The Reluctant Doorkeeper Trilogy

8. Day 21

Dressed in her best outfit, teamed with the new sandals and her red handbag, Emma boarded the shuttle bus connecting the peninsula to New Dandenong. The up-market suburb comprised low-rise apartment blocks plus a smattering of detached houses, all surrounded by manicured gardens, and was favoured by medical specialists, lawyers and business executives. One of her neighbours used the shuttle bus each weekday to travel to a housekeeping job, so Emma made certain their journeys did not coincide, her destination being an exclusive shopping precinct not far from the suburb’s business centre.

herPamper Point, along with similar enterprises located in exclusive neighbourhoods, catered for those with sufficient income to indulge in “intimate retail therapy” rather than impersonal online purchasing, or queuing in harsh sunlight at open-air markets. Shielded from public view behind thick, windowless concrete walls, Pamper Point shoppers could wander well-lit, air-conditioned aisles, perusing displays of expensive goods presided over by smiling retail therapists wearing tasteful uniforms. Luxurious changing rooms, equipped with upholstered chairs and floor-to-ceiling mirrors, were provided for patrons to try on designer clothing, while an experienced retail adviser, trained to sweet-talk even the most hesitant buyer, hovered nearby.

Emma had paid her first visit to Pamper Point only months before, providing companionship for an elderly second cousin whose daughter was unable to attend at the last minute. Once she had recovered from the shock of witnessing wealthy citizens satisfy their retail cravings, the day had been a pleasant diversion. That such opulence existed in a country economically damaged by more than half a century of dwindling exports and declining tourism, had seemed obscene when most of the population were struggling to balance their budgets.

The driverless bus braked hard on leaving the freeway, jolting Emma back to her imminent assignment. She planned to exit the bus before the central terminus, to avoid meeting anyone from her neighbourhood who happened to be visiting the adjacent undercover market offering produce and clothing at reasonable prices. Apart from a wish to evade probing questions, conversation would be an unwelcome distraction. Her mission required complete concentration; she must present as plausible in every aspect.

* * *

At the entrance to Pamper Point, a uniformed doorman wished Emma a pleasant IRT experience, before advising that the day’s food focus was seafood sourced from pristine Antarctic waters. Emma responded with a gracious smile and a slight tilt of the head, then swept into a foyer festooned with tropical plants cascading from golden urns atop marble pillars. Beneath her feet, gleaming tiles laid in intricate patterns; above her head, a star-studded canopy designed to impress. Despite thick-soled, sensible sandals, she managed to walk gracefully, her full skirt swinging with each step. Draped over one wrist, her red handbag – premium-quality leather, top brand name embossed in gold – diverted attention from a floral blouse that had seen too many washes. The handbag, rarely used, had been purchased for her by Cousin Delta at the conclusion of their lengthy Pamper Point day.

Opposite her destination, Emma perched on a plush velvet chair to await a customer’s departure. She had no wish to share the space, or risk conversation with a well-to-do shopper who might see through her tenuous façade. Above tinted windows draped with embossed curtains, a sign read Walter Anderson, purveyor of rare goods, the curlicue letters carved into a single piece of highly polished timber. An understated window display – a single elegant club chair with matching cushion – reinforced the need for discretion.

Walter Anderson, purveyor of rare goods,How many of Walter Anderson’s products had been obtained illegally, smuggled into the country by a small vessel entering Port Philip at night to drop anchor in a secluded cove, or, if antique, stolen from a museum or private collection? Amused by her wild imaginings, Emma lifted a hand to her mouth to prevent a laugh from escaping.

After smoothing her skirt and adjusting her handbag straps, she crossed the wide corridor to enter the purveyor’s domain. A handsome, silver-haired man of about sixty stood behind a marble-topped counter, his slim fingers rearranging a tray of what appeared to be antique bracelets. Emma opted for a smile rather than a greeting.

‘Good morning, madam, may I be of service?’

‘I wish to purchase a ream of quality paper,’ she answered, adding needlessly, ‘an important social gathering requiring printed invitations.’

‘Matte or gloss, madam?’

‘Gloss, please and boxed if possible.’

‘Anything is possible, madam. One moment.’ He glided over to a wall cabinet and pressed a manicured fingernail to a tiny screen.

Sliding doors opened wide, allowing her to peek inside. Ream upon ream of paper could be seen, arranged on polished timber shelves – the cabinet obviously deeper than it appeared from the outside – either boxed or plastic-wrapped, labels proclaiming quality and colour. Emma couldn’t believe her eyes. The sale and use of paper had been restricted for decades due to repeated loss of bush and plantations in summer fires. In her twenty-eight years with the Education Department, she had never once been permitted to send a document to print.

‘One ream of print-quality gloss, boxed,’ he said, addressing the cabinet. A pale blue box slid into his outstretched hands; he carried it to the counter with reverence.

‘Will madam require envelopes?’

‘No thank you, I have sufficient stock.’

Cabinet doors closed behind him. ‘Voucher or account, madam?’

‘Voucher.’ Placing the red handbag on the counter, Emma held up her right wrist, concentrating hard to keep her arm from shaking. She had already selected Latest Voucher.

‘What a gorgeous bag,’ he gushed, scanning idly. ‘Purchased here at Pamper Point if I’m not mistaken.’

‘A gift from my darling partner,’ she lied, thankful the bag had proved its worth.

Fingers hovered over soft leather. ‘How wonderful. I must drop a hint to my darling partner. I’m sure he’d agree a red bag would be perfect teamed with my new grey pants.’

my‘Absolutely.’ Emma withdrew handbag and arm.

‘A carrier bag, madam? I can assure you they’re made from recycled paper.’

Unlike your stationary stock, she thought, inclining her head.

Unlike your stationary stock,* * *

On her way to the bus terminus, Emma startled a passer-by when she made no attempt to suppress peals of laughter. Half elation at a mission accomplished, half nervous relief, they resounded through the narrow side-street like a child’s unrestrained delight.