Australian Secrets. Fiona McCallum
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don’t you come back to bed,’ she said, raising her eyebrows and pushing the thick down-filled quilt back slightly to reveal a hint of breast. She patted the plush thousand thread count sheets and beckoned to him with an expensively manicured nail.
‘I have to get to work.’
‘Aw come on, it’s not even seven-thirty. Surely they won’t mind you being a little late …’ ‘I mind, Nicola.’ ‘But it’s not every day I win …’ ‘I’m pleased for you. I really am.’ ‘This might never happen again.’
‘All the more reason to keep it business-as-usual.’
With his charcoal pinstripe suit jacket now hung in the crook of his elbow, Scott walked over to the bed and bent down to peck her on the lips.
‘Pleeeeaaaase,’ Nicola groaned, clasping her hands behind his neck while she kissed him, trying to part his stubborn lips. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he laughed, pulling away after a brief struggle and instinctively wiping his mouth with the back of one hand and smoothing his shirt and tie with the other.
‘Whenever that will be,’ Nicola muttered under her breath.
‘If you get bored you could always sort my shirts – Carmel is still ignoring my instructions.’ He paused in the doorway and shook his head.
‘Right,’ she said, rolling her eyes.
She hadn’t really expected him to pause, rip his clothes off and ravish her – she knew him too well – but there was that human desire to want what one couldn’t have.
Nicola sighed deeply. She’d just have to hope his golf went well on Sunday. A bad round would see him disappear upstairs to sulk and work on his swing. A good one and she might have a chance. She had learnt early in their relationship that replacing pouting with encouragement was the better course of action.
Nicola lay in bed listening to the coffee machine downstairs – the grinding of the beans, and then the gurgling and spurting as it finished Scott’s double-strength latte; his answer to breakfast. She knew she should join him for the few moments before he left, but still felt a little miffed at his rejection.
She glanced around the large, white painted room with its charcoal grey short pile carpet, sleigh-style bed and pair of chocolate coloured leather tub chairs. They were entirely decorative; not for sitting in, and Scott certainly hadn’t intended hers to be a clothes horse. But she hadn’t been able to resist draping her clothes over them, much to his annoyance.
There lay horrendously priced black lacy Victoria’s Secret underwear, stockings, dainty black Manolo Blahnik high heels with diamante straps, and a slinky black Alex Perry evening dress, all of which she’d stepped out of less than four hours before.
At the far end of the room was the expansive ensuite decked out in charcoal and white marble. It was the warehouse conversion’s main bathroom, and had a shower, a huge central freestanding bath, and a large vanity with double basins. Maybe I’ll take a bath.
The thought was interrupted by the downstairs front door clicking shut, and the hum of the automatic garage door opening.
Damn. Not even a goodbye kiss?
That was another thing that had stopped in the past few months; they were usually so caught up in their morning routines.
Feeling a twinge of sadness, she rolled over, pulled Scott’s pillow to her, breathed in his comforting musky scent, and tried to ignore the ache of frustration.
But she really shouldn’t complain; you couldn’t have everything all of the time, could you? Life itself was a compromise. Didn’t people say the romance slowed down over time?
No, she really was truly blessed: she had a wonderfully successful stockbroker fiancé, a gorgeous sparkling solitaire diamond engagement ring, a fantastic warehouse conversion, Mercedes convertible in the garage, and a comfortable, stable relationship.
And now, after years spent slaving over dodgy plumber stories, miracle diets and anti-ageing potions; her very own pair of Walkleys! No one could dispute her journalistic credentials now. Never again would she be considered just a pretty face. No siree!
Nicola stood in the kitchen in her bathrobe, staring out the window at the tree-lined park and wondering what to do next. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had a weekday off.
She’d tidied the bedroom, packed up last night’s clothes for dry-cleaning and spent ages in the shower washing the lacquer from her hair. While she’d loved how the hairdresser had put her hair in a chignon for the awards, leaving wisps of hair to frame her face, she preferred to have the stiffness gone and her blonde, naturally wavy locks back soft and bouncing about her shoulders. She shook her head back and forth a few times to test it before going to the coffee machine and setting it make her latte.
Leaving the after-awards party, Bill, her boss, had told her to take the day off, waving his arm in a dismissive, drunken gesture of goodwill. Nicola thought she deserved more than a day.
Her success would affect the whole station. Life and Times now had credibility; it could no longer be seen as limp attempts at serious journalism or mere stuffing between the news and prime-time.
And there was no doubt a host of doors would be opened for her – not that she wasn’t perfectly happy where she was.
But it was a bitter-sweet victory, Nicola thought, looking at the silver framed photo of Ruth and Paul – her adoptive parents – taken for their fortieth wedding anniversary just a few months before their deaths. She felt heavy as she sat at one end of the flat, expansive couch. She wrapped her hands around the black and white striped mug for comfort.
Why did everything have to be a double-edged sword? Why did she have to lose her entire family for her career to seriously take off? It wasn’t exactly the lucky break she’d overheard rival journos saying it was in the bar of the Rose and Thorn the night the story went to air.
She’d fled back to her desk, where Bill had found her mopping up her tears and trying to tidy her smudged mascara. ‘They’re just jealous,’ he’d said, after she’d finally sniffled her way through an explanation. Much as it was nice to have her boss with his arm around her shoulder saying ‘there, there’, she’d been mortified to have lost it like that – in public.
But Bill was right. It was just a release after keeping it together for so long, especially given the personal nature of the story. His words stayed with her: ‘I’m really proud of you for seeing it through – lesser journos wouldn’t have.’
Nicola knew Bill had been reluctant to have her on the story to start with; knowing there was a risk of her falling apart in the middle of it all and leaving the station in the lurch and his job on the line.
Nonetheless, he’d called her into his office to say Life and Times was doing a piece on the crash and did she want in, knowing full well what her answer would be. Apprehension didn’t even get a second beat – the desire to learn, as an outsider, the truth about her parents’ deaths had her by the throat. Even if it was just a simple accident caused by an inexperienced pilot, she wanted the facts; all of them, no matter how gruesome.
It was when she first spoke to the young pilot’s fiancé that she realised it wasn’t as simple as both SAR Airlines and the ATSB were trying to make it out to be. Olivia Smith told her that Matt had been complaining for months of doing more than the required hours. Nicola had been disbelieving until Olivia had gone on to produce Matt’s diaries as proof that SAR had been doctoring the logbooks.
Six months after the accident, the ATSB still hadn’t interviewed Olivia; it made sense if they were trying to lay the blame solely at the feet of a young and relatively inexperienced pilot. But as Olivia said, she wasn’t a qualified