Читать книгу Australian Secrets - Fiona McCallum - Страница 8

‘Me, me, me,’ Nicola yelled into the pillows, beating them with her fists, the announcer’s words bouncing back and forth between her ears.

Leaning back into the plush pillows, hands clasped behind her head, she couldn’t wipe the grin from her face. Not that she was trying to. Stuff being humble, she thought. I deserve this.

Steam drifted from under the ensuite door, rolling towards the end of the bed like a fog, accompanied by the damp musky smells of masculine body wash and shaving foam. She could hear the heavy beat of water on the glass screen, the occasional stomp of wet feet and squelch of a soap-filled sponge rubbing briskly on skin.

‘And the winner is … Nicola Harvey,’ Nicola whispered. A Walkley and a Gold Walkley – could life be more perfect?

She could hear Scott padding about on the smooth, damp Carrara marble, the opening and shutting of vanity cupboard doors, the buzz of his electric toothbrush. Scott always followed the same routine. Soon would come the brief roar of his hairdryer – there it was. And finally the slap, slap of hands as he applied aftershave.

Nicola imagined the astringent stinging and wondered why you’d bother every day. But it did smell damn good, she thought, as it accompanied Scott past the wardrobe and around to his side of the bed.

She rolled over for a better look as he bent to retrieve his Tag Heuer watch from the bedside table, admiring the muscles of his smooth, toned back and strong shoulders. Damn he was in good shape; almost forty and not an ounce of fat in sight.

Nicola fixed her gaze on the section of olive skin that disappeared under the roll of white towel around his waist, licking her lips hungrily. God she wanted to tear his towel off. What better way to celebrate than to make love with the man you loved?

She sighed. How long had it been? Nicola had tried to coax him when they’d got home from the ceremony, but he’d said he was too tired. And she really had been too drunk.

Though as he inspected himself in the mirrored door of his wardrobe, she saw that he hadn’t been too tired to hang up all his clothes.

Of course he hadn’t, she thought, feeling a little annoyed.

In the early days, Nicola had questioned whether two people with such diametrically opposed views on tidiness could happily cohabit. When they’d moved in together Scott had stated that as long as everything was out of sight he could put up with her untidy ways. Compromise; that was what love was all about, right?

She was impressed the first time she saw his carefully ordered wardrobe.

The mirrored doors hid carefully lined up rows of shirts in blocks of stripes, then checks, and then all the solid colours in ascending order of brightness like a rainbow. A bank of dark grey suits separated business and casual wear. Highly polished brown and black pairs of shoes were lined up in neat rows beneath, and belts and ties were rolled up in sets of timber boxes above drawers of carefully folded socks and jocks.

She’d pushed aside her concerns about what it potentially revealed about him as a person, telling herself she was just jealous, and that it was actually quite adorable. Well-ordered, controlled people were reliable and good with money, weren’t they? They’d certainly done well with their property and share portfolios.

By contrast, her own wardrobe held jumbled piles of clothes, and shoes stuffed into shelves wherever they would go or on the floor when they wouldn’t.

Nicola regularly marvelled at how ordered her work life was by comparison; it certainly went against the tidy mind, tidy life concept. Anyway, results were what mattered, and she’d won a Gold Walkley!

Scott finished re-adjusting the already impeccable Windsor knot of his navy and gold striped tie. He patted his side-parted, glossy black hair into place, and turned back towards her.

‘Aren’t you getting up?’

‘I think I’ve earnt a sleep in. Why don’t you come back to bed,’ she said, raising her eyebrows and pushing the thick down-filled quilt back slightly to reveal a hint of breast. She patted the plush thousand thread count sheets and beckoned to him with an expensively manicured nail.

‘I have to get to work.’

‘Aw come on, it’s not even seven-thirty. Surely they won’t mind you being a little late …’ ‘I mind, Nicola.’ ‘But it’s not every day I win …’ ‘I’m pleased for you. I really am.’ ‘This might never happen again.’

‘All the more reason to keep it business-as-usual.’

With his charcoal pinstripe suit jacket now hung in the crook of his elbow, Scott walked over to the bed and bent down to peck her on the lips.

‘Pleeeeaaaase,’ Nicola groaned, clasping her hands behind his neck while she kissed him, trying to part his stubborn lips. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he laughed, pulling away after a brief struggle and instinctively wiping his mouth with the back of one hand and smoothing his shirt and tie with the other.

‘Whenever that will be,’ Nicola muttered under her breath.

‘If you get bored you could always sort my shirts – Carmel is still ignoring my instructions.’ He paused in the doorway and shook his head.

‘Right,’ she said, rolling her eyes.

She hadn’t really expected him to pause, rip his clothes off and ravish her – she knew him too well – but there was that human desire to want what one couldn’t have.

Nicola sighed deeply. She’d just have to hope his golf went well on Sunday. A bad round would see him disappear upstairs to sulk and work on his swing. A good one and she might have a chance. She had learnt early in their relationship that replacing pouting with encouragement was the better course of action.

Nicola lay in bed listening to the coffee machine downstairs – the grinding of the beans, and then the gurgling and spurting as it finished Scott’s double-strength latte; his answer to breakfast. She knew she should join him for the few moments before he left, but still felt a little miffed at his rejection.

She glanced around the large, white painted room with its charcoal grey short pile carpet, sleigh-style bed and pair of chocolate coloured leather tub chairs. They were entirely decorative; not for sitting in, and Scott certainly hadn’t intended hers to be a clothes horse. But she hadn’t been able to resist draping her clothes over them, much to his annoyance.

There lay horrendously priced black lacy Victoria’s Secret underwear, stockings, dainty black Manolo Blahnik high heels with diamante straps, and a slinky black Alex Perry evening dress, all of which she’d stepped out of less than four hours before.

At the far end of the room was the expansive ensuite decked out in charcoal and white marble. It was the warehouse conversion’s main bathroom, and had a shower, a huge central freestanding bath, and a large vanity with double basins. Maybe I’ll take a bath.

The thought was interrupted by the downstairs front door clicking shut, and the hum of the automatic garage door opening.

Damn. Not even a goodbye kiss?

That was another thing that had stopped in the past few months; they were usually so caught up in their morning routines.

Feeling a twinge of sadness, she rolled over, pulled Scott’s pillow to her, breathed in his comforting musky scent, and tried to ignore the ache of frustration.

But she really shouldn’t complain; you couldn’t have everything all of the time, could you? Life itself was a compromise. Didn’t people say the romance slowed down over time?

No, she really was truly blessed: she had a wonderfully successful stockbroker fiancé, a gorgeous sparkling solitaire diamond engagement ring, a fantastic warehouse conversion, Mercedes convertible in the garage, and a comfortable, stable relationship.

And now, after years spent slaving over dodgy plumber stories, miracle diets and anti-ageing potions; her very own pair of Walkleys! No one could dispute her journalistic credentials now. Never again would she be considered just a pretty face. No siree!