On the Right Track Read online

  ‘Yes, I’ll be twenty-seven. And no, I have no one lined up. But I’m happy enough.’

  Leo knew Marc had let me down when he asked me out, and that the most we’d ever have was friendship. Sometimes I suspected Leo and I only had sex in order to boost my self-esteem.

  ‘Did you feel sorry for me?’ I say. ‘Is that why we dated?’

  Leo opens Pepper’s door and waves me through. ‘Give it a rest, Golden. Fancied the jodhpurs off you. Trouble was, you were pining after that dickhead bookie Marc.’

  When we walk to the house, Leo holds his veterinary bag in one hand and puts an arm around my shoulders. There’s no tingling in my skin, or aching sensations anywhere else, no matter how much I try to conjure them up.

  Four-year-old Elka, her pigtails bobbing in time to her steps, is my last client of the day. We’re working our way through the chorus of a Wiggles song as we walk down the path to Fudge, tied up in the stable yard. Elka hates sitting still, which is why her parents wanted an alternative to a speech pathologist’s rooms. I teach them what to do when Elka prolongates, or stretches out her words. We reward her when she avoids hesitations, and praise her when she recognises her mistakes.

  ‘Fuuudge!’ she says. ‘Fudge!’

  ‘I love the way you corrected your word, Elka,’ I say. ‘Such smooth talking.’

  When Elka points a carrot in Fudge’s direction he pricks up his ears.

  ‘Caaarrot,’ she says. Then she looks at me, wide-eyed.

  ‘Can you say that word again without the bumps, Elka? Carrot.’

  She looks from me to the pony. Her white-blonde hair is the same colour as his mane, tail and forelock.

  ‘Carrot,’ she says.

  We high five each other. ‘Fantastic smooth talking. Are you going to give Fudge the carrot now?’

  Elka extends her hand and the carrot, but then she chickens out and puts them behind her back.

  ‘Biiite me.’

  ‘Fudge won’t do that, sweetheart. He just wants the carrot.’ I take her hand and adjust her fingers. ‘Hold your palm out flat like this, and let him take it from you.’

  Fudge carefully picks up the carrot from Elka’s hand and happily chomps.

  ‘Fudge took it!’ Elka says. ‘He ate it!’

  ‘Yes he did. And your words were smooth, Elka. Very smooth. No bumps at all. Great work!’

  Elka’s smile is so wide I can see most of her baby teeth. She takes my hand as we walk to the house. Elka’s mother Mattie is waiting on the verandah, sitting on a chair with her feet on the railing. She usually comes with us to the stables but she’s pregnant and not feeling well. She’s a few years older than me, with long dark hair. Over the past few months we’ve become friends.

  ‘Mummy!’ Elka says. ‘Fuuudge …’ I squeeze her hand. ‘Fudge! He ate the carrot!’

  Mattie smiles as she gets to her feet. ‘That’s fabulous, kiddo.’ She presses a hand against her side. ‘Feel here, Elka. Your brother’s doing somersaults again.’ Elka presses her hand against Mattie’s stomach and grins.

  ‘So it’s a boy?’ I say.

  ‘I wasn’t going to find out,’ Mattie says. ‘But last week I thought, why not? I’m madly in love with this baby anyway, girl or boy. I felt the same way about Elka.’

  ‘You’re a great mum.’

  Mattie smiles uncertainly, and then puts her hand on my arm. ‘Your father and grandfather brought you up, didn’t they?’

  ‘Only my grandfather, really.’

  ‘Your mother gave you up?’

  I watch Elka, running down the hall searching for Seashell. ‘Yes. And no.’

  Mattie waits for me to say more. When I don’t, she points to her head. ‘Scrambled pregnancy brain. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  I shrug. ‘I’ve read enough about attachment to know it never happened for my mother, or me.’ I feel a twinge of unease when I think about seeing Mum at the beach, how she referred to my home. ‘Of course, we both love Angelina, that helps.’

  ‘Living apart from your mother when you were so young, it’s not surprising you’re not close.’

  By the time we get to my office door, Elka is lying on her tummy under my desk, watching Seashell. The cat stares back at her balefully.

  ‘C’mon Elka,’ Mattie says. ‘Time to go home.’

  Elka wriggles backwards and scrambles to her feet, wrapping her arms around her mother. ‘Go home to Daddy!’

  I tug gently on one of her pigtails. ‘I love to hear your voice, Elka. Such smooth talking.’

  Before I cook dinner, I walk to the ghost gum Grandpa planted. The sun is going down and shadows from the branches stretch towards the creek. With my booted foot I sweep away leaves from a spot at the base of the tree, hoping to get rid of bull ants as well, then sit and rest my chin on bended knees. It’s like there’s a worry list crowding my mind and I have to check off the points, one at a time, before I can think about anything else.

  One, I’m stuck with Tor, and the way he makes me feel. He won’t leave me alone until his investigations are complete. Two, I have to finish sorting the boxes of folders in my bedroom so I can understand what Grandpa was up to. Three, I can’t risk Mum making trouble, so I’d better settle my outstanding interest payments, and pay Eric some capital. Four, if Eric ever finds out about Angelina’s investment, he’ll explode. She’ll need my support.

  There’s a fifth thing on my list, and I’m not sure why it’s there. Because Leo asked whether I had anyone lined up? Because Mattie loves Elka and her unborn child?

  I told Leo I was happy enough. Even if I am, should I want more?

  CHAPTER

  14

  My long-sleeved denim shirt is old, and the fabric is soft and thick; it hangs down so low it covers my hips and bottom. All the buttons except for the top one are fastened.

  I’m standing on the footpath at Ascot Street, within fifty metres of the private gate adjacent to the equine centre. Tor bends low in order to meet my eyes under the peak of my cap. He’s had a haircut. His fringe is shorter than usual.

  ‘In disguise?’ he says.

  ‘The sun is out. I have fair skin. You’re late again.’

  He shrugs out of his jacket, dark grey like his eyes, and lays it over his arm. ‘Can you tell me why I’m wearing a suit, and you’re dressed in jeans and boots?’

  ‘I thought you might want to hang around.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘No. I’ll introduce you to Marc. That’s all.’

  I’ve been here for ages watching the horse trucks arrive. There’s a gatekeeper on duty. He’ll be checking the ID of anyone entering the section of the ground reserved for the horses. Trainers, jockeys, strappers and stablehands will have no trouble getting through because they’ll have passes or will be on a list. Any person without one will be turned away unless someone comes to the gate and escorts them in. The gatekeeper looks younger than me. There’s no chance he’ll recognise me from years ago and wave me through.

  I confess to Tor as we walk along the footpath. ‘Marc doesn’t know I’m coming. I didn’t want to give him the chance to say no.’

  He frowns. ‘That’s what you did with Solomon Bain. Isn’t it risky?’

  ‘Isn’t being risky what spying’s all about?’

  He doesn’t hurt me when he takes my arm and turns me around to face him. Nevertheless, I’m pulled up short. To remove the tingling sensation I rub my arm. ‘What?’

  His words are articulated in a machine-gun firing way. ‘This is not a game.’

  My cap obscures my face when I look down at my boots. He won’t be able to see how nervous I am about getting past the gatekeeper. And facing Marc. It was easy to hate him when he dumped me for Angelina. How will I feel about him now?

  I must give something away.

  ‘Golden?’

  My name sounds … different than usual. He’s not angry anymore. He puts a hand on my forearm. I think he’s trying to be supportive but his touch makes my heart th
ump even more erratically than it was before.

  I take a big breath, then shrug off his hand and start walking again. The gatekeeper is watching our approach. He’s tall and wearing an official racing association shirt, black pants and a bright yellow safety vest. I raise my chin when I step in front of him. My voice is light and chirpy.

  ‘Hi, I’m Angelina Latimer. Would you be able to call Marc Ferguson for me? I haven’t got my phone, left it at home by mistake.’ I gesture to his clipboard. ‘If you don’t have his number, call one of the other bookies and they’ll be able to find him.’ I smile. ‘Or you could let us in and I’ll find him for myself.’

  ‘You can’t get in without a pass.’

  ‘I understand. Just call Marc, then.’

  ‘Did you say Angelina Latimer?’ he says.

  I surmise that he knows her name and has a vague idea of what she looks like—she’s often photographed with Eric, Mum, and her soap star and socialite friends. I wish he’d reach for his phone.

  I don’t dare look at Tor because he’s bound to disapprove of my approach. And I can’t really blame him.

  The gatekeeper has his clipboard clutched to his chest. If I’m not careful he’ll ask for identification, so I remove my cap and tuck it into my bag. Then I pull the elastic out of the end of my plait and run my fingers through my hair. It falls to midway between my shoulder blades and waist. I’m aware of Tor stiffening by my side but I ignore him; if I have to second-guess what he’s thinking all the time, we won’t ever get in.

  This time when I face the gatekeeper I put my hands on my hips. ‘Recognise me now? I’ve known Marc forever. He won’t mind coming out to get me.’

  As the gatekeeper makes a call on his phone, Tor whispers in my ear. ‘You shouldn’t have lied,’ he says. ‘Why make things so complex?’

  Marc mightn’t have shown up for me, but I think he’ll come for Angelina. If nothing else he’ll be curious. She’s seen him socially at the races over the past few years but she would have been sipping champagne in the member’s stand. He wouldn’t have seen her at nine thirty in the morning. Tor wanted to look at people’s unguarded reactions to seeing me again. This is an ideal way to do it.

  We don’t have to wait long. Tor and I are standing in the shade of the camellia hedge that stretches along the boundary. When he looks over my head I sense someone is coming towards us but I don’t dare look around. I watch Tor instead. He’s very serious, like he’s perturbed or concerned about something.

  ‘Gumnut?’ I spin around. Marc looks much the same as he did on the day we broke up—perfect grooming, handsome face and good physique. He’s smiling broadly. And funnily enough I don’t think about how I felt on the day he told me I’d never fit in, I think about the childhood we shared.

  I was six to Marc’s twelve, twelve to his eighteen, sixteen to his twenty-two—but he never sent me away when I tagged along behind him and his friends. We didn’t smoke or drink or do drugs. We built flying foxes out of lead ropes and hung them in dangerous places. We threw our money away playing two-up and poker with the strappers. We nicked the steward’s horses and rode them—raced them—bareback in the dark. When I was older, eighteen, nineteen and twenty, I teased him about his girlfriends—their hair extensions, fake nails, high heels, pretensions.

  The first time Marc kissed me I was twenty. It was after a party at his parents’ house and I was staying over. When we had sex that night and afterwards, all I could think about was hiding the pain in my leg. Marc was impatient and selfish and not very careful, and I was too young, or proud, to let him know how I felt. I thought eventually I’d dread it less and get better at it. He was popular, driven, fun to be with. We shared a history. I’d looked up to him, loved him, for years. It was easy enough to fall in love with him.

  Marc doesn’t seem inclined to break the silence. He’s looking at my face like he’s never seen it before, even though he must have seen it hundreds of times, thousands. I tidy my hair, pulling it over one shoulder, twisting it into a rope, and flicking it away again.

  ‘Sorry I’m not Angelina,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come to the gate if you knew it was me.’

  He slowly shakes his head. ‘You reckon I’d turn you away, Gumnut? Solomon warned me you were back. And for future reference, use your own name. I’ll come.’

  I nod stiffly. ‘Thanks, but I’m only here because Eric wanted you to meet Tor. He’s from the UN.’

  ‘Tor Amundsen,’ Tor says, shaking Marc’s hand. ‘I’m heading up an inquiry into money laundering and, as Golden said to Solomon Bain’s colleague recently, she’s showing me the nice side of the industry.’

  Marc laughs. ‘Gumnut? She’s way out of date, she’ll be totally useless. Come on through and we’ll have a coffee. I’ll fill you in.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Tor’s diplomat mask is firmly in place but he’s speaking more formally, stiffly, than usual. Maybe he knows something about Marc that I don’t?

  One of the cafes opens up early to cater to the workers. There are umbrellas and bench seats close by.

  ‘What would you like?’ Tor says.

  Marc turns to me. ‘You still drink cappuccinos?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cheers, Tor. Make it two. Extra chocolate for Gumnut.’

  I perch on one end of the bench. Marc sits next to me, and when Tor returns, he sits next to Marc. It’s easy to get Marc talking—he likes a chat, and he likes numbers. Without any prompting, he reminisces about how the odds came down on horses as soon as word got out that their regular trainers had got John Saunders involved. Because Grandpa didn’t train his own horses for most of his career, he worked for other trainers when their horses needed a gentle hand, to get them comfortable with elements like racetrack conditions and crowds, and the starting gate.

  ‘John was a brilliant troubleshooter,’ Marc says. ‘He was employed at one time or another by all the city trainers, many of the country ones as well.’

  ‘He must have been proud when his son found success as a jockey,’ Tor says.

  Marc immediately launches into a discussion about my father, and the other jockeys from the old days, what the bookies thought of them, how the jockeys affected the odds just like the trainers did. Until Tor changes the subject again, and gets Marc talking about broader issues. Marc has betting interests outside racing now; he keeps books on football and tennis and cricket matches all over the world.

  We’re far away from where the horses are stabled but I see a few familiar faces. I’d like to put my cap back on to hide my hair so I’m less likely to be recognised, but I’d be embarrassed if Marc made a comment. He always said I should wear it out more often. Two men nod and say, ‘Golden.’ One of Grandpa’s cronies addresses me as Gumnut. I recognise a contemporary of my father’s, Tomas Farmer. He’s wirier than ever. Maybe he’s a strapper now. We avoid each other’s eyes. One of Solomon’s friends, another well-known trainer, shakes my hand as if we’re long lost friends. I’m courteous but cool. He didn’t come to Grandpa’s funeral either.

  Marc nudges me with his shoulder. ‘Gumnut! I said I have to go.’

  When I stand, so do the men. They exchange cards while I study the birds. Even though the catering area is under cover, pigeons and Indian mynas fly in and gather round the bins. They steal from the tables and pick up scraps from the ground.

  ‘Are you ready, Golden?’ Tor says.

  ‘Yes.’

  I’m about to follow Tor when Marc touches my arm. ‘Let’s catch up soon.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘We’ll have dinner somewhere nice, then we’ll—’

  ‘I said no.’

  It’s obvious he’s annoyed. And something else. I think he’s disappointed. Probably because, just like me, he has happy memories of the way we grew up. I glance at my forearm where he touched it. I’m not sure what I feel. It wasn’t unpleasant but there was no tingling sensation either, or desire to prolong the contact.

  Tor is stan
ding a couple of metres away now. He’s frowning as if he’s anxious to leave.

  Marc speaks in an undertone. ‘Is it because of Ange? The money—’

  ‘No!’ In some ways I’m pleased Marc has brought this up now, instead of when he meets with Tor later. But raising my voice has attracted Tor’s attention. It’s his turn to pretend to have an interest in the birds.

  ‘The money Angelina gave you doesn’t concern me, or anyone else,’ I say, opening my eyes wide and staring into his. ‘Keep it to yourself.’ I’d like to mention Eric and Tor specifically, but Tor is standing too close to risk it.

  Marc lifts a shoulder. He speaks in an undertone. ‘No skin off my nose. I won’t say anything.’

  Tor falls into step beside me as we walk towards the exit. Every once in a while he turns his head and glances at me suspiciously.

  ‘What did you say to Ferguson just then?’ he finally says.

  ‘Nothing important,’ I say.

  The eastern gate comes into view and he holds out his hand, just stopping short of touching me. The moment I stop and glare, his arm drops to his side.

  ‘Golden,’ he says. ‘We need to talk.’

  CHAPTER

  15

  Tor and I are adjacent to a garden. All it contains is a patch of newly laid turf and a scribbly bark tree. The sunshine filtering through the broad green canopy creates intricate patterns on the grass.

  He stares at my profile. ‘You’re so fucking complicated.’

  I don’t want to talk to him. But I don’t like the idea of him escorting me all the way to my car. So I step over the kerb and walk across the grass. I stop on the highest patch of ground where the roots of the tree are exposed, and rest my bag against the trunk. It’s smooth and cream, except for the uneven narrow lines that mark it. They’re reddish-brown and raised. Tor watches as I follow one with my finger.

  ‘Eucalyptus haemastoma,’ I say.

  The tree must have been here when I was a baby. Even at that age I came to Randwick with Grandpa. He kept me in a pouch tied to his chest. He told me my hair stuck out of the top and tickled his chin. He teased me about it when I was older. ‘You were a gumnut blossom from a red flowering gum,’ he used to say, ‘Corymbia ficifolia.’