by Claire McNab
I said, "No riding crop?"
Lee smiled at the hint of mockery. "I left the hunting jacket and hat at home, too."
It had rained during the night, and the washed air was like wine. We rode up to the stables in a little electric buggy and as we traveled along the edge of the golf course I saw her glancing appreciatively at a striking red-haired woman teeing off with a companion for an early morning game.
Surprised at my thoughts, I looked away. Don't you care that people know you're gay... that they say things behind your back? Then, more resentfully, Are you after some action? If so, you can find it on your own.
Lee said, "Do you play golf?"
The red-haired woman had completed a graceful swing at the ball. I said, "That's Sharon Castell. She's our publicity officer and a very good golfer — much better than I am. I'll arrange a game with her, if you like." I was almost tempted to add that Sharon was very much married to a professional football player.
"I met Sharon in the States — she was part of the A.P.P. team. And yes, I'd enjoy a game of golf with her."
"I'll see what I can do."
At the stables a small group of early-risers were uneasily eying a bunch of bored horses. A whippet-thin man, tightening girths and checking bridles, said to us in a flat nasal voice, "You two ridden before?" He grunted at our affirmations. "We'll see."
Gesturing at two horses tethered apart from the others, he said, "Mind, you'd better be dinkum, because if you're not, those two will sort you out."
He watched critically as Lee adjusted the stirrups, then mounted the gray with confident grace. When I swung myself up into the saddle of the big restless bay, he grunted again. "Okay, you'll do. Might as well go ahead while I nursemaid this lot over here. The trail's signposted down to the beach. When you get there, ride along to the end of it, and wait. And don't do anything stupid. Right?"
The trail wound through the rainforest, a red-earth gouge in the brilliant greens of the tropical undergrowth. Luxuriant ferns, prized items in cooler climates, grew in wild profusion underneath the thick foliage of trees and creepers. There was a warm, moist, heavy smell of rotting wood and humus — not unpleasant, but pervasive.
We walked the horses, then trotted, finally cantering as the trail flattened out into a wider swathe through the crowding vegetation. I hadn't been on a horse for a long time, but my body remembered the balance and rhythm that made riding so enjoyable and I smiled at the scent of horse and leather. Glancing at Lee Paynter, I was unsurprised to find that she rode with a relaxed, confident style that suggested considerable riding experience.
I had to smile at my chagrin. Did she do every bloody thing well?
We came out onto the beach on the opposite side of the island, a long narrow strip of ocher sand edged on one side by small foaming waves whipped up by a stiff breeze, and on the other by a tangle of vegetation and debris washed up in storms. Out from the shore several sailboard riders skimmed their bright craft before the wind in a precarious balance between optimum speed or an ignominious dunking. Otherwise we were alone.
Lee's gray horse lifted his feet high, dancing with impatience against the tight rein. Lee looked across at my bay gelding, similarly restless. "Race you!" she challenged.
"You're on!"
Released, the horses were joyously away, their hoofs rhythmically pounding the hard-packed sand. I'd driven my heels into the bay's flanks and he'd leaped like a thoroughbred into the gallop, leaving the gray behind. I leaned over his neck, urging him to greater speed. His mane whipped back in my face, the trees and bushes on my left blurred into a continuous green wall, a flock of seagulls rose in noisy protest.
Lee had set the gray on the hard sand at the edge of the water, and his pounding feet threw sheets of drenching spray as he gained on the bay.
"Got you!" she shouted as she drew level.
I stood in the stirrups as my horse gathered himself to jump a huge fallen tree that blocked the beach. Alive with fear and excitement, I shouted as he landed cleanly and resumed his headlong gallop.
Looking back over my shoulder, I saw that Lee had skirted the dead branches by riding further out into the water, and was again closing the distance between us. She was a superb rider, perfectly balanced and daring, and she swept past me just before the beach ended in a tangle of driftwood.
She skidded to a graceful stop in a shower of sand — I narrowly missed falling as my horse abruptly straightened his legs to accomplish a similar sudden halt.
"One each," said Lee. "You win at tennis, I win at horse-racing."
Sitting easily on the panting horse, I felt relaxed, off-guard. "Are you always this competitive?"
"Always."
Suddenly realizing I'd overstepped the mark, I said hastily, "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."
"Why not?"
"It was rude... you might think I was criticizing you in some way."
Lee gave a low, smoky chuckle. "Were you?"
"No, of course not." Her amused stare prodded me into saying too much. "I mean... I think I'm just as competitive as you are, but I don't show it..."
"Now you're accusing me of being obvious."
I was immediately irritated. This woman's just playing with me. She knows I'm supposed to keep her happy, but I'm damned if I'll apologize again...
To my relief I saw the other riders appearing at the far end of the beach. "I'm going to meet them," I said, nudging my horse with my heels. Her ironic acknowledging nod stayed in my mind as the bay trotted back along the sand.
I'd been warned Lee Paynter was hard, demanding and difficult to please — so why in the hell was I verbally jousting with her? Ruefully I considered the possibilities. Perhaps it was an unconscious career death-wish. Or perhaps my resentment was based on envy of her self-assurance.
When possible, Sir Frederick scheduled a brief morning staff meeting each day of a convention, and he frowned upon latecomers. In the space of forty minutes I had seen Lee back to her cabana, showered, changed into white shorts and a hot pink top, pinned on my green and gold identification badge, and hurried to join the twenty or so A.P.P. staff in the administration block meeting room.
Sharon Castell and Steve Monahan waved to me, indicating they'd saved me a seat, but before I could take it Sir Frederick called me over. "Alexandra, I noticed you left last night's dinner rather early..."
Surprised I'd been missed in such a seafood spectacular, I said, "I'm sorry, Sir Frederick, I was tired, so I took the opportunity to slip away. Was there something you needed me for?"
He patted my arm. "A few things, but they'll wait. How are you getting on with Lee Paynter?"
"Fine."
His expression indicated he expected a more detailed response, so I added, "Very well. We went horseback-riding this morning."
"Excellent. But if you have any problems or worries, Alexandra, I want you to come straight to me. Her good will is very important, as you know."
When I joined the others, Steve, looking more than ever the stereotypical Aussie male, said with satisfaction, "I told you Sir Fred was interested — he can't keep his hands off you."
I stared at him.
"Don't bother glaring at me, Alex," he went on, "because I'm sure Sharon agrees with me."
Sharon rolled her eyes. To change the subject, I said to her, "Saw you hitting off this morning. Good game?"
"It was great, though I lost a ball in the rainforest."
"Lee Paynter wants to play golf, and I'm not up to her standard — I just hack my way around a course. Is there a chance you could fit in with her schedule?"
Sharon made an expansive gesture. "Anything to please the customers. I'll look her up and make a definite time."
I smiled at her, reflecting on how much I valued our firm but undemanding friendship. A large woman, both physically and in extroverted manner, Sharon Castell had a smile so wide and white that it seemed she had been blessed with more than the usual number of teeth. Flaming red hair sprang from her scalp i
n thick, irrepressible waves. People responded positively to her genuine warmth. Not only was I fond of Sharon, I admired her professionally. She was the consummate publicist, and her association with Australasian Pan Pacific had done much to ensure the convention's influential guest list. It seemed to me she was on a first-name basis with almost everybody who was anybody, but this easy familiarity gave no impression of opportunism or expediency.
Sir Frederick had positioned himself behind the lectern on the dais. He tapped sharply for attention, waited until the babble of conversation became a respectful silence, then began the meeting. He was dapper in what I call English Gentlemen's Tropical Wear — a tailored cream safari shirt with silk cravat, tan shorts ending just above the knee, matching long socks and soft leather slip-on shoes. The finishing touch to the outfit lay on a table — a cream-colored panama hat decorated with a band of the same material as his cravat.
Although it was a ridiculous idea, I considered Steve's suggestion that Sir Frederick might be interested in me at a personal level. He was a widower, his wife, a respected but genteel novelist, having died two years previously. I supposed some would consider him a worthy catch — a title, money and membership in the social elite, combined with a well-preserved body, distinguished bearing and a hearty manner. I grinned to myself. Was it really conceivable that Sir Frederick saw me as the future Lady Alexandra?
Steve had been watching me. He pressed his elbow against my ribs. "Considering the possibilities, eh?"
Sir Frederick paused, obviously irritated that anyone should be speaking during his address. He waited long enough to make the point, then concluded his succinct comments on the day's activities.
As printed schedules were distributed by Jackie Luff, his sharp-featured personal assistant, Sir Frederick closed with his usual rah rah exhortation to the troops: "And I'm sure I don't need to remind you that our guests are very influential people. I want them to enjoy every moment, and leave with a more than favorable view of Australia. We're here to make sure they know what our country has to offer their clients — not only some of the most spectacular scenery in the world, but also our way of doing things in a relaxed, friendly but efficient manner."
It was characteristic of his speaking style that he waited for a few moments for this to sink in, then he concluded, "And lastly, we are all here to make things run smoothly, to promote Australasian tourism, and, of course, to have a good time ourselves."
Steve snorted. "Have a good time? I'm flat out just keeping up." He nudged me again. "But speaking of good times, how are you going with Lee Paynter?"
"Steve, would you keep your elbow to yourself?"
He ignored my complaint, saying in a jocular tone, "She's got a rep as a fast worker. Loves 'em and leaves 'em — you know how it is." His grin had an edge of malice to it. "Put the hard word on you yet?"
Sharon raised her eyebrows, but I didn't allow my expression to change. "Not yet. And quite unlikely to, Steve."
He went on facetiously, "Well, love, if you're not her cup of tea, watch out you don't find yourself scouting out talent on her behalf. Remember Sir Frederick wants her kept particularly happy..."
I'd had enough. "You see me as a pimp, do you, Steve?"
He blinked. I wasn't playing the game the way he wanted it played. "Oh, fair go, Alex. It was only a joke."
"I'm not laughing."
Steve hated to be at a disadvantage, so he seized the initiative again. "Lee Paynter's not a bad looker, and she wouldn't be short of a quid. Pity it's all wasted."
Although experience had taught me that the best course was to ignore him, I couldn't resist. "You're saying all this because she's never shown the slightest interest in you."
Sharon had been listening to us with a cynical smile. "You tell him, kid," she said to me.
He wasn't offended by my remark, only amused. "Too true, love, too true." He added with a half-joking leer, "Bet I could straighten her out, given half the chance."
Sharon hooted. "Don't tell me — let me guess. Just one wonderful night with you is all it takes. Right?"
"Right. A good screw's what she needs — and I'm the man to do it."
Sharon chuckled at my response to this: "I'll be sure to tell her. No doubt she'll be captivated by your offer."
"Steve's just stirring," said Sharon after he left us. "Don't let him get to you... it's his idea of fun."
I shrugged. I could hardly have been less interested in Steve or his motivations. However, it was a different story with my American charge. "Sharon, how well do you know Lee Paynter?"
"As well as anybody in the business, I suppose. I don't think many people get close to her."
"And?"
"And she's great. I like her."
I smiled at her affectionately. "Sharon, you like everybody. It's your job."
"Yes, but I really do like Lee. She can be brash, she drives a hard bargain, but she's got integrity."
"I'm supposed to look after her. It'd help if I knew a bit more. All I hear is that she's charming but basically ruthless, and she has a reputation for being difficult."
Sharon grinned. "If Lee'd been a male, she'd be admired for her single-minded drive and disciplined approach. Since she's a woman, she's ruthless and difficult."
"So what do you know about this ruthless, difficult woman?"
Sharon flung her arms wide. "Gossip? Or just the facts?"
I put a hand on her shoulder, aware as I did so how rare it was for me to make even casual physical contact. "Whatever you want to tell me. Come on, I'll buy you a cup of coffee and you can give me the lowdown."
The Tern Island Coffee Shop notable, but not for coffee alone — it provided a selection of exotic tortes, tarts, cakes and pastries that made adherence to a diet a heroic exercise. Sharon, announcing that self-denial was damaging to the character, chose a slice of what seemed to be the stickiest and richest of chocolate confections sitting fatly in the refrigerated cabinet. I'd never developed a taste for sweet things — my parents had strictly limited such frivolity when I was young — so I chose cheese and crackers.
Sharon looked sympathetically at my plate. "You need to indulge yourself now and then, Alex. It's no fun being a puritan all the time."
This remark drew a laughing protest from me. "I'm not."
Sharon didn't smile. "You're so hard on yourself. You seem to set rules and regulations to live by. When do you give yourself room to play?"
This wasn't a comfortable conversation, particularly since her summation of people was always unnervingly accurate. "Enough of me," I said lightly. "Let's have the info on Lee Paynter."
Sharon reflected as she took a large bite out of her cake. "Okay, here we have a very successful woman, and she didn't get there by playing Ms. Nice Guy. Hence all these remarks hinting she's a ball-breaking bitch."
"I haven't heard anyone be that extreme..."
"Sure you have, you just haven't recognized it. Steve's a good example. And he's doubly threatened by the fact she's openly gay. That means she can't be intimidated sexually, or encouraged to play the role of little woman."
I was astonished at the underlying anger in Sharon's voice. "I didn't realize you felt this way."
She ran her hands through her mane of red hair. "I'm in publicity. I like everyone, remember?" She went on more- seriously, "You must know what it's like. You just can't rest on your laurels — you have to keep on proving you're better than the male competition. And at the same time, be careful not to reveal anything that could be categorized as feminine weakness. Isn't that true?"
I shrugged. "Suppose so."
"Lee Paynter's opted not to climb the corporate ladder, but to run her own company. Even so, she still has to deal with businesses run by men who resent powerful women."
Suddenly I felt bleak. "It's all bloody depressing."
"No, it isn't. Not when women like Lee make it to the top. And she didn't inherit a business from family or husband, she built it all herself."
"So, what
's she like as a person?"
Thoughtfully, Sharon stirred sugar into her cappuccino. "I think there's a lot more to her than meets the eye, but she's not the sort to show it.
Plenty of gossip about her, of course, since she's so openly a lesbian. For what it's worth, I've heard she plays the field. First time I met her socially she was with one woman, and a week later, it was another one, so I guess there's some truth in it. Having said that, I've got to say she never mixes business with pleasure. As you can imagine, there'd be some who'd be delighted to spread gossip accusing her of sexual harassment."
She paused to sip her coffee. "So, is this what you want?"
I felt uncomfortable, wondering if this discussion of the woman's personal life was what I wanted. I cleared my throat. "Her business is successful..."
"So it should be. Basically, Lee Paynter knows what she wants, and most of the time, she gets it." Sharon grinned as she added, "But in case you're worried, no matter what Steve says, I've never heard that she makes a move on anyone who isn't gay..."
I said mockingly, "And you know how I like to live life to the fullest."
One thing that sets Tern Island apart is that it has its own colony of artists. The group was founded by an eccentric potter some years ago and is now well established in a patch of rainforest within comfortable walking distance from the beach. It's a symbiotic arrangement: the resort's brochures describe the colony as an exotic addition to the usual offerings of tropical paradises; the craft workers and artists flog their work to curious visitors.
Sir Frederick himself joined our party of ten or so guests scheduled for a morning inspection of the craft center and its merchandise. Hilary Ferguson, looking splendid but inappropriate in a chic cream safari outfit, chatted to him for a few moments. I thought how alien their cool English accents sounded in the hot tropical environment. Then Sir Frederick said a few words to me about arrangements for chartered helicopters to visit Cape Tribulation.