FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR (50 page)

Colin, holding his briefcase, and wearing sunglasses, appeared at the bedroom door. ‘I’ll be back late. You eating with your father?’

‘I suppose,’ mumbled Dina.

‘Get your chequebook back.’ Colin left and Dina went back to sleep.

The following morning Dina feigned sleep but once she heard the water running and guessed Colin was in the shower, she took the paper with the numbers on it from the drawer and hurried into the study. She spun the dials and snapped open the briefcase. As swiftly as she could without disturbing things, she rifled through papers, folders and documents. A plain school exercise book
caught her attention and when she opened it, she found a folded letter inside. It was another letter from Patrick Hanlon, handwritten and dated only two weeks before he died. She read it swiftly then replaced it and glanced through Colin’s notes in the book. There were overseas addresses and contacts in South America and Mexico. There was a bank account opened in his name in both places. There were details of immigration requirements, and names and addresses of consulates. It was enough. She had the picture.

She carefully replaced the book and slammed the briefcase shut, spinning the combination lock to random numbers. She went back to bed and pretended to be sound asleep. Colin left the apartment without a word or gesture towards her.

Saskia and Jenni trotted back down the hill to the stables, passing the paddock where Toffee was grazing. Suddenly the horse kicked out his back legs and took off in a playful gallop.

‘He’s got the wind up his tail,’ remarked Saskia as they reined in to watch.

‘He’s a gorgeous looking horse. Is he really as good as you say, Sas? I mean, do you think he could win races now?’

‘You bet he could!’ declared Saskia. ‘I’ve got him completely cured of his bad habits — after working as a stockhorse, bumping around the cattle, he wouldn’t flinch in the middle of the pack running in the Melbourne Cup.’

‘Then why don’t you race him?’

Saskia chewed her lip. ‘I don’t see how I
could. And really I just wanted to prove to Tango I could do this. I wanted to prove it to myself as well, even though I was pretty confident that I could train horses. I’ll have to get Tango up here. Maybe he could make an offer for Toffee.’

‘Is he for sale?’

‘Not really, but he’s just been put out to graze here. He placed in a few races then developed this phobia and I don’t think he was treated very well. Bannerman brought him up here from Tamworth and they raced him once to see if he was as good as he used to be, but he didn’t do well, so I guess they’ve written him off.’

They headed back to the stables and as they dismounted, Jenni continued, ‘You know, Saskia, if you really wanted to prove something to Tango you should race Toffee.’ Jenni swung her saddle over a rail then turned suddenly, her face bright with excitement. ‘Hey, why don’t you buy him yourself?’

Cradling the saddle and blanket in her arms Saskia stopped and stared at Jenni thoughtfully then smiled broadly. ‘Why didn’t I think of that before? I’ll have to tread softly, I don’t want Colin or the dreaded Georgy Porgy to know their clapped-out racehorse has come good. They’ll put the price up.’

Saskia brought the subject up casually with Colin that afternoon. ‘I’ve really got attached to Toffee — I haven’t had a horse of my own for ages. Do you think George Bannerman would sell him?’

Colin didn’t look up from the paper on his desk. ‘He’d sell his own mother for a quid.’

‘So I’ll ask him. How much do you think he’ll want?’

‘Well, seeing as they have just dumped him now, I don’t think he’d be worth much.’ He glanced at her. ‘You serious about this, are you? What are you going to do with a broken-down racehorse?’

‘Oh, I only want to keep him for me to ride. He has a bit more go than the other horses.’

‘Let me do the negotiations for you, kid,’ said Colin quickly. ‘I don’t want you to get ripped off.’ Colin was calculating building in a commission fee for himself.

Over dinner Jenni and Saskia confided their plan to the Gadens but asked them to keep it to themselves.

‘Well, if the horse is as good as you say he is, you should race him and find out for sure,’ said Bruce encouragingly.

‘How can she do that, Bruce, you have to be a licensed trainer,’ said Ria, ever practical. ‘Do you know a trustworthy trainer who’d enter Toffee in a decent race for you?’ put in Jenni.

Saskia looked thoughtful. ‘Angus Wellburn, the bloke who owns the dairy farm down the road where I work Toffee, is a retired trainer. I don’t know if he still holds a licence, but he’s taken quite an interest in Toffee. Maybe I should talk to him.’

‘Oh do, Sas. See him this afternoon,’ enthused Jenni. ‘I think this is so exciting!’

Queenie and Henri had finished their paperwork, and contracts had been exchanged and were now in the hands of their solicitors.

‘All that remains is for me to say goodbye,’ sighed Queenie over lunch at the Kurrajong’s superb restaurant, but she smiled as she said it.

‘Not goodbye,
au revoir.
You will be back, often I hope,’ said Henri warmly. ‘And now my first official duty is to propose we go to dinner in fabulous downtown Katoomba.’

They met after sunset and strolled through the town, calling into the Paragon Cafe to buy some home-made chocolates. ‘How is Mrs Simos?’ Queenie asked the young man behind the counter.

‘She’s retired, and her daughters are running the place now, but the chocolates are still wonderful,’ he grinned.

‘Then we shall have a selection,’ said Henri. ‘A business that started in 1916 and is still thriving must be good!’

‘We’d better save these for dessert, or we shan’t eat our dinner,’ said Queenie, sniffing the delicious chocolatey aroma.

Over dinner they talked of art and Henri was intrigued to hear about the fashions of Countess Magda Vambery. ‘I have met women like her, some come from proud White Russian or aristocratic Austro-Hungarian families with royal connections and were forced out after the war and fell on hard times. With such a background I’m sure she has exquisite taste,’ he said.

‘Her own couture business is quite new, but I think she’s missed the boat in the contemporary fashion world. She’s making lavish and extravagantly beautiful gowns that few
people can afford these days. In the fifties and sixties the socialites outdid each other in these sort of fashions. People don’t dress like that so much any more. I’m hoping if she is suitable and agrees, we might be able to swing her over to more elegant modern wool and leather designs,’ explained Queenie.

‘Like the Italian designers.’

‘No. Like Australian designers,’ replied Queenie firmly.

‘I stand corrected,’ smiled Henri. ‘Who will be doing your designing then, in addition to the wild countess?’

‘I’ve worked out a basic theme, and Sarah has found an exciting new designer, Leonard Osborne, who does men and women’s tailoring. Then, out of the blue, for the Aussie knitwear, I found a talented Aboriginal artist, a young girl who was a street kid a year ago.’

‘That sounds an eclectic mix, to say the least,’ observed Henri. ‘But Queenie,
ma petite,
you can’t run everything yourself. A fashion enterprise on the scale of Tingulla Wool and Leather needs someone to run it, someone with a background in fashion, buying and selling, dealing with overseas markets, as well as supervising the actual making of the garments. It is a full-time job and has to be based in the city. Sarah has a family, you weren’t surely thinking of putting her in charge?’

‘No, her skills are public relations, marketing and promotion — she has a natural gift for it. No, I’m hoping this is where the countess will come in,’ said Queenie.

‘A title does not automatically denote talent for business,’ cautioned Henri.

Queenie smiled warmly. ‘That’s true, but Sarah and I will see for ourselves in a day or two.’

Henri reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘If you have need for further capital you know where to come,’ he said gently. ‘Even if you just want the countess checked out, perhaps I can help.’

‘You are a good friend, Henri. Thank you for the offer. Sarah has invested in the company and John has already offered to look into the financial status of Countess Vambery Couture. But come the day Tingulla Fashions storms Fifth Avenue, then you can help us set New York on fire.’

‘And don’t forget Paris,’ added Henri brightly. ‘Although I grew up in Quebec, I have family connections in France too.’

Queenie burst out laughing. ‘You really are a man of the world, Henri!’

After dinner they walked back through drifts of smokelike fog that beribboned the dark pine trees. Reaching the massive stone gates of the Kurrajong, Queenie paused. ‘I remember the first time I rode along here and found this gateway and then saw the tumbledown hotel. It was like something out of an old movie.’

Henri dropped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a small hug. ‘Anyone else would have wandered around, peered in the windows and gone away to tell the tale. But you, no. You have a vision, take a big
gamble and make it happen. You’re incredible, Queenie. And you will make your Tingulla Fashions a great success also.’

‘Thanks. You make me feel so confident that it will all turn out okay,’ said Queenie gratefully, putting an arm around his waist as they walked up the sweeping driveway. ‘Sometimes I have moments of great doubt. It is very hard to soldier on without TR . . . I feel very alone at times.’

‘Never feel alone, Queenie. You always have my support. And love,’ said Henri softly.

‘Oh, Henri . . .’ Queenie let the sentence trail off.

They were silent until they reached the hotel. There was soft music coming from the piano bar but they went quietly up the curving, plushly carpeted staircase and walked down the corridor lit by imitation old-fashioned gas lamps. At the door to Henri’s suite they paused.

‘A nightcap?’ he asked.

‘Yes please. And a chocolate,’ said Queenie, holding up the Paragon bag.

Henri had the grandest suite in the hotel with double French doors opening onto a balcony set with table and chairs. The sitting room was French provincial in decor, as was the large bedroom, bathroom and dressing room. Henri pulled the flower-sprigged curtains across the windows and switched on a low-light swathed in a powder-blue shade.

‘It’s a cold evening, I think I’ll light the fire. There is champagne in the refrigerator in the kitchen or a selection of liqueurs in the drinks
cabinet. You choose,’ he said, kneeling by the neatly laid fire in the grate. Two rose-print easy chairs were drawn up on either side of the fireplace, a large white fur rug spread between them before the fire.

‘I think a glass of Moet would wash the chocolates down very nicely,’ Queenie said. While she filled the ice bucket with crushed ice and sank the champagne bottle into it, Henri turned on the stereo and music from the film ‘Out of Africa’ filled the room. He took two champagne flutes and set them on the small table beside one of the chairs as Queenie placed the ice bucket beside them.

‘What a gorgeous fire.’ She kicked off her shoes and sat on the floor, leaning back against the chair. Henri opened the bottle and poured their drinks, handing Queenie a glass and sitting in the chair next to her. Queenie leaned back against his legs and sipped the champagne. ‘Umm, wonderful.’

Henri leaned over her shoulder and clinked his glass against hers. ‘Here’s to you, Queenie. I wish you happiness.’

She turned to look into his caring brown eyes. ‘You really do, don’t you, no matter what.’

‘No matter what. Even if it pains me sometimes.’

‘Oh, Henri.’ Queenie turned away from the look of love in his eyes. ‘You are a good friend. And I need a friend at the moment.’ Her voice trembled and she put down her glass.

Henri slipped from his chair and sat beside her. He put down his glass and seeing the tears
shining in her eyes, gathered Queenie in his arms. ‘
Cherie,
it is all right to let down that fence you put around yourself.’

Queenie’s voice was muffled as she leaned against him. ‘I’m tired of being strong. And positive. And making all the decisions. And wondering . . .’

Henri held her tightly as she buried her head in his shoulder and shook with silent sobs. He gently stroked her hair until she calmed down. Queenie took a deep breath and drew back and tried to smile. But Henri took one look at her fragile expression and leaned over and kissed her damp cheeks, drawing her to him.

Queenie didn’t resist and slowly kissed him back. Then, in a rush, her defences fell away as their passion rose. The memories of their love-making came flooding back, heightening her desire. Tenderly Henri laid her back on the white fur rug. He covered her face in tiny kisses as she ran her fingers through his hair and across his shoulders. Queenie tightened her arms about him pressing him to her, arching her body to his. After keeping her emotions pent up for so long her physical passion overflowed at the touch of loving affection.

Henri lifted his face and looked into her eyes. ‘Are you sure?’ She smiled softly and nodded.

Henri kissed her. ‘This is a gift. From one to the other. So let’s enjoy these moments — you and I, alone in this room, an oasis for two dear friends.’ And while he was joyful to be holding Queenie in his arms, his heart was sad, knowing this was an interlude without
commitment. He had lost her once, could he dare hope to win her again?