‘Be right with you,’ Dev says as he sails past, holding a couple of bowls of mussels.
I don’t often do wills face to face. I’ve never done one in a cafe while the client serves the lunch rush. But there’s something about the unorthodox arrangement that I like. He has two staff holding down the fort – one in the kitchen and one serving – but when it gets busy he chips in to help.
Dev’s will is one of the most straightforward I’ve done for a while. It almost makes me wonder why he’s bothering. Of course, my official position is that everyone needs a will. Official because that’s how I make money, but also because that’s how I live my own life.
I made my first will when I was twenty. I did it myself, online – bequeathing my clothes, my car and my five thousand dollars in savings to Kat. I’d also outlined my wishes for my funeral. Back then I’d wanted ‘Stayin’ Alive’ by the Bee Gees played at my funeral – I thought it would be ironic and make everyone smile. I’d amended that and most other things in my will since.
‘Assets?’ I say, when Dev slides into the booth opposite me. I hold my fingers over the keyboard of my laptop.
Dev is single, never married, no dependents. He owns The Pantry （with a hefty mortgage）， his car, an apartment in Melbourne which is currently rented out. He has a modest amount of savings. I doubt we’ll need the full hour, even with all the interruptions. I’ve already decided I won’t charge him. Besides the free food this is bound to get me, I’ve learned that Dev is the mouthpiece for this entire area. If he sings my praises, it will spread like wildfire. And if everyone he talks to brings me straightforward wills like this, it will be money for jam.
‘In the event of your death, what are your wishes for The Pantry?’ I ask. ‘For example, you could have the business sold and the proceeds released to the estate, you could close it down, you could nominate someone to run it and the profits could be held in trust by the estate.’
‘It can be sold,’ he says. ‘Everything can be sold.’ A middle-aged woman in activewear enters and he waves at her. ‘Marg! We have raspberry and white chocolate muffins still warm from the oven.’
Marg groans. ‘I’ve just been for a six-kilometre walk!’ She orders the muffin.
‘And who will be your beneficiaries?’ I ask, when I have Dev’s attention again.
‘My brother, Sunny.’
I make a note of it, then look up. A pair of young women at the next table are watching us. Dev must have noticed too because he looks over at them. ‘Another coffee, Steph? Takeaway cup?’
Steph laughs in a way that makes me think she might fancy Dev. I consider him with fresh eyes. He’s not bad-looking. Medium height and build. Russet-coloured skin and a killer watt smile. His most attractive feature, perhaps, is the way he pays attention to people and loves to give them what they want.
Dev calls out Steph’s order to Gisele at the counter and then looks at me.
‘And you, Pippa? Another coffee?’
‘I’m fine. I’ve had too much caffeine already today. I’m a bit jittery.’
‘A chamomile tea for Pippa,’ he calls to Gisele. ‘For the jitters.’
‘Would you like to be buried or cremated?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘I don’t care.’
‘Funeral arrangements?’
Another shrug. ‘Whatever is easiest and cheapest.’
There’s something about his simplicity that I find humbling. I think about my own wishes. To be cremated, mingled with Gabe’s ashes and sprinkled over the lawn at the Botanic Gardens where we met and married. It felt so romantic when we decided. Now it feels silly.
‘What about a letter of wishes?’ I ask finally.
He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head to indicate he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
‘It’s for things that don’t fit neatly into a will. For example, someone might include something such as I’d like my children to maintain an interest in the family business, or My wife can keep living in the house until her death and then it reverts to the estate, or I’d like “Stayin’ Alive” played at my funeral.’
He laughs, and once again I find myself admiring his face.
‘Put that in my letter,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘“Stayin’ Alive”。 I like it. Ironic.’
‘I know, right?’
My chamomile tea arrives as he laughs again.
He’s done the unthinkable, I realise. I am relaxed. For several minutes I haven’t thought about Gabe, about Amanda or Max Cameron. I haven’t worried about the police, or the future. He really is good at this.
I sit back in my booth and lift the tea to my lips. I’ve just taken a sip when Max Cameron walks in.
46
AMANDA
AFTER
It’s satisfying to watch the moment Pippa notices Max enter the cafe. It’s as if she’s seen a ghost. She seems the type who’d be good at concealing her emotions – heaven knows, with a husband like hers you’d have to be – but at the sight of Max, her face drains of all colour.
Max hasn’t seen her yet. He’s come in to order a coffee. There’s a Nespresso machine at our Portsea house – not that Max would even try to use it. He’d already come to The Pantry last night to collect some dinner. Classic Max; once he is on to a good thing, he sticks to it.
What’s your plan, Max? I ask him silently.
He’s dressed in his version of casual – a pair of chinos, a white shirt, a navy V-neck jumper – but instead of wearing boat shoes he’s wearing his sneakers. He must be planning to do some walking. He’s been to the Gerards’ street last night and then again this morning, but he failed to persuade the neighbours to reveal Gabe’s address. Perhaps he’s headed to the trail behind the Gerards’ house, the one that leads to The Drop? That’s how I located them too. Any local person can tell you where The Drop is. Once you’re there, only two, maybe three houses have a direct view of it. I’d planned to try each of them, but I hadn’t had to. Gabe came to me! I suspect that he wouldn’t do that for Max, however.
‘Just a large flat white to go,’ Max says to the young man who greets him at the counter. ‘Also, I’m wondering if you could help me.’
The helpful man at the counter gives Max all the info he needs about The Drop, including a travel brochure with a map on which he draws a circle. Max is most grateful and when he pays for the coffee he adds a generous tip. He has no idea that Pippa Gerard is sitting just metres away from him. While he waits for his coffee, she gathers up her laptop and slips out the side door.
47
AMANDA
BEFORE
The funny thing was, in a way the Arthur Spriggs situation brought Max and I closer. We had survived an ordeal together. Faced a battle and won. We each knew the other cared and could be trusted. And it was then, after fifteen years of marriage, that our story began in earnest. More than just money. More than fidelity. More than just a transaction. It terrified me as much as it exhilarated me.
After that, Max came home for dinner on time. On the weekends, we went out, just the two of us – to movies and dinners and art galleries. We went on holidays – a resort in Bora Bora, a hike through Tasmania. For Max’s fiftieth birthday, we took the trip of a lifetime to Africa. We went on safari in Tanzania in an open-top bus, we ‘glamped’ in luxurious tents under the stars. We sat by the pool in Zanzibar. We picked out a tanzanite stone from a jeweller, and Max had it made into a necklace for me. I took photographs that would later win awards.