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‘But you’re on holiday! I don’t want you overdoing things.’
Like she had when she’d gone back to work too early? She seized a plate and loaded it with a couple of small triangle sandwiches and piece of sultana cake. ‘Aunt Glory, I’ve learned my lesson. I promise. Besides, two hours a week is hardly going to be overdoing anything.’
‘Well … I guess not.’
‘And you’re more than welcome to join in the fun as assistant mentor.’
‘Me?’ Glory blinked. ‘What on earth do I know about fashion? You know I never understood it. I sent you to school either with skirts too long or too short. And if ankle socks were in I’d buy you knee-high or vice versa.’
Blair laughed. Really laughed. And she couldn’t remember the last time in three or four months when that had happened. ‘I loved growing up with you, Aunt Glory. You know that.’
‘Yes, I do. But a fashion expert …’
‘You’re not,’ Blair finished for her.
‘Those girls are lucky to have you. Promise me you won’t overdo it.’
‘I promise. Now, I don’t want you overdoing things either. You’ve hardly eaten a thing all day. I’m not leaving until you’ve had a cup of tea and eaten that.’
She handed her surprised aunt the plate, poured her a cup of tea and proceeded to outline her plans for the Miss Showgirl meetings. ‘We’ll talk hair and make-up and clothes and deportment and all good things—what could be more fun than that?’
Fun? She had to bite back hysterical laughter. Hair and make-up weren’t fun for her any more. They were essential tools that stopped people staring at her, pitying her. Hair and make-up stopped her looking like a freak.
‘You always did have a knack for those things,’ Glory allowed. She eyed her niece, setting down her now empty plate. ‘Fun, you say?’
She pasted on her brightest smile. ‘Absolutely.’ She hugged her aunt and then wished she hadn’t as the prosthesis that was now masquerading as her right breast pressed again the scar tissue of her chest, reminding her afresh of all the ways she’d changed. ‘It looks like your next meeting is about to start. I’ll leave you to it and see you back home.’
She set off towards the back entrance of the showground office building, reminding herself that Rome hadn’t been built in a day. It would take more than a day to quieten all of Glory’s fears.
As she neared the door voices drifted in from outside. Her steps slowed. She obviously wasn’t the only one using this particular shortcut to access the nearest side street. She hesitated, but only for a moment. She might be all socialised out and ready—make that more than ready—for some downtime, but she hadn’t come back to Dungog to go into hibernation. She forced her feet towards the wide double doors—one of which was closed.
‘You are going to make such a fool of yourself, Stevie Conway, so don’t say you weren’t warned! You know you’re not pretty enough to be Miss Showgirl. Our advice …’ A collection of titters salted the air and brought Blair up short. ‘Quit now while you still can, before you become a laughing stock!’
Blair saw red. In an instant. And the red of anger felt fantastic after the blacks and greys of fear.
With a flash of strength she thrust the heavy wooden door open so hard that it banged against the wall behind. Four girls at the bottom of the stairs spun to face her.
‘I want each and every one of you girls to listen to me very carefully.’
She strode down the steps, there were eleven of them, and used her catwalk stride—a high lift of her knees, a sway of her hips, and a haughty angle to her chin—to ensure that she had their complete attention. She stopped one step short to maintain the height advantage. She deliberately placed her hands on her hips to look as big as she could; she leant forward so it would appear to them as if she loomed.
‘Miss Showgirl is not some trifling beauty pageant. It’s about learning life-enhancing skills that will take you forward in life while raising money for a worthwhile cause. It’s about learning to make the most of yourselves—physically, spiritually, and intellectually.’
Nobody said anything. Instead of feeling helpless and feeble, just for a moment Blair felt powerful again. And that was beyond fantastic.
‘I wasn’t the prettiest entrant the year I won. Go back and look at the photographs. Monica Dalwood was.’ Monica had been a gorgeous redhead with a crippling shyness she hadn’t been able to master.
She met and held each girl’s gaze. It took her less than five seconds to work out which of them was Stevie Conway, and it wasn’t because Stevie wasn’t pretty. She was. She was lovely. She was also an archetypal tomboy—jeans, short-cropped hair, not a scrap of make-up or a single item of jewellery in sight. She made a complete contrast to her three rivals.
Blair pushed her shoulders back. ‘If the only thing you girls are interested in is who’s the fairest in all the land, then I’ll give you a score out of ten now.’
She’d give each of them ten out of ten. She could see, though, that her assertion disconcerted them. They didn’t like being judged on their looks alone and the discovery pleased her.
‘But if you choose to know the score then know this—I will not accept you into my Thursday evening meetings. So, girls, what’s it to be?’
There was a round of murmured ‘Thursday evenings, miss.’
‘Good. Now, one final thing. If I ever hear any of you make a comment like the one I heard as I was coming out through that door then we will have serious words—understand?’
Nods all around.
‘Excellent.’ She dusted off her hands. ‘Now, I’m sure you ladies have much better things to do than hang around here all day.’
They didn’t need any further encouragement. Three of the girls shot off in one direction. Stevie took off in the other.
‘Stevie, wait.’
Stevie stopped, stiffened, and then whirled around. ‘You heard it all, didn’t you? And you know I’m Stevie because I’m not as pretty as they are.’ She waved a hand in the direction the three other girls had gone.
‘I didn’t hear it all,’ Blair countered, ‘but I certainly heard enough. And I know you’re Stevie because you’re walking on your own while the others took off together.’
The younger girl’s shoulders unhitched a fraction.
‘I really hope you didn’t pay any attention to what those girls said. You have as good a chance of being Miss Showgirl as they have.’
‘It’s not true, though, is it? Not even my dad thinks I have a fighting chance of winning!’
It took all of Blair’s strength to prevent her jaw from dropping. Any father worth his salt would be trying to build his daughter’s confidence, not undermining it.
Stevie flung an arm in the air. ‘No matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to look like those other girls.’
‘Good Lord, why would you want to?’
She was rewarded when Stevie’s chin shot up. ‘What?’
She held up a finger. ‘When you are speaking in public or being interviewed it’s always: I beg your pardon. Not, What. And, sure, those girls who were teasing you are pretty, but they’re blonde clones. It’s hard to tell them apart.’
Stevie choked. ‘You’re not allowed to say that.’
‘Why not?’ Blair steered them towards the gate in the fence. ‘I’m blonde, and some would say pretty, but believe me, if you saw me first thing in the morning before I’d had a chance to fix my hair and make-up you’d get a right fright.’
Wasn’t that the truth!
Exactly how true it was had nausea rising up through her. She swallowed it back. ‘You work with what you have, and, Stevie, you have a lot—the most wonderful olive skin and gorgeous hair.’ Stevie’s hair might be short, but it was shiny and dark, and full and thick. ‘Your eyes are the most amazing colour.’ Blue-grey. ‘Miss Showgirl will be awarded to the contestant who stands out, who proves herself. It won’t go to blonde clones the judges can’t tell apart.’
Stevie thought about that for a moment. ‘But if one of the blonde clones can make herself stand out, if she proves herself …’
‘If she’s worked that hard,’ Blair said gently, ushering Stevie through the gate, ‘then she might deserve to win.’
Stevie stopped. Blair stopped too. ‘You really, truly think I have a chance and you’re not just saying that because you’re our mentor and that’s what you’re supposed to say?’
‘I really, truly mean it.’ Blair crossed her heart. Then she frowned. ‘Is winning that important to you?’
The younger girl shook her head. ‘I just want to know that I have as good a chance as the others, that’s all.’
She sensed there was more. ‘And?’
‘Sometimes I want to be … just more than jeans and T-shirts!’ she burst out. ‘My mum died when I was little so I don’t have anyone to show me how to do all that girly stuff, and when I try I just look stupid!’
No mother? And a father who didn’t think she was pretty? Blair’s heart started to throb for this lovely girl. ‘Scarves,’ she suddenly pronounced.
‘Wha—? I beg your pardon?’
‘I don’t think frills and lots of jewellery are your kind of thing, Stevie. You’d probably find them too fussy. But you can add the most gorgeous feminine touch by using a scarf. And if you wake up in the morning and don’t feel like doing feminine you can change the scarf to something funky or something classic instead. With your lovely cheekbones and long throat you’d look great in a scarf. I’ll do a class on them.’
Stevie stared. ‘Really?’ she breathed.
Something inside Blair’s chest flickered. ‘Sure, why not?’
Stevie continued to stare as if Blair had just given her the secret to the universe. Blair cleared her throat, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Stevie, you want to know my secret?’
The younger girl leant forward, suddenly eager. ‘You mean your secret to winning Miss Showgirl?’ she breathed.
Blair nodded. ‘Bluff.’
Stevie’s face fell. ‘Bluff?’
‘Pretending, play-acting, fooling everyone into believing what you want them to believe—that you’re smart and pretty and confident. If you act like you think you’re pretty and smart and have something to offer the world, if you walk and talk and meet people’s stares head-on with that kind of confidence and belief in yourself, they’ll start to see that you really are something special. And they’ll treat you with respect. It’s not easy to begin with,’ she warned. ‘It’s really, really hard. But it works. And eventually you’ll realise that you’re not pretending any more. You’ll discover that you really are pretty and smart and confident.’
And then, sometimes, something happens that takes it all from you again.
She tried not to flinch at that thought. She tried to banish it to a place where it couldn’t batter her shattered self-esteem further.
‘Bluff?’ Stevie said as if testing the word out.
Blair lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. ‘Bluff.’ And if she said it a little too strongly then so be it. ‘So, will I see you on Thursday?’
Nick slammed his brakes on the moment he saw Stevie. He pulled the car over to the side of the road. What on earth …? She’d told him she was spending the day baking with her best friend Poppy and Poppy’s mother.
So what was his daughter doing here at the exit to the showground, talking to some woman he’d never seen before?
The showground …?
The Miss Showgirl quest?
Nick bit back a groan and rested his head against the steering wheel for a moment before pushing himself out of the car. He dragged a breath into a chest that hurt. ‘Stevie?’
Stevie spun around and her face fell. Almost comically, he noted, only he didn’t feel the least like laughing. Her chin shot up as he drew near. ‘Hey, Dad.’
She said it as if nothing were amiss, but he sensed her defensiveness and it made his hands clench. She said it as if she hadn’t been lying to him. His chest ached harder. ‘What are you doing here?’ He tried to keep his voice even, but he knew his suspicions were about to be confirmed and that made evenness impossible. ‘You told me you were spending the day at Poppy’s.’
She gave a bored shrug and his hands clenched tighter. Where on earth had his madcap, full of laughter, full of fun daughter gone? When had she morphed into all this … attitude?
He didn’t address the unknown woman who’d been talking to Stevie. He didn’t even look at her. This was between him and his daughter. ‘Well?’ He tapped his foot—not that it helped to release much of the tension that had him coiled up tight. ‘Well?’ he demanded again.
Stevie tossed her head. Just for a moment something flickered behind her eyes—something he almost recognised—before her face became an ache of resentment. ‘I’ve just signed on for the Miss Showgirl quest.’
Suspicion confirmed! He hauled in a breath. ‘I told you I would not countenance you taking part in that contest.’
Countenance? When in his life had he ever used that word?
Stevie’s eyes flashed. ‘I decided not to take your advice.’
His control finally slipped. ‘It wasn’t advice. It was an order!’ Stevie enter some stupid beauty pageant? Over his dead body!
He was in charge of his daughter’s moral wellbeing. Letting her get involved in some shallow sham of a contest that objectified women and led young girls to believe their looks were more important than anything else? He snorted. He’d seen what that kind of obsession had done to Sonya. Those weren’t the kind of values he wanted to instil in Stevie. Family, commitment, the long haul—those were things worth pursuing.
‘You can haul your butt back in there and unregister yourself. Now! You are not taking part in that contest!’
‘No.’
The single word chilled him. And it made him blink. Stevie had never openly defied him before.
‘I’m sixteen.’ She planted her hands on her hips. ‘In another two years I’ll be allowed to vote. I have a right to make some decisions about my life and I’m making this one. I’m entering Miss Showgirl whether you like it or not. Whether you support me or not.’
For a moment he could barely think. A part of him even acknowledged that she might have a point.
‘And, regardless of what you think,’ she suddenly yelled at him, ‘Blair Macintyre thinks I have a chance!’
With that she turned and fled in the direction of home.
Blair Macintyre? The name flooded his mind, freezing him. Blair Macintyre? He wished to God that woman had never been born. Or at least that she’d been born and had grown up somewhere other than Dungog. For the life of him he couldn’t remember her, but the constant refrain he’d heard during the course of his marriage to Sonya had been, Blair Macintyre this and Blair Macintyre that. Here she was on the cover of some glossy magazine. There she was on the catwalk in Paris … London … New York. Wherever!
If Blair Macintyre can do it then so can I!
And Sonya had. But that world had destroyed her. He would not let that happen to Stevie. He would do anything to protect his little girl.
The sound of a throat being cleared snapped him to. Damn it, he’d forgotten all about that unknown woman. He turned towards her. ‘I’m Nicholas Conway, and I’m sorry you—’
Everything inside him clenched up tight when he finally came face to face with the woman. He swore once, hard. Then he laughed—only the laughter wasn’t real laughter, it was bitterness. ‘Blair Macintyre, right?’
He might not remember her, but Sonya had shoved enough pictures of Blair beneath his nose for him to recognise her. She was beautiful … gorgeous. Perfect. Magazine-cover perfect. And he knew it was a lie, because no real woman could look this good. She was the kind of woman who would fill a teenage girl’s head with all sorts of unrealistic expectations about herself and her body. With her perfect pout and thick, lush lashes, her perfectly arched brows and her long blonde locks.
He was thirty-four. She had to be at least thirty-six. But she didn’t look a day over twenty-five. More lies.
And yet, to his horror, his body responded to all that perfection. White-hot tendrils of desire licked along his veins, sparking nerve-endings with heat and hunger. Warmth flushed his skin. One knee twitched. His fingers literally ached to reach out and touch her cheek to see if her skin was as soft as it looked. What would she taste like? What would she feel like if he held her close? What would—?
He snapped off the images that bombarded him; thrust them out of his head. He was an experienced adult. If she could manipulate him like this, what kind of impact would she have on an impressionable sixteen-year-old?
