Catch of The Day: Destiny Romance (23 page)

The pair weren’t far enough away for Winnie to avoid hearing Allira coo in his ear, ‘We have so much catching up to do.’ She flinched. It was like a bad dream watching the duo together – one she couldn’t wake up from. She was beginning to see the real reason Allira had agreed to do the shoot was because of Alex, not Cyndi. It was obviously some crush, because the model would normally earn about the sum paid for a Sydney house to pose for advertisers and the like. This shoot
was
kind of beneath her.

Was there a woman on
earth
who didn’t lust after Alex? It was as irritating as when Winnie got a pen mark on her handbag. Okay, more – a whole lot more. Really, Winnie’s own actions in launching herself at him had only been stereotypical.

In a corner of the caravan – far away from the giggling Allira and Alex – Winnie nibbled on a salad sandwich. While Cyndi was bailed up in another corner with Ivy, Winnie used the time to upload a behind-the-scenes pic from the shoot to her Facebook page. In the image, Allira was adjusting the hem of her dress and Alex, slightly fuzzy in the background, was squinting as though sizing up his next shot. His camera, for once, was away from his face. He couldn’t complain about her sharing the pic, either – she’d never found him on Facebook.

The shot was enough to show Winnie’s pals in the Sydney magazine world she wasn’t thumb-twiddling out in the sticks, wasting away. That she was still a force to be reckoned with. Like one of those people who got the dregs out of a honey squeeze bottle, she was going to make the best of what she had. The photo also wasn’t good enough for any rival publication to pilfer – it was just a teaser.

Winnie’s phone sang its wordless tune minutes later and she was barely surprised to see Bruna’s name flash up onscreen. She hadn’t been in contact with her housemate since the faux apologetic text on her birthday. She’d let her sweat.

‘Winnie-doll!’ Bruna shrieked down the line. ‘What are you up to out in Woop-Woop?’

Swivelling away from the rest of the crew on her fold-up chair, Winnie examined her nails. ‘Oh, just a little fashion shoot with Allira Becci,’ she whispered back. ‘For
Beach Life
.’

Let her housemate be green with envy and think she was having a ball.

‘Wow, that’s so exciting. Lucky you.’ Winnie could almost hear Bruna pouting. ‘It’s so unfair – I’m stuck in a fluorescent-lit office cubicle crunching numbers and you’re swanning around with models out in the countryside.’

‘My job has some perks,’ Winnie said with mock humility.

‘And I wasn’t lying about still wanting to come and see you,’ Bruna continued, a weak attempt at a cough echoing down the line. ‘Thankfully, I’m starting to feel a
tad
better this week. I remember you mentioned something about having a launch party for the magazine. Maybe I could come down that weekend?’

Trust Bruna not to miss a soiree. Not that Winnie would be holding her breath for her housemate to actually darken her door.

‘Sure. The more, the merrier,’ Winnie returned pleasantly.

After a little more chatter, she ended the call, pausing to scroll through her emails. Her heart leapt in her throat – a job ad for a fashion editor gig at
Panache
magazine had come through, covering a maternity-leave position. Ooh, now
that
was interesting. It was a little earlier than she wanted to apply for a role, considering
Beach Life
hadn’t launched yet, but why hold off? She’d have preliminary shots from the day’s shoot to show off to any potential employers. Yup. She’d fire off a CV as soon as she was back in the office.

Winnie smiled to herself. Just like that, she was back on track. And back in the game.

Sizzling sausages, deep-fried dagwood dogs and coffee permeated Winnie’s senses at the South-East Field Days on Saturday, intermingled with the occasional not-so-pleasant whiff from the petting zoo. Country-western music pounded from speakers while thousands thronged to check out various tents and displays. It was busier than Westfield Bondi Junction’s multistorey car park at weekends.

Winnie slipped into a plastic seat next to Honey before the Miss Showgirl judging was set to start. They were early, but Honey, heavily pregnant, had been dying to sit down, quipping she was ‘like a geriatric these days’. Winnie had travelled to the landlocked Lucindale – forty minutes’ drive away in the heart of sheep country – to support Cyndi. The beautician was involved in the field days both as a Showgirl judge, as a former winner, and a bake-off finalist. Cyndi’s chocolate fudge cake, covered in pink sprinkles, sat under a glass cover alongside the other entries, just to the right of the Showgirl stage. Winnie could attest the dessert tasted like a dream, having scoffed the birthday cake the beautician made for her in mere days.

Ladies from the Country Women’s Association milled about the adjacent stand. Winnie waved at Doris Starling, the wife of the old guy with the wooden aeroplane. Doris had helped Winnie organise some food shots for
Beach Life
using old-school CWA recipes earlier in the week and it had come up a treat. Alex’s photography, not that Winnie wanted to admit it, had given the spread just the right amount of warmth and light.

‘Oh, blast!’

Winnie turned to find Honey swiping at a sauce splodge on her front with a serviette, a hot dog balanced in the other hand. ‘I’ve washed this top
at least
fifty times. The bump turns into target practice whenever I eat. A major pain when my wardrobe choices are becoming fewer and fewer. I can only do the laundry so many times.’

Winnie adopted a sympathetic expression. ‘Can’t be long now.’

Honey sighed. ‘I know I’m doubly blessed. I’m just at the cranky end of things. The weight’s like having two sandbags strapped to my front. And I’ve had enough of sweating in cheap, synthetic shoes because I can’t fit into any of my good pairs.’ Honey shook her head. ‘Like my mother-in-law says, AFL players only get twenty-three rounds, while us women get the whole nine months.’

A tray of plastic glasses filled with red liquid moved into their eye-line. ‘Wine sample?’ the woman wielding the tray asked.

Winnie helped herself, while Honey pulled a mournful face. ‘If only. The closest thing I can get to that is grape juice – can’t harm the bubs.’ The demonstrator moved on. Honey suddenly gripped Winnie’s forearm. ‘Look, there’s another one. I’m
not
alone – it’s lambing season.’

Winnie followed her friend’s stare. Another pregnant woman ambled past, swinging a show bag while discreetly tugging at her top’s hem with her free hand.

Honey nodded sagely. ‘Everything becomes a midriff top when you’re preggers.’ Demolishing the remains of her hot dog in a few bites, Honey turned, patting Winnie’s knee. ‘Anyway, enough boring pregnancy stuff.’ Her eyes suddenly glittered. ‘I want to hear about you and the gorgeous Alex Bass. I overheard Cyndi asking you at the baby shower about getting hot and heavy with him. About time, I say!’

The wine Winnie had begun sipping immediately tasted rancid, burning a path to her stomach. ‘Oh,
that
 . . . It was nothing – just a blip on the radar. Over before it even began.’

She wasn’t sure why the whole thing with Alex still hurt so much. A helluva lot more than the sunburnt nose from being out in the elements today. It was ridiculous really. She deserved to be with someone who could be clear about how they felt, who could be depended upon, not change their mind about things as often as they went fishing.

Thankfully, Honey didn’t appear to notice her discomfort. ‘Ah, well. So long as you’re getting some action. Wouldn’t want you wasting away out here. Not with your good looks.’

Winnie felt her face glow bright. ‘Er, thanks.’

Honey rifled in her handbag, pulling out a lip gloss. Smearing some on her mouth, she then extended the tube to Winnie. ‘Fancy some Lanolips? It uses lanolin from sheep’s wool, apparently.’

‘Oh . . . okay.’ While Winnie applied the lip gloss, her ears pricked up at the mention of a name to her left:
Lorraine.
Her heart pounded. She darted a look to where the CWA ladies were huddled about like clucking chickens. Could Lorraine, the woman who’d been rumoured to have had an affair with Mrs Mannix’s husband, actually be among them?

Feeling a little like Nancy Drew, Winnie slowly handed the tube back to Honey and got to her feet. ‘Um, I won’t be a moment,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve just seen someone I know.’

Honey waved her away. ‘No probs.’

Edging closer, Winnie thought Lorraine, in the light of day, didn’t exactly look like a husband-stealer, just a typical old lady. She wore a blue, parachute-fabric tracksuit and was fussing about, wiping around the cake stands.

Clearing her throat, Winnie stepped forward, suddenly a little uncertain, but she’d come too far to back out. ‘Uh, excuse me, are you Lorraine Burgess?’

The burgundy-haired woman peered up at her, squinting in the sunlight. ‘I am indeed. Are you a late entrant to the bake-off?’ Apparently she didn’t recognise Winnie from the museum launch.

‘Actually, no.’ Winnie looked down at her hands and back up again. She attempted to inject some confidence in her voice. ‘I’m the, uh, editor of
Beach Life
magazine and I recently interviewed June Mannix for a history article. I believe you knew her husband well.’

Her final words hung in the air and, right on cue, Lorraine’s features clouded. Averting her gaze, the woman fussed about some more with the cake stands. The shaking hands were a dead giveaway, as though she had something to hide. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say I knew him better than anyone else in town.’

‘
Please
.’ Winnie placed a hand on the woman’s hunched shoulder, emboldened. ‘I know this is a very private matter, but Mrs Mannix has become almost like a surrogate grandmother to me. And I’m curious about some things in her life from the past that still seem to be causing her some pain.’

Lorraine peeked up again, finally grabbing a nearby tea towel to wipe her hands with. ‘Did June put you up to this?’

‘No, she hasn’t a clue.’

‘So this is more for your own sake? You won’t publish anything?’

‘No.’ Saying the word felt like dropping a heavy weight.

The old woman let out a whoosh of air, which ruffled Winnie’s hair. ‘Okay, okay . . . let’s just step a little further away to chat.’

Inside, it felt like Winnie had a body-pump class going on. The final jigsaw piece in Mrs Mannix’s life was about to be nudged back into place; she could almost taste it. She walked silently with Lorraine for some metres before the woman stopped underneath a shady tree. After darting a few looks over her shoulder, Lorraine spread her hands wide.

‘So what do you want to know?’

Winnie almost – 
almost
 – felt bad for pushing the older woman. It was plain to see she was distressed. But Winnie had to lay old ghosts to rest, so to speak, once and for all. She decided to plunge right in, like ripping off a Band-Aid. ‘Okay, here goes. I may as well get straight to it –did you have an affair with June’s husband, Peter?’

Lorraine threw her hands in the air and laughed bitterly. ‘I thought that might be what this was about.’ Her grey eyes grew steely. ‘But no. No, I didn’t have an affair with him.’

Relief washed over Winnie – for Mrs Mannix’s sake. Still, she couldn’t leave it quite there; she had to probe a little further, while Lorraine was still within reach, willing to talk. ‘So why did you disappear from town around the same time as him? People thought the pair of you had run away together, that his drowning was just a ruse. The timing seemed too much of a coincidence.’

Lorraine’s voice grew quiet – soft – and her gaze distant. ‘And I was happy for people to believe we
had
escaped town together. It was better than having them think . . . other things.’

‘Like what?’ Winnie gently pressed.

Lorraine again pinned her with a look. ‘It was better than everyone finding out I was a flaming lesbian.’

Winnie drew in a breath. That was the very
last
thing she expected to hear tumble from the woman’s lips. She almost wanted to laugh – with joy.

Lorraine ploughed on, as though purging herself through words. ‘A long time ago, I fell in love with a backpacker who was passing through town. I didn’t think the chinwaggers around here could handle it back then. So I packed my bag and hit the road with the lass. Ocea was her name. And we had many blissfully happy years together. I still miss her. Unfortunately, a car accident took her away from me.’

The woman crossed her heart, her eyes moist, before shaking her head. ‘I don’t know who started the rumour about Peter and me. I heard about it through my cousin, who was still in town, and,’ she sighed, ‘for obvious reasons, I didn’t try very hard to dispel it. Something I’ve always felt guilty about – because of June. Maybe losing Ocea was my punishment of sorts.’

‘I guess you did what you felt you had to do,’ Winnie said.

Lorraine bowed her head. ‘Perhaps.’

While Winnie couldn’t forgive the woman for all the years of hurt she’d inadvertently caused Mrs Mannix, she could at least understand.

‘Promise you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone? I’ve worked too hard to keep my secret for so long.’

Winnie felt torn as she looked into the woman’s pleading eyes. ‘I promise I won’t.’

An almighty yell cut through the air, stilling their conversation. The sound seemed to come from the vicinity of the Showgirl stage. Shoot. Proceedings appeared to have started. Young girls wearing sashes were lined up onstage and Cyndi was behind the microphone – though her expression was strangely dark and twisted.

Hurriedly, Winnie turned back to Lorraine. ‘Thanks for your honesty, and now I – I’d better go.’

‘It was good to get things off my chest,’ Lorraine said solemnly before Winnie pelted back to her seat.

Sliding in next to Honey, Winnie hunched down in her chair, whispering, ‘What the heck’s going on?’ She listened closely to Cyndi’s diatribe as it spewed out of the speakers – it didn’t appear to have anything to do with the beauty contest.

Honey chewed a thumbnail, her eyes still on the stage. ‘Cyndi’s ex, T-Bone, is in the audience. The rodeo guy. And Cyndi’s just discovered his latest girlfriend is one of the Miss Showgirl entrants – half his age. Things have turned ugly. She’s badmouthing him over the loudspeaker, bringing up the past.’

‘Hasn’t someone tried to stop her?’ Winnie hissed back.

Honey shrugged helplessly. ‘You of all people know what Cyndi’s like when she’s on a mission. Pity the person who gets in the way.’

‘True.’

As if on cue, Cyndi turned her wrath on the crowd. ‘What are you all staring at like a bunch of full-on sheep, anyway?’ Show volunteers to the right of the stage were frozen in shock – handling such a situation was obviously not covered in their training.

Finally, Cyndi chucked the microphone to the ground, causing a squeal of feedback, and jumped offstage. Winnie held her breath along with the crowd as the former pageant queen rushed towards the cake display. Thank heavens Cyndi was well and truly over Alex when Winnie had had her ill-fated fling. The beautician obviously wasn’t quite so over T-Bone, even if things were going swimmingly with Kirk. Talk about hell hath no fury.

Wrenching the glass cover from her prized fudge cake, Cyndi hoisted the dessert from its stand. Every pair of eyes followed her as she marched over to a muscular guy wearing a cowboy hat in the front row. Winnie guessed he was T-Bone.

‘So what do you have to say for yourself?’ Cyndi demanded of him, her cake held above her shoulder. ‘Huh?’

‘I . . . uh . . . I . . .’ he stammered, in contrast to his beefcake build.

Cyndi didn’t appear prepared to wait for him to finish. ‘Can’t believe I once went on a soup diet to try to impress
you
,’ she screeched. ‘For
seven whole days
.’ Then, not waiting a second more, she hurled the cake at his face with a splat. The audience gasped.

The light appeared to go back on in Cyndi’s eyes and, with a look of horror, she turned on her heel and ran into the crowd. T-Bone remained seated, wiping icing from his eyes. Chocolatey goo slid down the front of his black tee. A too-young blonde in a long flannel shirt masquerading as a dress leapt from the stage and rushed to his side.

Honey heaved herself from her seat, pressing her palms into the small of her back, as the audience descended into hubbub. ‘Guess we’d better go find her. She must have had too many wine samples before she hit the stage. She’s going to feel like a downright drongo in the morning.’

All Winnie could do was shake her head and follow Honey’s lead. It was hard to correlate the sweet girl who’d thrown a baby shower for her friend with the snarling, jealous woman she’d just seen.

Honey piped up again as they shuffled through the seated row. ‘One thing’s certain, though – she won’t be winning first prize for her cake now.’

Winnie climbed out of Olive’s midnight-black Commodore, the football referee’s whistle piercing in her ear. The noise was followed by a cacophony of honking horns from cars surrounding the muddy oval.

She’d reluctantly been persuaded to join the ad manager at a Kingston preseason match that Sunday. Olive said it was a rite of passage as a newcomer, though Aussie rules wasn’t really Winnie’s thing. In Sydney, the papers had been awash with all things rugby league. And even then she’d only taken note of which players looked cutest in their shorts – when she wasn’t feeling slightly repelled by their thick necks.

Olive circumnavigated the oval at speed, gesturing at the clubrooms’ serving window. ‘There’s a meat pie, dripping with sauce, with my name written all over it. I had a late one last night and I’m
starving
.’

Winnie checked the scoreboard as she followed Olive, and saw Kingston was in front of Bordertown by the teeniest of margins. Seagulls gathered near the goals as though waiting their turn to pull on a guernsey. Overhead, the sky was powder blue with a whisper of cloud mixed through.