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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?’
