Jemimah quietly closed Angie’s bedroom door and turned the lock. Avoiding any glimpse of the mirror, she unhooked the garment bag from the top of the wardrobe door and lay it across the bed. She faltered, the tightness in her chest and the tension in all her muscles increasing at the thought of even unpacking her dress

Stop and breathe, she told herself. You've made it this far.

She had been brave joining the ball planning committee, and brave accepting the extra responsibilities in preparation for the ball - and very brave to show up today and expose her place cards, menus, and folded serviettes to the working party’s scrutiny.

She’d been brave not bailing out on partnering Derek, braver still putting herself in Sonja’s hands for the make-over and, finally, braver than she could have imagined when she’d forced herself to open her eyes to face her reflection in the mirror. Though admittedly, she hadn’t been brave enough to do so since.

Brave - or just too cowardly to say no? Lord, have I done the wrong thing?

Jemimah released one last slow breath when the sound of the shower ceased. Angie would need her room to dress in very soon, and she could postpone the inevitable no longer.

With forced determination, she slipped off her working clothes and unzipped the garment bag. The sight of the sparkling scarlet gown sent her heart racing again with an overwhelming mix of apprehension and excitement.

She had been brave about the dress, too.

She could smile about it now, but finding a dress that met Angie's exacting standards yet was modest enough for Jemimah to consider had been the greatest test of their friendship so far. Angie had immediately vetoed Jemimah's idea of re-wearing her high school formal dress, and Jemimah privately agreed that the dress she’d worn as a teenage schoolgirl would hardly fulfil her dream for Michael to see her in a different light.

But after spending Saturday after Saturday traipsing around Narrabri and then Moree and Tamworth to argue with Angie over dresses with low cut necklines and thigh high splits - and each as expensive as a set of very good tyres for her car - it seemed wearing her old dress would be her only option. Even if - as Angie bluntly put it after seeing the photos from her formal - she would look like she was auditioning for "Sixteen Going on Seventeen" in The Sound of Music.

The situation became dire when Angie issued the ultimatum of a weekend shopping trip to Sydney which Jemimah vehemently resisted although she was at a loss for any better suggestions. Then providence intervened in the form of Sonja Winslow, ringing Angie to say she'd come across a designer's sample she thought would be just perfect for Jemimah and was she interested? The price was right and the description ticked Jemimah's requirements -- so she quickly sent a cheque and hoped for the best.

The package from Sydney had arrived in Angie's office earlier that week and during a rushed lunchtime try-on both Jemimah and Angie were incredibly relieved it was a perfect fit. Jemimah would never have had the courage to even consider the striking scarlet gown if she hadn't already bought it sight unseen but by that point, she was simply grateful to have found a suitable -- and stunningly beautiful -- dress for the ball.

Breathe. Jemimah lifted the gown out of the slipcover. She hadn’t dared try it on again or even taken it out to look at it. Just the thought of wearing the gown made everything seem too real: being at the Minningford Ball, partnering a virtual stranger ... and seeing Michael.

Keeping her back to the mirror, Jemimah slipped her bare arms inside the silky lining of the dress, and lifted it over her head, careful not to disturb her hair or makeup. Like reaching up through a waterfall, the dress flowed cool and smooth over her arms and shoulders, until the fitted waist rested just above her hips and the length of the skirt cascaded down her legs to come to a swirling stop just above her ankles.

Jemimah bent her head forward as she fastened the clasp of the halter neck, and her stomach lurched nauseously as her fingers touched the bare skin at the nape of her neck. Fresh waves of panic washed over her and she heard again the scything of hairdressing shears, the irreversible buzz of clippers, and felt the weight of chunks of hair sliding down her back to the floor.

Don't think about it, she told herself, it's done now.

Still carefully avoiding the mirror, Jemimah stepped into her dancing shoes. Despite everything, a tiny thrill coursed through her as the skirt swayed and shimmered with every little movement as she bent to do up the buckles. It was a very beautiful dress.

She straightened and stood perfectly still and watched until the skirt finally came to rest. There were no more tasks, no more distractions. Nothing left to do.

Be brave...

Resolutely, Jemimah turned to face the full-length mirror and stared at the wide-eyed and unfamiliar woman in the reflection.

She drew in a gasping breath. Despite preparing herself, the shock of seeing her hair cropped into a dramatically modern style hit as hard as it had done a few hours earlier. She gingerly reached behind her head and touched the soft, clipped hair at the nape and turned so she could see the way her curls lengthened downwards in an angle from the base of her head to her jaw line in the front "to emphasise her slender neck and delicate heart-shaped face" as Sharon had described her design.

Relieved of their length and layered to increase their volume and movement, her curls were full and buoyant, reflecting the light in a myriad of pale gold spirals which swept playfully across one eye as she turned her head back to the front.

Still with the sensation of looking at the face of a stranger, she assessed the effect of Simone’s artistry. Her eyes, outlined with smoky kohl and surrounded by lashes darkened and lengthened with mascara, seemed unnaturally large and blue, and perfectly blended eyeshadow shimmered across her eyelids. Her cheekbones were expertly highlighted and defined with clever shading to look like a movie star’s. The focal point was undoubtedly her lips, shaped in a perfect cupid's bow, the glossy scarlet lipstick vivid against a flawless porcelain foundation.

Again, Jemimah found herself second guessing: if she had known what Sonja and her colleagues were planning, or if she'd been given time to consider - would she really have refused?

Wasn't this what she'd secretly wanted? Not specifically the short hair or the professional model make-up, but something other than the way she always looked. Then why wasn't she sure that she really wanted it now?

Facing the glamorous stranger in the mirror was unnerving, but objectively Jemimah could see that they had made her look stunning -- and entirely unlike a schoolgirl. As Angie had put it as they left Minningford, she was literally ready to walk onto a magazine shoot.

Jemimah stepped back a couple of paces and critically assessed her dress. It fit her figure perfectly, smoothly following her curves without being tight or provocative. She loved how the high halter neck meant she could move freely without needing to worry about modesty and the gown's long skirt did not cling but hung in gentle folds when she was still and flared out with a life of its own the moment she moved.

It swung out now, as she turned to look over her shoulder at her reflection from behind. Although it was not unusual for a ballroom gown, she would never have chosen such a low back and felt uncomfortable at the sight of her exposed bare skin. Reaching into the garment bag she unfolded the matching scarlet wrap and draped it across her back and arms.

Yes, perfect -- worn like that not only did it cover everything but the top of her shoulders, it added an elegant finish to her outfit.

She wore no jewellery apart from the tiny diamond earrings that were a 21st birthday gift from her parents and her usual slim golden watch, having decided her glossy scarlet fingernails already added more than enough glamour to the outfit. Watching her reflection, she raised her arms into a standard ballroom hold, surprised by how much her body had changed since moving to the Plains. She hadn't realised that the regular running had done so much to shape and tone not just her legs, but also her hips and waist and even her arms -- though perhaps the heavy basket she lugged to and from school each day contributed to that.

Unable to resist one final twirl, Jemimah spun in a circle, glancing down as her gown swirled around her. Her neutral-coloured dancing shoes not only added a literal three inches to her height, but the smooth line of colour from her pantyhose to her shoes created the impression of very long legs. She smiled, noting that for once she didn't even look short. At least while she wasn't standing next to anyone.

Jemimah shook her head ruefully. The illusion wouldn't last long since her dancing partner soared well over six feet. Then, at the thought of Derek and the ball - and Michael - the queasiness of a thousand butterflies taking flight inside her returned with a vengeance.

She really was going to be at the Minningford Ball. Within the next hour.

She really was going to be partnering Derek Winslow. And dancing with him all evening.

And she would be seeing Michael. And he would be seeing her in a way he never had before.

Breathe, Jemimah told herself, and be brave. They have made me look the part. All I have to do now is be there and smile and dance. Just like any of the other women.

But she wasn’t brave enough to be alone with her hopes and fears for a single moment longer. She turned her back on the mirror and headed toward the family room where she could hear Nan and Pastor Turnbull's comfortingly familiar voices.

Jemimah only got as far as sliding the door to the family room open a couple of inches before losing her nerve. Who was she kidding? No matter how Sonja and her friends had dressed her up, inside she was exactly the same immature and self-conscious girl who was feeling increasingly in over her head.

"Is that you, Jemimah?" Nan had heard the movement of the door and turned in her seat toward the doorway.

Jemimah leaned her forehead against the door frame and closed her eyes.

"No, it's not," she admitted from her side of the narrow opening. "I don't know who it is, but it is certainly not me."

The warm laughter of Nan and Pastor Turnbull drew a reluctant smile to her lips. They had become family, and she was so grateful.

"Come on through and let us see what they've done to you," Pastor Turnbull called across the table.

"You knew?" Jemimah opened the door but lingered in the hall. "I had no idea until --"

"Oh, my!" Nan's hands flew to her mouth, "Jemimah -- you look gorgeous! Come on in so we can get a proper look at you."

Jemimah stepped forward but hovered just inside the doorway.

"That is quite a transformation," Pastor Turnbull said from his seat opposite Nan, "but stop hiding behind the table and step over to where we can see you."

Jemimah nodded and obediently walked toward the lounge area and twirled slowly so her full scarlet skirt shimmered and rippled around her.

"You look beautiful lassie, your parents would be very proud. Make sure you get a photo for them tonight."

Jemimah blinked rapidly, her eyes tearing up with gratitude for their kindness.

"And that's the gown Sonja sent for you? Then, she certainly deserves her reputation for taste. Sometimes it's nice to have friends with connections, isn't it?" Nan winked, and Jemimah laughed in spite of her nerves.

Pastor Turnbull nodded. "You could walk up and accept an Oscar looking like that."

"For best actress? I know I’m pretending to be something I'm not, but I don't think I can pull off an Oscar-worthy performance." Jemimah knew he'd been paying her a compliment, but it cut too close to the truth. "I feel like a silly little girl playing dress-ups in her mum's dress and lipstick."

Nan shook her head. "You certainly don't look like a little girl. With that change of hairstyle and makeup you look every bit the professional young woman you are."

Jemimah moved to the table and dropped into the empty chair between the Turnbulls. "Do you really think -- all this - is okay? The makeup and dress I can take off after tonight, but my hair," she touched the back of her head self-consciously, "I'm worried that was a big mistake."

"No - it really suits you. You'll soon get used to it. And if not, it will grow." Nan reached over and patted her hand, "When Angie told me last night what Sonja had planned for you, I wondered if she should give you some warning."

Jemimah shrugged. "I can't decide whether that would have been better or not. I did want to look different --- I just didn't know I would feel so ..." When no words came, she shrugged again. She really didn't know how she felt.

Nan squeezed her hand. "Just relax and enjoy your night of being Cinderella. You certainly look the part, and I'm sure you will have a wonderful time."

"Talking of Cinderella," Pastor Turnbull said sombrely, "and acting in my self-appointed role of locus parentis may I suggest it would be wise not to stay too long on the other side of midnight?"

Jemimah nodded. "I have every intention of being gone before the clock strikes twelve. Angie promised we'd leave by then -- did she tell you she's sleeping over at my place tonight?"

"She did, and it sounds like a very good idea. From what Angie has been saying they're expecting a lot of people will be staying the weekend at Minningford this year."

"Yes, they are. I've seen the new guest rooms they've just finished, but apparently they've also got converted sheds they call the bunkhouses where most of the younger people will be staying."

"Hmm. Well, I'm confident everything will be well managed during the ball, but I wouldn't make any assumptions about afterwards. It's quite a mixed group that attends."

The phone rang and Pastor Turnbull rose immediately, picking up his mug. "You'll have to excuse me, I'm sorry. I'm expecting this call and I'll take it through in my study. I hope you all have a lovely night."

"Thank you." Jemimah watched him close the door after and then turned back to Nan.

"Have you seen Michael?" Nan asked, before taking the final sip from her cup.

"No -- but I know he arrived safely," she replied, assuming that was why Nan asked. "He drove three of Sonja's friends up from Sydney and those girls joined us in setting up the ballroom. I didn't see any of the guys at all today - they were all assigned to the outdoor work and getting the bunkhouses ready."

"Yes, I know Michael's back." Nan smiled and got up from the table. "He headed into the second shower just before you came through. I've got to go and bring in the washing and then get the chooks in for the night - why don't you make yourself a cuppa and see if that will help you relax? You're still looking a bit uptight. "

Jemimah realised she had begun twisting her hands together when Nan had mentioned Michael and quickly stilled them. "Thank you -- I think I will. Angie shouldn't be too much longer, anyway -- we're meant to leave in less than 10 minutes."

"That soon? Tell Angie to give me a yell if I'm not back inside." The older woman leaned down to give Jemimah a quick hug and a kiss to the top of her head and then headed out the door into the early evening.

Jemimah glanced at her watch. There would be enough time for a warm, sweet tea -- and at the very least it would give her something to do while she waited for Angie. If Michael had not long gone in to get ready, they would likely leave without seeing him -- but she would put enough water in the kettle in case he wanted to make himself a cuppa afterwards.

As Jemimah rose from her chair, her wrap slipped down her arms. She started to pull it back into place but thought better of it and carefully folded it over the back of the chair. The Turnbulls’ gas cooker still daunted her, and she didn't want to risk setting the wrap’s dangling fringe on fire.

She filled the kettle from the rainwater tap, lit the stove burner and placed the kettle over the flame. When she was sure she'd got it set up properly, she left it to heat while she found herself a cup, and after a nervous glance at the time, added the milk and sugar in readiness.

Hearing the kettle start to simmer, Jemimah moved toward the window above the sink. She rose onto the tips of her toes, steadied herself with her hands outstretched to either side of the sink, and leaned forward to look across the paddocks to the mountains, dark against the colouring sky. Her heart squeezed at the memory of watching the sunset with Michael on the makeshift bench behind the machinery shed, and thoughts of his friendship and kindness stirred with deeper longings for so much more. She knew it was only a romantic dream that he'd ever think of her that way, but it might be a start tonight if she at least looked as though she belonged among the grown-ups.

Although she heard no sound other than the kettle, something had changed in the atmosphere of the room. Sensing someone’s presence, Jemimah turned to see Michael standing stock still in the doorway behind her, staring straight at her, all at once achingly familiar and yet looking like a stranger.

He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and a richly brocaded tie and waistcoat, his black trousers perfectly pressed and dress shoes gleaming. His jacket was draped over one arm, and he looked more handsome than she could have imagined possible. His freshly cut hair was still damp from the shower, dark strands falling across his forehead, his strong face smooth and clean-shaven.

Her skin heating from Michael’s unexpectedly corporeal intrusion into her daydreams, Jemimah began to smile in greeting, but her face froze halfway as she registered his expression. The familiar amber warmth in his eyes was absent, replaced by a cold, hard glower she’d never seen directed at herself. With a sense of growing dread, she noticed the rigidity of his body, his clenched jaw and tightly compressed lips.

The unmistakable impression of restrained anger forcibly reminded her of Michael's thundery disapproval the afternoon Angie returned too late for their trip to Newcastle. Only this time the dark storm clouds were massing over her head and not his sister's - and she had no idea why. Her stomach clenched when he finally opened his mouth to speak.

"If you hadn't been standing in my own kitchen, I doubt I would ever have recognised you, Jemimah." His voice was devoid of its usual mellow tone but gravelly, each word like the blow of a stone. "You look nothing like the person I remember."

The water in the kettle had begun to roil noisily, but Jemimah was unable to speak, let alone move. Under his glare she felt utterly despised.

"I'll see you at Minningford, then. I just hope you know what you are doing." After slinging his parting shot, Michael turned to pass through the kitchen, brushing against the pantry doors as though he wanted to keep as far from her as possible.

The kettle shrieked as he strode through the family room, Jemimah's scarlet wrap falling from the back of the chair as he passed. He snatched his wallet and keys from the dresser and without a backward glance pushed out through the door.

The slamming screen door snapped her from her stupor like a slap across the face. She grabbed the screaming kettle, arms shaking as she poured it into her cup. Hot water splashed over her hand, and she gasped as sudden pain penetrated her numbed mind. She dropped the kettle onto the draining board and turned on the cold tap, thrusting her stinging hand beneath the rushing flow as her eyes filled with tears.

Vaguely aware of Michael's car starting up outside and sound of gravel crunching under his tyres, she stared at the cold water running over her hand and flowing down into the drain, as though watching her own heart and hopes and dreams spiralling with the water down into the dark abyss.

The hallway door opened slightly.

"Was that Michael?" Angie's voice came through the gap. "Has he gone?"

Jemimah nodded without looking up, her breath catching in silent sobs.

"Good!" The door slid all the way open. "What are you -- hey, did you know you've left the gas burner on?" A moment later the knob clicked off, and the hiss of the burner ceased.

"I burned my hand," Jemimah said, withdrawing it from the water and realising she no longer felt any pain. Her hand just felt cold and icy, like the rest of her body. In stark contrast, her tears were hot as they overflowed her eyes, and she lifted a hand to wipe them away.

"You're not crying, are you?" Angie asked suspiciously, then lunged for a tissue from the box on the counter. "Don't you dare, Jemimah! You're not going to mess up your makeup after all that work!"

Jemimah didn't care if the makeup ran down her face -- she didn't care about anything anymore. For some reason, Michael despised her and everything was dark and hopeless. She closed her eyes and silently submitted to Angie's ministrations with the tissue.

"Phew, it's okay. Must be waterproof mascara," Angie said, stepping back. "Is your hand really that bad?"

Jemimah looked down at her hand, but there was nothing at all to see. She shook her head. "Just ... the shock, I guess."

Angie looked at her shrewdly. "Did Michael say something to upset you? I heard the door slam just before I came in."

Jemimah gave a shuddering sigh and nodded. What could she say?

"How come? How come every time he's here, he has to make you cry?" she demanded. "And you're the one person in the world who never does anything wrong! What did he say to you?"

Jemimah replayed his words in her mind. It wasn't so much what he'd said, but how he said it. And how he had looked at her. It made her feel sick with shame.

"Not much. He ... he said he almost didn't recognise me. But it was clear he ... disapproved."

"What? Why? You look perfect," Angie said, her frustration growing. "And your dress is completely modest, I don't know what he could possibly find fault with."

Something in the way she said "your dress" made Jemimah look up at her, and she suddenly understood why Angie had checked if Michael was gone before she came through into the family room. She hadn't seen Angie's dress on before, and her mouth went dry as she stared at her friend, not knowing what to say. It was a beautiful dress, with a long sleeved black velvet bodice and a bronze satin skirt but the low neckline of the form-fitting bodice revealed way too much, and the skirt had one of those thigh-high splits that Jemimah had so determinedly avoided. The gown certainly flattered Angie's figure, making a feature of her curviness but ...

Jemimah felt her eyes fill with tears again, confused and embarrassed by her disappointment in Angie's choice of dress, and sickened by the realisation that Michael had felt an even greater disappointment -- revulsion, even -- at her own appearance.

"Stop it!" Angie snatched up another tissue and thrust it at Jemimah as her tears threatened to overflow again. "Do not let Michael make you cry! He's the one with the problem; he's the one with the impossible standards so that nothing you do is ever good enough. Why do you think I try to avoid him? You can never please him anyway, so why let him ruin your life?"

Jemimah carefully pressed the tissue to her eyes, for the first time beginning to understand Angie's relationship with her brother. Until now, Jemimah had always thought Michael perfect, infallible even -- and yet how many times had she heard him criticise Angie? She'd assumed his censures must be justified - until she found herself on the receiving end.

And what had she done? Had her hair cut and bought a new dress? Even Michael's own father and Nan had been fine -- no, more than fine - they’d been complementary about how she looked.

But Michael didn't approve and that made her feel like dirt. She'd wanted his good opinion more than anyone's in the world, but because she had coveted more than the friendship he offered, she had now lost even that.

"Oh, stop it, Jemimah! Michael has no right to make you feel like this! Believe me, he's not worth the tears. Don't you dare let him wreck our whole night. We've worked too hard for this not to get to enjoy it."

Jemimah took the tissues Angie held out to her and blew her nose. All she wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed and never, never get back out. But she'd made a commitment to Derek, and Sonja had gone to so much trouble for her. To let them both down at this point would be unconscionable. Not to mention letting down Angie.

She had no doubt that while Angie's disapproval might not equal her brother's, it would be more than she could bear if she disappointed her friend by refusing to go to the ball now.

She would go. And she would honour all her commitments. Like she'd said to Pastor Turnbull, she was only an actress playing a role. But she looked the part, she was a more-than-competent ballroom dancer, and she would do everything in her power to be the perfect partner to Derek for the evening. She would act like an independent, mature young woman -- and she would not cry or let anyone see her misery. Especially not Michael.

Jemimah retrieved her scarlet wrap from where he had knocked it to the floor and pulled it around her shoulders. It gave her at least some comfort to realise that she hadn't cried or even made any response to Michael's censure until he had left the house. He would have no reason to think she was anything but the calm and sophisticated young woman she was determined to appear at the ball. If she was going to cope, she would somehow have to completely block him -- and what he thought of her -- from her mind.

"Dad's still on the phone?" Angie asked as she gathered her things, having obviously decided Jemimah had had long enough to feel sorry for herself. "Probably a very good time for us to leave, then. And where's Nan?"

Jemimah wasn't sure whether to feel better or worse that Angie clearly wanted to avoid them seeing her on their way out. "She's outside. Getting in the washing and seeing to the chickens. She said to give her a yell when we go."

"Sure." Angie led the way to the door, holding it for Jemimah and silently closing it behind her, and then in a voice not much above a whisper called out, "Bye, Nan!"