Catch of The Day: Destiny Romance

by Carla Caruso

  He hadn’t even mentioned his curt text from Sunday, singling her out only to pass on his new number – purely for work purposes. He had some story about how he’d left his phone in the pocket of his jeans when doing the laundry, killing it.

  Well, hopefully she wouldn’t need to store his digits for long. Winnie was still determined to kiss Kingston goodbye sooner rather than later. Her fling with Alex had been a momentary lapse when her confidence was dented, nothing more. And she’d been caught up in the emotion of the moment.

  He was up and down like a yoyo – the very last thing she needed. She thought of how she’d acted after her trouble with the shower and cringed. What a floozy. Best not to think about any of that. It was as clear as day she had to stop trying to fill the dad-shaped hole in her heart – her life – with a parade of emotionally stunted men. The mantra on her vision board needed to be kept front and centre of her mind.

  Standing out of the line of Alex’s flashing camera, Winnie watched Allira strike another pose amid the dried-up Coorong salt lake. It was amazing the beauty had put her iPhone down long enough to perform. Still, Winnie had to admit Allira looked phenomenal. The latest outfit Winnie had put her in was a space-age dress with sheer mesh side panels, which reached the top of her thighs. It was similar to Gwyneth Paltrow’s controversial frock at the Iron Man 3 premiere and totally went with the moonscape-like location. Winnie swapped glances with Cyndi, who was waiting on the sidelines, make-up brushes at the ready. Her friend’s expression read the same as hers: Not long to go now. Earlier, Cyndi had mentioned Allira had changed somewhat since being a pageant wannabe. She seemed more an Alex fan than a Cyndi fan now.

  The shrill voice of Allira’s spiky-heeled publicist, Ivy, hit the back of Winnie’s head. Unfortunately, Ivy’s so-called important call, which had taken her away from the shoot momentarily, hadn’t been long.

  ‘Now these interview questions.’ Ivy flashed the sheet of white paper in Winnie’s face; coupled with the starkness of the salt lake, it hurt Winnie’s eyes. ‘Allira won’t be answering any she doesn’t feel are relevant to her brand.’

  ‘Fine,’ Winnie said, the recurring fake smile almost killing her.

  ‘And we need to make sure her swimwear label gets a mention,’ Ivy carried on, her dark bob swinging. Winnie was beginning to think of the woman as Poison Ivy. Who wore spiked heels to a shoot on a salt lake, for crying out loud? Though, admittedly, it reminded Winnie of navigating a fence at the beef field day, but that felt like a million lifetimes ago. She had to hide a smile.

  ‘Of course. Plus, we’ll have Allira wear some swimwear pieces beneath a few outfits for further exposure.’

  Even though the shoot is for the winter issue, Winnie silently added, and wearing a bikini doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.

  ‘Perfect. I’ll email back Allira’s answers by the end of the week.’

  ‘Great.’ Though why the heck Allira couldn’t respond to them herself that day, Winnie had no idea. It was enough she’d had to show Ivy the questions first.

  Eyes back on the shoot, Winnie called out in Alex’s general direction, not keen to address him directly. ‘Hold on, I just need to clip the back of Allira’s dress some more, so the fabric doesn’t flap about.’

  His camera slid to his side and he muttered a quiet ‘Okay’.

  Running forwards, Winnie fished clothing clips out of her pocket. Halting behind Allira, she quickly worked to tighten the model’s frock some more. A quick glance down saw dismay curl through Winnie. The tape had come free on the bottom of one of Allira’s silver platforms, which meant the sole was irrevocably marked, the fashion label wouldn’t be able to on-sell them, and Winnie would have to foot the bill. Bugger. She knew for a fact the platforms didn’t come cheap. Nor did she have much use for size tens. Though it was better than having in her wardrobe the shoes Allira had worn to the shoot – exotic-animal-skin sneaker wedges to rival Beyoncé’s. No wonder Winnie hadn’t taken a liking to the local beauty.

  Winnie assessed her handiwork from the front, Allira peering back with doe eyes.

  ‘You look pale,’ the model said suddenly, seemingly noticing Winnie for the first time.

  ‘Oh.’ Winnie fluttered a hand to her face. ‘Do I?’ Of course, she wasn’t about to open up about her sleepless nights over Alex with him as an audience. Though it was almost nice of Allira to be half concerned.

  The blonde beauty tilted her head to one side, with the practice of someone who knew what their best angles were from endless posing in the mirror. ‘Actually I think yellow just doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘Right.’ Tugging at her canary-coloured cardigan, Winnie bit back a retort ending with the model’s real name. Giving herself a mental shake, she thought of what a coup it was to get Allira on the cover – personality aside.

  Cyndi marched forwards, practically shoving her powder brush in Allira’s gob for a quick touch-up. Nicely, it also served to shut the model up. Winnie sent a mental thumbs-up Cyndi’s way.

  A few frames more and Ivy called time. ‘Allira needs lunch,’ the publicist announced dramatically, as though the world might end.

  ‘Cool,’ Winnie murmured, though the model had been late that morning because she supposedly required breakfast first. Despite the fact she looked decidedly undernourished – and coke-addled.

  Winnie trailed behind the others trudging towards the makeshift change/lunch room – really a caravan Cyndi had borrowed from a local. Allira paused at the nearby accessories table laid out for the shoot, her hand snaking towards a pair of black, bug-eyed sunglasses. She put them on, exclaiming, ‘Oh, these are to die for. Can I have them?’

  Winnie shook her head, feeling her patience slip through her fingertips. ‘Sorry, no. I have to return them to the fashion house.’

  Allira shrugged, reluctantly sliding off the shades and putting them back in place. ‘Bet you’d only have to mention my name to change that.’ Then she skipped forwards, linking her arm with Alex’s.

  The pair weren’t far enough away for Winnie to avoid hearing Allira coo in his ear, ‘We have so much catching up to do.’ She flinched. It was like a bad dream watching the duo together – one she couldn’t wake up from. She was beginning to see the real reason Allira had agreed to do the shoot was because of Alex, not Cyndi. It was obviously some crush, because the model would normally earn about the sum paid for a Sydney house to pose for advertisers and the like. This shoot was kind of beneath her.

  Was there a woman on earth who didn’t lust after Alex? It was as irritating as when Winnie got a pen mark on her handbag. Okay, more – a whole lot more. Really, Winnie’s own actions in launching herself at him had only been stereotypical.

  In a corner of the caravan – far away from the giggling Allira and Alex – Winnie nibbled on a salad sandwich. While Cyndi was bailed up in another corner with Ivy, Winnie used the time to upload a behind-the-scenes pic from the shoot to her Facebook page. In the image, Allira was adjusting the hem of her dress and Alex, slightly fuzzy in the background, was squinting as though sizing up his next shot. His camera, for once, was away from his face. He couldn’t complain about her sharing the pic, either – she’d never found him on Facebook.

  The shot was enough to show Winnie’s pals in the Sydney magazine world she wasn’t thumb-twiddling out in the sticks, wasting away. That she was still a force to be reckoned with. Like one of those people who got the dregs out of a honey squeeze bottle, she was going to make the best of what she had. The photo also wasn’t good enough for any rival publication to pilfer – it was just a teaser.

  Winnie’s phone sang its wordless tune minutes later and she was barely surprised to see Bruna’s name flash up onscreen. She hadn’t been in contact with her housemate since the faux apologetic text on her birthday. She’d let her sweat.

  ‘Winnie-doll!’ Bruna shrieked down the line. ‘What are you up to out in Woop-Woop?’

  Swivelling away from the rest of the crew on her fold-up chair, Winnie examined
her nails. ‘Oh, just a little fashion shoot with Allira Becci,’ she whispered back. ‘For Beach Life.’

  Let her housemate be green with envy and think she was having a ball.

  ‘Wow, that’s so exciting. Lucky you.’ Winnie could almost hear Bruna pouting. ‘It’s so unfair – I’m stuck in a fluorescent-lit office cubicle crunching numbers and you’re swanning around with models out in the countryside.’

  ‘My job has some perks,’ Winnie said with mock humility.

  ‘And I wasn’t lying about still wanting to come and see you,’ Bruna continued, a weak attempt at a cough echoing down the line. ‘Thankfully, I’m starting to feel a tad better this week. I remember you mentioned something about having a launch party for the magazine. Maybe I could come down that weekend?’

  Trust Bruna not to miss a soiree. Not that Winnie would be holding her breath for her housemate to actually darken her door.

  ‘Sure. The more, the merrier,’ Winnie returned pleasantly.

  After a little more chatter, she ended the call, pausing to scroll through her emails. Her heart leapt in her throat – a job ad for a fashion editor gig at Panache magazine had come through, covering a maternity-leave position. Ooh, now that was interesting. It was a little earlier than she wanted to apply for a role, considering Beach Life hadn’t launched yet, but why hold off? She’d have preliminary shots from the day’s shoot to show off to any potential employers. Yup. She’d fire off a CV as soon as she was back in the office.

  Winnie smiled to herself. Just like that, she was back on track. And back in the game.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sizzling sausages, deep-fried dagwood dogs and coffee permeated Winnie’s senses at the South-East Field Days on Saturday, intermingled with the occasional not-so-pleasant whiff from the petting zoo. Country-western music pounded from speakers while thousands thronged to check out various tents and displays. It was busier than Westfield Bondi Junction’s multistorey car park at weekends.

  Winnie slipped into a plastic seat next to Honey before the Miss Showgirl judging was set to start. They were early, but Honey, heavily pregnant, had been dying to sit down, quipping she was ‘like a geriatric these days’. Winnie had travelled to the landlocked Lucindale – forty minutes’ drive away in the heart of sheep country – to support Cyndi. The beautician was involved in the field days both as a Showgirl judge, as a former winner, and a bake-off finalist. Cyndi’s chocolate fudge cake, covered in pink sprinkles, sat under a glass cover alongside the other entries, just to the right of the Showgirl stage. Winnie could attest the dessert tasted like a dream, having scoffed the birthday cake the beautician made for her in mere days.

  Ladies from the Country Women’s Association milled about the adjacent stand. Winnie waved at Doris Starling, the wife of the old guy with the wooden aeroplane. Doris had helped Winnie organise some food shots for Beach Life using old-school CWA recipes earlier in the week and it had come up a treat. Alex’s photography, not that Winnie wanted to admit it, had given the spread just the right amount of warmth and light.

  ‘Oh, blast!’

  Winnie turned to find Honey swiping at a sauce splodge on her front with a serviette, a hot dog balanced in the other hand. ‘I’ve washed this top at least fifty times. The bump turns into target practice whenever I eat. A major pain when my wardrobe choices are becoming fewer and fewer. I can only do the laundry so many times.’

  Winnie adopted a sympathetic expression. ‘Can’t be long now.’

  Honey sighed. ‘I know I’m doubly blessed. I’m just at the cranky end of things. The weight’s like having two sandbags strapped to my front. And I’ve had enough of sweating in cheap, synthetic shoes because I can’t fit into any of my good pairs.’ Honey shook her head. ‘Like my mother-in-law says, AFL players only get twenty-three rounds, while us women get the whole nine months.’

  A tray of plastic glasses filled with red liquid moved into their eye-line. ‘Wine sample?’ the woman wielding the tray asked.

  Winnie helped herself, while Honey pulled a mournful face. ‘If only. The closest thing I can get to that is grape juice – can’t harm the bubs.’ The demonstrator moved on. Honey suddenly gripped Winnie’s forearm. ‘Look, there’s another one. I’m not alone – it’s lambing season.’

  Winnie followed her friend’s stare. Another pregnant woman ambled past, swinging a show bag while discreetly tugging at her top’s hem with her free hand.

  Honey nodded sagely. ‘Everything becomes a midriff top when you’re preggers.’ Demolishing the remains of her hot dog in a few bites, Honey turned, patting Winnie’s knee. ‘Anyway, enough boring pregnancy stuff.’ Her eyes suddenly glittered. ‘I want to hear about you and the gorgeous Alex Bass. I overheard Cyndi asking you at the baby shower about getting hot and heavy with him. About time, I say!’

  The wine Winnie had begun sipping immediately tasted rancid, burning a path to her stomach. ‘Oh, that . . . It was nothing – just a blip on the radar. Over before it even began.’

  She wasn’t sure why the whole thing with Alex still hurt so much. A helluva lot more than the sunburnt nose from being out in the elements today. It was ridiculous really. She deserved to be with someone who could be clear about how they felt, who could be depended upon, not change their mind about things as often as they went fishing.

  Thankfully, Honey didn’t appear to notice her discomfort. ‘Ah, well. So long as you’re getting some action. Wouldn’t want you wasting away out here. Not with your good looks.’

  Winnie felt her face glow bright. ‘Er, thanks.’

  Honey rifled in her handbag, pulling out a lip gloss. Smearing some on her mouth, she then extended the tube to Winnie. ‘Fancy some Lanolips? It uses lanolin from sheep’s wool, apparently.’

  ‘Oh . . . okay.’ While Winnie applied the lip gloss, her ears pricked up at the mention of a name to her left: Lorraine. Her heart pounded. She darted a look to where the CWA ladies were huddled about like clucking chickens. Could Lorraine, the woman who’d been rumoured to have had an affair with Mrs Mannix’s husband, actually be among them?

  Feeling a little like Nancy Drew, Winnie slowly handed the tube back to Honey and got to her feet. ‘Um, I won’t be a moment,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve just seen someone I know.’

  Honey waved her away. ‘No probs.’

  Edging closer, Winnie thought Lorraine, in the light of day, didn’t exactly look like a husband-stealer, just a typical old lady. She wore a blue, parachute-fabric tracksuit and was fussing about, wiping around the cake stands.

  Clearing her throat, Winnie stepped forward, suddenly a little uncertain, but she’d come too far to back out. ‘Uh, excuse me, are you Lorraine Burgess?’

  The burgundy-haired woman peered up at her, squinting in the sunlight. ‘I am indeed. Are you a late entrant to the bake-off?’ Apparently she didn’t recognise Winnie from the museum launch.

  ‘Actually, no.’ Winnie looked down at her hands and back up again. She attempted to inject some confidence in her voice. ‘I’m the, uh, editor of Beach Life magazine and I recently interviewed June Mannix for a history article. I believe you knew her husband well.’

  Her final words hung in the air and, right on cue, Lorraine’s features clouded. Averting her gaze, the woman fussed about some more with the cake stands. The shaking hands were a dead giveaway, as though she had something to hide. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say I knew him better than anyone else in town.’

  ‘Please.’ Winnie placed a hand on the woman’s hunched shoulder, emboldened. ‘I know this is a very private matter, but Mrs Mannix has become almost like a surrogate grandmother to me. And I’m curious about some things in her life from the past that still seem to be causing her some pain.’

  Lorraine peeked up again, finally grabbing a nearby tea towel to wipe her hands with. ‘Did June put you up to this?’

  ‘No, she hasn’t a clue.’

  ‘So this is more for your own sake? You won’t publish anything?’

  ‘No.’ S
aying the word felt like dropping a heavy weight.

  The old woman let out a whoosh of air, which ruffled Winnie’s hair. ‘Okay, okay . . . let’s just step a little further away to chat.’

  Inside, it felt like Winnie had a body-pump class going on. The final jigsaw piece in Mrs Mannix’s life was about to be nudged back into place; she could almost taste it. She walked silently with Lorraine for some metres before the woman stopped underneath a shady tree. After darting a few looks over her shoulder, Lorraine spread her hands wide.

  ‘So what do you want to know?’

  Winnie almost – almost – felt bad for pushing the older woman. It was plain to see she was distressed. But Winnie had to lay old ghosts to rest, so to speak, once and for all. She decided to plunge right in, like ripping off a Band-Aid. ‘Okay, here goes. I may as well get straight to it –did you have an affair with June’s husband, Peter?’

  Lorraine threw her hands in the air and laughed bitterly. ‘I thought that might be what this was about.’ Her grey eyes grew steely. ‘But no. No, I didn’t have an affair with him.’

  Relief washed over Winnie – for Mrs Mannix’s sake. Still, she couldn’t leave it quite there; she had to probe a little further, while Lorraine was still within reach, willing to talk. ‘So why did you disappear from town around the same time as him? People thought the pair of you had run away together, that his drowning was just a ruse. The timing seemed too much of a coincidence.’

  Lorraine’s voice grew quiet – soft – and her gaze distant. ‘And I was happy for people to believe we had escaped town together. It was better than having them think . . . other things.’

  ‘Like what?’ Winnie gently pressed.

  Lorraine again pinned her with a look. ‘It was better than everyone finding out I was a flaming lesbian.’

  Winnie drew in a breath. That was the very last thing she expected to hear tumble from the woman’s lips. She almost wanted to laugh – with joy.