“It’s already hurt me—that’s the point.”
Fluke said, “I’ve got it. If Bree wins, you’ll bring her to dinner and formally apologise in front of us all for being a bastard who doubted her abilities.”
“Evil genius.” Mitch slapped Fluke on the back.
“Hold on, she’s a colleague, I have to work with her.”
Fluke rolled his eyes. “I can imagine how collegial you’re being right now.”
“Too hot for you?” Mitch had an instant hard on for this.
Ant looked down at the mess of coffee cups and plates on the table. There was no chance Bree would top him in this. None. This was as safe a bet as Sydney houses were investments. He fixed the boys with his best Machiavellian grin. “Never. You’re on. May the best,” he cleared his throat for emphasis, “man win.”
2: Big Swinging Tricks
She was The Senior Analyst. Which meant dancing in the tea room on her first day as The Senior Analyst was probably inappropriate. But it was 7am and no one else was in yet, so Bree turned the jug on and had a little boogie, shaking her tail feather and shimmying her other assets while it boiled.
This was her favourite part of the day. The office was library quiet, emptied of the ego and testosterone that usually drove it, the competitive spirit that made it the most exciting and exhausting job she’d ever had. When it was empty like this, she felt completely in control. In thirty minutes, the peace would be shattered, as would her belief she knew what she was doing. First to arrive would be the big boss, Bryan Petersen, grandson of the founder, and the smartest man in the room, any room. He scared the heck out of her. Fortunately senior analysts had very little to do with the big boss and she only had to worry about her smaller boss, Doug, and the other analysts in the equities research team. That meant Anthony.
She had to worry more about Anthony Gambese now that she was The Senior Analyst, because if pissed off had skin and could walk around, it was a tall, thick set, dark eyed, swarthy complexioned, sharp suit wearing, booming voiced, hunk of ridiculous, brooding man-boy of Italian origin.
She did a quick spin because it would be a cosmic joke if he was standing behind her. All clear. He rarely came in this early. He tended to slog through the other end of the day. Bree was turn the office lights on, Anthony was turn them off. They knew this about each other because on occasion the pattern got messed up and he came in early, but rarely as early as she did or she worked late, but rarely as late as he did.
On the whole this was a useful thing. It was easier to avoid Anthony when the entire team was in the office. Not that he was a bad guy. He was almost exactly the kind of guy she was attracted to, except he was a bit too intense, a bit too loud and confident. Unless he was mad about something. And then he was a lot too intense, incredibly loud and confident and scarily surly. Plus he was different to the other guys. He made working hard look easy.
And Bree had long ago sworn of tall, dark and surly men to whom things came too easily.
They’d been doing the almost territorial morning-evening ownership thing since they were hired, both of them keen to get through the traineeship, the probationary period as analysts and make it to senior analysts without getting bounced out of the program. Maybe a better word for what they were both like was determined. Though in Bree’s case her doggedness was based on being shit scared of failing and in Anthony’s... Ah, she had no idea, what drove Anthony to work like he did. He was the one everyone thought would get the senior analyst job.
She made a plunger full of coffee, filled her personal milk jug, grabbed a mug and danced her way to her workstation. When she next lifted her head out of weekend market reports the office was beginning to wake.
“So what happened at the track?” said Chris.
Christine Mason was the only other girl in the team of six, the only other girl in the whole office who wasn’t an admin assistant, and most definitely the only person of any sexual persuasion in the office who knew about Kitty Caruso and what she did on a flat track most weekends in summer.
Being in a Roller Derby League team called the Big Swinging Tricks wasn’t the kind of thing an up and coming Senior Analyst at Petersens did. An up and coming Senior Analyst at Petersens went to the art gallery or a foreign film on the weekend. She didn’t belt around a track on wheels aggressively trying to knock people over.
“We smashed ‘em.”
Chris laughed. She didn’t get Bree’s enthusiasm for roller derby but she was heartily amused by it.
She’d been threatening to come to a bout for the last six months, since the day she’d cornered Bree in the bathroom, grilled her about her bruises and found out about it. Bree knew there was very little risk of Chris giving up time with her new husband to attend a jam though and she was pleased about that.
Roller Derby and Petersens were like Aerogard and mosquitoes—mutually repellent. And it was best it stayed that way, and since Chris had never seen Bree as her derby doll alter ego it was kind of like a big joke between them, as though it wasn’t real and Bree was making up amusing stories about characters with outrageous names to entertain Chris on Monday mornings when they’d both rather still be in bed.
“Body count.” Chris always wanted to know the gory bits.
“One broken nose, a couple of dislocated fingers.” It’d been a surprisingly easy win against the Hurley Burleys, especially since they’d crushed the league table leaders, The Weapons of Mass Production, the week before. And everyone knew the Weapons were the team to beat.
Chris’ eyes went down to Bree’s hands still on her keyboard. “Not yours.”
“No, thank goodness.”
“What are you going to do if it’s your bits that get broken?”
“I’m that good, it won’t happen.”
Chris poked her index finger towards her open mouth and made a gagging sound. Bree laughed and gave a more realistic response. “I’ll lie.”
“And say what? You walked into a door?”
Bree opened her eyes wide and sucked in her cheeks, trying for the picture of innocence. “Do you think anyone will buy that?”
“Absolutely,” Chris deadpanned. “Not.”
“Let’s stick with answer A then.”
Chris said, “Whatever you reckon, Kitty,” and ducked the pen, Bree chucked at her. She knew damn well the name Kitty Caruso wasn’t for office consumption.
It’d probably been a mistake to tell Chris, but once she’d seen the bruises, it’d been hard to avoid it. She didn’t need anyone else jumping to conclusions or being in on the story. Fortunately, Chris was good fun as well as a heck of a talented analyst. She had a memory for facts and figures Bree was envious of and a way of expressing herself that made her reports interesting even when the spot price of rare minerals in Zambia was as boring as the conservative black suits she wore.
Pretty close to the same conservative black suits Bree wore, and nothing like Kitty Caruso’s roller doll uniform with its hot pink, butt grazing, tartan pleated skirt and skin tight fitted black singlet. Both of which were currently scrunched up in Bree’s sports bag, with her pink knee highs, fishnets and black sports pants with Bite Me printed across the bum. All of which needed a wash before next week’s bout.
Chris dived under her desk and retrieved the pen, then made a show of keeping it, by putting it in her drawer. “Speaking of Big Swinging Tricks, any trash talk about your promotion from our esteemed colleagues?”
“Everyone was nice about it.”
“Everyone?”
Bree hesitated and Chris said, “Ah, right. Thought as much. He looked liked he’d been injected with zombie virus when Doug made the announcement. It was like all his joints went stiff the minute it was your name not his out of Doug’s mouth. I didn’t think zombies could say anything other than arrrh or grrrr. What did Anthony say?”
“It’s true then.”
“What?”
“Zombies can’t talk.”
Chris rocked into the back of her
Aeron chair. “Oh my God, he actually said nothing.”
“He just gave me a look like he wasn’t sure we’d met before.”
Chris said, “Big swinging dick,” and looked directly at Anthony who was two workstation pods over. He looked up and frowned and Bree’s cheeks got hot.
“Shut up, Chris. I don’t want to make a thing of it.”
“You’re not. He’s the one with the problem. I bet he’s your classic wog boy. Mamma’s favourite, never lifted a finger at home, walks on water. Thinks women belong in the kitchen cooking his dinner or with an iron in their hand, fixing his shirts. Shame really.”
“What’s the shame part? He’ll get the next Senior Analyst spot. Half of me thinks he should’ve had this one. He’s smart. I think they only gave it to me because I’m good for their equal opportunity stats.”
Chris rocked forward. “Are you kidding me?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Not if you’re going to be an idiot. You don’t seriously think he’s a better operator than you?”
Bree sighed. Apart from her time at the stadium for the bout, when there wasn’t a second to think about anything other than how to block the jammer and stop the Hurley Burleys scoring, that’s all Bree had been thinking about: why she got the job and not Anthony.
He was smart, quick, insightful and worked hard. If he was a Mamma’s boy she’d given him a strong work ethic. And she’d give him lovely dark eyes, and really broad shoulders, and a heck of a physique under his European suits. Not acknowledging Anthony was sexy in his dark brooding way was as hard as learning to snow plough on wheels.
“I think we’re about even and I got a free pass because I wear heels,” she said softly, aware that the office was at full complement now and they could easily be overheard.
Bree’s chair jerked sideways as Chris grabbed the arm and pulled it close. “If I thought that was the case I’d be the first one to complain to Doug. Office sisters or not, if they’re handing out promotions for shoes with heels I want my piece. But I don’t think that. I think you rock. You’re so much more focussed and intuitive than me. I’ve got a good memory, but I can’t make the analytical links you do so easily. If I was to rank the whole team, it’s you, then Anthony, then me, then who cares. So, I don’t want to hear you talk about being undeserving again, okay?”
Bree used her feet in her favourite stilettos, red with six inch zebra stripped heels that she’d designed herself and had made online, to walk her chair more squarely under her desk. “Only if you keep your voice down.”
Chris went quiet, except for the clacking of her fingers on her keyboard. Bree leant towards Chris’ portion of their shared workstation often referred to as the hen house by the office roosters. “What was a shame then?”
Chris kept her eyes down and her voice soft. “He’s probably a sex god. I get distracted thinking about what he looks like out of those immaculate suits.”
Bree folded her lips into her mouth to stop from laughing. “You’re married,” she hissed.
“The spot prices on rare minerals are over inflated,” said Chris, looking up as Doug passed behind them. She waited then said, “I’m allowed to look. I just wish I was you.”
“Sorry, there isn’t that much extra money with the new title.”
“Not that, dopey.” Chris handed her a minerals pricing prediction report she knew Bree had already read. “You get to touch.”
Bree snatched the report and brought it up to her face to shield the blush she knew would staining her face a toxic shade of salmon. There was no way she could touch Anthony. But Kitty Caruso could. Kitty was all about positioning and manoeuvring, all about opportunity and follow through and since Anthony Gambese was a sex god maybe it was time for Kitty to come out to play.
She peeked over the top of the report to where he sat. He really was swoon worthy, except for the wog boy entitlement and surly tempered brooding, the zombie got your tongue act, and the walking embodiment of pissed off.
And that fact that those attributes were no longer in her repertoire of essentials for a partner.
She almost laughed. Apart from what he looked like and how he operated at work she knew nothing about him. He might be gay for all she knew. A handsome, brooding, talented Mamma’s boy, gay analyst—but not The Senior Analyst—yet.
But everything roller derby had taught her about studying your opponent she figured she needed now, because there were only four weeks to go in the share portfolio comp, and if Anthony sex god Gambese thought he was going to walk away with the prize he’d better suit up and put his knee pads on because Kitty Caruso was coming through.
3: Puce
Did it matter that your seventy-five year old Nonna was already thinking about bonbonniere for wedding guests?
Did it matter that for about fifteen minutes, the fifteen minutes in which Ant had watched the new, improved, knock your heart into defib, Antonia Pagano work her way around to greeting him, that he agreed with Nonna’s choice of thought pattern.
Whatever he remembered of Toni was a deleted file. This woman in the white dress with the angelic face, bright smile and designer body, going by the same name was something else entirely. She was the whole file server. The whole mainframe.
For that fifteen minutes, Ant was Dan when he danced with Alex, transported to a place where only the two of them mattered. He was Mitch when he got Belinda back and realised he had a second chance. He was Fluke when he held Carlie’s hand and knew she wanted more. He was every man who’d ever seen a vision of his future happiness across a crowded suburban backyard.
And for the next half hour that vision floated in front of him like a promise of something better than mates, and work, surfing and European cars, as Toni told him about working in London. She wasn’t some backpacker living wage to wage, she was a qualified chef and her last contract had been with the Australian embassy. Why didn’t someone tell him that? How could he not have known how great she was? He could smell barbeque, but taste heaven. He could see beauty but hear Church bells ringing. He didn’t even care how his insta-lust would make the boys laugh because he and Toni would be perfect together. They had history without even trying, family ties to support them. A shared sense of how to go about making a life together and Jesus Christ she was beautiful.
And then it all came undone – spectacularly. Humiliation had a colour and it was puce. Ant wasn’t even sure what colour puce was, just the sound of the word, the way it forced your lips apart to say it was enough to make him settle on it as the colour to describe how he felt.
He’d asked her out and she’d laughed at him. He should’ve expected that. They were almost cousins; it probably came as a shock to her. They talked some more, friends in common, family members they could both do without, work, career. And then he asked her again. And she laughed. Again. So what? She was making him chase her. She was worth it. But when he asked a third time, that’s when things went into a trading halt.
She had this sexy, husky voice. She said. “I’d forgotten you were such a joker.”
He hadn’t been conscious of making a joke, but she was laughing, so whatever.
“I mean I can’t even get past the Anthony and Antonia thing. We loved it as kids, thought it was so cool, like we were twins—Tony and Toni, but that’s just too stupid for grown-ups.”
“It’s not that stupid. Even Nonna calls me Ant now.” It wasn’t stupid it was right, so right, the shortening of their two names made one.
“You’re hysterical.”
Maybe he was. He was blown away by her, so yeah, maybe he wasn’t making sense. He spied the garden bench by the hydrangeas that cousin Mario abandoned and before one of the little tacker cousins could get their bum down, he dragged Toni over to it. “I’m serious. It’s about time you and me got to really know each other.”
She squinted at him. “What?”
“I mean as adults, fresh start.”
“That’s sweet, but don’t you have a girlfriend who’d
miss you if you were hanging around with me?”
“Nope. I’m currently flying solo.” His angel didn’t need to know that right up until now, solo was his preferred position because he got more tail that way.
“Oh God.”
“Is that good oh God, or bad oh God?”
“You’re serious. You want to take me out?”
He picked up her hand and held it. “I think I want to do more than take you out.”
She pulled her hand away and put it to her mouth. “Oh God. I can’t believe you.”
“What’s not to believe?” He shrugged. She wasn’t laughing now, so what was this reaction she was having to him?
“I can’t believe you don’t know.”
Fuck, she had a bloke. Of course she did, she was freaking gorgeous. So this was going to be a little harder, take a little longer. Never mind. Good things come to those who flog themselves hard enough to get them.
“Is he important to you?” If he was, why wasn’t he here with all the other assorted wives and partners?
“Who?”
“Your bloke.”
“Oh God, no.”
Ant grinned as a fast track to the finish line opened up. “So, come out with me?”
She closed her eyes and dropped her head and the sun picked out reddish highlights in her dark hair. There were so many things he already knew about her – like how the scar on her elbow came from a scooter stack and how she was only a toddler when she had her ears pierced. And so much he didn’t know – like what she’d taste like, sound like when he took her to bed.
She sighed. “You really have no idea do you? I should’ve realised. Unless it’s something you want you don’t pay any attention to it. I have no idea why suddenly I’m something you want, but I thought you knew. And I’m sorry if this is embarrassing, but seriously, Ant. I like girls.”
And that’s when everything turned puce.
When the trading halt turned into a rout and a full scale market collapse. He could feel puce in the back of his throat, colouring his cheeks and tinting the whole bright coloured day sludgy.
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