He turned to photos of the other wedding guests, his father’s bushranger beard, Ian and Louisa’s matching three-piece suit and silk dress, and the much younger Jeff and Mia, fresh-faced, back when the ink on their own wedding certificate was barely dry.
One thing was clear to him now: there wouldn’t be a wedding for him and Emily, and he wasn’t going to phone around to see if any of the other women he’d cut from the show were interested in giving him a second chance.
His gaze slipped back to the framed image of Belle in the white velvet dress that almost blended into the snowy Canadian landscape in the background.
God, I wish you were here.
He shoved the album back in the cupboard, behind the inkjet printer that he should have tossed out years ago, and pulled a ream of printer paper over it for good measure.
Nothing good would come from digging up the past.
In true Jeff style, his friend arrived bearing chilli beef pies, a six-pack of Coopers Sparkling Ale and a swag of stories from the boatyard.
‘Wait till you hear how much my old deckhand spent on cocaine this year. Trust me, I’ve been saving up all the good goss while you’ve been moping, and this sieve of a brain can’t hold onto these pearlers for much longer. Anyway, this deckie seemed like a safe bet, worked on his brother’s cray boat until the old bloke threw in the towel. He was doing alright on the job too, no more stuff-ups than the average deckie. Fast forward to this winter and it turns out he’s spending five grand a month on the nose beers. And you wouldn’t believe the nerve when I pulled him aside—’
The revolving cast of deckhands on Jeff’s large crayfish boat proved the perfect distraction as they sank a few ales by the fire and polished off the handmade pies from the coastaltown’s deli. And for the first time all winter, the heaviness in Spencer’s chest seemed to ease a little. He’d had his shot at love, now it was time to put it aside and focus on the friends he had, not the future he’d stupidly thought was possible.
7
‘How about this blue teddy bear, honey?’ Clem said, waving a navy toy in front of Indi. ‘Or maybe this sweet yellow duck?’
She made quacking noises, hoping to distract her youngest daughter from the hot-pink unicorn she’d picked out for Mia’s new baby Fred, but no amount of farm animal noises would sway Indi.
‘Boys can have pink too, you know Mum,’ Harriet said, looking up from the book she’d had her nose buried in the whole shopping trip. ‘One of the guys in my class has pink sneakers, and he said he’s bringing a purple sleeping bag on school camp.’
Clem liked to think she was pretty modern, but still she found herself impressed with the kid’s bravery. Penwarra was a country town, with pretty conservative views. She and Hazel had talked at length about the funny looks she got when she’d opened a cafe without the support of a partner, and Hazel’s choice to embrace motherhood with an anonymous donor.
‘You’re absolutely right,’ Clem said, putting the other toys back on the shelf. ‘Fred will love a pink unicorn.’ Clem reachedfor her purse, and Louisa Brealy’s flyer for the Penwarra Players fluttered to the ground. Harriet scrambled out of the beanbag she’d commandeered to scoop it up.
‘What’s this? Are we going to watch a play? Is it likeBeauty and the Beast?’
Clem suspected the musical they’d seen in Adelaide was a slightly different calibre to the community theatre group’s performances.
‘Maybe more like your end-of-year school concert,’ she replied, catching the shopkeeper’s narrow look and fluffing up the beanbag.
Harriet’s shoulders sagged. ‘Pansy always gets the lead roles in the school concert. She does dance twice a week and calisthenicsandsinging classes. I’ll never get the good parts unless they move schools and I’ll never have a chance at middle-school captain.’
‘Honey, I’m sure that’s not true,’ Clem said, leading the way to the front counter. The school put on an inordinate number of concerts, luncheons, eisteddfods and recitals for such a small student body, and she was sure Harriet had scored a starring role in one thing or another. ‘What about the Christmas pageant in Mount Gambier? You were in that!’ She prised the unicorn out of Indi’s arms so the cashier could scan the price tag.
‘I was the donkey in the nativity scene. The only line I had was saying “heeee-haw” as we drove down the main street, and nobody could even hear me over the engine of the old truck.’
Harriet smoothed out the crinkled flyer, her chipped pink fingernails tracing the words ‘Cast wanted! All ages encouraged! No experience required.’
Clem saw the shopkeeper’s watchful gaze move from Harriet, who looked positively miserable, to Indi. Now that she had herhands free, the three-year-old was piling on glittery bracelets from the nearby display. ‘You’re taking the jewellery too?’ the cashier asked frostily.
‘No thanks,’ Clem said, looking at her watch and quickly emptying Indi’s arm of the dozen elasticised bracelets.
‘It’s okay, I probably wouldn’t get a role anyway,’ Harriet said, giving a little shrug. She folded the flyer and slid it back into Clem’s handbag.
‘Mr and Mrs Brealy run the Penwarra Players,’ Clem said as Indi, laughing and enjoying the game, wriggled like an eel, determined to keep at least one of the sparkly bracelets. ‘We can think about it.’
‘Like we were going to think about the guinea pig?’ Harriet stalked out of the store, her shoulders straight and arms crossed as she made for the exit.
Clem didn’t see Spencer Hawkins, but Harriet’s yell and frantic waving across the car park had her turning in his direction.
‘Mr H! Remember, Indi, he’s the famous guy from my school, he’s going to be on TV,’ Harriet yelled, and every late afternoon shopper in earshot swivelled in their direction.
Was it Clem’s imagination, or did Spencer cringe at that? She hadn’t seen him in weeks, and instead of the sharp haircut he’d worn throughout the final weeks of filming, his hair was floppy over his forehead and his ears.
