Free Heart of the Outback by Lynne Wilding Page A

waiting for the liquid to cool.
    “
Porco cane.
Francey, where is the rest of your frock?”
    Francey winked at her mother. “What do you mean, Papà?”
    “It is indecent. You show too … too much.” His right hand gestured wildly across his chest. “You know.”
    Francey smiled. “Oh. Cleavage.” The sophisticated black dress was a little more low-cut than she usually wore but not as scandalous as he tried to make out. “It’s the fashion,” she said airily, thinking, if he had his way she’d be buttoned up to the neck, with long sleeves and in high stepping lace-up boots. She hoped he wouldn’t notice the thigh length side-split. That would set him off again. Then, sheer mischief made her add, “You say you want the men to notice me. Well, in this they will.”
    He shook his head and waggled a finger at her. “Disrespectful girl. I didn’t raise you to speak that way to me.”
    “Oh, Papà, I’m only joking.”
    “Of course she is,” Lucia came to her defence. “Pah, you are too old-fashioned, Carlo. You need to,” she frowned as she looked at Francey, “how do you say it,
cara
?”
    “Update yourself. Get in tune with the nineties. Get with it. Any of those phrases will do, Mamma.”
    “Two women in the house. What can a man do? You gang up on me,” he complained half-heartedly.
    “You look beautiful, Francesca,” Lucia said as she reached up on her toes to kiss her daughter’s cheek. “On Thursday night you will knock them dead, no?” she added with a smile. Her little girl had become a beautiful young woman with the fire, the spirit in her like she had once had. She glowed with good health and she had a body, oh, yes, and what a body. Not as voluptuous as Lucia had been in her youth, but more like a modern model only with more curves, thank God. She had watched the way male customers looked at her when she walked through the fruit shop to their flat. As if they could eat her right up. But a sudden sadness ran through her. Francesca wasn’t interested in romance.
    A strange need had taken possession of her as soon as she had graduated. She
had
to have a career. She
had
to be successful. The goal consumed her. Maybe because she had come from humble origins, she thought, and had something to prove. It was true, she and Carlo had never had much money. They made a living, worked long hours to do so and the truth was they came from a peasant background. Of that she was not ashamed, and she knew that her Francey was no snob. She just wanted different things. Back in the old country, she remembered, being a fruiterer was a time-honoured form of work for a man, although there was nothing high-class about it, in Italy or Australia.
    “I’d better get changed then ring Meredith. I don’t want a late night tonight.”
    Sitting at the kitchen counter she dialled the number she knew off by heart. “Meredith?”
    “Francey. You’re getting harder to catch than a taxi in George Street at peak hour. How are you?” came Meredith O’Connor’s breezy voice through the receiver.
    Francey smiled at her friend’s sense of humour. “Too busy to be bored,” she quipped back. “I’m in a rush, love, but how are you feeling? Is that baby you’re carrying still kicking you half to death?”
    She and Meredith Brooks, now O’Connor, had been best friends since year seven at St Scholastica’s. And the friendship hadn’t lessened when Meredith joined the police service and Francey had gone on to university. Somehow they always found time for each other in their busy schedules; meeting for lunch, seeing movies together and even getting each other blind dates. One such blind date, with Brett O’Connor, had led to Meredith marrying him, which gave Francey a proprietorial air towards them. She had been the unofficial matchmaker.
    “Too right. Brett reckons it’s gonna come out in a Tigers’ uniform. The kicks are fullback material at least.” Meredith giggled briefly. “Are you free Sunday? We’re