Catch of The Day: Destiny Romance (25 page)

‘Grant, hi,’ Winnie greeted him, the bogus smile hurting her cheeks.

He looked as handsome as ever with (probably waxed) dark brows framing piercing blue eyes, and his black hair stylishly gelled back. Leaning in, he kissed her cheek, smelling of a musky aftershave that made Winnie’s nose wrinkle.

‘What are you doing in town?’ he asked, casually leaning back on an elbow on the wooden bar. An eyebrow arched. ‘Or more importantly,’ he paused as though for dramatic effect, his words weighted, ‘how long are you here?’

Winnie drank in the glint in his eye, his entire polished frame, all of his big-city charm. Only a few short months ago she might have been drawn in by his Casanova act. Right then though, she knew the hour was late, he was on the make, and she was sure he considered her a sure thing. A particularly convenient prospect since she’d been exiled to a tiny dot of a town, which meant less chance of any office gossip getting back.

Strangely, the situation reminded her of the white leather couch at the
Panache
office – he looked good, but he didn’t
feel
right. And she didn’t do leather anyway. Against her better judgement, she compared him to Alex, who was well built, a little rough around the edges and tanned from being outdoors, not gym-sculpted, perfumed and orange.

Giving Grant a long, hard stare, she moved her handbag strap onto her shoulder. ‘Not long enough,’ she said with a slow shake of her head. ‘Go home to your poor wife. Good seeing you, Grant.’ What was he going to do? Fire her? She didn’t care.

With a hair flip, she pushed her way back into the crowd, forgetting about another drink – and him. Half an hour later, she’d convinced Bruna to call it a night and they sailed back to the apartment in a taxi with a driver protection screen, which prevented any conversation from front seat to back. Also typically Sydney.

Back at the apartment, in her old bathroom, Winnie took her time cleansing her face of make-up. The claustrophobic feeling from earlier had begun to lessen and she felt herself unwinding, at long last. It had been a huge day, but she’d be back to her old self by tomorrow, she was sure of it. And she was proud of herself for knocking back Grant’s advances. It was a sign she’d grown.

Earlier, in the lounge, she’d been mildly irritated to find the pile of fashion magazines she subscribed to had been taken out of their wrappings by Bruna, but not forwarded on to her in Kingston. Still, at least it meant the light reading material could be savoured right then and help send her off to sleep.

After calling out goodnight to Bruna at the opposite end of the hall – again, like old times – she padded to her bedroom and flicked on the light. And screamed and screamed.

A naked man was sprawled face-down on her bed. Her heart pounded wildly. Was he dead?

Bruna obviously had her earplugs in as she didn’t come running. The male head twisted to the left and Winnie instantly recognised the profile. It was
Jaharn
, Bruna’s catty gay pal. Fear turned to outrage. To think Winnie had been pleased he hadn’t joined them for drinks – now there he was, lying on her doona,
totally naked
. Her flesh crawled.

‘Turn off the light, would you?’ he slurred unhappily, obviously having passed out after one too many tipples of his own.

Winnie backed out of the room, killing the switch. ‘Sure.’

Down the hall, she rapped on Bruna’s door, pushing it open before her housemate could answer. ‘What, pray tell me, is Jaharn doing in my bed?’ Winnie hissed into the semi-darkness.

She could just make out Bruna struggling into a sitting position on her mattress, pulling her plugs out of her ears and her satin eye mask off. ‘Oh, sorry, didn’t I tell you? I must have forgot. I sublet your room to Jaharn while you were away.’

A white-hot bolt of fury hit Winnie in the chest. ‘And you didn’t think to tell me while I was here, about to climb into bed?’ Her voice rose to a shriek. ‘I’m still paying half the rent!’

‘I got lonely,’ Bruna offered meekly.

Winnie slammed the door shut without another word. Her patience was disappearing faster than those Snapchat photo messages with time limits. She couldn’t take any more. It was like a poisonous fog had rolled in, hanging over her head. Wrenching open the hall cupboard, she pulled out a spare pillow and blanket. The apartment suddenly felt cold and dark.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, her mind whirling, she nodded to herself. She’d sleep on the couch that night, but she wouldn’t be letting Bruna off scot-free – she’d deal with the situation properly in the morning, with a clear head. She would be sure to make Bruna see sense.

As Winnie lifted her right foot, something small and glossy scuttled over her left. Ack. A cockroach. Undoubtedly. Another creature, alongside mice, she couldn’t stand. She really was back in Sydney, with its full array of creepy critters – men included.

Finally settling on the couch, her last thought as she drifted off was whether Alex had found her beanbag as uncomfortable to sleep on.

Winnie felt like she had rocks in her chest. She stared at the paper she’d unwittingly found when she’d knocked over the magazine stack Bruna had not so kindly pored over already. Sleeping on the couch had seen Winnie wake early, her back and shoulders protesting. But the early-morning discovery had almost made her want to pull the covers back over her head.

The contents of the offending paper hurt her eyes, already gritty and sore as a consequence of last night’s shenanigans and a lack of sleep. In her hands was Bruna’s application letter for Winnie’s old fashion-editor gig at
Slicker
magazine. It must have somehow mistakenly gotten wedged between the magazines while Bruna was enjoying the free reading material. Not that Bruna had ever mentioned throwing her hat in the ring for the role. Or that she’d lied about assisting Winnie as a freelancer on the odd shoot, along with a bunch of other fibs about her so-called styling and media experience. In truth, Bruna’s work history extended to finance only.

Thankfully, her housemate hadn’t gotten the job. But the betrayal cut like a rusty Schick Quattro shaver, mostly due to the fact that Bruna hadn’t even told Winnie she’d applied for it, as well as the fact she had taken advantage of Winnie’s bad fortune – an opportunist. A total leech. Bruna would do anything, it seemed, to ensure the party invites and free champers didn’t run out. Even more so, though, Winnie was angry at the generosity she’d extended to Bruna in the past, and at being bewitched by her. An Aristotle quote sprang to mind:
A friend to all is a friend to none.
That was Bruna.

With adrenalin pumping through her like she’d had an espresso, Winnie launched herself to her feet and made a beeline for the stairs. She could hear Bruna unattractively snoring so knew her housemate was still out like a light. Winnie tiptoed along, her heart slamming against her ribs. Pushing on her old bedroom door – it creaked slightly – she poked her head in. Jaharn was gone. Phew. The gym junkie must have snuck out when Winnie enjoyed a rare patch of sleep. In the light of day, she could see his belongings now mingled with her own.

Dragging her old desk chair across the carpet, Winnie stood on it, reaching for an extra suitcase and backpack atop her wardrobe. The baggage was thrown on the bed. Jumping back down again, she began shoving in as many clothes and shoes as each could handle. Who cared if she looked like Kim Kardashian, minus the helpers, laden down with luggage at the airport? For the first time, Winnie couldn’t wait to have Sydney’s cityscape in her rear-view mirror. It wasn’t that the Emerald City was a bad place, exactly. It was just that she now realised she was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole in its cutthroat magazine world. She wasn’t sure she would stay on at
Beach Life
indefinitely, but she’d always fancied the idea of being a freelance writer – and modern technology meant it could be done anywhere. And just because she wasn’t fit for the rat race like her dad, it didn’t mean she’d necessarily morph into her mother. It felt time for throwing caution to the wind.

The plan was to catch an earlier flight to Adelaide and then wait for the bus to Kingston at her mum’s. It would be a clean break. Only Bruna’s name was on the Sydney lease and most of the furnishings in the apartment were hers. As for Winnie’s old bedroom gear, whatever she couldn’t fit in her bags, she’d pay removalists to pack and send to her. She would have a look on Gumtree for some furniture for her Kingston unit on her return. Hanging around would only make her feel as useless as the one ugly hue in an eye-shadow trio.

It was funny how things could change in the blink of an eye. She now knew home was where your tribe was and, strangely, that was Kingston. For better or worse. With or without Alex. Even if the town was a little less coiffured than nearby Robe. If Honey could make the place her casa all the way from Sweden, learning to throw around more dry wit than an Aussie, surely Winnie could, too. The townspeople were like the big family she’d never had. Plus, she realised she’d done a bunch more interesting things there than she’d ever done in Sydney. Even if she didn’t have her whole future mapped out before her, right then she craved the openness of Kingston’s people and scenery. She could even get used to living alone. In Sydney, she just felt chained in.

Despite being so tired she was almost delirious, her volcanic surge of fury at Bruna’s actions made light work of a mammoth task. After doing the speediest outfit change and make-up application known to (wo)man, she zipped up her bags and looked around the half-emptied room. Someday she knew she’d look back on this day as a turning point, but at that moment, it was still raw.

Once she’d lugged her baggage downstairs and dialled for a taxi, she headed back up to the coffee table. Bruna’s application letter still lay there, looking innocent despite its evil contents.

Flipping the sheet over, Winnie fished a purple pen from her handbag. Then, across the back of the page, she scrawled a note to her former housemate.
B, had to fly home early. The apartment is now all yours and Jaharn’s. I won’t be back or paying any further rent, W.

No further explanation felt necessary. It wasn’t as though Bruna had always been open and accountable with her. Feeling remarkably centred, Winnie began carting her luggage out of the apartment. Under the circumstances, each item seemed as light as a feather.

It was like a rebirth. The first thing Winnie did early Monday morning back in Kingston was don her green bikini from Steve’s Place and head to the beach. She revelled in floating on her back, the sun jabbing at her eyelids, salty water trickling down her throat and into her eyes, the pull of the tide matching the rhythm of her breath. She felt simultaneously invigorated and protected, as though the ocean were rocking her in its big, blue arms.

She didn’t know why she’d thought Kingston was so desolate when she first arrived. In truth, it brimmed with colour, life and movement – so long as you were willing to hang around and scratch below the surface. She’d experienced so much in the town in the past two months and was eager to see what else she could discover in the months ahead.

Right then, it was the place she felt she belonged. Where she could be herself and enjoy being part of a real community. All the pain and drama had made her come out the other side a better person, had made her see things with fresh eyes.

Understandably, it was with reluctance that she dragged her feet to the office an hour or so later. When she did, Olive was waiting for her, one hip thrust to the side, a hand on it.

‘Is it true?’ The ad manager’s amber-coloured eyes flashed.

‘Is what true?’ Winnie asked, wondering what had happened now, still feeling the itch of sand behind her ears, despite her recent shower.

‘Someone rang about a job interview you had in Sydney. From some magazine called
Panache
. When were you going to tell me about it?’

She could have told Olive that it wasn’t her business, that they were only colleagues, but she didn’t. When there were just two of you in the office and it was a small town, things were . . . different.

Winnie hung her head. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you. From the get-go, I should have been up front about everything . . . about my intentions.’

‘Too right you should have,’ Olive huffed, swinging behind her desk, crash-landing her pert derriere in her seat. ‘And now if it’s okay with you, I’d prefer if we didn’t talk for the rest of the day.’

Swinging away, Olive turned up some country song on her PC about a pet dog dying and began madly tapping on her keyboard.

‘Okay,’ Winnie said in a small voice, slinking behind her own desk. She figured she deserved such treatment. She
had
lied. Maybe she was on a par with Bruna, after all. The zen feeling from her ocean dip earlier slowly trickled out via her fingers and toes.

Beach Life
’s launch party was in full swing and Winnie could barely believe the afternoon had finally arrived. Of course, it was more of a sneak preview of the glossy for visiting media and locals than a fully-fledged launch. There was still one last story to slot in tomorrow: Eden’s wedding. Then the publication would be off to the printers and on shop shelves around the state before Winnie could say, ‘Kingston SE, lobster capital.’

In the meantime, partygoers were enjoying perusing the small run of mini mags that had been printed, as well as viewing the design on docked iPads. So far the response had been great. Fantastic, even. Maybe Winnie wasn’t such a fraud, after all.

Her brainwave of having young locals styled up as mannequins in shop windows had also gone down a treat. She’d had them perform a little fashion show in the closed-off main street – somewhat of a pec parade with all the footballers and farmers willing to participate. Olive had helped out on mike duties, with Winnie preferring to stay out of the limelight where possible. Public speaking wasn’t her thing.

Of course, media mobs didn’t usually like to promote other media, but they’d still had a fairly good turnout of reporters. A few had even committed to running some pics from the Allira Becci shoot in exchange for a small mention of
Beach Life
’s launch. The local-girl-done-good had even shown her photogenic face, pouring on the charm and swanning about in a mink fur vest, much to Winnie’s distaste.

Now guests spilled onto the street, enjoying the delights on offer, including red velvet cupcakes and local wine. One Adelaide newspaper journo, whom Winnie remembered used to secretly keep all the reader competition prizes for herself, had been positively stuffing her face with cupcakes.

Winnie waved at Mrs Mannix as she passed on her way through the throng – half the town had turned up. The old woman beamed sunnily in her direction. ‘Loved the article, dear. Thanks again for the interview.’

‘Oh, glad you liked it,’ Winnie exclaimed before Mrs Mannix continued on her way. She was relieved, especially as Christa had chopped the article to within an inch of its life, without consulting Winnie. ‘Enjoy the fame.’

Disappointingly, there was one person who hadn’t shown up: Alex. Winnie had casually reminded him about the launch during an earlier work call, but he’d cut her off by saying those types of parties weren’t his thing, especially if there were media crawling about the place. As though they were all – bar the photographers – vermin. Which didn’t say much for what he thought of Winnie as a reporter herself.

Not that she should care. Her weird fixation with someone who regularly spurned her advances was almost worthy of being on that
My Strange Addiction
show.

Her handbag buzzed – or, more precisely, her phone. Winnie reached in, locating the device. A check of the screen revealed it was Christa. For once Winnie’s heart didn’t leap into her throat at the prospect. Pressing the mobile to her ear, she walked away from the masses and took the call.

‘Sounds like you’re enjoying the launch,’ Christa trilled down the line.

‘Uh, yeah, it’s going great guns. Wonderfully, actually.’

‘Well, I won’t take up too much of your time. You deserve to kick up your heels.’

Winnie almost tripped on a cracked, uneven section of footpath. Just as the compliment dripped from Christa’s lips, Winnie saw Lorraine Burgess arriving on a motorbike, driven by a shaven-headed woman. The old dear had obviously chosen to come out of the closet – in grand style. She hoped Mrs Mannix saw, in case she needed any further confirmation about the so-called affair.

Christa’s ramblings dragged Winnie’s attention back to the phone call. ‘I know I’ve worked you hard, and the first-rate look and feel of the magazine has been the payoff. The launch issue’s looking even better than I could have imagined.’

‘Oh, uh, wow, I don’t really know what to say,’ Winnie said truthfully. ‘
Thank you?
’ It was almost like her mum praising her – as in, embarrassing.

‘You’re welcome – like I said, you deserve it.’ Christa cleared her throat. ‘Now I also wanted to apologise for something, too, if you don’t mind. I don’t usually like to bring up personal issues at work. I felt I should explain, though.’ It was the editorial director’s turn to stumble. ‘I’ve, uh, been doing rounds of IVF without any luck, which hasn’t helped my mood. It’s why I’ve been a little on edge lately.’ Her voice rose. ‘But I – I’ve finally had some success.’

Winnie reached a hand up to her throat. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful to hear. Congratulations.’ Strangely, she even felt a little misty-eyed. Who knew there was a heart beating beneath her boss’s snippy exterior?

‘Thanks.’ The steely tone had returned to Christa’s voice – she had never seemed one for emotional scenes, at least, not for long. ‘And, Winnie, before I let you go, a word of advice – refrain from doing silly things like kissing the executive chairman. You, of all people, can be a success without such tomfoolery. Keep up the good work for the next issue.’

With that, Christa vanished from the line, the dial tone resounding in Winnie’s ear. Winnie didn’t mind, though the abrupt end hadn’t given her a chance to explain that, actually, she wouldn’t be back for another edition. She’d made up her mind to go freelance – even when
Panache
had come calling with an offer for what would have once been her dream job. Things had changed.

Winnie had lined up some freelance work on the local vet’s newsletter and some PR work with a local wildlife conservation mob; she’d heard about the latter on the grapevine. For the moment, she’d tired of the ruthless fashion world. Her rent in Kingston wasn’t astronomical and she could survive on whatever scraps were thrown her way for now.

If the truth were known, she wasn’t really certain she
could
make a success of things. She could well end up old and alone covered in cat hair, but, hey, the fun was in the trying. Maybe she was a little bit of her mother’s daughter, after all. She might drift back to Adelaide eventually, but right now she was content with the quiet life. It felt like that’s what she needed.

Later, once she’d properly gathered her thoughts, she’d send Christa a carefully worded resignation email. The woman still scared her a little, but Winnie did feel excited about her future. As hazy as it was. Not being at
Beach Life
, of course, meant she wouldn’t work with Alex any more, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. But it was what it was.