Книга - Australian Secrets

Australian Secrets
Fiona McCallum


Some secrets need to be told…Current affairs reporter Nicola Harvey has everything – she’s part of Australian television’s A-list, has a wealthy, successful fiancé and a classy apartment in Adelaide. But appearances are deceiving and Nicola’s sensing a problem. So, when her boss sends her on an extended research trip, she’s happy to get away for some country-style relaxation.When Nicola arrives in the little town of Nowhere Else, nothing is as she expected: there’s no spa and all the locals are tight-lipped except the handsome stranger from the plane, who’s keen to entertain her!The deeper Nicola digs for a story, the more time she spends with rugged Alex and she realises coming here wasn’t a mistake. In fact, Alex may just unlock the mystery of her past. And hold the key to her future happiness…Originally published as Nowhere Else.










Praise for (#ulink_d954ba8c-74ff-5c5e-a5a9-272ad9f5cf72)FIONA McCALLUM (#ulink_d954ba8c-74ff-5c5e-a5a9-272ad9f5cf72)

‘Open any one of Fiona McCallum’s novels and you’ll be hit with a dose of girl power.’

—Yours

‘Ms McCallum is now a bestselling rural fiction author and her latest book is another realistic portrayal of country life bundled in a heartwarming journey of self-discovery with her fifth novel.’

—Eyre Peninsula Tribune

‘Fiona McCallum writes beautifully and again she swept me away with her descriptions of country living. A beautiful novel filled with romance, inner strength and, above all, friendship.’

—That Book You Like on Time Will Tell


Australian

Secrets

Fiona McCallum






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


In memory of my beloved feline friend, Calvin, who gave me fourteen wonderful years of companionship and unconditional love


FIONA McCALLUM spent her childhood years on the family cereal and wool farm outside a small town on South Australia’s Eyre Peninsula. An avid reader and writer, she decided at the age of nine that she wanted to be the next Enid Blyton! She completed her final years of schooling at a private boarding school in Adelaide.

Having returned to her home town to work in the local council office, Fiona maintained her literary interests by writing poetry and short stories, and studying at TAFE via correspondence. Her ability to put into words her observations of country life saw a number of her articles published in the now defunct newspaper SA Statewide.

When her marriage ended, Fiona moved to Adelaide, eventually found romance, and followed it to Melbourne. She returned to full-time study at the age of twenty-six and graduated with a Bachelor of Arts (Professional Writing) from Deakin University. While studying, she found herself drawn to writing fiction, where her keen observation of the human condition and everyday situations could be combined with her love of storytelling.

After brief stints in administration, marketing and recruitment, Fiona started Content Solutions, a consultancy providing professional writing and editing services to the corporate sector. Living with a sales and marketing executive and working on high-level business proposals and tenders has given Fiona great insight into vastly different ways of life.

Fiona continued to develop her creative writing skills by reading widely and voraciously and attending short courses. In 2001 she realised her true passion lay in writing full-length fiction and in 2002 completed her first manuscript.

In early 2004 Fiona made the difficult decision to return to Adelaide alone in order to achieve a balanced lifestyle and develop a career as a novelist. She successfully re-established her consultancy and now enjoys the sharp contrast between her corporate work and creative writing.

Australian Secrets is Fiona’s second novel.




Table of Contents


Cover (#u7447e7d6-648d-5ade-bb1c-ce49bc7698c2)

Praise for FIONA McCALLUM (#ulink_e2ef1fb4-28d7-5436-a39f-b359c845b13d)

Title Page (#ud90641e6-1568-56d6-99a9-10f718e9958f)

Dedication (#u25b2e7b0-d68a-551c-955a-d0fc63cbb5d6)

About the Author (#ud49e2e9d-3822-54a3-9683-fdbd85dfc074)

Prologue (#ulink_50f60a14-ed32-5662-82f7-4717e9f496f4)

Chapter One (#ulink_05d56dc8-f777-5ada-9459-246aebc90933)

Chapter Two (#ulink_dc1ebbaf-24d9-5cce-9d87-946b828caa34)

Chapter Three (#ulink_b890d3fe-17ca-5892-a47c-78adb28b77bc)

Chapter Four (#ulink_b8bcc0f0-97c0-524b-8255-c5f2384b4fde)

Chapter Five (#ulink_fd059ff4-3447-5d9f-81f7-9c4314351c69)

Chapter Six (#ulink_085cad44-6b7a-5896-86ef-70a6d891bfaf)

Chapter Seven (#ulink_b5dd7aca-03be-5186-a54e-e507ed6a5606)

Chapter Eight (#ulink_73481461-df65-5170-997e-3246f12e64d0)

Chapter Nine (#ulink_0d304164-8039-5ff6-a0f6-7fa9ec9639b8)

Chapter Ten (#ulink_f1867d7f-2ace-542e-bf94-e7b1f21794a6)

Chapter Eleven (#ulink_cc819e4d-4b88-5bb7-85c1-fb66b166c98d)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-one (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-one (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-one (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue (#ulink_bf244041-c5c9-56ec-840f-71cab2e4f77e)


Walkley Awards presentation

‘And the final nominee is Nicola Harvey, Life and Times, for her investigation into the crash of SAR Airlines’ flight 519.’

Tonight we spare a thought for the families of the victims of flight 519, which the coroner has found crashed as a result of mechanical failure and not pilot error, contrary to the initial Australian Transport Safety Bureau investigation.

‘Mayday Mayday Mayday … two engine failures … we’ll be ditching … Request someone come out and help us please.’

Pilot Matt Berkowitz, Ruth and Paul Harvey, Elizabeth Gibbs, Violet Patterson, Mark Neilson, David Richards, and Stewart Cope perished when the Piper Navajo Chieftain aircraft in which they were flying suffered twin engine failure, and plunged into Spencer Gulf.

During an investigation spanning three years and two continents, Life and Times journalist Nicola Harvey made a number of crucial discoveries. Not only did she uncover a raft of questionable business practices by operator SAR Airlines, but she found that the Australian Transport Safety Bureau had itself played a significant part in the disaster, and then tried to cover it up. This discovery changed the course of the investigation and helped clear the young pilot’s name.

‘… And the winner for television current affairs feature, documentary or special longer than twenty minutes is …’




Chapter One (#ulink_6d6c77bf-156c-5937-93e3-fd329ddaa9f7)


‘Me, me, me,’ Nicola yelled into the pillows, beating them with her fists, the announcer’s words bouncing back and forth between her ears.

Leaning back into the plush pillows, hands clasped behind her head, she couldn’t wipe the grin from her face. Not that she was trying to. Stuff being humble, she thought. I deserve this.

Steam drifted from under the ensuite door, rolling towards the end of the bed like a fog, accompanied by the damp musky smells of masculine body wash and shaving foam. She could hear the heavy beat of water on the glass screen, the occasional stomp of wet feet and squelch of a soap-filled sponge rubbing briskly on skin.

‘And the winner is … Nicola Harvey,’ Nicola whispered. A Walkley and a Gold Walkley – could life be more perfect?

She could hear Scott padding about on the smooth, damp Carrara marble, the opening and shutting of vanity cupboard doors, the buzz of his electric toothbrush. Scott always followed the same routine. Soon would come the brief roar of his hairdryer – there it was. And finally the slap, slap of hands as he applied aftershave.

Nicola imagined the astringent stinging and wondered why you’d bother every day. But it did smell damn good, she thought, as it accompanied Scott past the wardrobe and around to his side of the bed.

She rolled over for a better look as he bent to retrieve his Tag Heuer watch from the bedside table, admiring the muscles of his smooth, toned back and strong shoulders. Damn he was in good shape; almost forty and not an ounce of fat in sight.

Nicola fixed her gaze on the section of olive skin that disappeared under the roll of white towel around his waist, licking her lips hungrily. God she wanted to tear his towel off. What better way to celebrate than to make love with the man you loved?

She sighed. How long had it been? Nicola had tried to coax him when they’d got home from the ceremony, but he’d said he was too tired. And she really had been too drunk.

Though as he inspected himself in the mirrored door of his wardrobe, she saw that he hadn’t been too tired to hang up all his clothes.

Of course he hadn’t, she thought, feeling a little annoyed.

In the early days, Nicola had questioned whether two people with such diametrically opposed views on tidiness could happily cohabit. When they’d moved in together Scott had stated that as long as everything was out of sight he could put up with her untidy ways. Compromise; that was what love was all about, right?

She was impressed the first time she saw his carefully ordered wardrobe.

The mirrored doors hid carefully lined up rows of shirts in blocks of stripes, then checks, and then all the solid colours in ascending order of brightness like a rainbow. A bank of dark grey suits separated business and casual wear. Highly polished brown and black pairs of shoes were lined up in neat rows beneath, and belts and ties were rolled up in sets of timber boxes above drawers of carefully folded socks and jocks.

She’d pushed aside her concerns about what it potentially revealed about him as a person, telling herself she was just jealous, and that it was actually quite adorable. Well-ordered, controlled people were reliable and good with money, weren’t they? They’d certainly done well with their property and share portfolios.

By contrast, her own wardrobe held jumbled piles of clothes, and shoes stuffed into shelves wherever they would go or on the floor when they wouldn’t.

Nicola regularly marvelled at how ordered her work life was by comparison; it certainly went against the tidy mind, tidy life concept. Anyway, results were what mattered, and she’d won a Gold Walkley!

Scott finished re-adjusting the already impeccable Windsor knot of his navy and gold striped tie. He patted his side-parted, glossy black hair into place, and turned back towards her.

‘Aren’t you getting up?’

‘I think I’ve earnt a sleep in. Why don’t you come back to bed,’ she said, raising her eyebrows and pushing the thick down-filled quilt back slightly to reveal a hint of breast. She patted the plush thousand thread count sheets and beckoned to him with an expensively manicured nail.

‘I have to get to work.’

‘Aw come on, it’s not even seven-thirty. Surely they won’t mind you being a little late …’ ‘I mind, Nicola.’ ‘But it’s not every day I win …’ ‘I’m pleased for you. I really am.’ ‘This might never happen again.’

‘All the more reason to keep it business-as-usual.’

With his charcoal pinstripe suit jacket now hung in the crook of his elbow, Scott walked over to the bed and bent down to peck her on the lips.

‘Pleeeeaaaase,’ Nicola groaned, clasping her hands behind his neck while she kissed him, trying to part his stubborn lips. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he laughed, pulling away after a brief struggle and instinctively wiping his mouth with the back of one hand and smoothing his shirt and tie with the other.

‘Whenever that will be,’ Nicola muttered under her breath.

‘If you get bored you could always sort my shirts – Carmel is still ignoring my instructions.’ He paused in the doorway and shook his head.

‘Right,’ she said, rolling her eyes.

She hadn’t really expected him to pause, rip his clothes off and ravish her – she knew him too well – but there was that human desire to want what one couldn’t have.

Nicola sighed deeply. She’d just have to hope his golf went well on Sunday. A bad round would see him disappear upstairs to sulk and work on his swing. A good one and she might have a chance. She had learnt early in their relationship that replacing pouting with encouragement was the better course of action.

Nicola lay in bed listening to the coffee machine downstairs – the grinding of the beans, and then the gurgling and spurting as it finished Scott’s double-strength latte; his answer to breakfast. She knew she should join him for the few moments before he left, but still felt a little miffed at his rejection.

She glanced around the large, white painted room with its charcoal grey short pile carpet, sleigh-style bed and pair of chocolate coloured leather tub chairs. They were entirely decorative; not for sitting in, and Scott certainly hadn’t intended hers to be a clothes horse. But she hadn’t been able to resist draping her clothes over them, much to his annoyance.

There lay horrendously priced black lacy Victoria’s Secret underwear, stockings, dainty black Manolo Blahnik high heels with diamante straps, and a slinky black Alex Perry evening dress, all of which she’d stepped out of less than four hours before.

At the far end of the room was the expansive ensuite decked out in charcoal and white marble. It was the warehouse conversion’s main bathroom, and had a shower, a huge central freestanding bath, and a large vanity with double basins. Maybe I’ll take a bath.

The thought was interrupted by the downstairs front door clicking shut, and the hum of the automatic garage door opening.

Damn. Not even a goodbye kiss?

That was another thing that had stopped in the past few months; they were usually so caught up in their morning routines.

Feeling a twinge of sadness, she rolled over, pulled Scott’s pillow to her, breathed in his comforting musky scent, and tried to ignore the ache of frustration.

But she really shouldn’t complain; you couldn’t have everything all of the time, could you? Life itself was a compromise. Didn’t people say the romance slowed down over time?

No, she really was truly blessed: she had a wonderfully successful stockbroker fiancé, a gorgeous sparkling solitaire diamond engagement ring, a fantastic warehouse conversion, Mercedes convertible in the garage, and a comfortable, stable relationship.

And now, after years spent slaving over dodgy plumber stories, miracle diets and anti-ageing potions; her very own pair of Walkleys! No one could dispute her journalistic credentials now. Never again would she be considered just a pretty face. No siree!




Chapter Two (#ulink_ddcf9706-10e0-5f9b-b9df-ace19bf0c584)


Nicola stood in the kitchen in her bathrobe, staring out the window at the tree-lined park and wondering what to do next. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had a weekday off.

She’d tidied the bedroom, packed up last night’s clothes for dry-cleaning and spent ages in the shower washing the lacquer from her hair. While she’d loved how the hairdresser had put her hair in a chignon for the awards, leaving wisps of hair to frame her face, she preferred to have the stiffness gone and her blonde, naturally wavy locks back soft and bouncing about her shoulders. She shook her head back and forth a few times to test it before going to the coffee machine and setting it make her latte.

Leaving the after-awards party, Bill, her boss, had told her to take the day off, waving his arm in a dismissive, drunken gesture of goodwill. Nicola thought she deserved more than a day.

Her success would affect the whole station. Life and Times now had credibility; it could no longer be seen as limp attempts at serious journalism or mere stuffing between the news and prime-time.

And there was no doubt a host of doors would be opened for her – not that she wasn’t perfectly happy where she was.

But it was a bitter-sweet victory, Nicola thought, looking at the silver framed photo of Ruth and Paul – her adoptive parents – taken for their fortieth wedding anniversary just a few months before their deaths. She felt heavy as she sat at one end of the flat, expansive couch. She wrapped her hands around the black and white striped mug for comfort.

Why did everything have to be a double-edged sword? Why did she have to lose her entire family for her career to seriously take off? It wasn’t exactly the lucky break she’d overheard rival journos saying it was in the bar of the Rose and Thorn the night the story went to air.

She’d fled back to her desk, where Bill had found her mopping up her tears and trying to tidy her smudged mascara. ‘They’re just jealous,’ he’d said, after she’d finally sniffled her way through an explanation. Much as it was nice to have her boss with his arm around her shoulder saying ‘there, there’, she’d been mortified to have lost it like that – in public.

But Bill was right. It was just a release after keeping it together for so long, especially given the personal nature of the story. His words stayed with her: ‘I’m really proud of you for seeing it through – lesser journos wouldn’t have.’

Nicola knew Bill had been reluctant to have her on the story to start with; knowing there was a risk of her falling apart in the middle of it all and leaving the station in the lurch and his job on the line.

Nonetheless, he’d called her into his office to say Life and Times was doing a piece on the crash and did she want in, knowing full well what her answer would be. Apprehension didn’t even get a second beat – the desire to learn, as an outsider, the truth about her parents’ deaths had her by the throat. Even if it was just a simple accident caused by an inexperienced pilot, she wanted the facts; all of them, no matter how gruesome.

It was when she first spoke to the young pilot’s fiancé that she realised it wasn’t as simple as both SAR Airlines and the ATSB were trying to make it out to be. Olivia Smith told her that Matt had been complaining for months of doing more than the required hours. Nicola had been disbelieving until Olivia had gone on to produce Matt’s diaries as proof that SAR had been doctoring the logbooks.

Six months after the accident, the ATSB still hadn’t interviewed Olivia; it made sense if they were trying to lay the blame solely at the feet of a young and relatively inexperienced pilot. But as Olivia said, she wasn’t a qualified pilot, what did she know?

Nicola had warmed to her immediately, and the feeling seemed mutual once Olivia learned of her personal connection to the story. She was impressed at how brave Olivia was through it all, and only rarely did she allow herself to believe the same of herself.

Even more sensational were the revelations from another pilot sacked by SAR for apparent insubordination. Olivia had given Nicola Tim Manning’s number after he’d contacted her to offer his sympathy. Manning had also let on that SAR had questionable business practices, which tallied with her knowledge of logbook tampering. He urged her not to accept any finding that laid the blame on Matt.

Nicola thought her eyes might drop out of her head when Tim told her about SAR’s cost-cutting measures, which included experimenting with fuel mixes, and running tanks as low as possible. He’d had a number of close shaves, one time almost running out of fuel as a result. When she’d asked why he hadn’t come forward, he’d said he had, only to be dismissed by the ATSB as biased because of his history with SAR.

The ATSB had picked up on the fuel and raked SAR over the coals for it, suspending their aviation licence pending the outcome of the investigation. But they seemed set on laying the majority of the blame on Matt; saying he’d over-revved the second engine when the first had failed. They’d added the patronising footnote that it was an understandable error, given Matt’s low number of flying hours.

But what Nicola hadn’t been able to shake were the incredible odds of two engines failing on the same flight – that couldn’t have been pilot error. And as it turned out, the odds should have been nearly impossible. But all the experimenting with fuels had exacerbated damage to a defective piston and caused it to fail after the extra exertion placed on it.

If they hadn’t done that, they might have limped home on one engine and the story would have been an exciting holiday tale for her and Ruth and Paul to discuss over Sunday night roast dinners. But it wasn’t to be.

She sighed. She still missed them terribly, but slowly, over the past four years, the wracking tears and sadness had been replaced by a dull ache.

It had been a tragic web of mismanagement, error and coincidence that had taken her and the team ages to unravel. And it had been worth every sleepless night, every heartbreaking detail she’d had to learn to get the closure she had. She’d been relieved to have been partially responsible for clearing pilot Matt’s name.

But perhaps most of all, Nicola was pleased the coroner had managed to get the regulations changed to require all flights across water to carry life jackets – previously they were only necessary on flights with more than ten passengers, or those that travelled further than thirty nautical miles from land.

Yep, they’d all done a good job; producing a well-balanced presentation of facts and humanity. And now the industry had spoken.

Despite drinking far too much bubbly to counter the nerves, Nicola had managed to react appropriately. The first time her name had been read out she’d nearly missed it. She’d been too busy trying not to give in to the tears that always threatened when she heard the pilot’s mayday call.

She’d given a startled cry at hearing her name, and stumbled dazed up onto the stage. The story was good, but she’d never thought the industry would award her with a Walkley. As a consequence her speech was a bewildered mumble of thanks. At least she’d remembered to say it was a team effort.

The second time her name was called up – for the Gold – she’d been sipping champagne nonchalantly, barely even listening for the results. Her shock had been genuine. She’d paused to take a few deep breaths and still her racing heart before sliding her chair back and walking slowly to the stage pondering what to say.

She’d started off shakily thanking the industry and fellow journalists for their support before remembering to name every member of the team. She’d then looked Bill in the eye as she thanked him for his faith in giving her the opportunity. His nodding back had served to give her strength, and she’d gone on to pay tribute to her parents and all the other passengers on flight 519. She’d then bowed her head for a few moments of silence. Looking up again out to the sea of faces, she’d given a final nod, said ‘thank you’, and calmly walked from the stage amidst loud applause.

When dressing for the occasion, she hadn’t for a second thought she’d be the centre of attention. She was pleased she’d gone with safe. She looked good; nothing the glossies could pick on for being too glam, too dowdy, or ‘out there’.

Boy was she glad she’d ignored three new designers offering to dress her in exchange for free publicity, and instead settled for a simple yet elegant strappy number that showed off her slender arms but hid her long but sturdy legs. She’d hoped the diamantes on her new Manolos would be more visible – why spend eight hundred dollars if no one saw them?

She closed her eyes and relived the night.

‘And the winner is … Nicola Harvey, Life and Times.’

When she’d seen the clip slotted alongside the other five contenders up on the massive plasma screen, it had seemed different, almost unrecognisable as her own. It was as though she’d distanced herself from her personal connection and was watching a story about people she’d never met.

She supposed she had to a certain extent; the raw emotion had left her when she’d become focussed on finding out the truth. There was nothing she could do to bring Ruth and Paul back, but she could do something for Matt, and in turn Olivia and his parents, Grace and Peter.

The more time she’d spent with them, the stronger the feeling that she had to find her own truth had been.

Halfway through the assignment she made the decision that when the story was finished she would start the search for her biological parents; when she was satisfied she’d done all she could for Ruth and Paul, who had been such good parents to her. She knew Scott wouldn’t approve; he thought the past should be left in the past. She’d given up trying to explain how it felt to be the child of adoptive parents. He’d just told her she was being silly and feeling sorry for herself. But the feelings weren’t that easily explained away.

The morning after she filed the story she’d been unable to get out of bed. She’d felt so emotionally, mentally and physically spent. Scott told her to fight it – no pain no gain. Of course he meant well, he just didn’t understand. But how could he? He only spoke to his parents out of polite obligation, and he’d never even been to a funeral.

So Nicola had put on a brave face and waited until he was at work before dissolving into tears. For a whole week she’d moped around the house.

Without saying as much, Bill seemed to understand what she was going through. When she phoned him in desperation and told him she thought she was having some kind of breakdown and might never be able to return, instead of telling her she was being ridiculous and to get a grip (like Scott had) he’d left the office and come straight over.

His explanation, that what she was experiencing was probably a mixture of delayed grief, shock, and relief, made sense. It also made sense that it was occurring now she’d stopped after being so driven, so focussed for so long; her brain now had the time and energy to process the trauma. He’d finished by telling her he thought she just needed some time and to take as much as she needed; ‘After all,’ he added with a lopsided grin, ‘you’ve accumulated a shitload of leave.’

When the Walkley nominations were announced six months later, Nicola had spent the first week smiling sweetly and agreeing that yes, the nomination alone was enough, while all the time desperately hoping for success. She knew that many in the industry saw her as little more than a well made-up clothes horse with ample cleavage.

That Scott was so dismissive of her nomination hurt. He seemed to share the view of many of her peers, and clearly didn’t think she had a hope in hell of winning. She consoled herself that he knew nothing about journalism, let alone the magnitude of what a Walkley nomination really meant. If he did, he’d be reacting differently.

This was her chance to prove she had both brains and beauty; that Nicola Harvey was a journalist to contend with, not just a glorified presenter with impeccable hair and makeup.

Though of course she’d give up the chance in a heartbeat if it meant having Ruth and Paul back. How the hell would she keep it together if she did win? It was such a personal story.

‘Stop with this false modesty crap – winning’s everything, Nicola Harvey, and you can. You did a bloody good job, and don’t you forget it!’ Bill barked one morning after overhearing her reply to one such well-wisher. At least someone believed in her.

That afternoon Nicola had drafted a response that adequately expressed her joy at being nominated while remaining humble about her talent. In truth, she wanted to scream that she bloody well deserved to win.

Just before the first announcement, Scott had squeezed her hand to offer support, luck, and probably sympathy – he’d told her enough times not to get her hopes up.

Nicola let out a slightly pained sigh, remembering his obvious discomfort at having microphones, cameras and spotlights thrust in his face and being asked how he felt.

‘Proud. Yes, obviously very proud,’ he’d replied awkwardly. No wonder he couldn’t wait to get to the safety of his office.

But at least Scott hadn’t been uncomfortable in his attire – that was one of the first things that had attracted her. She had always been a sucker for a man in Armani pinstripe.

It felt a little cruel to be enjoying his unease, but it reminded her he was human after all. Anyway, he deserved it for not believing in her.

As a stockbroker he’d had his share of hairy moments but somehow he’d always managed to land on his feet. It was as if he had a crystal ball.

He’d even managed to dodge the global financial crisis and make enough to pay off his BMW convertible before everything went pear-shaped. She failed to see how he could remain so calm when there was so much at stake.

As much as Nicola liked the idea, aimlessly hanging about the house during the day just wasn’t in her nature. She got up, put her mug on the sink and went back upstairs to get dressed.

Forget the day off; it was high time Bill coughed up her next serious assignment.




Chapter Three (#ulink_a7277de5-b280-50ed-8f76-0215aafca730)


Nicola stood tall and proud outside television headquarters, her two solid, twenty-centimetre fountain-pen-nib inspired statuettes tucked under her arm. Shoving the frosted glass foyer door open, she strode across the polished stone floor towards the lifts.

‘Congratulations, Ms Harvey,’ Barry the doorman-cum-security-guard-cum-general-dogsbody said. ‘I knew you’d do it.’

Nicola turned and walked over to where he sat behind a long timber veneered reception desk. She grinned. ‘Thanks Barry.’

‘Thought his lordship would have at least given you the day off,’ Barry continued, tossing his head up to indicate above them.

‘He did. I’m just not cut out for sitting about.’ Nicola shrugged. The lobby phone rang and Barry waved a dismissive arm as he picked up the receiver. Nicola repositioned the slipping awards and started making her way back to the lifts.

As she ascended, Nicola felt kittens doing tumble turns in her stomach. What should she say? How should she act? Would everyone be pleased for her or be catty and jealous? The men would probably be cool and gracious, but women were always a different story.

In her acceptance speech she’d been very careful to emphasise that she was accepting the award on behalf of everyone involved with Life and Times. She was sure she’d named everyone who’d played a part.

The lift doors opened, and she stepped out onto the sixth floor.

As she strode down the narrow corridor in front of the wall of chest-high office partitions, heads bobbed up from desks, bums swivelled chairs around and there was a chorus of ‘here she is,’ and ‘congratulations!’

Within seconds the office had formed a crowd around Nicola and someone shouted, ‘Round of applause for our star reporter.’

Wild clapping and cheering followed and Nicola felt the kittens in her stomach claw their way up to the back of her throat.

‘Um, thanks guys, but you all deserve one of these,’ she said. After carefully unloading her lunch, handbag and satchel onto her desk, she thrust the gleaming sculptures towards the nearest two people.

Paul Cox, the copy boy and most junior of staff, received the Gold, his pimply adolescent face reddening right up to the ears. His hands were hesitant when he reached out to stroke the object that every serious journalist aspired to.

‘Go on, have a decent look,’ she encouraged, pushing the object firmly into his chest. Paul stared down at it, mouth open in awe, then back at Nicola like it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him.

Nicola’s chest pinged in sympathy. She too had started at the bottom. Under Paul’s lack of confidence she could see some of her own tenacity.

She smiled warmly at the lad, then turned slightly at hearing an uneven thudding tread coming down the hall to her right.

Bill Truman’s stout legs struggled under a belly that had grown considerably in the two years since he’d joined executive ranks and swapped pounding the pavements for lunch meetings.

‘Heard all the commotion and knew you’d be at the centre of it. Didn’t I tell you to take the day off?’ he added, waggling a scolding finger.

‘Too quiet at home.’

‘Well in that case, the station had better fork out for a bit of a celebratory lunch. Nothing flash; pizzas in the boardroom at noon.

‘All I ask is that I get a couple of hours work out of you lot before then. In return you can all have the afternoon off.’

There were whoops and squeals of delight.

‘So now if everyone can return to work it would be much appreciated – we can celebrate later.’

Nicola smiled. Bill was one of the best bosses she’d ever had – tough but fair. He’d cracked his fair share of whips but could still appreciate the need for the occasional slack attack.

Nicola watched the crowd slowly dissipate. Within seconds the office had returned to its loud, lively pace; masses of people made phone calls, tapped hard on keyboards, raced between cubicles, and hurried to and from the lifts weighed down with clipboards, tripods, sound booms and backpacks full of cabling and camera gear.

She turned her attention to her own desk. An array of pens, pencils and textas were jammed into an old coffee jar. Four beige plastic in-trays were stacked up to the left of her computer screen, the top one almost overflowing. To the right sat her only personal items; three matching silver photo frames.

One contained a posed, formal picture of her and Scott taken at his brother’s wedding the year before.

The second was a shot of Paul and Ruth paused from work in their treasured garden, leaning on rake and shovel. Nicola had taken it for fun, only months before the disaster that claimed them – her entire family.

The third contained a faded polaroid of a bundled newborn baby with only a shock of blonde hair and wrinkled sleeping face visible. Nicola picked it up and stared at the photo given to her the day she learned that her whole life had been a lie.

That’s how she’d felt when they told her she’d been adopted. She remembered how her five-year-old world had melted like the chocolate chips in the biscuits they tried to placate her with.

They’d joined her where she was drawing on the lounge room floor of the house that had been her childhood home; the home of Paul and Ruth Harvey until the day they left to go on holidays but never came back.

They’d sat in a circle and all held hands. Nicola had got excited, thinking they were going to play a new game. And with Daddy who rarely sat on the floor with her; Mummy always said he was too busy for games. They held hands, the three of them.

They’d started telling her a story. Nicola remembered how, frowning, she’d stared at them. It was a very strange story, not a fairy story like in her books. It was a real story – about her, they said.

What were they saying? That she wasn’t theirs; that she hadn’t come out of her mummy’s tummy like the baby of the lady next door. No, she’d come out of another lady’s tummy.

‘Did someone drop me off then, like Father Christmas?’

They’d given a chuckle. She’d been pleased to make them laugh; maybe it meant everything was okay. But they were being so serious. They looked at each other and then told her she was a gift, even more special than those Father Christmas brought, because they’d gone and chosen her.

‘At a shop?’ she’d asked. ‘Well no, not a shop.’

She thought they’d looked a little angry. She didn’t want to make them angry; she wanted to make them laugh again.

‘Oh,’ she’d said, feeling totally confused. They’d told her how special she was, and how lucky they were to have her. They couldn’t have a little girl or boy of their own because there was something wrong inside Ruth. Nothing would change; they just wanted her to know the truth.

‘What if the mummy whose tummy I came out of wants me back?’ She didn’t want to go away from here. They were her parents; she didn’t want anyone else. Her bottom lip had started to wobble and then she burst into tears.

Ruth dragged her onto her lap and spent ages stroking her hair, saying that she was their little girl; she was staying right there with them.

But what about the other mummy and daddy; didn’t they want her? Why not? Everyone said she was so pretty, and she was a good girl, wasn’t she? She’d stared up at them and some more tears ran down her cheeks.

They’d shaken their heads and said that her other mummy had been sick and wasn’t able to take care of her.

‘But what if she gets better; will she want me then?’

‘No,’ they’d said, shaking their heads. The adoption papers proved it.

They showed her the papers, but to her five-year-old eyes they meant nothing.

‘Okay,’ she’d finally said with a shrug and taken a homemade chocolate chip biscuit from the plate on the floor nearby. She’d nibbled around the edges of the biscuit, separated out the chocolate chips and watched them melt in her hands, all the while pretending to forget the conversation.

After a while Paul and Ruth had unfolded their legs, got up, and gone off to do other things, leaving her there with her plate of chocolate biscuits. She put her half-eaten biscuit aside, went to her bedroom, threw herself on her bed and cried. She was careful to be quiet because she didn’t want to upset Mummy and Daddy; they’d been sad before and she didn’t like it when they were sad.

They said nothing had changed; that she was their little girl and would be theirs forever. But something was different. She didn’t really know what it was; it was just a weird feeling inside. Like when you felt a bit sick after eating too many chocolate chip biscuits, or maybe empty after you’d thrown up those too many chocolate chip biscuits.

The odd, slightly empty feeling never really went away, but she never discussed it with Paul and Ruth. They were wonderful, loving parents, who had always been supportive, caring and encouraging. The last thing she’d ever want to do was hurt them.

But as much as she’d told herself over the years that they were her real parents, there was always a question mark. Sometimes it was a deep pain; the rest of the time it just sat there as a feeling of being somehow incomplete, hollow.

To their credit, Paul and Ruth had always encouraged her to search for her biological roots if and when she felt the time was right.

But she’d always thought starting the search while they were alive would be disrespectful. What had also stopped her was knowing she wouldn’t be able to let go, would be totally consumed. It was the same wilful streak she’d channelled into a successful career in journalism. She could never stop at just knowing names of people and places.

The deaths of her parents had caused the itch of curiosity to become a strong ache of needing to know. The investigation had kept her distracted for over three years, and had given her a certain sense of closure. But three months after its completion, the questions that had been burning inside her could no longer be ignored.

Returning from her week off after the plane crash story had gone to air, Nicola had been mortified to find herself back covering the crappy stories of old; shock mobile phone bills, used cars that turned out to be lemons, pensioners struggling to make ends meet.

It wasn’t that they weren’t worthy of coverage, it’s just that she needed something she could really get her teeth into, do some serious research and groundwork on; something really gritty.

When Bill had tersely reminded her that these stories were the bread and butter of Life and Times –’It’s what the audience wants’ – Nicola had wondered if it was time for a career change.

Three months ago, she’d decided that she’d put off her own story long enough; she really had to start the search that might lead nowhere, might lead somewhere – somewhere she might or might not like.

One lunchtime she’d gone into the South Australian government adoptions website where she found a link: ‘Searching for birth relatives’. She’d quickly scanned the screen, pausing at a line that said to consider other parties involved.

What if her biological parents didn’t want to be found? What if she was setting herself and others up for heartbreak? Scott always said you should look ahead in life, not back. But life wasn’t that simple.

Anyway, she might not even get that far. She might not even have enough information.

Nicola had selected the form for an ‘Adopted Person’ from the list, pressed print, and raced to the printer to collect it before anyone else in the office did. Back at her desk, she hadn’t been able to quite believe how straightforward it was; ironic really that something so important could be put so simply. Just five questions were all it took.

She’d picked up the frame containing her birth photo, turned it over, and copied the details from those in blue biro on the back of the polaroid:

Baby Nicola Born 16


April 1977 Port Lincoln Hospital

Nicola had paused at the two options underneath ‘What information are you seeking?’ and shaken her head. How would anyone be satisfied with just a birth certificate? She ticked the box for ‘All information relating to the adoption’, and then with her hand shaking even more, inserted her signature and the date.

She’d got out her cheque book, pausing with her pen hovered above the printed form to acknowledge the further irony of such a plain, uncomplicated number (fifty dollars) for something that was anything but.

She’d torn the cheque from its stub, placed it in the middle of the two A4 sheets of paper and folded them into three. She’d dragged an envelope from her desk drawer and slid the wad inside. Nicola had then returned her baby photo to its normal position and sat staring at the envelope.

She’d done it; taken the first step. But could she take the next one and actually send it?

Nicola picked up the silver frame containing the picture of Paul and Ruth. ‘You’d approve, wouldn’t you – say I’m doing the right thing?’ she whispered. She’d planted a kiss on the glass between their smiling faces and held it to her chest. Then she’d filled out the address on the envelope and posted it.

Three months on and she was still waiting for information to arrive.




Chapter Four (#ulink_fb3be2cf-18a7-5a62-ad9d-df3e8eab23f4)


The tightly packed room of round tables draped in white linen reminded Nicola of mushrooms grown in boxes. Kept in the dark and fed on shit, she mused.

Another boring dinner with an information session about the stock market was the last thing she felt like tonight. In fact, she’d been on her way home, picturing a steaming bath full of bubbles and a glass of wine, when Scott had phoned to ask her to get him a clean shirt and tie; he didn’t have time after all. Nicola had managed to hide the fact that she’d completely forgotten about his industry function; had thought it was next week. ‘Yes, fine, I’ll meet you at your office at six,’ she’d said and hung up.

Nicola had finished her drive home in a huff and four hours later, having showered and dressed in a black pantsuit, wasn’t feeling any more congenial. ‘Oh well, fair’s fair,’ she muttered to herself, as she stood just inside the doorway looking for Scott.

They’d left his office in separate cars, and she’d had trouble finding a park; he should already be here somewhere, she thought, scanning the mingling crowd.

God she hated turning up to these things alone. She didn’t mind introducing herself to strangers, just the initial awkwardness of standing alone surveying the room for someone familiar.

Men stood around in grey-suited clusters – plain and pinstripes – their ties the only splashes of colour. The uniformity went further than their dress-sense; the younger ones were trim and muscular, probably gym junkies like her Scott. But once they hit their mid-to-late-forties it seemed there was a collective giving up on trying to keep pot bellies at bay. And there must be some kind of weird agreement over hair as well; in all the younger men, not a speck of grey in sight, but plenty of grey and even white amongst the older set. Regardless of age, they all seemed to have the same style, short back and sides, slightly longer on top with a neat but sweeping fringe parted on the side. The younger lot had their fringes up and spiky, the elders low and soft.

Nicola grabbed the last glass – a tumbler of water – from the tray being whisked past by a twenty-something waiter in white shirt and black trousers. She sipped at her drink in an effort to have her people-watching seem less conspicuous.

As usual, segregation had occurred and the women stood in their own small groups. Their preferred uniform was the pantsuit – in any colour as long as it was dark; grey, black, navy, occasionally burgundy or even teal. One of the few things Nicola liked about these events was not having to agonise over what to wear.

Nicola politely smiled and shook her head as tray after tray of canapés were offered to her. She was always careful to avoid the greasy morsels at these functions. Dessert was usually worth saving space for and the last thing she needed was to be the butt, so to speak, of any wide-screen jokes making their way around the office.

Where the bloody hell was Scott? She couldn’t stand here on her own for much longer. Ah, over there by the far wall. He saw her at the same time she saw him, and raised his glass in acknowledgement. She returned the gesture, with the addition of a forced smile.

He was clearly occupied; she’d have to fend for herself.

‘You must make more effort to join in, dear,’ was something Ruth would have said, and had many times, bless her.

It was only when she was older that Nicola realised how worried Ruth had been about her being an only child, and the impact it would have on her social skills.

They really had been great parents; they’d got along better than any of her high school classmates, who could barely stand being in the same room as their parents. Nicola would nod in agreement when they rolled their eyes at how clueless their parents were. What she’d wanted to say was ‘actually, my parents are really nice’.

And they were; she’d loved hearing about Ruth’s job at the library, but Paul’s work as a structural engineer she found fascinating. She would have gone down the engineering path herself if only she’d inherited his maths brain. But of course the thought was ridiculous; she had none of his DNA. They got on well, but they were very different.

Nicola had realised that very early on, and had been plagued with a thousand questions along the way; like, did her biological mother prefer to be alone too? As she’d gone into puberty the questions had tended towards the more personal; did they have the same hair or eye colour? What about body shape?

But she shoved every question back down as quickly as she could. Ruth was the only mother she had or needed; it didn’t matter that they were different. To think otherwise was hurtful.

Nicola forced her thoughts back to the present and the masses of people mingling around her. The room had filled considerably and she could now hear the conversation of a nearby group of men:

‘So, Toby. Win, lose, or even outcome today?’ asked a man with dark grey hair circling a bald head.

‘Up today, thank Christ; shocker yesterday,’ said Toby, mid-forties in charcoal pinstripes.

‘Futures or CFDs?’ asked a younger chap with a hideous green paisley tie.

What the hell were CFDs? She’d ask Scott. On second thoughts, she didn’t care enough to bother.

Finally, Nicola recognised someone she knew, a woman with sharp square spectacles and spiky dark hair. She’d met Yvonne several times before and instantly liked her. She was a fellow career woman and – unlike most of the women she seemed to meet at these things – hadn’t spent their first evening boring her about what her kid had done that day in childcare. Actually, Nicola didn’t know if Yvonne and her husband, a senior manager at a rival firm to Scott’s, even had kids.

‘Yvonne, hi,’ she called from just outside the group. The etiquette was to wait until invited by someone stepping aside to give you space to physically join.

‘Nicola, great to see you,’ Yvonne said, placing her glass on a passing tray and pulling Nicola into a hug. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ she whispered near Nicola’s ear before releasing her. She turned back to the group who had resumed their chatter, smiled at them and said, ‘I’m really sorry, girls, but there’s something that I just have to discuss with Nicola.’

Before Nicola knew what was happening she’d been gripped by the elbow and dragged over to the nearest table.

As she went, she noticed two of the other women in the group had confused looks on their faces; as if they were trying to figure out why she was familiar. She got that a lot. What the hell was Yvonne up to?

‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ Yvonne said, flopping into the nearest chair. ‘I swear, the next time someone asks me if I went to the opening of that new boutique today I’ll scream. As if I have time to shop during the week!

‘Hey, fantastic news about your Walkleys. Congratulations!’ Yvonne said, slapping Nicola on the knee.

‘Thanks,’ she said, beaming back. ‘It was …’ she started, but was interrupted by the emcee tapping his glass into the microphone and booming that it was time for everyone to be seated.

‘Good timing,’ Yvonne said.

As the table filled up around them, Nicola put her handbag on the next chair to save it for Scott. She removed it when she noticed he’d sat at the next table over. Bastard.

She smiled at a nervous looking young woman in a dress with shoe-string straps who claimed the seat.

‘I’m Bianca,’ said the young thing in barely more than a whisper.

‘Hi, I’m Nicola,’ Nicola said, offering her warmest smile as she gripped the limp hand. The girl couldn’t be more than twenty; still a child, she thought, suddenly feeling very old.

She was about to ask if it was Bianca’s first time at one of these functions. The answer was obvious but she wanted to help erase the startled rabbit look from the poor kid. Who was she with?

She peered past Bianca and offered her hand to her companion, an equally startled looking young lad. ‘Hi, I’m Nicola.’

‘Tim,’ he said, ‘Tim Robinson. I’m with KLR – started a month ago. Learning the ropes of futures at the moment; mind blowing.’

Nicola nodded and smiled while wishing he’d shut up and let go of her hand, but at the same time feeling a surge of sympathy for him. If he didn’t toughen up quick he’d get eaten alive. She’d heard enough from Scott to know what a cut-throat world share trading was. Perhaps he wasn’t going to be an actual trader, but someone’s assistant.

‘Hey, aren’t you on television?’ Tim asked with a flushed face.

‘Yes I am. Excuse me,’ she said, as she felt a gentle bump from Yvonne. She sat back to allow the waiter to put a bowl in front of her.

‘Thank you,’ she said, picking up her spoon to tackle pumpkin soup, complete with an artistic swirl of cream and sprig of parsley. Standard mass-produced convention centre fare. No doubt the next course would be a choice of either chicken or beef. She pitied the vegetarians; their meals always looked like ghastly afterthoughts.

While they waited for dessert, a fifteen minute presentation was given. Nicola and Yvonne couldn’t see the screens from where they were sitting, and neither could be bothered shuffling around. But both Tim and Bianca dutifully moved their chairs. You’ll learn, Nicola thought to herself.

While everyone’s attention was fixed on the speaker, Yvonne gave Nicola a gentle nudge and whispered into her ear. ‘Hey, have you got yourself one of these yet?’

Nicola peered down into the handbag Yvonne was holding open below the edge of the table, out of sight from everyone else. Inside was a long glowing green stick. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what it was, but then she realised, and had to clap a hand to her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud. Of course! This was one of those ‘little friends’ she’d overheard a couple of the girls talking about in the office toilets a few times.

‘Jesus, put that thing away,’ she wanted to cry, but at the same time she was curious to get it out and have a damn good look. But that just wasn’t something you did in a room full of boring old accountant types. And, ew, it had been, ew! She cringed at the thought.

‘Don’t worry, it won’t bite.’ Yvonne chuckled. ‘My friend’s selling them; apparently they’re the best thing since sliced bread. Even comes with batteries so you can put it to use right away. Thirty-nine ninety-five including postage,’ she added with a wink.

Jesus, Nicola thought, she could be talking about Tupperware. Were lots of women really buying them? Was no woman being sexually satisfied anymore? She leaned over for another look, trying not to attract attention.

‘Um, have you …?’

‘Not yet.’ Yvonne snapped her handbag shut just as a waiter appeared beside her carrying a tray full of wedges of lemon meringue pie with generous knobs of thick cream. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve given it a whirl.’

Turning to her dessert, Nicola dug her spoon in. ‘Yum, one of my favourites.’ And a fine example it was. Hmm, a perfect balance of sweet, savoury and bitterness. Not that she could cook; she just knew what she liked.

As she ate, her thoughts were still with Yvonne and the ‘little friend’. God, wouldn’t Scott freak out if he found one in her bedside drawer – especially if she went with one of the extralarge versions. It would almost be worth it to see his reaction, she thought, running her tongue around the spoon in her mouth.

Perhaps there was a story in the waning of sexual interest in upwardly-mobile corporate couples. Maybe it wasn’t a conscious decision at all for her demographic to be putting off having children. She looked at Tim and Bianca, wondered what they saw when they looked at her: a successful career woman? Or someone who had let the chance for a family slip through her fingers?

Finally the tempting aromas of coffee were wafting around the table – a sure sign the evening was winding up. She longed for a cup of the silky, bitter tar but knew she’d never get to sleep if she did.

‘You wouldn’t happen to have peppermint tea, would you?’ she asked the waiter.

‘Oh, peppermint tea, yes please,’ a chorus around the table chimed.

‘I’ll check,’ the young man said through gritted teeth.

‘I’d really appreciate it,’ she said, beaming her best television smile. Thank God the night was almost over; Nicola wasn’t sure she could play partner and interested wallflower much longer.

Scott hadn’t said two words to her all night; why the hell had he insisted on her even coming?




Chapter Five (#ulink_d77c9076-d836-5777-ba0f-e270ea87268d)


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 (#ulink_4ce1764d-e8a2-503a-b361-6f25168abbb5)


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?’

‘Whatever works,’ Bill said absently, flicking through some papers on his desk. ‘Right, I’ll get the final arrangements sorted. You let me know the angle when you’ve sussed the place out. Not just dead stock and foreclosures …’

‘What?’

‘Remember, Nicola, I’m expecting gritty.’ ‘Yeah, no worries,’ Nicola mumbled. She too was expecting “gritty” – in an expensive jar awaiting her arrival.




Chapter Seven (#ulink_1bdfc224-477a-5b57-98f6-e6a6d2bd533d)


Nicola looked around at the other passengers standing beside the bus on the tarmac, feeling very overdressed in her navy Perri Cutten pantsuit. Everyone else was in trackies and jeans, t-shirts and polo tops.

She always liked to look presentable when flying, in case there was a chance of an upgrade. She’d worn this particular suit – one of her best – rather than risk crushing it in her suitcase.

But if she’d known she’d be traipsing up and down stairs she would have selected more sensible shoes – certainly not the chocolate Ballys with the five inch heels.

Oh well, too late now. Nicola sighed and brushed a few escaped blonde strands from her cheek.

There were a few sidelong glances from her fellow passengers: some admiring her well-turned-out presence; others trying to work out just where they recognised her from. Dark Gucci sunglasses kept her identity a mystery.

She wasn’t trying to be incognito; she still hadn’t sufficiently recovered from last night’s dinner – a fundraiser at the zoo – to contemplate naked eyes. And she certainly did not need crows’ feet spoiling her smooth television face.

After a few moments she was handed her suitcase from where it had been stowed under the bus. It was the only one; everyone else seemed to just have cabin luggage.

‘Now if you’ll just follow me, folks, staying within the yellow lines for safety,’ called the gentle, cheery voice of the baby-faced pilot as he led the way. His name badge read Mark.

Nicola glanced around. The little group made its way around the bus to where a number of aircraft, large and small, were parked. Pairs of yellow lines showed the way to each craft. Nicola looked along their particular set to see where they were heading.

Shit! It was one of the really small ones. Her heart began racing. Her feet stopped short and her mouth dropped open. Someone’s carry-on bumped the back of her right knee and she would have been sent toppling if a man hadn’t grabbed her by the elbow.

The other five passengers pushed past, bumping her like a buoy amongst whitecaps.

‘You okay?’ mumbled the stranger by her side.

Nicola lifted a long, lightly tanned hand and pointed a clear varnished nail. The solitaire diamond on her ring finger sent rainbow arrows across the barren pavement. She tried to speak but it was as though her jaws had locked open.

‘It’s … it’s … a Piper Chieftain.’

‘Could be, I wouldn’t know,’ was the reply.

‘Come on, folks.’

About fifteen feet away, the young, crisp-shirted pilot was efficiently ushering the other passengers up the flimsy foldout steps and into the plane.

Nicola’s four-hundred-dollar heels felt glued to the sweltering tarmac.

‘I know she looks small but, trust me, she’s solid as a rock,’ the pilot urged.

Nicola was damn sure she didn’t like the idea of a small plane being ‘solid as a rock’. The last thing she wanted was to be crossing two shark-infested gulfs strapped to a rock.

The pilot checked his watch. ‘Look, we really have to get going. You’re either coming with me or you’re not.’

Nicola pictured Bill becoming purple with rage upon hearing he’d lost an airfare from his already stretched budget.

‘You’ll be fine. I understand small planes are a lot scarier than big ones, but trust me, I haven’t lost one yet.’

Yes, but I lost both my parents in one just like this – and on the same route.

She felt like sitting down and having a good cry. ‘For Christ’s sake; it was four years ago, get a grip,’ she heard her inner voice say.

On the inside of the tiny bubble windows, the other passengers were twisting in their seats and peering out. They all had places they were trying to get to. And the poor pilot had a schedule to keep.

The coroner’s report on flight 519 had told of the enormous pressure pilot Matt Berkowitz had been under. One of the criticisms of SAR Airlines was their tight turnaround times; schedules which were at times barely possible to make without factoring in delays due to booking problems – another thing pilots were expected to deal with.

While the coroner wasn’t prepared to say these tight turnaround times contributed to the accident, it was stated that the young pilot of flight 519 took off almost eight minutes late.

Having already been raked over the coals for being late the week before, and threatened with losing his job as a result, he was under considerable pressure to make up the time.

Nicola had no desire to put that same burden onto this young man, who was probably the same age.

‘Right,’ she said, gritting her teeth and jerking her large trolley case forward.

She was sweating; soon her suit would be ruined.

‘I’ll take that – it’s too big to go inside,’ the pilot said, nodding at Nicola’s suitcase. Nicola pushed down the handle, left it where it was, and scrambled up the narrow steps. She half-expected him to pat her behind; he seemed that sort of guy.

The interior of the plane was even smaller than it looked from the ground.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered to her fellow passengers, waiting patiently to get to wherever they were going.

Sympathetic smiles followed her to her allocated seat, not the arctic stares and exasperated sighs she expected.

She sat, snapped the heavy ends of her seatbelt together and pulled the strap tight. She then checked under the seat for the life jacket the coroner had insisted be added to these flights since the tragedy. Good. She sat back again.

Outside her tiny perspex window, the first engine spluttered and sneezed and finally the propeller flicked back and forth then became a blur of spinning metal. The second engine went through the same procedure. The whole cabin vibrated as the engines were revved. Talking would be difficult; Nicola could barely hear herself think.

Fighting to ease her gasping breaths, she looked across at her neighbour. The stranger beside her offered a sympathetic smile, then the sick bag, indicating her to put it to her mouth and breathe into it slowly and deeply.

The other passengers were busily inspecting safety cards and complimentary magazines, and seemed not to notice her.

She tried to listen to the safety instructions, but could barely make them out over the sound of the engines.

If she wasn’t so terrified she might have been amused at being told to keep her belt fastened when seated; there was no toilet to visit, and no aisle to stroll.

Sitting there in the same make and model of plane, waiting to fly the same route, and – shit! – at the exact same time, Nicola wondered how Paul and Ruth must have felt. But of course they were off on holidays; would have been chattering excitedly about what they expected to do and see. They wouldn’t have had a clue about their impending demise – thank God.

If only she’d insisted on leaving the office early to take them to the airport. But they hadn’t wanted to burden her; said a taxi was a lot less hassle. They had agreed to let her pick them up on the Sunday night, but of course it wasn’t to be.

Her last words to her parents had been: ‘Have fun, love you!’ She couldn’t imagine how people lived with the guilt of their last exchange with a loved one being a fight.

When Nicola heard about the anonymous letters the ATSB had received regarding SAR Airlines, she knew there was a major story to be told. While nothing would bring back Paul and Ruth and the other six who had perished, she owed it to them to at least learn the truth. If not, what was the point of having a journalist in the family?

She’d been prepared for Bill to refuse her request to lead the investigation, on the grounds that she was too close, too emotional, and not objective enough. Instead he agreed.

Had he seen something in her as a journalist or just understood that the best thing she could do for everyone was be at the heart of the story, no matter how painful? It no longer mattered.

It had taken all of her strength to sit and listen to the pilot’s transmissions, knowing her parents had done the same for a full five minutes before the eerily calm mayday call was issued. For weeks she’d had nightmares about them frantically searching under their seats for life jackets that weren’t there; being plunged into icy, shark-infested water at over two hundred kilometres an hour; and finally, the hopeless struggle to survive while calling to searchers overhead who couldn’t see or hear them.

Four years on, it still made Nicola shudder to think about.

As the plane jerked and rolled forward, she felt her neighbour’s hand give a squeeze, or maybe it was an attempt to regain some blood flow. She offered an embarrassed grimace and released the hand. To her further dismay, Nicola realised her good Samaritan was around her age and decidedly attractive.

Even more frigging embarrassing! Without making it too obvious, she snatched another look at the biggest, brownest eyes and possibly the longest lashes she’d ever seen. Wow, and those strong, tanned arms disappearing into rolled up blue and white striped shirt sleeves … Yum.

Jesus, Nicola, stop it!

She quickly stuffed the sick bag in the seat pocket in front, noting the length of his legs as she did, and set about studying the emergency card again.

Damn it; she could just kill Bill for putting her in this situation.

Maybe he thought she’d dealt with everything and had sufficiently moved on; perhaps he had no idea she was booked on a Piper Chieftain.

Or could it be his fatherly way of shoving her over the cliff to really get on with her life? Bill was perceptive when it came to human emotion – the main reason he’d been an award-winning journalist himself.

One thing was for sure; she’d definitely need a couple of weeks of massage and pampering after this.

Nicola watched the large jets taxi past the end of the runway while their pilot patiently waited, flicking switches, poking buttons and muttering into the headset in a tone that couldn’t be heard over the bone-penetrating drone of the engines.

Suddenly she wished she’d told Scott she loved him when she’d rung him to say goodbye; both rarely uttered the words these days. When had he last said them? When had she?

Nicola closed her eyes and gritted her teeth until her jaw ached.

And then the vibration beneath her feet ceased and her stomach did a weightless lurch. They were finally airborne. The houses got smaller and smaller below them and then they were suddenly out over water – Gulf St Vincent. The dark blue was littered with whitecaps.

The little craft bobbed and twisted, throwing them against their seatbelts.

‘Sorry folks, bit of a crosswind,’ came the voice over the loudspeaker.

‘See, not so bad, eh. All safe and sound,’ the man beside her said, winking.

As Nicola alighted from the hatch onto the first step, the pilot said, ‘Thanks for flying Air SA.’

Outside the plane Nicola’s legs were not cooperating. She stopped and tried to stretch the cricks from her neck and back before trying to walk.

She took a deep breath of the brisk, fresh air coming straight off the nearby sea. The salt was instantly noticeable in her mouth. It made her thirsty. She hated to think of what it was doing to her hair’s perfect body and shine.

Theirs was the only plane in the harsh white light of the terminal.

None of the passengers spoke and the only voice was that of the pilot uttering, ‘Watch your step – thanks for flying Air SA,’ as each passenger alighted behind her.

His voice had an obvious country drawl to it now, so different from the official tone reeling off safety instructions back in Adelaide.

Nicola, after a lifetime devoted to people-watching, recognised it at once. Pilot Mark might have been in the city at private school for a couple of years to get the grades for aviation and a plummy voice for the right circumstance, but he was never going to settle there. The lad was country country.

‘Thanks,’ Nicola replied. ‘I really appreciate it.’ She tried for a friendly smile, but was so intent on willing her legs to regain their feeling that it came out as a pained grimace.

‘Life’s too short – don’t stress so much,’ he offered kindly.

‘Too true,’ Nicola muttered, finally summoning the grin she was after.

They wandered the fifty metres over to the cream brick building where eager faces peered from backlit windows, searching for friends, relatives and business associates.

After settling into her room, Nicola planned to have a long soak in a steaming bath before ringing Scott – and this time she’d remember to say she loved him.

Standing by the counter of Brown’s Rentals, Nicola fished her mobile from her pocket and turned it on while absently watching the tarmac goings-on.

A short, fat attendant was hauling the trolley piled with luggage back towards the building, a small fuel tanker was driving across to the plane, and Pilot Mark was striding purposefully about, green clipboard tucked under his arm.

Suddenly her stomach grumbled, reminding her how little food she’d had that day and the unhealthy choices made since the awards night. What a whirlwind it had been.

She was a little disappointed – but at the same time grateful – that local media hadn’t turned up. She could just imagine the caption below an unflattering grainy black and white image: Nicola Harvey, Life and Times – Needing Her Own Makeover.

‘Someone picking you up, or can I call you a cab?’ Mark enquired, stopping next to her.

‘Yes, a Mister Brown from Brown’s Rentals. I’m driving to Nowhere Else – an hour away according to this,’ she said, reading from the printed itinerary Bill’s assistant had provided.

‘That’ll be Bob – he’ll be here any minute. We were a touch early. I’ll wait with you, if you like.’

‘Thanks but that’s not necessary – I can always call a cab or stay the night in town.’

‘Public phone’s out of order.’

‘That’s okay, I’ve got a mobile.’

‘Take extra care on the road; there are bound to be roos about – they graze at night.’

‘Okay, I’ll be sure to keep a good look out,’ Nicola said, thinking that she couldn’t take much more care than trying to navigate unknown dark country roads in an unfamiliar vehicle. She checked herself; she was being tired and snippy. He was just being friendly.

They lapsed into silence. Mark shifted from one foot to the other. She listened to the sounds of the country – the thick, eerie silence punctuated by the howls of dogs and hum of traffic on a distant highway.

‘This must be him now,’ Mark finally said, nodding to his right. She followed his gaze towards two sets of bobbing lights negotiating the speed humps and winding course of the car park.

The first vehicle to halt in front of them was a four-wheel-drive wagon that looked slightly outdated with its squarish profile. At least she’d have half a chance in an accident. A burly man in bulging workman blue overalls got out and strode over.

He introduced himself and went over the particulars of the vehicle, and then showed her how to flick the lights between low and high beam, how to adjust the mirrors, and where the horn was –’in case there’s a roo sitting in the road or something.’

God, how bad was the roo population? Was she even safe driving? Should she stay the night in Port Lincoln? No, she was expected in Nowhere Else; if she didn’t arrive tonight and someone phoned Bill – the other name on the booking – all hell would break loose.

‘Know where you’re going? Just follow the signs,’ he added. Not waiting for an answer, he pulled open the back door, tossed her suitcase inside and slammed it shut. He then gave her a wave and walked to the small hatchback idling behind.

As Nicola got into the four-wheel-drive, she wondered how she would manage this huge tank after her sleek little convertible. Feeling self-conscious with the other car still behind her, she searched for the seat levers and made herself as comfortable as she could.

A far cry from her leather seats, she thought, grinding her bum back and forth to get a better position. She adjusted her mirrors, pulled her seatbelt over her shoulder, put the vehicle in gear, and drove slowly from the curb.




Chapter Eight (#ulink_73449485-b8b7-5fff-8d7e-b1077e0b6a46)


Nicola was still chuckling at the Welcome To Nowhere Else sign at the edge of town when she came across the Hotel Motel. She steered the vehicle into the large gravelled parking area, turned it off, and got out. Her legs were a little stiff after the drive, and she was exhausted from concentrating so hard on the unfamiliar road.

Her Ballys protested at the gravel. She struggled to get traction, and with every step, cringed at the thought of what the sharp stones were doing to her precious heels. Damn not changing into something more appropriate for the drive; they were comfortable, but not that comfortable. If they were ruined, Bill would have to pay for their replacement, she thought with a huff as she finally stepped onto solid pavement and rounded the corner to find an impressive stone façade stretching above and away from her.

To the left was a door – the top half glass, the bottom half shiny aluminium. Across the glass in large gold letters were the words Front Bar. Surrounding the doorway was old red brickwork, and above that, carved into the stone, the date – 1883. There’s something really lovely about old stone, Nicola thought as she cast her eyes back over the building.

Now she saw the main entrance, flanked by large glass panels. The place had definitely had a nineteen-sixties makeover.

Oh well, the good with the bad; at least the sixties had seen ensuites added to most hotel rooms. The thought of traipsing down a long passageway to use a shared loo made her shudder.

Nicola tried to push the door forwards before realising there was a sticker saying Pull. She suddenly felt a whole lot more tired. The stress of the journey had obviously caught up with her; the sooner she got settled into her room and ran a bath the better.

She stood on red and black carpet in front of the reception desk. A label next to a plastic black and white doorbell read Press If Unattended.

It was unattended, but Nicola thought she’d give whoever it was a minute or two – she was probably being viewed on a monitor somewhere anyway.

On the wall behind the desk was a large blackboard with a menu scrawled on it in white chalk. Nicola’s mouth began to water as she quickly read through the list of entrees and light offerings and then the cuts of steak and varieties of seafood and fish – all with chips and salad or chips and veg.

She’d planned to call into a fast food outlet to break her journey, and wouldn’t have believed anyone if they’d told her there wouldn’t be one McDonald’s, KFC, or Hungry Jack’s along the way.

God, I’m starving, she thought, staring at the menu. I really should have something light – soup or a salad, or even the bruschetta. But her gaze kept being drawn back to the t-bone.

When she looked back down she found a lanky teenage girl with glossy but slightly limp mid-brown hair standing in front of her. The girl wore a navy blue polo top with an image of the building’s facade and the words Nowhere Else Hotel Motel printed in white over her small left breast.

‘T-bone, mushrooms, chips and salad – medium rare,’ Nicola blurted, barely giving the lass a chance to open her mouth.

The girl blushed. ‘Sorry, but the kitchen’s closed,’ she said.

‘It can’t be,’ Nicola whined, and had to consciously stop herself from stamping her feet in protest.

The girl, whose name tag read Tiffany, shrugged apologetically and said, ‘Kitchen closes at nine.’

‘But it’s only ten past,’ Nicola protested.

‘Sorry. You can get snacks and toasted sandwiches in the front bar,’ she said, pointing back towards the door Nicola had come in.

Nicola wanted to beat her fist on the faded West End bar towel and tell this kid just who she was – none other than Nicola Harvey – yes, the Nicola Harvey of Life and Times and Walkley fame.

‘Is there another restaurant in town? Maybe a café, hotel?’

‘No, this is it. Hey, you’re Nicola Harvey, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am,’ Nicola grinned, suddenly brightening. So the girl did recognise her.

‘Was beginning to wonder if you’d show.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’ve got you in room eight …’

Nicola realised she’d forgotten all about checking in.

‘It’s all paid for; just sign this and I’ll take you to your room,’ Tiffany said, pushing a clipboard under her nose. ‘Just the date and your signature is all we need.’

Nicola fleetingly thought Tiffany should be asking for an imprint of her credit card for mini-bar purchases too – a bag of chips in her room for tea was looking likely – but didn’t have the energy to point out her error.

‘Where have you parked?’

‘In the car park around the side – is that okay?’

‘Perfect. Where’s your luggage?’

‘Still in the car – I can get it later.’ The words were half-hearted; the last thing she felt like doing when she finally got settled into her warm, cosy room was to have to come back out again. Where was a porter when you needed one?

‘We can do a bit of a detour and collect it on the way if you like – save you the extra effort.’

‘Thanks, that’d be good,’ Nicola said, beaming at the girl and feeling a wave of gratitude.

Tiffany came out from behind the counter, strode to the front door and held it open. It took Nicola a few moments to catch up.

‘I can’t walk in heels – well, not ones that high,’ Tiffany said, staring down at Nicola’s feet.

‘I don’t seem to be able to either now,’ Nicola said with a pained smile. She was suddenly aware of just how sore her feet were – the soles were burning and she could no longer feel her toes.

Nicola followed Tiffany outside and around to the four-wheel-drive as quickly as she could, grateful for the girl not showing the least sign of frustration with her slow pace.

Tiffany didn’t let out so much as one exasperated sigh when Nicola spent ages fossicking in her handbag for the keys, only to realise she’d put them in the pocket of her suit jacket. Finally they wrestled her suitcase from the back.

‘Round the back here – you can also get to your room through the pub,’ Tiffany said, leading the way.

They rounded the corner of the hotel and Nicola stopped when she saw that surrounding her were not quaint old stone outbuildings but something that looked more like the concrete ablution block in a caravan park.

Two things told her the expanse of beige concrete was in fact motel accommodation: the black plastic numbers on a series of regularly spaced mission-brown doors, and the net curtains visible in the aluminium framed windows. She was careful not to show her disappointment; it wasn’t Tiffany’s fault – it was bloody Bill’s!

At least it didn’t look like the building was made from asbestos; thank God for small mercies. And the way she was feeling, she didn’t care what the bed felt like as long as she could take these bloody shoes off and get out of the suit that was now starting to feel stifling.

Anyway, it’s what’s inside that counts, Nicola reminded herself, wheeling her suitcase along the concrete path.

‘Here we are,’ Tiffany said, putting the key in the lock beside the number 8 and throwing open the door. Turning back she added, ‘You can get back into the pub from that door over there – see?’

Nicola followed her pointing finger and nodded.

‘Breakfast is from seven to ten. I’ll leave you to it.’

Nicola watched her make her way towards the back door of the hotel, which she now noticed was almost identical to the entrance at the front.

She closed the door behind her, dumped her bags and looked around the room. It was like the set of a low-budget porno: a sagging bed covered with a faux patchwork quilt, a white vinyl studded bedhead, and a dusty plastic floral arrangement glued into a vase on the TV.

Her nose twitched. The obnoxious scent of cheap rose deodorising spray unsuccessfully masked the odour of stale cigarette smoke.

She summoned the courage to check out the bathroom, and with fingers crossed, slowly pushed the sliding door aside.

Vitreous china, the colour of caramel, was the only plain colour amid a sea of cream tiles with a fancy geometric design that was probably meant to be floral but to Nicola looked more like fuzzy monsters top to tail with their mouths open, screaming. God, she’d go mad if she stared at that too long!

‘Bath,’ she crooned. ‘At least there’s a bath.’ That could almost be considered a feature to redeem all, she thought, as she pulled the clear plastic shower curtain, with strategically placed palm leaves, aside. Great, she’d have to soak with her ankles wedged under her bum, it was so bloody small.

Nicola plonked herself askew on the toilet and put a hand over her mouth to stifle the erupting giggles.

Bloody Bill. This was no doubt his way of stopping her getting big-headed. She laughed even louder when she caught sight of the time-yellowed, once-considered-slimline phone by her left shoulder, and was unable to resist.

‘Hey, it’s me.’

‘Hey,’ Scott replied, his voice crackling and hollow through the ancient handset.

‘Just wanted to let you know I arrived safely.’

‘Thanks – good to know. How was the trip?’

‘Exhausting. But can you believe there was nowhere to eat along the way – I’m absolutely starving. And of course I get here and they’ve stopped serving meals. Missed it by ten minutes.’

‘I’m sure Bill’s budget will stretch to a meal from room service.’

‘There is no room service.’

‘Thank God for mini-bars then, hey?’

Nicola began to laugh. Was she becoming delirious from tiredness and hunger?

‘Scott, you would so not believe this place. It’s like something out of …’

‘Apparently the place we’re going to this week has only four stars. Can you believe it? The rooms probably won’t even have baths. I hope you’ll think of me slumming it while you’re soaking in your tub full of bubbles.’

‘Well I’m in the bathroom but …’

‘Phone in the bathroom, eh? Bill really is taking care of his star these days.’

‘Well actually it’s …’

‘Look hon, I’d love to hear all about your marble and complimentary toiletries but I’ve really gotta run – sorry.’ ‘Right, um, okay. I’ll let you go … Love you.’ ‘Yeah me too, bye.’

Feeling refreshed after her shower, but again reminded of her hunger, Nicola ventured back across to the hotel.

The reception desk now had a cage pulled down over it with a sign that read Closed – All Enquiries To Front Bar.

Swallowing her apprehension, Nicola pushed the door marked Front Bar open and made her way inside.

‘Settled in okay then?’ Tiffany asked.

‘Yes thanks.’

‘What can I get you?’

‘Um … er …’ Nicola frantically searched the menu for something remotely appetising.

‘Something to drink while you decide?’ ‘Do you have a wine list?’

‘There’s probably one somewhere around here,’ Tiffany said, ducking down behind the bar. It didn’t bode well.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll just have a beer thanks.’

‘Hey Tiff,’ a loud voice called from around the corner. ‘Dry argument around ‘ere luv.’

‘Come on,’ another called.

‘Just bloody hang on,’ Tiffany muttered, thumping the glass in front of Nicola and accepting her money.

Nicola had been staring at the menu a full minute when a voice next to her said, ‘The toasted sandwiches are the closest thing you’ll get to sustenance.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, turning. She frowned; the dark features were a little familiar, but from where she wasn’t sure. ‘Have we met?’

The guy smirked. ‘Yep.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, about three hours ago,’ he said, looking at his watch.

Nicola blushed furiously as she realised he was her flight companion – the one who’d held the sick bag for her – the one whose hand she’d held. Oh my God, she silently groaned, could the day get any worse?

‘Um, I’m really sorry about all that,’ she muttered, waving an arm casually, feeling anything but casual.

‘Alex. Even though we’ve already been somewhat intimate, it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he laughed, thrusting his hand at her.

‘Nicola, highly embarrassed,’ she mumbled, shaking hands.

‘Ah, don’t be.’

‘Right, can I get you anything to eat?’ Tiffany asked, reappearing. ‘The ham and cheese toasted sandwiches are almost edible,’ she offered.

‘Great, I’ll have one thanks,’ Nicola said. ‘Care for a game of pool?’ Alex asked.

Why the hell not? Nicola thought. Things could only get better.




Chapter Nine (#ulink_0ea6264d-a21c-5b3b-9262-cdb42b81ea06)


Nicola scowled at the crude sketch of the hotel motel in cream on the gleaming chocolate brown plastic placemat. Despite scanning the Yellow Pages and finding a caravan park the only other option, she was still in denial. Surely there was somewhere else to stay.

She was also in denial about the amount she’d had to drink. Disconnected images flickered through her mind, vague and grainy like an old silent movie. It couldn’t have been the drink – the ham must have been off.

‘Good morning.’ It was Tiffany from the night before.

The kid was sweet enough but far too bloody cheery when one was suffering a hangover and stiff back. Nicola glowered in response.

‘Bread, butter and spreads over there by the toaster, cereal and milk on the table, plates and cutlery on the bench,’ Tiffany rambled. ‘Help yourself,’ she added. ‘Can I get you a coffee, or perhaps you’d rather a tea? I’ve just put a pot on.’

‘Coffee, thanks.’ As Tiffany bounded away, Nicola wondered if the pot she’d referred to was for tea, and instantly regretted her request. In her experience coffee that came in a pot was rarely drinkable.

Maybe there was a coffee machine hiding out in some back room and it wouldn’t be so bad. She hoped so, because the only thing she could see making her feel better was a decent latte or three.

She got up for a closer inspection of the breakfast offerings. The cereals were all in little boxes, brightly adorned to attract the attention of children. She sighed and stuck two pieces of grain bread into the nearby toaster, more for something to do to pass the time.

Nicola stared at the toast she’d just cooked. It looked about as nutritious as cement. Tiffany appeared beside her and put down a tray with a plain white mug of inky black coffee, a small ceramic jug of milk and a matching bowl of white sugar.

‘Thanks,’ Nicola said, and set about doctoring her coffee. Fingers crossed.

She took a tentative sip and almost dropped the cup as her tongue was burnt. She put the mug back on the table with a grimace. ‘Sorry, is it too hot?’ Tiffany asked. ‘Not your fault.’

The beverage’s temperature was the least of its shortcomings, but Nicola curbed her desire to point out its flaws. It was bitter, watery, and had almost no depth of flavour. Could it actually be the worst cup she’d ever tasted? It was a little hard to tell now that she’d burnt the taste buds off her tongue. Bad or not, she thought, it is caffeine; a vital ingredient for the treatment of the common hangover. She lifted the cup again and took a couple more sips.

Nicola put the mug down and looked at Tiffany who was still hovering – why, she had no idea.

‘Tiffany. Um, is there a B&B anywhere nearby, or maybe a …?’

Tiffany looked mortified. ‘No offence, it’s just that …’

‘We may not be all the frills floral but we’re clean and comfortable,’ Tiffany said defiantly.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to …’ Nicola began.

‘Anyway, there is nowhere else,’ Tiffany said.

Nicola wanted to know if the pun was intended, but was far too peeved to give Tiffany the upper hand by praising her wit.

As she stared at her mug, weighing up its drinkability versus her desperation, Nicola felt a slow sinking feeling take hold. If there was no B&B, did that mean there was no day spa either? It was all too awful to contemplate.

‘Is there by any chance a day spa nearby, or a masseuse?’ Nicola asked hesitantly.

Tiffany thought for a moment. ‘Well, there’s an old retired shearer does a bit of work on the footy players.’ Nicola stared at her, horrified.

Taking great joy in Nicola’s obvious discomfort, she chuckled. ‘Though I’m guessing that’s not quite what you’re after.’

‘Could it get any worse?’ Nicola mumbled, thinking aloud. She laid her head on her arms on the table.

Nicola was wondering just what the town did have to offer when Tiffany again materialised at her side and dumped a wad of photocopied and glossy brochures beside her.

‘This place might not have all the city finery but we’re an honest, down-to-earth bunch of good people who do our best with what we have,’ she said a little indignantly.

Tiffany looked like she was waiting for applause. Well she’ll be waiting a while, Nicola thought, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms tight across her chest.

‘You can get paracetamol at the chemist or supermarket. Both are down the street and open at nine-thirty,’ Tiffany said, before turning lightly on her heels and walking away. A door marked Private slapped shut behind her.

Nicola steamed in her chair. The place was a hick town full of country bumpkins and she hated it already. Damn Bill. Boy was she going to give him a piece of her mind! Right bloody now!

She got up and stormed out the door and across the courtyard. By the time she got to room eight she was a little out of breath.

Inside she grabbed her mobile from the bench, remembered there was no signal, and put it down again. Bloody thing; what’s the point of an iPhone if you can’t get any reception? She’d have to do something about that. If she was staying that was.

Nicola reached for the phone by the bed and was about to dial Bill’s office number when she stopped and put the handset down again. What the hell was she going to say, anyway? ‘Get me out of this shithole because I’m drowning in bad décor and crap coffee?’ She’d just sound like a petulant child; not an award-winning reporter prepared to get down and dirty for a great story.

And had he actually promised her a quaint chocolate box village? Hmm. What had he said exactly? Nicola nibbled at her bottom lip. ‘For all I know there’ll be day spas …’

He’d actually only asked her to go out to a town called Nowhere Else and do a story on the drought, hadn’t he?

She’d been the one who had assumed the accommodation would be a posh little B&B. Just heard what she wanted to hear. Fine journalist she was!

Well, she should at least let him know she’d arrived safely. She picked up the phone and dialled his office.

‘Bill Truman.’

‘Hey Bill, it’s Nicola.’

‘Where the hell are you calling from?’

‘Nowhere Else – I’m on assignment, remember?’ ‘Of course I bloody remember; your mobile didn’t come up.’ ‘Oh yeah, right. There doesn’t seem to be any reception out here.’

‘Right, might have to change you over to the national carrier – I’ll check the coverage.’ Nicola could hear him scrawling notes. ‘Everything else okay?’

‘It’s fine,’ she said with a sigh.

‘What? What’s wrong?’

‘It’s just not what I was expecting.’

‘Have you had a good look around yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, you never know what you’ll find; it might surprise you with what it has to offer.’

A fleeting image of Alex from last night passing through her mind caused Nicola to smile. That had certainly been a pleasant surprise.

‘Oh well, you got there safely; that’s all that matters.’ She told him about the lack of food stops on the road in. ‘It’s that remote? Who would have thought?’ ‘Came as a bit of a shock to me as well,’ Nicola said with a chuckle.

‘Accommodation okay? Too bad if it’s not ‘cause I hear there’s nowhere else.’

‘Ha ha. I’ll be fine, Bill. I’d better go before I blow your budget.’

‘Well, keep in touch. I’ll let you know about the phone.’

‘Thanks.’ ‘And Nicola?’

‘Yes?’

‘Go find me a killer story, there’s a good girl.’ ‘I’ll do my best, boss.’

‘Oh, and be friendly to the locals. See ya, kiddo. Take care.’

‘See ya.’

Nicola hung up and sat smiling, thinking how lucky she was to have a boss like Bill. She felt so much better. But she did feel a little guilty for her behaviour towards Tiffany earlier. She hadn’t been rude, had she? Not quite. But she hadn’t exactly been gracious.

With the words, ‘Be friendly to the locals’ in her mind she got up, left the room, and pulled the door shut behind her.

As she crossed the courtyard back to the pub, Nicola wondered if she’d been a bit too friendly towards another local she’d met – Alex. She was a little fuzzy on the detail of last night.

The dining room was empty when she re-entered. Her untouched plate was where she’d left it, along with toast, mug, and cutlery. She drained the last of the coffee, which, as expected, had deteriorated as it had cooled.

‘Sorry. I wasn’t sure if you had finished or not,’ Tiffany said, appearing beside her. She nodded at Nicola’s plate.

‘Had to quickly phone my boss.’

‘So do you want it or should I take the plate?’

Nicola looked at the toast. She hated cold toast, but didn’t want to add to her already poor standing with Tiffany by wasting it.

She picked up her knife, tore open the packet of butter she’d collected earlier, and started buttering.

‘Don’t suppose you’d like another crap coffee?’

‘Another coffee would be lovely, thanks,’ Nicola said, smiling broadly up at her. ‘Tiffany, look, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot – too many late nights …’

‘Whatever.’ Tiffany shrugged, collected the mug and left.

‘Well that went well,’ Nicola mumbled to her toast.

After a few moments alone, she looked around to find Tiffany had returned. She put the mug down but remained standing beside Nicola.

‘Um … er,’ Tiffany stammered awkwardly, her face reddening. ‘Yes?’ What now? Is she going to tell me where to stick my coffee?

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped,’ Tiffany blurted. The glower was a dead giveaway that the apology was being issued under duress.

‘No, I deserved it,’ Nicola sighed. ‘Bloody hangover,’ she muttered, taking a swig of coffee and cringing.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Tiffany grinned, sitting. ‘You enjoyed yourself last night.’

Nicola raised her eyebrows.

‘I never expected you to be so … so relaxed. I mean here, of all places. I think Alex was quite … Sorry, I’m rambling.’

Nicola wished she’d keep going. She hadn’t been that drunk; certainly not drunk enough not to notice the mattress springs poking her in the back and the bathroom tap dripping all night – almost, but not quite.

‘Bugger, I must have made a bloody fool of myself,’ she groaned and laid her head on the table.

‘Nah, everyone loved you,’ Tiffany enthused. ‘The blokes never thought you’d be so normal. You were great. Pretty pissed, but you were great,’ she added, grinning shyly.

‘Do I want to know details?’

‘Probably not,’ Tiffany laughed.

Nicola shot her a quizzical frown. She was actually beginning to like this girl; the cheeky forthrightness. ‘Just kidding, nothing to worry about.’ ‘You’d tell me, right?’

‘Promise – cross my heart. So,’ Tiffany said, banging the table, ‘last night you mentioned you’re here to cover the drought. Maybe I can help. There’s practically no one in town I don’t know. You just have to ask.’

‘Well, I think I’d like to start with the editor of the local paper. Can you point me in the right direction?’

‘Easy – I’ll mark his office on a map,’ Tiffany said proudly, leaping up.

‘Thanks,’ Nicola said, smiling warmly at her new friend.




Chapter Ten (#ulink_e31ef51b-9678-53a8-a465-0bcc732b1989)


‘Be hard to get lost around here,’ Nicola muttered to herself while scanning the map. Doesn’t even look big enough to have its own paper.

‘Quaint,’ she said, stopping in front of a row of five pale limestone shops with red brick quoins. Large terracotta planters overflowing with masses of deep red camellia blooms completed a scene worthy of a tourist brochure. Nicola pulled the compact digital camera from her coat pocket and stood back and took a few shots. ‘Post Office, Police Station, Newspaper, and District Council – must be the CBD.’

She approached the shopfront marked Nowhere Else Echo. In the window was a large old printing press, a number of ancient manual typewriters, and wooden boxes filled with pieces of large and small lettering. Black and white action shots of newspapermen hard at work and a yellowed example of a broadsheet headline page encased in Perspex hung from the ceiling, completing the display.

Nicola took a few moments to marvel at how far the world of newspaper printing, and technology generally, had come.

The door had a small bell that jingled when it opened. She smiled. It was like something out of a museum village.

Actually, as she looked around the small reception, which doubled as a stationery shop, it was more like a 1950s movie.

A sea of black and white chequered lino stopped at an imposing timber counter. Pale yellow light barely lit the narrow hallway beyond.

The place smelled strongly of printing: the warm plastic scent of a photocopier, and the unmistakeable earthy and tangy odours of ink, worn metal and industrial oil that belonged to a printing press – probably the one in the window.

To the left were three small white melamine study hutches with a printed sign above them: Public Internet $3 for 30 Minutes.

To the right, a Stationery sign hung over a set of shelving. She wandered over for a closer look, half expecting to see 1950s advertising on the boxes, and was surprised to find a small but wide array of pens, pencils, refills, copier paper, lined pads, printer cartridges, calculator rolls and batteries.

There was a nice looking pen in a hard clear plastic display box she wouldn’t have minded taking a closer look at, but she didn’t want to embarrass herself or the newspaper manager by having a sneezing fit – there was a fine layer of dust over everything. Obviously not a huge turnover.

At home she kept her allergies under control with a daily antihistamine and weekly visits from the cleaner, but out here anything could happen.

‘Hello?’ she called, leaning over the counter towards the hall. Waiting for a response, she traced the dark scars in its worn surface and wondered at the stories the furniture held.

A gruff voice echoed down the passage. ‘Sorry, we’re not open until ten.’

Heavy leather soles clack-clacked on the lino, as a figure emerged slowly from the gloom.

Nicola’s jaw dropped and she felt the colour drain slightly from her face. ‘Richard? Richard Watkins?’

‘Nicola Harvey, what the hell are you doing here?’ The lanky man had a pair of reading glasses on his forehead, beneath a dark tousled mop streaked with white pepper. He threw back the hinged timber barrier and pulled her into a tight hug.

‘Visiting an old friend, apparently,’ Nicola muttered. It was nice to be hugged, but she was distracted. Why was Richard Watkins out here, of all places? And why was he hugging her like a long lost friend when he’d been the one who’d left all those years ago? She shook the questions aside; it was nice to see him, even if it had come as a shock.

‘Seriously, what’s a journo of your calibre doing way out here?’ Richard asked when they broke apart.

‘I could ask you the same question – you topped our year and you end up out here?’

‘Hey, it’s not a bad little rag. I’m in charge, remember.’

‘Sorry, I wasn’t suggesting it was – it’s just … well … why out here? Last time I saw you you were off to London. Didn’t you have a job with The Times?’

‘Things changed,’ Richard shrugged, obviously keen to change the subject. ‘So, Gold Walkley. Well done. But I’m sorry about your parents – they were a lovely couple.’

Nicola found herself blushing. ‘Yeah, thanks. How did you know, anyway? About the Walkley I mean.’

‘Oh, you know, we get the odd carrier pigeon through, keeps us in touch,’ Richard said.

Carrier pigeon – do people still use those? Nicola’s brow knitted with confusion.

‘We do have TV, you know, and even mobile phones – though the coverage is still a bit patchy.’

‘I didn’t mean to …’ Nicola started, blushing beetroot.

‘Forgiven. I know we’re a long way from the big smoke but it’s a great place – you might even get to like it.’

Nicola raised her eyebrows. ‘Not likely.’

‘There’s a lot more to do out here than you’d think. But I want to know why Life and Times has sent their star reporter to Nowhere Else – anything I should know?’

‘Well, nothing major, just a piece on the drought.’ Nicola hoped it would turn out to be more, but wasn’t really feeling at all optimistic. At least with the plane crash there had been specific leads to follow up.

What she needed now was an angle, no matter how tenuous; just a starting point of some sort. ‘Actually, I could probably use your help.’

‘Angle?’

‘Not yet.’ Nicola bit her lip. She hadn’t actually given any thought to the story. She was still coming to terms with the fact she was actually here to work; she’d been too busy dreaming of facials, mud wraps, and quaint shopping strips.

‘Hmm, come out to my office – better for thinking.’

‘Sure you’ve got time; I’m not imposing?’

‘No worries, I’m really just pottering around enjoying the peace I don’t get at home. Would never have believed two small children could make so much noise. Though I suppose they are boys,’ he added, directing her into a chair.

‘Oh,’ Nicola blurted, unable to hide her surprise.

‘So,’ Richard said, leaning back in his chair, ‘what really brings you here?’

‘Well I was actually looking for an internet connection – my motel room doesn’t have one.’

‘No, Nicola. I mean, what’s a city girl like you doing in the sticks?’

‘I told you – the drought.’

Richard’s raised eyebrows told Nicola he didn’t believe her. ‘What?’ she snapped.

‘Nothing. So, I know you got your career on track, what else has been going on – husband, boyfriend, kids?’

‘Fiancé actually. Scott; we’ve been living together almost eight years now.’

‘So when’s the big day?’

‘What? Oh … that … No plans as yet – too busy to even think about it,’ she lied.

The truth was she’d spent plenty of time browsing bridal magazines and dreaming of her perfect day. She’d hoped Scott would make the first move – if he really loved her he would. But he hadn’t said anything about it since brushing off her last enquiry twelve months ago.

At the time she’d accepted his, ‘Honey, I’m really too busy with the research on this new listing – maybe when it’s finished we can discuss it, but right now I don’t have the headspace’. But since then at least three new listings and five major clients had diverted his attention. She’d given up dropping hints.

‘Ah, so you’re escaping.’

‘What?’ Nicola asked, genuinely confused.

‘The trip out bush,’ Richard said, flapping an arm.

Nicola had forgotten just how nosy Richard was – the trouble with time and a selective memory. Now she was finding him damn annoying.

‘And you can talk – avoiding the wife and kids,’ she snarled. ‘Ouch, walked into that one,’ he said, grinning. ‘Anyway, this is different. Do you have any idea how rowdy kids are on polished boards with their …?’

‘Tell me about your wife,’ Nicola cut in. ‘Though I’ve gotta say, I never really pictured you as a family man.’

He’d said as much to her all those years ago. For a few months there Nicola had thought she might have one day become the mother to his children. Their university days seemed to have been yesterday and another lifetime ago. They’d once been highly competitive students, each desperate to beat the other with grades and then into the cauldron of a cadetship.

Both had been equally passionate about becoming great journalists and spending their lives enlightening the public. And of course there’d also been the other sort of passion … She remembered how it ended.

Richard had decided he was leaving for London at the end of the year and didn’t want the complication of a relationship. Why did men and women always seem to view relationships differently? According to him, theirs was only casual; the occasional bonk as reward for an assignment well done or other drunken celebration. Why hadn’t she had the guts to tell him she had fallen in love?

Something tugged inside – regret, longing, guilt – Nicola couldn’t identify it.

‘What? Oh sorry, kids? No, wouldn’t know,’ she stumbled.

‘Actually, we’d moved on – I was telling you about my wife, Karen,’ Richard said, sounding annoyed. ‘Where were you?’ he added.

‘Nowhere Else?’ she said, an attempt at wit to change the subject.

Richard rolled his eyes at her.

What had he said about his wife? Was he happy? ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

‘Your turn, what’s this Scott fellow like?’

‘Oh, you know,’ she said, waving a dismissive arm. ‘Tall, dark, and handsome.’

‘So, what does he do for a crust that makes him too busy to make an honest woman of you?’

‘I’ll have you know I’m a very honest woman, thank you very much, and it has nothing to do with Scott.’

‘It was just a figure of speech, Nicola. You know I’d never question your integrity.’

‘Well, since you asked; he’s a stockbroker. Very busy and quite wealthy as it happens,’ she added defiantly.

‘So he’s too busy off making money to make you happy by putting another ring on your finger, huh?’

Nicola coloured slightly. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You didn’t have to. And being wealthy isn’t just about money, Nicola.’

‘Someone sounds like they’re a little jealous.’ ‘And someone else sounds like they’re in denial about gilded cage syndrome.’

‘And when did you find time to do a Masters in psych? It might have escaped your attention, but I actually have a fabulous career all of my own. I’m hardly a candidate for the gilded cage. And anyway, we’re not married,’ she snapped.

‘All right, I’m sorry. You’re right; I had no right to judge,’ Richard said, showing his palms in surrender.

‘I’m sorry too, I’ve had a tough week. Then I get sent out to a dump called Nowhere Else, which really is like nowhere else, to do a story on dirt. I’m allergic to dust, flies and crappy motels. Don’t know what I was thinking …’

Well actually, I do, but I’m not going to make a fool of myself by telling you.

‘So where’s the fabulous Scott right now?’

Nicola checked her gleaming gold watch.

‘Probably sitting by the pool sipping something green and foamy with a pink umbrella sticking out of it.’ ‘Gone on holiday without you?’

‘Conference – his fourth one this year,’ Nicola said sulkily. ‘Speaking of green,’ Richard muttered. Nicola shot him a scowl.

‘Sounds like you miss him,’ Richard corrected. ‘That’s good.’

‘Yeah,’ Nicola sighed, suspecting it was probably the resort and fun he was enjoying that she missed, not him. She shook the thought aside.

They lapsed into an awkward silence. Nicola was desperate to ask about London, but didn’t want to look too interested, especially given his jibing about her relationship. Also, she didn’t need to be reminded that she hadn’t meant as much to Richard as he had to her.

Richard finally broke the spell. ‘Well, you’d better get him to come out here for the weekend then.’

‘Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen.’ She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Damn it. How did he still have the power to loosen her tongue after all this time? She’d better be careful if she didn’t want to lose her story to him – if she ever found one worthy of stealing …

‘Why not?’ Richard asked, breaking her train of thought.

‘Firstly, he hates small planes …’

‘Actually I can’t believe you got on one – let alone a Piper Chieftain. I don’t think I could have in your position.’

‘… I didn’t know – but that’s another story. Secondly, the accommodation is appalling. And finally, there’s nothing here that would interest him.’

‘What about you? You’re here.’

‘Richard, you’re sounding like a marriage counsellor, and quite frankly it doesn’t suit you. Thanks for your concern but we’re fine. Better than fine, perfect.’

Richard cleared his throat. ‘Right, about this story of yours.’

Nicola sighed, relieved.




Chapter Eleven (#ulink_1122d560-a515-50fe-95a5-afc0eebe352b)


Nicola returned to the pub’s lounge bar, her head swimming with the threads of information gleaned from Richard. She sat with her notebook and pen, making notes of story ideas, jotting down questions, and doing abstract doodles. She just had to grab onto one – the right one – and find a decent story.

Did a long-term feud between two brothers over water have enough potential? It would be good to show the human effects of drought – how it tore families apart. Though, she had no idea if the feud Richard had mentioned was anywhere near that bad. She rolled her eyes at the title that sprang to mind: Water – Thicker than Blood. So damn clichéd.

She was now a Walkley winner, not just an ordinary journalist – there were certain expectations. She now had a lofty standard to uphold. God, the pressure. Nicola rubbed her hands over her face and through her hair.

What about government handouts for struggling farmers? She picked up her pen again and made a note before scratching it out. No, that had been done plenty of times. And what was there to report anyway; that city people don’t understand that farmers need the money to survive for the security of the nation – primary production apparently being the key.

Nicola thought that if a business was unviable it should follow the natural course and fold. It’s what happened in every other industry.

No, she didn’t feel impartial enough to delve into that story – especially from out here. Did they still practice tarring and feathering, or running people out of town with burning pitchforks? That would be one sure way to find out!

What about starving stock? No, it had been done to death. So to speak, she thought, cringing. Actually, she really wasn’t looking forward to seeing bags of bones wandering around.

The suffering of people was one thing, but Nicola couldn’t bear the sight of animals in distress. She looked away every time an ad about animal cruelty or live export came onto the television. She shook the thought aside. No, she would definitely not do a story covering animals.

Richard had mentioned a couple of road deaths that had the shadow of suicide hanging over them. No, definitely not. It was a worthy story, but she didn’t want to risk getting pigeonholed as the ‘death investigator’.

No, what she needed was something more upbeat, or at least something that didn’t involve death – human or otherwise. She sat staring into space, tapping her gold metal pen against her top lip. Maybe the brothers’ water feud thing was a goer. She wouldn’t know until she started looking into it.

Suddenly Tiffany leapt into the chair next to her, startling her.

‘So, how did you go?’ Tiffany asked, helping herself to Nicola’s open packet of salt and vinegar chips.

‘Sorry?’

‘Your rendezvous – with Richard at the paper.’

‘Tiffany, I bumped into an old friend, end of story.’

‘What? You know him, like from years ago? Ooh!’

Why was she being so damn defensive? The girl wasn’t being nosy; was only being friendly. And she had been the one who’d directed her to Richard’s office.

Damn Richard; it’s his fault she was uptight. She’d let him get under her skin with his comments about her relationship with Scott. Where did he get off?

‘Yes; we were friends at university,’ she said. ‘Got quite a shock to find him here, I can tell you. Last I knew he was off to London.’

‘He is rather good looking. For an older guy.’

Nicola could remember being Tiffany’s age; when finding love and being in love consumed every living moment; when every date was scrutinised for homemaking, income, and happily-ever-after potential. The kid was in for a rude shock.

‘Not that it’s any of your business, but he’s married, and I’m engaged,’ she said, waggling her left hand.

‘Wow, what a gorgeous ring …’

‘Thanks.’ Nicola stared at the round cut one-point-five carat diamond solitaire set above a plain gold band. She loved it; it was modern, elegant, but not overly flashy. And Scott loved it too, but more because it glowed like a beacon signalling his place on the corporate ladder to all who saw it.

‘Were you and Richard ever an item?’

‘Not really,’ Nicola said, still staring at her ring.

‘Do you ever wonder?’

‘Wonder what?’

‘Wonder if you and Richard had got together?’

‘No – you move on, meet other people.’

‘Right,’ Tiffany said thoughtfully, picking at her fingers.

‘Are you having boy troubles, Tiffany?’

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Just a guy who’s a mate.’ She shrugged.

‘Opposite sexes can be just friends, you know. You just have to know where you stand.’

Unlike Richard and me, Nicola thought. And of course she had wondered what if; had put her life on hold for two months while she did. What if she’d told him she loved him? What if she had pushed for commitment; asked him to stay? What then, what now?

Instead she’d pretended he was just a dear friend; taken him to the airport and waved him off. He’d got his big break – a cadetship at The Times in London. Sure she was a little jealous, but what had hurt the most was that he hadn’t even once hinted she should go with him, try her luck in the big city as well.

After he left she cried for two weeks and vowed never to be hurt by a man again. He’d called twice; the first time he’d rambled for twenty minutes about how well it was all going, not bothering to even ask about her.

The second time he’d called, Nicola had stood beside the phone, shaking her head and silently begging Ruth to tell him she was out, which she had. Bless her. Although Ruth had always advocated that honesty was the best policy, she’d lied for her daughter. Nicola hadn’t thought she’d do it; had hoped beyond hope, but hadn’t expected it.

Later Ruth said she’d done it because she’d seen the pain this young man had caused. Whether or not he meant to was of no consequence; what mattered to her was Nicola.

They’d spent hours huddled together on the couch with Nicola weeping buckets of tears and Ruth stroking her daughter’s hair and telling her she would get through this. She would be okay.

Finally Nicola had dragged herself out of her chocolate haze, feeling bloated and unattractive, and ventured into a newly opened bar.

When Scott appeared at her elbow she was queasy from the tequila shots curdling the kilo of rich, dark sin. She wanted to tell him to fuck off – no offence but she hated all men – but couldn’t open her mouth in case the lethal mix erupted.

At the end of the night, after she’d given a slurred version of her pathetic life and current lament, he’d been the true gentleman and seen her home.

The next morning he’d called to check she was okay. Her heart had melted at his thoughtfulness. Tall, dark, handsome, intelligent, ambitious, and compassionate; was this just the most perfect guy on the planet?

He’d wined and dined her, taken her on long country drives in his entry level BMW. They’d spent days curled up on the couch in his shabby flat talking about their careers and ambitions; the cars they’d own, the places they’d travel.

On their eight month anniversary he took her on a picnic where he announced that he’d got a big promotion and a huge pay rise. He pointed across the park. ‘See that warehouse conversion over there; that’s going to be home.

‘Come on, it’s open for inspection,’ he’d said, dragging her up and hurriedly collecting everything together. Nicola had allowed herself to be led across the park while wondering if he meant home for both of them or just him. She’d wandered through the apartment oohing and aahing.

It was lovely; bright, shiny and new, high ceilings, heaps of open space. She’d particularly admired the exposed timber beams above and around them. Nicola liked the idea that the old building had been given a new lease of life; apparently it had once been a butter factory. It was the sort of home Scott dreamt about; he’d told her often enough.

But while she’d nodded along, she’d been dreaming of something entirely different. Her dream was of a more traditional-style home: solid stone, with large bullnose verandah and tessellated tiles, picket or wrought-iron fence out the front. She liked cosy; like plush feather-filled couches upholstered in Laura Ashley, handmade Persian rugs, and open fires.

‘So, what do you think?’ he’d said over and over during their walk through.

To which she’d nodded and said, ‘It’s great, brilliant, totally you.’

They’d left with Scott telling the real estate agent he’d be in touch and her still wondering if she was part of this grand plan of his.

They drove away. He was so excited; she loved seeing him like that. She really didn’t want to burst his bubble by asking a silly practical question, but she needed to know.

‘So are you buying it?’

‘No darling, we’re buying it. Cool huh?’

‘Oh! Yes, very cool.’ She’d returned his broad smile. He was so pleased with himself.

At that point she realised he didn’t have a clue that she dreamed of something entirely different; that he’d never actually asked her.





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