Kitabı oku: «Australian Secrets», sayfa 3
Chapter Five
Nicola woke to a headache of disappointment. She’d always felt that a hangover was only worth suffering if a worthy investment had been made, but last night she’d only had two glasses of white with dinner. That was the trouble with bad wine.
She rolled over to find further disappointment. Scott’s side of the bed was empty.
Kitchen clatter informed her he was making coffee. The small carriage clock confirmed she’d managed to sleep in. It was eight-thirty.
She picked up the small wooden picture frame from beside the clock. It held a copy of the same faded polaroid as the one in her office. She stroked the baby’s innocent sleeping face, her face, which showed nothing of the impending abandonment.
Why had her mother given her up? Had she done it voluntarily or under duress? What about the man or boy involved: did he know he had a daughter who had been given up? Maybe her mother had been raped. Jesus, Nicola couldn’t bear that thought.
When her adoption information eventually arrived, it would only give her names; not these more emotional details. For that she’d have to meet her, whoever she was.
The thought sent a shiver down Nicola’s spine. But what if she was dead? Nicola had always refused to believe that. No, somewhere out there she had another mother, and hopefully a father too. She’d felt sure of it right from the start, and would continue to believe it until she knew otherwise.
Scott’s frame filled the doorway. ‘Don’t forget we’re meeting Bob and Sandy for breakfast at Becco at ten – you’d better get cracking.’
‘Come back to bed,’ Nicola cooed, patting the emptiness beside her.
‘There are some emails I need to deal with.’
‘Surely they can wait.’
‘No, Nicola, they can’t – they’re important.’
And there it was; that tone she hated. Nicola felt like pointing out that she was important too, but cautioned herself. The effects of last night’s below-average wine were probably making her overly sensitive. It was easier just to let it go.
She climbed out of bed, and as she padded naked to the bathroom, Scott started making the vacated bed. Personally she preferred to air it – as Ruth had taught her – but again it was easier to bite her tongue and not be subjected to another jibe about her lack of tidiness.
Bob was a golf buddy of Scott’s; Nicola adored him. He and his wife, Sandy, who was an absolute hoot, ran their own business importing high-end Asian furniture and homewares. Nicola wasn’t keen on the style of furniture, but had bought a pair of lovely paintings for the lounge room wall.
There were rarely any customers in the shop and Nicola didn’t see how they made enough money to sustain their lavish lifestyle.
Yet somehow they managed to have Sundays and two days off a week; Bob so he could achieve a single-figure golf handicap and Sandy so she could shop with the girls.
Nicola loved spending time with Sandy; she was real. Well, as real as a boob job, liposuction, collagen lips and an incredible fake tan.
Shopping with Sandy meant you’d never end up with something the tabloids could poke fun at. ‘No, no, no sweetie,’ she’d say. ‘You look like an old Jersey cow in that.’ Or, ‘That colour makes you look seasick.’ And she was always right.
Nicola once suggested she get into the fashion industry. Sandy’s reply: ‘And have to deal with morons who think they look two sizes smaller than they are? At least furniture can’t tell you it looks fine when it doesn’t.’
No, there was no arguing with Sandy – she had the world and her place in it well and truly sussed. The bluntness could be upsetting, but you always knew where you stood.
‘Daaarling,’ Sandy cooed, standing and embracing Nicola and kissing the air somewhere near her ears. She gave Scott the same treatment before sitting down.
‘Great to see you guys,’ Bob oozed. He rose, kissed Nicola firmly and gave Scott’s hand a solid pump.
‘Took the liberty of ordering you coffees,’ Sandy said. ‘Thought you might be a little shabby after a night on nasty wine. Hope it wasn’t too ghastly,’ she whispered to Nicola, now seated beside her.
‘It was a great night, wasn’t it?’ Scott said. A bit too defensively, Nicola thought. ‘Very informative.’
‘I bet. Lots of gorgeous specimens to perve on, eh Nicola?’ Sandy said, nudging her.
‘Sandra,’ Bob warned.
‘Get with the program, Bob – everyone knows these things are a veritable smorgasbord. Just look at Scott here.’ Scott blushed right up to his ears.
‘Sorry Scott, hadn’t noticed,’ Bob said, grinning cheekily. ‘Thank Christ for that.’
‘You’re in fine form this morning, Sandy. What’s been happening?’ Nicola said, fighting the urge to snap that there was no point having gorgeous if it didn’t put out.
If Sandy knew the truth she’d say that it wasn’t bad wine but not enough sex making her cranky. Nicola had been horrified a couple of years ago when Sandy had volunteered – totally unprompted – that if Bob didn’t make love to her at least three times a week she was like a bear with a sore head.
‘Hey, have you got the new iPhone yet?’ Scott suddenly cried.
‘Um, I’m actually thinking of sticking with the current model,’ Bob said.
‘You’ll change your mind when you see it; here, check it out,’ he said, sliding his phone across to him. Within seconds they were both engrossed.
Nicola and Sandy exchanged withering expressions.
‘Well, let me show you my new best friend.’ Sandy reached into her Louis Vuitton handbag.
Please no, Nicola thought. Not in public. But she edged closer just the same.
To Nicola’s relief (and just a tinge of disappointment), Sandy pulled out a small embossed silver pump pack a little larger than a lipstick.
‘Essential oil,’ she said proudly, taking the small lid off. ‘This one’s orange – take a whiff.’ She squirted a dose into the air. ‘Makes you feel all bright and chirpy. Give it a whirl on your temples – you look like you need something.’
‘Thanks,’ Nicola said sulkily.
‘You’ll have to excuse Sandra. She’s gone all hippy on us,’ Bob said.
‘Where’s that waiter? I’m starving,’ Sandy suddenly announced.
‘So, where did you get it?’ Nicola asked, turning the object over in her hand and sniffing the nozzle.
‘China – came as a sample with a heap of incense sticks and burners. Different fragrances for whatever mood you’re after.’
‘Hmm,’ Nicola mumbled, idly wondering if there was something she could give Scott.
‘So, Scotty,’ Bob finally said, putting his knife and fork down on a yolk-smeared plate. ‘Ready for a thrashing tomorrow?’ ‘Are you? That is the question.’
‘Come on you two. I thought golf was a battle between mind and little white ball,’ Sandy said.
‘Well, you thought wrong,’ Bob said.
‘Got a new driver this week – two-seventy-five right down the middle,’ Scott said, throwing an arm across the table.
‘You haven’t seen me around the green with my new lob wedge. Anything from fifty out and it’s all over red rover,’ Bob countered.
‘You have to get that close first – bit of a struggle with that slice you’re nurturing.’
‘I seem to remember a little trouble with a certain creek the other week – was it three or four balls?’
‘All right, you two. That’s enough,’ Nicola scolded.
‘Yeah, would you put your dicks away?’ Sandy added.
‘Well, may the best man win,’ Bob said defiantly, offering his hand across the table.
‘Indeed he will,’ Scott said, giving the hand a robust shake.
‘All too much for me,’ Sandy said, rolling her eyes. She reached for the essence spray still on the table.
‘So, what are you guys up to for the rest of today?’ Nicola asked, of no one in particular.
‘Driving range,’ Bob said quietly into his raised coffee cup. ‘Driving range,’ Scott said through clenched teeth, glaring at Bob.
‘Sandy?’ Nicola asked. ‘Shopping – you?’ ‘Same.’
‘Where are you heading – want to go together?’ ‘Well, I’m supposed to be going down Melbourne Street with Joanna – you remember her from that New Year’s Eve toga party at the Wharf.’
‘The one with the stunning race car boyfriend, right?’ ‘They split up.’
‘Oh, poor thing; he was yummy.’
‘Maybe, but the bastard ran off with one of the grid girls from the Melbourne Grand Prix – had been seeing her all year apparently.’
‘Dirty rotten scoundrel. She’ll need your undivided attention – I won’t intrude.’
‘Actually, she might like the diversion – not to mention someone else to tell her he’s a piece of shit not worth wasting tears over.’
‘Hope she got a chance to knee him in the balls,’ Sandy said quietly.
‘She needs to start being sociable again,’ Nicola continued, ignoring Sandy. ‘I’ll give her a quick call, but I’m sure she won’t mind.’ She picked up her iPhone and dialled.
‘Listen Bob, since we’re both going, want to go to the range together?’
‘What? And get a look at your secret weapon ahead of the comp?’
‘Watch and weep,’ Scott said.
‘You ain’t seen nothing yet, Scotty boy.’
After a minute, Nicola put the phone down.
‘So, is she up for blowing a hole in his credit card?’ Sandy asked, rubbing her hands together.
‘Not sure whose card, but let’s just say she’s in therapy – retail therapy,’ Nicola said, grinning.
‘Listen to them, would you?’ Bob said.
‘Yeah, let’s get out of here,’ Scott said, putting some cash on the plate with the bill and rising. ‘See you tonight.’ He pecked Nicola on the cheek. ‘Don’t have too much fun – either of you,’ he added, waving a warning finger.
‘And I want that card back in one piece,’ Bob said, patting Sandy on the back.
Scott was tapping away on his laptop at the coffee table when Nicola returned home. She dumped her pile of shopping bags on the floor, went over to him and draped her arms around his shoulders.
‘Good day?’ Scott enquired, not looking up from the screen. ‘Okay, you?’
‘Showed Bob a thing or two – he’ll be shaking like a leaf come tee-off tomorrow.’
‘Fancy a bath?’ she asked, kissing his neck.
‘No, I had a shower earlier,’ he said absently, with his eyes still straight ahead.
Not exactly what I meant. She undraped her arms, retrieved her shopping from the floor, and stomped off down the hall.
Chapter Six
On Monday morning, Nicola was easing herself into the week by flicking through the collection of newspaper and magazine cuttings she kept for potential story ideas. She was staring into space when her phone rang, startling her. ‘Bill Truman’ flashed on the screen. She picked up the handset.
‘Hi Bill,’ she said.
‘Nicola. My office, thanks.’
‘Oh, right, okay, thanks, I’ll be there …’
There was a click.
‘… in a sec,’ she finished, but he’d already hung up.
Nicola got up and made her way out into the empty hall. She preferred to get in early on Monday mornings; liked the peace before the other journalists arrived.
‘Have a seat.’ ‘Ta.’
It was a large office. Not by executive standards, but definitely compared to the four-to-a-cubicle squeeze of the Life and Times team. At least he had a window, even if it did look out over a depressing industrial wasteland.
Like the rest of the office it was showing its age; decked out in dark stripy fake woodgrain and the same threadbare and dirty mid-brown carpet that plagued the whole floor. In the corner stood a large round planter pot filled with potting mix but with no sign of plant life.
As usual, there was a lingering mustiness underneath Bill’s fresh morning scent of Brut, Imperial Leather soap, and toothpaste. He always wore a white shirt and conservative tie – this latter article would be shed sometime during the day, depending on which meetings he was booked to attend, and when.
It was a running office joke that Bill often left the place looking like he’d had to physically wrestle the powers-that-be to prevent budget cuts or fight for more airtime. Although he invariably started the day clean-shaven, hair carefully arranged into a sweeping comb-over, by the afternoon his shirt would be wrinkled and half-untucked beneath his pot belly, his hair flopping over his eyes, and a fine grey stubble on his chin.
‘Latte?’ Bill enquired from the bench that ran around the wall under the window behind his desk. His shiny aluminium coffee machine looked to be the only addition since the office’s last refurbishment in the early nineties.
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Right,’ Bill said, after taking a deep slug of coffee and putting his mug down heavily on the desk. ‘How would you like a little trip out to the country?’
‘Are we talking day spa country?’
‘Fussy now we’re hot property, are we? And no, not quite; you’ll be lucky to find a latte.’ Yeah right.
‘I’m offering it to you first. We want a story on the ongoing drought out bush. I’m thinking you’d go out there for a couple of weeks – month tops. I’ll even throw in an airfare for Scott to visit.’
A weekend together in a quaint B&B, fossicking about in art galleries and antique shops – maybe it was just what she and Scott needed. Meanwhile, a change of pace and scenery might be nice for her too. The more Nicola thought about it, the more she liked the idea.
‘All right, so where am I off to?’ she said, sitting up straighter in her chair.
‘So you’ll go?’
‘Sure, why not?’ It was a month, tops, right? Bill looked a bit surprised. ‘Where am I going?’ ‘Nowhere Else. Ever heard of it?’
‘You’ve got to be kidding – someone did not name a town Nowhere Else!’ Nicola cried. ‘Someone did indeed.’ ‘Cute. So, what’s my angle?’ ‘Thought I’d leave that up to you.’ ‘Okay. When do I leave?’ ‘You fly out tomorrow, 6 p.m.’
‘Righto. But what’s the hurry? The drought’s been going on for years, hasn’t it?’
‘It’s the only booking I could get before next week. Oh, and um, there’s one small catch …’
‘Isn’t there always?’ Nicola said, rolling her eyes at him.
‘It’ll probably be a smallish plane. And you’ll be crossing the Gulf – flying to Port Lincoln and hiring a car from there. You’re welcome to drive the whole way around, but it’ll take you best part of seven hours,’ he said with a shrug.
‘Oh.’ Shit. The Gulf – the Spencer Gulf; the same one that had claimed Ruth and Paul. Jesus, just how small a plane was he talking? At least it wouldn’t be operated by SAR Airlines – they’d had their licence suspended after the crash and closed their doors not long after that.
But seven hours in a car? No bloody way. She didn’t even like to do the Clare Valley and back in a day.
No, she’d have to face her fears; get on a small plane, cross the Gulf. Anyway, he did say it was ‘smallish’: the plane her parents perished in was tiny – only an eight seater. A completely different kettle of fish. And he had said ‘probably’, which meant he didn’t know for sure; for all he knew it would be a 737. Yep, it would be okay.
She, Nicola Harvey, Gold Walkley winner, was certainly not going to pass up the chance because of being a pathetic scaredy cat. It was only when Bill cut in again that Nicola realised she’d been silent for ages.
‘Well it’s either that, “How much fat is really in a Big Mac?” or “Does price equal effectiveness in the world of women’s anti-wrinkle cream?”’
‘I’ve said I’ll go.’
‘Good. I’m sure it’ll be a lovely place to chill out. Who knows? Maybe there are day spas,’ he said with a shrug. ‘What would I know; never been there. Go and find me a knockout story, there’s a good girl.’
The words ‘day spas’ and ‘chill out’ rang in Nicola’s head. That was what this was all about – a break, not a story at all. Of course Bill was too cunning to say so; he knew she’d never fall for the ‘take some time off, you deserve it’ line. Also, this way she was still strictly working for the station and Bill could balance his budget and keep everyone happy.
‘Well, Scott’s off to a conference – one of those cushy bonding soirées. I may as well go on holiday too,’ she said brightly, and got up.
‘This isn’t a story for Getaway, Nicola,’ Bill warned. ‘Doesn’t hurt to dream, now does it?’
‘Whatever works,’ Bill said absently, flicking through some papers on his desk. ‘Right, I’ll get the final arrangements sorted. You let me know the angle when you’ve sussed the place out. Not just dead stock and foreclosures …’
‘What?’
‘Remember, Nicola, I’m expecting gritty.’ ‘Yeah, no worries,’ Nicola mumbled. She too was expecting “gritty” – in an expensive jar awaiting her arrival.
Chapter Seven
Nicola looked around at the other passengers standing beside the bus on the tarmac, feeling very overdressed in her navy Perri Cutten pantsuit. Everyone else was in trackies and jeans, t-shirts and polo tops.
She always liked to look presentable when flying, in case there was a chance of an upgrade. She’d worn this particular suit – one of her best – rather than risk crushing it in her suitcase.
But if she’d known she’d be traipsing up and down stairs she would have selected more sensible shoes – certainly not the chocolate Ballys with the five inch heels.
Oh well, too late now. Nicola sighed and brushed a few escaped blonde strands from her cheek.
There were a few sidelong glances from her fellow passengers: some admiring her well-turned-out presence; others trying to work out just where they recognised her from. Dark Gucci sunglasses kept her identity a mystery.
She wasn’t trying to be incognito; she still hadn’t sufficiently recovered from last night’s dinner – a fundraiser at the zoo – to contemplate naked eyes. And she certainly did not need crows’ feet spoiling her smooth television face.
After a few moments she was handed her suitcase from where it had been stowed under the bus. It was the only one; everyone else seemed to just have cabin luggage.
‘Now if you’ll just follow me, folks, staying within the yellow lines for safety,’ called the gentle, cheery voice of the baby-faced pilot as he led the way. His name badge read Mark.
Nicola glanced around. The little group made its way around the bus to where a number of aircraft, large and small, were parked. Pairs of yellow lines showed the way to each craft. Nicola looked along their particular set to see where they were heading.
Shit! It was one of the really small ones. Her heart began racing. Her feet stopped short and her mouth dropped open. Someone’s carry-on bumped the back of her right knee and she would have been sent toppling if a man hadn’t grabbed her by the elbow.
The other five passengers pushed past, bumping her like a buoy amongst whitecaps.
‘You okay?’ mumbled the stranger by her side.
Nicola lifted a long, lightly tanned hand and pointed a clear varnished nail. The solitaire diamond on her ring finger sent rainbow arrows across the barren pavement. She tried to speak but it was as though her jaws had locked open.
‘It’s … it’s … a Piper Chieftain.’
‘Could be, I wouldn’t know,’ was the reply.
‘Come on, folks.’
About fifteen feet away, the young, crisp-shirted pilot was efficiently ushering the other passengers up the flimsy foldout steps and into the plane.
Nicola’s four-hundred-dollar heels felt glued to the sweltering tarmac.
‘I know she looks small but, trust me, she’s solid as a rock,’ the pilot urged.
Nicola was damn sure she didn’t like the idea of a small plane being ‘solid as a rock’. The last thing she wanted was to be crossing two shark-infested gulfs strapped to a rock.
The pilot checked his watch. ‘Look, we really have to get going. You’re either coming with me or you’re not.’
Nicola pictured Bill becoming purple with rage upon hearing he’d lost an airfare from his already stretched budget.
‘You’ll be fine. I understand small planes are a lot scarier than big ones, but trust me, I haven’t lost one yet.’
Yes, but I lost both my parents in one just like this – and on the same route.
She felt like sitting down and having a good cry. ‘For Christ’s sake; it was four years ago, get a grip,’ she heard her inner voice say.
On the inside of the tiny bubble windows, the other passengers were twisting in their seats and peering out. They all had places they were trying to get to. And the poor pilot had a schedule to keep.
The coroner’s report on flight 519 had told of the enormous pressure pilot Matt Berkowitz had been under. One of the criticisms of SAR Airlines was their tight turnaround times; schedules which were at times barely possible to make without factoring in delays due to booking problems – another thing pilots were expected to deal with.
While the coroner wasn’t prepared to say these tight turnaround times contributed to the accident, it was stated that the young pilot of flight 519 took off almost eight minutes late.
Having already been raked over the coals for being late the week before, and threatened with losing his job as a result, he was under considerable pressure to make up the time.
Nicola had no desire to put that same burden onto this young man, who was probably the same age.
‘Right,’ she said, gritting her teeth and jerking her large trolley case forward.
She was sweating; soon her suit would be ruined.
‘I’ll take that – it’s too big to go inside,’ the pilot said, nodding at Nicola’s suitcase. Nicola pushed down the handle, left it where it was, and scrambled up the narrow steps. She half-expected him to pat her behind; he seemed that sort of guy.
The interior of the plane was even smaller than it looked from the ground.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered to her fellow passengers, waiting patiently to get to wherever they were going.
Sympathetic smiles followed her to her allocated seat, not the arctic stares and exasperated sighs she expected.
She sat, snapped the heavy ends of her seatbelt together and pulled the strap tight. She then checked under the seat for the life jacket the coroner had insisted be added to these flights since the tragedy. Good. She sat back again.
Outside her tiny perspex window, the first engine spluttered and sneezed and finally the propeller flicked back and forth then became a blur of spinning metal. The second engine went through the same procedure. The whole cabin vibrated as the engines were revved. Talking would be difficult; Nicola could barely hear herself think.
Fighting to ease her gasping breaths, she looked across at her neighbour. The stranger beside her offered a sympathetic smile, then the sick bag, indicating her to put it to her mouth and breathe into it slowly and deeply.
The other passengers were busily inspecting safety cards and complimentary magazines, and seemed not to notice her.
She tried to listen to the safety instructions, but could barely make them out over the sound of the engines.
If she wasn’t so terrified she might have been amused at being told to keep her belt fastened when seated; there was no toilet to visit, and no aisle to stroll.
Sitting there in the same make and model of plane, waiting to fly the same route, and – shit! – at the exact same time, Nicola wondered how Paul and Ruth must have felt. But of course they were off on holidays; would have been chattering excitedly about what they expected to do and see. They wouldn’t have had a clue about their impending demise – thank God.
If only she’d insisted on leaving the office early to take them to the airport. But they hadn’t wanted to burden her; said a taxi was a lot less hassle. They had agreed to let her pick them up on the Sunday night, but of course it wasn’t to be.
Her last words to her parents had been: ‘Have fun, love you!’ She couldn’t imagine how people lived with the guilt of their last exchange with a loved one being a fight.
When Nicola heard about the anonymous letters the ATSB had received regarding SAR Airlines, she knew there was a major story to be told. While nothing would bring back Paul and Ruth and the other six who had perished, she owed it to them to at least learn the truth. If not, what was the point of having a journalist in the family?
She’d been prepared for Bill to refuse her request to lead the investigation, on the grounds that she was too close, too emotional, and not objective enough. Instead he agreed.
Had he seen something in her as a journalist or just understood that the best thing she could do for everyone was be at the heart of the story, no matter how painful? It no longer mattered.
It had taken all of her strength to sit and listen to the pilot’s transmissions, knowing her parents had done the same for a full five minutes before the eerily calm mayday call was issued. For weeks she’d had nightmares about them frantically searching under their seats for life jackets that weren’t there; being plunged into icy, shark-infested water at over two hundred kilometres an hour; and finally, the hopeless struggle to survive while calling to searchers overhead who couldn’t see or hear them.
Four years on, it still made Nicola shudder to think about.
As the plane jerked and rolled forward, she felt her neighbour’s hand give a squeeze, or maybe it was an attempt to regain some blood flow. She offered an embarrassed grimace and released the hand. To her further dismay, Nicola realised her good Samaritan was around her age and decidedly attractive.
Even more frigging embarrassing! Without making it too obvious, she snatched another look at the biggest, brownest eyes and possibly the longest lashes she’d ever seen. Wow, and those strong, tanned arms disappearing into rolled up blue and white striped shirt sleeves … Yum.
Jesus, Nicola, stop it!
She quickly stuffed the sick bag in the seat pocket in front, noting the length of his legs as she did, and set about studying the emergency card again.
Damn it; she could just kill Bill for putting her in this situation.
Maybe he thought she’d dealt with everything and had sufficiently moved on; perhaps he had no idea she was booked on a Piper Chieftain.
Or could it be his fatherly way of shoving her over the cliff to really get on with her life? Bill was perceptive when it came to human emotion – the main reason he’d been an award-winning journalist himself.
One thing was for sure; she’d definitely need a couple of weeks of massage and pampering after this.
Nicola watched the large jets taxi past the end of the runway while their pilot patiently waited, flicking switches, poking buttons and muttering into the headset in a tone that couldn’t be heard over the bone-penetrating drone of the engines.
Suddenly she wished she’d told Scott she loved him when she’d rung him to say goodbye; both rarely uttered the words these days. When had he last said them? When had she?
Nicola closed her eyes and gritted her teeth until her jaw ached.
And then the vibration beneath her feet ceased and her stomach did a weightless lurch. They were finally airborne. The houses got smaller and smaller below them and then they were suddenly out over water – Gulf St Vincent. The dark blue was littered with whitecaps.
The little craft bobbed and twisted, throwing them against their seatbelts.
‘Sorry folks, bit of a crosswind,’ came the voice over the loudspeaker.
‘See, not so bad, eh. All safe and sound,’ the man beside her said, winking.
As Nicola alighted from the hatch onto the first step, the pilot said, ‘Thanks for flying Air SA.’
Outside the plane Nicola’s legs were not cooperating. She stopped and tried to stretch the cricks from her neck and back before trying to walk.
She took a deep breath of the brisk, fresh air coming straight off the nearby sea. The salt was instantly noticeable in her mouth. It made her thirsty. She hated to think of what it was doing to her hair’s perfect body and shine.
Theirs was the only plane in the harsh white light of the terminal.
None of the passengers spoke and the only voice was that of the pilot uttering, ‘Watch your step – thanks for flying Air SA,’ as each passenger alighted behind her.
His voice had an obvious country drawl to it now, so different from the official tone reeling off safety instructions back in Adelaide.
Nicola, after a lifetime devoted to people-watching, recognised it at once. Pilot Mark might have been in the city at private school for a couple of years to get the grades for aviation and a plummy voice for the right circumstance, but he was never going to settle there. The lad was country country.
‘Thanks,’ Nicola replied. ‘I really appreciate it.’ She tried for a friendly smile, but was so intent on willing her legs to regain their feeling that it came out as a pained grimace.
‘Life’s too short – don’t stress so much,’ he offered kindly.
‘Too true,’ Nicola muttered, finally summoning the grin she was after.
They wandered the fifty metres over to the cream brick building where eager faces peered from backlit windows, searching for friends, relatives and business associates.
After settling into her room, Nicola planned to have a long soak in a steaming bath before ringing Scott – and this time she’d remember to say she loved him.
Standing by the counter of Brown’s Rentals, Nicola fished her mobile from her pocket and turned it on while absently watching the tarmac goings-on.
A short, fat attendant was hauling the trolley piled with luggage back towards the building, a small fuel tanker was driving across to the plane, and Pilot Mark was striding purposefully about, green clipboard tucked under his arm.
Suddenly her stomach grumbled, reminding her how little food she’d had that day and the unhealthy choices made since the awards night. What a whirlwind it had been.
She was a little disappointed – but at the same time grateful – that local media hadn’t turned up. She could just imagine the caption below an unflattering grainy black and white image: Nicola Harvey, Life and Times – Needing Her Own Makeover.
