From then on we spent all the time we could together, as much of it as possible with our arms wrapped round each other. The days passed in a haze of happiness. Oliver’s work was punctuated by early starts and working late into the evening. My diary showed a more haphazard work pattern, the norm in my profession. When Oliver was working and I wasn’t, I filled in odd hours with exercise classes or went to the cinema.
One afternoon, when I was sitting in a small studio cinema waiting for a recently released rom-com to begin, I saw something that made my heart lurch. It was Oliver, looking completely different and in the sort of company it didn’t occur to me that he would keep.
I’d have to confront him, I realised as I slunk out of the cinema after the film finished. Mentally, I rehearsed what to say.
Oliver turned up at my flat that evening with an armful of cornflowers. ‘The colour reminded me of your eyes.’ He bent to kiss me, but I moved out of the way.
‘You’ve been deceiving me,’ I said.
‘Oh, God,’ he groaned. ‘You’ve found out. I can explain everything.’
‘That new rom-com,’ I said. ‘I went to see it. I also saw you. Before the film even started. Man in commercial for Henley aftershave.’
‘They only picked me and the other guys for that ad because we could row.’
‘Not just that,’ I said. ‘In the film. Hero’s old school friend with six lines in wine bar.’
He looked sheepish.
‘Admit it,’ I said. ‘You’re an actor. No wonder you always change the subject when I ask about your job.’
‘It’s a fair cop,’ he said. ‘It’s like this—Kate told me about all the stuff about not getting involved with an actor. The actual wording, if I remember correctly, was would not touch with a bargepole. Then I fell in love with you the moment we met and I didn’t want to muck up my chances…’
‘And what about working in the City?’ I asked sternly.
‘It’s true. I’ve taken part in performances of readings there for charity.’ I could believe that—he had a fantastic voice. ‘And I temp there quite a bit. It pays well. And I really have got a degree in maths. I just did a lot of acting at university. And then I went to drama school.’
There was a pause. ‘Can you forgive me?’ he asked.
‘You lied to me,’ I said.
‘No, I didn’t. I misled you. That’s different. It all depended on the interpretation.’
He was looking at me with the most serious expression I’d ever seen on his face. ‘Are you going to forgive me?’
I looked at the cornflowers and his brown eyes and curly hair and thought about the way he’d kissed my back. And all the subsequent kisses and the hours we’d spent together and the wine we’d drunk and the jokes we’d laughed at and the smell of his aftershave—even though it was probably Henley aftershave.
I took a deep breath. Was I going to have to rethink my attitude to the most consistent advice ever handed down from one actress to another?
‘Well?’ he said.
‘I’ll have to think about it,’ I said.
I held the pause for about twenty seconds.
And then I kissed him.
Anna Jacobs
The author of forty-five published novels, Anna Jacobs freely confesses to an addiction to story-telling. Fortunately, she is not very domesticated, so has plenty of time to produce two to three novels a year, writing sagas for one publisher, modern women’s fiction for another. She is fascinated by women’s history and by the challenges women face in today’s changing world. Her books have been nominated several times for Australian Romantic Book of the Year, which she won in 2006, and she is among the top few most borrowed authors of adult fiction in English libraries. She’s still in love with her own personal hero, and she and he live half the year in Australia, half in England. Discover more about Anna’s writing at www.annajacobs.com
Will You Dance?
Western Australia, January 1921
When the ship docked at Fremantle, Gracie Bell was on deck with the other passengers. She stared round with a sinking heart. The West Australian port looked so scruffy, like a large village with an untidy collection of tin roofs. The summer heat made sweat trickle down her face. It was like standing in front of a hot oven.
Never mind that, she told herself. In Australia she’d find a more interesting job and make a better life for herself. She wasn’t working as a maid ever again, hated being shut up in a house all day. During the war she’d worked as a conductress on a motor omnibus, but once the war ended she’d lost her lovely job to a soldier returning to England.
She hadn’t emigrated to look for a fellow, though. All her married friends worked like slaves and were always short of money, not to mention having one baby after the other. She didn’t fancy that. Maybe one or two children would be OK, not eight, like her mother.
When she came out of Customs she found her sister, Jane, waiting for her on the dock, looking pregnant, hot and weary, with her husband Tommy beside her. Her brother-in-law had grown fat in Australia, reminding Gracie of an overstuffed cushion. He didn’t look at all tired.
He eyed her up and down, nodded in approval and loaded the luggage on the motor car.
‘Is this your car?’ she asked, trying to make conversation.
‘No. I’ve borrowed it from my friend Bert. He and I work together.’
‘Since we live in Perth, not Fremantle,’ Jane said brightly, ‘this is easier than taking a train into the city. It was very kind of Bert, don’t you think?’
‘Yes.’ She saw that more was required and added, ‘Very kind indeed.’
‘Tommy’s doing ever so well at work. We’re buying our own house now.’
Tommy smirked and, as soon as they set off, dominated the conversation. Talk about bossy! Gracie tried to maintain a polite expression but what she really wanted was to talk to her sister.
Jane, who seemed to have lost all her old spirit, gave her a warning look and shook her head slightly when Gracie mentioned her hopes for the future.
What was going on?
The next day being Sunday, they went to church, then Tommy worked in the garden. Gracie couldn’t believe how many tomatoes there were, just growing in the sun, not needing a greenhouse. She’d never eaten them newly picked before, or peaches, either. They were much nicer than tinned ones.
Bert, Tommy’s best friend, always came to tea on Sundays, and Jane spent her sister’s first day in Australia baking a cake and some scones, red-faced, rubbing her back from time to time. Gracie had hoped to go out sightseeing and said as much.
Jane looked over her shoulder and whispered, ‘We’ll go out during the week. There are some lovely shops in the city. But Tommy likes things to be just so on Sundays, so if you don’t mind helping…?’
They were to eat out on the veranda, so Gracie swept outside and dusted all the furniture there. She tidied up indoors as well, which consisted mainly of picking up after Tommy. Didn’t that man ever carry his own empty teacups back into the kitchen, or put away his daily newspaper?
She was very disappointed in his friend Bert, who was nearly as fat as Tommy and just as fond of his own voice.
During the tea party, conversation was mainly between the two men. As he talked, Bert stared at Gracie in the same assessing way Tommy had, and it made her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t know