Australian Secrets

Chapter Five

Nicola woke to a headache of disappointment. She’d always felt that a hangover was only worth suffering if a worthy investment had been made, but last night she’d only had two glasses of white with dinner. That was the trouble with bad wine.

She rolled over to find further disappointment. Scott’s side of the bed was empty.

Kitchen clatter informed her he was making coffee. The small carriage clock confirmed she’d managed to sleep in. It was eight-thirty.

She picked up the small wooden picture frame from beside the clock. It held a copy of the same faded polaroid as the one in her office. She stroked the baby’s innocent sleeping face, her face, which showed nothing of the impending abandonment.

Why had her mother given her up? Had she done it voluntarily or under duress? What about the man or boy involved: did he know he had a daughter who had been given up? Maybe her mother had been raped. Jesus, Nicola couldn’t bear that thought.

When her adoption information eventually arrived, it would only give her names; not these more emotional details. For that she’d have to meet her, whoever she was.

The thought sent a shiver down Nicola’s spine. But what if she was dead? Nicola had always refused to believe that. No, somewhere out there she had another mother, and hopefully a father too. She’d felt sure of it right from the start, and would continue to believe it until she knew otherwise.

Scott’s frame filled the doorway. ‘Don’t forget we’re meeting Bob and Sandy for breakfast at Becco at ten – you’d better get cracking.’

‘Come back to bed,’ Nicola cooed, patting the emptiness beside her.

‘There are some emails I need to deal with.’

‘Surely they can wait.’

‘No, Nicola, they can’t – they’re important.’

And there it was; that tone she hated. Nicola felt like pointing out that she was important too, but cautioned herself. The effects of last night’s below-average wine were probably making her overly sensitive. It was easier just to let it go.

She climbed out of bed, and as she padded naked to the bathroom, Scott started making the vacated bed. Personally she preferred to air it – as Ruth had taught her – but again it was easier to bite her tongue and not be subjected to another jibe about her lack of tidiness.

Bob was a golf buddy of Scott’s; Nicola adored him. He and his wife, Sandy, who was an absolute hoot, ran their own business importing high-end Asian furniture and homewares. Nicola wasn’t keen on the style of furniture, but had bought a pair of lovely paintings for the lounge room wall.

There were rarely any customers in the shop and Nicola didn’t see how they made enough money to sustain their lavish lifestyle.

Yet somehow they managed to have Sundays and two days off a week; Bob so he could achieve a single-figure golf handicap and Sandy so she could shop with the girls.

Nicola loved spending time with Sandy; she was real. Well, as real as a boob job, liposuction, collagen lips and an incredible fake tan.

Shopping with Sandy meant you’d never end up with something the tabloids could poke fun at. ‘No, no, no sweetie,’ she’d say. ‘You look like an old Jersey cow in that.’ Or, ‘That colour makes you look seasick.’ And she was always right.

Nicola once suggested she get into the fashion industry. Sandy’s reply: ‘And have to deal with morons who think they look two sizes smaller than they are? At least furniture can’t tell you it looks fine when it doesn’t.’

No, there was no arguing with Sandy – she had the world and her place in it well and truly sussed. The bluntness could be upsetting, but you always knew where you stood.

‘Daaarling,’ Sandy cooed, standing and embracing Nicola and kissing the air somewhere near her ears. She gave Scott the same treatment before sitting down.

‘Great to see you guys,’ Bob oozed. He rose, kissed Nicola firmly and gave Scott’s hand a solid pump.

‘Took the liberty of ordering you coffees,’ Sandy said. ‘Thought you might be a little shabby after a night on nasty wine. Hope it wasn’t too ghastly,’ she whispered to Nicola, now seated beside her.

‘It was a great night, wasn’t it?’ Scott said. A bit too defensively, Nicola thought. ‘Very informative.’

‘I bet. Lots of gorgeous specimens to perve on, eh Nicola?’ Sandy said, nudging her.

‘Sandra,’ Bob warned.

‘Get with the program, Bob – everyone knows these things are a veritable smorgasbord. Just look at Scott here.’ Scott blushed right up to his ears.

‘Sorry Scott, hadn’t noticed,’ Bob said, grinning cheekily. ‘Thank Christ for that.’

‘You’re in fine form this morning, Sandy. What’s been happening?’ Nicola said, fighting the urge to snap that there was no point having gorgeous if it didn’t put out.

If Sandy knew the truth she’d say that it wasn’t bad wine but not enough sex making her cranky. Nicola had been horrified a couple of years ago when Sandy had volunteered – totally unprompted – that if Bob didn’t make love to her at least three times a week she was like a bear with a sore head.

‘Hey, have you got the new iPhone yet?’ Scott suddenly cried.

‘Um, I’m actually thinking of sticking with the current model,’ Bob said.

‘You’ll change your mind when you see it; here, check it out,’ he said, sliding his phone across to him. Within seconds they were both engrossed.

Nicola and Sandy exchanged withering expressions.

‘Well, let me show you my new best friend.’ Sandy reached into her Louis Vuitton handbag.

Please no, Nicola thought. Not in public. But she edged closer just the same.

To Nicola’s relief (and just a tinge of disappointment), Sandy pulled out a small embossed silver pump pack a little larger than a lipstick.

‘Essential oil,’ she said proudly, taking the small lid off. ‘This one’s orange – take a whiff.’ She squirted a dose into the air. ‘Makes you feel all bright and chirpy. Give it a whirl on your temples – you look like you need something.’

‘Thanks,’ Nicola said sulkily.

‘You’ll have to excuse Sandra. She’s gone all hippy on us,’ Bob said.

‘Where’s that waiter? I’m starving,’ Sandy suddenly announced.

‘So, where did you get it?’ Nicola asked, turning the object over in her hand and sniffing the nozzle.

‘China – came as a sample with a heap of incense sticks and burners. Different fragrances for whatever mood you’re after.’

‘Hmm,’ Nicola mumbled, idly wondering if there was something she could give Scott.

‘So, Scotty,’ Bob finally said, putting his knife and fork down on a yolk-smeared plate. ‘Ready for a thrashing tomorrow?’ ‘Are you? That is the question.’

‘Come on you two. I thought golf was a battle between mind and little white ball,’ Sandy said.

‘Well, you thought wrong,’ Bob said.

‘Got a new driver this week – two-seventy-five right down the middle,’ Scott said, throwing an arm across the table.

‘You haven’t seen me around the green with my new lob wedge. Anything from fifty out and it’s all over red rover,’ Bob countered.

‘You have to get that close first – bit of a struggle with that slice you’re nurturing.’

‘I seem to remember a little trouble with a certain creek the other week – was it three or four balls?’

‘All right, you two. That’s enough,’ Nicola scolded.

‘Yeah, would you put your dicks away?’ Sandy added.

‘Well, may the best man win,’ Bob said defiantly, offering his hand across the table.

‘Indeed he will,’ Scott said, giving the hand a robust shake.

‘All too much for me,’ Sandy said, rolling her eyes. She reached for the essence spray still on the table.

‘So, what are you guys up to for the rest of today?’ Nicola asked, of no one in particular.

‘Driving range,’ Bob said quietly into his raised coffee cup. ‘Driving range,’ Scott said through clenched teeth, glaring at Bob.

‘Sandy?’ Nicola asked. ‘Shopping – you?’ ‘Same.’

‘Where are you heading – want to go together?’ ‘Well, I’m supposed to be going down Melbourne Street with Joanna – you remember her from that New Year’s Eve toga party at the Wharf.’

‘The one with the stunning race car boyfriend, right?’ ‘They split up.’

‘Oh, poor thing; he was yummy.’

‘Maybe, but the bastard ran off with one of the grid girls from the Melbourne Grand Prix – had been seeing her all year apparently.’

‘Dirty rotten scoundrel. She’ll need your undivided attention – I won’t intrude.’

‘Actually, she might like the diversion – not to mention someone else to tell her he’s a piece of shit not worth wasting tears over.’

‘Hope she got a chance to knee him in the balls,’ Sandy said quietly.

‘She needs to start being sociable again,’ Nicola continued, ignoring Sandy. ‘I’ll give her a quick call, but I’m sure she won’t mind.’ She picked up her iPhone and dialled.

‘Listen Bob, since we’re both going, want to go to the range together?’

‘What? And get a look at your secret weapon ahead of the comp?’

‘Watch and weep,’ Scott said.

‘You ain’t seen nothing yet, Scotty boy.’

After a minute, Nicola put the phone down.

‘So, is she up for blowing a hole in his credit card?’ Sandy asked, rubbing her hands together.

‘Not sure whose card, but let’s just say she’s in therapy – retail therapy,’ Nicola said, grinning.

‘Listen to them, would you?’ Bob said.

‘Yeah, let’s get out of here,’ Scott said, putting some cash on the plate with the bill and rising. ‘See you tonight.’ He pecked Nicola on the cheek. ‘Don’t have too much fun – either of you,’ he added, waving a warning finger.

‘And I want that card back in one piece,’ Bob said, patting Sandy on the back.

Scott was tapping away on his laptop at the coffee table when Nicola returned home. She dumped her pile of shopping bags on the floor, went over to him and draped her arms around his shoulders.

‘Good day?’ Scott enquired, not looking up from the screen. ‘Okay, you?’

‘Showed Bob a thing or two – he’ll be shaking like a leaf come tee-off tomorrow.’

‘Fancy a bath?’ she asked, kissing his neck.

‘No, I had a shower earlier,’ he said absently, with his eyes still straight ahead.

Not exactly what I meant. She undraped her arms, retrieved her shopping from the floor, and stomped off down the hall.

Chapter Six

On Monday morning, Nicola was easing herself into the week by flicking through the collection of newspaper and magazine cuttings she kept for potential story ideas. She was staring into space when her phone rang, startling her. ‘Bill Truman’ flashed on the screen. She picked up the handset.

‘Hi Bill,’ she said.

‘Nicola. My office, thanks.’

‘Oh, right, okay, thanks, I’ll be there …’

There was a click.

‘… in a sec,’ she finished, but he’d already hung up.

Nicola got up and made her way out into the empty hall. She preferred to get in early on Monday mornings; liked the peace before the other journalists arrived.

‘Have a seat.’ ‘Ta.’

It was a large office. Not by executive standards, but definitely compared to the four-to-a-cubicle squeeze of the Life and Times team. At least he had a window, even if it did look out over a depressing industrial wasteland.

Like the rest of the office it was showing its age; decked out in dark stripy fake woodgrain and the same threadbare and dirty mid-brown carpet that plagued the whole floor. In the corner stood a large round planter pot filled with potting mix but with no sign of plant life.

As usual, there was a lingering mustiness underneath Bill’s fresh morning scent of Brut, Imperial Leather soap, and toothpaste. He always wore a white shirt and conservative tie – this latter article would be shed sometime during the day, depending on which meetings he was booked to attend, and when.

It was a running office joke that Bill often left the place looking like he’d had to physically wrestle the powers-that-be to prevent budget cuts or fight for more airtime. Although he invariably started the day clean-shaven, hair carefully arranged into a sweeping comb-over, by the afternoon his shirt would be wrinkled and half-untucked beneath his pot belly, his hair flopping over his eyes, and a fine grey stubble on his chin.

‘Latte?’ Bill enquired from the bench that ran around the wall under the window behind his desk. His shiny aluminium coffee machine looked to be the only addition since the office’s last refurbishment in the early nineties.

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Right,’ Bill said, after taking a deep slug of coffee and putting his mug down heavily on the desk. ‘How would you like a little trip out to the country?’

‘Are we talking day spa country?’

‘Fussy now we’re hot property, are we? And no, not quite; you’ll be lucky to find a latte.’ Yeah right.

‘I’m offering it to you first. We want a story on the ongoing drought out bush. I’m thinking you’d go out there for a couple of weeks – month tops. I’ll even throw in an airfare for Scott to visit.’

A weekend together in a quaint B&B, fossicking about in art galleries and antique shops – maybe it was just what she and Scott needed. Meanwhile, a change of pace and scenery might be nice for her too. The more Nicola thought about it, the more she liked the idea.

‘All right, so where am I off to?’ she said, sitting up straighter in her chair.

‘So you’ll go?’

‘Sure, why not?’ It was a month, tops, right? Bill looked a bit surprised. ‘Where am I going?’ ‘Nowhere Else. Ever heard of it?’

‘You’ve got to be kidding – someone did not name a town Nowhere Else!’ Nicola cried. ‘Someone did indeed.’ ‘Cute. So, what’s my angle?’ ‘Thought I’d leave that up to you.’ ‘Okay. When do I leave?’ ‘You fly out tomorrow, 6 p.m.’

‘Righto. But what’s the hurry? The drought’s been going on for years, hasn’t it?’

‘It’s the only booking I could get before next week. Oh, and um, there’s one small catch …’

‘Isn’t there always?’ Nicola said, rolling her eyes at him.

‘It’ll probably be a smallish plane. And you’ll be crossing the Gulf – flying to Port Lincoln and hiring a car from there. You’re welcome to drive the whole way around, but it’ll take you best part of seven hours,’ he said with a shrug.

‘Oh.’ Shit. The Gulf – the Spencer Gulf; the same one that had claimed Ruth and Paul. Jesus, just how small a plane was he talking? At least it wouldn’t be operated by SAR Airlines – they’d had their licence suspended after the crash and closed their doors not long after that.

But seven hours in a car? No bloody way. She didn’t even like to do the Clare Valley and back in a day.

No, she’d have to face her fears; get on a small plane, cross the Gulf. Anyway, he did say it was ‘smallish’: the plane her parents perished in was tiny – only an eight seater. A completely different kettle of fish. And he had said ‘probably’, which meant he didn’t know for sure; for all he knew it would be a 737. Yep, it would be okay.

She, Nicola Harvey, Gold Walkley winner, was certainly not going to pass up the chance because of being a pathetic scaredy cat. It was only when Bill cut in again that Nicola realised she’d been silent for ages.

‘Well it’s either that, “How much fat is really in a Big Mac?” or “Does price equal effectiveness in the world of women’s anti-wrinkle cream?”’

‘I’ve said I’ll go.’

‘Good. I’m sure it’ll be a lovely place to chill out. Who knows? Maybe there are day spas,’ he said with a shrug. ‘What would I know; never been there. Go and find me a knockout story, there’s a good girl.’

The words ‘day spas’ and ‘chill out’ rang in Nicola’s head. That was what this was all about – a break, not a story at all. Of course Bill was too cunning to say so; he knew she’d never fall for the ‘take some time off, you deserve it’ line. Also, this way she was still strictly working for the station and Bill could balance his budget and keep everyone happy.

‘Well, Scott’s off to a conference – one of those cushy bonding soirées. I may as well go on holiday too,’ she said brightly, and got up.

‘This isn’t a story for Getaway, Nicola,’ Bill warned. ‘Doesn’t hurt to dream, now does it?’