Читать книгу Direct Action - J D Svenson - Страница 15

The cafeteria at Randwick Private was air-conditioned and crowded with a two to one ratio of health workers to civilians when Cressida pushed through its heavy double doors that night. Among the pale green of the orderlies and purple of the nurses, Felipe stood out as one of the few in surgical dark blue. He was still wearing his cap, and she slid it off his head as she sat down.

‘Sweetheart.’

He turned and crushed her in a hug, tipping her face up for a kiss, then turned her bodily to face the overhead menu a few tables down. ‘Now look. There’s no chilli prawns I’m afraid,’ he said, looking chagrined, ‘but they do have …’ – he paused for effect – ‘keftedes.’

‘Ohh,’ she said, imagining. ‘Not today. I’m keeping with the juice diet for the moment.’

He kissed her forehead.

‘You’re so disciplined. They might have just the ticket. Let’s see.’

They queued and Cressida ordered a spinach and kale juice, Felipe the Caesar salad and a bottle of water for each of them.

‘How was surgery?’ she said as they sat down. ‘Better now you have your instruments?’

‘A success, thank God,’ he said, stabbing a chunk of bacon. ‘Thank God I’m done muddling through on the hospital kit. The lights flickered twice and we all held our breath, but everything stayed on. We had to get in and out quick smart though – there’s only one theatre on the genny, apparently,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘So I just did the metatarsal – the other two ops will have to wait till the power’s back. I’m going to have to talk to the president about better emergency backup for this place.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s just unacceptable.’

Cressida took a long, character-building suck of her smoothie. Yep. Foul. She regarded Felipe. He’d been grumbling about the presidency of the Australian Orthopaedic Association for the entire six months they’d been dating. Since the news about the standing down of the president, all he’d talked about was the election of a new one.

‘Any word on candidates? How’s the field looking?’

Felipe looked glum. ‘Mark was trying again to convince me to run today,’ he said, and grimaced. ‘He wants to be deputy, of course. I just don’t think it’s the right year. It’s a win that Clarkson’s not in the race, but that Queensland contender …’ He unscrewed one of the bottles of water and passed it to her. ‘Although of course I do have my secret weapon,’ he said, and squeezed her hand.

‘What Queensland contender?’

He gave a tight smile. ‘That new bloke, just back from five years in Germany. Mark says he’s running.’

‘What, you think he’d be a threat?’

‘I don’t know.’ Felipe shrugged. ‘He was acting chair of the equivalent body in Germany, apparently. Got three million in government funding for a new training program they wanted to implement, bringing refugee medicos from Algeria or some such. Three million. Complete opposite of what we need, of course.’ He sighed, swigging water. ‘It seems I’m the only one with any drive to make this organisation entirely self-sufficient. I mean, how else can we maintain our independence? Anyway.’ He brightened. ‘Not to worry. How are you faring, my beautiful girl?’

‘Well … I’ll get into that in a minute,’ said Cressida. There was no way she could tell him about the Liddell matter, of course, but she was still deciding whether to tell him about the travel on the road project. He was always criticising her work for being ‘too demanding’, as he put it. As for the terrorist case, she thought, it was probably a good thing she was bound by confidentiality. Felipe would have an apoplexy knowing she was acting for someone who had had a part in causing this mess. ‘How’re your next few weeks looking?’

‘Well,’ he began, ‘of course the absolute highlight is taking my gorgeous fiancée to be the belle of the ball …’

The ball? Oh God, that’s right. The big one. Next Friday. The Surgeons Ball. The invitation had been pinned to her noticeboard for months.

‘But as well, I’m glad to say, they’ve rescheduled last Saturday’s meet to next weekend,’ he continued. He paused and looked at her over his salad. ‘You have been training, I presume?’

Cressida blinked. ‘Well, no, actually,’ she said, trying to sound offhand. ‘I had to get into work early this morning. God, things have been so chaotic, as you know.’ She shook her head and grinned. He was still looking at her though, a familiar stormy look overtaking his face. ‘Chillax, Felipe,’ she said, keeping her grin intact. ‘I’ll go tonight. But,’ she said, slowly, trying to keep the hope out of her voice, ‘surely the ball won’t be on? Given the blackout?’

‘They’ve moved it to the hospital fifth-floor balcony especially,’ he said. ‘Honestly, Cressida. You can’t go tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s 7.30 already. We’ve talked about this.’ He shook his head and stabbed a piece of chicken. ‘Three of the committee members are going to be there, for goodness sake.’ He put his head in his hands, peering out at her from between meaty surgeon’s fingers. ‘How many times do we have to go through this?’

She hated it when he got like this. But he was right. When she didn’t train, they always argued. She changed the subject.

‘Three committee members? Really?’

‘Three. And they’re probably the ones least onside for me as chair. Oh Cressida. You know how important this is to me.’

‘I do, Felipe. Of course I do. I’ll go tomorrow. Twice,’ she added. Why the hell her triathlon time had anything to do with his chances of becoming chair of the Australian Orthopaedic Association she didn’t know, but he was convinced of it, and now it had become a ‘thing’, so she didn’t press it. Something about being able to best represent orthopaedic surgeons to the rest of the surgical profession at multidisciplinary gatherings and internationally. She couldn’t believe they’d all be that superficial as to care what someone’s partner looked like – much less how many triathlons they’d won – but had been through it enough times with Felipe to know there was a lot she didn’t understand about the surgical world, and never would. The wife of the current chair had been Miss Universe Burundi, and apparently that had been a crucial deciding factor.

‘That’s great that it’s on this Saturday,’ she continued. ‘Despite the blackout, I mean.’ And the exercise will mean I can drink an extra glass, she thought. ‘How’s your training going?’

Felipe grinned. ‘Broke forty minutes. This morning in the staff gym.’

‘There you go,’ Cressida said. ‘That’s better than the current chair’s, isn’t it?’

‘By nearly a minute.’

‘Fabulous.’

Well it was only Monday, she reassured herself. So what if she hadn’t trained for three days; there was still time between now and the weekend. Maybe she could have that keftedes, she thought, savouring the description on the menu board. Especially if she trained extra in the morning. Four meatballs, she thought, calculating the running time. It could be done.

‘Actually you know, I was just reading an article the other day,’ Felipe was saying, scooping up the last of the shaved parmesan in his bowl. ‘The research is now showing there is a forty per cent correlation between strenuous heart lung exercise in the thirties – like disciplined triathlon training’ – he paused and looked at her for emphasis – ‘and the prevention of weight gain in the forties. More so than weights, boxing, sprinting or other strength exercise. Good to know, eh?’

Cressida flushed. Even though she tried to pretend it didn’t, even the suggestion that her weight mattered to him made her embarrassed.

‘You don’t need to worry of course though, darling,’ he said, pulling her face towards his. ‘You’ve got such excellent genes, I know you’ll stay reed thin.’ He swallowed his mouthful and kissed her. She looked up at the menu board again. It was good he was supportive. It wasn’t for him that it mattered though. Being thin just felt good. The keftedes probably were fatty. And the tzatziki wouldn’t be low-fat yoghurt. She was glad she’d stuck with the juice.

‘Hey look,’ she said. There was a TV on the wall and on it a drone camera was arcing a bird’s eye view across the smouldering remains of a building. The name of one of the power stations flashed up on the screen. Holy moly, she thought. It was unrecognisable. Fires scattered the picture and burned with oily black smoke, while in the centre bulldozers were pushing mounds of smoking metal and debris into a gigantic pile. Liddell. On the other side of some cyclone wire, passengers in matching red caps and oversized tags on lanyards tumbled out of a bus.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Felipe said. ‘I mean, of all the poor taste …’

A banner of text ran along the screen: Emergency services to divert power from Victoria … Electricity back in twelve Sydney suburbs …Then the footage cut to a basketball stadium like the one she had been in yesterday, filled with beds and people, and after that a crowd with placards. Cressida caught the word renewables and one saying Free the Climate Five. Then came a talking head of a man in a suit with bright red hair, so pale he looked albino. She swallowed and turned back to Felipe.

‘I had a meeting with Prendergast this morning,’ she said. ‘You know, Brian Prendergast. “God”.’ She saw the cogs turning in his head until he remembered. ‘Anyway – he said’ – she paused for emphasis – ‘the partnership vote would be reconvened within a fortnight.’ She couldn’t conceal the grin.

‘Oh lovely,’ Felipe chuckled, opening her palm and kissing it. ‘I saw the wedding invitations on the bench at Helena’s, by the way. Are you happy with them? I’m so glad all that stress will be behind you soon, darling. It’s so ageing,’ he said, pushing a lock of hair off her forehead.

Cressida looked at him.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Life should be a tad less stressful when I’m a Partner. Though going by some of them,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘it gets a lot worse. Oh that reminds me.’ She extracted her hand. ‘It looks like Pip can help me out on—’

‘You know that’s not what I mean, Cressida,’ Felipe interrupted. She stared down at the table, feeling a familiar flush of anger and hurt. Why did he persist in this? In this trying to pretend she would turn into someone she wasn’t?

‘You know, Felipe,’ she began, trying to find a way to say it that wouldn’t sound angry. Then her mobile phone trilled on the table and they both stared at it. Whoops. They had an agreement to keep phones off during meal times. But it was Brian’s number. She gave Felipe an apologetic glance and picked it up.

‘Brian.’

‘Cress. It’s Esma. I’m so sorry to disturb you. Can you talk?’

‘Of course, Esma. Go ahead.’

‘Look, I just thought I would call you. It’s – the weird thing is – I can’t find her.’

‘Can’t find her? Joanne?’

‘I’ve called every number you gave me from directory assistance, and then a few more. Corrections, Silverwater, Lithgow, even Wellington. It’s still ringing out at Legal Aid. And when I got through at one of the prisons, they looked her up for me – and nothing. I even ended up with someone in Victoria and they looked on the central list, but there was no mention of her.’