Page 31 of Return to the Waratah Inn

He frowned. “Already? It’s early.”

“It’s one am,” she replied.

“See? Early.” His eyes twinkled with the reflection of the flashing lights.

She shook her head. “Thanks for a nice night, but I’ve got to get home.”

“You can’t drive…”

“I’ll grab a taxi. There’s a rank right outside on Cavill.”

He nodded. “Okay. See you soon?” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, his lips soft. He lingered there a moment, raised a hand to cup her cheek and let his gaze rest on her lips. She stood still, her breath caught in her throat. Then, he smiled into her eyes before spinning away and dancing back through the crowd to the rest of the group.

Bindi inhaled a slow breath. What was she doing here? That kiss had felt intimate. It wasn’t right. She hadn’t told him she was married, although she always wore her ring. Why didn’t she say anything? Instead, she froze. With a heaviness in her gut, she made her way out of the club and onto the street. Immediately, the silence descended like a bag was pulled over her head. Her ears rang with it.

It didn’t take long to locate the taxi rank, and she climbed into a cab, feeling suddenly exhausted and sick to her stomach. As the taxi pulled out into the street, she leaned on the window and stared out at the businesses and homes flashing past.

She should be at home, in her bed, with her husband. As much as she wanted to make new friends and find some excitement again in life, was this the way to do it? For months, she’d thought she might die, that her life could be over and she’d never get to do anything fun again. But after beating cancer, it was as though she’d been given a second chance and she wanted to live, to laugh, to enjoy every moment. Why did it feel wrong?

At home, she tiptoed into the unit, leaving everything in darkness. Josh lay on his back in their bed, sleeping quietly. Her ears still rung from the noise of the club. She padded into the bathroom and shut the door slowly, then took a hot shower to wash off all the grime and greasiness of the evening. Feeling much better, she changed into clean pyjamas and climbed into bed beside Josh, her eyes heavy.

“Where were you?” he whispered. “I was worried about you.”

She rolled onto her side to look at him. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

His brow was furrowed. “Where were you?”

“I went dancing with my new friends from Bond.”

“Dancing? It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

He was upset with her, she could tell. But it wasn’t fair—she’d done nothing wrong. She was in her twenties, and life was short. So what if she wanted to go dancing sometimes? “It’s just dancing, Josh. I had some fun.”

“I sat my detective’s exam today, and I thought we could get dinner to celebrate. But you weren’t here.”

Her heart fell. “Today? I’m sorry—I forgot it was today. We can celebrate tomorrow though, if you still want to.”

He stared at her through the darkness. She could feel his eyes fixed on hers. “Okay, tomorrow.”

“Sorry again.”

“It’s fine. I’m glad you had a good time.”

He shifted closer to her, and she rolled over so he could spoon her. With his strong arms encircling her, she usually felt safe, happy, loved. But tonight it only increased her guilt. She’d forgotten all about his big day, so focused instead on her new friends and having fun. She should’ve been there for him. She squeezed her eyes tight, her core clenching. She’d have to do better in the future. But she didn’t want to give up living her life, either. Somehow, she’d manage to balance it all. She could handle it.

Chapter Seventeen

June 1953

Newcastle

Luca’s entire apartment was packed with people, littered with beer bottles and reverberated with music that blared from the record player. Mima stood to one side, wearing her favourite red dress with the white collar, and chewed nervously on a fingernail. The living room was busy with band members, beautiful women, and thick with smoke. The Boltons from next door, with the newborn who’d brought Mima and Luca together, were there too. Mrs Bolton sat in a corner holding the cocooned baby, dark smudges beneath her large brown eyes, her hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck with wisps flying around her head. Her husband stood over her, encircled by a group of men in suits. He puffed on a cigar and gestured wildly as he shouted something about defeating the government monopolies and ousting Menzies.

Mima glanced down at her dress, noticed the fraying hem and wished she’d had the time to fix it before she came over to Luca’s flat. But the maternity ward had been extra busy all week, and she’d fallen into bed exhausted at the end of each day with no thought of hemming dresses. Her mind had no room for anything other than work and Luca.

She’d been going steady with Luca for almost three months and had become a fixture in his life. She helped him throw parties — cooking, cleaning and hosting them. She knew all of his friends and bandmates, understood how he liked his tea — sweet and black. She ironed his shirts and mended his pants. She’d even taken to sleeping over most weekends. They were doing what her mother would call “playing house,” but she didn’t care what anyone else thought about it. She was in love, and she was happier than she’d been in years. They’d spent the day together. He’d played a gig down at the RSL Club earlier in the day. Then they’d snuggled on the bed, listened to the radio as the queen was crowned.

The coronation at Westminster Abbey meant that everyone in the country had the day off. There were parades and prayer services, fireworks had lit up the city skyline only an hour earlier. They’d enjoyed every moment of it together, although Mima wanted some alone time with Luca and it hadn’t happened—there were always people around them wanting his attention, talking his ear off, asking him things, smoking or drinking with him, playing instruments together or listening to the latest hits on his record player.