Read the book: «Australian Secrets»

FIONA McCALLUM spent her childhood years on the family cereal and wool farm outside a small town on South Australia’s Eyre Peninsula. An avid reader and writer, she decided at the age of nine that she wanted to be the next Enid Blyton! She completed her final years of schooling at a private boarding school in Adelaide.

Having returned to her home town to work in the local council office, Fiona maintained her literary interests by writing poetry and short stories, and studying at TAFE via correspondence. Her ability to put into words her observations of country life saw a number of her articles published in the now defunct newspaper SA Statewide.

When her marriage ended, Fiona moved to Adelaide, eventually found romance, and followed it to Melbourne. She returned to full-time study at the age of twenty-six and graduated with a Bachelor of Arts (Professional Writing) from Deakin University. While studying, she found herself drawn to writing fiction, where her keen observation of the human condition and everyday situations could be combined with her love of storytelling.

After brief stints in administration, marketing and recruitment, Fiona started Content Solutions, a consultancy providing professional writing and editing services to the corporate sector. Living with a sales and marketing executive and working on high-level business proposals and tenders has given Fiona great insight into vastly different ways of life.

Fiona continued to develop her creative writing skills by reading widely and voraciously and attending short courses. In 2001 she realised her true passion lay in writing full-length fiction and in 2002 completed her first manuscript.

In early 2004 Fiona made the difficult decision to return to Adelaide alone in order to achieve a balanced lifestyle and develop a career as a novelist. She successfully re-established her consultancy and now enjoys the sharp contrast between her corporate work and creative writing.

Australian Secrets is Fiona’s second novel.

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise for FIONA McCALLUM

Title Page

Dedication

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Endpage

Copyright

Prologue

Walkley Awards presentation

‘And the final nominee is Nicola Harvey, Life and Times, for her investigation into the crash of SAR Airlines’ flight 519.’

Tonight we spare a thought for the families of the victims of flight 519, which the coroner has found crashed as a result of mechanical failure and not pilot error, contrary to the initial Australian Transport Safety Bureau investigation.

‘Mayday Mayday Mayday … two engine failures … we’ll be ditching … Request someone come out and help us please.’

Pilot Matt Berkowitz, Ruth and Paul Harvey, Elizabeth Gibbs, Violet Patterson, Mark Neilson, David Richards, and Stewart Cope perished when the Piper Navajo Chieftain aircraft in which they were flying suffered twin engine failure, and plunged into Spencer Gulf.

During an investigation spanning three years and two continents, Life and Times journalist Nicola Harvey made a number of crucial discoveries. Not only did she uncover a raft of questionable business practices by operator SAR Airlines, but she found that the Australian Transport Safety Bureau had itself played a significant part in the disaster, and then tried to cover it up. This discovery changed the course of the investigation and helped clear the young pilot’s name.

‘… And the winner for television current affairs feature, documentary or special longer than twenty minutes is …’

Chapter One

‘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!

Chapter Two

Nicola stood in the kitchen in her bathrobe, staring out the window at the tree-lined park and wondering what to do next. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had a weekday off.

She’d tidied the bedroom, packed up last night’s clothes for dry-cleaning and spent ages in the shower washing the lacquer from her hair. While she’d loved how the hairdresser had put her hair in a chignon for the awards, leaving wisps of hair to frame her face, she preferred to have the stiffness gone and her blonde, naturally wavy locks back soft and bouncing about her shoulders. She shook her head back and forth a few times to test it before going to the coffee machine and setting it make her latte.

Leaving the after-awards party, Bill, her boss, had told her to take the day off, waving his arm in a dismissive, drunken gesture of goodwill. Nicola thought she deserved more than a day.

Her success would affect the whole station. Life and Times now had credibility; it could no longer be seen as limp attempts at serious journalism or mere stuffing between the news and prime-time.

And there was no doubt a host of doors would be opened for her – not that she wasn’t perfectly happy where she was.

But it was a bitter-sweet victory, Nicola thought, looking at the silver framed photo of Ruth and Paul – her adoptive parents – taken for their fortieth wedding anniversary just a few months before their deaths. She felt heavy as she sat at one end of the flat, expansive couch. She wrapped her hands around the black and white striped mug for comfort.

Why did everything have to be a double-edged sword? Why did she have to lose her entire family for her career to seriously take off? It wasn’t exactly the lucky break she’d overheard rival journos saying it was in the bar of the Rose and Thorn the night the story went to air.

She’d fled back to her desk, where Bill had found her mopping up her tears and trying to tidy her smudged mascara. ‘They’re just jealous,’ he’d said, after she’d finally sniffled her way through an explanation. Much as it was nice to have her boss with his arm around her shoulder saying ‘there, there’, she’d been mortified to have lost it like that – in public.

But Bill was right. It was just a release after keeping it together for so long, especially given the personal nature of the story. His words stayed with her: ‘I’m really proud of you for seeing it through – lesser journos wouldn’t have.’

Nicola knew Bill had been reluctant to have her on the story to start with; knowing there was a risk of her falling apart in the middle of it all and leaving the station in the lurch and his job on the line.

Nonetheless, he’d called her into his office to say Life and Times was doing a piece on the crash and did she want in, knowing full well what her answer would be. Apprehension didn’t even get a second beat – the desire to learn, as an outsider, the truth about her parents’ deaths had her by the throat. Even if it was just a simple accident caused by an inexperienced pilot, she wanted the facts; all of them, no matter how gruesome.

It was when she first spoke to the young pilot’s fiancé that she realised it wasn’t as simple as both SAR Airlines and the ATSB were trying to make it out to be. Olivia Smith told her that Matt had been complaining for months of doing more than the required hours. Nicola had been disbelieving until Olivia had gone on to produce Matt’s diaries as proof that SAR had been doctoring the logbooks.

Six months after the accident, the ATSB still hadn’t interviewed Olivia; it made sense if they were trying to lay the blame solely at the feet of a young and relatively inexperienced pilot. But as Olivia said, she wasn’t a qualified pilot, what did she know?

Nicola had warmed to her immediately, and the feeling seemed mutual once Olivia learned of her personal connection to the story. She was impressed at how brave Olivia was through it all, and only rarely did she allow herself to believe the same of herself.

Even more sensational were the revelations from another pilot sacked by SAR for apparent insubordination. Olivia had given Nicola Tim Manning’s number after he’d contacted her to offer his sympathy. Manning had also let on that SAR had questionable business practices, which tallied with her knowledge of logbook tampering. He urged her not to accept any finding that laid the blame on Matt.

Nicola thought her eyes might drop out of her head when Tim told her about SAR’s cost-cutting measures, which included experimenting with fuel mixes, and running tanks as low as possible. He’d had a number of close shaves, one time almost running out of fuel as a result. When she’d asked why he hadn’t come forward, he’d said he had, only to be dismissed by the ATSB as biased because of his history with SAR.

The ATSB had picked up on the fuel and raked SAR over the coals for it, suspending their aviation licence pending the outcome of the investigation. But they seemed set on laying the majority of the blame on Matt; saying he’d over-revved the second engine when the first had failed. They’d added the patronising footnote that it was an understandable error, given Matt’s low number of flying hours.

But what Nicola hadn’t been able to shake were the incredible odds of two engines failing on the same flight – that couldn’t have been pilot error. And as it turned out, the odds should have been nearly impossible. But all the experimenting with fuels had exacerbated damage to a defective piston and caused it to fail after the extra exertion placed on it.

If they hadn’t done that, they might have limped home on one engine and the story would have been an exciting holiday tale for her and Ruth and Paul to discuss over Sunday night roast dinners. But it wasn’t to be.

She sighed. She still missed them terribly, but slowly, over the past four years, the wracking tears and sadness had been replaced by a dull ache.

It had been a tragic web of mismanagement, error and coincidence that had taken her and the team ages to unravel. And it had been worth every sleepless night, every heartbreaking detail she’d had to learn to get the closure she had. She’d been relieved to have been partially responsible for clearing pilot Matt’s name.

But perhaps most of all, Nicola was pleased the coroner had managed to get the regulations changed to require all flights across water to carry life jackets – previously they were only necessary on flights with more than ten passengers, or those that travelled further than thirty nautical miles from land.

Yep, they’d all done a good job; producing a well-balanced presentation of facts and humanity. And now the industry had spoken.

Despite drinking far too much bubbly to counter the nerves, Nicola had managed to react appropriately. The first time her name had been read out she’d nearly missed it. She’d been too busy trying not to give in to the tears that always threatened when she heard the pilot’s mayday call.

She’d given a startled cry at hearing her name, and stumbled dazed up onto the stage. The story was good, but she’d never thought the industry would award her with a Walkley. As a consequence her speech was a bewildered mumble of thanks. At least she’d remembered to say it was a team effort.

The second time her name was called up – for the Gold – she’d been sipping champagne nonchalantly, barely even listening for the results. Her shock had been genuine. She’d paused to take a few deep breaths and still her racing heart before sliding her chair back and walking slowly to the stage pondering what to say.

She’d started off shakily thanking the industry and fellow journalists for their support before remembering to name every member of the team. She’d then looked Bill in the eye as she thanked him for his faith in giving her the opportunity. His nodding back had served to give her strength, and she’d gone on to pay tribute to her parents and all the other passengers on flight 519. She’d then bowed her head for a few moments of silence. Looking up again out to the sea of faces, she’d given a final nod, said ‘thank you’, and calmly walked from the stage amidst loud applause.

When dressing for the occasion, she hadn’t for a second thought she’d be the centre of attention. She was pleased she’d gone with safe. She looked good; nothing the glossies could pick on for being too glam, too dowdy, or ‘out there’.

Boy was she glad she’d ignored three new designers offering to dress her in exchange for free publicity, and instead settled for a simple yet elegant strappy number that showed off her slender arms but hid her long but sturdy legs. She’d hoped the diamantes on her new Manolos would be more visible – why spend eight hundred dollars if no one saw them?

She closed her eyes and relived the night.

‘And the winner is … Nicola Harvey, Life and Times.’

When she’d seen the clip slotted alongside the other five contenders up on the massive plasma screen, it had seemed different, almost unrecognisable as her own. It was as though she’d distanced herself from her personal connection and was watching a story about people she’d never met.

She supposed she had to a certain extent; the raw emotion had left her when she’d become focussed on finding out the truth. There was nothing she could do to bring Ruth and Paul back, but she could do something for Matt, and in turn Olivia and his parents, Grace and Peter.

The more time she’d spent with them, the stronger the feeling that she had to find her own truth had been.

Halfway through the assignment she made the decision that when the story was finished she would start the search for her biological parents; when she was satisfied she’d done all she could for Ruth and Paul, who had been such good parents to her. She knew Scott wouldn’t approve; he thought the past should be left in the past. She’d given up trying to explain how it felt to be the child of adoptive parents. He’d just told her she was being silly and feeling sorry for herself. But the feelings weren’t that easily explained away.

The morning after she filed the story she’d been unable to get out of bed. She’d felt so emotionally, mentally and physically spent. Scott told her to fight it – no pain no gain. Of course he meant well, he just didn’t understand. But how could he? He only spoke to his parents out of polite obligation, and he’d never even been to a funeral.

So Nicola had put on a brave face and waited until he was at work before dissolving into tears. For a whole week she’d moped around the house.

Without saying as much, Bill seemed to understand what she was going through. When she phoned him in desperation and told him she thought she was having some kind of breakdown and might never be able to return, instead of telling her she was being ridiculous and to get a grip (like Scott had) he’d left the office and come straight over.

His explanation, that what she was experiencing was probably a mixture of delayed grief, shock, and relief, made sense. It also made sense that it was occurring now she’d stopped after being so driven, so focussed for so long; her brain now had the time and energy to process the trauma. He’d finished by telling her he thought she just needed some time and to take as much as she needed; ‘After all,’ he added with a lopsided grin, ‘you’ve accumulated a shitload of leave.’

When the Walkley nominations were announced six months later, Nicola had spent the first week smiling sweetly and agreeing that yes, the nomination alone was enough, while all the time desperately hoping for success. She knew that many in the industry saw her as little more than a well made-up clothes horse with ample cleavage.

That Scott was so dismissive of her nomination hurt. He seemed to share the view of many of her peers, and clearly didn’t think she had a hope in hell of winning. She consoled herself that he knew nothing about journalism, let alone the magnitude of what a Walkley nomination really meant. If he did, he’d be reacting differently.

This was her chance to prove she had both brains and beauty; that Nicola Harvey was a journalist to contend with, not just a glorified presenter with impeccable hair and makeup.

Though of course she’d give up the chance in a heartbeat if it meant having Ruth and Paul back. How the hell would she keep it together if she did win? It was such a personal story.

‘Stop with this false modesty crap – winning’s everything, Nicola Harvey, and you can. You did a bloody good job, and don’t you forget it!’ Bill barked one morning after overhearing her reply to one such well-wisher. At least someone believed in her.

That afternoon Nicola had drafted a response that adequately expressed her joy at being nominated while remaining humble about her talent. In truth, she wanted to scream that she bloody well deserved to win.

Just before the first announcement, Scott had squeezed her hand to offer support, luck, and probably sympathy – he’d told her enough times not to get her hopes up.

Nicola let out a slightly pained sigh, remembering his obvious discomfort at having microphones, cameras and spotlights thrust in his face and being asked how he felt.

‘Proud. Yes, obviously very proud,’ he’d replied awkwardly. No wonder he couldn’t wait to get to the safety of his office.

But at least Scott hadn’t been uncomfortable in his attire – that was one of the first things that had attracted her. She had always been a sucker for a man in Armani pinstripe.

It felt a little cruel to be enjoying his unease, but it reminded her he was human after all. Anyway, he deserved it for not believing in her.

As a stockbroker he’d had his share of hairy moments but somehow he’d always managed to land on his feet. It was as if he had a crystal ball.

He’d even managed to dodge the global financial crisis and make enough to pay off his BMW convertible before everything went pear-shaped. She failed to see how he could remain so calm when there was so much at stake.

As much as Nicola liked the idea, aimlessly hanging about the house during the day just wasn’t in her nature. She got up, put her mug on the sink and went back upstairs to get dressed.

Forget the day off; it was high time Bill coughed up her next serious assignment.

Chapter Three

Nicola stood tall and proud outside television headquarters, her two solid, twenty-centimetre fountain-pen-nib inspired statuettes tucked under her arm. Shoving the frosted glass foyer door open, she strode across the polished stone floor towards the lifts.

‘Congratulations, Ms Harvey,’ Barry the doorman-cum-security-guard-cum-general-dogsbody said. ‘I knew you’d do it.’

Nicola turned and walked over to where he sat behind a long timber veneered reception desk. She grinned. ‘Thanks Barry.’

‘Thought his lordship would have at least given you the day off,’ Barry continued, tossing his head up to indicate above them.

‘He did. I’m just not cut out for sitting about.’ Nicola shrugged. The lobby phone rang and Barry waved a dismissive arm as he picked up the receiver. Nicola repositioned the slipping awards and started making her way back to the lifts.

As she ascended, Nicola felt kittens doing tumble turns in her stomach. What should she say? How should she act? Would everyone be pleased for her or be catty and jealous? The men would probably be cool and gracious, but women were always a different story.

In her acceptance speech she’d been very careful to emphasise that she was accepting the award on behalf of everyone involved with Life and Times. She was sure she’d named everyone who’d played a part.

The lift doors opened, and she stepped out onto the sixth floor.

As she strode down the narrow corridor in front of the wall of chest-high office partitions, heads bobbed up from desks, bums swivelled chairs around and there was a chorus of ‘here she is,’ and ‘congratulations!’

Within seconds the office had formed a crowd around Nicola and someone shouted, ‘Round of applause for our star reporter.’

Wild clapping and cheering followed and Nicola felt the kittens in her stomach claw their way up to the back of her throat.

‘Um, thanks guys, but you all deserve one of these,’ she said. After carefully unloading her lunch, handbag and satchel onto her desk, she thrust the gleaming sculptures towards the nearest two people.

Paul Cox, the copy boy and most junior of staff, received the Gold, his pimply adolescent face reddening right up to the ears. His hands were hesitant when he reached out to stroke the object that every serious journalist aspired to.

‘Go on, have a decent look,’ she encouraged, pushing the object firmly into his chest. Paul stared down at it, mouth open in awe, then back at Nicola like it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him.

Nicola’s chest pinged in sympathy. She too had started at the bottom. Under Paul’s lack of confidence she could see some of her own tenacity.

She smiled warmly at the lad, then turned slightly at hearing an uneven thudding tread coming down the hall to her right.

Bill Truman’s stout legs struggled under a belly that had grown considerably in the two years since he’d joined executive ranks and swapped pounding the pavements for lunch meetings.

‘Heard all the commotion and knew you’d be at the centre of it. Didn’t I tell you to take the day off?’ he added, waggling a scolding finger.

‘Too quiet at home.’

‘Well in that case, the station had better fork out for a bit of a celebratory lunch. Nothing flash; pizzas in the boardroom at noon.

‘All I ask is that I get a couple of hours work out of you lot before then. In return you can all have the afternoon off.’

There were whoops and squeals of delight.

‘So now if everyone can return to work it would be much appreciated – we can celebrate later.’

Nicola smiled. Bill was one of the best bosses she’d ever had – tough but fair. He’d cracked his fair share of whips but could still appreciate the need for the occasional slack attack.

Nicola watched the crowd slowly dissipate. Within seconds the office had returned to its loud, lively pace; masses of people made phone calls, tapped hard on keyboards, raced between cubicles, and hurried to and from the lifts weighed down with clipboards, tripods, sound booms and backpacks full of cabling and camera gear.

She turned her attention to her own desk. An array of pens, pencils and textas were jammed into an old coffee jar. Four beige plastic in-trays were stacked up to the left of her computer screen, the top one almost overflowing. To the right sat her only personal items; three matching silver photo frames.

One contained a posed, formal picture of her and Scott taken at his brother’s wedding the year before.

The second was a shot of Paul and Ruth paused from work in their treasured garden, leaning on rake and shovel. Nicola had taken it for fun, only months before the disaster that claimed them – her entire family.

The third contained a faded polaroid of a bundled newborn baby with only a shock of blonde hair and wrinkled sleeping face visible. Nicola picked it up and stared at the photo given to her the day she learned that her whole life had been a lie.

That’s how she’d felt when they told her she’d been adopted. She remembered how her five-year-old world had melted like the chocolate chips in the biscuits they tried to placate her with.

They’d joined her where she was drawing on the lounge room floor of the house that had been her childhood home; the home of Paul and Ruth Harvey until the day they left to go on holidays but never came back.

They’d sat in a circle and all held hands. Nicola had got excited, thinking they were going to play a new game. And with Daddy who rarely sat on the floor with her; Mummy always said he was too busy for games. They held hands, the three of them.

They’d started telling her a story. Nicola remembered how, frowning, she’d stared at them. It was a very strange story, not a fairy story like in her books. It was a real story – about her, they said.

What were they saying? That she wasn’t theirs; that she hadn’t come out of her mummy’s tummy like the baby of the lady next door. No, she’d come out of another lady’s tummy.

‘Did someone drop me off then, like Father Christmas?’

They’d given a chuckle. She’d been pleased to make them laugh; maybe it meant everything was okay. But they were being so serious. They looked at each other and then told her she was a gift, even more special than those Father Christmas brought, because they’d gone and chosen her.

‘At a shop?’ she’d asked. ‘Well no, not a shop.’

She thought they’d looked a little angry. She didn’t want to make them angry; she wanted to make them laugh again.

‘Oh,’ she’d said, feeling totally confused. They’d told her how special she was, and how lucky they were to have her. They couldn’t have a little girl or boy of their own because there was something wrong inside Ruth. Nothing would change; they just wanted her to know the truth.

‘What if the mummy whose tummy I came out of wants me back?’ She didn’t want to go away from here. They were her parents; she didn’t want anyone else. Her bottom lip had started to wobble and then she burst into tears.

Ruth dragged her onto her lap and spent ages stroking her hair, saying that she was their little girl; she was staying right there with them.

But what about the other mummy and daddy; didn’t they want her? Why not? Everyone said she was so pretty, and she was a good girl, wasn’t she? She’d stared up at them and some more tears ran down her cheeks.

They’d shaken their heads and said that her other mummy had been sick and wasn’t able to take care of her.

‘But what if she gets better; will she want me then?’

‘No,’ they’d said, shaking their heads. The adoption papers proved it.

They showed her the papers, but to her five-year-old eyes they meant nothing.

‘Okay,’ she’d finally said with a shrug and taken a homemade chocolate chip biscuit from the plate on the floor nearby. She’d nibbled around the edges of the biscuit, separated out the chocolate chips and watched them melt in her hands, all the while pretending to forget the conversation.

After a while Paul and Ruth had unfolded their legs, got up, and gone off to do other things, leaving her there with her plate of chocolate biscuits. She put her half-eaten biscuit aside, went to her bedroom, threw herself on her bed and cried. She was careful to be quiet because she didn’t want to upset Mummy and Daddy; they’d been sad before and she didn’t like it when they were sad.

They said nothing had changed; that she was their little girl and would be theirs forever. But something was different. She didn’t really know what it was; it was just a weird feeling inside. Like when you felt a bit sick after eating too many chocolate chip biscuits, or maybe empty after you’d thrown up those too many chocolate chip biscuits.

The odd, slightly empty feeling never really went away, but she never discussed it with Paul and Ruth. They were wonderful, loving parents, who had always been supportive, caring and encouraging. The last thing she’d ever want to do was hurt them.

But as much as she’d told herself over the years that they were her real parents, there was always a question mark. Sometimes it was a deep pain; the rest of the time it just sat there as a feeling of being somehow incomplete, hollow.

To their credit, Paul and Ruth had always encouraged her to search for her biological roots if and when she felt the time was right.

But she’d always thought starting the search while they were alive would be disrespectful. What had also stopped her was knowing she wouldn’t be able to let go, would be totally consumed. It was the same wilful streak she’d channelled into a successful career in journalism. She could never stop at just knowing names of people and places.

The deaths of her parents had caused the itch of curiosity to become a strong ache of needing to know. The investigation had kept her distracted for over three years, and had given her a certain sense of closure. But three months after its completion, the questions that had been burning inside her could no longer be ignored.

Returning from her week off after the plane crash story had gone to air, Nicola had been mortified to find herself back covering the crappy stories of old; shock mobile phone bills, used cars that turned out to be lemons, pensioners struggling to make ends meet.

It wasn’t that they weren’t worthy of coverage, it’s just that she needed something she could really get her teeth into, do some serious research and groundwork on; something really gritty.

When Bill had tersely reminded her that these stories were the bread and butter of Life and Times –’It’s what the audience wants’ – Nicola had wondered if it was time for a career change.

Three months ago, she’d decided that she’d put off her own story long enough; she really had to start the search that might lead nowhere, might lead somewhere – somewhere she might or might not like.

One lunchtime she’d gone into the South Australian government adoptions website where she found a link: ‘Searching for birth relatives’. She’d quickly scanned the screen, pausing at a line that said to consider other parties involved.

What if her biological parents didn’t want to be found? What if she was setting herself and others up for heartbreak? Scott always said you should look ahead in life, not back. But life wasn’t that simple.

Anyway, she might not even get that far. She might not even have enough information.

Nicola had selected the form for an ‘Adopted Person’ from the list, pressed print, and raced to the printer to collect it before anyone else in the office did. Back at her desk, she hadn’t been able to quite believe how straightforward it was; ironic really that something so important could be put so simply. Just five questions were all it took.

She’d picked up the frame containing her birth photo, turned it over, and copied the details from those in blue biro on the back of the polaroid:

Baby Nicola Born 16^th April 1977 Port Lincoln Hospital

Nicola had paused at the two options underneath ‘What information are you seeking?’ and shaken her head. How would anyone be satisfied with just a birth certificate? She ticked the box for ‘All information relating to the adoption’, and then with her hand shaking even more, inserted her signature and the date.

She’d got out her cheque book, pausing with her pen hovered above the printed form to acknowledge the further irony of such a plain, uncomplicated number (fifty dollars) for something that was anything but.

She’d torn the cheque from its stub, placed it in the middle of the two A4 sheets of paper and folded them into three. She’d dragged an envelope from her desk drawer and slid the wad inside. Nicola had then returned her baby photo to its normal position and sat staring at the envelope.

She’d done it; taken the first step. But could she take the next one and actually send it?

Nicola picked up the silver frame containing the picture of Paul and Ruth. ‘You’d approve, wouldn’t you – say I’m doing the right thing?’ she whispered. She’d planted a kiss on the glass between their smiling faces and held it to her chest. Then she’d filled out the address on the envelope and posted it.

Three months on and she was still waiting for information to arrive.

Chapter Four

The tightly packed room of round tables draped in white linen reminded Nicola of mushrooms grown in boxes. Kept in the dark and fed on shit, she mused.

Another boring dinner with an information session about the stock market was the last thing she felt like tonight. In fact, she’d been on her way home, picturing a steaming bath full of bubbles and a glass of wine, when Scott had phoned to ask her to get him a clean shirt and tie; he didn’t have time after all. Nicola had managed to hide the fact that she’d completely forgotten about his industry function; had thought it was next week. ‘Yes, fine, I’ll meet you at your office at six,’ she’d said and hung up.

Nicola had finished her drive home in a huff and four hours later, having showered and dressed in a black pantsuit, wasn’t feeling any more congenial. ‘Oh well, fair’s fair,’ she muttered to herself, as she stood just inside the doorway looking for Scott.

They’d left his office in separate cars, and she’d had trouble finding a park; he should already be here somewhere, she thought, scanning the mingling crowd.

God she hated turning up to these things alone. She didn’t mind introducing herself to strangers, just the initial awkwardness of standing alone surveying the room for someone familiar.

Men stood around in grey-suited clusters – plain and pinstripes – their ties the only splashes of colour. The uniformity went further than their dress-sense; the younger ones were trim and muscular, probably gym junkies like her Scott. But once they hit their mid-to-late-forties it seemed there was a collective giving up on trying to keep pot bellies at bay. And there must be some kind of weird agreement over hair as well; in all the younger men, not a speck of grey in sight, but plenty of grey and even white amongst the older set. Regardless of age, they all seemed to have the same style, short back and sides, slightly longer on top with a neat but sweeping fringe parted on the side. The younger lot had their fringes up and spiky, the elders low and soft.

Nicola grabbed the last glass – a tumbler of water – from the tray being whisked past by a twenty-something waiter in white shirt and black trousers. She sipped at her drink in an effort to have her people-watching seem less conspicuous.

As usual, segregation had occurred and the women stood in their own small groups. Their preferred uniform was the pantsuit – in any colour as long as it was dark; grey, black, navy, occasionally burgundy or even teal. One of the few things Nicola liked about these events was not having to agonise over what to wear.

Nicola politely smiled and shook her head as tray after tray of canapés were offered to her. She was always careful to avoid the greasy morsels at these functions. Dessert was usually worth saving space for and the last thing she needed was to be the butt, so to speak, of any wide-screen jokes making their way around the office.

Where the bloody hell was Scott? She couldn’t stand here on her own for much longer. Ah, over there by the far wall. He saw her at the same time she saw him, and raised his glass in acknowledgement. She returned the gesture, with the addition of a forced smile.

He was clearly occupied; she’d have to fend for herself.

‘You must make more effort to join in, dear,’ was something Ruth would have said, and had many times, bless her.

It was only when she was older that Nicola realised how worried Ruth had been about her being an only child, and the impact it would have on her social skills.

They really had been great parents; they’d got along better than any of her high school classmates, who could barely stand being in the same room as their parents. Nicola would nod in agreement when they rolled their eyes at how clueless their parents were. What she’d wanted to say was ‘actually, my parents are really nice’.

And they were; she’d loved hearing about Ruth’s job at the library, but Paul’s work as a structural engineer she found fascinating. She would have gone down the engineering path herself if only she’d inherited his maths brain. But of course the thought was ridiculous; she had none of his DNA. They got on well, but they were very different.

Nicola had realised that very early on, and had been plagued with a thousand questions along the way; like, did her biological mother prefer to be alone too? As she’d gone into puberty the questions had tended towards the more personal; did they have the same hair or eye colour? What about body shape?

But she shoved every question back down as quickly as she could. Ruth was the only mother she had or needed; it didn’t matter that they were different. To think otherwise was hurtful.

Nicola forced her thoughts back to the present and the masses of people mingling around her. The room had filled considerably and she could now hear the conversation of a nearby group of men:

‘So, Toby. Win, lose, or even outcome today?’ asked a man with dark grey hair circling a bald head.

‘Up today, thank Christ; shocker yesterday,’ said Toby, mid-forties in charcoal pinstripes.

‘Futures or CFDs?’ asked a younger chap with a hideous green paisley tie.

What the hell were CFDs? She’d ask Scott. On second thoughts, she didn’t care enough to bother.

Finally, Nicola recognised someone she knew, a woman with sharp square spectacles and spiky dark hair. She’d met Yvonne several times before and instantly liked her. She was a fellow career woman and – unlike most of the women she seemed to meet at these things – hadn’t spent their first evening boring her about what her kid had done that day in childcare. Actually, Nicola didn’t know if Yvonne and her husband, a senior manager at a rival firm to Scott’s, even had kids.

‘Yvonne, hi,’ she called from just outside the group. The etiquette was to wait until invited by someone stepping aside to give you space to physically join.

‘Nicola, great to see you,’ Yvonne said, placing her glass on a passing tray and pulling Nicola into a hug. ‘Thank God you’re here,’ she whispered near Nicola’s ear before releasing her. She turned back to the group who had resumed their chatter, smiled at them and said, ‘I’m really sorry, girls, but there’s something that I just have to discuss with Nicola.’

Before Nicola knew what was happening she’d been gripped by the elbow and dragged over to the nearest table.

As she went, she noticed two of the other women in the group had confused looks on their faces; as if they were trying to figure out why she was familiar. She got that a lot. What the hell was Yvonne up to?

‘Thanks for rescuing me,’ Yvonne said, flopping into the nearest chair. ‘I swear, the next time someone asks me if I went to the opening of that new boutique today I’ll scream. As if I have time to shop during the week!

‘Hey, fantastic news about your Walkleys. Congratulations!’ Yvonne said, slapping Nicola on the knee.

‘Thanks,’ she said, beaming back. ‘It was …’ she started, but was interrupted by the emcee tapping his glass into the microphone and booming that it was time for everyone to be seated.

‘Good timing,’ Yvonne said.

As the table filled up around them, Nicola put her handbag on the next chair to save it for Scott. She removed it when she noticed he’d sat at the next table over. Bastard.

She smiled at a nervous looking young woman in a dress with shoe-string straps who claimed the seat.

‘I’m Bianca,’ said the young thing in barely more than a whisper.

‘Hi, I’m Nicola,’ Nicola said, offering her warmest smile as she gripped the limp hand. The girl couldn’t be more than twenty; still a child, she thought, suddenly feeling very old.

She was about to ask if it was Bianca’s first time at one of these functions. The answer was obvious but she wanted to help erase the startled rabbit look from the poor kid. Who was she with?

She peered past Bianca and offered her hand to her companion, an equally startled looking young lad. ‘Hi, I’m Nicola.’

‘Tim,’ he said, ‘Tim Robinson. I’m with KLR – started a month ago. Learning the ropes of futures at the moment; mind blowing.’

Nicola nodded and smiled while wishing he’d shut up and let go of her hand, but at the same time feeling a surge of sympathy for him. If he didn’t toughen up quick he’d get eaten alive. She’d heard enough from Scott to know what a cut-throat world share trading was. Perhaps he wasn’t going to be an actual trader, but someone’s assistant.

‘Hey, aren’t you on television?’ Tim asked with a flushed face.

‘Yes I am. Excuse me,’ she said, as she felt a gentle bump from Yvonne. She sat back to allow the waiter to put a bowl in front of her.

‘Thank you,’ she said, picking up her spoon to tackle pumpkin soup, complete with an artistic swirl of cream and sprig of parsley. Standard mass-produced convention centre fare. No doubt the next course would be a choice of either chicken or beef. She pitied the vegetarians; their meals always looked like ghastly afterthoughts.

While they waited for dessert, a fifteen minute presentation was given. Nicola and Yvonne couldn’t see the screens from where they were sitting, and neither could be bothered shuffling around. But both Tim and Bianca dutifully moved their chairs. You’ll learn, Nicola thought to herself.

While everyone’s attention was fixed on the speaker, Yvonne gave Nicola a gentle nudge and whispered into her ear. ‘Hey, have you got yourself one of these yet?’

Nicola peered down into the handbag Yvonne was holding open below the edge of the table, out of sight from everyone else. Inside was a long glowing green stick. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what it was, but then she realised, and had to clap a hand to her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud. Of course! This was one of those ‘little friends’ she’d overheard a couple of the girls talking about in the office toilets a few times.

‘Jesus, put that thing away,’ she wanted to cry, but at the same time she was curious to get it out and have a damn good look. But that just wasn’t something you did in a room full of boring old accountant types. And, ew, it had been, ew! She cringed at the thought.

‘Don’t worry, it won’t bite.’ Yvonne chuckled. ‘My friend’s selling them; apparently they’re the best thing since sliced bread. Even comes with batteries so you can put it to use right away. Thirty-nine ninety-five including postage,’ she added with a wink.

Jesus, Nicola thought, she could be talking about Tupperware. Were lots of women really buying them? Was no woman being sexually satisfied anymore? She leaned over for another look, trying not to attract attention.

‘Um, have you …?’

‘Not yet.’ Yvonne snapped her handbag shut just as a waiter appeared beside her carrying a tray full of wedges of lemon meringue pie with generous knobs of thick cream. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve given it a whirl.’

Turning to her dessert, Nicola dug her spoon in. ‘Yum, one of my favourites.’ And a fine example it was. Hmm, a perfect balance of sweet, savoury and bitterness. Not that she could cook; she just knew what she liked.

As she ate, her thoughts were still with Yvonne and the ‘little friend’. God, wouldn’t Scott freak out if he found one in her bedside drawer – especially if she went with one of the extralarge versions. It would almost be worth it to see his reaction, she thought, running her tongue around the spoon in her mouth.

Perhaps there was a story in the waning of sexual interest in upwardly-mobile corporate couples. Maybe it wasn’t a conscious decision at all for her demographic to be putting off having children. She looked at Tim and Bianca, wondered what they saw when they looked at her: a successful career woman? Or someone who had let the chance for a family slip through her fingers?

Finally the tempting aromas of coffee were wafting around the table – a sure sign the evening was winding up. She longed for a cup of the silky, bitter tar but knew she’d never get to sleep if she did.

‘You wouldn’t happen to have peppermint tea, would you?’ she asked the waiter.

‘Oh, peppermint tea, yes please,’ a chorus around the table chimed.

‘I’ll check,’ the young man said through gritted teeth.

‘I’d really appreciate it,’ she said, beaming her best television smile. Thank God the night was almost over; Nicola wasn’t sure she could play partner and interested wallflower much longer.

Scott hadn’t said two words to her all night; why the hell had he insisted on her even coming?