Heart of the Outback (8 page)

“Carlo, leave Francey alone,” Lucia entered the debate as she dished up three plates of spaghetti marinara and placed a bowl of salad on the table. “We only see our daughter once a week. You stop the scolding.
Va bene
?”

Francey grinned at her mother, her mouth twitching to hold down a brief smile. Lucia Spinetti was one hundred and fifty two centimetres of Italian volatility. Packaged in a comfortable, still curvaceous figure and with greying hair arranged in a neat bun and dark, almost black eyes, she wasn’t afraid to stand up to her larger, bombastic, sometimes overbearing husband. People said she got her temperament — if not her looks — from her mother.

“Thanks, Mamma.” She dropped a grateful kiss on the top of her mother’s head as she sat at the dinner table and put a serving of salad on her plate.

“Francey,” Lucia said, “Meredith rang here earlier on. She and Brett are sailing on Sunday. She said if you want to come, you give her a call.
Va bene
?”

“Right, I’ll ring her later. After dinner I’ll show you the gown I’m going to wear to the awards dinner.” And then she made a mental note to steer the conversation away from herself. She could always get her father to talk about the shop, how expensive fruit and vegetables were getting, how much more selective and critical the customers were. Yes, that was the safe way to go.

Francey smoothed down the black crepe tight
skirt and posed this way and that in her parent’s bedroom mirror. Yes. She was sure Aden would approve of her choice. What a good buy she’d made — off the rack too.

Carlo Spinetti looked up from the television where the ABC news was in progress. He sat in his favourite armchair, his hands wrapped around his coffee cup, waiting for the liquid to cool.

“
Porco cane.
Francey, where is the rest of your frock?”

Francey winked at her mother. “What do you mean, Papà?”

“It is indecent. You show too … too much.” His right hand gestured wildly across his chest. “You know.”

Francey smiled. “Oh. Cleavage.” The sophisticated black dress was a little more low-cut than she usually wore but not as scandalous as he tried to make out. “It’s the fashion,” she said airily, thinking, if he had his way she’d be buttoned up to the neck, with long sleeves and in high stepping lace-up boots. She hoped he wouldn’t notice the thigh length side-split. That would set him off again. Then, sheer mischief made her add, “You say you want the men to notice me. Well, in this they will.”

He shook his head and waggled a finger at her. “Disrespectful girl. I didn’t raise you to speak that way to me.”

“Oh, Papà, I’m only joking.”

“Of course she is,” Lucia came to her defence. “Pah, you are too old-fashioned, Carlo. You need to,” she frowned as she looked at Francey, “how do you say it,
cara
?”

“Update yourself. Get in tune with the nineties. Get with it. Any of those phrases will do, Mamma.”

“Two women in the house. What can a man do? You gang up on me,” he complained half-heartedly.

“You look beautiful, Francesca,” Lucia said as she reached up on her toes to kiss her daughter’s cheek. “On Thursday night you will knock them dead, no?” she added with a smile. Her little girl had become a beautiful young woman with the fire, the spirit in her like she had once had. She glowed with good health and she had a body, oh, yes, and what a body. Not as voluptuous as Lucia had been in her youth, but more like a modern model only with more curves, thank God. She had watched the way male customers looked at her when she walked through the fruit shop to their flat. As if they could eat her right up. But a sudden sadness ran through her. Francesca wasn’t interested in romance.

A strange need had taken possession of her as soon as she had graduated. She
had
to have a career. She
had
to be successful. The goal consumed her. Maybe because she had come from humble origins, she thought, and had something to prove. It was true, she and Carlo had never had much money. They made a living, worked long hours to do so and the truth was they came from a peasant background. Of that she was not ashamed, and she knew that her Francey was no snob. She just wanted different things. Back in the old country, she remembered, being a fruiterer was a time-honoured form of work for a man, although there was nothing high-class about it, in Italy or Australia.

“I’d better get changed then ring Meredith. I don’t want a late night tonight.”

Sitting at the kitchen counter she dialled the number she knew off by heart. “Meredith?”

“Francey. You’re getting harder to catch than a taxi in George Street at peak hour. How are you?” came Meredith O’Connor’s breezy voice through the receiver.

Francey smiled at her friend’s sense of humour. “Too busy to be bored,” she quipped back. “I’m in a rush, love, but how are you feeling? Is that baby you’re carrying still kicking you half to death?”

She and Meredith Brooks, now O’Connor, had been best friends since year seven at St Scholastica’s. And the friendship hadn’t lessened when Meredith joined the police service and Francey had gone on to university. Somehow they always found time for each other in their busy schedules; meeting for lunch, seeing movies together and even getting each other blind dates. One such blind date, with Brett O’Connor, had led to Meredith marrying him, which gave Francey a proprietorial air towards them. She had been the unofficial matchmaker.

“Too right. Brett reckons it’s gonna come out in a Tigers’ uniform. The kicks are fullback material at least.” Meredith giggled briefly. “Are you free Sunday? We’re sailing, maybe up to Middle Harbour.”

“Sounds wonderful. Yes. What time? What about food, drinks?” A day on the harbour. Just what she needed to alleviate the stress of this week’s heavy workload. Brett and Meredith were trying to teach her how to sail their eight-metre yacht. Then, without prompting, an idea popped into her head. “Be okay to bring a friend?”

“Sure,” Meredith said without hesitation. “And if he or she knows how to sail, even better. We’ll bring the food and refreshments. Could you be at Waverton marina by 8 a.m., please? You know how Brett hates to be deprived of his time on the boat. Oh, and good luck for tomorrow night. Your mum told me about the award.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

As Francey closed the bedroom door of her Potts Point apartment, she sighed with contentment. The bedroom in particular was her haven, it always had been even when she’d lived at home. Here she could be herself, indulge her dreams, her fantasies and her hopes without fear of criticism or derision. She was about eleven when she’d begun to daydream about what she wanted to do with her life. When she’d been doing chores in the fruit shop, mopping the floor, stacking or picking out bruised fruit for her mother to stew, she’d think about the future.

Seeing her parents struggle to earn a good living — competition along Glebe Point Road was strong, and there were the supermarket chains — had been a salutary lesson for her. She knew she wanted more. Not necessarily to be rich and famous but the best she could be, but at what?

Her daydreams would start with: once upon a dream I dreamt I wanted to be a …

Would she become a renowned scientist inventing cures to save mankind? Or a rock star? though her singing voice was a trifle suspect in that regard. Perhaps she’d be the first female racing car driver to
win a grand prix, or the managing director of a multinational company.

By the time Francey turned fifteen, with her passion for drawing plans and imagining new structures she had chosen architecture as her vehicle for success. She wanted to be the finest architect she could be and after four years she was steadily working towards her next goal: to become a full partner at Nicholson, Drew and Carlyle.

After finishing university, with her first pay cheque she had immediately begun to save obsessively. Independence was what she needed — a place of her own. She loved her parents dearly but she needed the privacy and peace of her own space, away from the demands of a large Italian family with hordes of noisy relatives calling in for impromptu visits. Within three years she had a deposit and the contacts she had made in the real estate business had allowed her to do a good deal.

The apartment block in one of Potts Point’s narrow back streets was old but the rooms were large, with high ornate ceilings. Initially, she and her cousin Tony had painted the four room apartment. The ceilings were white, the walls a soft dove grey and the skirting boards, door and door frames a brilliant turquoise.

She had renovated the galley style kitchen and next year she planned to strip and fix up the antiquated bathroom. Gradually, as her pay packet allowed, she decorated the living room the way she wanted. Two modern patterned sofas, a coffee table and against one wall she had indulged her love of music. A shelving system housed a TV, a hi-fi stereo and, on the wall
facing the kitchen, hung an arrangement of her favourite black and white photos.

Francey threw her briefcase and jacket onto the double bed whose cover had a bright geometric pattern and then closed the vertical drapes for privacy against the possibility of prying eyes from neighbours in the apartment building across the street. In one corner of the bedroom stood a draughtsman’s board, a computer on a laminated desk and a swivel chair which could be used for drawing or working on the computer. Above the computer hung a very large black and white print — a study of children at play in a city park.

A budding amateur photographer, Francey loved escaping into various parts of the city — the beaches, the suburbs — and photographing a wide variety of subjects: children, houses and all manner of objects that took her interest.

That was something else her father didn’t like. Her photography hobby. He said it was dangerous to roam around Sydney early in the morning or at sunset. That there were too many weirdos around. She knew he’d prefer her to spend her leisure time going to parties or barbeques seeking out young men — future husband material! She shrugged her shoulders casually as she peeled off her work blouse, her skirt and then her pantihose. Papà was right about the weirdos. So, for safety’s sake she’d taken a course in self-defence and when she went out on a “photo shoot” she dressed in her daggiest clothes so as not to arouse attention.

Glancing at her bedside clock she decided she had time for a quick shower before she dressed for the awards dinner. A flutter of nervousness rippled
through her stomach as she draped the terry towelling robe around herself. Tonight could be eventful, in more ways than one. There were the awards of course. But also there was Aden Nicholson … whose personal interest in her was becoming more apparent with every passing day.

Twenty minutes later, warm and slightly flushed from the shower, Francey slid open the mirrored wardrobe door and took out the black gown. With her colouring she could wear just about anything but tonight was so important. She had to look right.

The computer desk doubled as a dressing table so she perched on the edge of the chair, brushed her curly hair out and drew it up into a chignon, allowing a few tendrils to frame her face. Aden had never seen her with her hair up before, the thought came to her. At work she wore it loose, casual, because it was easy to look after. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror as she made her face up. Aden. Did she like him? Yes. Her mouth curved into a contemplative smile. Somehow, over the years she’d worked at Nicholson, Drew and Carlyle, he had infiltrated the defences she’d built around her emotions.

The smile faltered, then faded. A necessary survival mechanism because of … Bryan Steinberg.

Her mouth tightened noticeably as her mind, unable to control itself, rushed back in time to happier days. Memories. Images. To the thrill of being really,
seriously
in love for the first time. For perhaps thirty seconds she closed her eyes and relived the feelings, the joy and the happiness being in love had initially brought. But all too soon her self-control shifted into protection mode and pushed the
memories back. She couldn’t afford the luxury or the pain; remembering still hurt.

The expression in her eyes was bleak as she studied her image. What a naive innocent she had been. Stop! Don’t go down that road, Francey. It’s history. Let it go. With jerky hand movements she regained complete self-control to finish her face, check her hair and then stood, in bra and lace-edged panties to dress.

For a minute or two she studied her finished reflection in the mirrored wardrobe door. The black gown fitted her perfectly, as if it had been made expressly for her. She picked up her evening bag and placed the lace bolero jacket around her shoulders just as the taxi she had ordered beeped its arrival down in the street. Perfect timing. She only hoped everything else about tonight would be as perfect.

“And the first place for the category B2 of the Australian Architectural Design Awards, for an architectural development under three point five million dollars is …”

Aden stretched across and covered Francey’s hand with his own. He gave her fingers an encouraging squeeze for just an instant and grinned confidently at her before removing his hand again.

The presenter paused, milking the moment for as long as he could. He slashed the envelope and brought out the card. “The B2 award goes to,” pause, “the Swayne Complex at Tambourine Bay, Sydney, built for three point two million dollars. Architect Francesca Spinetti of Nicholson, Drew and Carlyle, North Sydney.”

“Congratulations!” was chorused by those around Francey’s table.

Aden leant across and kissed Francey’s cheek so softly she barely felt it or had time to analyse her response to it. Her heart began to beat double time as she rose to walk to the stage. Matthew Drew and Tony Carlyle beamed at her. She felt her mouth go dry, and a wave of nervousness rose in her stomach and then worked its way along her limbs. She had heard right. She had won!

Somehow she managed to get to the podium without tripping, make her acceptance speech without mumbling to what seemed to be tumultuous applause and collect her plaque without dropping it. Then Aden was there, with that lazy, wide smile of his, one hand at her elbow, assisting her back to the table.