Australian Secrets. Fiona McCallum

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ