by Anna Romer
Trying. And failing dismally.
The clock was ticking. After ten days in hospital, and now a week at home, he still hadn’t written anything decent. The painkillers fogged his brain, but without them his broken bones complained so loudly he couldn’t concentrate. His ribs were knitting well, hip hip hooray, but his lower half was still a mess. Broken ankle, smashed tibia, and what felt like half a ton of plaster encasing his lower leg. The other knee with a grade-three ligament tear; the steel brace he wore to keep it still turned walking into a nightmare. He was three months away from his book deadline and fast approaching certain catastrophic failure.
‘Writing is easy,’ American journalist Gene Fowler once quipped. ‘All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.’
Tom sank his face into his hands. It wasn’t just the meds. He’d been sweating blood for months – hell, for over a year – and had still failed to produce anything worthwhile. He’d lied to his agent and publisher. Sixty thousand words, he’d told them. All going well. Should have some chapters ready in about . . .
Never.
He was screwed. His career was over. When the truth got out, they’d wipe their hands of him, never let him publish another word. He couldn’t even give back the advance. He’d written a big fat cheque for Ravensong, and the renovation work he’d had done to make the place liveable had chewed up the rest.
The phone stopped shrilling, but his stomach began to rumble. Breakfast had been a non-event. The effort of leaving his chair and dragging himself to the kitchen – not to mention the ordeal of assembling a bowl of cereal – seemed Herculean.
He pictured them finding him here, months in the future. Or rather, finding his remains. Hunched over his typewriter, his finger bones still poised hopefully on the keys. The black tomcat, who he’d christened Poe after his childhood idol, would pick clean his bones, leaving just a sad old carcass . . .
The phone started again, and he groaned.
Probably his agent checking up on him. She kept nagging him to get a housekeeper. A glorified babysitter, more like. He was already paying a mint for a guy to deliver his groceries, not to mention shelling out big bucks for a physiotherapist to home visit – but still his agent nagged.
What if you fell again, Tom? Couldn’t get to the phone? Had to spend another night hurt, unable to call for help? What if, heaven forbid, you perished out there? Your fans are expecting a big book, do you really want to let them down?
Of course not. But how could he make his agent understand? He liked the solitude of living in the bush. Craved the fresh air, the wide-open spaces. Needed the peace and quiet. He wouldn’t cope with a housekeeper. How would he get his book written with some annoying busybody poking about the place?
The phone had stopped, but his stomach was now gurgling like a drainpipe. He needed to eat. Grappling with his crutches, he hobbled out to the kitchen. It was a bombsite. Empty beer cartons, the remains of last night’s dinner in the sink, a mountain of unwashed dishes. How had he sunk so low?
He’d once done a stint in the desert in a tin humpy to research a historical story – digging for his own water and baking yams on a campfire, his only company a mad dog and an albino kangaroo. He’d done it tough, pushed his own boundaries, and survived. He’d be damned if a couple of broken bones were going to hold him back now.
He’d show his agent. His publisher. He’d show the whole damn lot of them. He didn’t need a housekeeper. With some serious effort he could have the place shining again. His boxes unpacked, his gear sorted, his meals made. Hell, he’d even get the damn novel written. He’d cope alone. Even if it killed him.
But a job that should have taken twenty minutes dragged to nearly an hour as he lumbered about on his crutches. He collected the beer bottles he’d left strewn around the place and stacked them on the bench to recycle. Grabbing a rubbish bag from under the sink, he stuffed it with the worst of the mess, and somehow got it through the back door, along the verandah and into the bin. Exhausted, he headed back inside.
As he opened the screen door, thunder boomed in the distance. Poe streaked along the verandah and then shot between his legs and into the house, knocking him off balance. As he grabbed the door handle, one of his crutches slid out from under him and walloped his damaged knee on the way down. With a howl he pitched backwards, slamming the door in his own face and coming down hard on his bad ankle.
His vision greyed. Sweat chilled his skin and his throat went dry. The world tilted on its axis and when he surfaced through the fog of pain, he found himself clinging to the doorknob, quivering as both legs threatened to buckle under him. If someone had tried to prise off his kneecap with a screwdriver it couldn’t have hurt more. And the ankle he’d come down on so hard . . . well, best not think about that. Just get yourself inside, man, and numb it all with your meds. But when he tried the handle, the door didn’t budge. He rattled the knob and shoved, but it stayed shut. Remembering the dicky latch, he groaned.
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
He looked over his shoulder along the verandah. The kitchen window was propped open for the cat, but Tom would never make the climb. There was only one way back inside, and that was through the door. Good thing it had a glass panel. Turning his face away, he struck the armrest of his crutch hard against the pane. It shattered inwards, leaving an outline of jagged shards. Reaching in as carefully as he could, he felt around for the latch. Somehow the deadlock had engaged. He’d need a key. And the key – he now saw – was right where he’d left it on the kitchen table.
He withdrew too quickly and caught his arm on one of the jagged shards. Blood welled from the cut; it inscribed a perfect red line around his forearm and then began to drip.
Was this some sort of cosmic joke?
He swayed forward, gripping his remaining crutch for balance. As lightning flickered in the distance, another image of the future popped into his mind. This time they’d find his skeleton curled against the back door in the foetal position, desiccated by wind and rain, his bones gnawed clean by Poe, those blasted swallows nesting in his rib cage.
He glanced back along the verandah. He would have to brave the kitchen window after all.
Then he heard a car engine in the distance.
‘The delivery guy, thank God.’
But as the sound droned closer, he remembered that the grocery van had been two days ago. Pressing his bleeding arm against his side, he tried to staunch the steady trickle. Was it Monday? Was he expecting anyone else? Lord, his brain was a fog.
‘Whoever you are,’ he rasped, glaring up at the stormy purple sky. ‘I hope you know a thing or two about breaking and entering.’
• • •
‘Dammit,’ he muttered under his breath, watching the woman approach. She was hurrying along the brick path that cut around the side of the house and through an unruly jungle of camellias, and she was on a mission.
She had to be his new housekeeper. Seemed his agent had gone ahead and hired someone, after all. Though she didn’t look much like a housekeeper.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail from an oval face that immediately caught Tom’s interest. He took a mental snapshot and filed it away for future contemplation. High forehead wrinkled in a frown, wide-spaced intelligent eyes, lush mouth; perfect fodder for one of his trademark sassy detectives. She was wearing a blue Indian-style tunic that skimmed her curves, teamed with navy pants and a moss-coloured cardigan.
Tom shook his head. Who wore cardigans any more?
Her long legs covered considerable ground as she clomped along the pathway in high, impractical shoes. She paused at the foot of the verandah steps to peel off her cardigan, exposing pale slender arms. When she finally saw him, her eyes widened. She hesitated, or rather, appeared to freeze, only for an instant.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Just dandy,’ Tom told her impatiently. ‘Who are you?’
She climbed the steps and hurried
over. ‘I’m Abby Bardot. I tried to call earlier.’ She put out her hand, eyed his bleeding arm, and then withdrew. ‘Looks like you could use some help.’
Tom pointed along the verandah to the kitchen window. ‘Don’t suppose you could climb through and unbolt the deadlock? The key’s on the table inside.’
She didn’t bother looking at the window. Instead, her cool gaze shifted from his face to his arm, then his ruined shirt, before lingering perhaps a little too long on his track pants. Probably taking in the knee splint and plastered leg, but awareness prickled through him all the same. She was way too easy on the eye for a housekeeper. Way too distracting. He was almost sorry she wasn’t the prying busybody he’d imagined.
Almost.
She retrieved his fallen crutch and handed it to him, then dug in her shoulder bag and pulled out a battered iPhone. ‘I’m calling an ambulance.’
He tucked the crutch under his arm, wincing as he resettled his weight. ‘Good luck getting reception. Anyway, the ambulance is an hour away. By the time they arrive I’ll have bled to death.’
She made a scoffing sound, then gave up on her phone. ‘Yeah well, whatever. But you need something around that arm or you will bleed to death.’ Pulling an enormous hanky from her pocket, she flapped it open and stepped up to him.
He blinked. The greyness was sliding back. Spots clouded his vision. He wasn’t aware that he’d swayed forward until she was there in front of him, her hands firm on his shoulders.
‘All right there, Tom?’
He blinked away the dizziness and glared at her, intending to bite out a few choice words – I’m not a freaking geriatric – but the sentiment died on his tongue.
Close up, she was something else. The ivory skin dusted with minuscule freckles, the full, determined mouth, and her grey eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. And something fierce in her gaze that made him think of a vixen he’d once seen at the mouth of her den, fangs bared as she safeguarded what lay within.
He drew a breath, then wished he hadn’t.
Her scent. Sunlight and flowers. Damp skin and talcum powder. Beeswax and . . . God, he was drowning in deliciousness. His nostrils flared to drink in more, and for a moment he floated. He forgot the dead ache in his legs, forgot his throbbing arm. Was even oblivious to the nagging loneliness that had dogged him these past few years. There was just the scent of sunlight and wildflowers.
And her.
But then she moved away and left him swaying by the door, his head reeling. Wondering what in fury’s name had just happened.
• • •
He was staring at me bleary-eyed and for a moment I thought he was going to slither onto the decking boards in a dead faint. But then he blinked and seemed to collect himself, frowning at me as though trying to figure out what I was doing there. And why I was still standing so close. I should say something, anything, to break the awkward silence after almost having hugged the guy, if only to keep him upright. I should at least move away. But like a deer in headlights, I could only stand transfixed by his nearness. By the broad cheekbones and arched nostrils, the strong whiskery jaw and intense eyes. Eyes that were, at close range, a pure deep river-water green.
Gulping a breath, I regathered my wits and shook the folds out of my hanky. ‘Please, will you hold out your arm for me?’
He swayed forward, leaning hard on his crutches. ‘Can’t you just climb through?’
‘You’ve a bit of weight on you, Tom. If you pass out from blood loss, I don’t fancy breaking my back trying to drag you inside. Now hold out your damn arm.’
He glared a moment longer, then held out his arm.
I bound the hanky around the wound and knotted it. The thin fabric was soon saturated, but it would stem the flow for now. I tried not to look into his face again, but as I stepped away, his gaze caught mine.
He frowned. ‘You’re here for the job, right?’
‘Job?’
‘You’re my new housekeeper. My agent sent you . . . didn’t she?’
‘I’m with the Gundara Express. I was hoping you might agree to a story.’
He jerked to attention. ‘Oh wait, what? You’re a journalist?’
‘That’s why I’ve been trying to ring you. I want to interview you for the paper and I thought—’
‘I don’t do interviews.’
‘Look, I’ll give you final say in what gets printed. We won’t publish anything you don’t authorise – you’ll have full control.’
Colour rushed into his cheeks. ‘That’s what you say now. But once you get what you want, you’ll leave me in the dust and print whatever you please.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘You’re all the same, you journos. Twisting the truth to suit yourselves, not giving a damn how many lives you ruin in the process, as long as you get your precious bloody story.’
‘Won’t you think about it? It’d be great morale for the town—’
‘Just leave, okay? Get off my property. Go back to whatever devious little corner of Hicksville you climbed out of and leave me the hell alone.’
We glared at each other for what seemed a full minute. Then with a shrug, I spun away. Loser. No interview was worth this amount of grief. I’d find another way to get my Deepwater feature in the paper. My heels thudded on the decking as I made for the steps.
Tom cursed softly. ‘Wait.’
I looked over my shoulder.
‘While you’re here—’ He gestured towards the window.
I lifted a brow, feigning puzzlement.
He sighed. ‘Won’t you help me get back inside?’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m in a bit of a rush. Hicksville’s calling.’ I hurried down the steps. Birds were chirping up a storm in the camellias, and a black lizard darted under a shrub. Thunder grumbled in the distance and the first spots of rain fell on my bare arms. I had gone halfway along the path before he called out.
‘All right.’
I bit my lips to stop a smile and looked back. He was hunched heavily on his crutches, swaying again, his face in the shadows.
‘I’ll think about it, okay?’
‘Plus photos?’
‘Absolutely freaking not.’
I turned to go.
He growled. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll think about that too.’
‘Great!’ I skipped back along the path and up the steps. Dumping my bag and cardi on a wooden chair, I went to the window, silently giving thanks to whatever unseen force had landed me in the right place at the right time. The stars aligning, my brother liked to call it. Blind luck, my dad would have said. I didn’t care what it was. I was almost home. All I had to do now was find a way to convince Tom Gabriel he needed that interview as much as I did.
I surveyed the window. It was thigh high, easy entry, except for the cluttered sink on the other side. The kitchen benchtops were a combat zone of unwashed bowls and plates and mugs. A battalion of empty beer bottles stood in rows beside an overflowing compost pail. What a slob. I glanced back at Tom, who was leaning on the door, eyes half-closed. He had sagged onto his crutches and his T-shirt was riding up, revealing a glimpse of hairy abs above the waistband of his track pants. He looked exhausted, his face greyish and unshaven, a lock of gingery-fair hair falling into his eyes. It can’t have been easy to cope alone out here with both legs out of action.
He noticed me looking and waved his good hand at the window. ‘I leave it open for the cat. He likes to come and go as he pleases.’
‘Right.’
My attention went back to the window. Good thing I’d decided against the mini-dress and leggings in favour of trousers. Hoisting myself up onto the ledge, I went in headfirst. Going feet-forward made more sense, but I wanted to avoid kicking over the plates and bottles. Once inside, I gripped the edge of the sink and jumped onto the floor.
My mouth gaped. Wow. Despite the chaos, the house was dazzling. Soaring ceilings, heavy timber frames around the windows and doors, and a black slate floor like a glossy
river of molten glass under my feet. Double doors led into a vast lounge room. The dark floorboards needed a sweep, and a mountain of packing cartons leaned against one wall. A tower of books sat gathering dust on a blackwood sideboard, and under the window was the most gorgeous big leather sofa I’d ever seen.
‘All right in there?’ Tom called from outside.
I unlocked the back door and let him in. ‘Where do you keep your first-aid kit?’
He pointed to a cupboard by the sink and I retrieved the box and followed him into the lounge room. His face was greyish-pale and sweat beaded his brow as he lowered himself onto the sofa. I offered painkillers, but he shook his head and eyed the first-aid kit in my hands.
‘I thought you said Hicksville was calling.’
‘Yeah, it’s taking all I have to ignore it right now. Let’s get you sorted first, and then I’ll be out of your hair.’
In the kitchen I filled a clean container with Dettol and hot water from the tap. When I went back to Tom, he had taken off his blood-soaked T-shirt and was using it to mop himself down. Having grown up with a brother, I was used to seeing the male torso in various states of undress, but I caught myself lingering. Tom was fleshy rather than a muscle-man, but there was definition in his arms when he moved them, and under the soft gingery fuzz of his chest hair.
I took his shirt and placed it on the floor by my feet, then dragged a chair over to the sofa and sat beside him. I gestured for him to give me his arm, and he stretched it out, palm-up. The cut was ragged, though not deep. My hanky had placed enough pressure to slow the bleeding to a trickle. I dipped a wad of cotton wool in the Dettol water, and mopped his arm, sponging away the blood from the wound.
Tom watched me. ‘Done this before, have you?’
‘Hmm. My dad liked a drink or two, back in the day. Had his share of falls.’
‘He live in Hicksville too?’
‘Not any more. He’s dead.’
Tom looked at me sharply. ‘God, I’m sorry. What a dickhead thing to say.’
I glanced up, intending to quip something witty like, That wouldn’t be your first, then, would it? – but the words died on my lips. He seemed genuinely mortified, his face rumpled and his green gaze fixed on me in concern.