the other one. In the revolting floral dress. Flora something or other. But they both descended on me like a plague of locusts. Thank God you came to the rescue. I wouldn’t have thought to suggest a trip to the gents.’
‘That’s what I’m paid to do. Not that you really needed rescuing. You always handle women very well.’
Matt Sheffield’s laughter was dry. ‘Only some, Bill, only some. I suppose you heard I’ve been partnered with Miss Clare Pride for the evening, daughter no doubt of the aforementioned Mrs Pride. God, what a ghastly woman!’
‘Come now, Matt, Mrs Pride wasn’t too bad. Try to look on the bright side. Perhaps Miss Pride will be as well endowed as her mother.’
Clare blushed all over. Whether from anger or a sharp feeling of inadequacy, she didn’t know. She was too enraged to think clearly!
‘The way my luck is going lately,’ the guest-ofhonour continued, ‘she’ll be a flat-chested spinster whose only vice is butterfly collecting.’
Their mutual laughter sealed their fate. Or it did in Clare’s eyes. Just you wait, Mr Sheffield, she plagiarised. Just you wait…
Clare stayed where she was hidden for a couple of minutes, and when she emerged her smiling face hid an iron-willed determination to see that man in hell.
The guest-of-honour was by now standing behind his chair at the main table, with the man called Bill two chairs down on his left, Flora between them. Clare thought she was mentally prepared to meet her foe, but as she crossed the stage he swung round and fixed the most incredible blue eyes on her. She found herself speechless and staring, almost as hard as she was being stared at. With one shattered glance she took in the splendid cut of his tall figure, the well-shaped mouth, the manly chin with its tiny cleft, the strong nose, the sweep of dark brown hair. But always, in the centre of her stunned appraisal, those gorgeous blue eyes.
She must have shaken his hand, said something in greeting. She couldn’t remember. It was just as well she noticed the raised-eyebrow glance he flicked Bill’s way and the slight smugness that crossed the other man’s face. So, the exchange seemed to say. This is a turn-up for the books. Not so bad after all.
At least that was what Clare imagined they were thinking, and it was enough to snap her out of her fatuous reaction to the man.
God! How could I? she castigated herself inwardly. So the man has incredible eyes. You already knew that, you idiot!
Unbeknown to her, a look of sheer disgust slid into her own expressive grey eyes, freezing Matt Sheffield on the spot. He frowned, but was immediately distracted by Clare’s parents joining them.
‘Matt, did you meet Jim Pride?’ Flora gushed. ‘He’s Agnes’ husband and father of our lovely Clare here. Jim is our local bank manager. Fancies himself a farmer on the weekend, though.’
Everyone laughed. Everyone, that was, except Clare, who was still shaken by her own treason. How could she let herself gawk at the man like an adolescent schoolgirl? It was enough to have admitted earlier she might find his company stimulating, but to be going weak at the knees…
‘Yes we have met, Flora,’ her father said, while flashing an appreciative glance his daughter’s way. ‘We’re very proud of Clare, aren’t we, Mother?’ This while linking arms with a startled Agnes. ‘She’s a pharmacist, you know. Worked in Sydney for a while, but decided to come home a couple of years ago.’
Matt Sheffield’s mouth smiled at her again, but not the eyes. This surprised Clare. Most womanisers used their eyes to advantage all the time. Had he sensed her ambivalence perhaps? Did it bother him that she had not continued to devour him visually as most women would have? She hoped so.
‘I dare say,’ he drawled, ‘that the local lads are grateful for that.’
More laughter and an angry colour from Clare. Of course, she reasoned bitterly, a woman is never to be congratulated for her academic achievements, just reminded of her prime function in life: that of being a sex object, a mere decoration, placed here on earth for the sole purpose of pleasuring the male of the species.
‘You’re embarrassing our girl,’ Flora admonished, but coyly. ‘Besides, she doesn’t always look as glamorous as this, do you, Clare? Your visit has brought out the best in Bangaratta.’
Clare found this supposedly soothing remark even more humiliating, as though she had deliberately gone out and tarted herself up, just for this man’s benefit—a fact that was disturbingly close to the truth. She saw the speculation in that blue-eyed gaze and felt like cutting Flora’s tongue out, the soft-hearted fool!
‘Everyone and everything looks marvellous,’ the guest-of-honour flattered, his gaze sweeping the hall.
Oooh! You hypocrite, she fumed, but kept her mouth clamped firmly shut. He would keep.
‘We’ve done our best,’ Agnes said with pompous pride.
Clare was happy to fall silent and let her mother and Flora hold the stage. Empty chit-chat continued and it was only the appearance of several ladies anxious to serve the banquet dinner which was to precede the presentation of the débutantes that made everyone finally sit down.
Clare was relieved to find Stan Charters seated on her right. He was the local grocer, a fat jolly man in his fifties, another member of the local progress committee and quite a talker.
‘You’re looking particularly delightful tonight, Clare,’ Stan complimented her warmly straight away. ‘That’s some dress!’
‘Why, thank you, Mr Charters,’ she said sweetly. With a bit of luck she’d be able to chat away to him all night and totally ignore Matt Sheffield. In approximately four hours, she continually reassured herself, she would be safely back in her flat, and this little episode would be nothing more than a bad memory.
But Mr Charters was not to be Clare’s saviour. Her mother was seated on his other side and constantly claimed his undivided attention. Flora, who was seated between Mr Sheffield and Mr Marshall, was a valuable ally for a while, buttering up her prized guest with a stream of compliments. Bearing witness to such effusive flattery had a detrimental effect on Clare’s already nettled frame of mind, however, so that when Flora turned her attention to Mr Marshall on her left, and Matt Sheffield did turn to speak to her, she was hard pushed to be civil.
‘Those were very good prawns,’ he said to her as she was about to dissect the last one in her seafood cocktail. The note of surprise in his smooth voice did nothing to help her antagonism.
‘They’re Sydney prawns,’ she informed him. ‘Probably flown in especially for you.’
‘Aah… Nothing better than a good Sydney prawn.’
‘I dare say.’ Her tone was bored. She could feel his eyes on her but be damned if she was going to give him the satisfaction of turning in his direction.
‘And why, Miss Pride,’ he asked softly after a few seconds’ silence, ‘would you want to bury your considerable talents in a small country town?’
She took a steadying breath, dampening down the upsurge of irritation. This time she did turn her eyes his way, deceptively wide and innocent eyes. ‘Bury, Mr Sheffield? This is my home, not a cemetery. I like living here. But aside from that, I was also needed here. Bangaratta’s only chemist was getting
