White Balance

by Paton, Ainslie

  Mario jumped and touched a falling star, and special theme music started playing. Bailey couldn’t tell if Chris was winning or not. Aiden said, “She finally saw the light and dumped me.”

  She snapped her head around to look at him. “Oh God, is that my fault?”

  Aiden put his hand to her shoulder. She flinched as though she was the one being attacked by giant half turtle, half dragon creatures, and he dropped it with a slight frown. “No. You did me a favour. I kept telling her she could do better, but she had a truck load of misplaced faith in me. Seeing you and me together was what she needed to really understand.”

  “I’m so sorry.” And she was. This was real life not the playground, and her stupidity had caused Aiden’s relationship to break up.

  “Don’t be. It’s better this way. You achieved what I couldn’t.”

  “But now you’re alone. No Willow, no Cody and Jas.”

  “Lonely games. I’m a big boy. I’ll cope.”

  Her mouth was a desert, her tongue shrivelled. She had no idea what to say to him, all she could do was look into his eyes, and see his defeat. It wasn’t the kind of surrender she’d wanted when she’d been out photographing couches and hearts in clouds.

  “Blake and I nicked into an exhibition in Adelaide. I thought you might’ve liked it. I wanted to give you this.” He took a folded brochure from his back pocket, handed it to her, said goodnight and left for his desk.

  She unfolded the brochure. It was the program for a photographic exhibition called Symmetry. She opened it and saw an interview with the gallery owner. A piece of text was blown up big and highlighted. It said, “I’m fascinated by good and evil, light and dark and how great photography can white balance the world.”

  He knew.

  She went rigid, cold with the shock of it, clutching the program to her chest. She looked back towards Aiden. He had his coat on, ready to leave, but he was watching her. If he was only guessing, her reaction confirmed his suspicions. He nodded, picked up his bag.

  Bailey watched him leave the office through a veil of mortification made more humiliating because she’d brought it on herself. When cheering broke out amongst the video game players it caught her attention. On the big screen, Princess Peach was giving Mario a kiss, but Chris was looking at her as though she’d just slapped him.

  41: Acceptance

  “There’s something between you and Aiden isn’t there? That’s why he came to the house.” Chris wasn’t angry. He no right to be hurt and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop sounding resentful.

  There was no reason not to tell him the truth. He’d admitted to a fling with a beautiful Brazilian girl, and Bailey suspected she was a composite for a number of women he’d romanced and bedded over the last year.

  “There’s nothing between Aiden and me.” That part was easy, it was fact. “We’re attracted to each other, and we’ve made out, but he isn’t interested in taking it further.”

  “But you are.”

  “Yes.”

  That was the hard part over.

  Chris sighed. “Ok. Thanks for telling me. I was kind of amazed you didn’t have someone. I guess I got my hopes up that you were waiting for me. You weren’t were you?”

  She started the car and clicked her seatbelt in place. “No.”

  Chris’ belt went click but he was swivelled around in his seat to look at her. She flicked the blinker on ready to pull out. He put his hand on her arm to stop her. “Where does that leave me?”

  She checked the rear view and side mirror, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “Bailey?”

  She let a stream of traffic go past, let an opportunity to swing out go past. When she spoke, her head was turned away from him, towards the driver’s door. “I didn’t know you were coming back. I didn’t know you still felt anything for me. We had that conversation the night you arrived. This doesn’t change anything. I don’t know if I want to be with you. You said you’d give me time.”

  Chris said, “As much as you need,” but for the first time he sounded insecure. It took him the whole weekend to recover his equilibrium.

  Bailey started Monday morning by dodging Blake about the partnership decision. She was upfront about the dodge. Said she needed more time to think about it, despite the fact the need for a decision weighted heavily on her. Now it wasn’t so much the issue of committing to work with Blake, but with Aiden.

  When she thought about her and Aiden all she could see was how out of balance they were with each other. Instant attraction followed by active dislike, chased by friendship with a speed bump of hot and heavy passion, and a side-car of avoidance, distrust and misunderstanding. Add to that the roles of other pedestrians, Blake, Willow and Chris and the whole thing was a crash that left the survivors staggering.

  She wanted to avoid Aiden too. Thinking about seeing him made her feel embarrassed all over again. But they needed to talk about Bitters, and if she was going to continue to work on the launch she had to deal with him.

  She found him alone in the kitchen negotiating unsuccessfully with the cappuccino machine. She figured she’d walked in on round two because he said, “You bastard. It’s coffee not nuclear disarmament,” and thumped his mug on the bench top.

  “Need some help?”

  His shoulders slumped forward and he grunted. “You heard that didn’t you?”

  She came up beside him, reached around the back of the machine and turned it off and back on again. “Sometimes you have to reset it.”

  He laughed and put his mug back under the spout. “Like white balancing.”

  Baileys’ face got hot as colour invaded her cheeks.

  “I can’t believe Blake didn’t tell me, Bailey. He can’t believe you didn’t. I want to outlaw need to know around here.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “I put it together backwards, but the first clue was the day after we met. You posted dolphins jumping with the caption, ‘For David’. Then the day of the dinner, the fog. You gave me a hard time, so I figured I was wrong. But your password, that gave it away.”

  “You never said. You were insanely tired, the words, ‘we kissed and you told me you didn’t want to stop’ got replaced with, ‘there was a lot going on. I hoped you might not make the connection.’”

  He frowned at her. “Why didn’t you want me to know?”

  Because I stole your image before we even met and I’ve wanted to be in your life since that moment. “I like the idea of it being anonymous.”

  He bought that, with a nod. He sipped his cappuccino. “You’re talented.”

  Bailey put another cup under the spout and flicked the button to deliver a latte. “Not last week. I was infected by a virus that threw my sense of a good image off kilter.”

  “The cloud shot, amazing. The couch. The school kids. You were rolling on a theme.”

  The machine ground fresh beans, a crunchy sound, a teeth-on-edge sound. I was trying to tell you something which fortunately you didn’t get. “I was mad at you. I’m still am.”

  In the post grind silence, she watched his face. His expression hardened. “Good. Stay that way. You still haven’t decided about the partnership. That’s because of me, right? I understand, but it annoys me. I hoped you’d see it as a good opportunity.”

  Her cup filled, the scent of fresh coffee a comfort in a very uncomfortable conversation. “Why did you come to the house?”

  Aiden pushed away from the bench he leaned on, his manner now steely. “I told you. To see how you were after the fight with Blake.” He was going to leave the kitchen. He was going to run again.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He shrugged, a show of nonchalance she wasn’t sure he really felt. “That’s your prerogative.” He started to walk away. She called after him. “I don’t understand.”

  He stopped, turned back. “What’s to understand?” The steel was tempered with rusted on passive aggression now. He spoke to her as though she was a pesky
kid.

  “We crossed the line. If we’d stayed professional, we might not be hesitant at forty paces now. You might not be about to make a dumb career move. Listen to me. Chris seems like a good guy. I’m not a good guy. I’m a pretender. I’m as inconsistent as weather—sunny with a strong chance of late storms. It took Willow a while to get it. You hitting on me did the trick.”

  “Hitting on you! You arrogant son of a bitch. I did it for a bet.”

  He looked momentarily confused. “Blake,” he sighed. “Right.” She saw him consider the insult and decide. “Good.” He left the room, tossing over his shoulder, “Don’t disappoint us on the partnership.”

  She could stand there with her latte and let him dismiss her, cop his freak weather. She could take up the mantle of avoidance. Neither option appealed.

  She needed to stop thinking about him as a man who made her blood buzz and start thinking of him as a colleague, and nothing more. He seemed able to relate to her that way, so there was no reason she couldn’t try it on for size.

  She went after him, spoke to his back. “Aiden. Can we talk about Bitters?”

  He stopped, appeared to hesitate, and she had a second to wonder if she’d meet sunshine or storm cloud. When he turned, she had a glimpse of rainbow. All the colours of his confusion were jumbled in his eyes. He said, “That’d be great.” He beamed a smile, as though he hadn’t expected her to confront him, and was delighted she had, before composing himself, adjusting his expression to one more subdued. But his voice was behind the forecast; it was sunny with a chance of extreme warmth when he said, “Let’s go to my desk.”

  An hour later, when Bailey returned to her office she’d resolved a list of issues for the launch. If that hour was any indication of things to come, it demonstrated Aiden fully intended to keep a wall of professional courtesy, a forecast of forced clemency between them.

  He spoke little, he avoided her eyes. He sat back in his chair as if to keep as much distance as possible between them, so not to risk any accidental physical contact. He was guarded and polite, brisk and no nonsense. He didn’t laugh. It wasn’t that he didn’t engage or was rude, he was attentive and considerate, but he was also aloof and impersonal.

  In anyone else, it would be a near perfect combination of professional competence and efficiency. From Aiden it was humourless, bleak and soulless. She’d have thought it an act, too hard to keep up.

  Except he did keep it up.

  Over the next few weeks, as they worked towards the launch event, he retained his politely cool manner. He was that way in the office during the day, as well as during the late nights they had to endure to flog through the work. He was that way sitting beside her in the back of taxis or grabbing a working lunch, and Bailey knew any notion she’d had his behaviour was a thin veneer that would wear through was wrong. Her desire met his resolve and found it intractable.

  This was his new normal with her. Whatever it was they’d had together, that intense, urgent spark, he’d snuffed out. Utterly, completely and permanently, with no prospect for change.

  There was no reason now not to take up the partnership. Her relationships with Blake and Aiden were now well defined. She could trust Blake to screw up, but she could trust him to understand and fix things now. She could trust Aiden to be completely and thoroughly professional. It was a good offer. One she’d never thought to come across that would boost her industry standing, income and future career prospects—future life prospects. It was the shrewd thing to do.

  There was no reason now not to invite Chris back into her bed. He had a new job, but she still came home to a cooked meal. He’d focused on her therapy, helping her do her stretches and taking her on walks when she felt too tired. With his help she was off the Cerebrex and wasn’t limping any more. He was a good offer. One she’d never thought would come again. It was the sensible thing to do.

  42: Concussion

  Aiden didn’t think he’d be able to stand up. This was a lightning strike, but it wasn’t supposed to happen twice. Blood pooled in his legs, his mouth was insanely dry, and his hands were shaking. Everything he looked at was tinted red and dripping. Inside his head there was raw screaming that wouldn’t stop, though the only real sounds were Blake trying to bring her round and Evan calling an ambulance.

  This time it was his fault.

  Cara was crouched down beside him, trying to comfort him. He wanted to push her away and go to Bailey, crumpled at the base of the staircase, but he’d done enough damage. Blake was holding Bailey, cradling her, speaking gently to her and pressing a white towel to the cut on her head to staunch the bleeding. There was blood everywhere.

  If she died, if she died...

  They’d had a work in progress meeting. They were having them regularly now in the run up to the event. It was getting easier to work with her. Less exhausting, less taxing on his heart. He’d faked it till Bailey accepted the new, distant, impersonal way of working together. Till she stopped spending any sparkle on him in the hope he’d soften towards her.

  She was moving on. He was shrivelling up again. Lonelier than he’d ever been. More work absorbed, more disconnected from his life, if that was even possible.

  When they’d finished, they’d walked to reception together. Bailey was going back to her desk upstairs, and he was meeting Blake to go out to a client meeting. Waiting in the foyer for Blake, he remembered he hadn’t asked about the media list. Bailey was halfway up the stairs. Blake had started down them.

  He called her and she took her hand off the banister, shifting a pile of folders to her hip. Everything went slow-mo. She turned, rotating to her right, caught her boot heel on the stair tread and pitched forward. Blake yelled. He was two steps above her. He grabbed for her and missed. Her hands flew out, the folders opened and paper spewed up, showering down on her. Her own cry was muffled by the thud her shoulder made as it hit the stairs, as she rolled. Aiden was cemented to the spot, his heart had surely stopped. An agony of symmetry shut down his ability to move, to act—to save her.

  She fell hard like a stone, smacking the steel and wood casing of the staircase, bouncing off its surface to hit it again. She fell soft like a tossed rag doll, sliding, tumbling with no control, no way of stopping herself.

  He screamed her name.

  If she died, it was Shannon all over again.

  If she died, it was his fault.

  She was conscious when she hit the bottom, coming to rest on her side, blood already pouring from her forehead into her eye, her knee twisted cruelly. She pushed herself into a sitting position an expression of open-mouthed wonder and shocked amazement on her face. He was on his knees in front of her. His legs had given out, carrying him to the floor. Her eyes flicked over him and locked on his face. “Aid, I’m ok.” She smiled, but she was white and red and her eyes rolled and still he couldn’t move. Blake caught her when she fainted, his own face torn with fright.

  She wasn’t coming around.

  If she died, he would too.

  Blake was barking orders. Telling people to stand back, move away. Evan was propping the door open for the stretcher. Cara was tugging on his arm. How long had he been comatose like this? He was in the way, they couldn’t get to her.

  He moved, went to her side and grasped her hand. “Bailey, you wake up now. Wake up. Come back to me. You have to come back to me.”

  They pushed him away to get to her. He stood with Blake as they put Bailey in a back brace, tried to stop the bleeding, got her on the stretcher and onto the ambulance. Chris was on the phone with Evan.

  He went to follow the stretcher, but Blake had a hold of his arm. “Stay back, mate. We’ll follow in my car.”

  “I’ve killed her...”

  “She’ll be ok. She was conscious. She spoke to you.”

  He pulled away from Blake, lunged for the door, but was caught from behind, both Blake’s arms around him. “Stay back, mate. She’s not Shannon. She’s not going to die.”

  He couldn’t catch his b
reath. He couldn’t shake Blake off. Heard him order everyone away from the area and back to work.

  If I’ve killed her, I’ll die.

  Somehow Cara got them both cleaned up and Blake got them to the hospital. Chris was already there. He left Blake to deal with him. He paced the hallway. He was amazed it was possible to walk about with his heart stopped and his lungs ripped open. Someone must’ve given him coffee, and he must’ve drunk it, because he was holding an empty Styrofoam cup crushed in his palm. Her blood was on his shirt.

  He loved her and he’d denied her. He’d hurt her, and now he’d threatened her life. And he’d denied himself, so none of that should’ve been feasible in the first place.

  How could he lose two women he loved in the same way? He was going mad. She’d been conscious. She wasn’t going to die. But Shannon had been conscious too. Awake and alone—and knowing she was in trouble.

  Blake was there. Getting in his face. Handing him more coffee. Making him sit. Being his anchor. Talking crap about it being ok. About how she’d be back at work with a sore head in a day or two.

  Another man arrived. Dressed in white. A pair of hands in a logo embroidered on his shirt. Doug. He sat with Chris. He was one of the good guys, who cared for Bailey properly, respectfully, with transparency and honesty. There was a woman with them who looked like a blonde version of Bailey, had to be her sister, Sarah.

  It was dark when someone came out to tell them she was alright. Mild concussion. Five stiches in her head, a sprained knee and ankle, bruises but no breaks, no damage to her back no lasting damage at all. She was lucky. She was resting. They’d keep her overnight but she could go home tomorrow. They could go in and see her.

  There was a new moment of tension. Again Blake had to do the holding him back thing, because he needed to see her to be able to breathe properly again. Chris was staring him down and Doug was looking uneasy.