‘Sixweeks? I thought you said these private prosecutions dragged on for months.’
‘I was wrong. You might want to buy a lotto ticket, because that doesn’t happen often.’
Vera pressed her phone to her cheek for a moment. ‘What else do I need to know?’
‘Here’s the gist of the short particulars listed on the notice: Acacia View are bringing a charge against you, they’ve lawyered up with some hotshot from Sydney, and they’re ready to turn their threats of prosecution into the real deal. Arraignment, trial, verdict.’
Prosecution.
It was really happening, then. The countdown on her time as a free woman had begun.
Bile rose in Vera’s throat. ‘It’s ridiculous. Since when was looking out for a vulnerable person a crime?’
Sue’s voice was brisk. ‘Since the Surveillance Devices Act was introduced into New South Wales in 2007 and put limitations on what is considered okay to record. You planted a camera with a microphone in your aunt’s aged care home, and now you’re facing the consequences.’
Yeah. She sure as hell was … all thanks to her former boss (and boyfriend) Aaron who had sold her out. She was facing consequences all right, and a potential prison sentence was just one of them.
She eyed the inch of sherry she’d poured her aunt and wondered if this situation qualified as rock bottom.
‘Vera? You paying attention?’
‘Yeah. I was just thinking about alcohol.’
‘You and me both. You, at least, have an excuse. I just paid a hypnotist a hundred and eighty bucks to convince me that five booze-free nights a week would make me a happier person.’
‘That’s … a lot of money.’
‘Yeah, I could tell he was spouting claptrap while I was listening to him drone on, but his recliner was epic and, wowza, he was easy on the eye. Not my worst buy for a hundred and eighty bucks. Where was I?’
‘Prosecution. Lawyers. Hotshots.’
‘Right. The court appearance notice says you’ve been mailed a copy but I’ll scan this in and email it to you so you can read the details. It lists place of offence, statutory provision breached, summary of charges.’
‘It’s all sounding very serious, Sue.’
‘Of course it’s serious; it’s the law, but that doesn’t mean we need to be quaking in our Italian leather heels.’
‘What about this hotshot they’ve hired?’
‘Hotshots don’t scare me.’
That, Vera could believe. Sue would be more likely to be slipping them her phone number on a cocktail serviette. ‘What do I do now?’
‘Keep dusting flour off your hands and pinning your apron on, or whatever it is professional women do when they abandon their careers and go on a mountain change. I’ll be in touch.’
Vera frowned. ‘Sue, I run a caf—’
Too late. Her lawyer was gone.
Taking a breath, Vera reached forward, lifted the glass, and tossed her aunt’s nip of sherry down her throat like she was an outlaw in the Wild West. Rock bottom it was.
Sighing, she dropped the phone back into her bag, then moved to tuck the rug in a little more firmly over Jill’s knees. Her fingers paused as they rubbed over the bland beige of the hospital-issue blanket. Her aunt hated beige. She loved colour, loads of it, all clashing and lurid and loud as squabbling parrots. When she got home, she should dig through those boxes once she had the evening’s baking in the oven, find something a little more fun to keep her aunt warm.
Keeping busy was the best way she knew to keep her mind off her problems.
Her aunt patted her hand and the gesture was so missed, so very very welcome, she felt tears rush to her eyes.
‘Thank you, Barb,’ said her aunt.