You have a very nice complexion and your eyes are quite lovely, but there’s always room for improvement. Not only that, how do you expect to catch a man’s eye wearing trousers all the time? Men like to see a woman’s figure.’
‘My first priority in life is not to catch a man’s eye, Mum. And I don’t wear trousers. I wear jeans. A man can see as much of a woman’s figure in jeans and a T-shirt as a dress. Sometimes more.’
‘So we’re to look forward to your showing up at the ball in jeans tonight, are we?’ came the tart remark. ‘I’m sure Dr Archer will be impressed.’
‘Matt Sheffield is his name, Mum. Dr Archer is the character he plays on television.’
Agnes’ blank blink showed she was as much a victim of the illusion as Mrs Brown.
‘I do happen to own a ballgown or two,’ Clare continued. ‘I have one that is especially nice. Still, I doubt anything I could wear or do would genuinely impress a man of Mr Sheffield’s ilk.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Clare. You can be quite attractive when you want to be.’ Agnes plonked her cup noisily into the saucer. ‘Tell me! Why do you dislike Mr Sheffield so much? Have you met him before, is that it? I know you used to go to the theatre a lot when you lived in Sydney.’
Clare put down her cup also, rattling it slightly. ‘No, I’ve never met him. But handsome male actors are all tarred with the same brush. They think they’re God’s gift to women, when in fact they’re from the devil.’
An image filled her mind, of a curtain going up and a man stepping on the stage, a rivetingly handsome man. He’d looked like a Greek god. But there’d been nothing heavenly about David in the end. He’d consigned her to hell and left her there.
‘You’ve become very cynical, Clare. Sometimes I wish you’d hadn’t gone away to Sydney.’
‘You and me both,’ Clare muttered, a curl of pain squeezing her heart.
‘No one forced you.’ Her mother sounded indignant. ‘You were all for going.’
All for getting away from you, you mean, Clare thought, then felt guilty. Despite their differences, she did love her mother. But Sam was right. They didn’t always get along. ‘I didn’t have much choice, you know, Mum,’ she soothed. ‘Bangaratta is hardly the education capital of the world.’ She stood up and carried her cup and saucer over to the sink. ‘I’d better be going. I guess I’ll be seeing you tonight after all.’
Agnes walked with her to the door.
‘What’s this dress like that you’re going to wear?’ she asked once they reached the front veranda. ‘Are you sure it isn’t out of fashion? You have been back here in Bangaratta a couple of years, after all.’
‘It’ll do, Mum,’ Clare said, aware that this was a wicked understatement of the truth.
Agnes sighed. ‘I suppose it’ll have to, but it’s a pity for our guest to think that the ladies of Bangaratta don’t know how to dress. Country does not mean dowdy!’
Something deep and dark darted through Clare. ‘Some people think so,’ she murmured, but at her mother’s quick frown, Clare forced a bright, if somewhat brittle smile to her lips. ‘I doubt Mr Sheffield will give a hoot what I wear, Mum, but don’t worry, I won’t let you—or Bangaratta—down.’
The Bangaratta Town Hall hadn’t looked this grand in years, Clare thought. Built in 1886, it had always been the focal point of the small bush town. This was where the dances were held, the meetings, the wedding receptions. It had even doubled as the schoolhouse till the 1920s when the success of the wheat crops brought an upsurge in population and, of course, more schoolchildren. Of late, the building had been looking shabby, but tonight…tonight there was fresh paint on the walls, the windows sparkled, the wooden floor gleamed and high above, banners, balloons and streamers lent a festive spirit.
Clare walked up on to the wooden stage where the main table was located, her eyes sliding from her name card to the splendid table setting. Who would have believed that underneath the crisp white tablecloths and bowls of fresh flowers lay plain wooden trestles?
Flora and her progress committee had outdone themselves this time. Why, even the cutlery was not the usual catering stuff, but genuine silver. Clare gazed down at the spruced-up old building with a sense of pride. Not the sort of sophisticated venue Matt Sheffield was probably used to, she conceded, but still, it looked its very best. As did she…
Clare’s heart contracted. There was a certain irony in wearing this particular dress tonight which did not escape her. The dress had remained in her wardrobe, unworn, as a symbol of her hurt and a warning never to be so stupid again.
She was only wearing it tonight because she’d been goaded into it by her mother—she had another dress which would have sufficed—but she supposed it was a good thing in a way. It was time to exorcise the ghosts once and for all. Time to show the world—and Bangaratta—that she was not old maid material after all.
The thought of the expression of her mother’s face when she saw her designer-clad daughter did give Clare some satisfaction. Not only was her dress an original worth many hundreds of dollars, but the rest of her matched it for style and sophistication. Her hair, despite being out, was definitely not straggly. She’d spent all afternoon putting a warm red rinse through its midbrown colour, then shampooing, setting and styling it till it bounced around on her shoulders in a profusion of large loose curls, coppery highlights dancing on the crests of the waves that curved sleekly around her face.
Aah, yes…her face. Normally left au naturel, that too had received a lot of attention. She had spent a long, agonising hour painstakingly applying the sort of makeup that made the most of even the plainest girl. A bronze gloss now shimmered on her expertly outlined lips; blusher emphasised her good cheekbones; and after a careful application of misty eyeshadows, eyeliner and mascara, her grey eyes had taken on a more mysterious look, as opposed to the cool clarity she usually presented to her customers across the counter of the shop.
Of course, it was the dress, in the main, that would draw eyes, a turquoise Thai silk gown with a wide offthe-shoulder wraparound collar, a fitted waist and a gathered skirt which curved up and down at the front to show her best asset—her long athletic legs. With a push-up strapless bra underneath, she had contrived enough cleavage to be interesting, knowing that a lot of men were tantalised more by what was hinted at than what was flaunted.
Not for the first time that evening, Clare wondered if Matt Sheffield would find her attractive. Her innate honesty forced her to concede she hadn’t gone to all this trouble just for her mother.
Clare was a woman, after all. What woman wouldn’t want to look her best in the presence of a man as handsome and sophisticated as Matt Sheffield? Pride demanded it. Or was it something else which had prompted her to pull out all the stops?
Clare’s heart began to race nervously as she stared at the place she would fill at the table on the stage. Within half an hour she would be sitting there, next to the sort of man whose real character she knew oh so well. And while Clare knew she wasn’t a raving beauty, she was far from plain. Her mother would have been astounded at the number of men who had tried to chat her up since her return home.
Yes, she was not so unattractive that their visitor wouldn’t take a second look. What worried her was how she would act if he started flirting with her, or even made a pass? She hoped her foolish female heart would be able to
