by Anni Taylor
“Did I choose good, Phoebe?” Dash asked.
I jerked my head up, stunned. “My name’s Saskia.”
He shook his head, rubbing his temple. “Dammit, sorry. Saskia. I must have heard someone calling out that other name last night. Somehow, the two names got mixed in my brain.”
He glanced away, somehow not looking convincingly apologetic. Or was I imagining that?
“No problem,” I told him.
He dug into his dinner. I followed suit. I needed this dinner over and done with.
Pouring us both another glass of wine, he frowned suddenly. “Forgot to tell you. You got pipped at the post. A female journo called me this morning. I agreed to a Skype interview. So, you’re not going to get the first interview with me.”
“How did it go?”
“She went for the jugular.”
“What did she say?”
“I’m not giving you ammunition, girl. You should have done your own research.”
“Maybe my article can be an examination of her interview. Complete with quotes from you.”
“Direct quotes, no twisting of words?”
“Direct quotes. No twisting.”
“My spidey senses tell me not to believe you.”
“My resting bitch face stares down your spidey senses and annihilates them.”
“Ha! Okay. Whatever. I’ll believe you when I see what you write in black and white. And if you want to know what Ms Palmer wrote about me, it’s in black and white already.” He thumbed through screens on his phone and then handed it to me. “Here, read this bit.”
I read through the paragraph. The paragraph described him as having shifty eyes and possible cheekbone implants in his too-pretty-for-a-man face. And his spray tan had apparently come from a bottle on the shelves of Evo Pysch headquarters.
The journalist had certainly been brutal in her summary of Dash.
My eyes flicked upwards, and I looked closely at Dash’s features. His eyes were deep and penetrating, but they had a directness that I would never call shifty. If he had cheek implants, they were perfect; he didn’t have implants. His tan was even and natural. Not something from a bottle.
Sucking his lips in, he smiled knowingly. “Do you agree with her appraisal of me?”
Heat rose behind my neck and ears. He might just be the most attractive man I’d ever spoken to. He was the kind of guy that the more you looked at him, the more you noticed how attractive he was. Luke’s looks were more angelic and innocent (even if he wasn’t those things at all).
“You’d pass muster in a herd,” I muttered. “That’s something my grandmother says.”
To cover up my embarrassment, I decided to begin the interview. I whipped out the notebook and pen.
“What would you most want people to know about your field of work?” I began. “About evolutionary psychology.”
He brushed his chin over the back of his fingers. “Hmmm. That we’re animals, I guess. Our behaviours and culture can all be traced back to things we needed to survive in prehistory.”
I scribbled down a note. “So, you consider that we’re creatures of our past?”
“Yes. Certainly.”
“What kind of behaviours?”
“All. Including love. Sex. Relationships.”
“So, what is it about how we love that can be traced to our past?”
Sipping his wine, he nodded thoughtfully. “Would it surprise you that I believe that women can’t love men?”
I tilted my head, giving him a bemused grin. “They can’t?”
“No. They think they do, but they can never love a man the way in which a man loves a woman. His love is simple and complete. He loves her softness, her weaknesses, her beauty. But she can only love him up to a point, depending on what he provides for her. When he stops providing what she needs, she’s gone.”
“Okay. And what are the historical reasons she wants those things from a man?”
His mouth flicked upward. “Think about women being carted off into harems or sent into arranged marriages. She had to adapt—and quickly. Her whole tribe might have got slaughtered when she got taken away. She had to be able to leave the past behind quickly and move on. She couldn’t remain loyal to the life she had before.”
“But women today have their own resources and money.”
He hooked an eyebrow. “How many college-educated women in good jobs do you know who are marrying men in casual, dead-end jobs?”
“I know women in high-paying jobs whose husbands are at home with the kids. You know, house husbands.”
“Is that the usual?”
“Nope.”
“I rest my case.”
“Okay, Dash, you said men love women for their softness and beauty. How can you call it actual love, if it’s just her visual appeal that makes him love her?”
“That’s just the initial point of attraction. But it’s not just the physical—her personality should be gentle, too. After marriage, she just needs to be nice. And his love for her will be unconditional.”
Shaking my head lightly, I wrote his words down. “And what is it that women need from men?”
“What they’ve always needed. Stability, strength, protection, resources, good looks . . . excitement.”
He knew exactly how to say the word, excitement. With a low murmur that almost made me shiver. “That’s what a woman wants?”
“That’s exactly what a woman wants.”
“And after marriage, does he just have to be nice and everything will just hum along like a Disney movie?”
“Not a chance. He’s going to have to prove his worth every day of his life.”
“Every day?”
“Every day.”
“How?”
“Men have to constantly prove that they’re men. Be strong, don’t cry, improve, build assets, gain respect, raise yourself up in the male pecking order . . . and that starts from boyhood.”
“Sounds kind of sad.”
He shrugged, the expression in his eyes slightly distant. “I was a geeky teenager with a bad haircut once. Girls didn’t like me then.” Pulling himself out of his reverie, he said, “It’s the way it is. It’s our human evolution.”
“Okay”—I made a show of scribbling things down—“but what about the industrial and pre-industrial era? People were too busy for any of that. If my history knowledge serves me right, men and women worked alongside each other on farms. Her softness and weakness weren’t assets. And her beauty was soon gone. Damn hard work hoeing fields and milking cows. And he didn’t have to prove to the cows each day how much of a man he was—and his wife was too worn out to care.”
He took three sips of his wine before answering. “I’ll concede that point.”
“Just like that? You concede my point? No argument?”
“Sometimes, you’re better off not entering an argument.”
“I want an argument.” I surprised myself. I never had conversations like this with Luke. Luke had little interest in talk that didn’t involve money and real estate. With Flynn, I used to stay up debating him until three in the morning, drunk on cocktails and concepts. I missed that like crazy.
“You. I like you.” Dash winked, drumming on the table with the fingers of one hand. “Okay, I’d argue that what attracted the farmer to his farm girl wife in the first place was her softness and beauty.”
“But concepts of beauty change, and they’re different from culture to culture. A Rubenesque woman used to be thought of as sublime. Or a tribal woman with six rings around her neck.”
“But it’s all still thought of as feminine.”
“What is feminine and what is beauty, if it can change so much?”
“You’re destroying my argument, girl.”
“Then my mission is complete.”
He smiled, gulping the rest of his wine. “I’ll give you something for free. I’ve been thinking of giving up the seminar circuit.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.
”
“You do this a lot? The seminars?”
“It’s practically all I do. I think I’ve got burnout. And maybe I don’t believe everything my colleagues do. Maybe I’m just waiting for something to send me in a different direction.” He paused. “Or someone.”
I exhaled, downing the rest of my glass of wine, too. Trying to avoid his sudden intense stare.
“So, are you,” he said, “looking for a change?”
“My life is very . . . complicated.”
“Ah, the complicated word. Sounds legit.”
“I’m not just saying that.”
I heard him sigh under his breath. Eyeing me directly, he shot me a dry grin. “Let me guess the trajectory of your life.”
“Uh, okay.”
“You’re about thirty—”
“Close.” Not yet. God, but close. Too close. Next year. I used to look young for my age. What happened?
“You did an arts degree in college, and you took a year or two off after that to travel. The usual tourist haunts, but places that are far enough off the beaten track to claim you went the road less travelled and have the photos look sufficiently quirky on Instagram. Then you pottered around the hipster crowd for years—acting in amateur theatre and maybe some slam poetry. You dated the men who excited you. Invariably, they disappointed you. Then you blundered into writing. But you’ll probably get bored with that sooner or later. You’ll decide at age thirty-two that what you need is to marry and pump out a couple of kids. You’ll take a year or two to find a man with assets and resources and pin him down. When the brats are old enough, you’ll enter the corporate world, and in your downtime, post sage and lyrical memes on Facebook.” A broad but cynical smile spread across his face. “How am I doing?”
I tried to conquer the tight feeling in my jaw and throat. I had to sit here pretending to have never had a child. His analysis was missing the sudden and unexpected injection of Luke when I was twenty-six. “Sounds like a feminist wet dream. Sign me up.”
He laughed.
We talked on for another half hour. I took more notes—enough to look convincing.
Moments of awkwardness followed the end of the interview. We’d had dinner, and I’d asked my questions. It was time to leave.
Dash had his eyes on me. “So, what happens now? You choose.”
“Uh, isn’t this where we shake hands and go our separate ways, each of us richer for the experience?”
“Hmmm. What if—just say—this was a date? Then what would happen?”
I thought for a moment. “I guess we’d have some after-dinner drinks in a quiet bar and have a bit of aimless chat. And then you’d ask me back to your hotel room, and I’d politely turn you down, and then after a weird silence we’d both regret the whole night, and I’d go home, and you to your hotel, and we’d each watch some unsatisfying movie and fall asleep before it ended . . .”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Interesting prediction. And hey, you’ve got tickets on yourself, imagining that I’d ask you back to my room.”
“So, you wouldn’t?” Despite everything, I was enjoying bantering with Dash. It reminded me of the person I was years ago.
“I don’t know. Let’s try it. We’ll see what happens.” He half-winked.
“Unfortunately, I have to go. I enjoyed tonight.”
“Maybe we can try this again? As a date.”
“Sorry, I can’t.”
His eyes became completely serious for perhaps the first time tonight. “Can I ask why? Do you have a husband? A kid?”
I was about to lie and answer no when I realised that no might be the truth. I didn’t know for certain whether I had a husband or a child. I existed in a kind of limbo.
“I just . . . want to keep this professional,” I finally answered.
When he nodded, I could see that his earlier cheer was gone.
36.
PHOEBE
Saturday night
ZIPPING MY JACKET UP TO MY neck, I paid the cab and jumped out in a quiet street near the Southern Sails Café.
The salty punch of the harbour swept past my face in a dark breeze. I ran into a quiet alley, pulling the cap over my head and tucking my hair in. Next, I wrapped a woollen scarf around my neck and up to my mouth then put on my thin hooded raincoat. It would be difficult for anyone to recognise me now.
I slipped the sheathed knife into the pocket of my jacket.
Now I was ready.
Had Dash gone straight back to his hotel room, or had he gone to a bar by himself? I guessed he hadn’t gone back to his room—he had too much wiry energy. I hadn’t expected to enjoy myself at dinner with him, but I had. More than I wanted to admit. It wasn’t right to enjoy myself while Tommy was still missing. I had to focus.
I began walking up a block that ran parallel to my own block. Kate, and a few of the neighbours, had said they usually saw the man between nine and midnight. If I didn’t spot him, I’d have to steal inside number 29. And wait.
That house had featured in my nightmares for years. And now the nightmares were back.
A rush of fear pricked the back of my legs.
I made my way around four blocks in my neighbourhood. I’d seen joggers and lone men and families bustling from their cars into their houses—trying to avoid the cold—but I hadn’t seen the man. I knew his body shape and his walk. I knew the intense feeling I’d had last time I’d seen him.
I could hide myself in a neighbour’s yard and wait and see if I could spot him. But if anyone saw me, they’d call the police. I could hide in Luke’s parents’ yard, if not for the fact that it was so damned neat, with its low, two-foot-high hedges and rows of flowers. No trees or overgrown shrubs to conceal myself behind.
There was nothing else to do but to steal inside number 29.
I rounded the corner and stepped past the houses where Kate and Pria lived. Then on past my own house and Luke’s parents’ house.
Bringing my arms in close to my chest, I hurried in through the gate and along the path of number 29.
I unlocked the door and replaced the key exactly in the same place under the mat. Once inside, I locked the door behind me.
The house was dead dark. I could see nothing.
Immediately, I wanted to run out again. Flee.
Any sane person would.
The room felt so cold. Colder than the street.
I had to force myself to stay here. In the darkness, with the odours of age and mildew and death in the air. Maybe I imagined I could smell death, but it was as much a part of this house as the wood and the walls and the vintage furniture.
I found my way to the sofa, almost jumping out of my skin at the feel of a cold arm. I sucked in a quick breath. The arm belonged to the store dummy. Of course it did. I’d put the dummy here, so long ago.
Don’t be scared of this house, Phoebe. You and Sass, Kate, Pria, and Luke made it what it is. Bernice too. Whatever it is, you all created it.
Positioning myself behind the sofa, I knelt where I could see over the dummy’s arm.
Minutes passed, measured in breaths and heartbeats.
Then came the sound of a key at the front door.
I held my breath.
A figure entered, but I could barely see their outline.
A dim light flashed on. Some kind of LED lamp that gave off a white glow.
I could see him. The man.
He carried a garbage bag in his hand—filled with bulky things.
The floorboards creaked underfoot as he crossed to the stairs. He glanced back over his broad shoulder towards the living room. And stopped.
I edged back.
What was he looking at?
From the corner of my eye I looked down at the floor. My body was casting a faint shadow. And I made that shadow move when I’d pulled myself back.
My fingers felt weak as they found their way into my pocket and unsheathed the knife.
What was he doing now?
Slowly stealing over towards me?
Waiting for me to show myself?
Did he have a knife, too?
I suppressed a scream as I heard his footsteps rushing my way.
He stopped suddenly and then walked in the opposite direction.
The door slammed.
He’d gone?
Or had he just pretended to leave, to make me come running out?
With panting breaths, I crawled to the window and peered out.
The man was walking away. Fast.
I had to follow him—the man who had just terrified me.
Shoving the knife back into my pocket, I ran out after him.
The street was already empty. I craned my head, scanning the street both ways.
Not knowing which way he’d gone, I decided to head down the hill. Breaking into a run, I reached the docks within a couple of minutes.
A shuffle of footsteps made a muted scraping sound behind me.
I looked back over my shoulder, expecting to see one of the homeless men.
There was no one.
I kept walking, sensing that someone was following me, but each time I turned, I couldn’t see anything.
Crouching to the ground, I pretended to adjust my boot. With my head angled down, I raised my eyes and peered along the docks.
A stone dropped in my stomach as a tall shadow slipped behind a Moreton Bay fig tree.
The man I’d been trying to follow was following me.
I sprinted to the tree.
“Who are you? Who are you?” I demanded, my hand in my pocket, clutching the knife handle. I have a knife, and I AM afraid to use it.
I circled the tree.
There was no man.
Not even a shadow.
37.
PHOEBE
Sunday midday
THE MORNING SUN COMING THROUGH MY bedroom window was warm, as though the coming spring had found a pocket to spill into.
In contrast, Nan’s house felt too dark and enclosed.
Looking for clothes to put on, I picked out tights, a short dress, and a thigh-length jacket. Usually, I just pulled on one of two pairs of jeans. I didn’t know why I’d chosen something different today. This was the kind of gear I used to wear when I lived in London. I hadn’t worn the dress since those days. Maybe the dinner with Dash had woken a dormant part of me and reminded me of my former life.