The Dating Game

by Avril Tremayne

  ‘By all means, grab your shield,’ Adam said, crunching David’s hand hard enough to bring tears to a lesser man’s eyes. ‘As long as you don’t expect it to be any use if I decide to hurt you.’

  That surprised a laugh out of David. ‘Is that what you’re going to do?’

  ‘Let’s start talking and we’ll see.’ He turned back to the painting. ‘Don’t bother trying to deny you’re in love with my sister because the proof is on the canvas.’

  David stood beside him, gazing at Sarah’s face. The laughing eyes, the quizzical brow with its defined punctuation mark, the lush creaminess of her skin, the delicate pinkness of her perfect mouth. It hurt, every time he looked at the painting, knowing he wouldn’t touch her again. ‘I wasn’t going to deny it. I am in love with her.’

  ‘Then what the fuck is wrong with you?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’ Slight pause. ‘And none of your business.’

  ‘I make it my business whenever my chronically happy sister bursts into my house bawling her eyes out because she’s menstruating.’

  ‘Menstruating,’ David said, as his heart lurched. Sarah, crying because she was menstruating. His fault that she had to be sad over it.

  ‘Menstruating,’ Adam repeated, with distaste. ‘A word I never thought I’d be saying out loud. I could beat the crap out of you for that alone.’

  ‘If you’re using that word, I’m guessing you know the problem.’

  ‘I do. And here’s some free advice for you: get over yourself. It’s not the worst thing that can happen to a guy. You still have working tackle, right? Working well and frequently from what I hear—and the fact that I have heard it, against my will what’s more, is another reason I could beat the crap out of you.’

  David half-groaned, half-laughed. ‘Can she never shut up?’

  Adam’s mouth quirked up at the corner. ‘No, she cannot. It’s an impossibility. Before you go any further with her, you’d better come to terms with that.’

  ‘I’m not going any further with her.’

  Adam made a noncommittal grunting sound.

  David swallowed. ‘I thought she’d be here tonight.’

  ‘She thought you wouldn’t want to see her.’

  ‘Did she ask you to talk to me?’

  ‘She asked me not to.’

  Silence. And then David couldn’t help himself. ‘Is she … okay?’ God, what did ‘okay’ even mean?

  ‘Well let’s see, she’s lost two kilos in weight and she looks like a plate of stone-cold death.’ As David sucked in a pained breath, Adam looked him over. ‘In other words, I’d say she’s about as okay as you are. So no, she’s not “okay”.’

  ‘Jesus.’ David dragged a hand through his hair. ‘You have to make her eat. She needs to put on weight. Pizza. Ice cream—white chocolate mint.’

  ‘Yes, thank you for that advice, Doctor. But she says she’s too wretched to eat. Even pizza or white chocolate mint ice cream.’

  David raised a hand, dropped it. ‘I didn’t want to hurt her.’

  ‘And yet, you did hurt her.’

  Up came the hand again. Down. ‘I didn’t think she’d fall in love with me.’

  ‘And yet, she is in love with you.’

  Hand up … and down. ‘I just want her to have the life she wants.’

  ‘And yet, she doesn’t have the life she wants.’ Adam clapped his hand on David’s shoulder. ‘Keep going, mate, your score so far is awesome.’

  ‘She deserves better than me.’

  ‘Ah, now that, I can agree with,’ Adam said, and released his crushing grip on David’s shoulder.

  ‘Thank you.’ Dry as dust.

  ‘Well, seriously, how big a fuckwit can you be? You spring some big secret on Sarah out of the blue, and without giving her time to even think about it you decide that at some undetermined point in the future she’s not going to want you any more, so you leave her? Do you know how fucking stupid that is?’

  David set his jaw. ‘It’s for her own good.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Teeth gritted. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because I’m thinking maybe it’s for your own good. And look, I get it, I do, that need to cling to whatever crap happened to you in the past as some kind of protection against getting hurt.’ He laughed, short and mirthless. ‘God knows I’ve been guilty of it myself.’

  ‘I just want her to have everything she wants.’

  ‘Unless what she wants is you, apparently—in which case it’s a straight-out “no”.’

  Unanswerable.

  ‘Can you even hear yourself?’ Adam went on. ‘Talking about what you want for Sarah, what you think is good for Sarah. What makes you think it’s your call to choose what’s good for Sarah, without even trying to involve her in the decision? And why the fuck are you so focused on what you can’t give her, instead of what you can?’

  ‘Sarah told me from day one she wants children.’

  ‘Then give her some options, because there are options and you know it.’

  ‘What if they don’t work?’

  ‘Then that will be a shitty piece of rotten luck. And yeah, maybe one day Sarah will leave you because of it—not that I see it happening but, hey, life is unpredictable. I guess there’s as much chance of that happening as you getting bored and screwing other women, in which case she’ll flick you for that. Or maybe she’ll have an affair, and you’ll flick her. Or one of you could get run over by a bus next week—and if that happens, won’t you be so fucking glad you spent your last weeks on earth apart, tearing your hearts out!’

  ‘Enough!’ Breathe. ‘For God’s sake, enough.’

  ‘But if you insist on obsessing over sperm—and for the record, they’re Erica’s words, not mine and the fact that I am saying them … well, I really want to hurt you—then I need to ask you a question on Sarah’s behalf. If Sarah was the one with the antibodies, would you dump her when you found out, the way Rebel dumped you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Okay—another question. Is Sarah like Rebel, in any way at all?’

  ‘What? No!’

  ‘So why are you so sure Sarah would act the same way Rebel did when you say she’s nothing like Rebel? And what makes you think you’re more … quixotic I believe the word is …? More quixotic than Sarah, that she would do to you what you wouldn’t dream of doing to her?’ Long pause. ‘No answer? Then don’t make my sister pay just because you chose the wrong woman the first time around.’

  Silence, as they both reverted to looking at the painting.

  And then Adam smacked his hand on David’s back—a little harder than necessary. ‘You know, if I were you, I’d be afraid, very afraid.’

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘That means that Sarah has a freakish ability to get what she wants. Given you’re what she wants, you should be shaking in your shoes trying to figure out what she’s plotting.’

  ‘She hasn’t tried to call me. Not for weeks.’

  ‘Aha. Scary.’

  ‘You’re a bastard, you know that?’

  ‘Hey, I owe you for Lane.’

  ‘Nothing happened with Lane—why won’t you Quinns accept that?’

  ‘Doesn’t mean I don’t want to take you down because it might have.’

  ‘I appreciate your restraint. Which is why I’m not going to tell you the scheme Sarah had in mind for me and Lane when you two broke up.’

  ‘Yeah, I definitely don’t need to hear that.’ Adam closed his eyes briefly. ‘So as a reward for your restraint, I’m going to give you a heads-up that Erica is about to stage an intervention. She has enough single men on the books to guarantee dates for Sarah until the end of the year.’

  David had the strongest desire to stick his fingers in his ears, and repressed it only with the greatest effort.

  That side of Adam’s mouth quirked up again. ‘Don’t like that idea, do you?’

  ‘No, I hate
it, but I still think—’ He broke off. ‘God, I don’t know what I think.’

  ‘Then there’s Sarah’s own nebulous plan to make herself more exciting for the next man in her life.’

  ‘What does the nebulous plan involve?’

  ‘Nebulous means it’s not exactly defined, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Nebulous. Hazy, imprecise, vague, unclear.’

  ‘You’re such a goner,’ Adam said, laughing. ‘You might as well throw in the towel immediately.’

  David crossed defensive arms over his chest and shook his head, wanting to run but needing to hear.

  ‘Okay, if that’s how you want to play it,’ Adam said. ‘For starters, the plan involves moving this side of the Bridge—which is probably timely, since Mum’s decided to sell the house and live in Italy with Massimo. That’ll leave Sarah homeless so she might as well move closer to me.’

  ‘She’s selling the house from under Sarah? She can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not? It’s her house? Now where was I …? Oh, yes, moving this side of the Bridge. The next thing is developing something called … ennui? Yes, ennui.’ Both sides of Adam’s mouth were quirking at that. ‘An irresistible quality, I understand. And I think there was some mention of a guy called Mike and his cocaine supply.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ David—in a state of near apoplexy. ‘What the fuck kind of brother are you?’

  ‘The good kind, or I would have broken you into several pieces by now. And on that note, I’m off. If I see you around, David, well and good. If I don’t, have a nice life.’

  ‘Wait,’ David said, and Adam stopped. ‘You were joking about the cocaine, right?’

  ‘Do you care?’

  ‘Of course I fucking care.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got a phone. Use it. Ask her. Oh, and, David? One more thing. For Christ’s sake, lay off the eyelash tint.’

  ***

  You’ve got a phone; ask her.

  Really, there were all sorts of things David could ask Sarah.

  If the parcel with her clothes and shoes had arrived safely.

  About the sale of the house.

  Where exactly she was moving.

  Perhaps he could segue into asking why she hadn’t come tonight. If she was coming to see the painting another day. Which day?

  How many dates Erica had organized for her and which ones she was excited about?

  No, fuck that. He’d ask her if she remembered their last night together. Did she dream about him the way he dreamed of her? Did she still love him?

  And hell, yes, maybe he would ask her about the fucking cocaine.

  Jesus, how to start?

  It needed thought. A lot of thought.

  So it wasn’t until the next day he tried.

  Five times. No response.

  The day after that, he tried again.

  Seven times. No joy.

  The next day, ten attempts.

  Nothing.

  At which point David knew what had happened. Sarah had blocked him. Like all those dickheads he’d told her to dump and block.

  And—bingo! Out came the black knight. He was loading the mace and the broadsword and the fucking siege tower. He was going to steal the damsel from right under the nose of that fucking wimp of a white knight he’d never ever believed in anyway. He was done with wishing Sarah a nice life without him. He didn’t want her to get over him. He didn’t want her forgetting him and moving on. What he wanted, very simply, was her. Any way he could get her for as long as she would stay.

  And for the first time since he’d left Sarah’s flat all those weeks ago, David smiled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The plan Erica had put to Sarah that night at Adam’s had sounded simple.

  • Sarah was to stop calling and texting David forthwith.

  • Sarah would not go and see the painting.

  • Adam—who went to see the exhibition every year—would attend the opening, corner David, and leave him with a few home truths to mull over.

  • Sarah would then block David’s number.

  Erica predicted that the combination of no calls or texts, Adam’s interference, and the blocking, would have David on Sarah’s doorstep within a week of opening night.

  But day eight came and went, and David failed to show.

  At that point, it occurred to Sarah that Erica’s plan might do the inconceivable and fail.

  Over the next seven days, she sought daily advice from all three of her co-conspirators, only to receive vague, noncommittal, placatory, nothing answers.

  So Sarah decided it was time to take matters into her own hands.

  She dug out her brand-new underwear, bought with David in mind—the most delectable, frothy, frilly, tiny French knickers in cream, sprinkled with hot pink dots, and matching bra—and called a taxi.

  ***

  It was a scary moment, waiting for Sarah Quinn to arrive.

  It had been eighty-five days since he’d seen her; and sixteen days since Adam had posed the all-important question: Why the fuck are you so focused on what you can’t give her, instead of what you can?

  Sixteen days in which David had taken that question, interpreted it, devised a plan, and set the wheels in motion for a flawless implementation.

  Sixteen days in which he’d had increasingly frantic calls from Erica trying to speed the process along, and a less frantic but more deadly office visit from Lane, who’d calmly informed him that ‘statistically speaking’, women fell in love more often than men so he should perhaps think about what that could mean should he continue to take his own sweet time.

  But now, everything was ready. Arranged to perfection.

  It was a Saturday, and he’d been assured Sarah had no specific plans. Adam was on board to get Sarah where she needed to be at the right time, and any minute now, David would hear her footsteps. Any minute now … heart hammering … any minute now … hands sweating … any minute now … God, please don’t let me lick her … any … minute … now …

  Riing.

  Ring. As in phone. Jesus, not now!

  Ears pricked for sounds of Sarah’s approach, David dug into his back pocket, pulled out his phone and checked the caller ID. Uh-oh. This call he had to take. ‘Adam?’

  ‘Sorry, mate, but we’re scuppered.’

  ‘Scuppered? As in …’

  ‘As in scuppered.’

  ‘But— You did call her, right?’

  ‘Yes—and she was in a taxi on her way to SydneyScape Apartments. Apparently, she had an epiphany and decided to take matters into her own hands.’

  David’s heart seized. ‘What epiphany?’

  ‘Shit, I don’t even know what “epiphany” means.’ Adam laughed—cruel bastard! ‘The girls did try to hurry you along. We all knew this was a possibility. Sarah isn’t the most patient person in the world, and God knows she’s a schemer—look what she did when Lane needed sex lessons. That was my life done. And I got Lane’s brother a bonus prize to factor in. Should I warn you we’ll be spreading that load when Brad goes to university next year?’ Another laugh. ‘Nah, plenty of time to initiate you into that nightmare. Anyway, good luck.’

  David had a silent freak-out after Adam disconnected. He’d probably only missed Sarah by fifteen minutes, and yet everything was over, his plan in ruins.

  He wanted to strangle her. And kiss her. And … laugh. It was just so her. Strangle, kiss, laugh—all at the same time! God, that couldn’t be normal, could it?

  He scrubbed his hands over his face. What a disaster. He was here waiting for her and she was there. She was … she was … Oh!

  She was there.

  On her way to see him.

  Only he wasn’t there, he was here. Still here.

  Two minutes later, he was driving like a maniac while making a hands-free call to the SydneyScape concierge desk.

  ‘John? David Bennett here,’ he said. ‘Any minute now, my … my
model, Sarah Quinn, you know her, is going to arrive. Yes, the cute little blonde. Don’t let her know I’ve called you, but keep here there. Pretend to call me, or … or hell, do whatever you have to, but do not let her leave or I will kill you. I mean it.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Although Sarah was too keyed-up to relax, she nevertheless acceded to the concierge’s request that she take a seat while he called ‘Mr Bennett’. Then that she keep her seat, while ‘Mr Bennett’ finished doing something mumble-mumble-undetermined, at which time ‘Mr Bennett’ would be available.

  So she sat, and chewed her thumbnail, crossed and uncrossed her legs, and fidgeted. Eventually, nervous energy overcame her and she had to stand to do a little pacing. Towards the elevators (in case they opened and disgorged ‘Mr Bennett’), and back; towards them, and back. The concierge was looking a little frayed, so she thought about going over to him for a friendly chat to take both their minds off the situation. It was what she’d normally do—except that she was now so nervous, she wasn’t sure she had enough saliva to speak without making nasty sticky-click dry-mouth sounds.

  Another five minutes passed, and Sarah started to fear David had forgotten she was in the building. Should she ask the concierge to call and remind him? She took one step towards the desk, but checked herself as the concierge, who’d been watching her, widened his eyes, looking completely panicked.

  A mental picture of what she must look like to the casual observer formed in her head. An uninvited girl, pacing around the lobby, wearing a trench coat like some Mata Hari wannabe. The concierge must think she was on drugs, or mad, or desperate. Thank God he didn’t have X-ray vision, because if he could see the underwear that was all she had on under her trench coat, he’d assume she was a sex maniac to boot.

  Of course, for all she knew, the concierge was regularly running interference for David with uninvited women who arrived wearing nothing but underwear beneath their trench coats. Maybe David hadn’t forgotten she was here, but was instead waiting her out, hoping she’d eventually get sick of loitering in the lobby and leave.

  Embarrassing, mortifying, humiliating, debasing thought. Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. She had to get out of here before she made an even bigger fool of herself than she already had. She adjusted her shoulder bag in a businesslike manner and addressed the concierge in a clear voice: ‘When Mr Bennett calls down, would you please inform him I had to leave to keep another appointment?’