The Shy Socialite

by Lindsay Armstrong

  She jumped up. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I really…’ She picked up her towel and flapped it vigorously. ‘I really got the feeling last night that things had gone sour somehow, and it might be best if I just go back to Brisbane, so—’

  ‘Holly.’ He wrested the towel from her. ‘Before you cover us completely with sand, if you still want to go after breakfast, fine. But I haven’t told you about my new project yet—my plans to open a zoo.’

  Holly went still and blinked at him. ‘A zoo?’ she repeated.

  ‘Yes, I’m planning one along the lines of the Western Plains zoo outside Dubbo, but up here on Haywire—that’s why I wanted you to see it. I’m thinking of an adopt-an-animal scheme as a means of publicizing it, as well as the whole endangered-species issue.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘What a great idea! Tell me more.’

  He shook his head. ‘You have to come to breakfast if you want any more details.’

  She clicked her tongue. ‘You’re extremely domineering, aren’t you?’

  He shrugged and handed her back her towel.

  He ordered breakfast to be served on the terrace of his suite.

  Holly sat outside waiting for it while he made and received some phone calls to do with the welfare of his rhinos, and she tried to work out a plan of action.

  Nothing had occurred to her by the time breakfast arrived. It was a ceremonial delivery. There was champagne and orange juice; there was a gorgeous fruit-platter with some of the unusual fruits found in the area, like rambutans and star-fruit; there was yoghurt and cereal, a mushroom omelette for her and eggs and bacon for him.

  The toast was wrapped in a linen napkin and there was a silver flask of coffee.

  ‘Thank you, we’ll help ourselves,’ Brett murmured, and the team of waiters withdrew discreetly.

  ‘I’ll never eat all this,’ Holly said ruefully.

  ‘Eat as much or as little as you like. I usually start with the main course then work my way backwards, with the fruit topped with a little yoghurt—as dessert, you might say.’

  ‘Really?’ Holly eyed him with some intrigue. ‘That’s a novel approach.’

  ‘Try it.’

  ‘I will. By the way, how long would we stay at Haywire, assuming we go?’

  He glanced at her. ‘Two or three days.’

  ‘You did mention your brother’s wedding.’

  He glanced at his watch to check the date. ‘That’s a week from today, here.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Uh-huh, but there are a few preliminaries in the form of balls, soirées, a reef trip et cetera.’

  Holly had to smile. ‘You don’t sound impressed.’

  ‘I’m not.’ He shrugged. ‘But he is my brother. OK—the zoo.’ He started on his eggs and bacon, and gave her the broad outline of his plans for the zoo—the size of the paddocks he intended to create, the animals he wanted and some of the difficulties involved.

  ‘Impressive,’ she said. ‘I think it’s a marvellous idea. But…’ She pushed away her plate and picked up a prickly purple rambutan, wondering at the same time how you were supposed to eat it. ‘But I’m not sure I’m the right person to do this. What I mean is, I’m not sure you think I am.’ She watched him keenly for a long moment.

  He reached for the coffee pot, poured two cups and pushed one towards her. ‘I do think you’re right for it. I think you have fresh, innovative views.’

  ‘But something changed last night,’ she persisted quietly.

  He looked out over the water and was silent for a time. Yes, Holly Golightly, he thought with an inward grimace, some things did change last night—one you’re not even aware of—but it’s the reason I’m not putting you on the next plane down south.

  He clenched his fist as he thought of the dinner last night. His sister-in-law-to-be had decided she might be able to mend some fences, so she’d produced Natasha Hewson at the dinner with the disclaimer that the wedding next weekend was going to be all Nat’s work of art, and they’d be bound to run into each other anyway.

  So I’m back in the bloody position, he thought, gritting his teeth, of using you, Ms Harding, to deflect my ex-fiancée. Not that he had any expectations that the two would ever meet, because he intended to whisk her off to Haywire as planned this morning before she went back to Brisbane. But as soon as Nat knew he was travelling with a girl—and he had no doubt she would know it!—she might get the message.

  Not exactly admirable behaviour, he mused rather grimly, but needs must when the devil drives.

  ‘It occurred to me last night,’ he said, switching his gaze suddenly back to Holly, ‘That I might be going into areas I don’t really want to go into—not any further, anyway.’

  Holly looked puzzled for a moment and she opened her mouth to say that it had all been pretty harmless, surely? But she changed her mind at the last moment. It was, of course, his prerogative, but it raised a question mark in her mind.

  ‘Um…’ She hesitated and put the rambutan down. ‘That’s up to you. I’m happy to go along with whatever you want to talk about.’

  ‘So.’ His lips twisted. ‘Are we on again?’

  Holly looked down and felt a strong pull towards taking the safe path—the one that would get her away from the dangerous elements of this man. From the undoubted attraction she felt towards him—her fascination with the mystique behind him. But at the same time her feeling was that Brett Wyndham could not be a long=term prospect for her.

  She thought briefly of the dinner party she’d witnessed last night and it struck her that, while the man himself embodied the kind of life she found fascinating, there had to be a dimension to his life that occupied another stratum—one she did not belong to—that of ultra-glamorous, gorgeously groomed, sleek and glossy women. Last night they’d all looked like models or film stars.

  Should that not make her feel safe with him, however? The fact that she patently didn’t look like a model or a film star…?

  She shrugged at last. ‘On. Again.’

  They exchanged a long, probing glance until finally he said, ‘I see. We’re still in the same boat.’

  She looked perplexed. ‘Boat?’

  ‘We can’t quite make each other out.’ He smiled, but a shade dryly. ‘All right. Are you ready to fly out shortly?’

  Holly hesitated momentarily, then nodded. She went away to change and collect her things.

  As she changed into her jeans, a sunshine-yellow singlet top, her denim jacket and her boots, she stared at her image in the mirror a couple of times and realized she looked and felt tense, and didn’t know how to deal with it.

  Here she was about to step out into the wide blue yonder with a man she hardly knew—a man she’d clashed with but at the same time felt attracted to—and her emotions were, accordingly, in a bit of a tangle.

  How was she going to revert to Holly Harding, journalist, on a very important mission?

  She was still preoccupied with this question as she drove down the Bruce Highway with Brett Wyndham, between sugar cane fields, towards the city of Cairns in its circle of hills and the airport.

  Brett piloted his own plane, she discovered later, still not quite able to believe what was happening to her. The plane was a trim little six-seater with a W on the tail.

  She was still pinching herself metaphorically as the nose of the plane rose and the speeding runway fell away. She was also trying to decide how to handle things between them. Common sense told her a matter-of-fact approach was the only way to go, but even that wasn’t going to be easy.

  She waited until they reached their cruising altitude then asked him how long the flight would be.

  He told her briefly.

  ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied.

  ‘Could you give me a run-down on the country we’re flying over and our destination?’

  He did so. They were flying west over the old mining towns of the Tablelands towards volcanic country famous for its lava tubes; then the grea
t, grassy lands of the savannah/gulf country, as in the Gulf of Carpentaria, where their destination lay.

  ‘Haywire?’ she repeated with a grin. ‘Where did it get its name?

  He grimaced. ‘No-one seems to know.’

  Holly glanced across at him. He looked thoroughly professional in a khaki bush-shirt and jeans, with his headphones on and his beautiful hands checking instruments.

  Professional and withdrawn from her, she contemplated as her gaze was drawn to her own hands clasped rather forlornly in her lap.

  Who was she to quibble about ‘professional and withdrawn’ being the order of the day? It was what she’d almost stipulated, wasn’t it? The only problem was she needed to get him to open up if she was going to get full value out of this trip. But—big but—there was a fine line between getting him to talk easily and naturally from a professional point of view and not finding herself loving his company at the same time.

  She shook her head and realized he was watching her.

  She coloured a little.

  ‘Some internal debate?’ he suggested.

  ‘You could say so. Where are we now?’ She looked out at the panorama of red sandy earth below them, with its sage-green vegetation, at the undulations and the space.

  ‘About halfway between Georgetown and Croydon. If you follow the Savannah Way it takes you on to Normanton and Karumba, on the gulf. Over that way,’ he pointed, ‘is Forsayth and Cobbold Gorge; it’s quite amazing. And those are the Newcastle Ranges to the east, and the sandstone escarpment to the west.’

  ‘It’s very remote,’ she said in awe. ‘And empty.’

  ‘Remote,’ he agreed. ‘Hot as hell in summer, but with quite a history, not only of cattle but gold rushes and gem fields. Georgetown has a gem museum and Croydon has a recreation of the life and times of the gold rush there.’

  ‘They look so small, though—Georgetown and Croydon,’ she ventured.

  He shrugged. ‘They are now. Last count, Georgetown had under three-hundred residents, but it’s the heart of a huge shire, and they’re both on the road to Karumba and the gulf, renowned for its fishing. With the army of grey nomads out and about these days, they get a lot of passing traffic.’

  Holly grinned. ‘Grey nomads’ was the term given to retired Australians who travelled the continent in caravans or camper vans or just with tents. It could almost be said it was the national retiree-pastime.

  Half an hour later they started to lose altitude and Brett pointed out the Haywire homestead. All Holly could see was a huddle of roofs and a grassy airstrip between white-painted wooden fences in a sea of scrub.

  Then he spoke into his VHF radio, and over some static a female voice said she’d walked the strip and it was in good order.

  ‘Romeo, coming in,’ he responded.

  Ten minutes later they made a slightly bumpy landing and rolled to a stop adjacent to the huddle of roofs Holly had seen from the air.

  A girl and a dog came through the gate in the airstrip fence to meet them.

  ‘Holly,’ Brett said, ‘This is Sarah. And this—’ he bent down to pat the red cattle-dog who accepted his ministrations with every sign of ecstasy ‘—is Bella.’

  ‘Welcome to Haywire, Holly,’ Sarah said in a very English accent.

  Holly blinked in surprise, and Brett and Sarah exchanged grins. ‘Sarah is backpacking her way around the world,’ Brett said. ‘How long have you been with us now?’ he asked the English girl.

  ‘Three months. I can’t seem to tear myself away!’ Sarah said ruefully. ‘Brett, since you’re here, I’m a bit worried about one of the mares in the holding paddock—she’s lame. Would you mind having a look at her? I could show Holly around a bit in the meantime.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll leave you to it.’

  Haywire homestead was a revelation to Holly in as much as it wasn’t a homestead at all in the accepted sense of the word. All the accommodation was in separate cabins set out on green lawns and inside a fence designed to keep wallabies, emus and other wildlife out, according to Sarah.

  All the other facilities were under one huge roof: lounge area, dining area, a small library-cum-games room et cetera. But the unique thing was, there were no outside walls.

  The floor was slate; there was a central stone-fireplace, and at intervals there were tubs of potted plants and artistically arranged pieces of dead wood, often draped with ferns.

  There was a long refectory table, comfortable cane-loungers and steamer chairs; beyond the fence and lawn, looking away from the rest of the compound, there was a lake alive with birds, reeds and water lilies.

  The whole area reminded Holly of a safari lodge, and she was most impressed.

  ‘Just one thing, what do you do when it rains or blows a gale?’ she asked Sarah ruefully.

  ‘Hasn’t happened to me yet,’ Sarah replied. ‘But there are roll-down blinds.’ She pointed them out. ‘And I believe they put up shutters if they get a cyclone. Otherwise it lets the air flow through when it’s really hot. Here’s the kitchen.’

  The kitchen was not visible from the rest of the area; it was also open on one side, yet had all mod cons. There were, Holly learnt, several sources of power on Haywire: a generator for electricity and gas for the hot-water system. There were still some old-fashioned combustion stoves for heating water in case other means failed. And there was a satellite phone as well as a VHF radio for communications.

  There was an above-ground swimming pool surrounded by emerald lawn and shaded by trees.

  Sarah explained that she was actually a nurse, but she enjoyed cooking, she loved the outback and she loved horses, so a stint as a housekeeper at Haywire suited her down to the ground.

  ‘Mind you, most often there’s only me, Bella, the horses and a few stockmen here. We don’t get to see the family that often. Actually, I’m surprised to see Brett. I thought he’d be down at Palm Cove with the rest of them.’

  ‘We were—he was,’ Holly said, and intercepted a curious little glance from Sarah. She found herself thinking, I knew this would happen! Probably no passable woman is safe in Brett Wyndham’s company without being thought of as his lover. ‘I’m actually working with him,’ she added.

  ‘So she is,’ the man in question agreed as he strolled up to them.

  They both turned.

  ‘The mare has a stone bruise in her off-fore. I’ve relieved the pressure, but keep an eye on her or get Kane to,’ he added to Sarah. ‘Are they coming in tonight? Kane,’ he said for Holly’s benefit, ‘Is station foreman, and he has two offsiders.’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘They’ve got a problem with a fence on the northern boundary. That’s miles away, so they decided to camp out overnight.’

  ‘OK, then it’s just us. I’m going to take Holly for a drive; we’ll be back before dark. Incidentally, what’s for dinner?’

  Sarah grinned her infectious grin. ‘Would you believe? Roast beef!’

  ‘Standard cattle-station joke—roast beef for dinner,’ Brett said to Holly as they climbed into a sturdy, high-chassis four-wheel-drive utility vehicle. Holly had brought her camera.

  She laughed, but said, ‘Look, I’m really surprised at how few people you have working here. From memory you run ten-thousand head of cattle; that sounds like a huge herd to me, and Haywire covers thousands of square kilometers.’ Holly said.

  ‘That’s because you probably don’t know much about Brahman and Droughtmaster cattle.’

  ‘I know nothing,’ Holly confessed.

  ‘Well—’ he swung the wheel to avoid an anthill ‘—Brahmans come down from four Indian breeds; they were first imported here from the USA in 1933. Droughtmasters are a Brahman cross, developed here. They’ve all adapted particularly to this part of the world for a variety of reasons. They’re heat-and-parasite resistant, they’re mobile, good foragers and they can survive on poor grass in droughts. They have a highly developed digestive system that provides efficient feed-conversion.’

  ‘They sound amazing.’ />
  ‘There’s more,’ he said with a grin. ‘The fact that they’re resistant to or tolerant of parasites means they don’t require chemical intervention, so they’re clean and green,’ he said humorously. ‘The cows are good mothers; they produce plenty of milk and they have small calves, so birthing is usually easy, and they’re renowned for protecting their calves. All of that—’ he waved a hand ‘—means they require minimum management. In answer to your question, that’s why we don’t need an army of staff.’

  Holly looked around at the now undulating countryside they were driving through. It was quite rocky, she noticed, and dotted with anthills as well as spindly trees and scrub. The grass was long and spiky.

  ‘But this is only one of your stations, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, we have two more, roughly in this area, and one in the Northern Territory.’ He drew up and pointed. ‘There you are—Brahmans.’

  Holly stared at the cream and mainly brown cattle with black points. They were gathered around a dam. They had big droopy ears, sloe eyes, dewlaps and medium humps. ‘They look so neat and smooth.’

  ‘It’s that smooth coat and their highly developed sweat glands that help them cope with the heat.’

  ‘Do they come in any other colours?’

  ‘Yes, grey with black points, but we don’t have any greys here on Haywire.’

  ‘It’s so interesting!’ She took some pictures then folded her arms and watched the cattle intently.

  Brett Wyndham watched her for a long moment.

  In her yellow singlet top, her jeans and no-nonsense shoes, she didn’t look at all out of place in the landscape. In her enthusiasm, she looked even more apt for the setting; with her pale skin, that cloud of fair curls and no make-up, she was different and rather uniquely attractive.

  He thought of her in her swimming costume only this morning: very slender, yes, but leggy with a kind of coltish grace that he’d found quite fascinating. Then again, in all her incarnations he’d found her fascinating…