Con Girl
After years of working for male misogynists who overlooked talent for mateship or a barbie doll, I found my career stagnating as I headed at a fast pace towards the big four O.
My drive ensured I put my life into work, only to be told being told to leave the financial services industry quietly or stay and be fired.
Idiots! I planned to eliminate that CEO. But, instead, an opportunity came about which would change my fortune forever.
My family were middle-class nothings. They all wanted a piece of my life. I knew I could give them a piece. Perhaps not the way they wanted but even a slice of my time is expensive. And they could pay. My family friends became my target. Their dramas drove me insane. Fortunately, my ‘Oh that’s interesting’ mask has always been well practised and positioned. One terrible dull summer day, sitting in the 1960’s style back yard full of Bindi eye, disguised as grass. I stared numbly at the only Australian icon my family ever knew. The hills hoist, covered with my parents aging underwear flying the flag of mediocracy.
Two professors, friends of my parents, dowdy overweight and far too opinionated, were my inspiration. Their boring tales of students and libraries motivated me to come up with something to change the direction of the conversation. Casually I interrupted them.
‘You know I no longer work. Do you know why?’
The couple looked at me for a moment, the eyes bright, anticipation palpable.
‘Well, no, We, were going to ask you….’
‘I worked for the Forte investment company for some years and with two colleagues, I spearheaded the development of a program system. The company I worked for decided to sell it to one of the super hedge fund companies. My share is 86 million dollars.’
I meant to tell them I was joking, I thought I was at first; but their admiration and expectation spurned me on. I could not stop.
‘Though I need no money, I have an exclusive Financial planning company to help my friends. As you two are one of our oldest family friends, I think I could help you be independently wealthy when you retire.’
A week later, I stared at my bank account. Sitting there on the other side of a blinking cursor sat two million dollars.
‘Don’t slip up’, I thought to myself.
I knew I had to have an Australian Financial Services licence (AFS) before I could go further. Quickly I churned through a pile of business cards until I came up with one with a license. Finally, I had what I needed. For now, I would get my own soon enough. The rest, as they say, is history!
Millions of dollars rolled in; millions rolled out. Dior clothing and accessories, Audi cars, Island and skiing holidays. Life shined. Until I did slip up literally and metaphorically.
On the New Zealand snowfields slopes, I had just finished a black run on one of the Remarkables trails. The invigorating feeling of success rushed through me like a car sliding on black ice. Then, suddenly from nowhere, a woman careered into me, barrelling us both into the snow the black ice underfoot tumbled us for more than one hundred metres..
‘Oh, I am so sorry I did not think this slope would be as difficult as it is! That’s my slip up ..’
She laughed as she brushed off the twigs ice and snow. Her sweet pixie face and expensive-cut hair were familiar to me, though I could not place it at the time.
‘Well, what a coincidence! It’s Karina. We met some years ago at a financial conference. Are you still with Forte Hedge funds?’
My euphoria subsided like gravity on a bowling ball. I placed on my mask of concern.
‘You are not hurt? I should go and get someone to help.’
‘Nonsense, I am fine! Do you not remember me? I am Dana Smyth Taylor?’
‘Of course, you are. It is lovely to see you again. I am just on my way to the bar. Enjoy your skiing.’
‘What a great idea. I will come with you.’
My brain worked overtime, I knew I should have got my own AFS licence years ago, but I never made time. So instead, my business used hers! Damnit! I needed that drink. She sat down beside me and began small talk. I answered with concern and pleasant roboticism, continuing to skull my heated Frangelico.
Dana returned after some time to the question I had been dreading.
‘You never told me who you work with now?’
I should have lied; I should have said I don’t work anywhere. But knowing this do-gooder, she would learn somewhere else. So, whether it was the half bottle of Frangelico or pride, or over confidence I did what I did.
‘I am my own boss now. I have a business with some key players in the industry. We don’t advertise. We are very selective.’
‘Oh, how interesting..’
I knew she wasn’t, her eyes shrouded in annoyance at my success. That same feeling I had got from managing the slope hit me again. Thwack!! If felt so good! She on the other hand changed the subject and droned on until I finally finished the Frangelico and headed for my private car as soon as the lazy driver finally text me to say he arrived.
A month after my holiday, Dana no longer entered my mind the whole issue forgotten in a flurry of new investments. Reviewing my online accounts sometime later, my phone rang.
‘Hi there Karina, it's Dana. I needed to call you as I have just been on your website and looked at your AFS number. It is mine. How is that possible?’
I feigned surprise
‘Oh! surely not! Can you read out yours and I will read out mine.’
‘Oh ok, Mine is 450620.’
Her sweet, Tingley voice grated on me so much the hairs on my arms rose.
‘Oh, no, Silly, my number is 450629. My website designer has just made a mistake; thank you for letting me know. I will contact them straight away. Again, thanks for calling Dana. We will chat again soon.’
‘Dam Dam Dam!’
Though I am far smarter than the silly pixie, I needed to protect myself. I would always be too clever for the morons of this world; I remained that way by making sure nothing and no one could corner me.
• * * * * * *
I left home just as the night sky bloomed a predawn grey. The fresh air salty with the spray of winter ocean swells. Running always cleared my mind. I zone into ideas and solve many issues when automatic breathing kicks in, & my body is on the precipice feeling pain while gaining fitness. This is when my mind relaxes. After eight months of planning, I wonder if any of my plans will be required. Nothing has happened and none of my investors have pulled out. In fact, my personal portfolio has now reached almost one hundred million dollars. Soon I will retire.
I arrived home as the sun rose above the horizon. Showoffs and the coffee set were just coming out of their houses to begin their day.
‘Good morning, Ms McAulay. I am senior constable Rob Smith, and I am here with my team to search your premises.’
My recent exertion has not caused my sudden loss of breath. He hands me over a document. I don’t bother taking it. My mask slips into place.
‘Surely you are mistaken. I am a small business of no concern worthy of such a team of people.’
The forty-something Sargent’s own bland face reveals nothing. Let’s hope that is true. If it is you have nothing to worry about.
Thirteen hours they take to go through my office. Everything is taken. Everything. They have even taken the discs from my security cameras. In the back of my cupboard, now some three-quarters of a million dollars lighter in clothing than before the search, I pull out my scarf draw. Yves Saint Laurent and Dior fly into the air as I throw it to the ground. Tapping on the back wall panel, the hinge swings open. I pull out two million dollars, a passport, a driver’s licence and a disposable phone.
I call one of two pre-set numbers. Within 20 minutes, an inconspicuous Sedan arrives in my driveway. I have a backpack holding very little as we head down the coast.
I have planned a detour. I make my way to a modest but well-stocked surgeon. He knows to ask no questions. The amount he has been ‘Gifted’ makes it ludicrous to want to know the reasoning behind the urgent surgery. I feel a little melancholy at the thought of my sacrifice until the epidural kicks in. Ah, no Pain. I watched the skilled surgeon remove my foot. It is stapled and bandaged within minutes.
Five days later, cast on what looks like a broken foot, my driver arrives once more. We head to the beach. An isolated space, I knew it well as a kid. I get out with my bag and walk to the waters edge. The only company I have are the gulls screeching in the air. The driver well hidden behind sand dunes where he is parked. I fill my favourite running shoe with rocks and sand and throw the foot out into the ocean. I walk back to the care and we head down the coast.
The private plan for Fiji is waiting for me. Only $108,000 and freedom is in my reach. The plane engine is running by the time we arrive at the private airport. I am helped aboard by the non-descript pilot, his features hidden under his captain’s hat. I settle into the plump leather seats, which feel cool. As the plane enters the air, I crack open a bottle of prosecco. That and the pain killers do their job. I am relaxed. I am on my way.’ I spend another few days in Fiji. I hear on the news that I am a missing person. They want me to ring in to tell them I am safe. Fools!
I am wheeled onto the plane my first-class seat waiting for me.
Moet is served, it feels a little less grand than my private jet, but it’s good enough for Sonya Craig, the Property developer
Two stopovers later, the slim well-dressed male steward voice can be heard throughout the plane.
Ladies and gentlemen welcome to RIOgaleão - Tom Jobim International Airport. Local time is 9.45am and the temperature is 27 degrees….
I sigh with relief and pride. Sonya Craig is now a resident of a Rio de Janeiro about to be wheel-chaired into her new spacious home decorated in floor to ceiling marble, servants and ocean views.
One Slip Up I have found leads to another adventure!