The Stranding Read Online Free Page B

struggled to muster politeness. ‘I’ll give you a call if I think I can fit it in.’
    She watched the old lady stalk back up to the house. Old bag. Thinking she could run the lives of everyone in town. And there was no way Callista would paint a portrait of the goddamned minister. She’d rather starve.
    It was Friday before Callista caught up with Jordi. She met him in the pub after the servo closed up, and tried not to grimace at the company in the bar. Friday was when everybody converged on the pub to tell stories and wash them down with beer. Callista rarely came because crowds made her skin prickle and she hated the smoke. By seven o’clock it was already beery and jovial. She noticed Jordi sitting at a bench with his Aboriginal mate, Rick Molloy. She bought three beers from Max Hunter at the bar, who smiled approvingly at her, and then she ferried the brimming glasses through the crowd.
    Jordi nodded and pulled up a stool for her.
    ‘Hey, Callista.’ Rick was pleased to accept the beer she offered him. His white teeth flashed at her from out of his wide brown face. ‘I hear you bin breaking down a bit.’
    Callista passed a beer to Jordi and sat down. ‘Just bad luck,’ she said.
    ‘That Kombi’s an old heap. You gotta get something better to get ’round in.’
    ‘I’m like you, Rick. No money.’
    Rick laughed. ‘That is bad luck,’ he said. ‘Not easy to change that.’
    Jordi took a few sips of his beer. The froth clung to his shaggy moustache and beard. ‘She just needs to get it serviced,’ he said.
    ‘Why don’t you do it for her?’ Rick asked.
    ‘Don’t like Volkswagens,’ Jordi grunted. ‘Barry does ’em best.’
    ‘Reckon Barry’d give your sister a discount.’
    ‘Reckon he’s sick of bailing her out.’ Jordi sucked the froth off his moustache. ‘I might have a look at it next week.’
    He finished his beer quickly and glanced at Callista as he set his glass down.
    ‘I was up at Mrs Jensen’s place this week,’ she said. ‘She wants me to bring you up for a chat with the minister.’
    Jordi tensed. ‘Why were you talking about me?’
    ‘We weren’t. She invited both of us up to the church, okay? To save our souls. And she wants me to do a portrait of the minister.’
    ‘What did you say?’
    ‘I said I was too busy.’
    Somewhere in the depths of his beard, Jordi’s mouth twisted into a smile.
    ‘Good work,’ he said. ‘Hey, I saw Alexander at the servo the other day. Told him you were a bloody good artist and that he should give you a showing.’
    Callista was glad to shift away from Mrs Jensen, even if the conversation had turned to Alexander. This was one of Jordi’s causes—to set her up for an exhibition at Alexander’s. It was hopeless of course, but Jordi wouldn’t leave it alone.
    ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’
    Alexander was an art dealer from Sydney who owned a gallery off the highway south of Merrigan. According to local gossip, he’d moved south after his boyfriend died of AIDS. But there wasn’t much sympathy for homosexuality in a town like Merrigan, and Alexander was considered to be a person to be avoided. Local mutterings flared every time he came into town, which wasn’t often. And who could blame him? The way people talked was enough to make Callista’s skin crawl. But she liked his gallery. It was an extension of the large, angular wooden house he’d built on a cleared hill overlooking the sea. She’d only been in the gallery once, and had been surprised by the airiness and spaciousness. Alexander had made clever use of tall windows to cast light in shafts across the room, and the walls were carefully placed so the light wasn’t too harsh. Sure, she’d love to exhibit there one day. But right now it was beyond her.
    ‘I’m not good enough for Alexander’s,’ she said.
    ‘Yes, you are,’ Jordi insisted. ‘He said you should call him up when you want to show him your stuff. He was bloody nice about it,