Catch of The Day: Destiny Romance (4 page)

‘What would you like?’ a forty-something woman said sharply to Winnie from behind the bakery counter. She had a helmet bob à la Anna Wintour, although it was nowhere near as stylish, and the woman’s grating tone wasn’t helping Winnie’s headache. Winnie stared at the chalkboard menu behind the woman, swatting an oily fly away.

‘Um . . . I’ll go a spinach and cheese pie, thanks.’

It was only her second morning on the job and already she’d succumbed to kilojoule-laden treats from Cakewalk Bakery across the road from the office – hangover food, more precisely. No more toning up her legs navigating Surry Hills’ slopes in her heels, like all the other Sydney fashionistas. The only silver lining was the lack of Facebook photo evidence of the previous night. But she did have to do the walk of shame from her unit to the office, having left her car at the pub.

Also deeply shameful – to Winnie – was the fact she’d broken her rule of blurring romance and work within a millisecond of being in town. The memory of placing a drunken kiss on Alex’s lips tore at her like a fresh wound. She’d pounced on the first man to cross her path – one who’d emotionally checked out. It had been one colossal, foolish mistake. She’d been reckless. Just like how she’d gone out with a bang at the Christmas drinks. It was the sort of thing her mum might do, not something Winnie wanted to make a habit of.

Okay, so she had reason to drown her sorrows. She was stuck in no man’s land, had the nasty Christa breathing down her neck, and had two months to perform a miracle, successfully launching a luxury magazine in a seaside town that went to sleep after summer. She’d have better luck walking George Clooney down the aisle. Still, none of it was any excuse for her poor behaviour.

‘Here you go.’ The woman with the helmet bob was waving a paper pie bag in Winnie’s face. She rooted around in her purse for the right change.

Pie in hand, Winnie made a detour to the newsagency on the way back to the office. She needed a Sydney gossip fix ASAP – dirt on Roxy Jacenko or Kyle Sandilands would instantly make her feel part of the real world again. The air-conditioning blew a gale, chilling her skin, but she barely noticed. After a frenzied assessment of the colourful magazine racks, she approached the counter.

‘Excuse me. Where are your
Daily Telegraphs
hiding?’

The middle-aged man behind the counter assessed her. His measured tone matched the slow pace of the low-skyline town. ‘No
Daily Teles
here, sorry, love. Just
The Advertiser
, or Melbourne’s
Herald Sun
for all the footy news. And, of course, we do a roaring trade in the local
Coastal Herald
.’

Winnie’s stomach dropped to the vicinity of her black mid-heel pumps. She’d finally found her shoes on top of the fridge, of all places.

‘Right, guess I’ll just grab a
’Tiser
then,’ she said. Not that she’d read the Adelaide paper since she’d cut her teeth in journalism there. ‘And, okay, the
Herald
,’ though she could barely stomach reading another dreary council story. Unfortunately, she still had a lot of research to do – and not a single story in the pipeline. The newsagent rang up the total.

Minutes later she was back at the office, littering pie crumbs all over the
Herald
, which she’d half-heartedly opened on her desk. Olive had left a note, saying she’d gone out to get some milk (probably not soy).

Winnie had already checked her inbox, deleting a SEEK list of plum jobs in Sydney she couldn’t yet apply for – it was far, far too early, unfortunately. Now she stared at an online
Tele
social photo of Bruna, showing her best photo face at some pay-TV event. Her housemate had Facebooked the link to Winnie, having obviously swindled a party invite from Jaharn. He worked for a record label and knew all the right people. Already Bruna – who worked in the boring world of banking – didn’t need Winnie’s media invites. She looked edgily cool, too, in an emerald-green dress she’d nicked from Winnie’s wardrobe without asking.

Clicking back to the
Telegraph
’s home page, Winnie felt her gut contract. She’d glimpsed the byline of a journo who’d once gotten her in trouble for being too ‘inspired’ by a Melbourne reporter’s style article. Hey, it had been Winnie’s first fashion week, lobbing up in Sydney all the way from little Adelaide, and she’d been as nervous as hell. She’d learnt a lot since then.

Her gaze wandered to an article about a study that had apparently found country dwellers lived longer than city folk. Which was hard to believe.

‘Don’t read that!’

‘What? About city versus country living?’

But Olive dived instead on Winnie’s desk, spread-eagling herself across the latest edition of the
Coastal Herald
. The ad manager’s spindly arms hung off either side of the desk. It probably wasn’t the best view for passers-by, with Olive wearing another skirt that could double as a belt.

‘Okay, I won’t,’ Winnie said slowly. ‘Though I thought you encouraged me only yesterday to read the
Herald
for research.’

Olive hoisted herself from the desk, snatching the paper from under Winnie’s nose, pie crumbs now stuck to her fuzzy turquoise top. ‘Today’s news is tomorrow’s fish and chip paper,’ the ad manager said with a sharp nod.

Panic surged through Winnie’s veins. Leaping to her feet, she tried grabbing the paper. ‘C’mon, give me that. What are you hiding?’ She finally cornered Olive by a filing cabinet and the redhead reluctantly gave up the fight.

‘Don’t say I didn’t try to protect you,’ she said defeatedly, flouncing back to her desk.

Sinking back into her own seat, Winnie pored over page after page, her palms sweaty. Finally, next to a story about residents vandalising trees that blocked their ocean views, Winnie’s eyes fell to a gossip column, dubbed ‘The Vine’.

The first item made her heart rat-a-tat-tat in her chest. It read: Which city slicker has only been in town five minutes but has already made a spectacle of herself, drunk-dancing to the jukebox at the Crown Inn? Meant to embody everything that is ‘luxury’ and ‘style’, the non-local had ‘disaster case’ written all over her designer outfit. We give her a month in town, tops . . .

‘How’d they – it was only last night,’ Winnie spluttered, looking up.

Olive shrugged mournfully. ‘They have a late deadline on Mondays.’

Winnie cursed, shoving a hand through the front of her hair. Vaguely – only vaguely – she recalled meeting some blonde local newspaper journalist last night. Stupidly, she’d even thought they could be friends, seeing as the media pack in town was limited to just them. How wrong she’d been. Ack. Winnie would much rather read about Ruby Rose and co. in the Sydney papers than her own failings in some minuscule rag. All she needed now was Christa getting wind of it. Thank the stars above she hadn’t tried to pash Alex at the pub.

Her landline trilled, sending her insides somersaulting. She wanted to ignore it, but Olive was staring at her like she’d grown two heads for not picking it up. There was no use prolonging the inevitable.

‘
Beach Life
,’ Winnie squeaked into the mouthpiece, too scared to check the caller ID.

There was a pause, then a posh woman’s voice echoed down the line. ‘Uh, hello. I saw a sign in your window that said you were looking for local stories.’

‘Yes. Yes, I am,’ Winnie practically yelped back in return. She had magazine pages that urgently needed filling. Plus, any distraction from her own miserable life was welcome.

‘Right, well, I grow prize-winning heirloom roses and vegetables. I also have heritage hens. I have a bit of a fascination with old things, you see. Don’t know if you could do anything story-wise with such a hobby? Gardening can be tough in a seaside setting, but with a little bit of elbow grease and persistence, it can happen.’

Ordinarily Winnie would have ripped out a silent yawn and tried to get the woman off the phone, but Christa had said she wanted the magazine to brim with colourful stories about the locals, as well as fashion, beauty and homewares. And the yarn could make a gorgeous picture spread – ‘could’ being the operative word.

‘Sounds fantastic. Could I make a time to chat to you some more about it in person?’

‘Of course. I’m home all day today, dear, if that suits. Feel free to swing past any time you like.’

‘Perfect. I’ll see you soon then. What’s your address?’

A few minutes later, Winnie hung up, feeling minutely better. She had a purpose, a much-needed distraction. She sprang up, grabbing her car keys and a local map from the desk. ‘Think I have my first story,’ she informed Olive. ‘Some woman called June Mannix. Know her?’

‘Yeah, vaguely.’ Olive shrugged, not looking too excited. But then, she was in sales, not editorial. ‘Um, you’re not taking your own car, are you? You don’t get petrol money. Use the work one.’

Winnie’s eyebrows lifted. ‘You mean that black, hotted-up Commodore out the back? I thought it was a stolen car that had been dumped. No thanks.’ The gleaming vehicle, with mag wheels and a massive exhaust, looked like death on wheels.

Olive pursed her lips. ‘No, that’s my car. I mean the white Camry behind it.’

‘Oh . . . right. Do you have the keys?’

Olive opened her top drawer and handed Winnie an ultra-shiny set of keys. ‘You drive stick, right?’

Winnie’s shoulders drooped. Wordlessly, she shook her head.

Olive cocked a pencil-thin eyebrow at her. ‘No one drives auto around here, but don’t look at me to teach you. I don’t have the patience. We’d wind up having a rip-roaring blue. Not good when we have to work together eight hours a day.’ Her piercing amber gaze flitted across the street. ‘Hey, I know who might be a good teacher – 
Alex
. He can’t say no as our new freelancer. It wouldn’t look right.’

‘Alex?’ Winnie echoed breathlessly.

Before she could stop her, Olive was at the door, yelling out into the street. ‘Hey, Alex! Winnie needs a manual driving lesson – fast.’

Winnie could see him now, his hand resting atop the driver door of his ute, as though he’d been about to climb in. Her stomach fell.

‘You’ve got time. I know you’ve finished work for the day,’ Olive wheedled, all honey-voiced. ‘What do you say?’

He looked a little more cleaned-up than yesterday morning, as though he’d actually showered for once – a
mild
improvement. Irksomely, last night’s kiss was foremost in Winnie’s mind, and the manly scratch of his stubble against her cheek . . .

‘Uh-uh.’ Alex shook his head. ‘I wasn’t heading into the office.’ He coughed. ‘And I’ve already seen her driving skills in action.’

Nice. The gravel thing again. He was like a dog with a bone.

‘Oh, c’mon,’ Olive cajoled. ‘You can bill the time as a freelancer. Better than having
Beach Life
’s editor winding up in a ditch on the way to her first interview. What would Christa say?’

The pair eyeballed one another across the bitumen, like two cowboys silently challenging the other to draw their gun first. Finally, Alex let out a sigh that could be heard from Robe – Sydney even. ‘You owe me big-time, Olive.’

He still hadn’t bothered to glance in Winnie’s direction. Though, to be fair, her desk was well away from the front door.

The redhead smoothed her barely-there skirt and coquettishly lifted a foot behind her. ‘Oh, I can think of plenty of ways to repay you, Alex. If only you’d let a girl into that locked heart of yours.’

Winnie presumed Olive was joking about being interested – the locked heart bit, not so much.

‘You can’t wear those.’ Alex shot a pointed look at Winnie’s shoes in
Beach Life
’s car park. He was still barely able to believe he’d been conned into spending more time with Ms City Fashionista so soon.

‘But these are my sensible heels,’ Winnie moaned. She clicked her fingers. ‘Although I do actually have a pair of flats with me for once.’ Ducking her head, she rummaged around in her unreasonably large handbag, the tips of her ears growing pink. ‘I, um, had to walk to work.’

He knew all too well why, but he decided not to take the bait.

She threw tan-coloured shoes on the dusty ground. They at least looked more suitable. Then she lifted a foot to unclasp one strappy black heel – her toenails strangely painted steel-grey – followed by the other, slipping into the flats. He refrained from offering her a shoulder to lean on. Any physical contact between them was best avoided from now on.

He headed to the Camry’s passenger door and discovered it was decorated, proclaiming the magazine’s name in bright colours. Great. Now everyone would know who they were when the car spun sideways in the street. Olive really did owe him big time. Okay, he needed to have more faith if he was about to risk life and limb at Winnie’s hands.

Winnie trotted after him, yelping incredulously, ‘You’re going to make me drive on the road straightaway?’

‘It’s not exactly Sydney at peak hour,’ Alex shot back, hoping he wouldn’t live to regret the decision. He bet she thought he’d never lived in a big city before. Probably imagined he’d be like Crocodile Dundee in New York. Little did she know.

She shrugged gloomily, blipping the immobiliser. ‘Fine. You’re the teacher.’ Before jumping in the driver’s side, she stared at him over the rooftop while worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Immediately, he thought of plump lychees.

‘Um, about last night —’ she began.

‘No need mention it,’ Alex interrupted, wrenching open the passenger door and sliding onto the velour seat. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about the kiss. The
stolen
kiss. He was trying hard enough to keep his mind off it, stupid as it was. He just needed to get the lesson over with and then ensure a safe, professional distance was kept between them in future.

Slipping into the seat beside him, she shot him an expectant look, her eyes reminding him of melted chocolate – dangerous vats of the stuff you could drown in, never coming up for air again. Barely concealing a sigh, he rubbed his unshaven jaw. ‘So you’ve never, ever driven manual before?’

She shook her head, silver leaf-shaped earrings swinging at her lobes. ‘Nope.’