by Alam, Donna
‘To sign—a release to sign! Hand it over, I just want a peek, for god sakes!’
‘That’s what they all say.’
‘I’m beginning to think you’re hiding something.’ I fold my arms and pull that face. You know the one, you’re up to something and I know.
Reaching out, he briefly twists a lock of my hair between his fingers.
‘That sounds like a distinct lack of trust.’
‘That isn’t it,’ I answer quietly, my gaze falling away. Not for long, as his finger tilts my chin.
‘Then tell me why?’
‘Because, well. Can’t I just want to look . . . at them?’
He seems to regard me with a mixture of amusement and doubt for a moment before he pulls his phone from the nightstand. Still holding it out of my reach, he adds, ‘No deleting any, okay? At least not without discussion first.’
I nod in acquiescence and grab it quickly before he changes his mind, flipping straight to the photo app. Last time I looked, the images were mostly of me. And PG rated. This time, not so much. Fuck me! Well, there are a few close to me being fucked, but as an active participant in those moments, I shouldn’t be surprised.
‘Kate?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Have you done this sort of thing before?’
‘What?’ My gaze rises fleetingly from an image of my back; the light in the photograph softly focussed, practically black and white. My spine is highlighted, almost pronounced, the silhouette of my body like an hourglass. ‘Pictures?’
‘I’m loath to bring it up, but when your ex turned up at your apartment, back in Dubai? He said he had pictures of you, I think . . .’ His words trail off almost uncomfortably.
Like a sudden cold stone in my stomach, I realise what he’s referring to: Shane on my doorstep with his worthless apologies, expecting me to be grateful and forgiving. Instead, he turned up in the middle of a terrible row Kai and I were having. I was almost naked, wearing nothing more than a sheet.
I’ve seen it all before, have a few pictures of her somewhere.
Right before Kai went for him.
‘Would it bother you?’ I try not to look at him, continuing to absently flick through his phone.
‘I’d be lying if I said no.’ His reply is quiet, his eyes downcast. ‘You’re mine now. It’s that caveman thing. I wonder if I could induce him to part with them.’
‘Why would you do that?’ I ask immediately. And horrified. ‘Surely they’d be of no interest to you?’
‘I don’t want to see them, habibti.’ He rubs one finger across his nose. ‘Okay, maybe I do. Call it sick curiosity, though I meant more for you. For your peace of mind. That and I’d hate to think that he might still be looking at them.’
‘Then let me put your mind at ease,’ I answer, biting back a measure of chagrin. ‘He probably has a couple. Pretty tame ones. I was . . . topless sunbathing. So, in theory, he might not be the only one who took pictures. But that would be flattering myself as mine weren’t the only boobs exposed.’
‘Topless bathing? I’ve got to get you to France.’ He chuckles, suddenly looking thoroughly amused. ‘That sounds so unlike you.’
‘It was. Is.’ I shrug. ‘It was a while ago. A group of us were at the beach, we’d all been drinking cruisers. I thought I was being brave.’ I half turn from him, trying not to recall the day. I won’t tell him about later on, the blinds half drawn in our holiday let, the sun casting shadows across Shane’s face as he’d brought out his phone. The sand covering my skin like a dusting of brown sugar.
‘Hey, don’t be upset.’
‘I’m not,’ I answer quickly. ‘Just, these.’ I hold the phone in front of him. ‘They’re dangerous.’
‘Dangerous how? You and I are for keeps.’ He pulls me into his arms, settling his thighs behind mine. ‘You’re mine. And you’re wonderful. And I’m in awe of you.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I scoff.
‘It’s true.’
‘Were you not at my mum’s door yesterday? Did you not watch me regress to a stroppy teen and totally lose my shit? That’s not the definition of awesomeness, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘I said I was in awe, though I thought that display was on the right side of awesome. Good to know you aren’t completely without familial issues. I’ll admit, it was fun to watch.’
‘Gee, thanks.’ I say, swinging my hand behind me in an effort to slap his arse. And failing. ‘I suppose I’ll have to go home at some point.’ I sigh deeply. I so don’t want to. ‘They’re probably wondering where I am.’
‘They know you’re with me.’
‘They saw us leave together, but they don’t know who you are—where I am. ‘Cos I haven’t—’
‘I called,’ he interrupts.
‘What?’ I twist my head over my shoulder. He can’t be serious, can he?
‘I called today. Yesterday evening, I suppose. While you were asleep. I thought I ought.’
Ah, fuck. So pleased I was comatose for that. ‘What did they say? Did Geoff answer the phone? Give you a hard time?’
‘Calm down. I spoke with your mother.’ His arms tighten and he nudges my thighs with his. ‘I apologized for not introducing myself, told her you’d fallen asleep and that I’d be sure to get you to call in tomorrow, though I rather got the impression she thinks you’ll be continuing to stay with them. She said something about you having flu, and that I was to let her know when we were due to call.’
‘Piss off,’ I say with half a laugh. ‘She did not.’
‘I’ve been invited to something called morning tea. Is that like high tea? Afternoon tea with cakes and cucumber sandwiches? Sounds very proper.’
‘Hang on—she invited you?’ Twisting my head, I try to look at him. He must’ve pulled out all the charm stops for a reaction like that. ‘How’d you get the number? Never mind, just don’t be fooled. Shit will hit the fan the minute I step through that door. They’re the ones responsible for letting Shane in and constantly interfering. I don’t want to drag you—’
His arms wrap around me; his finger at my lips silencing me. ‘You aren’t dragging me into anything. We’re in this together. Besides,’ he says as the finger traces down my neck. ‘I need to meet them, especially as I’m to ask permission.’
‘Permission for what?’ My voice is light with anticipation, the atmosphere having changed suddenly.
‘For marrying you.’
‘You asked me, you don’t need to ask them,’ I say straightening uncomfortably in his arms. ‘This isn’t 1903.’
‘You offend my sense of propriety, habibti. ’ He pulls my body back against him, forcing me to relax.
‘I wonder if it’s the same sense of propriety that has my boob in your hand.’
‘No, that’s a sense of proprietorship.’
‘I see. It’s ownership you’re after?’ Even I can hear the dangerous edge to my voice. It’s archaic—I don’t need to be passed from parent to spouse like some fucking chattel.
‘Yes,’ he agrees, kissing the place where my neck and shoulder meet, causing me to shiver and stealing the accusation from my next words.
‘You’re a Neanderthal.’
‘But I’m your Neanderthal,’ he answers, succeeding in rolling us both onto our sides. ‘I’m a stranger to them, Kate. And I’m coming to take you away. Please let me do this properly.’
I don’t answer. There is no retort. Possibly more to do with his explanation than the way he rolls my nipple into a stiff peak.
‘She said to be there around eleven. I suppose we should shower soon.’
Moments later, his movement slows, his hand opening as his breathing changes, setting into a deep and regular pattern as the arm across my body becomes heavy as he slips into sleep.
I wish I could say the same. Filled with the thoughts of facing my mother and Geoff, telling them I’m about to get married, makes me wish I could retreat into sleep. In fact, the whole situation has me feeling as prickly as an echidna
humping a broom.
I manage to lie still for a few more moments, ensuring Kai has drifted off into a deep sleep, before lifting his arm and slipping from the bed.
Chapter Sixty-Four
A mercifully long shower clears my mind and expels the devil-odour from my body. I hate being unclean, and unless I shower shortly after crawling out of bed, I know I’ll spend the rest of the day in a total strop. A shower is my grumpy body’s alarm call. So shower, then a caffeine infusion. Failing that, prepare to stay clear of me, or risk losing your head.
Scrubbed shiny and wrapped in a massive, fluffy towel, another wrapped around my head, I creep back into the bedroom, not that it looks like I need to be quiet. Kai lies on his back, arms held across his chest, apparently sleeping the sleep of the dead. It’s kind of an appropriate description as he looks a little like an effigy on some tomb. Other than, you know, the breathing, and the colour in his skin, but stately and sort of regal, all the same. I stand in the doorway just looking at him, resisting the urge to go to him, to touch, to cover him with my fingerprints. But he so obviously needs this sleep, and it looks like jetlag has finally claimed him.
He’s so heart-achingly handsome, sleep stealing the tension from his face. I can imagine what a beautiful child he must’ve been; dark wavy hair and large soulful eyes, I’ll bet. My thoughts slip from one to another, and before I know it, I’m imagining what our children would look like. And if that isn’t a mind-fuck, then I don’t know what is. I grasp the back of a chair, set in front of a French-style dresser, sliding my butt into the seat.
I’m getting married to a man I’ve only known a few weeks, and that doesn’t freak me out one bit. And neither does thinking about kids.
Ankle biters. Carpet grubs. Rug rats. Don’t I get enough of them at work?
I’ve never imagined having kids, beyond the way you do in a kind of distant, fleeting way. Like everyone does, I guess. Becoming a parent seems such a grown-up thing to do, and I’m pretty sure I’m not ready to grow up.
But what if he doesn’t want children? Or what if he wants them, like, immediately? Or a dozen! What was it he said once about families in Dubai being like tribes? I don’t want to breed a dozen—Christ, my body would be shot! Stretch marks as wide as a highway and a vag like a gumboot top!
My chest tightens under the sudden effort of breathing, my heart banging in my chest like a runaway horse. I lean forward, planting my head against the cool, cool wood.
Get a grip. You’re overthinking again. None of that is happening. Pull yourself together—maybe you need a distraction, or maybe you’ve got low blood sugar or something?
My gaze slides back to Kai; my fingers itching to move the hair that’s fallen across his brow. It’s hard not to go to him, knowing he has the ability to make all thoughts fall away, bringing me ecstasy and white noise to fill my head. But it actually might be a good idea to go grab a bite to eat. Build up some stamina, because, you know, sustenance. And sugar.
Clothes. Of course, I’ve got none here, so I decide to swipe one of his shirts. On one of those hotel suitcase-rack-thingies, Kai’s luggage sits: a folded leather suit carrier and a bag that would probably be more appropriately called a valise. Posh bugger. Heaving the suit carrier off, I open the case and grab the first shirt.
And out falls a little black box, emblazoned with Damas. The jeweller.
If my heart was banging before, this time it’s fit to explode. Which is exactly how I treat the box. Like a small, unexploded bomb, as I gently place it back inside the bag.
I’m getting married, I think. And his asking me wasn’t some off-the-cuff desperation thing . . . he hadn’t known what had driven me away, only that he wanted me, at any cost.
He planned to ask me, only knowing he wanted me for keeps.
Relief floods my veins thick and fast. An acknowledgement of a tension I’d not sought to understand. I slip on his shirt, filled with a joy of Disney proportions. Like Niamh said, where are the mice and bloody bluebirds when you want to sing and dance about being in love?
I’ll go make myself a coffee and leave my darling fiancé to sleep!
Practically skipping out of the bedroom, I halt at the top of a very grand, glass and steel staircase.
What if it wasn’t a ring? What if it was more high-end nipple clamps? Jewelled, maybe?
My heart falls slightly, before jolting quickly.
I suppose that would be okay, too . . .
Whoever designed this house was a huge fan of white: various shades of white sofas, white-washed furniture, and walls lead the way to an open plan kitchen which runs across the back of the house. A sparkling rectangular pool is visible from the wall of glass as beyond, the nearby breakfasting area looking onto a sleek timber deck via massive bi-folding doors. Outside, low-slung chairs, loungers and potted palms dot the pool’s periphery and an immaculate lawn leads to a pontoon deck and the ocean. And, of course, there’s a boat. Nothing like Kai’s super yacht, though it’s certainly big enough to get to the Gold Coast, its high-rises and beaches shimmering on the horizon.
In the kitchen, gleaming white cabinets—the sort that are far too stylish to have handles—sit beneath stainless steel worktops reflecting bright sunshine onto the startlingly white walls. Should’ve brought my sunnies. A row of tiny potted agaves are the only items in the room that lean towards homely, the setting more high-end restaurant than a place of residence.
I try to open a couple of the drawers and cupboards, or whatever combination of storage is concealed, by pushing at the corners, the middles, all in an effort to get one of the damn things to open up. I even break a nail trying to wedge my fingers between the tiny joints, all in search of a glass. Dry of throat, I give up and open the commercial-sized silver fridge, pulling out a carton of OJ—not my favourite style, this one has bits—and drinking it from the tetra-top instead.
‘Nice day for it.’
Orange juice is propelled from my mouth, hitting the glass shelving of the fridge, a carton of eggs and some cheese. I cough my way through the liquid I’ve inhaled in surprise. What the hell? I thought we were alone!
‘It sure is,’ I say wheezing, though what it’s a nice day for, I’m not yet sure. Causing death by choking? I keep the fridge door open, shielding me from the person behind the voice, wiping the orangey bits from my chin and brushing the droplets from Kai’s shirt.
‘Hi,’ I add brightly, although a little hoarsely, closing the fridge door to see a spikey-haired and brightly bleached blonde. A blonde with no dress sense? No, wearing a uniform. Chef whites? She’s a chef! The house chef, maybe? This place is grand enough to have an army of staff.
‘G’day.’ She holds out her hand. ‘Jazz.’ It takes me a split-second to realise that was an introduction and not some random demand to pop on the radio. ‘Hey, don’t I know you?’ she asks, staring intently, giving me one of those looks where sheer force of will demands an answer.
She does look vaguely familiar as I hold out my hand to complete the greeting. Tall-ish, but then again, isn’t everyone compared to me? About my age, but sort of hip looking, or as cool as someone in black and white clown pants can be. Maybe it’s her piercings—the fleshy bit between ear and cheek and one of those tiny above lip piercings. An eyebrow, too.
‘I’m not sure—’
‘Yeah—didn’t you go to St. Bridget’s? I’m pretty sure we had, was it P.E. together?’
Her eyes flick over me again, landing on my bare legs, no doubt only confused, recognising them as usually being covered in bruises. You see, I’ve just realised this chick has seen me eat dirt on more than one occasion, probably recalls hearing our sadistic teacher—why do gym teachers have to be shit-heads?—shout that I run like ‘Farmer Giles’. It took me years to work out that, as a rule, farmers don’t actually run funny. She was insinuating I run like someone afflicted by piles.
I don’t, but this is why I don’t exercise. I’m still traumatised. Fact.
‘Yeah, you do look kinda
familiar,’ I demure. ‘I’m Kate. Sorry, my memory’s a bit cactus, but I think I remember you now. Weren’t you on the girls AFL team?’
‘Yup. And the footy team. Touch footie, swim team. The lot. Think I was trying to burn off a lot of feelings and . . . stuff.’ She runs her hand across the back of her head in an oddly masculine gesture. ‘Remember the principal, old bird Contermann? Remember her nickname, the Cuntsaman?’
‘Er, yeah.’ Retired, my old head-teacher plays golf at the same club as Geoff.
‘Those were some top times,’ she adds wistfully. ‘But here we are.’ She holds out both hands, indicating the kitchen around her. ‘Me; the queen of this kitchen, and your personal chef. And you? I imagine you’re getting screwed,’ she says, chuckling.
Screwed? I suppose hiring a house this size and in this location must cost a fortune. Glad it’s not coming out of my pocket.
Opening one of the drawers at hip level, with ease, I might add, Jazz pulls out a chopping board. ‘Fancy some brekkie?’
‘I might in a bit, thanks. Maybe toast. I’ll make it—’
‘Dude! You stick to your job, and I’ll stick to mine. I so don’t wanna swap!’ She chuckles, slapping the board down with a bang. ‘Are you done for the day?’ Turning to open a large handle-less walk-in pantry, her words are muffled. ‘Or are you still on the clock?’
I must have it on the brain, ‘cos I’m sure she said cock. Couldn’t have, surely . . .
‘Grabbing a bite to keep up your stamina?’ She sniggers weirdly, appearing with a large loaf of sourdough.
‘Yeah,’ I say, sounding slightly confused. ‘Something like that.’
‘So I’ll make your toast. It’s my job, after all. I come with the house. Sweet gig. Got a little annex flat above the pool house, rent free, too. Get to use the pool and stuff, when it’s not tenanted.’