Australian Secrets

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‘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.