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Bailey hopped off the second-hand bike she'd bought on the internet yesterday. Running from home to the lake had been a stupid idea after such a long time without proper training so she'd settled for biking as a build-up.
Some crews had come off the water already and now loaded their boats onto the racks in the shed. No sign of the Men's F our though, so they must still be on the lake.
By the time their boat finally showed up, all the other crews were in and most of the rowers had disappeared to shower and change. As Connor's skiff neared the pontoon Bailey left her position on the bank and wandered down to meet the guys.
"Hey, Bailey!" Pete called from the stroke seat as he guided the boat in.
They were still in the same positions as on Sunday and again, Connor's greeting wasn't as enthusiastic as his mate's.
"Good row?" she asked him.
"Not bad."
Why hadn't she taken more notice of his responses before? With nothing to compare, she had no way of knowing if this was normal or an indication of a crappy session.
As each guy unscrewed the gates on his riggers and released the oars, she gathered them into a pile on the pontoon. With drink bottles tucked into their row suit shorts the guys looked like they'd suddenly grown grotesque lumps from already massive thighs. On the count of three they lifted the boat, tipped it upside down and carried it away.
With her arms full of oars Bailey trailed behind, hung them on the rack in the shed and went looking for the coach. His boat slid into position as she arrived. "Jeff."
He looked up, a polite smile on his face as if he hadn't wanted to see her at all.
Tough. She needed answers, and she'd get them; now. "I see the crew's positions still haven't reverted to the original so Connor's still not stroke. Is he—?"
"No harm in that." Jeff's brown eyes darkened in a challenge.
"You're still swopping them around?"
"Obviously."
"Is this arrangement better than—?"
"Not really." He hooked his lifejacket over a peg beside the door. "Just different. I'll probably change them again sometime. Keeps them on their toes, as it were. Keeps their interest up. Concentration too, and provides variety. That's often hard to come by when the training period is so long."
Like the strong, harsh sounds of a music score playing during a movie battle scene, Bailey's heart pounded in her chest, urging her to fight for Connor and his dream of four more Olympic golds. "You don't need to treat me like some ignorant girlfriend with no knowledge of the sport, Jeff. I've coxed a women's eight in Mosgiel for the last three years."
"I know. He told me."
"So you'll put Connor back in stroke seat before the World Champs? Before you leave for Europe?"
"If he's up to it."
Hands banged onto her hips. "What do you mean? Are you suggesting he might not be? That he isn't now?"
"There have been times when his concentration's been less than ideal, as I suggested last time we spoke." Jeff's voice sounded so calm it was like talking about next month's weather.
"Connor? I had no idea that's what you meant, or that he was the only one with a problem. And are you suggesting there've been several times his concentration's been lacking?" Good grief. Blasted Jasmine had told the truth.
"Exactly."
"When?" she demanded, swinging round to follow his movements as he rummaged in the boat and retrieved his drink bottle.
"First row back this season."
"But he'd been travelling for nearly three months on speaking engagements! Hardly had time for any R & R since arriving home from Europe. Forgot to treat his hands to prevent blisters and got several that first day in the teeming rain. Why weren't you surprised that things were a bit off? I'm not, especially knowing there's no chance for those sores to heal now. I'd have thought you'd understand. He'll settle soon enough."
Jeff straightened, drank half the bottled water and clipped the lid back on. "I've waited a month already, Bailey, and he's still not always focused." Forced patience came through in his tone. "A distraction at home, perhaps?"
"Me?" Bailey swallowed a walnut-sized lump. "Why would my being here affect him that way? It doesn't make sense. He's more likely to have settled now I've moved up."
Jeff grabbed a small bag from a hook, dropped his bottle in, and looked across at her, his face a little more relaxed than a minute ago. "Tell you what. Come out in the coach boat with me some time. See if that changes anything."
"Won't it make him worse if I'm in his sight?"
"If it does, I'll know you're the problem."
Uh-oh. Why would the coach point the finger at her? She wasn't Connor's problem. "When will I come?" And prove him wrong.
"Tomorrow if you like. Might pay to warn him first, but don't give the reason. Think up any old excuse."
"Okay. Tomorrow morning it is."
***
Bailey placed a plate of sandwiches on the table when Connor walked in a little later and he eyed them speculatively. That had been quick, so what was up? In a hurry to go out, was she? Or buttering him up for some bad news, passed on from Jeff? "Well?" he demanded as he seized the bottle of water from the fridge and drank. "What did Jeff say?"
"That I might like to go out with him in the coach boat." When Connor frowned she added, "It could help compensate me for missing my position as cox."
Did that mean they hadn't discussed his performance? "Do we get a say in this?"
"Of course. I'll only go if none of you mind."
The empty bottle slipped into the sink. "When?"
"Tomorrow morning, if it's okay—"
"S'pose. Ring the others. Any doubts, any pauses when they reply; you take as a negative. Got that?" His aggressive tone must have been over the top because she backed away.
"Yeah, sure. Got it. I do understand, Connor. Not everyone would be happy with someone else watching, although it must happen often enough. At regattas, for instance, when photographers and commentators watch from the barge beside your boat, or when Go-pros are attached—"
"Yeah, yeah, okay. Just get on the bloody phone and ring them. I'll put up with it if they can."
***
Connor and his crew were well into their warm-up routine when Bailey arrived at the lake next morning. Leaning her bike against the building she rushed to help Jeff pull the coach boat towards the water.
"None of Connor's crew mind my coming out with you," she told him, nodding towards the rowers. "Guess they're used to it." And thank God, none had even queried her reason after she'd repeated the story she'd already told Connor.
Once the coach boat had been launched she climbed in and sat where Jeff pointed. Overhead, cloud covered most of the sky but at least that would take the glare off the smooth water. The stillness emphasized the loud chirping of birds as they flew in and out of nearby trees, apparently undisturbed by the activity and sounds of rowers and coaches as they prepared for their training sessions.
The motor started up, shattering the atmosphere, but although the engine's noise took precedence over all the others, it soon settled into a steady throb as the coach boat left the pontoon and headed out to the far side of the lake.
Watching from alongside the Men's Four gave an entirely different perspective from sitting in the coxswain's seat. Jeff used the megaphone whenever he had a comment to make, but none were directed at Connor, thank God.
In fact, this crew looked so good, tingles of excitement zipped up Bailey's spine. Nothing about their rowing appeared faulty. From body posture to blade work and through every part of the stroke, the harmony of these guys appeared perfect. Even the exercises Jeff commanded were executed flawlessly and without question.
The differences between this crew and her own back in Mosgiel were enormous, starting with the straight course of this lake to the twisting river her crew practiced on, and from the comparative ineptitude of her crew of near novices to these elite rowers. Once she became used to the motor, its intrusion faded into insignificance. As the oars dipped and rose, pushing the skiff through the water, the perfect symmetry and soft sounds could easily have lulled her into a peaceful world of dreams.
Hadn't Connor said he didn't notice the peace? 'Common as' were his words when she'd asked at Mt Cook. Such a shame he didn't appreciate this. Still, it must mean his actions took his whole concentration, giving a lie to Jeff's and Jasmine's criticisms. What had the girl really been after? Jealousy remained the only reasonable explanation, although she can't have been Connor's girlfriend anytime recently.
Again Bailey watched the rowers. If only she had her camera, and permission to take photos. In these near still conditions and with the rowers keeping such a perfect rhythm, any photo would be awesome, even without Connor as stroke.
Everything changed when they arrived at the race Start. On Jeff's instructions the crew pulled into a lane, sat perfectly still and waited for his next order. Man, did they need practice to get going! Over and over they repeated the performance while Bailey's stomach churned. Their starts had been far better during the Olympics, with Connor as stroke.
Did the coach see what she saw? His face showed no expression as he pointed out the problems through the megaphone, encouraging them before every new attempt. He must remember how good they'd been before the crew change. Surely after this, Connor would be back in his usual seat. It was the only way he'd achieve his goal.
The only way they'd win.
"Well?" she demanded of Jeff, the moment the crew had left to carry their boat to the shed. "What's your verdict?"
"They were on their best behaviour today," he admitted as they slid the coach boat onto the trailer. "All of them. No talking, no unnecessary looking around and apart from their starts; no mistakes."
In the shed she waited till Jeff had settled the boat into position. "Why were they mucking up the starts? They didn't do that at the Olympics. Shot out of there like they meant to blitz the field the whole way, in the final."
"Out of practice, I'd say."
"And out of order."
Jeff squinted at her, but didn't respond as he slid a block of wood behind one trailer wheel.
"Well, they are, aren't they?" She blocked the wheel on her side and followed the coach's actions in throwing her life jacket onto a spare peg. "Here's Connor, the only one aiming for four more Olympic gold medals and used to being stroke, and you haven't got him in there. Instead, you've got one of the others, unused to that position, inexperienced in that role and without Connor's fierce determination to win."
"Telling me how to do my job now?" Jeff growled, heading for the big roller door.
"Just trying to let you know what I think. Nothing wrong with listening and taking it on board."
"Okay. I've listened. It's up to me whether I take it on board or not, alright?" and he flicked the switch to close the door and walked outside, effectively dismissing her.
***
"What did Jeff say?" Behind Connor, the front door slammed.
"Hello to you, too." Bailey flipped the patty in the pan. "Said he might swap the crew around some more, that it's good for you, gives you a change that helps you concentrate and have a different view—"
"Like that matters!" Connor yanked the fridge door open with such force the empty jars above it rattled.
Leaning back against the sink she waited till he'd finished drinking. "Your rowing looked awesome today. I loved being there, watching you in action and with the lake so smooth. Wished I had my camera. Could have got some fantastic shots."
"Really." A swivel on his trainers and he'd turned and marched from the room, leaving the smell of sweat behind as a reminder of his hard work.
Something she must never forget.
It wasn't till Connor had left for training later in the day that Bailey had the chance to hunt through her records. Soon newspaper cuttings, regatta reports and photos covered her desk and she began the laborious task of arranging them all in date order. Connor might not have said anything but having learned he had a problem, she'd remembered that his attitude after every training session indicated he wasn't impressed with being excluded from his favourite seat.
Eventually she made her selections, including a photo of Connor in the single for the end. Determination showed clearly on his features. Concentration, too—all one hundred percent of it. Soon a line of records stretched along the wall, telling Connor's story in a mural. "So take that, Jeff Nicholls!" she growled as the last pin slid into place. "We'll show you!"
***
"I have to go out. Supermarket and all that," Bailey told Connor next day. She'd spent a ridiculous amount of time choosing her clothes for this job-hunting expedition and ended up wearing a similar outfit as the ones she'd worn to work in Mosgiel. "Oh, and I might stop in and visit Michelle on the way home; unless you need the car?"
"No. You're fine, just don't forget to buy bananas. I'll run to the lake." He waved her away. "See you after training sometime."
On a side street in town Bailey parked the car, walked around the corner, and headed for the building she'd selected as her first stop.
Inside, Sherdon's newspaper office looked like it had a totally different layout from the one in Mosgiel but the sounds and smells were exactly the same. Bailey waited on a hard-backed chair in Reception, her fingers fidgeting, her stomach in knots and her back heating from the sunshine pouring in through the windows behind her. She leaned forward, pulled her top away from her sticky back and looked around. No water cooler in sight, damn it.
Finally someone called her name and she followed the young guy down the hall, waiting while he knocked on the door of an office labelled Editor-in-Chief. Inside, she blinked at the unusually young-looking boss.
When he spoke, he sounded abrupt, as if he had the same request every day. No, they had no vacancies. No, there were none coming up. Fewer newspapers were being sold these days so fewer staff were required, but thank you for your enquiry. Good bye and good luck with your search.
The whole thing took less than five minutes. Bailey stepped out the main door into the sticky heat of the afternoon. Well, so much for that. At least she'd tried.
This muggy weather drained her energy. Or was it the depression from being turned down from the only work she'd trained for? Either way, she needed a drink. A cold one. No. A freezing one would be better. So she walked down the street until she reached a café. After ordering iced coffee she chose a corner seat near the back so she could watch the other customers, study their clothing, mannerisms, facial expressions and voices. Some of it might come in handy; if she got a job with a psychologist.
Disgusted with herself she drained her glass and left the café, walking until she reached a dress shop.
Same story as before. No they didn't need staff. No they weren't likely to in the near future. Thank you very much and good luck.
By the end of the afternoon her body sagged. "No I don't feel like visiting Michelle," she growled as she drove home. "No I don't feel like socializing. And no, Connor, I'm sorry. I must be useless because nobody will give me a bloody job."
Connor rose from the sofa when she walked in, his eyebrows almost meeting his hairline and no wonder. She probably looked as wrecked as a ship after being caught in a tornado. "Got the bananas?" he asked.
"Oh, no!" She collapsed onto the sofa. "I totally forgot."
"Haven't even been to the supermarket, have you?" Suspicion showed clearly in his squinty eyes, and in his tone.
"That's what I meant. Okay. I'll go, but first I need a coffee."
"So where were you?" He looked like he'd screw her neck like a helpless chicken if she said she'd been with anyone and she sighed. "Job-hunting. Being rejected at the only thing I believe I've got any talent for. And several others as well. You'd be depressed too."
"I'll make the drinks." He jumped up, patting her shoulder as he passed. "You stay there and relax. Unless, of course, you'd rather I did the shopping?"
She laughed up at him. "It's alright, Connor. You stick to making the drinks. I'll handle the shopping, as long as we're not out of coffee or milk."
"No," he called from the kitchen after she heard tins and the fridge being opened. A couple of minutes later he reappeared at the doorway, two cups in his hands. "Did you see my contribution of crosses on the shopping list?"
"Crosses?"
"Kisses," and with a wink, he turned away again, leaving a warm, fuzzy feeling inside her. This guy really might be a keeper.
***
Bailey adjusted the angle on the Sherdon Club hat. Connor had handed it over before they left for the regatta and she'd initially thought it a considerate gesture, making sure she had protection from the sun. Instead, it marked her as a supporter.
A supporter instead of a competitor.
An outsider in a foreign place and surrounded by strangers.
Walking from the boat park where she'd left Connor warming up for his first race, Bailey glanced up at the grandstand near the finish line. Filling up fast. Beyond that, a grassed area of ground sloped gently to the lake, giving a much larger viewing area for spectators and the place she'd arranged to meet the other girls.
"Ah, there you are, Bailey."
"Hi." Bailey dumped her bag on the grass beside Michelle who sat—like Suzy and Nat—on a folded chair. Both wore sunglasses and a cap displaying a rowing club's logo.
"You haven't got a chair?" Suzy leaned forward from the end of the line so she could watch the newcomer. "Didn't Connor tell you—?"
Bailey shook her head. "Probably didn't think of it. Neither did I. Not when I've competed at every regatta I've attended until this one." From her bag she unfolded her jacket, spread it on the ground beside Michelle and sat on top.
"We usually have a yelling competition at these regattas," Nat told her, leaning forward like Suzy. "Whoever makes the most noise shouting for her man gets to shout ice-creams for the rest of us girls, after our guys have finished rowing on the Sunday."
"Sounds fair," Bailey chuckled. "A bit convoluted, but fair. Who usually wins?"
"Well, not Michelle of course. Her voice is too quiet, although she does try."
"You," Bailey guessed.
Laughing, Nat tossed her head. "I'm happy to be beaten, as long as Ken isn't."
"It's only the heats today," Bailey protested. "The main thing is that he goes through to the finals tomorrow, surely?"
"The main thing, yes, but he still likes to win every race. Gives him an extra boost of confidence, you see; especially important in this regatta. Several guys in the boat are new crewmembers and there hasn’t been much time for training together."
"That's what can happen with these regattas when everyone, including the national squad rowers, have to row for their clubs." Bailey tucked a strand of hair under her cap and pulled her ponytail tighter. "Still, it's really good for the less experienced crewmembers. Must be pretty inspiring when they have an elite rower in the boat with them. Jeez, even having those rowers here must be inspiring."
"Good for everyone all round, I'd say." Suzy craned her neck as the crowd surged towards the lake. "This must be Aaron. He's in the first heat." She ran ahead, followed by the others.
Once that race finished with Aaron's crew the clear winner, the commentator began reporting on the next race and again, Bailey moved to the lake edge. As Connor's crew fought for first place she ran along the bank towards the finish line, pausing at intervals to snap photos. "Second," she reported to the others a few minutes later when she rejoined them. "Pretty close though, wasn't it?"
"They could have gone faster." Suzy collapsed into her chair. "Looked like they were just out on another training row."
Bailey smoothed out the wrinkles of her coat and found a more comfortable position. "I never thought to ask what Connor's race strategies were so either they knew they just needed to be second, or his crewmates couldn't row any faster."
"The first, I'd say," Nat replied. "But that's enough of Connor. Ken's next and you all have to watch and cheer him on."
"How do we do that when Pete's in the same race?" Michelle demanded with a wink at Bailey as they both stood and joined Nat walking to the lake.
Bailey listened in silence as the taller girl tried to drown out Michelle's yelling. Won hands down, too. Ice creams coming up? Really, they should buy Nat one, rather than the other way around.
On the way back to their places a woman's voice asked, "Are you Bailey Stoddart?"
"Yes," but who was she?
"Loved your article in the paper on Connor. A really awesome account and so timely too, after the rubbish in that gossip magazine."
"Oh, thanks. Glad you liked it." Even after the woman had disappeared into the crowd, Bailey remained there, her head still spinning in shock. The woman was a stranger, yet she'd spoken up. Wow.
Back in her seat Bailey had to check on the result of the last race. Predictably, Ken's and Pete's crews had taken the first two places and Bailey tried to join in the discussion of the crews' tactics with the other girls but it was no good. "I need a coffee. Any of you coming with me?"
A chorus of negatives followed so she amended her query. "Anything you want brought back?"
All of them, it seemed, would wait so she wandered off alone. Crowds of people filled the interior of the tiny canteen, moving only slowly towards the counter. Soon she found herself completely surrounded by people so tall, all she could see were T-shirts and singlets.
Finally her turn came and she ordered an iced coffee, then moved to one side to join others waiting for their orders. Viewing the customers from the front gave a totally different impression as all wore bored faces as they shuffled forward or reluctantly moved aside to create escape routes for those leaving.
Amongst the crowd a face caught her attention and she focused on it more intently. No! It couldn't be! The familiar sight turned her body cold.
So cold, even her scalp prickled. How could Sleazy Renton be here? How could he have tracked her down?
Well, that would be easy. The real question was, why? Surely there'd be no point coming all this way to see her.
Jeez, and she thought she'd left him, and his accusations, behind in Mosgiel. Like Connor had suggested. And convinced her to believe.
Even her scalp had cooled now and she shivered in spite of the heat from so many bodies in this confined space. Surely Renton had done his damage.
Or had he come to suss out more dirt on her?
Or on Connor.
Ten minutes later she emerged from the melee, holding a cold drink she no longer wanted but she could hardly have changed her order at that stage. Now as she squeezed her way between waiting customers she searched the faces and greying heads for her nemesis. Even though she didn't see him, forgetting the arsehole during the rest of the regatta would be impossible now, and she'd likely be lousy company for the rest of the day. The depression remained, even after hearing several more positive comments from strangers about her article.
An hour later she still hadn't moved from her chosen position at the top of the grandstand as another group of boats powered towards the finish line below. Connor's singles race! The one he wouldn't win but still expected her to watch. Still expected her to cheer him on.
Down the steps she ran, along the path, dodging other spectators and trying to watch the race at the same time.
Impossible, of course. Should have stayed up top where she'd see the boats cross the line.
Now she'd have to devise a way to avoid a confession without letting on she'd seen Sleazeball Renton.