The Man Ban

by Nicola Marsh

  “Considering we fly home tomorrow, yeah.”

  She’d deliberately misunderstood his question because she didn’t have an answer for him. Not one that made sense. This had been fun because it was fleeting, with a guaranteed end date. But back in Melbourne, with the pressures of their careers, resuming treatment for her vitiligo, the worry about her parents and where her next job was coming from, she knew she wouldn’t be this carefree.

  “I know I said I’m not a relationship guy and I don’t have time to date, but what would you say if I gave you a call when I’m between manic shifts?”

  Good. He was on the same page as her. No time for a relationship. So why did the dismissive way he said it sting so damn much?

  “I’d say call me, but if you think I’ll be available for booty calls only, you might find yourself talking to my voice mail.”

  “I’m not that kind of guy,” he said, feigning outrage. “What we’re doing here? Conversing? Teasing? Proves it.”

  “What we’re doing now is regrouping, because you’re forty and old and you need time to recover between sexual escapades.”

  He laughed so hard she was pretty sure she glimpsed tears leaking out of his eyes. “I am not old and I’m going to prove it to you. In another ten minutes or so.”

  She lifted the sheet, pretending to check out his package, and tut-tutted. “You may need twenty.”

  She joined in his laughter, thinking she’d be foolish to walk away from this when they returned to Melbourne. She didn’t want a relationship; he wasn’t offering one. So what would be so bad about the occasional hook-up between friends?

  Deep down, she knew.

  She wasn’t that kind of girl.

  She’d never had a one-night stand. All the guys she’d dated had been with the view to a relationship, the kind of steadfast, loyal relationship her folks had.

  And look how that turned out.

  “You can call me,” she said, snuggling back into his chest. “I can’t promise I’ll answer, but you can call.”

  “Good, because I have a feeling I’m going to miss having you around every day when we get home.” His arm tightened around her, and he rested his cheek on top of her head. “I don’t like many people in this world because most of them annoy me with their foibles and hang-ups, but you, Harper Ryland, I like.”

  And damned if Harper’s heart didn’t swell with hope that maybe Manny could be the guy to get her to permanently shelve her man ban.

  38

  Manny hated emotional airport scenes. He witnessed one every time he flew; a couple embracing like they’d never see each other again, squealing kids wrapped around a parent’s leg, or a passionate interlude between two people who needed to get a room. He’d never understood the need to be excessively demonstrative, but as he watched Harper get into a taxi, he had the distinct urge to run after her and flag the damn thing down.

  He’d offered to give her a lift, but she’d declined. It had annoyed him at first, but then he’d realized she might be struggling a tad over their parting and was trying to give them both an easy out.

  As it was, their goodbye had been simple. As they’d exited the terminal, pulling their suitcases behind them, he’d stopped, opened his arms to her, and she’d stepped into his embrace without hesitation.

  He’d hugged her tight, hoping to convey how much he’d enjoyed their time together. As if trying to do the same, she’d wrapped her arms around his waist and clung to him, her face buried against his chest, her body plastered to his.

  He liked that they didn’t speak, but as they’d eventually released each other he wished he could make sense of the feelings rioting through him. But he didn’t like the confusion, and he sure as hell couldn’t articulate it to her, so he’d dropped a kiss on her lips and smiled as she touched his cheek briefly before she headed for the taxi rank.

  As the taxi pulled away from the curb, she slid her window down and waved. He tried to get a read on her expression, but at this distance he didn’t know whether it was stoic or on the verge of crumpling.

  He returned her wave and watched the taxi until it disappeared, feeling like one of those emotional airport schmucks he’d been judging earlier.

  Being this out of sorts, he’d like nothing better than to head home, but he needed to check on Izzy. She may drive him crazy sometimes with her matchmaking but she depended on him, and he’d never shirk his duty.

  He’d been lax once before, and his mom had died as a result.

  Traffic was particularly bad on the freeway and it took an hour to reach the city, and another forty minutes to reach Dandenong, where Izzy had lived in the same house for the last thirty-five years. It had been his home too before he’d started med school and moved into dorms on campus. He always wondered why his mom hadn’t found them a place of their own; he’d asked once, when he’d been about ten, and his mom said Izzy needed to be looked after and it was their duty considering his dad had died when he was two and he’d asked Carla Gomes to look after his mother.

  A duty Manny had assumed after Carla died.

  But he knew it was love more than duty that made Izzy such a big part of his life. He respected his grandmother, and she was the only family he had left. She’d been his rock after his mom died, and for that alone he owed her.

  As he strode along the bricked path to the front door, he was surprised to see the garden appeared unattended, with the lawn an inch too long and weeds among the flower beds Izzy had once tended with such patience. These days, a gardener came once every two weeks, but it looked like he hadn’t been in a month.

  Manny had offered to buy Izzy a new house many times— something smaller if she liked, or even a fancy unit in a retirement village—but Izzy would have none of it. These days, whenever he brought it up she’d chastise him with You need to bury me under the curry leaf tree out the back, which ensured he’d inevitably change the subject.

  When he reached the front door, he knocked three times before using his key to let himself in. The faintest aroma of fenugreek and garam masala clung to the walls, indicative of the many tasty Indian dishes Izzy had whipped up over the years.

  “In here, Manish,” Izzy called out from the lounge room. Not that she needed to; it was where she spent all her time, watching soap operas or playing games on her electronic tablet.

  “Hi, Izzy . . .” His greeting faded as he caught sight of his grandmother, sitting in her favorite chintz armchair by the gas log fire.

  She’d lost weight.

  Enough that the red sweater hung from her shoulders and black leggings accentuated her twiglike legs. Her cheeks had a hint of gauntness too. How had he not noticed during their video calls?

  Guilt niggled in his gut. Had he been too bamboozled by Harper, too caught up in his own pleasure, to notice?

  “Stop gawking and come say hello to your grandmother,” she muttered, holding open her arms for a hug.

  When he wrapped his arms around her, it confirmed what he already knew. She’d definitely shed a few pounds. He’d last seen her at Arun’s wedding, and that had been several weeks ago.

  Unexplained weight loss at any age wasn’t good from a medical standpoint, and in his grandmother it made him want to call the paramedics.

  All the texts he’d pored over as an undergrad flashed before his eyes. Any number of conditions could result in weight loss: muscle wasting, overactive thyroid, diabetes, endocarditis, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, inflammatory bowel disease, peptic ulcer, heart failure, and the big C. The thought of Izzy dealing with any of those made him feel sick.

  He wanted to grill her, but he knew from experience Izzy didn’t take kindly to being quizzed. She’d become defensive and shut down, and he couldn’t have that happening, not when he needed answers.

  Ironic, that he’d been worried coming here today because he’d expected an interrogation of epic proportio
ns regarding Harper, and now he was worried for an entirely different reason.

  “How are you?” He sat on the armchair next to hers, the old springs creaking. It had been his chair since he was a kid, and he’d read many a book curled up in it while Izzy and Carla watched Bollywood movies.

  “The usual. Old and decrepit.”

  His gran’s unusually morose answers had bothered him in New Zealand, but he’d dismissed it. Now he wondered if her responses were indicative of a deeper problem she didn’t want him knowing about.

  “Eating well?”

  Predictably, she bristled, glaring at him like he’d asked her something ridiculously personal. “When you’re my age, you don’t feel like eating every single meal, so I might have skipped a few.”

  That could explain the weight loss, but Izzy had skipped breakfast or lunch for as long as he could remember.

  “And you’re feeling okay?”

  “Fine,” she snapped, but her gaze slid away, and he knew there was something going on.

  He could hedge around it, but worry would gnaw at him until he confronted her, and if she needed more tests or special care, he’d rather know sooner than later.

  “You’ve lost weight since I’ve been away.”

  “Nonsense,” she said, waving away his concern. “Now tell me about this woman you were so distracted by. What was her name? Harper?” Her nose crinkled. “What kind of name is that?”

  Of course Izzy would deflect. It was her way. He’d do better by answering her questions, then circling back to the subject of her health.

  “I like Harper. We had a good time together.”

  “But now you’re home.” She dusted off her hands. “Time to put your vacation romance behind you and find someone more suitable—”

  “Izzy, I’ve appreciated you not interfering in my life over the years. I always thought I was lucky being Anglo-Indian, so you weren’t as relentless as the Indian aunties who make matchmaking a national pastime. So why the sudden obsession with finding me someone suitable?”

  He made air quotes around the last two words and she frowned, making disapproving clucking noises under her breath.

  “Because I want you to be happy.”

  “I am happy.”

  “I saw this Harper woman at the wedding. She’s not for you.”

  “Why?”

  It may be cruel getting her to spell it out, but he was lulling her into a false sense of security before getting back to the subject at hand: her health.

  “She’s Australian, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you said she styles food?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where is the common ground? Where are the shared interests?” She flung her arms in the air dramatically. “Where is the real connection? Culturally, you’ll have little in common—”

  “Izzy, I’ve been raised in Australia. I’m Australian.”

  “But your heritage is Anglo-Indian, and we’re a dying race. It is better for you to procreate with someone of your own—”

  “Whoa, who said anything about having kids?”

  “You would make a wonderful father.” Izzy’s lips compressed into a thin line. “You are forty; it is time you started considering a younger wife, someone to have children.”

  Knowing it would antagonize Izzy but unable to resist, he said, “Harper’s only thirty.”

  “Again with this Harper.” She waggled her finger at him. “Women who indulge in flings don’t make good wife material.”

  Manny didn’t want to get into an argument regarding something that would never happen. He didn’t want to marry, but that didn’t mean he had to sit here and listen to Harper being disparaged when he happened to think she was pretty damn fantastic.

  “Do you have any idea why you’ve lost weight? Because I think you were avoiding answering me earlier.”

  Izzy froze, her startled eyes flying to his, before she heaved a hefty sigh. “I have noticed. And I’ve been to my doctor, who ordered tests.”

  Izzy had gone to the doctor voluntarily? For as long as he remembered he’d had to badger her into getting an annual physical, let alone a doctor’s visit if she was feeling unwell. She didn’t believe in medication for colds, preferring the old-fashioned remedies of salt water gargles and drinking copious amounts of rasam or steeped ginger and turmeric.

  Her visit to the local doctor, who she referred to as “that quack” on a good day, made him worry even more.

  “What tests?”

  “Comprehensive blood tests, and you’ll be the first to know if they show anything other than I’m over-the-hill, but let’s get back to this Harper woman.”

  “Izzy, I’m not going to discuss her with you, other than to say she’s the first woman in a long time to spark my interest beyond a date.”

  Izzy’s eyebrows rose so high her forehead wrinkled in a plethora of creases.

  “I want to meet her.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Are you ashamed of her?”

  “Of course not, it’s just that we’ve got busy schedules, so I’m not sure when I’m going to see her next.”

  Utter crap, because he had every intention of contacting the gorgeous Harper soon.

  Izzy’s head pitched to one side in a classic gesture he’d seen many times growing up. She’d never capitulate no matter how many times he gave her the brush-off.

  “Rest assured, my boy, if she’s as special as you say she is, I will meet her. And soon.”

  39

  The last thing Harper felt like doing after landing back in Melbourne was visiting her mom, but Lydia had left a message for her while she’d been in flight, and Harper didn’t like the way she’d sounded.

  Her poised mother rarely made demands, so the urgency in her tone imploring Harper to visit ASAP meant when the taxi dropped her home she dumped her suitcase inside, grabbed her car keys, and headed for the house she’d grown up in, in Glen Waverley. She only lived a few suburbs over, in leafy Ashwood, and the trip took less than fifteen minutes. She parked in front of her childhood home, a brick veneer California bungalow, and traipsed up the path, wishing she’d taken the time to check her appearance.

  Nobody did the imperious head-to-toe sweep like Lydia Ryland.

  While she loved her mom, growing up she’d hated the scrutiny. Lydia wouldn’t overly criticize, but Harper would feel her silent disapproval if her skirt was too short or her top too revealing. Having fabulous hair courtesy of her mom made up for it somewhat, but ever since her diagnosis, Harper had become increasingly self-conscious.

  Which made her invitation for Manny to stay over in her hotel room last night all the more significant.

  Not that she hadn’t been aware of the pitfalls. She’d turned out the lamp, and they’d made love twice before she woke early and slipped into the bathroom. It hadn’t been a big deal because they had to check out at nine to head to the airport, and finding her showered and dressed hadn’t fazed him.

  They hadn’t been able to get seats together on the flight, which gave her time to brace for their farewell. Crazy, because he’d said he’d call, and while she had no intention of making this into anything more than it was—a fun fling—she might or might not see him again.

  But that hug at the airport had almost undone her. Being in his arms felt . . . right. And he had this way of holding her that conveyed so much more than words could. Silent strength. Dependability. Security. Things she craved in a man but had never been able to find.

  Until now.

  She’d cursed her independence as the taxi pulled away, and had almost told the driver to stop so she could take Manny up on his offer to drive her home. But that wouldn’t have been conducive to getting her head back in the game of being home and making sensible choices, focused on building her business, so she’d managed a half-hearted
wave while a tiny piece of her broke.

  Harper had barely climbed the porch steps when she spotted a giant cellophane-wrapped basket in front of the door. It had a stuffed giraffe in the middle, a bottle of expensive champagne on one side, and a monster box of chocolates on the other. Her mom’s new man had good taste.

  She knocked before squatting to pick up the basket, and when the door opened, she presented it to her mom.

  “From your secret admirer.”

  Lydia snorted. “It’s from your father. It’s his new thing.”

  Harper had no idea what that meant until she entered the dining room and saw their old mahogany table covered in baskets of various sizes, filled with gourmet nibbles to glossy magazines.

  “So what was so urgent you had to see me now?”

  “I need you to tell him to stop all this.” Lydia swept her arm wide, her nose crinkling with distaste.

  “It’s sweet,” Harper said, placing the basket on the table. Actually, she should’ve known it was her dad who sent it, considering he’d been the one to start her mom’s giraffe collection years ago.

  She’d been about eight, and they’d been at Moomba, one of those rare long weekends when her dad had been home for the three days. They’d watched the Moomba parade on the Labor Day Monday then strolled through the gardens, checking out the stalls. Her parents hadn’t allowed her to go on any of the hair-raising rides, but her dad had played various arcade games to win her a prize. She’d loved her purple unicorn, but not as much as Lydia had loved the giant giraffe. Her mom had pretended to be embarrassed at first, having to cart a big stuffed toy back to the car, but she’d seen the way her parents kept looking at each other whenever the car stopped at signal lights, like they had stars in their eyes.

  Ever since then, her dad would buy Lydia giraffes on every long weekend. Crystal, silver, even chocolate, and her mom kept them all.

  It made Harper wonder if this one would end up in the trash.