The anticipation, the adrenalin, the nervous energy. Muted, but there.
From her kitchen bench Lanie watched the swimmers walk out for the men’s hundred-metre breaststroke final. Watched them stretch and roll their shoulders, wiggle their legs about.
Then she watched the race—listened to the crowd, to the increasing hysteria of the commentators, and then watched the moment the winner won gold.
Automatically she smiled in reaction to the winner’s smile, and then grinned to herself when she realised what she’d done.
See? She could do this. Tonight was just like any other night in front of the television. She’d watched her sister win two medals and been genuinely nervous and then over the moon for her. If she was going to have regrets, or be overwhelmed by jealousy or resentment or something equally unpleasant and inappropriate, she would have done it by now.
It really was just another race.
On the screen, groups of swimmers began to walk out to the pool. Sweden, in their uniform of vivid blue and gold. Japan, with all four women holding hands as they waved to the crowd. The Dutch in orange and grey.
And then the Australian team.
‘Lanie?’ Teagan poked her head over the top of the couch and blinked sleepy eyes in her direction.
‘Perfect timing!’ Lanie said, managing to sound remarkably normal. ‘The race is just about to start.’
Her friend raised an eyebrow.
Okay. Maybe she didn’t sound totally normal. But surely a little bit of tension was to be expected?
The swimmers had all discarded their tracksuits and onto the blocks stepped the lead-out swimmer. Australia was in lane four, sandwiched between the United States and the Netherlands.
Teagan’s eyes were glued to the television when Lanie sat beside her, but her friend still managed to reach out and grab her hand. She shot a short glance in Lanie’s direction as she squeezed it—hard.
‘You okay?’
Lanie nodded. ‘Totally.’
‘Take your marks.’
Pause.
Complete silence.
BEEP!
And they were off.
The first leg was good—strong. The United States touched first, but there was nothing in it. By the end of the second lap Australia had drawn level.
Then the third Aussie girl dived in, sluicing through the water like an arrow.
This was her leg. The girl was just like her—the fastest of the heat swimmers, awarded with the final relay berth amongst the more elite girls.
She was doing a brilliant job. Holding her own.
Would Lanie have?
She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut tight.
She imagined herself in the water. Remembered the way her focus became so narrow, so all-encompassing, that she didn’t hear the crowd—didn’t hear a thing. It was just her body and the water, and all she could control was her technique.
Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke...
The crowd—a world away—was suddenly much louder, and Lanie’s eyes popped open. The anchor swimmer was in the water, and Great Britain had a chance for a medal. The crowd had gone wild.
Teagan squeezed her hand again, harder, and Lanie blinked, refocussing her attention.
Australia had pulled ahead. They were going to win.
And just like that—they had.
The girls had done it, and done it in style—in record time. They deserved every accolade the over-excited commentator was bestowing upon them.
They filled the television screen, swim caps stripped off, damp hair long around their shoulders, as they completed the standard pool-side interview.
‘Lanie?’ Teagan’s voice was full of concern.
Despite her own mental reassurances that she was fine, and the many times she’d told herself she was a bigger person than to be jealous or resentful or whatever, she suddenly realised she wasn’t.
A tear splashed onto her hands, and she looked down to where her fingers were knotted in the flannelette of her pyjamas.
She’d been wallowing. Treading water until this moment—waiting for tonight, for this race.
Why?
Because tonight was the end. The end of her swimming dream.
Teagan silently shoved a handful of tissues in front of her and Lanie dabbed at her cheeks. Blew her nose. And considered what to do next.
She needed to do something—anything. And she had to do it now. She couldn’t wake up tomorrow and be the also-ran swimmer.
She turned to face Teagan on the couch. Her friend was so close to be as good as shoulder to shoulder with her, but she’d wisely not made a move to comfort her.
‘I need a job,’ Lanie said.
Teagan’s eyes widened, but then she smiled. ‘But no drug cartels?’
‘Or anything involving swimming.’
Her friend’s smile broadened. ‘Consider it done.’
TWO
Grayson Manning shoved his chair away from his desk, then covered the generous space between the desk and the door in quick, agitated strides.
Outside his office, his assistant’s desk was empty.
He glanced at his watch, confused. It was well after nine a.m., and Rodney was always on time. Gray insisted upon it.
He frowned as he walked into the hallway. Thankfully a woman sat behind the glossy white reception desk. Behind her, ‘Manning’ was spelt out in ridiculously large chrome block capitals.
What was her name again? Cathy? Katie?
‘Caroline,’ she said, unprompted, as he approached—reminding him he’d guessed wrong last time he’d asked her a question, too.
‘Caroline,’ he repeated. He’d been told doing so was useful when remembering names—not that it had helped him so far. ‘Where’s Rodney?’
The woman blinked. Then bit her lip, glancing away for a moment. ‘Um...Mr Manning, Rodney resigned...’ A pause. ‘Yesterday.’
Gray’s jaw clenched. ‘Our agreement with the agency specifies at least two weeks’ notice must be provided.’
The woman nodded, her blond ponytail bouncing in agreement. ‘I believe he asked your permission that his resignation be effective immediately.’
‘I didn’t agree to that.’
Caroline’s lips twitched. ‘I’m pretty sure you did. Rodney forwarded me your e-mail so he could organise cancellation of his building access and so on. It was there in writing.’
Gray pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and quickly scrolled through yesterday’s sent messages. Yesterday had been stupidly busy—back-to-back meetings, a major issue with one of his contractors, and a lead on a new investment opportunity in South East Asia.
Even so, surely he would have noticed if... Letter of Resignation.
It wasn’t even a vague subject line. He really needed to start paying more attention to his inbox. But then, that was one of the reasons why he had an assistant: to prioritise his mail,