‘Will you bloody well shut up and eat your breakfast.’ But she was pleased he’d been pondering her mystery man.
Richard ordered another cup of coffee in the hope that Angie would do likewise. But she seemed to be in a hurry. Something about a meeting with Moira. After she left, he sat staring into the heart pattern on the top of his coffee. In spite of the pangs of jealousy, which had been niggling at him like stomach cramps, he had tried to keep the tone of his comments about Angie’s older man light-hearted and teasing. No point in letting her know how he really felt. After all, she had moved on. Richard could picture the distinguished Macquarie Street specialist – or whoever he was – in his three-piece suit, probably pin-striped and made to measure, taking her to hatted restaurants on Sydney Harbour and concerts at the Opera House.
If it had been a relationship of the Songbird variety, Richard would have been able to deal with it, knowing the liaison was driven by physical need and foreshadowed by a use-by date. But this new man of Angie’s, with his echoes of her lost husband, constituted a serious candidate for her affections.
And now it was too late to tell Angie that, in taking Diana back, he’d made a serious error of judgement. Too late to explain his passion for Diana had been both ill-advised and short-lived. Too late to declare he had been in love with Angie all along. Why would she believe him anyway? Not after what he’d done. And why would she care? As far as Angie was concerned, the romance between ‘Dearest One’ and ‘Your Devoted Suitor’ had been about Amy and Charles – not Angie and Richard. All that remained was to watch her drifting further away from him.
As for his predicament with Diana, he had only himself to blame. He’d acted as though he was in a trance, taking her back. Now he had to find a way of dealing with her insecurities and self-obsession. But he couldn’t send her packing. Not when he’d contributed to her insecurities in the first place.
The modified DA was now public knowledge, the news having leaked across Millbrooke like a slowly rising tide. Most people found the modifications a reasonable idea. Support for FOTE had weakened, and victory for Andrew Wright seemed likely.
One evening Bert dropped in to the Manse.
‘I told Andrew about Richard’s offer of a six-month lease on the mill, and he just laughed at me, Angie. But he did say the mill would be an ideal location with its setting by the creek.’
‘I wish I knew what Richard had in mind for that building.’
‘He’s never hinted at anything in your conversations?’
When Bert said ‘conversations’, Angie couldn’t detect even a hint of subtext in his tone of voice.
‘No, nothing.’ Then she had a horrible thought. ‘Bert, you don’t think he might want to turn it into a guesthouse, do you? Could that be the reason he’s not telling us?’
‘Millbrooke doesn’t need another guesthouse, Angie. Not with you and Nola and the Boutique Hotel.’
‘That’s what I would have thought. But you never know. It would explain Richard’s secretive behaviour. He might be planning to compete with Nola and me. Possibly even undercut our rates.’
‘It’s not like Richard to behave in an underhand way.’
‘No, but you have to concede that lately he hasn’t been behaving like the Richard we know.’
‘That’s true. Well, Angie, whatever he’s planning, we can forget the mill option.’
It was Diana’s first quilting lesson, but she texted the teacher to say she was ill. After all, she had only enrolled in the class to stop Richard nagging her about finding a hobby. Then she drove to town, parked in Church Lane and went looking for Richard and ‘Dearest One’ in the main street. She ducked into the hardware store and peered out the glass doors. The vantage point provided an excellent view of the emporium café. And there he was, at a table in the picture window, seated opposite the llama lady. No need to worry about her. Angie Wallace looked her age – crow’s-feet and all. No doubt Richard was wishing he was with his ‘Dearest One’ instead. The very thought of the two of them together brought on a painful sense of dread. If she lost Richard to Jennie, she would lose everything. He was her safe haven, her port in a storm, her hideaway. She couldn’t allow anyone to take that from her.
After a while Richard rose from the table, paid at the counter and left the café. Then he got into his ute, drove to the top of Miller Street and turned right. He was heading home. She would have a coffee to settle her nerves, and then maybe she’d browse in the homewares shop and, after a decent interval, drive back to Millerbrooke.
‘Did you have a pleasant morning?’ Richard asked as Diana entered the kitchen, sewing basket in hand.
‘Lovely,’ she replied. ‘Quilting is such a relaxing pastime.’
‘I’m glad you have an interest now, Di. An outlet for your creativity. You’ll make lots of friends too.’
‘You’re not trying to fob me off on the quilting women, are you?’
‘Of course not. I just think you need some time for yourself.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘You mean away from you?’
‘We can’t be together all the time. That isn’t healthy.’
There was a long silence as she considered his words. Then she spoke so softly he could barely hear her. ‘Are you seeing somebody else?’
‘How could you even think that? There’s nobody else in my life.’ For a moment Angie’s face swam before his eyes, but that particular relationship had ended before it began.
‘Well, what’s happened to the passion, Rich? One minute you couldn’t get enough of me, now you don’t seem to be interested any more.’
‘It’s just that things moved so quickly. You turned up on the tour and next thing we were in bed.’
‘We’re hardly strangers,’ she said, fidgeting with her sewing basket.
‘It’s been over two decades, Di. You’ve had a whole life in that time – a marriage, a child and then the loss of your husband. We haven’t even talked about that yet.’
‘You were my first love, Rich. I’ve never gotten over you.’
‘Even so, we should have waited a while, got to know each other again.’
She began to unpack her sewing basket, one item at a time, humming a little tune as she did so. A pair of scissors, a needle case, a tape measure, a container of pins, reels of thread. Soon the kitchen table was covered with sewing gear.
‘Are you listening to what I’m saying, Di? We need to take a step back.’
As she looked up from her quilting equipment, her bottom lip was trembling like a small child on the verge of crying. ‘Are you telling me to leave?’
‘Not at all. You can stay here as long as you like. But we need to have separate bedrooms. It will give us space to think things through.’
15 MATA HARI
It was the morning of Angie’s trip to Sydney. She had lined up Troy to check on the alpacas and let Moira know she was off to the city until Tuesday evening.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time for the council meeting,’ she assured Moira.
As she packed her things into the car, Angie told herself there was no point in pining for Richard Scott. Their relationship had always been odd, ambiguous and entirely platonic. Except for those two kisses, of course, but as it turned out, they had been random acts signifying nothing. Besides, Richard was spoken for. And it wouldn’t be long before Diana became Mrs Scott once more – in the Taylor-Burton tradition.
For her part, Angie had met an attractive man who found her desirable. It would be foolish not to allow the relationship to take its natural course. Surely it couldn’t be mere coincidence that he looked and smelt like Phil. Not that Angie believed in the concept of destiny. It was the stuff of romantic novels and soap operas. Then again, she had to wonder if it wasn’t destiny which had led her to the Newtown pub where Phil was performing so many years ago. And perhaps destiny, in some kind of
convoluted way, was at work again, throwing a man so much like her dead husband in her path.
But there were issues to be aired before things progressed with Geoff. This time she was determined to tell him the truth. Even though she had sought him out from ulterior motives, it had quickly become a genuine attraction. Once she explained that to him, surely he would understand. She would even confess about her friendship with Richard. The fact that there had never been a physical relationship with Diana’s first husband mitigated in Angie’s favour, and lawyers were fond of mitigating circumstances.
Of course, Angie should have owned up that very first day, as soon as she realised what a good man Geoff was. From then on, she’d cringed every time he mentioned Diana. Their marriage and its ending were really none of Angie’s business. She shouldn’t have been so gung-ho in the first place. Who did she think she was – Mata Hari?
Despite her lies and obfuscations, Angie felt optimistic that Geoff would forgive her. She knew how much he liked her. It showed in the care he had taken over their lunch at his apartment. It was obvious, in his text messages with their funny little sign-off, and even in the way he’d been concerned about a Sydney boyfriend. Those gestures were both a confidence booster and a comfort to a woman whose sense of self-worth had taken a recent battering.
As usual, Angie had vacillated about what to wear, finally deciding on a black lace top and crushed velvet skirt. From the tone of Geoff’s voice on the phone, she had guessed that they would be going somewhere special. He offered to pick her up, but she said she would meet him at his hotel.
Angie walked from Vicky’s place, and even though she was wearing high heels, she was there in fifteen minutes. They had drinks in his suite. It was immaculate, just like his apartment. No loose items of clothing tossed over the smartly striped wing chair, and no messy papers on the elegant lime-washed desk. In fact, not a single thing out of place. When she went to use the loo and touch up her make-up, she discovered the bathroom was the same – a zipped wet pack sitting on an otherwise empty marble vanity-top. If only her own boys were so neat.
They ate dinner in the hotel’s three-star restaurant. When the waiter arrived to take their order, Angie had barely looked at the menu. Geoff ordered for both of them – Balmain bugs followed by crispy skinned salmon.
‘I had the same thing last night,’ he said. ‘You’ll love it.’
Nobody had ordered a meal for Angie since she was a child, and though she found it a tad old-fashioned, it felt good to have someone make a decision for her, even a simple one. And she liked the gentle air of authority in his voice when he spoke. It was easy to imagine him impressing magistrates and judges.
During the meal he kept her amused with stories about life in Flynns Bay – his Saturday afternoons spent sailing, his morning dip at the beach, even in winter, when he reluctantly donned a wetsuit.
‘I pride myself on going for a swim in the sea, no matter what the conditions,’ he said.
‘Isn’t that a little foolhardy?’ she asked.
‘Foolhardy?’ he questioned in a rumbling voice that startled her. ‘Not when you’re a strong swimmer and you’ve been doing it for years without incident.’
‘Poor choice of words on my part,’ she said, not wanting to upset him. But he seemed to have forgotten it already. Smiling, he produced a real estate brochure from his jacket pocket.
‘I picked this up before I left for Sydney. Thought you might be interested.’
She leafed through its pages filled with glossy images of glamorous properties and sensational views. The prices weren’t as astronomical as she had imagined. In her head she did the sums. The purchase price of the Manse had been a third of what she’d made from the sale of her Sydney house. That meant she had enough in savings to buy a nice apartment in Flynns Bay and still have money left over. It was a tempting thought, especially if the fates were offering her the chance to be with a man like Phil.
After the main course, Angie couldn’t eat another thing, but Geoff persuaded her to try a chocolate soufflé with a berry coulis. Then coffee and chocolate truffles arrived, signalling the end of the meal. Suddenly she felt guilty. She’d been enjoying herself so much she hadn’t even thought about making a confession. Worse still, he was probably about to ask her to stay the night. Wasn’t that the inevitable dénouement to a fancy dinner, at least according to the painting ladies’ guide to dating? The problem was that no matter how much she fancied Geoff, she wasn’t willing to take the next step, not tonight at any rate. And certainly not before telling him the truth.
But just as she was agonising about how to decline gently, he said, ‘Can you believe it’s midnight already? I’d better find you a taxi. Not that I don’t want you to stay. It’s just I can sense you’re not ready for that level of intimacy.’
What a relief. No need to make excuses or hint at rainchecks. How perfect that Geoff understood her feelings. There weren’t many men with that degree of empathy.
At the hotel entrance, he gave her a lingering kiss and put her in a taxi. She was at Vicky’s in five minutes. Like the teenagers they once were, they drank hot chocolate at the kitchen counter.
‘How was your dinner?’ asked Vicky.
‘Lovely.’
‘I gather this lawyer is really something.’
‘Mmm.’
‘You haven’t told me much about him, Angie. Why the mystery?’
‘No mystery. He cooks like a chef, looks like a matinee idol and has a penthouse with million-dollar views.’
‘Sounds too good to be true. Are you sure he’s not married?’
Angie laughed. ‘You sound like Blake. And yes, I’m absolutely sure.’
‘Never married. That’s a problem. Is he a mummy’s boy?’
‘He’s divorced.’
‘Oh.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing, not these days. And I’m happy for you. You need a good man in your life, particularly after that ridiculous fling you had with Jack Songbird.’
‘There are times when I think Jack was just a product of my imagination. But this is something solid. When I’m with Geoff I feel cherished. I haven’t felt that way since Phil died.’
Although Angie should have been tired after such a long day, she couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t that Vicky’s spare room was uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. The generous sofa bed was clad in one-thousand-thread-count sheets crisply ironed and scented with linen water. But outside, an eerie world intruded into the haven Vicky had created, its bright lights penetrating the closed plantation shutters, producing a preternatural dawn when it should have been dark. Meanwhile, the sounds of police sirens and squealing brakes jolted Angie awake every time she started to doze. Tossing and turning, she longed for the comforting sounds of a Millbrooke night – the deep-throated song of a courting frog, the plaintive bleating of a sheep, even the screeching of a possum in search of a partner. Finally she must have fallen asleep because at daybreak she was lost in a dream about buying an apartment in the building next to Geoff’s. Lying in the languid semiconsciousness between sleeping and waking, she was filled with contentment at finding a solution to her dilemma. It was so simple she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before – just move to Flynns Bay; then you’ll never have to tell him about your recent past. The warm feeling was transient though. As she emerged from the dream, its stupidity became obvious. There wasn’t any simple solution. Not for a woman who owned a B&B and was running for council. She couldn’t just abandon her life there as if it had never existed . . . could she?
In the morning, there was a text from Geoff.
Did the flowers arrive safely? Alan A.
What flowers? Oh no. He must have sent flowers to the house in Sydney – the address on her office file. What would those new owners make of a bouquet with a card attached from ‘Alan A.’? Thank goodness they didn’t speak
English, or else they’d be phoning the florist to say the flowers weren’t theirs. Heart-stopping moments like this were the product of the web of lies that she herself had created. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to come clean. The promise she had made to herself about revealing all at the Sydney dinner had crumbled in the face of her pleasure at being in Geoff’s company. Blake would probably call it avoidance and denial, and he might well be right, but it seemed easier to block out things she couldn’t cope with and simply seize the moment. At least for now.
She texted back, thanking Geoff for being so thoughtful, and promptly received a message in reply: Would you like to come for the weekend? On your own terms of course.
What a lawyerly way to phrase it. Furthermore, it denoted a gentleman. He was offering her the possibility of romance, while tendering the security that it needn’t become sexual.
Sounds lovely, she replied. His disclaimer was reassuring. Even though she longed to be in the arms of a man who made her feel cherished, she’d only known him a few weeks.
That evening Millbrooke Shire Council unanimously passed DA5718, complete with the modifications suggested by the heritage officer. Afterwards FOTE members retired to the RSL for a cleansing ale and to plan the next stage of their protest.
‘If Angie is elected in December,’ said Bert, ‘perhaps she can push for a rescission motion.’
‘But what if Andrew gets started right away?’ asked Moira. ‘It might be half-finished by then.’
‘He’ll need a construction certificate before he can commence work,’ said Jonathan.
‘That’s a fait accompli,’ said Alice. ‘And it only takes a few days.’
‘Well, I think it’s important for FOTE to maintain the momentum,’ said Mark. ‘We need to promote our candidate. I should take a photo of you, Angie, for the posters and newspaper ads. We could do it here.’
‘Not tonight,’ objected Angie. ‘What about tomorrow? I’ll wash my hair and put on some make-up.’
A Place of Her Own Page 17