The Butcherbird (6 page)

‘Don’t you worry about Laurence Treadmore. Known him for years. He may be a bit pedantic at times, but he crosses all the tees and dots every other letter. That’s what you want in a chairman. As far as running the business goes, you talk to me. We speak the same language.’

‘I’m not sure, Mac. Laurence says I report to him. I’m sure he’s an excellent chairman, don’t get me wrong, but I was a bit uncomfortable with the discussion.’

Mac chuckled. ‘Everyone’s “a bit uncomfortable” with Laurence. Part of his charm. Don’t give it a thought. He’s good on detail and harmless on everything else and owes a fair chunk of his good fortune to me. You and I stay in tune and I promise you there’s no problem. Now the good news is I’ve been chatting off the record to a few fund managers we know intimately and your appointment’s going to be well received. You’re a growth story, just like I said. And the analysts who cover insurance all know the whole financial services market. So they checked you out with the banks. And who loves Jack? So we’ll probably see a kick in the share price. It’s always nice to know your value.’

Jack was stunned. ‘But we agreed there’d be no announcements or public discussion until I finally committed.’

‘My friend, you’ve got a bit to learn about the market. This is not an announcement or a public discussion, it’s just Mac having a little chat with a few people who treat us well because we treat them well. No decision’s been communicated, just flying a kite. But they’re going to love you, Jack, that’s the main thing.’

She was the only woman he’d ever loved, he was certain of that.

He looked across the table at her now and there she was staring straight into his eyes, as she had the first time they met. It was at a party in the surf club at Bondi when he’d just graduated as an architect and was pondering the shape of life, usually with a beer in each hand. He’d seen her around the university campus but they’d never spoken. She came towards him, holding his gaze. ‘So you’re Jack-the-lad? Do you like that name? Or does it embarrass you just a bit? Do you lie awake on hot summer nights thinking “How can I live up to this?” You can tell me the truth, everyone does.’

In truth, he hated his nickname, but he tried to banter with her as he did with any woman, to hold the high ground and keep her off balance, but she was too nimble and slipped away from any thrust, so he seemed to find himself on the defensive, teetering between enjoyment of the contest and discomfort at the result. And then she was leaving as suddenly as she’d arrived. ‘I’ll see you in about five years, Mr Jack-the-lad. It’s a little too early in the cellaring for me. But we’ll talk again. I did enjoy your spontaneous sense of enthusiasm.’ She turned away with that wonderful warm but slightly quizzical smile and disappeared into the crowd.

He saw her often after that, at parties or friends’ flats, and asked her out a couple of times, but she never came. It was about five years later, maybe a little more, that they’d started to work together and, not long after that, to make love and to love.

She’d never directly approached his colourful reputation but once, when he was reminiscing about his father, about how he loved Jack’s mother but couldn’t resist wandering, she’d interrupted his relaxed flow.

‘How did your mother survive?’ He’d paused and examined her carefully. ‘I think either she never really knew for sure, or chose to ignore it.’

She’d laughed, a humourless laugh. ‘Women know, Jack, they know even when they don’t know for sure. Did they argue?’

‘Not that I remember. He was sweet and loving to her, it seemed to me. It was only later, much later, that I learned he was famous for being sweet and loving to a few other women as well.’

She’d let it go at that until a few months later when, unexpectedly and unrelated to their earlier conversation, she said, ‘I can understand your mother ignoring your father’s affairs—up to a point. But there must have been a boundary beyond which the relationship would break; there’d have to be. Self-respect isn’t infinitely flexible.’

When, after a couple of years, he’d asked her to marry him, she’d said, ‘Yes. I can’t think of anyone else I’d care to live with or have children with or make love to, anymore, and I don’t want to die alone, an old spinster wearing a knobbly cardigan while an obese cat eats my meals-on-wheels dinner, so I guess it’ll have to be you.’

And she’d watched his shocked face with amusement before reaching one hand to his mouth and letting a finger caress the line of his top lip. ‘Besides, you’re the sexiest man alive, a moderately good provider and will never let me down. So, yes.’

As he looked at her now, he could say he never had. Not really.

‘Okay. We’re at our favourite restaurant, with our favourite wine, eating our favourite pasta. And you have something to tell me. So tell me.’

He poured the Curly Flat and smiled. ‘Can I ever have a secret that’s not immediately obvious to you?’

‘Darling Jack, what secrets could you possibly want to have from me?’

He laughed and a slight flush deepened the tanned skin. It only happened with her, this tendency to redden slightly in the face at difficult moments.

‘Now I’ve made you blush, darling. Why don’t you just get on with it and tell me what’s bothering you?’

He paused, ran his finger around the lip of the wine glass and hesitantly started to unwind his dilemma. ‘I need your advice. I want to do this thing with Mac and I don’t want to do it. I talked myself into it a week ago because it’s a monumental challenge, way beyond anything I’ve ever contemplated. Twelve thousand employees—not just me and twenty kids; hundreds of millions in premiums, vital to the country’s wellbeing, and so on. But I’m worried about the people, particularly the chairman. You’re always the wise one, so what do I do?’

She’d never seen him so uncertain, openly at least, about anything, even though he turned to her for advice frequently. But usually the advice sought was how to do something he’d already decided to pursue, not this wallowing in the ultimate dilemma. ‘You’re bored, darling, and a bored Jack is a dangerous thing. It’s not so much whether you’re sure about this, but more how you’re going to be if you don’t do it, spending the rest of your life wondering how good you would’ve been, whether you were up to the job, whether you could have mixed it with the big boys. That’s it, isn’t it? You want to know if you can run in the Olympics?’

She was always right, always knew him better than he knew himself. ‘Yes, I guess so.’

‘Then do it. Cast aside your doubts, don ye mighty armour, ride thy great steed across the moat of indecision—and pour me more of that lovely wine while you’re about it.’

Jack felt the adrenalin pumping through him in a way he hadn’t for years. The boardroom was packed with journalists and photographers and he’d finished his last radio interview as fresh as the first, even though he’d said the same things twenty times over. He was very good at this, he knew it. Everyone in the room knew it, you could feel it. The public relations people hadn’t liked his concept of posing the questions about the company’s results before they were actually asked, but he’d insisted it would allow him to present the material in a contained, logical flow, and it had worked beautifully. When he opened the forum for additional questions, there were very few and they were mainly follow-ups from the ones he’d flashed on the screen in his own presentation. It was a virtuoso performance. Journalists didn’t clap, but he’d felt they’d wanted to.

He loved performing in public, always had. Speech-making was easy, selling a message was a gift. Why, he’d even developed a groundbreaking communications package for the staff. Each month a live video was transmitted on closed circuit to all HOA offices via satellite. Jack was the star of the show, true, but so were the employees, in a lesser way. There was the ‘hero of the month’, someone who’d made a unique contribution. A camera crew surprised this individual at his or her workplace with Jack presenting an award—like ‘This Is Your Life’ without the relatives. There were questions and answers, and graphs and charts, and every other device anyone could dream up. The staff loved it—and they loved Jack, almost ran from their workstations to shake his hand when he wandered through a call centre, to no great purpose, just so they could see him, just so they had the opportunity to run from their workstations. But this was the big time, with radio and TV and every major newspaper in the country. HOA had a massive retail shareholder base apart from insuring half the homes in the country. Its performance was an indicator to the economy’s performance; its results were real news. Even though they weren’t really his results, yet, but he was the head of the company, he was the person they wanted to see.

Yesterday he’d been in Canberra visiting the Minister, massaging perceptions, ensuring when the results were released there wasn’t a spin that the profits were excessive, explaining the return on equity was still only fifteen per cent—low considering the risks, and the regulatory regime, never forget the regulatory regime, the impact on the business of filing all those reports, of copying all those board papers. And as the Minister was escorting him out—yes escorting him out, a good sign the company’s handler said, an excellent sign—who did they meet as they strolled through the corridors of Parliament House? The Prime Minister. Just like that, in the corridor. The Minister had simply stopped the PM as he hurried past with a couple of minders. ‘Prime Minister, good morning. I’d like you to meet Jack Beaumont, new CEO at HOA. Giving us some of his valuable time.’

And the Prime Minister had stopped in his tracks and seemed genuinely pleased to meet Jack. ‘Welcome to the people’s house. Heard a great deal about you, Mr Beaumont. Keep up the good work.’

What would he have heard about him? Jack couldn’t imagine, but it was obviously positive, that was the point. He wasn’t impressed by meeting important people; he’d met plenty of important people. Half of them lived in residences he’d built, for goodness sake. But this was the Prime Minister of Australia, who lived in a relatively modest late Victorian house on the harbour in Kirribilli, a house Jack had never been in but now would probably be invited to because—because he was who he was. And this was the Prime Minister.

As the last of the press packed up their gear, Jack saw Mac Biddulph wave from the doorway and give him the thumbs-up sign. It was one of the qualities Jack had come to appreciate in Mac. He was supportive, but let him get on with the job.

‘Mr Beaumont. Could I have a word before you go?’ He turned to find a woman he’d noticed during the presentation because she’d been impossible to miss. At least, impossible for Jack to miss. She’d been seated in the front row but had asked no questions. He knew the PR people were careful to allocate seating positions based on rank, so she had to be a journalist of some substance, but he’d no idea who she was. In truth, it wasn’t her stature as a journalist that had caught his attention. She was an extraordinarily attractive woman in a severe sort of way. There was nothing overtly sexual or flirtatious in the way she was dressed or looked, quite the contrary. She appeared to be wearing a man’s suit, but it wasn’t cut like any man’s suit Jack had ever seen. There was some subtlety in the shape that made it completely feminine, despite the fact she was also wearing a collar and tie. The collar on the shirt was spread somehow, the tie was knotted lower; whatever it was, the effect was captivating, compelling, almost heady as she stood smiling at him with a wry, challenging smile.

‘I’m Prue Patterson from the Australian. We haven’t met. Very impressive presentation. You must be pleased with your results.’ She gazed at him from clear, blue eyes behind the oversized, black-rimmed glasses of a librarian or a school mistress.

‘Thank you, but they’re not really my results, you know. I’m the new boy on the block, so I’m just putting the shine on other people’s hard work.’

‘Indeed.’ She smiled again. ‘But you polish up so well. I’m not a business journalist, which is why you may not have seen me before. I used to write for the business pages but I get bored by figures.’

‘So do I. But don’t tell anyone.’

‘I’m very good at keeping secrets—unless, of course, they’d interest my readers. I write mainly profiles and opinion pieces these days, and I’d like to write a personal profile on you to run in the feature pages. You’re very important to a lot of people now, Mr Beaumont, and we don’t know much about you.’

She observed his dismissive shrug with amusement. He seemed such an unlikely person to be connected with Mac Biddulph, who she knew well. Her profile on Mac had won her a Walkley Award and a trip on the Honey Bear. Both sat on her mantlepiece, one way and another. There was a certain naivety about Jack Beaumont that appeared deeper than just natural charm. Not that there was anything wrong with natural charm. ‘I’d very much like to interview you in a relaxed setting—over lunch, for example.’

Jack had flirted with too many attractive women not to recognise the undertones. But despite the heady injection of adrenalin from the morning, he was in control.

‘I don’t have lunch these days. I mean, I eat lunch, but usually at my desk or a sandwich in the park or something. I’m not really a luncher anymore, if you know what I mean.’

Her mouth curled up at the corners in an extremely alluring way. ‘How interesting. You see, we’ve just discovered you’re not like the average run of businessmen who move from club to restaurant to boardroom on a regular lunching cycle, and we haven’t even started the interview. So it’s dinner then?’

‘Well I’d rather it was just in the office, if you don’t mind. If I could get my assistant to call you …’

‘I don’t deal with assistants. It’ll be quite painless, the dinner, I promise you. It’s a well-established format I’ve used many times. You might even enjoy it.’

Jack handed over his card with his direct line number and found himself in the restaurant before the week was out. She was extremely professional and businesslike in her approach to the interview, as they sat in a booth at the back of a fashionable restaurant in The Rocks. She ordered the wine and the food, after asking what he’d like, told the waiter to leave the white wine out of the ice bucket, was in control from the moment she arrived fifteen minutes after he’d been seated. Her research was extraordinary. She knew details about his life he’d forgotten himself. When she asked about his competitive streak he’d tried to shrug it off with an ‘Oh shucks’ line, but she brushed it away with facts.