice. ‘Hi! How are you?' I tried to be chirpy, but I sounded like a baby bird.

‘I'm fine. How are you?'

‘Me? Oh, you know. Awful day at work.'

‘I can imagine.'

‘How's the cyclone?'

‘Windy.'

‘Right.' Now what should I say? Something sensible, something that sounds like, even though I'm terribly busy in my life, I've still got time to let my friend know I'm concerned about him? ‘Sharon's a helicopter pilot.'

‘She is.'

‘Good trip?'

‘Bumpy.'

Um . . . ‘Are you safe? In that hotel?'

‘As safe as the others.'

‘So . . .'

He waited, letting me suffer through his silence. Waiting for me to get to the subject I was dancing around. The subject of him and Sharon being in a hotel together on the other side of the country. Don't do it, Erica. Don't go there.

‘Joe told me about JD's theory. That it might not have been an accident.'

Good girl!

‘Yeah. We're taking a look tomorrow.'

‘You'll be able to get out to the rig?'

‘Hopefully.
Sharon
's crossing the coast as we speak.'

Was he talking about the cyclone or was that a metaphor for something sexual?

‘She should lose intensity,' he continued. ‘We'll go out there first thing. I want to beat the locals to the scene.'

‘You'll go in a helicopter?'

‘That's right.'

‘Does Sharon have her own room?'

‘The cyclone?'

‘Very funny.'

Silence.

‘You called her sexy.'

‘Sexy Texan was her call sign.'

‘That's not very appropriate. She might get the wrong idea.'

‘Erica, if Sharon and I wanted to have sex, we could do it at my house. We don't need to cross the country and stay in a four-star hotel.'

My mouth pursed of its own accord. I bet I looked like my mother right now. ‘She doesn't have pubic hair, you know.'

‘Wha— How on
earth
would you know that?'

‘It's pretty obvious. She shows it off.'

He burst out laughing and it took him about five minutes to stop. Finally, his voice low, the chill finally leaving it, ‘You don't have much down there.'

‘I've got
some
. I've got a landing strip.'

‘So I know where to land? Maybe you should get landing lights tattooed on.'

‘Ha, ha. It's not right, having no pubic hair. It's . . . indecent.'

‘And now you sound like —'

‘Don't you dare —'

‘— your mother.'

I didn't say anything for ages as I sat there on my frilly pink bed, brooding, trying to justify my bad mood but unable to do so. He waited in irritating silence for me to speak. Eventually I lightened my tone and said, ‘So, it's not a nice hotel?'

‘It's not Crown, no.'

I couldn't think of anything else to say that wasn't snippy and bitchy, so we said goodbye and hung up and I lay there thinking about Black Jack and Sexy Texan having sex in the cyclone. In the helicopter. On the oil rig. No, probably not on the oil rig.

On my way to work the next morning, I was so distracted by everything I nearly got run over. It was so close, in fact, I had to throw myself back onto the footpath to avoid it. I landed on my bum, and my bag went sprawling, contents rolling across the pavement. I looked for the car in question, but it was peak hour, and the road was busy with traffic. A young guy helped me.

‘That was close.'

‘Yeah, I wasn't watching.'

‘I saw it. I don't think the driver even realised you were there.'

‘Hmm. Thanks.'

Maybe I was being paranoid but I couldn't help wondering if it was deliberate. Some enemy of Jack's? One of Shane McGann's friends? Although, if McGann wanted to hurt me, he'd do it in a much nastier way than hit and run. There'd be rape and throat-cutting, maybe concrete boots in the river. I thought I should tell Jack, but didn't want to worry him. He was probably flying out to the oil rig, anyway. I'd checked the weather earlier and it seemed
Sharon
had crossed the coast, had an orgasm, and was now lying back, calm and relaxed with a cigarette. Sadly, a body had washed up on the beach at Port Hedland and they were trying to identify him. One of the cyclone's victims. There was also a dead dugong and I had to google dugong to find out what it was. Poor dugong. I hoped there wouldn't be more bodies – human or otherwise.

Charlotte was sitting at my desk when I arrived, busily typing something. She was fast, and used all her fingers.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Helping Marcus. He's overburdened with work.'

‘Hmm. So am I. Could you help me with filing?'

‘You'll have to wait.' And before I could respond: ‘Your sunburn's looking better.'

‘So's yours.'

‘I used calamine lotion.'

‘Yeah? Me too.'

While Charlotte helped Marcus, I spent the morning on the phone with updates for the media, but the updates were only about the fact that the cyclone had passed and authorities could now access the rig to see what damage had been caused. I hadn't done any work on the tennis yet, and I needed to. After lunch, Rosalind called me in. She'd just returned from JD's office. She made me close the door and waved at the visitor's chair. I got pen and paper ready.

‘We've just had news from the authorities. Three men were killed in the explosion.'

‘But I thought —'

‘And several of those sea creatures. The ugly ones.'

‘Dugongs?'

‘Once word is out, we're expecting backlash from the public about the dead people and from irritating environmentalists about those creatures. You need to be ready.'

‘Who were the men? I thought our crew —'

‘Fishermen or something.'

‘Why would fishermen be out in a cyclone?'

She glared at me. ‘How on earth would I know such a thing?'

‘What about oil spills?'

‘We don't know yet. Now, go write a media release.' As I walked out of her office, she said, ‘That girl, the graduate, I like her.'

By late that day, Dega Oil had announced the awful news that three fishermen had been killed in the explosion, and that Dega was very sad to advise also that some dugongs had been lost. We said the authorities were yet to determine the identity of the fishermen, and the cause of the explosion, but that Dega was encouraging the authorities to investigate the fishermen's reasons for being in a boat near our rig during a dangerous and well-publicised cyclone. I was busting to call Jack, but didn't in case he thought I was being clingy, which I was. I called Joe instead, who told me Jack had been out to the rig and was coming home tomorrow.

‘Joe, are we thinking those fishermen had something to do with the explosion?'

‘JD thinks so.'

‘A terrorist attack?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Did you see what Martin McGann said on the news?'

‘Yeah.'

‘What does Jack think?'

‘Too soon to make a call on it.'

I thought about it for a minute. Joe waited with inexhaustible patience, as he does. Finally, I said, ‘It would be good if Dega wasn't at fault.'

‘Yeah, but we don't want terrorists.'

‘No. No, of course. Thanks, Joe.'

‘See ya.'

He didn't mention Sharon. Joe's so wise.