by Carla Caruso
‘Excuse me. Where are your Daily Telegraphs hiding?’
The middle-aged man behind the counter assessed her. His measured tone matched the slow pace of the low-skyline town. ‘No Daily Teles here, sorry, love. Just The Advertiser, or Melbourne’s Herald Sun for all the footy news. And, of course, we do a roaring trade in the local Coastal Herald.’
Winnie’s stomach dropped to the vicinity of her black mid-heel pumps. She’d finally found her shoes on top of the fridge, of all places.
‘Right, guess I’ll just grab a’Tiser then,’ she said. Not that she’d read the Adelaide paper since she’d cut her teeth in journalism there. ‘And, okay, the Herald,’ though she could barely stomach reading another dreary council story. Unfortunately, she still had a lot of research to do – and not a single story in the pipeline. The newsagent rang up the total.
Minutes later she was back at the office, littering pie crumbs all over the Herald, which she’d half-heartedly opened on her desk. Olive had left a note, saying she’d gone out to get some milk (probably not soy).
Winnie had already checked her inbox, deleting a SEEK list of plum jobs in Sydney she couldn’t yet apply for – it was far, far too early, unfortunately. Now she stared at an online Tele social photo of Bruna, showing her best photo face at some pay-TV event. Her housemate had Facebooked the link to Winnie, having obviously swindled a party invite from Jaharn. He worked for a record label and knew all the right people. Already Bruna – who worked in the boring world of banking – didn’t need Winnie’s media invites. She looked edgily cool, too, in an emerald-green dress she’d nicked from Winnie’s wardrobe without asking.
Clicking back to the Telegraph’s home page, Winnie felt her gut contract. She’d glimpsed the byline of a journo who’d once gotten her in trouble for being too ‘inspired’ by a Melbourne reporter’s style article. Hey, it had been Winnie’s first fashion week, lobbing up in Sydney all the way from little Adelaide, and she’d been as nervous as hell. She’d learnt a lot since then.
Her gaze wandered to an article about a study that had apparently found country dwellers lived longer than city folk. Which was hard to believe.
‘Don’t read that!’
‘What? About city versus country living?’
But Olive dived instead on Winnie’s desk, spread-eagling herself across the latest edition of the Coastal Herald. The ad manager’s spindly arms hung off either side of the desk. It probably wasn’t the best view for passers-by, with Olive wearing another skirt that could double as a belt.
‘Okay, I won’t,’ Winnie said slowly. ‘Though I thought you encouraged me only yesterday to read the Herald for research.’
Olive hoisted herself from the desk, snatching the paper from under Winnie’s nose, pie crumbs now stuck to her fuzzy turquoise top. ‘Today’s news is tomorrow’s fish and chip paper,’ the ad manager said with a sharp nod.
Panic surged through Winnie’s veins. Leaping to her feet, she tried grabbing the paper. ‘C’mon, give me that. What are you hiding?’ She finally cornered Olive by a filing cabinet and the redhead reluctantly gave up the fight.
‘Don’t say I didn’t try to protect you,’ she said defeatedly, flouncing back to her desk.
Sinking back into her own seat, Winnie pored over page after page, her palms sweaty. Finally, next to a story about residents vandalising trees that blocked their ocean views, Winnie’s eyes fell to a gossip column, dubbed ‘The Vine’.
The first item made her heart rat-a-tat-tat in her chest. It read: Which city slicker has only been in town five minutes but has already made a spectacle of herself, drunk-dancing to the jukebox at the Crown Inn? Meant to embody everything that is ‘luxury’ and ‘style’, the non-local had ‘disaster case’ written all over her designer outfit. We give her a month in town, tops . . .
‘How’d they – it was only last night,’ Winnie spluttered, looking up.
Olive shrugged mournfully. ‘They have a late deadline on Mondays.’
Winnie cursed, shoving a hand through the front of her hair. Vaguely – only vaguely – she recalled meeting some blonde local newspaper journalist last night. Stupidly, she’d even thought they could be friends, seeing as the media pack in town was limited to just them. How wrong she’d been. Ack. Winnie would much rather read about Ruby Rose and co. in the Sydney papers than her own failings in some minuscule rag. All she needed now was Christa getting wind of it. Thank the stars above she hadn’t tried to pash Alex at the pub.
Her landline trilled, sending her insides somersaulting. She wanted to ignore it, but Olive was staring at her like she’d grown two heads for not picking it up. There was no use prolonging the inevitable.
‘Beach Life,’ Winnie squeaked into the mouthpiece, too scared to check the caller ID.
There was a pause, then a posh woman’s voice echoed down the line. ‘Uh, hello. I saw a sign in your window that said you were looking for local stories.’
‘Yes. Yes, I am,’ Winnie practically yelped back in return. She had magazine pages that urgently needed filling. Plus, any distraction from her own miserable life was welcome.
‘Right, well, I grow prize-winning heirloom roses and vegetables. I also have heritage hens. I have a bit of a fascination with old things, you see. Don’t know if you could do anything story-wise with such a hobby? Gardening can be tough in a seaside setting, but with a little bit of elbow grease and persistence, it can happen.’
Ordinarily Winnie would have ripped out a silent yawn and tried to get the woman off the phone, but Christa had said she wanted the magazine to brim with colourful stories about the locals, as well as fashion, beauty and homewares. And the yarn could make a gorgeous picture spread – ‘could’ being the operative word.
‘Sounds fantastic. Could I make a time to chat to you some more about it in person?’
‘Of course. I’m home all day today, dear, if that suits. Feel free to swing past any time you like.’
‘Perfect. I’ll see you soon then. What’s your address?’
A few minutes later, Winnie hung up, feeling minutely better. She had a purpose, a much-needed distraction. She sprang up, grabbing her car keys and a local map from the desk. ‘Think I have my first story,’ she informed Olive. ‘Some woman called June Mannix. Know her?’
‘Yeah, vaguely.’ Olive shrugged, not looking too excited. But then, she was in sales, not editorial. ‘Um, you’re not taking your own car, are you? You don’t get petrol money. Use the work one.’
Winnie’s eyebrows lifted. ‘You mean that black, hotted-up Commodore out the back? I thought it was a stolen car that had been dumped. No thanks.’ The gleaming vehicle, with mag wheels and a massive exhaust, looked like death on wheels.
Olive pursed her lips. ‘No, that’s my car. I mean the white Camry behind it.’
‘Oh . . . right. Do you have the keys?’
Olive opened her top drawer and handed Winnie an ultra-shiny set of keys. ‘You drive stick, right?’
Winnie’s shoulders drooped. Wordlessly, she shook her head.
Olive cocked a pencil-thin eyebrow at her. ‘No one drives auto around here, but don’t look at me to teach you. I don’t have the patience. We’d wind up having a rip-roaring blue. Not good when we have to work together eight hours a day.’ Her piercing amber gaze flitted across the street. ‘Hey, I know who might be a good teacher – Alex. He can’t say no as our new freelancer. It wouldn’t look right.’
‘Alex?’ Winnie echoed breathlessly.
Before she could stop her, Olive was at the door, yelling out into the street. ‘Hey, Alex! Winnie needs a manual driving lesson – fast.’
Winnie could see him now, his hand resting atop the driver door of his ute, as though he’d been about to climb in. Her stomach fell.
‘You’ve got time. I know you’ve finished work for the day,’ Olive wheedled, all honey-voiced. ‘What do you say?’
He looked a little more cleaned-up than yesterday morning, as though he’d actually showered for o
nce – a mild improvement. Irksomely, last night’s kiss was foremost in Winnie’s mind, and the manly scratch of his stubble against her cheek . . .
‘Uh-uh.’ Alex shook his head. ‘I wasn’t heading into the office.’ He coughed. ‘And I’ve already seen her driving skills in action.’
Nice. The gravel thing again. He was like a dog with a bone.
‘Oh, c’mon,’ Olive cajoled. ‘You can bill the time as a freelancer. Better than having Beach Life’s editor winding up in a ditch on the way to her first interview. What would Christa say?’
The pair eyeballed one another across the bitumen, like two cowboys silently challenging the other to draw their gun first. Finally, Alex let out a sigh that could be heard from Robe – Sydney even. ‘You owe me big-time, Olive.’
He still hadn’t bothered to glance in Winnie’s direction. Though, to be fair, her desk was well away from the front door.
The redhead smoothed her barely-there skirt and coquettishly lifted a foot behind her. ‘Oh, I can think of plenty of ways to repay you, Alex. If only you’d let a girl into that locked heart of yours.’
Winnie presumed Olive was joking about being interested – the locked heart bit, not so much.
‘You can’t wear those.’ Alex shot a pointed look at Winnie’s shoes in Beach Life’s car park. He was still barely able to believe he’d been conned into spending more time with Ms City Fashionista so soon.
‘But these are my sensible heels,’ Winnie moaned. She clicked her fingers. ‘Although I do actually have a pair of flats with me for once.’ Ducking her head, she rummaged around in her unreasonably large handbag, the tips of her ears growing pink. ‘I, um, had to walk to work.’
He knew all too well why, but he decided not to take the bait.
She threw tan-coloured shoes on the dusty ground. They at least looked more suitable. Then she lifted a foot to unclasp one strappy black heel – her toenails strangely painted steel-grey – followed by the other, slipping into the flats. He refrained from offering her a shoulder to lean on. Any physical contact between them was best avoided from now on.
He headed to the Camry’s passenger door and discovered it was decorated, proclaiming the magazine’s name in bright colours. Great. Now everyone would know who they were when the car spun sideways in the street. Olive really did owe him big time. Okay, he needed to have more faith if he was about to risk life and limb at Winnie’s hands.
Winnie trotted after him, yelping incredulously, ‘You’re going to make me drive on the road straightaway?’
‘It’s not exactly Sydney at peak hour,’ Alex shot back, hoping he wouldn’t live to regret the decision. He bet she thought he’d never lived in a big city before. Probably imagined he’d be like Crocodile Dundee in New York. Little did she know.
She shrugged gloomily, blipping the immobiliser. ‘Fine. You’re the teacher.’ Before jumping in the driver’s side, she stared at him over the rooftop while worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Immediately, he thought of plump lychees.
‘Um, about last night —’ she began.
‘No need mention it,’ Alex interrupted, wrenching open the passenger door and sliding onto the velour seat. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about the kiss. The stolen kiss. He was trying hard enough to keep his mind off it, stupid as it was. He just needed to get the lesson over with and then ensure a safe, professional distance was kept between them in future.
Slipping into the seat beside him, she shot him an expectant look, her eyes reminding him of melted chocolate – dangerous vats of the stuff you could drown in, never coming up for air again. Barely concealing a sigh, he rubbed his unshaven jaw. ‘So you’ve never, ever driven manual before?’
She shook her head, silver leaf-shaped earrings swinging at her lobes. ‘Nope.’
‘Okay, we may as well get started then.’ He stretched out his denim-clad legs as far as they would go, as though he could brake with his feet like the Flintstones if need be. ‘To begin with, you have to push the clutch in —’
A worry line indented the space between her eyebrows. ‘The clutch. Right. Um . . . where’s that exactly?’
Sheesh.
‘It’s the third pedal on the floor,’ he answered through gritted teeth.
‘Got it.’ She flicked her hair over one shoulder in a distracting manner and he wondered if she’d pay any attention at all.
‘Right, so push the clutch in, put the car in reverse,’ he gestured at the gear stick, ‘give it a bit of throttle and then let the clutch out again.’
Her forehead scrunched up. ‘A bit of what?’
‘Throttle – as in, you know, accelerate.’
‘Oh, yes, I know how to do that.’
Did she ever. He’d seen it first-hand and still bore the wound. How had he been talked into this again? Gripping the handle above his window, he said several silent prayers before giving her the nod. ‘Okay, let’s go then.’
He clenched his jaw in readiness as she turned the key in the ignition. Kasey Chambers immediately blared from the speakers. Then the Camry jerked backwards at speed – and conked out. Alex tugged at the seatbelt straining against his upper body, cutting off his air supply.
Winnie stared at the steering wheel as though it were a crystal ball about to reveal some sort of answer. ‘Hmm, that didn’t work.’
No kidding. He exhaled through his nose.
‘Yes, that’s what happens when you don’t give the car enough revs – it stalls. You’ll have to start it up again.’
‘Urgh, this is a nightmare,’ Winnie moaned. ‘I haven’t even left the car park yet.’
Alex bit his tongue to keep himself from agreeing. Her sweet perfume and the confined car space were doing his head in as it was.
Winnie frowned, looking distracted. ‘The music’s not helping. Olive must have put it on this station.’ She jabbed the radio off with a finger, silence reigning supreme again. Alex steeled himself once more as she reached for the clutch, feeling like he was at the top of a rollercoaster ride.
Somehow Winnie made it out onto the main strip without stalling. She crunched the gears from second to third, but, hey, it wasn’t like it was his prized ute. At the roundabout, the car suddenly lurched forwards and paused, both actions repeated over and over again. His body followed the movements.
‘What’s happening?’ Winnie squealed as he hung onto his seatbelt for dear life.
‘Push the clutch back in,’ he barked. ‘You released it too quickly. The car’s bunny-hopping.’
She did as instructed, the Camry halting at last. Thankfully, no-one was driving behind them.
‘Just what I need – more public humiliation and gossip fodder for the Coastal Herald,’ Winnie murmured, restarting the engine.
He assumed hailing taxis in Sydney was more natural to her. He wasn’t sure how she’d got to Kingston in one piece.
Twenty minutes later, she’d more or less got the hang of things, though. Still, Alex would have felt far safer being the one behind the wheel. ‘Right, we’re not far from the office now. I think we should call it a day.’
Winnie shot him an impish grin as she drove. ‘Maybe we’ll try a hill start next time.’
Alex swallowed hard. He’d been hoping today’s instruction was a one-time-only performance. Surely Olive could help with any more lessons? He’d done the tough bit. ‘Uh, not sure you’re quite ready for that. But we’ll see —’
Crack. Alex jumped as the distinct sound of plastic hitting plastic resounded through the air. That was followed by a nasty scraping noise on the bitumen. Winnie slammed on the brakes, causing both their bodies to jolt forwards.
Alex dragged in a breath and, wincing slightly, swivelled around in his seat to view the damage. He was almost afraid to look. His Falcon ute’s side mirror lay in the middle of the road. Of all the obstacles on the main street, she’d somehow managed to sideswipe his pride and joy. The Camry’s mirror was bent back, but still intact.
Winnie chanced a look a
t him, her face pale. ‘Crap.’
Keeping a handle on his anger was a struggle, but he tried a few deep, calming breaths and shook his head. ‘I think I’m cursed when it comes to your driving. Though I suppose it could have been the door.’
‘I’ll pay for a new mirror,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘I promise.’
Chapter Five
‘Er . . . Mrs Mannix?’
Oh dear. Winnie had hoped for pearls and pink gardening gloves, thanks to Mrs Mannix’s posh tone of voice on the phone. Someone more like the Queen Mother, not a woman with the haphazard dress sense of a bag lady. But protruding from a ladder up a tree was a paisley skirt and cherry-red Crocs, teamed with shapely calves and grey slouch socks. Winnie’s hopes for a glossy picture spread, worthy of impressing Christa, faded fast.
Leaves rustled and an eighty-something woman’s thin, horse-like face emerged from the foliage. ‘Hello, dear. You must be from Beach Life. Nice to have you round. Er, would you mind taking my bucket and passing me up that fresh one on the ground?’
‘Oh, no problems, sure,’ Winnie said. The weight of the bucket she was handed sagged in her arms; Mrs Mannix must have some biceps for an octogenarian. Winnie hoped she would be as sprightly at her age. Voluptuous, fragrant figs filled the bucket to the brim. Resting it on the grass, Winnie grabbed the empty one and held it up to the old woman.
‘Could you hold it, dear, while I get the remaining fruit?’ Mrs Mannix chirped down at her. ‘Can’t have the birds eating them all.’
‘Uh, okay, sure.’
Winnie’s arms ached as Mrs Mannix loaded up the second bucket, but she soon got into it, pointing out where the green-and-purple fruit were camouflaged against the leaves. It wasn’t exactly how she expected her first Beach Life interview to begin. And it was certainly a world away from nattering to some Sydney It girl about her health regimen – ignoring the illegal substances she snorted – but it was almost . . . meditative. Yes, that it was.