The Genesis Flaw

by L.A. Larkin

Genres: International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

Human experiments in Zimbabwe, an Australian farmer's death, and a Sydney CEO's suicide: these events are linked in the mind of one woman, Serena Swift. A ballsy advertising director with a guilty conscience, she decides to take on one of the world's most powerful producers of genetically modified food, Gene-Asis. Serena disguises herself to infiltrate Gene-Asis in an attempt to expose the company's horrific genetic experiments. But suddenly Swift's informants disappear, and she is hunted by a hired killer and framed for murder. Chased from Sydney to New York, she must face the man she fears most, on his own turf. If she fails, nothing can stop a global catastrophe. And nobody can help her - except a dead man.

Release date: September 8, 2016

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

He kicked the leather chair away and instantly the rope snapped tight. He hadn’t thought of the pain to come, when he’d threaded the rope through the light fitting and tested it could bear his 110 kilos. His throat crushed, he couldn’t call out even if he’d wanted to. His lungs burned and the veins in his face felt close to bursting. His brown eyes bulged as if in surprise. But he knew he had to die. It was his only option.

In the last throes of death, as his heart beat so loudly it was all he could hear, his legs thrashed madly and his body, naturally, tried to save itself. But the chair, where he had sat and made all those terrible decisions, was too far away. He registered a warm wetness in his pants and a moment’s shame swept over him. He couldn’t even die with dignity.

In that second, he saw his personal assistant finding him the following morning, the pungent smell of stale urine and God knows what else forcing her to turn away repulsed. He saw Jane and Thomas in his mind’s eye, and silently told them he loved them.

Mouth agape, eyes bloodshot, the last image he saw was the night sky, clear and filled with stars, through his office window. His foot gave one final twitch and then went limp.

The office was silent except for the almost inaudible hum of the air conditioning and the creak of the rope straining as his body swung. The thick glass windows kept out any city noise. The moonlight shone on his bald head, highlighting the dark regrowth that he shaved so carefully every morning – even that morning. His wife, Jane, and three-month-old son, Thomas, watched him, smiling, from the digital photo frame. Seconds ticked by and the digital image changed to one of Tony and Jane on their wedding day two years ago, taken outside the sandstone church. He’d been slimmer then and looked very handsome in his dark suit. In the photograph, he was looking at his wife adoringly.

Next to the silver photo frame lay a white envelope, addressed in blue ink, ‘To my beautiful wife and son’. Its whiteness contrasted with the golden honey colour of the Huon Pine desk. Tony stared vacantly, no longer able to hear the whooshing sound of the door opening. A man’s large-boned hand hovered over the sealed envelope, and in the moonlight his shadow made him appear twice as big as he was. He picked up the envelope and, without opening it, placed it in his jacket pocket.

The body had stopped swinging, and the intruder stepped towards it. He stood for a long moment in front of the dead man. One corner of his mouth turned up: a hint of a smile. He raised his second finger to his temple and saluted the man he’d been sent to kill. Then, turning, he quickly walked towards the glass door. It slid open and he stepped through it, careful to avoid the security spy-eye camera in the executive suite of offices. As the door closed, the words ‘Tony Mancini, CEO and Senior Vice President’ glinted, etched in the frosted glass.

Tony had made his last executive decision.

Turning off the ignition, she knew she was too late. In the dwindling light, the whitewashed weatherboard farmhouse resembled a sepia photograph. Through a haze of dust, she watched as her brother, Keith, pushed himself up from the soft cushions of the three-seater swing chair. For a fit farmer in his thirties his movements were unsteady and deliberate, like an old man’s. He left the long evening shadows of the verandah and stood on the top step, one hand clinging to the railing. He didn’t wave.

With the air conditioning off, the heat of the summer’s day rose from the scorched earth, permeating the car’s interior. Serena kept both hands on the sticky steering wheel. If only she’d left Sydney earlier. If only she’d said no to the interview. Her bloodshot eyes squinted as the last of the sun’s tendrils released their grip on Swift Farm, her family home. The people on the verandah disappeared into darkness. The century-old pear trees, heavy with ripening fruit, resembled blackened, gnarled fingers scratching at the corrugated-iron roof. For as long as she could remember, colourful parrots had heralded the end of each day with their raucous squawking. But even their cries were muted. Her brother waited patiently.

Serena opened the car door and stepped out. The shallow trench-lines of the driveway – formed by generations of car tyres – felt familiar. Her long hair, normally clipped up, fell loosely around her face. In another place, on another occasion, her figure would have drawn admiring glances. A neighbour had once said the then-teenage Serena should become a model. That had been before her striking curves developed. She had replied that she didn’t want to do something as boring as ponce up and down a catwalk. She wanted to use her brains.

Someone hit the exterior light switch and, for a moment, she was blinded by the brightness. The light revealed Serena’s head of thick, strawberry blonde hair, and her white T-shirt, khaki shorts and long runner’s legs. She stepped through the patchy grass of the front yard to the verandah. She could now see Keith’s heavily pregnant wife sitting on the cushion next to the one her husband had vacated. Serena’s unusual eyes, hazel with a star of amber around her irises, searched her brother’s face for a sign.

‘Am I too late?’

She hoped he would say, ‘No, come quickly. He’s asking for you.’ But Keith shook his head and the pity in his eyes destroyed the last vestige of Serena’s composure. Part of her didn’t believe him, didn’t believe it possible her dad was dead. ‘I must see him. Where is he?’

Keith walked down the steps and took her arm. He led her into the house. Everything looked exactly as it always had and reinforced her hope that Keith was wrong. If her father were dead somehow the house would have changed with his passing. But a newspaper was open and the dining chair sat away from the table at an angle. Someone had been reading about a footy star disgracing himself. Why would any of that matter if her dad were no longer there?

Keith looked at her but Serena just stared at the polished floorboards, at the black stain left many years ago by a science experiment she had accidentally spilt. She moved slowly even though her head was pounding and her mind was screaming out the question ‘Is he?’. Her feet were heavy, as if she had lost the feeling in them.

She couldn’t see the bed at first. She took another step. The bedroom door opened inwards, blocking her view. She caught sight of the wrought-iron bedpost and saw the sheet raised in a small pyramid where her father’s feet rested. Serena looked further up the sheet, hardly daring to look at his face. She counted off a few seconds to see if his chest rose and fell, but it did not. Her heart seemed to spasm. No chest movement meant no breath, she told herself and then shoved the thought away. She forced herself to look at his face and took in a sharp breath. Serena felt as though she had sucked in boiling water. Her lungs burned.

His eyes were closed. His face was waxy grey. But his expression was peaceful. It showed none of the pain he must have suffered at the end. His lips were slightly parted. She had to be sure, so she leaned over her dad and listened for his breath. She brushed her ear against his lips and they felt warm and soft. Shocked, she straightened.

‘You’re wrong. He’s alive.’

Keith just looked at her, unable to speak.

She was sure her dad’s body would have been cold by now if he were dead. He had to be sleeping. Serena touched her father’s cheek. It felt as it always did. She moved her hand over his fine grey hair and stroked the thinning strands.

‘It’s all right, Dad, I’m here now. It’ll be all right.’

She held her breath to stop her tears flowing but it didn’t work.

‘Dad, talk to me,’ she said.

Keith placed a hand on her shoulder.

‘Serena, he’s gone.’

She shook her head.

‘He can’t have. He can’t go.’

Silently, Keith turned and left her. She barely noticed.

‘Hey, Dad,’ Serena said, and sat on the edge of the mattress next to his pillow. ‘Sorry I’m late. I wanted to say how much I …’

She couldn’t finish. Tears blinded her. She lay down on her mother’s side of the bed, and placed one arm gently over his chest and one above his head. It reminded her of when she was a kid and would dive into her parents’ bed in the mornings. Except, then her dad had cuddled her. Now she cuddled him.

Time passed but Serena was unaware of it. Her body kept his warm. She imagined he was still alive.

‘Serena,’ she heard.

Her brother was at her side. She didn’t move.

‘Serena, Dad needs some time to himself. You can see him again a bit later.’

She sat up. Her face was red and wet. Her nose ran like a toddler’s. She swung her legs around so they touched the floor and stood shakily. Her brother caught her arm and led her away from the bed. She looked back at her dad and saw that next to him was an indent left by the weight of her body.

‘Did he suffer?’ she asked.

The momentary pause told her everything she didn’t want to know.

She shook herself free from Keith’s grip and touched the cold metal of the bedpost. It dawned on Serena that his death should never have happened and she awoke from her stupor. She faced her father.

‘Dad, I’m so sorry. I let you down again. But I’ll make them pay. I promise.’

The lobby of the Rooney Agency and Big Noise PR did double-duty as a café and art gallery. Sculptures on plinths were like obstacles in a pinball machine, as people wove in and out trying to avoid knocking them over. One bronze piece looked like a giant artichoke. Another was made of balls of light, which changed colour as busy office workers walked by, the colours supposedly reflecting their moods. It turned coffee-bean brown as Serena passed. She smiled and thought it must mean ‘needs caffeine’.

As she strode to the lobby café in her designer dress, she hoped that nobody could guess her state of mind on this, the first day of her new job. Perhaps if they’d looked closely, beneath the row of red beads covering her chest, they might have noticed an agitated flush. Or if they’d known her well, they would have noticed her shoulders were slouched instead of her normally upright posture. Despite applying her make-up carefully that morning, she’d been unable to hide the blue-grey semicircles under her eyes. She remembered Tracey telling her always to apply her ‘war paint’, that it would mask the tell-tale signs of even the worst hangover. But she doubted its magic today. Perhaps they’d been right: she wasn’t ready. The truth was, she felt sick to the stomach.

She had time for a coffee, so she joined a short queue, and contemplated having some raisin toast to calm her nervous stomach. She was unaware of the glances she was getting from male passers-by. A woman in front of her ordered a flat white and stepped aside.

‘First day?’ the café owner asked Serena.

‘Yes, is it that obvious?’

‘No, I just never seen you around before.’

‘A long black, please,’ Serena said.

‘I make it extra special for you,’ he replied with a wink and grinned, revealing a wide gap in his front teeth. She paid for her coffee and stepped aside to wait for it. She found a copy of the Australian Financial Review and flicked through the paper.

‘Long black for the beautiful lady!’ called the barista. Serena smiled, walked away and then realised she’d forgotten to ask for sugar, so went back to the counter to pick up some sachets. She tore open three and poured in their contents. Like her dad, she had a sweet tooth. She smiled as she remembered his fifty-ninth birthday party: only four weeks ago. His pale face, wracked with pain, had lit up at the sight of the chocolate mud cake she’d baked. Two weeks later, her dad was dead.

‘You bastard!’ a man shouted behind her.

The voice was high-pitched and shrill. Despite the noise in the lobby, it reverberated off the marble floors and glass walls. Everyone, including Serena, turned towards the source of the sound. A small crowd of people waiting for their coffees partially blocked her view. A dishevelled man in his sixties with glasses and an ungroomed beard raised his skinny arms in the air and propelled himself at a man in a dark suit. The target of the attack had his back to her. As the older man grabbed the younger man’s lapels, the victim tried to pull away.

‘You killed her!’ the man yelled with such vehemence the businessman recoiled and dropped his briefcase. He shoved the screaming man away from him. The aggressor bent like a bow and staggered back a few steps, his scrawny frame unbalanced by the force of the well-built younger man’s thrust.

‘Can I get some help here?’ the businessman called out. He was American, his accent Texan. Serena still couldn’t see his face.

‘Listen, I don’t know you. Please leave me alone,’ he said, slowly and calmly, his arms held out for protection.

‘Liar!’ the older man yelled, charging again. ‘How can you forget me? I’m Fergus McPherson, remember?’

The businessman grabbed McPherson’s swinging arms and held them tightly.

‘Yes, of course, Professor, I recognise you now.’ His tone softened immediately. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ The younger man shoved McPherson away with a force that belied his sympathetic tone.

‘Like hell you are!’ McPherson screamed as a security guard threw him to the floor.

Simultaneously, a bull-necked man in a chauffeur’s uniform ran to the businessman, picked up his briefcase and steered him rapidly towards the elevators. Pinned to the floor by the beefy guard, McPherson whimpered.

‘Al, stop this,’ he called after the businessman, stretching out his only free arm. His voice sounded like the last hiss from a deflated football.

The businessman didn’t look back.

McPherson tried again. ‘Please, for the love of God, stop. New Dawn will only make things worse. Al, it’s not too late.’

Al disappeared through closing elevator doors.

The assailant lay on the floor sobbing, oblivious to the bystanders staring at him as if he were a two-headed creature in a research laboratory. The guard yanked him to his feet and shoved him through a door behind the reception desk.

Serena was rooted to the spot. The force of the old man’s anger had shocked her. She glanced at the door he’d been dragged through and wondered what would happen to him. He’d sounded crazy with grief and she could understand that. But she had to pack away those feelings somewhere they could be ignored. She couldn’t allow them to dent the confident, competent image she needed to present today. Serena took a few sips of her coffee as she rolled the torn sugar sachets between her fingers. She wondered who the American was and how he’d provoked such fury. She hadn’t managed to get a good look at him, but from the cut of his suit and his chauffeur-come-bodyguard, she guessed he was someone important. Rooneys was the building’s major tenant. Could he be a client? An uncomfortable thought crossed her mind. No, it couldn’t be.

Serena pushed her half-drunk coffee across the counter. She didn’t feel like it anymore. Despite her determination to stay focused on her new job, the word ‘killed’ reverberated in her head. He had said ‘killed’, hadn’t he?

She knocked at her new boss’s half-open door and, without waiting for an answer, took a deep breath and strode in. Martin Delaney beckoned her to sit down. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the nineteenth floor offered panoramic views across Sydney. The silvery waters of the Harbour rippled between North Sydney and the CBD, and from this height the green and gold ferries looked like toy boats in a bath. Delaney, tanned and in his forties, lounged back in his steel-grey leather chair as he unashamedly looked Serena up and down.

‘Consider it done,’ he said, charm dripping off him like fat off roast pork. He tapped his earpiece and ended the phone call.

‘Welcome, Serena. It’s good to have you on board.’

‘Thank you, Martin, it’s good to be here,’ she replied, giving him her friendliest smile.

He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, revealing sterling silver golf club cufflinks.

‘You’re good. Very good. We both know that. But no matter how good you are, you wouldn’t be worth a cracker without Lenny White.’

Lenny was her old queen of a boss who ran the London agency. Four years ago, she’d started in one of his pitch teams and rapidly advanced to pitch director, or ‘pitch doctor’. It was Lenny who had given Serena her big break: the chance to head the pitch for the Sony worldwide account. She’d won it, and many others since, helping to make London the most profitable Rooneys office in the world, and Lenny extremely wealthy along the way. But when he’d heard that Serena blamed the firm’s biggest client for her father’s illness, he had confronted her. ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ he’d said. ‘You’re my shining star. I need you. Now promise me it’s over; otherwise, my dear,’ he’d said, ostentatiously clicking his fingers, ‘your career will be nothing more than a memory.’ Serena had raced back to Australia when she’d heard her father’s condition had worsened. Lenny had reluctantly pulled the necessary strings for her.

Martin’s nasal drone intruded on her thoughts. ‘He saved your career. If you even consider doing anything like it again, not even God himself will be able to save your arse. You will be out this door so quickly, your feet won’t touch the ground. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘So, remember what’s in your contract,’ said Martin. ‘Stay away from Gene-Asis. Don’t go near them, don’t speak to them, don’t even fucking think about them. Do that and we’ll get on just beautifully,’ he continued, smiling broadly.

She tried to return his smile. And I was here wasting my time with you when I could have been with Dad when he died, she thought. Two weeks ago, she’d been sitting in this very chair, selling herself into the Sydney pitch director’s role. Lenny had called in a favour and arranged the interview.

Martin stood up, ran his hands through his curly hair and came round to her side of the desk.

‘Good. Now we all know where we stand.’ He threw a USB flash drive in her lap. ‘Everything you need is on that. The pitch is in eight weeks. It’s a billion-dollar account. The previous pitch doctor, Matt Stevens, was a dick. Got himself arrested. I mean, who does coke in public? Anyway, he’s out of the picture now and, six months in, we need you to take over. You have to win it.’

‘Martin, it all depends on how good Matt was. We don’t have time to go back to the drawing board. I normally have six to nine months to prepare.’

‘Tough. You’ve got eight weeks, so deal with it. I expect you to earn that salary package you negotiated.’

She ignored the comment. ‘What’s the team like?’

‘Pretty good. But you have whoever you want. If you need any of your London team out here, just say the word. That Sony win was something else.’ He fidgeted with a cufflink. ‘So, can you handle it?’

‘Of course,’ she replied. She’d win the Mitsubishi Asia-Pacific account, whatever it took.

He paused, staring over her shoulder at the door, distracted for a moment.

‘I think you’ll find we work pretty much the same as London. Clients come first. Always.’

‘Knock, knock.’

Serena recognised the woman’s voice instantly – Gloria Philladitis. She swallowed hard and turned to face the door.

‘Sorry to interrupt, Martin, but I wanted to greet our new arrival and let you know Al Bukowski from Gene-Asis is in the boardroom.’

Gloria mouthed the company name in an exaggeratedly slow way, like a porn star reciting the name of the first book of the Bible: ‘Genesis’. Both Martin and Gloria looked at Serena, searching for a reaction. Serena’s grip on the tiny flash drive tightened and her pupils dilated, but neither of them picked up on her agitation.

‘Gloria. What a lovely surprise!’ she said, unconvincingly. ‘I didn’t know you were coming to Sydney.’

‘Why would you?’ Gloria sneered.

‘I thought you’d returned to New York.’

‘I will for the launch, but that’s none of your business.’

Gloria’s New Yorker abrasiveness had got under Serena’s skin when they’d met in London. But Serena kept her cool.

‘Before you say anything, let me assure you I have no interest whatsoever in Gene-Asis,’ said Serena. ‘I have my own account to focus on.’

‘Well, just keep it that way,’ Gloria replied.

One side of Martin’s mouth briefly curled into a smirk, in amusement at the women’s rivalry. His brow then knitted into a frown.

‘Did he say why he’s here? Jesus, why fly all the way from New York? They must be pissed off.’

Gloria nodded in Serena’s direction but Martin missed the hint. ‘Perhaps we should discuss this later.’

‘What? Oh, of course,’ he replied, finally getting the message. ‘I don’t like it,’ he went on, chewing his fingernail.

Gloria began to walk away and then stopped at the door.

‘Serena, I never got to say … you know … how sorry I am about your dad.’

Gloria’s sneer was gone. Serena even thought she saw a flicker of compassion.

‘Thank you.’

Gloria’s overpowering Chanel No. 5 lingered behind her after she left. ‘Serena, we’ll talk later.’ Martin nodded towards the door. ‘Jodi’s your PA. She’ll show you around.’

Martin hustled Serena out and turned towards reception. Serena stopped in the corridor to watch him. A purple wall, which turned out to be a door, rolled back at the flick of a switch to reveal an enormous boardroom. Martin stepped inside. Gloria was talking to a man in a black suit, the same businessman who’d been in the lobby earlier. There was nothing about his behaviour to suggest he’d been violently attacked: his smile was broad and warm, and his movements relaxed. Gloria was hopping from one stiletto to the other, flicking back her dark hair and grinning toothily. Serena had never seen her behave like a smitten schoolgirl before.

Serena could only see Bukowski’s profile but now she recognised him from all the research she’d done. The man who’d haunted her dreams was standing a few metres away. Her stomach churned as the purple soundproofed door shut tightly.

It had been four years since Serena had seen the Flynn brothers and all day she’d been looking forward to their company. The Flynns had been Serena’s next-door neighbours and the brothers were her constant companions when she was growing up. John leaned against the doorframe with his head nonchalantly tilted to one side. His mischievous smile hadn’t changed, but Serena noticed a touch more grey hair around his temples and that he wore it longer, curling just above the neckline of his crumpled T-shirt. Droplets of water from his hair temporarily darkened the blue cotton. He squeezed her into a tight hug and placed his chin on her head, which not many men could do: Serena was 173 centimetres tall. She closed her eyes for a second, enjoying the familiarity.

‘I can’t tell you how good it is to see you, Johno,’ she said, breathing in his scent. His skin smelled of sun and shower gel.

‘You’ve been to the beach,’ she said, still leaning into his shoulder.

He pulled away and gazed at her. ‘Yes,’ he replied. An awkward silence ensued.

The evening sun streamed into the hallway behind John. Ahead, Serena could see into the lounge room: stylish faux suede sofas, what looked like a Noguchi coffee table, a number of healthy-looking indoor plants and a fish tank. This was not the bachelor pad she’d been expecting.

‘Great to have you back at last.’ John paused. ‘Seri, I’m sorry I didn’t make the funeral. I feel really bad. I was overseas at a wanky conference. I couldn’t get out of it.’

She hadn’t been called Seri for a while.

‘Don’t worry. I … it’s fine.’ She didn’t want to talk about it. Every time she did, tears welled up. ‘So, how are you?’

Before he could answer, she heard a voice from inside. ‘Seri!’ shouted Barry, who’d appeared from the kitchen with a tea towel thrown over his shoulder. His arms were open wide and he wore a huge grin. ‘Give us a hug.’

Serena and Barry swayed from side to side in an embrace that was more like a wrestling match. They both laughed. Younger and shorter than John, Barry – or Baz as they called him – had dark, closely cropped hair. He released her.

‘Perfect timing, dinner’s ready. Tonight, for your dining pleasure, my speciality: seafood linguine.’

Serena grimaced. ‘Is it safe?’

‘It’s okay, he won’t poison you, I promise,’ John said.

‘But, just in case, have some wine. That way you won’t feel a thing,’ said Baz. He led them into the kitchen, where the smell of chilli, ginger and lemongrass greeted her. ‘I started cooking a little early, so do you mind if I dish up?’

‘God, no, I’m starving,’ she replied.

Once they were seated, John raised his glass. ‘To Seri; it’s great to have you back,’ he said.

‘Now, I want to hear all about London. And I mean all,’ said Baz, winking.

Serena laughed. ‘If you’re expecting a load of goss, I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint,’ she said, before launching into a potted version of the past four years: her work; the pitches she’d won; her skiing trips to Austria and Switzerland; her best mate, Tracey.

‘So, you still haven’t got yourself a fella?’ asked Baz.

John flicked him a furtive glance, which he duly ignored.

‘No, no boyfriend. Hasn’t been for a while. But that’s okay. Work takes up most of my time.’

John looked down at the table for a moment. He shifted uncomfortably on the wooden stool.

‘You always were a workaholic,’ said Baz. ‘I remember you studying like crazy for your HSC, and your birthday was the weekend before the first exam and you wouldn’t leave your books to celebrate. We organised a party at our place, remember? And had to lure you over there by pretending we wanted to study.’

She smiled. ‘Yes, I do. And after all that, John got top marks without even trying.’

‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ said John. ‘I hacked the exam papers. I knew the questions.’

‘What! You never told me that. Why didn’t you tell me what the questions were?’ said Serena, playfully smacking John on the arm.

‘Because you’d have got all righteous on me.’

Serena blanched. ‘Was I that bad?’

‘Nah,’ said Baz, ‘because you had us getting you into trouble. So, anyway, back to London. You must have met someone over there?’

Serena looked down and twirled the wine glass stem between her fingers. ‘Not really, it was all work. When a pitch was on, we’d work night and day for weeks. And when that pitch was over, we’d be onto the next one.’ She looked up at Baz, deliberately avoiding John’s gaze. ‘But enough of me,’ she continued, ‘what about you two?’

‘Ah, you know me,’ Baz winked. ‘Love ’em and leave ’em. Nothing’s changed. Still doing recruitment. But this one.’ He nodded at his brother. ‘Full of surprises.’

‘Ooh, do tell,’ Serena said.

‘He’s gone full-on corporate,’ Baz said.

‘What?’

‘And get this,’ he continued. ‘Chief information security officer. For a bank.’

‘No way!’ Serena laughed raucously.

‘Are you finished yet?’ John said.

‘What I can’t believe is, he’s now paid a fortune to stop people doing exactly what he used to,’ Baz went on. ‘He even employs hackers.’

‘Officially, we don’t do that,’ John said, smiling at last.

‘Of all the places I thought you’d end up – and prison was one of them – I never ever would’ve picked a bank!’

‘Thank you very much,’ said John, in mock indignation.

Baz reached for another bottle of wine. ‘Let’s make things a little more cosy.’ He tossed Serena some matches. ‘Be a love and light the candles, will you?’

The image on the matchbox caught Serena’s eye: a 1950s bombshell posing seductively in a pink corset.

‘Great matchbox,’ she said.

‘Have them. I picked them up in a bar.’

‘Thanks, I love fifties stuff.’ She popped the matchbox in her bag. ‘I picked up a whole load of it at Portobello markets; you know, the big antique market. I’ve got one of those square black Bakelite phones with a rotary dial, and the most gorgeous French-polished wooden valve radio. I’m having it all shipped back.’

‘Sounds awesome. Is it coming to Sydney or the farm?’ Baz said.

‘Here. I’m looking for a place to rent. I’m in a serviced apartment for now, courtesy of Rooneys.’

‘What about here? We’ve got a spare room,’ said John.

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah, ’course,’ he replied.

Baz looked serious for a moment.

‘Um, Seri, you need to know something, before you decide.’

‘That you have smelly feet? I know,’ she replied, laughing.

‘Uh, no. I’m a recruiter in biotech now – you know – life sciences and pharmaceuticals. That includes Gene-Asis.’

‘Oh.’

She put down her fork and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin.

‘I thought you should know.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I decided not to do anything.’

‘You what?’ John clearly hadn’t meant to let his surprise show. ‘I mean, why?’

She could feel her face reddening. Voices of revellers on a nearby balcony floated through the window. It sounded