Getting Away with It

By Kathryn Collis

What for Paul Lyons and Elini Kyriazi began as an affair soon turns to love. However, Paul is loathe to leave his marriage even though its as stale as week old bread. Even if he did, Elini knows that her family will definitely never accept her relationship with an Australian (and a married one at that!)

The only solution they can find to their predicament is to swindle the bank they work for out of five million dollars and escape the country.

As they board an Aegean Airlines Flight to Athens, it looks as if theyve gotten away with it or have they?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jun 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499007084

Kathryn Collis

Kathryn Collis has published sixteen books through Xlibris, including Siblings, Eating Well for Less Than $30 a Week, Not So Grim Fairy Tales, and R.I.P. Details of her works can be found at www.kathryncollis.com. Kathryn lives on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast.

Book preview

PART 1

AFFAIRS OF THE HEART

Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;

Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;

Being vex’d a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:

What is it else? a madness most discreet,

A choking gall and a preserving sweet.

(Shakespeare—Romeo and Juliet)

CHAPTER 1

Paul Lyons crept into the bathroom to shave and shower.

As he scraped the razor over his face he frowned. His dark brown hair seemed to have more grey hairs peppering it every day. Still, he was only a couple of years shy of fifty. One had to expect things like that, he supposed.

He showered quickly, then toweled himself dry in front of the full length mirror, noting with dismay that his midriff seemed to be gaining in girth each year. Placing his towel over the towel rail, he stepped on the scales. Eighty-four kilos. He really should try and lose a bit of that. That was the trouble when one had a sedentary job which entailed long hours: he simply didn’t have time to get enough exercise.

That was the excuse he gave himself, at any rate, for what he knew was basically only sheer laziness.

Still, despite the extra weight, at a height of just over a hundred and eighty-five centimetres, his frame could carry a little bit of extra weight—he hoped.

He tiptoed back to the bedroom to dress. It didn’t take him long.

He’d actually been feeling a bit frisky when he woke up, but there was no joy to be had there. His wife Miranda had been dead to the world—or if she wasn’t, she certainly put on a good show of pretending to be asleep. That shouldn’t have surprised him. While he was usually asleep in his Jason Recliner by around nine o’clock every night, Miranda was up watching TV till all hours. Then she was a total grouch in the mornings.

He tried to remember the last time he and Miranda had had sex, but couldn’t, and wondered when their marriage had gotten as stale as week old bread.

Things had been so different when they first got married. He still had extremely pleasant memories of their honeymoon. Those airline tickets to the States were a total waste of money. They hadn’t gone anywhere or seen anything. Instead they’d spent the entire ten days ensconced in their hotel room in New York.

How different things were now, twenty odd years down the track! The very thought of it wrenched an involuntary sigh from his lips.

The way things had been over the last few years, anyone else would be going to A Touch of Class and paying to bed one of their attractive females, or starting an affair with one of the many women he met through his job as a corporate banker—but Paul was a one woman man, and he simply couldn’t bring himself to do that. Maybe he was an idiot for being so faithful when Miranda was, quite literally, a pain in the arse, but they’d had two kids together: James (no-one ever called him Jim or Jimmy!) and Teagan. There was a long term history there. He owed it to Miranda to do the right thing.

Naturally, neither James nor Teagan was up. Like their mother, they were allergic to early mornings.

Dressed and ready to go, except for his shoes—which were in the foyer right by the front door, he hurried to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee and a couple of slices of toast.

He drank his coffee and ate his toast in the pervading silence of the large, ultra-modern kitchen with its gleaming appliances, marble bench tops and expensive black and white floor tiles.

It suddenly occurred to him that although he had a family, he was feeling desperately lonely.

He finished his coffee, then picked up his briefcase—which rarely left his side—and padded out to the foyer.

Shoes on, he was soon in his car, backing down the paved driveway.

It wasn’t really that far from Pymble, on Sydney’s North Shore, to the Central Business District: just down the Pacific Highway and over the old Coat Hanger, (Sydneysiders’ affectionate name for the Sydney Harbour Bridge).

He turned on the radio. It was tuned to station 2UZ. Carissa Harvey did the morning show. Not since John Laws (a.k.a. Silver Tonsils) and Alan Jones had ruled the airwaves, from the early 1980s, when Paul was in his early twenties, to the mid-2000s, when he had not long entered his forties, had anyone with so much personality emerged.

Carissa Harvey had an acerbic tongue. Some of the newspapers and magazines had dubbed her Superbitch of the airwaves. Rather than be offended, she seemed to relish the role.

A woman rang in. I want to talk about the asylum seekers.

Oh, please! Carissa said, and Paul could almost picture her rolling her eyes. Where were you on Wednesday? The subject was done to death on that show. Are you deaf, or just plain ignorant? Don’t bore me. I don’t do bored. With that, she pulled the plug.

Paul shook his head and grinned. You tell ’em, Carissa!

The car behind him beeped and he realized the lights had changed. He really should leave the radio off while he was driving to work.

Though Carissa appeared to enjoy her bitchy radio role, it was also known that she could be very kind and generous when she chose. She’d even paid for a listener’s breast cancer treatments a couple of years back, because the poor woman was destitute.

Love her or hate her—and Paul didn’t doubt she’d made lots of people angry—a person had to admit that she was very entertaining. And attractive, Paul thought. Pictures in magazines showed her as having long, wavy blonde hair (was it natural? he wondered) and a firm, toned body. How many hours a week did she spend in a gym to achieve that? Or had she had surgical assistance?

Paul drove into his parking space. Parking spaces were very limited under this building in Pitt Street, but as Manager, Corporate Services, the free parking came with his job. As did the car—a brand spanking new BMW. It was only leased for him, but still…

He felt quite cheerful as he locked the car and proceeded to the lifts.

Hi, Mister Lyons, his administration assistants, Alisha Beckley and Cindy Dunning, chorused as he walked by the reception area.

When he’d been promoted to this job, three years ago, he’d invited them to call him Paul. However, they were both in their mid-twenties. At forty-eight, he was almost twice their combined ages. They seemed more comfortable calling him Mister Lyons, or, in relaxed moments, Mister L.

One thing he’d said to them, right from the outset, was Call me anything you like, but don’t call me boss. That would make me sound like a Mafia don. That had elicited some giggles.

Cindy, a petite little blue-eyed blonde, was a pint sized knock-out. Alisha was a brunette and tended towards chubbiness, but she had a lovely face and beautiful green eyes.

Both were hard workers and extremely efficient. It was very rare for either of them to make a mistake and they often spotted other people’s errors.

Paul greeted his two documents clerks, Garth Delaney and Dustin Seaber, as he made his way to the office. Their return greetings were perfunctory; he had interrupted their discussion of the cricket test that was going to be televised that night.

Although small, the section was an extremely busy one. They not only dealt with the company documentation for loans that they arranged themselves—either directly with clients or with their accountants—they also dealt with the more complex company documentation for the bank’s many branches.

They did handle investments as well, but the commissions on those were nowhere near as lucrative as the interest on the loans they wrote.

He entered his office, to find Matt Wilks, the Senior Documents Clerk, waiting patiently for him—and looking somewhat pleased with himself, at that.

Matt was in his early thirties, a good looking young guy with wavy, light brown hair, a muscular build (because, unlike Paul, he did find time to exercise) and a youthful face. He could have easily passed himself off as being in his mid-twenties.

You’re on the job early today, Paul remarked.

That’s because I’ve got a real live one for you, Matt said.

Paul raised an eyebrow. Oh, really?

Yep. Jesse Markham.

The mere mention of that name caused Paul to sit up and take notice. Jesse Markham had made his money back in the days when dot.coms were raking it in. He’d retired before the dot.coms crashed, taking a fortune with him. Most of that had been invested in real estate, just before the property market spiraled upwards, completely out of control. Again, he had cleaned up. He was your regular real life King Midas—everything he touched seemed to turn to gold.

In recent years his main claim to fame had been based around the fact that he’d not only bought a rugby league football team, but he had also enticed many well-known players to leave their established clubs to join his newly acquired team. The only thing stopping him from having an unbeatable super team had been the salary cap.

So what’s he up to now? Paul asked.

You won’t believe this, Matt said, but he’s just bought 2XY.

Why would he do that? Paul asked, surprised. Every man and his dog knows that 2XY’s been floundering for ages.

Exactly, Matt said. He’s negotiated a bargain basement price.

Well, that’s not exactly news headlines, then, Paul said. I’m surprised they’re not actually giving that lemon away. Why on earth would he want it?

He reckons he can re-vamp it, make it a goer, Matt said.

And how does he propose to do that?

He’s gone into partnership with Carissa Harvey.

This news caused Paul to jerk upright. Carissa Harvey? But why would she leave 2UZ to go to a radio station that’s all but defunct?

Matt shrugged. It’s actually a very clever move on her part. As half owner of 2XY she’ll have a lot more input into programming. She’ll be able to write her own ticket.

What will she tell her bosses at 2UZ? They won’t take this news well.

There’s nothing they can do. Matt leaned back in the chair. "Her contract’s up for renewal. This move by Jesse and Carissa is a stroke of sheer brilliance. It’s a slam dunk. Better yet, the worst that could possibly happen to us if we finance the deal and things go sour, is that—given the security on offer—we’d probably end up owning a radio station."

Shit, Paul said. If this deal takes place, shares in 2XY are going to go up, and shares in 2UZ will be decimated.

Matt passed him a folder. This is the proposal their accountant sent me. It’s all in there: their plans to totally re-vamp the station. More talkback radio—which is why Carissa’s buying in. She can bring in the listeners. You know that.

Well, yes, she’s a one woman goldmine. But…

They’re gonna crank up the music, too, Matt said. Not that they need to. Anything they play would be better than the crap 2XY’s currently airing.

This sounds like a very lucrative deal, Paul said, then he eyed Matt and said, In fact, it seems too good to be true. There has to be a catch. What is it?

No flies on you, Matt said. Yeah, there is a catch, and it’s huge. All Jesse and Clarissa are offering as security is their personal guarantees, plus a charge over the radio licence. Neither of them is prepared to mortgage or give any other kind of charge over any of their own assets.

Paul frowned. Without any collateral to back them up, let’s face it, their personal guarantees aren’t worth diddly-squat. It’s too risky. Worse, if the re-vamped station doesn’t pull in the listeners, we’ll have a charge over a radio licence that won’t be worth shit.

They seem pretty confident, Matt said.

When did you interview them? Paul asked.

I didn’t. The approach has come through an accountant. But he assured me they’re really gung ho about this. They’re determined to pull 2XY out of the shit and make it the top Sydney radio station and they believe they can do it.

I hope their faith is justified, Paul said dubiously. How much do they want?

Only three million, Matt said.

"Only three million! Paul spluttered. On the strength of a charge over a radio licence?"

I reckon this is a real goer, Matt said. If we pass this up we’ll be kicking ourselves in twelve months’ time.

Paul sighed. Okay, get onto Legal Department. Theoretically, an equitable charge over a radio licence should be possible. We’ve taken equitable charges over car dealers’ floor plans and God knows what else in the past. This should be doable.

Matt grinned. Thought you might see things that way.

Carissa Harvey’s the wild card here, Paul said. If she can keep her end up, it could get 2XY right out of the shit.

If it doesn’t, we’ll own ourselves a radio station, Matt reminded him.

Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, Paul said. I could play Jimmy Buffet all day. At this, Matt rolled his eyes. Paul’s voice now took on a serious note. When do you think Carissa intends to tell 2UZ about her plans?

I’m guessing it’ll be when she knows the loan’s in the bag, Matt said.

Well, that’ll be in six to eight weeks’ time, then.

Matt leaned forward and lowered his voice a little. Paul, I hate to ruin the weekend before it’s even gotten started, but there’s something else I need to tell you: I’m resigning.

Paul stared at him. Tell me this is some kind of sick joke.

Matt shook his head. Look, a lot of what we do here is legal stuff. I’ve gained enough knowledge over the past five years—don’t forget, I was here two years before you arrived—to be halfway to a law degree anyway. I’ve talked it over with Tammy and she’s prepared to keep working so I can study.

I thought she was itching to start a family, Paul said. He’d only met Matt’s partner a couple of times, but that was the impression he’d gained.

She’s willing to put it off for a few years, Matt said. She knows that compared to what I’m making here, if I can gain a legal qualification, I can make oodles of money.

What can I say? You’re almost irreplaceable. I can’t imagine you not being here.

You and I both know that no-one’s indispensable, Matt said.

So… how much notice are you giving?

A fortnight, Matt said. Uni. starts soon. I can’t afford to muck around.

I can’t do anything but wish you well, Paul said. You’re leaving huge shoes for someone to fill, but yeah, you have to do what’s right for you.

As Matt left the office, Paul picked up his pen and twiddled it in his fingers. What a start to the day: Jesse Markham and Carissa Harvey buying 2XY, and his very capable senior documents clerk quitting.

CHAPTER 2

It was just after 3.00 p.m. when Miranda Lyons whipped her sporty little red Alfa Romeo into the small parking lot at the rear of the GETUFIT Gym and Fitness Centre. There were only a couple of parking spaces vacant.

The car was a few years old, but she knew it was in good condition as she’d bought if off her friend Felicity, better known as Flick, when Flick had upgraded to the latest model. She knew that the vehicle had been regularly serviced.

The membership fee for the gym had cost her a small fortune and she knew Paul would go spare when it appeared on his monthly Mastercard bill. He was so obsessed with money and finances, which was such a turnoff. Worse, Flick and her other friend Louise had talked her into taking out a gold membership, which meant engaging the services of a personal trainer. The sessions with the personal trainer would also appear on Paul’s Mastercard account, as a separate charge. She wouldn’t be surprised if Paul had a stroke when he saw that bill.

She grabbed her bag off the passenger seat and made her way to the entrance.

The entrance boasted a foyer with a couple of benches to sit on, and lots of health and fitness magazines. The carpet looked so worn, she wouldn’t even have put it in the garage.

Neither Flick or Louise was there and she clicked her tongue in annoyance. It had been their idea that they all join this place, but where were they? They’d promised to meet her here, and then, after they’d had their exercise sessions, all three of them had planned to go on to a restaurant they often frequented.

Miranda waited fifteen minutes but neither of her friends showed up. She half thought of walking straight out of the place and going home.

There was a buffed, athletic looking blonde at the reception desk who appeared to be all of twenty if that. She was reading a magazine that Miranda suspected had nothing whatsoever to do with health or fitness. Miranda made her way over.

I have an appointment with Christopher, she said, presenting her membership card.

Oh yes. Mrs. Lyons, isn’t it? the girl said, consulting her computer. He’ll be expecting you.

She indicated a long corridor to the left of the foyer. The doors are all different colours. She rolled her eyes. Why they couldn’t have just numbered them, I don’t know. Anyway, the room Christopher operates out of is behind the blue door, second to your right. That said, she went straight back to the article she had been reading with such rapt fascination.

Miranda did as instructed, going down the corridor until she found the blue door. She opened it, and found herself in a large room that was about six metres square. It contained various pieces of workout equipment which included an adjustable weight bench press, a treadmill, mats, a punching bag, and various other pieces of paraphernalia.

A young guy walked confidently across the polished wooden floorboards. and stood in front of her. Mrs. Lyons? I’m Christopher. Never to be called Chris. I understand I’m to be your personal trainer from here on in.

It was all Miranda could do, not to gawk at him.

Christopher was like Arnold Shwarzenegger—a.k.a. Arnie—in his prime: all bulging biceps. He was wearing a tight white t-shirt with the GETUFIT logo and name emblazoned across the chest, and a pair of lycra cycling shorts that hid absolutely nothing. The skimpy clothing only served to emphasis the fact that from his abdominal muscles to his pectorals his body was a vision of perfection. His face, though, couldn’t have been less like Arnie’s. He had straight blonde hair which was gelled into spikes, and fascinating eyes. They were a cross between grey and green and had a bit of a mischievous twinkle in them. His boyish good looks almost belied his toned, muscular body. He could have been anywhere from the mid-twenties to the mid-thirties in age. It was difficult to tell.

Miranda felt her legs wobbling.

Why couldn’t she feel this way about Paul, instead of feeling so bloody indifferent towards him? She had felt like this once, though it seemed so long ago now, when they were first married. What had happened?

She realized Christopher was staring at her, and dragged herself back to the present.

Please call me Miranda, she said.

He nodded. Okay, Miranda it is, he said. Did you bring some kind of exercise clothing with you?

She held up a small tote bag. Right here.

Okay, follow me. He led her to a door directly opposite the blue entry door and said, The showers and changing cubicles, as well as the locker room, are through there. The empty lockers have the keys sitting in the locks. Just choose which locker you want, put your stuff inside, then lock it and keep the key. It’s on a safety pin, so you can just pin it to your clothing. I’ll wait right here, to the left of the entrance. There’s no rush.

I’m paying a hundred bucks per hour for this, Miranda thought, as she went through the door. Well, to be honest, Paul is. I don’t intend to spend the bulk of that time changing clothes

She selected a change cubicle, and immediately began to strip. Her fingers fumbled as she unzipped her skirt and took it off. For some unaccountable reason she felt nervous. The girl who’d signed her up had merely said they’d allocate a trainer. It was the girl who’d made the appointment for her when she phoned, who had then given her Christopher’s name. Only then had she realized that her personal trainer would be male. She’d expected an athletic type of person, of course, but she hadn’t expected him to be so good looking.

Christopher gave her the once over as she emerged from the change rooms. Even with her hair tied back, he could tell she was well put together.

‘Let’s start off by doing the height and weight thing," he said. He led her along the wall that the entry door to the change rooms was set into, then stopped in front of a long metal tape with centimetres, feet and inches marked off, which was fixed to the wall.

Just stand in front of it, he said. Miranda obeyed and he put his clipboard on top of her head. "About five foot