Free The Lost Swimmer by Ann Turner Page A

check? Just then, a car appeared at the end of the driveway and sped towards me. Sally tooted happily and drove off in the direction from which we’d just come.
    I couldn’t help but wonder where she lived – and where she was going on this stormy night.

8
    S he was a vision in white from top to toe as she shimmered through a blue eucalypt haze in the heat of the lazy afternoon.
    I wrestled with Big Boy as he danced and strained on the balcony, a writhing cacophony of barks and yelps.
    â€˜Who’s this baby?’ cried Sally as she planted a kiss in the air near his nose. Big Boy backed away whimpering, then quickly changed his mind and jumped up for more. Sally brushed a second kiss between his ears and then stood to pass a generous bowl of jewel-bright salad to Stephen as I introduced them.
    â€˜I have champagne too!’ Sally plucked a glistening bottle from her pearly canvas tote as she entered the kitchen. ‘I love you,’ she crooned to her new canine admirer.
    â€˜He doesn’t drink,’ deadpanned Stephen, and Sally flung her head back and laughed – a little too loudly. White retro jewellery, chunky and flamboyant, sat well against her tan. Her eyes today flashed amber and her glossy hair had been cut in short, fashionable layers. Stephen’s gaze made my heart sink.
    â€˜What a gorgeous house,’ Sally said, scoping the room. There was a fizzy eruption as Stephen popped the cork and filled the glasses, which we raised in a toast.
    â€˜To friendship,’ Stephen said unexpectedly.
    â€˜To friendship!’ We clinked our glasses merrily.
    â€˜Delicious.’ Stephen studied the bottle.
    â€˜Bought in a wine cave in Provence.’
    â€˜We go to Paris all the time but we’ve never been to Provence. Always meant to. What’s it like?’ he asked.
    â€˜Not what I expected,’ replied Sally as I led the way outside to where I’d gone to some effort in setting a table. My mother’s antique tablecloth, faded linen with extravagant blousy roses, flapped like a butterfly beneath vintage plates and glasses.
    â€˜Wow!’ Sally picked up a gleaming spoon. ‘Georgian silver.’
    â€˜My mum’s. She was a collector.’ I remembered the void she had tried to fill after Dad’s death, wandering around shops, buying antiques and any other beautiful objects she could find, displaying them through our house until there was no room left.
    â€˜Your mother clearly had taste,’ said Sally.
    â€˜Did you have any difficulty finding the place?’ I asked abruptly.
    â€˜None at all.’ Sally sat down and breathed in the air dramatically. ‘I love that tang of salt. Perhaps we can go for a swim later? I brought my togs.’
    â€˜I’ll join you,’ Stephen said. ‘Bec doesn’t swim.’
    Sally looked at me curiously. ‘Is that why you don’t go in? I could teach you.’
    â€˜She can swim. She just doesn’t,’ said Stephen, and Sally frowned.
    â€˜I don’t like it.’ I shrugged. ‘Now, tell us more about Provence?’
    â€˜If you’re on the fast train you don’t see much, just a bit of greenery,’ she said. ‘You need a car, which I didn’t have. The villages I did go to were sweet but not as evocative as I’d fantasised from reading a million books before I went. How about you? Any travel plans?’
    â€˜We’re off to Greece and Italy and Paris in semester break,’ I replied. ‘I’m counting the days. We haven’t had a holiday for ages, have we, darling?’ Stephen’s face clouded and my stomach kicked. ‘You’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?’
    â€˜Of course. Can’t come soon enough.’
    Even Sally could see he was lying. I felt as if he’d struck me.
    â€˜You’ll have to bring us photos of Provence. Maybe we’ll go there next,’ he said to