Once downstairs, I went to the hall table and tossed him my keys. He caught them easily with one hand.
“To let yourself in,” I told him.
He shook his head at me so that a few dark strands of hair fell across his eyes. “Now she’s giving me the keys.”
My laughter took me by surprise. “Go away, John.”
“I’m going, sweetheart. But don’t lie to yourself. You’ll miss me.”
I bit back another laugh as I watched him open and then close the front door behind him.
Silence settled on me. It made me realize it was the first time since this morning I’d been alone. It should have been a relief. Instead I felt an unwanted pang of loneliness, and the urge to laugh faded.
*
I awoke later to an eerily silent apartment. I lay in bed, trying to get my bearings. At first I didn’t remember what had happened and I stared hard at the beams in the sloping ceiling overhead.
A vision of a crashing wave and the murky darkness of being submerged in raging water flashed into my mind. I sat up abruptly, bringing a hand to my chest. I was breathing just fine but that didn’t explain the aching tightness in my chest. Was this what John had been talking about? Were my lungs somehow compromised and only now beginning to give out?
“Shit.” I kicked my legs over the edge of the bed and sat with my elbows resting on my knees. I forced myself to breathe slowly. In. Out. In. Out. My chest started to relax.
The hospital had given me a clean bill of health. The X-ray had been clear. This was pure, unadulterated anxiety. Post-traumatic, if you wanted to get technical. I would be fine.
If anyone understood anxiety, I did. Not that I let anyone know it. As a teenager, I’d perfected the art of self-talk. I was pretty sure I could talk myself through hell and back and no one around me would know I was walking through the valley of the dead. I suppose I had my mother to thank for that.
With a long exhale, I stood. I glanced down at myself. I was still wearing the clothes I’d put on after my shower last night. Except I didn’t remember having dinner or seeing John again. I’d obviously passed out on the bed and now it was –
“Six thirty,” I muttered. Jesus, it was Monday morning. I’d slept for over twelve hours.
I padded down the stairs and paused on the bottom step. Well, there was a sight you didn’t see every day. John was asleep on the roll out mattress I’d thankfully remembered to get out before I passed out. The mattress wasn’t doing a very good job and his feet stretched over the edge onto the floorboards. He was lying on his stomach so all I could see was a mess of black hair and his back.
My hand gripped the railing a little tighter. He was only wearing his board shorts from the day before. The muscular terrain of his back captivated me. It was smooth and angular at the same time with enticing dips and undulations. It was the sort of back that begged to be explored.
Man. I had to get a grip. If this was the way I was thinking when a man was in my personal space, it confirmed my no men in the apartment rule.
I hesitated before lifting my foot off the bottom step. As soon as I did, the talkative floorboards would break into a loud chorus of creaks and groans, but there was nothing for it. It was a work day anyway.
Sure enough, the floorboards greeted me exuberantly and John stirred as I walked past him to the kitchen. I got out a couple of mugs and started making coffee, the bittersweet aroma filling the air.
“Hey.”
I looked up to find John had rolled onto his back and was watching me.
“Hey.” I returned my focus to the coffee. He really needed to put some more clothes on. I almost laughed out loud at the thought. What was wrong with me? I wanted a good looking man to put his clothes on? Clearly almost drowning was having some interesting aftereffects.
I heard, courtesy of my floorboards, John standing and then walking over to me. Without meeting his eyes, I slid a mug in his direction.
“Thanks.”
He took a sip and I felt him looking at me again.
I turned. “What?” His gaze unnerved me. And how in the hell could eyes that dark twinkle?
He smirked. “Back to your normal self, I see. Drink some coffee, it might take the edge off.”
I smirked right back. “This edge is permanent, I’m afraid.”
“You got that right.”
I turned away from him and opened the fridge. “What did you get for dinner?”
If he thought that was a strange question to be asking at six thirty in the morning, he didn’t show it. “It’s in the green bowl that’s covered over.”
I removed the cover and my eyes widened. “Curry?”
“From the curry place down the road.”
“Carmen’s? Awesome.” I picked up the bowl from the fridge and placed it in the microwave.
“You’re going to eat it now?” he asked.
I tilted my head at him thoughtfully. “It’s a hot breakfast. What’s your problem?”
He held up a hand. “No, no problem. You go right ahead. Do you have anything that resembles a cold breakfast. Maybe cereal?”
I pointed to the tall cupboard, the last in the row along the wall. “Try in there. Bowls in the cupboard above the sink.”
John moved around the kitchen, getting his breakfast, while I waited for the curry to heat up. When it was done, I joined him at the dining table near the window.
“It’s a pretty industrial view,” he commented between mouthfuls of cornflakes.
“You know something? I kind of like it.” I paused and surveyed the building staring back at us. It was imposingly close even by inner city standards, but it didn’t bother me. It was an old warehouse so there was nobody to peer in at me. “I like the textures. I’m pretty sure the building is original to the area. See the brickwork? It’s really uneven and interesting. And I love the windows. You don’t see paneling like that anymore.”
“You’re sounding like an architect.”
“There’s an artistic element to architecture.”
“Absolutely. Would you believe I took art electives at school? I gave it up when I went to university though.”
“Why?” I couldn’t understand why anyone who was artistically inclined would simply give it up.
“It doesn’t drive me like it drives you. That, and I wasn’t very good.”
“Why would you say it drives me?” I asked carefully.
John put the spoon down in his bowl with a clink. “Scarlett. I saw the paintings upstairs. That sort of art comes from within. Yours is the type of creativity that can’t be suppressed. My artistic efforts were playful experimentations.”
I blinked at him a few times then started shoveling butter chicken into my mouth.
“What I can’t figure out is why it seems to upset you.”
“My art? It doesn’t upset me,” I said through a mouthful of rice, not looking up.
“I’ve heard of artists being protective of their work. I get that. With you it’s like you’re not comfortable creating it.”
I stood up, the chair scraping loudly on the floorboards. I suddenly didn’t feel very hungry. “I created it. How could I not be comfortable with it?” I turned away and took my bowl to the kitchen.
“I can’t figure out if you resent your gift or if you’re scared of it.”
The bowl slipped from my hands and clattered into the sink. “You’ve really thought about this way too much. I just paint. It’s that simple.”
“Nothing about your art is simple, Scarlett. It’s got a depth and complexity that cuts through human emotion. Why do you think you got offered the art show in New York? All I did was mention your work to a contact, your artwork did the rest.”
“Maybe you should get a job as an art critic, John,” I said. “A depth and complexity that cuts through human emotion?” I mimicked. “Come on. Even I don’t take myself that seriously.”
John pushed his bowl away, frustration creasing his forehead. “I don’t get you. Judging by the
paintings I saw last night, you take it very seriously when you’re creating it. When you put the paintbrush down? That’s a different story.”
I finished rinsing the bowl and put it in the dishwasher. “I don’t want to take it too seriously. I don’t want to be that artist with their head shoved up their ass.”
“No hope of that,” muttered John.
“Exactly. So I create some interesting artwork from time to time. Big deal.”
“That’s it?” John asked, incredulity in his voice.
“What else is there?”
John stood, and I forced my eyes not to drop to his expanse of naked chest. “Oh, I don’t know. An art career perhaps? Recognition? Respect?”
“Overrated. Besides, it doesn’t pay the bills.”
“With an attitude like that, it never will.”
“You know what, John? Drop it, OK? Thanks for so articulately voicing your opinion, but I didn’t ask for it.”
John’s lips pressed into a long thin line. He put his hands on his hips and looked out the window. “You’re right. That’s a pretty impressive wall. And I agree. It’s been around for a long damn time.”
Chapter 7
I stared at the artwork on the boardroom table in front of me. Four A3 boards made up of a headline and an image each.
I fought the urge to rest my head in my hands and chose to stroke my chin thoughtfully instead.
“The copy is good,” I began, and Ruby, our copywriter, straightened in her seat across the table from me. “We can help you move forward,” I read the headline out loud. “It’s exactly what the client is after for first home buyers looking to get a foot in the market. It’s strong, and it speaks to their goals.” I paused, then shook my head. “But what the fuck were you smoking when you came up with the artwork, Garry?”
Garry sat back in his seat and cleared his throat. Ruby’s eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hand. I couldn’t tell if she was shocked or hiding a smile.
“Alright,” Garry drawled slowly.
It made me want to jump across the table and rip the thick, black framed glasses off his face and toss them away. Everybody knew they were a hipster prop and he didn’t need them. Counterfeit like his creative talent, in my opinion.
“What I was trying to achieve,” he continued to speak slowly like he was talking to a young child, “was something different in what is a very staid and crowded advertising space.”
I gave him a warning look. “We’ve been through this—”
“It doesn’t change the fact the client needs to try something different. You’ve got to admit, my concepts are a great way to cut through and grab people’s attention.”
I cast my eyes heavenward and sighed dramatically. He really didn’t get it, did he? Ten o’clock Monday morning and I was reduced to this.
“Garry,” I said, more brightly, “you’re right.”
Ruby bit her lip. Hard. She knew what was coming next.
Garry, on the other hand, was stupid enough to look pleased.
I stood, placing my palms on the edge of the boardroom table. I reached up and undid the top button of my tailored black shirt. “So what you’re saying,” – I unbuttoned the next button – “is that in the financial services advertising space, people need something to grab their attention?” I undid another button, so that my shirt was now gaping open at the front to reveal my matching black bra.
“Yes,” Garry replied, flustered. He didn’t know where to look. His eyes darted desperately around the room, hoping for some sort of distraction that wasn’t going to happen.
With a satisfied grin I undid the remaining buttons and threw the shirt to the floor.
“Scarlett!” Garry stood abruptly, pushing his chair back in surprise so that it bounced against the cabinet behind him.
“Don’t worry, I’m almost done,” I said lightly. I sat on the edge of the table and then swung my legs around. My black boots made a hollow thump as I stood in the middle of the table. I looked down at him, eyes narrowed. “Have I got your attention, Garry?”
“Yes!” He went to walk around the table, eyeing the door like a cornered animal.
“I suggest you sit down or the next place you’ll be sitting is Tony’s office.”
Garry swallowed then nodded and edged back toward his chair reluctantly.
“Good.” I smiled, turned and jumped from the table. I landed on the carpet with a muted thud. I bent down, picked up my shirt and with my back to them, shrugged it over my shoulders. A crowd had formed outside the floor-to-ceiling glass partitions. I grinned and waved. A few of the staff who knew me well shook their heads and turned back to their workstations. “Garry?”
“Yes.”
I turned around. “Anybody can get attention. Walking naked through the middle of Sydney will get attention, do you agree?”
“Yes,” he said weakly.
“In advertising, attention grabbing creative is the cheapest strategy available. Any creative can do it, but it’s usually at the cost of a company’s brand. Unless they’re extremely clever.” I let the implication of that sink in because his creativity sure as hell wasn’t clever. “Creating something that is on brief and on brand is an art director’s biggest challenge and it should always be their priority. Do you understand?”
Garry nodded, looking at me quickly and then dropping his eyes again. Obviously he was still worried I might strip off at any moment.
“This.” I pointed at the image in the first concept. “The aftermath of a wild party, I assume?”
He looked up again, his precious concept on the line. “Yes, it’s—”
“Got enough beer bottles to intoxicate the entire Australian cricket team. And the pool of vomit was a nice touch, by the way.”
Sensibly, Garry decided to shut up.
I pointed to the next one. “And this one? Can you take me through this one?”
He cleared his throat.
Not so quick to talk now, was he?
“It’s a picture of some soap,” he said quietly.
“Mmm. And what’s on it?”
A beat of silence. “Hair.”
I crossed my arms. It wasn’t just hair and we both knew it. “See here’s the thing, Garry.” I leaned forward in my chair and waited until he had the courage to make eye contact with me. “I don’t think that one of Australia’s oldest banking institutions is going to go for an image of some soap with a pubic hair on it in a bid to get their target market’s attention. Do you?”
“No.”
“Good, I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now I need you to work on creating some real concepts for me, using Ruby’s copy. I’ll need them first thing tomorrow morning.”
A muscle in Garry’s jaw twitched.
I bit back a smirk. Let’s see how awesomely creative he was when he had to create some credible advertising on a deadline. Dipshit.
Garry nodded and didn’t say anything as he carefully collected his concepts and walked from the room.
I looked at Ruby and sat back in my seat. “Sorry about that. It was probably a bit much for a Monday morning.”
Ruby’s cheeks had gone the same pink as her auburn hair, but her full lips were twitching. “Didn’t have a very good weekend then?” she asked.
I smiled broadly. I genuinely liked Ruby and she’d figured me out pretty well in the six months she’d been working at Shout.
“My weekend suddenly seems a whole lot better after being subjected to Garry’s creative genius first thing on a Monday.”
Ruby giggled.
“Reckon you can keep him in line for me?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll try my best. He’s such a wanker.”
“I know,” I said with genuine sympathy. Her last art director, who she’d loved working with, had left several months earlier. “I know he’s not Matt. Just try to stomach it for a while longer and hopefully we can move you onto a different team. Either that, or Garry’s ineptitude will get him fired.”
“It’s alright,” Ruby said. “There’s a bright side to him being a wanker. He makes me look good.”
Smart woman. I smiled as she left the boardroom to return to her desk.
Good God. It was only Monday morning and I’d already resorted to my ‘attention isn’t everything’ educational. I was aware in other professional circles I’d get fired for the stunt I’d just pulled. Fortunately I worked at Shout. My educational was renowned in our offices. I’d probably get some flack from the rest of the team later today for my actions. They all claimed I’d been dying to try it out on Garry, which was true. Stupid idiot deserved it.
The moment Tony, our CEO, had hired him, I knew what we were in for. There were some incredibly talented creatives in the advertising industry. Garry wasn’t one of them. Unfortunately Tony made the final call on all the hiring and firing decisions and his choices were often lacking. He was too easily swayed by a person’s ability to present well over their creative ability.
With a long sigh, I stood and then started walking back to my office.
“Scarlett?”
I closed my eyes, then forced myself to open them and turn in the direction of the deep voice. “Tony?”
Tony waved me toward his office. “Can you join me for a moment?”
“Sure.”
Fantastic. Could my Monday morning get any worse?
Tony Ridge was the CEO and founder of Shout Advertising. In his late forties, he’d spent his career in the advertising industry and was effortlessly slick. Or was that greasy? His dark hair didn’t hold a strand of gray – commonly debated among the staff was whether this was the result of a bottle – and with alert gray blue eyes, he was noticeably good looking for his age. Peers in the industry claimed he had an edge. Employees knew better. This edge translated to ruthlessness. He was ruthless about creating the best creative for his clients and ruthless when it came to his staff.
Modern Heart: City Love 3 Page 5