Outback Sunset (3 page)

After David’s funeral, Kerri Spanos had been Vanessa’s salvation.

Kerri tidied up the flat, talked her through the early, worst days of her grief, comforted her and made Vanessa stay as her guest for almost a week to maintain a constant watch on her friend. She kept the media away, ensuring the message got through that Vanessa wanted privacy and no interviews would be given.

The short-term contract Vanessa had, to play one of the leading female roles in a Sydney production of
Private Lives
, had been a godsend. It allowed Kerri to whisk Vanny away from a morbidly curious media, snuffing out their nosiness, and it gave her friend something other than being miserable to focus on.

That Vanessa came good both on and off stage in Sydney told Kerri something she would keep to herself. Vanessa believed her heart had been broken by David’s death and, yes, it had been traumatic and dreadful but she, personally, believed Vanny wasn’t as grief-stricken as she might have been.

How she concluded that was … complicated. Her dear friend and client had had several relationships over as many years. None had worked out and when David came along, Vanny had pinned her future happiness on their marriage, partly because she had dreamt of having the same kind of successful marriage her parents had enjoyed. She
had believed David would provide that for her. Her Vanny would be sad for quite a while but she would get over this loss. However, she silently prophesied that it would take a different, special kind of man to re-awaken her. Yes, someone quite special.

P
laying tourist was the kind of therapy Vanessa needed. Able to dress down, wear a floppy hat for protection from the sun, and sunglasses, she looked like everyone else on the bus as it drove from one tourist destination to another in and around Kakadu. Single blokes keen to crack on to the English tourist soon found out that she preferred her own company to theirs but she also enjoyed participating in group activities. After almost two weeks of never-ending sunshine, the sun had streaked Vanessa’s fair hair with whitish-blonde strips and noticeably darkened her already olive skin. With her day pack strapped to her back, a water bottle slung around her waist, she had become comfortable in shorts and singlet tops, socks and hiking boots which had, at first, been foreign garb.

Resting her head against the bus’s seat on the return trip to Darwin at the end of the tour, Vanessa smiled as she wondered what Kerri and some of her London friends would say if they saw her dressed as she was today. There wouldn’t be too many compliments, she felt certain of that.

As the bus began to off-load passengers at their hotels, the woman in front of Vanessa, Fay Whitcombe, a retired Darwin businesswoman, turned back to her and asked, ‘This is your last day, Vanessa?’

‘’Fraid so, more’s the pity. I’d love to stay another two weeks, longer even. I can’t believe this country, it’s spectacular. I’ve enjoyed every minute,’ Vanessa replied, her praise genuine.

She had begun the holiday with nothing more than a sense of adventure and an inkling of how pleasant it would be to see outback Australia. What she hadn’t expected was for the experience to touch her deeply. It defied logic, because she was English through and through but, curiously, something about the land, perhaps its vastness, its uniqueness had become imbedded in her psyche. So much so that she knew, one day, she had to return to explore more of its ancient landscapes and learn about its original inhabitants and those who’d come more recently to colonise what Territorians called the Top End. Having seen first-hand the ruggedness of the land, the magnificence of the outback sunsets — they were so unique — as well as the isolation, she had considerable admiration for what Aborigines and others had achieved.

‘Some of us, ten or fifteen people or so, plan to have farewell drinks and watch the sun set at the sailing club at Fannie Bay. Would you like to come along and say a proper goodbye?’

Vanessa didn’t need to think long about Fay’s invitation. ‘I’d love to.’ During the tour she’d got to know at least half the people on the bus and was
comfortable in their company. And, wouldn’t Kerri get a kick out of knowing they thought she was an out-of-work actress rather than how well known and well paid she was in the United Kingdom and, because she spoke Spanish fluently, the Continent. Contrarily, she liked the anonymity of not being recognised, of not being thought of as special. ‘What time?’

Fay rolled her eyes with amusement.
‘Before
sunset.’

Embarrassed by her silly question, Vanessa laughed. ‘Oh, of course.’

She should spend the night packing because her flight time was mid-morning, but that was too boring and much too sensible for her last night in Australia. She could and would be sensible, she decided, when she got back to London, and Sandy. God, the one thing, apart from Kerri, that she’d missed was her Jack Russell. Bella De Mondi, a fledgling actress, whom Kerri had vouched for, was house-sitting and caring for Sandy in her absence.

After being dropped off at Rydges Hotel, she read the faxes waiting for her in her suite. One was from Kerri double-checking that Vanessa was taking the flight in the morning. Her eyebrows lifted at her agent’s lack of faith. The second one was from a London property agent; a buyer was interested in her Belgrave Square flat and had made an offer.

Hmmm. She didn’t know about that. Lately she was having second thoughts about selling the flat. Initially the thought of living there with the memories of David had been unthinkable. But then, the nuisance value associated with moving, packing
and relocating … was a headache, especially with her schedule for the next six months. Three months as star of
The Glass Menagerie
on the West End and, later, working as the presenter of a prerecorded television documentary series on a selection of historical homes in England for
National Geographic
were scheduled. Both would keep her occupied, too much so for the draining business of buying and relocating.

Over several calls, Kerri had almost convinced her that the smart thing was to hire a professional decorator to redo every room to erase the memories of David’s presence. The exercise would be costly, but less arduous than moving … and … she and Sandy loved the flat because it was close to his favourite park.

After a much appreciated shower, Vanessa changed into casual evening wear, lightweight slacks, a midriff top and sandals. One did not overdress in the Top End at night simply because, with the wet soon to arrive, it was as hot and humid in the evening as it was during the day. On The Esplanade she flagged down a taxi to take her to the club.

Sunset was disappointing because there were no clouds to enhance the pink sky before night fell over a glassy, smooth Arafura Sea. Fay and Barry Whitcombe were natural organisers. The couple had commandeered two tables, well away from the three-piece band, for their group so people could talk without sending themselves hoarse. Over her gin and tonic, Vanessa sat back and let the
conversation flow over and around her while, in a melancholy mood because her holiday was at an end, she reflected on her time in Australia.

Several months ago, on the flight into Sydney she had been steeped in misery, certain that the time in Australia would be a drag. It had been anything but. Kerri and the cast of
Private Lives
had seen to that. She had found it impossible to be constantly depressed when everyone around her was upbeat and optimistic. She knew many Australian actors and entertainers in London. Making the best of things and brimming with optimism — sometimes without sufficient reason — was a definitive Aussie trademark. Their welcoming ways and friendliness had helped her shrug off the gloom, and talking to Trish, who’d played Sybil and Tom Reynolds who’d been Elliott in
Private Lives
, had been instrumental in whetting her appetite to see more of the island continent.

She had begun the holiday with no comparable yardstick to judge it by, and though it defied commonsense that she should bond with a country so different to where she had been nurtured, curiously, she had. And when she first heard the guttural sounds of a didgeridoo, its sound had vibrated through her chest in a most peculiar manner, as if it were calling to her.

‘Wanna dance, Vanessa?’ asked Peter Kosh, a Canadian backpacker who sat across the table from her. An engaging grin punctuated his invitation.

Vanessa glanced at the dance floor. Two other couples were dancing. She and Peter had danced several times at the crocodile-shaped Gagudju
Hotel, in the heart of Kakadu. She smiled at him and got up. ‘Sure.’

‘Barry,’ Fay looked at her husband. ‘Ask the band to play
The Nutbush.’
She grinned at Peter and Vanessa. ‘You two dance that so well.’

Vanessa considered the energetic steps of
The Nutbush
more of a workout than a proper dance and one for which one had to be reasonably fit to last the distance. Fortunately, the walking, swimming and climbing she’d done over the last two weeks had toned her muscles as efficiently as a daily two-hour workout at a gym would have. Besides, she loved to dance. Her mother, Rosa Constancia del Rios-Forsythe, had been a professional dancer in her youth, before she had met Vanessa’s father. Her mum had taught her many of the dances she had learned as a child on the back streets of Madrid, so Vanessa had no trouble picking up more modern dance routines.

Halfway through the four-four beat of
The Nutbush
, Brendan Selby, his glance more curious than interested, looked up from his glass towards the dance floor and saw her. Barefooted, head tilted slightly back, smiling, she was moving to the music’s beat with a fluidity he suddenly found riveting. Damn it, she was good, much better than her dancing partner. His gaze slid towards his brother. Curtis was playing pool with a couple of blokes. Waiting his turn for the ball, he also watched the dancers while he leant on his pool stick. A swift glance around the lounge-bar area surprised Brendan. Everyone was watching the free, impromptu entertainment.

He picked up his glass, stood and moved to the edge of the dance floor for a better look. The walk was worth it. What a sensational-looking woman she was! Almost as tall as he, she looked good enough to eat, with her tanned skin, high cheekbones, flashing brown eyes, wide smile and pearly white teeth. The dance ended to a round of applause after which the dancers gave each other a friendly hug and returned to their table. Barely able to tear his eyes away from the woman, Brendan moved to the bar for a refill, positioning himself so he could see her without being obvious. Was she with her dancing partner, or was she … available?

Hell, even if she was available, why would she be interested in him? He didn’t look his best. He and Curtis had spent most of the day at their mother’s house, by the shores of Cullen Bay. After doing several maintenance jobs for Hilary Selby, they hadn’t bothered to freshen up, deciding to come to the sailing club for a steak and chips dinner washed down with a few beers before turning in for an early night. Tomorrow morning, at sunrise, he and Curtis would head home. Home being a five hundred plus kilometre chopper ride to the Kimberley region in Western Australia. Content at this point to observe, Brendan stayed on the bar stool, sipping his beer, his fascination for the blonde woman growing by the minute.

Inexplicably, he had an overwhelming need to know who she was, what she did for a living, and was she
involved?
Anyone as beautiful as she probably was. The thought depressed him. Still, by the way she responded to the men at the table he
sensed that she wasn’t overly interested in any of them though she was friendly enough and joined in the conversation. Covertly studying her he sensed her reserve, it was recognisable from where he sat.

He waited an hour or so, watched the numbers at her table thin, checked out what she was drinking, then ordered one for her, after which he sauntered across to where she sat and put the drink down in front of her.

‘For the dance you did, Miss …? Having two left feet myself, I really appreciated your skill.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Brendan Selby from Western Australia. Most people call me Bren.’

Vanessa looked dubiously at the gin and tonic, and at the man who’d bought it for her. In one glance she took in his grubby shorts, the singlet top that showed off his well-developed chest, and his dust-encrusted sandalled feet. ‘Thank you, but I don’t think …’

‘Please,’ Bren entreated. ‘I’m strictly a beer man so if you don’t have it, it’ll be tipped down the drain.’

After giving Bren a mother-hen once over and an ever so slight nod of approval, Fay Whitcombe intervened. ‘Go on, Vanessa, it’s all right. I’m sure Bren doesn’t bite.’ She threw him a speculative stare, ‘Do you?’ When he said that he didn’t, she smiled and invited, ‘Sit down, Bren.’ Fay formally introduced Vanessa. ‘This is Vanessa Forsythe. Tonight’s her last night in Darwin. She flies home tomorrow.’

‘And home is …?’

‘London.’

‘Oh!’ Brendan disguised his disappointment. Well, that’s that. She might just as well live on Mars. Even so, as he couldn’t help himself, he took another, closer look. An alien ache twisted in his chest until it hurt and at that moment the fact that she was out of reach, somehow, crazily, didn’t matter. He just wanted to talk to her, get to know her a little and to watch those expressive brown eyes and forget that after tonight he’d never see her again. Such thoughts were as un-Brendan like as could be and they surprised him. He mentally shook himself as he sat opposite her, admonishing himself to be sensible.

‘Vanessa’s an actress,’ Fay put in to start the conversation.

‘Really!’ Bren absorbed that with a nod. ‘I thought maybe a model or a dancer.’

‘My mother was a dancer who, being Spanish, specialised in Flamenco dancing,’ Vanessa said. ‘She taught me how to do a lot of different dances when I was younger … b-before she passed on.’ No-one at the table knew, because she’d not talked very much about herself and what she did, but she could dance the bossa nova, the cha cha, the tango, even the provocative lambada, at a professional level, if she wanted to.