Torn Apart by Peter Corris

went back to the kitchen. By now it was later in the morning, late enough to have another go at the white wine. The day had improved during our lovemaking, and we took the drinks out into the courtyard where we could sit comfortably in the patch of sun protected from the wind. I told Sheila what I’d learned about the dodgy dealings of Pavee Security and the dead end I’d struck there and with the company that had bought his shares.
    â€˜Sorry to tell you,’ I said, ‘but there was no money involved. Just a share transfer.’
    â€˜But the shares are worth money. Sorry to sound so mercenary, but I think I’m entitled. He was a psychological mess when he came back from that ridiculous soldier of fortune episode, and I just about supported him through university. Then he upped and left.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜He became successful with his property developments. He still needed me for a while because it was edgy stuff—juggling loans and contracts, dealing with unions and politicians—but when it all sorted out and the money came in, he didn’t need me anymore. I think he associated me with his earlier struggles.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you divorce him and get a share of the assets then?’
    She sipped her drink and shivered. I went inside and got a jacket, the one Patrick had borrowed as it happened, and draped it round her shoulders. Our hands touched as she drew it closer.
    â€˜Thanks. It’s nice out here. I was busy then and doing pretty well. I thought it might work out. Then I went to America for a while and bombed. I lost touch with him and I was hitting the booze pretty hard. I was . . . ashamed.’
    I could understand that. In my experience, at those low ebb points you can still maintain some pride even though it’s not in your best interest. It feels like all you have left.
    We were sitting side by side on a seat I’d constructed out of stacked bricks and pine planks—the limit of my skills. I put my arm around her shoulder and she stiffened.
    â€˜Do you believe me about not being divorced?’
    â€˜I want to say yes.’
    â€˜Jesus, an honest man. Let me show you something.’
    She got up and went into the house. I watched her elegant strut on her high heels and knew all my impulses were affected by the sexual experience and a hope for more. She came back and handed me a photograph. It showed a man and a woman outside the Sydney Registry Office. Patrick, in a stylish dark suit, was looking at Sheila as if he wanted to make love to her right there on the steps. She, in a low-necked sheath dress and carrying flowers, looked as if she’d oblige. Another couple, presumably their witnesses, looked almost embarrassed in the presence of such overt sexuality.
    Sheila came closer, took my hand and locked it between her thighs.
    â€˜You’d have looked just like that back then, wouldn’t you, Cliff?’
    â€˜Never had a suit that good.’
    She laughed. We kissed and went back upstairs to do it again.

Sheila asked me if I knew anything about making a claim against an estate where there was no will. ‘I think the spouse automatically inherits.’
    â€˜You said Paddy told you we were divorced.’
    â€˜Right.’
    â€˜He might’ve told other people the same. That could . . . complicate things.’
    â€˜Would Harvey be up to sorting it out?’
    She shook her head and I gave her the name and number of my solicitor, Viv Garner, who I thought could advise her.
    We were downstairs, behaving slightly awkwardly. She’d told me she was sharing a flat in Balmain but didn’t say who with. She gave me her mobile number but not the address. I gave her my number.
    â€˜I’ve got a couple of auditions to go to over the next few days. I’ll try to see Mr Garner and I’ll give you a call if I learn anything useful.’
    â€˜Call me anyway.’
    We moved down the passage.
    â€˜What