Chapter 3
Meg woke as the first luminous blue tones of daybreak crept around the edges of the curtains and slipped out of bed.
She’d always worked best in the morning, but this was especially true since she’d rented out the tiny third bedroom of her apartment to a gamer who spent his days playing Call of Duty in the lounge room.
On a good day, he’d sleep till eleven. She made a strong coffee—two pods— and sat down at her laptop still wearing her pyjamas.
She opened a new document and sighed. Why had she pitched a story about twin sisters who were dating the same man? Stories like this made her question why she’d become a journalist in the first place, although she was hardly in a position to be picky. Especially after yesterday.
A groan came from the direction of the lounge, then a shuffling sound. Meg froze, looking at the back of the sofa. Was someone sleeping there? There was some throat clearing, then a man sat up, his back to her, and coughed into his fist.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she said, staring at the back of his head.
He had tattoos on his neck and dirty blond hair which sat up at a weird angle.
He spun around. ‘Sorry. Didn’t see you there,’ he said. ‘I’m Salty.’
‘Your name’s Salty?’
He gave her a disinterested shrug. ‘I’m always in a crap mood.’
Meg raised her eyebrows. ‘Why are you sleeping on my sofa, Salty?’
‘I work at the restaurant with Jay.’
Jay was the gamer. It didn’t really answer the question, but she could piece it together. Bloody hell. It was only Wednesday. She was getting too old for this.
‘Well, Salty, now I’m in a crap mood too, cos I’m trying to work and you’re here, interrupting me. You need to go.’
He coughed again.
‘Sounds like you need to see a doctor, too,’ she added.
‘Nah.’ He rubbed his face. ‘It’s just from smoking cones.’
Meg shook her head and looked back to the screen as Salty pulled on his trainers.
She reread her first sentence and typed on. The threesome has been inseparable since—
‘See ya,’ Salty said to her. As he disappeared into the hall, Gav entered, her long-term flatmate who was permanently dressed in lycra cycling gear that made him look like he was training for the Tour de France, rather than commuting to the CBD.
‘You’re at it early,’ he said.
Meg nodded and resumed typing. —since their first date eighteen months ago—
‘What are you writing?’ he asked, pouring milk onto his cereal.
Meg looked up again, trying to conceal her irritation.
She’d chosen Gav three years ago because he had a full-time job in IT that required him to work from the office—she figured he could afford the rent and would hardly be there—but somehow they’d become friends and he was always up for a chat.
‘Ah, it’s a story exploring unconventional relationships in the age of dating apps. ’
‘Yeah, interesting.’ He swallowed a mouthful. ‘You still on the apps?’
She shook her head. ‘I lasted a week. I only went on one date, with a guy who asked me back to his place. Turned out he still lived with his parents. He made me hide behind his bedroom door for half an hour when his mum came home unexpectedly.’ She shook her head, trying to shake off the awkward memory, and looked back to the screen, hoping Gav would get the message.
‘Jeez, when was that?’
Meg sighed. ‘I don’t know, maybe a month ago.’
‘I’ve got a mate who—’
‘Gav, sorry, I’m on a deadline.’
He shrugged. ‘Yeah, no worries, that’s cool.’ He dumped his cereal bowl in the sink and clip-clopped down the hallway in his cycling shoes.
‘Oh, Gav?’ she called after him. ‘Rent’s due today.’
‘Yep!’ he said. The front door slammed.
The lease was in her name, which meant she spent her life chasing rent payments.
Gav was pretty reliable, but Jay was hopeless.
She opened online banking to see if he’d transferred his rent yet.
No. She checked the list of recent transactions, looking for Jay’s name.
It was over a month since he’d paid her.
She opened the to-do list on her phone and added, Chase Jay’s outstanding rent.
A wave of tiredness washed over her. She yawned. She’d tossed and turned last night, Jenny’s confused comments playing on her mind. More coffee, that’s what she needed.
She dropped a pod into the machine and opened the fridge, but her space in the door was empty. Where was her milk? She’d just put it back, right there. Did Gav …?
She looked in the bin. There it was. Her empty milk carton. Bloody hell. He hadn’t even put it in the recycling! She moved it into the plastics section, then picked up the mug from the coffee machine.
She sat back down and took a sip, recoiling at the bitter taste. How did anyone drink it like this? It was like battery acid. She thought of her mum, who’d always had her coffee black. It was yet another thing about her that Meg found baffling.
She looked back at the screen, reread what she’d written, then stared, letting the words blur.
What was it that Jenny had said? ‘Have you travelled down from Hart—’ Something.
Hartley? Hartford? Who did her mother think she was speaking to?
Who did she think had travelled from some place she’d never mentioned?
Meg opened a new window and typed NSW town Hart, reading the drop-down list of suggested endings. There it was. Hartwell. It rang a bell. She had a vague idea of it as a weekend destination for newlyweds. Beyond that, she was blank.
The top result took her to a tourist site. Nestled in the lush rolling hills of the Southern Highlands just 90 minutes from Sydney, the exclusive enclave of Hartwell is one of the oldest settlements in New South Wales. There was a photo of a sandstone church covered in ivy.
She clicked back and scanned the other search results.
Real estate listings of mansions on acreage.
An article on property magnate Malcolm Ashworth, silver-haired and unsmiling in the accompanying photo.
A local news article about the redevelopment of a historic jail built during colonial times, which was set to become boutique apartments and an entertainment precinct.
She skimmed the article about the redevelopment of the jail, then she flicked over to Facebook.
She checked that she was logged in to her second account—the one with an alias and a stock photo— although even her real profile was vague and impersonal; she’d inherited her mother’s distrust of social media.
For Meg, social media was a research tool, a way to find stories and connect with potential sources. Nothing more. Nothing less.
She searched Hartwell. A few different groups appeared in the list below the search bar.
Save Hartwell caught her eye. She read the pinned post at the top of the page, which questioned the local government’s integrity around development applications, then skimmed the comments.
From what she could piece together, police had arrested a couple of protesters a few months before.
She felt the flutter that always came when she sensed a story and sent a request to join the group.
She inhaled sharply as she noticed the time. It was almost eleven. How was that possible? She’d got almost nothing done. What was wrong with her? She’d never missed a deadline when she was full time. Never. She prided herself on that.
Was it working from home? It was virtually impossible to concentrate in this flat, with constant interruptions.
Random strangers sleeping on the couch. Talkative flatmates who finished your milk.
Soon Jay would be up and she’d be subjected to the traumatising sound of a massacre.
No one could work productively in conditions like this!
And even when she did have peace and quiet, it was so dull, so lacking in the buzz of the newsroom, that she couldn’t get any momentum.
She flicked back to her article and reread what she’d written.
It was the journalistic equivalent of a McDonald’s cheeseburger: cheap, tasteless and deeply unsatisfying.
She slumped forward, resting her head on her hands.
It was freelancing. That was the problem.
It was soul destroying. How much longer could she sit in these four walls, writing churn-and-burn clickbait for News Day Online?
Her phone lit up with a text notification: Deborah Jenkins.
Deb was chief of staff at The Times and Meg’s greatest ally.
After the cutbacks, she’d called in a favour and asked Pete to keep Meg busy with freelancing work.
Begrudgingly, he’d complied. Meg’s thoughts spiralled back through the last month.
Yesterday wasn’t the first time she’d missed a deadline. Pete must have told Deb.
Meg winced as she opened the message.
We need to talk. Lunch at Denny’s?