Lindsay Armstrong - An Unsuitable Wife

She took a breath then said with all the hauteur she could muster, ‘That could be a matter of opinion too—speaking purely academically.’

He was unmoved. ‘So it could. Speaking generally as well, but not in this case.’

She couldn’t help the slightly crestfallen look that came to her eyes but if he noted it he made no comment as he put the chips in the hot oil.

And all she could think of to say was, ‘I see.’ But then she leant her chin on her hands thoughtfully, looking genuinely puzzled, and said, ‘If I were to assure you I had no designs on you at all—which shouldn’t be that hard to believe after the way I carried on a few days ago—could we continue this discussion on an academic level?’

An unwilling smile twisted his lips and he murmured, ‘The mind boggles but I have no doubt you’re going to pursue it to the death so I guess I have little choice. What is it you’d like to know, Miss Hill?’

She tried to marshal her thoughts into order as her father had always trained her to do when confronting a scientific problem and said at last, ‘Well. If as you said I’m not quite the rather ordinary, plain person I took myself for, does it mean you have a preference for tall, statuesque brunettes?’

‘Not necessarily. It merely means, and you should understand this, Sid—’ he glinted a blue glance at her ‘—that there has to be a certain kind of chemistry between a man and a woman that’s a subtle, mysterious thing and is the reason why a man will fall in love with one girl and not ten others who may be equally as beautiful if not more so. And vice versa.’ He laid the fillets of sweetlip carefully into the pan.

Sidonie grimaced. Then she said carefully, ‘Point taken. On the other hand it crossed my mind to wonder if there wasn’t more to it in your case. And by that I mean, on the scale of averages, most men of your age are either married or have been married.’

‘True,’ he conceded, quite unperturbed. ‘But I can assure you that I’m perfectly normal.’

Sidonie’s lips parted and her eyes widened. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that ,’ she said flusteredly. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of some deep unhappiness associated with falling in love that had come your way.’

‘Sidonie...’ he stopped what he was doing to look levelly across at her ‘... that is the kind of daydream impressionable sixteen-year-old girls are notorious for indulging in.’

A wave of colour stained her cheeks as their gazes held and for one horrifying moment she wondered if he was right. Then her natural obstinacy reasserted itself, although obliquely, and she shrugged her slim shoulders gently and said wryly, ‘Oh, well, I’ve told you all about me, I thought you might like to tell me a bit about you, that’s all. But naturally I’ll respect your wish for privacy. Would you like me to do the salad?’

For a moment he returned her innocent gaze then he muttered inaudibly beneath his breath and said, ‘No. Come and watch the fish and observe the temperature I’m cooking the chips at, but promise me one thing—you won’t ever attempt to cook chips on your own. That way you could burn the boat down.’

The fish was delicious but dinner was a slightly strained affair until Sidonie said, ‘I’m sorry, Mike.’

He lifted an eyebrow at her and looked sceptical.

‘No, I am. Could I explain to you what really made me so maddeningly inquisitive?’

He sighed. ‘Do you have to?’

‘I think so. I don’t like to think we’re not friends now so I’ve turned it all over in my mind and decided it’s probably only human nature of the feminine variety to feel a bit piqued when you receive a compliment such as you gave me but nevertheless delivered in such a completely disinterested as well as uninterested way.’

‘I see,’ he said gravely.

‘But my ego has recovered, I—’

‘Do assure me,’ he broke in solemnly but she could see the glint of laughter in his eyes.

‘Yes.’ And she smiled wonderfully at him with both relief and gratitude in her eyes. ‘Can we be friends again?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

They remained friends for about a day and a half but it was a growing cause of concern for Sidonie that, while what she’d told him about feeling piqued was undoubtedly true, what she’d told him about her ego being recovered was not. Added to this she became more and more curious about him and vaguely aware that there was a lot to Mike Brennan that absolutely intrigued her and reinforced her feeling that there might be some mystery about him too. Because, although he was mostly an easy person to live with, there were times when she got the feeling that he withdrew totally. And there were times when she watched him handle the boat or the sails and knew not only that he was a master mariner but kept feeling there had to be more to him... Why? she wondered several times. And answered herself, Well, perhaps it is because he’s such a master mariner yet it’s in a very educated way; he’s so scientific about the weather and navigation and a lot of other things—maybe he was in the navy once? Then one afternoon she saw him watch a plane fly over them towards Hamilton Island, and got the strangest feeling he knew all about it too.

So it was safe to say she became quite puzzled and concerned, and finally in a way that hit her rather like a sledgehammer despite making him even angrier, if anything, than he’d been over her failed dinner.

IT STARTED out a beautiful day and they had a glorious sail and then about mid-afternoon dropped anchor for the night at Nara Inlet, a long finger of turquoise water surrounded by the steep, tree-clad cliffs of Hook Island and echoing with birdsong.

‘We can do one of two things,’ Mike Brennan said. ‘Go ashore—there’s a good walk and some Aboriginal cave paintings—or we can have a swim.’

Sidonie’s eyes lit up. ‘Why don’t we do both?’

‘You’re very energetic, Sid,’ he said, glinting her a lazy smile.

‘I love exploring.’

‘I might have known. OK, get some exploring gear on. We’ll swim when we get back.’

The walk was wonderful, although steep and rock-strewn. Sidonie wore one of her two pairs of shorts, navy blue, with one of her new T-shirts, bright yellow, and her hair bundled into her floppy white hat. As a precaution, Mike insisted she smother herself with insect repellent although he didn’t bother himself, and after they’d landed he found her a sturdy stick just in case of snakes.

‘I feel like—Dr Livingstone,’ she confided.

‘Then I suppose I’m Mr Stanley.’

She looked him up and down; he had on khaki shorts, old sandshoes, a much washed khaki shirt and his red bandanna. ‘You look much more like the descendant of an Apache chief; however, lead on, Mr Stanley, sir!’

He did, with a lightning grin—and was able to demonstrate quite an amazing knowledge of the local flora; he pointed out to her Hoop pines, Pandanus palms and much more as they climbed steadily. And every now and then as the path strayed towards the edge of the cliff they got a bird’s-eye view of Morning Mist anchored in the waters below.

They had a break at the cave with the Aboriginal paintings and Sidonie was entranced. It was more an overhang of rock than a cave, fenced off and with a boardwalk erected. It was cool and dim beneath the rock and as she stared at each little image scratched into the surface and faintly coloured with pigments made from berries and the earth she got a feeling of timelessness that stayed with her for the rest of the walk.

‘You’re quiet, Sid,’ he said when they stopped in the rocky bed of a dried-up waterfall.

She looked around at the hot, silent bush and said intensely, ‘I’m feeling . And I think it’s an experience I’ll treasure forever.’