By Marriage Divided

by Lindsay Armstrong

  ‘A lot of people who come to Dunk might feel that way,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s so beautiful, and it’s romantic when you think of Banfield coming here because of his health, which he regained completely but…it could be a transient thing.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said, but, she got the feeling, a little distantly. Then they went back to bed and she helped him to get to sleep in a time-honoured way.

  The next morning, after breakfast, they were sitting at one of the tables beside the pool with its blue and black Ulysses butterflies painted on the bottom. The beach was right beside them, fringed with coconut palms growing in graceful curves towards the water, and the tide was in and rhythmically bathing the sand. No surf here within the protection of the reef, but the quality of light on the smooth, glittering surface of the water as it reflected the densely wooded slope of the island towards Mount Kootaloo was amazing.

  Domenica had a turquoise bikini on beneath a filmy buttercup sarong tied between her breasts, large sunglasses and a peaked cap. Her hair was tied back and her pale skin was starting to acquire a golden bloom.

  They planned to take advantage of the high tide and have a swim, then laze on the beach before playing six holes of golf. After lunch they planned to walk up to the farm and take the afternoon ride along the southern beaches.

  But she said suddenly, ‘Have you got an awful lot on your plate at the moment, Angus? Work-wise? Or should I say more than usual, which is a lot anyway?’

  ‘Yep.’ He pulled off his T-shirt. ‘There’s a merger coming up. Until now I’ve stuck to road transport and haulage but I’m thinking of buying a small freight airline and expanding it.’ He moved his shoulders and grimaced.

  ‘But you’re not too enthused of the idea at the moment?’ she suggested.

  ‘I was very enthused of it and I will be again, no doubt,’ he said ruefully and stood up and stretched, causing Domenica to marvel that she could still be affected by the sight of him wearing only bathers after over six months of being his lover.

  ‘You know what happens when the tide goes out around here, don’t you?’ he went on.

  ‘Yes, a mud-flat. Are you saying we should get in and swim before it’s too late?’

  ‘I am. I’m also suggesting we swim down to the jetty. Good for the figure.’

  She looked down at herself and laughed. ‘Am I getting fat?’

  ‘Hardly.’ He allowed his gaze to run over her as she released the sarong.

  ‘That’s a long swim!’

  ‘I’ll take you for a ride on a jet ski when we get there. We can go round Purtaboi.’

  Purtaboi was the little island that danced in the bay. But, as Domenica looked out towards it and said she’d like that, it was in her mind suddenly to think that Angus might not only be affected by the magic of Dunk, but at a genuine crossroads in his life, another one. Buying Lidcombe Peace had been a crossroads for him but had it not come up to expectations or…?

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said and jumped down onto the beach.

  It was a thought she was only properly able to enlarge on while she dressed for dinner that night. Angus had gone to send some faxes from the office and she was to meet him in the lounge.

  Even on Dunk it was cool in the evenings in August so she chose a long-sleeved denim blouse to wear with oyster, very fine cord trousers. Instead of tucking the blouse in, because it was bulky anyway, she wore it out with the silver chain belt that had come with the trousers slung loosely around her hips. And as she slid her feet into flat grey kid shoes she was struck again that he could have chosen, down to the shoes, things she not only loved but that fitted her perfectly.

  But as she sat down at the dressing table to do her hair and face she couldn’t avoid the unasked questions in her eyes as reflected in the mirror.

  If this was a crossroad for Angus, and she could feel the tension in him even without his difficulty in sleeping and desire to be active all the time, was it anything to do with her? Had the time come, she wondered as she picked up her brush and stroked it through her hair, for a decision one way or another?

  Then she realized she’d stopped brushing and was clenching the brush almost painfully in her fist. But what could she do, other than what she’d done these past four months, to help him make this decision and make it her way? Make some sort of a declaration of her own?

  She put the brush down and stood up with a sigh. Because how she’d been, how they’d been together for the past months was, one would have thought, the only declaration that needed making.

  He was waiting for her in the lounge and he stood up as he saw her approaching. There was no mistaking the salute in his eyes as they came together, nor the moment of intense focus they shared, as if the lounge, the pleasant music being played on the piano, the clink of glasses and the murmur of conversation might not have existed.

  It’s going to be all right, she told herself; it has to be.

  But it wasn’t.

  Another two months went past, Angus appeared to get back to normal, which was to say he was also extremely busy, and their relationship pursued the same course it always had. The Rose Bay home was finally sold and Barbara and Christy moved to a town house. And Domenica’s aerobics bodysuit became such a hit, she was flooded with orders and beseeched for more sportswear designs. She decided to call her label Aquarius.

  Then two things happened. Christy confided to Domenica that she and Ian Holmes, the young man who had arrived late at Domenica’s birthday party and who she now knew as a medical intern and thoroughly liked, were secretly engaged.

  ‘Ian wanted to shout it from the roof-tops,’ Christy said as she showed Domenica the sapphire engagement ring she wore on a ribbon around her neck, ‘but I persuaded him to let me get Mum really settled first.’

  Domenica hugged her little sister. ‘I’m so happy for you, darling! He’s such a honey.’

  ‘Not that we plan to get married just yet. He’s got another six months of his internship to go so we thought we’d wait until then. It’s funny,’ Christy added. ‘I thought you and Angus might beat us to the draw.’

  All Domenica had been able to say in response to the serious query in her sister’s eyes was, ‘It hasn’t got to that stage yet, Christy.’

  About a week later she and Angus spent the night in his penthouse, but when she woke the next morning he was gone and there was a note on the pillow to say that he’d forgotten to tell her he would be in Darwin and Perth for the next two weeks, but she’d looked so peaceful, he hadn’t wanted to wake her.

  Beside the note was a perfect pink rosebud.

  Domenica sat up, pushed her hair back and looked around at the silver and grey perfection of his bedroom—suddenly sterile apart from the lovely bowl of pink roses on a table—and discovered herself to be weeping helplessly and racked by the kind of mental agony she’d never known.

  But half an hour later she was showered and dressed, and she’d remade the bed with clean sheets as she always did for Mrs Bush. There was a note for Angus sealed into an envelope on the pillow, but the rosebud had been put back amongst the others in the vase. Then she went quietly around the apartment, gathering her belongings, a few books and sketchpads, some CDs, some clothes. She put them in a green rubbish bag—thanking heaven that Mrs Bush hadn’t arrived as yet—and, after a last look round, let herself out and dropped the keys she had to the penthouse into his mail box.

  Two days later she was winging her way to Europe on a jet, with her mother.

  They spent two months overseas ostensibly gathering fabrics and ideas but with Domenica, at least, trying to deal with a broken heart at the same time as she tried to make it a wonderful holiday for her mother.

  Barbara had been deeply disturbed by Domenica’s blunt announcement that she and Angus had broken up, but had been held mostly silent under the look of almost intolerable strain in her daughter’s eyes.

  It was in Italy that they made contact with a textile manufacturer whose father had been a f
riend of Walter Harris. Count Emilio Strozzi was fair and good-looking, about thirty, with a palazzo on the shores of a lake, unmarried and possessed of a roving eye. His factory also produced some of the most exciting fabrics Domenica had seen and they had a genuine rapport over this.

  That Emil, as he’d told her to call him, should earnestly desire this rapport to extend to the personal soon became apparent to Domenica, but she laughingly withstood it for the three weeks they spent in Italy. That didn’t stop Emil from wining and dining her or inviting her and her mother to the palazzo to meet his mother, and persuading them to spend a weekend with the family.

  Nor could Domenica see any reason not to accept an invitation, extended by his mother, to attend an anniversary ball at the palazzo—the hundredth anniversary of the founding of the textile company.

  What she failed to grasp, however, was that Emil was one of the country’s most eligible bachelors, and that she would end up splashed over a variety of newspapers and magazines in her beautiful delphinium gown with Count Emilio Strozzi beside her and looking down at her in an unmistakable way. The gossip columns had a field day and produced more pictures of them dining together, with captions asking who was this stunning Australian girl who looked set to steal a favourite son?

  But she managed to leave Italy without succumbing to Emil’s machinations, and without breaking his heart either. Nor did she give the matter much further thought and it never entered her head that the gossip, or the pictures, would find their way home—but they did.

  It was Natalie who alerted Domenica to the fact that she’d been romantically linked to an Italian count who looked almost as gorgeous as Angus Keir…although she’d bitten her tongue as soon as she’d said it.

  But Domenica had only shrugged and smiled vaguely. ‘Just wait until you see the gorgeous materials I bought from Count Emilio Strozzi, Nat. You’ll drool!’

  Natalie hesitated. ‘Angus rang, you know, from Perth or Darwin or somewhere like that. The day after you left.’

  Domenica said nothing.

  ‘He said he kept getting your answering machine. Dom, why was it left to me to tell him where you were?’

  Domenica looked up. ‘I’m sorry, Nat. I…I did leave him a note but he wouldn’t have got it until he got home.’

  ‘I can’t believe you let it end,’ Natalie said sadly.

  ‘I didn’t…’ Domenica stopped helplessly.

  ‘So this Italian count was not the reason?’

  Domenica blinked at her. ‘Are you joking?’ she asked incredulously.

  Natalie gestured helplessly. ‘It just, well, it could look that way.’

  ‘It was nothing.’ Domenica shrugged. ‘His father knew my father and it was my mother who organized it, otherwise I’d have dealt with some employee, no doubt. And, apart from the odd dinner I had with him, my mother was there all the time, at the ball as well.’

  ‘That’s not quite the impression the pictures gave.’

  Domenica clicked her tongue exasperatedly but left it at that.

  She’d been home a few weeks when she was invited to a party given by a couple of friends who’d been overseas for two years and were celebrating their return. A married couple, they were both in television, Mark Dodson being a current affairs reporter and his wife, Sue, whom Domenica had been to school with, a director of documentaries. They were also a trendy couple, whose parties had been renowned before they’d left for the States.

  Not that Domenica felt like partying, but she was genuinely fond of Sue and they were probably the only people in Sydney who wouldn’t know of her connection with Angus. Nor did she imagine that both she and Angus could know the Dodsons without it having come out while they were together. But, perhaps most importantly, she had the feeling she had to do something to pull herself together and get herself going again.

  Not that she felt like doing that either, but her state of mind was beginning to affect her creativity at a time when she really needed to take advantage of the hit she’d made in the sportswear arena.

  It was to be a late afternoon barbecue and it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. She donned an ivory linen blouse with short sleeves and a Peter Pan collar and a gathered, three-quarter-length skirt, black with ivory and taupe roses on it, and slid her feet into flat black shoes. Although it was January now, she decided to take her pashmina in case it turned cool, and she tied her hair back in a bronze scrunchie.

  She’d made Sue some cheese straws, which she wrapped in red Cellophane and tied with a raffia bow, and a welcome home card, and she tied a similar bow around the neck of a bottle of champagne for Mark. And she drove out to Castle Hill in the silver hatchback Angus had given her for her birthday so many moons ago, it seemed, although it was now officially hers. After the sale of the Rose Bay house, in which she and Christy had had small shares, she’d used the money to buy the car from Angus.

  The Dodsons had a few acres—they were both mad about horses—and a big garden. The barbecue was set up under some lovely old trees with lights strung through them. It was a warm reunion with lots of news to be told, including the most pertinent—that Sue was pregnant—and there were quite a few familiar faces amongst the twenty or so guests.

  But it was while one guest was proposing a humorous toast to the Dodsons along the lines of—was this what maternity and paternity did to people? Turned them into barbecue hosts rather than hosts of the mad affairs they used to hold—that a latecomer arrived.

  That was how Angus Keir saw Domenica Harris for the first time in more than two months—laughing and raising a champagne glass in a toast.

  And he found himself thinking that she looked as she’d always looked: tall, willowy, a lovely carriage, that marvellous skin and beautifully defined jawbone, casual but elegant—in a word, sensational. And she was obviously enjoying herself. As if, he thought, the ending of their affair via a simple note thanking him for everything but telling him it was time for her to move on had taken not the slightest toll of her.

  She turned as Sue hailed him and it gave him a sense of savage satisfaction to see her pale noticeably as her fingers also whitened around the stem of her glass.

  Then Sue was making introductions all round and explaining that the Dodsons and Angus Keir had only met about a month ago at a polocrosse game.

  Domenica found herself wondering dryly why she hadn’t thought of that—then he was standing in front of her and she had to say something… ‘Hi!’ She turned to Sue. ‘We have met—’

  ‘Great!’ Sue enthused. ‘Then I’ll leave Angus with you for a bit, Dom, while I start bringing out the food!’

  ‘Oh—can’t I help?’

  ‘No, you just keep this gorgeous hunk happy, Dom,’ Sue said with a twinkle, and quite unaware that she caused her friend to flinch inwardly as she waltzed away.

  ‘Met?’

  It was only one softly said word, but uttered with such insolent derision in his voice and eyes, Domenica trembled visibly and looked away. ‘Angus, this isn’t the time or the place to indulge in recriminations or whatever.’

  ‘I agree,’ he drawled. ‘So I’ll just run one thing past you before we become good, convivial little guests. I take it an Italian count is closer to your social standing than I was?’

  She stared into his grey eyes, stunned into speechlessness. Then Mark joined them, the conversation turned to stock horses, and for the rest of what seemed like a never-ending evening they avoided any direct dealings with each other. To make things harder for Domenica, she had to watch Angus exerting his considerable charm over a colleague of Sue’s, a lovely blonde woman about his own age who was unattached.

  She left at the first opportunity to do it without seeming rude, and started to drive home feeling exhausted and as if she’d been through a wringer. But after a few miles she realized it was becoming difficult to steer the car and it dawned on her, to her horror, that she had a flat tyre. She managed to pull off the road and, when she got out, there was the evidence of it to greet her eyes.
She banged her fist on her forehead, then looked around.

  She’d never changed a tyre in her life. It was very dark, although not that late, but the houses around were widely spaced because they were all on acreage and she couldn’t see one light. It was also cold now and windy, and she wrapped her pashmina around her. Then a pair of headlights coming from the direction she’d come from lit the night and she found herself praying it was someone coming from the barbecue and not some dubious stranger.

  In fact, it was a dark green Range Rover that drew up in front of her car, one she knew well, and no stranger who stepped out, causing her to wonder numbly whether this day had been somehow jinxed for her.

  ‘Well, well,’ Angus Keir said as he kicked the tyre she was standing beside, ‘does this give you a sense of déjàvu, Domenica?’

  ‘Yes, no, I mean—’ She stopped helplessly.

  He smiled tigerishly. ‘I can imagine—twenty odd guests to choose from but it had to be me who came along to your damsel-in-distress situation. I have no doubt you’re completely incapable of changing a tyre. But would you prefer it if I drove on, Miss Harris? There will be others coming but I’m not sure when.’

  ‘No!’ There was a little bubble of hysteria in her voice that she’d been unable to help and that he noted with a narrowing of his eyes.

  ‘OK.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a torch? Women rarely do have the essential items, but luckily enough I do.’ He opened the hatch of the Range Rover and produced a powerful one which he gave her to hold. Then he opened her boot, assembled what he needed and started to change the tyre.

  Of course he did it quickly and competently and, apart from remarking that she’d driven over a nail somewhere in her travels, in dead silence.

  And as Domenica provided him with light she could think of something to say, but finding the courage to say anything seemed to be beyond her. Then it was done, her tools and the flat tyre were packed away and he was wiping his hands on his handkerchief.