by Sandy Barker
“What do I say?”
“Maybe start with, ‘I got here safely’.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know, sign your name?” She was teasing me a little and I looked up to see her smiling at me.
I nodded and snuffled up some snot. She handed me another three tissues and I blew my nose. Then I wrote a message to Josh. It took me three goes, deleting what I wrote twice, before I came up with this masterpiece:
Hi. I arrived safely. Staying with Lins and Nick tonight. Talk soon. S x
Lins held her hand out so she could see it and I held up my phone. “Good. Right to the point.” I tapped “send”. “You know, and I don’t want to give you false hope, but his text … it doesn’t seem like he’s decided it over.”
“Really? I mean, that’s kind of what I thought too. But then I worried that it was just wishful thinking.”
“Well, you probably need to talk to Josh. I mean, I’ve never met the guy, so I literally have no idea what’s going through his head, but …” She shrugged. “Well, you know?” No, I did not know. “Now …” She paused and I could sense what was coming. “What’s happening with James?”
“Ugh.” I leant back against the couch and put the pillow over my face. “I don’t know!” I wailed, my voice muffled.
“Sez.” she tugged at the pillow and I put it back in my lap. “You don’t have to decide anything tonight, or tomorrow, or even this week, for that matter, okay?” I nodded, suddenly fascinated with the tassels on the pillow. “But you do need to decide if you’re going to see James when he comes. And soon.” Then she added, “Ish. Soon-ish.”
I looked at her. “I have to see James.” I could see she wanted to say something, as a small frown had appeared between her brows. “What?”
She shook her head. “No, it’ll muddy the waters.”
“Just say it.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Lindsey was usually free with the truth and far more tactful than her husband, but she was hedging, and it made me nervous. “Please just say it.”
“Look, I can’t imagine what it feels like to be in your situation. I mean, you obviously have serious feelings for both of them …”
“But?”
“But you got a taste of what it would be like to lose Josh and it sucked, right?” I nodded, my own frown deepening. “So, doesn’t that tell you something? Doesn’t that mean you should let James go?”
Did it? I thought back to how I felt saying goodbye to James in London and tears prickled my eyes. It felt awful, that’s how it felt. And despite Josh’s text, I didn’t know where things stood with him. Even if I hadn’t ruined everything with my horrible outburst, he was still unsure of how he felt about being in a relationship. He’d been very clear about that. What if I let James go and things didn’t work out with Josh?
What if I’m left with no one?
It was an utterly selfish and self-pitying thought, and I knew it. So, what I said to my best friend was, “Maybe.”
She was kind enough to let me off the hook.
*
The two weeks after I arrived home from Hawaii were an emotional rollercoaster. It’s a cliché, I know, but there’s no better way to describe the undulations of my love life. I’d talked to Josh a couple of times on FaceTime, but only briefly. Neither of us seemed to want to have the conversation we needed to have, so we just chit-chatted about unimportant things.
He had also sent me a couple of very long emails—one of them obviously written after he’d had a few drinks. The second email, which arrived within two hours of the first and before I read either of them, was to clarify some of what he’d said in the first.
The gist was: he had strong feelings for me (no kidding?); he forgave me for seeing James and for telling him about it (but I hadn’t forgiven myself); he wanted my forgiveness for being so selfish (I’d weighed that up against what I did and Josh came out way in front); he asked me if I still had feelings for him (uh, yes!); and then he asked me if I wanted to see him again (definitely, but …).
My reply was a lot shorter than either of his emails and, of course, I agonised over every word. It took me more than an hour to write this:
Hi,
You’re being gracious saying you forgive me, but I’m grateful—I’ll take it. And I hadn’t really thought about how we’ve been together on your terms, but you don’t need to apologise for that. I’m a big girl, it takes two to tango, and other applicable clichés.
I left Hawaii feeling awful, thinking I may have lost you for good, so I’m glad we’re okay—or at least, mostly okay. As for seeing you again, I want to. But I think we need to figure out if we’re just friends or if we’re more than that before we make any plans. Is that okay?
Sarah x
That last part was the hardest—deciding what we were to each other before making plans to see each other again—and I still hadn’t heard back.
The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to lose Josh completely. If it was only friendship between us, then I would find a way to be okay with that.
But there was also James to consider. I knew that if he and I worked out—as a couple—then it was highly unlikely Josh would want to remain friends. That thought, when it lifted its ugly, acne-pocked head, made me feel like crap, and like a crappy person. I tried to ignore it as much as possible.
And even though Lindsey and Cat were against it—for a fortnight, they’d tempered their comments with concern, but it was clear where they both stood—I knew I needed to see James again. Otherwise, how could I know for sure who I wanted to be with?
My topsy-turvy love life had left me with only one certainty: love triangles suck.
*
I climbed out of an Uber in front of the Ovolo Hotel in Woolloomooloo. James had arrived the night before and had spent most of the day with the people from the Museum of Contemporary Art. We were meeting for dinner, and I was dressed up—way up.
I was wearing a floaty lilac dress by Review, which crossed over the bust and was cinched in at the waist, along with my lilac suede high-heeled Mary Janes and a matching clutch. My hair was pinned up in a French twist, but with my curls being their usual obnoxious selves, I’d made it a loose twist, allowing some of them to frame my face. My makeup was mostly neutral, but I’d gone with lilac-pink lipstick.
I also carried a small overnight bag. James had made it clear he wanted me to spend the night, and I wasn’t going to play coy and squeeze a toothbrush and some clean knickers into my clutch, like I’d done in London. There were no pretences this time. I was being a grown-up!
I’d been to the beautician and the hairdresser the day before. Wax—check; pedi—check; roots—check. I looked as sophisticated as it was possible for me to look, like maybe you could take me to a polo match or something—actually, not in those shoes. They’d just sink into the grass and get ruined.
Anyway, I looked good, and I was ready to see my fifty-something boyfriend. I really did need to find a better word to describe him. He was definitely not a boy.
The hotel was typical of Sydney, chic in its casualness. There was no doorman, so I made my own way inside and took in the funky foyer, which was clearly designed to highlight the features of the heritage building it once was. I approached the reception desk and a woman wearing a crisp white shirt and black trousers greeted me with a polite smile.
“Hi, I’m here to see James Cartwright. Can you please tell me what room he’s in?”
Apparently, that’s not how things work at high-end hotels, even casually chic ones. “One moment,” she said, as she picked up the phone and called James’s room. “Hello, Mr Cartwright. I have a Miss …” She looked at me enquiringly.
All the sophistication I’d felt emerging from my Uber dissolved under her overly polite stare. “Parsons,” I said, a slight frog in my throat, as though I was unsure of my own name. She repeated my name into the phone, and then said, “Of course.” She put down the phone and
this time the smile reached her eyes. She gave me his room number and directions.
I had a choice—stairs to the second floor or the elevator. Another time, another occasion, I would have sprinted up the stairs, grateful for the incidental exercise. But I was dressed to woo, and if I was going to spend any time that day panting and glistening with sweat, I didn’t want it to be from climbing stairs.
In the short elevator ride, my mouth turned into the Sahara and I felt traitorous dampness under my arms. It had been nearly four months since I’d seen him in person and my stomach added a gymnastics routine to the trifecta of nerves. At James’s door, I took a steadying breath, then tentatively knocked.
After a few moments, it opened and there he was. My heart leapt as he enveloped me in his arms. “Hello, beautiful,” he said, his lips in my hair.
“Hi,” I said, wrapping an arm around his neck. He smelled divine, like he had when I’d met him in Greece and seen him again in London—citrusy and scrummy and undeniably manly.
James broke the hug first and, with his arms still around me, looked down at my face. “I missed you,” he whispered, tracing my cheek with his fingertip.
I gulped, his overt masculinity and intense expression working in tandem to awaken my nethers. “I missed you too,” I croaked. He kissed me then, and I didn’t even care that I’d spent ten minutes applying my lipstick. I’d brought it with me. I could reapply.
This man wants you, Sarah. You! Of all people!
My inner voice could be a total cow sometimes. I wished she’d shut the hell up.
The kiss ended and James laughed, and I quickly realised that it was at himself. “I haven’t even let you come inside,” he said, pulling on my hand. “Or put your bag down. Here, let me.” He took it from me. “Terrible manners,” he said, shaking his head at himself. “It’s this way.” Is he nervous? I’d seen him like that a few times, and it always seemed incongruous with the confident man I knew, but it was also endearing, and my heart tugged a little.
He led the way from the foyer into the room—a suite, actually—and placed my bag at the foot of a staircase. I was too distracted by the grandeur of my surroundings to say anything about his supposed lack of manners.
The suite had a large living room with a fireplace and a bar—an actual bar—and the staircase led to a loft bedroom and study, which I could see from my vantage point. The most spectacular feature, however, was the incredible view of downtown Sydney, with the sails of the Opera House peeking out over the treetops of the Botanical Gardens.
The décor was a little more modern than I would have chosen for my own place, but it was stylish and edgy. I eyed the couches suspiciously. They were low, leather, and all right angles. They looked incredibly uncomfortable.
“Can I get you something to drink? Our dinner reservation isn’t until eight.” I stopped gawking at the room and turned back to James.
“Um, yes please. What do you have?”
He smiled then and indicated the bar—Oh right, the bar! “I think it’s safe to say we have many options.”
“Well, let’s have a look.” I walked over and went behind the bar, taking a cursory inventory. It had quite the selection. There were ten bottles of various top-shelf liquors, a fridge full of mixers, and a wine fridge with a dozen bottles of red and white wine and three bottles of bubbles.
“Right, lots to choose from.” James sat on one of the stools opposite me, an amused smile on his lips. Perhaps he thought I was cute, playing bartender.
“Lady’s choice,” he said.
I only knew how to make a couple of cocktails and, of course, I could make a mean gin and tonic, but I’d need limes for that. I looked under the bar. There were limes—a bowl of them, plus a sharp knife and a cutting board. They really did think of everything when you had the penthouse. But it took only a moment to decide that a gin and tonic was a bad idea—too, well, too Josh.
“Right,” I said. “I’ll make a Nineteen Dollars Off.”
He laughed. “Is that a cocktail?”
“Yes,” I said, a slightly defensive edge in my voice. “Cat and I made it up the last time I was in London. Well, not the last, last time, but the time before that. Although in London it’s called a ‘Nine Pounds Off’.”
“Of course it is.” He was playing along, even though I was sure he had no idea what I was talking about.
“It got the name, because if you bought it at a bar, it would cost twenty-five dollars or in the UK, around twelve pounds. But if you make it at home, it’s a lot cheaper.”
“Ahhh,” said the wealthy man. I felt a bit daft, realising I should have made up another name for the cocktail, so I moved the proceedings along.
“Anyway, it’s got tequila in it. Do you like tequila?”
“Love tequila.”
“Good!” I got to work. I sliced up two limes and squeezed them into the cocktail shaker. I added three shots of tequila. It was Jose Cuervo Reserva De La Familia, which was a huge step up from the Cuervo Cat and I had used when we created the cocktail. This one was probably meant for sipping not mixing, but desperate times and all that. Next was a shot of Cointreau. Then I remembered the drink had grapefruit juice in it. Crap.
Grapefruit juice is not your usual mixer, but I checked the little fridge just in case. No grapefruit, but they did have unsweetened orange juice—no pulp. It would have to do. I added a generous glug, about six shots worth, then added ice and started shaking. I threw in some flourishes to amuse James, who broke into a wide smile, but I avoided throwing anything into the air. As an amateur, I knew my limitations.
I took two martini glasses down from the shelf behind me and decanted the drinks. Then I popped a can of soda water, topping up each drink with a little fizz. I sliced up a third lime, squeezed in some more juice and added a slice to the rim of each drink. Feel free to write that down, by the way—it’s an excellent cocktail.
“Voila!” I pushed one of the glasses over to his side of the bar. “The Nineteen Dollars Off.”
He clapped, which could have come off as condescending, but didn’t. He seemed genuinely delighted with my little performance. With a smile on my face, I bowed my head to acknowledge my audience. He lifted his glass and I lifted mine.
“To Sarah, who takes my breath away with her beauty and hidden talents.” My inner voice didn’t make a peep and I accepted the compliment with a clink of glasses and a self-satisfied smile. We each took a sip, James watching me over the rim of his glass.
“That’s spectacular,” he said, then took another sip.
“Why thank you.”
“Definitely worth the whole twelve pounds.” I laughed. “Now come around to this side. I don’t like you being so far away.”
I moved around the other side of the bar and sat on the stool next to James. He sipped his cocktail and looked at me as though he was also drinking me in. His left hand stroked up and down my leg.
“How was your meeting today?” I asked, like a proper girlfriend.
He smiled. “Good, yes. There were several, actually, and the gist is, they want me to curate a collection of contemporary artists, both from Australia and abroad.”
“Oh, that’s amazing!”
“Which would mean …” he said, putting his glass down and clasping my legs between his hands. “That I’ll be spending quite a lot of time in Sydney over the next few months.”
Oh. My. God.
“And,” he added tentatively, “I was thinking that while I’m in Sydney, you could come and stay with me here, at the Ovolo.” The words hung in the air, his eyes filled with hope and excitement and locked onto mine. I knew I needed to say something, but my mind was brimming with thoughts, each competing for my attention—We’re going to be together, just like he promised. Wait, does the Ovolo allow pets? Why doesn’t he just stay at my place? Would he want to stay at my place? And then this one—But what about me and Josh?
I must have looked as dumbfounded as I felt, because he broke into a self-deprecating s
mile and shook his head a little. “Anyway, nothing has to be decided now …”
Crap, I’d hesitated too long, and I’d hurt him. “No—sorry, James, I just …” I leapt off the stool and threw my arms around his neck. “It’s wonderful news—really.” He hugged me back, his warm throaty laughter echoing throughout the cavernous room. At least one of us believed me.
*
Dinner that night was at Aria. Aria! I’d never been, but it was high on my bucket list of Australia’s best restaurants. Walking in, I felt like I did the two times I’d been upgraded to business class—trying to look like I belonged while simultaneously gawping at the opulence.
We were seated at a table next to the window, an unobstructed view of Sydney Harbour laid out before us.
There’s something you should know if you’ve never been to Sydney. There’s simply no other cityscape that is quite as spectacular as Circular Quay with its flurry of ferry traffic, the Sydney Opera House, and the Sydney Harbour Bridge together in one vista.
And at sunset, from that vantage point, the sails of the Opera House lit up and the silhouette of the bridge etched against a backdrop of watercolour hues, it was breathtaking.
“This is my favourite view in Sydney,” said my date.
It had just become my favourite view too, but I tore my eyes away from the sunset. “So, you’ve been to Aria before then?”
“I come whenever I’m in Sydney, yes. Matt is an old friend.” He meant Matt Moran, the chef and owner, and I geeked out a little. Matt Moran! Maybe I’d get to meet him. Then I remembered our lunch in London at The Summerhouse and Paulie the chef. “James, do you only go to restaurants where you know the chef?” I teased.
“Always,” he deadpanned, then smiled. “Actually, I only go to restaurants where the food is exceptional and it feels like home. When you travel as much as I do, feeling like you’re at home is important. It can get very lonely.” I know just what you mean.
He dropped his eyes and I saw the furrow between his brows deepen for a moment. The frown was gone almost as soon as it had arrived, and he pulled his mouth into a faux smile and met my eyes. I laid my hand on his and squeezed it.