Free The Undertow by Peter Corris Page B

to bed for the afternoon—sex, sleep, more sex and more sleep. Come evening and we went to the Taste of India in Glebe Point Road for dinner. A pleasant stroll, well rugged up against the cool night air, wine from the Ancient Briton across the road, Glebe at its best.
    The waiters know us and know we don’t like fuss and dislike having our wine poured for us. We were both hungry and ate steadily for a while before talking about our work. I filled Lily in on what I’d done and how things looked.
    â€˜Early days,’ she said.
    â€˜Yeah, but the longer it takes the more it costs Frank.’
    â€˜He can afford it, can’t he?’
    â€˜I suppose so, but he had to conceal it from Hilde, which he hates doing, and I feel the same. Anyway, that’s me. How’s the MFP?’
    She snapped a pappadum in half. ‘Don’t ask.’
    â€˜That bad?’
    â€˜Worse. I’ll be battling to get any juice into it.’
    â€˜You will.’
    We ate and drank a bit more and I was thinking about asking for our second bottle—we were walking home, after all—when Lily said, ‘I’ve been considering what you’ve told me, Cliff. I know you, you’re a bit stymied, right?’
    I told her about the treadmill session, making a joke of it.
    â€˜Masochist,’ she said, putting her fork down. ‘But it sounds as though this Lubeck could be a plastic surgeon, right?’
    â€˜Could be, but probably a fly-by-nighter.’
    â€˜Exactly. I did a piece on dodgy plastic surgeons a year or so ago. Before I met you.’
    â€˜I wonder that you could have any memory of such a desolate time in your life.’
    â€˜Piss off. This bloke was full bottle on that scene. He’s a real sleaze. I could hardly bear to talk to him and the thought of him touching me made my skin crawl. But if your bloke’s working in that area anywhere in Australia, Norman Belfrage will know about him.’
    â€˜ Doctor Belfrage?’
    Lil picked up her fork. ‘Was once,’ she said. ‘Don’t open the other bottle, Cliff. I have to work tomorrow.’

10
    L il spent Sunday on the computer and the phone. I went for a long morning walk through Glebe and Annandale and rewarded myself with a beer at the Toxteth. I flicked through the papers without reading anything of interest and did a couple of crosswords, trying to tell myself this was valuable down time, restorative. I wasn’t convinced; I wanted to be up and running.
    Around 7 pm I took a glass of wine up to Lil and told her I was putting together one of my culinary specialities— a mixed grill.
    â€˜Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll be down in a few minutes. Don’t burn the bangers.’
    Over the meal she told me she’d contacted the man she called Nasty Norman and that he’d agreed to meet me.
    â€˜For a consideration, I assume?’
    â€˜Right. I got him down to five hundred dollars for an hour, plus a bottle of brandy.’
    â€˜Thanks, Lil. When?’
    â€˜Tomorrow, eleven o’clock, at the Newport Workers Club. He’s a ratty little number with a bad comb-over. He’s got emphysema but he’ll be smoking. Sometimes it takes him five minutes to get enough breath for a sentence.’
    â€˜Sounds lovely. Good way to start the week.’
    â€˜At least you’ll be out and about. I’ll still be trying to pump some life into this turkey of a story.’
    I poured us both some more wine and used the bit of sausage I’d kept aside to mop up the Rosella. ‘Do you have a copy of the piece you wrote on dicey plastic surgery?’
    â€˜It’s on the thumb drive. I’ll print you a copy. The subs butchered it, of course. Won’t tell you much.’
    â€˜Anything’ll be a lot compared to what I know now.’
    Lil went back to work. Before starting she printed out her article. I stacked the dishes—very few from a minimalist cook