by Penny Jordan
After a distinct pause, which she saw as something of a victory, especially since he was likely being graded and recorded by a boss with a clipboard, he said, ‘I think you may have me mistaken for somebody else, Ms London.’
Ms London? That settled it. This guy didn’t know her from Eve. She stopped atop the front porch of the large white building and crossed her spare arm over her stomach. ‘Right. So how the hell do you have my phone number?’
‘I have more than that,’ the deep voice said. ‘I have your phone.’
She pulled the phone out from its nook between her shoulder and her chin as though it had emitted an electrical charge. She stared at it. Black. Silver spine. Glowing off-white buttons.
She ducked inside. Only when she glanced through the glass door at the street outside did she tuck the phone back beneath her chin. She picked up only what must have been the end of his next sentence.
‘…Amelie’s today?’
Amelie’s? Was he some kind of crazy stalker?
‘Whoever you are, call me again and I will be onto the police before you can take your next heavy breath.’
With that she hung up, and threw the phone into her handbag. Then she took a deep breath and marched up to the service desk at the local bank. ‘I’m Chelsea London. I have an appointment to see your manager about a business loan.’
Damien held the phone away from his ear and stared at it for several blank seconds.
‘All sorted?’ Caleb asked.
‘Well, no. Not exactly. I think she may in fact be a crazy lady.’
‘The dog-collar photo didn’t ring those bells for ya? Maybe she stole your phone on purpose,’ Caleb said. ‘Maybe this is something she does to get her kicks.’
Damien redialled. After several rings it went through to his voicemail. ‘She’s not answering.’
‘Maybe she’s on the phone again. Maybe she’s calling her crazy relatives overseas. On your dime. That’s her con! So who do you know overseas we could call at this time of day?’
Damien didn’t wait to hear the end of it. He simply upped and left Caleb’s office and walked down the hall to his own, wondering whom he’d hurt in a previous existence in order to have so very many women adding unnecessary pressures to what, until a month ago, had been the kind of easy, breezy, fortunate life most men would give their right arm for.
An hour and a bit later, Chelsea trudged inside the converted house in which the first Pride & Groom salon had grown from a one-woman, one-van operation into a brand-recognised, seven-staff, three-van endeavour with room for up to half a dozen domestic animals to be washed, clipped, perfumed, primped, preened and pampered at once.
She threw her handbag onto the white cane tub chair in the corner of her tiny office, her muscles aching as if she’d carried her own body weight from the car. Though all she’d done was carry a couple of dozen pieces of paper, which basically said if she signed them she’d owe the bank somewhere in the region of a million dollars.
She kicked off her boots, then licked her finger and rubbed it hard over a spot of strawberry sauce on her top, which had thankfully been hidden beneath her jacket.
She then changed into her more comfortable ‘uniform’ of faded jeans, long-sleeved white T-shirt with a big hot-pink paw print splodged dead centre, and thick socks to stave off blisters associated with being on her feet all day.
As she sat to tie up the laces on her sneakers the office door burst open and Phyllis stuck her head in. ‘Well, now, where the heck you been? I must have tried to call you a good half-dozen times. Kept getting your voicemail.’
‘Sorry. Phone was on silent.’ For once. The last thing she’d needed was crazy stalker telemarketer man bombarding her whilst she and the bank manager had been chatting.
Phyllis leaned her heavy form against the door frame. ‘So how did we go?’
‘It’s all ours if we want it. Enough money to buy and fit out another two salons.’
Phyllis let out a resounding whoop. ‘I knew it. You clever clever girl. Now, just a quick warning. The Joneses brought Pumpkin in this morning and she seems to have a slight, okay not so slight, tummy upset. She has had it all over the green room, in fact. Lily’s on lunch. Josie gags every time she walks past the room. And I would clean up but I have Agatha’s Burmese and if I leave her alone for another two minutes you know she’ll turn feral.’
Chelsea let her sneaker-clad foot drop to the floor with a thud. It seemed her pretend life as a sophisticated city gal with a million dollars to spend and sexy city-banker types drooling over her was well and truly over. ‘Call the Joneses. Ask if they’d like us to take Pumpkin to Dr Campbell. Then give me a few minutes and I’ll clean it up.’
Phyllis left. Chelsea pushed up her sleeves and tied her hair back into a pony-tail. She fished her mobile out of her bag and placed it on a spare corner of her desk, which was overflowing with trays filled with ‘to do’ lists, samples of dog-grooming products that arrived in the mail every day, and a just-short-of-stale half-packet of shortbread that would be morning tea.
She stared out the small window into the rose garden next door, her eyes fuzzing over as she watched a bee flit from flower to flower. And her thoughts once again turned to Mr Suit and Tie.
She wondered if he wasn’t what he’d seemed at first glance either. Perhaps right now he was pulling on a pair of overalls, or pulling off his shirt and tie to reveal superhero Lycra beneath. Or maybe he was still dressed in glorious top-to-toe suiting, leaning back in a thousand-dollar chair, counting his money and laughing maniacally at the little men pedalling hard to make his privileged world go round.
Damien sat forward in his chair, the soft swish and swing of German engineering making him bob comfortably behind his oak and leather desk.
Far more comfortably than he deserved, as his day was still occurring in slow motion since his hormones had mutinously overtaken his higher brain function. All because of a willowy body so light in his arms he could have swung her around and not done his back in, golden-brown eyes, pale warm skin, tumbling waves he’d never had the chance to touch.
He needed to give himself a break. A man and a woman taking pleasure in one another and leaving it at that wasn’t unheard of in this day and age. And if it couldn’t be her it would have to be someone else and soon. If only he had her number.
His gaze slid to the mobile phone on his desk, which had not stopped singing about Mary Bloody Tyler Moore all bloody morning.
He rubbed his eyes again, shook his head until his brain rattled inside his skull, then placed his fingers over the keys and clicked on the next email.
Then Caleb sauntered into his office and Damien wondered then and there if the time had come to simply call it quits and go find a nice warm bar somewhere to hole up for the duration.
‘So, at the bank today…’ Kensey’s voice crackled through the landline phone tucked between Chelsea’s ear and shoulder.
‘I’m approved. Though I haven’t signed the papers.’
‘Chels!’
‘I know. I know. It’s a great opportunity. But it’s such a huge gamble.’
Kensey paused, making sure she was listening. ‘This isn’t some pie-in-the-sky get-rich-quick fantasy like Dad would have taken on.’
‘You’re right,’ Chelsea said. ‘I’ll sign them. I’ll probably sign them. Later.’
She flipped open her mobile with one hand and stared at the screen as she had been incessantly for the past minute. There was still no Pride & Groom logo where a logo should be. ‘Now as I was saying, this isn’t my mobile.’
‘So whose is it?’
‘If I knew that I’d be talking to them right now and not you.’
The phone suddenly began vibrating in her hand. She whispered, ‘It’s ringing.’
Kensey finished chewing what sounded like dry biscuits, then said, ‘I can hold.’
‘No, not this phone, the other phone. The evil impostor phone.’ She screened the call, to find her own number looking back
at her again. ‘Hang on, I’ll put you on speaker in case it’s the market research guy and he threatens me again.’
She hurriedly put down the landline, tentatively picked up the mobile, and answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Chelsea London?’ the same clear, deep masculine voice from earlier asked.
‘This is she.’
‘This is Damien Halliburton again. Don’t hang up. Please.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Did you dine at Amelie’s earlier today?’
‘I did.’
‘Well, then, Chelsea, I do believe there was some kind of mix-up in the cloakroom. I’ve been forced to relive The Mary Tyler Moore Show more times today than I thought I would have to during the rest of my life. Sound familiar?’
‘It does.’ It also made more sense than the stalker alternative. Chelsea blushed furiously as Kensey’s laughter trickled through her speaker phone.
‘Then the mystery is solved. We have one another’s phones. So how about you give me your address and I can send a cab—’
‘Lord no!’ Chelsea shot back. ‘I’m not sure how close you are to your phone, but mine contains my whole life. Sticking it in a dark pigeon-hole in that rotten restaurant was bad enough. I don’t want it out of safe hands again.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘So I guess we meet. Swap. Go our merry ways.’
‘Much better.’ Chelsea remembered the Joneses’ dog with the tummy bug. ‘I’m afraid I’m stuck at work. Can you come to me? I’m in Fitzroy.’
‘I’m in the city. And considering I’ve spent the past hour trying to figure out what happened I’m more than a tad behind on my work for the day.’
‘Right. So when could we make this happen?’
‘How about we meet at seven back at Amelie’s?’
Her lip curled at the thought of returning to the place. But it made sense. ‘How will we find one another?’
‘It’s typical for the man to wear a rose in his lapel.’
Her right eyebrow shot skyward even though he wasn’t there to see it. ‘This is a business transaction, Mr Halliburton. Not a blind date.’
He cleared his throat. ‘So it is.’
‘Hey, Chels,’ Kensey’s voice blurted from the speaker phone.
‘Hang on a sec,’ Chelsea said to the guy. And then to Kensey, ‘What?’
‘Send each other a picture.’
‘What?’
‘On your phones.’
Brilliant! She knew she had a sister for a reason.
‘Mr Halliburton, did you get that?’ Chelsea asked.
A pause. Muffled voices. Was he checking with his own partner in crime at the other end? Could this day get any stranger?
He finally said, ‘How does one do that?’
Chelsea blinked. ‘My phone is exactly the same as yours.’
‘Now might be the time to admit something to you.’
‘And that would be…’
‘I have no skills in the electronics area. Can’t even program a VCR.’
‘Lucky nobody makes VCRs any more. It’s all about the DVD hard drive.’
‘And there I was wondering why my Rocky tape wouldn’t fit in the slot.’
Chelsea realised she was grinning. Now that she knew he wasn’t a stalker, she could appreciate the sense of humour that came with the lovely deep voice. ‘How charming. You’re a Luddite.’
‘Card-carrying,’ he said.
‘So get Keppler-Jones or Morganwhoever to give you a hand.’
‘Two of them are dead, and one’s so old he ought to be. And they’ve left the idiots to run the asylum.’
‘You?’
He laughed down the phone, the sound vibrating across radio waves, through metal and down her arm until she gave into the need to scratch her elbow.
‘Nice of you to make that leap so fast. But yes. And lucky for me I have hired well and have someone nearby who I’m sure would have used a photo function on a phone more often than entirely necessary.’
‘Excellent.’
Chelsea knew she ought to sign off and get to work, but all she had waiting for her was goodness knew what gastronomical disaster in the green room. And besides, this peculiar exchange was turning out to be fun. Risk-free, anonymous fun, which was the kind she was more than happy to indulge in. So instead she asked, ‘Um, perhaps we ought to keep note of any phone calls that come through to our respective phones too.’
‘Right. Sorry, I should have mentioned you did have a couple of calls from…ah, Chic magazine, earlier.’
‘Chic?’ Chelsea clenched a fist in happiness. She had been waiting on confirmation that they wanted her to host a two-page spread on celebrity pet accessories. If she wanted a platform from which to announce a possible expansion…‘I do believe you just made my day.’
‘I take it they’re not chasing you down to pay up on a new subscription, then.’
‘Ah, no.’ This time the grin came with an accompanying laugh, which after the uneasiness that marred her morning felt as good as an hour-long Swedish massage followed by a bubble bath.
‘And when you get back to Chic to explain why I was not you, if they mention anything about my predilection for zebra-print underwear they’re making the whole thing up.’
Chelsea slowly leant back in her chair and began to play with her hair. ‘I’m not sure Chic are in the habit of spreading rumours like that about random guys.’
‘It’s a scandal. Best kept under wraps for all our sakes.’
He paused again. She took a long breath and let it go, the release flowing from her cheeks all the way to her toes.
‘So, any messages for me?’ he asked, and his voice dropped lower. She felt it like a hum in her very centre. Like a warm glow building so slowly her fingers and toes felt cold in comparison.
She sat up straight and curled her toes in her shoes until the blood returned.
Bloody Kensey’s pregnancy, she thought, and, worse yet, rotten Mr Suit and Tie. He was the real reason the voice on the other end of the phone was making her feel warm and fuzzy. She was like a light bulb that couldn’t be turned off. Even the married loan manager at the bank had tried to flirt with her.
‘Ah, no,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘The only phone call I’ve had was from some guy who claimed to have kidnapped my phone.’
‘I hope you told him where to go.’
She laughed again despite herself. ‘In no uncertain terms.’
‘That’s my girl.’
They both paused again, conversation suddenly, sadly, exhausted.
Chelsea sat forward again, and shook her fringe off her cheeks. ‘So…we do it now? Send the photos, and see you at seven?’
‘Chelsea London,’ he said, ‘consider it a date.’
And before she had the chance to remind him that it was a five-second phone-swap, and no lapel roses would be necessary, he was gone. She slid the phone shut. Slowly.
‘Humona humona,’ Kensey said and Chelsea jumped halfway out of her skin, having forgotten her sister was still on speaker phone.
‘I’m sorry? Humona what?’
‘I could feel the sparks from here. I think he likes you. And for this one you don’t even need to ask for his number! You know it off by heart.’
‘Kensey…’ she warned.
‘He had a great voice,’ Kensey said. ‘Like Irish cream liqueur: creamy smooth and, oh, so bad for your balance unless in very small doses. Call him back. Or, better yet, call Amelie’s and book a table for seven and casually ask him to stay for dinner when you meet up.’
‘I can’t! What if he’s some kind of crazy? Or if he’s eighteen years old? Or married? Or brings his imaginary friend to the table? Or smells like fish? Or hates dogs?’
‘Or is tall, dark and handsome and this whole phone-swap deal was a sign from the gods.’
Oh, no. Chelsea was pretty sure she’d been given her fair share of tall, dark and handsome strangers this day.
‘So what picture are you going to sen
d?’ Kensey asked.
‘Oh, um, I guess I’ll just snap one off now and—’
‘Nuh-uh. Those things are such bad quality. The kids are still in school for another couple of hours. I’m coming over. I’ll help you come up with something sweet with just a hint of slutty.’
‘Kensey…’ Chelsea said, for what must have been the tenth time that day.
‘Don’t argue. Besides, we haven’t finished the bank-loan conversation yet. See you in fifteen minutes,’ Kensey said and then was gone.
For a moment Chelsea wished for simpler times when keeping one’s front door shut was enough of an excuse not to have to make contact with another soul.
CHAPTER FOUR
AFTER what felt like an age later, a soft tinkling sound like a wind chime shifting in a light breeze heralded the arrival of a picture on the mobile phone in Damien’s hand.
‘Let me do the honours,’ Caleb begged.
‘Not on your life.’
‘I have to see what the kinky cat lady looks like.’
‘Now she’s a cat lady?’
‘I’m picturing a sari-wearer. Maybe even bald. Hurry up and check. I’m dying here.’
She sure hadn’t sounded like a bald cat lady. She’d sounded…lovely. Likely because every woman he’d come in contact with since The Caramel-Blonde had turned into a purring temptress as though he were wearing a sign around his neck saying: Newly single. On the market. Fresh meat.
Maybe what he needed was a long holiday. Somewhere warm. And isolated. Palm trees, coconuts, no women, and no mobile-phone coverage. But excellent computer facilities and air-conditioning and twenty-hour working days.
He flipped open the phone, hoping that was all he’d have to do to determine whom he had to find in several hours time. Then he’d get back to work like a good little business owner.
The picture formed on the screen. He blinked. And blinked again. A swell of heat poured like lava through his midriff as his eyes roved over silky hair the colour of rich caramel, delicate cheekbones, and fine pink lips. And he would have recognised those eyes of gold in a crowd of thousands.