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Inside the large hall, women of all ages chattered and laughed as they fingered various Art Deco goods on display. But instead of the mood rubbing off on Bailey, the stone in her stomach sank lower. Why couldn't she join the festive mood like everyone else?
Because she'd only come to do a job.
One she no longer wanted. The second in that category, both of them keeping her away from her rightful place with Connor. The job in Whangarei had been difficult enough with the interviewee so ill and frail, but this one? This one was a complete waste of time. How could she do her best when her heart was with Connor?
And at the National Rowing Championships, finals would start tomorrow.
A soft whirring noise attracted her attention and her head swung sideways, to a young guy a few feet away. His camera lens zoomed in and out in quick succession and he changed angles almost as often. So proficient, he must be a professional. Even without his height advantage he'd stand out in any crowd, but dressed in a pin-striped suit from the Art Deco era, he looked suave and sophisticated.
Emphasising her contemporary clothing as conspicuous and inappropriate.
For a moment the guy paused, merely watching the customers until something else caught his eye and he raised the camera once more.
Bailey took some photos of her own but they wouldn't be as good as that photographer's. Not with her much shorter viewpoint and less sophisticated lenses. Wandering around the hall, she fingered some of the items on sale: long necklaces, slim-fitting dresses, headbands, gloves, hats, shoes, feathers, and artificial flowers. Such an assortment, with many being snapped up by the enthusiastic crowd.
Everywhere, women's faces clearly showed exhilaration, their bubbling enthusiasm spreading to strangers and to behaviour that no doubt would normally be foreign. Here, it fitted the era perfectly as they wrapped beads or fur stoles around themselves, and posed for photos like giggling schoolgirls dressing for their first date.
Why couldn't she get in the mood?
Easy answer; because after Connor's awesome loving, thoughts of him overrode everything else. If only the weekends had worked out better and allowed her to attend nationals for Connor. Perhaps he could have come here with her.
Uh, oh. Mentally, she shook her head. Still wouldn't have worked. This close to Nationals and the national selection trials, he'd never consider taking time off.
Ten-thirty according to her watch. What would he be doing now?
About to row the semi-final of the Men's Four. Good luck, Connor.
Raising her head again, she looked around one last time but the tall photographer had disappeared. Finished already, no doubt. Gone to his next event, like she needed to do or she'd never experience enough activities to write the damn article.
Outside again, she wandered aimlessly along the street. If she could lift her head and watch the happy, excited faces coming towards her, maybe she'd catch their enthusiasm. Sure seemed like everyone here had absorbed the festive mood.
Everyone except her.
Wherever she looked people posed in costume in front of iconic buildings as they took selfies, no doubt intent on entering the amateur photo competition. Would normally be fun to check them out later, but not with this depression pulling her down.
Later, sitting in a cafe drinking coffee and munching on a salad roll, she checked her phone for messages. Nothing from Connor, damn it. If he gave up on her and their relationship, she'd be the one to blame. Why had she been so intent on pushing her own career? And why ignore Connor's advice when he'd suggested she concentrate on writing sports stories? It would keep her in touch with his career, give her a legitimate reason for being with him at every regatta, and even perhaps give her the opening to become the official reporter at international rowing regattas.
If he managed to make the grade again.
By refusing to attend nationals, she'd jeopardised his chances. What if he couldn't concentrate on his races? He wouldn't win medals, wouldn't impress the selectors, or his coach.
She'd been so stupid. So selfish. The ache in her heart intensified. This was worse than having no job. Worse than leaving her friends in Mosgiel. Worse even, than Connor must feel every time he rowed, seated in a position other than his favourite.
Hang on! Her mouth closed with a snap. Always said he needed her support, hadn't he? So why had she believed Renton when he said Connor didn't want her? Since then, she'd learned that Sleazeball's other statement contained only partial truth. Sure Connor would soon move out of his house but according to the rental agent, not because he'd cancelled the lease. That action had come from the landlord.
Bailey almost banged a hand on the table. Once again bloody Renton had deceived her with his lies and innuendoes but there was absolutely no excuse for believing him now.
Napier was the last place she should be.
Standing, she dumped her roll in the bin and marched out the door. She had a job to do and this time, nothing would stop her. To hell with Napier and the Art Deco article.
With luck, she'd be on the next flight to Christchurch, and at the regatta tonight.
***
"Grubb's up!" Connor called as he walked into the house the girls had rented for the week. After dumping the large dish of cooked steak and sausages in the centre of the table he stood back to admire the spread. "You've done yourselves proud, ladies. It's quite a feast."
"Well, why not?" Nat eased dishes aside to make room for the condiments in her hand. "You guys all need a big, solid meal to set you up for tomorrow."
Finals. Connor shoved hands into his shorts pockets. Finals, and still no word from Bailey. Well, he'd known.
Didn't stop him hoping for a miracle, though.
The door opened again and he watched it; just in case.
Mum. Across the table they smiled at each other and he relaxed a little. Her coming had been good and bad, like achieving second place.
Having Bailey here would always be first.
His mother's head lowered and she grabbed a plate, moved around the table picking out little helpings of food from some of the bowls and dishes. Would she ever eat a decent sized meal again? Her skinny frame looked so different from the one he remembered and now wrinkles had appeared around her mouth, beside her eyes and across her forehead. The latter from worry, no doubt.
He forced his breathing to calm. Really, he should be glad she'd come. Can't have been easy when she was clearly still not well.
Bailey must have used her persuasive interview skills to talk Mum round. Trouble was, instead of making him glad and relaxing him at last, it had been proof that his girlfriend had no intention of coming.
At least Mum seemed to have settled in well enough, using the bed the girls had initially booked for Bailey.
But even that hurt.
So really, the only good thing that had come out of having Mum here had been in seeing her again and learning why she'd stayed away these last few years. Still, she should have told him from the beginning. At least then he'd have been prepared if the worst happened and she hadn't survived the cancer.
His plate full, Connor stepped back, cutlery clasped in his hands as he looked around for a spare seat. "Why aren't you outside?" he asked the room in general as he jerked his head at the closed ranch slider door. "Sun's still shining. Breeze has died down. Why not make the most of it?"
"More comfortable chairs inside, Connor. Haven't you noticed?" Suzy indicated the lounge chairs around the large room. "I don't know about you but I prefer comfort to those hard concrete steps."
"Go out if you want," Aaron invited and Connor turned to scowl at him.
"I can cope with hard seats for a while but not a lack of company, as you know, dork."
Chuckles came from the women as he sat and started his meal.
"Oh, poor guy. You're missing Bailey, aren't you?" Beside him, Ken paused and patted Connor's shoulder.
"Yuk! Get your hands off me." Connor shook himself to dislodge the contact. "You'd miss your girl too, if she wasn't here."
A glass banged hard on a table and immediately, silence pervaded the previously noisy room. Connor's cutlery dropped and almost his plate too, from its precarious position balanced on his knees. Thank God Michelle, beside him on the sofa, grabbed everything in the nick of time. What the–?
Framed by the doorway, Bailey stood silent, as if waiting for the world to catch the latest action.
Connor's throat clogged. He couldn't speak, couldn't move; hell, he couldn't even think.
Bailey. Like an echo, the name repeated in his head until finally the fog lifted and the meaning became clear.
She'd come after all.
Or was this some trick of his imagination? Slowly, he stood, but move forward? Impossible. And when he tried to speak, his voice came out in an almost incoherent croak. "Really you?"
Stupid thing to say but it seemed his brain couldn't come up with anything more appropriate.
"Hello, Connor." She came towards him in a glide, her hands out as if pleading. "I-I couldn't keep away..." Her voice trailed off and she stopped at the table while he shook himself to clear his head.
"You were never going to come," he insisted. "Never going to change your mind. You were totally focused on the interview in Whangarei. Your goal, to write for magazines and you were almost there." Even he could hear the doubt in his tone but she'd screwed with his head so many times, he couldn't help revealing his disbelief.
Silence, so he repeated, "Why?" When his hands fisted he shoved them in his pockets and like a trigger, hope crept in amongst the doubts. Hope that she really had come for him. Inside his chest his heart pounded, so loud he could hear it as well as feel the thumps.
No. Something must have gone wrong. She'd never have given up on that dream otherwise.
Unless a better opportunity had cropped up.
Like the chance to report on the regatta, and this show of support was just a cover-up.
"I made a discovery." As if to steady herself, she gripped the edge of the table. "You needed me here, and I'd been too selfish to put your needs ahead of my own. So..." She stopped, shrugged, started again. "I came to support you for your finals races but..."
One by one the others exited the room and sat on the concrete steps outside. Bailey waved a hand in their direction. "If I'm not welcome, I'll leave."
"Honey." God, his mouth felt like coarse sandpaper, stopping words from forming while his voice box apparently needed a complete overhaul. "I can't believe you're really here. Why'd you change your mind?"
"Oh, Connor." A step forward and she gripped his arm. "Whangarei was lovely but I couldn't enjoy it. And the Art Deco Festival in Napier today was all about people having a good time. I hated being on my own; needed you with me, sharing the fun, the excitement and the activities but without you there, I couldn't get in the mood."
She'd been bored. Well, he should have guessed she hadn't come for him. Probably here to report on the regatta. "Grab a plate and some food. There's plenty left."
***
Bailey turned away from making small talk with another of her former crewmates to watch the boats on the water cross the finish line.
Next up, Connor's singles race. Three golds he'd won so far and two races to go. Beside her, someone pushed and she almost overbalanced but clutched Michelle's arm instead.
"Careful," her friend warned. "Can't have people thinking you're drunk already. Connor hasn't won his position back yet."
Bailey turned a frown on her friend. "What do you mean?"
"Didn't he tell you?" Michelle looked shocked and when Bailey remained silent, her friend explained. "Jeff has stipulated that as long as all the guys from the Four are selected, he'll take whichever one is fastest in this singles race as the stroke. No more changing the crew around."
For once, blasted Renton had told the truth! Bailey grimaced. "Is that right?" So why hadn't Connor told her? Why keep such an important issue secret?
Her friend chuckled. "You can rule Pete out. He doesn't like being stroke."
"But Michelle, is Connor capable of beating everyone else? I mean, he's never liked rowing a single."
"According to Pete, he is very capable, and apparently he's worked really hard on this." Michelle flashed a reassuring smile.
"Thanks. But now you've told me, I'm so nervous I don't think I can wat—" She broke off as the commentator's voice came over the loud speaker and automatically, her head swung towards the big screen and its display of the race start.
Twenty metres later, Connor had pushed past the slower two boats, leaving only his crewmates ahead. Could he gain on any of them? Bailey's hands fisted, nails digging into her palms but the pain hardly registered as she stared at the screen. Come on, Connor! Come on!
By the halfway mark Connor had moved ahead of Pete and as the crews came into view on the lake, Bailey pulled out her binoculars. Connor had caught up to Aaron! He'd have the same determination on his face that he'd shown during the Olympic races but could he keep up this pace? "Connor!" she yelled. "Connor! Connor!"
Somehow, she'd come to the edge of the lake with the other girls, the crowd at their backs pushing forward and everyone yelling support for their favourite rower. Bailey dropped the binoculars and cupped her mouth so her voice carried better as she continued to shout.
Slowly it seemed, Connor passed Aaron, leaving only Ken in front. Connor had to beat him. Just had to. How would he cope if Jeff kept him out of his favourite position permanently? Again and again Bailey yelled, her whole focus on the action of the two rowers.
Only a few metres left in the race and still Ken remained in front. But with a sudden burst of energy Connor surged ahead, past Ken and over the finish line in first place as Bailey's camera clicked a series of photos.
Numb, she could only stare as one by one, the rowers slowed their pace, allowing the boats to drift on the smooth water.
Connor had done it. In the event he dreaded. The boat he hated. He'd come through, proving to everyone he deserved the position of stroke in whatever boat he rowed.
Turning to her friends and Connor's mother, Bailey shared hugs with them all, laughing hysterically in her excitement and when her phone rang, she answered automatically.
"He'll be drug tested after that performance. What will they find?" Sleazy's voice contained its usual threatening tone but she'd had enough of the jerk.
"So what?" she yelled back over the noise of the crowd, hostility filling her voice at the ridiculous allegation. "There'll be no drugs in Connor's system, you can be sure of that."
Clicking off the phone, she dropped it in her pocket and turned to watch the rowers climb from their boats. Next minute she'd ducked under the tape erected to keep the public out, waiting for Connor to finish shaking the other competitors' hands, and Jeff's. After ignoring her all yesterday, Connor would acknowledge her support this time for sure.
Instead, she found herself shoved aside by the official photographer. Her ecstasy vanishing, she could only watch as the three place-getters shuffled into line and walked onto the podium.
Apparently the ceremony took Connor's full concentration because he still didn't look her way. Only his men's eights race to go but there was no point hanging around, running the risk of more rejection.