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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.
