Helen regarded her for a while. Perhaps she’d thought she’d cry, or try to get out of it. She’d probably had that quite often – people who assumed she could magically erase charges, or alter the facts into something so palatable that they never need answer to the law. But Cate was resolute and eventually Helen nodded.
‘An early plea in your case is probably a good idea,’ she said. ‘I don’t see any areas in which you disagree with the facts as they are presented by the police, and an early plea will mean a twenty-five per cent reduction in sentencing. You should know, however, that you’re entitled to make the state prove its case against you. I can test the evidence —’
‘No need,’ Cate said.
‘What were the circumstances of the accident, Cate? Do you remember if you were on medication, or if you were particularly tired for some reason, or upset about something? Maybe there was a reason you became distracted. We need to work on plea mitigation – I need to find a way to limit your sentence, by giving, not excuses, but reasons you found yourself involved in the accident that night.’
‘I don’t know. I may have been tired, it was late. But I wasn’t upset – we’d been having a great time, everything was good, we were headed to a party.’
‘Well, you’re young, you come from a solid family background and you have no previous record. I’d say we can put those things forward in your defence.’
‘Okay. Good.’ Cate nodded. ‘I really do appreciate your help, Helen,’ she said. ‘But I know how serious this is, and I can’t find it in me to fight the charges when it’s no more than I deserve.’
‘You do realise the maximum penalty for this offence is ten years in prison?’ Helen asked.
Cate nodded once more.
‘Well, I’m sorry you’ve lost your friend, Cate,’ Helen replied. ‘I see a lot of mistakes come through my door, and not many of them are easy fixes.’
Cate sighed. ‘I certainly don’t expect that it will be.’
Helen seemed satisfied. She smiled and stood. ‘We’ll do our best. Let’s wait and see what happens, eh?’
Cate stood as well. She couldn’t get out of there fast enough. She thanked Helen and caught the lift back down to St Georges Terrace and walked, without wondering where she was going. It was a clear day, and by the time she felt ready to stop, she was in Kings Park, overlooking the city. She sat for a while, feeling sick. It was a nightmare. And she was never going to wake up.
When Cate finally got home, she decided it was definitely time to go out. Bookclub was a great bar. It was pretty small and located above a Salvation Army store. It had large oval windows and the walls were built-in shelves for thousands of old books the patrons were free to browse while they waited for their friends, waited for Miss Right, or just waited to get lucky. On the long reading tables and small café tables were low lamps, giving the room a warm yellow glow and bathing the drinkers in sepia, sending them back in time to happier, simpler days. The crowd was a wonderful combination of hipsters, yuppies and older people, all sharing champagne and cocktails. This had been Cate’s favourite bar for a long time. It was probably embarrassing how much time and money she had spent here, but she hadn’t actually felt embarrassed about anything much, until recently.
Her girlfriends were ready to go. Always. She had texted Amelie, Saskia and Madonna just before she had jumped in the shower. It was short notice, but someone would be free. She wanted a decent drink, and she wanted music, and lots of people to share it with, who didn’t really know who she was. It had been a strange, crap week and she needed to get her bearings. Her phone buzzed on the bathroom counter, and as she climbed out of the shower she saw that it was Alex, asking if she wanted to meet him at the pub. Maybe. She texted back that she couldn’t make it to the pub, and then she told him about Mac. Her phone buzzed again. And again. And again.
The girls were going to be there at nine o’clock and they had a few friends who were coming as well. It was going to be quite a party. She breathed in and out. No more dead dogs, sick little old ladies or swagmen. She thought of Ida’s hopeful face, and how hard it was going to be to let her down, and she thought about Alex and whether she missed him. She felt the weight of her parents’ disapproval and tightly held disappointment, and she felt the pull of Henry, from wherever he was, watching her flounder about with eyes as still as dark pools of water.
She lay on her bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, trying to feel the way she used to, then gave up and began looking for something to wear. She was going out, right now, because life was short and you didn’t know when you were going to lose your turn. She dropped her towel, grabbed a little black dress covered in lace with almost no back, and a set of silver heels. Then she added deep red to her neckline with ropes of red stones, smudged lipstick on her lips and applied lashings of mascara. She blasted her hair, tied it in a low, rather dishevelled chignon, and chose a tiny handbag made of sparkles. It was time to meet her friends; it was time to meet herself again.
The bar was alive with faces she almost recognised. None of them really knew who she was, and even fewer cared. It was nice to be one of the crowd for a while. No one wanted her to bake a scone or fix a garden, and none of them cared if somebody she knew had died. She felt the buzz of the crowd lift her. She went to the bar to order a drink while she waited for her friends and heard their familiar voices.
‘Hey! Hottie in the black dress! Come over here and kiss my face!’ She turned around, grinning, and found her old girlfriends. They were pretty, groomed and looking around at the rest of the patrons like they owned the room. Madonna, Amelie and Saskia were still friends from school, still hanging out together, still loving life.
Nothing really seemed to bother them for long, not even Brigit. They had been sad and shocked for a few weeks, but maybe they were stronger than her, and they had coped better than she had. But then they hadn’t been in the car. She smiled at the group of them and hugged each one briefly.
‘How the hell have you all been?’ she demanded. ‘And why have I seen no one out at the farm, helping me do stuff to sheep and dirt?’
They laughed and pulled exaggerated faces. ‘Oh! Yuck! Do you think I can wear this,’ Amelie gestured to her short red dress, ‘in a sheep paddock?’ She held up her cocktail; it was pink. ‘I don’t think so, Catie!’
‘So, tell us all about how backward and boring it is out on the farm,’ said Madonna. ‘Do they have all the TV channels? Are there actual shops there? Are the farmer boys hot?’
Cate thought about Alex. Yep, he was handsome and, she supposed, hot. ‘There is this one farmer I’ve had dinner with – great cook – his name is Alex.’ There were small yips of interest. ‘And he’s really lovely. He just texted, actually, to invite me to the local pub.’
‘And?’ Saskia prompted her. ‘You like him? Are you going to get married and live on a farm and pop out a couple of puppies?’
Cate laughed as a bottle of champagne arrived and they all filled their glasses.
‘Definitely not in the short term,’ she promised. ‘Now, give me all your gossip! I feel like I’ve been away too long!’
The girls were happy to fill her in on their lives. Madonna was loving her job as a marketing executive for a fashion line, Saskia was bored at the events company where she worked, and Amelie was about to take time off from her work as a dental technician to train in pharmaceutical sales. There were so many stories about men she lost track. Some were from their past, and some, they hoped, were from their future.
‘He’s got an amazing job with Gordon and Riley in town,’ Madonna said. ‘I told him I’d be here tonight, so I hope he shows up.’
‘I know I shouldn’t go back for more, but he’s so, so hot, I just don’t see the point in not getting laid if I don’t have anyone else on the horizon.’
‘So I got it in both sizes, and I got Amelie to come around and check it out, and when I said does my bum look big in this, she said . . .’
It was easy to laugh with th
em. She totally remembered how. She could pretend to do anything; it was second nature. The crowd was growing larger, and the room was filled with books and beautiful guys and girls, and the music was starting low, but it was gaining on her, like the whole bar was slowly turning on an old vinyl record.
‘Now, I think I owe you all a drink!’ she announced. There was a cheer and she headed for the bar, smiling at a group of well-groomed businessmen who were happy to see a bunch of scantily clad women consume alcohol like they didn’t want to know how they were going to get home. Good luck, boys. She could hear the excitement in her friends’ voices, like the party was just getting started. It was familiar, and, as she glanced down at her teeny black dress, she knew how to do this. She was there to see her old friends and she was going to look good while she did it. Saskia joined her, realising Cate wouldn’t be able to carry so many drinks.
‘OMG,’ she muttered. ‘Don’t look now, but freaking Superman is totally staring at you.’
Cate looked – of course she looked. Holy crap. There was an amazing-looking man standing at the bar watching her like he knew stuff about her she didn’t even know.
His hair was very short and dark, his eyes deep khaki and bronze. His strong jaw carved out the bottom half of his handsome face, and she could see he really knew how to wear a suit. It fitted him like a very snug and lucky glove. He was wearing a crisp white shirt with no tie, and she could glimpse a hint of skin at the top of his chest, but only because she was looking so hard. He didn’t look away. She stared back. What? He looked familiar. Did she know him? She glanced again at the body and at the amazing face. Nope. She’d remember. Saskia nudged her gently and moved back. He was coming over.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he said, his voice soft, and his large, warm body slightly too close to hers. The breath that had been in her throat leapt. What? She looked harder, and her whole body blushed. Henry. The Jolly Swagman was gone, and in his place was – Patrick.
‘Um, I’m just . . .’ Her brain had lost a lot of blood. It really wasn’t its fault if it wasn’t up to conversation. She began negotiations with it to maintain control of her feet and hands.
He gestured to the barman, bought another bottle of champagne and sent it back with Saskia, who was grinning like a schoolgirl.
Henry’s eyes were on Cate like he had just kissed her, and the memory was sweet.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
He feigned innocence. ‘I wanted to see you. In your natural environment.’
‘But –’ She gestured at him helplessly. ‘How did you find me?’
He smiled ruefully. ‘I went to your house and bullshitted your parents. Said we’d arranged to meet and I was Patrick the mining consultant, and how sure I was you’d mentioned me.’
Man, he was so – beautiful. She glanced at his hands and thought of them shearing, skinning rabbits, burying Mac, stroking her hair.
He sensed her departure and leaned in. ‘Cate? What can I do to make you talk to me? Buy you a lousy drink?’
Her brain had been undressing bits of him and didn’t have time to get his gear back on, so she shut up for a few seconds. Was this really the same guy?
‘Uh, okay,’ she said dazedly. Henry. Not beardy.
He nodded at her as if she was totally fine, and ordered a whisky sour for himself, then turned to her, sizing her up.
‘What?’ she said. ‘What?’
He was amused by her; his whole face was enjoying itself. ‘And she’ll have a sidecar.’ He was almost smirking now because she was still standing there like an idiot.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘And what makes you think I want a sidecar?’
He paid the barman and glanced back at her. ‘You’ll like it, I promise. And if you don’t, I’ll keep buying you lousy drinks until we find one you do.’
She smiled at him. She had kind of missed him, in a bizarre way. ‘I’m just glad you’re not making me drink beer again.’
‘You were getting good at it.’
‘I had a good teacher.’
He appeared not to hear her. He was staring. ‘Christ, you’re beautiful,’ he muttered, looking her up and down, his hazel eyes falling across her face, down to her shoulders, her hint of cleavage and the shape of her body. She was glad she’d worn the lace dress. It was now officially her lucky frock.
‘So,’ he said, drink sparkling confidently in his hand. ‘This is where you hunt.’
She sipped her sidecar. It was good, damn it. She sipped again. ‘No, this is where I come to have a few drinks with my girlfriends.’
He glanced pointedly around at the well-dressed men sizing up the skirt lengths around them. ‘Really.’
‘Anyway, I hardly think I’m the most interesting topic of conversation,’ she replied. ‘I think you owe me a really good explanation about your – everything. I can’t help but notice you’ve had a slight trim?’ Sidecars. Who knew? Maybe another. Her heart was beating and flipping about. She wasn’t sure what they put in them, but if the word got out . . . She downed it in one.
‘Can I get you another drink?’ he asked. ‘I can see I’m not the only victim here willing to keep paying for the privilege of enjoying your company.’
‘Firstly, that sounds sort of prostitutey, and secondly, okay. If – and I know this sounds creepy – you let me touch your face.’
He stayed very still for a few moments, looking at her in what might have been surprise. His eyes were on hers, staring deep into her, and she didn’t know who he was. Henry or Patrick.
Without even glancing away, he made a brief gesture with his hand to the barman, who was standing nearby, and in moments he was mixing two more drinks. Man, he was fluent in sheepdog and barman. What were the chances? He slowly reached out and took her right hand. She stopped breathing as a jolt leapt through her. He was so warm. He lifted her hand to his face and she tentatively placed her fingers on his cheek. It was silk. She felt like a guy from the nineteenth century glimpsing a well-turned ankle.
She slowly let her hand rest on his face, cupping his jaw in her palm. His eyes were burning into her and she wondered if his heart was pounding as fast. He reached up and pressed her touch into him, then rubbed her hand up and down slowly.
Not. One. Hair.
She moved to his smooth, hot neck, past his pulse, which was jumping, giving him away. She traced her fingers down the skin on his throat, then brought them up again. Her mouth was open in either concentration or slack-jawed amazement. Apparently their drinks were ready, and the barman was standing by patiently during show and tell, but Patrick had long forgotten he existed. Ever. She cleared her throat. It was too tight to speak and she had to wake it up.
‘Uh, thanks. There’s some other stuff I kind of wanted to do to your face, but it might get weird.’
‘I’d be okay with things getting a bit weird,’ he murmured.
She smiled weakly and noticed her drink. ‘Pay the nice man or I’m leaving,’ she whispered.
He flipped out another fifty without looking away for a second.
‘Okay, okay! That’s enough of that!’ It was the girls, and they were out for gossip, or blood, whatever it took.
Henry turned to take them in, and she wondered what he saw. If he was irritated that their conversation had been interrupted, he hid it well.
‘Henry, these are my friends, Saskia, Madonna and Amelie.’
He shook hands and greeted the girls, who made pointed sideways glances at Cate.
‘So, we’re confused,’ announced Amelie. ‘Are you the hot farmer who has a lovely home and is a great cook?’
Henry’s brows raised slightly. ‘No. I’m the swagman who lives in the shed.’ There was a pause as they glanced at each other. No one had mentioned a swagman. There weren’t any, anymore. They laughed.
Cate knew she was blushing. She just wasn’t sure why. Was it because Patrick-Henry had just given her a very brief killing look, or because parts of her body were still trying to screw his bra
ins out? Her drink was cold. She looked at it and considered rolling it over her cheek to cool down her brain. She couldn’t because he was watching her carefully, and he’d notice. She raised her glass to him instead. In case you were wondering, these are the girls.
‘So, Henry, who lives in the shed. What do you do?’
‘Mostly I’m a farmhand.’ He glanced at Cate. ‘Although I hunt occasionally.’
‘Really,’ Amelie purred. ‘Sounds so fascinating,’ she said without any interest in hunting at all.
‘I enjoy it. And you? What do you do?’
Amelie sipped her drink. ‘I’m a dental technician. I figured everyone’s got teeth.’
‘That sounds like interesting work,’ he answered.
‘Are you single?’ she blurted.
‘Yes, I am,’ he replied.
Cate downed her drink and he turned to her without missing a beat. ‘Would you like another?’ he asked solicitously.
‘No thank you.’
The girls watched avidly.
‘But you and Cate are – friends?’ Saskia liked to know what was going on.
‘Uh, yes, we’re friends.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you look like such a man. I bet you don’t have female friends.’ They all regarded him. She had a point.
‘I’m making an exception.’
‘So – what do you like so much about our Cate?’ Madonna demanded. ‘She’s a very special girl, you know!’
‘I know,’ he replied, watching her.
She blushed. Oh.
‘And?’ prompted Saskia. ‘What brings you to Perth?’
‘Curiosity.’
The girls glanced at each other. Interesting.
‘And I had to visit a friend.’
‘Oh, there’re more of you?’ Amelie asked hopefully.
He smiled. ‘No, she’s eighty-four and not very well. I’m worried about her.’ A couple of the girls made clucking noises, as if to say How sweet, let’s move on, sick old people really kill my buzz. Patrick-Henry winked at Cate and took another sip of his drink, while she wondered what to do about him.
The Drifter Page 17
