When I see the late-model European sedan, shiny and black, blocking our exit to the road, I sit forward so quickly my seatbelt locks up. Nate Gillespie, dressed smartly in jacket and pants, leans against the boot and scrolls through his phone. Smiling an all-American welcome when we pull up, he lifts a hand.
‘Who is that?’ Blake asks.
‘Nathan Gillespie.’
‘You know him?’ Blake puts his hand on my arm; I feel his tension. ‘What is he doing here?’
‘W… we’d better go … see him.’
Nate shades his eyes with a hand. ‘If it isn’t Primrose Cartwright. How’re you doing?’ He nods at Blake. ‘Nathan Gillespie. Nate.’
After the men shake hands, Nate hands Blake a card.
Blake reads it, turns it over. ‘What is this about?’
‘I’d like a private word, if you have the time,’ Nate says.
‘How did you find me?’
‘I started out at the Coach House.’ Nate smiles reassuringly. ‘Beatrice Oldfield was there looking for Prim.’
‘Why did she … want me? Does she need help?’
‘Something to do with a wardrobe?’ Nate says. ‘She said I’d find Blake here.’
‘Why not ask for my number?’ Blake says. ‘Why not call?’
I put my hand on Blake’s arm. ‘Nate … worked … with Phoebe’s husband … Sinn.’
‘Prim?’ Nate lifts his brows. ‘Have you said anything?’
‘No.’ My heart aches.
‘I’ve gotta clarify a few things with Dr Sinclair,’ Nate says. ‘Give us ten minutes?’
The sun behind Blake lightens his hair. His shirt is hanging out. When my throat locks up, I lean against the headrest. I try to think of other things. Chirruping cicadas. Eucalyptus. Splashes of sunshine on the dash. I pull out my phone, put it away again. Blake listens intently. Twice he runs his fingers through his hair. Ten minutes feels like an hour.
Finally, Nate beckons me over.
Blake’s expression is masked, his blue eyes are cold.
Nate fills me in, telling me Blake’s association with Farquhar in respect to the veterinary board inquiry and the wildlife organisation they’re involved with is all above board.
Blake smiles insincerely. ‘Thanks for clearing that up.’
‘Prim didn’t think you’d do anything wrong,’ Nate says.
Blake turns to me. ‘Nate said he talked to you weeks ago.’ His tone isn’t quite accusatory, but it’s close.
‘I … w … w …’
‘I told Prim to keep quiet about it.,’ Nate says.
Mouth tight, Blake pulls a leaf from a gum tree and, holding it between two fingers, snaps it in half. ‘She did as you asked.’
What can I say? I didn’t talk to my sisters either. I gave Billy a hint. Eeyore knows everything. Mandy said I keep my pain to myself. I keep a lot to myself.
Nate, who has shoulders even broader than Blake’s, shrugs out of his jacket and lays it across the bonnet. ‘Guess you want to know what happens next?’
‘You … s …’ I squeeze my eyes shut. Open them. ‘What did you tell Blake?’
‘How you heard something about PMSG and followed up on it. How we want you to leave Farquhar to us.’
‘Is he dangerous?’ Blake asks.
‘We watch every step.’
‘You said there are others involved. Are you watching them too?’
‘It’s under control.’
He glances at me. ‘Is Prim at risk?’
‘She’s not a threat to anyone.’
‘Why tell me now?’
‘I was worried Prim would get in first.’
I touch Blake’s arm. ‘I backed out last time. This time Nate … will help.’
‘You can count on that,’ Nate says, ‘but for now it’s important that Douglas Farquhar believes it’s business as usual.’
‘Meaning you’re not going to ask him about the PMSG?’ I say.
‘As all we have so far is hearsay, not yet. Later, if we dig deep enough, we might find something. Or he might own up.’
Blake swears under his breath. ‘Keep Prim out of this.’
‘I can look after myself!’
‘Softly, softly,’ Nate says. ‘The truth will come out eventually.’
As Nate reverses onto the road, Blake sits stiffly in his car and grips the wheel. He has strong and capable hands. Careful, considerate hands. I look up the hill towards the house, but all I can see are the tops of the pines. What about the chimneys, the gums and the oaks? What about the jacaranda?
At the foot of the driveway, Blake indicates right.
‘No!’
He slams on the brake. ‘What?’
‘I … want to go the other way. I… want to go to … my car.’
With a muttered curse, he turns off the engine and unclips his belt. ‘Care to expand on that?’
‘You’re angry.’
With a very deep breath, he unclenches his hands. ‘I’m concerned,’ he says.
‘You look angry.’
‘I wish I’d known. Did you tell anyone? Your sisters? Luke?’
I press my knees together, line up my boots.
‘Answer me, Prim.’
‘Eeyore. That’s all.’
‘He knows?’
‘He’s … discreet.’ My voice wobbles. ‘I gave Nate my … word not to … say anything.’
‘What if Gillespie can’t prove this? You’ve been hurt by Farquhar before. Why expose yourself again?’
‘He’s a liar. I … won’t back out this time.’
‘He’s wealthy, successful. He has a reputation to protect. Why would he take this risk?’
‘When I told him I … suspected hormone treatments, I thought he mightn’t have been aware of them. I … saw his face, the way he tried to put me off. He knew.’
‘I believe you, Prim. Others might not.’
‘When I found out about the PMSG, I regretted the … settlement I’d made. It’s … why I called the government department.’
‘That’s how Nate found you?’
‘Transnational security? Drugs? What the hell is going on?’
I gather my thoughts, sort out the words. ‘When Nate … worked with … Sinn, it … was something to do … with armaments trading.’
Blake blinks. ‘Here?’
‘Horseracing, gambling, money laundering.’
‘The PMSG? How did you find out it was that?’
‘Someone … said … something. I can’t tell you who.’
‘Why not?’
I’m suddenly shaky. My heart aches. My eyes sting. Broken birds and blue-tongue lizards. Eeyore. My goats. The horses. That’s what I have. Isn’t it enough?
I want him too.
I can’t hold back the tears. I sob and splutter and sniff. Cascades. Rivers.
‘Fuck.’ He opens the glovebox and grabs tissues. He presses them into my hands. ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’
‘S … s …’
‘Don’t say sorry.’ He unclips my belt, puts his hands on my shoulders, turns me towards him. ‘Don’t say please or thank you.’
‘I … w … w …’ I shut my eyes. ‘I …’
‘Prim.’ He runs his hands down my arms and takes my hands in his. ‘I’ll do what you want. You’ve asked to go back, I’ll take you.’
Billy is already in the patient lounge watching The Farmer Wants a Wife when I arrive. A commercial break interrupts the program and he turns down the volume.
‘She’s a sensible woman, that Jean,’ he says. ‘The farmer bloke should choose her as his wife.’
The green vinyl sofa squeaks when, after kicking off my sheepskin boots, I cross my legs. ‘Jett can’t marry the prospective bride’s mother.’
‘Look for the beauty inside, that’s what they’re always banging on about.’ He points to the screen. ‘Jean is an attractive divorcee and has a lot of life experience. Remember what they say, Prim: “Communication is key.” Jett needs a woman like Jean to show him the ropes.’
‘Are you still upset about Jett’s ploughing? He grows hydroponic vegetables. Maybe he’d never ploughed before?’
‘No joke, Prim, my dogs would’ve done a better job than he did.’ Billy looks over my shoulder. ‘What’s this then? Couldn’t you wait till tomorrow to watch?’
When Blake sits next to me on the sofa, I fold my hands in my lap.
‘I’m on my way to the airport,’ Blake says.
‘What’s that all about, then?’ Billy asks.
‘Andrew Martin got a call.’ Blake answers Billy’s question, but his eyes are mostly on me. ‘A bull elephant in Western Australia snapped a tusk, and now it’s infected. The vets out there want our help to get it out.’
‘Is it the same as what happens with cattle?’ Billy says. ‘That can get nasty.’
‘Andrew will assist with the surgery. I’ll do the anaesthetic. And since we’re there, Andrew’s booked me in for other work.’
‘Prim,’ Billy says hopefully, ‘you reckon you can come tomorrow night instead of the doc?’
I swallow. And nod. ‘I’d like that.’
As Billy happily turns back to the television, Blake shifts closer to me.
‘I wanted to explain in person.’
‘Nate. It complicates things, doesn’t it?’
‘Not between us.’
‘But—’
‘I believe you, Prim. I’ll back you up.’
‘You promise not to say anything?’
‘As long as you’re safe from Farquhar.’
I slide my hand along on the mottled green vinyl and cross my little finger with his. Billy can’t see our hands, but even if he could, would I mind? I don’t think so. And that must mean—
‘When will you be back?’
He burrows under my cuff with his thumb, rests it on my pulse. ‘Not until the week after next. Friday or Saturday.’
‘I’m working in Obley the following week.’
He takes my hand properly, sighs as he squeezes my fingers. Then, ‘I took bloods from Merrylegs. A pathologist in Sydney owes me a favour. She’ll run new tests.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Pay attention, chatterboxes,’ Billy grumbles as he turns up the volume. ‘Jean is back on the telly.’