by Carla Caruso
Lorraine ploughed on, as though purging herself through words. ‘A long time ago, I fell in love with a backpacker who was passing through town. I didn’t think the chinwaggers around here could handle it back then. So I packed my bag and hit the road with the lass. Ocea was her name. And we had many blissfully happy years together. I still miss her. Unfortunately, a car accident took her away from me.’
The woman crossed her heart, her eyes moist, before shaking her head. ‘I don’t know who started the rumour about Peter and me. I heard about it through my cousin, who was still in town, and,’ she sighed, ‘for obvious reasons, I didn’t try very hard to dispel it. Something I’ve always felt guilty about – because of June. Maybe losing Ocea was my punishment of sorts.’
‘I guess you did what you felt you had to do,’ Winnie said.
Lorraine bowed her head. ‘Perhaps.’
While Winnie couldn’t forgive the woman for all the years of hurt she’d inadvertently caused Mrs Mannix, she could at least understand.
‘Promise you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone? I’ve worked too hard to keep my secret for so long.’
Winnie felt torn as she looked into the woman’s pleading eyes. ‘I promise I won’t.’
An almighty yell cut through the air, stilling their conversation. The sound seemed to come from the vicinity of the Showgirl stage. Shoot. Proceedings appeared to have started. Young girls wearing sashes were lined up onstage and Cyndi was behind the microphone – though her expression was strangely dark and twisted.
Hurriedly, Winnie turned back to Lorraine. ‘Thanks for your honesty, and now I – I’d better go.’
‘It was good to get things off my chest,’ Lorraine said solemnly before Winnie pelted back to her seat.
Sliding in next to Honey, Winnie hunched down in her chair, whispering, ‘What the heck’s going on?’ She listened closely to Cyndi’s diatribe as it spewed out of the speakers – it didn’t appear to have anything to do with the beauty contest.
Honey chewed a thumbnail, her eyes still on the stage. ‘Cyndi’s ex, T-Bone, is in the audience. The rodeo guy. And Cyndi’s just discovered his latest girlfriend is one of the Miss Showgirl entrants – half his age. Things have turned ugly. She’s badmouthing him over the loudspeaker, bringing up the past.’
‘Hasn’t someone tried to stop her?’ Winnie hissed back.
Honey shrugged helplessly. ‘You of all people know what Cyndi’s like when she’s on a mission. Pity the person who gets in the way.’
‘True.’
As if on cue, Cyndi turned her wrath on the crowd. ‘What are you all staring at like a bunch of full-on sheep, anyway?’ Show volunteers to the right of the stage were frozen in shock – handling such a situation was obviously not covered in their training.
Finally, Cyndi chucked the microphone to the ground, causing a squeal of feedback, and jumped offstage. Winnie held her breath along with the crowd as the former pageant queen rushed towards the cake display. Thank heavens Cyndi was well and truly over Alex when Winnie had had her ill-fated fling. The beautician obviously wasn’t quite so over T-Bone, even if things were going swimmingly with Kirk. Talk about hell hath no fury.
Wrenching the glass cover from her prized fudge cake, Cyndi hoisted the dessert from its stand. Every pair of eyes followed her as she marched over to a muscular guy wearing a cowboy hat in the front row. Winnie guessed he was T-Bone.
‘So what do you have to say for yourself?’ Cyndi demanded of him, her cake held above her shoulder. ‘Huh?’
‘I . . . uh . . . I . . .’ he stammered, in contrast to his beefcake build.
Cyndi didn’t appear prepared to wait for him to finish. ‘Can’t believe I once went on a soup diet to try to impress you,’ she screeched. ‘For seven whole days.’ Then, not waiting a second more, she hurled the cake at his face with a splat. The audience gasped.
The light appeared to go back on in Cyndi’s eyes and, with a look of horror, she turned on her heel and ran into the crowd. T-Bone remained seated, wiping icing from his eyes. Chocolatey goo slid down the front of his black tee. A too-young blonde in a long flannel shirt masquerading as a dress leapt from the stage and rushed to his side.
Honey heaved herself from her seat, pressing her palms into the small of her back, as the audience descended into hubbub. ‘Guess we’d better go find her. She must have had too many wine samples before she hit the stage. She’s going to feel like a downright drongo in the morning.’
All Winnie could do was shake her head and follow Honey’s lead. It was hard to correlate the sweet girl who’d thrown a baby shower for her friend with the snarling, jealous woman she’d just seen.
Honey piped up again as they shuffled through the seated row. ‘One thing’s certain, though – she won’t be winning first prize for her cake now.’
Winnie climbed out of Olive’s midnight-black Commodore, the football referee’s whistle piercing in her ear. The noise was followed by a cacophony of honking horns from cars surrounding the muddy oval.
She’d reluctantly been persuaded to join the ad manager at a Kingston preseason match that Sunday. Olive said it was a rite of passage as a newcomer, though Aussie rules wasn’t really Winnie’s thing. In Sydney, the papers had been awash with all things rugby league. And even then she’d only taken note of which players looked cutest in their shorts – when she wasn’t feeling slightly repelled by their thick necks.
Olive circumnavigated the oval at speed, gesturing at the clubrooms’ serving window. ‘There’s a meat pie, dripping with sauce, with my name written all over it. I had a late one last night and I’m starving.’
Winnie checked the scoreboard as she followed Olive, and saw Kingston was in front of Bordertown by the teeniest of margins. Seagulls gathered near the goals as though waiting their turn to pull on a guernsey. Overhead, the sky was powder blue with a whisper of cloud mixed through.
‘So.’ She hurried to catch up with Olive. ‘Your late night wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain optometrist named Oscar, would it? You’ve been pretty quiet on the subject since the town hall seminar.’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Olive offered cryptically.
‘C’mon, I need details, girl.’
‘Okay, okay. We might have caught up and phoned each other a few times. And I like to think I’ve relaxed around him a bit more.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess I just want to make sure he’s the right fit first, though, before I go blurting out too much. You know, not rush things, like I did with that first guy I followed to Kingston; have my head in the sand.’
‘Whatever happened to that guy anyway?’ Winnie asked curiously. ‘Would I know him?’
‘Nah.’ Olive’s eyes uncharacteristically darkened. ‘He racked off to wine country in Coonawarra, never to be seen again. Thank goodness.’ She stopped suddenly and Winnie nearly bumped into her. Olive lowered her voice. ‘He was a nasty sort actually. Used to throw me around a bit.’
Winnie pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, Olive, that’s terrible.’
‘It’s probably why I’ve been a bit terrified to love again. Preferred one-night stands and lusting after country singers from afar, that sort of thing.’
‘That would make sense,’ Winnie said softly, rubbing the ad manager’s forearm. ‘For what it’s worth, Oscar seems a good sort.’
‘Thanks, Win.’
And just like that, it made sense why Olive had been like a roo caught in headlights in the face of her crush on Oscar, why she presented such a tough facade half the time. Winnie felt for her.
Nearing the stands, Winnie had her mind on another no-good sort. Perhaps he wasn’t on quite the same level as Olive’s ex, but he was damaging for her, emotionally at least. She did a quick scan of those who preferred barracking from the metal benches to sitting in their vehicles. One part of her prayed Alex wasn’t among them and another small, sad part of her hoped he was.
Urgh. Rather than Alex, she spied other familiar faces in the crowd: Eden and Mrs D,
all decked out in the club colours of red, white and black. Eden, obviously there to support her footy star fiancé, had teamed the look with pearl earrings. Winnie gave a reluctant wave, though she made sure to keep a safe distance. Time with the Delawares needed to be limited.
Her gaze flicked to the oval again, for want of anything better to do, and it was her turn to freeze. Finding her feet again, she sped up behind Olive. ‘I didn’t know Alex played footy,’ she hissed.
‘Alex?’ Olive echoed distractedly, her mind obviously set on food and food alone. She followed Winnie’s stare. ‘Oh, I think he fills in occasionally. When the club’s strapped or doesn’t want to tire out its good players. He’s fit, but it’s obvious he hasn’t grown up playing the game. Still, he’s good enough.’
‘Huh.’
Winnie joined Olive at the end of the food queue, the smell of hot pastries making her stomach grumble in spite of herself. Every so often, she allowed her eyes to wander back to Alex on field.
If women were in charge of picking who played, she knew they’d choose Alex, hands down – if only due to the way the uniform flaunted his muscular arms and thighs to perfection. Not that his buff form should do anything for her. Not that her fingers should itch to wipe the sweat off his brow or smooth his unruly hair. On personality, on the respect he showed women who cared for him, he wouldn’t pass the test.
‘Crap!’
Winnie tore her eyes away from the field to glance at Olive, who was looking down mournfully at her charcoal tank top. It bore a whitish splodge of bird dropping.
‘Stupid seagulls!’ Olive plucked the front of her top for closer inspection, revealing a hint of purple satin bra beneath. ‘Trust my rotten luck.’
‘Um, I thought it was good luck,’ Winnie hedged, if only to make her colleague feel better.
A figure, just leaving the queue, was at Olive’s side in three long strides. ‘Uh, this might help.’
It was Chester Wyatt, looking typically red-faced. He extended a folded serviette and water bottle in Olive’s direction. Grumpily, the redhead took them both from his fingertips, heaving out a sigh.
‘Thanks,’ she huffed, sounding anything but. She quickly turned to Winnie. ‘I’m going to the ladies to try to clean up this mess. Don’t forget my pie! I’ll give you the money later.’
‘Got it,’ Winnie said, before shooting an apologetic look at Chester as Olive raced off. ‘That was kind of you. And please ignore my friend – she’s just miffed about her top. And a bit sleep-deprived.’
‘No problem.’ Chester shrugged shyly, offering a half-smile, then drifted away again.
As Winnie watched him go, light suddenly dawned. Could the soon-to-be reality TV star actually be infatuated with the feisty Olive? Despite a gaggle of bachelorettes set to throw themselves at him and TV fame looming? They did say opposites attracted. And stranger things had happened. Not that Olive appeared to have noticed any of his kind actions. Though quiet, he seemed another good sort.
Shouts from players and fans saw Winnie’s focus pulled back to the football field. Okay, along with the prospect of spying Alex in action. Her gaze homed in on the fisherman just as he leapt up like a panther and – oh dear – headed the ball.
‘It’s not bloody soccer,’ a spectator jeered from the sidelines.
Landing back on the grass, Alex rubbed his forehead, seeming a little dazed. And embarrassed. Good.
Before an ounce of sympathy could register, Winnie put a hand to her mouth, swallowing a giggle. Even she knew it wasn’t the done thing to head-butt the oval-shaped ball, not in Aussie Rules. She hoped the humiliation cut him deep. Gave him a little taste of the way his rejection had cut her. It felt small and mean, but it was really all she had at her disposal – short of throwing a cake in his face, à la Cyndi.
Chapter Twenty-Five
For Alex, it was sweet torture being so near Winnie yet unable to lay a finger on her. Of course, it was his own fault. Or that of his circumstances, at least. But it didn’t mean the proximity didn’t kill him.
They were at the ceremony rehearsal for Eden and Flynn, a week before the couple’s big day. Everyone involved in the wedding was there, from the bridal party to the classical musicians. Eden had also asked Alex to take some practice snaps to ensure she had the right facial expression when she walked down the aisle. At the request, Alex had had to grit his teeth and remind himself that attending to a client’s every whim was all part of the job. The quaint country church provided a calming backdrop, at least, with its timber trusses, classic columns and stained-glass windows – the latter rattling slightly in the breezy night.
Alex held his breath as Winnie made her third practice trip down the aisle in time to the music. The journo-cum-bridesmaid was worth a million Allira Beccis. More. He knew that now. He’d hated being chummy with the model in front of Winnie after . . . everything. But he’d had to keep Allira sweet, warning her early he’d be at the shoot under a new persona and not, under any circumstances, to mention his past. Allira might be vacuous but he knew she wouldn’t go running to the tabloids – in that regard, she was harmless. She didn’t need the five minutes of fame. If only she hadn’t kept calling him ‘Cy’.
A small gift he had for Winnie burned in his pocket. It was a friendship gift – all he could offer at this point in time; when he couldn’t be entirely truthful about who he was, when he could only give half of himself. He just needed the right moment to approach her with the token.
‘No, no, no. I don’t like that song for the exit,’ Eden’s voice cut over the string quartet. ‘Can we try another number?’ The musicians fumbled with their sheet music while Eden was busy folding her arms and tapping her foot.
And there was Alex’s moment.
Winnie neared, her familiar citrusy perfume hanging in the air. Something about her slightly windblown hair, looking like she’d just gotten out of bed, caused an ache down below. He put out a hand to stop her as she passed and she flinched. It was now or never, though. Fishing in his pocket, he found the small object he was after and pressed it into her hand before she could wrench it away.
‘I found this out fishing today,’ he whispered as the string quartet tried out another musical piece for Eden’s approval. ‘Dangling from the lighthouse platform – almost blinded me. The water was good so we could get real close today. I thought you might like it.’
Winnie uncurled her fingers and stared at her palm. A French angelfish pendant, just like the one Mrs Mannix always wore, twinkled there. Her head jerked up again, her face white, apart from her sun-blushed nose, and her eyes haunted, almost like she’d seen a ghost.
‘You found this?’ Her voice cracked. ‘On the platform?’
He nodded, not sure whether she was uncertain about the pendant itself or his giving her a gift. ‘Yeah.’ He massaged the back of his neck with his camera-free hand, trying to keep his tone light. ‘It was wedged between some wooden planks. Good thing gold doesn’t corrode. It could have been there for eons. I thought it was a happy coincidence, after the photo and all.’
Winnie didn’t appear to be listening any more, though. Eyes glazed, she forged ahead again zombie-like, without another word.
His skin prickled as he glanced over his shoulder at her retreating back. What had he done? He stupidly thought she’d like the pendant. That she was over all the stuff about that old woman. Obviously he’d thought wrong. He was clearly lucky Winnie hadn’t thrown the necklace back in his face.
Two months in the country and Winnie had clearly lost the plot. Why else, after the wedding rehearsal, had she sped off to rouse some poor old lady from her sleep? But she couldn’t wait a moment longer. She had to share what she’d discovered before she burst.
It was a good thing she’d be back in Sydney before long, all going to plan, like Dorothy returning to Oz. She’d gotten a call about an interview – an actual interview – for the maternity-leave gig at Panache. And she felt more spurred on than ever to ace it. As was typical of life, wh
en one area was falling apart – the relationship sector, particularly – another began to flourish. Her excuse to Christa about the upcoming trip home, in case she bumped into her, would be that she was attending a ‘family matter’. Hey, her dad did live in the harbour city. The editorial director needn’t know she had no intention of visiting him while there.
Resolving things for Mrs Mannix – her current mission – would be a fitting end to Winnie’s time in Kingston in a strange sort of way. After jumping out of her car, she marched up to Mrs Mannix’s door and buzzed the bell. Determination warred with nerves.
Within minutes, the older woman appeared in the doorway, clad in a pink dressing-gown. Her silver French twist looked slightly lopsided. She probably turned down the sheets at seven. As usual, her angelfish necklace shimmered at her neck.
‘Winnie – is something the matter?’
Winnie felt her bottom lip tremble, overcome by sudden emotion. She might as well get to the point. ‘Doris Starling told me everything about your worries regarding your husband. But he did love you.’ She pressed the necklace Alex had given her into the woman’s hand. ‘Peter had an identical pendant to yours, didn’t he? So this was his. An acquaintance of mine found it on the lighthouse platform while out fishing and I was fiddling with it at church just now. When I opened it, I found proof that Peter loved you, and you alone, whether you could give him children or not. And for the record, he never had a thing for Lorraine Burgess,’cause I asked her.’
Mrs Mannix was staring, mouth slightly open, at the pendant in her hand. Winnie reached to grab it back again. She fumbled with the accessory, causing a secret compartment to spring open at its rear. A tip of rolled-up paper was revealed. Winnie pulled it out, unfurling with a flourish the small black-and-white photo of a twenty-something June. She knew it was her, because Mrs Mannix still wore the same hairstyle.
‘It’s a picture of you. He must have had the hidden compartment added in so he could always have you close at heart, even at sea,’ Winnie plunged on. ‘On the back, it reads “The only one, always and forever”. So romantic. Peter must have been wearing it when he got swept off the lighthouse, the necklace catching on the platform. This was a man who loved you with all his heart and soul, Mrs Mannix. He was a stayer.’ Unlike Alex, or any other male in Winnie’s life for that matter.