Luck of the Draw - Chapter 1

Luck of the Draw

A LEXI BECKETT ADVENTURE

Chapter 1

The scream of the alarm clock triggered baser instincts. It crashed against the far wall and broke into assorted cogs and springs before my sleep-fogged brain registered what it was trying to tell me. Groaning and swearing I lurched from my bed and into my runners. A promise is a promise.

I was out the door and over the sand dunes before my fickle willpower could turn on me.

It was early spring and not quite light. The tide was out.

After 50 meters my lungs were burning.

After 75 my ankle gave way.

By 100 it was down to compromising my promise or exploding my blood vessels.

I chose compromise and slumped onto a convenient bench. Perhaps the four-minute mile was a little optimistic. A 100 meter limp was probably more my style.

Closing my eyes I savoured the cool breeze and allowed my heart to return to its more typical bah-boom-bah-boing. As you’ve probably guessed, all this hyper-activity was my ex-husband’s fault. I mean, why else would you get up with the chickens and hurl yourself down a night-damp beach?  If Josh hadn’t been such an unmitigated bastard I would probably still be asleep and dreaming of playing in a rock band.

A flush of anger vied for position with a different species of hot flush.

I would never forgive him for laughing when I told him about the invitation to join, not a rock band but the local lawn bowls team. There was no way I was old enough for lawn bowls! The rut in which I found myself was in danger of becoming a grave and all he could do was laugh.

That was until his roast dinner came sliding down his pristine white shirt. Now THAT was amusing. Three years before it would have ended with both of us covered in gravy and giggling on the floor. Not this time. It was the beginning of the end. Within a week I had packed and gone home to mama. Within a fortnight he had replaced me with a housekeeper and drawn up the documents for our divorce. It was then that I realized he had been looking for an excuse to end it for some time.

My friends had warned me that no one worked till midnight every day of the week and the surprise present of a convertible Jaguar was a dead give away. It hadn’t even been my birthday. How blind can you be?

A rich whisper of early jasmine brought me back in time to catch the first rays of sun kissing water. A small flame of joy ignited. I was done with self-pity, anger or being overwhelmed by wasted years. Lexi Beckett was finally ready to start her new life.

Levering myself from the bench I headed towards the pier. My senses were more alive than they had been in years. One tiny alarm clock was a small price to pay for this sudden feeling of achievement.

An early morning bike rider threw a rainbow of mist from his rear wheel – another portentous sign.

I revelled in the possibility of more good luck.

In truth I had already used up my quota when I managed to snag my current living quarters. Much as I loved my mother, a long-term living arrangement was enough to send me searching for razor blades. My substantial divorce settlement gave me the courage to consider buying property. I had more than enough for a deposit on a modest home and the shares I had inherited from my great aunt Luciana would be my backstop if it took me longer than expected to find suitable employment. The more I thought about it the more excited I became. No more relying on the vagaries of an absent partner. No more compromise on what I wanted out of life.

I hit the streets of Melbourne with hope in my heart and cheque book in bag. My single criterion was a view of Port Phillip Bay.

After weeks of combing the coast from Altona to Frankston my bright new future was looking decidedly like an unreachable fantasy. Real estate agents tell so many FIBS! After checking out hundreds of places with a ‘bay view’, discounting the ones located in swamps, on six lane freeways or those requiring binoculars to catch a streak of blue, I was left with five. All of them were way beyond my budget.

That’s when I cashed in Aunt Lucy’s shares.

Mother was horrified. We had never seen eye to eye on how I was to live my life. When she had been the footloose radical risk taker she had bemoaned my reactionary, conservative approach to life. Now that she was happily ensconced in a three storey Fitzroy terrace she was appalled that I even contemplate ‘throwing away’ my last bit of security. The shares, she insisted, were my investment against a penniless old age. Old age? What did she think was staring me in the face right at the minute? It was when she consulted her Tarot cards and foretold the crumbling of my world if I went down this road that I realised I was making the right decision. How could anyone in their right mind rely on the Tarot to show them the way?

I went to the five auctions and walked away with nothing. Even my huge wad of cash wasn’t enough to get me over the finishing line.

Then I found No. 3 Whitlam Court, Brighton.

Brighton wasn’t really my natural environment but this apartment was PERFECT.

It had two bedrooms, a study, and a stunning open-plan kitchen/dining/lounge and boasted floor to ceiling plate glass overlooking the bay.

The main room featured an enormous bookcase on one wall and a huge fish tank permanently fixed into a partial wall screening kitchen/eating from lounging. Fish were not really my thing but the tank had been neglected – if the lack of water and green-tinged pebbles in the bottom were any indication – and seemed perfect for a terrarium. I’d always wanted to grow carnivorous plants.

The bookcase, too, was in rather poor condition. Some fool had painted it with what looked suspiciously like the coarse sand you glue down around your swimming pool to stop people from slipping. Renovated it would be stunning. It must have been made to order and was vaguely Asian in design, including a base of small square drawers and a scattering of doors positioned randomly throughout the structure. The doors opened onto quaint little, half-sized drawers in which you could keep your smaller treasures. From the balcony there was a retractable ladder leading directly onto the sand one storey below. I wouldn’t even need to use the public access path to get to the beach.

Sure, the place looked a little worn but that made me all the more enamoured.

I was a little worn myself.

On auction day I had put my fate in the hands of the Gods, applied a generous amount of bright red lipstick and got to the auction with plenty of time to kick myself for my outrageous optimism. Half of Melbourne was after the same property.

Totally engrossed in figuring out what lies to tell my friends to save me from being a laughing stock for the next twelve months I nearly missed the horror rippling through the crowd when someone yelled out “Isn’t this the place where that girl was butchered last year?”

It was like something out of a movie. The auctioneer blushed and stuttered and an ugly muttering began in the crowd. Obviously this fact hadn’t been listed in the key selling points. By the time the auctioneer had regained his senses the crowd had halved.

“Ladies and gentlemen, no need to leave,” he spluttered. “The vendors must sell today and, quite honestly, there is not a trace of blood in the carpet.”

His attempt at humour cost him a few more potential buyers.

Visibly disturbed, he started the bidding.

It was way above my upper limit.

No one raised their hand.

“Wasn’t she killed over the money she’d hidden?” yelled the voice. “And who’s to say the killers won’t be back again?”

There was a deadly silence and then the sound of many car engines starting up.

“I’ll buy it,” I yelled, throwing my hand straight into the air and naming a sum just under the upper limit of my accumulated wealth. It was less than half the starting bid. The agent glared and the onlookers snickered.

“I mean it,” I added. There was no way I was going to be put off by a stale piece of crime-scene tape.

Doing what all respectable agents must do under such circumstances, he contacted the vendor. After a heated discussion on his mobile phone he turned and said, “Going once.”

I nearly choked on my own saliva. This was impossible.

“Going twice.”

I glanced at the handful of people remaining. One old man had a grin spread from ear to ear.

“Sold to the lady with copious amounts of red lipstick!”

Half an hour and an exorbitant deposit later I was the proud owner of the best bay-view apartment in Melbourne. My life had definitely taken a turn for the better.

During my many trips back and forth over the next weeks I met my neighbours from apartments one and five. They filled me in on the murder.

According to Sarah Vincent-Jones from No. 5, Janice Trent, the unfortunate victim, had met her ghastly end in the middle of my lounge room. Not only was the poor woman young and beautiful but only months earlier she had won $15 million on Tattslotto. Apparently the furore was more that the winnings had disappeared without a trace rather than that a young girl's life had ended.

I was immediately attracted to Sarah. She was an intelligent, quietly spoken woman somewhere in her sixties who obviously cared about the tragedies that engulfed some families.

Amanda Spigot-Adams from No. 1, however, was a different kettle of fish.

“Janice died without a will,” she confided to me one morning in front of the garbage bin.

“I mean how many twenty-three year olds actually have a will?” Amanda was one of those people that, once she had your attention, wouldn’t leave room for the slightest interruption.

“Everyone knows that it was the brothers that did it. They’re penniless no-hopers who live with their mother in a derelict house next to the Altona rubbish dump. Both of them were taken in for questioning. One of the brothers was arrested and charged. It should have been both of them. Then he was let out on bail. Can you believe that? A murderer being let out on bail? I was so lucky that I was out of town for the weekend. I mean, heaven knows what would have happened to me if I had popped in for a quick chat or a cup of sugar."

Yeah, you might have stopped a murder, I’d thought sourly.

"My theory is that her whole family was in on it. I mean... Janice was adamant that she wasn't sharing her money with them. I figure they got rid of her before she spent too much of it. I mean... they were the next of kin, and without a will..." She had raised her eyebrows knowingly and added, "Of course, the boys would have actually done the deed, seeing as how the mother is in a wheelchair and all. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t mastermind it. Janice always spoke poorly of her mother and brothers.”

“Not that I condone violence on any level, Amanda,” I interrupted, quite peeved by her attitude to the obviously struggling relatives, “but surely Janice wouldn’t have missed a few hundred thousand out of the first million?”

That was the beginning of the end between me and Amanda.

The sound of early morning traffic brought me back to the present. I was rested enough to make it back to my glorious residence and get on with my brand new life.

Resisting the temptation to reward myself with triple chocolate pecan ice cream for breakfast, I showered, fluffed my wayward curls and headed to the nearest coffee shop to browse the paper and treat myself to a skinny latte. The last three months in my new home had used up the last of my resources and I needed a job. Fast.

Three frustrating hours and an embarrassing number of Danish pastries later I realised that I didn’t really want a job in sales, hadn’t the skills for an overseas Ambassador’s placement and couldn’t see myself working as a waitress again. I had gone through all the available papers and come up with a big, fat nothing.

Beating myself over the head for my silver lining approach I dragged my Danish-bloated body back to my apartment.

There was a bit of blue paper sticking out of my letterbox. Writ in large bold letters was the following:

Consultant Wanted. Aspiring young director looking for mature and experienced businesswoman to assist in the development of an upcoming film. Excellent money to be earned by the right person.

My spirits leapt. This was it. This was what I’d been waiting for. This job had Lexi Beckett written all over it. On top of that, I was mature and I was an experienced businesswoman. Surely I could assist in the development of a film. I mean, how hard could it be?

I had a half second of misgiving. Was it possible that this was a call to action for possible porn movie wannabes? Nah. Not in this neighbourhood. Bounding up the stairs and to the phone I punched in the number and held my breath.

A young male voice answered. He sounded like I had just woken him out of a deep sleep.

“Hi.” I chirped in my brightest, do-business kinda voice, “Just received your notice and thought I’d give you a call.”

Dead silence.

“You know,” I said encouragingly. “The notice about needing an experienced business woman to consult with?”

More silence.

“Helloooooo – you still there”

I tried hard to keep mounting anxiety from my voice.

“Uh. Oh. Yeah. Sorry. You caught me on the back foot. Just hang on a sec.” Sounds of footsteps, water tinkling, toilet flushing. More footsteps, then “That’s better. Now, where were we?”

What was this? I could feel an angry hot flush coming on.

“The notice,” I snapped. “In the letterbox. Do you want a consultant or were you just supplying local residents with a bit of garden mulch?”

He chuckled – a high, boyish sort of chuckle. More of a giggle really. It raised the hair on my neck.

“Well yeah, of course we want a consultant.” He paused as if thinking. “Do you qualify?”

“Do you think I’d be ringing if I didn’t?”

“OK then, no need to get snappy.” He’d gone from chuckle to churlish.

Ooops.

There you go again Lexi. Just when things are taking a turn for the better you blow it.

“Look, I’m really sorry but I’ve had a hell of a morning.” Liar, liar... “Can we start afresh?”

“Fine,” he responded, though his voice was cold. “Perhaps you could give me a run down of who you are and what you’ve done, and not waste any more of my time?”

I was so relieved at my second chance that I swallowed my pride and rattled on for ten minutes without giving him a chance to break in. Needless to say I could have spent more time on my business credentials and less on the view from my new apartment but, hey, he'd got me on the back foot.

There was a long pause when I finished.

“Be here at three for an interview.”

WHAT? Had I really clawed back from the edge of rejection and scored an interview?

“It was meant to be,” I crowed, already counting the cash and looking forward to how I was going to spend it.

The interview was at three o’clock. Four hours to choose my lippy and consult on interview technique with my best friend, Tash.

I hit the speed dial.

Natasha has been my co-conspirator in love, hate, co-habitation, children (other people’s), finance, employment, betrayal and choice of lipstick for the last twenty-five years. We’d been through a lot together.

Lately we compared notes on wrinkle cream, cellulite, celibacy and ‘The Change’.

My record played, “Bloody relationships, more trouble than they’re worth… I don’t want to get old by myself… that cellulite inhibitor doesn’t work… I’ve got to get a job…”

Hers played, “Did you know that so-and-so is suing so-and-so (she was an in-house solicitor for a debt collection agency)… you’ll never guess who I slept with last night… do you really think you’ve made the right decision breaking up with Josh… you’re right, the cellulite inhibitor doesn’t work.”

Her philosophy was much like mine - you only have one life so you should make it a good one. We just had different ideas on what ‘good’ meant.

Her ‘good’ life consists of a beautiful house close to the city, two married lovers, a job that she does well and a garden that flourishes under her care. Married men made the best lovers, she told anyone who’d listen, because the sex was hot and the risks were minimal. Everything else in her life involved excellent planning and stability.

My idea of a good life was in many ways the opposite, other than a beautiful place to live, that is. I wasn’t good at affairs. Every single person that I had slept with ended up being a long-term commitment. My secret goal was to find the perfect man and spend the rest of my life having adventures with him. I wanted a secure base but I wanted to sail on a pirate ship whenever the whim was upon me.

Tash is one of the few friends who haven’t yet given me up as a hopeless case.

She answered the phone on the third ring.

After my breathless explanation of what had happened she said, “You’re going where to be interviewed for what???”

I could imagine her exasperated expression and slow shaking of the head.

“To be perfectly honest Lexi it sounds like some sleazy young smart arse looking to jerk off some dumb older woman.”

“Well,” I harrumphed, a little annoyed at her outlining my worst fear. “I don’t think it’s that far fetched. People do research for movies you know, and if it is some sleaze then what is he doing advertising door to door in an affluent suburb like this?”

I could almost feel her groan.

“Well just make sure you don’t wear that plunging neckline number.”

Sometimes she underestimated me.