Sharp Turn - Marianne Delacourt [59]
‘Too good to be at work,’ she agreed and looked enquiringly at me.
I flashed my Western Suburbs library card at her so she only glimpsed the large WS letters in the corner. ‘Look, I’m from Western State Recruiting over on Fothergill Street behind the prison. I wondered if you could run a reference check on a couple of applicants who said they worked for your company in Europe?’ I leaned onto the desk. ‘I’d normally ring, but it was such a nice day for a walk.’
She nodded understandingly. ‘Sure. Who are they? I’ll see if I can help you.’
I read their full names to her, which I’d gotten from the Motorcycling Western Australia registry, and waited while she searched her database.
She frowned a few times and then held up her finger. ‘Please excuse me a minute.’
I was left to enjoy the gallery of motorbike pictures on the walls while she disappeared into another room. When she returned, she was wearing a fixed smile.
‘My manager informs me that we can provide an exemplary reference check for Clem Jonas. With regard to David Bower, however, you’ll need to contact his previous employer through the Aprilia main website in Italy.’
Interesting!
‘Thank you so much,’ I said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
Employers usually only withheld references in that way when they were negative. I wondered what Riley’s wrench had been up to.
I raced back to my car and did a quick clothes change in the front seat. I was late to pick up Ed, so I called Smitty while I was driving and put her on speakerphone.
‘I’m on my way to fetch Ed to take him to a photo shoot.’
‘Bok told me about it. Swimwear. Lucky you!’
‘Smitty, I think he’s seeing someone else.’
‘Bok?’
‘No, silly. Ed.’
‘What? How do you know?’
‘It’s a long story. But can you come down to Swanbourne South for half an hour? I need moral support.’
‘Oh, darling,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if I can get away. No promises.’
When I reached Ed’s units, he was waiting outside, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking like an advertisement for everything that’s hip and gorgeous.
‘What happened to your face?’ he asked.
‘Brains,’ I lied. ‘A cat scared her and she scratched me.’
He gave me a quizzical look.
A nervousness of a new kind set in as I drove to the beach. Should I ask him straight out about the girl, or wait and see what he said? If he said anything. After ten minutes, I still hadn’t decided what to do. Ed was polite and friendly but I sensed some reserve.
‘Did Bok tell you who you’re shooting with?’ I asked as I pulled into a parking spot opposite the Vomit House.
He shook his head. ‘Just that it’s a sporting heroes theme.’
‘You’re paired with Jenny Munro.’ I tried not to spit out her name.
He frowned. ‘Isn’t she the one who you beat in the triathlon?’
Goddamn it! Even his frown was beautiful. It was that mixture of Spanish and whatever else he had in his bloodlines; a magical racial interplay.
‘Yeah. It goes back further than that, though. She also broke my nose in a basketball grand final in juniors years ago. She’s an Ironwoman these days.’
Ed slapped his brow in semi-mock despair. ‘Oh, shit!’
‘It’s okay. I’m cool,’ I assured him. ‘Totally.’
He gave me a more serious look. ‘Are you sure? Tara, this shoot is important. Maybe . . .’
‘I’m sure,’ I said stiffly. ‘I just wanted you to know before we get there.’
His expression lightened. ‘Thanks.’
Bok was already there when we arrived, as were the photographer and Jenny. Jenny’s face lit up when she saw Ed then promptly fell into a scowl at the sight of me. I ignored her and gave Bok a wave. Then I sat myself on a towel slightly south of them, close enough to see but not be in the way as they got organised. The swell was moderate and the breeze not too stiff for a spring afternoon. In the distance, a freighter headed off to Sri Lanka or Africa. Right now, though, it looked like a cigar floating out to sea.
The shoot proceeded swimmingly, the photographer oohing and aaahing and Jenny rubbing up against Ed. I managed to contain my jealousy by reminding myself that even though she was all muscle