While the rest of us were booking Contiki tours or ‘finding ourselves’ in South-East Asia, wearing baggy pants and pretending to enjoy the taste of durian, Ella … moved out here.Not to Byron.Not to a surf hostel in Portugal.Here – a Northern Territory cattle station.
She wanted to be a jillaroo.Yes, an actual cowgirl.Our very own Jimmy fromYellowstone, minus the criminal record and with better brows.Born and raised in Clovelly, where the most rugged thing she’d ever done was brunch without a reservation, she’s now elbow- deep in cow placenta, or whatever it is they do out here.
Her parents were horrified, obviously.She’s their only child and their entire retirement plan.But a gap year turned into a part-time job, turned into a full-blown outback romance with – wait for it – thestation manager’s son, Darcy Thornwood.I wish I were making that name up.He sounds like a Regency-era rake, but no, he’s real.I checked.
Not only is she wildly in love, she’s also marrying into one of the wealthiest families in the state.Cattle’s a thing here, sure, but the land is the real goldmine.Four hundred thousand acres, passed down through generations.How do I know that?Because I deep-dived into the family’s Instagram tags and came out with a working knowledge of their land management practices and Sophia Thornwood’s skincare routine.It’s Kakadu plum in case you’re wondering.
We follow Ella inside and I nearly moan as a blessed breeze from a ceiling fan glides over my heat-wrecked body.From the outside, the homestead looks charming yet unassuming – weathered wood and bushland vibes – but inside it’s deceptively vast.Rooms branch off from the hallway in every direction.We pass a living room, a master suite, a study, a bathroom – all styled in a well-heeled, yeehawadjacent aesthetic.Earth tones.Worn leather.Subtle cowhide accents.
‘Wow, Ella, this place is way bigger in person,’ Abbey says, eyeing the fireplace in the corner as though it personally insulted her sunburn.
Ella shrugs, ever the nonchalant outback goddess.‘Wait until you see the rest of the property.’
The hallway opens up to reveal a sprawling kitchen and living area, anchored by a long timber dining table that’s clearly hosted several emotionally loaded family dinners.
A few people in aprons bustle around the table, setting out plates and cutlery with professional precision.The place smells of roasted something.My stomach tightens with longing.I could destroy a burger right now with zero remorse.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch along one side of the room, framing a dry, cracked lawn that bleeds into endless bush.It’s beautiful in thatI might die heresort of way.
Then –pop.
A cork comes flying from the butler’s pantry off to the left.We all turn as Ella’s mum, Gloria Beaumont herself, struts out holding a bottle of Moët in one hand and several champagne flutes in the other.
Ella groans.‘Mum, you were supposed to wait until tonight.’
Gloria pours the champagne with the confidence of a woman who’s been drinking before noon since the 1980s.‘Since when?You’re getting married tomorrow.Let the mother of the bride celebrate.’
Gloria flashes me and Abbey a wink.‘Glad to see you ladies made it to hell with the rest of us.’
‘Mum,’ Ella hisses.She glances at the kitchen staff, who heard everything.None of them blink.Either they’re already used to Gloria, or this is the third bottle today.
Gloria waves a perfectly manicured hand.‘What?The heat is stifling and it’s only spring!Be grateful your father brought his heart meds this time.’
Ella sighs.
‘It’s good to see you, Gloria,’ I say, and I mean it – genuinely.I used to love hanging out at Ella’s house after school.While my parents were still at the office pretending my sister and I didn’t exist between the hours of nine and seven, I’d step off the bus at the Beaumonts’ to the smell of freshly baked cookies and the sharp citrus of whatever Gloria had juiced that morning (pineapple-mint, blood orange, often something vaguely Italian-sounding).
Gloria’s eyes scan Abbey and me: Abbey’s skin is already a shade of shiny pink that suggests she’ll peel by tomorrow, and my hair is stuck to my neck as if it’s trying to become one with my bloodstream.Still, we smile, pretending we’re in control of the situation.
‘Here,’ Gloria says, handing us both a flute.‘You could use a refresh.’
Translation:You look like absolute shit, and I want to help you forget about it.
I’m not offended.Gloria’s always had a soft spot for dark humour and a pre-noon bubbly.I take the glass, the cool condensation soothingagainst my palm, and follow Ella outside, Abbey trailing behind us like a POW.We last a whole twenty seconds in the dry heat before we round a corner to find a row of charming motel-style cabins, each with a little number beside the door.We stop at room four.
‘I put you both in here,’ Ella says, unlocking the door and handing each of us a key.‘The fan can be a bit fiddly.Let me know if it gives you grief.’
Fiddly, in my experience, is code for non-functional, though we still nod like grateful pilgrims.
‘You’re probably exhausted, so settle in.The pool’s out back but Johnny’s cleaning it, so maybe wait an hour unless you’re into floating leaves and questionable pH levels.There’s a meet-and-greet at seven.Follow the sound of country music and mild emotional repression.’She winks.‘You can’t miss it.’
Abbey groans as she enters the room and drops her duffel bag.I try not to laugh at the way she collapses onto the double bed.
‘Jesus.Are you gonna make it?’I ask her, genuinely curious.
Abbey lifts her head from the pillow and downs her champagne.‘Ask me after I’ve showered and located my SPF fifty.’
Abbey has always had a flair for the dramatic.She’s a self- diagnosed hypochondriac with a splash of royal delusion.Youngest of three.Distantly related to someone who once dated a prince of Singapore or Brunei, and she’s never let it go.Family money isn’t enough – she also wants recognition, an audience, a narrative.
