His gaze slid to the mobile phone on his desk, which had not stopped singing about Mary Bloody Tyler Moore all bloody morning.
He rubbed his eyes again, shook his head until his brain rattled inside his skull, then placed his fingers over the keys and clicked on the next email.
Then Caleb sauntered into his office and Damien wondered then and there if the time had come to simply call it quits and go find a nice warm bar somewhere to hole up for the duration.
‘So, at the bank today …’ Kensey’s voice crackled through the landline phone tucked between Chelsea’s ear and shoulder.
‘I’m approved. Though I haven’t signed the papers.’
‘Chels!’
‘I know. I know. It’s a great opportunity. But it’s such a huge gamble.’
Kensey paused, making sure she was listening. ‘This isn’t some pie-in-the-sky get-rich-quick fantasy like Dad would have taken on.’
‘You’re right,’ Chelsea said. ‘I’ll sign them. I’ll probably sign them. Later.’
She flipped open her mobile with one hand and stared at the screen as she had been incessantly for the past minute. There was still no Pride & Groom logo where a logo should be. ‘Now as I was saying, this isn’t my mobile.’
‘So whose is it?’
‘If I knew that I’d be talking to them right now and not you.’
The phone suddenly began vibrating in her hand. She whispered, ‘It’s ringing.’
Kensey finished chewing what sounded like dry biscuits, then said, ‘I can hold.’
‘No, not this phone, the other phone. The evil impostor phone.’ She screened the call, to find her own number looking back at her again. ‘Hang on, I’ll put you on speaker in case it’s the market research guy and he threatens me again.’
She hurriedly put down the landline, tentatively picked up the mobile, and answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Chelsea London?’ the same clear, deep masculine voice from earlier asked.
‘This is she.’
‘This is Damien Halliburton again. Don’t hang up. Please.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Did you dine at Amelie’s earlier today?’
‘I did.’
‘Well, then, Chelsea, I do believe there was some kind of mix-up in the cloakroom. I’ve been forced to relive The Mary Tyler Moore Show more times today than I thought I would have to during the rest of my life. Sound familiar?’
‘It does.’ It also made more sense than the stalker alternative. Chelsea blushed furiously as Kensey’s laughter trickled through her speaker phone.
‘Then the mystery is solved. We have one another’s phones. So how about you give me your address and I can send a cab—’
‘Lord no!’ Chelsea shot back. ‘I’m not sure how close you are to your phone, but mine contains my whole life. Sticking it in a dark pigeon-hole in that rotten restaurant was bad enough. I don’t want it out of safe hands again.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘So I guess we meet. Swap. Go our merry ways.’
‘Much better.’ Chelsea remembered the Joneses’ dog with the tummy bug. ‘I’m afraid I’m stuck at work. Can you come to me? I’m in Fitzroy.’
‘I’m in the city. And considering I’ve spent the past hour trying to figure out what happened I’m more than a tad behind on my work for the day.’
‘Right. So when could we make this happen?’
‘How about we meet at seven back at Amelie’s?’
Her lip curled at the thought of returning to the place. But it made sense. ‘How will we find one another?’
‘It’s typical for the man to wear a rose in his lapel.’
Her right eyebrow shot skyward even though he wasn’t there to see it. ‘This is a business transaction, Mr Halliburton. Not a blind date.’
He cleared his throat. ‘So it is.’
‘Hey, Chels,’ Kensey’s voice blurted from the speaker phone.
‘Hang on a sec,’ Chelsea said to the guy. And then to Kensey, ‘What?’
‘Send each other a picture.’
‘What?’
‘On your phones.’
Brilliant! She knew she had a sister for a reason.
‘Mr Halliburton, did you get that?’ Chelsea asked.
A pause. Muffled voices. Was he checking with his own partner in crime at the other end? Could this day get any stranger?
He finally said, ‘How does one do that?’
Chelsea blinked. ‘My phone is exactly the same as yours.’
‘Now might be the time to admit something to you.’ ‘And that would be…’
‘I have no skills in the electronics area. Can’t even program a VCR.’
‘Lucky nobody makes VCRs any more. It’s all about the DVD hard drive.’
‘And there I was wondering why my Rocky tape wouldn’t fit in the slot.’
Chelsea realised she was grinning. Now that she knew he wasn’t a stalker, she could appreciate the sense of humour that came with the lovely deep voice. ‘How charming. You’re a Luddite.’
‘Card-carrying,’ he said.
‘So get Keppler-Jones or Morganwhoever to give you a hand.’
‘Two of them are dead, and one’s so old he ought to be. And they’ve left the idiots to run the asylum.’
‘You?’
He laughed down the phone, the sound vibrating across radio waves, through metal and down her arm until she gave into the need to scratch her elbow.
‘Nice of you to make that leap so fast. But yes. And lucky for me I have hired well and have someone nearby who I’m sure would have used a photo function on a phone more often than entirely necessary.’
‘Excellent.’
Chelsea knew she ought to sign off and get to work, but all she had waiting for her was goodness knew what gastronomical disaster in the green room. And besides, this peculiar exchange was turning out to be fun. Risk-free, anonymous fun, which was the kind she was more than happy to indulge in. So instead she asked, ‘Um, perhaps we ought to keep note of any phone calls that come through to our respective phones too.’
‘Right. Sorry, I should have mentioned you did have a couple of calls from … ah, Chic magazine, earlier.’
‘Chic?’ Chelsea clenched a fist in happiness. She had been waiting on confirmation that they wanted her to host a two-page spread on celebrity pet accessories. If she wanted a platform from which to announce a possible expansion … ‘I do believe you just made my day.’
‘I take it they’re not chasing you down to pay up on a new subscription, then.’
‘Ah, no.’ This time the grin came with an accompanying laugh, which after the uneasiness that marred her morning felt as good as an hour-long Swedish massage followed by a bubble bath.
‘And when you get back to Chic to explain why I was not you, if they mention anything about my predilection for zebra-print underwear they’re making the whole thing up.’
Chelsea slowly leant back in her chair and began to play with her hair. ‘I’m not sure Chic are in the habit of spreading rumours like that about random guys.’
‘It’s a scandal. Best kept under wraps for all our sakes.’
He paused again. She took a long breath and let it go, the release flowing from her cheeks all the way to her toes.
‘So, any messages for me?’ he asked, and his voice dropped lower. She felt it like a hum in her very centre. Like a warm glow building so slowly her fingers and toes felt cold in comparison.
She sat up straight and curled her toes in her shoes until the blood returned.
Bloody Kensey’s pregnancy, she thought, and, worse yet, rotten Mr Suit and Tie. He was the real reason the voice on the other end of the phone was making her feel warm and fuzzy. She was like a light bulb that couldn’t be turned off. Even the married loan manager at the bank had tried to flirt with her.
‘Ah, no,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘The only phone call I’ve had was from some guy who claimed to have kidnapped my phone.’
‘I hope
you told him where to go.’
She laughed again despite herself. ‘In no uncertain terms.’
‘That’s my girl.’
They both paused again, conversation suddenly, sadly, exhausted.
Chelsea sat forward again, and shook her fringe off her cheeks. ‘So … we do it now? Send the photos, and see you at seven?’
‘Chelsea London,’ he said, ‘consider it a date.’
And before she had the chance to remind him that it was a five-second phone-swap, and no lapel roses would be necessary, he was gone. She slid the phone shut. Slowly.
‘Humona humona,’ Kensey said and Chelsea jumped halfway out of her skin, having forgotten her sister was still on speaker phone.
‘I’m sorry? Humona what?’
‘I could feel the sparks from here. I think he likes you. And for this one you don’t even need to ask for his number! You know it off by heart.’
‘Kensey…’ she warned.
‘He had a great voice,’ Kensey said. ‘Like Irish cream liqueur: creamy smooth and, oh, so bad for your balance unless in very small doses. Call him back. Or, better yet, call Amelie’s and book a table for seven and casually ask him to stay for dinner when you meet up.’
‘I can’t! What if he’s some kind of crazy? Or if he’s eighteen years old? Or married? Or brings his imaginary friend to the table? Or smells like fish? Or hates dogs?’
‘Or is tall, dark and handsome and this whole phone-swap deal was a sign from the gods.’
Oh, no. Chelsea was pretty sure she’d been given her fair share of tall, dark and handsome strangers this day.
‘So what picture are you going to send?’ Kensey asked.
‘Oh, um, I guess I’ll just snap one off now and—’
‘Nuh-uh. Those things are such bad quality. The kids are still in school for another couple of hours. I’m coming over. I’ll help you come up with something sweet with just a hint of slutty.’
‘Kensey…’ Chelsea said, for what must have been the tenth time that day.
‘Don’t argue. Besides, we haven’t finished the bank-loan conversation yet. See you in fifteen minutes,’ Kensey said and then was gone.
For a moment Chelsea wished for simpler times when keeping one’s front door shut was enough of an excuse not to have to make contact with another soul.
CHAPTER FOUR
AFTER what felt like an age later, a soft tinkling sound like a wind chime shifting in a light breeze heralded the arrival of a picture on the mobile phone in Damien’s hand.
‘Let me do the honours,’ Caleb begged.
‘Not on your life.’
‘I have to see what the kinky cat lady looks like.’
‘Now she’s a cat lady?’
‘I’m picturing a sari-wearer. Maybe even bald. Hurry up and check. I’m dying here.’
She sure hadn’t sounded like a bald cat lady. She’d sounded … lovely. Likely because every woman he’d come in contact with since The Caramel-Blonde had turned into a purring temptress as though he were wearing a sign around his neck saying: Newly single. On the market. Fresh meat.
Maybe what he needed was a long holiday. Somewhere warm. And isolated. Palm trees, coconuts, no women, and no mobile-phone coverage. But excellent computer facilities and air-conditioning and twenty-hour working days.
He flipped open the phone, hoping that was all he’d have to do to determine whom he had to find in several hours time. Then he’d get back to work like a good little business owner.
The picture formed on the screen. He blinked. And blinked again. A swell of heat poured like lava through his midriff as his eyes roved over silky hair the colour of rich caramel, delicate cheekbones, and fine pink lips. And he would have recognised those eyes of gold in a crowd of thousands.
He landed back in his chair and swung it around to face the city beyond the great smoked-glass window in his corner office, and ran a hard hand over his chin.
‘Well, what do you know?’ Caleb said, breathing over his shoulder. ‘The cat lady’s a hottie.’
‘Of course she is,’ Damien spat out. ‘It’s her.’
‘Her? Her who?’
‘The woman from the restaurant.’
‘But she was blonde and—’
‘Not the G-stringed teeny bopper. The one who fell into my arms when you were in the loo. I pointed her out to you just before we left.’
Caleb looked closer. ‘Bloody hell, you’re right. She was hot too.’
Damien turned his chair back to face his office, dropped the phone to the desk and leant his forehead into his open palms. ‘Her ticket must have fallen to the floor when she fell. I picked it up. And by all that’s holy we have the same phone.’
‘You lucky sod,’ Caleb said. ‘Now what you have to do is ring her again, tell her you have to change your appointment to later in the evening. Book a table. Get there early. Order a bottle of wine … And why aren’t you writing any of this down?’
Damien shook his head. ‘Because I broke up with Bonnie little more than a month ago. I can’t …’
Want some stranger with such all-consuming immediacy, he’d been about to say. Instead he went with the much safer, ‘I’m of the thought that it would be better for me to not indulge in such pursuits just yet.’
‘I’m not suggesting you marry the girl. Or any girl, for that matter. Dinner. Cocktails. Maybe a grope in the back of the cab on the way home. Sounds like a perfectly fine Tuesday evening, if you ask me.’
Damien did his best not to let Caleb’s words infiltrate. When it came to dealing with the fairer sex Caleb was a schmuck. But he certainly painted a nice picture. Her soft, soothing scent still lingered on his jacket even now. Who knew what levels of pleasure more than two minutes in one another’s company might bring them? Certainly more pleasure than he’d had in some time.
‘So are you going to call Amelie’s or should I do it for you?’
Damien glared up at his friend. ‘Don’t you have work to do?’
‘Slave-driver,’ Caleb said.
And as soon as Caleb sauntered from Damien’s office with a wink and a smile, he was on the phone to Amelie’s to insist they give him a last-minute table to make up for the emotional stress they’d put him through.
Caleb wasn’t often right, but this time he might have been just on the money. The time to get back on the horse was nigh.
Chelsea came back into her office after cleaning and disinfecting the green room feeling as bad as the poor Joneses’ dog had looked. She was wet and bedraggled from top to toe. And she wasn’t certain her shoes had managed to avoid every little surprise left on the concrete floor.
The mobile phone on her desk was buzzing and vibrating until she felt it in her fillings.
‘It’s been doing that for ten minutes,’ Kensey said from her position on the soft window-seat in Chelsea’s office, her nose buried in a catalogue of doggie accessories.
‘So why don’t you answer it?’ Chelsea asked, pulling off her long-sleeved T-shirt and replacing it with an exact match, though one that was warmer and dryer.
‘Fine,’ Kensey said with a sigh, then grabbed the phone, flipped it open, and stared for a few moments, her expression so blank Chelsea began to get worried.
‘What? Tell me. It’s him, isn’t it? Is he creepy? Is he famous? Is he my evil twin? What?’
But when Kensey began to laugh, so hard she clutched her belly and drew her knees to her chest for support, Chelsea grabbed the phone.
She stared at the picture. It was slightly askew, cutting off his left ear and showing far too much room atop his head, but the face, that face, was unmistakable.
Thick, dark, preppy-perfect hair. A dead straight nose. And permanently smiling blue eyes. Damien Halliburton of the creamy voice, charmingly off-kilter sense of humour, and apparent predilection for zebra-print underwear was the very man into whose arms she had fallen.
Chelsea sank into her chair with a thud. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? It’s really him.’
‘And now I have to go back there, tonight, and see him again.’
‘You sure do.’
She glanced down at the wet patches on her old jeans, and flicked a blob of soapy hair from her cheek. ‘He won’t remember I’m, you know, the girl with the bad balance, will he?’
‘You have been given a second chance to blind the guy with your fabulousness. Does it matter if he remembers you?’
Chelsea bit at her inner lip. In the long-suppressed, non-pragmatic, romantic, dreamy, girly places deep inside her it mattered more than she would ever admit.
‘So what does Mr Gorgeous here do again?’ Kensey asked.
Chelsea screwed up her nose and squinted at Kensey. ‘I think he’s some kind of telemarketer. For Keppler Jones and somebody.’
Kensey only laughed all the more. ‘Did you pay any attention to how much our breakfast cost us today? He’s no telemarketer.’
Kensey stood and bumped Chelsea aside with her hip. She leaned over the computer on the desk and typed his name and Keppler Jones into a search engine then clicked on the top listing. And up came a schmick website with all the latest Flash graphics. All creams and sky-blues and greys. Cool, sophisticated, and intimidating.
‘It’s a trading firm. Stocks and bonds and the like.’ Kensey’s nimble fingers skipped over the keys. ‘These places always have pictures of their staff. It’s a total male vanity, “look at me and just guess how much money I earn” thing. Now here we go. Search for Damien Halliburton.’
His page loaded. And another photograph did indeed accompany a bio short on personal information but long on awards, successes, plaudits from financial magazines, big-name clients and other brokerage houses alike. Both girls sagged a little. He was just the kind of guy who made a woman go weak at the knees.
‘He’s really dreamy, Chels.’
‘Yes, he is,’ she admitted.
‘Looks fine in a suit.’
‘That he does.’
‘I’d bet anything he looks just as fine out of it too.’
‘And what a pity that you’ll never know.’
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