Elianne by Judy Nunn

where grassy slopes fringed long, sandy beaches and swaying coconut palms and pandanus trees gave a flavour of the tropics.
    ‘Where to?’ Kate asked. ‘Neilson Park?’ Neilson Park was the surf beach particularly favoured by the young bloods. It boasted a long-established Lifesaving Club of which the locals were justifiably proud.
    ‘Yep,’ her brothers chorused; both were keen body surfers.
    Immediately upon arrival, they stripped down to their bathing costumes and headed for the water, or rather Kate and her brothers did. Paola chose to sit on the beach and watch. Unlike the Durham siblings, she was not confident in the surf.
    After ten minutes or so, Alan jogged up from the water’s edge.
    ‘Aren’t you coming in?’ he asked, plonking himself down on the sand beside her, inadvertently spraying her with water as he flicked back his wet hair.
    ‘It’s a bit rough for me,’ she said apologetically.
    He looked at the waves. ‘Really? You’ve got to be joking.’ The surf was extremely mild.
    ‘I’m not a very good swimmer,’ she admitted, shamefaced.
    ‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’ Alan was surprised. They’d been to the beach together on family picnics a number of times over the years and he’d never noticed Paola was a poor swimmer. But then, he thought, there was probably a lot he hadn’t noticed about Paola.
    ‘I usually avoid the surf. That way people don’t find out.’ She gave a rueful shrug. ‘I look Italian enough as it is,’ she added, ‘and being a lousy swimmer’s so terribly un-Australian.’
    He didn’t get the connection. ‘What’s wrong with looking Italian?’
    ‘Nothing I suppose.’ She shrugged again, carelessly this time. Then with a sudden change of heart, and much to her own surprise, she found herself confessing. ‘Well yes, there is actually. I was born here. I’m Australian. I get sick of people calling me a dago and thinking I’m a foreigner just because of the way I look.’
    There was a pause before Alan’s response, which strangely enough popped out with the greatest of ease. He didn’t feel in the least self-conscious.
    ‘I love the way you look.’
    ‘Do you?’ She flushed with pleasure. ‘Do you really?’
    ‘Yep. You look just like Natalie Wood.’
    Paola burst out laughing. ‘Natalie Wood’s not Italian.’
    ‘She looks Italian.’
    ‘Natalie Wood’s about as American as you can get.’
    ‘She’s not actually.’ Alan’s tone held an air of superiority. ‘She’s Russian-American – I read that in a magazine somewhere.’ Then he added with a ring of triumph, ‘So what about that? Natalie Wood’s Russian-American and you’re Italian-Australian. You should be proud of your ancestry, Paola. I’ll bet
she
is.’
    ‘I am.’ Paolo flushed again. She was very prone to flushing, but this time it was with guilt. She felt she’d betrayed her family in admitting her private secret to Alan Durham, and she wished now that she hadn’t. ‘I am proud,’ she said, staring down at the sand.
    ‘Of course you are.’ Alan cursed himself. He’d been clumsy and hurtful. His intention had been to offer encouragement, not criticism. He reached out and took her hand, unsure of what he should say to make amends.
    She looked up from the sand and met his gaze.
    ‘I meant it as a compliment, you know. When I said that you look like Natalie Wood?’ He thought how terribly lame and pathetic he sounded.
    Paola could see the desperation in his eyes. ‘I know you did.’ She smiled. ‘And I’m flattered. Thank you.’
I love the way you look too
, she thought,
so solemn and serious, and yet when you smile so like a little boy
.
    Alan breathed a sigh of relief and then stood abruptly, pulling her to her feet. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s go to The Basin and I’ll give you a swimming lesson.’ A mile and a half around the point, past the holiday bungalows and the golf course and the rocky outcrops of basalt that typified the area, another long sandy