‘I find her intriguing – on a professional level, of course. What an interesting case study she’d make. A classic narcissist.’
Trust Blake to have a label for her. Angie gave him a nudge in the arm.
‘Don’t you ever do that to me again, Blake Wallace. I thought you were going to run off with the woman.’
‘Hardly, Mum. Sophie and I are planning to give it another go.’
‘Then why did you say you’re unattached?’
‘Technically, it’s true. Sophie’s having Christmas with her parents. Then she’s moving back to the flat in a few days’ time.’
‘Well, I’m glad she didn’t hear that rubbish about enjoying your freedom.’
‘It was a joke, Mum.’
‘It didn’t sound like it to me. Anyway, Sophie’s a lovely girl and I wish you both happiness. But just bear in mind what happened to Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.’
‘Are they friends of yours?’
Angie checked to see whether Blake was smiling. No, he was genuinely perplexed.
‘It doesn’t matter, Blake. It’s from last century, long before you were born.’
There was a knock at the kitchen door.
‘Are you sure you don’t need any help?’ Richard asked, poking his head round the door.
Angie started to laugh. ‘No, we’re fine. We were just talking about Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.’
After Richard and Diana left, the boys took Alfie for a walk, while Angie collapsed on the sofa.
‘I think that was the most bizarre Christmas of my life, second only to the one when I discovered there wasn’t any Santa and cried most of the day.’
‘What about that Diana?’ said Vicky. ‘Richard’s well rid of her. Actually, I wonder why he married her in the first place.’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘But they have nothing in common and she’s such a . . .’
‘Opposites attract,’ said Angie. If Richard were present, he’d be sure to know the Latin for that catchphrase.
‘I think he’d be much better off with someone who shared his interests.’
‘Are you referring to anyone in particular?’
‘I’ve always said he’s got a crush on you, Angie, from the very first day you took me to his place for afternoon tea.’
‘Well, I can assure you it’s strictly platonic.’
‘But you like him?’
Angie lowered her voice, even though no one was around. ‘Maybe.’
‘So you haven’t . . .?’
‘Of course not. I told you before. We’re just friends.’
‘Does he have a problem, you know, in the bedroom department?’
‘No, Vicky,’ Angie replied impatiently. ‘It’s complicated.’
Angie clammed up, but Vicky pressed on with her interrogation, ‘I’m guessing the problem isn’t Richard’s.’
‘I don’t want to discuss it.’
‘I’ve been through it too, Angie. Waning hormones and lack of sex drive. But there’s a solution.’
Angie groaned in anticipation of the inevitable sermon about HRT. She wouldn’t touch the stuff with a barge pole. Anyway, the situation had nothing to do with hormones. But she’d let Vicky think so. It was much simpler that way.
As Richard lay alone in his four-poster bed, he was thinking about Angie. Some people might consider it odd that the two of them hadn’t actually made love. But he understood her fragility – not so long ago a man had almost raped her. Sex wasn’t on her agenda right now. He might give her a chaste kiss now and then, but anything more could startle her. One day though, she would be ready. And he was patient. He could wait until then.
Before Angie went to bed, she looked inside Richard’s plastic bag. There was a note and a velvet-covered box, large enough to hold a necklace. She unfolded the note first.
This isn’t a gift, Ange. I don’t do gifts. Or cards, for that matter. I found this when I first bought Millerbrooke. Inside Captain Miller’s Chinese export desk. You’ll know who it belonged to when you open it. Yes, I realise it should be in the museum, but I’d rather you have it.
I think the Miller and Chen families would have liked that too.
By the way, happy Christmas.
I love you.
Your devoted suitor
As Angie opened the box, she saw a white enamel cross edged in gold. At its centre a laurel wreath encircled a gold crown on a red background. It hung from a red ribbon with blue margins and two gold bars at the top. When she turned the medal over, there was no name. Only four engraved numbers. She had to put on her glasses to read them.
1917
Angie caught her breath. Then she went straight to her laptop and typed ‘Distinguished Service Order’ into the search engine. A picture appeared of the very same medal. The caption accompanying the image read:
Between 1901 and 1972 when the last award was made, Distinguished Service Orders were awarded to over one thousand Australian soldiers.
She pressed the medal to her heart. Then she remembered she hadn’t given Richard a present.
23 STRIKE ME LUCKY!
Not long after Christmas, Jennie turned up at Angie’s door. She wore a dress with shoestring straps, revealing flawless, milky-white arms.
‘Your eczema is gone,’ said Angie, ushering her into the house.
‘I know. Isn’t it amazing? It must have been the holiday. And all that swimming in the ocean. The kids had a great time.’
‘And what about you and Mark?’
Jennie waved her hand in front of Angie’s eyes, flashing a ring with a very large diamond.
‘You’re engaged!’
They jumped up and down like children.
‘When did he ask you?’
‘The last night of our holiday. He’d brought the ring with him. Isn’t it stunning?’
‘It certainly is.’
‘We’re getting married at Easter. Then Mark is taking long service leave and we’re having a month’s honeymoon, starting in Paris.’
‘Oh, Jen. That’s so romantic.’
‘I know. He’s such a sentimental person, Angie. I don’t know how I could ever have thought he was involved with someone else.’
‘It was a difficult time. Doubts can creep in when you’re under stress.’
‘You’ve been such a good friend to me, Angie. That’s why I want to ask you something. I’m having two bridesmaids. One of them is Narelle. Would you be the other?’
‘I’d love to.’
‘Good. Mark is lining up the best man and groomsman. It’s a secret, but you won’t tell, will you?’
‘I promise.’
‘Mark’s brother is best man. And you’ll never guess who he’s asking to be groomsman.’
‘Bert?’
‘No. Guess again.’
‘Jonathan Taylor.’
‘Keep guessing.’
‘Not Richard?’
‘Yes!’
‘Did you and Mark set this up?’
‘No, we made our choices independently. But the result’s nice, isn’t it, Angie? Synergy – is that the word? It might give the two of you inspiration to do it yourself.’
‘Get married?’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m already married, Jen.’
‘No, you’re not, Angie. Even the Bible lets you off the hook when you’re a widow.’
‘It’s hard to explain. I feel as if I’m still married to Phil. But I love Richard as well.’
‘He’s a good man. It’s lucky one of us didn’t spot him first.’
Angie laughed. For years nobody had even noticed Richard. She had been as guilty as the rest. Then again, other than Moira, Angie had been the first to suspect there was an interesting person beneath the woollen hats an
d flannelette shirts. And even then it had taken her a year to notice.
From inside her tote bag Jennie produced a padded envelope. Written in neat block letters across the front was the word, ‘JENNIE’.
Just the name, no address, and no sender on the back.
‘I found this on my doorstep this morning, when I went to collect the paper. I was too scared to open it.’
‘Come into the kitchen and I’ll take a look,’ said Angie, fearing Diana was up to her old tricks. But why would she keep picking on Jennie?
Once they were settled at the kitchen table, Angie looked inside. Nothing nasty like a snake or a redback spider. Instead, there was a note:
It wasn’t you. Sorry. Use this to pay for your car.
The note was wrapped around thirty green one-hundred-dollar bills, secured with an elastic band.
Wrapped in tissue was a teddy bear about the size of a hand.
A small burgundy velvet box contained a diamond ring.
In the first week of January, Millbrooke’s shops and cafés reopened following their traditional Christmas break. On the Tuesday morning Angie received a voicemail from Richard saying he would meet her at the emporium café at ten o’clock sharp. When she arrived a few minutes early, she discovered a sign on the window saying ‘Closed until further notice’. Someone had draped sheets across the plate glass to hide the interior. Even though she had known it would happen sooner or later, the reality still shook her. She looked up at the dragon brackets and blinked tears from her eyes. Suddenly there were two men in white painters’ overalls at the threshold. As she watched in shock, they began scraping away at the double doors. The phony war was over. The desecration had begun. By the end of the day the doors would probably be turquoise.
Then she heard Richard’s voice. ‘Hi, Ange. I’d hoped to get here before you.’
Angie could barely contain herself. ‘Have you seen what they’re doing?’
‘It’s okay. Don’t get upset.’
But she was upset. So much so that she’d barely noticed Richard was wearing a smart navy jacket and carrying a briefcase.
‘Let’s get some breakfast,’ he said. ‘We can go to the Gold Rush Café.’
‘How could I possibly eat when there are people vandalising the emporium?’
‘They’re not vandals. They’re heritage experts, taking paint scrapings to ascertain the original paint colours.’
‘Don’t tell me Andrew is going to use heritage colours?’
‘No, he’s not. Because he doesn’t own the emporium any more.’
‘Sorry. Did you say he’s sold the emporium?’
‘Yes, contracts were exchanged about twenty minutes ago. That’s why I’m late. I’m the new owner.’
‘Strike me lucky!’ said Angie. It was an expression she’d learnt from her grandfather, but she hardly ever used it herself. The last time would have been when she found out that Amy Duncan had married Charles Chen.
‘There won’t be a DA, Ange. No renovations, no upper storey, only a restoration under strict heritage guidelines. Because I’ll be supervising it.’
‘This can’t be happening. It’s just a dream, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s real.’
‘Oh my goodness! You’ve saved the emporium!’
‘I did it for Amy and Charles. And for you.’
Angie’s eyes were filling with tears again, spilling onto her cheeks.
‘I’ve had Jim Holbrook draw up a covenant which preserves the emporium in perpetuity. Any future owner must leave it intact.’
Then something dawned on her. ‘This means you’ve had to buy yet another Miller Street property.’
‘That’s true. But I’ve sold one too. The old mill. Andrew and I did a swap, except that the mill is worth more than the emporium so he’s had to contribute the extra money.’
‘But didn’t you have plans for the mill?’
‘Yes, I’ve transferred them to the emporium. I want it to be a community art gallery.’
‘I’m hallucinating, aren’t I? This can’t be true. Every artist in Millbrooke has dreamt about something like that.’
‘Well, when I was at your “Aspects of Millbrooke” exhibition last year, I began thinking about a permanent space where Millbrooke artists could show their work. It’s hard to visualise things now because it’s full of tables and chairs, but once it’s empty, it will be a beautiful exhibition space.’
‘I can picture it already – with those rows of wooden shelves for displaying ceramics and the high walls for hanging paintings.’
‘There’s a delayed settlement. Andrew has until July to move out. In the meantime, I’m allowing him to move into the mill at his own pace. Rent-free. It was a little incentive to encourage him to sign the deal.’
‘Speaking of the mill, won’t Andrew put advertising signs everywhere?’
‘No, there are restrictions within the contract. He’s allowed to have a discreet advertising board near the main road and a sign on the building itself. And the car park will be out the back.’
‘I bet he’s thrilled to have his own parking area.’
‘Too right he is. His customers can never get a spot outside the emporium.’
‘Richard, I’m so sorry that I nagged you the way I did about selling the mill.’
‘You were pretty pissed off when I said no.’
‘Why didn’t you just tell me about the art gallery?’
‘It was only a vague idea. I wasn’t even sure it would work. And then I wondered about swapping the mill for the emporium. But I didn’t want to get your hopes up. I needed that deal signed, sealed and delivered before I could tell you. I couldn’t bear to disappoint you, Ange.’
‘You could never disappoint me. Not ever.’ She took his hand, right there in Miller Street. ‘I love you, Richard Scott.’
‘I’ve loved you longer, Angie Wallace.’
Angie removed her phone from her bag. ‘May I ring Bert and tell him? Or is it top-secret?’
‘Top-secret and Millbrooke tend to be mutually exclusive, Ange.’
But they both knew that was wrong. Millbrooke was as full of secrets as anywhere else.
A few days later, Richard turned up at the Gold Rush Café, waving a copy of the Gazette.
‘It’s in print,’ he said.
‘I know. I bought the paper first thing.’
Millbrooke’s Councillors Elect First Female Mayor
By Jonathan Taylor, Editor
Millbrooke history was made this week when Mrs Angie Wallace was elected by her fellow councillors as Millbrooke Shire’s first female president. Although there was some debate as to whether she should be referred to as Mrs President or simply ‘ma’am’, Mrs Wallace said: ‘Titles are irrelevant. What’s important right now is to reduce the endemic inefficiencies which have produced an exorbitant impost on ratepayers. We intend to do this without impinging negatively on our services to the community.
‘To that end, we are negotiating a new waste management contract which will bring significant savings to our residents. As a result, we are hopeful of offering a modest rebate to every household in Millbrooke. Never before has Millbrooke Council returned money to its ratepayers.’
When the Gazette addressed these issues with former mayor Bob Brannigan, he replied: ‘It is important to observe the correct forms of address in terms of the mayoral office. I suggest that Mrs Wallace be known as Madam President.
‘As for the rebate, councils should be in the business of taking money from residents, not giving it back.’
In the middle of January Snow White finally gave birth to her cria – a female, mostly brown with a white blaze on her chest and black eyeliner. It had been a very long pregnancy, lasting almost a year.
‘The brown colour must be a throwback,’ said Richard, shaking his h
ead when he arrived to visit the newborn. ‘There’s no other explanation.’
The laws of genetics dictated that the offspring of a white alpaca and a black one was likely to be black or a combination of the two. And even though she knew it was impossible for a wether to father a baby, Angie liked to think it had something to do with Tutankhamun.
‘What are you going to call her, Ange?’ asked Richard.
His own alpacas didn’t have names. He referred to them by colour, age and gender. Angie was always berating him about depersonalising them.
‘Nefertiti,’ said Angie. ‘In deference to Tutankhamun. She has his Egyptian eyes.’
Angie and the vet had been present for the birth, but there had been no need of assistance. Alpacas were good at having babies. They had such a lengthy gestation in which to prepare for it. Even so, it was their timing Angie most admired. They delivered their young in the morning. That allowed the baby to be on its feet and oriented to the world by nightfall, when nocturnal predators were more prone to strike.
Angie envied Snow White’s competence as a first-time mother. No postnatal depression. No hobbling around with a painful episiotomy or a caesarean incision. Just back to everyday life as if it had never happened – except for the existence of a baby, who resembled a floppy soft toy with huge camel eyes in a miniature face, following her around like a tiny shadow. Angie took photos on her phone and sent them to all her friends. Next thing I’ll be hanging alpaca portraits in the hallway, she thought to herself.
‘You know you can breed her again soon,’ said Richard.
‘You don’t mean right away, do you?’
‘In a few weeks. Breeders do it all the time on account of the long gestation. It’s essential if you want to have a cria born every year.’
‘But Snow White may not be interested. She’s a mum now. When you’re looking after a newborn, you don’t have any interest in sex.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you, Ange? You can’t endow animals with human qualities. It’s about procreation. Desire doesn’t come into it.’
‘Well, how do you explain the attraction between Snow White and Tutankhamun? It’s always been there, just waiting to be resolved.’ She gave Richard a quick look to check his reaction, but he was absorbed in patting Snow White’s neck. Where were his bloody antennae when you needed them?
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