FOOLS' GOLD

CHAPTER ONE.

SYDNEY: APRIL, 1858.

The timber was as smooth as a lady's cheek. Matthias Gilchrist ran an appraising hand over curved arms, down to the waist and over the velvet seat. Strange, how a piece of furniture should remind him of Jemima. He smiled bitterly. He had never touched Jemima Snow as intimately as he was touching this bentwood rocker, but the parallels kept on coming. Sleek and curved and beautiful--Jemima and the rocker had been in his grasp but ultimately, he could have neither of them to keep. Well, he didn't want the chair. It was charming, but it was a thing, after all.

Matthias touched the wood again, his fingers alive to the pleasure of a task well done. The mend was perfect. At present the new arm was slightly paler in color than the splintered one it replaced, but in a year or so it would take a very sharp eye to tell the chair had ever been broken.

He wondered vaguely what had happened to it. Had old man Lassiter blundered against it while drink-taken, or had it tumbled from an over-loaded dray? Had Mary Lassiter sat down too heavily and overbalanced against the wall? She was heavy enough to break a dozen fine chairs and should always sit on a hassock. Unlike Jemima Snow, who was dainty and trim with a waist he could span with his two hands. Jemima, he thought fancifully, could perch on a throne of flowers and never mar a blossom. Jemima should always have the best.

Ruefully, Matthias considered the fine timber he had bespoken from Parker the carrier. Top-grade timber, so costly that he had never bought its like before. He had been going to make a figured headboard for a bed. The bed. The marriage bed he had hoped--expected--to share with Jemima. As he had had every right to expect! Jemima had accepted his proposal, her father had seemed contented with the match. The Snows might have been a cut above Matthias socially, but old Eben was perpetually tottering at the edge of genteel ruin, whereas Matthias's carpentry shop turned an excellent profit.

Until a few months before, carpenters had been plentiful in New South Wales. Now, with many gone to try their luck at the goldfields, those who were left could take their pick of commissions--especially if they were skilled artisans. As Matthias certainly was. He even had a secondary trade as a bookbinder, a gesture to the memory of his mother, a cultivated and gentle person who had died some years before.

Yes, Eben Snow had been pleased enough to welcome Matthias as a suitor for his daughter, and pleased to sanction the match--until a better prospect had arrived in town and begun to pay attention to Eben--and to his daughter.

Moreton Williams was a gentleman who wore his hair carefully brushed to the side. A well-groomed moustache took the place of the full beard more usually worn in the colonies. He had a flower in his buttonhole and reeked of Macassar Oil and his hands were the hands of a man who had never had to work. His eyes were the eyes of a man who was bored, but who lacked the intelligence to realize it.

Matthias had the hands of a craftsman, weathered and roughened from constant handling of wood, nails and leather. The skin of his fingertips had caught at the silk of Jemima's Sunday gown--caught and snagged it. Jemima had smiled and told him it didn't matter, but he had taken care not to touch that gown again, let alone the soft flesh beneath.

Moreton Williams' hands were white and soft as a woman's. They could fondle silk all day without snagging a thread and who knew what else they might be fondling now?

The thought of those womanish hands laid on Jemima's body made Matthias sick and cold. He clenched his own hands and turned to the door to gaze out at the uncaring sky. Jemima seemed bound to marry Williams and Matthias would be forced to see it, to address her as Ma'am, to nod as distantly as if he had never touched her cheek and seen her smile at him. To see her ripen into wifehood and swelling with Williams' child. Better if she had died ... but that was blasphemy, and the thought was shaking him to the marrow.

Grimly, Matthias smoothed the chair again. It was curved and dainty and smooth, just like ... dear God! His clenched fist struck the delicate thing and set it rocking wildly, casting his mind back to the humiliating interview with Eben Snow, three days before.

He had visited the Snow residence in answer to Eben's summons, to discuss (as he thought) the matter of marriage settlements. He had been prepared to be generous, had looked forward to keeping Jemima in a state of comfort far above the genteel poverty she endured in her father's house.

He had taken along solid evidence of his prospects, and a proposal for the date of the wedding and had fully expected matters to be settled that same day. It had been a rude shock when Eben had briefly shaken his hand, but had failed to meet his gaze.

"Is something amiss?" Matthias had asked.

The older man had cleared his throat uncomfortably, pale, bloodshot eyes shifting from floor to window to desk and never resting for more than a second on Matthias. "The fact is, Matthias, I find that after all I cannot--er--give my--er--consent to any engagement between yourself and Miss Snow."

Matthias had stared at him blankly. "But the consent has already been promised--and promised gladly--some weeks since!"

"I made no such promise!" said Eben. "To be sure I may have--er--hinted that I might be willing to consider your proposition, yet I find now I must--er--regretfully decline your offer for my daughter."

Matthias had set his jaw. "You have already consented," he insisted. "You have given me leave to pay address Miss Snow, and she has agreed to become my wife."

"Hear me out," Eben had said more quietly. "I have had ample time to consider on this head, Matthias, and I trust you will believe me when I tell you I think very highly of you. If I had need of a chair, a handsome chest--another room to my house, I would give you the commission without a second thought. But to marry my daughter--no." He had cleared his throat again, and continued more easily; "Come, Matthias, you are a sensible man. You must surely agree that my daughter is hardly a fit mate for you! She is very young, foolish and heedless, loving luxury and as idle as the day is long; in short, a typical young lady of her class." He had paused, and repeated the phrase portentously. "A typical young lady of her class."

"Are you informing me that Miss Snow no longer wishes to become my wife?" Matthias had asked curtly. "If so, I must ask for the courtesy of hearing her sentiments from her own lips."

Again Snow had looked uncomfortable, furtive, almost. He had prosed on, wandering around and around the subject as a dog might circle an unfamiliar rival. Matthias had soon seen the way the land lay; while no better prospect beckoned, he might be found an acceptable son-in-law for Eben Snow but now a bigger fish had struck at the lure; a fish not only scaled with gold but well-connected in the social pool. A carpenter could not compete.

Matthias, coldly rigid with frustration and hurt pride, had bowed stiffly and taken his leave. And that had been that. He might have called in a suit for breach of promise, but he had no wish to appear ridiculous in the eyes of his acquaintances. Besides--he had no proof, no evidence save the word and handshake of a man who was prepared to honor neither, and that of a young lady whose fancy seemed to have veered like the autumn weather.

There had been no public announcement made, for the family had, until recently, been in mourning for Jemima's grandmother.

He had not seen Eben Snow again, but he had seen his daughter, standing obediently in the slab church beside that golden fish --Moreton Williams--who, through no virtue of his own, had money and social consequence.

Matthias's bile rose at the memory and he could no longer face his work and his solitude. Abruptly, he closed up the shop, put on his hat and flung out and away down the street, picking his way around the worst of the ruts. The George served good brown ale and whisky, and today he was going to drink his fill and damn the consequences.

The hotel was dark and warm and the smoke from the cook fire mingled with the smell of sweat, horses and spilled ale. Not much like the Prince Albert, thought Matthias with satisfaction. Not much like the genteel Prince Albert in the main thoroughfare where Moreton Williams would be drinking--if that lily-faced gentleman could drink at all. Half a glass of whisky and the sweat would be beading that clammy forehead; two full glasses and he'd be rolling on the floor, spewing, fit for naught but to be carried off and put to bed by his man-servant ...

Matthias shook his head in self-disgust. He had no grounds for thinking that way--indeed, he scarcely knew the man. If only the fellow had not cast his lures at old Eben Snow, Matthias would have despised him for his weak chin and vacant gaze and let it go at that. Might even have judged him a dull sort of fellow and sold him a bride chest for his lady, had the lady in question not been Jemima Snow.

"Another," he said curtly to the publican, and within half a minute another glass brimmed before him. This was followed by a third and a fourth, and even the phlegmatic Davie George began to look askance. It was in Davie's interests to keep his custom well-supplied with liquor, but the carpenter looked set to drink himself into a stupor and that was hardly a good recommendation. "You may be wishing to wait a wee while for the next," he suggested, but Matthias glowered at him and flicked the glass with finger and thumb.

Davie shrugged and jerked his head to his server Nettie, a prime favourite with the gentlemen. "See if you can be getting him talking, girl," he said privately.

Nettie nodded, and cast a speculative glance at Matthias. The carpenter was a handsome man, tall and well set-up. Clean and neat without being foppish, known as a man of no flummery who always kept his word. A good man, straight-laced, and none the worse for that. Nettie was glad to have her job at the George, glad to be employed by her uncle rather than a stranger. Davie saw to it that the decencies were observed as far as his niece was concerned, so Nettie's lot was much less irksome than that of most tavern servers.

"See if you can be getting him to a table," instructed Davie, and Nettie untied her apron and walked around the end of the bar, allowing her hips to swing a little beneath her arching skirts.

"Mr Gilchrist?"

Matthias focussed on her without apparent difficulty and she marveled at his powers of capacity. Any other man of her acquaintance would have been, if not under the table, at least very unsteady on his feet after shipping such a quantity of liquor. "What do you want, girl?"

"Me uncle was wondering if you'd a fancy to sit in the snug," said Nettie. She smiled and added persuasively; "I could bring you something hot to eat, and be staying to chat while you were eating."

"I require neither food nor company," said Matthias distantly. "I require another drink."

"Whatever you say Mr Gilchrist," said Nettie agreeably. "And you can be drinking it in the snug."

Matthias looked at her without expression. "I prefer to drink on my feet."

"You'd be much more comfortable sitting down," said Nettie.

"No doubt," said Matthias, grimly amused. "But how would I judge the time to stop?"

"When will that be?" she asked, genuinely curious. "I've never seen you drink so much before."

"When I can no longer keep my feet. Another three glasses should do it."

Nettie caught her uncle's eye and shrugged, retreating once more behind the bar. "He'll not budge," she hissed.

Matthias thumped the bar with his fist. "Are you serving me, man, or do I go to the Prince Albert and never darken your doors again?"

Davie sighed. "Serve the gentleman, Nettie," he said.

By the time Matthias deemed himself satisfied, he was unsteady on his feet. Davie was amazed, for he couldn't see how a man could drink so much and remain conscious, let alone upright and sensible. "I take me hat off to you, Matthias!" he said. "Niver have I seen such a performance."

"You're not wearing one, you Irish rogue," observed Matthias. He put his glass on the bar, closed his eyes and collapsed, toppling like a stringy-bark when the gale has passed. Davie, not usually a fanciful man, almost imagined he could hear a rending of branches and a splintering of twigs.

He could hardly leave the carpenter where he had fallen, so he beckoned one of the tapsters and, taking an arm each, they dragged Matthias out to the snug, arranged him on a settle and loosened his collar.

"I've never seen the man the worse for drink before," said Davie sorrowfully. "What ails him?"

"It's said Miss Snow and the toff Williams are to make a match of it," said the tapster succinctly. "They was sharing a pew in the church, and Matt thought to wed the chit himself."

"That'll be it." Davie scratched his head. "He'll have the devil of a head when he wakes up."

"And the devil of a temper," said the tapster feelingly. "I'd better fetch Henry Boatwright."

"Is he not gone already to the goldfields at Nugget Creek?"

"Not unless he's left in the last hour," said the tapster. "I saw him carrying half a bullock down the alley not thirty minutes past."

Davie nodded, unsurprised. Henry Boatwright was well-known in the district for his prodigious endowments of strength and persistence. He was a devoted temperance man, a grouch and a misogynist, but well-respected. It was said Henry could save your life with his hands, but one look at his battered face would make you wish you were dead.

"Fetch him," said Davie, and returned to the bar.

Within minutes Henry had been summoned. Having been in the church the day before, his ox-like countenance showed neither surprise nor amusement to find his friend the carpenter dead drunk in the George. He said nothing, but hoisted Matthias over one shoulder as if he had weighed no more than a child. He nodded to Davie and the tapster, averted his eyes from Nettie's generously displayed bosom and the remaining drinkers, and carried Matthias back to the cottage behind the carpenter's shop.

Matthias woke in the darkness. His mouth tasted vile and his head throbbed like a huge gong. Groggily, he raised himself on one elbow and groaned. "Damn! I knew there was good reason for sobriety."

Light dawned in the room. Matthias moved cautiously, noting that someone had removed his boots and covered him with a blanket. "Henry," he said. It was not a question. For a man who never drank alcohol, Henry was a frequent visitor to the George. Matthias had seen him there often, but had never before had personal need of his attentions.

"You'll 'ave a head on you," said Henry. "Drink this." He loomed over the bed, proffering a mug.

"What is it?" asked Matthias suspiciously.

"This an' that. Drink up." Without waiting for a reply, Henry tilted the mug against Matthias's mouth. Matthias had seen Henry administering his potions before, and had always considered it amusing. Now, being on the receiving end, he conceived some belated sympathy for Henry's other victims. The stuff in the mug was so noxious he gagged and spluttered as it went down, coughing until the tears stood in his eyes and his head felt fit to burst.

"You'll do," said Henry, thumping the mug on the table and seating himself impassively by the fire.

Matthias gritted his teeth, but after a few minutes he raised his head once more, very cautiously. It did not quite come off.

Henry grunted. "Not like you to pull one on, Matt, lad."

"No," said Matthias ruefully, "But then I do not have my matrimonial hopes blighted every day." He brooded for a while. "Damn it, it's not right."

"Women," said Henry darkly.

"I do not blame Miss Snow--her father holds the reins and calls the tune."

"You'd best come to the diggin's with me," said Henry. "You'll run to ruin if I leave you behind."

Matthias peered at him in surprise. "You know, Henry, that seems a rather attractive notion," he said. "Yes indeed it does."

"Better get packin'," said Henry. "I leave Thursd'y, ready or not." He heaved himself out of the chair, nodded at Matthias and went away.

Slowly, Matthias lay back and closed his eyes. He would be mad to leave town now. He had a good living, an unencumbered cottage, the respect of the townsfolk and ... and nothing. No wife, no woman and, as the saying went, neither chick nor child. So why not be mad? If he had no luck at mining he could at least ply his carpentry trade at the diggings and perhaps after all he would strike it lucky. A good nugget or two would line his pockets nicely--and wouldn't old Eben Snow be spitting if Matthias Gilchrist came back to town a wealthy man?

*

SYDNEY, OCTOBER 2001

"Settled on what to do with your flat yet?" asked Tara Owens.

They were supposed to be having an editorial conference, so Abigail frowned and tapped her desk with a fingernail, drawing Tara's attention back to the piece of queried copy. "We need another Rags-to-Riches like we need a hole in the head," she said bluntly. "Kill it."

Tara sighed, and focussed obediently on business. "Market ran a poll -" she began, then caught Abigail's jaundiced eye and paused. "Okay, okay. So we're not Market."

"And our readers are not Market readers," said Abigail. "Our readers are ..."

"Women of today!" quoted Tara.

Abigail had the grace to look amused. "Dreadful tag, isn't it? We need a new one. That old today line's as stale as--as -"

"Yesterday?"

"Last century." She smiled. "Run it past the others if you get a chance--see if we can come up with something better."

Generally speaking, it wasn't the Assistant Features Editor's job to come up with advertising lines or cover teasers, but Abigail Reed never stood on ceremony about things like that. If the newest subbie had a good idea it would be discussed with as much attention as if it had come from the bright young stars in Advertising and Marketing. And 'young' was the key word. Everyone in Aurora editorial, advertising and design was young, and perhaps that was the secret of its success. The young might lack practical experience and market savvy, but they had enthusiasm in spades. Abigail reckoned you could always hone grammar and build experience, but enthusiasm was irreplaceable. It had to come from the heart, or be forever absent. But no, not from the heart. That was too emotional. It didn't come from the brain either. It had to come from the guts.

Abigail was twenty-six, and when she looked at Tara and the other heads and assistant heads of departments, she felt middle-aged. "Kill it," she said again, tapping the copy with her ball-point. One of her quirks was that, although she composed on a keyboard and VDU like anyone else, she always liked to edit on hard copy and a ball-point was never far from her hand. Sometimes she tucked one behind her ear, where it nestled confidingly, giving her a quaintly old-fashioned air.

And there was something old fashioned about Abigail Reed, thought Tara, despite her modern clothes and hairstyle. That calm, wide brow with the widow's peak, the soft eyes and full-lipped mouth wouldn't have looked out of place in an old master. The face of a Madonna, or a doe-eyed serving maid--Abigail's sweet face had lured many into misjudging her, but, as they had found at their cost, she was anything but soft. Tough but fair, warm-hearted but forever practical; that was Abigail Reed. Perhaps that was why it had taken her so long to fall in love.

"Not only are we up to here in rags-to-riches," continued Abigail, "But I have my suspicions that this particular kid's rags were made by Skins a few weeks back and priced in the three figure range. As for going hungry ..." She sniffed. "I remember ..."

The silence was brief, but Tara looked up. "What?"

Abigail shook her head. "Nothing." She pushed the copy away and stretched, rolling her head to relieve the tension in her neck. "Lord, I'm bushed. Let's call it a day."

"Yes, let's," said Tara with relief.

"Trouble?" asked Abigail abruptly. "Am I on Zac's hit-list for keeping you after hours?"

"No."

The terse answer was a surprise. Tara was usually only too happy to talk about Zachary Reed. "Trouble in Paradise?"

"Well -" Tara bit her lip. "I know he's your brother and all ..."

Strictly speaking, Zac was Abigail's cousin, not her brother, but she let it stand. After all, they'd been brought up together and she always thought of him with fraternal affection. And often with fraternal exasperation, too. "What's he done?" she asked. "Forgotten your six-month anniversary? Hold his head under the cold tap."

"Nothing like that," said Tara. "Oh--if you must know, we've broken up."

Abigail pulled a face. "So the paint and turpentine finally got to you, too! I'm not surprised. God, you couldn't hire me to live with all that again. Eight years of brush marks and stinking rags was enough."

"It wasn't that. The paint's just part of Zac. If you took away his painting he wouldn't be Zac."

"You wanted some space?"

"It's not that either."

"If you want to play Twenty Questions," said Abigail, not unkindly, "I'm out of here. I'm bushed."

"I love Zac. I really do," said Tara. "Only--I've always wanted to have kids, and ..."

She paused so long that Abigail raised her brows. "And?"

"And what if they turned out like him?" blurted Tara.

"Messy? Obsessed? Wedded to frayed cut-offs and the unshaven look? Soaked in vermilion and sepia?" suggested Abigail. "I shouldn't worry, Tara. It takes years of dedication to get like that and with your influence the kids'd never get obsessive."

"You know what I mean. Look, Abigail--Zac manages really well. You'd never think to look at him he was -"

"What?" said Abigail a bit grimly. "Disabled? Diseased?"

"You know I don't mean that! I mean ... well he had a turn last week. He passed out. I panicked and rang the hospital ... he was so angry!"

"You didn't try getting some honey or sugar syrup down his throat?"

"I just lost my bottle and panicked," said Tara miserably.

"One bad hypo in six months isn't bad," said Abigail. "Some diabetics go off all the time. Zac's condition's well-controlled and he leads a perfectly normal life." She pulled a wry face. "In fact--he's probably in better shape than you or I, since he works out and never eats junk food."

"I know!" groaned Tara. "But I just couldn't cope, Abigail. It's bad enough having to watch out for Zac without having to worry about any kids we might have had. Better to bail out now, before I get in too deep. So I have."

Abigail's spirits sank, but she said briskly; "Why worry now? You've got years before you need to make a decision about children. You're only twenty-four and they're making great strides in treatments all the time." Her voice sounded hollow even to her; the medical world had been promising imminent breakthroughs for a decade, but to date nothing much had changed. Or not on the Australian scene.

"I know," said Tara. "But it's over. We've broken up and that's that." She shook her head and changed the subject deliberately. "How are things with you? Pre-wedding jitters set in yet?"

"Hardly," said Abigail. "What's there to jitter about? I've known John forever. Would you believe I used to go round and baby sit for him and Fiona?"

Tara stared.

"I did," said Abigail. "I was about eighteen, their son Joshua was--let's see--two?"

"Was that why ..."

"No, Tara, that wasn't why John and Fiona broke up. Everything was rosy when I left for college, and by the time I came back, it was all over bar the shouting." She smiled reminiscently. "I ran into John again at the zoo, of all places. I was hunting lions--(it was my photo-journo phase)--and he was doing his Saturday duty by Josh. And a proper mess he was making of it too!"

"So you helped out," said Tara.

"Well -" Abigail shrugged. "I always was a soft touch."

"Is that why you got engaged?"

"No," said Abigail, a little shortly. "You worry about your own backyard!"

"Zac." Tara twisted her fingers together. "Now you've made me feel awful, but I still think it was the only thing I could have done."

Abigail patted her shoulder and turned off her VDU. "Then maybe you were right."

"Have you got time for a coffee?" asked Tara.

"Sorry, John's coming over for dinner," said Abigail.

"Of course. I wasn't thinking." Tara smiled briefly and left the office, the rejected copy under her arm.

Abigail began putting her desk in order, noticing with some annoyance that Tara had left her swipe card behind. Again. She was tired, and it was a temptation to leave things as they were, but she knew the psychological boost of arriving in the morning to clear decks. She covered her computer, stacked her papers edge to edge, shelved the fashion pics she'd been examining. They had no flair and wouldn't do. She sucked her lip, half-tempted to take up her Vermeer again. But photo-processing had moved on since her day and now it was all computers.

"Hark at me!" she said aloud. ""Since my day'" indeed! Age is catching up with you, Abbie Reed! Next thing, you'll be tinting your hair and mourning for the good old days."

She checked her appointments and finally, just before leaving the office, completed her ritual by tearing off a leaf of the daily calendar and dropping it in the recycling bin.

Tuesday. She didn't like Tuesdays. And there was another one safely gone, ticked off, torn up and out of sight in the bin. Another Tuesday when disaster hadn't come. Unless she counted the news about Tara and Zac.

She supposed it was wasteful to have a daily calendar, but it gave her some satisfaction to close off each working day--some satisfaction and some regret, for a day completed, for all its satisfactions, was a day she could never have over again. It was like emptying the trash folder in her computer--here then, gone now, and nothing left to show for it.

She wondered what she'd do if she could have the day over again... would she be kinder to Tara and offer good advice? Nonsense! Tara was an adult with the right and responsibility to make her own choices in life. The fact that Tara's choices had directly affected Zac Reed should not, could not, give Abigail any right to lay out advice.

Zac neither wanted nor needed pity from any woman, and, fond as Abigail was of Tara Owens, she had to acknowledge that Zac would probably be better off without her. The last thing Zac needed was a partner who would spend her days watching and worrying over him. Zac was a free spirit, and would only be truly happy with another of the same kind. If he could find one.

Picking up the daily minutiae of paper clips, scribbled notes, bits of lint and dry ball-points, Abigail amused herself by designing the perfect woman for Zac. Another artist, she thought. Not a painter, but a sculptor--or a designer, or even a musician. A photographer, perhaps? Someone strong and self-sufficient, anyway, who would feel free to head off for six months' study in Paris or New York without asking permission, and who would expect Zac to feel free to do the same. They'd meet for a weekend in Lisbon or Saudi Arabia, and leave casually affectionate messages on one another's answering services. They'd attend one another's exhibitions or recitals, or not, as the fancy and work commitments allowed. No strings, no ties, no obligations except that of honesty. Zac was very hot on honesty, she remembered. It had been Zac who had told her the truth about her father's death ... a gawky teenaged Zac with an uncertain voice and a crop of spots such as she'd never seen before nor since. She'd flung herself at him and punched him as hard as she could, then cried all over his grubby shirt. It had been one of the worst days of her life, but strangely enough, when she'd cried herself out, she'd been more annoyed with Aunt Karen and Uncle Michael and their conspiracy of silence than with Zac.

Poor Zac, she thought. There'd been a fearful row when her aunt and uncle had learnt what their son had done. And Zac--all of thirteen years old, leggy, gangling, his Adams apple already pronounced, his brown eyes blazing with conviction, had stood up and defended his actions. "People talk all the time!" he'd said. "She'd have heard it sometime, and a whole lot of other bull as well. Now she knows the truth, so she won't go round thinking the worst."

Uncle Michael had been hurt and furious. Abigail's father had been his only brother, and he'd always seemed to feel that it reflected badly on him that Pete Reed had drunk himself into such a state after his wife's death.

"If I'd only had him come back to town," he'd said repeatedly after the funeral. But even at ten Abigail had known her father would not have gone back to the city. Nugget Creek had been his home since his marriage and Nugget Creek was his home until the day of his death ... and even in death Pete had been eccentric, for his dilapidated utility truck had run off the road between the pub and his home sometime in the middle of the night and there had been no certain way of telling whether he had died late on Tuesday or early on Wednesday.

New Year's Eve--what a time to die! Abigail had always suspected he had gone on the last day of the old year, but the police had leaned more to the notion that he had celebrated too well and died on New Year's morning. It was odd, and Uncle Michael had played it safe on the plaque by leaning to the police viewpoint. One of these days Abigail might have that plaque changed. (Could one change a plaque? She'd have to find out.)

"God, I'm getting morbid!" said Abigail. "From Tara to Zac to the good old days to Uncle Michael to Dad--and all because it's Tuesday!" She picked up her swipe card--and Tara's--and let herself out of the office. Her bag was already bulging with pieces of embossed plastic, but there seemed no way of escaping the things. Medicare card, credit card, library card, driver's licence, petrol card, Flag card, and now two swipe cards ... She wondered vaguely whether her marriage certificate would be in the shape of yet another piece of plastic, then put the thought away. Marriage was still the traditional option, and tradition had nothing to do with plastic.

The office was in Chatswood, so Abigail took the train down to Jacaranda Bay. Her flat was a few minutes' walk from the station, which meant she could avoid the rush hour traffic every day. She stopped at the Chinese greengrocer and bought green snow peas, tiny new carrots and courgettes, then a bottle of tonic and another of cider. It was no use buying wine--John would bring that. He would bring her roses, too.

Abigail smiled at the thought, but her feet were aching and at the back of her mind was a small, niggling thought that she'd be just as pleased if John weren't coming tonight. If she were spending the evening alone, she could slum it with a glass of cider, a microwaved pizza and green salad. Instead, she was faced with blanching snow peas, dicing carrots and steaming courgettes. It would have been nice if John had suggested taking her out for once, but he always preferred a home-cooked meal. As an executive of Dutton/Mayne he ate in that department store's eponymous restaurant most days. A far cry from Abigail's habit of eating a sandwich or a tub of yogurt on the job.

"It's our generation gap yawning again, Abigail," he said sometimes with his endearing lazy smile. He said the same thing when their taste in music differed, and when they disagreed about Joshua's new earring.

"Just be glad it isn't in his eyebrow," Abigail had advised and John had closed his eyes as if in pain.

Wearily, she climbed the steep, uneven steps and let herself into the flat. It was a tiny place, with scarcely room to throw a cat, let alone a party, but Abigail loved it. Kicking off her shoes she flexed her toes on the cool polished floor then padded across to dump the vegetables in the sink. Through the window she could see the roofscape of Sydney 2000, the Sydney Tower, a piece of the Harbour Bridge--the top of the giant Moreton Bay fig tree that grew down by the wharf. The ferries plied back and forth like water-beetles, and the white wakes widened and faded into the green of the deep water. Copies of the same view, colored with dawn, with high summer, with sunset and with the moon, hung stepped down one wall. Her own work, taken two years before and almost the last serious photography she had done. Before Aurora.

Abigail poured herself a glass of tonic and began to prepare the vegetables. The barramundi she had bought at the market was ready to grill and she was about to shower and change when she saw the message light on her answering machine winking balefully.

Tara, she thought. Tara had discovered the loss of her swipe card and was dithering about it already. Or else Aunt Karen had called. It was unlikely to be anyone else, because few people had access to her private number. John, of course, Josh, from necessity. John's ex-wife Fiona, her aunt and uncle, her cousin Zac, Tara and a handful of other close friends. Business acquaintances and colleagues always called her on her mobile or at the office, so it couldn't be one of them.

Sighing deeply, she pushed the play button on the answering machine, but the resulting voice belonged to neither Tara nor her aunt. It was John.

Pleasure at hearing his voice was damped down immediately as she took in what he was saying. He was sorry, but something had come up ... he'd call her later when he got home, and, if it wasn't too late, he'd be over for a night-cap.

"Darn it!" said Abigail aloud. Crossly, she rewound the tape and stalked off to have her shower. He could have called her at the office ... then she'd have had a chance to ...

To do what, exactly? To have that coffee with Tara? To go window shopping? To call Zac and go to a rock concert? To take a ferry over to Circular Quay? To check out the preparations (now almost completed) for the up-coming Sydney Olympics?

Pulling a face, Abigail admitted to herself that she'd have done none of it, even if John had called the office. She might have stayed on at work a while longer, but more than likely she'd have done exactly what she had done anyway; shopped at the greengrocer and come back to spend a quiet evening at the flat. No wine, no roses; she might as well be married already.

The sun had set and the lights were coming up over the city. It was never dark in Sydney and never quiet. The city hummed and twinkled and throbbed with life from midnight until midnight. There was always something to see, always the scurry and shout of humanity.

Abigail sat down at the uncurtained window and watched the bright jewels of light winking on the bridge.

Three more weeks and she'd be married. Three more weeks of watching the lights of the city from her eyrie. Her lease ran out in six months' time, which meant she could leave the final packing up until after they got back from their honeymoon and then sublet for the remainder of the period. She wished they could keep the flat, but it would have been extravagant. John had a house in Windhill, big enough to accommodate all Abigail's belongings without a blink. Her flat, on the other hand, wouldn't have taken a quarter of John's.

There was no point at all in keeping up two dwellings, and Abigail liked John's place a lot. It had a charming air of permanence, while her flat had an aura of transience. It was the pied-a-terre of a young single professional, whereas the house in Windhill was a foursquare family home.

Abigail winced at that unbidden thought. They'd discussed having a family, of course. During the twelve months of their engagement and the three years of deepening friendship before that, they'd discussed most things. John had been in there rooting for her when she'd applied for the editorship of Aurora, he'd encouraged her in everything she did. They'd argued in a friendly way about art and music, drama and politics, they'd sat in silence and watched the lights spring out across the city. They'd seen midnights come and go and woken now and then in the same bed. Yes, Abigail knew that her marriage to John wouldn't hold any unpleasant surprises. In fact, it wouldn't hold any surprises at all.

The constants of friendship and companionship would be there, the pleasures of shared attraction. Visits from young Josh, occasional phone-calls from Fiona when she needed financial or practical advice--John had managed to keep a cool but friendly relationship with his ex-wife which spoke volumes for his diplomacy. Occasionally he and Abigail had even had dinner at Fiona's place. Abigail had felt the strangest sense of deja vu, as if she had been eighteen again. At the end of the evening it had seemed strange to rise and leave with John, and she could tell from Fiona's and young Josh's expressions that they were finding it strange as well. So was John--the deprecating, half-embarrassed smile with which he had pecked Fiona on the cheek had been ample evidence of that.

Oh, they were very civilised, John and Fiona, and Abigail knew quite well she had had no hand in their break up. It still seemed odd, though--she wondered if she would ever be able to think of John as her husband rather than Fiona's ex. One thing she always tried to remember was that however ex Fiona might be, Josh must never be lumped in the same boat.

As for children of their own--that would be bound to complicate an already complicated situation. John was quite willing to wait a while until she felt ready for a baby, but Abigail had the uneasy feeling she never would. She could put off the decision for seven or eight years at the most--after that, she would be foolish to prevaricate any more. She thought of her friend Monica, who had left it until the age of thirty-eight to try for her first baby. Monica was forty-two now and hope was fading rapidly.

"If only we'd tried sooner," Monica was wont to mourn. "I might have been more fertile, and there would have been time." Time for treatments, time for adoption ... Monica and her husband had their names down on the list, but Vinnie was over fifty already. By the time they reached the head of the list they would most probably be too old to qualify for a child.

Abigail shook her head crossly. She had kids on the brain, thanks to Monica and Tara. She'd put it out of her mind now; after all she had at least five years and they weren't even married yet.

She left the window and showered, slipping into a silky robe and letting her hair down around her shoulders. She considered the bottle of cider but shook her head. Drinking alone was a fool's game, and why should she be foolish? She had everything going for her, careerwise and personally--her life was on track.

Leaving the barramundi for tomorrow (although it would have been better eaten fresh) she cooked a pot of pasta and ate it in her big armchair by the window. Then she turned the light down and curled comfortably, resting against the upholstery. The chair was so old it never creaked, and the leather was gently crazed like the cheeks of an old woman. The arms, curving in the nineteenth century tradition, had unexpected carvings underneath. As always, Abigail let her fingers drift down to touch the curls and grooves, wondering about the master craftsman who had made them. How had he done it, and, more importantly, why? In the normal way of things the carvings were invisible, and it was only when the chair was turned over onto its side that they could be seen.

Each arm bore some initials--she thought they were an A and an M, but they were so intertwined it was impossible to be sure.

Abigail stroked the silky finish of the wood and laid her cheek against the leather. She had loved her chair devotedly ever since finding it at an auction, and she knew just where it was to sit in John's house. Their house. John liked it too, and fortunately it was big enough for two to share. She was less sure about the placing of the group of photographs, or of her eccentric collection of old photography equipment. An ancient enlarger, some photographic plates, early box-shaped cameras. Collected for next to nothing at auctions and junk shops, patiently cleaned and shined and now occupying a corner of her flat.

Three more weeks ... Secure in the embrace of the soft old leather, Abigail relaxed into sleep.

John Dutton found her there, curled in the old chair, when he arrived at the flat. It was after ten o'clock, and he had let himself in so as not to disturb her, but he had never expected her to be asleep. Surely she could have made some effort to stay awake tonight?

John caught himself on the edge of being aggrieved and pulled a wry face. His age was showing, again. Intellectually, he knew perfectly well he had no right to expect Abigail to organize her life around his needs and desires, but subconsciously it seemed he still subscribed to the Head of the Household mentality of his father's generation.

Moving softly, he laid some roses on the kitchen counter. He considered going home and leaving them there as a mute testimony to his visit, but decided it would be petty. To take the roses and go home would be equally petty, so the only real choice was between sitting down and waiting for Abigail to wake and waking her himself.

He braced one hand on each arm of the ridiculously large leather armchair and bent to plant a soft kiss on Abigail's nose. She twitched and opened her eyes, looking vaguely up at him for a moment before smiling sleepily. "John! How nice ... what time is it?"

"Just after ten," he said, and added, with a touch of reproach, "Not so very late?"

"Not at all." Abigail yawned and stretched like a cat.

John's gaze took in the seductively draped robe and his smile deepened. He bent closer, ducking his head to kiss the rounding at the top of her breast. Abigail shook her head at him, drawing the robe closer. "Not tonight, Josephine," she said.

He backed up and she rose from the chair and stretched again. "Must've been more whacked than I thought," she said, half in apology. "And besides, I wasn't sure you'd be coming." She turned up the light and smiled at him brightly. "How did it go?"

"It...?"

"Whatever it was that kept you from my arms!"

"It was okay," he said. He had never been less than open with her before, but tonight there was a brittleness in her smile and in her voice. He turned away and walked over to the counter. "Roses," he mentioned. "The traditional peace offering, I believe?"

"Lovely," said Abigail. "Will you put them in a jug?"

John jammed the flowers in a milk jug then switched on the kettle.

"Thought you wanted a night-cap?" said Abigail quizzically.

"Coffee seems a better choice--unless you can offer me a bed for the night?"

"Any time," said Abigail, but her eyes were cool.

"You could come home with me ...?"

"I don't think so, John. Oh dear," she said with genuine contrition. "It sounds as if I'm being awkward for the sake of it! I'm not, you know--it's just--I'll be leaving this place soon enough and I want to say goodbye to it in my own way. I've been happy here and there're only three weeks left."

"Three weeks and the rest of our lives."

Abigail came over and put her arms around him, resting her cheek on his gray-suited shoulder. "What a contrast," she said in a lighter voice.

"Between you and me?"

"Our apparel. You look fit for a board-meeting while I--"

"Look fit for a bordello." John leered and loosened his tie suggestively. "Pity to waste it."

Abigail distanced him with two hands against his chest. "John, what you said just now--three weeks and the rest of our lives--"

"What about it?"

"I was wondering if you ever said that to Fiona. Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry--I know it's an unfair thing to ask, but I can't help wondering." She shrugged. "Second wife syndrome, I guess. I start thinking, great, you know where it went wrong the first time, so you'll profit from experience. Then I think--it was fine between you and Fiona for years, then suddenly it fell apart. What if it happened again, with you and me?"

"It wasn't fine between Fiona and me."

"But you always seemed so happy."

""Seemed'", yes. We never actually threw things, you know. We just drifted. It was like living in the desert. You don't miss the green grass because you've never had it. Then one day you see a patch of flowers ..." He smiled.

"What patch of flowers did you see?" asked Abigail. "An old couple holding hands in the sunset?"

John put his hands on her shoulders. "Do you really have to ask me that?"

He watched the blood surging up in her cheeks, and the shock in her eyes. "Did you really not know?" he asked. "I always thought you did."

"I really didn't know. I--God, it was only today I was assuring Tara I'd had nothing to do with your break up with Fiona!"

"You've no need to blame yourself."

"I don't," she said quickly.

"I didn't set out to find you attractive," said John. "In fact--I hardly noticed you at first."

"Thanks!"

"It was only after you'd gone off to college I realized I missed seeing you around. I missed the talks we used to have while Fifi got ready to go out. And then when you came home for a week I--it was like a kick in the stomach." He shrugged, and smiled crookedly. "Well?"

"I feel as if I've been kicked in the stomach," said Abigail restlessly. "I had no idea."

"It doesn't make any difference now," said John.

"I'm not so sure about that." Abigail faced him squarely. "You were perfectly contented with Fiona before you started noticing me. What's to stop you noticing someone else once you're married to me? If anything, it would be more likely with me. Fiona devoted herself to being a wife and mother twenty-four hours a day. I can't do that. I can't submerge myself in your identity and I wouldn't if I could."

John winced. "What can I say?"

"The truth."

"The truth is, I was never content with Fiona. She was always cold, critical--and dependent. An odd mixture, now I come to think of it. I would have stayed with her if she'd ever looked on me as anything more than a breadwinner and advice bureau."

"So it was her fault."

"It was our fault," said John. "Hers and mine. The John and Fiona unit. The John and Abigail unit is a different entity and, to my mind, it has a lot more potential."

"You're right, of course." Abigail smiled. "I wasn't thinking it through. The kettle's boiling and the cut-out's gone again."

John switched off the kettle then stood uncertainly.

"I can't believe we've never discussed this before," said Abigail.

John looked at her warily. She didn't seem upset, merely rather stunned. "Well, now you know," he said finally. "I thought you knew before--I haven't consciously kept it from you."

"I know." Abigail made the coffee and handed him his. "It's only instant, I'm afraid. Come and sit down." She led the way to her big chair and hesitated. "Better not share, or we'll get coffee all over us."

John sat down opposite, gazing out the window. "I can see why you love this place," he said. "I can see why you don't want to leave it."

"I've been happy here. But you can't live forever looking over your shoulder, can you? You've got to move on."

"Right."

"The thing is, you collect a lot of luggage along the way."

"You're one piece of luggage I dearly want to keep," said John. "But you know I can't let the past go entirely. There's Josh."

"Lord yes! I'd think less of you if you did let it go! Oh--hang the coffee. Come over here." Abigail moved over and patted the expanse of leather beside her. "How is Josh--any news on that computer competition yet? You must be so proud of him."

Relief washed over John and he moved across, putting his arm round her. "He made it through the finals and now he's off to Japan with Fiona for a month." He grinned. "The rules state a parent or guardian must accompany the student, so it looks like they'll both miss the wedding."

Abigail could scarcely hide the relief in her face.

"Terribly sad, isn't it?" said John, mocking her gently. "Never mind, we'll have Josh to stay afterwards--like in about six months!"

Abigail dug her elbow in his ribs. "Before that, I think."

"Yes?" he said more seriously. "So--are you all set for the twenty-first, Ms Reed?"

"All set, Mr Dutton," said Abigail, and rested her head on his shoulder.

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