False Advertising (19 page)

The fiddly, fussy, countless ornaments that had driven Gemma to distraction from the first day were the last things to face the chop. Phoebe had come over for moral support, but Helen was hesitant, to say the least. She picked up one item at a time, ummed and ahhed and winced and bit her lip, recited a potted history of the particular piece, and then put it down again, finding tenuous reasons as to why she should hold onto it, or at the very least, defer making a decision till ‘later'. Finally Gemma could stand it no longer and gave her a pad of stick-it flags. She suggested that Helen place one on each of the pieces she was sure she wanted to keep, and Gemma would follow behind and remove the unflagged pieces. She and Phoebe gave her a head
start while they went to make tea, but when they returned, Gemma found shelves and shelves of ornaments with stick-it flags attached, like miniature lifesavers at a miniature surf carnival. This was going to be harder than she'd thought.

‘What's the problem, Helen?'

‘Is there a problem?' Helen asked guilelessly, crouched down in front of one of the cabinets.

‘I can't see any ornaments that haven't been flagged.'

Helen stood up, frowning as she surveyed the cabinets. ‘That can't be . . .' But it was. She bit her lip.

‘Do you actually want to keep them all?' Phoebe asked kindly. ‘Do you have some kind of sentimental attachment?'

‘No, no, not me. They all belong to my mother. I'm just not sure what she'd like to keep.'

‘Would she even know the difference any more?' said Gemma, not quite managing to mask the frustration in her voice.

Helen looked a little nonplussed, as did Phoebe, who made one of her best disapproving faces at her sister.

‘I'm sorry, was that insensitive?' said Gemma. Sensitivity had never been her strong suit either.

‘Maybe you could pick out your mother's favourite pieces and take them to her, to decorate her room?' Phoebe suggested helpfully.

Helen tilted her head, considering. ‘She liked the crystal, Dad gave her a few pieces over the years.'

‘Great, let's pack up all the crystal so you can take it next time you visit her,' said Gemma before Helen could change her mind.

Helen wasn't convinced. ‘What if she breaks it?'

‘So,' Gemma shrugged. ‘It's hers to break, isn't it?'

Helen nodded slowly. ‘I suppose you're right.'

‘What about the porcelain figures, or the Bakelite . . .' Gemma added, not wanting to lose the momentum.

‘No, the Bakelite wasn't Mum's. It belonged to an aunt. Mum ended up with it when she died; no one else wanted it apparently and Mum didn't want to see it thrown out . . .'

God, the world was overrun with hoarders.

‘It's funny,' Helen mused, ‘she wasn't even very close to that
aunt. She lived over in WA. Mum didn't actually know her all that well.'

Gemma shook her head. ‘Then what's the point of keeping a cabinet full of stuff she didn't like and had no sentimental attachment to? Imagine the number of times she must have dusted it all!' Gemma was gazing at the orderly display of dressing-table pieces and jewellery on one shelf, dining table accessories on the shelf below. ‘I can understand her not wanting to throw it out, but why not sell it? Can you imagine if Mum saw this, Phee?'

‘She'd think she'd died and gone to heaven.' Phoebe stopped suddenly, her eyes wide and round. ‘Oh my God, I'm so sorry, Helen.'

‘Now who's being insensitive?' Gemma muttered smugly.

‘It's all right, really,' Helen assured her. ‘You're allowed to say the words “death” or “dying” in front of me. It's worse if you try to avoid them.'

They both nodded, vowing internally never to say the words ‘death' or ‘dying' in front of her again.

‘So your mother likes Bakelite?' Helen prompted them.

‘She collects it,' Phoebe nodded.

‘Take it then,' said Helen. ‘If you think she'd like it.'

‘No!' Gemma blurted. ‘She's got enough of the stuff, and besides, you'd be surprised what you might be able to get for this. And those Lladro figurines. And you won't need all the glass display cabinets once you get rid of the stuff inside them . . .' Her voice faded out as she became lost in thought. ‘You should have a garage sale.'

Helen looked a little taken aback. ‘But I don't have a garage.'

‘You don't actually need a garage to have a garage sale, Helen,' said Phoebe. ‘You could set it all up in your front yard.'

Helen was frowning. ‘That'd be a lot of work, wouldn't it? This isn't the kind of stuff you could just throw into boxes –'

‘What if we make it a garage sale “by appointment only”?' Gemma suggested as the idea occurred to her. ‘That'd make it sound exclusive. You'd probably get a lot of antique dealers, like they do at –' She stopped short. She had been about to say
deceased estates
.

‘What were you going to say?' Helen prompted her.

‘Oh, you know, the dealers always go to the auctions, that kind of thing,' said Gemma vaguely, making no sense at all. Best to push on and hope no one noticed. ‘I'll write the ad, cataloguing everything. And we'll only include the telephone number, no address. That way people will have to ring to make an appointment.'

‘And you think they will?' asked Helen.

‘Of course,' said Phoebe. ‘Gemma's right, you don't want the usual garage sale crowd; you want to attract the collectors who know what this stuff's worth. I don't think you'll have any trouble moving all this.'

Helen was listening, contemplating. Opening up and clearing out that room had had an astonishing and unexpected effect on her. She felt lighter somehow. It occurred to Helen that the shadow of her father's death had been hanging over this house, over their lives, for too long. The house had become a kind of monument to grief, and Helen was beginning to feel that if she didn't excavate through the layers, she'd become buried under them, and she'd never have the space to grieve for David.

But her mother was still alive, barely cognisant, but alive. And still the legal owner of this house, and everything in it. Did Helen really have the right to go divvying up her belongings, like she had no say in it? But what would she say if given the chance? She wouldn't remember; she'd probably become agitated, certainly confused. To line up all this in front of her mother and ask her to choose would be unnecessarily confronting. At times like that Marion appeared to have some awareness that reality had slipped irrevocably from her grasp, and the pain and fear in her eyes were almost unbearable. Helen couldn't do that to her, and Gemma was right: she wouldn't know the difference any more.

‘So what do you think?' Gemma was saying.

She would need to run it by Tony, but Helen didn't imagine he'd have a problem with it, especially if she assured him he'd get half the proceeds. She met Gemma's gaze. ‘Let's do it.'

*

Gemma was feeling restless. The MD was due back in the office any time now; he had been away for the entire week and Gemma had had very little to keep her occupied apart from answering the phone and opening the mail. She felt as though she was little more than a glorified receptionist. An assistant was supposed to assist, but the MD did not seem to need or want her help. She merely provided remote backup support so he could run his own show.

The phone rang and Gemma picked it up uninterestedly. ‘Good afternoon, Bai–'

‘Gemma it's me, Helen, Helen Chapman . . . that you live with –'

‘I know who you are, Helen,' Gemma said, amused.

‘Oh, okay,' she said with a nervous giggle. ‘I just wanted to tell you something,' she whispered loudly. ‘But I wasn't sure if it was a problem ringing you at work?'

‘You don't have to whisper, Helen, no one can hear you this side. And I gave you my number here at work, remember? I told you it's okay to ring me if you ever need to.'

‘Well, I probably didn't need to. Not strictly speaking, you know, it's not like it's an emergency or anything. I could have left it till you got home –'

‘Helen, what is it?' Gemma interrupted.

‘Sorry, sorry,' she said. ‘Well, the thing is, I've been getting calls all morning! I've almost filled the schedule for the entire day.'

‘That's great.' The ad had run in the local paper that morning. Gemma had known they'd get a good response, but perhaps not this quickly. ‘Are they mostly dealers?'

‘There were a few dealers, though not everyone said. One man was quite upfront, he's a private collector, begged me not to let anyone touch the Bakelite before he gets a chance to see it. Said he'll be here first thing Saturday morning, and that he'll better anything that a dealer offers.'

‘Sounds good . . . disturbing, but good,' said Gemma.

‘You will be here on Saturday?' Helen asked tentatively.

‘Of course.' Like she had anything better to do. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of the MD making his way up the corridor. ‘Oh, that's my boss coming, I have to go, Helen.'

‘Okay, bye,' she blurted, hanging up in Gemma's ear.

Gemma got to her feet and adjusted her shirt and jacket, straining to hold her tummy in. ‘Hi,' she said brightly as he came by her desk.

He stopped, looking at her with a mildly puzzled frown on his face. ‘Afternoon.'

‘Good afternoon to you as well,' she returned, smiling. She was glad she'd talked him into that haircut – it was a significant improvement. He wasn't half bad-looking, actually, if he would just do something about his wardrobe . . .' How was your flight?'

‘Uneventful.' He narrowed his eyes, considering her. ‘You look different. Have you had your hair cut or something?'

No, her face was just bloated, along with everything else. Bugger. Gemma took a breath to pull her stomach in tighter.

‘I think I might have put on a bit of weight,' she replied lightly. ‘Not used to sitting at a desk all day,' she added with a forced laugh.

He lifted one eyebrow. ‘Well, I'll be in my office. Lots to catch up on.'

As he walked away, Gemma promptly followed, unbeknownst to him, she realised, when he went around his desk and appeared to get a surprise to see her standing on the other side. ‘Can I help you?' he asked.

‘That's what I want to know.'

He looked blankly at her.

‘If I can help
you
?'

‘Oh, no, not right at the moment,' he said, a little wary. ‘Thanks.' He set his briefcase on the desk and began to empty it, effectively ignoring her.

Okay, what was wrong here was that they didn't have a relationship yet. A working relationship. She was just someone sitting at a desk, a conduit to the office when he wasn't here, a keeper of the gate when he was. She had to build up a rapport with him. Become a confidante, an advisor, a friend.

‘So how was your trip?' she asked, as a friend would.

He glanced across at her. ‘You're still here.'

Did he think she'd give up that easily? ‘How was your trip?' Gemma repeated.

‘You already asked me that,' he said, closing his briefcase and placing it on the floor beside his desk.

‘I know,' said Gemma. ‘But you didn't answer me.'

‘I did, out at your desk. You already asked me and I told you it was uneventful, remember?' He sat down and turned on his computer.

‘No,' Gemma persisted, leaning forward, propping her hands on the edge of the desk. ‘I asked you how your flight was. Now I'm asking you about your trip. Was it successful? Did you achieve what you hoped to achieve? Did any problems come to light? Are you planning –'

‘It was fine, okay?' he interrupted brusquely, focusing on the computer screen.

She'd had just about enough of this. ‘No, actually, it's not okay.'

He turned his head to glare up at her. ‘I beg your pardon?'

Oops, shit. She might have gone too far.

‘MD,' Gemma began, ‘you hired me to be your assistant, but how am I supposed to assist you when I'm not included in anything you do?'

‘That's my call,' he said. ‘Not yours.'

Gemma released a loud sigh.

He sat back in his chair, meeting her eyes. ‘Yes, I hired you to be my assistant, Gemma,' he said. ‘And a good assistant wouldn't be hounding me to pay her attention. She would understand that after a week away, I'm tired, I have a lot of work to catch up on, and I might want to be left alone to do just that. I think I at least have the right to decide when and for what I need your assistance. If that doesn't suit you, then, as you said in your interview, you are welcome to leave of your own volition.'

‘I should have known those words would come back to bite me on the bum,' Gemma grumbled.

She'd met Charlie in the lift on the way out and had been recounting the whole episode till they got to the ground floor and walked out of the building. They started down the street together. Gemma pulled her coat around her but it didn't quite meet. They were walking directly into a stiff wintry breeze, and she felt cold and uncomfortable and cranky.

‘Maybe I should just quit.'

‘Maybe.'

‘But then what would I do, Charlie?' she implored. ‘I can't raise a child without an income, and I couldn't get another job now, at this late stage. Besides, I've burned too many bridges in the past, my résumé is like Swiss cheese there's so many holes in it, and if I leave this job without an explanation . . .' Gemma came to an abrupt halt, overwhelmed by her own predicament.

‘So I guess you'd better stick it out then,' said Charlie.

‘But I hate it,' she whined. ‘It's so boring. And he's such a pig.'

‘So leave.'

‘
Char-lie!
'

‘
Gem-ma!
' he retorted. ‘What do you want me to say? Okay, I get it: you can't stand your boss, you hate your job, but unfortunately you need it. You think you're the only person who's ever had to put up with a boss they didn't like, or a job they hated? People do it all the time.'

Gemma pouted. ‘I didn't ever want to be one of those people.'

‘Welcome to the real world, baby.'

She frowned at him. ‘What's wrong with you?'

‘Nothing,' said Charlie. ‘It just gets a little frustrating after a while, this broken-record routine of yours, Gem. The MD's not the villain here; he made it crystal clear to you what he expected from the start. He was honest. Stop trying to find someone else to blame for the mess you're in. The fact is, you made a whopping omission to get a job you didn't really want. What did you think was going to happen? That it would all magically sort itself out?'

Gemma hated it when people made perfect sense like that. Charlie did it all the time, so did Phoebe. And Helen was developing an annoying tendency that way as well.

‘Yeah, well, it will all be sorted soon enough,' said Gemma.
‘I'm going to lose the job when I can't hide the pregnancy any longer.'

‘Probably.'

‘
Charlie!
'

‘I'm just calling it like I see it, Gem,' he declared.

‘Well, I wish you'd stop doing that.'

‘So you want me to say everything's going to be all right? That when the MD finds out you're pregnant, he'll grant you paid leave, find a temporary replacement and welcome you back in a few months after he's set up a crèche for the baby?'

But Gemma had stopped listening halfway through. ‘That's what I need, isn't it?' she said.

‘What? A crèche?'

‘A replacement. If I have someone all lined up to take over, then he can't complain –'

‘He can if he wants to,' said Charlie. ‘What if he doesn't like your replacement?'

Now Gemma was getting frustrated. ‘Charlie, I'm just trying to come up with a solution here. You said I should stop expecting everything to sort itself out.'

‘Okay, fair call. Where are you going to find this replacement?'

‘I'll talk to Kelly in HR.'

‘She can't do anything without his say-so, you realise.'

Charlie was right. ‘I know. I could go to the temp agency I used to work for when I first came to Bailey's. Actually, I have a pretty good reputation with them. I'd forgotten about that.'

‘Once again, you can't line up a temp to take your place, Gem, it all has to go through the proper channels.'

‘I hate that expression,' Gemma grumbled. They came to the intersection where they would have to part ways. ‘Hey, do you want to go and get a drink? Something to eat?' she asked hopefully.

‘Sorry, I can't,' said Charlie.

Gemma looked at him. ‘You're seeing Brittany?'

He nodded. ‘As a matter of fact . . .'

‘When am I going to get to meet her?'

‘Oh,' he said, considering it. ‘I was thinking around the twelfth.'

‘The twelfth of what?'

‘Of never.'

She pulled a face. ‘Do the lame jokes work with Brittie?'

‘Don't call her that.' The lights changed on the intersection. ‘Ah, there's my cue, gotta run.'

She grabbed his arm. ‘Oh, come on, Charlie, let me meet her.'

‘Not going to happen, Gem.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because you'd chew her up and spit her out for breakfast.'

Gemma was indignant. ‘What do you mean by that? I'm a nice person.'

‘When you want to be.'

Gemma looked up at him; she hoped he could see the hurt in her eyes. She was trying very hard to make it obvious.

He sighed. The lights changed again and he drew Gemma away from the throng on the corner. ‘Look,' he said, ‘Brittany's a very sweet girl. She's not used to people like you.'

‘What's that supposed to mean? If you're trying to offend me, Charlie, you've succeeded. In fact, look over your shoulder, you crossed that line back on the twelfth of never.'

‘I wasn't trying to offend you, Gem,' he said. ‘Hey, Gem? Look at me . . . Gem?'

But she couldn't look at him. She was trying to blink back these bloody tears that were welling up in her eyes. Damn, damn, damn, she had no control of her bodily functions any more. She was always leaking from some place or other.

She felt Charlie's hand under her chin, lifting it so she had to look at him. ‘Gemma,' he chided. ‘You're not –'

‘No, I'm not,' she sniffed, shrugging him off and wiping her eyes. ‘It's just the pregnancy, okay? It happens for no reason at all.'

‘Okay,' he agreed, watching her doubtfully.

‘Your light's green,' she said, pointing back to the intersection.

‘It's all right, I can wait –'

‘Go,' she insisted. ‘I'm going to miss my bus anyway.' She took a couple of steps away from him.

Charlie stood where he was, still watching her.

‘Bye Charlie. Have a good night,' she said as she turned and headed down the street away from him. Alone.

*