Half Past Dead - Jane Clifton

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He leaned back into his office chair and stretched his long legs up onto the desk one on top of the other, while at the same time crossing his hands behind his silvery, close-cropped head.

      'He's originally from Brisbane. Started out as a chippie with Angstrom Inc. and ended up as head of sales and marketing for their entire South-East Asian operation. He knows the territory. Parted company with the furniture kings when things got a bit quiet in the eighties, after Nils had that prang that put Diane into the driver's seat at Angstrom. Greener pastures beckoned for Konitz, all of them Asian apparently.'

      Dexter Henderson was in his early forties with a tough physique that was holding up well against the forces of gravity. His rough-as-bags good looks still had a certain charm about them in spite of a hairline that refused to face the future bravely and insisted on retreating further and further each year. A strategy he countered by mowing down to stubble what was left, rather than indulging in the pathetic little ponytail style favoured by ageing executive baby boomers or the concentration-camp-chic, number-one, bald-guy shave adopted by pampered, war-free youngsters in the nineties. Mementoes of a long and successful sporting career were etched onto his face, the most noticeable being a three-centimetre diagonal scar traversing his left eyebrow and a hairline scar from his upper lip to just beneath a nose that been broken and mended at least once. His knees gave him hell, especially in winter.

      'Why is he back in Australia?' Ronnie had asked.

      'Thought it was time for a spell back home, according to Jenny.' Dexter always opted for the diminutive much to Genevieve Waters' palpable annoyance. 'Met him at some club. You know how Jenny operates. According to her, Konitz just wanted to check out the lay of the land, so to speak, didn't want to take on anything too permanent. We have lucked in, Fermoy. He's got the contacts, speaks the language, knows all the cultural crap and he's got an unbelievable bloody photographic memory to boot. You should hear him rattling off phone numbers, figures and the names of every CEO from here to Uzbekistan! The guy is worth his weight in scrip, Fermoy, and he's just fallen into our laps! It's going to make things so much easier.'

      'I thought Lucy was doing a pretty good job on all the overseas stuff. She got the foot in the door with 2-SWAN. You know she's doing a crash course in Cantonese off her own bat and... '

      'Sure,' he cut her off. 'Sure, Luce was doing good, I know. But with Konitz we can fast-track. Don't get me wrong, her effort's been duly noted. She'll provide a great backstop.'

      'How much are you paying him,' she asked brazenly, 'for all this - expertise?'

      'None of your bloody beeswax, Fermoy!' he said, snorting with laughter. Fermoy was her maiden name. Dexter was in denial about Mrs Ronnie Collins. 'Rest assured it's not coming off your salary.'

      There was a pause. 'Handsome bastard too, eh.'

      'Didn't think he was your type, love,' she smirked.

      'Not me, smartarse! Don't you find him cute?'

      'I'm married, remember,' she replied dryly.

      'Doesn't stop you looking, mate. Jesus! Lou-Ann nearly fell off her chair when he walked in last week!' he cackled. 'Most unseemly. All the chicks in the joint had their eyes hanging out on stalks, married and single. Are you trying to tell me you're somehow immune?'

      'Don't give it much thought, to tell you the truth,' she countered, irked at having to defend herself.

      'What? You mean if someone like Brad Pitt or Arnold Schwarzenegger or Hugh Grant maybe, walked in here you wouldn't even look up from your desk?

      'Not my type, any of them,' she laughed.

      'You see!' he crowed. 'You do have a type. You do look!' His blue eyes blazed with triumph.

      'Dexter, is there some point to all this?'

      'Nah, I'm just having a go at you,' he said, quite calm, as if his baiting hadn't happened.

      'I mean, I genuinely haven't given the guy a second look. But, hey, if it makes you happy I'll do so at the first opportunity,' she said with a mock salute, 'and report back with a score out of ten. Okay?'

      'Don't worry about it,' he said gruffly. 'I was only joking. Just forget it, eh.'

      She got up to walk out of his office but he stopped her at the door.

      'You're still an attractive woman you know, Fermoy. That bloody husband of yours wants to be a bit careful.' He said this without looking up and without a trace of humour. It sounded almost like a threat.

      'Thanks, boss. I'll bear it in mind.'

      What was all that about? And why did Ronnie find it so unsettling? Dexter was a creature of whim, and so far that had worked in her favour. As employer and employee they were good friends who enjoyed making fast and loose with sarcasm and the piss-take. He'd taken her on fourteen years ago and gave her free rein. He encouraged her, praised her and, on occasions, was constructively critical of her prodigious talent which, he knew, had helped to put Arthouse on the map. He was singularly unimpressed when she had announced her impending marriage.

      'What the fuck do you wanna go and ruin your life like that for?' he had bellowed. 'Look at you! You're young, talented, you've got so much more to do with your life other than being some dickhead's housekeeper. Especially that dickhead!'

      Dexter was a 'self-made' man with little formal education. He had never made a secret of his low opinion of Boyd, in spite of only having met him half a dozen times. 'Smartarses' like lawyers made him feel inferior and he hated that.

      'Dexter,' she had countered, 'just because I'm getting married doesn't mean I'll forget how to use a paintbrush. Nothing's going to change. I'll still be lovable old Ronnie Fermoy.'

      'Well, don't expect to see me dancing at your wedding. Take it from one who knows, marriage is a crock of shit.'

      This was a sentiment Ronnie had always subscribed to in her youth. Her parents never expected her to marry. Faith, for one, cautioned her against it, warning that marriage led to a life of drudgery and disappointment: 'I knew after two weeks that I'd made a terrible mistake' was her summation of thirty years' bliss with Ronnie's father. While Godwin loved to say, with a hint of mischief, 'Never marry for money, sweetie, just marry where money is.' It had taken her most of her adult life to figure out what he meant.

      Ronnie planned to have a career and a series of lovers and gave no thought to marriage or letting the patter of little feet drown out the roar of the jet plane that would whisk her away overseas to soak up life and shopping.

      Boyd and Ronnie had lived together for three years before she capitulated and agreed to marry him. Boyd had strong features: eyes as big and blue as Antarctic ice, a long, straight nose hovering above a small, sensuous mouth, a square jaw and pointed chin that delivered a profile sharp enough to cut your steak with. It was rakish charm as opposed to drop-dead handsome that attracted Ronnie to Boyd.

      By the time she had started seeing him on a regular basis she was a confident, ambitious young woman who knew what she wanted, in and out of bed. Sex with Boyd was the best she had experienced, so far. Spectacular, in fact. But was that because Boyd had opened new doors of sexuality for her or simply because she knew what she wanted?

      Then Boyd had arrived at her flat one day, with a boot full of clothes, books, a couple of old sporting trophies and an electric frypan. 'Whaddya reckon?' he beamed, 'might as well give it a shot, eh? I promise to go quietly when you get sick of me and not to make a mess.' And then he'd taken her in his arms and given her one of those stop-the-world-I-have-to-lie-down kisses.

      'I'll give you six months,' she said, 'eight with good behaviour.'

      'Gor' bless you, ma'am, you won't regret it,' he said, tugging his forelock.

      'Is that all there is?' she asked, as she surveyed his goods and chattels.

      'Is that all there is?' he sang back. 'If that's all there is, my friend, then let's keep dancing. Let's break out the booze, and have a ball. If that's all, there is.'

      She laughed helplessly as he waltzed her all the way up the stairwell,

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