So Wild

by Eve Dangerfield

  “Fucking hell,” she muttered, throwing aside a tatty t-shirt proclaiming emo-rock whiners, The Used. “This date is such a terrible fucking idea.”

  “Sam?”

  She turned to see Nicole standing in the door. She gestured at the piles of clothes. “I can’t pick an outfit.”

  “Still? You haven’t changed since we were kids, have you?”

  Sam turned away so she wouldn’t say something bitchy in response. God, she wished it didn’t have to be this way. She could swear there was a time when she and Nicole had loved each other’s company, but this visit had only served to show her how far apart they’d drifted.

  “Can I help you with something?” Sam asked. “I’ve got to get ready.”

  “Hang on a second.” Nicole rummaged through a nearby pile of clothes. “What about this?”

  She held up light-blue shift top Sam had bought in a splurge five years ago. “I dunno. I’ve never worn it.”

  “Why don’t you start now? It’d look good with…” Nicole walked over to another pile and pulled out a gold and cream striped skirt. “…this.”

  Sam knew she was right because she was holding them up to herself, and anything that looked good on Nix looked good on her. “Thanks, I’ll try them on.”

  Nicole stayed as she tugged on the clothes, even finding a forgotten pair of strappy sandals to complete the outfit. Sam posed in front of the mirror, shifting from side to side, trying to make sense of the cutesy version of herself in the mirror.

  Nicole gave her a golfer’s clap. “You look beautiful,”

  “I look like you.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Not at all.” She saw her twin chew her lower lip in the mirror. “What’s up? Too much gold?”

  “No, are you sure going out with Scott is a good idea?”

  Sam felt defensive in a way she knew indicated guilt. No, all things considered, she wasn’t sure going on a date with Scott Sanderson was a good idea, but she wasn’t talking about that with someone who hadn’t had time for a single shared meal since she’d come home. “If this is about buy­scott­sanderson­aroot.com, we’re not going to talk about it. We have an unspoken mutual agreement.”

  Nicole made a face. “It’s not about buy­scott­sanderson­aroot.com. God, I forgot you called it that.”

  Sam couldn’t help smiling. She was still kind of proud of the name. “Don’t stress out about what this all means, Nix. Scott and I are just catching up.”

  Her sister pursed her lips.

  “Okay, so we’re just going to have dinner and shag eighteen years of teenage infatuation out of our systems,” Sam corrected. “Is that so bad?”

  “Not in theory, though I think you’re both deliberately avoiding a lot of hard conversations about the past, but I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about why he asked you out in the first place.”

  Sam frowned at her twin. “Are you saying he’s not into me?”

  “I’m saying he walked in here a week ago trying to help his dad buy the business. What if they’re, I don’t know—”

  “In cahoots? That’s insane. This is real life, Nix. Not some Watergate fantasyland.”

  “You do know Watergate happened in real life, right? People do pair up and try to screw each other over. Like all the time?”

  Sam frowned. This was the problem with smart siblings—they were forever making points that were irritatingly hard to dispute. “Yeah okay, people do stuff like that, but not Scott Sanderson, our old neighbor who used to be obsessed with Legoracer and Claymation dog videos.”

  “Used to be, as in you don’t know what he’s like anymore, because you haven’t seen him for ten years. You don’t know what he’s like. His dad’s a psycho, and you don’t know how much influence he has over him.”

  “I do,” Sam said stubbornly. “Scott hates his dad, you know that.”

  “I know enough to know that I don’t know enough,” Nicole said with irritating deftness. “I’m not saying he’s evil, but his father’s still desperate to buy us out and with the heritage tonight—”

  “Hang on,” Sam interrupted. “That’s tonight? Holy shit, why didn’t you remind me? I have to go! I need to formally protest the application! I’m the fucking landowner! Jesus, why are they having a heritage meeting on Friday night? Don’t they have any mates? I’ll have to call Scott and cancel.”

  She was heading for the door when Nicole grabbed her wrist. “Hey, wait a second, you don’t need to go. I’m handling it.”

  “You can’t! The property’s in my name.”

  “Then it’s lucky you have an identical twin who can pretend to be you.”

  “You’d do that, for me?”

  Nicole gave her a faint smile. “You’ve worked the last twenty days in a row. You were up at five this morning with a client. You don’t go anywhere, you don’t do anything. You’re allowed to have the night off. I wish it wasn’t to go on a date with someone you have an incredibly complicated history with, but…” she held up her palms. “Live and let live, as dad used to say.”

  Amazement and gratitude at the fact that her sister had noticed her work ethic rippled through Sam and before she could overthink it, she leaned forward, hugging Nicole tight. Her twin hesitated for a few seconds, but then hugged her back hard. They pulled away, grinning goofily, and a little self-conscious.

  “Thanks so much, Nix. I really appreciate you going to the meeting. And coming down here to help me.”

  “That’s okay. What time do you leave?” she said, thereby indicating touchy-feely feels time over.

  Sam checked her watch. “Twenty minutes.”

  “Do you think you’ll be home tonight?”

  “I don’t think so. To be honest, I think this whole date is just a prelude to like…eight hours of sex.”

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  “Yeah, I just want to get this thing over with.”

  Nicole scoffed. “Romantic.”

  “Come on, what did Scott and I ever have in common besides an address and a weird love/hate thing? I’ve been psychologically edging myself on him for years. I feel like I’ll never level up as a person until I purge my system.”

  Nicole moved over to a bundle of clothes and picked up a pleather dress, folding it into a neat pile. “Well I hope you have a good time purging.”

  “Thanks. Hey, what are you doing tonight? Maybe you and Tabby could—”

  “Get drunk and throw rocks at bottles?” Nicole shook her head. “I’m skyping Aaron, he’s a bit…he wants to talk.”

  Sam narrowed her eyes. “He wants you to come home?”

  Nicole folded over a yellow sunhat and placed it neatly on top of the pile she’d created. “No! He knows I’m not even close to sorting things out here, but he was hoping I’d fly home for a visit this weekend.”

  At which point you’d find yourself locked in the attic like Mr Rochester’s quote unquote ‘crazy wife.’ “Why can’t he come here?”

  “He’s busy.”

  “You’re busy, but he still expects you to fly to him.”

  Nicole’s cheeks turned pink and she looked up at the ceiling. “I know you and Tabby don’t like Aaron, but I’m trying to understand where you are with Scott. Can’t you do the same?”

  Sam wanted to say no, that what she and Scott had was different, but she knew that when people made those kinds of distinctions, the motivating factor was self-interest. Nicole loved Aaron and she loved Nicole, thus if she was a good sister, she would….attempt to tolerate Aaron. “Okay, I’ll lay off.”

  “You mean it?”

  Her sister looked so happy, Sam was almost ashamed. “Yeah, I mean it. Now could you be the best sister in the world and do my eyeliner? I can tattoo backwards but I always screw up drawing on my own eyelids.”

  “That’s not surprising.”

  “True, but I want to look mad hot for the purge so please help me?”

  Nicole heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. What happene
d with your friend, Kelly, by the way? Tabby was saying she was all over Scott at Ink the Night. She’s not annoyed you’re going on a date with him, is she?”

  Sam grimaced. “She was a bit pissed, especially because she saw Scott first and then we kind of vanished together without saying anything, but we’ve had this ‘two girls, one chap problem’ before. She stole that rally-driver from under my nose at White Night two years ago, so I just reminded her of that and bought her a slab. She’s salty but she’ll live. And she’ll be my model for Fadeout if I get in, so it’s all good.”

  Nicole frowned. “Did you tell her you’ve had a crush on Scott for like ten years? Because you definitely saw him first.”

  “Nicole,” Sam said with all the sincerity she could muster. “I do not want to talk about the ten-year crush please, thank you.”

  Her twin sighed. “Fine. Where’s your eyeliner pen?”

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, Sam was standing in an alley beside Brasserie, a French restaurant whose aura of cosy authenticity undoubtedly meant an insanely expensive menu. She ran her hands down the lines of her skirt feeling stupidly, unreasonably, nervous. She arrived five minutes late—pretty good for her—but now she couldn’t stop hovering.

  Her lateness was pushing out to seven minutes, nine minutes, ten. She couldn’t explain it, except that going inside felt far more significant than a dinner date deserved. Her palms were sweating and her stomach was fluttering like a bushel of butterflies. It was so stupid, and yet she couldn’t stop it.

  Sam closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the way her dad showed her. His theory was that if you asked your body a question, you would be presented with a bodily solution. As she focused in on herself, a warm glow spread through her middle. She knew what that meant—she was turned on, excited about what was going to go down once this dinner was over, but why was she hiding from her own horniness?

  A memory came to her, completely out of left field—the day Elaine Sanderson had died and she and Nicole had brought food to Scott’s door. When no one answered, they left it on the porch. Twenty minutes later she watched from her bedroom window as Scott collected their offerings. She’d felt a moment of relief but a second later Scott burst out of his back door and hurled her pie onto on lawn like he was bowling for England. The crust exploded into wet chunks, spraying strawberries and cream cheese filling across the grass. Sam gasped like she’d been slapped. She waited for the lasagna to follow, but Scott hadn’t thrown anything else. He just wiped his hands on his jeans and went back inside, slamming the door behind him.

  He’s grieving, Sam told herself, but it was hard not to cry, not to think of what he’d done as an attack on her. She’d stood by the window for almost an hour, watching magpies feast on the broken pie. She knew she had no right to feel hurt when he’d just lost his mother, but she’d been hurt. Apparently she was still hurt.

  “Nope,” Sam said aloud. “We’re not going there, I told Nix that and I meant it. It doesn’t matter. The pie doesn’t matter, buy­scott­sanderson­aroot.com doesn’t matter. It’s all in the past.”

  She straightened up, adjusting her skirt. She was here on a mission to purge, and purge she would. The door to Brasserie jingled as she stepped inside.

  “Bonsoir, mademoiselle!” A young Frenchman with thin hair and a thick accent beamed at her. “’Ow may I ’elp you?”

  Sam wondered if they hired French people because it looked better for the business and if that qualified as workplace discrimination. “I’m here for dinner.”

  “Do you ’ave a reservation?”

  Ferk. “There, um might be one under ‘Scott’ or ‘Sanderson?’”

  “Ah yes, Mr Sanderson, follow me please?”

  Sam trailed the waiter around tiny tables and glamorous patrons. Many of them glanced up and then continued to stare, taking in her tattoos. Sam fought the urge to cover her collarbones and biceps with her hands. Normally she couldn’t give a fuck what people thought of her ink, but tonight was different. She wanted to belong here, to slide through this fancy restaurant like a knife in butter.

  She spotted Scott before he saw her, the sight of him like a punch to the stomach. He wore an open collared shirt with a navy blazer and his thick hair was swept to the side. He looked so lovely and posh she wanted to leave. At least until he smiled, then she was very glad she was there.

  He stood up from the table as though this were the eighteenth century and she was fucking terrified she was here. “Hey,” she said, feeling sixteen. Feeling like Nicole at sixteen.

  “Hello, Samantha.”

  The waiter pulled out her chair and as she sat, so did Scott. His gaze lingered on the pale blue top. “You look gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. So do you.”

  He tugged at his collar. “Thanks. I was worried this place was a bit uptight for a first date. I didn’t want you to think I was being vulgar.”

  “I have a tattoo of a naked nun on my back. My vulgarity bar is pretty low.”

  He grinned. “Do you really have a naked nun tattoo?”

  “I never lie about ink, Galahad.”

  “Good to know.”

  They smiled stupidly at each other and Sam had the urge to leap across the table and kiss him all over his face. God, they were going to fuck tonight. A shiver ran the length of her spine and spilled inside her underwear. At the last minute, she’d changed from black cotton to red lace. The sexier set hugged her intimate areas in a way that was very distracting, a thing she deeply regretted now she had to eat food and act civilized in public. Why couldn’t she and Scott have just gotten more Maccas and fucked in his car?

  “Would you like an aperitif?” the waiter enquired.

  Sam blinked. She had only the vaguest idea what an aperitif was, and if it didn’t mean ‘a drink that tastes like apricots’ she was screwed. She looked pleadingly at Scott.

  “We’ll have two Kir Royales,” he said and the waiter ducked his head and zoomed away.

  “Thanks for meeting me here,” Scott said, then ducked his head. “Sorry, that sounds like we’re colleagues here on business, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, are we not here for a consultation? Because I was sure you wanted me to give you a tattoo.” Sam pulled out the pen and notebook she carried on her at all times. “So what were you thinking? I’m leaning toward something finance themed? Stacks of cash and graphic calculators?”

  He looked surprised for a split second, then grinned. “If you’re going to give me a tattoo, it should probably be West Ham related.”

  “Ah but I don’t do sportsball tattoos.”

  “Yes, I remember from your sign.” He rubbed a knuckle over his chin. “Tabby told me she could give me a rainbow Grim Reaper.”

  Sam felt an odd squirm of jealousy at the idea of her sister laying her art on Scott’s body. Thankfully, the waiter returned carrying two champagne flutes before she could say anything stupid, like ‘if anyone’s going to tattoo you, it’ll be me’ or ‘I’ll murder Tabby first—she already owes me from when I let her fuck Declan Harris in our tent at Summerdaze.’ It would be hypocritical of her to say that stuff, especially when tattooing Scott would violate her own strictly upheld pact.

  The waiter placed the glasses of lavender-colored liquid in front of them. “Have you decided what you would like to order?”

  Sam hadn’t so much as glanced at her menu. She looked at Scott. “Can you order for me? I promise I’m not fussy.”

  “Of course.”

  Sam barely understood the next few words that came out of his mouth, but she trusted him to pick the right things, at least better than she could. She looked around the restaurant trying to remember the last time she’d been on a date to somewhere this nice. Never, she realised. It wasn’t that her exes were stingy, they just ran in the same circles and their dates tended to revolve around shared social occasions—house parties, gigs, festivals and trips interstate. This was just about her and Scott. As she supposed most dates should have been, but
it was strange and a little grown up to her.

  Scott finished ordering then held up his purple drink. “To us.”

  “What?”

  “To us finally going on a date, I mean. Nothing else.”

  “Oh right,” Sam said, with relief. “To us going on a date.”

  She chimed her glass against his and took a sip. The drink was fizzy and sweet. Champagne and something else.

  “So, where do you want this tattoo? Back? Thighs? The ass is a popular area these days.”

  “How do you know I don’t already have one there?”

  Sam laughed. “Ten years of industry experience, plus a lifetime in the studio. I know a cleanskin when I see one.”

  He threw his head back and laughed, showing the lovely angles of his face. “I didn’t know people who don’t have tattoos have a name.”

  “You do. Cleanskins.”

  “Like no-label wine. Well there you go. Are you sincerely offering to give me my first tattoo?”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Tease.” Scott studied her expression. “You really mean it, don’t you?”

  Sam packed away her notebook and pen. “Yeah, sorry. I don’t tattoo guys I’ve seen, have seen or are seeing, which as of this date, includes you. Besides, wouldn’t you be worried I’d prank you?”

  “I like to think you like me enough not to write ‘kick me’ on my skin in permanent ink. Seriously, why don’t you tattoo your lovers?”

  Lovers. She liked that. She liked that he wasn’t denigrating the men she’d once felt something for. “A lot of artists won’t do couples. There’s a huge chance they’ll break up and then your work will be forever associated with heartache. I’m not that strict, but aside from clients, I only tattoo platonic friends and family. Never boyfriends or anyone I’ve slept with.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want…God, this is going to sound so 1969…”

  “Oh, go on?”

  “Because I want to be able to look at my work—a piece of my soul on their skin—and think good things about me. Something it’s pretty hard for exes to do, I’ve found.”