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CHAPTER 11
Day one of their journey started off sunny. And very hot—even by 7 am.
They’d managed to squeeze everything into the Shaggin’ Wagon and on the roof rack. But the little van felt like its wheels were scraping along the ground as they bowled out on the freeway.
“Where are we heading?” Felicity asked.
“Down south.”
“That’s it. Just down south?”
“It’s a colloquialism. People from Perth know what it means.”
Felicity smiled, she was enjoying getting to know more about Aussies and their laid-back ways. And Oliver, well, he was an intriguing mix. Laid backandorderly. Easygoing with an undercurrent of uptight.
Yesterday, when they’d set out the maps on a cork board in David Blake’s study, he’d brought out a box of marker pins.
“You’ve got little pins with coloured flags on them,” Felicity exclaimed. “Do you have a cupboard full of these?” she’d laughed, and immediately his features had tightened. Maybe she should go lightly on the teasing. That aside, they’d managed to work out their route very amicably, which made her sure the whole trip would be a breeze.
So, as Oliver navigated them out of the city traffic she sat back and relaxed. Google maps Bruce was now in charge of the directions—Oliver had said he couldn’t cope with Sheila, apparently she reminded him of one of his least favourite clients. Bruce had a classic Aussie accent, all long, lazy vowels. Felicity could imagine him on horseback leading the way into the rugged outback.
About half an hour in it was clear there was an issue with the air-conditioning; it worked fine on the driver’s side but blasted hot air onto the passenger side. Soon Felicity was sure her face was as red as her hair, and she was stripping down to her sleeveless little pink and blue cotton top.
She tied her hair up on top of her head and rubbed at the back of her neck. Oliver cast her a glance, which only served to make everything hotter.
“What’s up?” he asked. He was enviably cool-looking in a crisp light blue shirt and navy shorts and flip-flops. And damn him, even his feet were beautiful. “Thongs,” he’d corrected when she’d called them flip flops.
“Thanks, I’ll add that to the list of Aussie words to confuse Evie and Felix with when I get home.” Still in the spirit of speaking Aussie slang, she piped up, “I’m beginning to feel like a raw prawn here.”
Oliver’s lips quirked. “You’re beginning to look like one.”
“Thanks.” He leaned over her and fiddled with the air con controls. Oh god,thiswas what did her head in. She’d be fine and then his arm would bump hers, or their fingers would accidentally touch when he passed her something and the tingle in her nerves would tell her that she still hadn’tquashed the crush thing. She’d probably have to live with it. This electric buzz constantly thrumming under her skin. Just another eight days or so to endure—relish.
After an hour more driving, they stopped for lunch down a side road, the sun-baked earth and medicinal scent of eucalypt leaves, the sharp trill of cicadas, so new and exciting to her senses. To top it off Andrea had made them delicious gourmet sandwiches for their first day on the road.
And then Felicity took over the driving, somewhat gleeful that Oliver was now in the hot seat instead of her and tugging at the neck of his shirt.
“Maybe we’ll need to get it fixed,” he said after a while.
“Yes, funny that.”
“What?”
“How, when men suffer, they immediately decide the problem needs fixing. Take menstruating. If guys had periods there’d be so many more options. There would be special rooms where they could go to sleep off their period pains, a day dedicated to menstrual research and better medications developed for cramps. Which I have to say, are the pits.”
“You’re making rather an extreme argument out of me wanting to fix the air con.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” She chuckled, thoroughly enjoying herself, and there followed a rather animated discussion about how women were actually much tougher than men, but men just didn’t want to admit the fact.
Finally, when they’d agreed to disagree, Felicity noticed that the flat paddocks on either side of the road had given way to a verdant landscape. Vineyards climbed up hillsides flanked by tall trees. She relaxed her hands on the wheel. Oliver put on music. It was quite a novelty listening to CDs on the Shaggin’ Wagon’s ancient CD player.
Which meant they were playing David Blake’s old collection from when Oliver was a kid. A rather eclectic mix of classical, country music and ’90s mellow. Dolly Parton and Mozart mixed liberally with Santana.
Oliver flipped through the CDs.
“Here’s one we used to play a lot.” He popped it into the CD player and out came the beat of Sheryl Crow’s “Every Day is a Winding Road”.
“This was always Mum’s favourite.”
