by Carla Caruso
In the distance, a camera flashed and Alex stopped short, his throat dry and his hands curling into fists. A young guy’s voice sounded behind him. ‘Watch where you’re going, mate.’ He shoved him with his shoulder on the way past, but Alex ignored him.
His gaze still fixed ahead, Alex could now see the flash had come from a Japanese student in pigtails and knee-high socks taking a snap of her similarly attired friend. He was just being paranoid.
His preference, of course, was being on the other side of the lens – never the subject.
Alex picked up his pace again, digging his hands deep into his jeans’ pockets. The camera shop was in his sights at the mall’s end, just across a set of lights. And tomorrow he’d drive like the devil home – to his adopted home – and be back in relative safety again.
The smell of pancakes lured Winnie to her mum’s kitchen early, in spite of herself. She’d slept like a baby. Not that spending the night before watching reruns of British sitcoms was her idea of the perfect Friday evening, but it’d been bearable. It had helped she’d forgone checking her phone’s Facebook feed to see what Bruna and co. were up to. That would have only made her sick to her stomach with jealousy.
For the briefest of moments, she allowed herself to ponder how Alex had spent the night in town after hitting the shops. Maybe he’d gone to the city hangout for country bumpkins, Woolshed on Hindley, knocked back countless bourbon and Cokes, and taken home the first skirt that wafted his way, some woman who didn’t wear fuzzy socks to bed. It didn’t bear thinking about. Nor was it her business.
She should just have been grateful he’d dropped her at her mum’s place yesterday, especially when it hadn’t exactly been en route to his city hotel.
‘Hungry?’
Darn, Bacchus was the one behind the frypan in the kitchen, and her mother wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She wished she had the resistance just to make herself some tea and go, but the sweet scent filling her nostrils was too tempting.
‘Yeah, ravenous,’ Winnie admitted glumly.
Bacchus, back in his revolting footy shorts, grinned. ‘You’ll be impressed. They’re lemon-blueberry quinoa ones. So good they have to be tasted to be believed. Of course, I can’t claim to have come up with the recipe.’
Winnie smiled limply. She just wanted to eat, dammit. She didn’t particularly want to get chummy with another of her mother’s beaus, it was too exhausting. Before long her mother usually drove them away somehow. Winnie slid onto a pine stool at the breakfast bar and reached for the Advertiser, hoping it would dissuade Bacchus from further conversation.
Cheerily humming ‘Blue Suede Shoes’, seeming oblivious to her surliness, Bacchus pushed a plate stacked high with pancakes her way. Next, he plonked a bottle of organic maple syrup in front of her and nodded at the newspaper.
‘You know your mother’s got a scrapbook filled with your articles – from the old’Tiser ones to today. She even used to print out your Slicker pieces from the online edition.’
‘Really?’ Winnie frowned. ‘I didn’t know that.’ An unexpected flutter of pleasure rippled through her stomach. She didn’t think her mother took much notice of anything she did, particularly work-wise – mainstream media wasn’t really Georgy’s thing.
As if on cue, her mother sashayed into the kitchen, waving a piece of paper. ‘I’ve been hacked,’ she announced dramatically, sounding much more like Georgy. ‘Someone’s tried to take two thousand dollars from my savings account via my PayPal. They must have somehow guessed my password. Luckily I didn’t have enough funds in there and it got dishonoured, but I still got slugged a bloody dishonour fee. The dirty mongrels. I’m going to have to call the bank to reverse it. Though the thought of waiting in one of those phone queues gives me a headache.’
Winnie was surprised her mother had even bothered to check her bank statement. Still, the outrage was classic Georgy. Bacchus gently steered her by her elbow onto a stool.
‘Let’s not do anything on an empty stomach, shall we? Have some tucker first and then we’ll think back through your latest purchases. Don’t want to be mistaken, now, before we go blasting some poor person at the bank.’
Winnie swallowed a mouthful of pancake, barely tasting it, despite how exquisite it really was. Could the eccentric Bacchus actually be what her mother needed – a voice of reason to keep her on the straight and narrow? It certainly seemed the case. That was compared to the designer-suit-wearing charmers of old, who enjoyed the side trip into her mother’s bohemian life before racing back to reality without a backwards glance. Bacchus had even shown Winnie that her mother had a sentimental side and wasn’t always thinking about herself – or animals – like Winnie imagined.
The disgusting footy shorts at his age, though, couldn’t be forgiven.
Chapter Eighteen
‘Are you free? Like, now?’ Winnie exclaimed down the line in place of a greeting. Back at Beach Life, her weekend in Adelaide already felt a world away.
‘Hello to you, too,’ Alex replied drolly.
Not that Winnie had time for any cheek. They needed to move fast if they were going to lock down the all-important story she’d just stumbled across.
‘If you’re around, we really have to get going,’ she rushed on. ‘I just heard on the local radio that Zac Efron is shooting a secret scene for his new film in Robe. You know – the actor from High School Musical. We need to go find him and get the exclusive ASAP.’
In place of a comprehending gasp, there was a beat of silence. ‘You want to track down some boring celebrity? Really?’
Winnie rolled her eyes, even though he couldn’t see her. Olive earlier had been similarly unmoved, saying Zac was a tad young for her tastes and she’d be much more excited if country singer Adam Brand had wafted into town. What was wrong with these people?
‘Beach Life is a luxury lifestyle magazine, not the Weekend Australian Magazine,’ Winnie persisted. ‘We care about the rare occurrence of celebrities dropping into town.’
A deep sigh reverberated in her ear. ‘Fine. I’ll be there in fifteen.’
Geez, he could work up some enthusiasm. After all, it wasn’t every day a country photographer like him got the chance to point his lens at a Hollywood A-lister. He should be grateful, jumping out of his skin with excitement. But that was Alex. And Olive.
‘Make it ten – Robe’s half an hour away,’ Winnie insisted, hanging up.
Next to her, the ad manager was painting her nails a purple so dark it was almost black. ‘You sure put the rocket under him.’
Winnie shook her head. ‘Someone has to.’
Turning back to her computer screen, she madly typed an email outline to Christa about the ‘city girl gone country’ look proposed for Allira’s shoot and hit send. Soon a car horn beeped outside the front window. She looked up to see Alex’s ute parked front and centre and her heart unwittingly skipped a beat. The excitement about the potential Efron scoop and her journalistic buzz kicking in was to blame – nothing more, nothing less.
‘Just a second,’ she yelped, more to herself, doubting he could hear her from the other side of the glass. Skim-reading what she’d just sent to Christa out of habit – and paranoia – she suddenly swore. Instead of writing ‘city’ in her brief, she’d put a four-letter word for a part of the female genitalia that rhymed with ‘git’.
‘Aargh!’
Olive’s head snapped up. ‘What are you having kittens about over there?’
‘I just used a rude word in an email to Christa – accidentally.’
‘Delightful,’ the ad manager deadpanned.
Winnie’s fingertips thrashed against the keyboard again, typing an apology. Then she slid her green cardi from the back of her chair – from memory, Robe could be as windy as Meningie – and pitched out of her seat. Fingers crossed Christa would get over the email error if Winnie nailed the Efron exclusive.
A few hours later, Winnie sat with Alex in his ute, still waiting for any sign of movement through a thic
ket of gum trees near Robe’s Lake Fellmongery. Naturally, he’d insisted on driving.
He had parked as close as he could to where the action was supposed to be, though so far the hunt had proved fruitless. For Winnie, restlessness had already set in, despite the prospect of being in Christa’s good books for life if she pulled the story off. She desperately needed a water-bottle refill and energy fix, in no particular order. She’d be no good as a paparazzo.
The lightest touch on her skin made her leg tremble. She glanced down to find Alex’s hand on her thigh. Eyes wide, she looked up so fast she almost got whiplash.
Casually lifting his hand away, Alex gestured at her leg. ‘What’s that from?’
She looked down. Oh. The faint scar that ran in a straight line for about ten centimetres from her thigh to her knee. She tugged the side of her charcoal wrap dress back into place.
‘Well, I always thought it was from running through a glass coffee table when I was a kid,’ Winnie said, hoping her chirpiness would disguise her earlier shock. ‘Would have sounded much more adventurous. But it was actually from mucking around where our house was being renovated after the workmen had downed their tools. I cut my leg on some metal.’
Alex winced. ‘Ouch.’
‘That’s not all,’ Winnie continued, warming to her theme. ‘I’ve also got a small scar on the inside of my left thigh from misjudging where the spiky pedals on my BMX were. My dopey mum didn’t think I needed to go to the doctor’s for stitches, though the scar wouldn’t look half as bad if I had. And just for the record, I’ve got a birthmark on the back of my right upper thigh, too. Yup, I’m tainted goods.’
‘Nah.’ Slowly, Alex shook his head. ‘Don’t think of them as scars, think of them as life stories.’
‘You’ve probably got a shark bite or something, making my stories pale in comparison.’
‘No, just a small scar on my head.’ Alex’s mouth curled ever so slightly. ‘From my big brother hitting me with a stick as a kid. He was always trying to assert his authority, be top dog, like my dad. Otherwise I’m an unmarked canvas.’ He shot her a sideways look, a sudden gleam in his eye. ‘Oh, and there was the scar I nearly got above my eyebrow from a bit of flying gravel. Thankfully, it healed up, and I suppose it could have been worse – I could have lost my eye.’
Heat rose in Winnie’s cheeks. ‘That does sound vaguely familiar. Did I ever mention how sorry I was about that particular incident?’ Her phone beeping in her handbag provided a welcome distraction. ‘I’ll just get this.’ Knowing her luck, it’d be Christa, telling her, in no uncertain terms, that she hoped she was more careful with emails to prospective clients and interviewees than she was to her boss. But it was a text from Bruna.
Her housemate’s message read: Hey, I got a ‘LOL, funny pic of u’ msg on Twitter with a weird web link. Think u’ve been hacked, girly. Better change ur password. B xo.
Hacked. ‘Just what I need,’ Winnie muttered to herself, biting her lip. She felt violated. It also reminded her of her mum, who’d thought her PayPal account had been hacked. Maybe Georgy hadn’t been so crazy, after all.
‘Hey.’ Alex suddenly unclicked his seatbelt, his hand creeping towards his camera. ‘I think I saw something. Over there.’ He stabbed a finger in front of them.
Winnie’s heart pounded. She’d deal with the social media world later. Right now, she had a real-time scoop to investigate. ‘Let’s go.’
She climbed out of the ute and followed him, tiptoeing deeper into the woodland. Alex finally seemed to be getting into the whole celebrity-hunting thing. Leaves crackled beneath Winnie’s studded black ballet flats.
‘See that flash of colour?’ Alex whispered over his shoulder.
A glimpse of purple. ‘I saw it,’ Winnie shot back eagerly.
They neared a timber fence, half hidden by ivy, at the edge of a clearing. Voices could now distinctly be heard. A bubble of excitement danced in Winnie’s stomach. Whoever was in such a secluded spot really didn’t want to be found. She and Alex were onto something. She couldn’t wait to spy all the camera vans and equipment and confirm their hunch.
‘Over here!’ Winnie whispered, urgently gesturing to where a fence slat had handily swung loose. Side by side, they peered through the gap with one eye each.
Dear Lord. Winnie had to swallow hard at the sight that lay before them. Beside her, Alex appeared frozen, speechless.
Finally, she broke the silence, a giggle threatening to escape from her lips. ‘Well, I don’t think Zac’s here, though I have actually heard of this place . . . Robe’s secret nudist camp.’
Alex gulped, still unable to move. ‘Right.’
Beyond the trees there was more skin on parade than at a – ugh – leather factory. Young and not-so-young bodies dotted the sun-drenched, grassy clearing. One man sat strumming a guitar under a tree, while another read the paper on a stripy banana lounge. Two women sat cross-legged on a picnic rug, chatting, crossword magazines laid out before them. Other holidaymakers played cricket. It would have been quite the ordinary scene – if they weren’t all stark naked. Winnie supposed it was refreshing they didn’t appear in the least concerned about scars or imperfections. Still, she felt the sight of saggy bare bottoms was burned into her retinas.
She exchanged a nervous glance with Alex, biting the inside of her cheek.
‘Think I might have got the trail’s scent a little off,’ he conceded.
‘Yup.’
With a last loaded look at him, she turned on her heel, fleeing back in the direction of the ute. Finally there – and far, far away from the naturist resort – Winnie rested a hand on the bonnet, attempting to catch her breath. A glance over at Alex, not far behind her, had her breaking into sudden, uncontrollable laughter. He joined her.
Alex wiped at his eyes and grinned. For some reason, it warmed Winnie’s insides.
‘Still want to search for Mr Efron?’
The sky around them had grown darker and the air cooler, unseasonably so for summer. Winnie pushed her mouth to one side. ‘Maybe we can do a quick drive around the streets, but if we don’t see anything, head home.’ All the build-up had left her almost as blasé about the story as Olive, as good as it would have been to have in the bag. ‘But bill the magazine for your time, naturally.’
‘Of course.’
Alex stepped around to the driver’s side, pausing to assess her before climbing in. ‘You know, there’s a twiggy in Cape Jaffa tonight – a bonfire beach party, in city speak. You should come and blow off some steam. See how the other half live.’
Alex was inviting her out socially? That was a first. Maybe they were really getting somewhere – on a professional level. Workers were meant to be able to socialise together without winding up exchanging angry words. Perhaps it was a turning point. Not that she wanted to appear too keen.
‘Are beach bonfires legal around here?’ she hedged.
‘It’s in the middle of nowhere, so . . .’ He shrugged instead of finishing the sentence.
‘And what’s the party for?’
‘Just for the sake of it. It was Kirk’s idea.’
Winnie allowed herself a small smile. ‘Sure, okay. Count me in. Even if it is a school night, what’s the harm?’
‘Stop!’ Winnie yelped.
Alex was kind enough to do as instructed, pulling his ute up outside a colourful surf shop, dubbed Steve’s Place. They were on the way back from their final trip down Robe’s main strip in search of Zac Efron. Winnie’s enthusiasm had lessened with every metre travelled.
‘You’ve seen Zac?’ Alex asked with raised eyebrows.
‘Nope.’ Winnie jumped out of the vehicle, banging her door shut and peering back through the window. ‘I just need to zap that flesh display from my mind with a little retail therapy ASAP. You see a fashion boutique around here, you gotta make use of it.’
‘I didn’t know you were a surfer,’ Alex offered mildly.
‘Never been on a board in my life. But I’ve read thi
s place is South Australia’s longest operating surf shop and the owner’s somewhat of a local legend. It’s an institution. Plus, it’s guaranteed to have more fabric on offer than what we saw earlier.’
Alex unclicked his seatbelt. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’
Inside the shop, Winnie felt like a kid in a candy store. A young blond surfer guy – not the legendary namesake himself, she presumed – greeted her at the doorway with a nod. Beyond were racks and racks of surf and skate wear by labels like Seafolly and Roxy. Actual labels. She could kiss the shop floor. Something would be lurking in here she could spend her hard-earned cash on.
Almost at random, Winnie began grabbing items off shelves and racks until she had a rainbow-hued mountain worthy of a change room. The young surfer pointed her in the right direction, while Alex hovered by the sunglasses display. With a satisfying swish of curtain fabric, Winnie fell inside, feeling back in her element.
It was while trying on a fluoro-green bikini – her swimwear really needed an update in her new life as a beach dweller – that Winnie heard a familiar voice ring out from the adjacent change room.
‘Is that you, Winnie? I recognise those heels from when you interviewed Eden at our place. I thought I heard your voice earlier.’
Eden’s mum. Bugger. What was she doing at a surf shop? As if Winnie wasn’t enough out of place here.
‘Oh, hi, Mrs D,’ she squeaked. ‘Having fun shopping?’
‘Yes, I’ve just been looking out for things for Eden and her fiancé – and checking out the sportswear. Got to look the part as the netball club president, of course.’
Winnie winced. ‘I can imagine so.’
‘Speaking of netball . . .’
Please don’t speak of it, please.
