by Di Morrissey
‘All that remains is for me to say goodbye,’ sighed Queenie over lunch at the Kurrajong’s superb restaurant, but she smiled as she said it.
‘Not goodbye, au revoir. You will be back, often I hope,’ said Henri warmly. ‘And now my first official duty is to propose we go to dinner in fabulous downtown Katoomba.’
They met after sunset and strolled through the town, calling into the Paragon Cafe to buy some home-made chocolates. ‘How is Mrs Simos?’ Queenie asked the young man behind the counter.
‘She’s retired, and her daughters are running the place now, but the chocolates are still wonderful,’ he grinned.
‘Then we shall have a selection,’ said Henri. ‘A business that started in 1916 and is still thriving must be good!’
‘We’d better save these for dessert, or we shan’t eat our dinner,’ said Queenie, sniffing the delicious chocolatey aroma.
Over dinner they talked of art and Henri was intrigued to hear about the fashions of Countess Magda Vambery. ‘I have met women like her, some come from proud White Russian or aristocratic Austro-Hungarian families with royal connections and were forced out after the war and fell on hard times. With such a background I’m sure she has exquisite taste,’ he said.
‘Her own couture business is quite new, but I think she’s missed the boat in the contemporary fashion world. She’s making lavish and extravagantly beautiful gowns that few people can afford these days. In the fifties and sixties the socialites outdid each other in these sort of fashions. People don’t dress like that so much any more. I’m hoping if she is suitable and agrees, we might be able to swing her over to more elegant modern wool and leather designs,’ explained Queenie.
‘Like the Italian designers.’
‘No. Like Australian designers,’ replied Queenie firmly.
‘I stand corrected,’ smiled Henri. ‘Who will be doing your designing then, in addition to the wild countess?’
‘I’ve worked out a basic theme, and Sarah has found an exciting new designer, Leonard Osborne, who does men and women’s tailoring. Then, out of the blue, for the Aussie knitwear, I found a talented Aboriginal artist, a young girl who was a street kid a year ago.’
‘That sounds an eclectic mix, to say the least,’ observed Henri. ‘But Queenie, ma petite, you can’t run everything yourself. A fashion enterprise on the scale of Tingulla Wool and Leather needs someone to run it, someone with a background in fashion, buying and selling, dealing with overseas markets, as well as supervising the actual making of the garments. It is a full-time job and has to be based in the city. Sarah has a family, you weren’t surely thinking of putting her in charge?’
‘No, her skills are public relations, marketing and promotion — she has a natural gift for it. No, I’m hoping this is where the countess will come in,’ said Queenie.
‘A title does not automatically denote talent for business,’ cautioned Henri.
Queenie smiled warmly. ‘That’s true, but Sarah and I will see for ourselves in a day or two.’
Henri reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘If you have need for further capital you know where to come,’ he said gently. ‘Even if you just want the countess checked out, perhaps I can help.’
‘You are a good friend, Henri. Thank you for the offer. Sarah has invested in the company and John has already offered to look into the financial status of Countess Vambery Couture. But come the day Tingulla Fashions storms Fifth Avenue, then you can help us set New York on fire.’
‘And don’t forget Paris,’ added Henri brightly. ‘Although I grew up in Quebec, I have family connections in France too.’
Queenie burst out laughing. ‘You really are a man of the world, Henri!’
After dinner they walked back through drifts of smokelike fog that beribboned the dark pine trees. Reaching the massive stone gates of the Kurrajong, Queenie paused. ‘I remember the first time I rode along here and found this gateway and then saw the tumbledown hotel. It was like something out of an old movie.’
Henri dropped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a small hug. ‘Anyone else would have wandered around, peered in the windows and gone away to tell the tale. But you, no. You have a vision, take a big gamble and make it happen. You’re incredible, Queenie. And you will make your Tingulla Fashions a great success also.’
‘Thanks. You make me feel so confident that it will all turn out okay,’ said Queenie gratefully, putting an arm around his waist as they walked up the sweeping driveway. ‘Sometimes I have moments of great doubt. It is very hard to soldier on without TR . . . I feel very alone at times.’
‘Never feel alone, Queenie. You always have my support. And love,’ said Henri softly.
‘Oh, Henri . . .’ Queenie let the sentence trail off.
They were silent until they reached the hotel. There was soft music coming from the piano bar but they went quietly up the curving, plushly carpeted staircase and walked down the corridor lit by imitation old-fashioned gas lamps. At the door to Henri’s suite they paused.
‘A nightcap?’ he asked.
‘Yes please. And a chocolate,’ said Queenie, holding up the Paragon bag.
Henri had the grandest suite in the hotel with double French doors opening onto a balcony set with table and chairs. The sitting room was French provincial in decor, as was the large bedroom, bathroom and dressing room. Henri pulled the flower-sprigged curtains across the windows and switched on a low-light swathed in a powder-blue shade.
‘It’s a cold evening, I think I’ll light the fire. There is champagne in the refrigerator in the kitchen or a selection of liqueurs in the drinks cabinet. You choose,’ he said, kneeling by the neatly laid fire in the grate. Two rose-print easy chairs were drawn up on either side of the fireplace, a large white fur rug spread between them before the fire.
‘I think a glass of Moet would wash the chocolates down very nicely,’ Queenie said. While she filled the ice bucket with crushed ice and sank the champagne bottle into it, Henri turned on the stereo and music from the film ‘Out of Africa’ filled the room. He took two champagne flutes and set them on the small table beside one of the chairs as Queenie placed the ice bucket beside them.
‘What a gorgeous fire.’ She kicked off her shoes and sat on the floor, leaning back against the chair. Henri opened the bottle and poured their drinks, handing Queenie a glass and sitting in the chair next to her. Queenie leaned back against his legs and sipped the champagne. ‘Umm, wonderful.’
Henri leaned over her shoulder and clinked his glass against hers. ‘Here’s to you, Queenie. I wish you happiness.’
She turned to look into his caring brown eyes. ‘You really do, don’t you, no matter what.’
‘No matter what. Even if it pains me sometimes.’
‘Oh, Henri.’ Queenie turned away from the look of love in his eyes. ‘You are a good friend. And I need a friend at the moment.’ Her voice trembled and she put down her glass.
Henri slipped from his chair and sat beside her. He put down his glass and seeing the tears shining in her eyes, gathered Queenie in his arms. ‘Cherie, it is all right to let down that fence you put around yourself.’
Queenie’s voice was muffled as she leaned against him. ‘I’m tired of being strong. And positive. And making all the decisions. And wondering . . .’
Henri held her tightly as she buried her head in his shoulder and shook with silent sobs. He gently stroked her hair until she calmed down. Queenie took a deep breath and drew back and tried to smile. But Henri took one look at her fragile expression and leaned over and kissed her damp cheeks, drawing her to him.
Queenie didn’t resist and slowly kissed him back. Then, in a rush, her defences fell away as their passion rose. The memories of their love-making came flooding back, heightening her desire. Tenderly Henri laid her back on the white fur rug. He covered her face in tiny kisses as she ran her fingers through his hair and across his shoulders. Queenie tightened her arms about him pressing him to her, arching her body to his. Aft
er keeping her emotions pent up for so long her physical passion overflowed at the touch of loving affection.
Henri lifted his face and looked into her eyes. ‘Are you sure?’ She smiled softly and nodded.
Henri kissed her. ‘This is a gift. From one to the other. So let’s enjoy these moments — you and I, alone in this room, an oasis for two dear friends.’ And while he was joyful to be holding Queenie in his arms, his heart was sad, knowing this was an interlude without commitment. He had lost her once, could he dare hope to win her again?
Queenie had felt rejection, jealousy and loss. Now she needed to feel desirable, to be adored, to give in to the sheer physicality of pleasure. So they gave to each other with the passion of lost love, with abandonment and the familiarity of old lovers. Henri gazed at Queenie’s still taut and beautiful naked body stretched languidly on the fur rug, the firelight playing over the mounds, curves and hollows of her breasts, hips, belly and legs. He brought her to climax time and time again before she pushed him down and straddled him, rising slowly and sensually on him until he moaned with uncontrolled delight. Just as they both began to feel the final surge of passion sweep them away, Henri swung Queenie back onto the rug, her legs locking over his shoulders as she arched to meet his thrusting hips. They came together, each fulfilling the other until, with a moan, Henri buried his face between Queenie’s breasts, and they shuddered and lay still, their hearts pumping in unison.
Queenie stroked his head, feeling contented and filled with great fondness for him. There was no tomorrow, there was no past, there was just this moment, and Queenie felt renewed.
Henri freshened their glasses and they sat staring into the dwindling fire, their damp bodies touching. Queenie leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘Know what I’d like now?’
‘Yes, I think I do.’ Henri reached for the bag of chocolates and popped one into her mouth. ‘Replenish your energy.’
‘Be careful, I might attack you again,’ she answered impishly.
‘Then you’d better pass me the chocolates too,’ he grinned.
Later, Queenie insisted on returning to her own room. Wrapped in a towelling robe, Henri saw her to the door. ‘Can’t I walk you down the corridor?’
‘Not like that. No, I’m fine. I’ll see you for breakfast.’
Henri caught her by the wrist. ‘No pangs, I hope.’
‘None. We made each other happy for this evening and I thank you for that,’ she said gently, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek. ‘What we have between us is very special.’
Henri gazed sadly after her, realising this was all he could ever hope for. Queenie’s love for TR was stronger than both of them.
When Queenie walked into Sarah and John’s house, Sarah gave her a shrewd look. ‘You look rested, more placid. Must be the mountain air, eh?’
‘Everything has gone well, Sarah. I was sad at saying goodbye to the Kurrajong, but the handover has gone smoothly and I know all will continue as usual. What’s new here?’
‘We’re fine. Saskia and Tango rang to see how things are going. But you have a solicitor chasing you. Brusque fellow, wanted to track you down but I said you’d be back in a day or so.’
‘Strange, surely not Henri’s man. The contracts have all been done. I wonder what he wanted.’
As Sarah followed her down the hall she said pointedly, ‘Queenie, this legal man says he represents Mr Colin Hanlon’.
Queenie stopped and slowly turned around, staring at Sarah with a feeling of dread creeping over her. ‘What does he want?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me. Typical of Colin to find someone who is as rude as he is. All he said was that a certain document had come to light and Mr Hanlon was seeking to claim his rights. What do you suppose that means?’
Queenie closed her eyes for a moment, her calmness shaken. ‘Oh not again. He couldn’t.’
Sarah was aghast. ‘Try and claim Tingulla again? That’s impossible.’
‘I knew he was up to something,’ said Queenie softly, shaking her head in resignation. Then she stiffened. ‘Well, let him damn well try. I’ll fight him every inch of the way.’
Sarah was reassuring. ‘As you always have. Come on, don’t worry about it now. Let’s go into the sitting room, John’s pouring the drinks.’
Queenie was shaking as she entered the gracious and warm room where John stood holding out a sherry. ‘Here, I think you need this, Queenie.’
‘Thanks, John. Here’s to good friends — and battles to be won,’ said Queenie with a determined lift of her chin.
‘I see you’ve come back with renewed strength and vigour. Good for you.’ Whatever Colin was playing at this time, John had no doubt he would be devious and dishonest.
Queenie was thinking the same thing as she sank into a chair. She’d know more tomorrow.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tango and TR rode down the gorge to where the camels were penned. The cranky ones, as Dingo called them, had been culled and let go along with those considered too old and rickety. Tango and TR were chatting quietly, chuckling occasionally as they rode.
This time together had cemented the bond between them. When he had first arrived at Tingulla, Tango had come to respect, admire and love TR before knowing he was his father. In those early years TR had also felt a deep attachment to the lanky teenager, without understanding why it should be so — until Millie’s stunning revelation that Tango was the son TR never knew he had. For TR, all this past knowledge of Tango had been lost, and now he had come to know him this time as an equal, as a man of quiet humour and cheerful nature, who was reliable and trustworthy and had a gift with horses.
Watching them, Dingo recognised father and son had the same qualities and it warmed his heart to see the bond re-established between them. Dingo felt that was what TR and Queenie needed — time together, to get to know each other and fall in love again. He’d have to talk to the ever resourceful Millie and get her to help engineer this. Maybe TR and Queenie should spend a couple of weeks together on Alf’s Neptune Island. Dingo nodded to himself, pleased he was sorting out everybody around him.
‘Hooshka Ahkbar!’ he barked, and the camel he’d been sitting on unfolded its front legs and rose to its feet.
Tango and TR saw Dingo loping away in the distance on his favourite racing camel, settled comfortably in the saddle he’d made, his Akubra hat pushed firmly down on his white hair.
‘He thinks he’s Lawrence of Arabia,’ said Tango with a grin. ‘He’d look the part in a sheet too.’
‘He’s having the time of his life with this camel caper, isn’t he,’ added TR.
‘I think that’s been Dingo’s philosophy all his life. Make hay while the sun shines, but stop and smell the roses along the way,’ said Tango. ‘And now he can afford these indulgences. He gets these great bloody ideas for schemes and deals and he has tremendous energy for a man his age, but it’s all the blokes that work for him that have to make them happen!’
‘And he still keeps on making money. He’s unbelievable. I don’t think there are too many like him in the bush anymore,’ said TR.
They arrived back at their camp and TR clicked his tongue and the grey filly slid to the ground so he could dismount.
‘I reckon she learned that from the camels,’ chuckled Tango. ‘You’re feeling a lot more at home in the saddle, aren’t you?’
TR rubbed his bad leg. ‘Still feel a bit stiff though. I could do with one of Jenni’s massages.’
‘We’ll be back at Dingo’s house tonight. You can have a hot bath,’ said Tango.
‘Sounds good to me.’ Privately though, TR would have preferred the firm and caring touch of Jenni’s hands. He was slowly coming to a decision about her. When Tango left, he would have to make plans to visit her.
That evening Tango and TR returned to Dingo’s homestead while Dingo stayed at the camel camp awaiting the arrival of the sheik’s representatives.
While TR luxuriated in a steaming bath with a newspaper and a Scotch a
nd soda, Tango checked in with Millie at Tingulla, Mick at Guneda, Queenie at Sarah’s and Saskia at Harmony Hill.
Saskia was in high spirits. ‘Did you catch any camels?’
‘Yeah, heaps. It was pretty exciting stuff actually. Best of all, we got TR up and riding.’
‘You did! Hey, that’s great news.’
‘So everyone else is doing okay, how about you little sis, what’s new and exciting in your life? And how’s Jenni?’
‘She’s fine. Really liking it here, though Colin is being a pain as usual. But, Tango, could you come and visit before you go back to Guneda? I’ve got a horse I want you to see. I’ve trained him and I think he could be raced.’
‘Jeez, Sas, don’t jump the gun. If you want to be a trainer, come and work for me. It isn’t an easy road for women. As I offered before, come under Guneda’s wing and let us help you get started.’
‘No way. I want to prove myself on my own merit. If I start out with you guys, everyone will just think I’ve been helped by the family and couldn’t do it out in the real world on my own.’
‘Don’t be so stubborn, Sas. Do you want to start by shovelling muck out of stables at Randwick?’
‘I might not have to. You just wait and see, Tango.’
Tango laughed. ‘Okay, do it your own way. In a couple of weeks’ time there’s a decent race at Southport — the Gold Coast Cup — Camboni is putting Ambrosia in it, so come out and spend the day at the races with me. Bring Jenni too, I’d really like to see her again.’
‘How do you think Ambrosia is going to do?’
‘Good. He’s a fine horse. I’m trying to get them to let Mick ride him instead of the jockey they want.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Ah, some jockey who’s had a few wins. Had a few nasty suspensions too. Bit of a dubious background I reckon, but not a bad rider. It’s just that Mick knows the horse.’
‘Umm. That jockey sounds like the sort of bloke Alfredo would go for. Keep Mick away from that lot,’ warned Saskia.
