by Carla Caruso
But first, a detour. The sound of waves crashing nearby beckoned. In under a minute, she had a rock-star park by the beach, which would never happen in Bondi. Even getting public transport to Bondi was a headache – couple that with the hours spent on hair and make-up merely to appear worthy of being among the beautiful people and just getting there was a full day commitment. But she didn’t need her bejewelled Camilla Franks kaftan or fake tan in Kingston. Save for a lone figure walking their dog and a kayaker on the water in the distance, the stretch of sand was as desolate as elsewhere. Holding her sandals in one hand, Winnie ran down to the beach, avoiding the brown seaweed piled up near the jetty. She preferred her seaweed on vegetarian sushi rolls. The powdery white granules of sand crunched between her toes. Dropping into a cross-legged position, she breathed in deep, enjoying the energy swirling around her. The glittering sky and ocean seemed to overlap, filling every inch of her vision. It felt a little odd to be at a beach not far from farmland, as though she was perched at the edge of the world. And while there was no sign of a paper cocktail umbrella or stripey sun lounger, one thing she could get used to about Kingston – if only temporarily – was living so close to the water.
For a millisecond, the ocean’s hue reminded her of the attractive peepers on that fisherman from earlier, but she quickly brushed the thought away. No man – particularly one prone to scowling – was going to keep her from her goal. Not now. Her vision board’s mantra needed to be foremost in her mind.
No more losing your heart over emotionally unavailable men.
And that guy had bad news written all over him. Though as usual, the fact that he didn’t seem the least bit interested only made him more attractive. It was just the way she was programmed. But it was time for a reset.
Chapter Two
‘Yikes!’
Winnie gripped the unit’s front-door handle, narrowly saving herself from toppling over. She was on the way to her first day at Beach Life magazine – and running late. All that fresh sea air had made her sleep like a baby. Unfortunately, her editorial director, Christa, would probably be on the blower already from Sydney, a list of commands in hand.
Winnie hadn’t counted on having a tabby sprawled out, like a seventies Cleo centrefold, on her doormat. Fixing her with its olive-green gaze, the young cat promptly sat up and mewed hungrily. Its acting skills were superb. Hopefully it wasn’t another possession the last tenant had left behind, like the fridge.
‘Don’t give me that pleading look,’ Winnie grumbled at the tabby, locking the glass sliding door behind her. ‘I’m not your owner. And I know your type – nasty wildlife-killer.’
Her mum was always taking in strays – men included – and it was true Winnie had been sucked in by more than a few furry friends, but cats were wildlife hazards. Striding ahead, Winnie sensed the feline shadowing her every move, seemingly unperturbed by her lack of interest.
Sighing, Winnie turned back, hands on her hips. ‘All right, I’ll feed you something.’ The creature did look a little on the scrawny side and was without a collar. ‘But only this once. Don’t get used to it. I’m not here long.’
At least no-one was around to witness her conversing with a cat. The feline rubbed its head against Winnie’s mirror-heeled pumps, leaving grey fur all over the faux suede toe. Super. Hurrying back inside, Winnie dumped milk and two-minute noodles from last night in separate bowls, placing them outside the door. It was the best she could do. Fingers crossed the cat wouldn’t be there when she returned.
It took under a minute to drive to the magazine office on the main strip. One perk of living in the sticks. Though she would have preferred Beach Life’s headquarters to be in Robe, Kingston’s better dressed, more popular sister half an hour away. She’d had a blast with old schoolmates in a holiday house in Robe many moons ago, sensibly zipping past Kingston. Guichen Bay had been a stunning backdrop, matching the hue of the umpteen blueberry Vodka Cruisers she’d downed.
She was sure Kingston’s lure for the powers that be was cheap office rent.
She parked her Echo in the dustbowl behind the office – otherwise known as a car park – and made her way to the front door. Her high heels boomed on the concrete path. She’d had trouble finding her sensible mid-heels for her first day in the rush to get ready this morning. Still, she didn’t have to dress like a country bumpkin just because she’d gone bush. She had an image to maintain. From across the road, a sugary bakery scent mingled with the sea air. The former wasn’t good news for thighs she’d spent hours honing on the cross-trainer. She tried to channel thoughts of dried goji berries and green smoothies, but it was a struggle.
At the front door, she had to step over two gleaming-white seagulls squawking at each other like old women. At least this variety of bird was a welcome alternative to Sydney’s ratty pigeons. One gull looked one-legged, but probably just had the limb tucked under its feathers – a good trick to get pity from beachgoers looking to dispose of their leftover fish and chips.
Inside the office she was confronted with a redhead in a miniskirt nattering on the phone – her ankles crossed on the desk. The woman was no doubt the locally sourced advertising manager. The Beach Life office staff numbered exactly two – the rest of the work would be done out of Sydney and by a freelancer in Robe.
With a little wave, Winnie edged over to the seat at the adjacent desk. The redhead continued trilling down the line as Winnie searched for the power switch on the ancient computer.
‘Oh, Diana, I could tell you more stories that’d make your eyelashes curl . . .’
Great, looked like Winnie would be sharing four walls with the town gossip for the next two months. Though at least the redhead was tying up the line, preventing any dreaded calls from the editorial director coming through. It was obvious Christa didn’t rate Winnie. She’d been her editor in Sydney before being promoted up the ladder, and now wielded her authority across several titles – including Beach Life. Once, when Winnie went on holidays, Christa had student stylists fill in, and on Winnie’s return, made her watch them in action to see how a shoot should really be done, which was slightly humiliating for the magazine’s full-time fashion editor. Christa had become even more power-crazed since the promotion. She’d also been the one to catch Winnie mid-clinch with the young executive chairman.
‘. . . Alas, I’d better go,’ the redhead said breezily at long last. ‘Catch you on the flip side, Diana.’ Removing her high-heeled feet from the desk, she stood, extending an acrylic-nailed hand in Winnie’s direction. ‘Hi, I’m Olive Ferguson, in advertising. You must be Edwina Cherry, the ed.’
The handshake was accepted. ‘Please – call me Winnie.’ Edwina was a family name – it was her mother’s middle name and her late grandmother’s first, but it wasn’t one Winnie related to.
‘Winnie it is then. Like that chick from The Wonder Years. Looks as though we’ll be spending a lot of time together.’
Winnie gulped. ‘Yeah.’
Olive’s pointy features, titian bob and whippet-thin frame reminded her of Laura Leighton’s character in Melrose Place. Winnie prayed she wasn’t half as bonkers. She also hoped two carrot-tops – even if she herself was of the lighter variety – wouldn’t mean fireworks.
‘So, you’re a local?’ Winnie asked politely, scrabbling for conversation starters, as Olive positioned her pert derriere back in her seat.
‘Oh no, I’ve only been here eight years. I’m considered a blow-in. Your ancestors practically have to have been early settlers to be called a local around here. I’m from Geelong originally. I followed some fool here for love, dumped his sorry arse, but never left. You’re from Adelaide, right?’
‘No. Well, originally, yes.’ Winnie removed the frog from her throat. ‘But I’ve lived in Sydney for the past five years.’ And she only visited her hometown when absolutely necessary – like Christmas.
‘You can tell by your accent you’re an Adelaidean – you know, saying “darnce” instead of “dance” and “ph
otograrf” rather than “photograf”. A leopard can’t change its spots. Where’d you work before here?’
‘Slicker magazine. It’s a weekly title for CBD commuters, and part of the same stable as this one. I was the fashion editor.’
‘Nice.’ Olive’s amber-coloured eyes widened. ‘Bet you got to go to some cool parties. Ever meet Kerri-Anne Kennerley? She looks so young again. Or how about Shannon Noll? Swoon.’
‘Um . . . no.’ Winnie flicked hair over her shoulder, trying to appear nonchalant. ‘But, you know, Teresa Palmer, Megan Gale, Alex Perry – those types were regulars on the party circuit. And I got to go to fashion week and stuff.’ Okay, so she hadn’t been bosom buddies with any such celebs – just elbowed out of the way by them a few times when cameras were near. And she was usually relegated to Row Z at fashion week. But that was because she’d been from a smaller title. She’d work her way up.
Still, Olive’s eyes had glazed over. Her features quickly brightened again, though. ‘You single?’
Not one to beat around the saltbush then.
‘Yeah . . . yeah, I am.’
Unfortunately, Winnie’s recent dalliance with the company’s super-smooth exec chairman didn’t count for anything. But then, she’d always had a problem with emotionally M.I.A. men. Probably because of her long-absent father.
Olive winked. ‘Well, I’ll have to take you out for a drink tonight then. There’s a fundraiser on to help the firies get some new equipment. One thing Kingston knows how to do is rally around and dig deep – there’s a fundraiser virtually every other week. Anyway, the local lads will be on you like a shower of shit, being fresh meat and all. Not that I’d touch half of them with a bargepole, but you can at least revel in the attention.’ The redhead shook her head. ‘More fence-jumping goes on in this town than at a music festival.’
‘Fence-jumping?’
‘You know . . . trespassing on your neighbour’s property. Fooling around with another person’s missus. Kingston’s like one big dysfunctional family.’
‘Got it,’ Winnie said faintly. ‘Uh, are you single?’
Olive twirled a strand of hair around her finger, seeming coy for half a second. ‘I have my eye on someone – from another town – but I’m taking things slow.’ She sprang to her feet, as though hooked up to Red Bull by intravenous drip. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’
Winnie nodded. ‘I could murder a coffee actually, thanks. White and one would be lovely.’ She daren’t ask if there were any almond milk in the fridge.
The ad manager paused to pat a towering stack of country newspapers as she sashayed past. ‘Thought some light reading might help ease you into the job. Inspire a few story ideas.’
‘Oh . . . thanks,’ Winnie said, meaning it, for she had no idea where to start. The phone wasn’t exactly ringing off the hook nor her desk spilling over with the usual freebies from PR executives wanting coverage of their clients’ products. Even Christa didn’t seem in as much of a hurry to call as Winnie expected.
Her PC had finally cranked up and Winnie decided to check her work inbox first. She bit her lip as she sorted through the messages. Into her deleted items she sailed invites to glittering media events she could no longer attend – the PRs had obviously not yet received the memo about her new gig – and tantalising discounts from fashion houses usually a hop, skip and jump away. A quick check of the weather told her it was five degrees cooler in Kingston than Sydney.
She was startled by Olive suddenly plonking a mug on her desk. The blue cup was emblazoned with the words, Wake up smarter, sleep with a mortgage broker.
‘Uh, thanks.’ Winnie wrapped her hands around its warmth. Her mouth twitched. ‘Interesting china.’
Olive shrugged. ‘A home-loan company used to run out of this place. The owners left town, though – and half their stuff behind. It was like a whore’s handbag before I came in and cleaned it up.’
‘Oh, right . . . thanks for doing that.’
Winnie swivelled in her seat, which protested with a creak. Why did so many people seem in a rush to leave Kingston? It was like she was in that ghost-town film, House of Wax, her head about to be impaled with a metal spear à la Paris Hilton. Sipping from the mug, Winnie promptly spat the steaming liquid all over her keyboard. ‘Why’s it so hot?’
Olive cupped her own mug, which read Part-time mortgage broker, full-time ninja, and shrugged again. ‘I like it scalding.’
Looked like Winnie would be making her own coffee in future. Starbucks already seemed a distant memory. She mopped up the keyboard with a tissue, leaving the drink to cool and her burned tongue to recover.
Winnie had a sudden brainwave. Opening Word on her computer, she quickly typed, Stories wanted for new local luxury magazine – enquire within, and super-sized the font. With relish, she added her name, phone number and email at the bottom, and printed out the document. Fishing Hollywood fashion tape from her handbag, she used it to secure the sign to the front window. Brilliant. She stepped away, mentally patting herself on the back.
‘Great idea,’ Olive observed drolly from her desk. ‘Hope we get some foot traffic today. Pity the summer hols are over and everyone’s back at work and school. Even the last of the tourists have left.’
Winnie’s shoulders slumped. ‘Right.’
She returned to her desk and reached for the first local rag on the stack, hauling in a sigh. Unfortunately, there was no putting it off any longer, despite the reading material holding as much appeal for her as the Financial Review.
A few hours in, Winnie’s head swam with stories on local fetes, ram sales and newborn arrivals. The second ping of an email appointment reminder in her inbox made her head jerk up.
‘The freelance photographer’s late for our meeting,’ Winnie huffed, eyes on the screen. ‘You’d think a snapper in a quiet place like this would be grateful for any work they could get, let alone the chance of featuring in such a slick, high-quality magazine. Really.’
Olive cleared her throat. ‘Uh, Winnie, you have a visitor . . . Hello!’
A fishy scent suddenly hovered beneath Winnie’s nose. Looking up, she felt the air leak out of her lungs.
Looming in the doorway was the fisherman she’d sprayed with gravel yesterday. The one with the blond hair and boat tan. Clearly, he hadn’t changed outfits since the day before. Olive seemed to know him too, which, admittedly, wasn’t hard considering the population size.
Had he tracked down her car to exact some sort of revenge? ‘Hi,’ Winnie said briskly. Well, as brisk as she could be with a slight lisp from a burned tongue.
Strangely, he looked as shocked to see her as she was, crossing his arms over his broad chest and shaking his head. ‘I should have known. A city slicker like you here.’
Olive leant forwards, seeming oblivious to the standoff. ‘Oh, Alex, where’d that nasty gash on your forehead come from?’
He narrowed his eyes, which were even greener than Winnie remembered. His frame seemed more muscular, too. Though he was decidedly dishevelled. And grouchy.
‘It’s a long, boring story,’ he muttered.
‘Alex?’ Winnie darted another look at her email reminder. ‘You’re Alex Bass?’
He reached for a grey plastic chair near the wall – grey was apparently the office’s theme colour. Shoving it before her desk, he sank into it, long legs outstretched. ‘Yup.’ He dumped something from his back pocket in front of her. ‘I think that’s yours. Lucky I had it with me.’ Her Gucci sunglasses cleaning cloth, freshly laundered, not a bloodstain in sight. She was vaguely impressed.
‘Uh, thanks,’ she said, her cheeks flushing gently.
He nodded at the cloth’s logo and winked. ‘And here I was thinking Gucci was your last name, but I gather it’s Cherry, like the email I got.’
‘Er, yes.’ She was less impressed now. What Uluru-sized rock had he been hiding under not to have heard of Gucci? Unless he was toying with her, which she wouldn’t put past him. ‘So, you’re a fisherman, I’m guessing,’
she plunged on incredulously, ‘and a photographer?’ How on earth had Christa stumbled across the guy’s contact details? Winnie guessed she could probably take better snaps on her phone.
Alex nodded slowly. ‘I am indeed. With all the no-go fishing zones and licence buybacks these days, thanks to the government, it pays to have another trade. Might not be much of an industry left soon.’
‘I gather the powers that be are just trying to protect the natural resource,’ Winnie couldn’t help musing. ‘Prevent over-fishing.’
‘Us fishermen know what we’re doing. When it’s your livelihood, it pays to look after it.’
‘Right.’ Winnie tidied paperwork on her desk. ‘Anyway, back to the issue at hand. The photography. You could have at least changed your outfit for our meeting. And worn proper shoes instead of thongs. You can’t turn up to stories like that.’
Alex rubbed the back of his neck, flaunting a well-sculpted bicep. Show-off. ‘I didn’t come up with the time of eleven, your boss did. I only just got back to shore. Though I can get my mucky gumboots from the ute and trek them all over the carpet if you’d prefer.’
Winnie hid a nose wrinkle. Unfortunately, she needed to remain professional. Mario Testino-style snappers didn’t appear to be lurking around every corner in Kingston. She couldn’t let the minor incident from yesterday affect her work – and her path out of there. In fact, the incident needn’t even be mentioned again. ‘That’s okay. So, eleven’s when you finish then, Monday to Friday?’
Alex laughed. ‘Monday to Sunday, you mean. We work about five months straight during fishing season, until we reach our quota. The rest of the year we have off.’
