by Carla Caruso
Mrs Mannix remained speechless, her face disbelieving.
A lump constricted Winnie’s throat, making her voice hoarse. ‘I know what it’s like to feel unloved, unwanted, unworthy – like a waste of space – but you weren’t any of those things, Mrs Mannix. Please believe me. You were very much loved.’
She hauled in a deep breath, waiting for some sort of reaction, a semblance of life, as the sea air swirled around them. The seconds ticked by, and nothing. Then, all of a sudden, the older woman looked up, her blue eyes shining. Stepping forwards, she enveloped Winnie in a warm hug, smelling of baking and mothballs.
‘Thank you, dear,’ she whispered, her voice sounding choked. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure,’ Winnie said, squeezing back tears.
It felt like a weight had been lifted from both their shoulders.
Winnie shifted for the millionth time on the white leather couch in Panache’s reception. She’d come straight from Sydney Airport to the magazine’s offices, where her big interview for the fashion editor role was mere minutes away. Well, there’d been a quick detour when she’d dumped her suitcase inside the front door of her old apartment, but that was all. Next she was meeting Bruna at a city watering hole for Friday night drinks – and a debrief – like old times. She wasn’t mad at her housemate any more for forgoing the Kingston trip. These things happened. She was just excited to see her.
Winnie’s gaze drifted to the chicly dressed receptionist, who could double as a model, typing madly at her desk. Then to the framed magazine covers on the back wall.
Winnie was doing her darnedest to practise possible interview responses in her head, but her thoughts kept wandering back to Kingston. Like pondering how Cyndi was doing since the whole T-Bone episode at the field days. Or how Honey was faring with her due date so near. And Olive, who’d been coy about her dating success with the optometrist dreamboat, though she had mysteriously revealed she had a date for Eden’s wedding. Winnie even wondered about Casper, who was being looked after by her divorcee neighbour. It was strange adding up how many people – and beings – had come into her life since only a few months ago.
Disturbingly, Winnie also thought about Alex. Ironically, she’d been worried about somehow accidentally touching him at the ceremony rehearsal – then he’d approached her, pressing that necklace right into her palm. It was so, so typical of him, coming on all heavy like a Sydney bogong moth plague, then disappearing again. But, unfortunately for him, emotional scattiness was her new deal-breaker. She wouldn’t tolerate it any more. She deserved better.
‘Panache magazine, Margarita speaking,’ the receptionist trilled into her phone headset, interrupting Winnie’s thoughts temporarily.
Margherita. It reminded Winnie of a cocktail and what she’d be downing with Bruna in under an hour. She could hardly wait.
Zoning out again, Winnie picked up a copy of Panache from a stack next to her. She leafed through to a fashion shoot at the centre, featuring an It girl living off the notoriety of a recently leaked sex tape. Again, Winnie’s mind wandered – this time to Allira Becci and the five-finger discount the model had given herself on the designer shades at the shoot. Even after Winnie had said no to taking them. She’d discovered the sunnies were missing afterwards, when she was ticking off the stock to send back. It was another cost Winnie would have to grin and bear. Better than upsetting the talent and having the cover pulled at the eleventh hour. So long as the launch went off without a hitch, she’d be more than happy.
A thought niggled at Winnie – the idea of regularly working with celebs like Allira at Panache didn’t appeal as much as it once would have. In fact, it even scared her a little, made her feel exhausted before she’d even begun. But she was sure she’d get used to doing so if Panache hired her. The big expanse of sky and fresh country air in Kingston had just made her soft, that was all. A little time back in Sydney and she’d harden up again. If she could handle life in the sticks, she could handle any wayward A-listers.
‘Ms Cherry?’ The receptionist was calling her, and by the slightly harried look on her face, she must have repeated her name several times.
‘Oh, sorry, yes?’ Winnie sprang to her feet, nervously dusting down the front of her skirt in readiness.
‘Sharon is waiting for you,’ the receptionist purred, pronouncing the editor’s name as ‘Sha-rohn’, like Citroen. So wannabe pretentious – and so Sydney. ‘Just head through that doorway. Hers is the third office on the left.’
Winnie nodded. ‘Right . . . thank you.’
She sucked in a breath. Her next life direction possibly lay beyond that fate-filled third door.
‘Fancy another glass of liquid confidence?’ Bruna shouted in Winnie’s ear over the pounding music.
‘Another drink?’ Winnie clarified, adjusting her handbag on the crook of her elbow.
Bruna grinned at her like a Cheshire cat. The multicoloured lights created a halo effect around the finance worker’s dark locks, though she was anything but angelic. ‘I reckon that legal eagle over there’s got one with your name written all over it.’
Of course Winnie should have known her housemate wouldn’t be dipping into her own sequinned purse. ‘Actually,’ Winnie said tiredly, not in the right frame of mind to talk to some boring suit, ‘I might get my own. You want anything?’
Bruna’s jaw slackened, looking aghast. ‘What are they putting in the water in Kingston?’ She nudged Winnie’s side. ‘You’ve changed, girl.’ But thankfully Bruna was quickly distracted by something – somebody – across the room, winding a strand of hair coquettishly around her finger. ‘I think I’m all set, though.’ Her code for being on the prowl. ‘Thanks anyway.’
‘Cool,’ Winnie murmured.
Pushing forward, she navigated her way around pointy elbows and oversized handbags, feeling like her personal space was being invaded. In truth, Winnie couldn’t wait to hit the sack, though was trying to put on her best game face for Bruna. Her feet ached from being in heels all day and the constant city noise had given her a slight headache.
After Kingston, it had felt strange not bumping into a single person she recognised on the way there, though she’d sidestepped being ambushed by various charity tin collectors. She’d forgotten how Sydney could make her feel like an anonymous speck.
Squeezing into a space at the bar, Winnie looked up at the shelves of colourful glass bottles, trying to decide what she wanted. If anything. She should really be celebrating. The interview with Sha-rohn had gone extremely well, despite the editrix seeming even scarier than Christa – if that were possible. Perhaps it was just the woman’s puffy collagen lips and her Scottish accent, thicker than her false lashes, that had slightly unnerved Winnie. Or just a case of better the devil you know. At any rate, Sharon had seemed impressed with her, gushing over the pics from the Allira Becci shoot. Winnie had an inkling the job was in the bag. Likely she’d have more energy tomorrow to kick up her heels. Surely Bruna wouldn’t mind if they had an early one tonight?
‘Winnie – fancy seeing you here.’
She turned at the sound of a familiar, charming voice and felt her ovaries shrivel. Grant, her magazine publisher’s executive chairman, all suited up, stood before her – the very person who’d seen her banished to Kingston in the first place.
‘Grant, hi,’ Winnie greeted him, the bogus smile hurting her cheeks.
He looked as handsome as ever with (probably waxed) dark brows framing piercing blue eyes, and his black hair stylishly gelled back. Leaning in, he kissed her cheek, smelling of a musky aftershave that made Winnie’s nose wrinkle.
‘What are you doing in town?’ he asked, casually leaning back on an elbow on the wooden bar. An eyebrow arched. ‘Or more importantly,’ he paused as though for dramatic effect, his words weighted, ‘how long are you here?’
Winnie drank in the glint in his eye, his entire polished frame, all of his big-city charm. Only a few short months ago she might have been drawn in by his Casanova act.
Right then though, she knew the hour was late, he was on the make, and she was sure he considered her a sure thing. A particularly convenient prospect since she’d been exiled to a tiny dot of a town, which meant less chance of any office gossip getting back.
Strangely, the situation reminded her of the white leather couch at the Panache office – he looked good, but he didn’t feel right. And she didn’t do leather anyway. Against her better judgement, she compared him to Alex, who was well built, a little rough around the edges and tanned from being outdoors, not gym-sculpted, perfumed and orange.
Giving Grant a long, hard stare, she moved her handbag strap onto her shoulder. ‘Not long enough,’ she said with a slow shake of her head. ‘Go home to your poor wife. Good seeing you, Grant.’ What was he going to do? Fire her? She didn’t care.
With a hair flip, she pushed her way back into the crowd, forgetting about another drink – and him. Half an hour later, she’d convinced Bruna to call it a night and they sailed back to the apartment in a taxi with a driver protection screen, which prevented any conversation from front seat to back. Also typically Sydney.
Back at the apartment, in her old bathroom, Winnie took her time cleansing her face of make-up. The claustrophobic feeling from earlier had begun to lessen and she felt herself unwinding, at long last. It had been a huge day, but she’d be back to her old self by tomorrow, she was sure of it. And she was proud of herself for knocking back Grant’s advances. It was a sign she’d grown.
Earlier, in the lounge, she’d been mildly irritated to find the pile of fashion magazines she subscribed to had been taken out of their wrappings by Bruna, but not forwarded on to her in Kingston. Still, at least it meant the light reading material could be savoured right then and help send her off to sleep.
After calling out goodnight to Bruna at the opposite end of the hall – again, like old times – she padded to her bedroom and flicked on the light. And screamed and screamed.
A naked man was sprawled face-down on her bed. Her heart pounded wildly. Was he dead?
Bruna obviously had her earplugs in as she didn’t come running. The male head twisted to the left and Winnie instantly recognised the profile. It was Jaharn, Bruna’s catty gay pal. Fear turned to outrage. To think Winnie had been pleased he hadn’t joined them for drinks – now there he was, lying on her doona, totally naked. Her flesh crawled.
‘Turn off the light, would you?’ he slurred unhappily, obviously having passed out after one too many tipples of his own.
Winnie backed out of the room, killing the switch. ‘Sure.’
Down the hall, she rapped on Bruna’s door, pushing it open before her housemate could answer. ‘What, pray tell me, is Jaharn doing in my bed?’ Winnie hissed into the semi-darkness.
She could just make out Bruna struggling into a sitting position on her mattress, pulling her plugs out of her ears and her satin eye mask off. ‘Oh, sorry, didn’t I tell you? I must have forgot. I sublet your room to Jaharn while you were away.’
A white-hot bolt of fury hit Winnie in the chest. ‘And you didn’t think to tell me while I was here, about to climb into bed?’ Her voice rose to a shriek. ‘I’m still paying half the rent!’
‘I got lonely,’ Bruna offered meekly.
Winnie slammed the door shut without another word. Her patience was disappearing faster than those Snapchat photo messages with time limits. She couldn’t take any more. It was like a poisonous fog had rolled in, hanging over her head. Wrenching open the hall cupboard, she pulled out a spare pillow and blanket. The apartment suddenly felt cold and dark.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, her mind whirling, she nodded to herself. She’d sleep on the couch that night, but she wouldn’t be letting Bruna off scot-free – she’d deal with the situation properly in the morning, with a clear head. She would be sure to make Bruna see sense.
As Winnie lifted her right foot, something small and glossy scuttled over her left. Ack. A cockroach. Undoubtedly. Another creature, alongside mice, she couldn’t stand. She really was back in Sydney, with its full array of creepy critters – men included.
Finally settling on the couch, her last thought as she drifted off was whether Alex had found her beanbag as uncomfortable to sleep on.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Winnie felt like she had rocks in her chest. She stared at the paper she’d unwittingly found when she’d knocked over the magazine stack Bruna had not so kindly pored over already. Sleeping on the couch had seen Winnie wake early, her back and shoulders protesting. But the early-morning discovery had almost made her want to pull the covers back over her head.
The contents of the offending paper hurt her eyes, already gritty and sore as a consequence of last night’s shenanigans and a lack of sleep. In her hands was Bruna’s application letter for Winnie’s old fashion-editor gig at Slicker magazine. It must have somehow mistakenly gotten wedged between the magazines while Bruna was enjoying the free reading material. Not that Bruna had ever mentioned throwing her hat in the ring for the role. Or that she’d lied about assisting Winnie as a freelancer on the odd shoot, along with a bunch of other fibs about her so-called styling and media experience. In truth, Bruna’s work history extended to finance only.
Thankfully, her housemate hadn’t gotten the job. But the betrayal cut like a rusty Schick Quattro shaver, mostly due to the fact that Bruna hadn’t even told Winnie she’d applied for it, as well as the fact she had taken advantage of Winnie’s bad fortune – an opportunist. A total leech. Bruna would do anything, it seemed, to ensure the party invites and free champers didn’t run out. Even more so, though, Winnie was angry at the generosity she’d extended to Bruna in the past, and at being bewitched by her. An Aristotle quote sprang to mind: A friend to all is a friend to none. That was Bruna.
With adrenalin pumping through her like she’d had an espresso, Winnie launched herself to her feet and made a beeline for the stairs. She could hear Bruna unattractively snoring so knew her housemate was still out like a light. Winnie tiptoed along, her heart slamming against her ribs. Pushing on her old bedroom door – it creaked slightly – she poked her head in. Jaharn was gone. Phew. The gym junkie must have snuck out when Winnie enjoyed a rare patch of sleep. In the light of day, she could see his belongings now mingled with her own.
Dragging her old desk chair across the carpet, Winnie stood on it, reaching for an extra suitcase and backpack atop her wardrobe. The baggage was thrown on the bed. Jumping back down again, she began shoving in as many clothes and shoes as each could handle. Who cared if she looked like Kim Kardashian, minus the helpers, laden down with luggage at the airport? For the first time, Winnie couldn’t wait to have Sydney’s cityscape in her rear-view mirror. It wasn’t that the Emerald City was a bad place, exactly. It was just that she now realised she was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole in its cutthroat magazine world. She wasn’t sure she would stay on at Beach Life indefinitely, but she’d always fancied the idea of being a freelance writer – and modern technology meant it could be done anywhere. And just because she wasn’t fit for the rat race like her dad, it didn’t mean she’d necessarily morph into her mother. It felt time for throwing caution to the wind.
The plan was to catch an earlier flight to Adelaide and then wait for the bus to Kingston at her mum’s. It would be a clean break. Only Bruna’s name was on the Sydney lease and most of the furnishings in the apartment were hers. As for Winnie’s old bedroom gear, whatever she couldn’t fit in her bags, she’d pay removalists to pack and send to her. She would have a look on Gumtree for some furniture for her Kingston unit on her return. Hanging around would only make her feel as useless as the one ugly hue in an eye-shadow trio.
It was funny how things could change in the blink of an eye. She now knew home was where your tribe was and, strangely, that was Kingston. For better or worse. With or without Alex. Even if the town was a little less coiffured than nearby Robe. If Honey could make the place her casa all the way from Sweden, learning to throw arou
nd more dry wit than an Aussie, surely Winnie could, too. The townspeople were like the big family she’d never had. Plus, she realised she’d done a bunch more interesting things there than she’d ever done in Sydney. Even if she didn’t have her whole future mapped out before her, right then she craved the openness of Kingston’s people and scenery. She could even get used to living alone. In Sydney, she just felt chained in.
Despite being so tired she was almost delirious, her volcanic surge of fury at Bruna’s actions made light work of a mammoth task. After doing the speediest outfit change and make-up application known to (wo)man, she zipped up her bags and looked around the half-emptied room. Someday she knew she’d look back on this day as a turning point, but at that moment, it was still raw.
Once she’d lugged her baggage downstairs and dialled for a taxi, she headed back up to the coffee table. Bruna’s application letter still lay there, looking innocent despite its evil contents.
Flipping the sheet over, Winnie fished a purple pen from her handbag. Then, across the back of the page, she scrawled a note to her former housemate. B, had to fly home early. The apartment is now all yours and Jaharn’s. I won’t be back or paying any further rent, W.
No further explanation felt necessary. It wasn’t as though Bruna had always been open and accountable with her. Feeling remarkably centred, Winnie began carting her luggage out of the apartment. Under the circumstances, each item seemed as light as a feather.
It was like a rebirth. The first thing Winnie did early Monday morning back in Kingston was don her green bikini from Steve’s Place and head to the beach. She revelled in floating on her back, the sun jabbing at her eyelids, salty water trickling down her throat and into her eyes, the pull of the tide matching the rhythm of her breath. She felt simultaneously invigorated and protected, as though the ocean were rocking her in its big, blue arms.