Insecure (20 page)

She sipped her coffee and studied him. The extra weight looked good on him, so did his complete ease with himself. “When did you get so Zen?”

“When I decided it was okay not to be like Dad.”

She'd never realised it before the discussion with Tom, but it was clear now. She and Bryan had both tried to be like Malcolm on his best days and neither of them had been able to kill off enough of their real selves to get the job done properly. They were lousy actors. Tom, on the other hand, for all his flaws, was his own person and no threat to Malcolm because of it.

“You too, huh.”

“Until the moment he sacked me I wanted to be him.” Bryan sipped and sighed. “Stupid. Best thing that ever happened to me, after Kath said yes and we had Brianna.” He looked at her under raised brows, like a proper older brother, one who genuinely cared might. “So what do you really want to be when you grow up, Jacinta Wentworth? Answer that question and you'll know what to do now.”

She'd felt mostly anger all day. A heated fury that made her joints ache until the call with Henry left her blistering, wanting to scrape her own skin off to cool down. Now she felt oddly detached, like she'd caught sight of someone in the glass of a shopfront and was shocked to realise that random person in the reflection was her.

If she wasn't Jacinta Wentworth, corporate heiress, who was she?

“I've got a hint for you. You don't want to be him, not ever.”

Bryan knew the score. It was time to find a new dream, not one that accepted second best.

“And before you get sick of
Bryan's advice for good living
,” he made finger quote marks above his head, “Don't rush into a new job. Smell the flowers.”

“Bryan's advice is full of clichés.” And home truths that stung like needle pricks in a hundred uncomfortable places.

He grinned. “They cost less on the family discount plan. I'll be sending you my bill.”

They moved to the lounge and talked more; Kath and Brianna. Tom. Bryan's new business and how happy he was to be his own boss, make his own mistakes and make good money too. It was a long way from the C-suite role he'd had, but he spoke about it with such enthusiasm and light in his dark eyes that it was impossible not to see his happiness.

Jacinta Wentworth, corporate heiress, usually looked like she spent a lot on clothing, had somewhere else important to be and could do with a good laugh. Jacinta Wentworth, thwarted businesswoman, had a headache, stiff neck, tense ears and toes, the beginning of a permanent frown wrinkle between her brows.

When Bryan left she felt calmer, not so keen to tear things into little pieces or scream at the walls. Not yet resolved on her next move, but there was less steam clouding her thinking, less molten lava gurgling in her veins.

She heated a casserole for dinner and watched the late news: sextuplets born in the back of a car, a new, thinner, faster, better gadget, a movie starlet's surgery scandal, sport, lots of sport, and a whale that swam down a river and made friends with a cow.

Yes, it was hard to keep your perspective when there were few reminders that the world wasn't a fair and equitable place, but Bryan had managed it and so could she.

She reached for the remote to turn the set off and a breaking news item aired. Roger Kincaid was found hanged in his prison cell. He'd made a noose of his own uniform.

She stared at the screen, knowing her career was as good as strangling her and whatever decision she made, she needed to avoid the same fate.

Dillon did a double-take like in a bad comedy with a laugh track when he saw Mace waiting outside his office building. “Oh fuck, they sacked you.”

“I got in first.”

“You quit?”

He nodded and held out a takeaway coffee.

Dillon face-palmed, sitcom style. “Oh man.” He took the coffee but eyed it suspiciously. It's not like Mace had ever shown up at his work with beverages before.

“I'm scared to ask.” He took an exploratory sip through the slot in the plastic lid and nodded his approval then said, “Shit, man you quit.”

Yeah, it was up there with dramatic gestures, but it was done now. It'd take a long time to forget the look on Nolan's face when he stood on a desk and made his goodbye speech. Standing with Dillon on the street while the peak hour rush built around them, it was hard to believe he'd done that. He'd even bowed like a busker who believed he was on the verge of the big time when the rest of the team started hooting, cheering and throwing things. It was a moment of insanity with the kind of popularity he'd never experienced. For a full ten minutes he was everyone's hero.

He'd arrived back at work after Buster's funeral with every intention of keeping his head down, staying out of Nolan's way and hoping the less said about his absence the better. He had a leave pass from Dr Dark in his back pocket and a death certificate if anyone pushed him, but his preference was to slip quietly into the stream and get on with things.

“Screw coffee,” Dillon chucked the empty in a bin. ”You quit. I need a drink.”

They decided on food as well. A laneway bar, modern Chinese and imported beers. Mace looked at the prices on the menu, realised he no longer had an income and laughed. “I might've just fucked myself.”

But if he could sell Buster's house, his house now, he'd have money to live on; they'd have money to work with, and time to approach other investors. The experience with Summers-Denby had taught them about the requirements and rigour venture capitalists used to assess the projects they invested in. They could apply that learning and get serious about finding funding.

“You went back too quick, dude. Tell them about Buster. Say it was the stress. They'll understand.”

“I burned them.”

“You mean you got a little angry; lost it like you did with the priest.”

“The priest was a warm-up. I pretty much took a flamethrower to the place.”

Dillon's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He put his head, forehead first, on the table, between the chopsticks on a fancy rest and the tea-light lamp. His shoulders shook with laughter. Mace waved a bewildered waitress away and moved the lamp.

Nolan had asked for it. Mace had been in the office ten minutes when he'd confronted him. Not quietly, but as though he'd swallowed a megaphone and was organising a building evacuation.

“You'd better have a note from Gates, Zuckerberg, Page and Brin if you think you can slink in here after five days without accounting for yourself.”

Mace stood up, maybe not the smartest thing to do because he towered over Nolan. He said, “I left you a voicemail. I have a doctor's certificate.”

“That certificate had better come directly from Steve Job on cloud nine before I'll take any notice of it.”

He'd opened his mouth to respond, only to realise the whole department was prairie-dogging it above the workstation partitions to see what happened next. After that it went from danger Will Robinson to Armageddon.

There was a meeting with HR. Instead of booking a room, Nolan staged it at a table in the middle of the open plan office. Mace was to be written up for a history of unacceptable absenteeism and insubordination. He'd get a formal warning, and if he didn't change his ways, stop thinking he was better than everyone else, he'd be officially performance-managed out. HR had a problem with that and there was an argument, which only made it worse because Nolan kept using his newly acquired megaphone voice to broadcast it all.

Mace had thought about defending himself for about five seconds, during which he clenched his fist so hard he cracked the scabs on his knuckles and made them bleed. He'd specced half the projects the department worked on, was a leader in every critical response issue, and the most requested tech, with the highest satisfaction rating. The job was boring but it was convenient, safe, it provided a regular income and it looked decent on his resume, but the flamethrower was already in his hands and its heft felt good.

It was a classic take this job and shove it moment and he took it large.

He told Nolan he was a no-talent micromanager who wouldn't know decent source code it if gave him a lap dance and charged him for penetration. He used his normal voice, but it carried in the artificial silence that meant every ear on the floor was tuned in. He said the company's IT program was short-sighted, overblown, unimaginative and would cost a fortune to upgrade. He grabbed Cassie, the redhead from HR, bent her over the table and kissed her senseless, while she gripped his arms and gave him tongue and Nolan made noises like a cat in heat.

When the cheering started he stood on a desk and told bad programmer jokes that got roars of laughter, until Nolan's threat to call security looked likely. He didn't log off or pack up his desk, he tossed his company phone in a drawer, grabbed his satchel and high-fived and hugged his way to the lift well, tipping an imaginary hat to the two security guards who were on their way in to the department to throw him out. When the lift doors closed and the show was over, he felt like his Vans had sprouted wings. He was high on the adrenaline, his own freakish audacity and the whole fuck yeah of it.

But fuck yeah, if they didn't get Ipseity up, he'd fucked the only decent job he'd ever had and his chance of getting another one without a reference. If he couldn't sell the house quickly, he'd need a new job because there wasn't going to be any severance pay and the funeral had tapped his savings out.

But all considered, he still felt pretty freaking happy. The only thing he regretted was kissing Cassie. It'd felt right in the moment and she'd had no complaints, he'd found a post-it note with call me and her number in his back pocket. But now he wished he'd saved the impulse: changed towers, stormed the executive floor, found Jacinta, hauled her into the nearest bathroom, and had insane monkey sex with her till neither of them could walk.

When Dillon sat up he was still laughing, and he laughed harder after they ordered and Mace related the events of the day.

“Move in with me and rent the house. You won't have to work on anything but Ipseity.”

“I want to sell the house and with the money we get from it we can finance ourselves for a while.”

Dillon took another helping of the tea-smoked duck. He kept his eyes on the table. A quiet Dillon was a Dillon you worried about. “What?”

“It's your house, Mace. Buster's legacy. It's long-term security, dude. I don't think you should sell it.”

“Why not?”

“If we fail, you'll have nothing.”

“We're not going to fail.”

“Most start-ups fail. Most founders lose everything. You know the successes are so few they're more like miracles.”

It's not like he needed to hear that again. “It's Buster's legacy. You think she'd want us to give up? When did we ever talk about giving up?”

“Shit, you're serious about this.”

“It's one of those moments, Dillon. Do or die.”

Dillon shook his head and his body followed in a shudder. Buster would've said someone walked on his grave. “Jesus, Mace.”

He shrugged and emptied the beer he could no longer afford down his soon to be homeless throat. Dillon was serving up shock and awe, but it was preliminary to battle stations.

By time the restaurant kicked them out they were both thoroughly hammered, and Dillon was considering forging his own sick certificate to avoid work the next day. But they had an order of proceedings: debug the software, find headroom in the business plan, sell the house, cohabit; which meant Dillon had to ditch his existing flatmate who was his current on again, off again girlfriend—no biggie. Rework the Summers-Denby pitch and sleep with the next door neighbour of every other VC in the city.

The first part of that workload was shared; the second part was on Mace because he had the time, the talent and the form. He wasn't taking it gay though. There was only so much he'd sacrifice for success.

It seemed entirely reasonable, except he only knew one woman who lived next door to a VC and she was the only woman he was interested in sleeping with. He thought he might love that woman Lucinda, and he'd kill Antonio if he was anywhere near her with his boofy hair and his yachty shoes.

“We can't lose,” Dillon said, but because the next thing he did was trip up a gutter it wasn't convincing. Not that Mace was any better off. He thought the streetlights may have been dancing. He sat on the kerb with Dillon and posted his Wentworth security tag down a drain. It took him three goes to poke it through the metal slots, because they kept moving.

It occurred to him that's what that Anderson Priest dude had done, washed them down the drain and that wasn't fair. He wondered if Jay the bread baker knew about it. Maybe the Priest hadn't told him. Maybe Mace could tell Jaybird he made really good bread and he was sorry he'd been such an arse and he liked eating bread so Jay should give them all his money.

That was a plan.

Then he could kiss Lucinda again in her swimming bath, because that was really nice and if she let him cuddle her he might forget about missing Buster, just for one night.

He woke up on Dillon's couch to the sound of Dillon chucking in the bathroom. It was sometime in the middle of the day because the sun was up and his eyes only functioned on peep. His tongue was a football wedged in his throat and the skin on his head was pulled too tight like cling film on his brain. He remembered dancing streetlights and tea-flavoured duck, and standing on a desk and making everyone cheer. His face worked well enough to smile at the memory of Nolan's expression; purple and scrunched, like a cranky passionfruit, and his yowls of outrage.

Buster was dead and she'd be so disappointed he'd drunk himself sick.

The last time he'd been hungover he'd cut his foot, he had the scar to show for it. But he hadn't been this drunk for years. He rubbed his arms where the welts from Buster's whipping had once been. He didn't have a job anymore, but he had a plan, not that he could recall what was in it right now, but they'd written it on a linen napkin they stole from the restaurant.