Free Grand Slam by Kathryn Ledson Page A

toilets, the kitchen, Rosalind’s office, the rest of the media and investor relations team, including Marcus’s desk where he carried on and I laughed and Charlotte laughed, it was nine thirty. Only another eight hours till home time, during which Charlotte Johnson would presumably learn something.

    I invited Charlotte to lunch, and made sure I had my corporate credit card with me. I’d booked a table at a café on the river, just down from the Dega building in Southbank. I ordered a glass of mineral water; Charlotte asked for Perrier. Gawd. Fussypants. We scanned the menu. I asked the waiter for his recommendation.
    â€˜The seafood risotto’s really good.’
    â€˜Sounds good to me.’
    â€˜And me,’ Charlotte said. ‘But I want mine without mussels.’
    â€˜So, tell me about yourself. Your family? Where did you grow up?’
    â€˜East Malvern.’
    â€˜Really? Me too. Well, Chadstone.’
    â€˜I loved living near the shopping centre.’
    â€˜It was the best.’ Chadstone Shopping Centre – Chaddy – is the shopping mecca of the southern hemisphere, and I grew up walking distance from it. ‘I’m living back there at the moment. My house is being renovated.’
    She nodded. ‘Lucky.’
    I didn’t mention the issues around living with my mother. Charlotte waited for me to make a move on conversation, so I prattled on about myself, telling her boring things about my family, including the issues around living with my mother. I told her how I got the job at Dega and all about my cat. I even complained to her about Sharon Stone and she sat there, sipping her Perrier, listening politely.
    Our meals came, I talked and ate, Charlotte listened and ate, and we’d just finished when I got a phone call from Rosalind, who was supposed to be at the board meeting.
    â€˜Hi, Rosalind?’
    â€˜You need to get back here
now
.’ She hung up.
    It wasn’t unusual for Rosalind to speak to me like I’m not worth the effort, and not even unusual for her to be abrupt, but it was unusual for her to leave the board meeting and want to see me.
Need
to see me. Something was very wrong.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    We walked into the building; the atmosphere had changed. Something gripped my stomach – a sense of thrill and panic at the same time. I planted Charlotte at my desk and shoved the company policy and procedures manual in her hands, telling her I’d be back.
    I stuck my head in Rosalind’s office. ‘What’s wrong?’
    Her hands were flying over her desk. ‘What’s
wrong
? Do you live under a rock? A rig’s blown up. One of
ours
! God, I don’t need this. I don’t need this!’
    â€˜An oil rig? Where? How? Was anyone hurt?’
    â€˜We need a media release. We need a miracle!’
    â€˜I’ll call Laura.’ Laura worked for the PR company we used when things were big. Bigger than we could handle. They were experts in crisis control.
    Marcus rushed in with Rosalind’s coffee and a sandwich. He gave me raised eyebrows and a pursed mouth. The board meeting had presumably been cancelled.
    â€˜Don’t you go calling Laura,’ Rosalind said, phone to her ear. ‘John doesn’t want them involved . . . Grant!’ Her voice turned to honey. ‘You’re first on my list, of course . . .’
    I went back out to find Charlotte sitting with the manual closed on her lap, watching me. I left her and went looking for Marcus, who was at his desk.
    â€˜Give me a quick run-down.’
    He turned from his computer, eyes shining, in love with the drama.
    â€˜Well, there was only skeleton staff, six people. We don’t know yet if anyone was hurt but the explosion coincided with the cyclone, so that’s what we’re going with, honey. Better than admitting we might have done something wrong.’
    â€˜We’re saying the cyclone somehow caused