“…and that you should fuck him. Show Dave he’s not the only one who can—”
“Banks,” she cut in. “I want to talk about your problems, not mine.” She glanced at her watch. “My car will be here in ten minutes. You have the house to yourself for the day. I’ll be back by five. But I need to know what you want to do.”
“About what?” I put down my empty cup, feeling even seedier.
“About your life,” she said patiently.
Her gaze was clear and calm while mine was decidedly shaky—and probably bloodshot. At last I said, “Do I have to do something?”
She nodded. “You’re drifting, sweetheart. You’re supposed to be the star of your life but you’re acting like a backing singer. Or worse, a roadie.”
“I’m not a star. Angela is—”
“Now that she believes in herself, her talent has a chance to shine.” She let me think about that for a moment before she added, “Yes, she’s obviously beautiful, but do you think you’re beautiful?”
I barked a laugh and opened my mouth to say something derogatory.
She stopped me with a hand. “Wait.” She picked up an iPad and after scrolling a few times she said, “Why is this not your Facebook profile photo?” She turned the screen to face me.
For a disorienting few moments I didn’t recognize the glamorous redhead in the photo with Louella, then the shopfront behind us triggered my memory. Our holiday in Rome. We’d just finished a pampering morning and I’d let her buy me clothes at a designer boutique which we then posed in front of.
I frowned at the image and said, “How did you get that?”
“Angela has it on her personal Facebook page, in an album called Besties. She hasn’t tagged either of you, for your privacy I suspect, but when I first saw it I assumed that her friends were models. Or at least that you were.”
“A model?” I wanted to laugh, but the redhead in the photo was so different to me, it was actually alarming, and that did nothing for the thumping behind one eye.
Rosie nodded at the picture. “Did Louella do this? Did she pick those clothes?”
I shook my head, remembering how I’d teamed a tan woolen cardigan with a faded denim skirt and high heels that were checked in caramel and white. I also remembered the beauty treatments, the makeup and hair styling, but I never saw the finished look because when we arrived back at the hotel I’d been crying and Louella put me to bed.
The shop assistant in the boutique had taken this after we’d bought the clothes. At the time Louella had complimented me on how well I scrubbed up, but I hadn’t realized I looked quite so glamorous.
Rosie only sighed. “If you chose these clothes, you have great style as well as natural beauty. How is it possible that you think so little of yourself?”
“Hair and makeup—”
“I’m not talking about looks,” she said, frowning. “You told me a hundred times last night that you’re a twit, a flake.” She shook her head. “Would you say those things about Angela or Jill or Louella?”
“Of course not!”
“Then don’t say them about yourself.” Her gaze was steely now, and I suddenly remembered Angela saying what a terrier Rosie was when it came to negotiations. My new best friend had a soft side for sure, but when it came to business—or advice apparently—she erred on the firm side.
In my own defense, “But my father was critical—”
“Welcome to the club.” She dropped the iPad onto the lounge beside me, then she stood and donned a long black trench-coat jacket and snatched up a purse. “You have to get a different soundtrack in your head. And start looking like you mean business if you want to be a business woman.”
I glanced down at the yellow cheesecloth harem pants and tunic I’d changed into on arrival.
“You’re too old to be a hippy.” She tied the belt on her trench as she walked to the door. “Find something in my wardrobe. Something glamorous. I’m taking you out to dinner.”
“O-kay.”
“And work out what you want out of life.” She stopped to turn back to me. “Angela was easy to work with because she wanted babies, priority one. Everything else fell in around that. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you want.” She glanced down at that oversized watch. “You’ve got eight hours.”
“Thanks.” I think. I raised a hand in farewell, but I’m not sure she saw it.
And then I was alone, thinking What the hell do I want out of life? Because I didn’t need Rosie to tell me I was at a crossroads. She’d set a good example by making radical decisions in the last twenty-four hours to set her life on a different trajectory. I could learn from that.
She still had her three girls which her parents would help her with, but she was also hiring a nanny because she had to work to keep food on the table. Getting custody of her children was her first priority, career second. Men were way down the food-chain, and I couldn’t blame her for being cynical about them after hearing how long Dave had been cheating on her.
I, however, wasn’t cynical. I was—I’d been about to say foolishly gullible, but that was more name-calling, and Rosie had warned me about that. I didn’t hear all those criticisms in my father’s voice, but they may as well have been.
So it was time for me to start being kinder to myself. I could say I was trusting, which wasn’t a bad thing. And I was also perceptive, and had a good radar for bullshit. Max hadn’t triggered that, so…that meant that I was currently erring on the side of believing in him.
But did that mean that I actually wanted him? Beyond lust? The thought of that hard body and those little mounds of abs I wanted to lick made the throbbing inside me escalate—which wasn’t helpful when I had a headache looming. But emotionally? Did I want more of those bewildering feels?
Forget whether it was possible or not—did I actually want him in my life on a permanent basis? Because that’s what I’d been moaning about in that pity party at the wedding: everyone has a hot, adorable husband except me. I’d been tired of the shelf. I’d wanted to be someone’s wife.
And now, on Rosie’s outrageously expensive white leather couch—which I’d probably wrecked—I remembered how I’d thought, left to our own devices, we might thrive in the warmth of each other’s company. Back then, I’d wanted that.
What did I want now?
I had no clue, but luckily my phone beeped, distracting me, and I had to fish around between the couch cushions to find it. Rosie had texted Whether you want Banks or not, if he calls or texts, don’t respond. Let me work out what he’s doing first.
I stared at that for the longest time, thinking firstly She’s bossy and secondly Can’t hurt I suppose. At the wedding Rosie had been advocating the treat ‘em mean and keep ‘em keen policy for gaining a man’s interest.
Of course, I’d done the opposite with Max, falling over myself to offer my body on a platter—or a kitchen table as I recall…Although before I could get too deep into that particular memory I dragged myself back to reply to her text with, Okay. See you at five.
But would I obey? Or, if Max phoned, would I jump to answer it? The longer I was away from him, the more my body craved that sexy mouth…anywhere really. And I was a creature of instant gratification. So wouldn’t I be going against my own nature if I ignored him?
I frowned, put down the phone and closed my eyes, allowing my body to slump back against the couch.
Fuck all that. I need sleep.
So the world turned, and I napped, hoping for a return to my normal scheduled program—sans hangover—when I woke.
Unfortunately, I dreamt of Max.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Oh. My. God.” Rosie stood inside the front door, blinking at me in shock. “And can I add, Fucking hell.”
“You like?” I did a twirl, which I’d been practicing all afternoon. Luckily for me, Rosie’s wardrobe had contained one pair of four-inch pair of heels which I’d chosen—the rest were six inches and over. They were white with black splotches and h
ad adorable black satin bows on the front.
Prior to choosing them, I’d tried on a few outfits, surprised that she was thinner than me—most people weren’t, and I’d settled on a white Chanel pantsuit—Louella would approve—with a wide collar, belted at the waist. The pants legs were tailored and thin, making me look even taller, and I’d transformed my high Pippi Longstocking pigtails into a more sophisticated low plait that came down over one shoulder and hung at the front, looking casual and sexy, even if I did say so myself.
The makeup, however, was the real star. I’d gone for porcelain skin, understated smoky eyes, and lips that were so lusciously red, they looked edible. In fact, looking at myself in the mirror, the monochromatic outfit seemed even more dramatic because I just had that one pop of color.
Rosie clearly agreed, because she was smiling and nodding to herself. “You look hot.”
I grinned.
“And in case you haven’t noticed, the press is still banging on about you being Bank’s girlfriend—” I had noticed that, and had been secretly thrilled that he hadn’t officially refuted it, even if he hadn’t bothered to contact me all day. “—so if I wanted to stir up my husband, I could take you to an event where I know there are journalists and tell them you’re my girlfriend. That would get you off the hook.”
“Why not?” I was past caring what the press said about me. And I knew she was worried about looking like a victim if news got out that she’d been cheated on, for years. Having a new lover would make her look more powerful, and I got that as a woman in a man’s industry, looking powerful was important.
“Did Banks ring?” She crossed her arms, and that wide mouth of hers which smiled so easily was drawn into a tight line.
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“Good.”
“I know you don’t like him—”
“I don’t know him,” she said, and there was a pause before she went on, “But I know his type. I see a lot of them in my job. Rich, entitled, especially when it comes to women. They’re not keepers.”
“I want a keeper.” I’d been thinking all day about what I wanted. Well, from noon when I’d woken at least. “I want to manage Bohemian Brew because I love feeding people and giving them a beautiful environment to relax in.”
She nodded, smiling again.
“…and I want to be married to a man who adores me.” Someone who thought I was enchanting. No, I couldn’t say that. “Someone who is faithful—”
“Fuck yeah,” she cut in.
“—honest, and says nice things to me.”
“You deserve that.”
I nodded. “I’m going to stop saying bad things to myself and I won’t let anyone else do it.”
“Good for you, sweetie.” She patted me on the shoulder which I imagined was her version of a hug. “Do we know a man like that?”
I frowned.
“Or are we still fixated on Maxwell Banks?”
“He’s such a good fuck.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And that’s so important,” she said dryly.
“Duh.”
“I need a drink.” She walked past me into the lounge room and opened the bar. “I’m having vodka.”
“Nothing for me,” I cut in before she could offer. “I’ve only just started feeling human again.” Then I remembered. “Should I do anything about the media?” Desiree had rung me mid-afternoon to say she’d been inundated with messages at the teahouse from media networks trying to get hold of me for a statement. I’d passed the info onto Rosie, not knowing what to do with it.
“I told them I’m representing you—”
“But…I’m not a singer.”
Could she do that?
“Doesn’t matter.” She took a slug of her drink. “Bottom line, they’ll continue making up bullshit if you don’t release a media statement. You don’t have to front cameras. Just deny the fact that you’re in a relationship with Banks.”
“But he hasn’t.” For some reason that omission was keeping my romantic dreams afloat, even though that wasn’t sensible.
“So are you in a relationship with him?” She tilted her head to the side, as if she was genuinely interested.
I swallowed, and wanted to say Yes I am. Unless he says otherwise, I want to pretend. But instead I said, “What if I tell the press we are an item?”
She frowned. “It will go one of two ways. He’ll either support the idea and you’ll continue to be inundated with media attention. Or he’ll deny it and you’ll look like a groupie who has delusions of grandeur.”
Neither option appealed. “But what if he says nothing?”
“That’s tacit acceptance. Option one, more media attention.”
I shook my head, not knowing what to do. “Can we wait?”
“Not much longer.” Her eyes were sympathetic, but they also looked tired, and after lack of sleep the previous night, I wasn’t surprised. “I’ll change.” She took her glass with her. “Ten minutes.”
She was back in nine, wearing the sexiest halter-neck dress I’d ever seen. Seriously. It was grey, which made her lilac hair look amazing, and had a neckline that plunged to her waist and a hemline that showed enough calf to be sophisticated, along with a whole lot of bare, muscular back.
She’d coupled it with flat silver bangles and metallic silver calf boots that showcased her boxing kangaroo beautifully.
I wolf-whistled and said, “Can I be your girlfriend?”
Despite tired eyes, she grinned, and came over to link arms with me. “How am I ever going to teach you to play hard to get?”
After a day of stressing about the future, it was lovely to just laugh. When I’d woken up at midday I’d rung Angela on the farm, and then Louella—who was in Maui but not yet married. All of my girls were worried, and the tone of the conversations had been concern and fear. They loved me and they didn’t want me hurt. Even Jill, who I could usually get a laugh from, had been gloom and doom.
They were relieved that I was with Rosie, but all three had suggested I keep a low profile until the drama blew over, which was code for stop fucking strange men. Since Max, I’d stopped wanting hot and sweaty with someone new—I just wanted a rematch with him.
But even if I got that, it wouldn’t settle the media storm. In fact, if we were discovered, it might inflame it. So I followed Rosie out the door, hoping she could help me work out what to do. I figured we’d chat about it over dinner.
Her driver was waiting outside in her black Rolls Royce Phantom and I practically wet myself in excitement stepping inside all that luxurious cream leather and woodgrain trim.
“Seriously plush,” I said, sliding across to let her sit next to me.
“I know, right?” She put down her metallic silver purse and buckled up, then leant forward and said, “We’re good to go.”
I hurriedly sorted my seatbelt and then Rosie was making me laugh, recounting her adventures at the recording studio with a client who insisted on recording a song about his impotence, because people will relate to it.
“He said, I know it’s not aspirational—”
I snorted. “What a cock up.”
That made her smile. “Wanker,” she said in the Brit accent we’d both been practicing.
“He wishes.”
By the time we arrived, I was wiping my eyes, carefully, so I didn’t smudge my eyeshadow, but I noticed that Rosie had a nervous energy that our laughter hadn’t dissipated. It was almost as if she’d been joking to cover it, which was odd.
“Sexy walk,” she instructed as we left the car, reminding me that jackals could be anywhere. I followed her into The Palatial, one of the newly renovated colonial buildings that lined Sydney Harbor. It was all restored timber and tile floors with stunning antique glass features and plush moss-green lounges in the foyer.
I wanted to gaze around at the vintage chic décor, but I had to concentrate on keeping my balance on the thick entry carpet, remembering to stride, an instruction she’d given the previo
us night when we’d both been trashed and discussing what was sexy.
Apparently striding women were.
So I had shoulders back, running an I am a model mantra as we click-clicked up the trendy metal staircase to the next level where we entered the restaurant. Unfortunately, I was so focused on myself, I almost ran into the back of her when she stopped.
She turned to face me. “Did I mention we’re having dinner with Noah Steele?”
What?
“Where?” I tried to look over her shoulder. “I see him regularly at—” I stopped myself just in time before I blurted about his incognito visits to Bohemian Brew. I really had to get my head around confidentiality, or I could never be a celebrity’s wife.
A what?
I was still blinking at that random thought when Rosie leant closer and hissed, “I don’t know what he wants, but I suspect he’s heard about Dave and I.” She looked nervous, which was so unlike her usual in-control persona, I wasn’t sure what to say. When I’d made no reply she said, “I told you what happens in breakups.”
At about 2am we’d had a long discussion about the downside of breakups and how ‘friends’ picked one of the divorcing couple to nurture and one to flick. She knew her clients would be on her side, but others were unknown quantities. Dave had been soft and charming, and she was a strong woman. Not everyone liked that.
Personally, I loved that. And I was rapidly coming to love her, especially after our night of drunken sharing, so I wanted to help. She and Noah were clearly acquainted because after Noah had sung with Angela at the Bohemian Brew launch party months ago, he’d rung Rosie to see if she’d consider representing his Indian Diva as he called her.
Rosie might only be his business associate, but that was no reason to assume he didn’t like her. So I grabbed her arm and said, “Noah won’t be mean. He’s not like that.”
“To you,” she whispered. “Everyone’s nice to you. Well, except the press,” she amended. “But they’re paid to be arses.”
“Noah!” I said over her shoulder and I saw her wince, still facing me, not game to turn around, but he was striding up behind her, smiling that big Hollywood blockbuster smile of his, that straw-blond hair pulled back into a trendy ponytail and a new beard since I’d seen him last.
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