A small job would give her enough money to get herself through the next few weeks—and there was accommodation on site. She would fix this situation. No matter what.
She clenched and unclenched her fists—a technique she’d learned once to help relax her muscles whenever panic swelled. It had become a technique she relied on more and more. Thankfully the panic attacks were less like tidal waves these days, and more like the slosh of a pool after someone had dive-bombed. It wasn’t ideal, but she could manage it.
Baby steps… Every little bit of progress counts.
Shoving the dark thoughts aside, she pulled out of the car park and put her phone into the holder stuck to the window. As if on cue the phone buzzed to life with the smiling face of her old friend Willa. Chantal paused before answering. She wasn’t in the mood to talk, but she had a two-hour drive to get to her gig and music would only keep her amused for so long.
Besides, since her divorce Chantal had realised that real friends were few and far between, so she’d been making more of an effort to keep in touch with Willa. Ignoring her call now would go completely against that.
She tapped the screen of her phone and summoned her most cheerful voice. ‘Hey, Willa.’
‘How’s our favourite dancer?’
Willa’s bubbly greeting made a wave of nostalgia wash over her.
‘Taking the arts world by storm, I hope?’
Chantal forced a laugh. ‘Yeah, something like that. It’s a slow process, but I’m working on it.’
‘You’ll get there. I know it. That time I saw you dance at the Sydney Opera House was incredible. We’re all so proud of you for following your dream.’
Chantal’s stomach rocked. She knew not everyone Willa referred to would be proud of her—especially since it was her dancing that had caused their group to fall apart eight years ago.
Besides, they only saw what she wanted them to see. If you took her social media pages and her website at face value then she was living the creative dream. What they didn’t know was that Chantal cut out all the dark, unseemly bits she wasn’t proud of: her nasty divorce, her empty bank account, the reasons why she’d booked into some small-time gig on the coast when she should be concentrating on getting back into a proper dance company…
‘Thanks, Willa. How’s that brother of yours? Is he still overseas?’ She hoped the change of topic wasn’t too noticeable.
‘Luke texted me today. He’s working on some big deal, but it looks like he might be coming home soon.’ Willa sighed. ‘We might be able to get the whole gang back together after all.’
The ‘whole gang’ was the tight-knit crew that had formed when they’d all worked together at the magical Weeping Reef resort in the Whitsundays. Had it really been eight years ago? She still remembered it as vividly as if it were yesterday. The ocean had been so blue it had seemed otherworldly, the sand had been almost pure white, and she’d loved every second of it… Right until she’d screwed it all up.
‘Maybe,’ Chantal said.
‘I think we might even be getting some of the group together tonight.’ There was a meaningful pause on the other end of the line. ‘If you’re free, we’d love to see you.’
‘Sorry, Willa, I’m actually working tonight.’
Chantal checked the road signs and took the on-ramp leading out of the city. Sydney sparkled in her rearview mirror as she sped away.
‘Oh? Anywhere close by?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’m off to Newcastle for this one.’
‘Oh, right. Any place I would know?’
‘Not likely, it’s called Nine East. It’s a small theatre—very intimate.’
She forced herself to sound excited when really she wanted to find a secluded island and hide until her dancing ability came back. God only knew why she’d given Willa the place’s name. She prayed her friend wouldn’t look it up online.
‘Look, Willa, I’ll have to cut you short. I’m on the road and I need my full concentration to deal with these crazy Sydney drivers.’
Willa chuckled. ‘I forget sometimes that you didn’t grow up in the city. Hopefully we’ll catch up soon?’
The hope in her voice caused a twinge of guilt in Chantal’s stomach. She didn’t want to see the group. Rather, she didn’t want them to see how her life was not what she’d made it out to be.
‘Yeah, hopefully.’
There was nothing like being surrounded by friends, with the sea air running over your skin and a cold drink in your hand. Add to that the city lights bouncing off the water’s surface and a view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge against an inky night and you had a damn near perfect evening.
Brodie Mitchell leant back against the railing of his yacht and surveyed the group in front of him. Champagne flowed, music wafted up into the air and the group was laughing and reminiscing animatedly about their time working at the Weeping Reef resort. A long time had passed, but it made Brodie smile to think the group was no less lively now than when they’d all been fresh-faced kids, drunk on the freedom and beauty of resort life.
‘Hey, man.’ Scott Knight dropped down beside him, beer in hand. ‘Aren’t you drinking tonight?’
‘I’m trying to be good for once.’ Brodie grinned and held up his bottle of water in salute. ‘I’m training for a half marathon.’
‘Really?’ Scott raised a brow.
Brodie shoved his friend and laughed. ‘Yes, really.’
As much as he wanted to be annoyed that his friends would assume him incapable of running a half marathon, he kind of saw their point. Running competitively required a certain kind of routine and dedication that wasn’t Brodie’s style. He was a laid-back kind of guy: he thrived on surf, sand, and girls in bikinis. Abstaining from alcohol and waking up at the crack of dawn for training… Not so much.
‘You have to admit it doesn’t seem to fit in with the yachting lifestyle.’ Scott gestured to the scenery around them.
The boat was a sight to behold—luxury in every sense of the word from its classy interior design to the quality craftsmanship out on the deck.
Growing up in a big family had meant the Mitchells’ weekly grocery shop had needed to stretch across many mouths, and schoolbooks had always been passed down the line. They hadn’t been poor, but he’d never been exposed to fineries such as yachts. Now he owned a yacht charter business and had several boats to his name.
‘I didn’t exactly come up with the idea myself,’ Brodie admitted, taking a swig of his water. ‘There’s a guy at the marina back home and he’s always on my back about taking up running. He bet me a hundred bucks I couldn’t train for a race.’
‘So you started with a half marathon?’ Scott shook his head, laughing. ‘Why not attempt a lazy ten k to begin with?’
Brodie shrugged and grinned at his friend. ‘If I’m going to waste a perfectly good sleep-in, it might as well be for something big.’
‘Says the guy who once chose sleep over judging a bikini contest.’
‘And lived to regret it.’
Scott interlocked his fingers behind his head and leant back against the boat’s railings. ‘Those were the days.’
‘You look like you’re living the dream now.’ Brodie fought to keep a note of envy out of his voice.
A slow grin spread over Scott’s face as his fiancée, Kate, waved from the makeshift dance floor where she was shaking her hips with Willa, Amy,