Out of the Blue

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

When an opinionated laugh rings out from the ironbark, I throw my towel over a post at the foot of the steps and search through the silvery foliage. An adolescent kookaburra, creamy-grey feathers and a strong sharp beak, swaggers to the end of a branch.

‘We’re both up early this morning.’

The steps are cool under my feet, as is the deck that wraps around the pool.

I dip a foot into the water—not as cold as it was last week.

A skip, a jump, I dive into the powder-blue haze.

Soaring, gliding, circling and drifting.

Take a breath, dive again. Ten minutes, twenty and thirty.

When my eyes sting and my ears pound, I roll onto my back to catch my breath.

My arms are extended like the wings of a bird.

What kind of feathers? Flight, contour, filoplume and down.

Early morning sunshine threads through the gums and a whitewash of clouds sweeps across the sky.

‘Excuse me.’

I jerk upright, spin around, tread water.

The man is tall. Strong jaw, straight nose, nicely shaped brows.

Brown hair, short at the sides and longer on top, glossy in the early morning sunshine.

He’s not threatening, but watchful, dressed in a sage-coloured linen shirt and faded black jeans.

His posture as he stands on the steps is poised and assured, arms loosely crossed, legs slightly apart.

‘Are you after Martin Roxburgh?’ Still treading water, I pull the strap of my crop top up my arm to my shoulder. ‘He won’t be back until tonight.’

‘Felicity Atherton?’

A flock of galahs paint the sky pink as I bend backwards into the water to clear hair from my face. I straighten, roll my hair into a coil and squeeze out the water. A bee buzzes past.

‘Who are you?’

‘Sebastien Thorsen.’

As I hoist myself out of the water and sit on the narrow strip of deck, the man walks towards me. One leg of my bike shorts is higher than the other and I tug it down.

Eyes firmly on my face, he crosses the distance between us and holds out a hand. ‘I emailed.’

I scramble to my feet. A firm handshake. A nod. My hand is cool and so is his. I only glanced at the contact details at the foot of his email. Is he based in Geneva? Maybe Oslo? His eyes are brown like chestnuts.

He frowns again. My pale green bike shorts and matching crop top are brief, but my cleavage is negligible and I’m more covered up than I’d be at the beach.

When I smooth the clinging fabric over my hips, Thorsen’s eyes stay resolutely on my face.

Then he looks away, to the towel looped over the railing at the foot of the steps.

Would he be more comfortable if I wrapped it around me?

Would I look a fool if I ran down the steps to get it?

He’d be thirty. Maybe early thirties. Broad shoulders, narrow hips. He’s exceptionally good looking.

‘You’re a captain, aren’t you? In the Norwegian Air Force.’

‘I’m on secondment to the United Nations for a year.’

‘Looking into the environmental impacts of transport in the Antarctic region. Aeroplanes?’

‘Fixed wing aircraft, helicopters, commercial watercraft and cruise ships.’

He doesn’t have an accent, but his words are short and clipped. His smile is non-existent; his teeth are straight and white.

‘Are you here about the position on Morrison Island? I told you I can’t do it.’

‘It’s a good opportunity.’

No one could be more interested in visiting Morrison Island than me.

Albatross, petrel, skua and penguin in a unique Antarctic environment.

No one could have been more disappointed that they wouldn’t get the chance to work alongside one of the leading ornithologists in the world, Professor George Johnson.

But if I can’t get to Morrison, I can’t work there.

Two flights. A ship voyage.

Impossible.

Not that that’s any of Thorsen’s business. I bite hard on my lip and look behind him to the geraniums in hanging baskets. The blooms are as red as the plumes of a crimson rosella.

‘Other ornithologists will see that too.’

‘Your skill set and experiences are different from others. Professor Johnson wants you.’

‘I have work at the open-plains zoo.’

‘Only for the next four months.’

‘How would you know that?’

‘Your references.’

‘For a position I didn’t apply for.’ I look around, taking in the pool, the tennis court, the stables and post and rail–fenced paddocks beyond them. ‘I also have work here.’

‘What do you do?’ Thorsen’s frown suggests an early morning swim isn’t his idea of work.

Mrs Black the housekeeper would have let him in; Min the landscaper would have escorted him through the gardens and Ben the stablehand (who is saving up for an engagement ring and clocking extra hours at the house) would have led him through the maze of horse facilities to the staff accommodation and pool.

‘That’s between me and Martin.’

A brief hesitation. ‘We’d like you to reconsider your decision.’

‘My interests are waterbirds, wetland habitats and migration.’

‘You’ve done work on population variances and tracking. On Morrison Island, you’d consider the impact of changes in climate on habitat and bird species. According to Professor Johnson, your interests align with his.’

‘Possibly, but how would our interests align with yours?’

‘The transport project looks at water quality and contaminants over time. Professor Johnson’s historical data will be valuable in the assessment of natural and anthropogenic changes.’

‘As I understand it, you want someone to go through decades of field notes, work out what’s relevant and what isn’t, and table the results so you can use them as part of your study. Other people could do that work. It could even be done remotely.’

‘Professor Johnson wants the field notes to be transcribed by a specialist. He also requires assistance with a species of penguin, work that can’t be done remotely. The funding we’ve agreed to will satisfy his needs and ours.’

‘The field work data is that important to you?’

‘Yes.’

I follow his gaze to the pool. The water is still and glossy like glass, but that wouldn’t have been the case when I was swimming.

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Twenty minutes.’ He opens his mouth and shuts it again. ‘You swim well.’

In the water, I can fly.

‘Flick!’ Ben is standing between the stables and pool, waving his arms above his head. ‘Mrs Black said to bring your visitor in!’

‘He’s leaving!’

Thorsen’s mouth firms. ‘Including orientation and training, you’d be away from the end of September to mid-to-late January.’

‘I don’t like the cold.’

He glances at the pool. ‘You’re swimming in August.’

‘We’ve had a warm winter. Antarctica will be different.’

‘The sub-Antarctic is more moderate than mainland Antarctica.’

I must’ve been nine or ten when I borrowed a book with thick, glossy pages from the library.

It was too big to fit into my backpack so, hugging it to my chest, I carried it all the way home.

Some of the words I couldn’t understand because it was a coffee table book, not a kid’s picture book, but I sat on my bed and used a dictionary when I needed to.

Seals and whales. Birds of species and in numbers I could barely comprehend.

I’d traced the pictures of the penguins with my finger.

Those little wings could never fly. But under the water? That was flying too.

‘I have other commitments.’ My words are jerky. ‘Family commitments.’

He frowns. ‘Do you have a partner?’

‘No, but I share responsibility for my late brother’s child.’ Way too defensive. ‘My niece, Matilda.’

He thinks about that. ‘In an emergency, we expedite your exit.’

A flock of king parrots with red and emerald feathers rise from the gums to soar over the stables. Parrots are built for flight. Humans are not. After losing my brother, I know that better than most.

‘Flick!’ Ben is closer than he was. ‘Your pancakes are getting cold.’

‘How did you know I was living here?’

Eyes on mine, Thorsen sweeps a hand through his hair. ‘Do you want to change? We can talk later.’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

A stiff nod. Because he wants to ask the questions? Or because he doesn’t want to answer? ‘It came up at a social event.’

Drips from my hair trickle down my back. ‘I have to get back to the house.’

Thorsen walks down the steps, picks up my towel and holds it out.

When our hands briefly touch and the towel falls between us, he retrieves it and offers it again.

This time, I’m excruciatingly careful not to touch.

Because he’s good looking? Because he’s a threat? Neither of those things make sense.

I sling the towel around my shoulders. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘My brother lives in Summerfield.’

‘You drove two hours to Denman to see me in person?’

‘You’re a good fit with the team at Morrison. Professor Johnson and the other scientists want you and so do we.’

I gather the towel more closely around me. ‘Can you be more specific?’

‘You like to work alone. You have a reputation for resilience.’

I lift my chin. ‘I was locked up. Is that what you’re referring to? That I have a criminal record.’

‘You were seventeen.’ For the very first time, he searches for words. ‘You’re not what I expected.’

Ben bounds up the steps. ‘Where’s your hat, Flick?’ He taps my nose. ‘Freckles.’

‘I didn’t think I’d be out here this long.’

Ben grins at Thorsen. ‘I warned you about Flick, didn’t I? How long did she stay under the water with those super-human lungs of hers?’

Ben’s dreams of being a jockey didn’t work out but he’s not resentful or angry. He’s open, friendly and in love with his fiancée Lucy. Sebastien Thorsen is different. Arrogant. Judgemental. Contained.

Thorsen stands back to let me take the path first. In addition to chestnut, he has flecks of grey in his eyes. Is that why they now appear darker than they did?

A flock of black cockatoos fly in formation as he takes a card from his pocket. ‘Call if you change your mind.’