‘I’m pleased for them,’ she said bravely now, but she couldn’t quite manage to smile.
Daisy reached out and squeezed her hand, her warm, sensitive smile conveying gentle understanding.
Even so, Freya was sunk into blackest gloom. The news of Amber’s pregnancy had been the absolute last straw, even harder to accept than the bald fact that her husband had grown tired of her. God knew, she’d been tired of him, too, but there was such a thing as loyalty, wasn’t there?
Shaking her head to scatter these thoughts, she squared her shoulders and squeezed out a grin that she hoped didn’t look too false. ‘Have I mentioned that I’ve repainted my bedroom?’
‘Now that’s an excellent idea,’ enthused Daisy. ‘New furniture, too?’
Freya shook her head. ‘I would have loved to chuck the bed, but I couldn’t afford to be so rash. I bought a new quilt, though, and bed linen and cushions.’
‘What’s your new colour scheme?’
‘Pink and orange.’ Freya allowed herself a smirk of triumph. ‘Not a shade of fashionable grey in sight. Brian would hate it.’
‘Oh, wow. Now that’s what I call sweet revenge. An orange and pink bedroom. I love it.’ Jo, the only member of the trio who still had a husband, was grinning. ‘Good for you, Freya.’
‘I must say it does cheer me wonderfully to wake up and see those ridiculously bright colours.’
‘Yes, it’s a stroke of brilliance.’ Daisy raised her glass. ‘Here’s to many more lovely bright mornings.’
As they clinked their glasses once again, Freya’s phone rang. It had, of course, slipped from the little side pocket in her handbag and was lying at the very bottom, beneath her money purse, a tangle of old shopping lists, her sunglasses case and her hairbrush. The phone had almost rung out by the time she finally retrieved it.
‘That’s funny,’ she said, as she glanced at the screen. ‘It’s from Louise Richards, my neighbour. Why would she be calling me at this time of night?’
CHAPTER TWO
Twelve hundred kilometres to the north, it was also a beautiful night on Magnetic Island. From the restaurant’s deck, Billie could see the half moon sitting clear and bright in an inky sky and casting a silver path across the dark surface of the bay. This was North Queensland winter at its blissful best and she was almost glad she’d come home.
Of course, this island could never be quite the same as Santorini. Here, no vineyards sprawled beneath hills topped by blue-domed churches. No whitewashed buildings clung precariously to cliffs that rose steeply out of a sapphire sea, and never again would Petros be waiting to welcome her when she returned to their flat.
At least the brutal pain of Billie’s heartbreak seemed to be fading, albeit far too slowly, and she might have actually enjoyed being back on Maggie, if she hadn’t been run off her feet. So far she hadn’t even had time for a swim in her favourite bay. By day she was sweeping and mopping and dusting the bistro, unstacking the dishwasher and polishing silver, and by night she was waiting tables.
Her friends thought she had it easy, being the only daughter of the successful owners of Island Thyme. They didn’t know the half of it. This evening, Billie had Buckley’s chance of stopping to enjoy the moon.
Gathering up a delicately balanced armful of empty plates and cutlery from table four, she hurried back to the kitchen where two servings of eight-hour lamb shoulder, a bowl of Persian lentils and a medium-rare steak were waiting under the warmers. These she delivered to table six, remembering to smile as she also topped up their wine glasses.
About to check on other diners nearby, Billie saw that a cluster of new arrivals had appeared at the top of the stone stairs that led from the beach. Stifling an urge to sigh, or to phone her parents and insist they find an extra waiter, Billie hurried over to the group.
‘Belinda!’ one of the newcomers cried before Billie could even ask if they had a reservation.
Eeek. Almost no one, not even her parents, called her Belinda these days. Just her luck, she now recognised her Year 7 teacher among these new prospective diners. Sonia Brassal’s long straight hair was now completely grey, and she seemed to be hiding her middle-age spread beneath a capacious woollen cape. But her aura of warmth overlaid by unmistakable bossiness was exactly as Billie remembered.
That was the problem with growing up on a tiny island. It was as bad as living in a small country town. You ran into people from your past at every turn.
‘Hello, Mrs Brassal.’ Billie offered her brightest smile. After all, she’d had the lesson ingrained from her mum’s repeated lectures. A successful eatery was all about good service. If you didn’t smile and make people feel better for having come to your venue, they wouldn’t remain customers for very long. ‘How are you?’
‘Wonderful, Belinda. Never better, thanks, and it’s great to see you.’ Sonia Brassal allowed her gaze to linger on Billie. ‘You’re looking very well, I must say. I hear you’ve been travelling overseas.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Excellent. Travel is so good for broadening the mind and you always had so much potential.’
Potential? Really? Yeah, well . . .
‘Although I’m sure your parents are very happy to have you home again,’ she added.
‘Yes.’ Billie’s smile this time was more polite than brilliant.
‘And how nice that you can help them out. Island Thyme has become our favourite eating place, hasn’t it, Thomas?’
A small, balding man with spectacles and a white moustache obediently nodded.
Billie also offered a little nod. ‘I – er – assume you have a reservation?’
‘Of course.’ Sonia Brassal almost snorted as she pointed to the ledger on the nearby lectern. ‘I’m sure we must be listed there. Under Brassal. Table for four.’
‘Of course,’ Billie smiled to cover her hesitation. Perhaps Gavin, their hardworking chef, had taken the booking. Without bothering to check the ledger, she picked up sufficient menus and gestured. ‘If you’ll come this way?’
Luckily, there was indeed a spare table at the edge of the deck. Ready and waiting with an immaculate white linen cloth and sparkling silverware, the table offered a perfect view of the little bay bathed in moonlight.
‘Oh, how divine.’ The other woman in the party was clearly in raptures as she took her seat, gazing at the view with an ecstatic grin and her hands clasped over her heart.
‘My sister’s from Melbourne.’ Mrs Brassal leaned towards Billie to speak in a conspiratorial undertone. ‘She’s so envious of our beautiful winters. She’s threatening to move here.’
‘We’ve told her to try the summer first,’ commented Mrs Brassal’s husband.
‘But it’s so amazing here,’ the sister from Melbourne protested as she gestured to the view. ‘It’s like being on a Greek island. Just so picturesque and romantic, but right here in Australia.’
Billie tried to ignore the painful clunk in her chest that came with the mere mention of Greece. Forget him. Forget Santorini.
Holding her smile carefully in place, she handed out menus and filled water glasses.
‘I’ll leave you for a few moments to look at the —’
Billie was stopped by a hand on her arm.
Sonia Brassal leaned closer and spoke again in an undertone. ‘I just wanted to say that I think it’s very good of you to help your parents out like this. They really need a break.’
It was on the tip of Billie’s tongue to point out that her return to the island was only temporary – very temporary, in fact. She might even have joked that she was only working here because she needed the money, but she was silenced by the sombre message in Sonia’s eyes. It was almost as if the woman was hinting that she was privy to knowledge that Billie didn’t share. Knowledge about her own parents?
Billie had to admit, her parents had been a tad cagey since she’d come home. She’d assumed it was because she’d been away for so long and they’d fallen out of the habit of including her
in their discussions. But was there more? Something she, their precious only child, should know?
This was hardly the appropriate moment to ask such a question, however. Billie simply nodded again and thanked her old teacher before hurrying away to see if table five had decided on desserts.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Freya?’
The terrified note in her neighbour’s voice sent a chill through Freya. ‘Yes?’
‘Oh, Freya, I’m so sorry, but it’s bad news. You’d better come. Your house —’
‘My house?’
‘Yes. It’s on fire.’
‘Oh, God.’ Shock exploded in Freya’s chest. This couldn’t be true. It wasn’t possible.
‘We’ve called the Fire Brigade,’ said Louise. ‘They’re on their way.’
It was too much to take in. A moan broke from Freya. This couldn’t be real, surely?
‘Freya, what’s happened?’ Daisy’s voice sounded now beside her. Scared. Uncertain. She touched Freya’s elbow. ‘What is it?’
Freya shook her head. She didn’t want to answer. Perhaps if she didn’t utter the terrible words, it would all go away.
On the phone, Louise Richards spoke again. ‘I’m so sorry, Freya.’
‘Is it – is it bad?’ she managed to ask.
‘Yes.’ Louise sobbed. ‘It’s so scary.’
And then, overriding her neighbour’s despairing voice, came the background scream of a siren, slicing through the airwaves, cutting straight through Freya’s heart.
She disconnected, needing to be rid of it.
‘Freya, what’s happened?’ Daisy and Jo were in unison now.
But she couldn’t answer them. She was too frozen with panic, too desperately hopeful that this was some kind of nightmarish mistake.
‘Hey.’ Daisy spoke quietly, and gently patted Freya’s elbow. ‘We’re here for you, honey.’
Swallowing to ease the burning in her throat, Freya forced her eyes open and was confronted once more by the pleasant restaurant and its happy diners. The scene was beautiful, bathed in soft candlelight, exactly as before.
Perhaps she’d imagined the phone call. Had a brain snap.
Then she saw her friends’ anxious faces, watching her fearfully.
With a dazed shake of her head, she told them. ‘My house is on fire.’
‘Oh, God, no.’ Daisy was on her feet in an instant, grabbing her handbag.
Jo was up, too, already heading for the entrance. ‘I’ll get the bill,’ she called over her shoulder.
‘Come on, we have to go.’ Daisy gave Freya’s arm an urgent tug.
Freya wasn’t sure she could move. Her legs weren’t steady enough to support her.
‘We’ll take my car,’ Daisy said next, giving her a little shake and urging her to her feet.
‘No, I’m okay.’ Freya stood and her legs didn’t give way. ‘I can drive.’
‘No you can’t,’ insisted Daisy. ‘Not under these circumstances. Don’t even think of it.’
Perhaps, given that her head was spinning, this wasn’t the right moment to try to prove anything. Freya allowed herself to be shepherded outside where the cold night air hit her face. A moment later, she was in the front seat of Daisy’s Volvo and classical music burst to life on the radio. Daisy quickly switched it off. Jo climbed into the back. Car doors slammed and the motor revved.
No one spoke as they roared out of the car park and down the curving hillside road to the Sunshine Motorway. It would take twenty minutes to reach Freya’s house.
Twenty minutes! A house could burn up completely in that time. Twenty minutes of fire and flames, licking, burning and devouring.
‘Oh, God, Won Ton!’ Freya wailed, suddenly remembering her little silky terrier. ‘I left her in the laundry.’
‘There’s a door flap, isn’t there?’ asked Jo.
Freya nodded. ‘Yes.’ But then she groaned. ‘But what if she’s too scared to use it? What if she’s overcome by smoke?’
‘I’m sure she would have got out.’ Daisy sounded quite certain. ‘She’s a smart little dog. She’ll be fine.’
‘I’ll have to ring Louise. Tell her she has to find her.’
Freya was still clutching her phone, but tears blinded her as she searched for her neighbour’s number. She fumbled and swore, before she finally got through.
‘Louise,’ she asked fearfully, ‘have you seen Won Ton?’
‘Oh, dear.’ This was so not the response Freya needed. ‘Let me check for you. I’ll see if I can speak to one of the fireys. I’ll call you back, okay?’
‘Okay. Thanks.’ Sick with panicky dread, Freya let the phone fall into her lap and closed her eyes again as she sank back into the headrest. She’d always considered herself to be a coper – at work, with life in general, even with the divorce. Habitually, she’d taken difficulties on the chin and carried on. But now she felt utterly helpless. Useless. While her home, and possibly her little dog, burned.
She tried not to think about the ghastly bright flames leaping up into the black night sky, eating up her house. Her lovely home.
As Daisy sped down the motorway, no doubt exceeding the speed limit, Freya’s agonised thoughts kept whirling. Hadn’t the universe taken enough swipes at her already? First it had rendered her childless and then divorced. Surely this was one blow too many?
How could one person deserve so much bad luck?
Was it all her own fault? Bad karma? She’d made mistakes in her life, but she’d always had good intentions. Perhaps she should have noticed something amiss when she’d left the house just a few hours earlier.
Of course, she’d been dashing about. Bloody hell, she hadn’t left the stove or the iron on, had she? Surely she couldn’t have? It was unbearable to think that she might have avoided this disaster if she’d been paying more attention.
If only she could go back in time to check.
Freya’s mind slipped and slid as she tried to remember those last careless minutes before she’d left the house. Why hadn’t she taken the time to double-check the appliances and power points? And why hadn’t she at least stopped for a moment, to take one last, loving look around her?
Perhaps she might have been alerted to danger, might have saved the photo albums or important documents?
A small wail escaped her now, as she thought of all the precious images from her past being gobbled up by flames. The baby photos, the school pics, the treasured photos of her mum and the shots of her first boyfriend, Seb, that she still liked to steal occasional peeks at.
Oh, help! Please let it only be a little fire.
The footpaths and bitumen were crowded when Daisy eventually turned into Freya’s street. Cars crammed the gutters, stickybeak onlookers stood about in pyjamas and tracksuits, while two fire trucks were parked nose to tail in Freya’s driveway. There was even a bloody TV cameraman. And there for all to see and gape at – the smouldering ruins of her home.
‘Oh, dear God,’ Daisy murmured as she pulled up on the bitumen behind a fire truck and turned off the motor.
It was hard to process, but one thing was clear. The fire was much, much worse than Freya had feared.
Shock dragged the air from her lungs as she saw the awful truth. Her house, her beautiful home – all of it – was —
Gone.
Only blackened walls stood, with gaping spaces where her windows had gleamed. Firefighters on ladders were spraying water through a hole where her roof had been.
Her lovely bedroom, her kitchen, described in women’s magazines as the beating heart of a home.
Everything.
Gone.
Even with the evidence right in front of her, it was impossible to process.
Shaking, Freya forced the passenger door open and almost fell onto the footpath. After she’d managed to regain her balance, she turned to find Daisy and Jo beside her. She saw their sagging mouths, the sheen of tears in their eyes, and she just wanted to sink into the ground and disappear.
&n
bsp; ‘Oh, darling.’ Daisy held out her arms and Freya, crumpling, stumbled into her friend’s hug.
And now Jo was hugging her, too, and despite being surrounded by her very worst nightmare, Freya found herself, with her friends’ arms around her, quite unexpectedly, comforted. And when a familiar yip sounded close by, she turned to see a firefighter, huge and heroic in his helmet and protective gear, cradling a little furry bundle in his arms.
‘Won Ton!’ A miracle, surely?
The firey’s face was blackened by ash, but his teeth flashed white as he grinned. ‘Found her hiding in the shrubbery.’
‘Oh, thank God.’ Freya gave a shaky, teary laugh as he handed the shivering little dog to her. ‘Thank you,’ she added, as she hugged her canine baby and felt frantic heartbeats beneath her hand.
‘You’ll be okay, Frey. You will,’ Daisy murmured beside her. ‘You’ll get through this.’
Freya didn’t want to get through this – she just wanted it to go away. But life had already taught her several harsh lessons, and she knew already that she had no choice. She was grateful, though, that no one mentioned phoenixes rising from ashes.
CHAPTER FOUR
A curlew’s mournful cry coiled through the night as Billie let herself into her parents’ house.
Strange how she thought of this new place as her parents’ house, rather than her home, as if she didn’t really belong here. While she’d been away, her mum and dad had moved out of the house she’d grown up in. For years their home had been a modest chamferboard and fibro cottage in the back streets of Picnic Bay. In her teens, Billie had helped her dad to paint it a reckless but cheerful aqua with bright yellow window frames. Now, her parents lived in a tasteful, architecturally designed rectangle of timber and glass perched on a rocky headland with magnificent sea views.
For Billie, while their new house with its picture windows, polished timber floors and stainless steel fittings was undeniably swish, and stunning proof of her mum’s impressive years of frugality combined with good business sense, she didn’t really feel that she belonged here. She’d driven past her old home yesterday to find it looking rather dilapidated, with the garden totally neglected, and yet she’d felt such a strong tug of nostalgia she’d almost stopped and knocked on the yellow front door.
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