His Brand of Beautiful (6 page)

For a simple syllable, the question stung. “I hope so, one day. Yes.”

She waited until he brought his fork to his mouth. “So how come you’re still single?”

He almost choked. “Jesus. Don’t we have weeks to sort all this stuff out?”

“I’m too old for small‐talk. If you have huge spooky skeletons in your closet, I’d rather just know.”

He reached for a bottle of Handcrafted Sauvignon Blanc and tilted it towards her.

She put her hand over her glass. “I’m running tomorrow.”

“Running?”

“Don’t say it like that. Running. Jogging. Millions of people do it every day.”

“You don’t mention running on your blog.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve done your homework. Lacy has me on a fourteen-week training plan. She’s like a greyhound, I take about three steps to her one. There’s a breast cancer fundraiser being held with the City to Bay in August. We’re raising money for that.”

He paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. “You get on well with your sister‐in-law, why aren’t you bridesmaid?”

She tore her gaze from his lips. “Me? God, no. I hate weddings.”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to get married?”

“Aren’t we supposed to spend weeks sorting all this stuff out?”

“Touché.” He downed the fish, eyed her beef. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“I ate your entree.”

He swapped his empty plate for her steak. Ice chinked as he filled two water glasses.

“Don’t take this the wrong way.” He hesitated. “I wouldn’t have picked you for the type of woman who goes running.”

“A little less padding wouldn’t hurt.”

“Your view. Not mine.” His gaze dipped to her collarbone, grazed the cleft between her breasts. If Abraham Lewis MP had looked at her like that she would have kicked his shin.

“Lacy said the endorphins will hit me at some stage and I’ll start to crave the exercise but I don’t think that happens until about week ten.”

“And what week is this?”

“Week two. Stop laughing!” She kicked his shin.

The microphone burped. Lacy’s father, red‐faced and stiff, tapped it. Christina groaned and sliced her finger across her neck.

Lily Malone

“Let me guess. You don’t like speeches?”

“I
hate
wedding speeches.”

Someone hushed them then like they were noisy spectators at a tennis match.

****

On the stage, Aunt Vanda’s wrinkled finger made the microphone fart. “Can anyone hear me?”

A waiter stopped serving portions of wedding cake and leapt to her aunt’s rescue.

Seconds later, Vanda’s voice rattled the windows. “I want all the single ladies.”

“I think your Aunt is channelling Beyoncé,” Tate said.

“The woman’s the bouquet‐toss Nazi.” Christina slouched lower in her seat, angling her hat over her face. Aunt Vanda, fairy lights from the drum‐kit firing through her parachute skirt, shielded her eyes and peered into the crowd.

Christina tugged Tate’s hand. “Quick before she sees me.”

He pushed his chair back. “What did you do for rescue before I came along?”

“I had the cops on speed dial.”

His fingers stiffened around hers and for a second she thought he planned to rat her out, but then he turned her under his arm and let her lead him across the room.

Sliding doors released them from the foyer into air green with the scent of freshly cut grass. Skateboard wheels scraped along South Terrace and an ambulance siren cut over the hum of late‐night city traffic. Her boots thudded on bitumen, silver bells around her ankle chimed. Beside her Tate floated like Santa’s light‐footed elf.

She sucked in a deep breath, felt cold air surge through her lungs. The adrenalin kick reminded her of how it used to feel when she shot clay‐pigeon targets with her father: that frozen moment staring down the sights at the bird. Exhale. Squeeze. Kill. She’d been good at it once. Nerves of steel, Richard Clay said she’d had.

They walked under a swarm of moths harassing a lamp and their shadows stretched to darken the path ahead. She squared her shoulders, wet her lips—

“I know what you’re about to say, Christina. So before you ask, I’ll tell you again: I don’t do wine brands.” His voice was soft, flat and inarguable as taxes.

Just what she’d been afraid of. She sensed his hand on the door of her dream, about to shove it shut. She had to make him hear her out.

Her chin rose. “You know I don’t give up that easily.”

“I figured that after the fiftieth phone call.”

“I want you as my consultant because you
don’t
have any wine brands on your list.

You give me a point of difference. I want you to do for me what you did for Lila Blu.”

That took him aback. “You know Lila?”

“She sits on some art gallery board with Saffah. What you’ve done for Blu Jewels is mind‐blowing. You made ruby nose‐studs cool last summer.
That’s
the type of campaign I want.”

“You’re not listening.”

“No,
you’re
not listening. What’s the big deal? Why no wine brands? Are you going to tell me your client list is full?” Her voice was loud enough to send a small animal scuttling through the flower beds.

Tate’s eyes slid toward a gnarled row of hundred‐year‐old Morton Bay Figs metres off the path—the type of trees that might have sheltered a troll in a good children’s book.

“I won’t work for you, Christina,” he said softly.

Her right hand chopped into the palm of her left. “Why the hell not?”

“Handcrafted by Clay is about as iconic as a brand gets. I don’t know why you’d want to mess with it. You’d be taking a huge risk.”

“I agree with you. But what if I said it’s not Handcrafted I want to change?”

For a long time there was only the sound of the sleeping city and her anklet and their footfalls, and then she heard a deep sigh.

“Go on,” he said.

Her spirits soared. This was the chance she’d waited three months to get.

“Michael and I want to create a new brand, one that will turn Australian wine on its head—”

“Why not just buy an existing brand and revamp it under the Clay Wines umbrella.

Cheaper. Easy to leverage.”

She shook her head before he’d finished. “It’s the creativity we like most.

Handcrafted is Richard and Saffah’s baby. This new brand is something Michael and I want for ourselves.”

They’d reached two waist‐high granite pillars marking the boundary of the darker parklands beyond, at the very edge of the throw of light from the reception centre car park.

The path ahead turned from bitumen to gravel, then to grass cut only slightly lower than the wild rough surrounding it.

“We don’t have enough wine, Tate, it’s that simple. Handcrafted sells out every year months before the new vintage release. That leaves clients we can’t service, markets we can’t tap. We can buy great fruit in McLaren Vale right now and the grape‐growers can’t
give
it away. It’s not right. There’s an opportunity there and it’ll go begging. I want to grab it.”

She pivoted, gravel crunched under her heel. Each breath puffed from her lips in little white clouds. Tate leaned against the left‐hand pillar, the blue of his shirt like a patch of clear sky in a storm. Through a gap in the trees behind him, red neon from city skyscrapers lit the tawny tips of his hair.

“I have all this stuff flying around up here,” —she tapped her forehead— “and I’ve got files and folders of forecasts and projections and none of it has a name. Everything has
TBA
written across the top. Until I get the concept clear I’ve gone as far as I can. I’m stuck.”

A shiver racked her body. “That’s why I need you.”

“Come here.” He reached strong arms for her, tucked her into his chest. His heartbeat thumped her shoulder‐blade and the heat was instant. She felt her body mould itself to his.

“You look like a female Robin Hood in that outfit — only
you
would have scandalised Sherwood. The Merry Men wouldn’t have got a speck of work done—no robbing the rich to give to the poor. You would have changed history.” His voice was velvet soft. His forearm brushed the mocha‐coloured fabric clinging to her breasts as he traced her bare collarbone with a finger.

“I like this.” He plucked at the sash she’d embroidered, slung like a gun belt low on her hips where it gathered folds of green chiffon over the mocha shirt. “It suits you. So does the hat. Now close your eyes.”

She did as she was told. Tried not to think about his lips so close to her ear.

“Tell me what your new brand
feels
like.”

Her eyes opened. “
I’ll
feel like an idiot.”

Lily Malone

“If you can’t say it out loud it doesn’t deserve to be said.”

“The marketing guru speaks.”

“Marketing guru bullshit. You want to tell me about this brand, I’m listening—against my better judgment. Stop stalling.”

Three months she’d been trying to get to just this point and now she felt suddenly terrified. Closing her eyes took all her courage.

“It
feels
very Australian. Comfortable. Like a pair of old boots, but better smelling. It’s outdoorsy. Fresh. Wild. A bit cheeky. It’s a wine to drink at night around a roaring campfire or to take to your in‐laws for Christmas lunch. It’s about winemaking with new varieties and different blends. Spice and excitement. It’s about breaking the rules, like wearing thongs to the opera.” The words tumbled faster the longer she spoke, like pebbles in a rock‐slide.

She stepped out of Tate’s embrace and turned to find his eyes searching her face. A light she hadn’t seen before shone in the cobalt depths and she knew in two seconds he’d kiss her and she wouldn’t give the brand another thought until the small hours of the morning when maybe it would cross her mind as her foot rubbed his shin and her fingers travelled down his stomach and he pulled her hips close again…

“Wait. I want to get this right.” She laid her palm against his chest.

“This brand has to stand for something, like everything our family does. I thought about directing a percentage of profits to help Aboriginal kids get—”

Winter ice cracked across his face. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

She couldn’t squeeze the words:
get employment opportunities
from her frozen throat.

“I knew this would happen.” He paced two steps away, swung back, held his hand up like a policeman stopping traffic. “It’s called cause‐marketing for a reason, Christina. People like you do it to increase sales, first and foremost. Any frogs or orphans or Aboriginals who get saved in the process? Well, they were just fucking lucky.”

He muttered something she didn’t catch towards the watching circle of trees and Christina supposed that was an opportunity for her to get a word in; to explain. But her mouth was trapped in a horrified little ‘o’ and she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t make a sound.

“Indigenous Australians are not a hole in a pair of jeans. You can’t just give them a few dollars and expect them to patch themselves up while you go and write about how generous you are on your blog.”

“Since you want my advice so badly, here’s some for free. Go anywhere
near
Aboriginals with a bottle profit and the anti‐alcohol lobby will rip you to shreds. You’ll be accused of gifting Aboriginals money so they can buy more of your booze. The best thing a winemaker could do if he really wanted to help Indigenous Australians would be stop making the stuff.”

And she watched him stride away, backlit by the reception venue’s cheery lights. She couldn’t manage to force even a snide: Jesus, Tate. Tell us how you really feel, from her throat.

The drive from the city to the house on Elizabeth Avenue usually took Tate twelve minutes.

Twelve minutes in light traffic, fourteen if he caught the red lights. Up to twenty if there was a queue at the roundabout. Tonight, he’d done it in ten, slicing through the lanes, Jeep pressed to the limit. The hardest part of the drive home was waiting: waiting for the driveway gates to pry themselves apart, waiting for the garage door to open, waiting till he could bury the Jeep in his garage.

Now he punched bare‐fisted. It was a machine‐gun one‐two, one‐two‐three, one-two concussion into the heavy bag, hitting so hard the exposed timber beams over his head shook, and the fishing rods strung along them vibrated as if something was alive on the hooks. After two wild minutes his punches slowed, became more methodical. When his knuckles ached he welcomed the pain.

The Jeep’s engine clicked beside him, its bonnet still radiating warmth.

He tore the buttons from his shirt, pulled his arms from the sleeves and tossed it like a rag to the rough concrete floor. The shoe he kicked off bounced beneath a shelf. The other slid to a halt against his tackle box, the one Jolie gave him for his twenty‐first birthday, its handle worn smooth with seventeen years of use.

Then he punched some more.

When he felt the burn of lactic acid he swapped to the speed ball before his knuckles could numb. Jab. Jab. Jab. Rebound. Jab.

Had Christina gone home alone? Had that politician consoled her? Claimed his dance? Claimed something more?

That last punch felt like it should cannon the ball from its tether.

Tate slumped to his workbench. Behind him the speed ball raged, strappy twang at odds with his heaving breath.

He was out of practice. In the year after Jolie died he’d hit the heavy bag every day, Ian Callinan’s arrogant smirk floating behind his eyes. How many times had he stood here with the redgum planks rough under his palms, feet cold on the concrete, nostrils filled with the smell of his own sweat? He thumped his fist on the bench, felt the sting where the workout had broken the skin.

Tate scooped up his shirt. On the bottom step, his tie and vest lay where they’d landed. He grabbed them without breaking stride; retrieved shoes, socks. He didn’t have to worry about the suit jacket. It hadn’t made it out of the reception venue. The cleaners could have it.

At the top step he flicked a switch on the wall panel, stepped through and let the garage plunge into darkness.

The house pressed around him like it always did. Like a four‐walled morgue.