Kangaroos and Champagne

By Mary Ann Day

English rose Sally Wiltshire is on a mission. She's fallen in love with Australia and wants to live there. She's also fallen for gorgeous Aussie hunk Rick. But to her dismay, Rick's acquired a moody girlfriend since they last met-and is now off limits.

As Sally sets about following her Australian dream to live long term Down Under, she fac

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookTrail Publishing
• Release date: Jul 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637672563

Mary Ann Day

This is Mary Ann Day's first novel, following a career in journalism and public relations. A work of fiction, it was nevertheless inspired by a period she spent travelling and staying in Australia. Mary Ann enjoys travelling and exploring different parts of the world, whenever the opportunity arises, and regards it as useful research for her writing. It also serves as a well-earned holiday. Now back in England and living in London, Mary Ann is currently writing her second novel. She also finds time to paint Impressionist-style pictures in her spare time, which she occasionally exhibits and sells.

Book preview

A Decent Proposal

Tonight’s the night …

Rod Stewart’s gravelly tones drifted across the dance floor as Sally sashayed across the shiny parquet floor of the ballroom, G and T in hand. Tonight it certainly would be—how right of dear old Rod to define the moment.

Sally knew it had to be done, and the sooner the better, before she lost what little Dutch courage was left in her half-empty glass. Beads of perspiration dripped from her pretty, tanned forehead. Soft golden curls in tendrils stood guard around her face, trying to stem her visible fear.

There he was on the dance floor of one of Sydney’s top hotspots, jingling and shaking his hips like a 25-year-old on drugs, a big smile fixed on his broad tanned face. In his smart dark suit, sporting a burgundy handkerchief tucked fastidiously in his breast pocket, he stood out as one of the smartest and best-dressed men in the room.

Con’s thick shock of chestnut hair, a touch greying at the temples, was combed to perfection à la Bill Clinton. There was a hint of the former US president about him. He had obviously spent time teasing his coiffure to a subtle, casual peak. But, Sally noted, the world and his dog could have seen that it was more vanity and style gel. What men did to get their gal!

Sally caught her breath at the sight of him. Dear Lord, I am getting cold feet. She had psyched herself up to this for the past three weeks, when the Plan had popped into her head. Was she half crazy? Yet it was logical. Made a lot of sense, really. Why not try to be sensible for once?

The fast gyrations on the dance floor to Kylie’s I Should Be So Lucky eased into a slow smooch. Michael Bublé’s cool tenor drifted through the speakers: And I’m feeling good … Sally loved the song, but this was not a time to dance. She glanced over at the floor where the throng of bouncing bodies had ebbed to a small cluster of couples clutching each other in desperate closeness.

Nearby, she spotted a crowd gathered on the spacious balcony towering above the ballroom. In the distance, glimmering like a shy lady of the night, was the brightly lit skyline of Sydney, its high-rise office blocks and majestic skyscrapers standing as soldiers on parade. They flanked Sydney Tower in all its 309 metres, while all around the picture-postcard horizon, hundreds of city lights flashed and winked like falling stars with secrets.

The silhouette of the breathtaking vista brought Sally back to the figures on the dance floor and to her purpose. To her relief, Con was walking off the podium, mopping his brow with his starched designer handkerchief, smiling and waving at his erstwhile partner who looked sorry to see him go.

Hey, I didn’t know you were here. Con sidled up to Sally, his hot hands held out in friendly welcome. He kissed her perfunctorily on both cheeks, smiled uncomfortably, and knocked her glass from her hand. Oh Sal, I’m s-so sorry. Flustered, he lost his usual suave front momentarily.

Sally bent down to mop the small drop of precious liquor from her silver strappy shoes. It’s fine. No worries. She stood up, brushing fine droplets of colourless liquid from her soft, pink chiffon dress. As she picked up small fragments of glass from the floor, her hand shook unsteadily while she placed her glass on the nearest table. This was not how she had envisaged this encounter at all. Sally had planned it all out. This was the night she was going to seize the moment and execute the Plan. Now she had wrong-footed him. Instead of making it a smooth romantic evening, they were trying not to embarrass each other. Her ploy to be cool, sophisticated, and charming had just shattered with her glass.

That’s what happens when you try to be someone else, Sally realized and then wondered, Was Con trying to be someone else too? Was he—like his name—a con?

She recalled the first time she’d met him. Hi, I’m Sally, she’d said breathlessly as they swirled on the dance floor.

And my name’s Con, he’d retorted with a beaming smile.

Sally had been taken aback at his name. That’s such an unusual name. Were you joking? Sally quizzed.

It’s my real name, he’d laughed. Short for Constantine. It’s a good old traditional Greek name. You’ll find quite a few Cons in Sydney! It’s a throwback to the many Aussie families who originally migrated from Greece to Oz over the years. We’re all very proud to be conquering Constantines.

With Con still standing beside her, Sally forced her attention back to the present and to her mission. If Con was not a con, who was he? Purely a stranger she had met a few weeks before. They had a few dances. She’d learnt he was born in Australia of Greek parents. He came over to Sally as a decent guy. So, why not him?

Then again, why him? Did Sally fancy him? Or did he just fit the identikit picture she had created?

What would he say when she asked him? And could she go through with it anyway, she wondered, now that they had exchanged such a stilted start to the evening?

Hey, look, don’t worry about the drink, she said with an overly broad smile. Let’s have a dance, and we’ll fill up with some more booze in a minute.

Con perked up. He grabbed her hand and pulled her firmly onto the dance area.

He’s trying to assert a Tarzan-like image of himself, Sally thought. Of course, Tarzan always looked like he had been training in the forest gym of trees, pumping wood and lifting log weights to bulk up. Con himself, likely pushing 50 and carrying a tad more padding and soft tissue, would never match that. Sally was only too aware that he would have to try to get the girl some other way—like knocking her glass to the floor? Not a very sophisticated Tarzan then, and she knew his air of confidence was all a sham. Inside he was just a little boy desperately trying to be accepted—and loved—by everyone.

Sally was keen to bolster him up. As he tried to focus on the dance, she wondered what she saw in him. His head seemed to be in a whirl as they launched into every energetic number with gusto. She felt him relaxing. Hot, sweaty, and off guard, finally Con looked like he’d had enough exercise. He managed to get Sally away from the bopping throng and up to the bar for a long beer for him and a cool Coke for Sally, who was limiting her alcohol intake to one glass, as she was driving.

Sally glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as she settled herself on one of the bar stools. Their knees just touched under the counter, with Con squeezing in against the wood panel stained with sticky Foster’s Beer.

She had to do it now. Otherwise, she would probably chicken out and miss him for another week, or until who knew when. She didn’t know when she’d bump into him next and didn’t even have his phone number. She knew him only as someone to dance with on occasion and to exchange the odd bit of gossip with. He was the perfect candidate.

Con beamed his wide smile at her. His generous mouth lit up his warm, friendly features. He looked more Italian than Greek. But Sally was sure he’d said he was born a true Aussie—she’d need to confirm that. He’d also told her once that he was divorced. The rainbow-coloured strobe lights of the disco caught his features like a flame in the firelight. He glowed red and green and happy.

The once-handsome face had seen a few decades of eating, drinking, and partying, and his jawline was not as tight as it must have been once. But to Sally, Con still looked suave and very dapper. However, try as she might, she knew she didn’t fancy him. Still, that was all right. That was the whole point—otherwise, it would all get messy and complicated with lots of emotion and heartache, wouldn’t it? She really couldn’t be doing with any of that.

Look, could we step out for a minute? I just want to have a brief chat. Sally took the proverbial bull by the horns and Con by the elbow, full of false confidence as she steered him towards the hall entrance and then the club’s cafe area next door. Maybe we could go for a coffee?

No probs, darlin’. Con was all business. Still mopping perspiration from his brow with one hand, he chuckled. Not as fit as I used to be. Need to take a break between dances these days—knees givin’ up! So, thanks for the breather. I could do with a coffee to sober me up, darlin’, before driving home—have had a few beers too many tonight!

He was nice, smelt nice. Sally detected a musky aftershave that lingered as he walked. He would do, if only he was willing. This was it. She recalled that in the car she had rehearsed word for word what she would say to him. Now, faced with the reality of it, she was tempted to run for the door.

Still puffing, Con fetched two coffees: one black, for Sally, and one frothy, peppered with tiny slivers of chocolate, for himself. He stirred two sugars in his.

He sat her down in the club’s cafe area, where it was quieter than the dance hall, except for the low hubbub of chatter from other couples tucked in dark corners. The odd tinkling of glasses and crockery from the adjoining kitchen added to the distraction. Subdued lighting gave the space an air of intimacy. Sally was glad not to have tried to talk to Con inside the hall. To try to get out the words to a background of thumping disco beat was sure-fire disaster. Imagine if he misheard her intentions? Body shaking, Sally steeled herself.

Sally Wiltshire, blonde, five feet four, slim but curvy, and some would say attractive but not beautiful—she could never be mistaken for beautiful, but, yes, sexy on a good day—was about to put all her cards on the table.

I don’t quite know how to say this, Con. … She faltered. It’s a bit of a funny request, really, and I hope you won’t take it the wrong way. Sally sipped her coffee nervously, as much to kill time as to moisten her parched throat. But … will you marry me?

Con’s jaw dropped visibly. She could see he was about to interject, so she quickly ploughed on to finish her well-rehearsed speech. She had to explain, before he shrugged it off as a bad joke—or, worse still, a come-on.

As you know, I am from England. (What a stupid remark this was! Of course he knew she was English. That cut-glass London accent was pure giveaway, a Pom through and through.) Her courage melted faster than a glacier on a hot day.

Quickly Sally gabbled on. Well, the trouble is that my visa is running out … and while I can renew it online, it’s not the right visa to enable me to work and live here.

Con loosened the collar of his blue shirt and coughed in mild embarrassment.

Sally feigned to ignore his discomfort and steamrolled on. I was really hoping that you might be able to come to the rescue.

She paused, with a pleading look at Con. You see, to help me get the right visa, I really need a job sponsor, which I have not had much luck with, in the present climate. The problem is, no one wants to burden themselves with paperwork when the job market is flooded with applicants.

Am I losing him? she wondered as she began to question going on with the Plan. Confidence sapping under the heat of the dimmed lights, she pulled herself up, took a deep breath, and gave it one last shot.

So, Con, I was just wondering whether you might be able to solve the issue for me by marrying me, Sally babbled on, afraid to stop and wait for his reply. I could really do with a husband right now. She giggled nervously, touching his arm in a vain attempt to enlist his support. To get the right visa, I mean! But just an arranged marriage, of course—I … I would pay you.

Letting her voice trail off and trying to read his face, Sally feared she face dimminent defeat in the line of battle.

He looked at her sympathetically and wiped his brow again with his now-soggy handkerchief. Sally held her breath as Con prepared his reply. He didn’t beat about the bush or fob her off with thinking time. He simply gave it to her straight.

Aw no. Sorry, darlin’. Thanks for the offer, but I am too old to be messing about with weddings and wives and more baggage. You know, I get asked this almost every week by some of the Asian ladies here, and I always say no. It’s not worth the hassle and worry. I have four kids and an ex-wife, and there’s some bad blood in the family. I don’t need any more heartache than I already have.

It was clear to Sally that Con saw the disappointment flash across her face. She swallowed, trying to hide it with a brave smile. He took her gently by the hand and pulled her up off the brown leather sofa to guide her back to the bright lights of the disco. Sally fought off the temptation to rush out of the room and never look back.

Look, I am really sorry to disappoint you, hon, Con said. But, listen, I am sure there are plenty of guys here who would oblige. … And you’ll look back at this and be truly grateful that I said no. I am a grumpy old so-and-so and would make bad company for an up-and-coming Pom like you! He trailed off in an avuncular way, steering her away.

They left the brown stains of the drunk coffee in the empty cups on the table as the sole reminder of their little tête-à-tête. If someone could have come along and read the coffee stains in the cups—like tea-leaf reading—Sally wondered what message they would have left about her life and nonloves.

Sally walked zombielike back into the auditorium with Con, feeling cold, disillusioned, and dejected. The room had suddenly grown icy and dark, its milling crowd like a tableau that she was watching from afar. She had not expected instant rejection.

Con may well have thought there were plenty of guys out there willing to marry her. But Sally didn’t want a physical relationship with them. That was not what she wanted for the arranged marriage she envisaged as her answer to remaining in what, for her, was the most beautiful country on earth; she didn’t want to mix business with pleasure.

Deep down, without actually admitting it, Sally knew she would have much preferred a full relationship. She dreamt of the full monty. Romance, flowers, sex—the lot. But after nearly a year in Sydney without much glimmer of a full-blown love affair, that seemed pretty unlikely. Not that she had lacked adventure since arriving fresh from London that cool April day. A snap decision had been all it took to give up her life in London to follow her dream. The dream of making a new life in Australia.

Now she was facing having to settle for compromise. Not many men would want to marry and not have sex. And they would need to be nice guys, ones she could get on with and be married to for years—on paper.

Sally had the Plan fixed in her mind, which was all very well as a plan, but was it realistic? She considered having sex with her chosen man—if she fancied him. But if there was no love, she felt she would need to insist on an open relationship in order to keep her much-valued freedom. And how many men would go along with that? No, a straight-down-the-middle business arrangement was really the only way to go. No involvement. Sex would just complicate things. Introduce feelings. The last thing she needed was to involve feelings. So, it would have to be down to money. She felt sure an incentive of some sort was the thing that would clinch it. But with whom?

*****

If Sally were to be honest with herself, she’d admit she had been searching all her life for the elusive fairy tale.

As a little girl, you are brought up to think of the perfect marriage with perfect kids. Imperfection, infidelity, failure, and divorce, do not come into the picture. It’s as you grow older that disillusion sets in, along with disappointment and fading hopes. So, all those years ago, when she thought she had found him—Mr Right that is—Sally was really full of optimism and fire. This was it—er, several times over. But as the years rolled on, disappointments and let-downs took their toll.

Sally thought back. She must have been searching for him for a pretty long time now. How long was it exactly? Mr Right was clearly not out there.

There was Barry, whom she had been sure was the One at the time. Without conviction, this was the love of her life. Just goes to show how wrong you can be. And there was Colin. Ah Colin; her heart still beat a fraction faster at the mere thought of him. How could she find Mr Right when she didn’t even know what right was? Sally bemoaned the fact that she’d got it so wrong, so many times.

Having said that, it occurred to her that, despite all previous let-downs and missed lessons, there she was again, like Voltaire’s ever-optimistic hero Candide, still buoyed by hope. All was for the best in the best of all possible worlds. As always, she felt that Maybe this time, as the song goes, it would work, that this one would be the One.

A few weeks before her histrionics with Con, Sally had gone into panic mode. She’d wailed to her friends that she couldn’t go on waiting for Mr Right any longer. Nothing might happen for a very long time—if ever. She had to do something. No one else would do it for her.

Which was how she’d come to be all geared up to get out there and grab Con. And now, she’d done it and clearly needed to revise the Plan.

Chapter 2

No Con

The day dawned sunny and bright. Sally still found it a wonderful revelation to wake up to bright sunshine, blue skies, green eucalyptus trees. The sweet smell of jacaranda drifted up through her open French windows. Their exquisite flower petals glimmered cornflower blue in the sunshine as they dangled delicately on the tree branches lining her road. The glorious weather, the wide-open spaces, and the varied flora and fauna of the countryside all lifted her heart.

Looking out of her upstairs balcony, just a few blocks from Brighton-Le-Sands Beach, a stone’s throw from Australia’s famous Botany Bay, Sally watched a red-and-green rainbow lorikeet fly past her railings. It chirped to its friends to follow. The parrots glided silently across the spacious ochre-green grass bank that divided the prestigious homes near the shoreline. They landed with a gentle thud on the nearest gum tree. It was akin to a shot of adrenaline for Sally; her mood lifting as if on the wings of one of the multicoloured birds soaring by. The perfect antidote for her let-down of the night before with Con.

Sally had arranged to meet up for coffee with Jen later, as she often did on a Saturday. Jen was her bestest friend in Sydney. Equal place with Bernie. She was always good company. Slightly cranky and off the wall, but she made Sally laugh. Jen saw the world with different eyes, giving Sally a new perspective. When she was feeling down, Jen was a great pick-me-up.

Underneath the scorching, late-morning sun, Sally strolled in her new, white, mock-designer sandals to a beachside cafe in Cronulla, just paces from the azure, sparkly sea. The rugged coastline just south of central Sydney, was popular with some of Australia’s elite. Stars of stage and screen, Vogue models, and musicians regularly paraded along the seafront, mingling with locals and tourists. She and Jen hoped to spot the likes of Simon Baker and Hugh Jackman wandering by, but usually it was more the B- or C-list stars they saw passing along the promenade. From the cafe terrace, Sally watched surfers weaving in and out on the crest of giant, white waves frothing like toothpaste. Taking a deep breath, she savoured the smell of the fresh sea air, tinged with seaweed and salt.

Jen regularly stopped here for a drink and pie and chips with Walt, her current boyfriend. Well, current was not actually the right word, as they had been seeing each other for nearly two years, with just a short break in between. This was a long time for Jen.

Jen got bored easily and had high expectations of her men. Small, wiry, and a bundle of energy, Sally’s friend was a man magnet. She didn’t deny her attraction, flirting madly with anyone willing to play ball back with her. But Jen was just that, simply a flirt, and it took some persuasion by anyone really keen to break through the facade of fun and sexual innuendo to get a true response and a date out of her. Now she was almost settled down, in her book, and not for the taking. But the flirting went on. Walt understood her, loved her, and turned a blind eye. Jen was all talk and mirrors—and never strayed.

There Jen was now, weaving through the shopping crowd along the cobbled walkway, teetering on ridiculously high heels. Her thin legs were like stilts, steering her dangerously towards the coffee bar, where Sally was already settled at a small, round, silver table on the terrace. A warm wind whipped the multicoloured sun umbrellas around them, teasing their edges like flags at a royal parade. Jen’s bright-red lips broke into a cheery smile as she drew near. Sally noticed the contrast between the scarlet lips and the straight black hair, which was cut into a short, wild crop, making her look pale, vulnerable, artistic.

Hey, Sal, great to see you! Jen high-fived her. She scraped one of the white wrought-iron chairs back noisily and started to spread her bags of goodies under the table. There were at least three paper carriers, each crammed to the brim with clothes.

Couldn’t resist, Jen confessed sheepishly. You know me, once I’m let loose in Westfields, I become a complete manic!

Shopaholic was probably a conservative description of Jen. She purchased something at every opportunity, always coming back with armfuls of new clothes. She would then spend the following week taking most of them back. Too short, too long, too tight, too bright, whatever excuse; she went off her booty within hours of buying. There was probably a name for her particular addiction. Sally was not sure quite what. There were names and labels for every condition these days. Not that Sally believed any would help to cure Jen. She watched in awe as Jen, in between ordering two flat white coffees—one with extra milk—unwrapped her precious purchases, as if it were Christmas.

Do you like it? she cooed, holding up the skimpiest summer dress in a soft, silky, deep blue.

Yes, lovely. Sally smiled back indulgently. Will she ever even wear it, she wondered? It was a dress that was clearly meant for Jen. Such a waste to buy it and not flaunt it. But maybe this was one garment that would survive the purge.

Over coffee, Jen unwrapped the rest of the purchases, telling Sally exactly where she had bought each one and how much she had paid. They chatted freely about mutual friends. Jen filled her in on the latest about her job and Walt.

At 35, Jen was a good decade younger than Sally and looked model thin next to her pal’s curvaceous figure. She worked for a charity; Sally was not quite sure doing what. But it was laudable, helping those who were homeless and on the streets. Maybe she even passed a slice of her oversize wardrobe down to some of them. For an instant, Sally had a mental picture of the blue dress on some poor, unwashed homeless waif. No, not very appropriate.

Walt was working long hours, Jen was saying. She never saw him these days. So, no change there from the last time they’d met up.

So, how about you? What’s been going on in your world? Jen finally asked Sally, who had been sitting on the edge of her seat, desperate to share her news from the previous night. Has Mr Right found you yet? she quipped.

Jen had chatted animatedly beside her, coffee cup clutched between her slim fingers. Sally took in the perfect scene. How lucky she really was to be sitting in utopia. A cloudless blue sky reflected in the gently swishing, azure water, a soft breeze fanning Sally’s wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair. Sally couldn’t have wished for a better setting. She gave her friend a rueful look.

"You know, last night was the night." Sally ginned.

So, how did it go? Jen, who had an inkling of the past night’s plans, could hardly hold her excitement and curiosity. Did someone bite?

No, this one more like barked, Sally said wistfully, disappointment etching her pretty face. There was no point in hiding the fact that her evening had been a huge blow, sending her back to square one.

Jen had been primed of Sally’s plans the week before: the Plan to pick some poor, unsuspecting victim to agree to marry her so she could get her visa.

I knew Con was not Mr Right, Jen, that was for sure. But I thought he was Mr Alright. Sally stammered, trying to put on a brave show. Sort of hoped it would be ‘All right on the night.’ She laughed. You know, when it came to it, I felt as if I was in some sort of comedy sketch, my mouth as dry as wood rot, my hands slimy from stage fright."

Sally turned back to her stunned, silent friend, her coffee still in mid air. Sally’s story had Jen glued motionless to the cafe’s carved seat.

You know, I had practised my script all day and honed it to perfection on the drive to the dance, she muttered flatly. "I thought that maybe he would say something like: ‘I’ll think about it, hon.’ But he was straight in there—for the jugular. I’d picked him because he didn’t mess about with all that bullshit, I guess. But it was harsh. I had been raking my mind, trying to think who, of all the men friends I knew, would be most suitable, the least clingy, and the least likely to want sex as part of the arrangement.

Con was independent and fancy-free, he had lots of female acquaintances but no girlfriend as such—that I knew of. Did he need some money? Would he trade his freedom? But I got it all wrong. … Sally paused for breath and resignedly gulped down the rest of her cold brew.

Listen, Sal, I’m so sorry you had the door slammed in your face, Jen interjected. But did you really think he’d say yes? I mean, you hardly know him, and he hardly knows you. And he’s had one divorce behind him already, so not likely to make him too keen to take a leap into the dark.

Sally laughed bitterly. "I guess I didn’t know anything about him. You know, how naive—but I really thought he might at least say he would consider it. He’s got four kids and an ex-wife to support, and he’s trying to make ends meet, working for himself. So, I figured maybe the money would do the