But I knew that wouldn’t fly. People expected you to be sober and aware of your choices, and that wasn’t how I rolled. If someone had weed and I was flying, I just went with the flow. And if the flow involved a pretty eighteen-year-old kissing me while his lover fucked me, who was I to complain? Life was a rich tapestry of shiny events, dark moments, colorful characters and some frayed edges.
My choices had never been a problem before because I’d never needed to justify them. My girls loved me and they knew I’d gone a bit off the rails sexually since Alec had cheated on me. Maybe they thought it was a phase. But they didn’t judge.
The media, on the other hand, clearly would, and as I went back to looking at the picture of me in a shabby tee shirt, I realized I didn’t want that. I’d spent so long justifying in my own mind that I was okay, I couldn’t bear the thought that all that self-esteem work would be undone by a single mistake.
Fuck’s sake. I’d made so many mistakes in my life. It was completely unfair that this single one would derail my life so completely.
In that moment, I actually felt angry at Max. I completely forgot that I’d grabbed his cock and pushed us into sexual territory. I just focused on the fact that his gallbladder episode and decision to stay at my house had resulted in me being exposed to ridicule—exposed being the operable word—and that wasn’t my fault.
So I lay on the bed, alternating between being angry and feeling ashamed of what my life had become. I had no appetite for Sammie’s thoughtful dinner which I’d jammed into the bar fridge on arrival, but I did glance at the mini bar from time to time, wondering if I shouldn’t just get smashed.
Alcoholic oblivion appeared to have helped Jill during various episodes of her life. Why should I be any different?
I was giving this serious consideration when my phone rang. I snatched it up and was surprised to see Rosie Tatts on the caller ID. I wasn’t sure why, but talking to a stranger who liked me felt like relief. My girls would smother me in sympathy. Rosie wouldn’t.
So I swiped the call open and said, “Rosie. Have you seen it?” Figuring that would be the only reason she’d ring. I hadn’t heard from her since the wedding.
“Fritha,” she said briskly. “Are you with Max Banks?”
I shook my head, forgetting she couldn’t see me. “I’m alone at a motel in the next town where the press won’t find me.”
“They left you alone?” She sounded surprised, maybe even upset about that.
“Yes…”
She harrumphed, then said, “I’m sorry you’ve been pulled into his bullshit. It’s probably an engineered media stunt.”
A what?
I opened my mouth and then closed it again as my brain clicked onto a different track. I’d jumped to the conclusion that Marika had called the press, but I’d never actually accused her of that. She might have imagined I was sacking her because of our scuffle yesterday over Max. I’d just believed Traci and…
Sweet baby Jesus. Could it all be a set up?
I swallowed thickly and said to Rosie, “But I seduced him.”
“He didn’t need sex to create a scandal,” she said patiently. “He just needed you to open the door in the morning. Even if you hadn’t been half-naked, the fact that he stayed overnight…”
I shook my head. “But why would he do that?” Especially if he had a mother who might be upset by it—assuming that was even true.
“Falling ratings,” she replied instantly, as if she saw this all the time. “His new series has to work or his career will stall. Nothing sparks interest like a sex scandal.”
I swallowed again, surprised at how easily I could believe all this. When I’d been with Max I’d trusted him completely, but now I found myself thinking, If it looks too good to be true, it probably is.
Max had always been too good to be true. This scenario of Rosie’s was far more likely than the fairytale of an International celebrity genuinely caring for a twit like me. What had I been thinking?
I felt really bad then, as if I was the most gullible idiot on the planet.
“Fritha,” Rosie said, concern in her voice. “Sweetie, are you okay?”
I shook my head, then remembered she couldn’t see me. “No.” My throat was closing over, and I needed something to halt that process or I’d be blubbing in her ear. “I’m sad.” I hiccupped a sob. “I need poor baby.”
“Oh honey.” I heard noises at her end. “Where are you? I’ll send a car for you. Come to me in Sydney for a few days until this blows over. I’ve just broken up with Dave. We can both get drunk.”
I swallowed again, and realized I wanted that. Jill, Angela or Louella would fall over themselves to help me, but they were all giddy with the blush of new love, and their husbands would be with them and that would only make me sadder, thinking about my stupid fantasies about being Mrs. Maxwell Banks—with a nanny.
What I needed was to be with someone who was as miserable as me. So I said, “Yes,” and I gave her the address. Then I had a quick shower and changed into a floral shift Louella had bought me in Rome. She’d told me the roses suited my red hair. It didn’t crease—that was all I cared about, and while I waited for the car, I plaited my hair into pigtails. That always cheered me up.
Even better, all the activity stopped me thinking, stopped me crying, which was good. I knew as soon as I started talking to Rosie I’d burst out sobbing, and I wanted to pace myself. There were only so many tears a girl could shed before it made her sick.
Soon enough there was a knock on the door and after establishing that the driver had been sent by Ms. Tatts, I snatched up my quilted overnight bag, threw the room key on the bed and left.
When I was seated in the back of a shiny black sedan, snuggled into soft black leather and purring down the highway toward Sydney, I texted Traci to tell her I was visiting friends for a few days so she was off the hook.
I’d taken that piece of paper off the bedside table and put both Traci and Max’s contact details into my phone before Rosie had rung me. Now I was wondering if I should just delete them.
I was actually looking at my phone when it rang and I squeaked in surprise.
It was Max.
My stomach did somersaults then, but I told myself, Benefit of the doubt as I swiped the phone to answer it. I needed to be sensible, but my fluttering heart was full of excitement and hope as I pressed the phone to my ear.
“Fritha speaking,” I said, as if I didn’t know who the caller was. I was pleased to hear myself sounding calm, even relaxed.
“Luv. It’s Max. Are you alright?”
“Fine thanks. And you?” I gazed out the window at the dark scrubland we drove past, pretending I was all casual and couldn’t-care-less when in fact my hands had started to tremble.
“Fine,” he said, then there was a pause. “Traci told me you’re going to visit a friend for a few days.”
“Yep.” I wanted to say so much more, but somehow I held it in, frightened that if I said too much, I’d stray over into accusations, and I didn’t want to go there. Not until I had some evidence, and maybe not even then.
Some stupidities were better left completely alone. I’d learned that the hard way.
“I’m in Sydney,” he said, and then left the sentence hanging, clearly angling to find out where I was going.
“Then you have to see The Rocks area, near the Harbor Bridge. Have you seen it yet? Lots of colonial architecture and stunning stonework.”
“Yes, I’ve seen that before.” There was hesitation in his voice now.
I pressed my lips together hard so I wouldn’t talk, even though I ached to. I hated awkward conversations, but the still-angry part of me didn’t want to make this easy for him. If he had made a fool out of me, I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of using charm.
Eventually I said, “So I’ll see you at Bohemian Brew in a month?”
“Of course,” he said immediately, but a moment later his voice softened. “I’m looking forward to that.”
“I’m sure the press are too.”
Damn. That sneaked out before I could stop it.
Endless seconds ticked over as I pressed the phone harder against my ear and turned away from the window to huddle into the seat, waiting for Max to react.
At last he said, “Well, enjoy your visit, with your…friend.”
He clearly thought it was a man, and despite everything Rosie had said, and I’d thought, I couldn’t bear the idea of him being jealous, so I blurted, “She’s just broken up with her cheating husband, so we’re having an all men are bastards party.”
After a pause, he chuckled, and the sound warmed me in places that hadn’t been warm since I’d been in his arms. “I am a bastard,” he said. “But being with you has given me hope…”
My heart caught somewhere high in my throat and I clutched the phone even tighter. “Hope of what?”
“That there’s still a human being inside me somewhere, with human emotions.” He sounded so wistful I wanted to ask him where he was, and tell the driver to go there.
But I didn’t.
Somehow I managed to get a hold of my reckless heart and remember that I didn’t really know him at all. I’d been with him for twenty-four hours, and that could have been the act. The Pariah who told people how to run their own kitchens could be the real Max Banks for all I knew.
When Rosie had told me it was probably a set-up, I’d felt ashamed for being gullible. It would be crazy to let myself be sucked in again, so I said, “Anyway, I’m fine, so…thanks for calling, and I’ll see you in a month.”
Deathly silence on the other end, and perhaps that had been harsh of me, but I just couldn’t take any more ‘charm’, especially if it ended up being bullshit. That would be setting myself up for an even bigger fall.
“Very well.” He was silent again for another moment, and I wondered if I should simply hang up, until he added, “May I phone you?”
He wanted to phone me.
My desperate brain scrabbled for a reason that he’d do that if he wasn’t genuine. Surely he wouldn’t. What could it gain him? I wasn’t sure, so after a too-obvious pause, I said, “Of course,” and somehow managed to stop myself adding any time.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and then, “Goodnight.”
“Good—” No. He was gone.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it. One minute and fifty-eight seconds on the call register. We’d been speaking for less than two minutes, and I felt as if my world had shifted.
I pressed the phone to my chest, closing my eyes and sighing as I remembered the deep, rough tone of his voice when he’d been talking about human emotions. I so much wanted to believe that was true, that he wasn’t games to get publicity for his show.
Was I stupid?
Well, yes. We all knew that.
But more to the point, did I have it in me to be sensible about Max? Because if I didn’t, maybe I should just give in now and let him trample all over my heart. Even if it was all a lie, wasn’t it better to have something?
I tilted my head and looked out the window again at the peaceful bushland flashing past the car, shadowed by night. It reminded me of the forest where Max had sung and laughed while I danced naked.
That had been real. He hadn’t faked that.
Surely…
Sweetheart, you’re being pathetic.
I could hear Jill’s voice inside my head as clear as if she was sitting beside me. And she was right. Mooning over a man was something we called each other on, like bullshit. It didn’t lead to empowerment. It led to the dark side of self-pity and low self-esteem.
If I didn’t snap out of it, I’d turn up on Rosie’s door looking like a sad-sack, and that wouldn’t do. I had Pippi Longstocking pigtails. They should have inspired me to be brash, action-oriented and relentlessly upbeat.
I usually was.
So I sat straighter in the seat and slipped my phone back into my overnight bag. Rosie didn’t know much about me, and the last time we’d met at the wedding I’d been melancholy and drunk. This time I was determined that she’d see a different Fritha. This time I was bringing my inner Pippi.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You’re drunk.” Rosie poured more wine into my glass, then she topped up her own and slumped onto the white leather lounge beside me where I’d already spilled Shiraz.
“…ish.” I pointed a wavering finger at her. “Anyway, pot kettle.”
She laughed, showing off stunningly perfect white teeth, although the rest of her was a tad disheveled. Her trademark lilac hair was no longer pixie perfect, but instead was sticking out at odd angles, and her crisp white linen skirt was creased and stained from the pizza I’d dropped in her lap.
My bad.
“What time izit?” I demanded.
She pulled up an arm with a trendy oversized wristwatch. “Three…four, twenty…” She frowned down at it, then looked at me. “S’late.”
“Good.” I wasn’t sure why I was pleased about that. Maybe just the accomplishment of having so much booze in my system and still being conscious. “I deserve this hangover,” I declared, poking a finger into my own chest. “I worked hard fr’it.”
“You did.” She smiled at me proudly.
“But you…” I waved a finger near her face. “You’re lagging behind.”
“You’re…lollygagging,” she said in a slurry Brit accent.
“Bollocks,” I shouted, waving my wine around and spilling most of it on me. “That’s tosh, rubbish, and dodgy, mate.”
“Dodgy?” She managed to look affronted. “You’ve lost the plot, you…tosspot! Coming into my house and causing a kerfuffle.”
I snorted. Kerfuffle. “Nice one.” I raised my glass, then I drank what was left of it. Not much. And after that, still smiling to myself, I sort of…faded. My eyes got extra droopy and I slumped backwards into cushy softness.
“S’comfy,” I murmured over the soft buzzing in my ears, and then…nothing.
“Morning!”
I felt something cold and wet on my face and I flailed around, trying to bat it away. It turned out to be a damp cloth. When I could open my eyes, Rosie loomed into view and pointed at my chin.
“Dribble,” she said. “Stat.”
I frowned, not sure if she was teasing me but I wiped the washer over my mouth and chin anyway. “How are you so perky?” My head was echoing like an industrial building where jackhammers and buzz saws were just starting up.
“Drugs,” she said succinctly and walked out of view.
I struggled upright on her lounge, feeling a serious head-spin kick in. “Fuck.” This was bad. I was still drunk.
“Breakfast?” she called out and I made an inarticulate sound of revulsion. “Coffee then?”
I nodded, but that hurt my head so I slumped sideways on the lounge so I could watch her without straining anything. She was bustling around her stainless steel kitchen, making clattering noises that hurt my ears. Her lilac hair was back to its pixie perfection, and she was wearing an amazing dress that was clearly intended for the outside world.
It was a halter-neck in a shade of lavender that was darker than her hair—maybe jacaranda. Finely pleated fabric crossed over like a robe at the bodice but opened just under her thick black belt to reveal a black lace under-skirt that had long swishing tassels, like a twenties flapper dress. The same black lace formed a diamond shaped collar, and her matching black lace heels were impossibly high.
I couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone as glamorous, especially not first thing in the morning after a heavy night. Even her eyes were bright, and her understated makeup looked flawless. I, on the other hand, couldn’t manage to swallow properly—and my eyelashes hurt. I hated that about hangovers.
“Thick and black,” she said, putting a steaming cup down in front of me. “And no inappropriate jokes about that.”
“I’m no racist—”
“I never said you were,” she replied, sitting opposite w
ith a much smaller cup, like an Italian shot of coffee.
“I’m an equal opportunity slut.” I raised my glass. “I’ll sleep with any man, regardless of—”
“Drink.” She looked at me patiently.
I sipped the coffee, pulled a face, then sipped some more. It was the last thing I felt like, but I knew it would be medicinal. “About those drugs.”
She shook her head. “Prescription. I’m not sharing them.”
I frowned, trying to think over the thudding inside my skull. “You have prescription drugs to save you from a hangover?”
“It’s part of my job to attend launches and concert parties.” She said dryly. “People expect me to work the next day.”
I’d never thought much about her job as an agent in the music business. Looking after our beautiful bride Angela would be a piece of pie, she was such a gentle, easygoing person. But Rosie managed a range of artists from heavy-metal rock bands to boybands and country singers.
I knew she was a busy woman. I just hadn’t thought through how hectic her life must be. “Do you take these drugs often?” How much drinking was involved in her job?
She shook her head. “They’re hard on the liver, but divorcing the father of my children isn’t good for the heart, so it was always going to be a shit week.”
“Sorry.” Whatever I’d been whining about last night, she had worse. Three adorable girls, thankfully sleeping over with her parents, and a soon-to-be-ex-husband who had demanded full custody. Fucker.
“So, about Banks.” She put down her cup and crossed one elegant leg, giving me a flash of the lavender boxing kangaroo tattoo on her ankle. “What are your intentions? Have you thought any more about what I said last night?”
I swallowed more horrible black coffee—I usually drank tea—and shook my head. “I don’t even remember what you said last night. Except…we both agreed that Angela’s new brother in law, soldier boy Cal, was sex on legs…”
She gave a restrained shudder, or maybe it was a shiver, and then straightened her back. “I hardly think—”
Husband Rollover (Husband Series Book 4) Page 17