Prologue
The Djilang Advocate
The community is in shock at news of the tragic death of retired AFL player Trent Fenwick, who died overnight in a house fire. Fenwick grew up in south-east South Australia and played three seasons with Port Adelaide before adopting the Pantheon as home. Career highlights included three AFL grand finals and kicking the winning goal after the siren against the Sydney Swans. Forced to retire after an ankle injury, he didn’t sit around feeling sorry for himself but successfully transitioned into off-field life with business holdings in hospitality. When asked about being a brand ambassador for the J&G Property Group’s many projects in our fine city and the popular surrounding coast, he said, ‘Yeah, well, it seemed the right fit, you know? Amelia and I love living here and it’s a great place to raise a team of footy players.’ 
Despite his love of the region and the game, Fenwick’s biggest passion was his charity, Kit for Kids, which he founded two years ago. ‘I didn’t grow up with much but I had footy and it saved me. I don’t want any kid who loves the game to miss out on playing because they can’t afford boots or uniform.’
Sadly, Trent will not be donning a pair of boots again, but his legacy will live on through Kit for Kids. He is survived by his wife, Amelia, and son, Chase.
 
The Djilang Advocate
The funeral for Trent Rex Fenwick will be held on Tuesday at 2 pm in the President’s Room, The Pantheon, 370 Corio Street, Djilang. No flowers by request. Donations can be made to Kit for Kids.

The Djilang Advocate
The tragic circumstances surrounding the death of AFL player Trent Fenwick have come under scrutiny after All-Care Insurance involved Victoria Police. Fenwick was home alone when fire enveloped the property and the blaze was initially blamed on a faulty television. His wife, Instagram influencer Amelia Fenwick, was contacted for comment. 
‘I’ve lost my husband, the father of our child and almost everything we own. What else do you want me to say?’
For updates on this story go to The Djilang Advocate website.

The Djilang Advocate
All that glistens is not gold and it appears that Trent Fenwick was learning that lesson the hard way. It’s alleged that the full forward, who died in a house fire lit under suspicious circumstances, owed more than $1.2 million dollars after his trio of hotels and restaurants failed to attract enough customers to keep the lights on. His business partner, Hugh Jansen, and his widow, Instagram influencer Amelia Fenwick, were unavailable for comment. 
For updates on this story go to The Djilang Advocate website.

The Djilang Advocate
Two months after the death of Trent Fenwick, the J&G Property Group has distanced itself from the now disgraced AFL legend. Davis Henkel, CEO for the group, put out this statement late yesterday afternoon.
‘When we invited Trent Fenwick to be brand ambassador for our Ocean Dreams complex, it was on the basis that he represented our values of integrity, trust, reliability and philanthropy. However, as each week passes it appears he was as far removed from these values as possible. We have openly assisted the police with their investigations and we are now keen to close this sad period that has tarnished the company’s previously unblemished reputation. 
‘We wish to take this opportunity to apologise unreservedly to our investors and our loyal customers for any distress this unfortunate association with Fenwick may have caused. We remain strongly committed to Ocean Dreams and to our current and future residents. To that end, and despite the recent challenges foisted upon us, stage two remains on track to open in the fourth quarter of this year.’
For more information on the exclusive luxury complex, go to www.oceandreams.com.au
Fenwick’s charity, Kit for Kids, is currently in abeyance.

 
Instagram
Amelia Fenwick |Fashion, Beauty & Style 👗💄| mum of 👦 |Friend of 🚙 |102.7K Followers
So excited to be driving the perfect car for mums on the run! 
@Kcars @GatherCosmetics @JPfashions
45 weeks ago

Instagram
Amelia Fenwick |Fashion, Beauty & Style 👗💄| mum of 👦 |3076 Followers
Comments: Has Amelia been cancelled?
3 weeks ago

 Chapter One

Amelia Schofield pulled a cap down hard on her head and considered donning sunglasses, but walking into the op shop on a dull autumn day wearing designer shades would likely draw the sort of attention she was desperately trying to avoid. Attention she’d revelled in up until Trent’s death when every feature of her life became unrecognisable and the need to fade into obscurity drove every decision. A familiar slug of desolation tied up in a big red bow of fury dumped over her. As Chase was at school, and she was sitting alone in her car in an almost empty car park, she gave into the visceral urge and screamed. 
The windscreen instantly fogged. God, she’d forgotten how cold autumn mornings could be on the Victoria–South Australia border. She’d cheerfully forgotten a lot about the district, having never planned to return other than duty visits to her parents. But just when she needed a bolthole, they’d taken off to the Northern Territory to manage a caravan park. It was probably for the best. Raising children had been her parents’ part-time hobby—although to be fair, they’d done a much better job than Trent’s parents. Then again, that bar had been set far too low. 

The moment Amelia had finished Year Twelve, her parents said, ‘Time to stand on your own two feet,’ as if she hadn’t been funding most things herself since she was sixteen. She had done exactly as asked but her parents seemed unimpressed by the lifestyle she and Trent had carved out for themselves. The second piece of advice her parents had given her was to learn from her mistakes. It meant that if she had asked to stay with them, the answer would likely be no. 

Still, given what had gone down in the national media, returning to Millicent would have defeated the purpose of lying low as everyone in town knew her and Trent. Instead, she’d chosen Nooritok on the Victorian side of the border. It was cheap, if not cheerful, there was less chance of being recognised and she didn’t need to change her driver’s licence—not that she could afford to do that. Nooritok had also offered her a job—something she was in desperate need of. Even though it was minimum wage, it was better than the humiliation she’d experienced when she’d been forced to apply for Centrelink payments. The photo someone had taken of her exiting the building had gone viral, but it was the perverse glee radiating off the comments that had gutted her.

Forewarned was forearmed, and as an added precaution on arrival in Nooritok she’d reverted to her maiden name. Despite the intense media scrutiny, miraculously her landlord, her employer and the primary school principal who’d enrolled Chase hadn’t drawn a connection between her and Trent. If they had, she knew their responses to her would have immediately chilled—except perhaps for her landlord. The fact he cared so little about the state of the house he owned was a fair indication he cared little about anyone, let alone who they were.

Anxiety buzzed in Amelia’s chest like a swarm of bees when she thought about Chase starting at Nooritok Primary. School was a much-needed touchstone for him after the trauma of his father’s death, but the small rural school was a huge departure from his old school with its multimillion-dollar pool and adventure playground. She’d been worried he’d find the transition impossible—God knows, she was finding it beyond difficult—but so far Chase ran towards her with a smile on his face each day after school. On the short walk home he’d chat happily about his day and his new friends. It was only when he stepped through the gate of the Austin Street house that his shoulders slumped. It was impossible to view the rental through any lens other than loss. An overly cheerful tone always entered Amelia’s voice then, as if they’d just arrived at a theme park instead of the shabby weatherboard. She’d jolly him into the kitchen—the warmest room—and give him cheese and biscuits like she’d always done when they’d lived in an architecturally designed house that had once featured in Coastal Living magazine. Except the cheese wasn’t French and it hadn’t come from a boutique providore, and the chair he sat on had a wobbly leg and peeling paint, and not in a chic distressed way. This house had come with two chairs, a red Laminex table and two beds. The lounge room was empty apart from a rug on the floor for Chase to play on—not that he had many toys, only the ones he’d taken to the beach-side Airbnb that fateful weekend.

Two days earlier, just when Amelia thought she had distracted Chase from the fact that his toy collection had shrunk to eight items, he’d said, ‘Can Bowie and George come play on the weekend?’
His words punched a hole in her chest.In their old life, playdates had been regular events. Hell, Amelia had orchestrated the early ones, targeting the children whose mothers wielded the sort of social power that could benefit her then-fledgling influencer career as the wife of a rising-star footballer. But that life seemed like it belonged to a different person. Glancing around their draughty and barely furnished house, she’d worked hard not to give into tears. Worked hard not to think about everything they had lost.

Everything that Trent had stolen from them. Stolen from their cherished son.

Fury burned again, as hot as a furnace. How the hell—why the hell had Trent done it? But the answers to those questions remained as unfathomable as ever. Trent hadn’t been a complicated man—he’d lived for football and their small family. From the moment their relationship had transitioned in their mid-twenties from best friends to a couple, they’d been a team, working together to create the life they both wanted—a life far different from their own childhoods. So many of their conversations had centred around their plans for right now and their plans for their future. It had been their love language, their shared joy, which made the explosive secrets that had emerged after his death impossible to understand.

She’d pulled her mind away from the bewildering quagmire that was Trent and refocused on Chase. He needed security and stability, not schoolyard gossip, and she’d do whatever it took to hide their dire financial situation from the town—including never hosting a playdate in this barely habitable house.

‘We could invite Bowie and George to the park?’ she’d suggested.

Chase’s blue eyes, so like his father’s, had lit up. ‘Yay! We can play kick to kick!’

Football. God, she wanted nothing more to do with the game. But even at eight, Chase was indoctrinated and any suggestions of soccer, hockey or tennis were met with derision. 
‘I’ll talk to their mums,’ Amelia had said. And I’ll find us a couch to sit on.

Which was why she was outside the Nooritok op shop in the icy cold, waiting for it to open. 

Amelia adjusted the rear-view mirror, checking that her baseball cap was holding up her long hair. She noticed fine lines around her eyes—lines that until recently had been camouflaged by Botox. All up, this current look was vastly different from the images she’d been posting on Instagram and TikTok. The disguise was probably overkill. She was fairly confident that the average age of volunteers working in op shops meant that they hung out on Facebook. It was unlikely they would recognise her. 

The lights in the store flickered to life and her heart rate picked up. She tried calming herself with a couple of long, deep breaths then recited one of the many affirmations that had always garnered thousands of hearts when she’d posted them: ‘You are the architect of your own life.’
Her laugh choked into a sob. ‘Yeah, right. Tell that to all the people who’ve taken a wrecking ball to it.’ 

She got out of the car, crossed the car park and slid open the store’s glass door. The fug of used clothes and old shoes rolled out to meet her. She rapidly turned her head, gulping in icy air to quell her nausea, before stepping inside. A man with a classic farmer’s weather-beaten face looked up from the counter and gave her a quick smile and a nod.
Amelia walked around the store looking for a couch or a comfy chair or even a beanbag—anything to sit on. On the second circuit her bruised heart slumped and she approached the counter. 
‘Excuse me,’ she said.

The man glanced up from his phone. ‘Taking those are you?’ he said automatically before noticing that her hands were empty.

‘I’m after a couch.’

‘Bound to be one down the back,’ he said cheerfully.

‘I’ve looked down there and I can’t see one. Unless you mean right out the back in the staff only area?’ 

He threw her a crooked smile. ‘I’d love to help, love, but I’m just minding the shop while the wife’s getting coffee. She barely trusts me with the till, and if I sell you the wrong thing I’ll be hearing about it till Christmas.’ He checked his watch. ‘She should be back any tick, unless she’s run into Daisy Campbell.’ 

Country time! Irritation bubbled through Amelia. Didn’t they know she was busy? That the six precious hours while Chase was at school were heavily scheduled to fit in workouts, health and beauty maintenance appointments, meeting with beauty companies for potential social media associations, filming— An icy chill prickled her skin so painfully that she gasped. She hated how her brain had moments of forgetting that her old life no longer existed. Worse, when it did remember the agony of loss roared back with the ferocity of a hot north wind. Yes, she was still busy, but she was busy barely surviving, not thriving. 

‘You okay, love?’ the man asked, concern clear on his face.

Amelia cleared her throat to cover the gasp. ‘Fine. Just getting over a cold.’ 

‘There’s a bit of that about,’ he agreed.

The bell over the door rang and a well-dressed woman who looked to be in her early seventies walked in carrying a tray of coffees. ‘Of course I’d just ordered Lorraine’s latte when she texted to say Geoff’s sick and she can’t make it. Oh, hello,’ she said, noticing Amelia.
‘Hi.’
‘Caz, this young lady’s after a couch,’ the man said. ‘What about the green one out the back?’

The woman gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘And then where would everyone sit on their break, Dennis?’ But she obviously wasn’t expecting an answer because her gaze was busy sweeping Amelia from head to toe.

A few months ago, Amelia would have loved the appreciation of her clothes and the effortless, ‘thrown together’ look that took her a big chunk of time to achieve. She knew she didn’t look poor and yet thanks to Trent she most definitely was. After the fire, she had a limited selection of daywear and a useless number of evening gowns that had been in the storage unit. 

‘I’m afraid we don’t get a lot of big furniture here,’ Caz said. ‘You might be better off trying Facebook Marketplace.’

‘I’ve already looked, but most of the couches are in Mount Gambier. Anyway, I can’t fit a couch in my car.’ Amelia didn’t volunteer that she couldn’t afford the petrol to drive the one-hundred-and-sixty-kilometre round trip.

‘I could call Casterton and see if they’ve got one,’ Caz said. ‘It would be fifty dollars for delivery.’

Last year Amelia would have considered that a perfectly reasonable cost, cheap even, but now she was living payday to payday with every incoming cent allocated, a delivery fee rendered a cheap or even a free couch unaffordable. 

‘Do you have a friend with a ute?’ Dennis asked.

‘My son and I have only just moved here and we don’t know anyone …’ She trailed off, not wanting to give away more than was necessary. ‘You don’t know anyone local who’s thinking of getting new furniture do you?’ she asked.

‘Actually, the McLeishes are downsizing,’ Caz said. ‘I’ll give them a call. What’s your budget?’

She wanted to say free. ‘No more than fifty.’

Caz frowned as if the McLeishes’ furniture was worth a lot more, but she turned and walked away, her mobile phone pressed to her ear.

Dennis picked up a coffee from the tray. ‘Would you like a latte, love?’

Amelia blinked back tears at the unexpected kindness. ‘Thank you.’ 

‘It’s never easy moving,’ he said.

‘No.’ Whether it was the coffee or the look in Dennis’s eyes, she surprised herself by adding, ‘It’s been a difficult few weeks.’

‘Had to move quickly, did you, love?’

‘You could say that.’

‘I’m glad you got out.’ He sighed. ‘My old man hit my mum, but back then it was almost impossible to leave. We threw a party when he finally took off for good.’

As much as Amelia hated Trent for what he’d done, the need to defend him rose like a geyser. ‘It wasn’t domestic violence. It was a house fire. We pretty much lost everything.’

Sympathy crossed Dennis’s face. ‘That’s terrible. Do you need anything else? Beds? Table and chairs? Kitchen stuff? Toys for your boy?’

One tear escaped and she sucked in a deep breath. ‘That’s very kind, but I’ve rented a partially furnished house.’ She didn’t mention it was abandoned furniture that previous tenants hadn’t bothered taking to the tip. 

‘What about a jigsaw for the kid?’ Dennis was shoving a box into her hand when Caz returned, talking as she approached.

‘I’m sorry, but the McLeishes promised the couch to their grandson.’

Amelia locked her knees yet again, fighting the dejection that had been threatening to sink her for weeks. ‘Thanks for trying,’ she managed. 

Dennis said, ‘There’s gotta be a couch sculling about, Caz. She lost everything in a fire.’

Caz sighed. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I feel comfortable selling.’

Amelia pegged Caz as someone who liked everything to be perfect.

She was intimate with that desire herself, having lived it for the last few years, but currently perfect was so far out of her grasp it may as well have been the moon. Chase wouldn’t care what the couch looked like. They just needed something comfy to curl up on in front of the heater—NQR would suffice.

‘Is there anything you’d feel uncomfortable selling?’ she asked.Caz wrinkled her nose. ‘There’s a couch that was dropped off on Monday.’

Amelia wondered why she hadn’t mentioned it earlier. ‘Sounds perfect.’

‘Don’t get too excited.’ Caz sounded like a teacher. ‘I was going to get Dennis to take it to the tip.’

Amelia laughed. ‘Surely it can’t be that bad or it wouldn’t have been dropped off?’ 

Caz’s brows rose as if Amelia lived in a different world. ‘I’m constantly surprised by what people think would be a welcome donation.’

‘How about you let the young lady decide if she wants it or not?’ Dennis suggested, giving Amelia a wink.

Caz’s chin rose imperiously. ‘I can show you but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ She flipped the sign on the door to Back in 5 minutes and the three of them trooped out the back, past the worn green couch in the staffroom, into a large storage area filled with donations waiting to be sorted.

‘Bit chilly out here.’ Dennis rubbed his hands together. ‘Where is it?’

‘Under there.’ Caz pointed to a stack of boxes. ‘Honestly! I have no idea why Sue-Ellen did that.’ 

Dennis started heaving boxes as if they were hay bales and slowly the couch revealed itself. The material was so worn and faded that Amelia wasn’t certain if it had originally been green or brown.
Dennis beckoned her over. ‘Come and get a closer look.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Caz said. ‘I’m not convinced it isn’t a boarding house for mice.’

Amelia shivered but she had a ridiculous need not to disappoint Dennis, who was clearly in her corner. She stepped around boxes and a bookshelf until she was close enough to the couch to smell its scent of old age. Strands of hay and wool stuck to the fabric.
‘It’s not perfect,’ Dennis said, ‘but it’s not all bad.’ 
Caz scoffed. ‘Get your eyes checked, Dennis. No one would want this couch.’
He sat on it. ‘Surprisingly firm. Back then they knew how to make furniture.’ He patted the aged seat next to him. ‘Give it a whirl.’

Every part of Amelia rebelled at sitting, but after running her hand over the fabric and finding dust rather than anything nasty, she gingerly lowered herself onto the cushion. 

Dennis suddenly bounced up and down next to her, exactly like Chase. ‘Well made,’ he said. Then, as if to demonstrate, he jumped to his feet. ‘Hop up. Let’s look underneath.’

Amelia did as requested and they tilted the couch forward. 

Dennis inspected it thoroughly, then looked at his wife and smiled. ‘No evidence of mice or rats that I can see, love. It’s safe to approach.’ 

Caz shot him a sceptical look but stepped forward. ‘I suppose it has nice lines if you like that sort of thing.’ 

Amelia immediately pictured Caz’s couch as a leather-studded chesterfield or a floral-covered wingback, possibly French provincial style. Absolutely nothing like the clean lines of this mid-century design. 

‘It’s a nice piece of furniture,’ Dennis said, nodding his approval.

‘If you take it, you’ll save us a tip fee,’ Caz said.

Amelia looked at her. ‘So it’s free?’

‘Of course it’s free. I might be many things but I’m not asking you to pay for something this awful.’

Amelia looked at the fabric colour that could accurately be described as ‘manure’ and tried not to shudder. Even if the couch was free, was her situation so dire that she had to accept it? She was trying to marshal words to refuse, but also to acknowledge Dennis’s kindness without pointing out his blindness to its horrendousness, when he noticed her expression.

‘Aw, love. I know it’s old but there’s nothing a rug wouldn’t hide. Caz, you got any of those blankets like Lizzy has on her couch?’ 

‘You mean a throw rug?’ Caz said. ‘No.’

Amelia took it as her way out. ‘Thanks for try—’

‘But I think we’ve got just the thing.’ Caz suddenly spun around and clambered over boxes. ‘Tah-dah!’ She hoisted an enormous bolt of yellow material out of a large box. 

Amelia squinted at the gaudy material. There was a fine line with yellow: too bright and you wanted to duck or run screaming from the room. Too dull and it either made you depressed or gave you the urge to throw up. ‘That’s kind,’ she said, ‘but I don’t have a sewing machine.’

‘Not a problem,’ Caz said firmly, now fully invested in the project. ‘You can use the one at the library.’

‘But I don’t know anything about reupholstering a couch,’ Amelia said, hearing the desperation in her voice.

‘That’s what YouTube’s for,’ Dennis said. ‘There’s free internet at the library so it’s win- win.’

Despite every part of her hating the couch and the material, Amelia’s mind lit up with all sorts of social media opportunities that reupholstering it would provide. Heartburn immediately bored through to her shoulder blade. Even if she hadn’t been cancelled, surviving poverty wasn’t her brand. 

Caz passed the material to Dennis. ‘You two sort out the delivery. I need to get back to the shop.’ She gave a distracted wave and walked towards the staffroom.

‘What’s your address, love?’ Dennis asked. ‘I can drop it off before I pick up Caz’s Wyandotte pullets.’

Amelia stared at the couch. It was almost as if it was giving her the finger—you don’t want me but I’m coming anyway. And didn’t that sum up everything that had happened to her since the night Trent died. She hated that she needed to accept the couch and the lurid material. Hated that poverty came with an implicit loss of the right to say, ‘No, I want a better one,’ because she would be judged as ungrateful. She had to live in this town and she knew that if she refused there was every chance word would get out that the new woman was too snooty to accept well-intentioned help. 

‘Love?’ 

She startled at Dennis’s voice. ‘Amelia.’

He smiled. ‘What’s your address, Amelia?’

‘Eight Austin Street.’

Dennis’s brow creased for barely a moment, but it was long enough for Amelia to know he had just pictured the house. Her mouth dried and she forced herself to ask one more favour of this good man. 

‘Um, Dennis … can we keep this between us? I’ve only just arrived in town and I’m trying to protect my little boy from …’ She swallowed the truth. ‘From gossip.’

‘They won’t hear anything from me, Amelia, but this is Noori. You’re new to town so people will be interested in where you’re from and what you do.’ 

‘And I’m happy to tell them that I work at the nursing home and that Chase loves Lego, but they don’t need to know more than that. They certainly don’t need to know about this shabby couch.’ She met his gaze and banked on the pride of farmers. ‘We’re all entitled to our privacy, right?’ 

He nodded slowly. ‘We’ll keep an eye out for another couch, but like I said, this one’s got good bones. Re-covering it might just be the project you need.’

Amelia had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Just what I need how?’

‘A project gives us something else to think about.’
Amelia didn’t know what was more devastating. The awful couch or the fact Dennis understood. 

 

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