Black Ice Part 10

Although this specialist had also told Seren that Marco's eyesight problem was the result of a congenital abnormality that was likely pa.s.sed down through her from one of her parents, she couldn't help but worry that her drug use during the earliest days of her pregnancy had caused the astigmatism.

Seren had been stealing beer from her stepfather since she was eleven, smoking pot since the age of twelve, and had tried speed lots of times by the time she was thirteen. She liked it a lot. But probably most of all, Seren had liked her mum's worry pills, the little white tablets she got from the doctor for her nerves. She'd managed to steal a couple a week. They made everything soft and smooshy, and they definitely worked. On the nights she took one she slept so well that that she didn't have to worry about the dull thumps and sobs from the room next door.

Seren believed she knew the moment that she got pregnant. She was fourteen and had just cut her hair off for the first time. Her girlfriend, Alexandra, had been horrified. Seren's sheet of ice-blonde hair was legendary at their school.

'Don't even think about it!' Alexandra had said as Seren raised the scissors in front of the mirror.

Alexandra had screamed when the first snip hacked off the length of half of Seren's hair. The next cut evened it out, but she just kept going. Her mother's face was black and blue from the night before, and Seren figured if her mum didn't care about herself, why should she? She wanted to punish her mother, hurt her, wake her the f.u.c.k up. She wanted to punish herself. As the slivers of sunlight had rained from her head, Seren expected to soon resemble a monster at least then her mother would notice her. But the more she cut, the more beautiful she looked, and Alexandra had watched her, transfixed.

With her face naked, she appeared unclothed and vulnerable. Seren had had to close her eyes to stop the lie that stared back at her. She felt filthy and besmirched; but she looked pure, immaculate. When her blue eyes blinked open again in the mirror, she could see straight through to the five-year-old whose giggles used to sound like bells.

Seren had left her bedroom with Alexandra right after, and gone driving with two guys they'd met the day before at the swimming pool. Seren had dived head first from the front seat to the back and f.u.c.ked Todd, the boy back there, while her friend and the driver had pretended not to notice.

A week before her periods were due, she knew. She could feel him in there, waiting. Marco.

The next time Todd called, she told him to lose her number. She didn't even know his last name. She never saw him again.

Seren remembered that after the meeting with the eye specialist, she and Marco had walked back to the lifts. Both of them were tired; she remembered thinking that it would be good to get home.

The door had opened and he'd stood there.

'Aha! b.u.t.ton boy!' he'd said.

He must be a movie star, Seren thought when he smiled.

They stepped into the lift. Seren smiled back.

'This must be serendipity,' said the man.

'What?' she exclaimed.

'You know,' he said, 'serendipity a lucky chance.'

Shaking herself from her memories, Seren alighted at Town Hall and headed towards Centrepoint Tower. The small store specialising in surveillance electronics was located along the way. Although she'd seen pictures of the audio-video recorder on the store's internet site just this morning, she was still astounded that the device was so tiny the size and shape of a cigarette lighter. She popped her two-hundred-dollar purchase into her bag and walked into Pitt Street Mall.

She needed just two items of clothing a white shirt and a bra.

She owned a pair of man-style black trousers that sat flat on her hipbones and fell, soft and full, down to the ground. At might-as-well-be six foot tall, Seren often had difficulty finding pants that were long enough. These trousers were the ideal length, well cut, and the fabric was gorgeous.

She searched through the major department stores, a few of the nicer chain stores, and then spotted the shirt she'd been dreaming of for a year, hanging in the window of a small boutique. Perfect. She knew she would find it. She could see herself in it right now; knew how it was going to look. She had to have it.

Seren entered the store and went straight to the shirt. She flicked a fingernail under the fabric and plucked out the price tag.

Double what she could afford. If she bought this shirt, she'd have no money left for the laptop.

'That would look great on you.' The sales a.s.sistant stood at her side, a look of approval on her face.

'I'll just try it on,' said Seren. Might as well torture myself, she thought. There's no way I can buy it.

The shirt was white, the supple Italian fabric an alternating matt and gloss white pinstripe. The effect was of a male business shirt, the cuffs worn long, falling to Seren's knuckles. But the resemblance to a man's attire ended there. The cut was for a woman's body; it clung to Seren's ribs, fell snug across her flat stomach. She fastened the shirt, finding the top b.u.t.ton almost too tight across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. That wouldn't be a problem, she thought, it wouldn't remain closed for long. With a heart-attack bra, the outfit would have liquefied Christian Worthington. Pity.

And that was without even considering the shoes. When she thought about the shoes, she sighed and carefully unb.u.t.toned the shirt. She changed back into her own clothes and left the dressing room.

She walked towards the expectant sales clerk, an expression of deep regret on her face.

'I'll take it,' she said.

Seren sat on a courtesy bench in the food hall, watching diners lunching in a small cafe. She held her shopping bags close. Way to go, Templeton, she told herself. First day of the plan and you've already stuffed up.

A couple at a nearby table picked pasta and salad from each other's plates. Her stomach grumbled. Nothing for you, she told it. How am I going to get a laptop now?

The clinking of the cutlery sent her mind back again, remembering the night of her twenty-third birthday, dining at Alt.i.tude, an intimate dining room balanced thirty-six floors above Sydney harbour, a black velvet jewellery box open and spotlit beneath them. Even though she had then been dating Christian for almost six months, she didn't think she'd ever grow used to the hushed opulence of such restaurants.

She'd felt a flush in the hollow of her throat. Candlelight shimmered in Marco's eyes, reflected back from his gla.s.ses. He'd never seen anything like this. It seemed that every couple of minutes he stared down at his clothes in astonishment. She doubted he'd ever even seen a child dressed as he was. Christian had taken them both shopping that morning.

She'd tried not to focus on her own gown. When she did, she'd experienced the panicky thrill of being virtually naked. Although the cream sheath fastened around her neck and dropped all the way to the floor, it left her back completely exposed to her waist. With her hair cropped close to her head, from behind every inch of her skin was exposed. When she moved even slightly, she felt the silk of the fabric slip across her nipples. Christian watched every move she made. She felt the flush at her throat spread.

She had never stayed the night before. Although Christian always paid for a professional sitter for Marco for the evenings they had spent together, he knew that she'd never leave her son overnight. So that night Marco's pyjamas, stuffed into his school backpack, waited in the boot of Christian's car.

Marco had fallen asleep at ten, drunk on the lights of Darling Harbour spread out beneath Christian's apartment, the Playstation console still in his hands. After Seren had tucked him into the spare bed, she'd gone to find Christian.

The next morning had been a blur. Leftover take-away Thai for Marco's breakfast; she'd have to be more prepared next time. Who didn't have bread and Vegemite in their house?

'Ew! Stop it!' In the car park at Central station, Marco had protested the parting kiss Christian gave her.

'Hang on, baby, before you go . . .' Christian had reached under his seat and brought forward a gift bag.

'No,' said Seren. 'Nothing else, Christian! You've already given me too much.'

'I'm going to be late for work, Seren, so we can't argue about it now. You're just going to have to take it.' He trailed a finger down her cheek, her neck . . . Stop it, she told him with her eyes, and pointed with her chin to her son in the backseat.

Her whole face a smile, she gave in and peeked inside the gift pouch. It contained a shoulder bag of the most velvety, yielding chocolate leather.

When she and Marco finally got out of the car, Christian cracked his window. 'There's a little something inside,' he said. 'Happy birthday, baby. Have fun shopping. I'll call you tonight.'

Ten one-hundred dollar notes.

When she had been around Marco's age, Seren had decided that every day she would deliberately expect something terrible to happen. That way, if nothing did go wrong unlikely she would have something to be happy about, and if a bad thing did take place, well, she'd have been ready. But every day for months now, only wonderful things had happened. Amazing things. Seren was beginning to believe it was time to develop a new policy.

She'd dropped Marco off at school and caught the train back into the city to do a little more shopping. She'd find something spectacular to make Christian's eyes light up. She was beginning to learn his taste.

The shoes had stopped her dead.

Syrupy patent leather, glowing like a just-rinsed blackberry. The heels were much too high. Ridiculous, really. Especially for a girl who'd never worn heels before meeting Christian. But he loved her to be tall, towering over all the other women. The shoes laced at the front like a camp parody of a man's business shoe. A cross between sensible schoolgirl and dominatrix.

The name of the shoes' designer clinched it. Christian Louboutin. Christian.

A sign. It had to be fate.

No price tag.

It didn't surprise her. She'd never set foot in a shop like this. A few months ago, she hadn't thought she ever would.

A uniformed security guard opened the door for her and Seren stepped inside, clutching her new handbag to her chest, using it both as protection and as proof that she had a right to be in a store like this. She had a brief glance around and then made straight for the shoes.

'Ah . . .' She cleared her throat, and tried again. 'Excuse me? How much are these shoes?'

For some reason it was so much more intimidating that the shop a.s.sistant was male. The suit and tie added to his daunting demeanour. He looked to have just stepped out of a magazine. Or Christian's office. The thought made her stand up straight and meet the man's eyes.

'The Louboutins?' he said.

She nodded.

'Nine ninety.'

What did that mean? It took her a couple of moments to comprehend the numbers and the realisation flared her pupils. Nine hundred and ninety dollars. For a pair of shoes.

Evil.

n.o.body should pay a thousand dollars for one pair of shoes. n.o.body should charge a thousand dollars for a pair of shoes. The store a.s.sistant dropped his eyes back to whatever had occupied him before she entered the shop. His studied, neutral stare very clearly stated, Thought so. He hadn't even moved from behind the counter.

Little p.r.i.c.k, she said to herself. She looped the shoelaces around a finger and dangled the thousand-dollar shoes over to the counter. Dropped them in the middle of the open book in front of him.

'Got them in a ten?' she said.

And everything had gone to h.e.l.l in a hand basket after that, of course. Her mother had always told her that pride comes before a fall.

The shoes were perfect. Freaking perfect. Even in her jeans. She towered over the shop a.s.sistant, who now seemed a little inclined to worship her.

It took him almost fifteen minutes to package them. An elaborate ritual of tissue, then a fabric slipper for each shoe, a huge, beautiful box, and, oh my G.o.d, the shopping bag! Focused on every step of the spectacle, Seren nearly swooned when he brought forward with a flourish the shining cardboard and ribbon carry-bag, expanding it with a crack and a flick of his wrists.

Her cheeks feverish with the sin of it all, Seren had felt almost loving towards the man at the cash register.

'And how will you be paying, madam?' He had smiled up at her.

'Cash.'

'Oh, of course,' he said. 'Very good.'

Seren reached into her delicious new handbag and pulled out the notes in a bundle. She handed them over to Eric, her new best friend.

'And all hundreds, too,' he said. 'Well, at least we won't be here all day.' He beamed at her and began to count. 'What the h.e.l.l?'

A clear plastic snap-lock bag fell from the notes and landed on the counter. Several opaque pink-tinged rocks sat inside.

'That would be yours, I think.' Eric's voice had frozen.

Seren stared at the little bag. f.u.c.k. What the h.e.l.l was that? Nothing good. Her eyes darted from the bag to the store attendant, who now would not look her in the face. He flicked a glance over to the security guard.

f.u.c.k. For f.u.c.k's sake.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed the little bag up off the countertop, and dropped it into the carry case containing the shoes. She grabbed up the handles of the shopping bag and stared at the attendant expectantly. What else could she do?

He completed the transaction, his face a mask. They did not speak another word to one another. She left the store.

When she saw the uniformed cops waiting for her at the bottom of the escalators near McDonald's, Seren dropped her shoulders in resignation. Had to happen, she told herself. s.h.i.t was supposed to happen to her every day. Life had been stockpiling her daily dose for a good six months. This was going to be one c.r.a.pload of faeces.

22.

Sunday 7 April, 12.30 pm.

Since the day, aged twelve, when her parents had brought her home from the hospital after she'd been kidnapped, Jill didn't think she had ever again communicated anything effectively to her sister. So how the h.e.l.l she'd been able to make Ca.s.sie understand, without saying a word, that she should behave as though they didn't know one another in Nader's lounge room in Merrylands, she would never know.

But that was what had happened. Fortunately, everyone at Kasem Nader's house had directed their total attention to Ca.s.sie when she had walked through the door. By the time Ca.s.sie's eyes had met Jill's and registered instant recognition, Jill had steeled her own expression. She had drilled her gaze in her sister's direction, a stare of desperate, deliberate focus. She had shaken her head slightly no as her sister's lips had parted.

And, unbelievably, Ca.s.sie's expression of shock had disappeared, her eyes had glazed, and she had continued her appraisal of the room, giving a semblance of being bored and slightly disdainful. Jill knew that look well. Had she not become a model, she was certain at that moment that her sister could have made it as an actor.

Jill had exhaled carefully, her heart thudding, and turned. Half the men in the room had moved forward, a few steps closer to the door, closer to Ca.s.sie. But one man stood still, his arms folded.

Kasem Nader had stared at Jill, who had slipped instantly back into her Krystal Peters mask.

From then, the night had progressed relatively uneventfully. Ca.s.sie and her friend had spent most of their brief time in the house speaking to one of Kasem's brothers. Jill had watched the three of them leave together, her stomach a miserable, acidic knot. Her sister had not again glanced in her direction.

What are you doing, Ca.s.sie? Jill wondered. What?

Jill stepped off the train at Bondi Junction station.

At Sunday lunchtime the platform was busy, but nothing like the crush of people here from six until nine in the evening every week day. She had never travelled to her sister's apartment by public transport before, and it took her a little time to orient herself. When she left the underground platform, she searched the skyline and spotted the apartment building relatively quickly. On the way there, she stopped at a deli and picked up some fat, black olives, five or six stuffed artichokes and some char-grilled red capsic.u.m, shiny with olive oil. She didn't know what Ca.s.sie had planned for lunch, but this would go with most things. She added to her purchases a bag each of hazelnut-scented coffee beans and powdered sugar-dusted crostolli. At least Ca.s.sie would drink the coffee, she thought.

'Hey, big sis.' Ca.s.sie stood back from the door to her unit, welcoming Jill in. She wore a gauzy, transparent caftan over a bra and knickers. Barefoot and make-up free, her bronzed hair tousled, Jill saw now, as much as ever, why her sister made enough money as a model to afford this gorgeous apartment. She glanced down at her own jeans and black tee-shirt and inwardly shrugged. At least it wasn't a Playboy tracksuit today.

'Hey, Ca.s.s.'

They air kissed and Jill moved into the unit, dropped her groceries on the dining table and walked straight out to the balcony. She breathed in the view. She preferred the natural expanse of her ocean outlook, but she guessed she'd be able to get used to this, if she had to. She smiled. This apartment was worth three, maybe four, times her own.

'Salad okay with you?' Ca.s.sie moved around her kitchen, gathering up items.

'Great.' Jill came in from the balcony. 'Here, let me help,' she said.

'Got it all covered, sis,' said Ca.s.sie. 'Been slaving away over a hot stove all morning.'

Ca.s.sie placed a long French loaf and a platter of cold, poached chicken pieces on the white marble table. On her second trip from the kitchen she balanced a huge bowl in one hand and clutched a bottle of wine and two long stemmed gla.s.ses in the other.