Chapter 1: Project Homes
When the forecast for the first day of winter made the news headlines, Kat McDermott thought she might be in trouble. Terrible things happened to good people on sunny days—she knew this from experience. A blue sky was never blameless, and warm, heady days, like the one she was expecting, stockpiled years of grief. Something was amiss, and not just with the weather.
Anticipating the worst, Kat selected her favourite maroon suit from the antique armoire that served as her wardrobe. A cropped jacket and high-waisted pants over a striped business shirt. Comfortable suede loafers were her customary footwear for work—she owned several pairs in various shades. She chose a storm-cloud grey colour that she hoped would offset the good weather.
In the kitchen, Kat made a cup of weak chamomile tea. She set it aside to let it cool while she put together her lunch; a selection of piecemeal items, including carrots, cheese sticks, and an apple. She added a container of nuts and a dark chocolate bar. After packing these into her satchel, she checked the items in her work kit: sketchbook, pencils, scale ruler, and a retractable tape measure. Everything was in order.
Resting her hip against the old Aga stove in the kitchen, she sipped her scented tea and considered her day. First, the executive board meeting, and the midyear financial report would be tabled. The company had made a reasonable profit, so the shareholders would be pleased. Following this, she would sit through a presentation on a new display home, which was called the Appaloosa. She didn’t like the name any more than she liked the design (the house had no eaves). Later that afternoon she would visit the construction site, and then after that she would… her tasks list began to fade. She was getting ahead of herself.
She put down her cup of tea and wrung her hands. What would be, would be?
In the darkness, she took the bus to work.
The Volt Construction headquarters were northwest of Melbourne’s city centre, a short walk from Queen Victoria Markets and close to Flagstaff Gardens. Once inside the building, Kat headed for the boardroom on the top floor. The glass door pivoted on a single hinge, which, flagging under the weight of the laminated safety glass, moaned when she opened it.
It was an uninspiring room. The decor was black and chrome. The place smelt of cleaning fluids and artificial fibres. Kat was only there for privacy; the Volt offices were open-plan. The shared workspaces and communal desks made it difficult to hold a personal conversation without co-workers overhearing.
On the far wall hung the photographs of the company’s project homes. The Mustang: face brickwork but for a little extra a rendered finish was available. The Friesian: cement render with a painted finish in a limited range of colours. The Clydesdale: open-plan living with integrated alfresco dining. The Morgan: timber-look feature cladding on the front façade and bi-folding windows. The Shetland: a new tiny house design.
Resting on the edge of the conference table, Kat gazed out the window. The sun was rising over the city. Glare sliced through the tall buildings, sending shafts of light in all directions. The sight, bright and optimistic, made her smile. Her mood lifted. Today might not be the soul-destroying defeat she was expecting. Catastrophising was in her nature, and her mind often went to the worst-case scenario. Maybe she had overreacted.
Then she remembered her adage about the weather. Soon, the sun moved higher, the optical illusion vanished, and the hard edges of the city buildings returned.
Thirty years ago, Kat and her twin brother Ryan had made high-rise buildings using recycled cardboard boxes. They had spent hours slotting pieces together, taping walls into place, and cutting roof sections to fit as they built their cardboard cities on the living room floor of their childhood home.
They must have been seven or eight years old—and now, thirty years later, they were still building houses. Ryan was a successful architect working in Sydney. Kat, the CEO—acting CEO—of a residential construction company.
The conference room door moaned, and Archie, her personal assistant, entered. Tall and freshly shaved, Archie wore a deep blue suit. His dark hair was tucked neatly behind his ears. His aftershave, a combination of sandalwood and almond oil, always made him smell homely. Kat had a decade on Archie, but clients regularly confused their roles in the company—Archie was a man.
Archie paced across the carpet. “Maggie’s right behind me. She found the evidence on the printer this morning. Looks like a coup,” he said.
The door opened, and Maggie, the receptionist, entered. Panting, her full chest heaved, her brow glistened with sweat, and her plump cheeks glowed. The woman had cut a brisk pace from the printer to the conference room.
Kat’s heart sank. Maggie never ran anywhere.
In her arms, Maggie carried half a dozen folders. A stapler rested precariously on top, holding the folders steady.
After tugging a folder from her stack, Maggie handed it to Kat.
“I came in early to… to print out the new building codes,” Maggie stammered.
Maggie was not printing out building codes. She was printing out copies of the cosy mystery novel she was writing. Everyone in the office knew about her ambition to become an author. Chapters of her book were often left beside the printer and many team members had read her drafts. Staff offered unsolicited feedback on the eccentricities of her amateur sleuth, her small-town characters—including a ghost—and her puzzle-solving clues, which led readers to the murder suspect. Maggie wouldn’t be the first person to write a novel at work, and Kat thought it was a productive use of her time.
Kat opened the folder. Inside she found a Word document. She scanned the first paragraph. “Ahh,” she said. “It was the delivery man. He left the black marks at the murder scene.”
Kat closed the folder and handed it back to Maggie.
“It was,” Maggie confirmed. “He was reading the newspaper. He had newsprint on his gloves.”
“I would never have guessed.”
“Good to know. You don’t mind if I print out the occasional copy in my own time?”
“That’s fine. Don’t print it out every day. That would be an unreasonable use of office resources. Not workplace appropriate.”
Maggie nodded, indicating she agreed. After pulling another folder from her pile, she checked the contents before handing it to Kat.
Kat opened the folder. Inside was a diagram of the new management structure. A hierarchy of staff and their titles, the information spread like a family tree across the page.
Kat chewed her lip. “On the printer, you say?”
“I checked the log. Printed at 12:15 last night. Thirty copies.” Maggie pointed to a name at the top of the page —Charlie Ames. “It was Charlie’s PA—Aisling—she printed out the copies,” Maggie confirmed.
“Aisling? Really? All this time I’ve been calling her Assing,” Kat said.
“That’s a software company,” Archie said. “Either way, it’s a fucking mutiny.”
Again, the door moaned. They turned.
Charlie Ames entered the room, a pinched expression on his face. His dark suit hung loose on his thin frame—he had shed a few kilos overnight. Organising a mutiny was a time-consuming and stressful business. His shirt was crumpled—had he spent the night in his office? The tip of his tie, as always, finished halfway down his fly, like an arrow pointing to the spot.
Digging his hands into his trouser pockets, Charlie ambled across the room toward them.
Archie stepped aside, and Maggie followed him to the far end of the room, where they pretended to examine a range of aluminium cladding samples, which were stacked on the sideboard.
Kat stood her ground.
Charlie pulled something from the pocket of his slack jacket. Perhaps it was a parley?
“Thought you might like these,” he said, pressing two tickets toward her. “Corporate tickets for the Formula One next month. Admission to the pits. Get access to the drivers—all sweaty, covered in grease. The tyres get so hot you can smell them burn.”
She considered the coup leader standing before her. Charlie’s presence confirmed what she already knew—there had been a rebellion. Soon blood would flow, heads would roll, and hers would be the first to go. The eave-less Appaloosa would be built without her.
She felt his betrayal in her chest, and her clavicle started to ache. After lifting her chin, she said, “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”
He laughed loud and generous, like the hypocrite he was. Leaning toward her he said, “You’re too fucking pretty to be CEO anyway.” The tickets left his grasp and landed on her desk. After coughing into his fist, he turned and walked out the door.
The cladding samples in Archie’s hand landed with a thud on the sideboard.
Maggie rushed to Kat’s side. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. It’s so unfair.”
Just then, the glass door moaned again and Reynold, who was head of marketing entered the room. After searching the faces of his allies Reynold paused, realising they already knew the news he was about to deliver. They were on the wrong side of the coup. He turned to Kat. “I want to say cun—”
“No!” Kat yelled. “You can’t. It’s not workplace-appropriate language.”
Reynold kept his profanity to himself. But they all knew what he meant.
Kat rubbed her forehead. “I might need a drink.”
“There’s a bar across the road,” Archie said.
“Level six,” Maggie confirmed.
“Is it open?” Kat asked.
“Twenty-four hours,” Reynold said. He pointed out the window. They turned and stared at the historic sandstone building on the opposite side of the street. A flamboyant structure with gargoyles and stained-glass windows, it had been built in 1880. Originally the headquarters of a prominent English bank, it was also the bank manager’s residence. It had since been converted into an office block.
Kat stepped toward the window and squinted. “Is it a secret bar?”
“No.” Archie collected her handbag from the table and handed it to her. “You have thirty-two minutes.”
Taking the hierarchy document out of the folder, Kat slipped it into her pocket and headed out the door.
The lift doors opened on level six. Kat stepped out and glanced around the room. High ceilings, glossy timber floors, deep chairs covered in plush velvet. The benches were upholstered in leather and the fittings were brass. The place smelt like coffee, and it was empty except for a man seated at a nearby table.
Feeling lost, Kat crossed her arms over her chest and stepped back toward the lift.
“You need help?” the man asked, rising from his chair. Dressed in a tailored business suit, minus the tie, his dark hair was cut short. He had a crooked nose and interesting grey eyes.
“I need a drink,” Kat said.
To his credit, he didn’t check the time. He slipped behind the bar.
“Whisky.” Kat followed him and perched on a bar stool. “The good stuff.”
After placing his hand on a bottle, he turned and caught her eye, confirming it was the brand she wanted.
She waved a finger. “The one on the right—the really good stuff.”
He grabbed the bottle. “Are you going to need a shoulder to cry on?”
She considered his shoulders. They were square. “No. It’s a career crisis, not a relationship crisis.”
He poured a neat shot into a wide glass and offered her the ice bucket. She declined. He slid the glass across the bar. A napkin followed.
She sipped the drink. It burnt, and she winced. Whisky was her drink, but the brand was heady. It was early in the day and she hadn’t eaten breakfast.
He pointed at the ice bucket.
She nodded.
He dropped an ice cube into her glass. After considering her for a moment, he decided she needed another, and a second cube was added to her drink. He returned her glass.
She sipped her whisky—it was better over ice. “You want one? My shout,” she offered.
“Tempting, very tempting.” His eyes sparkled. “But I’ve got a busy day.” He had a solid timbre voice.
The company hierarchy document was in her pocket, she retrieved it, dropped it on the bar and smoothed out the crease with both hands. “Just in case I’m losing my mind, could you take a look at this?” She spun the page around and slid it toward him.
He placed his hands on either side of the paper. Rough, masculine hands, a scar down the side of his thumb, another across his knuckles.
“Okay, what am I looking at?” he asked.
“Can you see the name, Kathleen McDermott? Anywhere, anywhere at all on this page?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nope. There are no women at all— unless Charlie Ares is a woman? Sometimes—”
“Charlie Ares is not a woman. Charlie Ares is a misogynistic arsehole who should be fired for sexual misconduct.” She sipped her drink, then she raised her forefinger. “I take that back. He should be in jail for sexual misconduct.”
“Then I guess you just got fired.”
“I have a contract. They can’t fire me. They’ve moved me sideways, off the page.” Her hand skated across the bar. Scanning the room, she asked, “Is there a cigarette machine around here?”
He chuckled. “Not for about two decades. Let me see what I can do.”
He left the room. Returning a short time, he handed her a cigarette and a lighter.
Looking around the bar, she asked, “Is there somewhere… ?”
He pointed to an outdoor terrace. After opening the door for her, he followed her outside.
She placed the cigarette between her lips.
“Here, let me.” He held out his hand for the lighter.
She hesitated; she could light her own cigarette. But he insisted, so she conceded and passed him the lighter.
He flicked the wheel and shielded the spark with his hand.
She leaned into the flame. Cupping her hand around his, she grazed the back of his knuckles with her fingers. When she looked up, his grey eyes were staring into hers. She turned away.
After lighting her cigarette, she took a drag. A coughing fit followed. “Oh my god, this is disgusting.”
He chuckled. “You want some advice?”
Counsel from a bartender—he was qualified. “Okay,” she said. “But don’t tell me to stop smoking. I did that twenty years ago.” She took another drag and another fit of coughing followed.
“I’m going to tell you to quit your job—fuck ‘em. They don’t want you.”
Brutally honest, his words hurt. But the bartender was right. Charlie Ares had convinced more than half the executive committee to remove her as CEO. He wanted the top job more than she did. Not because he was a better candidate; Kat knew more about the construction industry and people management than he did. He was a pretentious, argumentative, and ineffective leader. His decision-making process was ego-driven and erratic. But the job aligned with his mission in life to be king. Top of the hill. Lord of the Manor. The man in charge. He wouldn’t settle for anything less.
An enemy at the top level of the company was not ideal. She wasn’t afraid of Charlie or his buddies, but she didn’t care enough about the company to fight for change. She fought for the things she believed in, but Volt wasn’t one of them. Unnecessary conflict wasn’t part of Kat’s nature, she wouldn’t mount a battle to regain control. From this day forward, Charlie would rule the three levels of office space that were Volt Construction.
“You should get yourself a lawyer,” the bartender continued. “Someone who deals in employment contracts. You know what I’m saying?”
She did. But she disagreed. Lawyers had a reputation for making life more complicated than it already was. Her future would not be in court. She still had a job; they hadn’t fired her. They had moved her sideways. A state-based portfolio, she imagined. She would insist on keeping Archie.
Another drag of her cigarette, and another fit of coughing followed.
“Here, give that thing to me.”
She handed over the cigarette. He plucked it from her fingers, pressing it into a nearby ashtray. “It’s bad for your health.”
She smiled. His bossiness was endearing.
“I need to get back to the bear pit,” she said. “The board meeting is about to start.”
Opening the door for her, he followed her inside. From her handbag, she pulled out her wallet, eager to pay for the drink.
“It’s on me,” he said.
She paused. “Then I owe you.”
Together, they strolled toward the lift. “I don’t know your name,” she said.
“Liam.”
“Well, Liam, thank you for the drink and the advice. It was nice meeting you.”
“Likewise. Good luck.”
It was too late for luck. Her mood had shifted, and she offered him a nervous, half-hearted smile. Under her shirt, she rubbed her collarbone.
“Hey,” he said. “You’re going to be fine. It’s their loss.”
She held his gaze. “Of course.”
As she approached the lift, the doors opened. A young woman with messy brown hair, wearing a T-shirt with a strawberry cupcake printed on the front, stepped out. Her eyes were fixed on her phone, but she looked up and caught Kat’s eye as she passed.
Two older men, wearing three-piece suits, trailed after the young woman. They dipped their hats at Kat. Liam escorted the men and the young girl into the bar.
Inside the lift, Kat searched for the company hierarchy outline in her pockets, but it wasn’t there. She had left it on the bar. No matter, she could visualise the diagram. Twelve men in senior positions. Some were good at their jobs. Some were not so good. Not one woman—good or bad. Initially, as part of a male work culture, her female status in the company was celebrated. She was a valued novelty. Until she wasn’t.
On the way down in the lift, her stomach turned and a wave of nausea hit her. The whisky, the cigarette, no food, and the impending career crisis. By the time she reached her office, her face was as green as her eyes. She headed for the bathroom and threw up. Then she threw up again.
