Motorbike? Scooter more like it. Or a motorised Malvern Star. Decca Brand astride a Kawasaki did not compute. She was way too straight.
'Does Inga like carnations, Oleg?'
Decca was seated behind her desk, watching Oleg resting on his haunches with his back leaning against the door. His elbows were on his knees, one fist at his chin, the other hand brushing the car keys back and forth across his lips: eyes fixed on Decca.
All around him lay strewn carnations. Wine pooled on the carpet beneath its shattered bottle.
'Sometimes I sing,' said Oleg, after some minutes. 'I sing my thoughts, and then I laugh. Then I feel better.'
Decca's breathing eased a little, but she said nothing. He's coming round, she thought. This would not be a good time for Candy to come bursting in, though ten minutes earlier she had been praying for just that as Oleg Kransky waltzed her around the room smiling and crying and knocking things over.
He was a short man-even more so compared to Decca-and stocky, with the thighs of a weightlifter. And while Decca was not afraid of him, accidents might have happened.
'Oh, Ing-ah!' Oleg sang. 'Why you treat your daddy so mean? Oh, Ing-ah! I think you know what I mean.' He chuckled. 'If you treat me like a lover, I will make you my queen.' He rolled sideways onto the carpet, his laughter building.
Decca was up and out of her chair, picking her way through the debris, easing him gently to his feet. Careful not to make too much physical contact, she indicated the chair and Oleg sat down, still singing softly. He had a tuneful voice, Decca noted, but this was not a 'New Faces' moment. It was time for Oleg to leave the building.
'You don't like me, do you?' he said with his head bowed.
'Did you bring your notebook with you, Oleg?' Decca said.
'I used to have so many friends. Our house was always filled with friends. And laughter. And the smell of good food,' he said.
'No. I didn't think I would come today. But then I thought about not seeing you and I...'
'Why not come again this time next week?' said Decca. The sound of the front door opening made Oleg jerk his head around and straighten in the chair.
'Yes. Good. That would be good,' he said. 'Nine o'clock next Thursday?' He was standing, rearranging his shirt and tie, smoothing back his thick crop of black and silver hair. As he turned to go he glanced at the mess on the floor with a puzzled look, then crunched his way across the clutter without a backward turn.
'See you next week, Oleg,' said Decca to the departing figure.
Next minute Candy poked her head around the door.
'I thought Mr...? What happened?' she cried. 'I leave you alone for five minutes!'
'Grab the brush and pan, will you, Candy. What time is the next one?'
'Mrs Thurlow in half an hour. Shall I get you a coffee?'
'I'll be fine,' said Decca.
'You're knocking off at four today remember? File's on the deesk!' Candy sang. 'I'll get started on this.'
Selma Thurlow had been employed at the blood bank for most of her working life. Recently, and inexplicably, she had developed haemophobia. The sight or smell of blood had never bothered her until now and, three months short of retirement, she was not about to resign.
'Guess what?' said Candy, scooping up the last of the carnations. 'You know that girl who jumped off the Westgate this morning? I know her mother.'
'Have the police released her name? They don't usually do that so quickly.'
'No, they haven't. My friend Vibeke rang me.'
'And, Vibeke is...?'
'...is in my Thursday tap-dancing class. Takes her almost half an hour to drive in, but she loves it so much.'
'I'm not sure I'm following this.'
'She lives in Hoppers Crossing?' Candy spread her hands wide and cocked her head, waiting for the penny to drop. 'Two doors away from Jody's mother, Raelene. Isn't that spooky?'
'And Jody is...?'
'...the girl who jumped. Raelene came to tap a few times, with Vib, and that's when I met her. She seemed nice. Quiet, you know. Surprisingly light on her feet.'
'Does Vibeke know Raelene well?'
'Yeah, she does, unfortunately.' Candy shook her head. 'Poor cow.'
At the wheel of the Mustang in the outbound lane of the Westgate Bridge at 4.30 that same afternoon, Decca realised she hadn't got any further with the Jody saga-Selma's arrival having curtailed the discussion. Was it Vibeke or Raelene who was the 'poor cow'?
No matter, she thought as she swept up the incline, the girl had jumped into outer space, and nothing would bring her back. Candy's brief encounter with the mother was immaterial. Jody from Hoppers Crossing had cut short what little life she had and probably destroyed Raelene's life into the bargain. Besides, Decca was having enough trouble keeping the lid on her own emotions today without hearing about any more tragedy.
When she had come out of her room at 4.15 to find Candy in a heated discussion with her son Jorel, Decca opted for a hasty exit. After all, she reasoned, it wouldn't be the first time Candy's strapping fifteen-year-old had skipped swim training to hang out at the skate park, had fallen foul of one of his teachers or been involved in some other drama. Teenagers! Who needed them? Her cheery farewell had been met with a dismissive wave from Candy and not even a nod from the boy.
The light was already fading as she cruised down Melbourne Road. It was almost dark by five o'clock these nights, and bitter chill.
What to wear. Cocktail frock? Too dressy for dinner. The green cashmere dress? Too much leg. God, she thought, what if he's short? She realised that, next to her, any man, other than a football player, looked like Tom Cruise (and the mere thought of him was enough to put you off dating for life), but there were limits.
She parked the car in the underground lock-up and went upstairs.
Boofles inclined his head towards her as she came up the small flight of stairs from the vestibule as if to say 'You're home early, dear', then turned his gaze once more to the window.
In her bedroom, after a quick shower, she pulled out a short black leather skirt, black woollen wraparound top and a fresh pack of black patterned pantyhose. Melbourne, after all, is a city where too much black is barely enough, especially in the depths of winter. Her one concession to colour was a pair of stiletto-heeled, knee-high boots in camel suede-Ferragamo copies she'd picked up in Hong Kong on the way back from the Seychelles. Tall she'd be, and damn the consequences!
She surveyed the effect in the unforgiving light of the bathroom mirror.
The cross-over top flattered her broad shoulders and longish neck, while the teardrop diamond she added as an afterthought lent a hint of glamour at her throat. There was cleavage, yes, but mostly as a result of modern bra technology rather than amplitude. Bicycle-toned hips and an abdomen that had seen no labour (neither child-producing nor hard) sculpted smooth curves into the overall 'beanpole' effect.
Now for the face. When would her biological age catch up with her? she wondered, and not for the first time. She could still pass for forty, and not because she was kidding herself. As surely as gravity itself, however, those wrinkles would appear one day-probably when she wasn't looking-but not today. Oddly, Decca was born with one green eye and one blue, which tended to hamper one's choice of eyeshadow. Tonight she opted for a mere smear of bronze plus a minor boost to the don't-frighten-the-horses, work-strength mascara.
Her nose, neither beak nor button, was the sort a six-footer should have. A nose that could have got her into, or out of, a modelling career depending on the decade; a fine nose for bullshit.
Her lips-unremarkable apart from the