Walking on Trampolines by Frances Whiting

Author:Frances Whiting [Whiting, Frances]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Pan Macmillan Australia
Published: 2013-08-20T16:00:00+00:00

The week after the exhibition, on the way to work – after bragging about Maxine Mathers’s late-night visit to his hotel room: ‘Now, there is a woman whose reputation exceeded her . . .’ – Duncan announced he would not be renewing his contract when it came up in a month’s time.

‘Can’t do it anymore, Lulu,’ he said, ‘got to get ready for my final turn on the floor with Jimmy Dancer. I wanted to wait until you’d had your little high school reunion to tell you, but the tumour’s hanging on tighter than Kimmy to the pre-nup, and there’s a few more of the buggers now, apparently.’

We pulled into the station and made our way inside, Barney snaking in and out of our legs as we went. It was cold, Duncan was rubbing his hands together and blowing on them, pacing back and forth in our little room beside the studio, and all I could think was how I should get him a scarf. I should get him a scarf, so his neck would not get cold, surely that couldn’t be good for him?

‘I’m getting you a scarf,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘I’m getting you a scarf, it’s too cold in here for you.’

‘Lot colder where I’m going, Lulu.’

‘Duncan, don’t say that.’

‘It’s true, Lulu,’ he said, flicking the shutters of our office closed. ‘There,’ he said, ‘now when everyone arrives they’ll all think we’re in here shagging ourselves senseless, could do wonders for your reputation.’

‘Or yours,’ I smiled.

‘Mine doesn’t need any help, Lulu – now where was I? Oh, yes, it’s time for my action plan to kick in.’ He began to outline it, telling me how he had been meeting with his lawyer for weeks, working on a plan to distribute his not inconsiderable fortune equitably between his ex-wives and children. ‘The will’s sewn up tighter than a gnat’s arse over a rain barrel,’ he concluded cheerfully. ‘I don’t want any fighting after I’m gone. They’ve all been more than adequately compensated for the ignominy of being married to me – particularly Karen. God, I was a bastard to her . . .’

‘I don’t think you were that bad,’ I said.

‘I called her Katie at our wedding ceremony, Lulu, and don’t start being nice to me now just because I’m dying,’ he said. ‘It’s very patronising.’ He took a sip of his coffee, holding it in both hands. ‘Now we need to talk about what we’re going to tell everyone – so far, only you, I and the specialists know that I’m to shuffle off this mortal coil sooner rather than later, and that’s exactly how I mean to keep it. No-one must know, Lulu – not Kiki, not Kerry-Anne, not Katie—’

‘Karen,’ I said automatically.

‘What? Right, not Karen, not Kimmy, not the children and certainly not the Mephistophelean bastards I work for.’

I sat on his desk swinging my legs, wondering how he thought we were going to pull this off.

‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ he said, pacing the room and rubbing his hands.

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