Nella’s whole body seemed to lock up. Jett scanned the water for any sign of a shark or a missing limb. What was going on with her?
‘I’ll be working,’ she said.
‘You’ve forgotten Saturday’s the Sharks for Squids Fundraiser Ball that Clarkson organised?’
You’ve both forgotten your mutual friend is dead.
‘He was still going on with Sharks for Squids? I thought that was a one-off.’ Nella turned to Jett, who wished they’d just pretend he was a human-shaped piece of driftwood. ‘It’s a fundraiser ball for underprivileged kids. Clarkson organised the inaugural one first year out.’ She turned back to Oliver. ‘You’re still going ahead with it?’
‘It’s his.’ Oliver’s eyes shone. ‘I tried to cancel it,’ he said, swallowing hard, ‘but Yuze insisted – said Clarkson would kill me if we didn’t go through with it. It’s his legacy. Your invite should have got to you months ago, Nel.’
‘Must have missed it while I was in Perth.’
‘They send it digitally.’
‘Right. Well, I wasn’t planning on going. Like I said, I’ll be working.’ Jett noticed her tell-tale signs of wanting to leave – she tugged at her hair and kept picking at her clothes, even though Concetta would never have left an extra atom that wasn’t supposed to be there.
‘They’re holding it in our building.’
Nella’s leave signals evaporated. Jett stepped forward. A baby wave lapped at his ankles, but she stood him down with a quick flick of her wrist.
‘We’re donating scholarships to South Perth Senior High School in Clarkson’s name,’ Oliver continued.
That was quick. Almost like these people had known Clarkson was going to die. Like one of those daytime cooking shows: ‘Here’s a posthumous donation I prepared earlier!’
‘At your office?’ Nella repeated. ‘This Saturday?’
‘I’ve convinced you, haven’t I? C’mon Nellie, we’ve got the funeral a few days before, but you know how Clarkson felt about those. The fundraiser will be a way to remember him properly – who he really was, not in a homily read by some priest from a religion he didn’t even believe in.’
She was seriously considering it. Jett could read her micro movements even though he’d never had any formal training; he’d learnt Nella on the job. Some things still surprised him though. Like this. Guess you really couldn’t take the party out of a girl like Nella Barbarani.
‘It’s too late to RSVP ...’
‘Nonsense.’ He dragged out the word to make it sound less twentieth-century British aristocracy. ‘You’ll come with me.’ He dragged her into a half-hug. ‘Bring your taxi man too.’ He looked over his shoulder and gave Jett a generous wink. ‘He’s a good lookin’ fellow, he’ll fit right in.’
Ha ha. Ugly face joke. Always original.
‘Bring whoever you want, it’s my territory anyway. I’ll have the final say.’ He released Nella, who’d kept her arms straight by her sides the whole time, and shook the rest of his coffee into the ocean. ‘Sorry it happened like this, Nel, really. I’m sorry he died in your office.’
‘I’m just sorry he died.’ She turned without another look at the lawyer and sloshed out of the ocean.
13
Nella
‘To Clarkson.’ Five shot glasses clinked, and then the burn of tequila tore down Nella’s throat.
Saying his name in sombre cheers felt hollow and heartless after the funeral. Everyone from the office had stayed long enough to offer their condolences to Mr Lieu before awkwardly shuffling off into their cars and swapping their borrowed tissues for shot glasses at the Bindi Bindi Tavern. Because that’s what people like Nella did when something like this happened.
Jett, who’d been playing the role of bodyguard frustratingly well, had finally conceded Nella to Eliza’s care in his Vittoria-sanctioned three hours off. Bloody Eliza – since when did she stoop low enough to follow orders from Tom and Jett?
‘Where are you going?’ she’d asked him as he pulled into the tavern parking lot, this time parking the car with his usual precision.
He didn’t look at her, but he’d avoided looking at her most of the day. ‘I have a date later, so I’m going home to change. It’s technically my afternoon off – Tom’s aware.’
Translation: it’s not actually my job to babysit you. I have a life too, you know.
‘Don’t wear the white shirt with the blue trim. It makes you look like a sailor.’
