Blake is on his back and I’m on my side with my arm over his body. My head is on his chest; I feel the slow and steady beat of his heart. I look up. He smiles.
‘Good morning.’
Sunshine flows through the curtains and spills puddles on the floor. I yawn and stretch. My body feels stiff and warm and … different. ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost ten.’
I spring upright. ‘No!’
‘Prim!’ He pulls me down, settles me, smooths my hair. ‘Forget the Oldfields. We can get breakfast here.’
‘Brunch is part of the party.’
‘They’ll understand.’
‘No,’ I say firmly.
When he rolls onto his side, his erection nudges my stomach. The heat of his gaze, the touch of his hand. Warmth hums from my thighs and seeps through my body.
‘The invitation said nine to twelve.’ He breathes words on my neck. ‘I only need thirty minutes.’
‘I don’t think that … will … work.’
His hand stills on my hip. ‘Are you sore?’
‘No.’
‘So why—’
‘It took longer than that.’
‘This time,’ he smiles against my mouth, ‘I’ll lead.’
Sweaty bodies, shared breaths. Tangled legs, thumping hearts. Sunshine burning bright. And even after we’re spent, I want to keep him with me. I want to stay here just like this.
We’re facing each other when he rests his weight on his forearm, wipes hair from my forehead, kisses my cheek. ‘It’s ten forty-five. We have time for a shower.’
I yawn against his shoulder. ‘You can go first.’
‘Together.’
It’s a few minutes before twelve when, hand in hand, we walk up the hedge-lined sandstone path to the expansive formal gardens behind the Oldfields’ two-storey house. I recognise many of the faces from last night, but there’s no sign of Farquhar.
‘Prim! Blake! Welcome!’ Beatrice leaves a group of well-turned-out women and rushes towards us.
‘I shouldn’t have worn boots and jeans,’ I say to Blake.
‘You’re beautiful.’
Blake is also wearing jeans, but his shoes are fine brown leather and the laces are threaded through shiny silver eyelets.
‘Billy passed on your message,’ Beatrice says.
‘I slept in.’
Blake winds his fingers through mine. ‘We both did.’
After collecting fruit salad at the buffet, we join Billy and George, both dressed in a smarter version of their regular work clothes, at a table in the shade. George barely says anything as we eat. I’m collecting and stacking the plates when Billy pokes him in the side.
‘Come on, George. Get it over with so we can get going.’
George grimaces. ‘I’m getting there.’
‘You dropped Prim in a midden, didn’t you?’ Billy says. ‘You want to set things straight.’
‘I was a goose, Prim,’ George says. ‘Calling Douglas over like that. It totally went out of my head, the troubles you had with him.’
When I feel Blake’s gaze on the side of my face, I look studiously ahead. I pull the plates towards me before pushing them away again.
‘Don’t … worry about it.’
‘Douglas Farquhar?’ Blake asks.
‘The one and only,’ Billy says.
‘I could tell you weren’t getting on,’ George says, ‘but what do I do? Leave you to battle it out with him. I’m sorry, Prim. It should never have happened.’
‘In George’s defence,’ Billy says, ‘he didn’t know the full story, or that that Farquhar had kicked you out of your house.’
‘He insulted you about kittens and puppies, didn’t he, Prim?’ George stands and pushes in his chair. ‘A damned cheek, that was. But you must have stuck up for yourself to make him storm off like that.’
If I were still holding Blake’s hand, I’d squeeze his fingers. I was going to tell you everything. But as it is …
He’s courteous but short with Billy and George as they say goodbye. And, as soon as they leave, he angles his chair towards mine.
‘What happened?’
‘I was going to tell Nate.’
His eyes narrow. ‘What about me?’
‘No?’
‘Not at the right time.’ My voice squeaks.
‘I asked you to trust me.’
My skin warms. ‘I did.’
‘In other ways too.’
‘I know you wouldn’t take Farquhar’s side.’ I link my hands on the table. ‘I’ll call Nate.’
He takes my hands, untangles my fingers. Eyes on mine, he kisses my thumb. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Nate picks up my call immediately. And, as he’s relatively close by, he suggests we meet in a service centre on the highway. By the time we arrive, he’s sitting at an outdoor table at McDonalds. He jumps to his feet and gives us an effervescent smile.
‘Prim! Blake! How’re you doing? Thanks so much for going out of your way.’
‘I thought it’d just be a call.’
‘And miss seeing you in person?’ He grins. ‘Can I get you a coffee? A burger?’
‘Green tea, please. If they have it.’
As Nate leaves the table to order, Blake grumbles, ‘I wish we knew more about him.’
‘Sinn trusts him and so does Phoebe.’
‘We only get half the story.’
‘Farquhar should be held accountable. I … want to do what I can to help.’
‘One green tea,’ Nate says, putting it in front of me before shrugging off his jacket. He takes out a notebook and pen and sits opposite. ‘When you’re ready.’
‘I don’t know if this is important.’
‘Happy to be the judge of that.’
Nate listens attentively as I recount the first few minutes of my conversation with Farquhar. He jots down notes. And then he asks questions.
‘Farquhar didn’t seek you out?’
‘I don’t think he … wanted to talk to me any more than I … wanted to talk to him.’
‘“You have no idea what you’ve done.” Were they the exact words he used?’
‘I think so.’
He writes something, underlines it. ‘Go on.’
‘Like I’ve already said, he told me he’d underestimated me. He asked where I’d got my dress. He … wasn’t being creepy about it, which made it additionally odd.’
‘Then he got angry?’
‘He said I must know something. Maybe he … was drunk? He … wasn’t making much sense.’
‘Was he nervous?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Nate?’ Blake stretches his legs, angling them to keep them clear of Nate’s. ‘Does Farquhar know you’re interested in him?’
‘Not so far as we know.’
‘When will he find out?’
Nate smiles apologetically before turning back to me. ‘Farquhar was sitting across from you when he said you must know something. Do I have that right? Tell me what happened next. How did the conversation end? Cordial? Confrontational?’
I lift my cup, sip my tea. ‘I probably shouldn’t have said … what I did. I didn’t intentionally say it.’
‘I’m not an easy man to spook.’ Nate smiles encouragingly.
‘I suspect the hormone Farquhar used … was PMSG. You know that.’
‘You didn’t talk to Farquhar about imports, did you?’
‘Not directly.’
Nate puts down his pen, pushes his notebook aside. ‘How about you tell me what went down?’
‘It … was odd, the way he’d asked about my dress. He also asked … what I knew. He said it a couple of times.’ I push away the cup. ‘I got flustered. I blurted out, “I know about blood.”’
‘What?’
‘Thinking about his cattle … made me think about bleeding mares to manufacture PMSG.’
Nate’s forced smile goes nowhere near his eyes. ‘What happened next?’
‘Farquhar wasn’t only angry, he was jumpy, defensive. He questioned what I’d said. That freaked me out, so I tried to cover up.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘I … said he hadn’t kept proper records and he’d … sacked his stud manager. I told him he had blood on his hands.’
Silence. Deafening silence. Nate puts his hands flat on the table. He schools his features to neutral. Then, ‘That’s a shame,’ he says. ‘That’s a real shame.’