The Colour of Broken

by Amelia Grace

  ‘More so than ever.’

  ‘Really? Please don’t hate me.’

  He stilled. ‘Why would I hate you?’

  ‘Because of what I might say at dinner ...’

  He stood taller and looked to the side. He looked back at me. ‘Somehow, I think my parents will love you.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to the Parker residence.’

  I placed my hand in his and we ran to the car in the rain. He opened my door and closed it after I got in, then went around and slid into the driver’s seat. He was more than a little damp from the rain. I watched as a droplet of water fell from a curl of his dark hair on his forehead.

  We drove for fifteen minutes and arrived at large wrought iron gates. Xander entered a code and we proceeded onto the opulent property. The driveway was flanked by trees on either side, reminding me of a country drive. And then the space opened.

  I mouthed a silent “wow” when the house came into view. It was a sprawling, two storey French country home. It had an exterior of stone with multiple gables and a double entrance. It exuded elegance, and wealth.

  Xander stopped the car under a high roofed covered entrance, a little way from the large double front carved timber doors. A butler approached the car and opened my door, and when I climbed out of the car, Xander was already waiting for me. He was the colour of pale yellow, an anxious colour.

  A shot of anxiety flowed through me at his unexpected reaction to his parents’ house. He offered me his arm and we started to walk to the front door. I took a deep breathe to calm my nerves.

  ‘I like your shoes,’ he said.

  I had sneakily changed into the black court shoes while he was driving, concentrating on the road in the heavy rain.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You smell like rain,’ I added.

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispered.

  ‘I love rain,’ I whispered back.

  He looked down at me, his eyes dark, and swallowed. ‘Me too.’

  The front doors opened, and we stepped inside. Xander’s mother appeared at once, dressed immaculately in a stylish light pink, long sleeved tweed dress. She held out her hand to me. I placed my hand in hers and smiled.

  ‘Andi, it’s lovely to see you again. Welcome.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Parker. Your home is beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled then stepped forward and hugged her son. ‘It's so good to see you, my darling Andy.’ Xander dipped his head like he did in Swan Lake and my heart melted.

  Mrs Parker took my hand and lead me through the house. I looked behind my shoulder at Xander, who gave me an amused smile. When she stopped walking we were in a generous sitting room with the largest drapes I had ever seen, plus furniture that looked fit for royalty.

  I stood beside Mrs Parker, and within a second, Xander positioned himself on the other side of me.

  His father, well dressed in black trousers, a white button-up shirt and a black tie, stood from his seat and moved toward Xander. A proud smile grew on his face and his wrapped his arms around his son. ‘Now my evening is perfect! All of my children are here.’ He stepped away from Xander and gazed at me.

  I looked at him with a polite, practised smile. Gram said smiles were like magic.

  ‘Yolande. I was hoping I would see you again.’

  ‘It’s lovely to see you again, Mr Parker,’ I said.

  A butler stood before me with a tray of martinis. I nodded slightly and took one off the tray with absolutely no intention of drinking it. I was very good at lifting a glass of alcohol to my lips, but never tasting it. It avoided the host thinking I had bad manners by not accepting their offer of a drink.

  Xander took my hand in his and lead me over to his sisters and their partners. And with polite greetings, the evening of deceit had begun.

  I, Yolande Lawrence-Harrison, now had an astronomically famous superstar ballet dancer boyfriend, who was unknown to his father in any shape or form as a dancer, and who was possibly gay, or not, but my presence would prove that he wasn’t, for the sake of his mother and father.

  I took a pretend sip of my martini and looked at Xander. He seemed tense and was unbearably quiet. Somehow, this evening was harder for him than me. And at that moment, I vowed to be the best pretend girlfriend I could ever be. Just for Xander.

  I placed my hand on his shoulder. ‘You look divine,’ I whispered.

  Xander looked at me with questioning eyes.

  I raised my eyebrows at him and gave him a barely noticeable nod of my head. He seemed to snap out of wherever he was in his head.

  ‘Not as divine as you,’ he said, and kissed the back of my hand, sending heat running through my veins. He stood. ‘Come. Let me show you through the house.’

  I placed my martini next to his on the mantel, held on to his hand and strolled casually behind him as he took the lead.

  The house was far more extravagant than I realised. After five minutes of walking, Xander slowed and opened some French doors. We walked outside onto a terrace, decorated with copious flowering pots and a muted light.

  He leaned against a white column and put his hands into his pockets, exuding a hot masculinity that made my stomach quiver. I wanted to touch him, my skin to his, but I resisted.

  ‘Is this where you grew up?’ I asked, feeling something deeper that seemed to come dangerously close to touching my soul.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which is your bedroom?’

  ‘It’s over in the west wing. I haven’t lived here for seven years.’ He looked deeply into my eyes, sending a warmth rushing through me.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘My father said I couldn’t live here once I quit football ...’ Xander stared out into the distance and my heart fell.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. It was easier because I didn’t have to cover up all my dancing lessons and rehearsals for productions, telling lie after lie about where I was going and what I was doing.’ Xander laughed. ‘I didn’t even get on the paddock to play one game of football. I virtually sat on the sidelines every single year.’

  ‘What did your father say about that?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing. He was too busy being a doctor to get to a game. He was happy that I was “playing” football like any other boy.’

  There was a dinging sound. I looked around. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Time for dinner.’ He smiled, and I gave him a look of mock horror. ‘It’s easier to summon the kids like this when the house is so large.’

  ‘Do you feel like you have been conditioned like Pavlov’s dog?’

  Xander burst out laughing. ‘I love that you’re here with me, Yolande Lawrence-Harrison.’

  ‘I’m glad too, Alexander Parker.’ I performed a simple curtsy for him, suddenly aware that no one is born with perfection—it is shaped, by both internal and external factors.

  He smiled coyly and took my hand in his, and we made our way to the dining room. Xander pulled out my chair for me to sit on, like an attentive boyfriend would.

  I had never sat at such a grand table with polished silverware and fancy fresh flowers from Flowers for Fleur worth $200 as a table decoration. I had never felt so prim and proper. I sat taller on my fancy chair.

  I spoke so only Xander could hear. ‘My sparkly work boots would have been perfect for this room, Alexander.’

  He smiled, and a dimple appeared on his cheek. ‘Absolutely,’ he whispered back, and I melted in a floral symphony of feelings.

  ‘Yolande, I’m sorry your grandmother couldn’t be here tonight,’ Mr Parker said. ‘We wanted to thank her for allowing us to borrow her bicycle for the birthday celebration.’

  I lowered my chin a little. I had no idea Gram had been invited. ‘Gram has been a little ... unwell lately ... and it was her pleasure. She likes to show off her bicycle, and for the record, Alexander is the only person she has ever entrusted with it.’

  ‘I heard you work in the flower store, Yolande,’ Mrs Parker sai
d, looking over the top of her wine glass.

  Mr Parker butted in, ‘Hmmph ... flowers are over-rated, and expensive, my dear.’ He shot a look at the flowers in the centre of the table.

  I gave Mr Parker with a small smile and looked directly into his blue eyes. ‘Flowers are a sensual gift that express emotion so simply, Mr Parker. They are the art of romance and speak a secret language that women understand perfectly that men seem to stumble over when expressing their feelings,’ I said, wondering if I was being too outspoken.

  ‘Here, here,’ Mrs Parker said, and gave me a triumphant smile.

  I looked down at my dinner plate, feeling like I had said too much. The lamb and vegetables were a work of art. A tingle of anxiety shot through me. I tapped my court shoes on the carpeted floor, remembering that I needed to be the perfect girlfriend for Xander.

  ‘I thought you said you were some type of engineer at the party, Yolande,’ Mr Parker went on.

  I looked back up at him. ‘Yes, I am, sir—an aeronautical engineer.’

  ‘Ah, yes. That’s right. Quite an unusual occupation for a woman.’

  ‘It is. But I always wanted to be involved with flight, beside my other love.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Ballet. I had to choose between becoming a professional ballet dancer or going to university to study engineering. My mother wanted me to keep dancing.’ I saw Xander lift his wine glass to his lips in my peripheral vision.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh ... it’s romantic, I guess ... and because of the danseurs, she loved watching them with their athleticism. They are classified as professional athletes.’

  ‘No chance of a boyfriend there though, eh?’ Mr Parker said with a smirk, followed by a slug of wine.

  ‘Why’s that?’ I crinkled my brows at him. I knew exactly the direction he was going in as I had manipulated the conversation that way, and he had taken my bait—hook, line and sinker.

  ‘Well, aren’t male ballet dancers gay?’

  I laughed at his comment. ‘You’re just assuming they are because male ballet dancers threaten the perceived masculinity of men. Some fathers become concerned that they may have passed down a homosexual gene with epigenetics. Perhaps you know of that, being a doctor?’

  He cleared his throat and looked at Xander. ‘It’s an interesting field of research.’

  ‘Working on your line of thinking, Mr Parker, and meaning no disrespect at all, if my chosen career is male dominant, would that make me homosexual?’

  ‘Point taken,’ he said, and put a large forkful of food into his mouth.

  I think he was finished with the topic. But I wasn’t. ‘Thank you ... I grew up with quite a few ballerinos—danseurs. All but one was heterosexual ... it just seems the press makes a big thing about the very few homosexual ones, and they shouldn’t. They should be judged on their technique and emotional interpretation of the ballet, not their personal lifestyle.’

  ‘Well explained, dear,’ Mrs Parker said.

  ‘Yolande,’ it was Xander’s sister speaking. ‘What do you work on?’

  ‘At the base I work as part of a team. We can be working on a number of things at one time. Before I left recently, we were investigating and designing safety in planes and helicopters, analysing pilots’ reactions to flight troubles and implementing training to alleviate any split decisions in time that are crucial to survival. We’ve got some pretty awesome flight simulator programs happening.’ I couldn’t stop the smile that spread over my face.

  ‘That’s sounds a little different to working at the flower shop,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but working in Flowers for Fleur can be challenging.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Trying to work out the type of flower the customer needs to project their emotions.’

  ‘Who buys the most flowers?’ she asked.

  ‘Men.’ I smiled. ‘Plus, they tell me their stories ...’

  ‘Any juicy ones?’

  ‘Many, and of women too, of which I can’t tell you, as that would be a betrayal of trust. But for the men, it’s always about love and forgiveness. With women, it’s about love and compassion and celebrating.’

  ‘Alexander, how’s your study going?’ Mr Parker asked.

  ‘Hard work as always, Pa. I just have finals, and then I’m done,’ Xander said, and smiled at his father.

  ‘Good to hear, son.’ Mr Parker raised his glass of wine. ‘To finals, to male ballet dancers, to people who excel in their profession, and to family.’

  We held up our glasses and touched them to each other's, the clinking sound echoing around the room with the sound of acceptance. When my wine glass touched Xander’s, he held my eye contact and nodded his head to me. I think he was pleased with his “pretend” girlfriend. And I hoped I was convincing, for him.

  After dinner we moved to the sitting room again. I sat next to Xander, who took my hand in his, sending a searing heat rushing through my skin. I breathed in deeply.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said after a while.

  I looked up into his eyes, where I could see the flames of the fire reflected in them.

  ‘I love having a smart girlfriend,’ he said. ‘I haven’t told you, but I remember you when I was younger ...’

  I shook my head. It was impossible. ‘Where from?’

  ‘Ballet classes. I was ten—’

  I went back in time to ballet lessons, here in Tarrin. ‘And I was eight.’ You were the one Mia had a crush on ...

  ‘But then you left.’

  ‘My parents moved interstate.’

  ‘That makes sense.’

  ‘I saw your football boots at ballet lessons one day ... and I really wanted to know how it felt to wear weird looking shoes like that.’

  Xander smiled at me. ‘I reckon you could swap your work boots for football boots!’

  I burst out laughing. ‘Only with long stripy socks!’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Any chance of taking off soon. I have to get up early to work.’

  ‘Sure. Let’s go.’ He stood. ‘Short goodbyes are the best ones. Follow my lead.’ Xander threaded his fingers through mine and I floated on the intimacy of our contact. He announced to everyone we had to go. At once, they came to us with hugs and kisses, and then we were gone.

  He was right. Short goodbyes are the best.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘FLOWERS?’ IT DIDN’T LOOK LIKE SHE NEEDED TEA, coffee or books. I’m sorry, Gram, I whispered with my mind voice. I hoped she didn’t hear my omission of words from the workbench. The young woman before me was the colour of dull yellow—emotional fragility.

  She caught a tear on the end of her finger. ‘I don’t know really. I stuffed up with my boyfriend. Guys buy their girlfriends flowers for forgiveness, but what do women buy their boyfriends?’

  She had me there. What do women buy to make it up to their boyfriends, or husbands for that matter? ‘Hmmm ... how about ... a jar of notes, like handmade vouchers ... back massage, movie, pizza, golf, video games, football tickets, a surprise bottle of whatever he likes to drink each day for a week, little love notes ... stuff like that ... unless he likes flowers, then that would be special.’

  She tilted her head to the side and put a finger under her chin. ‘The jar idea could work. Thanks,’ she said.

  I nodded. ‘We have jars, and a variety of coloured paper and teeny envelopes over by the open French doors.’ I pointed to the French provincial side table with cabriolet legs, two drawers and a white distressed finish with a timber top.

  She walked over to collection of jars and coloured papers. In a moment she was back wearing a carefree smile.

  ‘Anything else I can help you with?’ I asked while I put the sale through the register and wrapped her purchases.

  ‘No—but thanks a heap!’ She left through the front doors with a bouncy stride. Gram will be happy with my non-flower sale.

  Darcy walked past with a pot of tea. It was for Gram
. When he returned to the café I went over to her.

  ‘I love having you here,’ I said as I gave her a gentle hug.

  ‘I love being here,’ Gram said, and looked up at me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  ‘Why didn’t you go to the Parker’s for dinner last night?’ I asked in a gentle voice.

  Gram looked through me for a moment. ‘I don’t do social gatherings anymore,’ she said, and lifted her chin slightly.

  ‘Since when?’ I asked. Gram was invited to occasions every week, and had been for years. She never missed them.

  ‘For the last four years.’ Gram snipped a few stems of roses.

  I caught my breath. ‘Why?’ Gram loved people.

  Darcy stopped before us and placed a new pot of tea and a cup and saucer for me onto the bench, without making a clinking sound. The sound that Gram hated. She said she had hyperacusis.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said and tried to hide the distressed look on my face.

  He looked into my eyes and gave me a knowing nod. On the way to the café, he stopped at the sales desk and served a customer who held a bouquet of flowers.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it!’ Gram snapped.

  I poured my tea and took a sip as my heart hurt. ‘You’re as bad as me. Remember when I loved to party? It was the highlight of my life until ... you know ...’

  ‘I remember, Yolande, but the difference is ... you will love to party again, when it feels right for you.’

  ‘It will be the same for you, Gram!’

  ‘No, it won’t! I can’t hear anyone properly ... in restaurants, or group gatherings, or parties. All I can hear is the murmur of voices. I can’t tell what the heck they are talking about and I can see they get tired of me saying “sorry—can you say it again”. It’s always an imposition for them to repeat it, and then they end up saying, “it doesn’t matter”, when it does matter—it does matter to me! I want to know what they said, it’s important to me. All I do now if I do go out, is smile and nod, without knowing what they’re saying. And do you know how stupid I look when they’re talking about something bad or sad, and I’m smiling and nodding—I feel like the biggest idiot!’