‘You know that old saying, “You don’t need to be liked, you need to be respected”?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, feeling patronised. It was one of her father’s guiding principles. She could hear his commanding voice in her head:You can’t build an empire by being everyone’s friend.
‘Well, in my experience, that’s rubbish.’
She must have looked confused, because Warwick went on. ‘Issy—is it okay if I call you Issy?’
She nodded.
‘Blokes like this don’t give a damn what your last name is. If you pretend to be someone you’re not, they’ll see right through you. If you’re out of your depth, but you’re pretending you’re not, they won’t save you from drowning.’
Issy straightened, frowning. ‘I’m not out of my depth.’
‘I’m not saying you are.’ He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I’m just saying, be honest with them. They’re good blokes, but they can smell crap a mile away.’
‘Right, okay,’ she said, not sure what to make of this advice.‘Thank you, Warwick. That’s very helpful.’ She reached for her bag and took out her laptop, signalling the end of his little feedback session. ‘Warwick, my father is adamant that the launch must go ahead as planned. From what I saw yesterday, that will be a tall order, but not impossible. I suggest we redirect all efforts to finishing the entertainment space, and leave the residential development to open at a later stage. I’ve checked the contracts and there was some leeway built into the completion dates for the apartments.’
She waited for him to respond.
When he said nothing, she sighed. ‘Do you think that will work?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s doable, I guess. You sure it’s okay for us to launch without the apartments being ready?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, it’s fine.’ It would have to be. ‘You know, Spencer has enormous respect for you, Warwick. He said you’re a gun. That if anyone can get this project back on track, it’s you.’
He leaned forward, a slight smile playing on his face. ‘He said that?’
‘He did.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but he said he thinks you have a lot to offer Ashworth Property.’
He sat up a little straighter. ‘He did?’
She nodded. ‘If we can deliver this, I suspect there will be some great opportunities ahead for you.’ She opened the project plan document and turned the laptop so they could both see the screen. ‘As far as I can tell, this plan is basically a fairytale. Let’s get on the same page, then we can work out what we need to do to salvage the project and meet the launch deadline.’
Chapter 19
Adrian Gorecki was right. The cafeteria at the service station between Hartwell and Lindsay was deserted at eight thirty in the morning. Meg sat at a table with her back to the wall, sipping a flat white that was too weak and too milky. It barely tasted like coffee. Every time a beep announced the arrival of a new customer, she would look towards the automatic doors, hoping to see the bespectacled face of the council planner. Instead, it was a succession of tradesmen paying for petrol and takeaway sausage rolls.
She monitored the time on a clock behind the counter, wondering how long she should wait before accepting that Adrian wasn’t coming. She didn’t have a mobile number for him, so she couldn’t ring him. After twenty minutes, she sent him a message through LinkedIn.
Hi Adrian, I’m at the Roadhouse Cafe. Are you on your way?
Who knew if he would even get it.
A few minutes later, there was a ping from her phone, but it was an Instagram notification, not Adrian. Still, she felt a little flutter of adrenalin, remembering the message she’d sent to Dan James the day before.
The hopeful buzz subsided as she read his response.
I moved away from Hartwell after the protest. I got sick of having my tyres slashed. I have no interest in talking about it further. I’m at a place of peace in my life.
She tapped out a reply, an attempt to change his mind, but it felt futile. She added a second message:Would you be able to put me in touch with the other protester who was arrested?
The reply came quickly.He had a motorcycle accident which left him with a severe brain injury. He won’t be willing or able to talk to you.
The door beeped again and she looked up. Not Adrian. It was nine fifteen. He wasn’t coming. What a waste of time this was panning out to be. She was running out of leads.
Remembering Chrissy’s comments about the local councillors, she googled Lindsay council and studied their faces. Seven out of nine were grey-haired men in suits and ties. Pale, stale and male, Deb would say. The mayor had a moustache and a smirk that made him look more like a seventies porn star than a politician.
Still no Adrian. She rested her head in her hands, her elbows on the table. What now? She didn’t want to give up too easily, but she was starting to suspect there was no story here after all. She should probably go to the jail, see if she could get someone talking, but it felt pointless.
