Light streamed through the stable windows, setting Melinda’s jewellery displays alight. Gold-plating gleamed and silver shone, the lockets winking at the audience in the early morning sun.
Melinda was also on fire. Still buzzing from the weekend’s unexpected sex, she stood in front of her jewellery, glowing just as brightly. This was her strength: talking about her product, explaining how it changed the lives not just of the women who bought it but also of those who sold it. ‘You don’t bullshit,’ Clint said, explaining why she had to be such a poster child for LoveLocked. ‘You’re passionate, but not creepy. They trust you. It sounds like you really love this stuff.’
That was because she really did love this stuff. Melinda stared unblinking at her audience; they gazed back with the rapt attention of particularly devout churchgoers. She’d agreed to all the publicity, posing in her shoe closet for fashion magazines and gossiping with interviewers, but she’d fought him on the location for this season’s launch.
‘If this is going to be about me, then investors need to see where I come from,’ she’d insisted. ‘Let’s show them who I am.’ She’d worried that people wouldn’t make the trip out, that Hensley would be too far, even with the promise of Aimee’s latest vintage and courtesy drivers. But they had. Nearly forty journalists and bloggers and fund managers were squeezed among the barrels in Aimee’s old stables, standing-room only in the back. One reporter had even flown in from Sydney. Result.
Melinda motioned to Clint to show she was ready. She heard the hollow static of her microphone being switched on and felt her heart speed up in response. Showtime. ‘Thank you all so much for coming,’ she said, crinkling her eyes to show she meant it. ‘I don’t need to tell you this is a very important season for LoveLocked, possibly the most important launch we’ve had since we started. If you guys don’t like it, I’m screwed.’
They laughed on cue, and Melinda grinned.
‘Look, you all know we’re going public this year. It’s no secret. But I have other news as well.’ She wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her ‘approachable’ silk wrap dress. Clint had outlawed the tailored suits. ‘LoveLocked is going global,’ she said, a warm glow of pride in her chest. ‘We’re taking this collection to the US and Europe, setting up a whole new business overseas. How exciting is that? I’m so proud to join the growing line of companies showing the world that Aussie fashion is more than just Uggs.’
Another laugh, louder than the dated joke deserved. Getting them tipsy had been the right idea. Aimee had deliberately held back on the canapés.
‘So this season’s collection is extra special, because it’s going to introduce us to the world. And also because — well, it’s pretty special.’ She had them now, she could relax. ‘Look, I’m not going to stand here and give you a sales pitch. You know the designs will be awesome, because they always are. You know the key pieces will sell out, because they always do. I’m not going to bore you with product descriptions when you’ve got good wine to drink.’
Melinda picked up her own glass, took a decent mouthful. ‘Very good wine.’ She waved the glass at the tables behind her. ‘But there are some additions I think you’ll like. We’re bringing in more sizes to our range of baby lockets. Introducing a new line of engravable key pendants. And we’re making a few changes to the financial model as well, to give our curators more earning potential.’ Clint’s changes, not hers. She didn’t love them, but he said investors would want to see evidence of increasing revenue streams. ‘The design team are here if you want to meet them. Clint’s able to talk about the public offering. Jacinta has USB sticks with high-res images of everything. Other than that, have a good look round and feel free to grab me with any questions. I’ll be here all morning.’ Melinda raised her glass in the air. ‘And make sure you don’t leave without grabbing a few bottles of the excellent Verratti pinot. On us, obviously. You can use it to placate your editors for staying out so long.’
They laughed again, shifting impatiently in their chairs, those who had them. ‘Off you go then,’ Melinda said. ‘Try stuff on, grab a sample pack. Knock yourselves out.’ She smiled particularly widely at the hedge fund managers near the stable doors. ‘And thank you, not just for coming out today, but for all the support you’ve given LoveLocked over the years. We couldn’t do this without you.’
Aimee watched Melinda farewell the last of her guests, squeezing an arm here, leaning forward to kiss a cheek there. She was so good at this, dammit. Like she was good at everything. There was a time when Aimee had thought she’d have a big successful career as well, when university supervisors had talked about potential and prizes, maybe even a Fulbright. Although Aimee had ended up taking a different path.
‘Can you grab their empty glasses,’ she whispered to one of the servers. ‘But nicely.’
She didn’t regret it, the life she’d created for herself. It was full of love and family and security. Today was a little out of her comfort zone, to be honest — Aimee didn’t usually speak to buyers or visitors. That was the deal when they’d taken over the vineyard, back office only. Nick understood. But Melinda had asked, said today was important. So Aimee stood with her husband, pressing wine on people, trying to focus on their questions. ‘It’s good for us as well,’ Nick had told her, and it was. Several journalists had taken brochures, scribbled notes about their latest awards. One was even coming back to do a proper interview.
Aimee gave Melinda a thumbs up as she finally pulled the old stable doors closed. It had been a great day for them all.
‘Fuck, I’m glad that’s over,’ said Melinda, collapsing dramatically into a chair, but her eyes said otherwise. Her pale skin was glowing, her well-behaved ginger curls tumbling over the shoulders of a very un-Melinda-like floral dress.
‘So your dad couldn’t make it then?’ Aimee said casually, finally pouring herself a glass now that she was off duty. A big glass.
‘He’s working,’ said Melinda. ‘Couldn’t get away.’
Aimee raised an eyebrow but didn’t press it. She focused on Melinda’s dress instead, which was far too nice to have come from the local shops. Yellow and red tulips crawled over her hips and breasts, up towards her flushed neck. Hang on. Was that a love bite?
‘Ah.’ Aimee grinned, pouring Melinda a glass as well. ‘I forgot to even ask. Who was the bloke?’
‘Bloke?’ asked Lou, waving away the rest of the bottle. ‘No thanks. Driving.’
‘Bloke,’ confirmed Melinda, pulling a plate of savouries across the table and away from the white-shirted teenager insistent on taking them from her. ‘Not finished,’ she told him. ‘Go away.’
‘Patrick, you can leave. We’ll clear up.’ Aimee looked around the stables, which were surprisingly clean after the hubbub of twenty minutes earlier. ‘You guys can all go if you want. Thanks for helping out.’
She didn’t have to tell them twice. Her teenage serving squad were out the door as fast as she could hand them their under-the- table cash. The only one who hovered was an unusually subdued Tansy, looking uncertainly towards her mum.
‘You can wait in the car,’ Lou told her. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’
‘Don’t go,’ said Melinda. ‘Stay here, celebrate with me.’
‘Can’t,’ said Lou. ‘I need to take Tansy into Fenton.’
‘Put her on the bus.’
Lou shook her head. ‘So, come on then,’ she said. ‘Who’s this bloke?’
Melinda smiled, shy almost, looking more like a teenager than the thirty-something owner of a successful company. She raised a hand automatically to the base of her neck. So it was a love bite. Aimee pulled up a chair.
‘I’ve met someone,’ Melinda said, ultra-casual, but Aimee knew better.
‘Who?’ she demanded. ‘Tell us.’
‘A guy called Dave.’ Melinda took a particularly lascivious bite of her salmon tart. ‘Dave Tolford,’ she reported, licking a pastry crumb from her lips.
‘Nice?’ Lou reached over, grabbed her own tart.
‘Very.’
‘Hot?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘So what does he do?’
‘He’s in real estate,’ said Melinda. ‘Commercial. Lives in Meadowcroft.’
‘Local, but not too local,’ said Lou. ‘Sounds good. How did you meet him?’
‘Dave Tolford?’ asked Aimee. Hang on. ‘I thought he was married.’
‘Separated.’ Melinda pulled the salmon out of a second tart with her teeth, smiling as though she’d caught it herself. ‘And getting divorced.’
Aimee frowned. ‘Are you sure?’
Melinda paused. ‘Y-es. Why?’
Oh shit. ‘Just —’
Melinda stopped smiling. ‘Just what.’
‘Nick,’ called Aimee. ‘Nick!’ He wandered in the back door. ‘Umm. Craig’s friend, Dave Tolford. Is he still married?’
‘The property guy?’ asked Nick. He rested his hands on Aimee’s shoulders, gave the top of her head a quick peck. ‘Yeah. I saw him and his wife at the races just the other week. They seemed pretty solid.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Lou.
‘Pretty sure,’ said Nick. ‘They have some wicked blues, from what I’ve heard, but I think she just likes the drama.’ He shook his head at Lou. ‘Stay away from him, Lou. That man’s not on the market, and even if he was, the wife would kill you.’
‘It’s not me,’ said Lou.
‘Ahh.’ Nick looked at Melinda with genuine sympathy. ‘Bugger. Sorry, Mel.’
‘Sorry, Mel,’ echoed Aimee.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Melinda said grimly, tipping the dregs of an empty bottle into her glass. ‘Plenty more salmon in the tart.’
Aimee put her hand over Melinda’s. ‘Let’s open another one of those.’
Melinda shook her off. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘It was only one night, very drunk.’ She picked up her handbag, pushed her feet back into her heels. ‘But I don’t really feel like celebrating any more, if you don’t mind. Think I’ll head off.’
‘Me too,’ said Lou. ‘Tansy’s waiting.’
‘Don’t go,’ said Aimee. She grabbed a bottle from the display rack, one of their best vintages, but too bad. ‘Stay for one more,’ she begged, looking from one friend to the other. ‘Please?’
‘Nah.’ Melinda was rooting around for her car keys. ‘I need to get this stuff home.’
‘But . . .’ Aimee checked that Nick had gone, that the door to the house was closed. ‘I need to talk to you guys about something.’
Melinda paused, but didn’t put her keys away. ‘What?’
Aimee pulled the crumpled article out of her pocket. She’d debated bringing it up at all, but she needed to discuss this properly. Just for closure. That’s what she’d told herself when she’d picked the newspaper out of the recycling. Stuffed it back in. Took it out again. All she needed was a bit of reassurance so she could nip this wondering in the bud and get a decent night’s sleep. ‘I think we need to talk about this,’ she said, passing the clipping over to Lou.
‘Is that the story you read me on the phone?’ asked Melinda, craning.
‘No!’ said Aimee. ‘It’s a new story. An update.’
‘Aims.’ Melinda set her handbag down on the table. ‘We went over this. It’s not something you need to worry about.’
‘But I’m worried that it is. I’m worried that I should worry.’
Lou looked up. ‘Why am I reading this?’
‘Because Aimee thinks we brought down a plane with her flimsy two-dollar lanterns.’
‘Really?’ Lou turned the paper over for more clues.
‘I think we might have had something to do with it.’ Aimee gripped the stem of her glass. ‘Maybe. I think we should discuss the possibility, at least.’
‘There’s no need.’ Melinda looked faintly pissed off now. ‘I told you. It’s got nothing to do with us.’
‘But the crash was closer than we thought.’ Aimee fought to keep her voice low. Rational. ‘Closer than it even says there in the paper. It wasn’t really up in the ranges at all, more near Maddocks Clearing.’
Melinda stared at her. ‘Please tell me you haven’t been out there.’
‘I was driving Shelley over to a friend’s house.’ Aimee could hear herself gabbling now. ‘It was on the way. I didn’t stop.’
Melinda walked over to Aimee and wrapped her arms around her. She smelled like wine and perfume and expensive oils. She smelled reassuring. ‘Sweetheart, listen to me. We didn’t have anything to do with the accident. It’s physically impossible. Those lanterns are floating in the river somewhere, if they even made it that far. Okay?’ Aimee nodded into Melinda’s neck. ‘Okay.’
‘It’s just stress, coming out sideways. I know you guys are worried about money at the moment. Your brain is latching onto something. Don’t let it.’
Aimee looked over at Lou, who was messaging on her phone.
Lou nodded. ‘What she said.’
‘Promise me you’ll let it go. No reading the paper, no googling. Put it out of your mind.’ Melinda gave Aimee a squeeze. ‘It wasn’t us,’ she whispered. ‘This is all in your head.’
Aimee felt the relief flow through her, better than any vintage. ‘I promise,’ she said. And meant it. ‘Thank you.’
Hensley’s main street was the Australia that foreigners dreamed about. The town’s main artery was lined both sides with cafes and family-owned fruit shops, proper pubs and friendly butchers. The local council had decided decades ago that it wouldn’t bloody pander to weekend visitors from the city. It had seen what had happened to Kimerlee and Fenton, even Meadowcroft, as a result of chasing the tourist dollar. Main streets full of fancy kitchen gear and artisan cheese shops, and nowhere a man could get a decent drink. Gentrification had ruined half the towns in the valley, was the considered opinion of the Hensley Council: membership — seven; members who weren’t related to the mayor — zero. So the council had effectively banned tourism. Since 1993, every application to open a tourism-related business had been turned down on a trifling technicality. Those who tried to take complaints about the policy higher found themselves very unpopular in the sort of country town where popularity was everything.
As a result of Hensley’s refusal to gussy itself up, the town had remained an anachronism, a genuine untouched piece of Australiana — and catnip to wealthy tourists looking to stay somewhere ‘real’. They flocked in for weekends and public holidays, exclaiming over the unspoilt authenticity of the place as they crowded the footpaths, congratulating themselves on their ability to blend in with the locals as they stood in the middle of the street taking photos of tin awnings and faded shop signs, stopping traffic and causing more than one minor accident.
Melinda dodged a confusion of Japanese pensioners walking exquisitely slowly towards the rotunda as she ferried a carton of jewellery to the back of her building. Originally the town’s commercial hotel, it had been shut down three years earlier in a fit of pique and trumped-up fire-safety concerns after one too many rowdy backpacker parties. Melinda had pounced. Promising Mayor Rex and the rest of the council that she would never, ever let a tourist cross the doorstep, she’d let out the lower floor to small businesses — a mattress company, an Italian bakery, an accountancy firm — and converted the upper floor into a giant apartment for herself, complete with wraparound balcony and the best view in town. The commercial rent was slowly paying off her renovations as well as the mortgage, and Melinda had added the building to LoveLocked’s balance sheet on account of the fact she stored inventory there, a move that her Kiwi accountant tenant described as being ‘pretty legal’. It wasn’t quite the single-girl-in-the-city unit she’d planned to buy. And it certainly wasn’t the stylish-but-warm family home she’d always assumed she’d end up in. But on a summer night with a G&T and her girlfriends and enough mozzie spray, it was good enough.
‘Excuse me.’ Melinda shuffled the carton of charm bracelets from one arm to the other. It was too hot for this; the tops of her thighs were sticking together. ‘Coming through. Excuse me.’
Elderly Japanese nodded politely and moved slowly. Too slowly. Sometimes, Melinda could see the council’s point. She dumped the box on top of the others and headed back to the Range Rover for another load.
This was the problem with being single. You had to do everything, absolutely everything, yourself. She opened the boot and sat in it, momentarily overcome by heat and pissedoffness. Every bill, every decision, every heavy box, every spider, was yours to pay or make or carry or kill. And she could do it. Of course she could do it. It was just that sometimes, she didn’t want to.
Melinda had no idea how she’d ended up on her own. She’d had boyfriends in her teens, twenties, thirties. Fewer in her thirties, to be fair, but she’d been busy. Boys and men had loved her, or at least had said they did. One had proposed. Two had — briefly — moved in.
But now the periods of being single were growing longer, and the periods of seeing people were growing shorter, and becoming less enjoyable. A new pressure had arrived with her late thirties, as potential partners grilled each other in what felt more like job interviews than first dates. Was the person scooping taramasalata across the table sane, solvent, addicted, damaged goods, marriage material or desperately trying to have children before their ovaries stopped delivering? And there was less casual sex these days, less let’s-just-try-this-and-see, because the women didn’t have time to try it and see, and the men didn’t trust them. Single men viewed women in her age group with a suspicion usually reserved for financial advisors, scared they’d lull them into a false sense of security with reassuring chat about wanting to keep things casual, and then trap them into babies they couldn’t afford and marriages they didn’t want. Which was hysterical, when you thought about it. ‘I haven’t decided if I want you around for the weekend, let alone the rest of my life,’ Melinda had informed one would-be boyfriend who accused her of ‘rushing things’ when she suggested going halves on a friend’s birthday present. ‘Get over yourself.’
But that was the other thing that had changed: the balance of power. It wasn’t politically correct to say it, but her value was definitely declining with age. Melinda had the status that the business gave her, but the right sort of man didn’t seem to care about that. Only the sort who hoped she’d take care of their debts. Her ex-boyfriends all seemed to go on to marry teachers and receptionists and yoga instructors. Younger, easier women. Women with fewer opinions, women who didn’t make enough of their own money to be threatening or enough of their own potential to be competition. What do they even have to talk about, Melinda wondered of the men who married these women, women who had no interest in politics or current affairs or what was happening to the economy. Don’t they get bored? I’d get fucking bored.
She lugged another box down the street and dumped it on the kerb before the sticky tape on the bottom could give out. There was a hideous irony in the fact that guys she wouldn’t have even spoken to ten years ago now considered themselves out of her league. And it wasn’t like they were improving with age. As single women like Melinda got older, they started looking better: a bit of Botox, more money to spend on haircuts and highlights, more expensive clothes. The men didn’t make an effort; they didn’t bloody have to. Being single and heterosexual seemed to be enough.
Melinda slammed the boot shut and kicked the final box along the footpath. And when you did finally meet someone nice and interesting and gainfully employed, they were married. Melinda didn’t believe in the phrase ‘it’s not fair’, was always the first person to say that life wasn’t meant to be fair, that no one had promised fairness. But really? Really? Surely she deserved a break.
‘Fuck,’ she muttered, as the box tipped over and velvet cases spilled onto the street. ‘Fucking fuck.’
‘Do you want a hand with that, Mel?’
Nick leaned out of the window of his battered ute, son next to him in the front seat, dog in the back. Melinda straightened herself.
‘I’m fine,’ she called back. ‘I can handle it.’
‘I didn’t ask if you needed a hand,’ he said, climbing down into the road. ‘I asked if you wanted one.’
The concern in his voice made her eyes blinky. ‘Please.’
‘Where are the rest?’
‘Round the back.’
Nick stuck his head through the car window. ‘Byron,’ he said, ‘get out here and give Mel a hand.’
He didn’t need to be told twice — good kid, that one — just put his phone down and clambered out, knees and elbows in all directions. He and Nick had the boxes upstairs and in her storeroom in a matter of minutes, ignoring her instructions to just leave them on the landing.
‘It’s a bloody mess in here,’ called Nick. ‘Want us to sort it out?’
Melinda shook her head. It was bad enough that someone else’s husband was coming to her rescue. As usual. Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mel. Just be grateful it’s done.
‘Thanks, Nick,’ she said, as they both waited for Byron to finish in the bathroom.
‘No worries.’ He perched on the edge of her linen sofa, looking healthy and reliable and almost as handsome as he had when they were dating. Nick’s face was weathered, but in a way that added character. He looked like what he was — a decent guy. A little thought flickered through Melinda’s head: Lucky Aimee. Followed by another: Foolish Melinda. She walked quickly into the kitchen.
‘Tea?’ she called, from the safety of the sink. ‘Beer?’
‘Nah,’ he replied, as the toilet flushed. ‘We’d best get back. Aimee’s putting a roast on. I promised I’d rustle her up some veg.’
‘Right then.’ She busied herself at the sink, relieved but slightly disappointed. ‘Thanks for helping.’
‘Just shout if you need to take that stuff anywhere. Byron can cart it around for you. He’s not got anything better to do this summer.’
‘That’d be great.’
Nick rubbed the fob of his keys against the doorframe. ‘I’m sorry about Dave,’ he said finally.
Melinda flushed. ‘It’s okay.’ Just go now.
‘Nah, it’s not. He shouldn’t have done that.’
Melinda shrugged.
‘You want to come to ours for dinner? There’ll be heaps.’
‘I’d rather be by myself, actually. Thanks all the same.’
‘Righty-oh.’ Downstairs, they heard the front door slam, then Byron talking to the dog. Nick stared at her, cleared his throat. ‘Mel —’
‘I really don’t want any sympathy right now. Honestly, it will just make me feel worse.’
‘I wasn’t going to give you any.’ She could see him searching for something reassuring to say. ‘Just . . . you’re looking good, Mel. Really good. Just wanted to say that.’
She snorted.
‘Catch you later.’ She heard the latch turn, and then he too was gone.
Melinda opened the fridge and assessed her options. Hummus. Smoked salmon. Rice crackers. The modern single woman’s equivalent of a supermarket ready-made meal for one. She shoved it all on a breadboard, added a handful of cherry tomatoes and made her way onto the balcony, returning for a half-bottle of white. Fuck the emails. She was taking the rest of the day off.
Beneath her, Hensley moved happily into midafternoon, friends calling to one another as they headed to the pub for a cold one, tourists soaking up the sun on the town’s wooden benches, their legs stretched into the footpath with little regard for passing pedestrians. Melinda made herself comfortable in a deckchair and watched other people’s lives play out below. The mother snatching at a toddler about to walk into the road. The teenage couple wrapped around each other outside Larry’s Meats, tattoos blurring as they snogged and groped. Larry’s wife, Sandra, with her frosted up-do, shooing them away.
A spectator. That’s what she’d become. Someone who watched from the sidelines as other people got on with life, getting married and setting up house and raising children and growing old and grumpy together. Melinda wasn’t sure she wanted all that, but it would be nice to have the option. To feel like you were part of the Game of Life, with its winding but sure pathway from the chapel to the grave. Not someone who got invited to be an extra in other people’s lives: to sit at their dinner tables, make small talk with their in-laws, come round for Christmas if you’re free. She was always free.
Melinda didn’t believe in wallowing — she gave Lou stern lectures about the dangers of negative thinking, of becoming stuck in a self-defeating cycle — but sometimes it was strangely pleasurable. She licked hummus off a spoon and felt sorry for herself, alone on a balcony big enough for a footy team of friends and family. Tomorrow, she’d pick herself up and get back to business. The business of being Melinda. But today she was just going to sit there feeling like shit.
And so she did, as the sun started to lose its power and the tourists headed indoors. Sat and ate and drank and watched and felt like shit, ignoring the vibration of her phone, the Meadowcroft number flashing up on its screen once, twice, followed by a message she deleted, unread. She might be lonely, but she wasn’t one of those women. The kind of woman who slept — knowingly at least — with other women’s husbands, who waited for them to leave their spouses, or didn’t even bother to pretend they would. At least she could take pride in that.