Jane Austen’s Mr Darcy, she bit her tongue. If he kept on like that, Rebecca decided she was ready to be truly rude. Surely such an excessive display of wealth was distasteful. Some may even find offence in what they had done to the old McDowell property. Marty McDowell would be rolling in his grave, she concluded. He had been a humble farmer and after his wife died and his boys refused to take on the farm, he’d mostly kept to himself. In truth, he had been a stingy old Scotsman who ran wormy cattle, but Bec preferred to side with the memory of him tonight ahead of this dark, stinking-rich stranger, who was now driving his brand-new vehicle into a new-made-to-look-old expansive three-car garage that already contained a Prado and a pristine blue Colorado ‘farm’ ute.
‘Follow me,’ he said with his chocolate voice. She was starting to feel as though Antonio Banderas had taken her prisoner.
‘I’d prefer to wait here.’
‘And I’d prefer you to come,’ he said impatiently, as if addressing a wearisome child.
Rebecca raised an eyebrow and mouthed ‘OK’ as she got out of the car and tottered in her heels, following Sol to the back door. She found herself in a freshly tiled ‘mudroom’, into which not a skerrick of mud had found its way.
As Sol swung open the kitchen door, Yazzie looked up in surprise from where she stood in a magnificently renovated kitchen in her peacock-blue silk robe, clutching a mug and distractedly flicking through a magazine at an island bench that was large enough to be one of the Maldives. Somewhere in the house Rebecca could hear dogs barking excitedly, clearly overjoyed to know their master had come home. There was a moment of confusion when Yazzie saw Rebecca, but then her expression turned to joy when she saw Sol.
‘Rebecca? Sol! Oh! Thank god you’re here,’ she said, rushing forwards to give him a kiss and hold him at arm’s length, surveying him. ‘I imagined the plane went down! Where have you been? I left the lights on for you.’ Then she looked at Rebecca, puzzlement and concern on her face. ‘And what happened to you?’
‘I could see that you had illuminated the entire district, and the plane was just delayed,’ said Sol. ‘Then I found this one on the side of the road broken down.’ He looked at Rebecca as if she was roadkill.
‘So you had to endure Mr Cranky Pants, did you? He’s terrible when he’s tired,’ Yazzie said, looking at Bec with a glint in her eye.
‘I’m very grateful he came along. I would’ve been very stuck.’
‘How could you be very stuck? You are either stuck or you are not stuck,’ he said pompously.
‘Yes, well, now you’re stuck here,’ Yazzie said to Bec, taking her by the arm. ‘I’m not letting you go before you’ve had a hot chocolate,’ Yazzie insisted, ‘with a dash of something stronger to warm your cockles, you poor thing.’ She smiled and winked, obviously pleased she had company.
Bec shook her head. ‘No, thanks, really. I’d rather be getting home.’
‘Well, I want a drink. It’s been a long journey,’ Sol said bluntly.
Rebecca looked at him in surprise. Maybe all exceedingly rich people were this rude? She shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose I’ll have one too then,’ Bec said.
‘Great,’ said Yazzie, clapping her hands and teasingly tugging on Sol’s coat. ‘I see you’re still an old grump.’
As Yazzie extracted all kinds of café noises from the giant designer coffee machine in heating the milk for the cocoa, Rebecca thought she better at least make polite conversation with the grim but incredible-looking man before her. Before she could open her mouth, though, he was muttering something about getting his bags from the car and saying hello to the dogs and was gone.
‘Sorry about him,’ Yazzie said, digging out a container of marshmallows before generously splashing Irish whiskey into the cups. ‘He’s jetlagged. And licking his wounds from missing out on a big gig.’
‘Gig?’
‘With the Orchestra of Paris. He’s a piccolo player.’
Rebecca almost burst out laughing. ‘Piccolo? You mean one of those tiny little flutes?’ She remembered the sight of his large man’s hands gripping the steering wheel. His long strong fingers looked as if they’d more easily hold a rugby ball than a dainty little silver instrument. She internally giggled at the thought of him playing his tin whistle.
‘Here,’ said Yazzie, handing Rebecca the mug. ‘Follow me! Come and see my new toy!’
Rebecca wasn’t sure if Yazzie was drunk from the expensive champagne she’d brought to Doreen’s party earlier or if she was always this bubbly, but as she followed her down a wide passageway that was freshly painted and carpeted in classy cream, Bec suddenly didn’t care. Yazzie seemed so nice. Like a breath of fresh air.
They made their way through what Rebecca thought must be Sol and Yazzie’s bedroom, where a gigantic four-poster bed was spread with a gold-and-black quilt. Next she found herself standing in a huge bathroom with the heat lamps blazing.
‘Ta-da!’ said Yazzie, holding up what looked like a panel beater’s spray gun. ‘My new spray-tanning machine!’
Rebecca looked blankly at her, wondering if she should mirror her excitement. Was this woman serious?
‘C’mon, strip off,’ Yazzie said.
‘Me?’
‘Yep. I’ll show you how to do it. Then you can have a go with me. I’ve had them done in the salons enough, so we’ll be right. I kind of know what to do.’
‘I’m not —’
‘C’mon!’
‘But —’
‘C’mon. It’ll be a hoot.’
‘Are you completely pissed off your head?’
‘No … I just love having a bit of fun. This will be fun. Come on, Rebecca! Don’t think I don’t see it.’ Yazzie narrowed her eyes and suddenly pinched her arm.
‘Ouch! See what?’
‘That you are a can-do jillaroo. You’ve forgotten that, haven’t you? You’re stuck in a rut, sister.’
Rebecca’s eyes widened as she stared at Yazzie.
‘I only see it because I’ve been there too.’
‘You’re too young … to —’ Rebecca began.
‘Too young! What are you talking about? We’re practically the same age!’
Rebecca caught a glimpse of them both in the mirror. They shared the wayward look that came from a night on the grog, but, standing there under the bright dazzle of the heat lamps, Rebecca looked like a beat-up ute parked next to the Porsche-like Yazzie.
‘They say never judge a book by its cover …’ Yazzie said, following her gaze. ‘But we all do. Look, a good friend of mine — Evie; you’d love her, by the way — once said, “If you wake up and do the same things every day and think the same things every day, you’ll get the same results. But if you change how you think and what you do each day, then life will change!” So come on, Rebecca, live a little!’
Live a little? Rebecca wondered. By having a spray tan? Was this little rich girl nuts? She pictured Charlie back home in bed, snoring his head off. Scratching his nuts. Gut rumbling with his belly full of beer and deep-fried food, brewing farts for the morning. But then maybe it was her view of him that was the trouble? Maybe if she did change how she thought of him and of herself, life could get better?
‘OK. I’m up for it. I’m living a little,’ Rebecca said as she began to peel off her clothes. She looked down to her rather daggy black underpants and the hair that curled out from under the elastic. With the Baileys Irish Cream warming her up, she said dryly, ‘Cripes, my George W could do with some attention. It’s like a bloody national park