Catch of The Day: Destiny Romance

by Carla Caruso

  ‘Sorry, Olive, I’m going to be in late this morning.’

  ‘That’s not your number,’ the ad manager responded suspiciously. She was like a sniffer dog, pouncing on the first hint of something not being right. Darn caller ID. Noisy music played in the background.

  ‘My mobile’s died.’ Cheeks burning, Winnie let the statement hang in the air and thanked her lucky stars Olive wasn’t at the party. She’d probably been too busy watching The Voice or some such. ‘Has Christa called?’ she pressed.

  ‘She has, actually. Wanted to see what A-list you’ve got organised for the mag’s launch party.’

  Winnie rubbed her forehead, feeling a new layer of stress settle in her stomach. ‘Adelaide doesn’t have an A-list.’ What it did have was a poor imitation of Sydney’s glitterati, mainly footballers, TV journos and radio jocks. ‘And Kingston – sorry to be harsh – definitely doesn’t have one. But,’ she sighed, ‘I’ll get onto . . . something. Just as soon as I’m back in the office.’

  Being M.I.A. when Christa called was the last thing she needed after mistakenly using the ‘cl’ word when emailing her, and not even shoring up the Zac Efron story as a good distraction. Next Christa would demand she check on Winnie’s progress firsthand – in Kingston – which wouldn’t do at all. Winnie still had so much work to do.

  ‘When should I be expecting you?’ Olive bleated.

  ‘Soon, I promise . . . By the way, what is that racket in the background?’ It was doing Winnie’s already fuzzy head in.

  ‘Pandora internet radio. I’m listening to its country station,’ Olive answered, sounding pleased with herself. ‘You can personalise it to play the music you love.’

  ‘Genius,’ Winnie murmured. It was obviously a music day rather than a TV one. And she’d thought Ready Steady Cook in the background had been painful enough.

  After bidding the ad manager a weary goodbye, she swung open the door of Alex’s fridge. Looking beyond the meat packets, olives, lemons and Greek yoghurt – interesting, could the sum of the parts hint at a Hellenic heritage? – she reached for a lone crumpet. It’d do for breakfast. She needed energy to face what was already shaping up to be a horror day. Toasting the crumpet, she slathered it with butter, followed up with droplets of honey from a constipated squeeze bottle. On the way to the shower, she guiltily opened and shut a few drawers, as though they might unlock a few secrets, then stopped herself. She shouldn’t care.

  Using his shower was strange – like being in his bed, it felt almost too intimate. And she didn’t want to torture herself with who else might have been in there. While she worked his loofah over her skin, she had to keep directing her mind out of the gutter. Stop imagining it was his hands on her body, his tongue where the water spilled, or the steam on the glass his breath as he pinned her against a shower panel. There were plenty of other fish – and fishermen – in the sea, and then some. Her head and erogenous zones really needed to sit down and have a good chat.

  Discarding the loofah, she scrubbed at the day-old make-up on her face with soap. Then, through the stream of water, she warily eyed his toothbrush in the plastic shower caddy: to use or not to use? Use. She had no choice. As she brushed, she tried not to think about his lips being around the same utensil. It was a struggle.

  Shower finished, Winnie used Alex’s extra-large towel to dry herself, ignoring thoughts of it feeling like a big, manly hug around her, and quickly dressed. As the steamy fog dissipated, she saw her tired, drawn face reflected back at her in the vanity mirror.

  Wrestling the few make-up supplies from her handbag, she did the best she could to work some magic on her appearance. Then, in the kitchen, she wrote a curt note of her own for Alex – two could play that game – informing him the keys were in the letterbox.

  The front door banging shut behind her, she stuck the note in the grille of his screen door, deposited the keys and scurried towards her car, promising herself to never darken his abode’s doorway again. Nor be stupid enough to let her guard down once more, in this town or beyond. There’d be no more blurring of the boundaries between work and pleasure. No more making a fool of herself. For her own heart’s sake.

  Chapter Twenty

  What were the chances? Cutting across the main street at the same time as Alex was Winnie, with an overly made-up Olive in tow. The pair looked like they were headed for the town hall. Despite the instant clenching of his stomach, he knew it was now or never. Forget technology, phones – he needed to talk with Winnie face to face.

  Mid-stride, the magazine editor’s eyes met his and her features hardened. Looked like she wasn’t going to make things easy for him, then. Which, he supposed, was only fair. Halting in the middle of the street – there was no traffic – he greeted her and Olive with a nod, hands thrust in his pockets.

  Winnie turned to the ad manager and mumbled, ‘Alex and I have to talk about a, um, job. You go on ahead. Won’t be long.’

  At least she was prepared to talk to him. It was a start.

  Olive, wearing some weird wet-look skirt, shot Winnie a pointed look. ‘You’d better not be long.’ Then, with her nose in the air, the redhead tottered towards the hall as quickly as the tight skirt fabric let her.

  Alex dipped his head, sneaking a look at Winnie from under his brows. His insides somersaulted. The white line he stood on almost felt like a tightrope. Opening his mouth to speak, he said her name just as she said his. Her cheeks glowing a defiant pink, Winnie lifted a hand to stop him trying again and shook her head.

  ‘We don’t have to do this. The other night was a . . . a never-to-be-repeated episode. I get it. Let’s leave it at that.’

  A gentle breeze toyed with her hair, causing strands to stick to her glossy lips. He wanted to brush them away, but instead she turned her head, savagely wiping at her mouth herself. She moved to leave and, unwittingly, Alex reached out to grab her hand, stopping her, even though they were in the middle of the main street for everyone to see. More surprising was that she didn’t pull away.

  Her eyes warily swivelled to meet his and he tried to sort his swirling thoughts into words. ‘I’m sorry I just upped and left the other morning, deserted you. I had to go fishing and, okay, us getting together did kind of confuse me. I know my note was abrupt and I should have tried calling you earlier, but I had to go sort out my head.’ He tried to beg her for understanding with his eyes. ‘It doesn’t mean that night didn’t mean anything to me.’

  Winnie’s fingers tightened around his, as though she were holding on for dear life, but her mouth was tightly shut. She jutted her chin out. ‘So what are you saying, Alex?’

  He lifted his shoulders. ‘There’s obviously an attraction between us, Winnie. As much as you frustrate me – as much as we frustrate each other – I do care about you. It’s just . . . the timing is off. For both of us. You know it, too.’

  Winnie’s dark eyes flashed. ‘The timing seemed right enough for you in the heat of the moment.’

  He deserved that. Still, he kept his tone low, steady. ‘There’s a reason I can’t give you my all right now. The last thing I’d want to do is hurt you unnecessarily.’

  She shook her head bitterly. ‘Save the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech for your other flings, Alex. I refuse to be some charity-case shag of yours. I refuse.’

  The squeak of pedals to his left made Alex swing his head around. A cyclist, laden down with baggage like he’d just been across the Nullarbor, rode down the street. Alex wasn’t sure who was working harder: the cyclist or him. He steered Winnie back onto the footpath, allowing the rider a clear path.

  Glancing down at her, he felt an overwhelming desire to kiss her – savour her sweet, angelic taste once more, have her warm breath meld with his – but he was conscious of local gossips peering through finger-smudged windows. Hand-holding would have to do for the moment.

  He stroked the back of her hand with his fingers. ‘Maybe we could just have fun with it. Enjoy each other’s company, knowing there’s a timelin
e – no strings attached.’

  Winnie’s fingers trembled in his grip. ‘I – I can’t indulge in this sort of thing any more, having my feelings mucked around. I need . . . more. Someone who’ll stand by my side through thick and thin.’

  Then she wrenched her warm hand free of his and turned on her heel. Every footstep on the bitumen jolted his insides.

  Still fuming from her encounter with Alex, Winnie headed into the town hall. Scanning the heads, she spotted Olive’s red bob near the rear of the room. Wordlessly, Winnie sank into the neighbouring seat, unhooking her handbag from her shoulder and slinging it on the chair’s back.

  Cyndi had done a fantastic job with Olive’s make-up – and Winnie with the wardrobe styling, if she did say so herself – but neither could help Olive’s stunned-mullet look. All Olive’s spunk appeared to have evaporated. The ad manager’s legs were ungraciously half open like a doll’s, defying the nature of her pencil skirt, and her mouth slightly parted. She looked incapable of speech. Still, Winnie knew as much as anyone what a dose of crazy lust could do to a woman.

  Despite her colleague’s sorry state, Winnie was more than grateful to concentrate on someone else’s love life right then. It was better than thinking about he who wanted everything, but promised nothing; a much more beneficial way to channel her energy.

  Winnie squinted at the front. Oh, so that was the famous Oscar Glick. The optometrist was fiddling with a projector before the start of the seminar. He was shorter than she imagined. Weedier, too, with silver-framed glasses sliding down a beakish nose, and light-brown hair, which randomly stuck up in tufts as though he ran his hand through it a lot. He was still cute, in his own way, though not exactly what Winnie had expected. But what did they say? You can’t help who you fell in love with.

  Love. There was that miserable word again. It wasn’t worth contemplating.

  A familiar male voice cut through her thoughts, though the words were directed at Olive. ‘I think you dropped this.’

  From the row in front, Chester Wyatt, of soon-to-be Farmer Wants a Wife fame, had pivoted around to shyly extend a silver pen in Olive’s direction.

  The ad manager blinked at the writing utensil in his large hand, as though in a daze. ‘Oh . . . thanks.’ She snatched it from him, barely looking his way, before reverting to staring ahead again. Winnie swallowed a sigh. Olive seemed devoid of all personality for the moment. Rolling her eyes at Chester as code for ‘don’t mind my friend,’ she offered the cattle farmer an encouraging smile.

  ‘So what brings you here? asked Winnie. ‘Are you a secret contacts wearer, like Olive?’

  Chester cleared his throat, looking even more red-faced than usual. Without his akubra, she could see he had stark black hair. ‘No, I’m here with my grandfather.’ He tilted his head slightly at a stooped man with a hearing aid beside him. ‘He needed a lift.’

  ‘Oh, that was nice of you.’ Winnie smiled, but felt a slight pang. Her mum’s father had died when Winnie was little and her grandma (as airy-fairy as her offspring) had passed away a few years back. She’d lost contact with her dad’s parents after the divorce. Having a strong presence of grandparents in her life would have made things a lot less lonely growing up, she thought.

  Chester shot the unresponsive Olive a final glance before swivelling back around. The cattle farmer was so quiet. Winnie had no idea how he was going to handle the glaring lights of the television world.

  Two figures moved along the row in front, obscuring Winnie’s view of the projector screen, which had sprung to life. Oh dear – it was Eden and her mum. Winnie gave the bride-to-be a small wave, slouching down in her seat. Unfortunately, she was too late to escape the attention of Mrs D.

  The middle-aged woman’s eyes zoomed in on her and she reached to give Winnie’s hand a squeeze. ‘Hello, dear. How are you?’ Pausing, she furrowed fuzzy eyebrows, pulling her fingers back to assess Winnie’s own. She tut-tutted. ‘You’ll have to trim those nails when netball season rolls around, as lovely as they look now.’

  With that, the netball club president let go of Winnie’s hand and dropped her ample bottom onto the seat in front. Winnie self-consciously folded her hands in her lap.

  Soon after, the seminar began, much to Winnie’s relief. Not that the content was exactly scintillating, nor enough to get her mind off Alex, his warm, firm hand holding hers. And the not-nearly-good-enough proposal he’d made her.

  The seminar’s most interesting part was when Oscar dropped half his paperwork on the ground and spent roughly five minutes picking it up. He seemed as nervy as Olive that afternoon.

  At the end, as others got to their feet, Winnie turned to Olive. She was still superglued to her seat and seemed unaware the session was over. Winnie prodded her in the ribs. ‘It’s time, Olive. To approach him, go say hello, dazzle him. Remember what we talked about? Now’s your chance.’

  The ad manager, looking as white as a sheet, sat up, scrabbling around in her handbag. Producing a mint, she popped it in her mouth. ‘Just, uh, give me a minute,’ she said, her mouth sounding dry.

  Winnie rubbed her shoulder soothingly. ‘Sure, no problem.’ Quietly, she sat back in her seat, even though she could feel the chance to get any work done that day slipping away. Not that she could have concentrated anyway, with he who must not be named lurking at the back of her mind.

  It was Friday night and days had passed since Winnie’s confrontation with Alex. From beneath the BP Roadhouse’s neon-lit canopy, she watched another woman who wasn’t Bruna climb off the Premier Stateliner bus. This one had grey hair and was carrying knitting – definitely not Bruna. Next came a Mexican-looking girl, who nearly lost her scarf in the sea breeze as she navigated the bus’s steps. Then . . . no-one.

  Winnie tapped her foot impatiently on the concrete. Trust her housemate to take her sweet time and be the lucky last off the bus. Maybe Bruna had fallen asleep en route, iPod music blaring in her ears. That or she was using her compact to redo her make-up first, in case any wealthy cray fishermen happened to be lurking about.

  Winnie ignored the stomach twinge at the mere thought of the word fishermen. She had more important things to worry about, like ensuring her housemate had the best time possible in Kingston. She’d worked hard on an itinerary, not wanting her pal to have too many reasons to complain while in town. The plan was to kick things off at the fun-loving Caledonian Inn in Robe.

  Of course, it wouldn’t be a patch on Winnie’s last birthday, when she’d managed to wangle them both an invite to a swanky soiree celebrating the refurb of a docked cruise ship. That had been a glorious blur of top-notch champagne, canapés, and handsome waiters in tuxedos. But she’d done the best she could in planning with the resources she had.

  Winnie craned her neck some more, rather uselessly. She couldn’t really tell what was going on behind the bus’s tinted windows. Hang on a second – the driver was shutting the luggage compartment door and the crowd around her was dispersing – this didn’t bode well. Winnie rushed towards the driver.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She pasted a sweet smile on her face, shoving her hands into her jeans’ pockets. ‘Uh, my friend’s still on board. Would you mind if I got on to hurry her off? Wouldn’t want you to have to turn around.’

  She knew from her last trip the final stop was Mount Gambier. The driver squinted at her, his face red from the exertion of loading and unloading bags. From his rigid posture, it looked like he was in a hurry to get on the road again and in no need of complications.

  ‘According to my list, that was everyone off for this leg,’ he grunted.

  ‘Uh-uh. My friend Bruna’s still on there – Bruna Chen.’

  ‘It doesn’t ring a bell,’ the driver shot back. ‘But go on – have a look. Be quick, though. I’m on a schedule.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ Winnie headed for the bus door, half expecting Bruna to materialise at the top of the steps, looking like Jessica Gomes’s twin. Unfortunately, she didn’t.

  Clambering on board, Wi
nnie stood at the front of the bus, her gaze roaming over the passengers in the gaudily coloured seats. A few bored-looking travellers glanced up before returning their attention to their books, iPads or neighbours. None looked familiar.

  Another twinge dug at Winnie’s stomach as realisation dawned – and this time it had nothing to do with an unmentionable male whose name started with the letter A. Bruna really wasn’t there. Maybe she’d gotten sidetracked perusing the magazine rack at the last food stop and was stranded in some desolate town. She’d die out there – of boredom. It wasn’t good at all.

  As she moved to the stairs again, Winnie fished in her pocket for her phone. Stepping out into the inky night, she dialled Bruna’s number and pressed the device to her ear. Pick up, pick up. The driver was the only one left standing under the canopy, fiddling with some paperwork on his clipboard. In Winnie’s ear, the ringing continued. Then Bruna’s cheery voice greeted her via voicemail. Ack.

  ‘Bruna, where are you?’ Winnie yelped into the phone, but it was like calling into the wind: useless.

  A thought hit her: Facebook. Bruna was an addict. Logging onto the site on her phone at the speed of light, Winnie brought up her housemate’s profile. And her heart stopped.

  Filling the screen in technicolour was a selfie of Bruna at some posh cocktail lounge just minutes before. In Sydney. Her housemate hadn’t gotten on a plane, let alone a bus. Winnie’s shoulders slumped. To think of all the planning she’d done, the spare mattress she’d lugged from Olive’s, the flowers and kitsch objects from the local op shop she’d bought to spruce up her rental unit, the phone enquiries she’d made and list of possible weekend activities she’d eagerly planned. The effort she’d put into her own make-up and outfit that night, not wanting her friend to think she’d lost her edge.