“I guess you’re right. But I wish there was someone else to exercise with—I need it. Why don’t we go swimming together?”
“I don’t swim in public,” I remind her. Just like my allergy to bananas, Isabella has a tendency not to retain little titbits of information about me.
“Oh, yeah. Still? Bummer. The wedding’s just over five weeks away and I’m barely keeping my weight down.” She gets on the Southeast Freeway and the car zooms to eighty. “It was easy to watch what I ate living by myself in London. But here, Mum just feeds me all day, and when Byron comes home on weekends, I just eat and eat with him.” She sighs, then beeps at a BMW that cuts in front of us without indicating. “Swimming’s been good. But agreeing to go with Keats was a huge mistake.”
“Do you still like him?” My breath sticks to my throat while I wait for her reply. The thought of Isabella reciprocating his feelings has such a finality to it—her disinterest is the only thing keeping them apart.
“No—not romantically. But…he’s so flirty, and nice. And…well, he’s not exactly unattractive. I feel like I’m cheating on Byron just being around his brother.” Isabella exits the freeway and negotiates us through the light evening traffic to the public car park closest to the swimming pool.
“Maybe you need to talk to Keats,” I suggest. “Just you two. Let him down easy. Finally.”
Isabella keeps her eyes forward but I see the grimace on her face at the idea.
“You’ll need to broach that topic one day soon.”
“Ugh. I can’t imagine a more awkward conversation. Oh wait, there’s something almost equally as bad. Eamon has been trying to contact me.”
“Your ex-fiancé?”
She nods. “I don’t know why he’d think I’d ever want to speak to him again.”
“What does he want?” A spike of jealousy stabs my gut—she has three guys who want a future with her. I’m allowed to hate her a little bit, right?
“No idea. Surely, he doesn’t think I’d ever get back together with him after that whole Sandy Grey thing on the internet.”
I totally agree. After returning to Brisbane alone, it took her British fiancé a month to hook up with the hotel heiress. Isabella only found out after I told her about Eamon and Sandy Grey’s paparazzi shots on the gossip websites I love to visit.
“Maybe he’s on the twelve-step programme and he just wants to apologise for being a douche,” I say helpfully.
Isabella chuckles, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, while we both search left and right for an empty spot. A car starts to pull out of a space ahead of us and Isabella indicates while we wait to park. “Yes, maybe I’m reading too much into this whole thing with Keats as well.”
Her tone tells me she wants to believe that but doesn’t.
“I mean, he’s been flirting with you,” Isabella adds as she expertly slides into the space and turns the engine off. “Maybe he just flirts with everybody, and this really is an innocent, help-his-future-sister-in-law-get-fit thing.”
“Yeah.” If I sound vague, it’s because I’m still processing the fact Isabella thinks Keats flirts with me. And I remain quiet while we make our way to the indoor pool.
When we reach it, the big flirt is already there. He’s typing something on his iPhone while he waits, putting away the device as soon as he notices our arrival.
“Hey,” his face lights up when he sees Isabella. He leans in for a kiss on her cheek again which I think she could have totally dodged, but didn’t. “Hi, Jess.” I get a small wave.
Yep, Isabella’s definitely not getting the standard treatment. The fact he still calls me by my first name when she’s around, doesn’t escape me. God forbid Isabella finds out we’re closer friends than she realises. “Swimming tonight?”
His tone means the only proper response is a flash of my middle finger. He grins like I’ve told him he’s got a cute butt.
“All right, let’s do this.” Keats pulls off his T-shirt and steps out of his shorts. Even though this is our third week of swimming, the awareness that warms me up all over whenever he’s showing so much skin is still there. He positions his goggles on his forehead before hooking the strap over the back of his head. He then swings his arms, shakes his hands and jumps on the spot like an Olympic swimmer loosening his muscles at poolside.
I catch Isabella staring at him along with me.
She quickly averts her eyes back to her gear bag when she realises she’s busted. Taking off her T-shirt dress, Isabella reveals a black one-piece pair of togs with a low vee-neck and mesh panels at the waist. Not exactly don’t-look-at-me swimwear.
Keats stops posturing as soon as he notices her outfit, following her to the shallow end of the pool like a sailor to a siren. I roll my eyes and park myself on the same bench at the half-way mark of the pool.
“How’s your back?” Keats asks her, making me realise they’ve had contact with each other when I wasn’t around.
What back?
“Better, thank goodness. This is such a workout. I must’ve gone too hard last time. I was so sore after. I swear, I fell asleep with my arms at my side. And I mustn’t have moved the whole night ’cause I was still in exactly the same position when I woke up.”
“I’ve been having the best sleep I’ve had in over a year.”
Which means since their break-up.
Isabella either doesn’t make the mathematical connection (unlikely for a nerd like her), or she’s choosing to ignore it and hope it goes away.
“Well, I want to try to swim at least fifteen hundred metres tonight in less time than it took me last week time. Shall we get started?” she suggests, pleasant but professional.
“I’m ready when you are.”
Isabella waits until Keats sets off before she follows behind him. She’s a little faster now. He’s only swum two laps by the time she finishes her first lap. He sets off again when she does and completes his hundred metres a few seconds before she reaches the shallow end. He waits in the water on bent knees, keeping it to his chin.
“Ready again?”
She nods. “Off you go, then.”
He shakes his head, smiling before pushing off.
I roll my eyes before turning on my tablet to check my emails on the Miz Peggy website. I scan about twenty before one grabs my attention. It’s from a chubby girl who has a crush on the hottest guy at her work. She finishes the letter with, “Am I wasting my time?”
My fingers quickly tap my three-letter answer: Yes! I stop just before I click Send. I press the Backspace key instead and reply that she should love her curves and forget any guy who doesn’t appreciate them.
Taking my own advice, I booty call Neil.
***
Thank God for Penny’s air con, or else this would feel very much like a sweat shop right in her dining room. Isabella has her bridesmaids in a row, putting together the bonbonniere for the reception guests. The wedding is just over a month away, after all.
Across the table from us, Penny is painstakingly writing each guest’s place card with a calligraphy pen. Beside her, Mia is making beaded bracelets which she’s charging Isabella for materials only. It’s my job to wrap these in tissue paper and put them in a silver mesh bag before tying a red bow to close the pouches. Next to me on the production line is Isabella who then attaches the name cards to the filled bags.
Fiona has a totally different task. She has to put sugar-covered almonds into a fancy, tiny silver cardboard box which will accompany each bracelet pouch on the table. Every time she pops one into her mouth instead of a container, Isabella stiffens. But considering how heavily pregnant Fiona looks at only six months along, the bride says nothing.
“Oh fuck, Richard Dean’s invited? The guy who called us, ‘The Fat Chicks’ Club’?” Penny stops with the calligraphy pen poised above the place card she’s about to work on. This is why we’re doing this here instead of at the Harper home—so we don’t have to worry about our language and conversation topics around
Isabella’s strict parents.
“Yes. He’s still friends with Byron through Keats,” Isabella says. “But I drew the line at inviting Lucy Kent. No way I want her around on my wedding day.”
“So King Dick can’t bring his girlfriend?” Mia asks, fingers not missing a beat in threading another beautiful bracelet.
“That’s right. She was awful to us all throughout high school, so no way. The bride gets pretty cool veto powers,” Isabella grins. “Let’s just say, she wasn’t exactly happy about it.”
“Oh, God. I have no idea what to get you for a present, chick,” Penny remarks on another tangent as usual, resuming her calligraphy duties with such a steady hand that a tingle of envy courses through me. For fingers, I have sausages that have no fine motor skills. “How about a gift card from Miz Peggy? She has some cool stuff you can take on your honeymoon.”
I catch myself before I can beam like a proud mother—Penny’s talking glowingly about my baby.
“I am not going through airport security with sex toys in my bag, Penny. Besides, that whole fat porn thing with the penis animation are just a bit too much for me. Kinda tacky and smutty.” Isabella shivers, disgusted.
I snap the delicate red ribbon I’m tying around the top of the silver pouch in my hands. I grab another, trying very hard to keep my mouth shut.
“What’s Miz Peggy?” Fiona asks with a grimace.
“It’s this website for fat chicks. It’s excellent. I subscribed to it to spice things up with Wayne,” Penny explains, talking about her ex-boyfriend. “Total waste of money on him but it’s a fun website so I’m still a member. Miz Peggy’s just added wedding stuff on it—but I guess, you’re too skinny now for that, Bels.”
Fiona makes a noise, and for a beat, I think she’s disagreeing with Penny. But a closer look shows she’s got beads of sweat all along her hair line and upper lip, her face contorted with pain.
“You okay, Fiona?” Isabella asks.
“Ate too many almonds.” She rubs the beach ball in front of her, exhaling through O-shaped lips. “Yeah, must be the…fu—ck!” She suddenly doubles over, hands splayed on each side of her gigantic belly. “Sorry. Can one of you call an ambulance, please? I think I’ve gone into labour.”
Chapter 24
Nobody knows who I’m supposed to be in a singlet, yoga pants, sneakers and a ponytail, especially with a bullet hole on my forehead and blood and brain matter spilling down the side of my face. It’s one of those costumes that only makes sense when accompanied by other parts of the set. And today, the bride and groom wanted the whole bridal party to participate in the annual Zombie Walk—a Brain Foundation charity event held near Halloween where participants come as zombies.
Mia and the usually late Penny are already waiting in the shaded sitting area on a hill just outside the festival grounds. Mia is busy on her smart phone while Penny, who is sitting on a bench beside her, is eating a small pizza and talking to a “soldier”. She’s wearing a short sleeveless black dress with a high neckline, and her black hair is styled into a bob. Part of her face is “missing”, exposing bone and teeth.
“Hi, Jess,” she says as I come nearer. “Can you guess who we are yet?” she asks her new friend. She motions to me, then Mia who is wearing a singlet, patterned thin cotton pyjama bottoms, and a curly light brown wig with blonde streaks. Her costume is finished off with a line of fake blood across her throat.
The “soldier” shakes his head, readjusting the plastic assault weapon on his shoulder.
“Oh cool. Here come Isabella and the guys,” Penny says pointing to six more zombies walking towards us from the road where we see Isabella’s Mini Cooper is parked.
Isabella, who is walking hand in hand with Byron, is wearing a mini dress with the Union Jack design taking up the front of it. She has on chunky, knee-high platform boots, a bright ginger wig and a large butcher’s knife lodged in her head. Beside her, Byron looks yummy despite being in a veil and an ill-fitting eighties-style satin wedding dress with the shoulders that balloon out and a mullet-style skirt—short in front, long at the back. Walking just behind the literally blushing “bride” are four “bridesmaids”—his groomsmen—in matching peach satin dresses with bell-shaped skirts.
My breath catches as it always does when I see Keats, my skin tingling with awareness even in his outfit that reaches just below his knees. It leaves his unshaved legs exposed. All five men are wearing thongs on their feet, what Keats sometimes calls flip flops when he forgets he’s back in Australia.
“Can you guess who we are yet?” Penny asks her new friend impatiently as Isabella nears.
“Um, yeah, my sister used to listen to them when we were in primary school. The Spice Chicks?”
“The Spice Girls!” Penny says with exasperation. “See? I’m Posh Spice, Jess’s Sporty Spice, Mia’s Scary Spice, and Isabella’s Ginger Spice!”
The guy squints as if that would make us all thinner and more closely resemble the nineties group. Frankly, I think we look like the bloated Spice Girls, or like we ate them and put on their clothes. He’s too polite to voice this out.
“All we’re missing is Baby Spice but our friend almost had her baby in my dining room on Monday. Luckily, it was a false alarm, but the doctor’s admitted her to hospital for the rest of her pregnancy so the baby doesn’t come early. Hey, babe!” Penny says on the same breath, turning to Byron. It seems she’s bored with her new friend. “You make a beautiful bride, Jail Bait. How are you?” She goes in for a sisterly hug. “And your bridesmaids are adorable.”
The guys have obviously raided a charity store and are now walking around in someone’s idea of a dream wedding in the eighties.
“You guys know Blake. These are Tomohiro and Jamal—my other groomsmen. They’re doctors,” Byron introduces while the men extend their hands to us. Tomo is about as tall as Keats. His arms are pale but firm. Jamal has a curly black wig on though I can see his closely cropped hair underneath. He looks just slightly taller than me but fit. The sun glints against his wedding ring as he goes to shake my hand.
“Anything to eat here?” Blake asks no one in particular.
“They’re selling pizzas inside,” Penny provides. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind another one. Mia, you ready for lunch yet?”
After a quick chat, she and Mia walk off with three of the groomsmen.
I’d love a pizza but it would go straight to my arse or my gut.
“Who needs more blood?” I ask, ignoring the knot in my stomach as it complains about not getting any fast food. I take a large sauce bottle out of the plastic bag that I’ve brought with me. I’ve mixed together water, corn syrup, green and red food dye and some peppermint to make it more palatable.
“The three of us do. I didn’t want to get it all over my car,” Isabella says, indicating herself and the McAllister brothers on either side of her. “Could you trickle some from the knife, down my face?”
“Sure. This is also sort of edible though. If you want, you can do this.” I squirt the mixture into my mouth until it’s full, then I push it out, letting the liquid spill over my lower lip and chin and down my neck.
“Cool,” Isabella says, lining up to get more bloodied.
Byron asks to be splattered next. Now that Isabella is back in the country, it seems he’s coming home from Gatton every weekend and every chance he gets. I spray “blood” on his dress and arms. He takes a big gulp of my home brew and lets it spill over his chin, then chases Isabella to kiss her.
Keats steps up to me next, eyes on the loved up couple.
“You’re staring,” I tell him and he wrenches his eyes away and smiles at me.
“Hey, Hay-gen.” He sounds resigned, and I wonder if he’s still in love with Isabella or just too stubborn to give up on winning her back.
“Where do you want it?” I ask him.
Before he could answer, we hear a squeal and see that the zombie bride has caught the former Ginger Spice around the waist and is bloodying her neck with
his mouth.
“Right here,” Keats says to me, using his fingers to pretend he’s pointing a gun at his temple. He fires and mimes blood and brain coming out the other side.
“Peach looks good on you,” I tease as I squirt blood down one of his temples. It’s too awkward not to say anything when his eyes are on my face.
“I’m showing too much cleavage.”
We both look down at the heart-shaped neckline of his corset top and the smidgen of light brown hair between his pecs.
“Plus, I obviously didn’t shave.” He lifts the skirt of his frock a fraction so we can check out his legs.
“Maybe the look will take off,” I joke, though he certainly can make it look sexy.
Keats shakes his head, a self-deprecating smile on his face. I cup his jaw in one hand to apply blood across the muscled column of his neck, revelling in the fact I can touch him. Friends do that, right? The fact I enjoy it more than a friend should is something he doesn’t need to know.
“So, how’s Booty Call Neil?” Keats asks while I’m busy layering the fake blood on his neck.
“Great,” I answer automatically. I paste on a smile and nod to make my reply even more believable. The truth is, I’ve only seen Neil twice more since the first time we’d slept together. Both times had been booty calls—fun but meaningless.
Keats’ Adam’s apple bobs before he says, “You’re still seeing him, huh?”
“Hm-hm.” I’m not about to admit that I have no intention of calling Neil again. It seems, he’s just interested in living up to his title as my booty call guy. And I’ve realised that a sex-only relationship is just not working for me anymore. Not when Neil’s not the guy I want to be naked with. Besides, having any kind of relationship with him felt too much like cheating on my unwitting boyfrenemy.
Keats purses his lips with a thoughtful nod. “Byron’s loss.”
Boyfrenemy Page 20