

# Rugby Money

by Wix Hutton

Copyright © 2015 Wix Hutton/A Neale

Published by Wix Hutton/A Neale

Wix Hutton writes the _Money_ series of crime novels featuring Cassidy StPaul:

Dead Money

Conscience Money

Texas Money

... and you are reading _Rugby Money_

The moral right of the author is asserted.

Except for the purposes of fair reviewing, no part of this publication (whether it be in any eBook, digital, electronic or traditionally printed format or otherwise) may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, digital or mechanical, including CD, DVD, eBook, PDF format, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, including by any means via the Internet or World Wide Web, or by any means as yet undiscovered, without permission in writing by the publisher.

ISBN 978-0-473-31892-5

# Rugby Money

# The Team

Number 1, Prop Cassidy StPaul

Financial forensic consultant, confronting the opposition

Number 2, Hooker Melissa Setter-Hughes

Re-launched socialite, searching for secure footing

Number 3, Prop Yasu Daniel

Former champion swimmer, diving in deep

Number 4, Lock Seph Daniel

Hero, struggling with conflicting demands

Number 5, Lock Miles Oldridge

Millionaire, looking to score

Number 6, Flanker Gabrielle delaTour

Silver goddess, ready to be stumbled upon

Number 7, Flanker Roy Seng

The past, defending his reputation

Number 8 Heather

Personal assistant, holding the line

Number 9, Half-back Jeremy Forbes

The future, waiting impatiently

Number 10, First five-eighth The Chief

All-seeing and all-knowing, weighing up what's best for the squad

Number 11, Wing Kara Daniel bracketed with Krizten Lee Oldridge

Not-quite-ex wives, perpetually separated

Number 12, Second five-eighth Shane

Fondly remembered

Number 13, Centre Peace Daniel

Keeper of secrets, flaunting new season strip

Number 14, Wing Morris

Agent to heroes, playing out of position

Number 15, Full-back Anonymous

Playing away

Reserves First-fifteen schoolboys

# Opposing Players

Adoring fans, grieving mothers, enraged brothers, beefed-up security, harassed hoteliers, sympathetic bartenders, reluctant clients, champagne-breakfasting party-goers, leaky-home builders, tow-truck drivers and bicycle couriers.

Referee Guardian angels, taking umbrage

Assistant referees Media, taking advantage

TMO Nurses, taking selfies

# Chapter 1: Curtain-raiser

'Deaths.'

'Deaths?' A nasty crackle on the speakerphone distorted the voice.

'A surprising number of people have died today.' Text scrolled at the stab of a finger.

The voice at the other end of the line was wary. 'A surprising number of people die every day.'

'What's your deadline?'

'A few days, a few weeks.' Speakerphone distortion again. Maybe.

'Well, there must be someone – a death in close family, now that would be the ultimate. Someone must be dead, a lover, a childhood friend, a former confidante; you can spin it, with your imagination. Dig up the right death and that should be worth – well, worth at least –'

The voice on the phone acquired an edge. 'Anyone's death in particular? I ask merely to be informed, of course, in case I can't find someone suitably dead, then I'll know who to kill.' Not too wary, then; but on the defensive.

Feet on the desk; chair-back near horizontal. 'Got the picture?' The plaster rosette wreath in the centre of the dirty ceiling had dropped one petal years ago. The memory of the crumbling remnant, like an old-fashioned apostrophe, that had plummeted with exquisite timing onto the bald head of a passing defamation lawyer evoked a smile even now.

The speakerphone crackled again. 'Not a very pretty picture.'

The door slammed open. No-one came within peripheral vision but a thud heralded the city edition landing on his desk. The door slammed shut.

'So, two halves. You get the money for the first half. Background is ninety percent of this. Someone like you can hammer out background with one hand tied behind your back.'

'I heard you the first time.'

'The professional game, the international stuff.'

'Why it makes a difference. I said I heard you.'

'Closer to deadline, second half, the target. You concentrate for now on the angle. You understand money.'

'I understand money. I've told you I'll do it.' The speakerphone clicked off.

Chair castors squeaked and rucked the carpet; a single jab at the phone.

'Yes?'

'I want photographs.'

# Chapter 2: Captain's run

Seph Daniel's replacement tooth ached.

'Don't stop smiling!' His personal manager and agent, Morris, positioned himself between Seph and the cameras. 'What's the matter with you?' Morris twisted to face the pack. 'Okay, guys. And remember, Seph Daniel is a gold donor to children's sporting charities through fundraiser Generosity Limited. Gold donor, Generosity Limited, children's sporting charities, get it right, okay? Have you all got my press release?'

Seph grimaced, dropping his chin and pulling at his lips, then flexed his eyebrows. He slapped his jaw, the palm of one large hand scuffing twice against one cheek, then the back of the hand twice against the other cheek. 'My face hurts. Stiff.'

'Okay, guys, time-out please, time-out.'

The wind shoved across the rugby field and Seph blinked grit into one eyeball. He rubbed to clear the specks of dirt, squinting and focusing on the distant signboards at the home end. Time digits stood ready for kick-off. The score board recorded St Joseph's double zero, Visitors double zero. Outdoor broadcast vans angled carelessly behind a miniature grandstand with tiered rows of plank seats. Seph admired his car, glossy black with white markings, a thoroughbred among the OB vans and Morris's bedraggled sedan. A tow truck hesitated behind the vans. An assembly of school classrooms lurked on the horizon.

A small voice asked, 'Lockie? Are you doing autographs?'

Seph looked back, turned, looked down on the anxious face. 'For sure,' he took hold of the offered black pen and white rugby ball. He scribbled. 'There you go.'

Basked in the worshipping gaze. More felt pens were pushed forward, more rugby balls were offered, most from the level of Seph's waist, a few of the boys as tall as his chest. Seph smiled towards smartphones and tablets, chatted, scrawled with the felt pens. Good luck – Seph. Go well – Seph. Go hard out – Lockie. Kia kaha. Kia kaha.

While commentary streamed in his head...

... _and the boys at his old school congratulate Seph Daniel, newly selected in the national squad. Seph tells the first fifteen he's determined to wear the number four jersey in the starting line-up later this month when New Zealand will run onto the field, defending champions against the world's best rugby teams..._

'You've got your back to the cameras.' Morris's command cut in and Seph's running commentary cut out. 'Turn round – they need shots of you doing the autographs.'

Photo flashes popped and dazzled.

'How about a team shot?'

'Seph, can we get you in the middle?'

Blinking, Seph rested his eyes, gazing across the dead-ball zone. The stand for spectators, empty except for the school's rugby coach enjoying a quiet smoke. A banner hand-made by the boys, a bit hard to read now it was half-folded against the changing sheds, but he had signed it earlier and remembered that it proclaimed _Keep the cup in 2015!_

The wail of a car alarm tugged at Seph. He flicked his gaze over the school's small car park until his eye snagged on the towie tightening the hitch under one of the vehicles. He squinted, trying to pick out the victim.

'Morris – I think that bastard is towing your car...'

'First fifteen at the front – steady, boys, please – second fifteen at the back. You, you and you – get tighter in the middle, otherwise we won't get everyone into the photograph.' The deputy headmaster's commands went ignored as the boys jostled, clutching their signed rugby balls, pulling faces for the TV cameras, coughing and laughing into offered microphones.

Seph found himself blocked by a tiny front row, and hemmed behind by the backs balancing on the scrum machine that they had converted into temporary seating.

The towie hopped up into his cab. The tow truck rolled a little forward, then jerked to a brief stop as the towing chains took up the slack. The car alarm cut out.

'How about a cheer? One –'

'Lockie!'

'Morris – I've gotta sort this –'

The tow truck nudged its way past the vans, and half-way out of the main gate decorated along one side with a placard that Seph had read while driving in. _Lockie 4 ever!_

'Seph, look this way, Seph, this way...'

Seph struggled from the ranks, ignoring the deputy headmaster still trying to get the boys to cheer on cue. He pushed past microphones.

A shout of 'Lockie!'

The tow-truck hesitated in the middle of the gate from the car park onto the road, waiting for a break in the traffic. Seph began to jog.

... _and we can see Seph Daniel as he accelerates, incredible speed from a standing start, and already Seph is past the halfway line..._

'Seph, what are – what is he looking at? Is he looking at that tow-truck?'

A chant of 'Seph! Seph! Seph!' faded as Seph accelerated. As he closed on the try-line, he saw the traffic outside the school begrudgingly make a place for the tow-truck to exit the school car park. The towie bumped over the first judder bar and triggered the alarm again; the large black car, bright with white lettering; the black pennant on the aerial fluttering a forlorn goodbye.

# Chapter 3: Kick-off

Seph tore across the few metres of dead-ball zone.

... _and Seph Daniel is really racing now, he's still increasing speed, he's really upping the pace! And he's through the goal posts and scores right under the cross-bar!_

And, with a final desperate effort, up the small bank. Too late. His breath rasped, his shoes lost grip in the gravel. The traffic was moving slowly, the tow-truck edging his car out through the gate. Seph booted it and bellowed, 'Bastard! Fucking bastard!'

From nowhere one of the schoolboys circled Seph and raced after the tow-truck.

'No – come back, you little –'

The other boys swarmed around Seph, surrounding the gate and cheering their runner as he tried to jump onto the towed car. The towie's truck swerved and missed, but Seph's towed car sideswiped the boy as the towing rig over-corrected.

The towie kept going.

Seph jumped out into traffic, holding up one hand as horns blared and cars braked and slid.

'Shit – are you – here –'

The boy tried to sit up and Seph braced the narrow shoulders as car doors slammed and legs and feet surrounded them.

'Someone call 111.'

'I've already called.' Brown lace-ups.

'Yeah, me too. They're on their way.' Steel-capped work boots.

Seph hugged the thin arms as the child's wet eyes hid from view, the small face pressing into his shirt. 'Don't cry, mate, you'll be fine, you'll be fine.'

'Seph – look this way –'

'Seph, did you run him over?' School trainers.

'Who is that?' High heels.

'Seph Daniel. Seph Daniel ran the boy over, apparently.' Black wing-tips.

Seph heard a siren wail in the distance.

'Okay guys, that's enough photos, no more please. Some privacy for the – for – what's the kid's name?'

'Here you go.' Seph hugged the boy. 'Here's the ambulance. Hey, you'll get a ride in an ambulance, cool, eh?'

The paramedics pushed Seph away and road-metal chip bit his kneecaps as he knelt, eased back on the hamstrings, then pushed himself to standing.

'Seph, would you like to make a statement?' A microphone thrust almost up his nostrils. Seph stepped back and bumped into someone else. He turned and Morris grabbed his fist before Seph could complete the punch.

'My car – that bastard towed my car.'

Morris stumbled as Seph shook him off.

'Make sure you're getting sound. Are we recording?'

'And my phone. My phone was in the car.'

Morris hustled Seph away from the cameras. 'Get in the car – I'm parked over here – we've got to go, sorry we're out of time –'

'That towie bastard! Towed my car!'

'Seph, would you like to make a statement about why your car was towed away?'

'Got to go – out of time, sorry –'

'Seph, are the rumours right about you being short of money? Why was your car repossessed?'

'Next engagement – very tight schedule.' Morris pulled open the car door and pushed Seph forward. Seph banged his head on the top of the door. Morris tried to close the car door on Seph's leg.

'Seph, is it true, why are you broke?'

# Chapter 4: It's away

Seph's knee crunched against the gear-stick. He tried to straighten his right leg to relieve the snap of cramp in his calf.

'Your car's too small.'

'Careful! Christ's sake, you'll have the car out of gear.'

Seph hunched forward and grabbed his right calf, squeezing tortured muscle until the savage bite of cramp eased. 'Get an automatic.'

Morris signalled left and turned right out of the school gate, drawing the honking fury of oncoming traffic. Too fast for the turn; Seph felt tyres lose grip as Morris sprayed gravel over crumpled _Lockie 4 ever!_ and media remnants still filming by the school gate.

... _and Seph takes a breath to aid his focus, holds and counts two, releases slowly and repeats. But it's no good as his heart pounds and he coughs..._

'Fucking towie – what the hell was he doing?' Morris overtook without signalling.

'You're the worst driver, Morris – pull over and let me drive.'

Being a passenger was agony.

... _and Seph panics on the bench that he won't get onto the field, while the game goes on without him and he is appalled by the mistakes made by the forwards..._

Morris ran a red light. 'Forget it – just forget it. We'll sort your car later.'

Seph breathed...

... _and he breathes deep and turns to gaze out the side window and meets the eyes of two guys waiting to cross at the lights. The two guys pump the air and cheer..._

This time Morris went through on the green.

Seph waved and his knuckles scraped against the side window. 'And my phone's in the car. Suppose Yaz needs to get hold of me – she won't get any answer.'

'Forget Yasu.' Morris swerved left.

A schoolgirl on a bicycle wobbled dangerously and Seph watched her face contort. 'She's going to –'

The schoolgirl regained her balance and turned her head to shout, but anger smoothed from her face as she focused on Seph. She waved with one hand and wobbled again, Seph waved back and grinned, then he watched anxiously in the wing mirror as Morris roared down the side street. The cyclist dwindled in the mirror but stayed upright. Morris cornered again and the schoolgirl dropped from sight.

'Nearly there.' Morris's phone rang.

And rang.

'Answer it for me, will you?'

Seph leaned his head back. 'No.'

His neck cricked and he studied a dirty splash on the car's vinyl ceiling. The spray of brown grime looked like the starburst from a beer can opened after being shaken hard. The phone stopped ringing.

'Those media – right at the end there, one of them said something about my car being repossessed. What was that about?'

A short distance ahead, a small crowd jammed the footpath.

'Forget the journos.' Morris pulled up outside the bookstore.

No-one turned around for the small grey sedan.

Seph hunched shoulders forward, enjoying the stretch then the relax. 'What's this one, anyway?'

Two women stuck at the back of the crowd stepped backwards and bumped into Morris's car before turning around. One woman leaned across the wing mirror and stared through the windscreen, meeting Seph's gaze. He watched recognition dawn on the other side of glass, her face delighted and her mouth grinning.

Morris kept the engine running. 'Book signing,' he shouted above the screaming.

Seph watched the mob turn, the flicker of smartphones lifted high above heads swivelling from the bookshop frontage to bombard the grey car beside the kerb.

... _and Seph Daniel is mired in the ruck, he can't make the break..._

His neck crawled from the exhaled gust of Morris's breath and the windscreen started to steam up. Seph eased from his side window as hysterical fans banged the glass, and he bumped elbows with Morris shifting centre from the other side.

... _and the car begins to shrink, clamping Seph's chest; he wriggles his shoulders, tries to ease the grip on his ribs, tries to breathe. The hot stink of Morris's sweat, the slap of thousands of open palms and beckoning fingers against thin glass, the jostle of the seat under him – Seph holds his breath, forces his fist to unclench and eases a finger under the door handle pressed into his bicep and flaps the lever up..._

He heard a thunk; the door didn't open. He flipped the handle up and down, shoved hard against the door, up and down –

'Don't do that!'

A lull in the shouting, the edge of panic in Morris's whine and the snap of central locking jumbled together in Seph's hearing.

He forced words. 'I thought we were in a hurry.' The mob squeezed closer and Seph hesitated.

Morris said, 'Security will be here in a minute to get you into the bookshop. You're the last one, they want to get started on the signing. Remember you've read the book and you think it's great.'

... _let's go, let's get moving!_

'I want to complain to the towing company. Did you get the phone number off of that tow-truck? I mean, they've got my phone in the car. There might be an emergency.'

'Don't get excited, it's just a phone, you can get another one.'

Seph waved a hand at the heaving mob; hands waved back at him. 'I can't go anywhere without twenty thousand people going hysterical. I can't go out to get a phone.'

Morris yawned. 'Why are you so worried about a phone? You'll be out of the country by tomorrow.'

Morris's phone shrilled.

Seph wiped his forehead. 'Stuff is always happening.' He half-listened.

Morris turned away. 'I'm talking as loud as I can.'

Seph recognised two guys halfway between the bookshop door and Morris's car, and waved. One of the security lifted a hand, the other tapped an ear and spoke into the microphone tabbed to his collar, and a starburst alongside the car dazzled Seph. He twisted but the passenger seat of Morris's kiddie-car offered too little space to turn easily. He called to Morris over his shoulder, 'The security guys are here already.'

He couldn't hear Morris's reply above the fans yelling. Security manhandled a camera operator aside. More fans clung to the car, tugging at the door-handle, keeping a tight grip on the aerial, pulling the windscreen wipers up.

The wipers suddenly flicked back and forth, losing the hand-holds.

Seph rounded on Morris. 'Are you crazy? You'll take someone's eye out.'

When Morris didn't reply, Seph studied him. Morris was holding the phone loosely at his neck.

'Are you okay – you've gone a funny colour. What's happening? Has someone picked up my car? And my phone?'

The car door was pulled open and Seph sucked in cooler air.

Morris shouted, 'I'm talking as loud as I can. It's the bloody fans screaming.'

The security hauled at him, Morris pushed and Seph was released from the vicious grip of Morris's passenger seat.

Morris bellowed, 'I'm sure he can't hear me.'

Seph and the two security guys sidestepped as a trio and jinked, jostled by fans, towards the bookshop's front door. At the two-metre line the security guy in front was ambushed by a microphone. Seph looked back towards the car, at Morris still on the phone.

'Seph – Seph – why did you run over that kid? Why did you run away from the police?'

Elbows, knuckles, chins banged on shopfront glass. The clang of bone on metal – he guessed knees, boots against the car. Maybe even heads; Seph winced at the painful thought.

Security pulled him forward past the mikes, past the bursting fireworks of flashing lights, leaving him no time to respond.

'Seph – Seph – why are you broke?'

# Chapter 5: Handling error

Seph squared his shoulders and the hotel's mirrored hallway watched his back.

... _and Seph Daniel lines up a practice kick..._

He tested his best attempt so far. 'My car was towed today, bastards, they reckon I parked in the wrong place.'

A squeal fractured the silence of the hallway. A room attendant pushed a distant cleaning trolley towards him.

... _and we can read his lips as Seph tells himself, practise as you mean to play..._

Seph scratched his head, cleared his throat, forced himself to swallow and tried again. 'I'm the only one in the squad that hasn't read the book, so we can save a bit of cash because I've got to stay in tonight and read it.'

The trolley squeaked past and the attendant smiled shyly. Seph smiled back. The attendant sailed down the corridor and around a corner.

... _and Seph Daniel keeps it simple..._

Seph grabbed the door handle and opened the door to his suite. 'How was your day?'

Yasu stood square in the middle of the hotel suite's small entry-way. Seph kicked the door closed behind him and took the hit full-on: the lips, the legs, the heat, all in a bundle that barely reached his nipples.

... _and Seph Daniel goes hard out..._

Yasu held her phone like a shield. 'He's here. Can't talk any more.'

Seph executed a move to the blind side. Yasu blocked deftly with an arm in black and gold wound tightly all the way to knuckle-sized rings and a full glass of wine in the hand that wasn't holding her phone.

'Gotta go.' Yasu rose on tiptoe; Seph hunched; but no kiss. She bellowed, 'Great news!'

'Who you talking to?'

'I found us a house!'

His shoes slithered on glossy tiles. In the suite's miniature kitchen, Seph caught his jacket cuff on the cupboard handle. There should be a tin of tuna here somewhere... rice crackers...

'You know the bank turned me down.'

Yasu tailed him. 'This one's cheaper. North Shore, only two million. I've sorted us a viewing, we should go now, we can get there and back before party time.'

Seph bit down on the rice cracker until his fake tooth hurt. 'You want to spend my money?'

Yasu sighted over the rim of her glass. 'Your money? You couldn't tell me your bank balance if you tried.' She hefted the wine bottle by its neck.

... _and reckless media pack tight but Seph sells them the dummy..._

'I pay Morris to know.'

A snort. 'Morris? That idiot doesn't understand money.'

'And you do?'

'I do. From my very first dollar to my last. And every single one in between.'

Seph attended to the crackers. 'I leave it to him. Don't drink so much.'

'Did you leave your car out front?'

Seph studied a cracker. Funny how they had those little crinkly edges. And his tooth had got looser. 'I don't know...'

'What do you mean, you don't know?'

Seph picked up a full packet of crackers, eased open the plastic wrap and extracted a cracker. This one was paler with no crinkles around the edges.

'Seph? Earth to Seph? And you had your phone switched off this afternoon, why?'

Seph piled a forkful of tuna on the pale cracker.

'Talk to me.'

There was a knock on the door. Seph faced the bench. 'I'll get that.'

'Don't you dare.'

Seph spat his tooth into his palm and listened to Yasu's heels clatter across the entry-way tiles. Clack, thump, pause; she had reached the door, and he pictured the tightening of sinew as she tiptoed to spy the hallway.

... _and Seph Daniel is right behind her, her towering heels tipped with tiny black sprigs, and he's going all the way, pressing the tip of his tongue deep into soft skin behind her knee..._

Murmuring scaled up and separated into two voices as Seph weakened at the memory of sprig marks. The bang of the suite door pulled him around. Yasu and Morris were toe to toe.

'I mean, don't wait to be invited.'

'Don't you have some modelling to do?'

Seph prayed quietly. Don't say anything, just don't say anything.

Morris didn't ever get it. 'I need to talk to my boy in private. And stop spitting your tooth out.'

'He's not your boy. And his tooth is none of your business.' Yasu jogged Seph's elbow emptying the last of the bottle into her glass; surplus red sloshed. She dropped the bottle into the sink. 'Seph and I have a lot to fit in.'

Seph spun the bottle in one hand, checking for cracks.

'You can talk to Seph in front of me. Someone's got to look after him.' Head tilted, Yasu drained her glass.

'Well, he's going to take a lot of looking after.' Morris clutched his phone hard against the front of his jacket. 'You better sit down.'

Seph tried out a glance in Yasu's direction; she glared over the rim of her empty glass. Seph decided he didn't want to sit. 'Is that my phone?'

Yasu's voice vibrated in the danger zone. 'Why has Morris got your phone?'

'It's not his phone.' Morris handed Seph the phone.

'So where is Seph's phone? I was trying to ring him all afternoon. We've got a house viewing to get to.'

'What house?'

Seph held the phone against his shirt. 'Who is it?'

And break: the combatants drew breath.

Morris puffed his lips out. 'Apparently, your mother-in-law.' Seph didn't dare look at Yasu. Morris muttered, 'I thought you got the divorce sorted.'

'Separated, we're separated. I'm going to get that divorce shit done.' Seph held the phone to his ear. 'Hello.'

He watched Yasu's grip tear the lapels of Morris's stained jacket. 'What the fuck is going on?'

Morris whispered...

... _but the caller doesn't pause for breath and words cascade over Seph Daniel, streaming out through the emptiness in his head. Meaning dissolves into double zero as the caller keeps repeating words, but he can't remember the score..._

Yasu released Morris and made a play for the phone high above her reach. Seph switched the phone to his other hand. She put both arms around half his waist and hugged hard.

... _and Seph Daniel can't breathe, how can someone as small as Yasu crush him so completely? And his mind overflows with guilt..._

'My baby, my baby,' filtered from a distance.

He clicked off the call.

Morris said, 'What did you do that for?'

'I'm so sorry, I'm here for you, baby.'

... _and Seph Daniel's head explodes..._

With all his strength Seph hurled Morris's phone at the wall, and a mosaic of popped buttons and snips of colour and twists of metal vomited down the wallpaper to the carpet, freezing to a messy stain.

# Chapter 6: Sudden death

Morris muttered, 'I'm very sorry.'

The hotel room phone rang. Seph winced; Yasu glared at Morris; Morris studied the floor. The phone continued to ring.

Yasu strode across the room, studded heel-tips punching little holes in the carpet, but Seph stopped her with an elbow.

'Ow! Don't hit me, I've got a shoot! No bruises!'

And punched the button for speaker-phone. 'Yup.'

The speaker-phone shouted, 'It's me of course, it's me, it's Melania. Why did you cut me off? How could you stop talking to me, the mother of your very own wife? How cold is your heart, Josef?'

Funny how those little holes in plastic were pinched in tiny rows, so precisely positioned, three then four then three.

... _and the scrum packs down and they engage, that crunch is so solid you can hear bone cracking..._

'I'm sorry, I was –'

'The same way you were so cold to my baby, to my Kara, and now I'm a mother who has to bury my heart with my beautiful child, my beautiful Kara is dead and you don't have the guts to answer your phone.'

There wasn't air to breathe in the hotel room.

... _and it's hard to take a deep breath when the maul collapses and you're at the bottom of the heap..._

Seph gasped. Why wasn't Yasu opening the windows? She was too close; no wonder he couldn't breathe, she was using up all his air. He leaned away.

Yasu leaned closer, her hair irritating his chin. 'Where the hell is your phone?'

Why did Yasu talk all the time, couldn't she see he was trying to listen, trying to talk, trying to explain? 'In the car.'

The speaker-phone sobbed. 'It's too late, Josef. Kara's dead. She died of a broken heart because you broke her heart. And worse.'

Yasu was all over him like a rash. 'So where's your car?'

Why not drop his guard? She might as well know. 'It got repossessed.' Where was Melania coming from? 'I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.'

At last Yaz gave him a break.

'So where is his fucking car? Morris?'

'His car got towed, that's all.'

'Sorry won't bring Kara back to me, Josef. Sorry won't give me my dead child and my dead grandchild. Please God give me the strength to endure a double funeral.'

'His car got repossessed? Let me remind you, Morris, you're supposed to be the one handling Seph's money. Aren't you keeping up the payments?'

'I'll be there, Melania, I want to be there for the funeral.'

'Look, he parked on the school field and got towed while he was signing autographs. Problem is –'

'Two funerals, Josef, two funerals at the same time, two in one grave. My sons don't want you there.'

'Did I hear her say dead grandchild? What the fuck is going on?'

'When is the funeral? I'm gonna be there, I swear it.'

'Problem is, the towie hit one of the school kids.'

'Josef, no. Do you know that at the last, my Kara struggled to speak? She wanted to speak to you and you weren't there.'

'Hit one of the kids? Hit one of the kids! I cannot believe this. Is the kid okay?'

'And I want to see Kara, to say good-bye. Where is she now? Have you got her there?'

'Forget the kid, forget the car. The journos won't care about the car, not when it comes out that his wife's just died. Most of them don't know that he's married. I take it you knew?'

'Don't come, Josef. Her brothers, so devoted, my blessed sons, they say they will kill you if you come to see her.'

'Of course I knew. Don't be stupid. So now you're telling me that there was media there?'

'I need to say goodbye. Don't tell me I can't say goodbye.'

'Me be stupid? Are you blaming the right person here?'

'I am going now. Josef, your behaviour has disgusted me.'

'This is the worst possible time. I'm booked for a Christmas Black & Blond swimwear shoot tonight. And you didn't answer my question.'

'Can I see Kara?'

'Christmas? In September?'

'Don't ever contact me or my family again, ever.'

'I suppose I'll have to cancel.'

Seph stared at the plastic speaker, tiny empty holes punched in a flat grey face. Two funerals. Child and grandchild. What did Kara's mother mean?

'Unless you're modelling a black bikini suitable for funerals.'

Yasu grabbed the TV remote and the wide screen blossomed into life. On screen Seph raced away, his back to camera.

'Morris, tell me you didn't fuck up the media angle.' Yasu buttoned to another channel. The schoolboys split around the camera in a ragged mob.

Morris sidled past the corner of the lounge. 'I'll talk to the Chief – get you some bereavement leave, a week.'

Seph said dully, 'The boys are off tomorrow to France.'

Morris's voice drifted from the entry-way, 'Well, take a week here, then catch up with them for the pre-tournament prep. I'll handle the press releases.'

Yasu followed Morris around the corner and Seph winced as her voice reached a new high. 'Goodbye, Morris, close the door on your way out.'

Morris's footsteps tracked over the tiles.

'Yes, why don't you handle the media, you've obviously done it so well today. I'm sure you have some more excellent PR work to do for Seph's brand.'

The door slammed and Seph braced.

... _and the pressure comes off Morris and onto..._

She stormed around the corner. 'A grandchild – I heard her. Melania said some crap about burying a child and a grandchild.'

'Yeah...'

'So who's the father?' Yasu breathed fire. 'Say something. When did you sleep with her?'

'I didn't sleep with her.' Why wouldn't the pain go numb?

'You expect me to believe that?'

'Believe what you want.' He looked out across the room, through the window, across Auckland. Somewhere out there in the city haze, in some direction he couldn't quite decide, was the past.

A shadow came between him and the window and Seph refocused. Yasu stood legs astride, knees braced, heels dug into carpet, ready to take him out from a standing start. 'Marry me.'

The last thing he expected. The last thing he could reply to. The very last thing he –

Yasu folded her arms, tight across a compact body wrapped in black from neck to thigh. 'Show that family you don't care!'

But I did care, Seph told himself. Once, I did care, but now it's different. 'All right. After the tournament.'

'No. Before.' Yasu tossed back her long hair. 'You love to win. I love to win. It's a win-win.'

Seph blinked at the ceiling.

'And you hit me with your elbow. Don't you dare raise a hand to me. Now promise you'll marry me. Before.'

Give in, it was easier, then the pain would ease. 'All right.'

The air sucked away from him as Yasu inhaled. 'Swear it. Promise.'

'I promise. I swear it.'

Seph buttoned up the TV volume. The camera pulled back for a long shot.

'Now kiss me.'

... _and Seph Daniel races away from himself, between the posts, right down his own throat. Oh God, get him out of there..._

# Chapter 7: Looking for a runner

Cassidy StPaul sneezed. All she was asking for was a little luxury, that's all. Only a little luxury, that was what she deserved. And what she deserved right here, right now was Miles Oldridge's discreet limo, passenger seat adjusted to her exacting specifications, the cushion heater soothing the muscle cramp of an early spring cold out of her lower back and, most important, exterior paintwork a perfect unmarked black. If she'd had any money, and if her cold hadn't dulled her thinking processes at the airport, Cassidy regretted, she would have told Miles that she needed to – well, needed to go somewhere different from wherever he was going, and she would now be sitting in a nicely anonymous taxi. Cold, cramped and still sneezing, but anonymous.

A bicycle courier cut in millimetres ahead of the bull-bar and gave Miles a two-fingered salute.

This was Miles's entire fault, Cassidy complained, to herself and to grey cloud oozing over skyscrapers along the Queen Street canyon. His fault that she'd caught this revolting cold, his fault that she'd run up more debt than her salary could ever cope with, his fault that she'd had no time to work on her project. And his fault that pedestrians gawked at the car like Cassidy and Miles were some kind of travelling sideshow. Miles and his ridiculous whatever-this-is, the so-called car like a mobile billboard barely held together by all-over plastic skin, advertising –

Miles accelerated, steered one-handed, jabbed a finger onto the window button and shouted through the window opening, 'Hands off the car!'

The courier swerved and bellowed over his shoulder, 'Learn to drive!'

'Fuckwit!'

'Wanker!'

Another cough, another sneeze and the tears in her eyes blurred the courier, a kaleidoscope of colour and arms and legs bouncing into the windscreen. Cassidy was thrown forward until her seatbelt grabbed, cutting painfully into her neck as Miles braked and they slammed to a halt. The medley of hands and knees and elastic neon rolled forward and disappeared from view.

Cassidy massaged her neck. Neck glands swollen, she was sure, possibly infected. Hot whisky and lemon, electric blanket on high, and a few days in bed – alone – beckoned enticingly.

Memo to self: can't afford being sick.

Cold air raced to fill the car as Miles jumped out and bent close to the windscreen, examining the plastic skin loose around the window seals and now with a rip across the windscreen.

The courier was upright, holding onto the bull-bar, and sufficiently alive to shout at Miles. 'What are you? Trying to kill me? Because that's what you've done, mate, look what you've done!'

Cassidy unrolled her side window a cautious gap.

'How much to make this go away?'

'Twenty grand.'

Miles eyeballed the courier. 'Don't be fucking ridiculous. Five.'

'Look at me, mate, look at the damage. Ten grand and I'm sorted.'

Bystander cellphones clicked.

'Eight.'

'Done.'

The courier produced his phone, Miles waved his own, and they clinked phones like celebratory champagne. The lights changed. The bicycle courier whipped through the red light a whisker ahead of the cross-traffic. The car behind honked, Cassidy sneezed, Miles slammed the door, the car roared from a standing start and Miles steered with one finger on the wheel as he thumbed his phone.

'Shouldn't you put your seat belt on?'

'That fuckwit ripped the plastic. Don't nag. My wife nags.'

Nearly-ex-wife, shouldn't that be? Soon-to-be ex-wife used to nag? 'He barely touched us. Someone probably vandalised it – the car's been parked at the airport for five days.'

Miles braked at red lights and spoke into the hands-free. 'Shane? Miles. I need a quick fix on the skin...'

Cassidy wiped her eyes and tried not to read backwards the decals plastered all over the windscreen. _Give yourself credit for 2015!_

Memo to self: if you want a job done properly...

If only she'd known that this pathetic excuse for a car was going to be at the long-term airport parking while they were away in Queenstown for a lengthy weekend, then she would personally have arranged for it to be vandalised. Thoroughly: the all-over plastic decals, announcing Miles's company as official credit-card services provider for the tournament in 2015, would have been not casually vandalised but completely torn off.

'Crass,' she muttered.

Unfortunately Miles had finished his call in time to overhear. 'It's a free car for the duration, all expenses paid. Great contra!'

As Miles edged up onto the footpath in front of the Hector Building, Cassidy swallowed her retort. Why should Miles the Millionaire be so keen to get a free car? But a long weekend with a millionaire and his friends in an expensive resort had taught her that millionaires stay rich by spending other people's money.

I should have been working for myself. If I'd spent a long weekend working on my project I would've finished it, instead of getting sick and spending all my money. Eight grand, just like that. He gave that guy eight grand. What about me?

'Why don't you cover the tear with sticky tape or –'

Or what? Or drive your expensive car that I'm accustomed to, complete with personal heating controls.

Miles pumped the brake and the car slipped forward at the precise moment that Cassidy put a Black & Blond shoe on the footpath. The toe bent back, leather scraped across concrete. Cassidy yelped, left shoe heel jammed backwards and she stared at its matching right heel rolling underneath _Give yourself credit for 2015!_

'Are you getting out? I can see a traffic warden. Get out or I'll get a ticket.'

'My shoe! It's snapped in half!'

'Hurry up. My two o'clock meeting started five minutes ago.'

Cassidy dragged herself and her weekend bag out without further shoe injury. Miles released the brake before she shut the passenger door. She jogged alongside.

'Wait – just a minute – what are we –'

'Gotta go, come on, close that door. I can't blame fog at Queenstown as my excuse for being late. See you tonight.'

'Six?'

'Whenever. I may be late.' The up-rolling window cut Miles off. Cassidy heaved her bag onto her shoulder and turned her back as Miles cut into traffic.

Eight grand. Just like that, eight grand.

What about me?

# Chapter 8: Reserves bench

Fog at Queenstown airport delayed our plane, sorry I'm late? I'm more than late.

Hector Building loomed over her and Cassidy struggled to find her key card in her wallet. Naturally, the necessary plastic was in the last compartment where she scrabbled.

Eight grand to a passing cycle courier; just like that, eight grand. And I can't afford to be sick. And I'm going to rename this building, when I'm running this business. All I need is a few days to get my project finished. She swiped her key card: nothing happened. The card reader was out of action. Cassidy tested the door with a push and fell forward.

The Hector Building front door was open to the streets. But no Queen Street homeless had set up camp in the ground floor lobby – yet; she limped, undisturbed, to the waiting lift cage.

The doors to the lift clattered together; Cassidy lost her balance as the lift cage thumped upwards; and she noticed _Level Seven, Generosity Limited_ in white letters on the blue lift screen. Wrong. A sneeze erupted, she sniffed hard. The lift juddered upward, Cassidy struggled to find a tissue and the screen continued to pretend that it was stationary at level seven. Cassidy blew her nose, the lift slowed and the screen reminded her, _Level Seven, Generosity Limited_.

Still wrong; level eleven and welcome home. We hope.

The doors screeched open, Cassidy mopped with the soggy tissue. The large sign in front of her ought to have announced, _Hector Partners Consulting, Financial Forensics_. Someone had failed to restore the H of Hectors; she decided the signage looked drunk. And tarnished, and old-fashioned and the wrong name.

When I'm running this business – Cassidy sneezed herself around the corner – when I'm running this business, I won't have giant metal lettering with the brass overlay peeling off, I'm going to have –

The other H of Hectors was definitely sober, definitely not crooked and definitely not with her head in a fog. But the mainstay of Hector Partners Consulting, Financial Forensics, was barely visible. Heather had built ramparts of paper around the perimeter of her desk, the overspill occupying two of three chairs positioned opposite her like a row of financial suspects under forensic interrogation.

Cassidy collapsed into the third chair.

'You're late. And your nose is sunburnt.' Heather shuffled like a gambler, dealing printouts from the printer behind her onto four of the piles in front of her. 'How was Queenstown?'

'I hated it. And my nose isn't sunburnt. It's red and it's blocked. I can't breathe.'

'I don't think it's legal to hate a ski resort in the winter. I can see you trying to read this page upside down – don't. You know that Hector's financial performance is confidential until Roy makes his announcement to staff. Not that he'll have much to announce this year.'

Cassidy rubbed watery eyes. 'It's not supposed to be winter, it's supposed to be spring. But you wouldn't know it in Queenstown. Still had all the rubbish up from their mid-winter festival.'

'And not that there'll be many staff to listen to him. September in Queenstown is mid-winter. Didn't you go for some fancy-dress snow-flower ball?'

'The mid-winter festival was in August! I went to bed early the night of the Edelweiss ball because I had a sore throat. And because I hate fancy dress balls. And now I have a cold.'

'Don't sneeze at me! Hector's cash flow is bad enough without you infecting the paper our losses are printed on. Go home until you're well.' Heather paused in mid-staple, stared hard at the suspect in the chair, resumed her stapling. 'Except that, according to my records, you have no sick days left. Go to the doctor.'

Cassidy stifled a cough. 'I can't afford to go to the doctor. I spent all my money in Queenstown; it's hard on the wallet keeping up with millionaires.'

'Surely the boyfriend paid.' Heather ducked behind the paper ramparts and Cassidy heard rummaging as desk drawers squealed open and slammed shut.

'He paid for most things, but my money's still gone. I'm going home to bed. Put me down as holiday. What are you looking for?'

'You have no holiday left either. Roy wants to see you. I'm looking for these. Here you are.' Heather leaned across her desk and cardboard-covered files fell freely from her hands into Cassidy's lap. Cassidy allowed the files to fall to the floor. 'Roy wants your closure report redrafted on all of these.'

Cassidy leaned painfully to scrabble at the floor, groaned as her ears hurt and her forehead pinched at the change in horizontal balance, and picked up two files. 'Oh God, not those clients again.' She scraped three more files together and eased upright, reading long-forgotten names on the covers. 'Look, these were dead-end clients with no-brainer problems that Hector Consulting should be embarrassed we even accepted them as clients. Tell Roy to write them off as losses.'

Heather stapled a final clutch of paper. 'Hectors can't afford to write anything off as losses. Times is tough, we're lean and mean, blah blah blah. Roy's insisting now that I balance the petty cash. And he says your timesheet has too much non-chargeable time. Starting with today – where've you been all day? Why are you coming in to work in the middle of the afternoon?'

Enough. 'Emergency shoe repair leave, that's what I need, and I'm taking it right now.'

Memo to self: get my project done.

Dead-end clients were abandoned on the floor. Cassidy went into reverse around the corner; when I'm running this business I'm going to take as much leave as I want. Past the tarnished remnants of an incomplete _Hector Partners Consulting, Financial Forensics_ , to slam a fist on the lift call button.

Cassidy hauled her weekend bag into the lift, ignored the wrong instructions on the screen and blew her nose as she sank to street level of the soon-to-be-renamed StPaul Building.

# Chapter 9: Not a lot of options

The street door of her apartment building was also open to street life. After a punishing marathon of two blocks, Cassidy was as ready to collapse as her broken shoe. Okay, she'd over-done the sneezing and eye-watering to win Heather's sympathy vote; so much for expecting sympathy. Maybe a double-shot espresso with triple-shot sugar crystals would sweeten life. Cassidy limped around the last corner between her and her favourite orange vinyl perching step-stool, to where her demitasse-sized coffee cart beckoned from in front of her building.

Where her coffee cart used to beckon... her orange vinyl perch had vanished, and in its place the high sides of a rubbish skip blocked her view. But not her hearing.

A chute of corrugated iron sheets curved in a conduit from her apartment building. Shrapnel bounced and crashed and whined in a torrent down the iron to torture her clogged ear canals and clang into the skip. Cassidy tiptoed her way into her lobby. No street life here either, yet, but a tornado had been through and torn out all the mailboxes.

Cassidy wiped her eyes and tried a second glance. Yes, that really was the overturned house-plant from the lobby corner, sickly to the brittle edges of its yellowed leaves. Uprooted mailboxes, locked flaps turned to the wall, spilled mail from gaping cubbyholes open to her gaze. She crept closer, eyeball to mailbox: only one cubbyhole was spilling a guts-full, and that was the mailbox belonging to Cassidy StPaul.

She brushed aside a long weekend's worth of old news. Hadn't she cancelled the newspaper? Forensic evidence in dirty newsprint proved she hadn't bothered before Miles swept her off to acquire a severe Queenstown cold. And to spend her own money, like water tumbling down the Shotover River and just as rapidly.

Numbing thoughts; and her fingers not only numb but now dirty. Cassidy flicked envelopes aside. Estate agents keen to sell the apartment she didn't own; ditto invitations to her to buy an apartment she couldn't afford. Charity requests, a vengeful bequest from one of Roy's clients, who had sold her name to as many charities he could find, and he had found a lot, being a charity fundraiser himself. Cassidy sat back awkwardly on her damaged heels in a pile of beseeching charity envelopes. To be more accurate, an ex-charity fundraiser; to be absolutely totally accurate, a dead fundraiser.

All right, so she'd played a role in a final exposure of a man who had died rather than face forensic evidence – collected by Cassidy – that he'd been a cheat and a thief. She shivered. But he'd already been abandoned by his fiancée, a woman who had engaged herself to, as Cassidy's forensic skills had also uncovered, three people at the same time. Cassidy assured herself that using evidence to her own advantage wasn't really blackmail, and if it was, why then, some people simply couldn't be blackmailed often enough. She smiled at the scarred lobby wall, at the dead dusty plant, at the memory of Hector Building lift doors sliding open to reveal the ex-fiancée, Melissa Setter-Hughes, who under duress had signed Cassidy into membership of the most exclusive women's club in Auckland.

One of the envelopes retrieved from her mail carried the club's insignia. Cassidy ripped it open. The sum demanded for a full year's membership renewal made her eyes water, unless that was her blocked sinuses. Cassidy coughed dust, sneezed and decided that Roy would have to pay the sub. After all, her membership was purely for Hector Partners' benefit. I only joined the club at your urging, Roy, Cassidy found herself arguing; I'm a member in order to pull expensive clients for Hectors. She crushed the renewal into her pocket. Pity that she hadn't scared up any financial forensic business from sisterly clubbers. Most of their money was owned by someone else: husbands, lovers, trust funds.

And a pity that Cassidy couldn't entirely avoid Melissa's presence inside the club building. The mental picture of Melissa framed between lift doors was vivid enough to make Cassidy smile again.

'When you've finished smirking, Cassidy.'

Cassidy blinked and hoped that Melissa Setter-Hughes hadn't been conjured into existence from memory. But the lift really was half-open in front of her and a pony-hide boot really was kicking an impatient toe at the metal doors.

'Thank God someone's still here.' The voice was husky, although maybe that was the dust. 'Take these.'

Why?

'Hurry up, can't you?'

These turned out to be slim elegant baggage: a pair of designer suitcases, a zipped capacious gym bag, a pony-hide tablet case matching Melissa's boots, recognisably this season's Black & Blond collection. A pair of designer holdalls to match the suitcases, a jewel case in black patent.

Cassidy worked up a rhythm in her last season's, now broken, Black & Blond shoes as she took each piece handed through the half-open lift doors. And a timely sneeze burst over Melissa as she squeezed inelegantly between the stuck doors.

'Haven't seen you lately, Cassidy – are you still forced to work? Still at Hectors?'

Cassidy noted the glance at the shoes, the raised eyebrow, the sniff. Unless that was the dust. 'Still at Hectors.' When I'm running Hector & StPaul Partners Consulting, Financial Forensics, I'll be working under my own name. In very large letters.

'Of course, everyone seems to be resigning from Hectors. Let me give you some advice – resign now before the place sinks without trace.'

Fortunately, the shriek of lining board being wrenched out prevented Cassidy from replying.

'Here's my taxi. Take these out to him, will you?'

Cassidy lifted a suitcase. 'I hadn't realised you had moved in.'

Melissa lifted an eyebrow. 'Moved in?' Melissa's laugh irritated like a stuck door hinge. 'Moved in to a leaky building? I'm helping out a friend, picking up her personal luggage after the moving company packed it up for her.'

'Leaky building?' Cassidy waited for a break in the rattle of rubble down the corrugated iron chute. When the crash into the skip had reverberated to silence, or at least to the closest that they were going to get to silence at the moment: 'So that's what that strange smell was all last year?'

The taxi driver trudged through rubble, a holdall under each arm.

Melissa coughed dust. 'Well, if you will live in a slum. My friend tells me the lawyers have it all on paper, in black and white.'

Lawyers? This was starting to sound like an expensive conversation.

The mention of black seemed to remind Melissa of the important things in life. 'Oh yes, and something else in case you haven't thought to check. Black mould: my advice to you is to check shoes at the back of your wardrobe before you do absolutely anything else. Black mould everywhere. You'll probably find that all your summer sandals have grown toadstools on the leather.'

Melissa watched the driver stow her luggage then paused, one pony-hide boot in the taxi, one on the road. 'So you'll be the last one, Cassidy, as they say, turn out the lights when you leave. Nice to chat, we'll be able to keep in touch at the club some day. Unless you're attending Yasu's little party this evening?'

Yasu? Yasu, from the rich women's club; Yasu, whom I thought was beginning to be more friendly? Why wasn't I invited? I buy Yasu's Black & Blond brand – well, I bought her last season's collection. When I still had money. Eight grand he gave away, just like that. What about me?

Melissa tucked herself into the taxi and slammed the door. Cassidy tapped on the enemy's window and pleaded through the half-rolled-down glass. 'Do you mean I'm going to be the only one living in the building?'

'Of course not!' An elegant smile.

Cassidy straightened her sore back with relief.

Melissa added, 'None of you are allowed to stay while they repair the building. My friend will be house-sitting for someone who's overseas for the rugby. You're lucky, not owning your apartment; you can just rent somewhere else.'

Rent somewhere else? Just like that, in central Auckland?

Melissa rolled up the window to a few centimetres. Cassidy had to stoop to hear. 'A 48-hour notice arrived Saturday morning and expires at midnight tonight. Everyone out, complete with all possessions, by four p.m. today. Why, have you been somewhere this weekend? The builders will be securing all access to the building in –' Melissa peeked at her watch. '– why, any moment now.'

One short plea to the patron saint of expensive women's clubs: why hasn't Yasu from the club invited me to her Black & Blond party? One fist thumping to close the stuck lift doors. One bout of cursing to start the lift moving upwards, and one long-delayed sneezing fit as the doors re-opened, with a menacing creak, at her floor. Plus one final pledge to put something in every single one of those charity envelopes because, although she found the demolition crew in her apartment, her living space was not totally demolished, yet.

And what did Melissa mean about Hectors? Shivering in the cold breeze coming through empty window frames, Cassidy reminded herself: never pay attention to a woman who once was engaged simultaneously to three people, two of them men.

# Chapter 10: Drop out

Cassidy's landlord owned the kitchenette, and as a forensic consultant Cassidy was always prepared to respect property rights, but right here right now the builders needed decisions. Cassidy waded, up to her Black & Blond ankles, through torn lining board, rotten chunks of wall bracing and rusted nail-plates.

'Okay, so what about the fridge?' The taller builder in the hi-vis orange vest shook the spray-paint can like a cocktail.

'Nope.' The fridge door hung open. Cassidy leaned in to identify contents and reeled back when the smell reached her. 'The fridge comes with the apartment. Not mine.'

Orange hi-vis gave one last rattle to the spray-can then jetted green paint onto the fridge. Green for go, Cassidy decided. The shorter builder in yellow hi-vis ripped down the last cupboard door and Cassidy backed out of the kitchenette into her multi-purpose living space, always open-plan, but now more open-plan than the architect had ever intended.

Orange hi-vis followed her, flourishing the spray-paint. 'So which of this stuff is yours?'

The shorter builder leaned through the glass-free window and let go an armful of kitchen cupboard doors. Cassidy heard joinery rattle down the corrugated iron chute and to a terminal crunch into the skip.

'Okay... the scotch dresser and the modular suite are mine...'

The taller builder lifted one end of the couch and flipped her contemporary seating into vertical. Together, he and Cassidy studied blackened and rotting fabric dangling under the wooden frame.

Orange hi-vis looked at Cassidy then lowered the couch back to horizontal. Cassidy leaned forward slowly, wincing as a long-overdue headache thumped hard, and pulled one couch cushion out of alignment. A tide line of black mould ran just below the cushion piping, four-square around the cushion, and a matching high-tide mark washed along the couch's backing fabric.

Orange hi-vis raised one eyebrow. Cassidy shrugged one shoulder. It took the two builders five seconds to heave the couch out of the window.

It took Cassidy five seconds to realise what was missing. 'Where's the balcony?'

Orange hi-vis pulled her scotch dresser out from the wall.

Yellow hi-vis said, 'It fell off yesterday.'

Orange hi-vis said, 'You want this? The wood is rotting at the back.'

Cassidy blew her nose. 'Chuck it.'

'What about your stuff inside?'

Cassidy opened one door and the handle came off in her hand. She looked at magazines compacting into paper pulp and at white fungus creeping across the back of the cupboard. She let the cupboard door fall closed. 'It can go.' She took careful aim and the handle sailed through the exact centre, as far as she could judge, of the open window-frame before scuttling with a rapid rattle down the corrugated iron chute.

Her bed clanged down the chute following her couch and her scotch dresser, complete with dank pillows, mildewed bed linen and spotted contemporary throw. Her bedside tables fell apart when lifted and the builders threw the scraps through the bedroom window frame. The builders gave her a giant bin bag and began to remove the wall lining of her former bedroom.

What had Melissa said about shoes?

Cassidy tried not to covet pony-hide boots, and checked her shoes in the wardrobe from which the doors had vanished. From a distance – a metre distant, say, while blowing the nose – the carefully stacked cardboard boxes seemed intact and okay. When she tried to open one shoebox, the top three boxes were welded into a single cardboard stack.

One thousand dollars of Black & Blond riding boots, not that she had ever worn them to ride, but they looked great with her skinny jeans, sucked-in stomach and baggy cable-knit, went into the bin bag, complete with their damp black box. Her fabulous navy summer sandals, her hand-stitched black pair, the cream kid that fitted her feet like, well, not like gloves, more like seven-hundred-dollar hand-made shoes are supposed to fit your feet, and the four-hundred-dollar red and white striped espadrilles were soggy with damp and black with mould. So were her fifty-dollar sheepskin slippers.

Why worry, Cassidy? After all, your shoes are two seasons overdue for chucking out anyway.

Melissa? Cassidy flung a glance over her shoulder, groaned at the wrench to her neck, and told herself to stop fixating on Melissa. Of course she's not here. Forget the woman; who in their right mind would listen to her?

Cassidy piled the two suitcases, with matching black-mould on their lining, by the open window and practised her aim. Black-spotted summer clothes, carefully bagged for the winter and thus providing the perfect plastic-wrapped microclimate for mould to add a new colour trend, flew to their transitional luggage. Office suits; that yellow dress she had barely worn for casual New Year days when Hectors had reopened one January; other stuff she hadn't worn for months and sometimes years was clearly never going to be worn again. When the suitcases were overflowing with plastic dry-cleaning bags and mouldy fabric, Cassidy ventured carefully across her former bedroom avoiding the holes in the flooring and crammed the suitcase lids semi-closed onto thousands of dollars. She let years of over-buying begin the short journey to the tip.

Cassidy dusted off her hands. An imaginary Melissa applauded. Cassidy ignored Melissa's imaginary sneer.

Okay, time to consider what I now own. I have a bin bag containing tens of thousands of dollars, unfortunately not in legal tender, more like in shoes that need a lot of tender loving care before I would want to put a single toe into them again. Surely I can't just throw them out. I'll get them cleaned when I get my annual bonus, but for the moment I need a shoe resting place. Storage units were invented for people whose homes have been invaded by black mould followed by builders in hi-vis vests.

Cassidy inspected her phone for mould before pulling herself together and the phone book from where it had fallen on what remained of the floor. Storage units in central Auckland, where are you?

'I need temporary storage that I can access easily every day. Clothing plus some kitchen stuff.' A forlorn heap of cutlery mingled on the floor with two saucepans.

The phone asked, 'Cats?'

Cassidy said, 'No.' She studied plates, cups, bowls. Had they all been cracked before the builders had removed them from the now-vanished cupboards?

The phone enquired, 'Goldfish?'

'No.' A clang resonated as the builders demolished plumbing.

'Plants?'

'No.' And why don't I own plants? Why don't I have all those things that everyone else must have?

The phone complimented, 'Well, you're lucky, you have a very tidy life.'

Melissa, languid even in imagined insult. _No, Cassidy, you have no life._

'So what's your quote for storage?' Cassidy sniffled. 'Look, I could buy a complete new wardrobe of clothes for that price. No, forget it.'

With a crash that rattled her teeth, yellow hi-vis threw the bathtub through the window frame, taking a last fringe of glass and rusted flashing with the tub. Cassidy weighed up the bulging bin bag, tapping a thoughtful foot in what was now, she realised, her only pair of office shoes. Orange hi-vis took his turn at the gaping window and disposed of sundry pipes and a tap or two.

A giant plastic bin bag of Black & Blond shoes, laced, zipped and buttoned with black-on-black mould cultures, was heaved across to the empty window frame and followed the furniture and wall linings and bathroom fittings with an expensive thump. Cassidy staggered back from the gap in her sole surviving pair of shoes.

The imaginary Melissa snorted. _Why keep those, Cassidy? There's a crack across the sole that's never worth fixing. Happened when you were dumped by Miles, remember?_

Dropped off, Cassidy corrected the imaginary Melissa. Not dumped; Miles dropped me off at work.

Memo to self: what's happening with work?

# Chapter 11: The two number eights come together

'I can't afford to be sick. And my apartment has been destroyed. I have nowhere to sleep and get over this cold.'

And I have only one pair of shoes, semi-broken, and a long-weekend bag containing one laundry-load of filthy weekend clothes.

Heather rattled impatient keyboard functions. 'Don't tell me your problems. None of the inter-company accounts reconcile, and guess whose fault that is?'

Cassidy tried to adjust her reddened nose and chapped lips into an expression worthy of sympathy and a loan from the petty cash. 'And the only clothes I possess are an unworn Edelweiss ball costume complete with backless glass slippers, apart from the clothes that you are looking at me standing up in, right here, right now.'

But at least my project is safe.

That had been the first thing she had checked at her desk, weekend bag of laundry still on her shoulder and broken semi-shoes still making her feet hurt, more than they already hurt after limping back the two blocks from her ex-apartment to her still-current office. Her precious notes in the bottom desk drawer, the priceless memory stick in the top drawer; her desk oddly solitary surrounded by other desks accessorised with unoccupied chairs and silent desk phones.

Where was everybody?

Cassidy tried to remember who should be sitting where, but her brain was still fogged in. At least there had been no-one spying on her as she checked her project files.

_Except me_ , Melissa chortled. _Hard to get rid of me now I'm settled in your mind. That's a very interesting project you're working on, Cassidy._

'There's a stain on your sleeve.'

'Thank you for sharing.'

'You're welcome.'

'Where is everybody?'

'Everyone's gone for a drink with Shane.'

'Shane already left. We had his farewell drinks before I went to Queenstown for the weekend.'

'We might be coming up for a few more farewells. And Roy's putting the heat on me to fix the accounting problems like yesterday. I'm telling him he's the one who owns a financial forensic consulting partnership, not me.'

Cassidy aimed for the perfect pitch of wailing helplessness. 'Where am I supposed to go? I need somewhere cheap within walking distance.' And some petty cash to tide me over.

'Good luck with cheap within walking distance on Queen Street. Somewhere cheap and nasty?'

'Somewhere cheap and nice. Well, cheap and not too disgusting.'

'Stay in your parking space in the basement.'

The pity-me face clearly wasn't working.

'Stay in one of Miles the Millionaire's five penthouse bedrooms.'

Cassidy converted pity-me into pathos.

Heather added, 'Stop pulling faces at me. And Roy still wants to see you.'

# Chapter 12: Applying the screws

'Born in a tent, Cassidy? Get in here. Couple things.'

Roy's office seemed, somehow, bigger. Standing in the doorway, Cassidy caught herself stretching her arms wide, as if to test whether her fingertips would reach from side to side without touching the edges of the door frame. When this is my consultancy, this will be my office.

Floor-to-ceiling double glazing swooped upwards to cathedral-tower height. Acres of carpet rolled, east-west and north-south. And when I have this office, I will re-decorate.

_Can't happen soon enough;_ Melissa sneered from the faded old-rose chair marooned in a far corner, beside the purple sagging couch. _Whatever happened to that hideous glass coffee table, the focal point of Roy's ghastly guest-seating?_

The fingers of the skeleton clock on the wall briefly disoriented Cassidy: noon or midnight. Midnight?

'Queenstown – did you scare up any work for us? A lot of wealthy people live in Queenstown. You must have met a few of them in the company of – you must have met a few potential clients.'

Under cover of checking her watch, Cassidy checked Roy, tried to remember if she had broken the glass coffee table in some absent-minded argument last week, and decided that Roy was not looking sufficiently angry. In fact, the more she studied him, the more Roy wasn't looking sufficiently anything.

Roy seemed, somehow, smaller.

'How Queenstown was, well, um, Queenstown was cold. Crappy. Still had the rubbish left over from the mid-winter festival.'

_You're babbling, Cassidy_ ; Melissa stretched out an elegant leg and admired a pony-hide boot. _Feeling a little guilty, are we, now that you're getting into bed with Roy's wealthiest ex-client?_

'Then we got a sudden thaw, the streets were awash, the airport got fogged in.'

_And you're avoiding Roy's question_ ; Melissa tucked herself into the corner of Roy's desk. _Now that Miles and you are an item, Roy no longer earns any consultancy money from the man who used to be his wealthiest client_.

What about me? Is this the moment to tell Roy about my only possessions being an Edelweiss ball gown?

Melissa yawned. _Spare him the glass slipper chat_.

In particular, Roy didn't look sufficiently busy. He wasn't hidden behind stacks of client files; client files, whether red, green or blue for urgent, were conspicuously absent from the desk and – she glanced around, from broadloom to faded chair to couch minus glass table – files were conspicuously absent from the entire office.

Roy rocked his executive chair back and forth. 'Meanwhile I've got a financial forensics business to run. First up, you get out there and generate some business. 2015 is awash with money and not enough is coming our way. And we have some major building maintenance deferred from last year.'

Cassidy nodded, dabbed at her nose with a tissue. Broken door security, the missing H of Hectors. When this is my building, the StPaul building, building maintenance will be done, not deferred. She checked the skeleton clock: still approaching midnight, the skeletal hands hadn't moved.

'Stop checking your watch, Cassidy, it's one of your bad habits. Let me tell you – Hectors needs the cup, and the cup needs Hectors. Where there's money, there's money problems. Where there's money problems, there's people with money problems, the players, the managers, the coaches. Where somone's making money, someone's losing money. Hectors needs people who have lost a lot of money so we can find it for them.'

Hector Partners – Cassidy corrected herself, the future StPaul Partners Consulting, Financial Forensics, will find your missing money. 'Maybe there's no work.'

Roy creaked in his chair. 'Of course there's work. You find it. Or we'll have to look for our own lost money. Ha! Hectors is losing so much money that pretty soon we'll be our own best clients.'

Not the moment to point out that Hectors had a reputation as the top firm. But if Roy thinks we'll be our own best clients, how much money is Hectors losing? No work meant no reputation; no reputation meant no work. Cassidy's fogged brain reeled at the perfect logic of this money-go-round.

Roy made a successful, if visibly painful, effort not to mention Miles the Millionaire, and Cassidy noted Roy's effort. Her eyes watered and she wiped them.

Melissa sneered. _No use crying that it wasn't your fault Roy lost his most valuable client. You've lost that argument, once and forever: it is your fault. How many times did Heather tell you? Hector Partners Consulting, Financial Forensics, number one rule: don't date the clients. You're dating Miles; Miles is no longer Roy's client._

When I'm running this consultancy, I'm going to make different rules.

Of course, Cassidy pondered, there was the Miles solution to her temporary housing shortage. As Heather had taunted, Miles lived in a penthouse apartment huge enough to get lost in – and if asked, Miles will say yes. Won't he?

_Asking me, Cassidy?_ Melissa sighed _. Of course he'll say yes. A rich man enjoys nothing more than getting an independent businesswoman into a compromising position – like needing a favour that only he can bestow._

But – Cassidy winced – asking Miles for more than a few nights of penthouse living would put her in his debt. More debt.

She had lost the thread of what Roy was saying and tuned in again to the voice from the depths of the black chair.

'We have to get out there and hustle for it.'

Hustle for? Oh yes – clients.

'Here's your list. If Hectors is going to stay afloat, we need clients, we need work from those clients and we need cash from billing those clients.'

Roy reached across the acreage of his desk; Cassidy tipped forward to reach him. In the middle of the desk between them their fingertips brushed enough for Roy to transfer a piece of paper.

Cassidy's palm tingled.

# Chapter 13: Out on the tramline

Cassidy scanned Roy's list of people to hit up for work

Memo to self: small mercies – no Miles.

But the small mercy that Roy had had the grace not to put Miles the Millionaire's name on the list was the only mercy. And in the context of her current problems, not being instructed to canvass her boyfriend for paying work was a very small mercy to be thankful for.

First place on Roy's list: potential clients from women's club.

Cassidy spotted a gold-painted-fingernail of opportunity here. She tried to remember the membership renewal on the now-crumpled invoice from the women's club; brain fog blanked out the memory. But the subscription was expensive. Her jacket pocket sagged under the number.

'By the way, Roy, I know Hectors will pay my annual membership subscription for the club. I've got their invoice, I'll leave it with you.'

'Nope.'

'I mean,' Cassidy tried to de-fog her cold-fuddled thoughts, 'I mean, I only joined the club because you insisted.'

'No.'

'I mean, I might have to leave the club if I can't afford the sub.'

'Cassidy, I am not going to approve Hectors paying for your subscription.'

'But that's ridiculous!'

Memo to self: permanent migraine closing in.

From the black chair: silence. Perhaps this was not the time to share her oncoming migraine with Roy. On the non-migraine side of her brain, her cold worsened. 'I mean – I mean, that does seem unfair to me.' Perhaps Roy had failed to observe the symptoms of her cold.

'Why should Hectors pay subscriptions for staff to join clubs out of work time?'

Memo to self: Talk through the nose.

Hint to Roy: pay through the nose. 'I only joined the glub begause you wanded me to, in order to nedwork with botential cliends.'

Melissa pointed an impatient pony-hide-boot toe. _Cassidy, what is it with you and memos and bits of paper? You're entitled to more gratitude from Roy. Demand something!_

'And how many clients from that club have you brought into the firm? None. That's why that club is number one on your list.'

Roy was deaf to the inner Melissa, luckily, but unfortunately he was also deaf to her blocked nose. Meanwhile Cassidy scanned down to the end of the list, and the last name on the list was trouble, the ultimate in bad news. Roy had scribbled Guthrey Rutherwood as the last name on her list.

Cassidy was so astonished she forgot to talk through her nose. 'Guthrey Rutherwood? He's bankrupt. I refuse to ring him.'

Roy sniffed. Maybe she had already infected him with a fast-acting cold virus. 'It's been five years, more or less, so he must have been discharged from bankruptcy. Or just about. Find out before you ring.'

Memo to self –

Melissa shouted with impatience. _Cassidy, you're doing memos again! Just talk!_

'Even so. We don't want even discharged bankrupts on our client list. Do we? I mean, we've dropped clients before for less than that. How come we're calling discharged bankrupts for work?'

The black leather chair swivelled; Roy sank into executive depths, east to west, from dusty double-glazed view to the stilled skeleton clock and back again. 'Guthrey will be a good target. No-one else will want his work. Before he went bankrupt we did a lot of work for him.'

'And he didn't pay the bill. Speaking of which, I mean, it would really help me out if you could reconsider –'

Roy was unheeding. 'Fifteen potential clients for you to cold-call. Best result: get ten of them to give you work. Acceptable would be work from six of them. If you get one or two to commission us, don't bother coming in here until you're got your hit rate up. Hectors isn't getting enough from the game. We budgeted more. And in total confidence, I also want –'

And after all, what else did she have to do? Apart from finding somewhere to live, shaking off her cold and her migraine, and trying to figure out the sum total of her credit card charges. 'What's the budget? How much are you thinking we're going to earn in 2015? I mean, are we being realistic?'

Roy combined the east-west swivel with rocking backward and forward. Cassidy began to feel seasick.

'My budget for money coming in to Hectors from 2015 is a big number. And in between your phone calls – here.'

Where had those files materialised from? Roy handed over four red cardboard folders. 'These four files need rework. Your closure reports are poor quality – lift your game. Performance, Cassidy, performance and delivery, that's what we do. But I have another thing to – I need to let you know that...'

Memo to self: lift performance, Hollywood-level.

Coughing and sneezing allowed her to drop two files while getting her handkerchief. Wiping her eyes and blowing her nose and juggling cardboard files while her boss swivelled his chair and stared at the dusty horizon beyond his floor-to-ceiling windows. When I have this office, I will get the windows cleaned regularly.

Roy said to the dust, 'Have you got flu?'

I thought you'd never ask! She coughed, not so much to clear her throat, more to make it just that little extra husky. 'Just a cold. But I do have something on the urgent list, my apartment building has been closed as a leaky building and I've got to spend some time today,' check the watch to underline her deadline, the gesture wasted as Roy fixated on the million-dollar view, 'before the rental agents close, so I have somewhere to live.'

Was that a tinge of regret for throwing all her wardrobe out the window?

Memo to self: buy clean shirt. Shirts.

Roy didn't hear me. Shouldn't have said, just a cold. Perhaps the phrase, Yes, I'm dying, would have made an impression.

'Get working then. But before you go, in confidence – '

On her way to the door of what will be my office some day soon. Make like a casual request: 'By the way, it would really help me at the moment if you could see your way to providing me an advance on this year's annual bonus.'

Otherwise, I am out of money and out of options on where to stay – I'll have to ask Miles the Millionaire if I can stay in his penthouse, and I don't want to be in his debt or have to ask him for a favour. On foot in the hallway, one foot still on Roy's carpet, therefore technically she was still in Roy's office and he couldn't complain that she had walked out on him.

'No advances. And probably no bonuses. For anyone.'

Cassidy held the door with one hand, held onto the rejected files in the other and stared down to the corner towards Heather, sympathy, and a hot lemon tea and aspirin. The clack of Heather's keyboard and the whir of an overworked printer echoed against background silence.

In confidence, what?

A good question to ask, along with one more try to get her membership subscription paid. Cassidy rotated on one broken heel back towards her boss's office.

And watched as Roy rested his elbows on his empty desk and sank his face into his hands.

# Chapter 14: Tackle

Cassidy eased up the foot that had kept its dusty toe-hold in Roy's office, lowered the split leather sole onto stained beige hallway carpeting and pulled the door closed between them.

Okay, so it was a problem that Hectors was running out of money and heading for lean times, but it wasn't her problem. And maybe, Cassidy tossed her head, cursed as the hallway spun and regretted her cold yet again, maybe it is time I made it clear that Roy's problems are his problems to solve, unless of course he wants to come to the party and, oh, I don't know, pay my membership subscription? Time to share my problems with Heather and the petty cash.

Heather must have seen her coming. One recently-occupied, now-empty desk; however, the kitchenette door was swinging to and fro, and Cassidy found the petty-cash monitor making herself a Hector private blend coffee to go, but no surplus cash, time or sympathy.

'I've told you already, Cassidy, Roy is now insisting that I reconcile the petty cash, so no sneaky advances. Don't be so pathetic, anyway. Check into a hotel.'

Cassidy pushed go on the wall-hung boiling water unit. 'Money! I've got no money! All my credit cards are maxed out.'

She held a Styrofoam cup under the water unit's spout. Someone had taped a 2015 poster onto the wall-hung boiler and the hot metal was making the tape peel off, so that the poster drooped onto her wrist.

Heather slammed the dishwasher closed. 'I've had enough of trying to reconcile the end of year accounts.' She zipped herself into her winter coat. 'But you've just spent the weekend with someone who is a millionaire, remember? What are you complaining about?'

Cassidy's wrist ached from holding up her cup. 'That's the problem. I'm not a millionaire. Emphasis not. Why isn't any hot water coming out here? Who put up this ridiculous poster? _Hit the double in fifteen_ – who thought that up?'

Heather tapped a thermostat with a gloved finger. 'Surely he picked up the tab? The boiler is now set on a timer. No hot water after five o'clock. The idea is to save Hectors money. And speaking of money – I'm going to tell Roy I've had enough of trying to do these reconciliations, he'll have to assign someone else to complete the year-end accounts. It's already September and I've got other things to worry about.'

Cassidy plugged in the electric jug and spilt a sachet of lemon and aspirin into her empty cup. 'Yes, of course he picked up the tab. But I still had clothes, makeup, evening outfits, something to dance in, a couple of afternoons shopping and trying not to buy anything. I'm broke.'

'You're complaining to me that you're spending time in the company of a millionaire!' Heather opened the kitchenette door. 'Well, the only advice I can give you is right here.' She nodded at a poster on the door: _Give yourself credit in 2015!_ 'Didn't you put this one up? I always warned you there would be trouble coming if you ignored Hectors first commandment. Now it's past five and I'm going home.'

Cassidy carefully poured bubbling water into her cup, gratefully inhaled lemon steam. 'Don't date the clients, you told me often enough, I think I've moved past the first commandment.' Taking baby sips from the near-boiling water, Cassidy stopped just in time to avoid splashing hot lemon and aspirin on Heather's classic hound's-tooth. Now she was close enough to see the frown lines on Heather's forehead. 'So what was Hector's second commandment? Does Hectors go that far?'

'It'll all end in tears.'

Cassidy tried to read the odd expression on Heather's face. 'Yours, Roy's or mine?'

Heather said in an oddly quiet voice, 'The millionaire's. And that means that everyone else will be crying. Millionaire's tears are expensive for everyone else. I don't want to see you hurt, Cassidy, I remember Miles the Millionaire when he was a client of Roy's and –'

Cassidy waited. The hot foam cup was painful to hold. 'And what?'

Heather turned on her heel. 'Nothing. I'm going home. See you tomorrow.' The kitchenette door swung closed behind her hound's-tooth back.

Cassidy studied the poster that she had taped up at Miles's request.

Melissa yawned. _Follow your own advice, Cassidy._ _Give yourself credit in 2015! And by the way, you seem to be the only worker left in the office. Turn out the lights when you leave – you are leaving, aren't you?_

I've got other things to worry about.

Carefully setting the hot cup down on the bench, Cassidy pulled the poster down, crushed it small and threw it in the bin. The unstuck poster from the wall-hung boiler joined it.

Maybe I'll tell Roy that he'll have to assign someone else. Maybe I'm like Heather. Maybe I've just had enough. Or maybe I am worried, although not about Hectors.

About Roy.

# Chapter 15: Second phase play

Five past five.

'Hectors? Oh, yes, I remember you – but what did you do for us? Well, I don't remember that. What services are you offering now?'

Cassidy offered business analysis, re-engineering and contract review.

Second place on Roy's list counter-offered, 'Well, I suppose – we could maybe do a contra deal? I can offer you some radio advertising slots, you do some free work for us? Hospitality vouchers, food and booze?'

Cassidy said, 'How about cheap accommodation on Queen Street for six months?'

The phone roared with laughter.

# Chapter 16: Fumble

Client three reminisced, 'Oh, yeah, I remember you sent us Shane when we had that problem – Shane was really good. Is he available?'

Cassidy said, 'I'm sorry, Shane has left Hector Consulting; however, I can email you the link on our website to our consultant directory –'

'So where's Shane now?'

Through gritted teeth, 'Shane took up a position as chief operations officer at the 2015 coordination hub.'

Client three said, 'Let me get a pen. What's his number?'

# Chapter 17: Out of play

Quarter past five. Client number six was an answer-phone.

# Chapter 18: Dead ball

Client eight squeaked, 'Well, thinking aloud – we could do with some business analysis... I suppose the budget could stand it...'

Cassidy prayed for work. Not too boring, but not too demanding, something she could do with her eyes closed, and while she sipped lukewarm lemon and aspirin.

'... our time-sheets could use some work.'

Cassidy stopped herself from banging her headache on her desk. Why were her prayers never answered?

The phone said slyly, 'We'd need a bit of a discount on your prices. You're top dollar for us.'

Cassidy regretted that she had no authority to negotiate over Hector prices, and the company principals had gone home for the night, perhaps I could be back in touch in the morning, thank you and goodbye.

# Chapter 19: Third phase play

Five thirty-five. Her lukewarm lemon and aspirin had gone cold. Cassidy ran her eye down the second half of her list. Guthrey Rutherwood brooded in last place. She ran her eye up the list and punched in the phone number of client number ten.

'Well – we're too busy with the 2015 cup to have Hectors under our feet, and we don't really need anything done at the moment – but if you're prepared to give us a freebie, then maybe...'

# Chapter 20: Loose ball

I absolutely refuse to call Guthrey Rutherwood?

Why not?

Because I feel guilty every time I think about his name.

An imaginary nail-varnished Melissa blew dry an imaginary polished gel talon. _Guilty about what, Cassidy?_

# Chapter 21: Professional foul

Client number twelve asked, 'What are you offering now?'

Five forty five, and time to re-invent Hector offerings. If Roy wants more cup-related money, then we need to offer more cup-related services. Cassidy tried to dredge up sporting scandals from fogged memory. Come on, fuddled brain, you travel with a millionaire whose car decals scream about the cup. What did he talk about?

'Cassidy, are you still there?'

'Yes,' said Cassidy. 'We've extended our financial forensics investigations to specialise in pre-emptive investigations of salary scams and kickback identification.'

'Come back in 2016,' said client number twelve. 'Cup services are what everyone's needing right now. Investigations will be the winner in 2016 when we're all trying to find where the money vanished!'

# Chapter 22: Back to the twenty-two

'... business process re-engineering. An emphasis on cup services.'

'Sorry,' said client number thirteen. 'The big money is on pre-emptive investigations, preventing trouble. You're in the wrong business for 2015. Services can wait until 2016 when we've got more time.'

Six oh-five p.m.; already late to meet Miles the Millionaire; exhausted, but at least the aspirin has dealt to the headache.

Ring up, cancel drinks and to ask to stay the night?

Not an option. Pretty confident he will say yes – but better to ask in person, to avoid an ending in tears.

# Chapter 23: Defensive hit

Seph watched the television and watched the clock and watched Yasu.

... _Seph Daniel is on the bench, scratching his balls..._

He checked the clock: eleven minutes before he could find out whether he was still the headline in news updates at the top of the hour. The talking heads on screen moved their lips; Yasu had insisted that he switch the volume to mute.

'Girlfriend! Listen to this one!' Yasu crowed above her phone.

Seph eavesdropped, watched the clock tick around to ten minutes, ignored the muted television.

'Of course I'm not leaking anything to you, darling.'

The phone quacked, 'Sweetie, when is a media leak not a media leak?'

Yasu yelled with laughter. 'I'm giving you a hint, that's all, because you're an old friend of mine!'

'Not so much of the old, sweetie.'

'Of course not, darling. This is a call that's not happening, to let you know in enough time to do something about it. To let you know, just the teeniest hint, that something news-worthy may be about to happen to a well-known celebrity couple.'

Eight minutes to go.

Yasu turned her tablet this way and that as she dictated a media leak when you're not leaking. 'Yasu, former champion swimmer and current swimwear model, known in her swimming career as The Dolphin, and Seph Daniel, celebrity lock in the rugby...'

Seph yawned.

... _and the clock reads six minutes to kick-off..._

Yasu shrieked into the phone, 'Wow, that's so sweet of you! A free wedding dress for me! I mean, I really would love to say that I could consider that, but you know, I've had a very tempting offer from another design studio... but I really, really can assure you, your offer is almost tempting enough to make me turn them down...'

Four and a half minutes.

'A free wedding dress to try on! I hear you, girlfriend, that would be just so amazing, and you know, I would totally love to be in a position to promote your new collection, if only I could...'

Two minutes. Yasu took a stretch break.

Seph shouted, 'I make that three wedding dresses! You getting married three times?'

'Shut up!'

One minute.

'Well, now you know I can't tell you anything, best buddy, but just want you to be ready to learn that very shortly, Seph Daniel will be issuing a media release with a very, very exciting and romantic announcement. Bye!'

Yasu typed rapidly on the tablet.

... _and the whistle blows for kick-off..._

Yasu banged her empty glass onto the table. 'Six o'clock. Switch it up – I want to see if I'm making the news yet.'

Devilry made him grin and keep the television on mute. 'Nope.'

'You're just worried they'll show you again.' Yasu squinted at the screen.

'You got that right.' Seph switched to golf.

'Give me the remote.'

'You want the remote?' Seph watched Yasu advance halfway across the room and pause, studying him. 'Come get it off me.' What he could do with right now... 'You know, we could get a bit of stress relief without watching TV.'

'You'll mess up my hair.'

Seph groaned.

Yasu wandered off to the mirror. 'And my makeup. I was hours getting this done – the new season's a whole different colour palette. Mess up now and that's my money wasted. Not to mention that this is a freebie cocktail dress. Gotta give it back without getting it torn.'

'Who's paying for all this?'

'Other people.'

Seph thought about the phone calls. 'You'll end up with more wedding dresses than you know what to do with.'

'I hope.'

'You'll have to wear all of them.'

'They'll be praying that I do exactly that. More pictures, more coverage, more money. Exactly what I want – exactly what I need.'

... _and Seph paces from the window end-zone to the two-metre boundary in front of the mirror. Reverses direction and is back at the window in four paces..._

Around the room again and Yasu's phone rang. Not another dress offer! Seph snatched up the phone, switched it off. Yasu shrugged at her reflection, then peered closer, fiddling with her neckline. Seph sat on the bed, slipped the phone in his pocket. Glanced at the television: ads. Rapid rattling of fingernails on plastic drew his glance back to Yasu. What was she typing? Better not ask.

'You're very quiet.'

What did she want from him? Seph rolled back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about Kara alive, and now Kara dead.

'I suppose you're thinking about Kara.'

'I suppose you're jealous of her.'

Yasu dropped her tablet with a clatter. 'Don't be ridiculous! I don't waste time or money being jealous of someone who's dead.'

'Okay, so she's dead.'

'And I've won. How about telling me that you're delighted to be getting married to me?' Yasu paused to wait for his reply, fingernails curved over screen, eyebrows lifted, lips pouting.

Seph directed a spare gaze at the television, spared one more for Yasu, then back to the ceiling again. There was a crack across one corner. 'I'll never know what she wanted to talk about.'

Yasu sniffed. 'Probably wanted to confess who fathered the baby.'

'Yeah – that would be it.'

Yasu leaped to her feet and the table rocked. 'Oh, for God's sake! That was a joke!'

'Maybe my mother can ask her mother and find out what Kara said. I need my phone – it's still in my car.'

'And give me my phone back. I won't have you using it to call anyone in that family.'

'I mean, there might be messages on my phone. Her mother might be trying to reach me. Or my mother.'

'Shut up.'

The ceiling needed repainting. The air conditioning switched itself on, the mini-bar fridge switched itself off.

'I meant, stop talking about her. Not shut up completely. Say something.'

A knock on the door.

Seph raised his head; Yasu shrugged. Seph let his head fall back onto the pillow. He heard Yasu's heels scuff over the carpet, clack along the tiling in the small hallway, then a pause. He filled in the picture: short Yasu in her heels, on tiptoe to peer through the peep-hole in the door.

... _and Seph Daniel's mind runs up the back of Yasu's thighs and curves tight around her butt..._

Seph allowed himself a regretful sigh and shifted to sit on the edge of the bed. He heard Yasu swear, the door chain rattle and the door scrape open.

# Chapter 24: Turn the ball over

Morris shifted under Yasu's glare. He shuffled the armchair around to face Seph.

'I talked with the Chief about Kara's death.' Morris glanced sideways towards Yasu, flinched, and reversed to face Seph. 'He says condolences. He's okay that you missed today's sessions.'

Yasu snorted.

Seph sympathised with Morris receiving the blunt force of Yasu's impatience, or possibly contempt; grateful for Morris intercepting Yasu's attention from his own character defects, including his failure to divorce his dead wife. 'Thanks. Haven't been out of this room all day. Hate it.'

Yasu flung out a black-draped arm, swooping her wrist up to eyeliner level and almost catching gold-dusted eyelashes on her ornate watch before announcing, 'Time to go. We're going out to a party. Thanks for dropping by, Morris. Sorry we've got to rush.'

'The Chief realises that yesterday was a total shit of a day for you. Your car repossessed, then Kara – Kara's death.'

Seph wondered what he was supposed to say.

Yasu never hesitated long enough to allow an awkward silence to develop fully. 'We're going out. Now, basically; sorry, Morris, gotta go. We have to make the right entrance at the right –'

Seph interrupted. 'My car was towed, not repossessed. Isn't that right? Towed, just towed. You were supposed to be getting it back for me today. Where is my car? And I need my phone!'

Morris tried to break in but Seph gathered momentum. 'What the fuck have you been doing all day?'

Yasu waded right in. 'Repossessed? How did that happen?'

'How the fuck should I know? Morris –' Seph jumped off the bed and paced the scuffed carpet. Cooped up all day, overflowing with grief and love and despair. Morris was there to take the brunt. 'You're the one that's supposed to know. You do all my payments.'

Morris heaved himself out of the low chair. 'Now, stay calm.'

'Fuck staying calm!'

'Yes, why should he stay calm? What is all this shit about his car?'

'Leave Morris alone!'

'Why can't he leave us alone?'

'Just leave it, will you? Morris, get my car back as of now.'

'Calm down, calm down. You're getting out of control.'

'And stop talking about your car! We're late already!'

Seph turned abruptly on Yasu.

... _and in four paces Seph Daniel is looming over his opponent before remorse stifles his momentum, as his shadow darkens her eyes and the opposing player steps rapidly backwards. She twists sideways as a tiny heel slips off a backless shoe. But Seph can't hold back..._

'Don't talk about my car. Don't talk about Kara. What do you want me to talk about?'

Yasu's mouth worked without words coming out.

Disgusted with himself, Seph turned and nearly fell over Morris standing behind him.

... _and Seph Daniel catches himself up, swerves with a neat sidestep and continues the forward movement at a rapid pace into the bathroom..._

Might as well use the moment... he left the door open.

Morris sounded more than tense. 'Is he all right? Are you all right?'

Seph shook it.

Yasu was panting for breath. 'Oh yes. I can hear him pissing. If he shuts the bathroom door, then I'd be worried because that's a bad sign. My ankle went sideways in these heels, that's all. I can still do the party.'

Seph zipped up.

Morris was fretting now. 'All of this is one big bad sign. We need to go into damage control mode.'

'Don't be ridiculous, the media will be sweet as, shortly. Seph will be issuing a tweet saying that we're getting married.'

Seph held his breath.

Morris started saying, 'All media releases by squad members have to be approved by the Chief...' then spluttered to a halt.

Seph grinned into the darkened mirror. Five points to Yaz. What a woman.

Morris re-started. 'Getting married! That's going to need major damage control. We've only just started getting better odds on the –'

'What the fuck do you mean, damage control? This is about Seph's private life, not rugby.'

'Seph doesn't have a private life. None of the squad has a private life, not in cup year. There might be a risk to endorsement revenue. It's about money.'

'You mean it's about your money, Morris. I can see you worrying all the way to the bank.'

No private life; Seph breathed out. No private life, no life.

# Chapter 25: In the box seat

Seph kept the bathroom light switched off. He leaned his forehead against cool tiling and semi-listened to Yasu and Morris. Talk, talk, more talk, why couldn't they shut up about him?

Morris's voice, raised, 'Are you saying he has no feelings for her?'

Yasu, irritated, shouting back. 'Of course not, stupid, they were married but that's over, that's the end of an era.'

Shout a bit louder, Seph thought. That way it won't be the neighbouring hotel rooms that hear you, it will be the reporters staked out in the street, bored with interviewing the fans. Save me the problem of issuing a media release, shout as loud as you can.

It was too late to talk to Kara, too late to deal with a lot of things, but he needed to explain to someone, and Melania seemed the obvious someone who deserved, no, was entitled to an explanation.

... _and Seph Daniel thinks about Kara, and about Melania, such a compassionate mother of the bride on the day he marries Kara. Kara's two brothers menacing, relatives in a hostile pack mutter that the bride and groom are too young: childhood sweethearts, load of rubbish, it will all end in tears. Melania is the only one who tells him she has faith in him, that he will look after her baby girl, so beautiful a bride..._

Here was Yasu's phone in his pocket.

And hesitated. The argument raging in the bedroom was loud enough to be carried down the line to Melania. Which might be embarrassing when he was trying to explain, to get someone to listen to him and to understand; and to tell him what to do now. He tossed the phone loosely in his hand and thought about what to say and who to say it to. Perhaps ringing the mother of his long-separated, now-dead wife was not a good place to start. He needed a practice run.

How's it going?

Seph thumbed through Yasu's contacts. The one number she didn't have in there was his mother's. He struggled to remember the digits, tapped them in and hit send.

Morris, loud. 'I'm surprised that you're not saying that's the end of your enemy.'

Yasu only sounded more irritated. 'Kara and I weren't enemies. We had Seph in common. It's just that Seph had nothing in common with her. And now she's dead. And now her family is trying to give my Seph the guilt trip of a lifetime, all when they've been separated for years, as good as divorced since the day they split up.'

The ringtone pinged and Seph fumbled to reduce volume.

Yasu, don't text me.

It's me, I'm on Yaz's phone.

Morris, louder. 'So you've won? Is that what you're saying?'

Yasu still irritated. 'I didn't say it.'

Morris, loudest. 'Even if you hated her, you might at least think of Seph.'

'I didn't hate her. I didn't think of her at all. I think of Seph all the time. I think of Seph and me.'

Call me.

I can't.

Y not?

I'm going to marry Yaz.

Son, this is not the time to get married.

I can explain.

Ring me and explain!

I can't.

Then don't tell me.

'And he missed training. I want him in the starting line-up and he won't get there if he doesn't train. At this rate he won't even be on the reserves bench in the pool games.'

'Well don't blame me. Blame the media. Blame the fans. He can't go to the hotel gym without being torn apart. He can't go to the toilet without making headlines.'

I'm going to marry Yaz. Seph hit re-send.

She's the wrong girl for you.

You made me marry Kara, look what happened.

If I don't tell you what's right, then you do the wrong thing.

Don't tell me what to do!

'Is he still in the toilet?'

'I think so.'

Morris shouted, 'Seph! I'm leaving!'

'Thank God for that. I can tell him.'

The door slammed.

Seph tensed, listened for Yasu's footfall, but no heels clacked over the entry-way tiles nor scuffed across the carpet. He listened harder and thought he could hear her moving about in the kitchenette.

Seph smoothed his thumb across the phone screen, re-reading scraps of the conversation here and there. He squeezed plastic between thumb and palm, testing the strength of the instrument flexing in his hand. Seph paused: incoming text.

Promise me you won't marry Yasu. Promise.

I promise I won't marry.

He turned off Yasu's phone and slipped it into his pocket.

# Chapter 26: Held up

'No tie. Not.' Seph studied the jacket that Yasu had selected for him. 'And I hate this jacket.'

'It's a good one, it goes well on you. And I picked it to complement me.' Yasu peered into the mirror and smoothed an eyebrow curve. 'I hate Morris.'

Seph dropped the jacket on the floor. 'Morris got me my first decent contract paying decent money. I owe him. Always.' Seph struggled to roll up the sleeves of his shirt.

Yasu blew a kiss at her reflection, then flicked her gaze up to meet Seph's eye.

'You're hot... come here.' He unbuttoned his shirt and reached for her.

'I'm not only hot, I'm sizzling. Remember that. If any media ask you what you think of my dress, you say, Yasu looks fabulous.' She wriggled into him.

One hand cupping her buttocks, the other sliding across her back.

'We're going to be late...'

'I don't fucking care...' A knock on the door. 'If that's Morris, I'll kill him.'

'Me first.'

He gave Yasu time to peek through the peep-hole.

'Shit. We should have gone five minutes ago.' She clattered open the door.

Seph puffed out to the count of ten, and strolled into the entryway, cooled down, to hear very polite apologies from the suit in the doorway.

Although Yaz was still insisting, 'But what do you actually want?' for the fourth time.

Seph stepped between. 'Can I help?'

Tie knot exact; top pocket handkerchief precision-folded. 'I regret that I must ask you to bring your account up to date.'

Seph elbowed Yasu backwards. 'There's an auto payment set up to pay the hotel.'

The suit exhaled an expensive sigh. 'Look, I'm sorry. An auto-payment was set up, yes, but the last three months – the last three payments – have been reversed by the bank. Insufficient funds in your bank account.'

Yasu muscled in. 'Insufficient funds?'

Seph pulled her back again. 'There's plenty of money. You've made a mistake.'

'Well,' the tie knot was tested, the handkerchief folds smoothed with fingertips, 'I can only pass on the explanation that we have from the bank. Insufficient funds when the auto payments were processed.'

Yasu piped up from behind Seph's elbow. 'It's obviously a bank mistake. And anyway, you said it happened three times. Why didn't you front up the first time?'

What a woman she was. But Seph held onto the door to pen Yasu firmly back with his arm.

The suit wouldn't let it go. 'Well, the hotel was willing to carry the account for a short while. However, circumstances have changed. Unfortunately we are hearing rumours regarding your financial situation. I can't say, of course, whether the rumours are correct. But media are reporting that your car was repossessed.'

'That bloody car again.'

Seph refereed. 'Look, I'll sort it. I'll talk to my agent. Give us till the end of the week, mate, okay?'

The suit counted down. 'Four days – well, yes, we can do that. But the hotel will want the account brought up to date by the end of that four days' grace.'

Seph attempted a smile, attempted to pen Yasu into the room, attempted to close the door. 'Definitely, definitely.' Backpedalled, sidestepped, and closed the door with a polite click. He held his breath; silent under his elbow, Yasu did the same. Seph put his eye to the peep-hole in the door. Suit, tie, handkerchief, all vanished.

Seph stepped backwards onto Yasu's foot.

'Shit, shit, that hurts! Get off my toe!' Yasu leaned on the wall and nursed her foot. 'Fucking hotel, fucking Morris. I don't trust him.'

'I don't even know his name.'

'Not the hotel guy, you idiot.' Yasu rubbed her toes. 'I don't trust Morris managing your money. I don't like him. I could do what he does, and more. First your car, now the hotel – what's going on? I'll manage your money, I'll have it sorted in five minutes.'

'I don't know...'

'What do you mean, you don't know?' Towering cocktail heels stamped the tiles. 'Why don't you want me to manage your money? I'm good with money.'

'Just leave it, will you?' Why didn't he want her managing his money; Seph couldn't say.

Yasu shrugged. 'You're lucky I haven't got time to work on it right now, otherwise I'd be making you log onto your bank account and we could sort everything tonight. But I haven't got any time to waste. We should have been at my Black & Blond party five minutes ago.'

'Too early. We've got time to get back to where we were before interruptions.'

Yasu opened the door and was through the gap into the hall. 'I want us early. Before everyone hears about the death of Saint Kara, I want our announcement out there. I've got an update timed to upload to my blog so we've got to announce our engagement otherwise I've wasted everything. Death.'

Seph slammed the door. 'Everything, what? Death what?'

Yasu pressed lift call. 'I mean – I just mean my blog will be out of date. Death by social media. That's all I meant.'

# Chapter 27: Play on

Yasu peered around the cocktail party. 'Let me stand on your foot – I can't see over people's heads...' She swung onto Seph's arm and raised herself as high as his shoulder. 'I know – let me sit on your shoulders.'

'No.'

... _and Seph Daniel is struggling in the middle and the crowd is screaming but they're screaming for blood. And the waves of sound wash over Seph until he's nearly drowning brought down by the dead weight hanging off his arm..._

Yasu hanging on made the hot cramped room hotter and more cramped.

'Sweetie!'

So much had happened today, where had everything started going wrong?

'Darling, love the little frock!'

Kara dead, nothing falling into place. Car towed, phone lost.

Yasu swung around him, pivoting on one heel. Seph winced as her grip nearly dislocated his third finger.

A promise to Yasu that he would marry her. A promise to his mother that he would not get married.

Towed around in Yasu's wake like – like – and this idiot party, where were the beers?

Yasu air-kissed. 'Of course! And you!'

Maybe they could leave. Seph pulled Yasu close and she giggled and hugged him, jutting her chin. Phones and cameras clicked and flickered.

Seph leaned down. 'Let's go now.'

'Don't be silly!' Yasu raised her voice. 'Darling, you remember Melissa Setter-Hughes, don't you? Melissa! And who is this?'

Seph studied the escort.

'My new man! Shane, this is the creative genius behind Black & Blond.'

Shane grabbed an air-kiss. Seph bristled.

'And love the frock!' Yasu rattled on, 'No hints, but there'll be a big announcement any moment now!'

Yasu switched onto Shane.

... _and Seph Daniel shuffles his feet, usually the number four has excellent footwork but he's not assembling anything sensible here..._

Seph heard, 'Lovely to meet you again, Seph!'

Again? Seph racked his brain for the last time.

'... but I want to talk to you about charitable work. I know you boys do a lot of wonderful work, and I really, really do need you to be a cornerstone donor for a favourite little fundraiser of mine. The charity fundraiser Generosity, I am acting executive director and I really would love to include you on my exclusive gold donor list.'

Whistles blew, faintly. Among everything that had gone wrong today, one thing had gone right – his old school, the first fifteen, nice kids. And Morris handing out press releases and repeating, Generosity Limited, Seph Daniel, gold sponsor...

'I thought I was a gold donor – don't you fund children's sporting charities? I'm sure my manager mentioned that to media.'

He watched this Melissa shift from simper to stern. 'I'm not media. Believe me, I know the names of all our gold donors, and you are not –' She dropped him. 'Shane, we – Shane?'

Yasu dragged Seph away. 'Why were you upsetting Melissa? She's very important – I want her buying Black & Blond's next season's collection.'

Seph stepped on party toes, apologised over his shoulder. 'Something she said – I need to ask Morris.'

Yasu hissed, 'Always Morris! Forget Morris, will you? I want to get in early before Saint Kara has her big funeral day.'

'Stop calling her Saint Kara!'

... _and Seph Daniel squares up for a fight, he's ready for a good fight to clear the air..._

Yasu bounced around. 'Media alert! Heading for you!'

'How the fuck can you know they are heading for me? Ignore them. Now listen, if you want to talk about her, call her Kara.'

'I don't want to talk about her at all. According to my PR instincts, these people are already are onto her.'

'How can you possibly know what the media know?'

'God, you're like a child in what you don't know about your brand. How can you be a sports celebrity and not be one step ahead? Hasn't your media training taught you anything?'

Yasu darted aside and climbed onto a chair; she stared Seph in the eye. An anticipatory murmur swept around the room and people began making a tight circle Seph standing his ground and Yasu on her chair, like a fight ring.

... _and Seph takes a stance, he's ready to fight them all at once, bring it on..._

Yasu said brightly and far too loud, 'Just a distraction, darling!'

Seph grabbed at her. 'Don't say anything!'

Yasu shook off his hand; heels clacking, she climbed from chair to table. She stretched high above the mob, smile like a searchlight washing around the room. Phones flashed, cameras clattered.

Yasu shouted, 'Everyone, I have a fabulous announcement to make to you! Seph Daniel, my wonderful man, has asked me to marry him, and we will be announcing the date of our wedding day very shortly!'

Seph wondered whether that sort of announcement ought to produce such complete silence. Yasu on her table, him looking at her gold-dusted shoes, and a slowly widening circle around them.

... _and Seph Daniel is struggling in the middle but this time everyone is focused on..._

A microphone in the front row; very loud, 'Seph, will you be attending your wife's funeral?'

Yasu spun on one heel and yelled, 'Seph and me are available for brief media interviews now, but will be celebrating with a champagne breakfast in the street arcade tomorrow morning and media are welcome at that champagne celebration.'

... _and a collective gasp from the spectators, a rising swell of muttering that becomes a roar of sound which almost, but not quite, drowns Seph Daniel as he swears..._

Every way he turned, he faced microphones and phones, confronted more cameras and flashes and faces.

'Repeat that, Seph! Seph, over here!'

Seph barged the front row, shouldering aside...

... _and Seph Daniel finds a way through..._

Taller than anyone in the room, a room of bald scalps, of gelled spikes, of blond manes shadowed with dark roots and Yaz eyeballing him, staring right at him, and then the door square in front, two uprights, one cross-bar.

... _and Seph Daniel is straight between the posts, right through the middle of the posts without stopping..._

# Chapter 28: Golden opportunity

Cassidy watched the big screen replaying the final seconds of 2011, sneezed and practised loathing everything at Sport Six. She loathed the bright gas fire on fake logs, embedded in a fake seat surround that no one ever sat in. She loathed the screens, large, medium and small, that festooned the sports bar; so many that her sore eyes could not avoid electronic bombardment. The dated game ground to its triumphant halt and the four screens within her current line of sight switched to the 2011 street parades. She decided she loathed rugby.

His hand on her shoulder jarred her cold and heralded Miles. The bartender caught the nod and began to pour; on three screens over Miles's shoulder the captain lifted the silver trophy high in the air; and 2011 crowds surged. Schoolchildren waved cellphones, cheerleaders brandished pom-poms, security heaved barriers. The camera and Miles admired a young woman, lingering on her muted scream and eventual swoon.

'God, that was such an incredible moment... I was there, you know, I was there at the final, I was there with Krizten, I'd scored free tickets.'

Go on, Cassidy, Melissa tempted. Tell him that you know he was there with his not-quite-ex wife, that he's told you this story a thousand times before and tell him that you don't care! Go on, I dare you!

'You're late.'

And I want to lie down, Cassidy thought. Except that I don't have a bed to lie down on or an apartment with a bed. Painful recollections of leaky-home builders were filed away underneath her migraine to await a healthier moment when she had the pain-free capacity to regret throwing her entire life out her landlord's apartment window.

Miles's drink appeared on the bar. His gaze didn't shift from the big screen. 'We've got to play like that again. Don't want another twenty five years without a win. Not good for forward planning.'

Was this a good moment for forward planning? Cassidy wondered. At some point this evening she would have to ask for half a bed to lie down and curl up on, to nurse herself back to health – was the moment now? The migraine, pummelled into submission by her emergency aspirin overload, fogged her thinking.

She watched steam drift above her whisky and waited for Miles to notice the clues. Which clues in what sequence, she didn't really care. As long as, somewhere in the top three clues, he noticed that she was drinking whisky with hot water for her cold, needed a lot of cossetting and attention, and deserved to be offered warm, unlimited and free accommodation.

Miles gazed lovingly at a replay of what had turned out, in hindsight, to be the game-winning kick. 'There it is – what a moment that was. I had a really good day. Let me tell you about it. Same again here. Cassidy?'

Cassidy shook her head and regretted movement. Can I stay with you for free for, oh, let's say, six months maybe? Was that too blunt?

'Let me tell you about my day. All afternoon, really good. Cup deals, I've signed up three new clients, big credit, I gave them my hook, a cheap deal on sign-up, no fees! Networking, it's a winner. Bless you.'

Cassidy forced a grumpy, 'Thank you,' feeling like the top of her head was lifting off. She mopped up. You know, I feel really ill and I am desperate to stay in your penthouse apartment for about six months while I recover? Was that too needy?

The big screen blinked from the action to a panel of five men in tight formation crowding a table.

'This is a repeat, I saw it last night, let's move.'

Cassidy renewed her loathing: networking and credit management clients and signing-up fees and commissions. How about you focusing on a sick girlfriend who needs somewhere to stay? Was that too sarcastic?

You're being taken for granted, whispered a nostalgic Melissa. I remember how Miles behaves, I went to his first wedding. Oops, sorry, Cassidy dear, I tell a lie. I went to his only wedding, to dear Krizten, because after all Miles is still married to her and not to you, yes?

How Miles behaves? Maybe Heather would remember, from the old days when Miles used to be Roy's wealthiest client. Cassidy made a mental note to pull a bit more information out of Heather, when she could talk without making herself hoarse and listen without her ears clogging up.

At least they had moved closer to the fire, gas flames merry above fake logs. Cassidy sat defiantly on the seat surround that no-one ever sat on. Finally she might get a bit warmer. She thrust back regret that she had missed an opportunity to let Miles spot a clue; he had entirely failed to carry her glass to their fireside table, and thus she had failed to let him notice that she was drinking hot whisky.

Miles sat expansively, drank expansively, chatted expansively. Cassidy ached all over, sipped reluctantly at the cooling whisky, rested her sore throat. I have to stay in your apartment whether you like it or not? Was that too obvious?

'Got contra tickets for some of the games,' Miles paused for a slurp, 'and it's looking good to get a lot more freebies.'

Cassidy slumped forward and tried to disguise it by resting an elbow on one knee, her cheek against one palm, her fingertips holding her now-empty whisky glass against her forehead. She loathed rugby games, freebie tickets were the very last thing she wanted to hear about, and she gave befuddled but fervent thanks that she would be a million miles away from the games that Miles was, apparently, selling his soul as well as his credit management services to attend.

Miles's monologue continued. Drinking continued.

Cassidy tuned out, slipped sideways, watched flames dance in the fireplace. Speaking of freebies, Miles, can I stay with you for free for maybe six months or so, without making any contribution for my board and lodging? Was that too cheap? The right moment arrived. Miles's flow of chat dried up while he drained his glass.

Cassidy's afternoon aspirin and evening hot whisky melded to blissful stability, skull not too painful, body not too aching and her trial sentence all ready to run past Miles: not too demanding, not too familiar, just a finely-judged request without being rude. She made it as far as, 'Miles, I need a sort of contra myself, would you be okay if –' when somebody she'd never seen before leaned across her and knocked over her refilled whisky tumbler.

'Miles, how are you?'

Cassidy leaned backwards to avoid an elbow in her eye.

'Morris, good to see you. Sit down, sit down. Here.'

No, please no. I want to go home, to someone's home, and get into bed with nothing hotter than a lemon and aspirin drink and go to sleep, or at least to lull myself into a semi-coma.

'Cassidy, this is Morris, one of the most influential agents in the game.'

'Pleased to meet you.'

No, you're not, corrected Melissa. You're not pleased at all. Pay attention, Cassidy, this could be the most important meeting of today, you never know.

No, I am not pleased, in fact I feel positively disgusted that my so-called boyfriend has invited some complete unknown to join us.

'So what did you take away from this afternoon, from the whole cup networking thing. New idea, the new guy, Shane, he's got some great ideas for the money. Utter shambles in other years. You would not believe. The players cannot, repeat cannot...'

'It was good, very good. Very valuable. Good to know the odds from the inside.'

Cassidy mulled over the odds for hinting that Morris should go. The simple choice would be spilling her drink over him. More complicated was herself getting up from the table and leaving. The last thing she wanted was a late night drinking with this Morris character, now getting himself comfortable beside Miles.

Walk out and leave?

Problem is, Cassidy, whispered Melissa, where will you go? How many opportunities have you already missed tonight to say to Miles, can I have house room for a few months?

He would say yes, wouldn't he? Surely she hardly needed to ask.

'How's that drink? Over here!'

The really worrying thing was that Miles and – what was his name? Morris? Was that a first name or a last name? – were talking with ever-increasing enthusiasm. And drinks were being delivered from the bar, along with the dinner menus. Not two menus, but three. Cassidy took a limp menu. The last thing she wanted right now, apart from hours eating a meal for which she had no appetite, was a late night. And she still had to plead for accommodation. How to stay independent, with a negative bank balance and a head cold, when your boyfriend is a millionaire and you need to ask him if you can stay for a few months, rent-free?

'Dinner, I hope you've got plenty of time, Morris, I want to sound you out on a couple of things, might have a contra for your boy, endorsement of services. And of course you're a good betting man. Cassidy, can't you stop coughing for five minutes?'

And Cassidy managed to fit another thought into the tiny remaining working space in her brain. In between the dislike of Morris and fretting about wanting to leave the table and her intense desire to go to sleep, there was just enough room to squeeze in the seed of concern that moving in with Miles would mean him claiming all her spare time. She remembered how excruciatingly lengthy their long weekend in Queenstown had been, spent in hotel rooms and sports bars and the company of Miles and other strangers: late nights, networking, sponsorship deals, ticket prices, game odds.

And coming down with a cold. Cassidy breathed out huskily; maybe she could infect Morris. She coughed in his direction.

# Chapter 29: Play the man

A platter appeared in front of her and Cassidy picked at sashimi and chips.

Once upon a time, she thought, hiding lack of appetite by sipping cold water that burned her throat, once upon a time she would have enjoyed luxury, dining with millionaires, being upfront to ask one millionaire in particular if she could live – temporarily – in his apartment. But as Miles and Morris talked on, she had time while they ignored her to reflect on the long cold weekend in Queenstown. Not only the freezing temperatures; not only coming down with a vicious ailment; not even the all-night parties while she dropped with exhaustion.

What she had hated – Cassidy pronged a moody potato wedge – was being ignored by Miles's friends and acquaintances. Worse, her discomfort had been tinged by lingering guilt. Miles had been Roy's richest client.

Still rich, but no longer client.

Cassidy contemplated walking out right now, asked herself where she would walk to – and subsided into her chair.

Miles said, 'Okay, Morris, the tournament as a teaser for my upcoming declaration. I need expenditure.'

Another moment lost. At this rate, she'd never get a chance to ask Miles if she could stay with him.

Come on, Melissa urged, what's wrong with asking the question in front of Morris? Why so shy?

Cassidy sniffled. Was her cold getting better? Maybe it was the whiskies, or the fire, or simply being silent for a while, but her throat hurt less and her breathing was easier. She should care less about the impression that Morris formed if she asked her question in front of him. It's just, she pleaded with the inner Melissa, that it's such a personal question. And, more particularly, it's that I've met Morris for the first time, loathe him and think he's an arsehole.

A ripple of interest around the bar drew her attention, a welcome distraction to stop even pretending she was included in a two-man conversation. Cassidy noticed the girls preening and the boys puffing; the chattering and drinking moved up a notch. The girls drank and fluttered their lashes and twitched their butts at a tall man with a quiet demeanour who had taken a seat at one end of the bar and was ordering courteously from a polite barman. The boys boasted among themselves that they could take him out with one hit. Cassidy couldn't see the tall man's face. Everyone else seemed to know him, but he was drinking alone.

Cassidy was startled by Morris hissing loudly.

'Seph!'

She switched her attention back to their table. Miles was sitting back, arms folded; Morris making an exaggeratedly possessive beckoning gesture towards the back view of the tall man at the bar.

Who didn't turn round. Either he failed to hear Morris's whistling call, or he preferred his own company. Cassidy interpreted body language and concluded the snub was deliberate rather than accidental. She watched the tall man sit on the bar-stool while the other drinkers circled at a diminishing distance, the mob congregating around the solitary drinker. An inner circle of girls tightened on the man, who responded with a smile and a gentle reply to the first who tugged at his elbow.

Cassidy watched the offer of a felt-tipped pen, the lifting of a smooth breast from a low neckline; watched the quiet drinker steady the target with one hand and scribble across rounded flesh. The girl tucked her hand into the crook of the man's elbow and a young tough chugged his drink before slamming his glass down on the top of the bar counter. Morris muttered to Miles.

The noisy drunk squared up to the quiet customer amidst the girls. Morris stood up and skirted around the back of the pack.

Table for two, at last. Cassidy resolved to be positive, to be assertive, to be a professional consultant having a discussion as equals with her millionaire boyfriend. Time to ask her question, to hit that difficult tone of asking for a favour by being independent.

She said quietly, 'I have a personal question to ask you. Can I stay at your apartment for a while?'

Was that professional enough, adult enough, equal enough? Was more explanation needed? Had Miles, in fact, heard her question? That was the problem with having a cold; not only the husky voice but the partial deafness so that you can't judge how loud, or soft, you are speaking when you ask a personal question.

A chair scraped, Morris dropped down opposite Cassidy, turned to signal to the waiter and the tall man pulled out the chair next to her.

Enough noise to cover her as she leaned towards Miles. 'I loathe Morris. Why do we have to entertain him? How about leaving?'

The fourth place at the table was swiftly laid. Table for four.

'Miles, you know Seph Daniel? Seph, Miles Oldridge.'

Cassidy waited again for introductions. Now that she could breathe through her nose, she could compress her lips, a clue for Miles, if he felt like picking up on it. Okay, so this guy wasn't repulsive like Morris, but presumably he would be just as rude.

The tall young man not introduced to her as Seph said, 'Those girls, eh, always wanting autographs.'

Okay, and maybe not quite as rude, and definitely better looking than Morris. In fact, now she was a little closer, young Seph was the best-looking of the three males at the table with her.

Morris demonstrated how to sniff and how to purse the lips. 'Come off it – they're hoping for more than that.'

'I have Yasu.'

Yasu? An unusual name, there can't be too many people around named Yasu, and Yasu was one name Cassidy had marked down at the rich women's club. There's never a perfect moment to let three male dining companions know that one is wearing last season's Black & Blond collection.

The man not introduced as Seph grinned at Cassidy, who tried not to grin back. Ridiculous to comparing – what was his name again? – to compare Seph to Miles, and not only ridiculous but silly to notice that Miles wasn't quite as young and sexy as Seph.

Morris said. 'While Kara was alive, Yasu had you. If you'd left her, the only place for you to go would have been back to Kara. Now the word is out that Kara's dead, every girl in the bar can see that if you leave Yasu, they're in with a chance.'

Miles said, 'Yes.'

Cassidy tried to listen to the dialogue, wondering who Kara was. Surely this wouldn't become one of those nightmare evenings, with table places being added but never subtracted, while the drinks bill multiplied and the elbow space divided?

Miles was leaning towards her. Cassidy stumbled on with her prepared explanation. 'You see, my apartment is being pulled apart.'

'Yes,' said Miles, encouragingly.

'I should have mentioned it, leaky building.' Cassidy loathed her own lame explanation, and covered it with a semi-sneeze.

Miles kept smiling. 'Yes, you can stay.'

How to explain? How to explain that she wasn't a hanger-on, like the fans adoring Seph, and how to satisfy her pride that this was temporary accommodation; almost a business deal.

Seph handed his menu back to the attentive waiter. 'The seafood thing. I thought you were worried about damage control.' He turned to Cassidy. 'Hope you don't mind me joining you for dinner? Is that okay?'

Over Seph's shoulder Cassidy saw a couple of guys at the bar posturing and laughing behind Seph's back.

Morris grumbled, 'Those girls never heard of control and they don't care about damage. I've told you – stay away from flash tarts.'

Seph said, still smiling at Cassidy, 'I'm having the seafood combo. Not a tart.'

Miles leaned and whispered into Cassidy's ear, 'As far as I am concerned, you can stay as long as you want. In fact, I have a very personal proposal to raise with you.'

Cassidy's hearing was loud and clear. So clear, in fact, that she heard warning bells clang. After all, a proposal from a millionaire isn't something to be brushed off, but on a practical level, can a millionaire who is not-quite-divorced, but still technically married, can he ask her to marry him?

And what to say if he did? I don't know what to think, Cassidy told herself. I don't know what to say.

And then nothing needed to be said, because the evening went into fast-forward.

Seph was being served his seafood, the waiter was handing the plate over his shoulder.

One of the drunks took four swift steps from the bar, took a stance at the corner of the table and took a punch at Seph.

# Chapter 30: Knock on

And missed, although only because it was a fairly wild swing and Seph was politely shifting aside for the waiter to serve.

The waiter took the punch and collapsed.

The plate crashed somewhere at their feet and Seph leapt up from his chair.

Cassidy, half-open mouth full of half-chewed sashimi, stared at the carnage. Great reflexes; she admired Seph's fast recovery but was forced to admit that Morris's reaction times were not too far behind. The loathed Morris was already semi-standing when the drunk took unsteady aim, and as Seph brought a massive fist up for a smack, Morris was in position. He swung on Seph's forearm with both hands, straining to prevent the giant from retaliating.

The drunk tottered under the momentum of his wild punch. The waiter scrabbled to his knees, dazed, still clinging to a remnant of broken plate. Cassidy closed her mouth and swallowed. The owner of the restaurant and a couple of bouncers grabbed the drunk by his shoulders. And he was gone, shoved out the door, followed quickly by two jeering friends from the bar.

Table for four reassembled.

Miles took up his phone and tapped and scrolled, thumb flicking, face concentrating. A replacement meal appeared in front of Seph, who pushed prawns around the plate with one finger. Cassidy assembled another unwanted mouthful on her fork, eyelids half-closed, eyes sneaking an admiring look at Seph, listening to the catch in his voice as he complained to an inattentive Morris.

'This will be written up in the papers in a way that I'll look like a wimp. Seph Daniel –'

Cassidy made a mental note of the full name. You never know when you might want to offer financial forensic services to a hot young guy.

'Seph Daniel can't take the pressure, ducked a punch without fighting back, you know all that shit. You should've let me deck him.'

Morris pulled his own plate closer in front of him and spoke through a handful of chips. 'Settle down.'

And Cassidy was offered a second opportunity to admire Seph's display of lightning-fast reaction. With a snarl at Morris that she could only envy, Seph flung his chair back and was storming out to the restaurant's balcony. Through the glass doors Cassidy watched him fetch up against the safety rail, leaning over, careless of the drop into the courtyard below

Morris, hoarsely, chewing, 'I suppose I should go out and talk to him...'

But not while there was food to eat. Cassidy watched Morris sit four-square to the table. The older man gobbled another mouthful.

Miles said past his phone, 'Cassidy, why don't you go and chat to him, take his mind off things.'

Morris chewed and nodded heartily. He swallowed another mouthful in time to offend before Cassidy could leave. 'A pretty girl who won't make a pass at him is what Seph needs right now.'

Miles, muttering into his phone, banged the table in amusement.

Cassidy turned her back. Making a pass at Seph purely to aggravate Morris was very tempting. Making a pass in full view of her boyfriend would be agreeable, if only to show Miles she couldn't be ordered around. But Seph seemed too nice to be used like that, and she didn't make passes at nice young men who might be potential clients.

'I'm really sorry about that.'

Cassidy leaned on the railing, keeping a few careful centimetres between her shoulder and Seph's elbow. 'No, no problem.' Talk to him? Or leave him alone? 'Is that sort of thing typical?'

Seph sighed. 'Yeah. Can't go anywhere. Not even supposed to be here without security, but Morris will have rung the Chief to keep him in touch.'

'All part of the fame and the money?'

'Shit, you're right there. Money problems on top of everything else, eh.'

Actually, her flippant remark hadn't been intended as a question to Seph about money problems. But for a financial forensics professional, especially one who has been instructed by her boss to drum up business, sometimes money problems appear on the slightest provocation.

'What's the money like from playing professionally?'

'It's never enough'. The young man continued to brood, staring down to the middle of the empty courtyard.

Cassidy fumbled out a business card and held it out, tentatively enough so that he didn't have to take it, but Seph reached out. He held it up to the light reflected from the restaurant, scanned the card.

'What is – financial forensics, what is that?'

The long explanation? Cassidy settled for the short. 'It's sort of, finding people's lost money, where did it go.'

Seph kept his eyes on her business card. 'Is that right? I might get back to you about using your services.'

Take that, Roy. 'That's fine, call any time.' And dismiss the melancholy that this attractive guy, alone with me on a romantic balcony, is interested only in my business card. Seph has Yasu, I have Miles and I am a businesswoman and moreover one trying to get work for Roy and Hectors.

Seph tucked her card away. 'What does the boyfriend do?'

Settle for the short explanation once more. Cassidy explained, 'Miles offers credit card management services for celebrities with multiple credit cards.'

A faint grin from Seph. "Maybe I should go to him too!'

Cassidy admired her own reaction time: I want any work that's going from Seph. She stared into the middle distance. Competing for work with Miles – how would that work?

Seph had slipped into charming. With a broader smile, 'Hey, Cassidy, if I want some money found I'll come to you, and if I need my credit cards managed I'll go to him. Deal?'

Cassidy managed a professional smile. 'Deal.'

Morris shouted, 'Seph! I'm leaving!'

# Chapter 31: Yellow card

Table for four attempted polite conversation on the balcony.

Morris had tomato sauce like blood on his shirt. 'What are you talking about? You've been out here too long.'

'I'm just asking Cassidy what she does. Hey, Morris, ask her about financial forensics!'

Miles struck in, 'She can be summed up in one: call Cassidy to sort your money.'

In the backwash of light flickering from the restaurant Cassidy watched Morris's face go pale and congratulated herself that she had given him her cold. If she'd managed to sneeze on his food, maybe he would throw up, too.

Morris muttered, 'Back in a moment. Miles, I'll get my share of the tab.'

Table for three gravitated towards, respectively, the warmth of the fake fire, a clear sight-line to the big screen, and better cell-phone pick-up; before reassembling awkwardly around the paying end of the bar.

After ten minutes, when Morris had not only failed to show but had clearly vanished into the night, Seph brushed away Miles's attempts and flicked a credit card to the manager.

Declined.

And so were his next two cards.

Seph was scarlet. Cassidy studied the prawn stains on the floor. Miles picked up the tab.

Seph muttered to Miles, 'Gotta talk.'

Miles said, 'Cassidy, can you spot us a cab? Be with you outside in five.'

And outside, passing cabs slowed, got a clear sight-line to Cassidy's expression, and accelerated fast out of the danger zone.

# Chapter 32: Red card

Miles's teasing worried her.

'Of course, Cassy, you already know my apartment. I should show you around but we both know you don't need the tour.'

Cassy? Has this man ever called me Cassy, before now? Cassidy wrenched open her weekend bag, contents even more revolting after a long day in a cramped bag and cold to her touch, the lingering cold of a snow resort weekend.

Feeling equally cold and revolting, Cassidy pulled out everything that needed washing. She dropped the empty bag on the bedroom floor.

Miles slotted his phone to recharge. 'How long are you staying? What's all that stuff?'

'My Edelweiss ball costume. Don't you remember?' How to be affectionate, polite and ambivalent all at the same time? 'I don't know – I mean, I don't know how long building repairs take, but I don't want to impose...'

'Don't be ridiculous. Stay as long as you want. What were you doing outside with Seph Daniel, all that time?'

But how long do I want to stay? 'I didn't wear it, though. You remember, I got a sore throat during our long weekend.' And the long weekend got pretty long at times.

I think I love this man.

Oh, Cassidy, interrupted Melissa from her perch on the pillows, why do you love him? For himself, or for him plus the money and the lifestyle?

'How are you now? Still going for rugby players?'

How am I now? How about struggling to breathe through my cold, so tired that I don't know how tired I am, homeless and under orders from a boss who wasn't himself? How do you know if you love someone? Would she love Miles if she were unpacking in his one-room basement flat?

The soft burp of a cork made her stifle a groan.

Miles poured champagne. 'Okay, here's plan number one. Spa pool, here we come. Ever seen Auckland from my balcony while you are naked?' He took off his tie and belt and prised off his shoes.

But it's mid-winter... Cassidy tried a distraction. 'I gave him my business card, that guy Seph... did you see how Morris bunked off without even paying for his drinks? Let alone his share of the meal.'

Miles lifted one glass. 'You didn't pay for your share of the meal.'

Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes before you can get enough breath back to make a really savage remark, a customised ringtone chirrups in your beloved's freshly-charged phone.

She heard the word, '... urgent...'

Watch and learn, Cassy, Melissa urged. That shirt could do with being tossed into the machine along with your Edelweiss ball costume. Did you come here just to do his laundry?

Cassidy watched body language. Back turned to her – his shoulders hunched, holding phone very close, the low voice, the caller's words rushing from the phone fast as Queenstown rapids.

Miles flipped his phone closed. 'Gotta rush, emergency.'

And she watched him doff the shirt, pull out an unblemished white from the wardrobe, tie a new tie.

Sexy hard kiss. Phone, car keys, briefcase. From the doorway Miles turned, allowed her a smile over the re-jacketed shoulder. 'Can you toss all that stuff into the washing machine? Thanks.'

'Can't your client wait till breakfast, at least?' The only inoffensive thing she could think of to say. Major quarrels could wait, at least until she'd had one night's sleep.

Miles was closing the door. 'If I can't get their charges sorted, they won't be able to buy any breakfast. Credit operates twenty-four-seven. Don't you ever work late?'

The door slammed.

What to say to a closed door? Do you know how much that sort of remark really annoys me? Well, of course I've worked all-nighters, doesn't everyone? Are you saying that only to start a quarrel? If you want a quarrel, you'll get one?

Cassidy subsided into a soothing chair and pressed her fingers over unbelievably tired eyes.

Melissa yawned. You can't afford (ha! Did you get my joke, Cassy?) to antagonise the boyfriend too much if you need to live here for a while.

Memo to self: Save the quarrel for an exit.

# Chapter 33: Ten minutes in the sin bin

Saved by the bell, Cassidy. Melissa sniggered. Rescued by the ringtone.

And she had the hot tub to herself; an imaginary Melissa was annoying but occupied much less space than a real body in the water.

In soothing bubbly heat, Cassidy surveyed the prospect from Miles's harbour-side penthouse balcony. The city was darker than the harbour; a beacon of moonbeam silvered the water and boat lights sparkled in reflection. She kept her shoulders well under, feeling the wet ends of her hair sharpen in the September cold and prickle at the back of her neck.

Debt; she was as deep in debt as she currently was in hot water. Her weekend in Queenstown, her wild spending to keep up with Miles, had left her with no cash until next month's payday.

If Hectors has the money to pay your salary next month.

Thank you for the reminder, Melissa.

Cassidy rolled the back of her head to and fro on the padded cushion around the rim of the tub. What had she been buying, each time she gave the plastic a workout on the long weekend? Souvenirs from Queenstown: a head cold.

Something Roy had forgotten to tell her, something Heather was holding back. Cassidy lifted a foot out of the water and chill nibbled at her toes. She struggled to recall today's conversations. Something ought to be weighing on her mind; too difficult to think what.

The hot steam eased her throat and cleared her nose; Cassidy took a deep steamy breath of Auckland night air. Wonderful to breathe easy at last. Except that something was weighing her down.

And Roy with his face sunk in his hands.

# Chapter 34: Fourteen men

Credit cards declined. A shit end to a totally shit day.

Seph walked fast, away from Sport Six and up Queen Street, shouldering aside the drunk teenagers, ignoring the boy racers.

Signing autographs for the school this morning – the only thing that left a trace of good feeling in his heart. Spoiled by that little kid knocked down by the towie. That bastard towie! The bad taste of the day filled his mouth, and Seph hoiked and spat.

Car towed, and not a hint, not even a little hint, from Morris about where the car was or who was doing what about it and when he'd get it back from wherever it was. The book signing that was a nightmare on the footpath, media shouting questions about his car being repossessed. His car had been towed, Chrissake, not repossessed; you could guarantee the media bagging him over any little thing and getting their facts wrong.

The uphill climb pulled a little of the tension out of his muscles. At Ao Square Seph ducked through the gate and slowed his steps, the open space full of people but no-one looking at him, time and space at last to absorb the colours, taste the flavours, be an invisible speck in the night crowd. Skateboarders cut to and fro, weaving among pedestrians with skills that Seph admired and envied. He'd loved boarding as a kid, hadn't done any for a couple seasons now. Unless you kept it up, honed the body all the time to the feel of the board – bracing the feet, space rushing past, riding the air – yeah, unless you kept it up all the time, you soon lost that edge.

... _once you turn pro, Seph Daniel tells the sideline interviewer at half-time, there's no turning back to things you loved when you were a kid. You've got to look forward, make the most of a short sharp career and tell yourself that you'll have time to get back on the long-board when you've retired from the savagery of professional sport..._

If you can believe that.

If you survive.

Credit cards declined. That was strange, now he had time to think about it. Morris must have missed a payment to the credit card company, something like that. Maybe Morris was losing his edge. Perhaps Yaz was right, Morris wasn't the best in managing the money. Trouble was, he and Morris went back a long way. Loyalty: only loyalty counted in the end. If loyalty didn't count, then what did? He had to trust someone, and he trusted Morris. Okay, so maybe Morris cut a few corners here and there. Who didn't?

'Hey, come and try before you buy!'

He had reached the sharp edge of Ao Square, where a long corner linked to the dark lane. Doorways lurked below canopies; big men showing the tattoos on their big arms beneath rolled-tight shirtsleeves stood at one side of the doorways. From the narrow doors drifted thin girls and pretty boys and the smell of hot music and the sound of hot nights.

'We don't bite!'

And in between the thin girls and the pretty boys were the very tall and very thin and very different women, one or two of whom called in Seph's direction as he strolled beneath the solitary light, like a corner flag marking the end of the Square and the start of the lane, and walked slowly, treading on his shadow as it lengthened before him on dark cobblestones.

'Yeah, we bite, but we bite better!'

Seph grinned and kept walking.

The trannies lost interest in him, shifting to accost the shy and the hesitant and the pliable among the passers-by.

'Come on in, you can come into the club, Sugar Cuban, come in!'

Seph tapped one drag queen on the shoulder. She turned, squared up to deflect a punch and return with bonus, but met his eyes.

Seph yodelled and faked a punch to the man's shoulder; she rolled with the soft blow, then relaxed and laughed.

'Seph, eh, Seph, you got a new tooth! I hardly recognised you, man!'

# Chapter 35: Between the posts

Hands interlock; a feint to ribs, a slap of palms.

Seph studied his cousin, watching his cousin study him.

'Jesus, you're not looking good. Are you doing shit?' The trannie locked an arm-hold around Seph's shoulders and pushed him into Sugar Cuban. 'Now, lemme look at you in the dark...'

Seph ducked beneath Sugar Cuban's low canopy and felt his hair flatten as he brushed the doorway. He looked over his shoulder. His cousin paused beside the club's bouncer, whispered a word or two in a gnarled ear. The bouncer never ceased his scan of the alley but nodded, then Peace was through the doorway and tripping over Seph's foot.

'Standing in the way, man; here, come here, out of the traffic.'

The two backed into a niche that turned out to be the foot of a stairwell.

'Now, tell me, and no bullshit. How come you're looking so bad?'

'I went to the hospital today.'

And watched shock tighten Peace's hollow cheeks as she muttered, 'Shit, is it – did you...?'

... _and Seph Daniel, long retired from his playing days, settles back on the TV studio's couch and retells one of his favourite anecdotes to the interviewer about taking a couple of hours, at the end of a day frantic with promotional events, to sneak off to a children's hospital. He looks into the eye of the camera and thinks aloud of how a schoolboy with a broken leg is so proud and happy to see him and nearly bursts with delight when Seph signs his leg cast..._

'Coming through, coming through – who's that sitting on the stairs, in my way? Peace, what you doing here on the stairs?'

'You got plenty of space to walk down these stairs, you watch what you're doing – you're standing on my hand, you fucker! Get off!'

... _yes, that was one of the best times, squeezed in after a book signing and before sitting in his hotel room watching the disaster rolling on TV, seeing himself as he runs away from his old school. What the cameras show looks like Seph is running away, but really he is running – well, okay, he isn't running to help the kid, at first he's running after a towie who's got his car, but then the kid runs after him and gets hit, how did it happen, all at once the kid is sprawled in the road as the towie and his car vanish down the street, but he remembers holding up his hands and the traffic stopping, like a miracle the kid isn't run over..._

'Peace!' A long thin painted face appeared around the edge of the niche. 'Is that you, girl? Get in here!'

Peace ignored the summons. 'Go on.'

... _and it is mealtime for the kids in the hospital ward, the nurses are bringing around food on trays and they tell Seph that they should throw him out but they take selfies with a grinning Seph and let him stay, and he chats to all the kids as they mess with their food on their plates, and play with the miniature footballs and flick the pages in the books he brought from the bookshop. And the bookshop manager choosing a bagful of books for him then telling him quietly that his credit card had been declined but when he explains about the schoolboy and the towie and tells her the gifts are for the kid with the broken leg she smiles and tells him to take them to the hospital with the compliments of the shop..._

'The kids, you know kids, they loved the footballs and the books. It was – just great.'

'They loved you, you know that.'

Seph stared without seeing the murk of the hallway. 'Yeah – maybe...'

Peace stretched out her legs and a punter tripped over a bony ankle, saving himself with a stumble and a curse before he was sucked away in the direction of the music.

'When you said, you know, when you said you'd been at the hospital – you know what I thought?'

'What?'

'I thought that maybe they still had Kara's body.'

Kara. Seph stared at what he could see of Peace's expression. Was she for real, or was she bullshitting him?

'That you'd gone to see Kara.'

'Tell me.' Oh shit, did the hospital still have Kara while he'd been there? Messing about with those kids; what had he been doing? What had he been thinking? He should have been thinking about Kara.

'Lemme get the word, I went to see her,' Peace was rambling on, 'and she was still conscious then and she told me –'

'Sir, I must ask you, why are you sitting on the stairs?'

'Never heard the word before – eek-toe-peek – something like that.' Peace's soft voice from the gloomy stairs rolled the syllables, strange to Seph's ear.

'What?'

'Sir?'

Seph peered at the dark shape braced at the bottom of the stairs.

'Yeah, that was the word, eek-toe-peek pregnancy. She went quick at the end, I didn't stay, you know, not wanted, but I heard later: alive one minute; the next, gone. They couldn't save her.'

Security stared hard back at Seph. 'I don't want to see you there, Peace, with your guest. Get off the stairs, please. Take your guest into the club. You're blocking the fire exit and people are falling over your feet.'

# Chapter 36: Press it

Someone else screamed from the business end of the hallway, where bodies jammed through the door of the club. 'Peace, get your arse in here, get on stage, you're late, girl!'

Seph laughed at the girls, cursing and shoving the punters around: people who never worried about credit cards and repossessed cars and shit like that; real people who had real stuff to worry about. 'Shouldn't you get on stage if you're late?'

'Drag queens are never on time.'

Peace was towing him through the packed hallway. With a final shove the two burst out of the dark hallway and into an even darker low-ceilinged wide room.

'Being late is part of our mystique.' She pronounced the word with a gesture of her chin and a prissy emphasis, miss-teak, stretching her glossed lips and showing all her teeth.

Seph was reminded of someone he'd met recently but he couldn't recall who.

Peace peered at Seph more closely under the dim lighting of the club. 'You're looking even more terrible in the dark, cuz. You need a drink.'

Music rapped a mock welcome, Peace pushed past more beefy security and detoured into a corner table with two chairs. Seph took a chair.

Peace leapt onto the table. 'Drinks over here,' she screamed. 'What does a girl have to do to get drinks over here?'

Seph grinned, then laughed, warmer now, he'd felt cold ever since that kid fell under the tow-truck. Shit, why remember that now? There was something he wanted to tell Peace, but it wasn't that, nothing about his car and about that poor little kid, nothing about Morris and Yasu and problems of loyalty and love. No, there was only one thing he needed to tell Peace, the one person who knew what it was like to be judged by everyone simply for the way you looked and behaved and who you were, one thing to ask the one person who never judged him.

Security hauled Peace down off the table. Peace stumbled on her very high heels, clinging to a thick tattooed arm. The bouncer shook her off.

'Fuck off, Peace, what do you think this is, table service?'

Peace panted, 'I'll do the service. You put drinks on the table.'

Security sneered, there was a flurry of shouting and struggling at the crammed entry to the dark low room, and the bouncer waded off to deal to trouble.

Peace twisted to look, but fell off her heels. Seph caught the man, feeling bones through the skin, and pulled her into the other chair.

'Got to go up to the bar,' Peace coughed, pulling on a lost heel, patting her hair. 'This club is no good. I'll get us the drinks, but they haven't paid us for days. Shit employers, eh. Borrow us your cards.'

Seph warned, 'I've been declined tonight, once already. Fucking restaurant. Declined all my cards.'

But Peace said airily, 'No-one gets declined at the Sugar. How many drinks do you think they'd sell if they worried about declining people's cards? Gimme your wallet. I'll just wave your card at the magic machine.'

Seph watched Peace wobble off towards the bar. His gaze drifted past the knots of people, must be dozens in here, if not hundreds; lovers, drinkers, the ones who raced outside every five minutes for a smoke, the ones who raced to the toilets every five minutes for survival.

Peace slopped two glasses down on their tiny table. 'So, no cards declined, told you. Here you go.'

Seph stowed his wallet.

'You making good money these days?'

Seph swallowed half the drink. 'What is this?'

'Just drink it. The club special.'

'Yeah, yeah, good money. More if you're blond.'

Peace sighed. 'Tell me about it.'

Seph sipped at his drink more cautiously, the heat of the alcohol warming all the way through. 'Good makeup – suits you.'

Peace nodded, her face serious. 'It's the new season colour palette. Good colours for me.'

'And I like the highlights – blond, very nice.'

The cousins were silent, sipping at the drinks. Music wound its way into Seph's head, dancers gyrated and waved arms, drinkers drank and slumped deeper into the plastic chairs, the trannies and the security and the barmen worked hard.

'D'you know what I think about?'

'What?'

Peace drained her glass. 'When we used to play touch, when you captained the touch rugby side, when we were both kids.'

'What made you think about that?'

Peace shrugged. 'I dunno. Just something I thought about when I heard.'

Seph on instant alert. 'When you heard – what?'

Peace stared at the stage, where a trannie in silver and gold was mouthing to music that was so loud no-one could hear the words. 'When I heard that Kara'd gone. Hey, I'm sorry.'

Seph coughed. 'Thanks – thanks. Talk about going way back, eh. Pregnant, though – does everyone know?'

Peace said, 'I don't know about everyone. My mother knows. Your mother knows. Probably just the family know about it, really. I mean, you two had been separated so long, almost since you were married.'

Seph thought back. Had it been that long? 'Yeah,' he said softly, more to himself, than to Peace. 'Yeah. Way back.'

Peace sat up straight in her chair. Bright, brittle: 'So how's being a star?'

Seph drained his glass. 'I'm God, I'm Jesus.'

'You be sure they don't crucify you.'

# Chapter 37: Wrong end of the paddock

Peace never listened. Money, Morris, credit cards being declined. Her attention had spun away but Seph felt so good to talk even to someone who wasn't listening; especially to someone who wasn't listening, unburdening his heart. Money again, the kid who got knocked over, Kara, money. Yaz, money, Morris, money, Kara, the funeral.

Peace said airily, 'I'm writing a book.'

'What about?'

'This whole business. The clubs, the girls. Names named. I'll put me in it. You. Kara.'

Kara dead! Peace had said something important...

'What did you say about Kara? At the hospital?' Shit, what was he doing, what was he thinking, sitting in a nightclub when Kara was – 'Peace.' He shook the man's shoulder. 'When you saw Kara – when she was still alive – did she say anything for me?'

The music boomed, the girl on stage waved her arms and nearly hit the ceiling, flung her head back for the final crescendo.

'What?'

'I got to go – you said something about Kara – did she say anything for me?'

And the music stopped.

'Thank fuck she's finished.'

'Kara's funeral... I should go.'

Peace spoke close to his ear. 'They hate you, man, her family hates you. They hated you from the moment you walked out on her. No, they hated you from the moment she married you, from before the moment she married you. They'll kill you if you go to her funeral.'

'When is it?'

'I don't know.'

'Find out for me. Kara's important to me.'

'Important to you.' Peace twisted her mouth at him. 'What do you want – Kara or Yaz?'

'Stupid question.'

'So what's your stupid answer?'

'Both.'

'Yeah, stupid answer is right. Get this one right – what do you want, Yasu or rugby?'

Seph grinned. Peace did the eyeball roll, Seph watching the whites of her eyes glitter like neon. 'Don't tell me: both.'

'You got it.'

Peace bent down and fiddled with one shoe. 'If Yaz loves you, she'll be there when the tournament's over, when you've won the cup and come home.'

'What if she doesn't wait for me?'

'You've seen the movie. If she really loves you, she'll be there waiting for you at the airport.'

Seph tried to stretch full length in the too-small chair. 'Thousands of people will be waiting at the airport.'

Peace slipped her shoe back on. 'Well, then, if Yaz isn't there, no problem! You got a lot of choice. And a lot of money. Lend me some. I need cash.'

Seph loosened one shoulder. 'No cash on me. You borrowed my wallet, you saw. What do you need cash for?'

'A girl always needs cash. Give me your wallet again. I'll get some cash out on your cards at the bar.'

But it wasn't in the direction of the bar that Seph watched Peace stalk away. She waded through the crowd in the direction of the toilets.

Seph wondered, which toilets? Must ask her sometime, the boys or the girls? He watched the dancers, the crowds, the next tall thin strange girl towering on the small stage. And Peace, hard faced and glittery, tripped on her way back to their table. Her elbow joggled someone's full glass, spraying pink foam onto a short, chunky, and very drunk punter. The drunk lurched to his feet and flung out a wild fist at Peace whom Seph was already pulling aside. The wide-swinging hand administered more of a slap than a punch, and bounced harmlessly off his wrist.

Peace sat down hard, and the table squashed beneath her, flat to the floor.

Seph pulled back.

The drunk pushed forward. 'You looking at me? Daniel, you useless prick. You missed every tackle, last game. You looking at me?'

And another punch came his way.

Everything had gone wrong today – here was a chance to get it right. Get it right: brace, stand side on, gather up the anger and the muscles and the surge of pure joy and fire that arm forward. And return that punch, Seph's knuckles colliding with that drunken idiot's soft chin and flapping lips and watch him flail backwards and collapse, roll aside, thrash and fail to hold it together, start to vomit.

Screaming and shouting from the dancers, people struggling to back away from the flood of spilled drinks and the drunk on the floor vomiting on their shoes and someone had hit the fire alarm and security were elbowing and stamping their way to the trouble but too late because the brawl was on.

Peace pulled Seph back. 'Don't get involved – he's here every night, he's just a pissed arsehole.'

The bouncers shouted and hauled bodies aside, people were filming on their phones, but someone had already called the cops, who were pouring through the door. The fight was over almost as soon as it had started.

The cops had a van in the dark alley. Seph scrambled to get hold of Peace as the cops twisted her arm behind her back and shoved her along the hall and out to the lane. Seph stepped on feet and legs and kept pushing but couldn't get out the door fast enough. He brushed aside a tiny woman cop who tried to hold him back at the doorway; the night air cold on his forehead as he swept other cops sideways with his elbow. The nightclub canopy torn from its supports fell partly on his shoulder and he thrust the canvas aside and got clear into the alley, just in time to see two of the cops throw Peace into their van. The slamming of the steel cage was a door slamming on his heart.

'You've got to let her go...'

'Get out of here! Get lost! Before I arrest you as well!'

'Go on then, arrest me!'

Phone cameras flashed.

Seph sank onto a steel seat and the steel grid trapped him into a tiny cage. The flashing lights flickered, his hands up against the steel mesh red and then blue, red and then blue. He twisted his neck, his shoulders, hearing the crunch of tissue, feeling muscle pulling bone into position. Pulled his chin to one side and saw Peace.

She pushed one hand against the mesh between their cages, and Seph matched the gesture, tapping the pale hand with his fingertips. Peace put her fingers to her chin and Seph's heart wrenched as he watched her wipe away a trickle of dark blood from the corner of her smeared lips. He couldn't watch any more. Dropped his gaze to his hands, limp on his knees, as the trembling started.

# Chapter 38: Get out of jail

Sex or a training run?

Both.

But not necessarily in that order. Seph jogged the Viaduct. Sport Six was closed, rubbish bags sordid at the heavily bolted front door, like drunks waiting to hit the new day without the nuisance of sobering up.

Better than sex, Seph chuckled, new sun licking his neck; nothing so good as a training run. And no charges laid!

And a training run one of the few things you can do on your own. Seph shook his head, sweat flicked from his hair; thrust his head down and laughed. Laughter, the rhythm of running, left right left right, so good to race against yourself.

... _and he's going for the line, it looks like Seph Daniel will go all the way! Yes! He's got himself past the ten metre, in the right position, it'll be a try right between the posts, Seph's going to make it easy for the conversion, it will be seven points! And the crowd is on its feet!_

He rounded the corner and upped the pace as the uphill rise of Queen Street battled against him. Pump the arms! Left-right left-right! Intensity, up the intensity, get that work rate up! And no charges laid!

... _and Seph Daniel is really racing now, he's still increasing speed, he's really upping the pace! And he's through the goal posts and scores right under the cross-bar!_

Seph acknowledged the cheering, his feet pounded across the line, he stooped from the waist and feinted the press, then pulled up and trotted, slowing, breathing hard.

Then there really was cheering. Out in front of the hotel, tables and chairs beneath gaily coloured umbrellas, separated from the passers-by and the cars and the buses by black velvet ropes strung between gilded bollards. The tables surprisingly full for this early in the morning, the sun struggling to break the tops of Queen Street canyon.

Seph jogged a narrow aisle demarcated by velvet ropes and smelled fresh bread. People both sides of the aisle held up glasses clouded with pale wine, switching their glasses from hand to hand, keeping one hand free to reach him.

Seph dodged, and the hands mostly missed; some made sweaty contact, a pat or a slap on damp shoulder or back or arm. Seph frowned, hopped from left to right; side-stepping an obstacle course of outstretched hands, feeling jostled. Who were all these people?

They were cheering him, though. Intensity! People putting down their champagne glasses, the tables heavy with platters of red and green and yellow fruit, with baskets of breads, with cakes steaming in the still-cool shadows beneath the umbrellas. People slapping him with both hands, enough to bruise an ordinary shoulder, as Seph swung the rotating door to the hotel lobby and slotted himself into a triangular space. The rotary door brushed him forward, the cheering and clapping cut off as he burst out to the quiet lobby.

And into the lift, on his own, thank Christ, sweating in the air-conditioned cold, thinking about Yaz and how she had been fast asleep when he crept in an hour ago. How careful he had been, to slip noiselessly out of his stained shirt and get-out-of-jail jeans, and into the running gear. In and out of the hotel suite in under five minutes, and Yaz silent in the huge bed.

What he needed now was for Yaz to be at breakfast, networking and chatting. Somewhere, anywhere, but mainly somewhere else, at breakfast somewhere else and not in his hotel room, so he could get his story straight. Breakfast – like the people under the hotel umbrellas. A champagne breakfast under the hotel umbrellas.

And a colder sweat drenched him. The champagne breakfast that Yaz had shouted about at the cocktail party. That was the breakfast; that had been why they all cheered, slapped him on the arm, raised their glasses to him and Yaz.

Had he missed Yaz in the scrum? She'd never forgive him.

The lift bounced slowly to a standstill and Seph tiptoed along the hall. If Yaz was at the champagne breakfast, then he could shower and get to training and deal later with the problem of Yaz, of how to tell her, of what she might say. Later, when he felt ready to talk. Later, by the end of the day, when Yaz might have forgotten, then he wouldn't have to talk at all.

Slipped his key-card into the door slot. Stepped quietly through and flicked his glance to the bed. To Yasu, awake, propped up on a muddle of pillows, under a quilt of newsprint.

# Chapter 39: About the half-way mark

Yaz saying nothing was worse than Yaz shouting at him; Yaz saying nothing was saving it for later. He met her eyes and got the message: fully awake, fully unhappy.

She rummaged among rustling paper and held up a full-page spread. Seph read banner headlines from across the room. Stars not aligned for engagement.

Yasu dropped the page, held up another spread. Parents oppose player.

Seph pulled off his running singlet. 'You were asleep when I came in before.'

'I was awake. I could smell you from right across the room. Where've you been all night?'

Seph paused. Might as well give her the script. At least, the sanitised version of the script. Or maybe only the highlights. Released by the cops, no charges laid.

'No charges laid? Like I believe that.'

'Believe what you want. I'm out of jail free.'

On the grounds that charging him would probably affect his ability to travel overseas for the tournament. Back to the hotel very early, about five thirty a.m., and Yasu asleep.

'Except that I wasn't.'

'So I didn't know that. And I didn't want to disturb you.' Changed into running gear and out for a run. Yaz seemed to be listening, for once.

Except that she wasn't, throwing newspaper pages around, paper slipping onto the floor and piling around the bed. Seph couldn't miss the headlines. Squad star in nightclub brawl.

'You seem to have missed out a few important hours. Morris rang me late last night and said you were at dinner with him and not to worry, and now I find you've been arrested in some crappy nightclub. And don't tell me about your cousin, I'm sick of him, he's always getting you into trouble.'

'You're always telling me no-one reads newspapers any more.'

'Don't worry, you're all over social media as well. Complete with photos. And breakfast TV. Best thing that ever happened to them, they're running you on high rotate.' Yasu pounded the TV remote through the channels; am-cams, footage from the nightclub CCTV, lots of replays of himself throwing the punch and being arrested. Nothing about Peace, probably a good thing.

'So what was I supposed to do?'

Yasu sniffed. 'Yes.'

'What do you mean, yes?'

'I mean, yes, that's a good question, pity you didn't ask yourself sooner. My parents are totally upset. God knows who told them first, but my mother says their phone was ringing all night telling them about our engagement and then telling them about the fight. And I wanted to be the one to tell them.'

Telling me first would have been a good thing. Seph bit his lip, tasted blood.

Yasu clicked the remote and footage of the fight went mute. 'You realise your salary will be docked? You'll be lucky to get away with a ten grand fine. What's your mate Morris going to do about that?'

Forget the shower. Seph dragged on a warm-up top and grabbed his bag. 'Got training with the squad. Can you pick up my car: find out where it is, pay the towing fine.'

'I'm not paying. Give me your eftpos number.'

'And give us a lend of your phone. If you won't get my car back, then I need your phone – mine's in my car. When you get my car, you can use my phone.'

And if I keep your phone, I can erase some old texts you don't need to read.

Yasu swept everything onto the floor. 'You can't have my phone, I need it. I've got our wedding arrangements to make. I'll pick up your car if I've got time; I've still got to make an entrance at breakfast.'

Wedding arrangements! Breakfast! A thought struck Seph. 'I hope that breakfast on the street isn't going on my hotel bill.'

'Of course it is. It's our engagement celebration.'

Seph sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on dry shoes. 'But we're not even eating. People can pay. Dry till, we could say it's a dry till.'

'We're celebrating.' Yasu knelt upright on the pillows, pulled him round by his hair, pinned him eye-to-eye. 'We're getting married tomorrow. I logged on this morning, paid for a marriage licence. I did it all on-line, easy as, so we're done.'

Done like a dog's dinner. 'I'm missing out on my stag night with the boys.'

'I'm missing out on three wedding dresses. And you got into deep shit drinking with your cousin; God knows how much deeper shit you'd get into on a stag night.'

Shouldn't I stand up so Yaz can't look me in the eye? 'Shouldn't we wait?'

'Who are we waiting for? For the ghost of St Kara to attend our wedding?'

The hotel room phone rang, Seph made a grab, Yasu picked up. She listened and handed the phone to Seph without speaking.

Morris in his ear. 'Are the police really not charging you?

Seph breathed again. 'No. No charges laid. Said I would have trouble travelling if I was facing a criminal charge or had a conviction.'

Morris grunted. 'Thank fuck for that. Now, you're on bereavement leave. The rest of the squad is on the plane today.'

Seph raised his voice, 'I'll be at training in five.' He hung up and leapt to his feet.

Yasu shouted after him as he moved to the door, 'I heard that. D'you think I'm deaf? Spend time with me, you can't train on your own.' She weighed her phone in her hand.

Seph pulled the door open. 'You ought to understand. Just because you're not training any more, don't mean I don't train.'

Yasu took aim.

As he pulled the hotel door closed, Yasu's phone thudded on the inside. Seph admired the throw: she still had good arm strength, the swimmer's legacy. With any luck that arm strength had chucked her phone from the bed to the back of the door hard enough to break. Then perhaps she'll never read those texts from my mother.

He ignored the lift cage, pulled open the heavy fire door, began to thud down the stairs, two at a time. After all, I don't want her to read what my mother said. Or what I promised in return. Except it might be easier if Yaz read his texts.

Not easier for her; easier for him.

# Chapter 40: The last minute of the first half

Seph coughed and mumbled, his throat had closed up.

The marriage celebrant nodded towards Yasu. 'And you, Yasu?'

'I do, I do!'

'You may now kiss each other as husband and wife.'

Might as well get a kiss out of it. Seph puckered up; Yasu's phone rang and she gabbled; he couldn't understand a word.

Morris pulled Seph aside. 'I'm still having trouble getting all the travel arrangements to fit together. Are you sure you can't travel without Yasu?'

'No, she'll make a scene.'

'All right.' Morris frowned. 'Lemme get it straight. When the boys flew out for France yesterday, I changed your travel to next week. Now you're saying you've got to go tomorrow, and it has to be both of you.

'Yup.' Seph tried to think. The hotel bill was at the top of his list. 'Morris, you know, I agreed with the hotel manager that the bill will be paid by end of tomorrow.'

'Why didn't you tell me before now – well, I'll see what I can do. I can talk to the Chief about an advance on your salary. But he's got to be in a good mood if I'm going to get him to agree about waiving your fine for breaching team protocol. And all these travel booking changes, it's costing a lot of money. Can't you and Yasu travel in a week or two?'

Seph frowned. 'Of course not. The demo games start in a day or two, and I've got to be there for the pre-sessions. I've got to be there or I don't play.'

Morris shuffled sideways, head down, gazed at the carpet. 'Lemme think about this...'

Seph tapped Yasu on the shoulder, and she broke off from talking on the phone. 'Hold on – what do you want? Don't interrupt me when I'm talking.'

'Yaz, I've got to go.'

Yasu shook her head firmly, clipping the phone closed without saying goodbye. 'Oh no, don't you dare. I scheduled this appointment time for our wedding especially to keep you out of trouble.'

Seph sidestepped to the door, dragging an unresisting Morris. And they were through, past a surprised celebrant holding an awkward glass of wine. Seph heard Yasu shout; he pivoted on a heel, slammed the suite door and dragged Morris in the direction of the lift. Banging echoed along the hallway, with Yasu's shouts that the door had stuck. The lift pinged, the doors opened on cue, he bundled Morris inside and slammed a hand on the lobby button.

'Stop moaning. It's the lift or the stairs, and you'd have a heart attack on the stairs.'

Morris leaned his head on the stainless steel panel and coughed. 'A heart attack would be good. I'm having a stroke already. This was always going to be a bad idea.'

# Chapter 41: Half-time

'Sixty thousand words? Is that all you are going to print? That's not a very deep book.'

'He's not a very deep man. He plays rugby, he doesn't have to think.'

'Everyone thinks.'

'Not yours. Look at him – one wife dies, he re-marries before she's cold. Not the action of someone who's thinking?'

'No. Even though I hate it, I have to agree with you.'

'So – I want it short, I want it hot. You'll write the last ten thousand words now. It won't take you long. I want it yesterday. And it's got to be the best stuff. Write the real heart-to-heart. I want him bleeding all over the page. Less on the game. More on the money.'

# Chapter 42: Great pressure from the restart

Weaving in and out. What a terrible a driver Morris was.

... _and Seph Daniel will never get past the defence unless he exerts his authority on the game..._

'You should've let me drive. You're useless, Morris.'

Morris checked his mirror and the car swayed into the next lane, to an accompanying blast from a truck. 'I think that's Yasu behind us.'

Morris lurched back into his lane, the truck thundered by, the driver leaning out the side window and gesturing. Morris returned the favour, stamped on the gas and hurtled along the motorway in the slipstream.

Seph tipped the rear-view mirror and checked the cars behind. Yasu was three cars back on the inside lane. 'Yup, that's her. Lose her. She's boxed in right now.'

Morris raced alongside the exit lane, jumped left late without signalling and roared too fast up the exit. Three cars boxing Yasu in continued along the motorway and swept Yasu with them past the exit.

'Left, Morris, left, not right, left is this way, you idiot.'

Morris corrected and got a blast from the car behind.

'Ignore it. Keep going straight ahead here... now right, and then right again... we'll see the church noticeboard soon.'

Morris slowed for a give way. 'How come you know how to get there? Did you take notes? You don't go to church.'

Seph pointed at the noticeboard. 'And left here. Go slow, the driveway is too narrow.' He stared at the weathered frontage, the open double doors, the plain wooden cross. 'I got married here.'

Morris was still braking to a crunching halt on car park gravel as Seph opened the passenger door, a finger to his lips. He hurried as quietly as the gravel would permit up the path to the church door where a hearse was parked.

And then he couldn't move.

Memory flooded in, breath flooded out. Kara in her white dress, him in his only suit, Kara's brothers behind him. He tipped his head back, opened his eyes as wide as he could, stared at blue infinity. I got married here. And that was the last time I was here, and now I'm here again and they're burying my wife. What do I remember? The wedding a bit of a blur, her relatives muttering: too young to be married, it'll all end in tears. Guess they were right. He coughed, blinked, gasped. Braced himself to look forward, to look along the aisle to what was waiting for him, facing the altar.

As he paused on the doorstep for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, two women materialised from gloom. Seph's sight adjusted in time for him to recognise Kara's older sisters.

Without a word they each grabbed an arm, hustled him backwards out the door, dragging him over the gravel as his heels dug in but failed to grip, and giving him a double shove among the headstones. His shoes slipped, a sharp edge struck his leg, he fell to one knee. His former sisters-in-law glowered from the arched way, four stout arms akimbo, fierce angels barring his entry to the church.

But the scuffle had attracted company. Seph levered himself to standing, leaning on the gravestone where the sisters had pushed him, slapping dust from dark trousers, and the woman emerging from the church peered between the gate-keeping angels. She saw him, did not acknowledge him in any way and conferred quietly with Seph's sisters-in-law.

Time to call for back-up.

Seph turned to shout for Morris to come with him but across the gravel carpark Yasu's car cut furrows through the stones as she cornered sharply, braked hard, missed a reluctantly emerging Morris but clipped his door before skidding to a halt.

# Chapter 43: Mired in the ruck

Yasu fell out of the driver's door like an illegal dive from the line-out.

'Don't you laugh at me, you fuckwit!'

'I'm not laughing, I'm not laughing...'

No, this was no laughing matter. He straightened his jacket, brushed dusty knees one last time.

Yasu, shoes now on, was shouting abuse at Morris. Seph judged the screaming – extreme volume, but with the detail muffled because she had her head fully through Morris's side window. Tactical error: wife number two was starting the game by giving him a breathing space. Space to stand up, test the knot of his tie, stop wasting time and walk up to the mother of the former bride, now deceased, wife number one.

Melania's stare wilted the carnation in his lapel. 'What do you want?'

Why did people have to ask? She knew what he wanted, without asking, without making him say it? His Kara, her daughter, his first wife, his first love.

'I want to say goodbye.'

One of the sisters raised a beefy forearm. 'You ought to think of that before now!'

He'd never sorted which sister was which, and it was too late to work out which was the older, which the younger, twinned in outrage.

Kara's mother, fast and matriarchal, caught the wrist, silenced the sister with one look. 'In memory of Kara, I suppose we must forgive.'

The other sister snorted. 'I'm working on that, but I'll take a long time!'

The first sister spat at his feet and Melania turned and slapped her, hard, across the face. The second sister burst into tears and they slipped backwards behind their mother's back, fell into each other's arms and shook with weeping.

Melania said, 'You can come in.'

Seph took a tentative step and gravel crunched under his shoe-sole. Gravel crunching under faster feet raced up the sideline and he turned with an arm fully out to intercept Yasu as she rushed up the path, eyes on her goal. She rebounded into his ribs so hard he was winded; how could someone so tiny pack such a hit?

Yasu fought to get free; Seph clutched hard at slippery pink sleeves. He clung on, folding Yasu into his chest, arms tight around her; she pummelled his forearm and he swore at a jab of pain as she kicked a heel into his knee. The scramble brought them close to the bottom of the low steps at the church door. He caught a glimpse of Melania's skirt from the corner of his eye as his late mother-in-law stepped to one side.

And they were both close enough to hear, 'Your mother, Seph, is in the church, she will be very pleased to see you. I will send the girls in to tell her that you're here.'

Yasu panted. 'Right! I'm going in. And I'm going to make sure you all see my wedding ring.'

His mother! He wasn't certain about whether he was winning the fight with Yaz, even given his advantages of height, weight and reach. He was mostly certain that he had beaten his ex-sisters-in-law by standing firm and refusing to leave. As for his late mother-in-law, he'd always been totally confused about whether she hated him for marrying her daughter or loved him for driving an abandoned daughter back into her arms. But he was absolutely certain about one thing. He did not want his mother to emerge from the church and meet his new wife.

Okay, decision time: no church, no funeral, no farewell. A better decision than hanging in there for a confrontation between his mother and his wife. A family welcome could wait.

Keeping a firm grip on the slippery pink sleeves, Seph half-lifted, half-dragged Yasu backwards until he bumped into Morris's car. Clamping Yaz firmly into his ribs, he fumbled the passenger door open with one hand, pushed her into the back seat, remembered to flick the kiddie lock and slammed the door. Yasu pounded on the window and screamed as he got in the front. He slammed the door as loudly as he could. Yasu started to slide across the back seat to the other door.

'Go, go, go you bastard, go!'

Morris was already accelerating down the gravel drive. 'Leave the door on.'

'Look what you've done! I've ripped a seam – two seams – shit!'

Seph threw his head back and bumped it hard on the headrest. 'Her fucking family.'

'I mean, I'm supposed to give this suit back tonight. I'm not supposed to rip it to pieces!'

Morris squealed the tyres as he took a hard left out of the driveway. 'I told you it wasn't a good idea.'

Yasu shouted, 'And my car's back there, you know! I am assuming we are going back for my car, okay?'

Seph flung over his shoulder, 'You stay right there. I just wanted to say goodbye. That's all. To say I'm sorry, and to say goodbye. I wouldn't have made a speech or anything. I just wanted –'

'You keep saying that and that'll be the last thing you'll want. I can reach you from here, you know. Just shut up!'

'What d'you want to do?'

Seph shrugged. 'Hotel, I guess. Back to the hotel.'

Morris kept his foot down. 'Not a good idea at the moment. Your hotel bill is huge.'

'You stop this car, Morris, I'm getting out.'

'I don't give a shit where we go. You tell me.'

Morris followed the arrows around a roundabout. 'I made some phone calls. I can get us on a plane, this evening, but it'll be expensive.'

Yasu shouted, 'And I want a honeymoon.'

Morris raced up the on-ramp and took the airport lane. 'It'll mean going to the airport right now. I've got your passports, the Chief gave them to me when you fell off the team flight bookings. Here.'

Seph watched the sign approach. Airport next exit. 'Take it. I'm out of here.'

Morris signalled and took the exit. 'Yasu?'

'Do I have any choice?'

'Go, just go.' Seph glanced in the wing mirror but the church had long vanished from view.

# Chapter 44: Crouch

Seph watched signs and arrows flick alongside and overhead, a maze of direction. Long-term parking; no stopping.

'I'll get you to the drop-off and then find somewhere to park.

'The media need something. I've got to feed them constantly otherwise they'll invent stuff, just make up a story and publish lies.'

International terminal left arrow. Domestic terminal right arrow.

'If anyone asks about luggage, tell them your heavy stuff went with the rest of the squad gear.'

'One of us has to do some thinking, so I've been thinking for both of us. You should be grateful to me. I've been thinking while you two've been fighting.'

No reverse gear, no arrow pointing backwards to where you came from, no stopping, no chance to go back.

'The tickets should be waiting for you to pick up.'

'I've decided on an elopement angle. Running away to get married, romantic, it's a great story.'

Quarantine and customs; international flights departures and arrivals.

'Okay, so you've got your passports. I've got mine. Tickets, remember, pick up the tickets. I'll get the car into long-term parking.'

'It's a brilliant angle. Running away to get married. I should have thought of that before then I could've had a blog post all ready to go.'

Parking long-term left lane; drop-off international departures right lane. Running away.

'Get ready to jump out. They've got cameras here, I'll get a ticket if we take longer than two minutes.'

'And open this door. I can't open it from the inside. And don't ever lock me in again. You hear?'

International departures. Drop-off lane, no stopping. No stopping for contemplation of past or future, no stopping to think. No asking why he was here, no waiting for the past to catch up, no gazing into the future.

'Go, go.'

'I mean, don't congratulate me about my brilliant elopement idea. It is just so good, I can't believe I didn't think of it before. Fits all the facts, private ceremony in the hotel room, no media photos, no advance coverage, no wedding planner. Running away to a secret honeymoon at an undisclosed location. Perfect.'

Baggage thoroughly examined, prohibited items confiscated, important possessions probed. Secret compartments packed tight and locked, private memories and old dreams and new regrets never to be unpacked again.

'Don't mention running away. He's not running away, he's joining the squad.'

'He's on honeymoon. And don't pull my arm so hard! This jacket has two ripped seams and I just heard more stitches go.'

Morris was shouting instructions he couldn't hear, the grey car rolling very slowly forward. Yasu banged a hand on the bonnet; Morris's car jerked to a halt and she marched in front, two lanes of drive-through slowing to let her across, and the automatic doors swallowing her up.

Next stop: Paris.

Yasu grumbled as she scuttled to keep up with Seph's pace. 'I'm exhausted. I haven't sat down since the wedding ceremony. And I'm not wearing the right clothes for France. I've got a brand to promote. And here I am wearing someone else's brand.'

'Well, thank fuck we're out of that hotel room.' And hope like hell that Morris pays the bill.

Yasu shook out a white lace handkerchief and wiped her eyelashes carefully. 'I mean, I arranged the time specifically so that you would have an excuse for not going to her funeral. And you humiliate me by leaving me at the altar.'

I just wanted to say goodbye to Kara. Why wouldn't they let me say goodbye?

Yasu examined a line of black on the white handkerchief. 'I wish I'd thought about elopement earlier. I could have leaked the idea to the media, maybe even sold a place at the ceremony. People will ask questions about why the media wasn't there.'

As soon as he asked the question, 'Why would there be media at Kara's funeral?' he would have given anything to take it back. Yasu flipped into hysterical the fastest he'd ever seen.

'I'm talking about our wedding! Our wedding! Forget St Kara once and for all!'

Seph stopped. Prohibited items amnesty boxes, no questions asked, unwanted coins here, no going back, last chance to get rid of everything.

Yasu marched towards departures. 'You could have given me more time, told me earlier that we would be travelling on our wedding day.'

Seph trailed in her wake. Too close – he could still hear her.

'And I've got no luggage.'

'There are shops, look.'

'These aren't shops, these are places to rip off tourists. I wouldn't let these shops stock Black & Blond, that'd be the best way to ruin my brand. The good shops are in the international departure lounge. I'll get some shoes there.'

'Morris was aiming for tomorrow then he got us onto this flight.'

'At least fucking Morris isn't with us.' Yasu tucked away her handkerchief.

'At least it means I won't be too far behind the boys.'

'Remember, elopement, if anyone asks you.'

And not running away. 'They'll have landed in France by now.'

'I'll buy everything else I need when I get to France.'

'I'll be maybe twenty-four hours late for the first pre-session.'

'Wait here.'

Seph waited here. International departures swirled about him, other people's luggage scraped past his ankles, a knock at his elbow made him look back.

Morris was breathing hard. 'I got us three seats together. Had to put it on your card. Should be okay. Where's Yasu vanished to?'

Running away to get married. Not running away.

# Chapter 45: Bind

'Thank God it's a new day. You would not believe who I met last night; guess who I met, go on, guess.'

'Cassidy, will you stop complaining, stop standing there and stop bothering me.'

Cassidy ignored all Heather's instructions. Complaining to Heather was so much a part of her routine at the start of the day. If she didn't complain to Heather, who would she complain to? Time to share this insight, if only to make Heather feel happier about listening to Cassidy's complaints.

'Well, you should be flattered. At least I'm not holding anything back from you. And you could pass my complaints on to Roy, which might even result in some changes, which might make Hectors a better place to work. Have you thought about things from my side of your desk?'

Heather slammed her chair backwards until furniture collided. 'Now see what you've made me do – if that printer's broken, I'm telling Roy it's your fault. And don't give me grief. I'm being given enough grief by the auditors, I went home totally stressed out yesterday. And you're making me sound like a teenager.'

'Auditors? Since when did Hectors engage auditors? We're a financial forensics firm, for God's sake, we find our own money.'

Except that I seem to be in a financial bind with only my project on the horizon to rescue me.

Heather talked over Cassidy's thoughts. 'And I still can't balance the petty cash, Roy is blaming me when the petty cash is the least of our worries.'

Cassidy fiddled with pages neatly stapled and placed in Heather's out tray.

'Don't touch that! That's confidential to – something I'm writing. I mean, something confidential for Roy and Jeremy.'

Roy and Jeremy. Jeremy, in particular. Cassidy blushed and hated her instant feeling of...

Oh, Cassidy, Melissa cooed. One source of guilt for you, among all the others? It's so much fun being here inside your head, I'm positively toasting in remembered jealousy that Roy took Jeremy into partnership instead of you. Professional jealousy, I hope? Nothing personal?

'And don't try to read upside down either. Just go away, Cassidy, I have more than enough to do, and no time to chat. How come you've got time to chat? Shouldn't you be out earning money for us?'

'Now you're sounding like Roy.' Cassidy yawned. 'Don't fret. These are paper problems, accounting problems, that's what auditors love. They're not looking for real money.'

Cassidy looked up from her failure to read the front page of the stacked bound pages. Curious: Heather stood up, pushed in her chair neatly under the desk's kneehole, and walked quietly around to where Cassidy stood on the opposite side. Cassidy squinted: very curious, Heather was walking at an angle. Cassidy checked for a broken heel or one shoe missing; no, Heather really was walking on tiptoe.

'Sore feet?'

By this time Heather had tip-toed around her own desk to sidle alongside Cassidy. A grip on her forearm made Cassidy wince, but the tip-toe stance and the arm leverage brought Heather's chin up to Cassidy's ear.

'Cassidy,' and Heather's whisper was so urgent that Cassidy was too surprised to shake her off, to scold her not to grab anyone's arm that hard, it was like the bite of a money-lender, 'no, these problems are more than paper problems.' Heather's breathy whisper made Cassidy's ear fog up. 'We have a real money problem.'

Cassidy asked at normal volume, 'Why do you think there's a real problem?'

'Sssh!' The hissed whisper, the trembling fingers, but most of all the aching pinch of that grip: panic, and Heather's hand slipped from forearm to become a crushing pressure on Cassidy's wrist. 'Not so loud! We don't want everyone to start to guess!'

'Everyone? Heather, there's no-one here. There's you and me. By the way, where is everybody?'

Heather's whisper hit frantic. 'Can't you see that's part of the problem? I mean, everyone who was out for a drink with Shane yesterday hasn't come in this morning. I mean, why? What's going on?' Heather dropped from her toes and released her grip.

Cassidy massaged an aching wrist. 'Have you talked to Roy?' And watched Heather scurry back to the working side of her desk.

From chair level, Heather looked steadily at Cassidy. 'What are you going to do about this?'

When in doubt, make a decision. 'I will take a month's holiday.' Life lesson: when in doubt, any decision will do.

Melissa sniggered. You'll find out, Cassidy, what a life lesson really is.

Find out when?

When you get a life.

Heather yelped, 'What? For a moment there, I thought you were going to help. And why take a holiday in the middle of winter?'

'You told me when I got back last week that it's spring now.'

'And you told me you still hated the weather. Why now? Haven't you been listening to a word I said?' Heather's eyes narrowed. 'And what about all that rubbish you were telling me yesterday? Complaining about the boyfriend, your apartment, all that nonsense? I suppose you've solved your problems by getting the millionaire to pay for everything.'

Cassidy forced away the twinge of guilt. 'Someone else will have solved all these problems by the time I get back.'

Heather shuffled her desktop calendar. 'You haven't got any paid holiday due. You've used it all up.'

Bring me solutions, Cassidy thought. 'I'll take a month of unpaid leave.'

Heather leaned on her elbows, nudging her keyboard. 'Oh really? Do I get one guess as to whose money you're going to live off?'

'Ouch.'

'Good.'

Melissa chortled. That stung, didn't it? Score one to Heather.

Cassidy was still struggling to think up a decent exit line when Heather's phone rang. Exit, without courtesies; she took a furtive step towards the safety of her own desk as Heather tapped speakerphone.

Roy's voice sounded thin. 'I'm looking for Cassidy. She's not answering her extension. Has she gone to lunch already?'

Heather announced, 'Cassidy? I'm not sure she's still here. She decided to take one month's unpaid leave.'

You little office rat.

Roy's reaction vibrated Cassidy's shoes.

Heather tapped the off button and studied Cassidy on the opposite side of the desk. 'Well, you heard.'

# Chapter 46: Set

The atmosphere in Roy's office could only be described – Cassidy could taste the absolutely correct word – as different from usual, almost solid with melancholy. Curdled was the word.

And their argument was different from their usual arguments. But she couldn't find the right word to describe the argument. Neither of them seemed to be enjoying the argument as they usually did. Well, she argued with herself, Roy usually seemed to enjoy arguing with her.

When I have this office, I will move Roy's desk. My desk, I mean, as it will be by that time; I will move my desk. And I will practise my interview skills, not simply argue with people, so that I can ask them what they want to say. But for this argument, if she used her interview skills to draw out Roy's real problem, chances were that she wouldn't be free to take her month's holiday – which she planned to spend on the balcony of Miles's harbour-side penthouse, soaking up the magnificent Auckland view and in the balcony spa.

Cassidy studied Roy studying the floor-to-ceiling glass between him and a fall into nothing. Use those forensic skills, that interview technique, don't rush in where fools fear to tread! What would Melissa advise?

Okay; the imaginary Melissa crossed slim ankles and put her stilettos on Roy's desk; confront him! Don't yap about holidays, clients, possible problems that Hectors is temporarily experiencing. Make accusations. Make Roy fire you and demand to be paid out big!

I may be concerned about Roy and worried about Heather, what with everyone acting strangely and all, but I'm also concerned for my own job. It's all right for me to dislike occasional clients and to want a month's holiday, but not all right if Roy fires me.

Roy pulled his attention from the window glass. 'First, you are not on holiday as long as you are at your desk.'

Cassidy snapped, 'Fine. I'm not at my desk right now, so as far as I'm concerned, I'm on holiday.' I really, really shouldn't have said that. Not what I had planned at all. Interview skills, where are you when I need you?

Roy shrugged. 'All right. Fine. You're on holiday. Now come and see me after lunch when you've settled down.'

Now all you do, Melissa instructed, is walk to the door, open it, step from Roy's office onto that tacky beige carpet and walk away, leaving Roy staring into space. Get out of here before he changes his oddly distracted mind.

Strange how hard it was to get herself away. Cassidy swivelled in her chair and surveyed the vacant desks around her. Was she really the last to leave? Should she turn out the lights while she had a rare lunch hour? She settled for flicking three out of the four switches near her desk; gloom settled behind filing cabinets and under the kneeholes of desks, and Cassidy turned her face towards the distant glow of the still-illuminated lift lobby.

Even Heather's desk had been vacated. When had Heather started taking a lunch hour?

Cassidy looked sideways at Heather's out tray as she tiptoed past; curious how Heather had failed to reveal what all that paper was, so perhaps the answer would be to inadvertently-on-purpose pick up a document as she snuck past – but no luck. The bulky stapled documents had vanished too.

Cassidy pressed the lift call button and contemplated the light switches, one flick and the entire eleventh floor would be plunged into darkness... she stared at a flicker of movement along a dark hallway. Ghosts?

Roy. Cassidy studied her boss. In the stark white lights of the lift lobby, Roy's colour had sunk to a greyish off-white. 'I want you to do a particular job for me.'

'Can I do it while I'm on holiday?'

Roy practised his staring, the decapitated signboard announced Ector Partners Consulting, Financial Forensics. Cassidy's sense of lingering concern stopped lingering and stared openly.

Roy stared at Ector. 'Well, let's assume for the moment you're not on holiday.'

Cassidy cursed the slow lift and the error in the electronics that had allowed the advice panel to tell her for at least two minutes that the lift was currently at level seven, Generosity Limited. Who knew where it really was?

Roy continued to force his words out. 'To do this job, you will have to,' Cassidy waited, 'detach yourself from Miles Oldridge.'

Did I hear that? I can't believe I heard Roy say that. 'Well, that's going to be difficult as I'm going out to have lunch with him.'

Cassidy, sighed Melissa, you'll hate yourself for giving an explanation, particularly lying that you're going to have lunch with someone who hasn't invited you. Never explain, never justify; get out of here.

Cassidy counted his steps from the lift lobby and winced at the crash. Slamming Roy's door used to be her job.

Melissa applauded. Well done, Cassidy! You'll be out of here before you know it. The lift cage arrived just a little too late for Cassidy to practise giving Roy a very frigid shoulder. Exit, dignity intact.

See you after lunch, indeed.

# Chapter 47: Staring down the barrel

Cassidy tilted her face to soak up sun. Healthful sun, she excused herself, I'm not going to get sunburnt like in Queenstown, where the winter sun is deflected upwards from the snow under your boots at the right angle to give you sunburnt nostrils. Waiheke Island sun was mellow. And Cassidy was very mellow, after several glasses of whatever Miles had ordered.

Time, in fact, to take another sip.

And yet another sip. The winter Waiheke sun had warmed the wine to swirl the bouquet in the glass. Cassidy let her head drop back again and tapped her sunglasses into place to shield closed eyes. For once she had demonstrated perfect footwork, emerging from Hector Building precisely as her phone vibrated with excitement. A text from Miles, an invitation to lunch, he was already on Waiheke Island finishing a meeting, join him now. And here they were, finishing a very long lunch.

Okay, so she was on her own temporarily, in the company of Miles's empty plate and half-empty glass and completely empty chair. Cassidy sighed, replete with food and wine and sun. Not only alone at their table, she was alone on the restaurant's vine-draped outdoor seating area. With everyone else, presumably, having gone back to work. She opened her eyes to appreciate the expensive view of the sea. Not a soul on the terrace, but one person paddling on the beach.

The afternoon was almost, but not quite, cooling to the temperature when she might need to retreat inside, where the restaurant had a fire fed by vine clippings. And where she could see Miles, phone clamped to ear, talking and annoyingly sober. She had drunk too much for lunch, too much for a workday and far too much to be able to concentrate on work.

So don't return to Hectors, sweetie; Melissa snuggled into Miles's vacant chair. If you don't return to work, then you can stay here drinking.

Or she could take the slow ferryboat back to the terminal at the cold city.

Melissa chuckled. But you could detour to Miles's penthouse and maybe another hot spa for the afternoon. Before more drinking and another meal and then –

And then what? A shiver of doubt made Cassidy sit up. She couldn't go day after day, reporting for companionship duty whenever Miles sent her a text to have lunch or drinks or dinner. But a month's unpaid leave, definitely. After all, she deserved some time off. All she was asking for was that Roy and Heather would give her a little consideration for once.

The sun was still making a brave effort, and the pale gold of late winter afternoon reminded Cassidy of the wine they had polished off for lunch. Had she paid too much attention to drinking and too little to the finer aspects of wine, the way the colour glimmered in her glass, the heady nose? Perhaps she hadn't been able to smell anything much because of aromatic smoke and the drift of salty air and the last remnants of her cold. A bluster of breeze found its way around the corner of the terrace. It was September, after all, Cassidy reminded herself, and she should really be trying to keep warm. She huddled in her coat, amusing herself by peering through the wine half-barrels that had been stacked together to make a feature wall, a visual divider around the terrace to frame her view of the sea. Through one half-barrel the woman paddling at the edge of the tide had drawn much closer. And Cassidy recognised Krizten, Miles's not-quite-ex-wife.

Miles had mentioned a meeting.

He did indeed mention a meeting, murmured Melissa, but he didn't say whom he had been meeting with.

Cassidy studied Miles's soon-to-be-divorced wife paddling, lifting her knees above the foam on the top of the ripples. Krizten was close enough for Cassidy to take careful note that she was talking on her phone.

Cassidy turned her back, but now her view was framed through the terrace windows: Miles talking on his phone.

Well, anyway, Cassidy told herself, if I'm going to spoil that island afternoon by feeling slightly guilty about anything, by now I should feel slightly guilty about getting back to the office. Hectors might need me.

And Melissa was triumphant. If Miles sees Krizten, especially Krizten in whatever state she is in, cavorting in the sea on a late afternoon in winter, not dressed for the occasion, and not paying attention as she chats on her phone, then Miles will feel compelled to go to the assistance of his not-quite-ex-wife. And who knows how long that will take? All of which will make you further delayed from going back at work.

The sun had crept away from the barrels around the terrace, and the breeze was definitely now afternoon sea gusts. Cassidy abandoned the dregs of her coffee, dragged open the door to the restaurant and was rewarded by Miles cutting off his phone caller, possibly even in mid-sentence. Miles smiled; unfortunately the smile didn't warm Cassidy as much as she needed, after the bone-chilling terrace interlude and the lack of warmth from dying vine clippings, now pale scented ash on the hearth.

Miles said, 'That's settled – we're in France for the rest of September. Pre-tournament rugby, a lot of events, it's all sorted. We're away tonight.'

A month in France, fabulous...

Except that Miles hasn't actually asked you whether you're available to take a month off work, Melissa was unbearably smug. There's an assumption here, Cassidy dear, that you're simply ready and willing to drop everything and go to France; don't you think he's taking you a teensy bit for granted?

I deserve a little bit of luxury; Cassidy ignored Melissa. A month in France, fabulous, and presumably Miles would be paying for everything. After all, she had clearly told Roy and Heather that she intended to take one month's unpaid leave, and now she might as well go to France. That would show them she was serious.

Miles is paying, too, Melissa reminded her. After all, your wallet is empty.

And as Miles added a tip to the bill, large enough to make the vineyard owner smile, now she had no choice.

# Chapter 48: Come back for the penalty

With the bravado of someone who is about to take, not simply a month of unpaid leave, but a month of holiday in France, Cassidy walked into the Hector building and prepared to walk out on her job.

'Finally back? Where've you been?' Heather was more than shrill; there was a vibration of panic that Cassidy did not think she'd ever heard before.

'Lunch.'

'Lunch? If you'd been any longer, you could have been eating tomorrow's breakfast.'

'Okay, late lunch. We were – I was on Waiheke.'

'You went to Waiheke Island for lunch? How were you intending to fit that into your lunch half-hour?'

Cassidy studied Heather. Printer silent behind Heather's chair, nothing in the in tray, nothing in the out tray. Heather looking rather pale, not just winter-pale, but somehow – work-crisis pale.

'Is something wrong? Did the sky fall while I was out?'

'Lunch on Waiheke for hours and hours isn't just out.' Heather made a visible effort to change gear. 'Yes. Well. No-one turned up for work this morning. Remember the entire office had drinks with Shane, yesterday? Apparently he's offered them the lot: more interesting work, rugby connections, fun work at the tournament coordination hub, everything you can think of.'

'More money?'

'More money. Yes.'

There's good news, there's bad news, and there's news that is not only a surprise but also a problem. If everyone else was leaving, Cassidy thought, the fact that other staff are leaving might cast a tiny shadow over the fact that she was intending to take a month's leave. In fact, according to her memory, she was already on her leave, and had only come back into the office to –

Actually, Melissa queried, that is a good thought. Why have you bothered to come back to the office? Only because you finished lunch with Miles and needed somewhere to fill in the hours before dinner? With Miles?

Heather was staring at her.

Cassidy said, 'You mean they didn't turn up? What about giving notice, getting their final pay, all that shit? Remind me what our employment contracts say – I'm sure that if people walk out, they forfeit all their accrued pay in lieu of notice?'

Heather shrugged. 'That's assuming there would be money in the kitty to pay them. People can tell when the money's drying up, Cassidy. Haven't you noticed?'

Had she noticed? Heather's comments were more than surprising; Cassidy felt shock. She had spent the return ferry journey, the entire trip from the island to the jetty at the foot of Queen Street, arguing with an imaginary Melissa that she wasn't necessarily available to rush off to France at someone else's expense, and losing the argument.

What was I thinking? Why hadn't I applied my forensic skills to my own employer?

Heather lowered herself into her chair. 'Well, you're the last one to know. Well, at least you are still one of the team...'

Am I still one of the team? Don't rely on me – I'm on a month's leave, unpaid at it would now appear not from choice but from necessity.

'... you, me and Roy – looks like we're going to be the stayers. The others are all rats leaving a sinking ship.' Heather looked furtive. 'And there is something I need to discuss with you... Roy wants to see you, of course, but now at least you know what he's going to tell you. And I'll catch you after he's finished talking to you. Off you go.'

But what was Heather going to ask? Oh no, surely not – was Heather going to ask for a written reference for a new job? Cassidy was almost relieved to arrive at Roy's door and to file that thought in the pending tray.

# Chapter 49: Out on the full

'What did you tell me?'

Cassidy dug a heel into the carpet and smeared a bit of Waiheke lunchtime mud from her shoe onto the carpet. As she wiped her shoe back and forth, she reminded herself of the essentials when dealing with a boss, especially when playing a hand from a slightly weak position. Such as when she'd been at lunch until after four in the afternoon, for example, and such as when she now needed to tell Roy that she would definitely be away for a month, on unpaid leave, with her boyfriend. And especially when that boyfriend used to be Roy's most lucrative client, and was his client no longer.

'Okay, look, I've taken a long lunch so Heather has only just told me that you want to see me.'

'Getting back to the office at four.'

'Well, all right, I apologise.'

'I don't care about your apology.'

That was a first, Cassidy thought, and probably not a good first. She braced herself for the eruption of the fury.

'I don't care about lunch and what time you get back to the office.'

That too was a first, and definitely a bad first.

Roy stared at his desk, clear except for a small envelope, flap folded closed and inexpertly sealed. 'This envelope is for you and I'm not taking no for an answer, so don't give me grief.' Roy shoved the envelope towards her side of the desk so hard that it nearly slid over the edge, with nothing between the envelope and Cassidy to slow its path. 'This envelope – as a friend I'm telling you, you will want to knock on the head your –' Roy seemed to struggle for the words, '– your increasingly close relationship with Miles.'

Roy's office today seemed to be sending them both speechless. Was it horror at the stopped skeleton clock, at the clash of purple faded to old rose on the chairs, at the split seams on Roy's black executive leather chair? Cassidy struggled for words.

Roy filled the silence. 'I didn't worry if you went out with him occasionally. I've always been willing to bend the rules a little. But –'

Speech returned with a vengeance. 'Who the hell are you to tell me how to run my private life?' She took a deep breath. 'I resign.'

'No, you don't. Don't be silly.'

The last straw. Cassidy dredged from memory all she knew about how to survive office life.

Melissa was encouraging. When in doubt, erupt.

And all that had happened was that Roy had called her – silly! Her employer had called her silly!

The alcohol haze from lunch, the escape route to a month's holiday in France, office survival according to Melissa Setter-Hughes, and being lectured by Roy on her personal life sparked the fuel. And the miserly bastard had refused to cough up for the rich women's club membership subscription, when she had absolutely, Cassidy reminded herself, absolutely only ever joined up to keep Roy happy: ignition.

Melissa nagging in her head. I keep telling you, Cassidy: give an uncooperative employer an ultimatum. When in doubt –

'I resign.' Yes, that was good advice from her inner Melissa. Resign, resign, and resign again until the employer gets the message.

Or was there more to it? Resign on the spot, or resign from a position of power? Resign when there is a chance your resignation will be accepted, or resign when the boss simply can't afford to let you go? And which applied in this particular moment? Heather had talked of problems, and Cassidy tried to recall – no loans from petty cash, not enough money for bonuses, staff walking out. Maybe this wasn't the time to implement Melissa Setter-Hughes's advice to resign from a well-paid job.

Pride kept Cassidy's mouth shut and her resignation open.

Roy heaved himself out of his black leather executive chair, making a significant attempt for once not to deepen the crack in the plaster. Cassidy rested her knuckles on Roy's desk, thankful for once to lean forward and hold onto support. She watched Roy scoop up the envelope, shuffle across his office and hold open the door politely for her.

Cassidy took a deep breath, straightened up and picked up her muddy heels. When she was two steps from the doorway, Roy lifted the envelope and Cassidy halted.

'You're not leaving this office until I hand over this information.'

Get me out of here. Cassidy snatched the envelope from Roy's hand.

Roy wearily turned his back. 'Now get out and don't let me see you again before you've worked through what's in that envelope.'

Cassidy trampled flat beige carpet-pile, pushed by the seismic wave of slammed door.

Memo to self: Never open Roy's envelope.

Three wire angels had flattened themselves in the bottom drawer of her desk. As Cassidy hesitated over the angels, Heather sidled around the corner. Cassidy slammed the bottom drawer closed on Christmas past.

'I want your help.'

Cassidy snapped, 'So where've all the desks gone? Lucky me, I seem to have the only desk still standing.'

Heather muttered, 'The furniture was leased. I cancelled the lease as soon as Shane led the walk-out.' She nudged Cassidy's arm. 'Here – take it. Evidence – it's evidence of something at Hectors that I don't know what to do about.'

Another envelope? 'What is it with envelopes – everyone's giving me sealed envelopes! I see we still have plenty of office stationery.'

Heather looked deathly pale. 'Why? Who else has given you an envelope?'

Not answering Heather's question seemed the best way to bury Roy's envelope for ever.

'I'm off.'

'Off?'

'Out of here before I'm sold off with the office furniture.' She took Heather's envelope.

And was about to open it when Heather hissed, 'Don't! Don't open it here! Open that envelope at home!'

Rather difficult when one does not have a home at the moment. But, Cassidy reflected more cheerfully, in the absence of a home of her own, she was quite absolved from any responsibility to open Heather's envelope.

From the lift cage, Cassidy took a deep breath, a last look at a pale Heather and waved goodbye. Next stop: Paris.

Heather didn't wave, didn't smile and didn't watch Cassidy as the lift cage doors slid closed.

# Chapter 50: Five – nil

Alone in luxury in France. Blessing number one. Beyond tired, and sick of traveling, and absolutely totally fatigued and exhausted and many, many other words that she was simply too shattered to think of.

Tired even of first class air travel, Cassidy, dear?

Yes, tired even of first class travel – who would have thought, Cassidy asked herself, without energy to marvel that here, half-way around the world from Auckland, her inner Melissa Setter-Hughes had accompanied her on holiday.

Think that this will be a holiday, Cassidy? You've clearly never travelled as a fully-paid-for companion to a millionaire before. You may find this is less of a holiday than you think.

But right now, alone – apart from the invisible, albeit carping, Melissa – and quiet, if she ignored the traffic noise from the street below, and in one place – surely she was entirely justified in counting her blessings. In one place where she would be staying put for one month, the one month of her holiday in France, her paid-for-by-someone-else holiday in Paris, France... except, perhaps, Melissa had a point.

Of course I have a point, sighed Melissa, digging into the carpet pile with her virtual toes in their nonexistent hand-stitched finest quality leather, small bronze stars on the toe-caps.

At least airports offer duty-free shopping – blessing number two? After all, you've got to be on your way somewhere to be on the far side of the exit barriers, where all the best shopping is to be found. Although the barely-glimpsed prices of shoes in the display niches in the international terminal had made Cassidy shudder while her well-shod inner Melissa identified the gaps in Cassidy's wardrobe.

All those shoes, Melissa lectured, all those clothes and all your furniture, your entire life chucked out of the window and into thin air, leaving you with – well, with what?

Her inner Melissa was trying to make her uneasy and, Cassidy had to admit, was merrily succeeding. And she had told Roy where he could shove the job. Freedom, independence, surely these were long-overdue blessing number three? Cassidy didn't want to expend the brain energy on trying to remember how many years she'd been employed at Hectors. Not employed, she instructed herself, wasted, all those wasted years being a wage slave.

Just suppose – Cassidy's inner Melissa found a comfortable cushion, settled down and continued to lecture – just suppose that you wanted to retain your independence and self-respect. You have resigned from your job, so you find it impossible to pay for a Paris holiday from your negative bank balance. Ask yourself, what's it like being dependent on someone else's money? D'you like that? Hmmm? Answer the question honestly...

Cassidy tried to ignore herself. Blessing number four, luxury hotel. Miles had checked them into – into wherever she was; really must memorise hotel name, street name, something to find my way back in the absence of leaving a trail of breadcrumbs, Cassidy reminded herself, on the off chance that sometime in this month I will have enough energy to get out of our hotel suite and stroll to a shoe shop.

And what happened next, demanded Melissa, dangling one elegant shoe from a pedicured toe. Tell me what happened after Miles checked in without even asking you whether you wanted a spare swipe card for the room

Cassidy prayed for repressed memory. I had to mutter an embarrassed thank you to the desk clerk who – blessing number five – offered me the card, silently, as Miles strode his happy way over to the lift followed obediently by the porter and the luggage.

Yes, Melissa kicked off bronze-starred shoes and swung pedicured feet up onto the chaise longue, you were left on your own, and nearly missed the closing lift doors with Miles, the porter and the luggage on one side and you on the other. At least the porter kept the door from sliding firmly closed on you, while Miles took his tenth call of the check-in interlude. Doesn't that man ever turn his phone off? He even has whatever that technological requirement is to make legitimate phone calls from mid-air when all lesser passengers are required to switch off their mobile devices. And, Melissa snuggled her shoulders into white wool cushions, you're still on your own.

Cassidy opened her eyes. She was on her own on the balcony of Miles's luxury suite – our luxury suite, Cassidy whispered fiercely to herself. And yes, she was alone and enjoying every moment of her Paris solitude, looking out at the hazy light over golden buildings, ignoring the roar of traffic and appreciating the quintessentially French window-box of red geraniums. She stretched her toes to push on the warm stone surround of the balcony.

I could get used to luxury, to not working and to being looked after and paid for by someone else. Although it feels a little like a sin, and I feel a little like I ought to confess to something, or someone... like the way I used to tell Heather things...

Her inner Melissa mimicked the fold of Cassidy's hands behind the head and eyed her doubtfully. Could you really? I'm not so sure... After all, something in this set-up is preventing you from actually unpacking your suitcase. Are you sure it's just fatigue from travel, unwillingness to confront a lot of dirty laundry and procrastination on the grounds that you'd rather sit on the balcony, look at the geraniums and close your eyes against the afternoon light?

Cassidy checked her watch, adjusted the hands and her mind to Paris time, then mentally readjusted both watch and memory back to Auckland. What would her Hector Partners Consulting, Financial Forensics colleagues be doing right now in the office?

Former colleagues. You resigned, remember?

All because I followed the advice of Melissa Setter-Hughes, what was I thinking? What that woman knows about actual survival in the gritty ruck of office politics could be wrapped up in a very small envelope.

A tad rude, darling.

Envelope – correction, envelopes. One from Roy, one from Heather. Had she packed them? Cassidy couldn't remember, and it was too overwhelming to lift herself from the balcony seat and find the key to her locked suitcase and open it and search. Later, maybe.

Meanwhile, back to the question of what she would be doing in the office if she were still there right now. Not a lot, she reminded herself – apart from the small matter of having resigned, so she wouldn't be doing anything in the office, it must be sometime in the middle of the night in Hector Consulting, so there wouldn't be much happening.

Cassidy's mind roamed freely from empty office space to empty office space. Empty because it was the middle of the Auckland night? Empty, the unwelcome thought intruded, because a lot of other people have also resigned from Hectors and Heather cancelled the furniture lease. So, even if it were one of those Auckland nights when Hector Partners is unsleeping, there might only be Roy and Heather and maybe some survivors whose names, Cassidy told herself, she had already forgotten, in the office so they will all be having to do everything. Including, to take an example at random, to operate the franking machine for any outgoing envelopes.

Envelopes. Whether or not they are in her locked suitcase didn't matter, because she was never going to open them anyway. Envelopes and geraniums and jet lag and...

And a shock of instant alertness when her phone rang in her pocket. Cassidy groaned herself upright on the balcony seat, fumbled her phone into her hand, checked the screen. Heather.

Heather?

Cassidy thumbed the call. 'It's the middle of the night where you are. Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?'

Heather was a touch echoey. 'Because it's the middle of the day where you are. Would you prefer a midnight phone call?'

'No. Very thoughtful of you. Thank you.'

An echoey Heather was still as urgent as ever. 'Have you opened that envelope I gave you yet?'

Funny how even guilt can track you down. Cassidy tried to assemble her thoughts to come up with an excuse, and settled for a distraction. 'Um... how come your call got through to me so easily?' Envelopes, shit, why didn't I check whether I packed them when I packed?

'I put global roaming on your phone.'

Where is the key to my suitcase? Cassidy heaved herself to standing upright and struggled to force long-haul swollen feet into tight leather. 'What! I thought Hectors was in money strife. The cost! What did Roy say to that?'

'He doesn't know because I haven't told him.'

Fair enough. Traffic noise sank as Cassidy ducked through the drapes into the suite, then cut off as she slid the balcony windows closed. Should she remind Heather that, technically, Hector Partners should no longer be paying for her mobile coverage, global roaming or no global roaming? Cassidy tried to haul her suitcase right way up with one hand and broke a nail. Double shit! 'But who approved it?'

'I did. I know all Roy's approval codes. And one more thing about Roy...'

'What?' Cassidy struggled to fiddle with her suitcase key with one hand while not breaking more fingernails. The key turned in the locks. Cassidy looked at the mess of her suitcase. Envelopes, where are you?

Heather was talking, fading in and out. 'Roy has put through your termination of employment. But I'm holding it in my pending tray.'

Cassidy rummaged with one hand. 'Just process it. I'm not coming back to Hectors.'

Heather talked over Cassidy. 'I can hold it for a few days.'

Cassidy tried to rummage with both hands, dropped the phone, retrieved it again. 'Still there, Heather? Look, I really don't care, but I won't be sitting at my desk again. Believe me.'

Heather was suddenly louder and Cassidy had to hold the phone away from her ear. '– but not too long – I mean, haven't you read my stuff yet? I mean, I even put a memo on top that summarises everything.'

Cassidy resorted to throwing stuff out of her suitcase. 'Just a minute – just a minute –' No envelopes appeared. But she was only at the surface of this mess.

'Hurry up! This phone call is costing Hectors and me an absolute fortune.'

'Why?' Cassidy fumbled, holding her phone with one hand. 'Why is it costing you a fortune? Aren't you at work? Don't tell me you're calling me from your home.'

The phone buzzed in her ear.

'Speak up, Heather, I can't hear you. Heather? Heather!'

Cassidy tried re-dial. No connection. She looked at her phone and the battery red light. Phone charger, where is my phone charger? Did I bring it? Will it work? To hell with the envelopes, wherever they are, where's the phone charger?

Battery dead.

# Chapter 51: The top two inches

Seph tried to open the window but it was stuck, or something – he twisted the handle one way then the other, and then held the oddly-shaped metal with one hand while with the other fist he thumped the window-frame. Nothing.

'What are you doing – trying to smash the window? Hey, here's a joke for you – what's different about a hotel room in France?'

Seph gave up on the window. He pressed his forehead as hard as he could on the glass. Maybe if he squinted... no. Trying that hard about made him cross-eyed and gave him a sharp stab of headache. 'All hotel rooms are the same – shit.'

'What the hell are you doing now – trying to head-butt the window? Give it a rest! Wrong. The correct answer is – in a French hotel room we can do it French!'

Seph pulled the curtain away from his fingers and the sticky fabric draped to the floor.

... _and all he wants is to catch a glimpse of the hotel where the boys are staying. Seph Daniel reminds himself he's still part of the squad but he's not convincing anyone..._

There was no way, unless he could train his eyes to stare around corners, to see the squad hotel from where he and Yaz were holed up.

He muttered, 'What a dump.'

Yasu hammered her tablet. 'I cannot believe this coverage. It's definitely not quality, not serious coverage of us getting married. I cannot believe how tabloid New Zealand media websites are. Rubbish.' She stopped typing for a moment and thumbed the screen.

Seph complained, 'What the hell do you find to write about on your blog? You update it every five seconds.'

'You'll find out...'

Seph walked behind her, wrapped her shoulders up with his embrace, and tried to read over her shoulder. The tablet screen was too small, he couldn't read the lines of text, and Yasu struggled too much so he let go.

'Don't! It's too soon for you to read what I write.'

Seph stretched and his fingertips brushed the ceiling. 'Or maybe you can't write.'

Yasu tapped busily. 'Oh, wouldn't you like to know what I write... I've got a big project on. You'll find out, when it's time for you to read my – to read and find out.'

Seph dropped into a press-up. 'I wouldn't waste my time reading your blog. I'm surprised you have anything to write. Got up, got dressed, went shopping.'

Yasu resumed typing. 'What do you think? If I didn't update my blog, my subscribers wouldn't keep reading me. Don't worry, I never tell the truth. Can you believe this: funeral fiasco, is one headline. Rugby star tackled at wife's funeral, brilliant, not.'

Seph tried to loosen one shoulder and knocked a lamp askew on a side table. 'So what's the point of writing a blog? If you're just making stuff up?'

Yasu skewered him with a look over the top of the tilted screen. 'Mind the furniture. You mean you want me to write the truth about everything? Like the plane flight – like I was stuck next to Morris, like he snored the entire way and stank of sweat, you want me to write that? I'm trying to get the truth on-line, like we got married because we love each other, trying to correct all the lies these bloody newspaper websites are writing. Seph's car repossessed; they're still going on about that stupid car. Come sit next to me and I can post some selfies on-line.'

Seph tried to straighten the lamp and the shade buckled. 'No thanks.'

Yasu muttered, 'Charming.' She raised her voice. 'Here's another one: rumours of unpaid hotel bills – and they're still calling Kara your wife.'

Seph stepped back from the lamp and backed into an overstuffed armchair. 'Shit, this room is too small. She is my wife.'

'This hotel is fine, it's four and a half star. Stop complaining. Was your wife, past tense. I'm your wife, present tense. This is a better one. This one's got photos of Black & Blond's bikini range – good. My tweets are being followed.'

... _and Seph Daniel tries to lighten up..._

Seph took a deep breath and stood still. 'Well, you sure are tense about not getting any wedding presents.'

'And I'm not getting a honeymoon.'

So much for that joke. 'We're in Paris, in France. What do you mean, no honeymoon? What more do you want for a honeymoon?'

'Sex. We haven't done it for four days.'

Seph paced from the armchair back to the window. 'We were on the plane for two days.'

'We could have done it.' Yasu grinned into her screen. 'I could have blogged that we're members of the mile high club.'

'Could have blogged – shit!'

Yasu tapped more slowly, leaned back and flexed her fingers. 'Well, that was a lost opportunity. I've blogged that so far we have been on the plane with Morris, arrived here at the airport with Morris and in the taxi with Morris. I'm surprised he doesn't get into bed with us – not that it would make any difference.'

Seph flicked again at the sticky curtains and tried to peer downwards to street level. Nope, still wouldn't work unless he could take out his eyeballs and hold them out over the windowsill on the other side of this locked window. 'Well, he's at the other hotel now with everyone else.'

'And don't pretend that you wouldn't rather be at that other hotel too.'

'Well, we're not. We're at our own hotel. Just like you insisted.'

'Like I insisted?' Yasu hopped to her feet. 'You mean, Morris stuffed up the dates with the Chief and so your room wasn't available, so we're here in this four and a half star hotel instead of the team's four-star hotel. Anyway, I want to do some shopping and I want you to come with me.'

'More shopping? You went shopping at the airport, the moment we landed.'

Yasu flung on a gold blazer with black buttons. 'I was in my wedding dress, for God's sake! I had nothing to wear, no suitcase, nothing! And I bought you some stuff too.'

Seph collapsed in the overstuffed armchair. 'Get in touch with the hotel and get them to pack up our stuff and send it on. Morris can do it.'

Yasu stamped her feet firmly into black stilettos and gained fifteen centimetres as he watched. 'Before or after you've paid the hotel bill?'

'They got that wrong. I'm sure Morris's paid it.' He watched Yasu grab her bag. 'Anyway, I don't do shopping. I'm training, got a training session in a few minutes.'

'Fine,' was called back from the hallway. 'You go training, I'll go shopping.' The slam of the door rattled a picture on the wall and Seph let his head loll against the high back of the chair. He inspected tiny flakes of window paint stuck to his fingers. This room was too small...

# Chapter 52: Play-maker

Number Seven, blond, massive, face cragged with anxiety, loomed over Seph.

'Sorry to hear about the funeral, mate.'

Seph managed, 'Thanks. Thanks.'

Seven clapped Seph on the shoulder, gripped to the bone, massaged the rotator cuff, and shouted at two team-mates, 'Intensity!' He released Seph's shoulder and jogged away towards the culprits.

Seph rubbed his collar-bone and shook both arms loosely, easing out tight shoulders. He dug a heel into the turf and turned in a circle as his boot gouged grass. Turning brought Morris and the Chief into view. Their heads were close together as they talked and Seph shuffled on his heel, turning faster to take them out of view, but before he could spin full circle the Chief lifted his chin and met Seph's gaze. The Chief nodded at Morris and straightened up, Morris backed away a few steps and the Chief beckoned to Seph.

Seph side-stepped a short fast pass from Twelve that went wide of Thirteen, and dummied carefully around Ten and Fifteen, elbows interlocked, who were swinging opposite legs in high loosening kicks.

Fifteen panted, 'Sorry to hear about your wife's death, Lockie.' The legs kept up the pendulum movement.

Seph nodded and his sprigs chewed the short grass.

The Chief didn't move or speak, until Seph was close enough so that the older man did not have to raise his voice. Seph stopped two paces from the coach; the Chief seized his elbow and pulled him in tight. Seph stared at his boots.

The Chief muttered, 'You're supposed to be on bereavement leave. When I arranged it with Morris, you were supposed to be grief-stricken. What the hell are you doing here?'

What the hell was the answer to that question? Seph had no idea.

He looked away, at Morris a few paces distant, hands in pockets, head down, taking one slow step after another, street shoes muddy as he placed them carefully, heel and toe, heel and toe.

'Did you hear me?'

Seph switched back to attention. 'Look, I really need to talk to Morris.'

The Chief demanded, 'What about?'

None of your business...

Seph was sick of defending. 'Well, I was going to ask him about some private stuff, like my car being towed and getting him to pay my Auckland hotel bill.'

A loose ball dribbled across the cropped turf and rolled to a halt touching the outside of his boot. Seph nailed a toe-cap on top of the slippery oval, pressing the ball firmly to the grass.

... _and Seph Daniel makes absolutely certain that the ball is pressed and gets the five points..._

Number One brushed past at Seph's side. 'Sorry to hear about the funeral, mate.'

Seph took a deep breath and held it, then nodded. One dipped to the grass, scooped up the ball, and turned away. Seph kept the raised foot in mid-air and slowly swivelled the ankle, feeling tendons flex.

The Chief kept a firm grasp on Seph's elbow. 'Look, I know you're under pressure, with Kara's death.'

Not this again. Seph freed his elbow with a swift impatient tug, and half-turned away from the Chief to take the older man's impassive face out of his view.

'I am not under pressure!' Seph bit his lip and tasted blood. 'Kara's death, I'm over it. We hadn't seen each other for years. I just never got around to the divorce stuff.'

Too shrill – nearby team-mates paused, although only for a second, then turned discreet backs. Morris jumped, nearly tripping on a churned-up divot of chunky mud and stalks, and stepped quickly in Seph's direction.

Seph felt the Chief's scrutiny on him for a long moment. 'Good to know.'

A few steps had brought Morris alongside. 'Settle down, Seph.'

Seph struggled to find the words. Why didn't the Chief keep it short, like the guys were doing?

Eleven jogged within hearing distance, caught Seph's eye, called, 'Howryamate? Sorry about –' and jogged away.

Seph coughed to clear his throat.

... _and Seph Daniel struggles to string the right set of moves together..._

How to get them off his back? 'It's just things, you know, like Yasu is a bit upset, because we had to leave Auckland in a hurry. You should know that, Morris, you were there.'

Morris turned up his jacket collar and hunched his shoulders. 'Just relax, Seph.'

The Chief spoke so quietly that Seph had to strain to hear over the background noise, the chat, the calls, the smack into padding. 'Seph, let's be straight up. I want to cover some ground with you.'

Seph said nothing but his shoulders stiffened to attention. What would the Chief need to say? What he needed to hear from the Chief were those words that so far he'd only heard in his head.

... _and the team runs out onto the field for the opening game, and everyone's cheering the Chief's pick for number four, Seph Daniel, who's been playing the best he's ever played..._

But there seemed to be nothing good to hear from anyone. Number two brushed Morris aside to mutter in Seph's general direction, 'Sorry to hear about the funeral,' before trotting away to pack down.

Seph semi-closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had to know, if no-one had the guts to tell him up front. Enough of feeling guilty about everything – funeral, wedding, being in France with the team but not with the team. He blurted, 'Am I out of the team?'

There – it was out in the open.

The Chief shook his head at Seph. 'You belong with the team. The boys will look after you. I know money's an issue –'

Seph demanded, 'Who says money's an issue?'

The Chief said more quietly, 'Don't be a dickhead. Morris's told me.'

Seph rounded angrily on Morris but before he could say anything, the Chief continued, 'Being in that other hotel must be costing you a bomb. You can save money and be more of a part of the team – get rid of that other hotel room is my advice.'

Seph knew he would sound petty and sullen even before he said, 'Yasu is more happy in a hotel away from the team. Away from – from all the publicity and security around the team hotel. Who cares if it costs me a bit more to keep her happy?'

Morris kicked at a tuft of grass and muddied the tip of one already-dirty shoe. 'Can't you control your wife? Stop her spending so much? Cut up her credit cards or something?'

... _and Seph Daniel stares down the opposition..._

'Why? Why should I do that? You're talking about Yaz like she's a – like she's a slave or something!'

Seph shook his head as if to clear water from his ears and jogged a few steps in place, watching his team-mates. Number Five swerved aside from the small cluster of players around Seven, took a short run and spun out a fast pass to Seph, who caught the ball deftly, settled a two-handed grip on the slippery curved surface, turned to match and spun one back. Number Five snatched up the catch, slowed and changed direction to come to a stop beside Seph.

The Chief intervened with a clearing of his throat. 'All right. Leave it, Morris. Seph, pay attention, will you? Bereavement leave. On that basis, we'll allow you to continue to stay at that other hotel. But there's a room for you at the team hotel, and I'll keep that for you. Just in case.'

'In case of what?'

'Save the aggro for the right time,' the Chief advised. 'All I'm saying is, in case you need a room as a training base. You want to run out on the field? Remember you've got to earn it. You can't just eat, sleep, fuck and play footie.'

Five raised one eyebrow and opened his mouth. Seph jabbed Five a fast elbow in the ribs. Five shut his mouth.

... _and the camera switches to Seph Daniel, who missed out on selection for unspecified reasons and who hasn't even made the reserve bench for this mid-week game, and Seph is sitting in the back of the grandstand on his own..._

Seph stared as the Chief turned away, Morris hurrying to trot alongside and speak low again so that Seph once more couldn't catch what was being said.

... _and the gossip about Seph Daniel is..._

Five turned and said, his face sorrowful, 'Sorry to hear about...'

Seph halted, putting hands on hips and readied himself with due solemnity. Get it over with, let the guys say it.

Number Five stood very close, mouth turned down, took a breath, and repeated, 'Sorry to hear about... your wedding!' And he took a step backwards, face alight with pleasure at his own joke.

Seph caught back words, then yelled with laughter. Number Five joined in, shouting with great gusts of amusement. Seph couldn't stand up. He slid to his knees, shaking with laughs that burst up from the depths of his lungs.

The ball slipped unnoticed to the ground and dribbled around Five's feet. Five ignored it, still roaring with laughter, and the ball rocked to a stop as the two men gasped and shook, helpless, laugh after laugh breaking across the practice ground and drawing curious team-mates to surround them, to grin and chuckle, the hilarity infectious.

Seph hurt so much with laughing he rolled onto his back, still gasping out laughter from deep in his belly.

Five dropped and rolled to match, held his legs and arms up in the air and bellowed, 'Dead ants! Dead ants!'

Surrounding team-mates dropped like a fumbled mark, to lie back and shake hands and feet at the sky. 'Dead ants! Dead ants!'

Upside down, Seph caught a glimpse of the Chief staying on his feet and grinning, shaking his head at the sight on the field, grown men lying on their backs, legs and arms raised, enthusiastically shaking feet and hands, screaming with laughter.

By the Chief's side, an upside-down Morris hadn't raised a smile.

# Chapter 53: Called for a shepherd

Seph stayed on the bus. He ducked his head below the seat in front, bundled up a filthy tee shirt and shoved it into his bag. Five slapped him on the back of the head and sidestepped away along the bus aisle towards the door. Seph fiddled with untying and re-tying his shoelaces. The rest of the squad heaved themselves off the bus and Seph watched sidelong as the others strolled through the hotel doors; he imagined them heading up to their rooms. When everyone was out of sight, including team security, he surprised the bus driver sweeping clean the bus, as he jumped up from the back seat, trotted fast down the aisle and took the steps in one.

Could at least have taken a shower in my room, he told himself, wandering down the street. Could have had a look at the room, might be able to persuade Yaz that the room is okay, that she would like it better than the other hotel. He scoffed at himself. When had he ever been able to persuade Yaz to do something that she didn't want to do? What's the point of showering, he thought, if she's not there to have a shower with me?

With a shake of sweaty hair he strolled aimlessly down the street, feeling the rumble of traffic through his feet, hearing the blast of car horns and the yap of scooters, feeling just about as low as he had ever felt. Not a good training session, even allowing for the sympathies of his mates and the words of the Chief. If you want to run out on the field, you've got to earn it. His head hadn't been in the right space for the training session. He hated when he performed badly.

... _and Seph Daniel is out of the squad and alone on the street._

There were too many people jostling him on the footpath. He was pushed hard against the cold glass of boutiques and stood still long enough to stare – was there something he could buy, maybe a surprise present for Yaz, make up to her for – for what? For a honeymoon in Paris? Why was she complaining about that, surely most women – but all the prices were in figures he couldn't understand.

The tide of pedestrians caught him up again and swept him past the shops and up towards the end of the street, where the old stone corners of the buildings trapped the endless flow of the hurtling traffic, whirl-pooling the street lanes into a dangerous rapid intersection.

He couldn't see anywhere to go, and hesitated at the corner. Which direction? The little shops looked nothing like Auckland, and all the signs were in French. His head spun, he could not even see the sky, he told himself that he was not lost, he was fine. All I need is to cross the street. He put a toe into the road. A car drove straight at him, horn blaring.

Seph leapt backwards – and crashed against something soft. He spun for the catch.

No – not something soft, but someone soft. He had landed heavily on the foot of a woman standing behind him.

The woman – Seph noted white hair and pale skin – yelped and dropped her camera, which smashed.

'Shit, shit!' A camera, she must be a tourist. 'I'm sorry, really sorry.' Seph helped the woman stand straight, and carefully leaned her against a car that was parked halfway across the footpath. 'Sorry, sorry.' She looked very pale; was she going to faint? Seph felt panic coming on and thrust the emotion back. He held the pale woman propped against the side door of the car – shit, she hardly weighed anything, he could have clasped her waist in one hand and swung her into his shoulder, and her hair was silver up close – and tried to scrape camera pieces into a heap, crunching the sole of his trainer across the mess. Little bits of glass and tiny black circles like miniature washers and pieces of plastic – impossible to brush them up with the side of his shoe-sole. He knelt on one knee and brushed his fingers across the rubble but the scraps wouldn't stick to his fingertips.

'I'm really, really sorry. I'm so sorry. And I've totally fucked up your camera. Shit, I'm sorry.'

The woman leaned over him. Seph heard something in French that he didn't understand. Shit, double shit. Not a tourist, then, not speaking English. His panic surged again.

He looked up from where he was crouching at her feet, and abandoned trying to pick up bits of her camera. She looked down at him and he could see the sunlight flickering through her hair, turning the silver into platinum. Her eyes were very dark and – he could hardly think – she seemed to be smiling. Her lipstick was much paler than anything that Yaz wore.

The dark eyes tilted and the woman's lips curved as she said something further in French.

Seph despaired. Perhaps he would be arrested, thrown in jail. And goodbye to selection, sent home in disgrace, no rugby career. Facing angry crowds at Auckland airport, the team losing the tournament all because of his stupidity...

'Look, I don't speak French. My name's Seph, please call me Seph. I'm really sorry, sorry.'

The silvery-haired woman paused for a moment. 'And I am Gabrielle. Please, don't distress yourself.'

Seph sat down hard at her feet. 'Oh, thank fuck, you speak English. I mean, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'll just pick up these pieces for you.'

He looked down at the concrete. The stampeding crowd had trampled most of the smaller shards to dust. A couple of larger bits of debris – the shell of the camera, some oddly angled piece of metal or grey plastic – were all that was left.

Gabrielle pleaded, 'Leave them. Please.'

Seph stood up, and noticed automatically, irrelevantly, how he towered over Gabrielle. The petite woman was now looking up at him and he looked down at her; she was as small as Yaz, and as thin, and he moved to protect her from the crowd buffeting along the footpath. The pedestrians divided neatly into two streams, flowing towards them, dividing around the obstacle that they made in the flow, then seamlessly joining up once past this minor blockage.

Time resumed and the noise and jostle sprang into reality. Seph studied Gabrielle and realised for the first time that she was standing on one foot and rubbing her ankle against her shin. Of course! He was lucky that she was still able to stand, after being tackled by him. He moved to assist, offering an elbow and turning her slightly with his free hand, so that Gabrielle no longer leaned on the car but was leaning on him. To Seph, it felt like she had no weight at all, but up this close, he breathed in her perfume. Even Yaz never smelled so good, so, so – and Seph breathed deep.

'I'll buy you a new camera. Where's a camera shop? I'm so sorry. And your foot.' Panic was resurfacing. What was the French for pleading that he had not intended to assault her, that it had been an accident. Gabrielle's words soothed the panic away again.

'Please, please. It's just a camera. You could have been run over by the traffic. Our traffic is terrible.'

Say something, Seph reminded himself. What would his mother tell him to do? 'Are you okay? Your foot? Is it broken?'

'Me? I'm perfectly well. Of course my foot isn't broken.'

Seph inhaled the scent again. 'I want to buy you a camera, a replacement camera.'

The silvery platinum halo rippled as Gabrielle firmly shook her head. 'I absolutely refuse to permit you to buy me a camera. It was an accident.'

Seph took a final deep inhalation of perfume. 'All right. No camera.'

Gabrielle freed herself gently from his hand. 'So we are agreed.' She hesitated a moment, placed her foot gently on the concrete, then pressed her shoe down firmly.

... _and Gabrielle presses the ball and gets the five points for –_

Seph shook himself slightly. Concentrate. Maybe he should make absolutely sure that she would not complain about him. 'Then let me buy you a drink. Please.' And that way, he could look at those dark eyes and that pale hair and breathe in her perfume, just a little longer, just because he wanted to.

He saw Gabrielle hesitate.

Seph pressed forward. 'Please, I want to. I insist. Where's a good place to buy a drink?'

Gabrielle said slowly, 'Well, if you really . . .'

Seph played the advantage. 'Yes. I really.'

Gabrielle made a graceful gesture, putting her hand on his arm, and Seph covered her hand with his, to make sure she wouldn't fall.

'Thank you. That would be delightful. Coffee.'

Seph stepped out carefully, taking her weight. 'Great, great. Coffee sounds great. Your call.'

# Chapter 54: Push-over

'This coffee is great, really, tastes really great.'

'And you are very kind to stay with me for such a long time. I have been trespassing on your time for more than an hour altogether. Are you absolutely certain you have no other commitments to which you should be hurrying away?'

'Nope. I'm good for as long as you want.'

Gabrielle exaggerated the syllables. 'Ka-hu-rang-ee. Am I saying it properly now?'

Seph loved the way she rolled his name in her mouth. 'Yes. Perfect.'

Gabrielle lifted her cup half-way and held it in both hands. 'So, Jo-séph Ka-hu-rang-ee Daigneault. How are you enjoying Paris?'

Seph watched pale polished fingernails tap delicate china. He pulled himself together. 'It's very busy, much more traffic than I thought there would be. Shops, traffic. I thought France would be – more peaceful, different, I suppose.'

Gabrielle replaced her cup gently in the saucer. 'Oh, yes, it's very busy. But you know, you're in the middle of the tourist quarter. The old town is very different. I could show you –' She stopped.

Seph rushed into the gap. 'Yes. I'd like that. Dinner, let me buy you dinner, and you can show me the old town.'

Gabrielle reached across, held up his left hand, and they both studied his third finger, with its wedding ring, bright gold, unscratched. When Seph looked back up at her dark eyes against the background halo of silvery hair, Gabrielle raised her eyebrows at him.

He thought quickly. 'All right. Not dinner. But,' he held the pause and aimed for the right zone, 'breakfast.'

Gabrielle burst out laughing. And Seph laughed with her; as good as his laughing fit had been on the field, laughing with Gabrielle felt better.

Gabrielle's laugh subsided to a smile. She said, 'Lunch. Perhaps.'

Seph loved that wonderful smile. 'Deal. How about lunch right now?'

Gabrielle kept the smile but her halo rippled as she declined with a shake of the head. 'My dear, alas, I must go. I have a luncheon engagement, so I can only say, thank you so much for coffee. It has been –' She was lifting herself from the chair and Seph leapt to his feet to help pull the chair away from the table. 'Thank you so much. As I was saying, it has been delightful.'

She was on her feet, turning away from him, and Seph had a moment of his old panic. She couldn't just leave – just leave him, like that, and he'd never see her again. He couldn't let her go like that.

'I must go – I'm so sorry to rush away. But I must insist.'

Seph said quickly, 'Wait – wait. You haven't said yes to tomorrow, lunch. We can meet here and then go for lunch wherever.'

Gabrielle hesitated.

'I must insist.'

And Gabrielle's laughter to acknowledge his mimicking warmed Seph's heart. When she nodded her head and offered her hand, he had no more words as they shook hands.

He watched her walk away, and when she turned her head to wave goodbye, looking over her shoulder, he admired the graceful curve her body formed, from the silvery hair down to those high heels. And then he lost sight of her in the crowd.

Back to the hotel, he supposed. Back to that room with the ceiling that he could brush his fingers against and the windows that were stuck closed and – Seph shook his head. He'd need to find something to explain to Yaz where he'd been all this time.

Maybe Yaz wouldn't be there.

# Chapter 55: Hollywood

Seph eased his key into the keyhole, the lock retracted very quietly and he cracked the door. He could see Yasu through the minimal gap. She was working hard at her laptop and not looking in his direction.

Seph pondered whether to enter the room. That uplift from chatting with Gabrielle had stayed with him up to his return to the hotel. Now, however, studying Yasu intent on whatever she was doing – she was typing faster and faster – his feet stayed outside the door.

And reality kicked in. He had made arrangements for a lunch with Gabrielle tomorrow. Okay, so he still had options. He could simply not turn up for the lunch, after all, Gabrielle would never pursue him, she wasn't that type, he could tell from looking at her and talking to her. Gabrielle had been so easy to talk to.

Seph shook his head. What options? He could take Yasu along, apologise to Gabrielle for making the date and then he and Yaz could just leave. Or the three of them could lunch together?

Like that's going to happen.

He shook his head again trying to clear the whirl of thoughts.

All this while Yasu continued to type but that tiny movement, of Seph shaking his head, drew attention. Yasu looked up abruptly, flushed bright red and slammed her hand across the tablet screen. Seph recognised the expression, one that he saw so often in the mirror: Yasu looked guilty.

Good, because that meant he didn't have to feel as guilty as a moment ago.

... _and Seph Daniel goes on attack..._

'What are you looking so guilty about? What are you writing on your blog now?'

Yasu was instantly aggressive. He'd forgotten how good she was on defence – especially her own defence. 'I'm not doing anything to be guilty about. What are you sneaking back so late for? I thought training would be over hours ago. I had to have lunch on my own. Nice, on my honeymoon.'

Seph made the mistake of looking at his watch.

Yasu pursued, 'Don't try to tell me you forgot the time. You are definitely guilty about something.'

Seph selected the least of all the things he was feeling guilty about. 'I feel I'm letting the team down by not staying at the squad hotel.'

'We're newly-weds; they can cut you some slack.'

'I'm not going to make the starting line-up that way, by them cutting me some slack.'

'It's the least they can give you. And that's exactly what I told him.'

Seph chilled around his heart. 'You told who what? Exactly what you told who?'

Hollywood, Seph thought, watching Yasu push her hands in the air as she swivelled in the chair to face him, it's a Hollywood, as she rolled her eyeballs towards the ceiling that was miles out of her reach. She's done something. Yasu's gestures were always exaggerated, she could never do anything small, whereas Gabrielle had made the hair on the back of his neck rise and shiver when she had tapped a fingernail once on the table.

He repeated, 'You told who what?'

Yasu sighed, a heaving exaggerated sigh. 'Okay, so I went to the team hotel, I was...'

'You did what? When? Why?'

'Don't interrupt me all the time! I was telling you, all right? I went there expecting you to be there, having lunch with the guys, but you weren't there. The Chief told me you'd been at training, then you'd come back on the bus but you'd wandered off. Anyway, I talked to him, and...'

Yasu paused. It was a different sort of pause than Gabrielle's pauses. Yasu's pauses waited for Seph to rush in and penalise himself. Gabrielle's pauses were enough on their own; he hadn't felt the need to talk to stop the silence.

Seph narrowed his eyes. She'd done something, but didn't want to tell him. He waited without speaking.

Yasu cleared her throat.

Seph folded his arms.

Yasu sniffed loudly. 'Well, anyway, I got into this discussion with the Chief.'

Seph said flatly, 'You got into a fight with him.'

'Look, we had a difference of opinion, all right? The guy's an idiot. Okay, so he argued. Mildly, I was just expressing my opinion. I think more consideration should be given to you, that's all. And I told him that.'

'More consideration? That's all? What the fuck did he say?'

Yazu swivelled back in the other direction and unfolded the tablet cover, up, then down again. Seph strode forward and grabbed her shoulders and spun her around.

'What the hell did he say?'

Yazu wriggled. 'Well – of course he'd never do it – and the Chief said in that case you would be ruling yourself out of consideration for the starting lineup altogether. I mean, if you needed more consideration about – well, about Kara's death, about getting married and so on.'

Seph shook her. 'Nice, very nice. Just what I need, the chance not to play.'

'Well, anyway,' Yasu spun her shoulders out from his grasp and swirled around on the swivelling chair, 'forget that stuff. I want to talk to you about money.'

Not that shit again. But there was something about money, a memory that teased at Seph. He smacked his head, ran stiff fingers through his hair. Money, what was it that he needed to remember?

He gripped his forehead, watched Yasu jump off the chair and square up in front of him. He cupped his palms over his eyes to block the view but he could still hear her, that complaining note in her voice.

'I want access to your bank accounts and credit cards. How about it?'

Seph kept his hands over his face. Why couldn't she give it away? How could he explain why he was still reluctant to give up his last sense of freedom, the freedom to spend his own money? Money, what was it that he had remembered too late...

He heard Yasu snort in that disgusting way she had.

'Why, don't you trust me?'

And she gripped his wrists with that vicious grip she could do, her thumbs grinding his knuckles, her nails scooping into flesh; and he let her pull his hands away from his face.

'Say something! Why don't you let me look after your money? You know I'll do a fantastic job. I understand money.'

Seph mumbled, 'Morris suggested that you cut down your spending.'

'What?'

Seph always admired fast reaction times; had to admit he'd never seen such an instant transformation from Yasu into hysterical fury.

Hands on hips, she yelled – and Seph was still astounded at how such a tiny body could produce so much volume, must be from shouting for years in echoing swimming venues – 'Have you been talking about me to Morris? When did you do that?'

'Lunch.' The lie was out before he could think.

'Lunch? Is that where you were when you wandered off, away from the squad and the security and from the possible idea of having lunch with me on my honeymoon? You were having lunch with fucking Morris rather than lunch with me?'

Seph nodded stubbornly.

'I hope he paid. And not with your money.'

Seph gasped. The teasing memory slammed into place. The price of two coffees – he hadn't paid the bill at the café for their two cups of coffee! His thoughts swirled. So had Gabrielle paid for both of them? What would she think of him? He groaned and put his head in his hands again. And replacing her camera – suppose she had said yes? What would he have done? He'd have to apologise to Gabrielle tomorrow when he paid for their – and now was definitely not a good time to tell Yaz that he would be out for lunch tomorrow.

He hadn't any money on him; where was his wallet?

'Where's my wallet?'

Yasu was holding it out to him and Seph snatched it out of her hand.

'There's no need to grab – all your cards are there, there's nothing missing. But what I wanted to say was, when I looked in your wallet –'

'You looked in my wallet? Don't ever do that!' A quick look confirmed that Yaz was right. He had no money.

'What I was going to say, before you interrupted me so fucking rudely, was that you've got the business card of someone I know from the club, she's here in Paris, isn't that great? I rang her number and her Auckland PA answered, well that doesn't matter, the point is that would you believe, she's right here in this hotel. Where did you meet her? Well, that doesn't matter either.'

Yaz was talking too fast. She was definitely guilty about something. Maybe about looking in his wallet. Seph tucked his wallet into a back pocket.

'And I invited her down to talk to you just about,' Yasu checked her watch, a lump of black enamel and white gold that weighed down her wrist like a shackle, 'just about now. What do you say?'

... _and Seph Daniel says that Gabrielle wore the smallest watch he had ever seen, and her wrist looked like Seph could wrap one finger right around her arm. Seph Daniel says to get out right now..._

Seph jumped up and headed for the door.

'Where are you going? I've organised Cassidy to tell you I should manage your money.'

'Gotta meet Morris.' Seph glanced over his shoulder and regretted it.

'Morris, always Morris. Okay, here's the deal right now. You can choose between Morris and me right now, and if you don't choose me then you can get out, right now.'

Seph strode to the door, opened it and nearly walked into some female with her hand poised to knock on the door. He shouldered her aside, keeping up the pace as he raced down the corridor and got into the lift.

Going down, going out.

In the lift he remembered who she was, Cassidy something, belatedly putting the name to the face and something Yaz had said about money.

Yaz said too many things about money.

Shoulder-charging into Cassidy what's-her-name, though, his mother would have told him off for that. That hadn't been how he was brought up, charging into girls. As the lift door scrolled open onto the lobby, Seph debated whether he should go back and apologise. But to go back would mean that he would also have to apologise to Yasu, and he couldn't decide what he wanted to do about Yasu. What was Cassidy doing knocking on his door, anyway?

Can't people leave him alone?

And then he was through the lobby and the revolving doors and out on the street, walking fast. And now he upped the pace, from almost running to running hard. Running always felt so good.

... _run, Seph, run..._

# Chapter 56: Under advantage

Seph knocked on the door.

The Chief opened the door, looked him over, pulled him inside.

While Seph was catching his breath, Seven stood up from the table and shuffled papers together. The Chief was dialling.

Seven clapped Seph on the back and Seph nodded. The Chief clicked off the phone, the suite door opened and one of the squad security came in; Seven slipped out and closed the door behind him.

The Chief and security studied Seph; Seph shrugged at them.

The Chief asked, 'Got your bags?'

Seph shook his head.

The Chief turned to security. 'Okay, get over there, get him packed up and get his stuff here. Make sure you don't pick up anything of hers. Not a thing. We don't want any shit. If you can't tell who owns it – leave it there.'

The security nodded. Seph sank down on the chair that Seven had vacated and gripped his fingers. He heard the door close as the security left, and for a very brief instant, Seph thought of the reception that the man would receive from Yasu. For the first time in a long time, Seph felt sorry for someone other than himself.

... _and Seph Daniel sidesteps to gain protection but loses his freedom to move..._

'We'll get your room key.' The Chief's phone rattled. 'Yes?'

There was a pause. Seph heard the buzz of the caller and stared at the floor.

'Yes, he's here.'

Seph shoved hands deep into pockets. Who would call about him – at least, who would call to say anything he wanted to hear? Or about anything he wanted to talk about? With his phone long gone, he had no phone number to give Gabrielle.

And there was more pause from the Chief and more buzz from whoever was ringing. 'All right, I'll tell him.'

The Chief closed the phone.

Seph waited.

# Chapter 57: A very attractive style

Yasu helped Cassidy up from the floor where Seph's shoulder-charge had left her sprawling.

'He doesn't always realise his own strength and that not everyone is as strong as he is.'

Cassidy scrambled to get her footing. 'I hope that you don't get floored too often.'

Yasu's laughter was loud and confident. 'He forgets how strong I am.'

As Yasu pulled her upright, Cassidy could only admire that strength. Yasu dusted her off.

'I still swim as much as I can; I'm in the water almost every day. Swimmers are as strong as rugby players plus we have better breath control. Plus a good sense of timing. That's something Seph doesn't have. Still, I'm working on his sense of timing – I have a lot of fun trying!' With a wicked smile.

It was a long time since anyone had made her relax and laugh. 'It's amazing to see someone from the club here. Somehow I didn't expect –'

Yasu rummaged in the room fridge, her voice echoing in the tiny icebox. 'Yeah, what actually reminded me about you was that I found your business card in Seph's wallet, and I remembered you from the women's club. But I couldn't get you on your phone. Someone called Heather answered – your Auckland PA, is that her? Anyway, she gave me your details here and when I realised you were in Paris, in this hotel, well, end of story. You were only five floors above me.'

Heather, my PA? At least, she will be when I run StPaul Consulting. And an accompanying stab of guilt – I should have opened her envelope by now. Double stab – if I could remember whether I packed it.

Cassidy gratefully accepted a cold glass.

Yasu plumped down in the opposite chair. 'Now – why I rang you. I rang you because your business card says financial forensics.'

The effervescence of the drink on her now-improved throat slipped along nicely. 'Wonderful. I've had this revolting cold, someone infected me in Queenstown and I couldn't shake it off till I left Auckland.'

'Cured by Paris,' said Yasu, and sank half her glass.

Cassidy sipped and savoured. 'Would you like me to explain what financial forensics is about?'

Yasu demonstrated how to drink and shake her head at the same time. She put the empty glass on the carpet. 'I know what financial forensics is.'

Cassidy was impressed. 'That's a first. I'd have to say most people do not.'

Yasu said, 'Most people are not smart about money. I am. I mean, when I was still swimming professionally, I made a lot of money from endorsements. All around me there were people wasting their money and not giving a thought to what they would do when they wouldn't be swimming any more. I always wanted to go into business, so I saved my money up. But back to you and forensics. What you do is investigate people's money problems, right?'

'Spot on.'

Yasu uncrossed her legs, kicked her glass over and leaned to rescue it. 'I want advice from you. But not about my own money.'

'So run that past me.'

Yasu sank back into cream upholstery and Cassidy waited.

Finally, Yasu said, 'This is confidential, right?'

'Right.'

Yasu sat forward, elbows on knees, and spoke to muted charcoal tiles around the ornamental fireplace. 'You and Seph met, okay, like I said I found your business card in his wallet. Okay, now Seph's got an agent.'

Yasu sat back again, pulled up her legs to sit cross-legged in the chair, and folded her arms.

'Manager, agent, life coach, babysitter, whatever. I don't like him, and don't get me wrong, why I don't like him has nothing to do with the fact that I'm Seph's wife and Morris is Seph's everything else. I didn't like Morris long before I was Seph's wife.' Yasu paused for a moment. 'I should have asked, do you know this guy? Have you ever met him – Morris?'

Cassidy kept her face as blank as she could. 'I did meet him once. I was at a restaurant with,' with my not-quite-boyfriend? What should she call Miles now? She settled for, 'with Miles, and Morris joined us for dinner and then Seph joined us also. That was the time when I happened to give Seph my card.'

And I loathed Morris immediately on any grounds you can think of: sight, smell and sound.

'Did the two of you talk about money?'

'Morris and me? Or Seph and me? Anyway, it's a no to both.'

'Pity. One of the reasons I don't like Morris, and I don't trust him, is because Seph's money seems to be in a mess. And Morris manages all Seph's money. What can you do to help?'

'To help Seph?'

'Well, you don't need to help me.'

Cassidy thought for a moment. 'Without access to Seph's personal financial information, which I would have to get from either Seph or Morris, there isn't a lot I can really do. But one thing that you might wish to think about is collecting evidence yourself.'

'Evidence of what? What should I look for?'

Cassidy tried to find careful words. 'Okay, I shouldn't have said evidence. I think what I think I mean is that neither of us like Morris, but you need to have more than that. Do you have any proof of anything going wrong with Seph's money?'

Yasu said slowly, 'Sort of but not really. I mean, I think because we flew out of Auckland in a rush...'

Cassidy watched Yasu's beautifully maintained skin darken with embarrassment.

'... I think the hotel bill hasn't been paid. Unless Morris has paid it after we left, and I'd be prepared to bet no. I don't think he's onto it.'

Cassidy stared into her empty glass. 'I mean, has anything in particular drawn your attention to the idea that Morris is mis-managing Seph's money, and what evidence you could look for about that.'

'You mean, apart from Morris being loathsome and I'd prefer not to have him around like a bad smell.'

Cassidy sighed. 'Yes. Financial forensics is sometimes about smell; well, to be honest it is mostly about smell, but I need a bit more; I can start with a hunch, but there needs to be something for me to go on.'

'The most recent thing I can think of is Seph's car being towed, and there were rumours that it was repossessed because the payments had fallen behind. I mean, how could Morris let that happen? I'm always reading other people's blogs and the news feeds, and there isn't anything specific but there are a lot of hints that Seph has money problems. It's very worrying. The last thing he needs is a bad credit record. My Seph isn't good with money, he doesn't understand it. I understand money. You understand money. Seph doesn't.'

Soft cushions were uncomfortable beneath her. 'Do you have any worry that Morris might be taking your own money?'

Yasu's bellow made the wineglasses sing. 'Not a chance. I'd kill him if he touched a penny of mine. And I guess that's sort of part of it – I could do such a better job of managing Seph's money if he'd only let me.'

Cassidy laughed, a small pale echo of Yasu's scornful laughter. 'So you don't have any money problems.'

Yasu jumped out of her chair. 'Plus I have a great project for my Black & Blond brand while I am here. It's secret, but tell you what, meet me this afternoon for some riverside fun – I'll write down the street directions for you. Now, change of topic. You know absolutely everyone's talking about you and your man – have you worked out what designer you're going to wear when you and Miles Oldridge tie the knot?'

Absolutely everyone talking about me? About me and Miles?

'Don't look so shocked.'

I am shocked. And not only am I shocked, but I'm not sure...

'I mean, I don't have a bridal line yet in Black & Blond, but you know, I'm always thinking about the next development of my brand. I could do you a one-off bridal gown and then something for the all-night dance and then, you know, a few things for the honeymoon – what do you say to that?'

# Chapter 58: Sold the dummy

'You have been a wonderful companion for lunch. Thank you for giving me the pleasure of your company.'

Seph leaned back in his chair and at his elbow the café's elderly owner slid a dark leather folio onto the table.

... _and Seph Daniel marvels at how quickly minutes turn into hours, at the way hours run off the clock, at how his sentences run away with him; yes, at first he makes only a hesitant start when he can't seem to find the right words to say to this wonderful companion who sits opposite him and pays attention to him and listens to him, and he drinks in the beauty of the longest lunch hour of his lifetime..._

'Day – chew – nay. Did I get that right?' Seph picked up the folio and tapped a credit card from his wallet on top of the bill.

'You're right, Joséph. I should say you have been a wonderful companion for our déjeuner.'

'It's good to learn some French.'

... _and it's good to talk about Peace, to make his peace with Peace, to turn into words, even as badly as he manages to stutter out the words, about learning from the Chief that Peace has hanged herself in her police cell, and even how to talk about Peace. To say that she has killed herself or to say that he has killed himself, it is something now and for always that Seph will have to live with. Peace is his cousin, and that's enough for Seph, he never has a problem with who Peace is, the only person who really has a problem with who Peace is seems to be Peace herself, who never seemed to find herself and now never will..._

The older man nodded, muttered something and padded away from their table.

... _and of all the things that Seph finds himself talking about, the most amazing thing is that he can talk to Gabrielle about the shocking news about Kara. It's not that he wants to have Kara alive again, Kara is dead and gone, and Seph likes to think of Kara and Peace together in some golden place, he knows that they're dead and they're not coming back. And he and Kara, okay, he never got around to the divorce shit but the early marriage was a mistake, the two of them had acknowledged that to each other when they said their goodbyes. But now he'll never know about what Kara wanted to say to him, and he doesn't want to know the truth about who the father of her baby might have been, and Peace knew or pretended to know, you never knew with Peace whether she was telling the truth or bullshitting. In a way it's enough that Kara has found someone to love, he's fine with all that, after all he has Yasu, except that Yaz never listens to him, never sits long enough in one place for him to sit opposite her and look at her and, yes, to talk to her and know that she is listening to him..._

'This place is great – the food was great. I've been to French restaurants in Auckland but they've been nothing like this.'

... _and Peace has left some sort of note, Seph doesn't want to call it a suicide note, but the police found it and the Chief listened when the police told him about it over the phone. And the last words from Peace in that note are that Peace demands that Seph is to come back to Auckland for the funeral, Peace absolutely insists that Seph is to be there, to be one of the ones to carry her coffin and to say a last goodbye. And Seph stumbles even more as he says to Gabrielle, her eyes huge and sorrowful, that he is not going to return to Auckland for Peace's funeral. He's going to break Peace's heart, he says, then Gabrielle pats his hand and death lingers in her face, or maybe Seph is hearing the beat of wings overhead, he doesn't know. And Gabrielle says that he has made a decision and making a decision is harder than trying to decide what decision to make. Is it the right decision, Seph asks? And Gabrielle refuses to say. You've made a decision, and that's good. Who knows whether decisions are right or wrong? Sometimes you must make one and stay the course, whether it is easy or difficult, and she smiles at him..._

The older man had padded quietly back to their table and was waiting alongside, his face expressionless.

Seph wondered whether the guy wanted them to leave. Maybe their table was booked for another customer? But the place was half-empty now; Seph glanced around – no, apart from himself and Gabrielle, loitering at their table in one corner of the tiny room, the other half-dozen tables in the place were empty. He'd barely noticed who had come and gone, but in the couple of hours that they had been there, there had definitely been someone, or a quiet couple, at every table. Everyone had eaten the same thing, which had surprised Seph – he'd thought there might be a menu, but Gabrielle had explained that, in a small place like this café, the owner would only make one meal for lunch and everyone would eat that.

The owner handed Seph's credit card back to him with a nod of the head, then murmured something to Gabrielle. She reached for her bag.

Seph asked, 'Are we holding him up? Does he want to close the place?'

He didn't want to leave; maybe they could fit in another coffee.

Gabrielle said, 'Wait, my friend,' rummaging in her bag.

Seph flipped open his wallet and replaced his credit card. He looked up again just in time to see the owner scoop up another credit card from Gabrielle's outstretched fingers and pad away.

'Hey – what the – what are you doing? What is he doing? We're not splitting the bill, I'm paying for the whole thing, not just my half! Come back, you!'

Gabrielle pressed her fingers on his wrist and Seph tingled at the cool pressure.

'Now, it is nothing. There is only a slight problem with your card – absolutely nothing, but the machine has rejected it. Something to do with a foreign credit card, I expect. I hope you will permit me –'

Not again.

... _and panic surges, as the walls of the tiny café close in and the room becomes too small and if he makes a move, any move, he'll put an elbow through the window or crash a foot through the door. And the iron bands tighten around his chest and he can't breathe, and the flavours of France sour in his mouth and he's going to throw up, and that will be the final humiliation, breathe, Seph, breathe..._

Inviting this beautiful woman to lunch, to a delightful lunch in a tiny French café – if he'd ever thought about Paris, what he might do in Paris, it would have been something like this. And his card declined!

He'd let his mother down all over again. He couldn't meet Gabrielle's eyes. He couldn't sit there any longer. With a lurch that wobbled the small table and banged his chair against the wall, Seph hauled himself up and walked out.

# Chapter 59: Stop the clock

Outside the café a small bench perched on two ends of swirled concrete. Seph sank onto the bench and put his head in his hands. His jaw wobbled; he ran his tongue around his teeth. Tooth; he spat it out into his hands, stared at the white corrugated pebble, slid it into his pocket; rubbed his knuckles hard into the sockets of his eyes, felt bone grind on bone.

Traffic whirred past, footsteps thudded by; he heard the jangle of unidentifiable words and the chatter of unknowable conversations. The burden of guilt on his back heavier than ever: ignoring his mother; abandoning Kara to be buried with everyone there but him. So what if her brothers would have beaten him up? He could stand a little beating from those idiots.

Someone sat beside him and shifted close against his side. He breathed Gabrielle's perfume and inhaled deeply.

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I wanted to pay for lunch. I wanted you to have a great time.'

'But I have had a wonderful time, absolutely wonderful.'

'I just – I'm just so sorry, I really can't say how sorry I am. For not being able to pay for lunch, when I asked you, I invited you, and – oh God, I'm so sorry.'

He felt the pressure of her hand on his shoulder.

'My dear, you must not keep saying this. You must not. It is nothing at all.' Her hand stroked his shoulder, down his sleeve, and moulded the muscles of his forearm, a clasp as light as the touch of an angel over the solid form of his arm.

'I – well, I haven't said thank you, for straightening it out. Thank you. Thank you.'

Her hand tapped his. 'You must dismiss this from your mind. We've paid, it's in the past, a lunch is nothing.'

Unpaid bills everywhere. The hotel in Auckland – that would come out, and not in a good way. Where had his money gone? His car repossessed, his credit cards declined every time. He twisted his head, enough to see her pale hand, the fingers thin enough to break, the fingernails white.

Gabrielle leaned a little closer and asked, 'Forgive me, but may I ask you a question?'

Seph turned his hand over and Gabrielle placed her fingers in his palm. 'For sure. For sure.' He folded his hand around hers, and a surge of protectiveness made him press her hand, to warm her fingertips in his palm.

Her clasp on his fingers tightened a little. 'I want to ask you if – whether anything is wrong.'

Peace in despair without him, charges laid, unable to face a likely conviction. Seph jolted and Gabrielle tried to draw back her fingers, but he tightened his grip. It was reassuring to hold her this close. He cradled her cold hand.

'Please don't misunderstand me, I don't wish at all to pry, and you must tell me not to. And I have had the most wonderful lunch with you, you must believe that too. It has been such a pleasure for me, such an old woman, to have a delightful lunch with a young man.'

Seph said, 'You're not old,' and gripped her hand firmly. Her fingertips remained cold.

'Such flattery, all of us women love to be flattered. Thank you for saying that, although it is completely untrue. But occasionally, at lunch, you looked a little as if you were wrestling with – oh, I don't know – problems of one kind or another. Only occasionally, you understand. All this time you were gallantly paying me attention, so I have no complaint. But a distance crept between us every now and then, and I wondered whether there is anything I could help you with. Maybe you are finding France a little strange? Or Paris? Maybe Paris is not treating you as well as our city should be treating you?'

How to straighten his thoughts? Talking, rambling, Gabrielle saying nothing, listening to him. Having someone listen without judging him; God, it felt so good to talk.

'I mean, I almost feel guilty that I love Yasu, isn't that crazy? I mean, at times she is so annoying as well. I promised my mother I wouldn't marry her, and here I am, married to her. And I love Yaz. But my mother said, don't get married. And I let myself be hustled, like this time it was Yasu hustling me into getting married, the way my mother hustled me into marrying Kara.'

Gabrielle held his hand and they were silent together on the bench. Seph watched traffic hurry by unceasing, their bench underneath like a rock dividing the flow of pedestrians. An occasional sparkle made him blink; a dazzle, little flashes of light from an opened windowpane, maybe a revealed watch, from windscreens reflecting a pop of light from elsewhere.

Where had his money gone?

Gabrielle was leaning on his shoulder. 'Why did your mother hustle you into marrying your Kara?'

Seph grinned. 'She found us in bed together one afternoon, I thought the coast was clear but she came home early from her shift.' He stopped grinning.

'My friend, we all have those stories about our parents. My father beat me for the same thing!'

'Well – my mother would have beaten me, but I was already a lot bigger than her.'

'And your father?'

'He died a long time ago. Kara's brothers tried to beat me, losers.'

'So you are only asking yourself, why are you married?'

Seph opened his mouth to say something and stopped; Gabrielle remained silent, holding his hand. He blurted out, 'And – then it's the money.'

'But you are paid well for playing rugby?'

Seph played with Gabrielle's fingers. 'I worry – I never seem to have enough money. If I don't have enough money during my playing career, how am I ever going to live after I retire from playing rugby?'

Gabrielle sat up straight. Seph missed her presence against his shoulder; the afternoon darkened. The traffic still a moving barrier in the narrow street; the pedestrians still swarming by, their heels clacking and their tiny dogs yapping; but the gold gone from the sun.

'I am honoured that you trust me with these confidences. But I must stop you. I need to – well, maybe we could meet again for lunch, another time, another day?'

'Yes, definitely. But –' Seph tried to think straight. Time, place, commitments, what was he supposed to be doing, when could he have lunch with Gabrielle again?

Gabrielle stood up, then stumbled. Seph caught her and she weighed nothing at all; he helped her sit again. She coughed and the traffic rumbled on the road, the clatter like stones beneath surf, harsh under the sun and the pressure of tide.

'Are you all right? Maybe – maybe I should get you something? This place is still open – I'll get you a glass of water. Wait here.' He turned to re-enter the tiny café.

She stopped him. 'No – it's nothing. I am perfectly fine.'

He frowned. 'You don't look fine. You look a bit pale.'

Gabrielle's face was white beneath her pale hair and she closed her eyes, lines of shadow harsh on her face. 'I must go, I have an appointment, a deadline. A meeting, I mean, in connection with a project I am working on.'

'Tomorrow? What about lunch tomorrow?'

Gabrielle gently released herself from his encircling arm. 'No, the next day, my dear. My project is taking a lot of my time, but the day after tomorrow will be perfect.'

'Great. Great. Day after tomorrow, here, lunchtime. Great.' Seph cleared his throat. 'I wanted – or to ask, really, could I bring a copy of my contract along for you to look at? Maybe you could tell me – maybe...'

Gabrielle's attention seemed to have faded. 'Forgive me.'

'Yeah. Sure, for sure. I need someone look at it.'

'Whatever you want,' said Gabrielle over one shoulder. 'Whatever you want to do, but forgive me.'

She hurried away from him. At the corner she walked into sunlight, a narrow upright figure at the centre of a flash of light; without turning her head, she held up one hand, so insubstantial that sunlight shone through flesh. Then she was gone.

# Chapter 60: Put in

Life with the apparently-rich and not-quite-famous ought to be fun, Cassidy told herself. At least, life with Miles ought to be more fun than she was having. So far, she'd laughed more in a short meeting with Yasu than she had in a long time with Miles.

Yasu's question, though: what designer will I be wearing for the wedding? When did Miles shift from being my semi-boyfriend who is not-quite-divorced, to being in the marriage market? When was I in the marriage market? Who wants to know? I do.

And everyone else wanting to know, apparently, according to Yasu. Everyone who? Everyone where? Time to start reading Yasu's blog, maybe.

What a lot of very interesting questions, Melissa cooed. But naturally Yasu failed to ask the right question. Here's the question we're all waiting to ask. Have you worked out what your answer will be when Miles Oldridge proposes to you?

What sort of question was that? A trick question, a hard question, a fun question? Especially at the moment, when Miles was not being a fun person at all, and life in a Paris hotel was more exhausting and less rewarding than a high-priority financial forensics investigation for Roy in the bad old days of being employed.

Melissa droned on. And your project is very interesting.

Have you read it?

Of course not, stupid, I'm just here in your head, I'm not real.

Yes, of course, there was her current project, which she ought to be working on, which she might have to stop pretending was for Roy and start admitting was for Jeremy Forbes. Would Jeremy turn out to be a fun person?

Maybe, Melissa complained from where she was lying, on an imaginary couch with her feet up and cucumber slices on her tired eyes, the lack of fun is because you're not a fun person. When, demanded Melissa, did you last have fun? Queenstown in mid-winter you said wasn't fun. The long flight from Paris to Auckland was so little fun that you took the first sleeping pill Miles offered and slept through everything, the first class seat, the free champagne, everything. Paris so far has been parties with Miles which for some reason I can't fathom have bored you rigid, and an awfully large amount of eating on your own.

Like now, one more meal on her own. A brunch ordered, on her own once more, alone in their hotel suite. Too much eating, not enough use of the hotel gym. Was there a hotel gym? She hadn't investigated, her perfectly reasonable excuse being a lack of anything to wear for working out. The last time she'd seen a tee shirt and shorts had been her gym stuff hurtling down a rubbish chute together with her mould-encrusted gym shoes and the rest of her life; towards permanent oblivion.

Maybe she could borrow something from Yasu? No. What about something that Miles might pick up from rugby-related pre-promotions, sponsored events, contra deal meetings, launches, welcomes, farewells? Definitely no. Whatever Miles might bring back, Cassidy decided, she would not disgrace herself in a hotel gym in the most elegant city in the world by wearing sponsor-logo gym gear.

A rustling shuffle gradually drew her attention. Cassidy listened, and the noise stopped.

An imaginary Melissa, snoring? No.

Mice? Possible, even in four-and-a-half stars, but unlikely.

A reconnoitre of the suite brought her to the door and the white envelope pushed beneath.

Cassidy picked up the envelope, decided that this was one she ought to tear open immediately, and found inside the daily statement from the hotel. Even her French could translate l'addition, and numbers needed no translation. Expensive is universal.

Cassidy scanned the list of charges, supplement for this, supplement for that; as she read, she dismissed her initial justification for reading Miles's mail, her foolish advance consideration of whether she should make a tentative offer to Miles to pay her share... there was no way she could make any offer at the moment. The charges seemed very steep; Cassidy translated euros into dollars and the answer was even more expensive. She crammed the extortionate statement back into the torn envelope and dropped it onto the coffee table.

Maybe they could move somewhere cheaper – some sort of serviced apartment, maybe the Paris equivalent of a bed and breakfast place, there must be somewhere. Cassidy thought about the romance of Paris, a tiny studio for two, an elderly concierge in attendance, a wrought-iron balcony, a view of weathered stone...

Melissa had woken up. Some sort of cosy small place for the two of you? You can shake that thought out of your head. Miles would never agree.

Cassidy hardly dared to think the words: somewhere romantic, somewhere secluded, somewhere – well, yes, somewhere more French. That would be nice, would make Paris memorable.

Melissa scoffed. Miles doesn't do small and cheap. You're companion to a millionaire now. With millionaires, you do what they want and what they need and what they find essential. I warned you, Cassy dear, that being ornamental is a whole different and dangerous game. Like last night's cocktail entertainment in the hotel bar, already charged to the statement that you've just read, together with dinner for eight, at a price that makes even my well-made-up eyes water.

Apart from herself and Miles, Cassidy couldn't even recall the names of the other six people who had ended up on their bill. And all she had done was eat too much and drink too much and wear clothes that seemed more and more Auckland and feel more jet-lagged than ever, and since the dinner was in the hotel, she had still seen nothing of Paris except, well, except the interior of the hotel. Cassidy tried to remember whether she had enjoyed yesterday evening or not.

If you can't remember, Melissa sighed, back underneath cucumber slices, you don't need to ask yourself the question.

More slight shuffling from the direction of the door, followed by a brisk double-knock, followed, when she had opened the door, by a fast delivery of room-service brunch. The room-service waiter placed the tray, stood back, studied Cassidy and offered her a black folio and waited.

Cassidy unfolded the folio and found l'addition with a few more supplements. She added the numbers; yes, French addition worked perfectly. With her eyes directed at the bill, under her eyelids she watched the waiter. No sign of him leaving, and every sign that, for some reason, she was being asked to pay up front for room service. Cassidy decided she couldn't pretend to read the bill any longer, and looked up. The waiter was still there, doing every impression of holding out his hand without actually doing so.

Cassidy said, 'There must be some mistake; this is to be charged to the room.'

The waiter could manage fast delivery in English as well. 'There is no mistake. The hotel would be pleased if you could supply a valid credit card number.'

Cassidy consulted her inner Melissa, now upright on the chaise longue, alert and with no cucumber slices cooling the eyes.

Memo to self: when unavoidable, pay up.

Cassidy paid up; the waiter wrote the series of numbers from her credit card, offered her the pen to sign at the foot of the bill, and Cassidy signed. After the waiter had bowed himself out, she stared at the closed door of the suite and didn't know what to think.

Croissants beckoned, but Cassidy had no appetite. As well as no appetite she had almost no credit balance left, and if the hotel was going to ask her to pay in advance for every meal she ordered – every meal without Miles actually being there – that was not only embarrassing but a strain on the wallet. Cassidy picked up a brilliant silver spoon, turned it over and studied her face in distorted miniature. On the one hand, it was tempting to think of this as a minor incident in a big adventure in Paris. It could mean nothing more and nothing less than an error in the hotel's bookkeeping, and a big part of her didn't want to call it anything else than a mistake, a misunderstanding, something as small and slightly embarrassing as the hotel thinking that she was a temporary visitor in the suite, or maybe Miles had ticked the wrong box on checking in so that all extra charges were mistakenly to be paid by Cassidy.

But Hector Partners Consulting, Financial Forensics, whispered: you know better, Cassidy. Money mistakes don't just happen, someone made them happen.

Cassidy wanted to dismiss the incident.

Melissa made that impossible. Keep on persuading yourself, sweetheart.

At least her appetite had returned, and the room service coffee was excellent. Cassidy stared into the steaming shallows of a demitasse, promised herself that she would find some teaching service in the hotel compendium to teach her a bit more French than the occasional isolated word dredged up from schoolroom memory, and told herself she should write down some useful sentences and translate them into French.

That sounds even more boring, Melissa complained, than sitting in the hotel room doing nothing except fret over being asked for your credit card to pay up front for the hotel room lunch.

But at least she had a distraction this afternoon – the secret that Yasu had invited her to enjoy. Whatever Yasu's invitation might turn out to involve, Cassidy decided that she was damn well going to be amused and entertained. If necessary she would fake the entire enjoyment spectrum, but whatever Yasu and she were going to do, it stood a one hundred percent chance of being more enjoyable than anything Miles had turned on recently. And an outing with Yasu promised a bonus: distraction from thinking that there might be things she didn't want to learn about the man that Heather and she used to giggle over calling Miles the Millionaire.

Cassidy stared at dregs in her demitasse and wondered where Miles's money really came from.

That should be easy, snorted Melissa, we both know that he offers credit card management services for people with too much money and not enough sense to manage their own credit card balances.

Fine, Cassidy sniffed in exchange. So he should have plenty of clients, there's never any shortage of idiots with more money than their credit cards can cope with. But what really is the state of Miles the Millionaire's finances? He's never let slip a whisper of what his bank balance is, what's the state of his business, what's he getting from the tournament, not even how much it's costing to be whisked away here to Paris.

How do you know, Melissa demanded, how do you know that you won't be presented with a bill that you can't pay after this little trip – and we're not talking about anything to do with credit cards and wallets in that respect. What will you say when Miles Oldridge proposes to you?

And after all, what did she really know about him, even though they had been – what have we been? dating? going out? – for about six months now. And never a hint, at least, not one that she had picked up, that any kind of marriage proposal was about to be sprung on her. Six months, now that was a long time, in hindsight. What had she got out of this last six months?

Where is my phone?

What have I been doing for that six months? Going about with my head in – in what? Some kind of dead zone? What was I thinking, ending up here in Paris, with my job in some kind of limbo and no money to get back to Auckland? With Roy looking like the walking dead and Jeremy looking angry even sighted from a safe distance and Heather the last person in the office keeping the lights switched on? The lights sure as hell haven't been switched on in my head for far too long. Where is my phone?

Job in limbo – that's the best I can hope for. Pray that Heather hasn't got fed up and processed my job termination by now.

Where is my phone?

Another knock on the door.

# Chapter 61: Hold out

Cassidy paused – did she really want to see Miles right now, when she was on the point of – of what? Of packing? Or merely of going out to see Yasu? But Miles wouldn't knock. She pulled open the door.

And the last person she expected walked in. Without being invited in; Cassidy decided Yasu was right. Anyone with manners this bad cried out to be distrusted. But on the other hand, this could be an opportunity to find out a little more about Morris. And maybe a little more about Miles.

Time for a little interrogation. But before Cassidy could begin her questioning, or even invite Morris to sit down – in fact, she only had time to slam the door closed – Morris turned on her. Far too close, well inside her personal space, and Cassidy stepped backwards, bumping the wall.

'I wanted to warn you.'

'Warn me about what?'

'From last night's dinner.'

Last night's dinner? The dinner she could hardly remember?

Morris cleared his throat. 'I overheard Miles saying some French crap last night at dinner – and all the time he was staring into someone's eyes, but not yours.'

'What the hell business is it of yours?'

Morris shrugged. 'I'm just speaking up as a friend. You should walk out now.'

Cassidy opened the door. 'Morris, would you please leave, right now, right this moment?'

He shuffled his feet. 'I can't leave.'

'I can get the porter to throw you out, if that will help.'

'I need your help.'

Cassidy surprised herself by shutting the door. She stared, at Morris taking up space in an antique chair; Morris stared at the floor.

'Help with what?'

'With Seph's credit card management. I manage Seph's credit cards, although I should tell you that your boyfriend has tried to get Seph as a client. At one stage I was thinking that – that I'd shift Seph's credit card management to Oldridge because his fees are very low.'

'Miles charges low fees?'

Low fees? First I've ever heard of Miles charging low fees.

The first anyone has ever heard of Miles the Millionaire charging low fees, put in Melissa. But, if Miles charges low fees for his credit card management business, here's a question for Morris: how does Miles fund this celebrity lifestyle?

Morris went on. 'But I decided against shifting Seph's credit card management to Oldridge because Seph's credit card spending would spiral out of control if I wasn't in charge of it.'

Like we believe that.

Cassidy ignored her inner critic. Time to be blunt, if not rude: anyone who has forced their way in without invitation and refused to be thrown out can stand a little rudeness. 'You mean if you weren't in charge of Seph's credit cards, then you wouldn't have the chance to spend on his cards?'

Did I say that? I can't believe I said that.

Morris was saying something, but Cassidy wasn't listening.

I really, really cannot believe I said that. Morris could be a client; I need clients, Hectors needs clients.

'... I understand money, Seph doesn't understand...'

Memo to self: clients are rude – sometimes. I am rude to clients – only when I am bored at being a paid companion.

'... I understand it for him...'

When did I stop being a financial forensics consultant and start being a paid companion, complete with being rude to other people? When did I start being – oh, my God – when did I start being Melissa Setter-Hughes, and stop being myself?

'... I mean, of course I have to spend on Seph's credit card number at times. I mean, like plane tickets, I had to pick up his tickets at the last minute, and so I used his card. That sort of thing comes up all the time. Otherwise, I can swear that I have has not spent money on Seph's credit cards.'

Difficult to believe. Cassidy congratulated herself that she was enough of a financial forensics consultant not to say that out loud.

Me too, Melissa agreed – after all, if Morris doesn't insist on his own lack of guilt, then who's going to believe this scum is innocent?

'I'm telling the truth!'

Cassidy asked, 'Why isn't Seph here with you making this request?'

Morris said, 'Seph is at lunch. I mean, with the team in their hotel.'

'If you're seriously asking me for professional financial forensic services, then you know I can't do anything without his permission.'

Morris looked – Cassidy tried to interpret – shifty? Guilty? Maybe just shamefaced. 'I can't do it. I can't face telling Seph that he needs more help with managing credit card work. I know he won't take that from me, he won't believe me that he needs professional financial specialist work. And I don't have the time, Seph is a full-time job for me. I do everything for him, he needs me, and I don't have the time to go through the paperwork.'

Cassidy shrugged. 'I can't do much to assist you without Seph's agreement, so that I can talk to Seph and get information from him.'

His excuses sound pretty thin, Melissa decided. And offered: Cassidy, you need to get Morris out of that rather fragile antique chair before he sets like concrete.

'Look, that's the situation. I can't do professional work without Seph's permission. And you'll have to excuse me. I'm meeting Yasu this afternoon.'

'You could ask her for permission on behalf of Seph.'

'No, I couldn't. You'll have to go, Morris.' Yasu's dislike seemed to be infectious, would she normally be so rude to a potential client? Cassidy managed not to shudder at the thought of Morris as a client; this man simply attracted all her inner rudeness, unless she was channelling Melissa.

But at least he'd heaved himself up from the creaking chair. 'What are you going to that she's doing?'

'I'm turning up, that's all I'm doing. Yasu will be doing something, some photo shoot on location at the Seine, but I don't know what.'

'Sounds exciting,' Morris said.

'Maybe...'

Oooh, Cassy, put in an arch Melissa, you do realise what you've done, don't you?

Cassidy squirmed.

Melissa was triumphant. You have inadvertently let slip Yasu's secret to Morris precisely when she told you it was a secret. And you can be confident that Morris will tell Seph, and Yasu will find that her secret isn't a secret at all.

Cassidy surfaced from worrying to find the fragile antique chair, the hotel suite and the open doorway empty.

# Chapter 62: A chance on the short side

Where to turn for information? Cassidy's thoughts paced the hotel suite while her forehead rested against a relatively cool section of wall and the minutes ticked by. More particularly, who to ask for help?

Once upon a time she would have rung Heather, without a moment's pause for reflection, and rattled off a list of requests. At least, now that she thought about it, maybe in her own head they had started as requests, but by the time her words emerged at the Auckland end of the phone connection, squeezed through satellites or copper wire or fibre optic cable, perhaps her sentences had re-shaped themselves into instructions, even barked from the phone as orders. Find old files, search websites, research reputations and convictions and judgements.

But I've quit. I've departed from Hectors, walked out, and gone independent. Except instead of being independent, instead of looking for business and honing my skills and pulling in clients and thinking about money and where to find money and where other people may have lost money, I have wasted days and weeks. Being at Miles's beck and call, eating too much, drinking too late, and worrying about my shoes. I can't simply ring up Heather and order her to spy out the ground, to find out more about Morris's business as a mentor and agent, not now that I have quit. No help there.

Unless... unless I can offer something in exchange. I walked out with two envelopes in hand; okay, so at the time it was too hard even to open the envelopes, but it's not too late. As long as I haven't chucked out the unopened envelopes, discarded them somewhere in random airports or abandoned them in millionaires' harbour-side penthouses or converted them to scrap paper in hotel rooms... if I can find the envelopes and find out what Heather or Roy wanted in the way of help from me, then we can do a deal.

And once Cassidy began searching, Roy's envelope was easy to find. She looked at her lack of unpacking and stirred herself to empty her suitcase. And there it was: Roy's envelope, very crumpled, had slipped into a partly unzipped but otherwise unused compartment in the lid of her suitcase. Cassidy straightened the single crumpled page of Hector Partners Consulting, Financial Forensics letterhead and read:

Financial forensic client assessment

Question one: Are his prices high enough?

Question two: Are his costs low enough?

Question three: If his prices are too low and his costs are too high, what will happen next?

Question four: Should we take Guthrey Rutherwood back again as a client?

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Cassidy turned the paper over; nothing on the back. She turned to Roy's four questions again, re-read.

So, the decision of whether to take Guthrey on: not even food for thought. Take back a discharged bankrupt? Not a chance. Roy's untidy handwriting made a scribble at the foot of the page and Cassidy squinted. You dealt with the very final Hectors assignment that we did for Guthrey – and then he went into bankruptcy. So now it's your call whether Hectors should take Guthrey back again.

Other papers were loose in her suitcase; Cassidy shuffled them into some kind of order and riffled through. Her proposal to become part of Hector & StPaul Partners, nurtured and dreamed of and kept together, despite quitting her job, abandoning her past and to embrace a present role of being purely decorative.

Time to look to the future. Hectors – her past, and maybe, just maybe, her future. In her mind Cassidy operated the restored security lock with a renewed swipe card, forced the recalcitrant and temperamental lift to take her skywards. Emerging onto the eleventh floor, nodding at the sparkling welcome sign, Hector & StPaul Partners Consulting, Financial Forensics. And with her partner, Jeremy Forbes, her proposal for new business in the shape a whole new world of clients.

Not there yet, not at all there yet. Half a world away, at the moment, with not quite an actual client in the shape of Seph Daniel and his finances, but enough to puzzle over. Yasu's complaints, an unexpected visit from Morris, but no client. She needed to have something to show for the time she had wasted here.

With Roy's envelope extracted from her case, Cassidy studied her possessions in an untidy scatter pattern around the floor. Now would be the perfect moment to put her stuff into the wardrobes and drawers in the hotel suite.

But her inner Melissa watched as the outer Cassidy slowly and meticulously folded up all her unlaundered clothes and began to replace them in the suitcase, layering them more carefully than she ever had before. She put Roy's single sheet of paper back into its envelope and into her briefcase.

She went into the suite bathroom. Jar by jar, compact by compact, she packed all her stuff into her makeup bag. She hadn't decided exactly that she would leave – but she didn't feel comfortable in the hotel room any more.

But where was Heather's envelope? And then there had been Heather's phone call – why hadn't she rung back? More unwelcome recollections: Heather seeking Cassidy's help on a problem at Hectors... in which case – and a little shiver worked its way down Cassidy's spine – in which case, perhaps Heather was in danger, and Cassidy was a long way away in France. A whole tidal wave of those little ripples down the spine; she hadn't spoken to Heather for a while now. Cassidy found her cell-phone at first attempt.

And the battery was dead.

Dead, because she hadn't got herself organised to get a phone charger. What had she been wasting her time for, mucking about on the balcony, stuffing her face with room service food and coffee, even speaking to a creep like Morris, for heaven's sake, when all this time she should have been worrying about Heather. She forced the overflowing make-up bag into her suitcase and paused, suitcase lid askew, to take one last look around the suite for any other possessions. After all, everything she owned was with her, so no point in leaving any of it behind inadvertently.

The room phone rang.

Cassidy studied the red light on the phone as it blinked in perfect timing with the ringing. Heather, reading her mind, sharing her worry? In which case she would answer.

Or Morris, to resume that stupid conversation which really, now, she simply could not believe? In which case she should not pick up the phone.

The phone continued to ring. She picked up.

'I want you to join me for lunch.'

Since when had Miles begun to issue orders? Cassidy hesitated.

'Cassidy, are you hearing me? What's your problem? It's lunchtime, I want some lunch. With you.'

Cassidy fumbled for the perfect excuse. 'I've only just finished brunch.'

Miles's snort echoed down the phone. 'This is France. France is about, Paris is about eating and drinking. I'm in the cafe next door to the hotel. And I have an important, a very, very important decision, to discuss with you.' The phone disconnected.

Cassidy forced the reluctant lid down on an overfull suitcase and clicked the latches closed. She found her key-ring in her purse, locked her suitcase and briefcase, tucked her purse under her arm and left the suite.

# Chapter 63: Put the heat on

His boots bit at the turf and spat out grass and mud ahead of his footprints as Seph jogged to the side line. He picked up his water bottle, rinsed his teeth, pursed his lips and sent a jet of water flinging at the sky. Training was good. Rugby was great. Life was fantastic.

Morning training was the only way to start the day, Seph told himself. Especially when he was playing as superbly as he was. Lunch yesterday with Gabrielle had been really good, he'd talked over some issues and she'd been just so good to talk to, happy to listen and maybe ask a question or two, keeping it simple. Talking things over with Gabrielle made issues clearer, compared with talking stuff over with Yaz, which made everything more complicated. Yaz just turned everything into something personal... Seph veered off that line of thought. Yes, everything seemed to be going well.

... _and if Seph Daniel keeps this up then he will definitely run out in the starting line-up. Yeah, definitely. Seph Daniel stares across the practice field, lifts his gaze above coloured figures against the bright green turf, looks at the incredible blue sky and wonders why he has never noticed before how blue the sky is in Paris..._

The Chief materialised by his side. 'Keep it going.'

Seph pulled his gaze back to the field, dropped the water bottle onto his bag, dug a toe into the powdery chalk of the side line, nodded. 'Yeah... got my head in the right space, or something.'

The Chief raised one eyebrow. 'Now, I need to ask you: hotel arrangements. Yasu moving into the hotel?'

Seph shook his head. 'Definitely not. No chance.'

Well, he hadn't actually asked Yaz. But he didn't really need to, Seph told himself. After all, he knew what Yaz would say without having to ask her. So, not asking Yaz saved a lot of aggro, a lot of unnecessary grief. Grief to him, which ended up making him not play as well as he knew he could.

'She's had some time to settle down now that you've moved in with the rest of the squad. What does she have to say about that?' The Chief's scrutiny was unsettling.

Seph studied his boot as the toecap tore up tufts of grass. The smooth grass of the side line and the straight white line demarcating the field were now smeared and blurred with smashed grass and scoops of mud.

'Yaz – she just really likes her own space.'

'The rooms are big enough at the hotel.'

Did he want Yaz in the squad hotel? Seph scuffed his boots onto the playing side of the line. Living in separate hotels – well, life was just simpler, in so many little ways. No constant nagging from Yaz as to where he was at every minute of the day, time and space to spend his time as he needed to.

'She likes to do her own thing without anyone wanting to know where she is and what she's doing.'

'She doesn't have to do anything with anyone.'

Like tomorrow, when he had arranged lunch with Gabrielle... not that he had anything going with Gabrielle, she was old enough to be his mother, or maybe his grandmother for all that he knew, judging by the silver hair and the pale skin and the occasional coughing and weakness. No, there was nothing in it, except that he was looking forward to that whole sense of enjoying having lunch with her tomorrow, with possibly more lunches to be arranged.

'She's sort of – you know, every time I've asked her, she just resists the idea.'

The Chief switched off the glare and Seph rolled his shoulders to get the kinks out as the Chief scorched the buildings on the perimeter of the field with that penetrating gaze. Seph pulled in a deep breath which was punched out of his lungs as the Chief refocused on him.

'Okay, well, I've got my obligations as much as you have. And I've been asked by the powers that be to ask you to ask her – you still with me? – to ask Yasu one last time if she'll move into the team hotel. You do that and let me know when you've done it.'

A loose ball bounced across the muddy gap where the chalk of the side line used to be and Seph toed the ball up, scooping it up with one hand.

'Shit, I don't want to have another fight with her. You know the deal – she just hates all the stuff that comes with touring, the supporters, all the rest of it.'

The Chief said, 'Are you sure? The heat's on now, and will only get worse – more fans, more pressure – the security would be better if she moved to the main hotel.'

'Over here mate!'

Seph flicked the ball into the waiting hands of Five. 'Well – I'll give it one more go. All right? I can't do more than that.'

After all, who was to know when he would have the opportunity to raise the topic with Yaz? There would be a lot of things to focus on other than talking when he saw her.

The Chief asked, 'When? I need to alert security. And I want you to have lunch with the squad today. You weren't there the last two days.'

'Um – all right. After lunch; I guess I can fit it in after lunch.'

'Good. You do that. Let me know this evening how you get on.'

# Chapter 64: A bit of French claret

The foyer doors of the squad hotel closed automatically behind him and Seph dropped to one knee to re-tie a shoelace. Yaz could go on hold for a few seconds while he tied up his shoe, surely. Maybe the other shoe was a bit loose as well – Seph changed knees and untied the other shoe. Anyway, she was probably out, shopping or having a long lunch or doing whatever she did on her own. He tied the second lace firmly.

No point in getting to the hotel too early when Yaz wasn't going to be there and having to waste time waiting for her.

... _and Seph Daniel is looking the best we've seen, as he bounces up and down on his toes and checks which way is clear..._

The traffic flowed past in its unending race to be somewhere else. The copy of his contract made a thick lining to his back pocket. In fact right now, when he had a few minutes to spare, would be a good time.

The boredom of waiting for Yaz in that cramped hotel room with its closed windows and Yaz's stuff everywhere, especially if she'd been shopping, it was too much; Seph felt stifled at the thought. Turning in the opposite direction brought him into the breeze and he breathed deep. After all, this would only take a few minutes, to walk past the café, just in case. Gabrielle probably wouldn't be there, but just in case she was.

All he wanted was her advice, her help in understanding why he never had enough money despite having a good salary and a good contract. All he was going to do would be to say hello, to say that he wouldn't take up her time today, but here was a copy of his contract, perhaps she could read it through and tell him what she thought of it, whether it was fair and everything, whether in fact it was a good contract or a bad one. And then he could walk away from her.

After making a firm time to have lunch with her tomorrow.

He couldn't see whether Gabrielle was in the café or not. The place was always so dark, he couldn't see a thing, and having to duck under the low doorframe always meant he was focused on his footing rather than on who was where.

'My friend! Have a drink – here.'

Seph tried to remember the name of the guy who owned the place, a friend of Gabrielle's, they had been on first name terms, what the hell had Gabrielle called him?

The proprietor uncorked a bottle with a minor chime of cork emerging from tight glass and Seph watched dark wine splash and recoil into the bowl of the glass.

'And you are looking good today, friend Joséph.'

And there had been something – what was it – Seph struggled to remember. Yes, that was it – his card declined yesterday.

He flourished plastic at the man. 'I want to pay – for yesterday, the lunch. My card should be good.'

But it wasn't.

They both listened to the small machine tick as it read his card, pause as machines assessed his credit, watched as his card was slowly extruded from the network, as bad news typed itself onto the tiny screen. Seph put his glass down onto the bar as the owner offered the tiny plastic sliver between his fingers.

Declined again!

Embarrassment and humiliation propelled his shoes against a chair, tipping it backwards.

... _and Seph Daniel's hands are reliable hands, you can guarantee the catch, and Seph catches the back of the tipping chair. And the camera watches as finely tuned muscles bring the chair up towards the low ceiling, the timbers of those dark French beams are low enough for him to crash his head against wood, and luckily Seph has remembered to duck this time so he doesn't crack his skull on the beam. Then the hands lift and press, not the ball under the posts, but the chair against the ceiling, and a hanging light breaks and the ladder rungs of the back of the chair splinter against those low roof timbers so hard, now Seph Daniel is lowering his hands but he's only holding two disconnected handfuls of old furniture..._

And then he was outside, with the owner no longer behind the bar but behind Seph, holding his arm in a surprisingly strong grip.

'Out. Out.'

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I just –'

'It doesn't matter. Come in tomorrow and pay.'

Seph coughed. 'I'm training all day tomorrow.' Was that correct? What was he doing tomorrow? He couldn't remember.

'Come in and pay when you can.' The man looked at him so oddly.

And then he was alone on the pavement outside the café, the traffic flowing like a river in flood, the café door closed, and even above the roar of the traffic Seph could hear a rapid click, over and over, click click click; it took him a moment to figure it out, but it could only be the key turning in the lock.

Still breathing hard, Seph put one foot down then the other foot, shoelaces firmly tied and holding his feet to the ground, one foot in front of the other, while he tried to work out the expression on the café owner's face. He had reached the corner of the street, had turned back into the main road and into the correct direction for Yaz and her hotel room, before the right word came to him.

Sympathy. The guy had looked at him with such sympathy; Seph couldn't figure out why.

# Chapter 65: Blood bin

'Well I think you should stay here in this hotel. With me. I don't see why I should have to shift hotels all the time.'

'Mmmm.' Seph curved his body around Yaz as she turned over to face away from him, and cupped one hand around the swell of a breast.

'What's the time? I mean, I just hate all that squad hotel atmosphere. Security talking into their lapels, someone watching you all the time, screaming fans outside so you can't go anywhere or do anything without starting a riot.'

'Sshhh...'

'The clock's on your side. Can you see it? What's the time?'

The bed shook as Yasu rolled back again to face him and tried to lean across to check the time. Seph played advantage.

'No, stop that. I've got stuff to do, I'll be late.'

'Late for what? Come here...'

'I'll be late for – I've got to update my blog.'

And the bed was suddenly colder and emptier. Seph stayed on his back and stared at the ceiling. He heard the tapping at a keyboard.

'Hey, I could tell my blog that I had sex with my husband! How about that – broke the drought!'

'Shit...' Seph closed his eyes to shut out the ceiling but nothing could shut out the rapid click of keys.

'It'd hot up your reputation. Don't worry, only joking. I'm writing about my project.'

Seph tried to remember; he felt too lazy to be ready for another argument about whether he ever paid attention when she told him things. No luck. 'What project?'

'Oh, don't worry. You'll find out at the perfect time. Speaking of time, what is the time – shit! I didn't realise it was that late! I have to go.'

Go where?

'Oh, I'm – I'm meeting someone, organising stuff, you know. Hey, someone's put some media links on my blog site, lemme check this out...'

'Go where?'

'What the hell – what are these pictures? What have you been doing?'

'You.'

'And who else?'

'What?'

'These are pictures of you! All over the news! And who's that? Your grandmother? What the hell have you been doing?'

The bed shook as Yasu scrambled aboard. 'Look – look at this. Who took these photos?'

Seph considered lying.

'This is you! And who's that old bitch? And you haven't even got your tooth in, you look like a complete idiot. What restaurant is that?'

The problem was that the Chief could spot a lie at ten metres. 'I need a nap.'

'Don't you roll over and close your eyes. Are you listening to me? And what are you doing smashing the place up like that?'

'You said photos would hot up my reputation.' Peering at the tablet that Yasu was thrusting at him: photos of Gabrielle, photos of himself, a good close-up of the chair being wrecked.

'Get your clothes on and get out.'

Had he really sat that close to Gabrielle? Who had been watching them while they talked, outside the café, in the sunshine, on the bench?

'Didn't you hear me? Get out!'

# Chapter 66: Offside

Cassidy peered up the street as she emerged from the hotel doors: no Miles. Where was he hiding; was she supposed to have time to search all the neighbouring cafés? Why was he playing this game: spot me if you can?

Maybe he was across the street: she braced up one cramped toe and tipped her foot onto the loose heel of her shoe as she stood at the concrete kerb. The sun glared; she tapped her sunglasses down from her hair to the bridge of her nose and scanned the cafés on the opposite side. No Miles. Where the hell was he?

'Cassidy...'

A grab at her elbow made her jump.

She turned to see Miles already jogging back to a table. In the other direction from the cafés where she had been looking.

Idiot.

It's not my fault I looked in the wrong direction, Cassidy argued. She dragged her feet. It's his fault that he didn't tell me which side of the hotel he was waiting at. He was offside.

Offside, sweetie, where do you get such ideas? Who got out of bed on the wrong side, darling? Stop being such a grouch and is that a bottle of something that could very possibly be champagne on the table? Am I seeing that correctly?

I'd rather have a coffee. I still have a headache from staying up late last night, and being forced to talk to Morris has made it worse.

Made what worse, sweetie? Your hangover, hmmmm?

She settled onto a sunlit street in Paris and resented what Melissa would consider the right things to do: lean back and tilt her face to the sun; drink in not only some chilled champagne, real bubbly for once, but also the romance of sitting with a handsome millionaire in the most romantic city in the world. Instead, Cassidy pushed her sunglasses more firmly onto her perspiring nose, wished that she had remembered a sunhat and yearned for her familiar coffee cart where the barista started making her familiar double shot as soon as he saw her walking around the corner and heading for her familiar orange vinyl step-stool.

Had she packed a hat in her suitcase? Any kind of hat would do – wasn't there some kind of promotional cap, black and white thing? The colours wouldn't go with what she was wearing but from memory the cap had a blessedly lengthy front peak that would keep all this horribly bright sun out of her tired eyes and would stop the bags underneath from deepening.

Miles waved a hand and a waiter slid alongside their table and grasped the neck of the bottle. At least the waiter cast a little shade over Cassidy as he struggled slightly with the cork.

Her suitcase: she was almost certain she had not packed the promotional cap in the case. She'd taken against the cap, a ridiculous synthetic horror that flattened her hair; but now that she needed it and could race up to the suite in a matter of moments to grab it, where was the cap to be grabbed? Had she thrown it somewhere – under the bed, in the rubbish? She tried to think hard, and thinking hard made her neck stiff.

Rotating her head to loosen tight neck muscle brought Miles in view. He looked unusual – Cassidy squinted through sunglasses. Different from usual, how: his stance on the chair, his expression, the colour of his skin?

The waiter was holding the uncorked bottle out towards him. Miles nodded and the waiter braced a thumb beneath the bottle. Single-handed he began to pour and white bubbles sparkled dangerously in the tall glass in front of Cassidy.

Melissa purred. Look at that, Cassy, only French champagne foams like that.

Cassidy worried about her suitcase. Had she locked it? She was pretty certain that she had, and now she couldn't find the key. She had put it in her pocket – she thought she had put it in her pocket, but a surreptitious exploratory search, right to the lining, had told her there was no key in her jacket pocket. And also that there was the beginnings of a fraying edge where the lining was parting company with the outer linen. Had the key fallen through, to lodge somewhere inaccessible between inner and outer jacket skin?

'Cheers, Cassy...'

Cassidy shuffled in the chair to get access to her jacket hem all round, running the doubled fabric between her fingers, searching for anything key-shaped. After all, if she couldn't unlock her suitcase, to search for – what had she wanted to search for in her case? – anyway, the only other option would mean prising her suitcase lid open, which would ruin the case, which would mean she would have to unpack, and which would mean that she was stuck for the duration with staying in that hotel suite with Miles, instead of keeping her options open.

'Cassy, I wanted to say... are you listening?'

If only she could remember what her options were, and what she needed out of her suitcase.

'Cassy!'

'What?'

'Champagne, Cassy.'

'Oh, yes.' She lifted her glass to eye level and leaned forward to match Miles's posture. He clinked his glass carefully against her and smiled.

Cassidy closed her eyes behind her sunglasses and took a sip. She didn't feel like drinking, the sun was too hot to be without a hat, and without the key to her suitcase she wouldn't be able to have a second, longer look at Roy's sheet of paper. Not to mention Heather's envelope. Was that even in her suitcase?

'Cassy, will you marry me?'

# Chapter 67: Kick for touch

Okay, so the to do list needed re-work. Buy sunhat, find suitcase key, decide what action to take about Roy's questions, unearth Heather's envelope from wherever it was hiding.

What had he said? Miniature bubbles, empty of any hint, formed and winked and floated to the top of the liquid in her glass before bursting in a silent implosion.

'Look at me, Cassy, look at me, forget the bubbly.'

She lifted her eyes to look at the stranger across the table. Is his price high enough? Is his cost low enough?

'And can't you take those sunglasses off for once?'

She took off her sunglasses and blinked rapidly to adjust to the glare.

'Well, I suppose I should be flattered, maybe? When I proposed to my first wife, she presented me with a list of – well, maybe I shouldn't go there.'

A list of what?

That could have been an interesting topic to break the ice, urged Melissa. I warned you, Yasu warned you and you still aren't prepared. After all, sweetie, you have to say something, this man has just proposed to you and he's waiting for an answer.

What?

Cassidy cleared her throat. 'A list of what?'

Miles blinked, put his glass down, leaned forward across the table. 'Forget that, Cassy, I shouldn't have said that. I guess I'm just maybe flattered that I seem to have shocked you into silence.' He smiled.

Cassidy had forgotten how nice his smile was.

'So I suppose you didn't expect the question?'

At last, one she could answer. 'No. I guess I should say I'm sorry.'

Miles drew back, settled himself firmly in his chair. Cassidy watched the smile drain from his face and was, indeed, truly sorry. If the price is too high to pay, if I don't want to pay, what will happen next?

'Sorry for what? Sorry that I'm proposing to you?'

Cassidy couldn't look at the face stripped of the smile. She couldn't think of anything to say that would make the situation better. She ran her fingers up and down the fragile stem of her glass, lifted the clear pale cold rim to her lips and took a gulp too large for her mouth. She struggled to swallow.

'Cassy, I'm doing all the work here. Are you with me?'

Was she with him? Why was she in Paris, sitting here across from this stranger who wanted to marry her?

I shouldn't be here, she told Melissa, shivering and wide-eyed in the cold sunshine, and her inner Melissa nodded, wordless in support.

'Isn't there some rugby event you should be at?'

Miles said, 'What the hell are you talking about?'

Cassidy attempted a smile. 'I'm kicking for touch.'

She watched the set of Miles' shoulders as he dodged between strangers. The hotel automatic doors displayed their usual obedience; Miles vanished into the dark lobby. Cassidy put her sunglasses on, rubbed a cold hand onto the sore muscles of her neck and watched the last of the champagne slow from a rushing tidal wave to a dribble to a few final drops as the bottle lay on its side, rolled to the edge of the table in an expensive puddle.

The waiter edged alongside, picked up the bottle and tentatively offered Cassidy a platter of – she peered closely – some kind of bread. She nodded, the platter was nudged onto the table, puddles of champagne vanished along with the broken stem of Miles's glass, and Cassidy eased into the comfort of the cushioned chair. Okay, so this would leave her with paying a second lunch bill for today, but she might as well enjoy Paris to the full.

A deep plate of soup appeared beside the bread. Sunlight spun on the champagne in her, luckily, intact champagne flute. A spoonful of hot and savoury and delicious soup went down and her throat muscles softened.

Do you realise, sweetie, that this is the first time in Paris that we have felt relaxed?

Cassidy was too unwound to reply as she watched the sunshine. Okay, so there might be an encounter to live through, when she went to retrieve her, luckily, packed suitcase from the suite. But that could be deferred until this delicious soup was emptied right to the depth of the plate and the cafe emptied of lunch customers.

Memo to self: get sorted.

To do: return to Miles's suite, collect my packed suitcase. Urgent to do: find somewhere to stay.

# Chapter 68: Slow-motion replay

Ten seconds, that was all the time she would need to pick up her suitcase and get out. Out of Miles's hotel suite; out of his life.

Cassidy turned the key, held her breath and pushed the door open as quietly as she could.

Get suitcase, get out, get over to watch Yasu do – whatever Yasu was doing at the event. Cassidy couldn't remember what Yasu had mentioned, but at least this invitation was nothing to do with rugby. The last few days had been a blur. All that Cassidy could remember of – well, of her past life – was that time had vanished.

Frittered away, yawned Melissa.

Packing? Not that there had been much to pack, with her furniture and clothes and shoes a mould-tainted lump dumped into a rubbish skip for burial.

Flying half-way across the world? Not that she remembered much, in fact the long-haul flight seemed drenched in a haze of golden nostalgia, as it had been the last time that she had had a decent sleeping-pill-induced long sleep.

Paris? Not much of an experience, except as a city where, desperate for sleep, she partied with people that she barely knew, including Miles. And maybe would never want to know, including Miles.

How are we now?

Exhausted and shattered and starting to realise that I may have done serious damage to my own career.

The suite was totally empty. Cassidy raced through a security check: no Miles in the bedroom, no Miles behind the closed bathroom door. She stood beside the open door to the hotel hallway and independence, locked suitcase neatly alongside her scuffed shoes, and hesitated. Maybe she had just enough time to check her suitcase for Roy's envelope before she ducked out. Time to answer one nagging question between walking out on Miles and walking into Yasu's event: what did Roy's questions mean?

Hand in pocket; suitcase key miraculously located, snagged in the lining of her jacket. And here was Heather's envelope at last, hiding behind the neatly zipped teeth of the suitcase's side zip, an envelope out of sight that would have remained out of mind unless one were hunting it down with forensic tenacity. Cassidy laid Heather's envelope on the floor. Now she had found it, the contents would keep for another five minutes.

But first, Roy's last question to her: should Hectors accept Guthrey Rutherwood again as a client?

Cassidy stared across five years of memory. She watched herself sitting in a hotel room, five years ago, and reading – well, what was it that she always ended up doing in hotel rooms? Reading paperwork and working; that was all she did in hotel rooms.

It's all you do anywhere, Melissa contributed.

As if I needed an imaginary Melissa to tell myself that. As if I didn't know.

Cassidy checked her watch, checked the open suite door, tried to calculate times and locations and questions. Maybe a few minutes wouldn't hurt, she wouldn't be too late for Yasu.

Should Hectors accept Guthrey Rutherwood as a client again? She flipped Roy's envelope upside down, pressed the sides together to form a scoop, shook the envelope gently; a sliver of newsprint fell out.

Should Hectors have accepted Guthrey Rutherwood as a client in the first place, five years ago? Cassidy teased apart the first fold of the news clipping.

Who could possibly know what the answer to that question should be? Yes, no, maybe? Depends on whether there is an R in the month: R for Rutherwood? The problem was... Cassidy stopped thinking about Roy's question – oh, the relief of not pretending to know what to answer – and stared into empty space. Empty space that contained an absent ex-boyfriend, a Paris hotel room, a suitcase spilling over with dirty clothes. And a space that contained a younger Cassidy, five years younger to be precise, and a Guthrey Rutherwood on the brink of bankruptcy.

And what Roy asked today was different from five years ago. Mundane, yes; boring, yes; but I'll take boring over suicide any day, Cassidy thought. Five years ago I read what could be interpreted as a suicide note; it was a suicide note, I know it was: gut instinct. A suicide note that no-one else would admit to having read, and I had to decide what to do.

Did I make the right decision five years ago? I still can't decide.

The piece of newspaper, the merest scrap, had softened as old newspages do. Cassidy flipped open a fold and flinched as a corner tore off. She continued to unfold, much more slowly.

Residual guilt stirred like mud from the bottom of a pond, from concealing a suicide note, and making choices between clients. I had to make a choice, Cassidy told herself feebly. I couldn't please everyone. Problem is that as things have worked out since, I can't avoid the conclusion that I worked against Guthrey's interests five years ago. Perhaps this is a chance to set things right. I could get the suicide note out of the files – out of wherever Heather has filed it in the files – and make things right.

Right for whom? And it was all very well to think about access to Hector files, but now there were more obstacles in her way. Like the small matter that she would need access to Hector files, filed away in an office where she had recently resigned.

Maybe, just maybe, and Cassidy stirred a hand slowly across a much-folded and scuffed page, a newspaper clipping softened around the edges with fraying paper fibres. A photograph of Guthrey on the steps of court after the decision, his collar up, his head down, his face away from the camera; bankruptcy, disgrace, condemned to five years in the wilderness. The folds in the newspaper clipping had scarred his suit.

Maybe, just maybe, she needed to apologise to Roy and ask to be re-hired?

Thought you gave it all up for love? The inner Melissa was becoming too ironic; a bit too much like the outer Cassidy.

Cassidy leaned back; the frame of the open door jabbed into her shoulder-blade as she balanced her tablet on one knee and traced her fingers over search terms. Anything about Guthrey Rutherwood and his old property problem? All she could hit were old sites about his bankruptcy; news not only old but also one of those rare instances where she knew more than the newspapers. Cassidy snapped the tab closed. Heather's envelope nagged.

Heather's envelope, the flap firmly glued down, had survived unscathed in the suitcase side compartment. Cassidy fought to unzip the envelope flap, gave up, and tore a strip down the side. She blew gently, the envelope puffed like a balloon, and Cassidy pulled out – not just one page, but pages. Heather's neat writing on a top sheet, and paper-clipped behind, a list. Cassidy stared at the name at the very top of the list, closed and re-opened her eyes, flipped through the bundle, and returned to the front: Heather's note in one hand, in her other hand the pages of debtors owing money to Hectors, and Miles' finances, or rather his liabilities, stared up at her from the top of page one.

Cassidy read, slowly and carefully and with forensic tenacity, to the very last word on Heather's note.

Miles Oldridge, in Heather's neat crisp handwriting, has put his last three companies into deliberate liquidation, in order to avoid paying his creditors. No-one seemed to be particularly aware of this, but in the last of those three liquidations, Hector Partners was an unsecured creditor, and it is unlikely we will be paid out the nearly two million that he owes Hectors.

I'm very worried about Roy, Heather's handwriting began to scrawl. I've overheard a lot of arguments between Roy and Jeremy. Jeremy basically is saying that Roy failed to disclose the extent of Miles's debt to the firm before Jeremy bought in, and that this was failure to disclose a material piece of information, that Jeremy should have been told about Oldridge.

I think what Roy did, Heather's handwriting settled down again to legible, was that Roy re-classified the age of Miles Oldridge's debt. I do the monthly list of debtors, aged into current, more than thirty days old and more than sixty days old. Since Miles stopped being Roy's client, two years and four months ago, Miles hasn't paid any of his debt owed to Hectors.

More guilt; Cassidy supplied Heather's unwritten sentence. Which is the two years, more or less, give or take, since I reclassified Miles from not-quite-boyfriend to, well, to whatever he is now. Miles stopped being Roy's client when I started going out with him.

Dinners for two at discreetly quiet and expensive Auckland restaurants had become long lunches and early cocktail parties at fashionable venues followed by dinner for, well, for more people whose names she never knew; overnight stays at Miles's penthouse had become long weekends full of brunches and coffees and more cocktails with yet more people she could barely name, and long weekends had become a week's holiday at Queenstown. Where she had endured a bad cold, streets full of slush in an unseasonal thaw, Miles' awful friends, and running up a lot of debt.

Just like Miles, it appeared, except that he had ways of abandoning his debts and moving on. And one of those he owed money to, in this case, was her ex-employer. And one of her ex-colleagues had written her a long note – Cassidy turned the page over, but once more there was nothing on the back – about the fact that she was very worried about Roy.

What did anyone know about Oldridge? Cassidy stared at the Paris hotel room that she was sharing with this stranger called Oldridge.

Are you sure this is your problem, queried the inner Melissa, a worried frown on that abnormally smooth forehead.

Which problem, Cassidy wondered, is my problem? When in doubt, define the problem. Are his prices too low? Are his costs too high? What will happen next?

Is it my problem to tell Miles to pay the two million he owes to the place I used to work, because the employer I used to work for is suffering under the fact that the debt hasn't been paid? Or is it my problem to tell Miles that one of my ex-colleagues – Cassidy mentally backspaced over the word, letter by slow letter – one of my friends, one of my friends as opposed to one of yours – tells me that she is worried about our shared boss, and that if she's worried, then I'm worried?

She smoothed her fingers over Heather's handwriting. Was Heather trying to tell her about Miles being in debt, or something larger about Hectors itself? Cassidy tilted the page at another angle, as if to capture more sunlight on the paper. From a financial forensics perspective, the page obediently told her about Miles Oldridge, debtor. If, however, she looked at the page in this different way, maybe from what could be called a Heather perspective, what did the numbers say?

The ache in her shoulder-blade had shifted to become the lump in her throat, the tug of grief in her heart, and the sheer desperation to get out of here. She would attend Yasu's event and decide what to do. The hotel room was too small, she couldn't breathe. But she also couldn't take her suitcase to whatever party Yasu was hosting. Cassidy tumbled two empty envelopes and a newspaper photo of a five-years-past bankrupt at the top of her open suitcase. She stared at the overflowing case, without the energy to wrestle it closed.

A breeze zephyred from long French doors open to the balcony. Heather's note rustled, lifted, and slipped from the top of the suitcase and onto the floor, facing the ceiling. A shaft of sunlight from the balcony windows slanted through the muslin curtains and illuminated Miles's name at the very top of the page of debts.

# Chapter 69: Injury time

'Cut! Cut!'

Cassidy walked along the Seine, towards the crowd and the shouting. Yasu's voice rose above background noise.

'What d'you think this is, a movie? Get over yourself!'

By the time Cassidy had pushed her way to the front and reached the frontage where the boat was tied up, the crowd along the river path had thinned.

Yasu waved from the boat. Cassidy leaned forward, carefully. The speedboat, with Yasu perched on the transom, was tied tightly alongside a set of steps, slippery with moss. As the speedboat jostled against mooring ropes, the dark thread of water between hull and concrete loomed and closed, widened again as ropes became taut, then slammed closed as the outboard roared to life and someone wrestled with the tiller. Cassidy felt a hand hesitate, brushing her jacket. She spun around quickly to grab the pick-pocket.

Morris came into view, holding her elbow. 'Just helping you through this mob. You nearly went into the water. Too filthy to swim here.'

'Morris! Who invited you?' Yasu was hopping up the steps, robe over one shoulder, bag in hand. 'Cassidy, nice to see you – come over here a minute and help me –'

A gendarme had appeared alongside and was shouting down at the party on the boat. A photographer, hung about with cameras, and an older woman shouted back.

'Are you sure this is okay? That guy doesn't look happy.'

Yasu shrugged. 'This won't take long. Shots will get the engine at full throttle, but for safety we stay tied up. The light is perfect on the water at this time in the afternoon.'

Cassidy forced a smile. 'So what did you want help with?'

'Nothing!' Yasu's grin was warming. 'I just wanted to shake off that bloody Morris – I told you, the guy's everywhere, like a bad smell. God knows why he's here, I swear he's stalking me. You look miserable.'

Cassidy couldn't force a return smile. 'Morris's being here, it's my fault, and I'm really sorry. He turned up at the hotel and –'

'Turned up at the hotel? Why?'

'– and I let slip that I was coming along to your event and he must have put two and two together.'

Yasu snuggled tightly into her robe and turned her back on Morris. Cassidy had to lean close.

'Bloody useless Morris – two and two is about all he can put together. Everyone knows he bet too much that New Zealand would win the yachting five-zip. That's why he's desperate to win his money back. That's why he tags onto my Seph. When I take Seph back I'm making sure that Morris gets the chop.'

'When you take Seph back!' I shouldn't have said that. I really shouldn't have said that so loud. There's no way that Morris could have missed that. Nor Yasu's crow of laughter.

'Only temporarily. We can't keep our hands off each other! Bit like you and your man, eh?'

Cassidy recovered from Yasu's nudge. 'Well – maybe – but not now.'

'You throw him out? Lovers' fight?'

'Oh – I don't know –' She grasped at straws. 'Too much rugby, maybe.'

'Here,' Yasu slung her bag off her shoulder, rummaged. 'Take this – it's the key to my room at the hotel. We can share until you decide to forgive and forget. Seph's at the team hotel and he won't turn up until I tell him he's forgiven. And rugby – just remember it's all about asking the right questions.'

'Thanks.' What else was there to say? 'I – thanks. That's really good of you. But I don't know any rugby questions to ask. All that stuff about best set play, best drop kick, all of that.'

'Cassidy, you've got to surprise him with your rugby cred. Try this one. Best national anthem?'

'Um...'

Yasu waited, her face gleeful. 'France! Now – watch my shoot. This is my big, big project – I'm launching Black & Blond in Paris!'

Yasu bellowed from the speedboat. 'Morris, you're a left-over from the yachting!! Make yourself useful!'

Cassidy watched Morris leap with unexpected agility from bank to boat, where he moved to the stern.

'Get that engine started, Morris, or you're a waste of space.' Yasu shouted, 'Cassidy, best socks? Romania!'

Morris continued to fiddle with something at the back of the outboard. Cassidy watched him pushing a lever that half-raised the propeller, then unclipping fastenings and lifting the engine cover. The outboard started with a roar and white water threshed around the stern.

Yasu commanded, 'I don't want you in camera! Don't stand on the transom – get out of the boat!'

Yasu shed her robe and was positioned, turning one way then the other at the stern of the speedboat as the photographer concentrated. She tilted her shoulders back and forth, leaning progressively further out from the stern.

Cassidy yawned through a long debate where the woman directing the photo-shoot was clearly trying to persuade Yasu, in French, to get in the water and Yasu, in English, insisted that she preferred to keep her hair dry. While director and photographer conferred, Yasu leaned over the side of the boat and shouted to Cassidy, 'We're nearly done. They're not happy with the pose, say that me standing on the transom is too static. We're going to get more movement in the shot. D'you like my brand of jacket? It's my new Black & Blond line! Now tell me, best unhappy face?'

Cassidy admired the lifejacket; gold and black stripes moulded buoyancy in curves around Yasu's shoulders.

Yasu shouted, 'Your face, Cassidy! Try smiling! They want to include someone falling into the water from fooling about dangerously on the boat! Perhaps I should get Morris to do it!' She turned to the director and slapped her hand. 'The bonus money – deal. For the extra risk in the shot.'

The outboard revved to maximum; water frothed around the stern, Yasu posed on one foot and the speedboat juddered and swung away from the riverbank as one mooring rope snapped. The sudden movement dislodged Yasu's pose and she tried to catch a steadying hold on the outboard. But the outboard cover had been removed and her hand plunged into a tangle of wiring and levers. Yasu clutched a thin wire, her legs swung wildly out the stern of the boat and the outboard propeller bit deep into one foot. The director screamed at the helmsman who fumbled with studded buttons. The outboard coughed to silence, Yasu was hauled into the boat.

The crowd gasped; blood pumped from a mangled foot.

Cassidy turned to shout to Morris to help, to phone an ambulance, to get Seph, but Morris had vanished.

# Chapter 70: Speeding the game up

Paris at night was magic.

Cassidy lowered herself slowly into the long chair on the balcony of Miles's hotel suite. The chair was blissfully cold against sweaty palms holding onto the soft sides of feathery cushions, and blissfully solid supporting shaky ankles and trembling knees.

Why am I so tired? I've done all-nighters before, meeting client deadlines and Roy's demands and pre-Christmas to-do lists, and I don't ever remember shaking with fatigue, or being so drained with hunger that the mere thought of food makes me feel sick.

As she looked up at the sky, the glow of Paris softened underlit grey clouds. No stars, no moon; but a tinge of gold made the cloudy night sky a little bit rounded and polished and cosy and peaceful. Cassidy stared upwards; she'd never know whether the stars looked different in a Paris night sky.

She was too exhausted to move her eyelids; her eyes stayed open. Too exhausted, after accompanying Yasu to hospital. Cassidy tried not to think over the afternoon, tried to draw a Parisian night cloud over the memories of holding Yasu's hand, of waiting while the hospital operated to clean up the stump of Yasu's ankle, at last of seeing her friend asleep under sedation. And of letting Yasu's hand slip aside onto the bedlinen, and sneaking quietly from the room.

To sneak back quietly into Miles's suite.

What am I doing here?

She was sick of sneaking around, of bracing herself to open a hotel door. A replay of a scene she couldn't remember and couldn't forget: easing her key into the lock as silently as she could, holding her breath, easing into Miles's suite. A shock of cold breeze against her face: the doors to the balcony were open and cold night air rushed past, flapping fabric and rustling papers, and she had followed the fresh air through the open long doors out to the night, alone with Paris in the dark, and at last the chance to stretch out in the chaise longue.

Cassidy's tired mind went over and over the afternoon. Morris at Yasu's photo shoot had been a shock. And now Yasu's accident, Morris must have had something to do with that. Did Morris interfere with something on that stern bracket or transom? If so, why?

But Paris at night was chilly. Cassidy stared across the flickering, glittery city to darkness at the fringes of lights. Too chilly, really, to be out on the balcony. Maybe it was romance that kept people warm in Paris. Sitting on the balcony alone at – she checked her watch – at two in the morning did not work. She leaned her head back and stared at the lack of stars.

What would Heather be doing now? Would there be any furniture remaining on level eleven? Would Heather still be there? Would Roy?

It was definitely too cold to sit outside and Cassidy forced tired muscles to pull herself up, out of the balcony chair and stumblingly across the doorsill and into the suite. She slid the long doors closed, pulled the curtains across tightly. The suite's antique desk, the wood warm to the touch of her cold fingers, stood alongside the French windows, and Cassidy pulled out the heavy chair, grateful for a chair large enough to sit sideways and tuck her shaky legs beneath her, grateful for solid wood to rest her elbows and prop up her chin, so she could rub finger and thumb over her sore eyes. Grateful for a desk solid enough to lean against, as she turned to survey Miles's suite as if she'd never seen it before, as if she hadn't been living here for ever.

I could be anywhere, she told herself. One hotel room is identical to another. I've got to stop living my life in hotel rooms. And what do I do in hotel rooms? Nothing except work. That's why I don't have a life.

She spotted clues that Miles had come and gone in the time since lunch and her rejection of his proposal – his lunchtime tie was on the bed, a rumple of clothes thrown on a chair. Pity he'd gone out again, in one sense; this only deferred the necessary argument before he threw her out of the room.

But she hadn't actually rejected his proposal. Kick for touch – what on earth had made her say that?

And maybe he wouldn't throw her out into the Paris night. After all, where else could she go?

A clutter of Miles' papers lay on the desk. Her elbow cushioned itself on paperwork and Cassidy contemplated working through the night. Working through the night would fill in time, and there was no way she would sleep. Memory pictures of the injured Yasu, in the bottom of the boat, in the ambulance, in the hospital bed – and minus one foot. A key scraped at the door.

Working on what?

Miles stared directly at her, closed the door behind him. 'I was in the lobby bar. I saw you come in.' He came across beside of the desk and put one hand on her shoulder. 'We have another party to go to.'

Cassidy looked at her watch. 'In the middle of the night? You must be joking.' Roughly mid-afternoon in Auckland. What would Heather be doing? Bringing Roy a cup of tea? 'Put in an apology for me. Say I have to decline.'

'Declining isn't an option. Parties are work, where I meet my clients.' Miles paced the room before stopping abruptly in front of the tiny desk. 'You know, I still want to marry you.'

I don't know what to say. I really don't know what to say.

Miles cleared his throat. 'Okay, let me sweeten the deal. Well, I have more to offer than just a marriage proposal. You're a businesswoman. We should go into business together. Maybe we can work in tandem.'

Cassidy could hardly believe what she was hearing, but what she thought she was hearing seemed to have all the wrong signals. All she could see was that she would be second to a man whose marriage proposal she hadn't yet accepted, but who would still expect to have a personal relationship with her, while working for a salary on his clients.

This looked like a dead end for both her personal and professional life. Maybe Heather had been right all along. Cassidy's conscience stirred. She remembered Heather's eternal caution to her not to date the clients. Look where ignoring that advice had got her. And what about Jeremy Forbes, who had been professionally friendly to her, with very slight hints of maybe more?

'Sweetheart, I still want you. Look,' Miles patted her shoulder, 'I can see you're knackered, although I don't know why you should be. We're on holiday. I'll go to the party, you get some sleep. Tell me yes tomorrow.' He checked his watch and chuckled. 'Or, rather, tell me when you and I have brunch today!'

She watched him change the shirt.

'I was at a hospital this afternoon.'

Miles combed his hair. 'Why?'

'Yasu,' Cassidy coughed and wiped her eyes, 'Yasu is in hospital.' Her throat closed up.

Miles pulled on a different jacket. 'Who?'

Cassidy sat very still.

Miles crossed the room, closed the gap between them. Cassidy dropped her gaze and studied his papers stacked carelessly on the softly glowing wood of the desk. She felt his hand pat the top of her hair. One, two. A moment hovered.

And he was gone.

Five, six. She still had a few seconds in which she could rush out of his hotel suite and beg forgiveness and go to the party, accept Miles's marriage proposal, start a new life of sorts. Fourteen, fifteen. She heard the ping of the lift arriving and then closing and knew that moment had gone.

Memo to self: So that's it.

But Miles's paperwork – she moved her elbow – now this looked very interesting indeed, to a financial forensic consultant.

# Chapter 71: Hospital pass

'Did you go to training?'Yasu was more pale than he had ever seen her.

'You're looking...'

Words were missing. Seph looked at the hand nestled in his palm. Very, very carefully he tapped his index finger on each tiny knuckle, and tried to rub some warmth into Yasu's cold fingers.

Yasu had tears rolling from her eyes. Seph leaned forward and very gently smoothed the tears away with an even more careful thumb. He kept his head down and examined those miniature fingertips: the polish bright red, with a half-circle of white. The nail edge of one of her fingernails was torn half-way across; Seph stroked that nail against the hardened skin of his palm; despite the sharp broken point, his hand didn't register any feeling at all.

Yasu rolled her head on her pillow, looking away from him, looking back towards him. 'I hate being in hospital, I'm going to discharge myself. You didn't visit me last night.'

Always something to complain about.

Seph stretched his free hand across Yasu to her other hand limp on the blanket, and held one hand in each of his. Her hands were getting warmer. Seph rubbed both thumbs over the backs of her hands, his fingers brushing against the miniature landscape of ridges and tendons and veins beneath her skin, and watching her hands flex.

What to say? That he hadn't heard about her being in hospital until the Chief had told him at training...

... _and Seph Daniel shouts at the Chief, so enraged at not being told, so furious at what has happened that before anyone knows what Seph is doing he punches the forwards coach and flattens him, before Seven grabs Seph and Five rushes up and between them they wrestle Seph to the ground and pin him down on the grass and the Chief orders a bucket of water to be poured over his head. And Seph is grateful for the cold water because it makes him gasp and drenches his face so no-one can tell that he's crying, and when Seven and Five stand him up again he's got control of himself and wipes his face with his sleeve, over and over..._

'I didn't sleep well last night.'

... _and then the Chief tells Seph that he's being stood down for the day from all squad commitments. And as the others walk away, Seph rages at Morris and threatens him, because he has to rage at someone, because all Seph seems to do is to make the wrong decision. Like yesterday, when Seph's phone in the squad hotel room has rung all afternoon, as his problems catch up with him, the requests for interviews and statements from New Zealand media, with questions about his money, until he rings hotel reception in the late afternoon and orders them not to put through any more phone calls at all, and so of course no-one puts through the phone call from the hospital, until the Chief gets a phone call at training asking where is the husband, please, his wife is in hospital..._

Always money, money, money.

Best not to bring that up with Yasu. At least, not right now.

Seph cast around in his mind for a safer excuse and protested, 'The squad hotel is in lockdown. Fans mobbing in the street; some crazy chick tried to climb up the outside of the hotel. The cops took hours to get her down.'

Yasu kept her eyes closed, but her fingers moved softly in the palm of his hand.

Seph remembered to ask, 'What were you reading on your phone just as I arrived?'

Yasu murmured, 'I've been catching up with the news.'

'Reading what?'

Fire glinted between her eyelids. 'My blog... other people's blogs. I was writing, you know, promotional uploads, to launch Black & Blond in Paris.'

Seph said, 'Did – do you want to ask me anything?'

The fiery moment faded and Yasu's head sank deeper into the pillow. She shook her head and her hair fanned across the pillow. 'Next time... maybe.'

Seph muttered, 'I'm moving your stuff out of the other hotel.' He watched Yasu shrug lying down. Or was she only nestling deeper into the pillows? This was difficult enough but at least while Yasu was lying down, she couldn't hit him. He went on, 'So we'll both be in the squad hotel. '

Yasu reached a hand to the miniature shunt taped to her arm and squeezed the pump. 'I knew this would happen. It's the team, always the team.'

Seph tried to find the words to say that he loved her but the team was his life at the moment. But the words were too slippery to assemble into sentences so the two of them shared silence, as Seph held Yasu's hand and she let her free hand lie limp on the blanket.

'Do you want,' he tried to think, 'do you want me to do anything for you? Shopping, maybe?'

Yasu lay still.

Seph tried, 'What about shoes? If you tell me, you know, what size you like, or colour, stuff like that, just write it down, I can buy you some shoes?'

And the tears flowed from beneath Yasu's closed eyelids and flooded over her cheekbones and into her mouth until Seph thought she might drown, right in front of his eyes, drown on dry land...

... _and Seph Daniel holds his wife close and cradles her against his chest, her tears making his tee shirt first damp and then sodden, and he rocks her gently back and forth, half leaning over her, half pulling her towards him and she chokes and he can't hear what she's saying, but finally, finally her shoulders stop shaking and he pulls up a bit of the top sheet and wipes her face as dry as he can, and then they are both quiet, Yasu lying perfectly still and Seph barely daring to breathe..._

Finally Seph said, 'I gotta go, there's a team session on tactics.'

Yasu stirred herself and mumbled, 'So I suppose you'll be paying off the hotel bill and stuff, shifting hotels.'

Seph fumbled and tried to recover. 'Yes, definitely. I'll be paying the bill. I'll pack up your stuff and I'll be paying the bill.'

Yasu's face went grey as she pulled her bag over from the bedside locker. 'You might need this.' She handed him a business card.

Seph read the name and memory locked into place. 'Oh, yeah, she came to the suite.'

Yasu nodded. 'You knocked her over. I picked her up.' There was a hint of a grin, of the old familiar Yasu beneath the grey-white pallor. 'You're lucky she's not suing you for damages.'

Seph said, 'I remember, she's in business, I met her in Auckland.'

Yasu said, gently, 'Get in touch with her. Phone her at the hotel, she'll help you. You know, if you have any money problems. At the hotel.'

# Chapter 72: All of a sudden the game changed

Seph walked slowly, along the arteries of a city that felt a little less foreign and a little more familiar. The crowds divided and united around him, the chatter of words sounded like birdsong, the traffic rumbled and honked. When he crossed the streets he read the flow of vehicles like surf on a beach and dodged between the waves, no trouble.

And around the last corner with that little shop, he'd never figured out exactly what they sold, maybe he could go in later, it might be that they had some little trinket or souvenir that he could buy for Yaz, something to make her smile again.

He saw the mob scene storming around the squad hotel, but too late. He was among them before he realised who they were.

He was surrounded, ambushed, outflanked.

... _and Seph Daniel has nowhere to turn..._

People shouting, he supposed it was in French, God knows he couldn't understand a word they were saying. He kept breathing, kept his elbows tight in against his ribs. Microphones sparkled, tiny red lights glowing like miniature match-heads. More shouting in French, some in English, nothing he could understand, a word here and there, and the endless click click click as the press boys kept their fingers on the button. Flashes enough to make you blind, and he hunched his shoulders, brought his forearms up hard and his fists flat against his forehead like a boxer, keeping his face protected while the microphones banged against his elbows and the lights kept popping. One step at a time towards the hotel double doors, one step at a time, and the next step, and the next, keeping up a walking pace, leading with a solid shoulder to push his way forward, keeping up a steady breathing rhythm. Left foot forward, breathe, right foot forward, breathe again. He was taller than all the reporters and photographers and he kept his gaze forward, over their heads and on the goal...

... _but the hotel doors slide apart and Seph Daniel spots the gap and puts his head down and keeps up the forward momentum..._

Security were fighting their way out of the lobby to reach him and they pulled him to safety. Phones and cameras and mikes, all waved alongside him until the press pack fell away as security shoved hard and the hotel doors were pushed closed behind Seph.

Seph straightened up, stretched a few kinks out of his back, rubbed one shoulder that had caught against the doors as they closed.

The Chief was in front of him, in his hands the small tablet, colours flickering. Seph tried to read the screen upside down.

'What was that all about?'

And the Chief turned the screen about and handed it across. Seph held the tablet carefully, they were easy to drop, he remembered when he'd smashed one of Yaz's early gadgets and she'd yelled at him, and the memory made him smile.

'What are you laughing about?'

Seph pulled himself together. 'Nothing, nothing.' The Chief was in some sort of mood. Think about Yaz later. 'What is it? If it's French, I don't know French. Well, I learned a few words.'

'Read this,' the Chief wasn't smiling, 'and you'll learn a whole lot more words. Mostly about you. Ever heard of the words kiss and tell? Ever heard of the words e-book? Ever heard of the words overnight best-seller?'

# Chapter 73: Dead in front

Media hammered on the doors and flashes popped outside the lobby.

The Chief pushed a chair with his foot. Seph sank onto the chair and put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Coffee steamed from the low table between the chairs.

The Chief said, without further comment, 'Someone here to see you.'

Seph waited. The Chief gave the nod to security and a dark dapper man was ushered into the nest of chairs.

'Apparently,' the Chief lifted his coffee, 'he is an editor; you ever heard of newspapers?'

A large envelope appeared on the low table alongside Seph's untouched coffee. The Chief sat and sipped, the dark dapper man remained standing, Seph stared at the envelope.

... _and Seph Daniel cannot read the game, he cannot see what's in front of his eyes, he can't understand what's happening..._

The editor explained, 'Your friend, Gabrielle. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you...'

Seph ignored the editor and turned to the Chief. 'I only had coffee and lunch with Gabrielle. She's a friend, I could talk to her.'

The Chief nodded. 'Yes, I know.' He sighed. 'I've already had it all explained to me, by this – person in front of us. Gabrielle was already near dying before she – before you met her. She needed money to pay for the expenses she'd already clocked up for her medical care, to die in some sort of comfort.' The Chief nodded towards the thick package in Seph's hands. 'Why don't you open the envelope?'

Seph hesitated and the Chief added, 'I've been told what's inside.'

Seph ripped the envelope open. Notes; crisp notes; some sort of cash.

The editor spoke with little accent. 'Gabrielle insisted that you receive her share. We are the publishers, but her rights as author would bring her estate a great deal. You will receive her share of royalties from the book.'

The Chief put in, 'Apparently, they expect good sales. There'll be a lot more money to come.'

The only thing that Seph could think of to ask was, 'Where is Gabrielle? I gotta see her, there's gotta be a reason for her writing the book. It's a mistake.'

The Frenchman's words could not be misunderstood. 'Gabrielle is dead.'

That word again. Seph crossed his arms on his chest, squeezed his fists as hard as the bands of iron were crushing his chest, brought his hands up to his forehead like a boxer, kept his eyes closed.

The Chief offered an explanation. 'What he's told me this morning – a book was planned, but you weren't especially the target. However, when you stepped on Gabrielle's foot, and then how much you talked, apparently she realised that you could be what would make the book hit the bestseller list. When you met her, she had already completed half of it, about rugby, about the professional game.'

What with the pressure on his heart and the killer weight hard under his abs it was almost impossible to get words out, but he managed, 'All I did was talk to her. That's all, I didn't sleep with her or anything, I didn't even kiss her. We just talked.'

Seph heard the Chief taking a breather before going on, 'But that's not what's selling the book, rubbish about the professional game and the impact on the players. What's selling the book is about what the players let slip in stupid conversations. One player in particular.'

'Gabrielle wouldn't do that. She wouldn't do that to me.'

The French accent said, 'Believe it or not as you wish. She was already very ill with little time left; I'd known her a long time, and I wished to help her in her final days.'

The Chief cut in and Seph tried to follow, wrapping his hands around himself, holding hard onto his shoulders to hold himself together.

... _and Seph Daniel listens to the brutal truth, that his options are all unpleasant. There's the Seph portrayed in the book, a man whose choices are decided by someone else, by anyone else, by his late wife, by his dead cousin; a victim not worth respect as a player. Or there's the Seph who can put the blame on Gabrielle and the angle that yes, he has made some mistakes in his recent actions, but that his actions were driven by misplaced feelings for someone who fooled him completely, and some financial pressures due to – well, no-one seems to know what they are due to..._

'Let me make myself clear on one thing. And sit up straight.'

Seph sat up straight.

The Chief went on, 'We have an explanation ready to give to the media. Remember I'm on your side, but ultimately I'm on the side of the team. What's good for the team is what I do. You've got to part of the team in every way, or you're out.'

'Give me a couple of hours.'

The Chief drew in a deep breath, puffed out his lips. 'All right. I can hold off the media for a few hours, I can tell them we're drafting a statement. But you better come up with something that makes sense. And for your sake you tell me right now, what you're going to do.'

'I'm going to get in touch with someone I know. Someone I know, someone who might help.'

# Chapter 74: Re-set the scrum

Cassidy kept her eyes closed against the light. It felt good to lie here, drifting to the surface of wakefulness; she was so comfortable. Except that – she rolled sideways slightly – she had, for some reason, worn her shirt and – she rolled back again – for some other reason, her jeans to bed. Memory glowed like the light. Oh yes, that was it – she had worked through the night. Another all-nighter, wasn't that it? Memory slammed into place.

Where was Miles?

She sat up and the dazzle of sunshine through the balcony doors, surprisingly bright for early morning sunlight, made her blink.

Where was Miles?

No, she hadn't worked all night. Memory enlightened, filled the gap between then and now. Miles leaving to go to some godforsaken party, and she had intended to work, to read his papers – to research his background, she told herself. There had been something important to read. She had been so tired, she simply had to lie down on the bed for five minutes before she could gather her concentration enough to read the pages as a forensic financial consultant ought to read them, and she had slept all night and all morning and now it was – she glanced at the sunshine and at her watch – late. Very, very late. The time was, her watch told her, even later than a French lunchtime.

What was it that had been so important?

Where was Miles?

Cassidy pushed the blanket out of the way, swung her feet to the floor and remembered how unappealing it was to work all night, even when she hadn't worked all night, and how wrinkled you felt after sleeping in your shirt and jeans, even when you were sober.

Memo to self: What to do?

Correction: What to do first?

Suitcase, maybe? There was her suitcase, overflowing with badly-packed and badly-in-need-of-washing clothes, and lying on top like scum on a frothing pond were Roy's empty envelope and a page of notes, answering a question that even Cassidy could recall without getting any closer to the danger zone around her suitcase.

Should we take Guthrey Rutherwood back again as a client?

No. Absolutely not.

Forget the suitcase.

Comb hair, maybe? And my answer is final, Cassidy told herself, as she picked up a comb to make some sense out of her snarled and tangled hair, before realising the comb was Miles's comb, and dropping it back on top of the heap on the chair, his jackets and shirts and ties and whatever else he'd dropped there. Nothing to do with my guilty conscience about driving Guthrey Rutherwood to bankruptcy and making the wrong decision about clients past and learning that Guthrey may not have been the only person driving a not-quite-innocent third party to suicide.

No, nothing to do with that. She could answer Roy's last question with a semi-clear conscience. Bankrupts, even discharged bankrupts, are not good client prospects.

Smoothing her hair with one hand seemed to be the best she could do.

Get out of here, maybe? But it wasn't as if she was going anywhere fast, with no money and nowhere to go. She was only going as far as across the room, to draw back the curtains over the French doors, to let a little sunlight onto the dusty desk, to sink into the tapestry cushion on the beautiful antique chair, in golden Parisian light that lent more than warmth to the furniture, that made her run her fingers over French polish along the grain of old wood.

Finish reading what she should have read last night? Yes.

Her gaze fell on the top sheet of paper. The financial forensic consultant read the page. Cassidy let it drop back onto the other pages scattered carelessly on the desk. It all fitted, badly. But memory nagged; there had been another page, somewhere.

Get out of here, fast. No scenes, no questions, no answers.

But I can't just exit from France without at least saying goodbye. Miles deserves a goodbye, he deserves an answer. The guy asked me to marry him, after all. And I'm still not sure –

The phone on the antique desk sounded a chime. Cassidy admired the instrument: the delightful contrast between wood-grain and hi-tech, the ring-tone polite and discreet, all perfectly familiar and at the same time lusciously foreign. The phone wouldn't stop chiming. She picked up. Miles?

'It's Seph.'

Seph?

'Seph Daniel. Can't talk on the phone, but I need your help. It's urgent.'

'Is it – I'm really sorry about Yasu. Is it about her?'

'I can't explain on the phone. Look, I'm at the squad hotel, we're being mobbed. Team protocol shit. You won't be able to get in, security isn't letting anyone in. You stay where you are and I'll get over there.'

He'd rung off before she could answer, and she slowly replaced the hand-piece on the phone. What was that all about?

Time for a mental shrug, maybe more than one. First things first: Heather's page, that was what she needed. Last seen alive last night. A page of debts, with Miles in prime position, number one on the list, the largest debt, the oldest debt. Think, think. Where had she left that page?

Cassidy shut her eyes against the sun. Heather's paper: re-enactment of the crime.

I was packing my case, I was about to leave. I opened the suite door. The balcony doors were open, I remember cold air sweeping across the suite. When the hallway door was opened, that was it, the open hallway door and the open French doors, between them creating a rush of air, I can feel it now.

Cassidy shivered. She had left Heather's list – her mind traced a path across the suite – there, on the floor. Was it possible to feel more guilty? When your two closest colleagues give you the reasons to save yourself from marrying the man you don't love, and you leave the evidence on the floor of his hotel suite?

But the cold breeze was still sweeping across the suite. Time to close the French windows, and maybe time for a fast shower and an even faster exit. She opened her eyes.

The breeze was strong enough to billow the curtains and shift the papers on the desk. Cassidy weighted them down with the phone, pushed the chair back and turned to take the few needed steps across the room and pick up Heather's paper and collect the evidence.

Leaning against the wall, the door open behind him into the hallway, Miles was watching her.

# Chapter 75: No sign of them coming back

'Out all night?'

'Don't nag. My wife nags. Although I suppose that might explain why you're nagging – getting in training, getting practising early. God, what I'd pay for a wife that doesn't nag.'

Cassidy watched Miles drag himself across the bedroom to the chair heaped with his clothes. Watched as he steadied himself with one hand on the back of the chair, watched him turf everything onto the floor, watched him fall into the chair, met his rather bloodshot gaze. Answer to Roy's question one: the price to be paid for Miles is too high.

Watched him take her in, sitting at the desk in his hotel suite, the scatter of his papers across the desk.

'Been snooping? Cassy the snoop? Back to your old tricks?'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

Cassidy let her glance fall to the top paper and considered what to say. When in doubt, say nothing?

Hector Partners Consulting, Financial Forensics, first commandment: don't date the clients. Supplementary warning from my friends: it'll all end in tears.

'You don't have to snoop. You don't work for Hectors any more.'

Cassidy pondered the implications of that sentence. Don't work for Hectors any more? Don't work for Hectors at the moment, but I will be working for Hectors as soon as I get back to Auckland. She glanced back at the man paying for the hotel suite, picking up the bills. Answer to Roy's question two: I'm choosing not to incur the costs of marrying Miles.

Miles had let his head fall back.

He told the ceiling, 'Because you got fired. Because you were dating the clients.' He chuckled. 'Me. And now you're marrying me.'

Cassidy fiddled with the phone, which remained silent. Roy's question three: what will happen next?

'Aren't you? Look at me.'

She had to look at him.

'What have you got to say to me?'

Cassidy cleared her throat. 'Yes, you were a client when I started dating you.'

'And?'

'And I'm going back to Auckland.'

'To work for Hectors?'

'Yes.' She kept a steady gaze. 'I'm going to work for Hectors.'

Miles shut his eyes. 'You expect me to believe that? What a load of shit. I know you'll be staying here, you couldn't afford a hotel like this in your dreams. Trip to Paris, prime seats at the rugby – you'll get over this, this, whatever's wrong with you. You'll be there waiting at the altar when we get back to Auckland.'

Cassidy felt the French afternoon sunshine warm on her back. Was he asleep?

She spoke loudly. 'Yes, I did read your papers.' She watched Miles react, eyes open, jerking his head up from the back of the chair, eyes staring red as if stung. 'I read one page, to learn the truth, which you didn't tell me. You didn't tell me that you're deliberately losing money to make yourself go bankrupt.'

Miles sagged lower in the chair. 'Well, now you know, what are you going to do?'

I don't know what to say. Am I answering a client, a boyfriend, a man who plans to go bankrupt? Are the answers different to each of those different men, or is it the same answer?

'Why? You've got plenty of money, surely. I've seen bankruptcy, it's not pretty.' An unwanted memory picture, of Guthrey Rutherwood declared bankrupt by the court, head down, life in ruins.

'It's five years and then I'm back up and running. It's a good option to take. And here's the sweetener. Remember I promised you a sweetener.' Miles sat forward, clasped his hands.

She watched his attempt at a smile.

'I'll get you to run things. You won't regret it. I'll be behind you all the way, telling you what to do, you won't have to take any responsibility but you can take the credit. You can be my front man,' he snorted, 'my front woman for five years. And then I'll be discharged after five years and you can relax.'

Cassidy approached the bed, bent down, lifted the heavy ruffle – and yes, there was the smoking gun, the blood-stained knife, the piece of paper from faithful Heather saying that Miles didn't pay his own way.

'What's that?'

Cassidy folded the page in half. 'You owe Hectors a lot of money.'

Miles's tone was wary. 'I left off being a Hectors client two, three years ago.'

'But you never paid Roy.'

He shrugged.

She went on, 'And that list I was reading – that list on the desk. A list of your assets and liabilities ready for your lawyer to file with the court when you apply for bankruptcy.' She watched him shrug again. 'You haven't included what you owe Hectors.'

Miles said, 'Roy'll never pursue it. It's his reputation on the line, not mine. If he pushes to collect the debt, then he forces me to go bankrupt, forces a former client to go bankrupt: not good for his brand, not the way to get more clients. If I go bankrupt, he'll never collect. I shouldn't have to explain bluff to you, Cassy.'

Cassidy knelt at her suitcase and closed the lid. A few stray sleeves and hems jammed the sides. She pushed them in, one by one, forcing the lid to close, snapping the catches, first one then the other.

'So you're still pretending you're leaving?'

'No.'

'Told you.' A laugh. 'Let's go to bed.'

Cassidy hauled the suitcase sideways to the door open to the hallway and independence. 'No, I'm not pretending. I'm leaving. I'm going back to Auckland.'

She heard, 'You walk out this suite, you can kiss goodbye to a free air ticket home. I'll cancel your ticket. Pay your own way.'

The wheels of her suitcase rattled briefly over the doorsill. Cassidy hoped she hadn't scratched the wood. She turned to close the door, and Miles had moved more quickly than she had expected. He pushed the door nearly closed, then opened it again a fraction.

'Cassy.'

Count my blessings I'll never have to answer to someone who calls me Cassy. 'What?'

'You didn't ask the question.'

'What question?'

Miles' sagging shoulders filled the gap against the nearly-closed door. 'The question they always ask when you're out late. Who did I spend the night with? You're supposed to ask me that.'

Cassidy looked at the face of a complete stranger. 'And what do you always answer?'

'None of your fucking business.'

The door slammed. Cassidy listened to the lock being locked, to the rattle of the chain being jammed into the slot. She couldn't tell whether Miles took one final glance through the door peephole. And didn't care.

She crumpled Heather's page and pushed the evidence into her pocket. Her fingertips brushed metal and she pulled out a key. Puzzled, looked at the key, remembered: Yasu, the key to her suite; somewhere to stay if Miles throws you out.

And the phone call from Seph. Where would he be? One guess.

Cassidy bent down and picked her suitcase. Time to move down a few floors, to get to work. Time to earn her passage home.

Memo to self: Pay my own way.

# Chapter 76: Three and a half minutes remaining

When she paused in the doorway Seph was packing, his back half-turned to the door. She hesitated, watching him flick the blond tassels on a pair of black silk high-top basketball boots, the glossy whimsical playthings like doll's shoes in his hands.

She raised a reluctant hand, tapped on the open door. Watched Seph spin around fast, his eyes alight with pleasure, watched the glow fade from his face, watched him drop the high-tops among a heaped muddle of open suitcases and bags and shoeboxes piled high on the bed.

'I thought you were Yaz.'

Cassidy hesitated, one foot in the hall, the other foot – 'I'm really sorry about Yasu. Sorry about her accident.'

'I was going to come up to your suite, but I thought, you know, I thought,' Seph picked up a frivolous gold sandal and wound a long black leather strap around one finger, 'I thought I'd drop in here first. Then Yaz always leaves places such a mess, I thought I'd pack some of her stuff.'

Cassidy pushed down the long handle on her wheeled suitcase, leaned that and her laptop satchel against the wall, her tablet case perched neatly atop. 'Can I help? Let me help, you've got a lot to pack up here.'

By the time Seph had talked his way through two suitcases, Cassidy was more confused than ever.

'Okay, let me try to summarise what you've told me. You're running out of money.'

Seph squashed a gold shoebox lid onto a black shoebox. 'Run out of money. I've run out, that's it. My cards get declined all the time. My car got repossessed. I don't know what the fuck is going on.'

Cassidy wrenched the gold box lid off the black box and looked for a black lid. 'But you're getting a salary and everything else as per your contract. And you'll get winning bonuses and stuff like that.'

'Yes.'

'Do you have a copy of your contract? Do you want me to look at it?'

Seph's colour heightened. 'I got a copy off Morris,' he coughed and went even brighter red, 'because I was going to show her.'

'Her being Gabrielle.

'But I never got around to doing that. I went to the cafe and she wasn't there.'

'This woman who wrote the book... why did she pick on you?'

Seph fumbled a stack of black lids. 'I – I don't know. Really, I don't know. The Chief thought she must have been looking for anyone on the team, any likely person, and she picked me because,' he coughed, 'because I was in the news, with Kara and all that.'

Cassidy fitted black lids to black boxes. 'And now she's dead and she's left you, whatever it is, the money from her share of writing the book. And her editor has already offered you some cash.'

'I'm not taking it.' Seph stacked up the black boxes alongside Cassidy's suitcase.

'Well,' Cassidy paired gold shoes, wrapping them in gold tissue and fitting the matched pairs into gold shoeboxes, 'if the money's coming in, your salary I mean, but you're still maxed out on your cards and your cheques are bouncing on your hotel bill and your car payments and so on, then we need to look at your expenses. Might be as easy as re-budgeting, reducing your living costs. Or it might be, I don't know, but maybe something going out that shouldn't be going out.'

Seph turned away and to hear him Cassidy stopped rustling tissue paper.

'I was thinking – Peace –'

'What? A piece of what?'

He confronted her. 'I blamed my cousin at first. My cousin, Peace. I had this idea that she skimmed my credit card numbers, she's done that before, not to me but to other people at the nightclub where she works. She used to boast about doing it.'

'Do you want me to investigate? I mean, that sort of thing, it is what I do, financial forensics.' She tried to read his face.

'Peace is dead now. It was – she was – anyway, a few days ago. And I didn't want to blame her, blame someone I trusted. But that leaves...'

Cassidy looked down at the bed. They had reached the end of the shoes. 'You don't have to tell me more if you don't want to.'

And I don't want to get between a husband and a wife. Not when the husband is a rugby hero and the wife is a hot clothing brand; not when the gold isn't yet tarnished on their wedding rings; not if she's been helping herself to his money.

Seph unfolded what Cassidy slowly identified as a travel wardrobe. 'I do want to. I want you to find out what's going on. I want to hire you.'

They began to pack the travel wardrobe with shoe boxes. Cassidy tried to make a pleasing pattern, one gold box then one black box, then another gold. 'There's really not much I can do here, but when I get back to Auckland, that's a different story.'

Do I want to present Seph to Roy as a peace offering? Better not say that to Seph, but I know what I mean. I need my job back, and what better way than to please Roy by bringing in a high-profile client? Is that a good solution?

It's not a good solution if his wife is the problem. I can't do that to Yasu.

Seph was shoving boxes into the travel wardrobe, not bothering with colour contrasts; the large case was nearly full. 'Good. Deal. You're hired to sort me out.'

'But what will be a good start,' Cassidy stood up, eased the muscles of her back, and rubbed her knees, 'would be if you had any idea at all of where your money might be going.'

Memo to self: must re-start gym subscription.

From the open doorway, 'Your wife is spending it.'

Her heart jumped so much that Cassidy had to sit down on the bed. Seph, she remembered, had good reflexes and a fast recovery rate, and he was giving an excellent demonstration of both, holding Morris by the throat against the wall.

# Chapter 77: Points on the board

'It's you. I know it was you.'

Morris, face still rather purple, had slumped into a chair. He rubbed his throat, the choking reduced to a rasping cough.

'Admit it, you bastard. I trusted you. I signed everything you wanted me to sign. And you ripped me off.'

Morris wheezed, 'I gave you the best advice I could. The best advice you'll ever get. You can bet your life on it.'

Bet your life on it. A memory teased at Cassidy, something she'd heard, something someone had said to her.

'Well I'm getting better advice now. That's the end of it.'

Morris wiped a grubby handkerchief over his forehead. 'Don't do anything stupid. You don't want to gamble away your future.'

Gamble away your future. Who had said that, or something similar? Who had she been talking to recently? Not a lot of people, most of the time in recent days she had been eating and drinking and sleeping in Parisian sunshine. Cassidy worked through the list: Miles, talking about odds on the games? Not Roy, not Heather. Those long weird conversations she'd had inside her own head, with the imaginary Melissa? No, and not with the real Melissa either.

'How much did you take? All the money I pay you, and you took more. I know you did. How much?'

'You know it wasn't me, you know it was her. I'd bet you even money that she's the one ripping you off. I told you it was a bad idea to marry Yasu; I keep telling you, it's better than evens, it's a dead cert.'

Yasu. Memory slammed into place; Yasu chatting as they stood overlooking the Seine; Yasu saying how much Morris had lost, betting on a dead cert that turned out to be dead in the water.

'Morris.'

Seph stopped pacing and spun to her; Morris shuffled himself around in the chair to face in her direction, eyes down.

Never ask a question that can be answered with yes or, in denial, no. 'How much money do you bet?'

'I don't...' Morris stopped.

Sometimes you have to be professional. Work through the problem, identify the evidence, confront the issue.

'And what have you been betting on?'

But sometimes you unleash a reaction you haven't been expecting. Seph crossed the room in two paces and was leaning over the man; Morris was trying desperately to make himself disappear and hide in the crevices of the armchair.

'You've been betting on me, haven't you, you bastard? You took my own money to bet on me! You didn't even bet your own money, you stole my money to bet on me!'

'I... I...'

'Say it, admit it.'

And sometimes you go with gut feeling. Cassidy said quietly, 'He hasn't been betting on you.'

Seph stood up; Morris straightened in the chair.

She went on, 'He's been betting against you.'

'Is that true?'

There was no answer, not from the heap in the chair.

Seph took a step backwards. 'Get out. Get out before I kill you.'

The door slammed.

Cassidy drew a deep breath. 'Is that likely, do you think? That he was betting against you? Is that possible?'

'Did you know for sure?'

She shook her head. 'I was guessing. On the basis of – of the basis of, well, it was one possibility.'

Seph said, 'I've got to get back to the squad hotel. I've got to tell the Chief, he's got to know. Tell me what you need me to sign, I'll sign it.'

Cassidy bit back the words. 'Let's do all that back home. If you still want to hire my services,' she corrected, 'Hectors services, then you can read the terms and conditions before you sign anything.'

Seph hovered beside the door, looking at the piled luggage. 'Betting against me. That would be it, you know. Betting that I wouldn't run out in the first game, that I'm on the bench, betting on whether I get played at all; him hoping I get sent home, because I'm playing so badly.'

'Because...'

Seph pressed a toe against the travel wardrobe. 'Because he knows everything about me. He pays all the bills. Paid them, supposed to pay them. He knew about Kara. He knew... he knew about Kara.' He stared at the suitcases. 'He knew about Kara... before I did.'

Giving him enough time to bet against you. Cassidy offered gently, 'But you have Yasu.'

'Yes. And I have...' Seph opened the door, 'I better go. I need to tell the Chief.'

# Chapter 78: Drive out of their territory

'You've just missed him.' Cassidy knelt by the couch and handed Yasu a glass of water. 'I can't think how you missed each other. He must have been leaving the lobby just as you walked in.' Walked in. I shouldn't have said that. I really shouldn't have said that.

But Yasu didn't seem to notice her embarrassment. 'Thanks.' Yasu's hand shook. 'Sorry – spilling water on you.'

Cassidy brushed off a few drops. 'This shirt is dirty anyway, don't worry. All my clothes are filthy. I don't know what I've been doing for the past few days, but it sure wasn't making use of the hotel's laundry service.' She pushed Yasu's wooden crutches together into a neat pairing, slid them a little further beneath the couch and sat cross-legged on the floor.

Yasu drained the glass, and Cassidy plucked it from her hand.

'Refill?'

'No, thanks.'

'Painkillers?' She wondered whether to insist that her injured friend must return to hospital. 'Did they give you any prescription for anything? Shouldn't you – I mean, I don't know – you lost a lot of blood, shouldn't you be on a drip or something?' It was hard to judge with the curtains closed against the sun but Yasu looked drained and grey.

'No, I'm okay.' Yasu settled her head onto the couch cushions.

Cassidy listened to hard breathing. Had Yasu fainted or merely fallen asleep? From floor level, life seemed simple.

To do, somehow: get onto flight for Auckland, see Roy, ask for job back, find somewhere to live. Pay off my credit cards, pay my rent and buy new office clothes and start new life and try to forget. And make sure I pay my own way. Perhaps that wasn't going to be a simple to do list. She sighed.

A sudden 'What are you going to do now?' startled her.

'I thought you were asleep.'

'No,' Yasu struggled against the couch cushions and Cassidy leaned forward to prop her shoulders up, 'give me a few minutes and then I'm off.'

'Off? Off where? You've got to rest.'

'Don't you tell me that. That's what they kept insisting in hospital, you must rest, you must rest. First they kept nagging me in French and I had no idea what they were saying, until another nurse started her shift and then she was nagging me in English. I had to discharge myself to get back here to get some rest.' A pale flicker of the smile.

Cassidy laughed, then sighed.

Yasu pulled herself to sitting upright. 'Now, you first. I'm hearing a lot of sighing. What's the story? No boyfriend, you're telling me, so what's the plan? I mean, is this permanent, the no boyfriend decision?'

Cassidy leaned back against one end of the couch, then slid full-length. She tried a stretch, arms above head, toes pointed out, how far can I stretch before I tear myself into two halves? It felt so good to let the muscles relax, to go limp, to lie here and stare up at the ceiling in the curtained dimness.

'You're not answering me. Talk to me.'

Cassidy told the ceiling, 'Yes, it's permanent, no boyfriend. He just, he just turned out to be different from what he'd been like before. I sort of walked out and he sort of threw me out, but whatever, it's finished. When I get back to Auckland I'm going to see Roy.'

'Is that an old boyfriend?'

She had to laugh. 'An old boss. Roy is who I work for, Roy Seng is the director of Hector Partners. I've only just realised Roy is a better forensic consultant than I'll ever be, and a better friend. I didn't spot the answers, not even when Roy gave me the clues in writing – I should have realised ages ago that Miles was charging prices that were way too low, and spending money like it was going out of fashion. Roy spotted that and tried to warn me. So mainly – I want to apologise to Roy. I want to ask him to re-hire me, but I mainly want to talk to him, to explain what I was going through, you know, just – say I'm sorry.'

'And they'll take you back?'

The ceiling looked down on Cassidy. 'Well – yes, I think Roy will take me back, but there's a new director too, someone I don't really know all that well. Jeremy Forbes, his name is, and there's some friction between Roy and Jeremy. There's been a lot of staff departing recently, so I think they'll take me back, but it would be good to be able to show that I can bring clients into Hectors as well. I hope you don't mind but –' Cassidy sat up and had to look slightly upwards to face Yasu squarely, 'Seph sort of indicated that he would be happy to be one of my clients. Well, for me to take him to Hectors as a client.'

'Why should I mind?'

And what can you say to a woman who saves your life except, 'Thank you.'

'Don't thank me. He's made a good decision.'

Cassidy wrapped her arms around her knees. 'I was – before I came here with Miles,' it was surprisingly easy to talk, 'and even before I walked out on Roy, I was sort of thinking about insisting on some sort of ultimatum. I had even started writing up a business case to present to Jeremy, that he should throw Roy out and make me director instead. When I got here, got to Paris, I stopped working on it, what with Miles and going to parties and all that, then my tablet battery started fading, and I guess I sort of lost enthusiasm. I'm not sure I believe my own business case any more. Now I'll be grovelling just to get my old job back.'

'There's another client you can bring.'

Cassidy thought hard. 'Miles, d'you mean? He used to be Roy's client. No. Absolutely not.'

And it was so good to hear Yasu's bellow of laughter again. 'Not Miles, you idiot! Me! I'm going to be big, I've got a lot of plans for Black & Blond, I'm going to build my brand, I want to make sure I don't lose money. Deal?'

And what can you say to a woman who's got you your job back except, 'Deal.'

'We should drink to that,' Yasu leaned down and started to pull the crutches out from where Cassidy had shoved them, under the couch, 'except I won't, given I'm taking painkillers and God knows what else they pumped into me in hospital. Now, I need you to get me to a taxi. I'm going to surprise Seph.'

Yasu stood up, hesitated, wobbled, and went grey. Cassidy caught her as she slumped; Yasu weighed almost nothing. She helped the injured woman to slip down onto the couch and Yasu whispered, 'Thank you.'

Cassidy busied herself refilling the glass of water; Yasu sipped. Cassidy watched, anxious, until the grey faded and Yasu looked only wan and drained, her face marked with lines of pain.

'I'll phone Seph for you.' Cassidy reached towards Yasu's phone.

'No!' Yasu coughed. 'No. I'll be okay in a minute.'

'You shouldn't be...' Cassidy watched Yasu frown. 'I mean, sorry, but is there anything I can help with? Please let me help.'

Yasu kept her eyes closed. 'I'm going back to Auckland. I want to take up an option that I've paid, to buy a house on the North Shore, and I want Seph to be there.' She opened her eyes. 'If you're going back as well, maybe we'll all be on the same flight.'

The admission was difficult, but she might as well explain the situation to her new client. 'I'm not booked yet. Miles was paying for the flights, and he's cancelled my ticket. I'm going to have to negotiate a temporary bank loan, or something long distance with my bank, to get home and get earning some money.'

Yasu compressed her lips. 'In my bag – the hospital gave me some pills.'

Cassidy found the pills, shook one into Yasu's palm, watched her swallow.

Yasu coughed and sipped more water, put the glass down and wiped her eyes. 'This will kick in in a few minutes. Okay, here's the deal. I'll lend you the money for your ticket. No –' She held up a hand as Cassidy shook her head. 'Let me finish.'

It was Yasu's turn to sigh, and she seemed to shrink before Cassidy's gaze, dwindling into the couch cushions, black hair a shadowy fan on velvet, one slim leg ending in abrupt white wrappings.

'I'm giving Seph an ultimatum. He's mucking me about, Morris running his affairs, now this ridiculous media fuss over some book, I can't believe the mess he's got into. When I was in hospital, every website I read was full of some scandal he's involved in. So he's got to take me home; I'm going to make him choose, me or rugby. But...'

Cassidy held her breath. But...

'But I need a contingency plan. If Seph says no to me, then I'm out of here, he's out of my life, and I'm going to need help flying home. That's you. It's a win-win. I'll pay for your ticket, and if I dump Seph, you can carry my suitcase.'

What else can you say to a woman who's paid your way home except, 'I'll pay you back.'

She had to lean forward to hear, 'I gave up swimming for him...' before a Chopin ring-tone drowned the rest of the words. Cassidy scrabbled for Yasu's phone, handed it up to the couch.

'Hello?'

Whoever the caller was, Yasu was silent, listening. Perhaps it was Seph; Cassidy jumped to her feet. She could make herself useful, practise her supporting role. She'd already finished the packing.

'Yes, she's here...'

Cassidy piled bags neatly by the door.

'Cassidy.'

She turned.

Yasu was holding out the phone. 'Heather, from your office, the one I spoke to when I was looking to get hold of you. Your PA, is that right? Anyway, she's been trying to find you.'

Cassidy tried to think. 'My phone – the battery died. And I never got around to buying a new phone charger, and then...'

Yasu shook the phone at her. 'Cassidy, she says it's urgent. Take it. She's putting someone else on to speak to you.'

'Hello?'

'Cassidy?' A male voice, a little wary.

'Yes, speaking.' But not Roy's voice.

'Jeremy Forbes.'

Of course. How could she have forgotten? It wasn't difficult to put warmth into her smile. 'Hello, yes, hello.'

'Cassidy, I'll keep this to the point, if you don't mind.'

She opened her mouth to agree, but Jeremy was not a man to wait for her approval.

'Two things. The first is a matter of a Hectors client. I understand from Heather that you dealt previously with a former client of Roy's, Guthrey Rutherwood, am I correct?'

Cassidy closed her mouth against a groan. Ghosts of a client past, memories of a wrong decision, traces of Guthrey Rutherwood stumbling with the burden of bankruptcy on his shoulders, a bankruptcy that she had helped to bring about. Keep to the point. 'Yes.'

'Good. Well, Hectors is in the position, I won't go into details, but we are in the unfortunate position of having to take Rutherwood on again as a client. Our hands are tied, and it appears to me that you were part of the reason why our hands are tied. So I need you here at least while we sort this out. Are you coming back to Auckland in the near future?'

'Yes. I'll be on a flight,' keep to the point, 'very shortly.'

'Good. And the second thing...' The phone hummed. 'I'm sorry to have to tell you this on the phone...'

Cassidy waited.

'Is there anyone there with you?' For a man who was keeping to the point, Jeremy Forbes was remarkably slow off the mark.

'Yes.' Cassidy tried to smile at Yasu; sorry, she mouthed at her friend, he's stopped talking. 'Jeremy, are you still there?'

And the phone said, 'Cassidy, I'm very sorry to be the one to tell you, but when I arrived at work this morning, I found Roy dead at his desk.'

# Chapter 79: Most Valued

Incredible what the squad public relations guy could put together so quickly; Seph had paid that compliment to the PR guy before the Chief drew him aside and said quietly that it was the PR guy's job to have this sort of paragraph ready to go. There's always someone who stuffs up, said the Chief, we're ready for that, we only need to insert the name and the press release is released. Remember that.

Seph had agreed he would remember that.

The porter hadn't knocked on his door yet; Seph still had a few minutes.

He re-read the release: short, the PR guy had acknowledged, but we keep to the point, our aim is to put an end to the speculation. Seph let the sheet of paper fall into his lap, let his gaze drift around the hotel room. By the door, his packed bags; his bags should have been in the lobby, ready to go on the bus.

The porter would be along shortly.

He crumpled the press release; he knew the words off by heart, he'd read it twenty times. Was it the right decision, to insist that the statement must include that he had been offered a sum of money in lieu of damages for invasion of privacy, and had refused to accept it? The Chief had resisted the revelation, but gave in when Seph insisted; and the PR guy had talked about closure of the issue, and the squad accountant muttered to the Chief about transparency over money. Seph had come clean to the Chief about Morris.

The press release didn't mention Morris.

The porter would be here in a minute. Wouldn't he?

No-one else mentioned Morris either.

All that was left now was to decide what to do. Maybe he should have confronted the Chief, forced the discussion. After all, there was something in the wording of the press release that left unresolved whether Seph would still be travelling with the squad today. The team had finished training in France and the squad was travelling on, the final leg of a journey that would start in their pool games of the first round.

But only for those that were still on the bus.

Where was the porter?

Seph stretched across the bed and picked up the room phone, then let the receiver drop. He'd tried Yasu three times now; first she wasn't answering her phone, and the third phone call, when he rang her hotel, reception told him she had checked out.

He heard the porter's double knock at the door. If this was a crisis, what was the crisis? What was he supposed to do, who could he ask? He slung his travel bag over his shoulder, opened the door still looking down, pushed his suitcase forward with his foot, and noticed one shoe. He dropped the bag off his shoulder, picked Yasu up – she never weighed anything at all – and lifted her into the room.

'Finally you carry me over the threshold.'

Seph held her, very, very carefully, then settled her into the chair. 'How did you get past security?'

The crutches had fallen by the open door. 'The Chief let me in.'

Seph picked the crutches up and laid them down, very, very carefully, alongside the armchair. He said, 'I didn't have sex with her.'

'Like I believe that.'

'Believe what you want. We didn't.'

'So what did you do?'

'We talked.'

'You never talk to me.'

'You never listen.'

'I'm listening now.'

'So what do you want to talk about?'

'And you haven't got your tooth in.'

'I lost it.'

'Where?'

'Somewhere. I don't care.'

Yasu grabbed his hand; Seph sat awkwardly on the arm of the chair. He looked down at the pale up-tilted face, the sweep of black hair; dropped his gaze and caught sight of the bandaged leg. He felt himself slipping down, sliding off the chair arm, folding to his knees, his arms curling around her knees. He should have been there, watching over her; she would never have fallen from the boat if he'd been there. Careful about that foot.

His wife looked him in the eye. 'I'm going back to Auckland. Are you coming with me? I want you to come with me.'

... _and Seph Daniel is off to the UK, off to play in the tournament of a lifetime, and he gives it one hundred percent..._

He sat back on his heels and looked square at her.

... _and Seph Daniel says goodbye to the boys, he waves goodbye to the bus, and helps his wife into the taxi at the start of the long journey home, after all, there'll be another tournament another time..._

'Talk to me. You see, you never talk to me.'

Seph reached for her hands. Yasu tried to pull back, but he held firm.

Yasu murmured, 'I gave up swimming for you.'

Seph rubbed her cold hands. 'No, you didn't. You'd already stopped competing. You said you were getting too old to win, teenagers were beating you.'

He saw the tears forming in those beautiful eyes, teardrops that lingered on the gold-dusted eyelashes before sliding down the curves of the perfect oval face.

She whimpered, 'What do you want? Me or rugby?'

He leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

# Chapter 80: Winner on the day

Outside the hotel, control barriers surround the forecourt and the crowd is packed in tight to wave off their team. The squad bus has pulled up outside the hotel doors and the fans have been waiting patiently.

And their patience is rewarded at last. Porters wheel luggage trolleys, the driver slides up the side covers to reveal luggage lockers and the porters start to load up suitcases and team kit and travel bags and unidentifiable boxes and parcels. The fans jostle and mutter.

And as the members of the squad emerge from the hotel, the muttering grows to cheers, to loud calls for luck and good fortune, to tears of excitement and promises to see the boys soon as they run out onto the field.

Names are shouted from the barriers as various members of the team assemble and then board the bus. A hotel invasion threatens, security intervene and the cordon of barriers stays intact. The squad is on the inside, in a world of their own, one unit, one focus, one goal; the fans are on the outside, out in the real world, cheering and crying and waving before they will have to depart and find their own way home or away.

Most of the squad are now on the bus. When Seven emerges from the hotel frontage, the biggest cheer of all rises from the other side of the crowd control barriers. Seven waves from the steps of the bus, then climbs out of sight. The bus door remains open. Those at the back of the crowd begin to disperse. The luggage is loaded; the bus driver slams and secures the baggage lockers.

The Chief stands on the hotel forecourt; security murmur and look anxious. There is a pause in the hotel's piped music and more fans are turning their backs.

The last player emerges from the hotel. There is a growing rumble as he climbs up the first two steps at the door of the bus and pauses. The roar from the team increases, reaches a crescendo, hands grab the last player as he jumps up one more step. The fans strain to hear what the team are shouting; one word, over and over.

'Seph! Seph! Seph!'

The hands haul Seph up the final step and he vanishes into the interior of the bus and the door closes. The bus pulls away from the kerb.

Next stop: London.

# About the author

Wix Hutton lives in New Zealand.

# Also by Wix Hutton

The _Money_ series of crime novels featuring Cassidy StPaul:

Dead Money

Conscience Money

Texas Money

... and you are reading _Rugby Money_
