His Brand of Beautiful

by Lily Malone

  Let’s see how his willpower stands up then.

  She felt like skipping back to her chair, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw Elvis approaching the others so she kept her walk demure.

  ****

  Tom Long crossed into the campsite just as Tate was about to cut into his steak.

  ‘Elvis’ had lost his wig during the day and his thatch of hair was grey without it, almost white, but his sideburns clung grimly. Tate put his plate on the patchy campsite grass and stood to greet him.

  The two of them went way back. Tom’s carpet warehouse was the first creative account Tate managed when he’d started work with Jancis. When Jancis moved her agency interstate, Tom stayed with Outback Brands. He’d been one of Tate’s top clients ever since.

  Tate introduced Tom to the three Clays.

  “I’m collecting for the raffle. I’m hoping you might have some wine we can throw into the mix,” Tom said.

  “We can do a box each night we’re out here,” Christina responded warmly. “We want to see everyone try a glass before the end of the Bash. Cracked Pots can sponsor the wine at the disco night too.”

  “Must have brung a lot with you then,” Tom beamed at her. His eyes flicked to her finger, checking for a significant ring. Tate wanted to dig his elbow into Tom’s sequined white ribs and tell him: back off, buddy, she’s with me.

  “Enjoying the Shiraz, Tommy?” Tate asked.

  “You betcha. Wine. Women. Song. Elvis always did have a problem curbing his appetite.”

  “Yeah,” Tate said. “And look how the poor bugger finished up.”

  The other four laughed. At the campsite next door, a woman giggled and a little further away a guitar struck up accompaniment to yet another verse of American Pie.

  Tate sat, picked up his paper plate and stabbed his steak. He tried not to watch Christina bounce her red boot to the music. Right now, the thought of spending four nights in a tent without touching her was too hard to contemplate. It was hard enough not to knock on her door night after night when she slept just down the hall. Tonight, she’d be right by his side. He could reach out and touch her.

  But he wouldn’t, of course. That was one battle he had determined she wouldn’t win.

  ****

  “I have to pee.” Christina tugged at the seatbelt to ease its pressure across her belly. There didn’t seem any point readjusting the belt this close to the end of the fourth day on the Bush Bash route.

  “Can’t you hold it?” Tate asked, raising his voice above the XR’s rattles without once shifting his eyes from the dusty road. “We’ll be at Mungeranie in twenty minutes.”

  “Spoken like a bloke. If I could hold it until we came to a proper loo trust me, I’d hold it.”

  “Then you better look for a bush.”

  Now she was sure he was laughing at her. There wasn’t a bush out here any higher than her knee. He eased his foot off the accelerator and she relaxed as best she could and stared out the window at the red dirt of the Birdsville Track.

  Tate said it was good cattle-grazing land out here. Stuffed if she knew what they ate.

  Maybe cattle ate rock. Maybe they ate rubber. Blackened tyre ribbons were shredded all along the roadside, like giant strips of banana peel left too long in the sun. The roads had been like this for the past two days, since they’d left the Flinders Ranges on the morning of day two.

  Tate edged the XR to the side of the road. Christina unclipped the seatbelt buckle and, once he’d stopped, jumped out.

  He didn’t turn the engine off which was good because its growl covered the sound of the splash as she squatted behind the car. Out here, you could hear an ant walk. She shuffled her shoe clear of the yellow torrent hell-bent on ruining her shoe and studied a new section of the XR stationwagon’s rear: Car 52 for the Australian Cattle Association.

  She adjusted her dress and jacket, hitched the elastic waist of her leggings over the baby bump and tried not to step in the wet patch soaking into the road. Far ahead, two dust clouds spiralled lazily into the sky, the only sign of other vehicles far ahead. The number of times she’d had to get Tate to stop for a nature break, it was no wonder they were last in the convoy.

  “Better?” He asked, as she climbed back into the car.

  “Much.” She sucked in her stomach and buckled up. It was a struggle. “My books said I’d pop out at thirteen weeks. I haven’t popped. I’ve exploded.”

  Tate grinned.

  “It’s not funny,” she said.

  “Of course it’s not.” He shoved the XR in gear.

  Then his scent hit her. By now she’d grown so used to being with him: in their tent, in the car, that it was only when she’d had fresh air in her nostrils she noticed how good he smelled. Noticing didn’t help her. Three nights they’d slept in the tent. He’d come to bed later and later and on that first night, when she tried to kiss him on the lips, he pecked her forehead, wished her goodnight, rolled over and went to sleep.

  Bastard.

  Christina stared out at the window, at the horizon that went forever. The car gathered speed and red and blue ribbons of earth and sky raced.

  “I’m pretty sure Bram will be there tonight,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I told you there’s a starlight dance on the itinerary for day four didn’t I?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  Lily Malone

  She took a deep breath. “I am almost certain Bram will ask me to dance, so I just want you to be prepared. It’s no big deal.”

  “You can dance with whoever you like.” He didn’t look at her.

  It stung.

  They drove like that for a while, silence loud between them. The afternoon sun beamed through the passenger window, lighting up red vinyl seats, shining on the dash, shining off his watch.

  “Seriously, Christina? You think I’d take a swing at someone for dancing with you?”

  She let herself picture that for a second, Tate’s fist like lightning, Bram’s head rocking back. That tree-trunk of a security guard running from the depths of the night, arms like a vice.

  Even the sun on her thighs couldn’t stop her shiver.

  “Bram has this security goon who’s big as a house and he has that hair-trigger thing happening. You know? Like he’d shoot first, ask questions later. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  Tate snorted. Only she wasn’t sure what the snort meant.

  “You don’t care who I dance with anyway, so forget I even said it.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t care. I said dance with whoever you like.” He looked at her then and the heat in his eyes was like the touch of a warm hand.

  A sign rose out of the solitary landscape. Mungeranie Pub. Thirty kilometres.

  Christina ran her fingers through her hair, lifting the heavy lengths off her neck.

  When she laid her hand down, he reached for it, his hand in the air between them. She met him halfway and they drove into Mungeranie like that, fingers interlaced across the seat.

  Chapter 26

  The Cracked Pots crew wasn’t last to leave Mungeranie Pub that night, but not by much. As Tate held the door for Christina, the fresh air blowing into the bar felt good on her face.

  “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here,” Michael said, stamping his boots. Light streamed through the pub windows, turned his hair muddy brown. He caught Lacy around the shoulders, snuggled her into his ribs and stumbled a little when she tripped across his toe. Her hands went everywhere in and under his padded jacket.

  “Knock it off, kids, you’ll get us arrested,” Christina said, stone-cold sober after an evening on lemon-lime bitters and ice.

  Lacy’s giggle cut above the sound of Bad To The Bone pounding out from the campsite, the dance night in full swing. Two men staggered from the pub arm in arm, heads thrown back, singing into beer-can microphones.

  “I know a way to warm you up,” Lacy teased Michael.

  “Forget it. I’m not dancing.”


  “Who said anything about dancing?” she slapped his hip. “I’m talking about the hot springs. I’ve been hanging out to try them.”

  “A dip in a hot spring sounds good right about now,” Mikey said.

  “I should check whether Elvis and his dancers have enough wine,” Christina said.

  “Hot springs, then dancing.” Tate shrugged his arms into the surfer jacket he’d taken off in the pub.

  Lacy and Michael led the way, skirting the campsite with its music, chat and cars, its glow of barbecues and lanterns. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, fuel and burnt sausages.

  They didn’t need a torch. The track to the springs was easy to follow and if the sound of running water acted as a beacon, so did the smell. Fifty metres further the trickle of water became a rushing torrent and taller trees blocked the stars.

  “Don’t you two fall in,” Christina called, watching Lacy and Michael each trying to step on the other’s toe. She nearly went arse-up herself over an old plastic school chair and would have fallen if Tate hadn’t steadied her arm.

  The earth opened into a rectangle about the size of a backyard pool. Steam rose through the trees. It was beautiful, but creepy, and it was easy to imagine monsters lurking beneath three rubber tyres that floated on the surface. Christina stooped to put her hand in the water near to where the pipe pumped into the spring. It was bath-tub hot and the smell flipped the fish and chips in her stomach.

  “Last one in is a rotten egg,” Lacy said, stripping down to bra and knickers, slender body winter-white.

  Christina shuddered. “It smells like rotten eggs, Lace.”

  “It’s the sulfur,” Tate said.

  Lacy sat on a log sleeper that retained the edge of the pool, paddling her legs in the water. “There’s a message in the ladies’ loo back at the pub that says if you drink enough you don’t notice the smell.” She slipped off the edge, pushed against it and breast-stroked to the other side.

  Michael kicked water at her before he lowered himself in. “Oh man. This is good.”

  Tate hesitated, hands at his belt. He was close enough Christina could smell ginger and spices on his breath from the kangaroo red curry he’d had for dinner.

  Lily Malone

  “Are you coming in?” His voice was very soft.

  “We didn’t even bring any towels.”

  “Careful, CC, you sound more like a mother every day.” Lacy floated on her back, head up, shoulders submerged. “We should have bought a few beers for the road.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t drink the water,” Michael warned.

  “I’m not that drunk. Yeew. Don’t anyone put your feet down.”

  “It’s only algae,” Tate said, a smile in his voice. “It won’t bite.”

  The zipper on his jacket buzzed. Christina watched him kick off his boots. Stripped down to his jocks he was lean, gorgeous and lit by the stars. She turned away because she couldn’t look. She wanted him so much, he made her dizzy.

  “I’ll check in at the disco and then I’ll bring back some towels. The baby doesn’t like sulfur.”

  “He’s not gonna be much of a winemaker, then,” Michael said.

  The sound of the pipe pumping water into the pool covered the ripple as Tate entered the water.

  Christina started the walk back to the campsite. For a while the only sound was the fading splash from the pool and murmured voices, Lacy’s tinkling laughter bubbling through the night. She dug her hands in the pockets of her white coat, in no hurry. The only eyes to see her were those of the stars and the air felt electric against her skin.

  Legs was the song playing when she reached the campsite and picked her way through the outermost cars and tents. A figure she didn’t recognise waved at her from a fire near the dance-floor and she wandered in that direction. Two women were watching the dancers, one tall and dark nursing a wineglass, the other blonde and so chunky from shoulder to hip she looked like a refrigerator in a white pants-suit, drinking beer.

  “I can’t believe they haven’t played any Beatles yet,” Thick said to Tall as Christina slipped past. “They’ve had George Thorogood for crying out loud and Bon Jovi.”

  “At least they played Dancing Queen already.”

  That was when Christina realised Thick and Tall were dressed as Agnetha and Frida from ABBA.

  The figure at the firepit waved again as she got nearer and called: “Miss Cracked Pot, where have you been? We’re up to song 43.”

  Christina squinted across the fire then burst out laughing. “Tell me that isn’t you, Denton?”

  He flicked his long black locks as Legs faded and the song changed. Brown Sugar.

  Denton Jeffries was dressed as Cher, complete with fishnets, black mankini and leather jacket. Sally, his wife, was Sonny.

  “Is this what accountants get up to when nobody’s looking?” Christina asked, moving into the circle of people around the fire.

  “This is what accountants get up to when they have an audience,” Denton said.

  On the dance floor—a squashed donut shape marked by spotlights mounted on top of a semi-circle of Bash cars—Tom Long was attempting to moonwalk.

  “You know, given he’s doing that in thongs he’s really not doing that bad,” Christina said to Sally.

  “And on sand,” murmured a woman on Sally’s other side.

  “And to the Stones,” said Sally, sipping at a glass of wine. “It feels silly to offer you a glass of your own wine Christina, but do you want one?”

  “No, Sally. Thanks. Actually, I’m three months pregnant.” It occurred to her that Sally Jeffries was only the fourth person she’d told.

  “Congratulations. Ours are all grown and flown.”

  The song faded. Every Breath You Take started from the sound system. Christina let her hips move to the music. She’d voted for this one.

  “Talk about perfect timing, Christina Clay. They’re playing our song.”

  Christina knew of only one voice that could have carried across the music without its originator needing some type of microphone. Abraham Lewis stepped into the circle of light thrown by the Jeffries’ fire, tree-trunk guy a hulk of teak at his back.

  “I didn’t think we had a song, Bram? Unless you want to count Another One Bites The Dust.”

  “Well no politician worth his salt can let himself get caught dancing to that.” Bram leaned in. His lips and a cloud of Old Spice, brushed her cheek.

  “You two know each other?” Sally Jeffries said, as Bram began shaking hands, his I-kiss‐babies-for‐votes smile on his face.

  “We’re old family friends,” he told her.

  “Hey. Not so heavy on the old,” Christina objected, making Sally and the woman beside her laugh.

  “Tom Long will want to know you’re here, Shadow Minister,” Denton said.

  “Out here I’m Bram Lewis,” Bram said amiably, “and the minute I keep Christina to her promise, I’ll find Tom.”

  Christina held up a finger and tried to sound stern. “One dance, Bram. I’m on towel duty. I’ve left my three co-drivers turning to prunes in the hot springs as we speak.”

  He put his hand on her back, gentle propulsion between her shoulder blades. “This song is half over already so it doesn’t count. Let’s make it two.”

  Tree-trunk guy shadowed them towards the dance-floor.

  “There’s something I want to say, Bram, that I should have said a long time ago,”

  Christina began, turning to look at his face as they walked.

  “And what’s that, CC?”

  “I—” she stopped. Bram’s gaze had roved over her head and he waved to someone in the dark and when his eyes returned to hers he smiled as if he didn’t know they’d ever wandered away.

  Fuck it. I’m not that sorry for refusing to tone down my clothes.

  She indicated the security guard with her chin. “I’m not dancing with him too.”

  Bram laughed. “If I only get two dances, I’m not sharing.”

&nbs
p; ****

  “Christina’s taking her sweet time,” Lacy said, floating on her back in the hot springs, toes sticking up from the water like thin white snorkels. “I have wrinkles.”

  “She’s probably selling our next vintage before it’s even made,” Michael said.

  Tate agreed Christina was taking forever, but he didn’t want to say it. It didn’t matter how many times he told her marriage wouldn’t cramp her style, the best way was to show her. That meant giving her space. No matter how much he missed her.

  “I hope she hasn’t got lost,” Lacy added. “What if she’s fallen over and hit her head on a rock?”

  Fuck giving her space.

  Lily Malone

  Tate was out of the water in one smooth motion, dripping on the sand, shaking himself like a dog. He used his t-shirt as a towel and when he was dry enough, pulled his jumper over his head. Adding the jacket had him sweating in seconds. Jeans were damn impossible. He had to peel his wet jocks off first then drag stiff denim up damp legs, hopping on the sand.

  “Hey, quit mooning me,” Michael complained.

  “At this rate she’ll be back to towel you off before you even get dry,” Lacy said.

  “I thought you said she was lying by the track somewhere half-dead.” He grated the words over his shoulder toward the pool, yanked a sock up an ankle.

  Lacy snorted. “If I know CC, it’s much more likely she’s waiting for you to ask her to dance.”

  Tate balled his jocks and t-shirt in his fist, thought about—but didn’t—throw the missile at the smug glint of white teeth on the other side of the pool.

  He headed back for the campsite. Fast, but not so fast he couldn’t check the bush beside the track for Christina’s bright white coat. Every step increased his urgency and soon, his legs ate the trail.

  Bob Seger’s Old Time Rock And Roll blared from the sound system. Tate aimed for the highest concentration of noise and fires and spotlights.