Modern Heart: City Love 3

by Belinda Williams

  John turned to face me. “I’m sorry.”

  I wanted to drop my gaze but his eyes held mine. “It doesn’t matter,” I said softly.

  He closed the distance between us in a few swift steps and crouched down in front of me. “It matters.”

  He reached to take my hands and I stood up abruptly, shaking my head. “Don’t.”

  “Why?”

  I glanced back at him, still crouched on the floor. “It’s done. It’s who I am, John. Haven’t you figured that out yet? I may not have had a childhood like yours, but there were advantages.”

  “Like what?”

  “It taught me to be strong.” I attempted a smile. “I’m going to grab a shower. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? I’ll let you know then what I decide about the flights.”

  John nodded and stood slowly. I waited until he collected his things and the door clicked shut behind him. Then I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. After a moment, I forced myself to march into the bathroom. Turning on the shower to fire hose velocity, water conservation be damned, I stripped off my clothes and stepped under the pelting spray.

  The temperature of the water stung my skin but I didn’t care. I wanted it to wash my pain away. I wanted it to wash away the memory of John’s expression. Hurt mixed with tenderness. Like I mattered.

  Well, he was wrong. The only thing that mattered was that I remained strong. My childhood had taught me that. You couldn’t rely on anyone but yourself. True, I was lucky to have my girlfriends, but that was enough for me. Anything more was asking for trouble. I’d been managing just fine since being thrown out of home, and I certainly didn’t need anyone looking after me now.

  As far as I was concerned, that’s how it had always been and how it would remain.

  *

  “How are you doing?” The phone line made Maddy’s voice sound distant but it was good to hear from her nonetheless.

  “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

  “God, you sound awful,” she said.

  “Thanks. And here I was thinking I was doing better.”

  “Sorry. I’m so glad John has been there to take care of you.”

  Not Maddy, too. Didn’t they think I could look after myself?

  “Everyone needs taking care of sometimes,” Maddy said, sounding tired.

  Oh God. It’s not always about you, Scarlett, I reminded myself. “Enough about me. How are you?”

  There was a pause. “Sore. Emotional. Scared.”

  It was weird hearing Maddy be so upfront about her feelings. Usually she and I were a good pair, but I guessed the ordeal she’d just been through was enough to throw anyone. I picked at a loose thread on the bed sheet with my free hand. “Christa said you’re going to be OK,” I said awkwardly.

  “I’ll be fine.” I could imagine Maddy waving a hand dismissively, back to her business-like demeanor. “The C-section means I’m hobbling around, but every day gets easier. The hardest part is knowing that Ava will have to stay here in the hospital, even after I’m released.”

  I pretended to ignore the waver in her voice. “She’s in one of those humidicrib things?”

  “An incubator. She’s not able to control her own temperature yet so we have to do it for her.”

  “Oh, right,” I said, at a loss. I’d never seen one in real life before but I could imagine the rectangular plastic bubble her baby was housed in. “How long for?” I asked gently.

  Maddy released a sigh. “Well, she can’t breathe by herself at the moment, and she’s too tiny to feed properly so she’s fed via a tube.”

  Christ. “So as long as it takes then.”

  “As long as it takes. But the doctors assure me her chances are good.”

  “I’ll come and see you the minute I get home. Of course I’ll wait until I’m over the flu,” I added quickly.

  “I’d love you to visit. But yes, it’s best to wait until you’re healthy. John says you’re going to have to push back your flight. By then I’ll be released from the hospital, so you’ll need to check with me when I’m going to be here.”

  “When do you get to go home?” I asked.

  Another sigh. “Tomorrow. They assure us it’s the best thing. They told me to use the time she’s in the hospital to rest and to sort out anything I need to in between visiting. It’s going to feel strange. Almost like I haven’t had a baby.” Her voice cracked and I wished like hell I wasn’t stuck in a hotel room on the other side of the world.

  “Maddy—”

  “I’m fine. Really. Just tired and emotional. Obviously.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not there,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly. No one could have predicted this would happen. It’s just one of those things.”

  One of hell of a “thing,” but I kept my mouth shut. “How’s Paul doing?”

  “Oh, Scarlett, he’s just been fantastic. I don’t know how I could have gone through this without him.”

  To hear Maddy say that was nothing short of a full turnaround. This coming from Miss Self-Sufficient, who, at one point, had been determined to have Ava on her own. “You could have done this alone, Maddy, if you’d had to.”

  “I know,” she replied, “but it’s better together, you know?”

  I wasn’t sure I did know, and the sentiment was too close to my earlier conversation with John. I cleared my throat.

  Maddy continued, unaware of my discomfort. “You should see his face when he looks at Ava … Oh my God, I’m gushing, I’m so sorry—”

  “You get to gush. If anyone deserves to gush right now, you do,” I assured her.

  “You’re right, I do. Hang on a sec—”

  I waited while she spoke to someone.

  “Scarlett? I’m so sorry, I have to go. The midwife is here to help me express. Although Ava isn’t ready to feed from me yet, we’re trying to express my milk in the hope—”

  “Got it! You do what you need to do.”

  Maddy laughed at my squeamishness. “It’s a shame you’re not here or I would be able to show you my scar …”

  “I can’t wait. I’ll be in touch as soon as I’m back. Take care of yourself, alright?”

  “You too, Scarlett. Or at least let John take care of you. Just a little bit.”

  She hung up before I could come up with a smart reply.

  Sixteen years old

  “Mrs. Wong, I really think it’s best for everyone if you take Scarlett home now.”

  Sitting beside my mother, I dared a glance at my school principal, Mrs. Green. Her expression was gentle, yet firm.

  “No, no, no.” My mother shook her head emphatically. “Scarlett must sit exam today.”

  I stared down at my feet, wishing the ground would just hurry and swallow me up.

  “Mrs. Wong,” Mrs. Green tried again. “I can assure you that Scarlett will sit the math exam when she’s well enough to. It’s not the first time we’ve encountered situations like this and we can give her special consideration—”

  “No!” My mother’s voice echoed around the four walls of the principal’s office. “No special consideration!”

  I silently thanked God the door to Mrs. Green’s office was shut and the rest of the school hopefully hadn’t heard my mother’s outburst.

  I looked up to see Mrs. Green frown. Somehow her plump features remained soft and understanding even though she was unhappy. “Mrs. Wong.” She didn’t raise her voice but there was no room for argument in her tone. “Scarlett is suffering from glandular fever and she needs to be at home in bed. Not sitting an exam. This is a serious illness, which requires rest and recovery time. We will reschedule her exams when the doctor says she is fit to take them.”

  I wanted to die. Only my mother would do this to me. The only positive out of the whole situation was that if I was forced to remain here much longer I might actually die and be put out of my misery. My head was dangerously close to dropping off, my sinuses were so inflamed I couldn’t breathe, and my throat ached with the effort o
f swallowing. That Mrs. Green had allowed me into her office in the first place was a testament to her endless patience.

  “Can she sit them at home?” my mother persisted. “I supervise and then bring exams back to the school?”

  “Most certainly not.” Maybe Mrs. Green’s patience did have a limit. Her expression was a mixture of disbelief and frustration. “School certificate exams take place under strict exam conditions dictated by the state. I really don’t think there’s any cause for concern, Mrs. Wong. Once Scarlett is better, she will have the opportunity to sit the exams just like every other student in Year Ten. It won’t affect her marks in any way.”

  “Are you sure?” The suspicious look my mother was leveling at Mrs. Green was nothing short of insulting.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Green assured her, choosing either not to notice or to rise above my crazy mother’s response. “Judging by Scarlett’s outstanding academic record, I’m sure once she’s better, she’ll perform similarly well in the exams. To force her to participate in the exams now, when she’s so clearly unwell, would most likely be detrimental to her marks.”

  Huh. As professional as Mrs. Green was, that comment was most definitely aimed at my mother’s obsessive behavior. Not that it mattered. Knowing my mother, she had only heard the words detrimental to her marks.

  My head still lowered, I watched my mother out of the corner of my eye. She was frowning and the worry lines – or insanity lines, as I liked to think of them – between her eyebrows were furrowed deeply.

  “Yes. Yes, you right,” my mother said eventually. “Scarlett get better exam results when she feeling better.”

  Mrs. Green stood, and I noticed both hands were gripping the edge of her desk tightly. “Off home to bed now, Scarlett. You need your rest.”

  We stood too and I really wished I hadn’t, because my brain seemed to bounce off the inside of my head, making me sway slightly.

  Oblivious to my plight, my mother bent down to pick up her handbag. She was probably already planning my intensive bed-ridden exam preparation.

  Mrs. Green came around the side of her desk and gently placed both hands on my shoulders. “Look after yourself, Scarlett.” She waited until I reluctantly met her eyes. “We only want to see you back at school when you’re one hundred percent better, alright?”

  That she would direct that instruction to me, and not my mother, spoke volumes.

  I nodded and attempted to smile. My mother waited at the door, the insanity lines still going strong. “Hurry up, Scarlett.”

  Never mind I was dying.

  For a school principal, Mrs. Green was pretty cool. I cast one last look back in her direction. Her sympathetic expression forced me to bite my lip and hurry away as my mother instructed, despite every limb in my body groaning in protest.

  I was fairly sure Mrs. Green’s sympathy had less to do with my illness and more to do with my mother.

  Chapter 18

  Five days later than planned, we made our way to LaGuardia Airport, east of New York City.

  Somehow John had managed to reschedule so he was traveling on the same flight as me. How he had achieved it, I had no idea, and he wasn’t giving away any secrets. Although from what I could gather, Mr. Nice Guy’s charm didn’t extend to getting us seats next to each other.

  By the time we arrived at the airport I was feeling decidedly cantankerous. John insisted on carrying my bags, which pissed me right off. It wasn’t very fair of me, because while I was now approaching human status again, I was still very weak. He’d only insisted after witnessing me arrive in the foyer of the hotel winded and unable to speak from the effort of hauling my luggage downstairs.

  Then there were the people. Put all those people in a setting like New York City and I could deal, but put them in an airport and it was additional cause of frustration. I was dreading the damn plane. Hundreds of people in a confined environment and my manners went out the window. Not that I was particularly mild-mannered at the best of times, but I didn’t need annoying people adding to my foul mood.

  “Let’s get you a coffee,” John suggested once we’d checked in our baggage.

  “You’ll have to make it weak,” I complained. Since falling ill my stomach was not its bullet-proof self, and Scarlett-style black coffees were on hold until further notice. Yet another reason to be in a bad mood.

  John had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. Previously I would have said it was because he was scared of me. Now I understood it was because he knew me better. The small smile on his face and easy going way he navigated the hordes of people annoyed me even further. He seemed to be taking it all in his stride. Like when he’d been pulled aside for a bomb check earlier, he’d given me a look as if to say, “Shouldn’t they be scanning you?” Damn right.

  We found a semi-private table on the far side of the food court, away from the worst of the crowd.

  “At the risk of getting my head bitten off,” John said after taking his first sip of coffee, “what was the outcome of your meeting?”

  I’d met with Barbara, the Gallery Director, yesterday, after she’d graciously rescheduled our original meeting. In the week since the show, fifteen of my twenty paintings had sold. The paintings would be available to view for another three weeks and Barbara had seemed confident she’d be able to move the remaining four. The fifth painting – the portrait of my father – was not for sale, and I was bearing the cost of the return shipping to Australia.

  “Fifteen paintings sold and ten inquiries for commissions so far,” I told John, still not entirely believing it myself.

  “Well done.”

  “I haven’t done the commissions yet,” I reminded him. “I’m still figuring out how the hell I’m going to take them on.” In my excitement, it was something I hadn’t factored in when agreeing to the exhibition.

  “Do you need to come back to New York?” John asked.

  I nodded. “I need some time to get to know the subjects.”

  “So factor that into the cost.”

  “What? A trip to New York?”

  “Absolutely. If they’re prepared to pay good money for your artwork, that means paying for you.”

  I pushed my coffee away. My stomach was cramping slightly from the bitter brew. “Because that’s going to fit into my role as creative director at Shout so well.”

  The potential commissions both scared and excited me. I would love to be paid to work on new paintings, but how the hell was I going to fit that into my already hectic schedule? Each commission would involve – minimum – a week of client contact, probably more.

  “When are you going to take your art career seriously?” John asked, interrupting my thoughts.

  “I do take it seriously,” I replied, a little defensively. “But I also need to take my paying job seriously as well.”

  “Don’t you see, Scarlett? Soon you won’t need your advertising job anymore.”

  I reached for my coffee again, weak stomach be damned. “I didn’t pick you for such a dreamer, John.”

  “My job is turning dreams into bricks and mortar,” he said, quite seriously. “If I took your cynical view of the world every time a client came to me with a vision of how they wanted their house to be, and I told them it wasn’t possible, they’d pick another architect.”

  “Are their dreams always achievable?”

  “Eighty percent of the time they’re not,” he agreed.

  I stared at him in disbelief. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but surely that doesn’t make you a very good architect?”

  “Depends on your point of view,” John said easily. “How many times have you envisaged a painting only to discover when you’re creating it, it turns out differently to what you imagined?”

  I attempted not to glare at him. It was a valid point. Try as you might, what eventuated on the canvas was always a departure from your initial vision.

  “And is the end product usually better or worse?” John pushed, not waiting for me to agree with him.
>
  “Better,” I muttered.

  “See? Vision translated into reality tops dreaming every time.”

  “God, you’re so full of it.”

  “Admit it. I’m right.”

  I took another sip of my drink and didn’t say anything.

  “Well, at least admit that the reality of a paying art career is possible,” he persisted.

  I still didn’t say anything, and once again, my coffee proved fascinating.

  John reached over and rested a hand on my wrist. “I’m not trying to piss you off, you know,” he said.

  “I know,” I said with a sigh. “Don’t take it personally, I’m just kind of pissed off in general right now.”

  “Really?”

  I gave him a look that would freeze water. John smirked and removed his hand.

  “I know you’ve been sick, but what do you have to be in a bad mood about, really?” he asked.

  “Aunt Cindy’s death, for one,” I retorted.

  John’s smirk turned into a wide grin, and another cramp took hold of my stomach, for entirely different reasons.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I hear she was a pretty special lady.”

  “The best. Hey!”

  In an attempt to squeeze past our table, some moron inadvertently kicked my carry on luggage, sending it sliding several meters across the polished floor.

  “Sorry,” called out a middle-aged guy in a business suit as he rushed off in the direction of the gates, leaving my bag stranded.

  I stood up, ready to chase down the culprit and release my wrath. John stood too, then stepped in front of me. “I got it.”

  I watched as he took a few long strides and rescued my bag. He tucked it neatly under our table and smiled.

  “Obviously in a rush,” he said.

  I shook my head at his easy calm. “Or an inconsiderate idiot,” I mumbled.

  John’s smile faded. “Scarlett?”