His Brand of Beautiful (31 page)

Michael kicked water at her before he lowered himself in. “Oh man. This is good.”

Tate hesitated, hands at his belt. He was close enough Christina could smell ginger and spices on his breath from the kangaroo red curry he’d had for dinner.

Lily Malone

“Are you coming in?” His voice was very soft.

“We didn’t even bring any towels.”

“Careful, CC, you sound more like a mother every day.” Lacy floated on her back, head up, shoulders submerged. “We should have bought a few beers for the road.”

“Whatever you do, don’t drink the water,” Michael warned.

“I’m not that drunk. Yeew. Don’t anyone put your feet down.”

“It’s only algae,” Tate said, a smile in his voice. “It won’t bite.”

The zipper on his jacket buzzed. Christina watched him kick off his boots. Stripped down to his jocks he was lean, gorgeous and lit by the stars. She turned away because she couldn’t look. She wanted him so much, he made her dizzy.

“I’ll check in at the disco and then I’ll bring back some towels. The baby doesn’t like sulfur.”

“He’s not gonna be much of a winemaker, then,” Michael said.

The sound of the pipe pumping water into the pool covered the ripple as Tate entered the water.

Christina started the walk back to the campsite. For a while the only sound was the fading splash from the pool and murmured voices, Lacy’s tinkling laughter bubbling through the night. She dug her hands in the pockets of her white coat, in no hurry. The only eyes to see her were those of the stars and the air felt electric against her skin.

Legs
was the song playing when she reached the campsite and picked her way through the outermost cars and tents. A figure she didn’t recognise waved at her from a fire near the dance‐floor and she wandered in that direction. Two women were watching the dancers, one tall and dark nursing a wineglass, the other blonde and so chunky from shoulder to hip she looked like a refrigerator in a white pants‐suit, drinking beer.

“I can’t believe they haven’t played any Beatles yet,” Thick said to Tall as Christina slipped past. “They’ve had George Thorogood for crying out loud and Bon Jovi.”

“At least they played
Dancing Queen
already.”

That was when Christina realised Thick and Tall were dressed as Agnetha and Frida from ABBA.

The figure at the firepit waved again as she got nearer and called: “Miss Cracked Pot, where have you been? We’re up to song 43.”

Christina squinted across the fire then burst out laughing. “Tell me that isn’t you, Denton?”

He flicked his long black locks as
Legs
faded and the song changed.
Brown Sugar
.

Denton Jeffries was dressed as Cher, complete with fishnets, black mankini and leather jacket. Sally, his wife, was Sonny.

“Is this what accountants get up to when nobody’s looking?” Christina asked, moving into the circle of people around the fire.

“This is what accountants get up to when they have an audience,” Denton said.

On the dance floor—a squashed donut shape marked by spotlights mounted on top of a semi‐circle of Bash cars—Tom Long was attempting to moonwalk.

“You know, given he’s doing that in thongs he’s really not doing that bad,” Christina said to Sally.

“And on sand,” murmured a woman on Sally’s other side.

“And to the Stones,” said Sally, sipping at a glass of wine. “It feels silly to offer you a glass of your own wine Christina, but do you want one?”

“No, Sally. Thanks. Actually, I’m three months pregnant.” It occurred to her that Sally Jeffries was only the fourth person she’d told.

“Congratulations. Ours are all grown and flown.”

The song faded.
Every Breath You Take
started from the sound system. Christina let her hips move to the music. She’d voted for this one.

“Talk about perfect timing, Christina Clay. They’re playing our song.”

Christina knew of only one voice that could have carried across the music without its originator needing some type of microphone. Abraham Lewis stepped into the circle of light thrown by the Jeffries’ fire, tree‐trunk guy a hulk of teak at his back.

“I didn’t think we had a song, Bram? Unless you want to count
Another One Bites The
Dust
.”

“Well no politician worth his salt can let himself get caught dancing to that.” Bram leaned in. His lips and a cloud of Old Spice, brushed her cheek.

“You two know each other?” Sally Jeffries said, as Bram began shaking hands, his I-kiss‐babies‐for‐votes smile on his face.

“We’re old family friends,” he told her.

“Hey. Not so heavy on the old,” Christina objected, making Sally and the woman beside her laugh.

“Tom Long will want to know you’re here, Shadow Minister,” Denton said.

“Out here I’m Bram Lewis,” Bram said amiably, “and the minute I keep Christina to her promise, I’ll find Tom.”

Christina held up a finger and tried to sound stern. “One dance, Bram. I’m on towel duty. I’ve left my three co‐drivers turning to prunes in the hot springs as we speak.”

He put his hand on her back, gentle propulsion between her shoulder blades. “This song is half over already so it doesn’t count. Let’s make it two.”

Tree‐trunk guy shadowed them towards the dance‐floor.

“There’s something I want to say, Bram, that I should have said a long time ago,”

Christina began, turning to look at his face as they walked.

“And what’s that, CC?”

“I—” she stopped. Bram’s gaze had roved over her head and he waved to someone in the dark and when his eyes returned to hers he smiled as if he didn’t know they’d ever wandered away.

Fuck it. I’m not that sorry for refusing to tone down my clothes.

She indicated the security guard with her chin. “I’m not dancing with him too.”

Bram laughed. “If I only get two dances, I’m not sharing.”

****

“Christina’s taking her sweet time,” Lacy said, floating on her back in the hot springs, toes sticking up from the water like thin white snorkels. “I have wrinkles.”

“She’s probably selling our next vintage before it’s even made,” Michael said.

Tate agreed Christina was taking forever, but he didn’t want to say it. It didn’t matter how many times he told her marriage wouldn’t cramp her style, the best way was to show her. That meant giving her space. No matter how much he missed her.

“I hope she hasn’t got lost,” Lacy added. “What if she’s fallen over and hit her head on a rock?”

Fuck giving her space.

Lily Malone

Tate was out of the water in one smooth motion, dripping on the sand, shaking himself like a dog. He used his t‐shirt as a towel and when he was dry enough, pulled his jumper over his head. Adding the jacket had him sweating in seconds. Jeans were damn impossible. He had to peel his wet jocks off first then drag stiff denim up damp legs, hopping on the sand.

“Hey, quit mooning me,” Michael complained.

“At this rate she’ll be back to towel you off before you even get dry,” Lacy said.

“I thought you said she was lying by the track somewhere half‐dead.” He grated the words over his shoulder toward the pool, yanked a sock up an ankle.

Lacy snorted. “If I know CC, it’s much more likely she’s waiting for you to ask her to dance.”

Tate balled his jocks and t‐shirt in his fist, thought about—but didn’t—throw the missile at the smug glint of white teeth on the other side of the pool.

He headed back for the campsite. Fast, but not so fast he couldn’t check the bush beside the track for Christina’s bright white coat. Every step increased his urgency and soon, his legs ate the trail.

Bob Seger’s
Old Time Rock And Roll
blared from the sound system. Tate aimed for the highest concentration of noise and fires and spotlights.

A thick‐set blonde woman in a white pants‐suit was lifting the lid of a big green portable recycling bin. When she saw him, she gave a strangled cry and her beer bottle clattered into the nest of glass. The lid crashed with a hollow bang.

“Whoa. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Tate held both hands up.

The blonde put her hand to her chest, breathing hard. “Shit‐a‐brick, buddy. I thought you were coming at me with a rock. I thought I was about to get mugged.”

“Are you okay, Pen?” A reed of a woman with big hair appeared around the back of an old Toyota, she held a wineglass in one hand and shielded her eyes with the other, squinting hard.

“I’m here, Cath. This guy nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“But you’re okay? You’re not hurt?”

Tate tried to edge around pants‐suit Pen.

The woman called Cath took another few steps down the length of the Toyota and Tate sensed her grip on the wineglass tighten. She wore a pants suit too, only hers was a shade of purple so deep in the dark, it was nearer black, and the pants were flared, like she had dinner plates around each ankle.

The penny clicked. “Hey great costumes, ladies. ABBA right? I voted
Mamma Mia
in my Top 20. Love that song. Have they played it yet?”

Pen’s white‐knuckled grip on the glass relaxed and Tate breathed a sigh of relief.

Crisis averted
. You had to love ABBA fans.

****

Christina’s hat slipped as Bram turned her under his arm. It slipped again and she jerked it off and tossed it at the bonnet of the nearest car. It landed on the sand like a fluffy brown rat, near the dark tangle of tree‐trunk guy’s black jacket.

It was hot, jiving in her heavy coat, but she was having fun. Her hair whipped her face and the exercise had her blood pumping.

Old Time Rock And Roll
faded. The opening bars of the next song drew a collective groan from the dance floor, until a wave of ABBA fans flooded into the lights; Sally Jeffries and her friend amongst them. Agnetha. Frida.

“That’s it, Bram, ABBA’s where I draw the line,” Christina said.

“Let’s wait for the next one.”

She could feel the spread of sweat where his thumb gripped her palm. “One more.

That’s all, Bram. And if the next song’s no good, that’s it. Okay?”

“Okay.” He led her towards the spot where tree‐trunk guy stood, just outside the circle of lights, leaning against the bonnet of a car. His arms were crossed in front of his chest and his eyes roved the crowd.

His lips moved.

“Do you have other security up here?” She asked Bram.

“No. Why?”

“Your thug is talking to someone.”

Bram had positioned himself to face the dance floor. Now he took a quick peek over his shoulder.

Tree‐trunk guy’s toe tapped and suddenly, Christina laughed. “He’s not talking. He’s singing. Your big tough hunk of teak is singing
Mamma Mia
!”

Bram snickered, turned back to the dance floor, and froze. “Jesus Christ.”

“What?” Christina turned to follow his eyes and had to shield her own against the spotlight glare. Not that it mattered. She’d know that silhouette, anywhere. Her mind cried out,
Tate
, and her heart swapped places with her shoes. There was something clutched in the palm of his hand. A screwed‐up chunk of...
what
?

Bram took a half‐step back, right arm pinwheeling to get his bodyguard’s attention.

“Ian?
Ian
! He’s got a rock.”

Droplets of Bram’s spit spun through the lights, Christina felt one rain on her cheek.

She twisted back to the security guard, praying he didn’t carry a gun.

Tree‐trunk guy hadn’t moved, but he
had
stopped singing. His expression was somehow puzzled, like there was a maths equation in his head he couldn’t add‐up.

Tate had a rock? Why?
Christina didn’t believe it. Dancers spun in front of them, blocking her view.

Out the corner of his mouth, Bram hissed: “
Ian?”

Christina stepped sideways, spreading her arms like wings with Bram at the centre of her back. The dancers before her cleared, and she saw Tate raise his hand.

She had time to scream: “Bram, it’s not a r—”

Then Tate cannoned sideways, broadsided by the battering ram of a massive hip and shoulder. The lump in Tate’s hand dislodged and unravelled, and it was still rolling, drunkenly as Tate ploughed to a stop.

The music died.

A sound Christina hadn’t heard herself make in thirty‐five years squeaked from her lips when Tate hit the ground. She lunged forward, only to be snapped back by Bram.

“Let Ian do his job, CC. It’s what I pay him for.”

Christina pointed at the sand‐covered fabric, now covered in sand. “Jesus, Bram.

Does that look like a bloody rock to you?”

Tate rubbed the back of his neck. Tree‐trunk guy loomed over him, and for a long second they stood like that, frozen in time—victor and vanquished—like a battlefield sculpture.

Lily Malone

“Well look what crawled out from under its rock,” Tate said, when he could speak.

Then he looked at Bram: “Are my taxes paying for you to employ rogue cops now, Shadow Minister?”

“Rogue cops?” Bram muttered. “Ian? What’s he talking about?”

Ian
? And for Christina, the penny dropped.
This was Ian Callinan?

“Well, fuck me, hey?” Callinan said, his voice a bull’s rumble inside that massive chest. “If I knew it was you, Tate, you wouldn’t be sittin’ up this week.”

“I’m gonna stand up right now and we’ll see how that goes.” Tate pushed one hand into the sand and stood, keeping his movements slow and easy. “I’m unarmed and there’s a helluva lot of witnesses here, Ian, but that never worried you before, did it?”

The veins in Callinan’s neck bulged. “Give me fifty cents and I’ll call someone who cares.”

“Do you know what type of rabid dog you’ve let off the leash here, Shadow Minister?” Tate said, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “Your guy almost killed a kid over a stolen packet of biscuits up in Queensland a few years back. He’s kicked an Aboriginal stockman so hard he turned his insides into soup. That’s when they kicked him off the Force.”

“My guy?” Bram said. “I hired him as a favour for a friend… a friend of a friend.”

Christina could almost hear the political cogs rotating in Bram’s head.