The Sugar Dragon

by Victoria Gordon

  Where Verna had expected a cool if not distant reception, Madeline Cunningham rushed to throw her arms about Verna’s neck with a squeal of delight.

  ‘Dragon Lady!’ she cried, then pulled away to hold the astonished Verna at arm’s length. ‘Oh, Con, you should be shot! Imagine pinning a horrible reputation on somebody as lovely as this! And you, Verna, should shoot him. I’ll even help you.’

  She turned then and ordered Con to carry her luggage into the house, since he’d obviously recovered completely with such a beautiful nurse, and when Verna tried to pick up the laundry, Madeline waved her aside and picked up the basket herself.

  ‘You’ve already done far too much,’ she said. ‘And too soon, as well. Typical of Con to make himself sick just to get out of having to nurse you. He can be the most selfish man you’ve ever met — but I’m sure you already know that, after what you’ve been through.’

  If you’re going to malign me you can just go back to your motel,’ Con retorted. ‘And you can go too, unless you’ve remembered my steak,’ he glowered at Verna.

  ‘Oh, get in the house before you make yourself sick again!’ she replied with unexpected venom. ‘I’ve had just about enough of you today already.’

  ‘Yay, Dragon Lady. One for you,’ laughed Madeline, and Con, surprisingly, retreated with a chastened look on his face.

  They were halfway up the footpath when Sheba came charging around the corner, and Verna shouted an involuntary warning as the dog headed directly for Madeline. She could visualise the reaction if Sheba did her usual thing of rearing up to plant muddy paws on that immaculate dress.

  ‘You stay down and I’ll see you in a minute,’ Madeline commanded, and when the dog obeyed immediately, Verna wondered if she or Sheba was the most surprised.

  Con had already deposited the suitcases when the girls reached the front door, and Madeline immediately handed him the laundry basket and knelt down to receive the ecstatic welcome of Sheba with an equally warm one of her own. ‘Oh, I’ve heard about you, I have,’ she said gaily. ‘And you’re even prettier than I imagined.’

  All of which gained Madeline a friend for life, Verna thought, admitting at the same time that her own reaction was hardly what she’d expected. She’d been prepared for almost anything but the immediate flow of friendliness and warmth that had passed like a spark between she and Madeline. She couldn’t help but like her, yet her feelings somehow went deeper than that. There was an unspoken bond that had existed with that first, unexpected embrace, and Verna found it difficult to reconcile that with her feelings for Con Bradley, who would marry this woman despite her own love for him.

  ‘Oh, how absolutely lovely! How fantastically perfect for a honeymoon,’ came a glad cry from just inside the door, and Verna realised that Madeline had finished greeting Sheba and taken her first look at Con’s house.

  Verna began to tremble, and she had to fight back the tears that sprang almost to the surface as she leaned against the door jamb to counter the sudden weakness in her legs. She simply couldn’t face any more of this, she was thinking, when Madeline turned and dashed over to grab at her shoulders.

  ‘Oh, Verna,’ she cried, and her voice was alive with genuine compassion. ‘You poor girl, you look as if you’re about to faint.’

  She had her arms around Verna’s shoulders by this time, and was helping her towards the nearest sofa when Con shouted from the kitchen, ‘Who’s going to cook my steak, and when? I’m hungry enough to eat it raw.’

  ‘Well, you can damned well eat it raw,’ Madeline shot back angrily. ‘Con Bradley, you’re a selfish animal! You just come in here and look at this poor woman. She’s absolutely exhausted from looking after you, and all you can do is think about your own damned stomach!’

  And then to Verna, ‘You just sit here a minute while I find the makings, and I’ll mix you up a special drink. And don’t worry about the bottomless pit; he can just wait until we’re ready to feed him. Men are all the same. None of them are worth the powder to blow them to hell, and much as I love him dearly, that one will make the worst husband in the world.’

  Con had returned to the room, and he too looked with obvious concern at Verna’s pale face and dark-shadowed eyes. Tm sorry, love,’ he said gently. ‘I should have realised how weak you still are, but I thought ... oh, never mind. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Yes, you can get her a drink, and me too while you’re at it,’ Madeline interjected. ‘And can I presume that at least here I’m no longer on show?’

  At Con’s nod, Madeline said, ‘Thank goodness! Won’t be a minute,’ and streaked for the staircase as Con moved towards the kitchen to mix their drinks. Verna simply lay back against the arm of the sofa, wondering how she could possibly survive any more of having to share their happiness at the expense of her own.

  Madeline was back before the drinks arrived, and Verna’s eyes widened at the transformation. From high-fashion model to country waif in what seemed like seconds, she thought. Madeline had twisted her hair into a ponytail and discarded her fashion clothing for an ancient T-shirt emblazoned, ‘Kissing a Smoker is Like Licking an Ashtray’ and the oldest pair of still-useable jeans that Verna had ever seen. The change made Madeline look about sixteen, but it served only to enhance the sheer, vibrant human warmth of her. She was such an obviously genuine, loving person that Verna felt she couldn’t help loving her even if she was to be the cause of Verna’s own heartbreak.

  And with the change of clothing came an unexpected air of authority. ‘You are not to move,’ she said to Verna. ‘Or you either,’ to Con as he entered with their drinks. ‘I shall go and prepare massive quantities of steak and whatever else I can find. And when we’re finished eating, you will both go to bed while I do the dishes. I’ve made up your beds already. And no arguments,’ as both Verna and Con started to speak. ‘Now where’s my drink?’

  The rest of the day passed in a blur of emotion mixed with alcohol for Verna. After two drinks and a huge meal of steak and chips, she still felt ready to collapse, and was unable to argue when Madeline insisted on helping her upstairs to bed again.

  ‘I just hope you don’t have a relapse,’ Madeline muttered along with a rather obscene comment about the quality of Verna’s earlier nursing by Con. ‘He should never have allowed you to get involved with that laundry, and it’ll cost him dinner for both of us tomorrow night,’ she vowed. Verna was too dopey to argue, and was asleep moments after Madeline left the room.

  By morning Verna was fully recovered, especially after the lavish breakfast Madeline prepared. But when she so much as mentioned going home, she was shouted down by both of them.

  ‘You’re even worse than he is,’ Verna said to Madeline in her surprise at the younger woman’s autocratic manner.

  ‘And you’d be a lot better off if you were tougher with him yourself,’ was the cheeky reply. ‘It’s just like training a dog; you’ve got to let them know who’s boss or you’ll have nothing but trouble.’

  The outrageousness of the statement forced Verna to glance across at Con, who was studiously ignoring their conversation. But he looked up at her with real surprise when she murmured, ‘And here I thought all you needed was to be smarter than the dog.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The next few days passed in a blur of activity for Verna as she took up the reins of work again at work and tried to reconcile herself to losing Con for ever. Reg Williamson, unknowingly, helped a great deal. He’d made such a hash of things during her absence, totally depleting her stock of feature stories and fillers, that Verna had to work flat out just to get the paper on the street that week.

  Wednesday morning, which should have been a relatively relaxed follow-up to the hectic Tuesday night’s exercise of putting the paper to bed, was in fact even busier than Tuesday had been. And Verna’s own inner turmoil didn’t help. She was short and abrupt in her dealings with Dave and Jennifer, driving them just as unmercifully as she pushed herself.

  She wasn’t even fully re
covered from her bout of sickness, she thought, or else it was her mental state that made her so constantly tired and irritable. She slept twelve and thirteen hours a night, but woke up tired and dispirited and feeling as if she’d never even been to bed.

  The physical effects were so obvious that Madeline chastised her severely when the lovely young model walked into the office unexpectedly just before noon on Thursday.

  ‘My God, Verna, you look like death warmed over,’ she exclaimed. ‘This won’t do at all, my girl. The way you’re going you’ll be a zombie by Friday night, and we certainly can’t have that.’

  She literally dragged Verna out of the office, her takeover attitude being more than sufficient to overcome any objections.

  ‘We’re going to have a delightful lunch, and then we’re going to buy you a dress for Friday night, so bring your cheque-book. And don’t argue with me, because I just won’t have it,’ she added. ‘I’ve got enough trouble with Con; I don’t want any hassles from you as well.’

  But despite the pressure, Verna was able during lunch to avoid Madeline’s insistent probing about her wan, unhealthy appearance. She couldn’t possibly tell this woman, whom she had come to really like and admire, the reason for her condition. That she was dying inside because Madeline was about to marry the man Verna loved. So she lied, and for once did it effectively enough that Madeline accepted the excuse of a slave-driving publisher and a useless, frustrating advertising department.

  But Verna had no such luck at diverting Madeline about the shopping expedition. Madeline dismissed Verna’s initial objections and dragged her through every dress shop and boutique in the town. And her views on Verna’s clothing sense were less than complimentary.

  ‘Just because you’re a working girl, it doesn’t mean you have to dress like a prissy little old spinster librarian,’ she said, rejecting out of hand a dress that Verna herself thought of as being rather daring and chic. ‘It’s a rag!’ Madeline scoffed, caring not a whit if the shop clerk heard her or not.

  In the end, Verna was numb with the effort of following Madeline around, and when the younger woman’s choice was finally made, she barely had the strength to tender an objection. Not that it would have mattered. ‘If you don’t take this I’m going to have it myself,’ Madeline decreed, ‘and it’s absolutely perfect for you.’

  The gown in question was a very simple design in soft, clinging jersey of palest green. Slit to the thigh along one side, it crossed her bosom to fasten over her left shoulder, leaving most of her back bared and exposing enough cleavage, as Madeline put it, ‘to spark interest in any man who hasn’t died without realising it.’

  Actually it was no more daring than many of Verna’s halter-necks, but something about it gave an impression of such sophistication and style that there was just no comparison. This was a really sexy dress.

  ‘And so it should be, because on Friday night we’re going to stand this town on its ear,’ Madeline laughed. ‘Don’t forget we’ve got all these spunky little Valentine Queens to contend with — all of them young and nubile and flaunting everything they’ve got. Competition’s a wonderful thing — after you’ve won!’

  Easy enough for you to say, Verna thought to herself, and then upbraided herself for being so uncharitable. It wasn’t Madeline’s fault; Madeline had been first in the running long before Verna had even appeared on the scene. And she simply could not allow Madeline to realise just how deeply involved Verna herself had become in the whole affair.

  But just once I’d like it to be me that’s the winner, she thought. Even if this time is the only one that will ever really matter to me.

  She managed to show a semblance of pleasure at Madeline’s choice and her help, disregarding entirely the rather exorbitant cost of the pale green dress. If I’m going to go out, it might as well be in a blaze of glory, she mused, and knew in her heart that with this dress, she wouldn’t be unnoticed at the ball.

  It wasn’t quite so easy at six o’clock on the Friday night, as Verna put the finishing touches on her make-up and swirled herself before the mirror. The sense of daring that her new dress conveyed certainly didn’t match her own mood, which was sliding closer to the bottomless pit of depression with each passing moment,

  Madeline had rung during die day to establish that Con would be picking Verna up early and taking her back to his house, where all three could have a drink or two and discuss their strategy for the night’s judging. And although Verna had wanted to refuse, the words didn’t get out in time, and now she was stuck.

  ‘I’ll just have to get through it somehow, she thought, shivering slightly at the thought of it all. She’d been psyching herself up all week for this evening, determined to somehow make it through the ball without breaking down and doing something either stupid or totally revealing.

  Not too much to drink, eat as much as possible, and avoid Con Bradley like the plague. That’s the ticket. But I can’t be impolite, or start a fight or anything, she thought. It simply wouldn’t be fair to spoil Madeline’s grand night, not to mention her future ... her future; Madeline’s future with Con Bradley. Verna’s own future had already been determined in her own mind. She could see herself as a forty-year-old spinster, probably as hard-bitten as some of the older female journalists she’d known in her career. Old and dried out and twisted and bitter, almost as dominantly masculine as their male counterparts. And while Verna knew she’d never sink quite so low, she knew also that she’d probably never know the happiness she so desperately wanted, the love, the sharing ...

  A soft knock at the door brought her to alert attention, and she drew a deep breath and steeled herself for the night ahead.

  When her heart gave only a curious little lurch at the sight of Con Bradley, looking handsome as the finest of movie idols in his midnight blue tuxedo, Verna thought she just might survive. She hadn’t broken into tears as he helped her into the car, nor even at the brightening of his eyes as he looked at her appreciatively.

  The short drive to his large house was completed in silence, with Verna concentrating her attention out of her side window as she forced herself into a calm, almost serene acceptance of the evening ahead.

  Madeline greeted them at the door with cold drinks already prepared, and Verna’s first reaction after their hugs of greeting was that Madeline should be drinking something warm, not cold. The dark-haired model’s dress was, as Verna would have expected, in the latest of fashion — the latest Sydney fashion, which made it almost shocking by Bundaberg standards. It wasn’t a style Verna could have worn, and although she had seen one or two comparable garments during their Thursday tour, she had also been told by one sales clerk that not one had yet been sold because nobody had quite the nerve to wear such a garment in Bundaberg. And she could understand why.

  But on Madeline it was breathtaking, because the years of modelling had given her such poise and assurance that Verna felt Madeline could have walked into tonight’s ball in a towel and somehow got away with it.

  There proved to be little discussion necessary about their role that night. Madeline dismissed Con’s part in the affair with a casual gesture and a throaty, purring laugh. ‘He’s just there for convention’s sake,’ she said. ‘He gets to peer at the young lovelies while we decide what’s really important. It’ll be just like this afternoon.’

  Sipping at her tall drink of lemonade, Verna silently hoped it would be some improvement over the afternoon. Since Con had manipulated Reg Williamson into being involved in the ball, things had changed to put the informal judging the afternoon of the big event instead of the day before. It hadn’t mattered all that much to the judges, but for the two dozen young girls involved in the quest, it had meant a hectic schedule of informal judging mixed with hair and beauty parlour appointments. Most of them would be arriving at the ball without a decent meal inside them, Verna thought, and she prayed — for their sakes — that nobody fainted or collapsed under the obvious strain.

  And I just hope that I don’t,
either, she thought, staring down into her glass. But I won’t! I simply mustn’t.

  She was dragged back into the conversation a moment later when Madeline suddenly put on a terribly serious look and leaned forward to place a hand on Verna’s wrist.

  ‘There is one thing that I must ask you, Verna,’ she began slowly. ‘Not about tonight, it’s much more important than that. Now I realise that we haven’t known each other very long, but I have found, and I think you have too, a sort of instant rapport. You’ve become sort of like the sister I’ve never had, and you’re very dear to me ...’

  Oh lord, Verna thought. Oh ... no! She’s going to ask me something about the wedding. I know it. Oh please, Madeline ... stop! Please don’t do this to me ...

  "... and I’ve thought about this very seriously this past week, honestly I have,’ Madeline continued, her voice and over-serious attitude forcing Verna’s attention despite Verna’s inner desire to get up and run, to run where she might never hear the rest of it.

  ‘I want you to be my bridesmaid. Now I know it sounds awfully sudden and I realise you’re surprised, but please, Verna, please consider it.’

  Consider it! Consider the absolute, the ultimate blow to her entire being? Verna couldn’t consider it. She couldn’t even imagine thinking about it, yet she did. She saw a vision in her mind — herself standing there with a hollow, empty smile to match her hollow, empty soul. Smiling to everyone as Madeline married the only man Verna could ever love. She wanted to scream out her frustration, the pain that raged through her like an electric shock. She wanted to rise from her chair and flee, anywhere. Anywhere that she could get away from this entire situation, this blatant killing of her soul.