Читать книгу Australian Secrets - Fiona McCallum - Страница 14

On Monday morning, Nicola was easing herself into the week by flicking through the collection of newspaper and magazine cuttings she kept for potential story ideas. She was staring into space when her phone rang, startling her. ‘Bill Truman’ flashed on the screen. She picked up the handset.

‘Hi Bill,’ she said.

‘Nicola. My office, thanks.’

‘Oh, right, okay, thanks, I’ll be there …’

There was a click.

‘… in a sec,’ she finished, but he’d already hung up.

Nicola got up and made her way out into the empty hall. She preferred to get in early on Monday mornings; liked the peace before the other journalists arrived.

‘Have a seat.’ ‘Ta.’

It was a large office. Not by executive standards, but definitely compared to the four-to-a-cubicle squeeze of the Life and Times team. At least he had a window, even if it did look out over a depressing industrial wasteland.

Like the rest of the office it was showing its age; decked out in dark stripy fake woodgrain and the same threadbare and dirty mid-brown carpet that plagued the whole floor. In the corner stood a large round planter pot filled with potting mix but with no sign of plant life.

As usual, there was a lingering mustiness underneath Bill’s fresh morning scent of Brut, Imperial Leather soap, and toothpaste. He always wore a white shirt and conservative tie – this latter article would be shed sometime during the day, depending on which meetings he was booked to attend, and when.

It was a running office joke that Bill often left the place looking like he’d had to physically wrestle the powers-that-be to prevent budget cuts or fight for more airtime. Although he invariably started the day clean-shaven, hair carefully arranged into a sweeping comb-over, by the afternoon his shirt would be wrinkled and half-untucked beneath his pot belly, his hair flopping over his eyes, and a fine grey stubble on his chin.

‘Latte?’ Bill enquired from the bench that ran around the wall under the window behind his desk. His shiny aluminium coffee machine looked to be the only addition since the office’s last refurbishment in the early nineties.

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Right,’ Bill said, after taking a deep slug of coffee and putting his mug down heavily on the desk. ‘How would you like a little trip out to the country?’

‘Are we talking day spa country?’

‘Fussy now we’re hot property, are we? And no, not quite; you’ll be lucky to find a latte.’ Yeah right.

‘I’m offering it to you first. We want a story on the ongoing drought out bush. I’m thinking you’d go out there for a couple of weeks – month tops. I’ll even throw in an airfare for Scott to visit.’

A weekend together in a quaint B&B, fossicking about in art galleries and antique shops – maybe it was just what she and Scott needed. Meanwhile, a change of pace and scenery might be nice for her too. The more Nicola thought about it, the more she liked the idea.

‘All right, so where am I off to?’ she said, sitting up straighter in her chair.

‘So you’ll go?’

‘Sure, why not?’ It was a month, tops, right? Bill looked a bit surprised. ‘Where am I going?’ ‘Nowhere Else. Ever heard of it?’

‘You’ve got to be kidding – someone did not name a town Nowhere Else!’ Nicola cried. ‘Someone did indeed.’ ‘Cute. So, what’s my angle?’ ‘Thought I’d leave that up to you.’ ‘Okay. When do I leave?’ ‘You fly out tomorrow, 6 p.m.’

‘Righto. But what’s the hurry? The drought’s been going on for years, hasn’t it?’

‘It’s the only booking I could get before next week. Oh, and um, there’s one small catch …’

‘Isn’t there always?’ Nicola said, rolling her eyes at him.

‘It’ll probably be a smallish plane. And you’ll be crossing the Gulf – flying to Port Lincoln and hiring a car from there. You’re welcome to drive the whole way around, but it’ll take you best part of seven hours,’ he said with a shrug.

‘Oh.’ Shit. The Gulf – the Spencer Gulf; the same one that had claimed Ruth and Paul. Jesus, just how small a plane was he talking? At least it wouldn’t be operated by SAR Airlines – they’d had their licence suspended after the crash and closed their doors not long after that.

But seven hours in a car? No bloody way. She didn’t even like to do the Clare Valley and back in a day.

No, she’d have to face her fears; get on a small plane, cross the Gulf. Anyway, he did say it was ‘smallish’: the plane her parents perished in was tiny – only an eight seater. A completely different kettle of fish. And he had said ‘probably’, which meant he didn’t know for sure; for all he knew it would be a 737. Yep, it would be okay.

She, Nicola Harvey, Gold Walkley winner, was certainly not going to pass up the chance because of being a pathetic scaredy cat. It was only when Bill cut in again that Nicola realised she’d been silent for ages.

‘Well it’s either that, “How much fat is really in a Big Mac?” or “Does price equal effectiveness in the world of women’s anti-wrinkle cream?”’

‘I’ve said I’ll go.’

‘Good. I’m sure it’ll be a lovely place to chill out. Who knows? Maybe there are day spas,’ he said with a shrug. ‘What would I know; never been there. Go and find me a knockout story, there’s a good girl.’

The words ‘day spas’ and ‘chill out’ rang in Nicola’s head. That was what this was all about – a break, not a story at all. Of course Bill was too cunning to say so; he knew she’d never fall for the ‘take some time off, you deserve it’ line. Also, this way she was still strictly working for the station and Bill could balance his budget and keep everyone happy.

‘Well, Scott’s off to a conference – one of those cushy bonding soirées. I may as well go on holiday too,’ she said brightly, and got up.

‘This isn’t a story for Getaway, Nicola,’ Bill warned. ‘Doesn’t hurt to dream, now does it?’

‘Whatever works,’ Bill said absently, flicking through some papers on his desk. ‘Right, I’ll get the final arrangements sorted. You let me know the angle when you’ve sussed the place out. Not just dead stock and foreclosures …’

‘What?’

‘Remember, Nicola, I’m expecting gritty.’ ‘Yeah, no worries,’ Nicola mumbled. She too was expecting “gritty” – in an expensive jar awaiting her arrival.