Modern Heart: City Love 3

by Belinda Williams

  “What?”

  “I’ve got to ask. Given you’re such a people person, why do you like living in the city?”

  “Anonymity,” I replied without having to think.

  John blew out a long breath. “Fair enough. And endless inspiration for your artwork, I’m guessing.”

  “Yep. You?”

  He appeared surprised at my willingness to hold a conversation despite my foul mood. In truth, he was distracting me from moping.

  “The architecture, for one,” he answered.

  “So you don’t like people either?” I joked.

  “No, that’s just you. Realistically, my job ties me to big cities. More people, therefore more demand for work. You could go and live the life of an artistic hermit in the sticks somewhere though.”

  “Why do people think you have to live in the sticks to live like a hermit? You can do it in the city too.”

  “I’m getting the sense the country frightens you.”

  “Or bores me. I’m not sure which.” But he was kind of right. The idea of all that open space was somewhat unsettling. “I think you’re just making excuses,” I said. “Plenty of architects trade the urban environment for the fresh air. They go and build some sort of hippie, environmentally friendly abode they claim is sympathetically in keeping with the landscape and usually looks atrocious.”

  John grinned at my ill-tempered response. “No desire, sorry. Too much happening in Sydney.”

  “Not even in retirement?” I pushed.

  “I’ll just retire on the coast. Plenty of beaches in Sydney for that. How about you? What are your retirement plans?”

  I set down my coffee. “I don’t usually think about it, to be honest. Provided I’ve got good coffee and an art studio of some sort, I’m happy.”

  “What about in between now and retirement?”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, there’s a few years between now and then. Got any plans? I’m free.”

  I almost laughed. Almost. “You know I’m not the marrying kind,” I hedged.

  “Who said anything about marriage?” His dark eyes turned serious.

  I shrugged, his gaze unsettling me. “You seem like the marrying sort.”

  “I’m not particularly.”

  My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh come on! You’re exactly the marrying sort, John. Faithful and dependable. I can just see you with the little wifey at home, the couple of kids—”

  “I don’t want a wifey,” he shot back firmly.

  Well, well. His good mood did have its limits. It was wrong of me, but I liked seeing him all riled up. “You’re just the wifey sort, John. Face it.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Don’t deny it. You’ll settle down with Mrs. Perfect. She’ll put her law career, or accounting job, or some other professional career, on hold to be at home with the kids. Meanwhile you’ll earn lots of money designing North Shore and Eastern suburbs renovations. Your clients will be just like you: other white collar professional men who have too much money, and their own wife and kids at home.”

  Something dangerous flashed in John’s eyes. “We all know you’re not the wifey sort, don’t we, Scarlett?” he said gruffly. “You’ll spend the majority of your thirties sleeping with whoever you choose and toying with the idea of a serious art career but never really doing anything about it. No plans for kids, of course – your mother’s example put a stop to that idea years ago. You’ll probably continue with your routine well into your forties and fifties. By then, you’ll be some sort of eccentric hermit who only comes out for the odd gallery showing or for the occasional hook up. As for your job, you’ll earn awards for your creative brilliance while simultaneously poking fun at the entire ad industry because secretly you think it’s all just a big fat joke. But thank God for your art, hey? You might be alone and bitter, but that keeps you sane.”

  Whoa. Where had that come from? I knew I’d started it, but I’d obviously touched on a nerve. I stared at him in shock, choosing for once to keep my big mouth shut in case it upset him more.

  John stood up from the table, the metal legs of his chair scraping on the tiles. He pushed his hair back roughly. His eyes held regret mixed with frustration. “That was completely out of line. How about I meet you at the gate?”

  Eyes wide, I watched him storm off, the crowd swallowing him up as his long strides propelled him away from me. I blinked several times and reached for my coffee. Unsteadily I brought the paper cup to my lips.

  Ouch. I was hurt. I wasn’t going to be precious though. I’d deserved it. I’d been in such a foul mood. And then, presented with the opportunity to stir John, I hadn’t held back. What I couldn’t get my head around, was why he’d been so riled up by my comments. He was the marrying sort … Oh. But then he’d gone and developed feelings for me, hadn’t he? And I wasn’t the marrying sort. That would certainly be enough to cause some conflict in Mr. Nice Guy’s world.

  I put the coffee down, feeling marginally better. Marginally. And he’d apologized. He was probably the only guy I knew who would berate me one second and apologize the next.

  I turned to stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows adjacent to the table. Massive jumbo jets sat parked in the numbered bays. It was just as well we weren’t sitting next to each other on the plane. It was perverse of me, but I kind of liked seeing John’s temper flare like that. Lord knows a long-haul flight would be temptation enough to bait him some more.

  Or would it? I grabbed for my coffee again. Ours was a dangerous dynamic, and I wasn’t just referring to the unrequited lust. It was also our ability to speak the truth. I’d called it for what it was: John Hart was a good guy, marriage material and the rest.

  And, try as I might, pushing the image of a fifty-something Scarlett Wong out of my head – bitter and eccentric – was a little too close to home.

  Chapter 19

  Work was the last place I wanted to be. Jet lagged and still not entirely recovered from my bout of the flu, bed was the more preferable option. It wasn’t to be. If I was to ensure Aunt Cindy’s death and my illness were a believable story, I had to front up to the office. That didn’t mean I had to be productive. I spent the majority of the morning catching up with co-workers and plying my caffeine addiction.

  Just before lunch I sat staring at my computer screen. I was wondering if I could be bothered reviewing the three hundred odd emails or archiving them without opening them when I heard the sound of a male clearing his throat.

  “Hi Tony.” I tried to look receptive to my boss, who was standing in the doorway.

  “Scarlett. Join me in my office.” He strode off without waiting for an answer.

  Brilliant. Just what I needed. Reluctantly I stood and followed Tony down the corridor. Once seated on the most uncomfortable sofa in the entire world, we played our usual game of chicken silence. Some new magazines had been added to the pile since I’d been away so I was happy to wait.

  To my surprise, he spoke as soon as I picked up a magazine. “Take a look at page eighteen.”

  I looked properly at the cover for the first time. A contemporary art magazine. Well, that was unusual, but not unheard of. Flicking to the page, I scanned the headlines and images. I stilled when my gaze settled on one in particular.

  “You’ve been a very busy girl, haven’t you?”

  Putting off the inevitable, I chose to scan the article. Huh. It was very complimentary. It even referred to me as a new talent to watch.

  “Scarlett?”

  Alright, so now wasn’t the time to go for the tactic of ignoring the boss. “Yes?”

  “I’m so glad your art career is going well. How very exciting for you.”

  I maintained eye contact but didn’t say anything. I mean, what was there to say?

  “I trust Aunt Cindy’s funeral went off without a hitch?”

  I inhaled, then exhaled. “What do you want me to say, Tony?”

  Tony pushed away from his desk and stood. A muscle t
witched in his jaw. “I pay you for your creativity, but that creativity doesn’t extend to lying to me.”

  “I told you the truth. You didn’t like it.”

  “And I gave you a choice: meet your responsibilities as a professional employee of my agency, or quit.”

  I put the magazine back on the coffee table. Most employees would be quivering with dread right now. I wasn’t most employees. “I didn’t like the options. Nor the ultimatum. It didn’t sit well with my professional expectations.”

  Tony’s upper lip curled in a sneer. “Oh, you’re a clever one, aren’t you? But I guess that’s why I hired you.”

  I watched as he walked around his desk and then came to sit beside me on the sofa. He didn’t seem to notice its lack of comfort. He leaned in and I tried not to edge back.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “You’re going to oversee the launch of the health account later this month. After that, we’ll revisit our discussion of your position in this organization. I hope you’ll make it one of your best campaigns to date.”

  His gray eyes lingered on me. Waiting until he was sure I felt adequately creeped out, he pushed back and stood. He walked to the door and waited for me to leave.

  Biting down on a sigh, I stood and walked out of his office and down the corridor.

  Well, that had gone better than expected. I’d worked at Shout long enough to witness several dramatic firings of employees. Staff who had been marched from the building within an hour of being let go. I was equal parts relieved and disappointed that my own departure from the agency was going to be less dramatic. But there was absolutely no question in my mind.

  I was being let go in four weeks’ time.

  *

  Level three of North Shore Private Hospital was quiet when the elevator doors opened. For some reason it wasn’t what I expected. To me, the idea of giving birth seemed chaotic and dangerous. It wasn’t the sort of process that reconciled with the plushly furnished room in front of me. Cream walls and patterned carpet more suited to a hotel greeted me. A comfortable looking sofa sat to one side and several potted palms helped fill the space.

  “Hey you.”

  Maddy walked toward me, arms outstretched. For once I let myself be drawn into an embrace. She smelled of fresh shampoo and that classic floral scent she always wore. I gripped her tightly, more tightly than I intended, due to my relief at seeing her in the flesh. We stepped back and surveyed each other.

  The delicate skin beneath her eyes appeared darker than normal, but apart from that she appeared her usual impeccable self. She wore a pair of loose floral pants – currently in fashion – that I wouldn’t be seen dead in. They looked completely natural on her, and she’d paired them with a ruby colored top.

  “You look pretty damn good,” I told her.

  She shrugged. “I’m doing OK. That was a good hug for someone who doesn’t do hugs,” she told me with a small smile.

  I grunted. Depends on who was giving them, but I didn’t want to get into that now. “How’s Ava doing?”

  Her smile intensified. “Good. Really good, actually. She’s getting stronger every day and has been moved from neonatal intensive care to the special care nursery. The doctors are quietly hopeful she’ll have absolutely no issues despite her premature birth.”

  I returned her smile. “I wouldn’t expect anything less of your daughter.”

  Unexpectedly her eyes teared up. “Sorry. Hormones. Tiredness.” She quickly wiped away the tears. “Come on. You need to meet her.”

  She grabbed my hand and led me down the hallway. Most of the doors were closed and I could hear the muffled sounds of conversation and babies crying. It felt like I had landed in another world. We turned left and continued down another long corridor. When we reached the very end, she stopped at a set of double glass doors to our right. She turned to me.

  “Wait here. It’s a restricted area, but the nurses know you’re coming. When we go in you’ll need to wash your hands.”

  I watched through the glass as Maddy went inside. A row of small, clear, rectangular incubators lined the far wall, with curtains separating each of them. Maddy caught the attention of a nurse about our age who smiled broadly at her. It was no surprise she’d won everyone over. After a quick conversation, Maddy came back and opened the doors for me, then led me to a sink where I washed my hands. When I was finished, I followed her to the far side of the room where she stopped in front of one of the incubators.

  “Scarlett, meet Ava Rose Nielsen. Rose is for my grandmother on my mother’s side.”

  Ava’s mouth was obscured by some sort of breathing apparatus, and apart from a nappy, she was naked. Impossibly tiny, long legs stretched out from the nappy, which was way too big for her. She was so small, I’d easily have been able to circle her leg with my thumb and index finger. She had perfect miniature hands and feet, and even more minute fingernails and toenails. Her head was covered in a dark dusting of hair that I suspected would one day grow to match Maddy’s dark tresses.

  “She’s so long,” I whispered. “But I guess you and Paul are both tall.”

  Maddy smiled. “She’s actually average height for about this age: forty-five centimeters,” she explained. “Most of the growth in the final weeks of pregnancy is about putting weight on, rather than growing longer.”

  I stared at Ava, entranced. I’d never been one for babies. She definitely had an alien-like quality to her, due to her early arrival. Yet she was beautiful. A tiny, vulnerable human.

  “She’s been such a good girl,” Maddy said. “I’ve been expressing milk for her and they feed it to her via a tube. Her survival instinct is amazing.”

  “Do you get to touch her?” I asked, still unable to tear my eyes away from the little human.

  “Not as much as I would like, obviously. She has to stay in the incubator most of the time. The nurses are really good at making sure I’m involved in the nappy changes. I can’t wait to hold her properly though, when she’s a bit stronger.”

  I swallowed and my throat felt like it was closing in on me. I sniffed.

  “Scarlett? Are you alright?” Maddy touched my arm gently.

  “Fine,” I replied. I blinked rapidly. Not even I could explain my unexpected overly emotional response. “You and Paul must be very happy.” My voice sounded strained.

  “We’re over the moon, despite the roller coaster ride.” She frowned. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

  I forced a smile. “Tired. Jet lagged. And unbelievably happy for you, that’s all.”

  Maddy wasn’t convinced. “Thank you. Why don’t we go grab a coffee?”

  I glanced back at Ava. “Later. Spend some time with Ava. We can grab coffee during the week when you’re not at the hospital.”

  Maddy’s eyes narrowed. “You look like you could do with a girly chat and coffee.”

  I was finding it hard to breathe. Here Maddy was in this foreign world of the special care nursery while her daughter lay breathing with the assistance of a machine, and she still had time to care about me. She was going to make a damn fine mother. I shook my head. “Rain check. I’m so jet lagged it’s ridiculous.”

  “Alright.” Maddy still looked unconvinced.

  We said our goodbyes and I retraced the path to the elevators. Outside, the cold night air was a shock, but it was a good shock. Spring in New York had been warm and temperate. Sydney was nearing winter and I felt the need to shove my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket.

  I decided to walk to the train station. It was less than a ten-minute journey from the hospital, so I set off, my black boots pounding the pavement as I maintained a fast pace. It wasn’t that I wanted to get away from Maddy and her tiny, beautiful daughter necessarily. It was just that I couldn’t face the unexpected emotions. Emotions I’d worked hard my whole adult life to keep clamped down.

  By the time I was within sight of the station, my mouth felt parched and my head thumped with a dull ac
he. Instead of going in, I walked straight past the entrance and stopped several hundred meters up the road on the corner. The small pub was mostly empty. Only a few office workers lingered from their after work drinks.

  I went to step forward and open the doors, but paused when I heard my phone ring. I fished the phone from my bag while Sia’s “Chandelier” ringtone mirrored my thoughts perfectly.

  John Bloody Hart.

  We’d avoided each other on the flight home. The easiest solution after what happened in the airport had been to hook myself up to the in-flight entertainment for the duration of the journey and try not to think about the man sitting elsewhere on the plane who had feelings for me but thought I was bitter and eccentric.

  I threw the phone back into my bag. I didn’t need John Hart’s brand of thoughtfulness and caring right now.

  I pushed open the doors and the musty scent of beer hit me.

  What I needed right now was to forget everything.

  Chapter 20

  Two hours later I was well and truly drunk. On a different night I would have checked out the male talent, and maybe considered going home with someone. But that was before John bloody Hart. A man was the last thing I needed right now. It would remind me of John and all I wanted to do was forget.

  So I did my best to downplay how drunk I was and the bartender kept serving me drinks. Before long, the alcohol had achieved exactly what I wanted. I was too drunk to care.

  Too drunk to care about my emerging art career and the fact that it terrified me beyond belief.

  Too drunk to care about Maddy and her beautiful baby girl, and how I was unable to process the way my heart ached with love for those two.

  Too drunk to care about my job. Or that I would soon no longer have one. Before the alcohol, the care factor was pretty high on that one.

  And finally, too drunk to care about John Hart.

  It was only when the bartender raised an eyebrow at me that I realized my phone was ringing. Again.

  John Hart. Again. I hit reject.

  About a minute later the phone buzzed with a text. I swore under my breath. No bonus points to guess who it was from. I considered dumping my phone into my glass of bad house wine, but picked it up to look anyway.