The party on Friday night is at an expensively renovated Federation hotel in the centre of Denman. I was supposed to be sharing a twin room with Billy, but he called this morning. ‘Me and George will bunk in together, so you get a room to yourself.’
The receptionist smiles as she takes in my work jeans and scuffed and dusty boots. ‘There’s no lift in the old part of the building, but the rooms are larger. You’ll be okay with the stairs won’t you?’
After dehorning and castrating cattle all week, my muscles complain as I climb the stairs to the thickly carpeted landing on the second floor. I count the black-and-white photographs of thoroughbred horses right to the end, press the keycard against the door and—
‘Oh!’
I check the number: 221. And then I check the keycard. As it opens the door, this must be my room. The room is on a corner and has two sets of windows, so there are views of the century-old buildings in Denman’s main street, as well as an outlook to the park. The king-sized bed has a white duvet, a mountain of pillows and a throw. It’s tempting to lie down on the bed or sit on the small grey sofa and drink a cup of tea but I need a shower. Anyway, the party starts in an hour and Blake will be there and …
My bag has been sitting on the back seat of my four-wheel drive all week. After lifting it onto the rack, I take out my dress and shake it. Is it too dressy? Not dressy enough?
When Patience gave it to me the Christmas before last, Phoebe pointed to the label and spoke in hushed tones.
‘Did you go to Paris without telling us?’
Patience grinned. ‘It was in a fancy shop in Sydney, and I couldn’t resist the colour.’
We’d just eaten breakfast, so I wiped my hands down the front of my pyjamas before touching the fabric.
‘It’s the same colour as our jacaranda tree,’ I said.
‘The colour it’d still be if the buyer hadn’t chopped it down.’
‘Yes.’ I blinked back sadness.
Patience hugged me. ‘Don’t cry, Prim. I’m sorry.’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘We were happy in the garden.’
‘You and Patience spent hours catching blossoms,’ Phoebe said. ‘We’ll always have the memories.’
‘You’ll wear the dress, won’t you?’ Patience said. ‘It’ll look great with your hair.’
‘I’ll need a special occasion.’
The only time I’ve worn the dress is when I stripped off my pyjamas and showed it to my sisters that morning. They said it suited me. But they would say that, wouldn’t they?
Looking into the full-length mirror in the hotel room, I hold the dress against my body. It’s close fitting with long sleeves and a low back. The neckline is decorated with diamanté sparkles. It’s short. Is it too short?
‘I’ve been held up,’ he says. ‘I’ll get there as soon as I can.’
‘Billy … wants to dance. What if he hurts his hip?’
‘I’ve missed you.’ A smile in his voice. ‘I’ve missed how you worry.’
He said, I only want you. More than I’ve ever wanted anything. After we disconnect, I toss my boots in the cupboard, squirt bubble bath into the tub, turn on the taps and strip off my clothes.
I want him too.
The function room is on the second floor of the new wing of the hotel. Elizabeth, in a long cream gown and with soft golden highlights in her hair, greets guests at the door.
‘Primrose, my dear.’ She takes my arm. ‘How delightful that you could join us.’
‘Thank you for having me as Billy’s plus one. I think he’s here already.’
‘It was a shame we couldn’t accommodate all our guests at our home. I trust your room is comfortable?’
‘It’s lovely. Thank you.’
She stands back and admires me. ‘That dress is a glorious shade. And the fit! Was it made for you?’
‘It was a present from my … sister.’
‘How delightful.’ She smiles. ‘Blake should be here soon. I understand you accompanied him to the property on the outskirts of Ballimore.’
‘If buying it means there’s too much … work for Matthew, Geoff Sims needs a job. I’d employ him if I had livestock. Do you think—’
‘Gracie’s husband?’ Elizabeth puts her hand on my arm. ‘If we don’t have an opening, we’ll try to find one. Send me his number.’
She smiles. ‘You didn’t tell me what you thought of the Ballimore property. Granted, the infrastructure is wanting, but Blake tells me the land is eminently suitable. What was your opinion?’
‘I agree about the land. It’s a shame about the house.’
‘Another can always be built.’
Someone whistles behind me. ‘Smoking hot.’
‘Luke!’
Grinning broadly, Luke Martin kisses Elizabeth’s cheek. ‘Thanks for the invite.’
‘Someone else to keep you entertained,’ Elizabeth says happily before shooing us away. ‘Be sure to have something to eat. You youngsters are expected to dance!’
Folds of gossamer fabric hang from the ceiling of the room, as if we’re in a very glamorous tent. I recognise a handful of faces, mostly farmers, local politicians and racehorse breeders and owners. Douglas Farquhar, dressed formally in a suit, stands at the bar. When I head towards the groupings of tables and chairs, Luke puts his hand on my arm.
‘Lime and soda?’
‘Thanks. I’ll find Billy.’
Billy and his friend George, another of Elizabeth’s contemporaries, are sitting at a small table near the parquetry dance floor. After Luke delivers my drink—and threatens to come back when the music starts up—he returns to a friend he’s found at the bar. Billy and George discuss stock prices as I watch the musicians warm up. There are two guitarists, a drummer and a keyboard player. The fifth woman, presumably the singer, taps on the microphone.
‘Over here, mate,’ Billy calls one of the waitstaff. ‘What’ve you got on your tray?’
The waiter smiles politely. ‘A vintage cheddar and wild rice arancini, with a leek and truffle infusion.’
Billy peers at the plate. ‘Cheese and onion rice balls.’ He grins. ‘Go for it, Prim.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘You vegetarians eat cheese, don’t you?’ George says.
‘Sometimes.’
Billy takes one ball for himself and hands another to George. ‘Prim likes to know where her cheese comes from. That’ll be the problem.’
‘What?’ George says. ‘Cheese is cheese.’
‘Not … when calves get ripped away from their mothers too soon.’
George takes a swig of beer. ‘Calves are no good to a milk producer. What’s that word? Antithesis. It’s the opposite of what they want.’
‘In order to produce milk, cows have to birth calves,’ I say. ‘They should … stay with their mothers until they’re … weaned. It’s only three months. Milk producers should factor it into their costs.’
‘The cows don’t pine for long.’ George chews as he talks.
‘I’ve seen how they crash against fences. I’ve heard them bellow. Dairy producers have a responsibility to treat them fairly, to take their … welfare into account.’
‘Right then!’ Billy says, thumping his glass on the table. ‘Next round is on the Oldfields, but I’m happy to bring the drinks over. What’re you having, Prim? George?’
Once Billy has left, George sits back in his chair. ‘It’s not economic, Prim, keeping the calves.’
‘If it was standard practice, manufacturers and consumers … would be forced to pay. As it is, female calves are fed from a bottle. Males are disposed of as waste.’
‘Some are kept for the veal market,’ George says defensively.
‘And what does that entail? Having movement restricted so their flesh is pale. Some are fed through stomach tubes. As soon as they’re fat enough to be valuable, they’re …’ I squeeze my eyes shut.
‘Slaughtered.’ George finishes for me.
‘Yes.’
He turns his empty glass around, clearly searching for something else to talk about, but then he brightens. ‘You’d approve of my beef cattle, Prim. It’s only a small herd, but I raise my calves like royalty. Heifers and steers fatten up nicely in the paddock.’
‘That’s good to hear, George.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ George looks over my shoulder, ‘I bought my bull and a couple of cows from the cattle baron himself.’ He lifts a hand. ‘Douglas! Come take a seat!’
After the slightest of hesitations, Farquhar nods goodbye to whoever he was with and walks to our table.
‘Good evening.’ He raises a glass of red wine in George’s direction and then in mine.
Nate would say ‘Get outta there quick smart’ and Blake would concur. But leaving the table might draw more attention than staying. And it’s not as if I’ve sought Farquhar out. He came to me.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ George says.
After Farquhar sits at the table, George gives a summary of our discussion about dairy cattle and calves.
‘What’s your view, Douglas?’ George asks.
‘My view is,’ Farquhar says, ‘that Dr Cartwright should think about limiting her practice to companion animals—puppies and kittens.’
‘You reckon?’ George says. ‘Not sure I’d go that far.’ He puts both hands on the table and pulls himself upright. ‘Can I get you another drink, Prim?’
‘No, thank you.’
This is the first time Farquhar and I have been alone since he baled me up in the basement at his stud.
‘You’re after dairy farmers now?’ he says.
‘I … was only ever after the truth.’
‘You gave me no choice but to defend myself.’
‘You’re a liar.’
‘I presume you’re not taping this conversation.’ When I grip the table, he frowns. And then, as if something has unsettled him, he stares at the diamantés at my neck. ‘Where did you get that dress?’
‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘Humour me.’
‘My sister.’
‘I should be relieved.’ He speaks as if to himself.
‘Why?’
He flushes. But then he collects himself. ‘I wasn’t aware you were so friendly with the Oldfields.’
‘Geoff’s … wife has cancer. He’s struggling. Why did you sack him? He didn’t deserve that.’
Farquhar turns his glass by the stem. ‘You have no idea what you’ve done.’
‘I was disciplined by the veterinary board … Why evict me?’
‘To my cost, I underestimated you.’ His smile is a stretch of his lips. ‘Your capacity to make friends. Your capacity to keep them. Blake Sinclair, for example. We got on well. Now he cuts me dead.’
‘You’ve cut Rowena dead.’
‘What has she told you?’
‘She said you … were uncontactable.’
‘How much do you know? What do you know?’
‘About … what?’
‘Tell me what you know!’
‘I know about blood!’
He stills. ‘Blood?’ His voice is suddenly soft. ‘Explain what you mean.’
I lift my glass, put it down. I search for words. ‘Inaccurate recording regarding … Siegfried. Firing Geoff. You’ve … made mistakes. You have blood on your hands.’
He stands so suddenly the table rocks. ‘Take me on again …’ He spits the words. ‘You’ll regret it.’
I sit back in my chair. Take a few deep breaths. I know about blood. Did I give myself away? I didn’t say anything specifically about PMSG. I search for Farquhar, watch cautiously as he walks across the room to Elizabeth, still standing at the door. Her back is to me and she’s talking to—
Blake.
He’s wearing a navy suit with a white shirt. He moves to the side as Farquhar bends low over Elizabeth’s hand. The men nod curtly. And then they shake hands.
Farquhar was angry and defensive. Was he scared? I’ll have to tell Nate that I’ve spoken to him. I’ll also have to tell Blake.
But not tonight.
Blake’s hair is damp and pushed back. Did he shower at the zoo? Or in his room here? Will he sleep with me in my room tonight?
I don’t remember standing but by the time Blake reaches me, that’s what I’m doing. His shoes have thin soles. As I’m wearing heels, our height differential is less.
He’s very serious. ‘You’re beautiful, Prim.’
‘Oh.’
‘You don’t like to hear that, do you?’
‘I never know … what to say.’ When I take his hands, the sleeves of his jacket fall back. Two platinum cufflinks. One with a shield, one without.
The lights dim. Four burly men pick up tables and move them away from the dance floor.
‘Doc!’ Billy calls out from the bar. ‘Better late than never! Come and meet my mates!’
I’m less anxious in bars than I used to be. On quiet nights at the Ballimore Hotel, I sit with Thomasina and Lacie and we lean over colouring books. When Daffodil quacks, we shush her. But in Ballimore, I’m wearing jeans and boots. Here I’m in high heels and a short, tight dress and …
I’m not aware of stiffening until Blake puts his arm around my waist. ‘Sweetheart?’
‘I’ll be okay.’
‘Billy can come to a table.’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I’ll have a lime and … soda.’
He holds my hand as we walk to the bar. And keeps a firm hold as he orders my drink and a tonic water.
‘I don’t care if you drink,’ I tell him.
‘I don’t want to.’
Billy has known some friends for decades, others he’s only met tonight. I thought I’d have to remind him not to drink too much because he’s still shaky on his feet and might have to take painkillers later, but he’s talking so much there’s no time to drink. Blake joins Billy’s conversations as the musicians work through the Oldfields’ playlist—mostly ballads from the seventies and eighties. After half an hour, Blake takes my empty glass.
‘Elizabeth instructed us to dance,’ he says, as he leads me to the dance floor.
‘Not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘No one else is dancing.’
He guides me to a small table adjacent to the dance floor and I’m about to sit down when he steps in front of me, shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it over a chair.
‘Blake? I don’t—’
‘I’ll lead.’ His teeth flash white when he smiles. ‘Trust me.’
As the musicians strike up ‘Saving All My Love for You’, Blake takes my hand and puts his other hand at my waist. As we move, his leg slips between mine. Left turn. Right turn. Chest. Hips. Tilt. Bend. Turn. Sway. Other couples and groups of friends join us on the floor—he finds his way around them.
I’m not only breathless but aroused as we dance our way through the playlist: ‘Chain Reaction’. ‘I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do’. ‘Up Where We Belong’.
I laugh. ‘Blake!’
His eyes are bright. ‘Primrose?’
‘Where did you learn to dance like this?’
‘Boarding school.’ When he turns, the other dancers whirl wildly around us. ‘I honed my skills at debutante balls.’
‘What did the girls’ parents say?’
He pulls me so close that I’m on my toes. ‘This is different.’
My head spins. It will be different with you. Can it be different, even though we live different lives in different countries and—
‘Prim?’ He steps back, spins me around and pulls me back into his arms. His breath is warm on the side of my face. ‘Trust me.’
His heartbeats are faster than they were. But they’re steady. Measured. He’s confident, self-possessed. His cufflink rests against the pulse at my wrist. We dance until the final song, ‘Just the Way you Are’. And then, as Elizabeth and Beatrice step up to the slightly raised stage, we walk hand in hand to the back of the crowd.
Luke peels off a wall to nudge me in the ribs. ‘Not bad, Prim. Not bad at all.’
I smile. ‘I’m breathless.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
Elizabeth is only a few minutes into her speech when Blake moves from my side to stand behind me.
‘Lean against me,’ he whispers.
I do as he asks. ‘My feet hurt.’
‘Take off your shoes.’
‘I like being tall like you.’
‘We can leave.’
‘That would be unforgivably rude.’
He grumbles quietly. Then, ‘Did you work this morning?’
I hold in a yawn. ‘Five till eleven.’
‘You’re tired.’
Beatrice’s speech is almost as long as Elizabeth’s was, but my focus is on Blake. The firmness of his body. His warmth. Strength. There are other feelings too. An ache. A need. I want him as close as we can be. Just the two of us. A night won’t be enough, but it’s a start.
‘Will you … stay … with me tonight?’
He stills. And then, even though I wouldn’t have thought it possible, he brings me even closer. ‘Yes.’
As Beatrice and Elizabeth thank the musicians, wait staff glide from person to person and hand out champagne.
I take a fluted glass and sip.