Catch of The Day: Destiny Romance Page 7

  A red Lancer coupé with a pink numberplate reading Cyndi 86 held pride of place outside the main street’s beauty salon. Winnie figured it was the property of the salon owner she’d just phoned. Her name was Cyndi too.

  Sailing past it, Winnie pushed on the salon’s front door, its bell tinkling. She was in desperate need of a Brazilian wax. She didn’t usually like to bump into the person who waxed her privates at the supermarket, but she had little choice in this town. Besides, she didn’t have much to do that afternoon. Her keyboard had died following the peppermint tea debacle and she couldn’t ask Olive for help – the ad manager had disappeared to her eye appointment.

  At any rate, Winnie was still buzzing from the Chester Wyatt coup, so the beauty salon trip was a celebration of sorts – an indulgence. Christa didn’t have to know her every move.

  Inside the salon, nail-product fumes and Bananarama’s ‘Venus’ assaulted her senses. She could see the back of a diminutive blonde at a manicure table, coral-coloured nail polish drying on extended fingertips. A lollipop-pink wall glared behind her.

  The customer turned to smile at Winnie, dimples creasing her cheeks. ‘Hiya. You’re looking for Cyndi?’ She had a European lilt to her voice.

  ‘Yes . . . I have an appointment with her.’

  ‘No probs. She’s just out the back. Shouldn’t be long.’ The blonde stood up, cupping a hand to her mouth, and Winnie’s gaze was drawn to her unexpectedly gargantuan stomach – the lass was pint-sized everywhere else. ‘Yo, Cyndi, you’ve got a customer!’ Turning back, the blonde caught Winnie mid-stare.

  ‘Sorry,’ Winnie stammered. ‘Just guessing you’re . . .?’

  ‘Pregnant, yes. With twins.’ The blonde grinned. ‘Bought one and got two. They’re fraternal. My name’s Honey, by the way. I’m a friend – and customer – of Cyndi’s.’

  ‘Nice – nice to meet you. I’m Winnie. Uh, know what you’re having yet?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘Nah, having twins was enough of a shock for the moment, so we’re keeping their sexes a surprise.’

  In the archway near the front counter, a curvy woman with dark-blonde shoulder-length waves and pale, freckly skin emerged. Her nametag read Cyndi. She blinked navy-blue eyes at Winnie. Her face was pretty but strangely stony, though she’d sounded quite friendly on the phone.

  ‘You must be my three o’clock,’ Cyndi said.

  ‘Yes . . . yes, I am.’

  ‘Follow me,’ the beautician snapped, turning sharply.

  Oh dear. This scary woman was about to put scalding hot wax where it was sensitive? Unfortunately, it was too late to back out. ‘Uh . . . sure.’

  Following Cyndi down a white-painted hall, Winnie found herself in a similarly pale room. The beautician, her eyes elsewhere, barked at Winnie to strip off, then flung a disposable G-string at her and stabbed a finger in the direction of a robe on the door handle.

  ‘I change into that?’ Winnie dared ask. ‘I – I can’t leave my top on for a bikini wax?’

  ‘Everything off,’ Cyndi snarled before disappearing.

  Sheesh. Wiggling out of her clothes and into the G-string and white, fluffy robe, Winnie hoped the beautician would be as tough with any errant hairs as her bedside manner suggested. Lying on the treatment bed, she stared up at a watermark on the ceiling. It reminded her of a cat’s head – and the stray that was still hanging around her unit like a bad smell. Seconds ticked by, then minutes, then, before she had a chance to turn and look, Winnie heard the door click open, a swish of fabric, women giggling, then the door was slammed shut again. What the?

  Sitting up, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her gaze immediately falling to the chair where she’d thrown her clothes. They weren’t there. Nor were her shoes. Only her handbag remained. What was going on? Was this meant to be some kind of initiation prank for the new girl in town? Slipping on fluoro-yellow pedicure thongs and grabbing her bag, Winnie, still robed up, padded to the front room.

  ‘Cyndi? Honey?’ she called out, but all was silent – apart from the Bangles, who were now on rotation. The front door sign, she noticed, had been turned to Closed.

  Adrenalin galloped through Winnie’s veins. She could unlock the door from the inside, but she could hardly venture outside in a fluffy white robe, near naked underneath. Not right across the road from the bloody Herald office. She was really knee-deep in dung now – as if stepping in manure that morning hadn’t been bad enough. Cyndi was obviously seriously – scarily – unhinged. The blonde with the Trixie Belden-esque name had seemed nice, but she must be in on the game, too, whatever it was exactly.

  Desperately looking around the salon, Winnie spied a Barbie-pink retro phone on the counter, which gave her an idea. She’d call Olive on her mobile. She could pick her up in no time and get Winnie out of this mess.

  Dialling quickly, Winnie heard Olive’s chirpy voice reverberate down the phone. Voicemail. Bugger. What to do now? A vein pulsed at her temple. She only had the number of one other person in town she knew well enough to phone, though the prospect made her feel sicker than ever.

  With fumbling fingers, she made the call and listened to it ring once, twice, three times. On the opposite wall, a Miss Showgirl 2006 certificate, printed with Cyndi’s name, stared at her. Perhaps the beautician had peaked too soon and was now taking out her woes on the rest of the world.

  ‘Hello?’ a groggy voice finally answered. The sound sent a peculiar cocktail of relief and horror rocketing through Winnie’s bloodstream.

  ‘For a fashion person,’ Alex mused as Winnie slid into his Falcon’s passenger seat, ‘you don’t have much of a handle on the dress code around here.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ she said without a trace of humour, tightening the belt of her robe. She stared straight ahead, keen to look anywhere but at him.

  Alex felt kind of mean, given the circumstances, but at the same time he was unable to help smart-arse comments rolling off his tongue in her vicinity. Besides, he couldn’t say he wasn’t enjoying her discomfort – for the second time that day. It was better than her being all hoity-toity with her nose stuck up in the air. Plus, teasing her distracted him from doing other more risky things, like imagining her lithe, naked body beneath that very robe. No, the only way to think about her was in a businesslike manner. She was exactly the type of girl he’d fled from.

  ‘So, what actually happened to your clothes?’ he tried again, training his gaze on the bumper sticker of a four-wheel drive parked in front. It read: Fourteen cans from anywhere – Salt Creek, the heart of the Coorong.

  Air hissed out of her lungs. ‘I went to the beauty salon just there, before quickly discovering the owner, Cyndi, is as mad as a meataxe. As soon as I lay on the treatment bed, she took off with my clothes and shoes and vanished into thin air.’

  Alex swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘Uh, that’s Cyndi Hartley’s salon?’ His shoulders grew rigid and he could feel Winnie’s gaze suddenly burning on his skin.

  ‘Yes, Cyndi Hartley,’ she said slowly. ‘That’s what the certificate on the wall said. You know her, I’m guessing?’

  Hesitantly, he slid his eyes in her direction. ‘Vaguely.’

  A few micro-expressions skated across Winnie’s face. Alex guessed their meaning: confusion, wonder, then cold, hard realisation. Suddenly, she leant forwards and belted him one on the arm.

  ‘This has got something to do with you, hasn’t it? It’s all your fault.’

  Alex held up his palms in defence. ‘It could do. Cyndi and I aren’t exactly on the best of terms. I should have known when you said your emergency was an, er, beauty one.’

  Winnie’s next words were cool and measured, her brown eyes flinty. ‘What did you do to her?’ Gone was the degree of vulnerability. Despite the garb, the hoity-toity city slicker was back, like a thawed lobster coming back to life.

  ‘Nothing. Not really. It was all just a mistake. I had a few too many drinks at a house party one night. We’d had a whopper of a catch that day, s
o it was kind of a celebration. Anyway, apparently she laid a kiss on me, but I don’t really remember . . .’

  Something flickered across Winnie’s face that Alex couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe she’d remembered her own attempt at puckering up to him. He’d tried to avoid thinking about it ever since. Tried. He pressed on. ‘Beyond the kiss, I apparently spurned her advances and she hasn’t quite forgiven me.’

  Winnie’s features now reminded him of a dark, stormy morning on the boat. ‘And now she somehow imagines you and I are together – saw us talking at the pub or some such – and is jealous?’ She slumped back in her seat. ‘What the hell is wrong with this town and all its gossiping? The last thing I need in my first week is someone else who hates me.’ She directed a glare across the street. ‘Along with that horrible Herald journalist. Bloody hell.’

  Anger suddenly rose up like a tide inside Alex. ‘It’s not my fault you women twist things and over-analyse them and turn everything into a weird game.’

  Winnie sat up, eyeballing him. ‘And it’s not my fault you blokes can’t keep it in your pants.’

  Alex rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He couldn’t believe he’d been prised from a nap after a long day’s slog for this. Irritatingly, an image of Winnie at the field day had arrived front and centre of his mind when she’d rung.

  Maybe they were even now – Winnie for destroying his ute’s side mirror and he for inflicting Cyndi on her. Leaning forward, he turned the key in the ignition and revved the engine. ‘Let’s just get you wherever you need to be and get this over with,’ he said coolly. ‘Where are we headed?’

  Winnie’s arms crossed over her chest. ‘I think I deserve to finish up early after the day I’ve had. Please just take me home, if you remember where that is.’

  ‘I remember – home it is,’ Alex murmured, pulling onto the road, making sure to stick his head out the window first to check the side view. Their working relationship was obviously going as well as any other relationship between them might.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Grrr!’ On Friday morning, Winnie banged the phone back in its cradle and turned to Olive. ‘Allira’s model agency wants me to send a list of the “people”,’ she made quote marks in the air, ‘who’ll be involved in a possible fashion shoot for Beach Life. It’s like they’re expecting Patrick Demarchelier or Rachel Zoe. I doubt I’ll even be able to get anyone in hair and make-up from Adelaide to make the trip at our rates, let alone anyone big-name.’

  Olive chewed the end of her purple biro. ‘I thought Allira might be a bit of a prima donna. Her family locally seems to think they’re pretty important since she got famous.’

  ‘Nah, she’d be all right; she’s as sweet as pie in interviews.’ Winnie ran a hand through her hair. ‘My bet is it’s her minders, drunk on the power. I have a feeling they’re going to veto the shoot idea before Allira even hears about it. Just when I was beginning to think our cover might be in the bag, too.’

  ‘Yeah, guess you might need to start looking for other options just in case,’ Olive mused.

  Winnie sank back in her seat. Another kick in the guts just when she thought she was getting someplace. Like scoring that Chester Wyatt interview, right before her clothes – and Cyndi – went walkabout at the salon. Life wouldn’t let her be on a high for too long. Straightening, she turned to Olive. ‘Sorry I was M.I.A. yesterday afternoon, too.’ She shook her head dazedly. ‘It’s just I had the strangest thing happen.’

  Olive clutched her coffee mug with both hands and leant forwards. ‘Yeah? Spill.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Winnie tapped her fingernails on the desk. ‘I went to that salon down the road – Cyndi’s Beauty Spot – for a quick treatment yesterday. I really felt like I needed one. Anyway, I got ready in the back room and then the owner, Cyndi, and some customer called Honey disappeared – with my clothes – and never returned. It was so bizarre.’

  Olive’s eyes widened to twice their size as Winnie continued. ‘I haven’t been game to call Cyndi to ask for my clothes and shoes back. Apparently she has a crush on Alex and must have somehow got the idea in her head that he and I were an item, so exacted her revenge. She and Alex kissed once.’ Oddly, as she said this Winnie felt the same stab of jealousy she had yesterday. Ridiculous. She didn’t have any claim on Alex – nor did she want one. ‘I was left stranded, in just a robe and disposable G-string.’

  The ad manager covered her mouth, barely stifling a giggle. ‘How’d you get home?’

  Winnie felt her skin grow red and blotchy at the memory, as though she’d just rolled in poison ivy. ‘Well, you didn’t answer your phone, so I had to call Alex to pick me up. I didn’t know who else to call. It was mortifying.’

  Olive snorted. ‘You couldn’t have planned it better yourself. All near-naked and waiting like that!’

  More heat rushed through her. ‘As if. Do you happen to know Cyndi Hartley, the beautician?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Olive waved a hand in the air. ‘She’s all right, though she is a little wacky. She got her heart broken a while back by some rodeo star and has never quite been the same. We move in different circles, but I get the feeling she gets hung up on any guy who happens to glance her way. She was a beauty queen once, but then packed on the kilos. Heartache can do that to a girl.’

  Winnie couldn’t imagine the reed-thin Olive ever having to worry about ills like cellulite.

  ‘The girls here can also be funny about blow-ins making claims on the local fellas,’ Olive added. ‘There aren’t many to go around, after all. Something I know well.’

  ‘Guess I’ll let Cyndi cool down for a few days, then call her. I don’t want to make waves just yet.’ Winnie blew out a breath. ‘So how’d your eye appointment go yesterday? Blind as a bat yet?’

  It was Olive’s turn for a blush to creep over her face. She bent her head to study some paperwork on her desk with more intent than seemed necessary. ‘Only as much as I always have been.’

  Hmm. Olive was obviously hiding something. Winnie rolled her chair around, determined to find out exactly what. ‘Were you really at the optometrist’s?’

  ‘Yes, I was.’ Olive stared harder at the paperwork, looking like she could really do with an upgrade to her contacts. ‘Oscar Glick comes to town every month. You can ask anyone.’

  A gust of air escaped Winnie’s lips, realisation dawning. ‘You’ve got a crush on him, haven’t you?’

  ‘No, no. Definitely not.’ Olive shook her head vehemently, then her shoulders slouched. ‘Well, maybe a tiny bit.’

  Winnie was speechless. Mention of the crush had reduced the smart-mouthed ad manager to a painfully shy schoolgirl. Now the more demure knee-length skirt Olive had on yesterday made sense. It had wife material written all over it.

  ‘Have you ever said anything to him about being interested?’ Winnie pressed softly. ‘Hinted at it?’

  ‘No, of course not. I could stare into his eyes via that whiz-bang machinery of his until the cows came home and it wouldn’t make a skerrick of difference. He’s never shown any interest.’

  Winnie tapped a finger on her chin. ‘And he doesn’t wear a wedding ring?’

  Olive shook her head.

  ‘No gay tendencies?’

  ‘Nope. And no framed pictures of a supermodel-like girlfriend on his desk either. Just lots of empty styrofoam coffee cups and energy-drink cans.’

  ‘Hmm, well, maybe he’s just shy, like you. Or had his heart broken. You know what? You should say something next appointment. You only live once. What have you got to lose?’

  ‘Uh-uh, no way. I’m not going back, despite what my psychic might say. I can’t keep coming up with excuses to see him. Do you know how many unopened boxes of contact lenses I’ve got? It’s embarrassing.’ The corners of Olive’s mouth pulled down. ‘Sometimes you have to know when to give up.’

  ‘C’mon, you have to make one last-ditch effort to see him. A coffee date or something, seeing as he sounds like somewhat of a caffeine ad
dict. You can’t die not knowing. What’s the worst thing that can happen?’

  Olive appeared to ponder this. ‘I’ll have to drive all the way to Mount Gambier for the rest of my life to avoid seeing him whenever I need my eyes checked.’

  ‘Well, that’s not half as bad as getting your clothes nicked by a crazy beautician or stepping in manure in front of a heap of farmers at a beef field day.’ Winnie glanced at her watch. ‘Bugger. I’ve got an appointment with Ms Bridezilla and no doubt she’ll have my head on a chopping block if I’m late. I’d better scoot. But I’ll try to come up with some scenarios of how we can get you two together on the drive over.’

  Olive grimaced. ‘Great. Worked out how to drive stick yet?’

  ‘Nope, still using my own car. I’ll just put my petrol use on tax for the moment. Alex still owes me another driving lesson.’ Yesterday certainly hadn’t been ideal for one considering her dress – or lack thereof.

  Roughly ten minutes later – nowhere was far in town – she was at the Delaware family home. Topiary rose bushes lined the path to an old white weatherboard house fronted with a massive verandah. At the door, Winnie pressed on the bell, hearing it chime through the house.

  Eden materialised in the doorway, an adorable tan Pomeranian sporting a pink collar in her arms. ‘Stop yapping, Armani,’ the bride-to-be commanded the pooch before turning to smile at Winnie. Strangely, her radiant smile looked a little wobbly, considering Eden had had confidence by the bucketload last time they’d spoken. Winnie reached to pet the dog before she was ushered in.

  As she whisked down the hallway, the Bridenstein informed Winnie they were heading to her home office. The room itself smelled like a potpourri bowl and featured floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a neatly tended garden. After placing Armani on a dog bed in the corner, Eden sat ramrod-straight in a beige leather chair behind her desk. She gestured for Winnie to sit opposite in one upholstered in colourful stripes of ribbon. It all felt rather formal.