He's My Husband! - Lindsay Armstrong [3]
Nicola wrinkled her brow. ‘Make him jealous? That doesn’t sound very Christian, if you don’t mind me saying so, Reverend.’
Peter Callam flinched again, then he had to laugh. ‘You’re right, but desperate situations require desperate means at times. Not that I would advise you to actually—’
‘Commit adultery?’ Nicola suggested with some irony.
‘Most certainly not. Um...does anyone know how things stand? His first wife, for example?’
‘No one really knows, although some people might suspect. I’m not sure what Marietta thinks. She’s usually amazingly, even embarrassingly forthright, but she just—’ Nicola shrugged ‘—wished me luck and carried on as if it was a fait accompli. I suppose, if you look at it another way, it’s also her children I’m good with,’ she added ruefully.
‘But you suspect she may still be in love with him?’
‘I think there’s a kind of fatal attraction between them and there always will be.’
‘I still feel you shouldn’t walk away from this marriage without one last test,’ he said stubbornly.
‘You probably don’t think I can take care of myself either,’ Nicola observed.
‘I don’t think it’s a bad thing to be preserved from fortune-hunters until you’re twenty-three, Nicola. It’s no great age. And you never know.’
Nicola stood up and regarded him quizzically, as if to say, I might have known. What she did say was, ‘Look, don’t you worry about it, Reverend. I always knew there wasn’t going to be an easy solution. Not that that will stop me from trying to find one. But thanks for listening. I feel a bit guilty about taking up your time. I’m sure there are much more worthy causes and desperate women you could really help.’
Peter Callam stood up and handed her a card. ‘My time,’ he said quietly, ‘is always available to those in need, even if it’s only to listen.’
Nicola stared at him, then smiled at him radiantly. ‘It’s people like you, Reverend, who restore one’s faith. Thanks a million.’ With that, she left.
Brett Harcourt drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel of his sapphire-blue BMW convertible as he waited at a traffic light. The hood was down, although, for Cairns, it was a cooler day than the fierce heat of summer. He was late for an appointment, and every traffic light, this one included, had gone against him at the last minute—and this one took an age to change, he well knew.
Then he frowned as his gaze rested on someone coming out of the Lifeline offices opposite him—his wife. But she didn’t cross the road in front of him, although for her the light was green. Instead, she stopped on the pavement and just stood there, obviously lost in thought.
As usual, although she might be miles away mentally, she was turning a few heads, he observed dryly. Men slowed as they walked past, then looked back. Girls and women looked too, no doubt marvelling at the simple elegance of her clothes, the beautiful, lithe body beneath, the gloss of her skin and hair, maybe wondering if she was a top model or a film star.
But what the hell has she been doing at Lifeline? Brett Harcourt wondered. Looking for some new and devious way to give me the slip? Unless she’s decided to include good works in her repertoire of unusual activities...
He was about to hail her when he realised the light had changed and the traffic behind him was getting restive. He swore beneath his breath and moved off fast. But he noticed out of the corner of his eye as he did so that she didn’t even look up.
As for Nicola, she came out of her reverie and decided to treat herself to lunch in town.
She left her car where it was parked and walked to the Pier, where she chose Pescis, an Italian waterfront restaurant, overlooking the Marlin Marina. Not that there was a lot left of the marina. A cyclone earlier in the year had washed away the pontoons, leaving only the piles.
But it would be rebuilt, for it had famous associations, the Marlin Marina, with people like the late Lee Marvin, who had come to Nicola’s home town of Cairns, in far North Queensland, to set out