A heavy sigh leaves my lips as the weight of expectation cloaks me. “Well, ha. I’m trying to write the perfect romance.”
“Aren’t we all,” Janice says and chuckles. “Am I right, ladies?”
Hannah rolls her eyes. Leonie nods.
“If only love was perfect in real life, too,” Britt says.
“Love is subjective,” Hannah says. “We all have our own experiences.” She starts cackling to herself.
“What’s so funny, H?” Leonie asks.
“I write thrillers for a reason. Romance isn’t my strong suit, on the page and in real life.”
What makes me think that I’m qualified to write about love when I’ve never truly experienced it for myself? Perhaps I should write about my failed relationships to date. I could call it The Diary of a Douchebag Magnet. Best-selling author status, here I come. Not.
As we sip on our coffees, we talk about books and making characters unique and plotting. I sit back and lap it all up, relishing the company I’m in and the knowledge they openly share. They all seem like really nice women. I have a good feeling about them, so I decide to put myself out on a limb.
“The council has a fundraiser coming up in a couple of weeks,” I say and shrug. “They’re raising money for a new humidity crib for the hospital. Would you all like to come? It’s fancy dress. Superhero theme.” It’s normally something my besties and I would do, but this year they’ll miss out.
A wide smile stretches across Leonie’s made-up face. “I love fancy dress.”
“Sounds like it could be fun,” Hannah says and grins.
Janice shrugs. Her brows pull together. “Maybe. Need to see how I’m going with edits.”
“Count me in,” Britt says. “Anything for the hospital.”
I swear I walk that little bit taller for the rest of the day. I’ve found some new friends to talk books and dress up with.
Chapter Four
Over the next couple of weeks, I make real progress at work. I finally get to meet Sally-Anne, who is supposed to work nine to three, five days a week, but between her three primary school-aged boys there always seems to be some kind of sickness. We’ve worked a total of two days together, and I swear most of that time she spent making personal calls.
Each day when I get a chance to leave reception, I make my way around and say hello to the residents. Sometimes they try to engage me in conversation, which is understandable since some of them rarely receive visitors. I try and get some ideas from them as to what they’d like on the social calendar I’m coordinating. At the end of the day, it’s about enriching their lives, so I want their input.
When I ask Mrs Mansell what activities she’d like to do, after mumbling for a minute she screams and pulls at her hair and swears at me repeatedly. Afterwards, Kathleen told me that after suffering a series of strokes, her vocabulary has been reduced to a barely audible version of ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘fuck’; the latter she uses when she’s frustrated. Whilst I am a little taken back with her anger towards me, I tell myself it’s not me she’s irritated with, but her situation. I nod and excuse myself, making a mental note to try and organise some calm music to be played in her room. I hope that might help take her mind off her daily struggles.
Mr Ryan, a well-known horse trainer from the region, didn’t care for the proposed activities; rather, he demanded to know when lamb chops would be on the menu, and when steak, eggs, sausages, and lamb’s fry would be served for breakfast. I get the feeling from his extended belly that he’s accustomed to hearty meals. Unfortunately, the kitchen is not my domain, but I promise to pass along his request. Then he gives me a huge, gappy smile, leaving me wondering why he doesn’t have his teeth in. Aren’t they just something you wear all the time? How on earth does he think he’s going to eat meat without them?
I’m not sure if I can swing a poker evening for Mr Thompson, but promise him I’ll try. He’s insisting on playing with real money. “None of this matchstick business,” he says, quite passionately. He also thinks strip poker would be a good idea. Within seconds of that suggestion, he is talking about fishing for trout, as if our earlier conversation had never taken place. I have to stifle my laugh until I leave the room. Imagine that. There’d be an eyeful of old wrinkled, leathery skin and low-hanging boobs. Dear God, no. No, no, no, no and no.
No one is getting naked around here.
The young resident in number ten hasn’t strayed from his room in weeks, choosing to eat all his meals in the solitude provided by his four walls. It’s a surprise, because the first day we met he seemed so full of life, so playful. Is he normally so reclusive?
Nevertheless, each day I pop my head in to say ‘hi’. Last week, I graduated from a nod, edging towards a grunt within a few days, and by Friday, he’d moved on to something between a smirk and him looking like he had something in his eye.
This week, the look in his eyes has been kind of different—his gaze is more focused on me. Curious, even. Monday this week I got a ‘hey’, Tuesday a ‘hi’, and Wednesday a ‘What’s up?’ which in my book, is real progress. Yesterday, he was sleeping. Will today bring about the makings of a grin, a smile or even a conversation?
I want to get to know him. He’s young. Surely he’d want to chat with someone his age?
At one o’clock, I grab my handbag from my drawer and take my lunch out of the small bar fridge beside my desk. I walk down the hall until I reach his door.
I lean against the doorway for a moment and watch him as he stares from his wheelchair out the window.
“I’m coming to hang with someone born in the same era for my lunch break today. That okay with you, Sam?”
His shoulders jerk up. Sam presses the control on his wheelchair, which turns his body to face me. “Sure. It’s not like visitors are tripping over themselves to come see me.”
Maybe because you’re a grump.
I pull over the vacant chair from the corner and move it beside him. I sit and place my bag at my feet and rest the container housing a chicken salad sandwich on my lap. “Have you eaten?”
He grunts. “If you call soup food, then yeah.”
Sensing some hostility here. “That’s right. Friday’s soup day. Yummy,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my tone. I pry open my clear container and take a bite of the tasty seeded bread I bought fresh from the bakery this morning.
Sam eyes the sandwich and licks his lips.
“You can have the other half if you want?” I offer. “I cut the bread pretty thick, so really it’s like a jumbo-sized sandwich. Just sliced chicken breast, lettuce, red onion and spicy mayo.”
“Nah, I’m good,” he says. His Adam’s apple bobs. He’s still staring at it like he wants to devour it whole, though.
I finish my first bite, moaning as my stomach prepares to receive the food it’s been growling over for the last hour. When I take another nibble, Sam is still gawking at me.
“Good with your soup, huh?” I mumble.
“Hmm.”
“Look, really, I’m not gonna finish it, so just help me out, okay?” I hand him the container with the large carb-loaded triangle.
He takes his time, using both hands to pick it up. Slowly, he brings it to his mouth and takes a giant bite. “Hmm. S’good,” he says around a mouthful of bread.
We eat in silence for a few minutes.
“So how old are you?” I ask and take another bite of my lunch.
“Twenty-six. I’m in my prime. Can’t you tell?” He looks at me expectantly. “You?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Cool.” Sam takes another bite. His hand stiffens. His face contorts. A groan twists his lips. The sandwich falls to the ground and onto my mammoth-sized handbag.
“Are you okay?”
“Faaaark,” he says, rubbing at his right wrist and gawking at the splattered food. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. It’s cool.” I clean up the mess and take a tissue from his bedside table to wipe the smeared mayo from my bag.
“What do you keep in that thing? It’s huge.”
I throw the tissue in the trash and open the bag and peruse the contents. “I dunno. Stuff? Headphones, three different types of mints, a small jar of Nutella, a heap of lip glosses and a Wonder Woman costume.”
A chuckle rumbles up his throat. “A Wonder Woman costume? What for?”
My lips pull to the side. “You never know when you might need it.”
“No, really. Why do you have it?”
“The council has their annual fancy dress fundraiser this weekend. Superhero theme this year. Got it mail order and picked it up from the post office on my way in this morning.”
“Hmm.”
A long pause stretches between us. I’m usually a bit of a chatterbox, but right now, looking at Sam in deep thought, staring at my face, I’m mute.
“I like it when you wear the cherry lip gloss,” he finally says. “Like today. Suits you.”
He what? I clear my throat. “Oh. Thanks.”
“How come you always wear it on Fridays?”
“You’ve noticed?” Clearly. Duh.
“You’re more interesting than the four walls in my room. So, what’s the deal?”
“I have to wear the same old boring navy uniform in here, so lips and hair are my only options to express myself.”
“Mondays you always wear this dark-brown colour on your lips. Makes you look kind of goth.”
“I choose my gloss colour according to mood. After spending most of the weekend outside, Mondays kind of suck. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are more beige and blush tones, Thursday I wear whatever I can get my hands on first, and Fridays I wear cherry, because I’m excited. TGIF. Two days off to do whatever I want.”
“And what does that involve?”
“I have a veggie garden that I’m kind of having success with. I like to kayak down near the falls, go to the movies. Whatever.” Whatever, meaning trying hopelessly to write a romance novel. I’ve got a better chance of publishing a colouring book with the amount of words I have down. But then again, my drawing abilities didn’t improve much after primary school.
“You live by yourself?” he asks.
“Yup. I have a little house down on Pope Street.”
“Does that get lonely?”
“Not really,” I say with a shrug. “I enjoy my own company. I do talk to myself a fair bit, though, so there is that.” I make a circular motion with my finger, drawing circles beside my ear.
Sam smiles, and it warms my heart.
“No boyfriend then?” he probes further.
“Nope.”
“How come?” Geez, getting a bit personal here.
“Let’s just say I’ve dated a sushi train of losers.” And I’m feeling much better about myself since going solo. I’m not about to jump back into a relationship, either.
He laughs. “What does that mean?”
“The losers just keep rolling around, and I don’t wanna take those plates.” And it’s hard for a hungry woman to say no sometimes.
“So, men are sushi?”
I press my palm to my forehead and let out an exasperated breath. “How do I spell this out for you—”
“I get it. It’s okay. Just teasing. So, to be clear, there’s no spunky Californian roll in your life.”
Laughter erupts from my throat when an image of a man, with a sushi roll for a penis springs into my imagination. “No. What about you? Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Nope. Let’s change the subject. What about your parents?”
“Mum and Dad sold their orchard a year ago. They bought a caravan and started touring around Australia. So that’s their plan for the next year at least. They’re officially grey nomads. They love it.”
“No other family here?”
“No, just me. I have some uncles and aunties over in Perth, but I’m it.”
“So why stay here?”
I shrug. “It’s home, and besides, I’m not big on the city. Freaks me out. The only traffic we get here is when the Stevenson’s block off Melaleuca Street as they move their sheep from one property to the next. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
“Yeah, it’s not a bad town. What I’ve seen of it, anyway. Unfortunately, I only had a month to get familiar with it before I ended up in hospital.”
I nudge my chair closer, preparing myself for the scoop on this mysterious man. “How did you end up in Willow Creek in the first place?”
“I grew up about half an hour from here at Logan Falls.”
And still I didn’t hear about the Marshall boys? I thought I had connections! “Like I said, the falls is where I kayak. A bit farther downstream though. It’s so pretty.” And it gives me a whole lot of time to think out there.
“Yeah, it was … I moved to Sydney when I was eighteen—lived there until a couple of years ago. Needed some space from … stuff.”
“Is your mum still in the falls?” And why isn’t she on your list of approved visitors?
“My mum is buried out there. So yeah. Still there.”
Face-palm. Way to go, Jane. “Crap, I’m sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter. That’s just life, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess. Can I put my foot in it again and ask about your dad?”
“Sure, why not? He’s on deployment overseas with the army. We don’t talk.”
“And Ben?”
“Big brother tries to solve all the world’s problems.”
I smile, thinking about that solid wall of man taking on the world. “And how’s he going with that?”
“There’s just one he’s having trouble with,” Sam says and clenches his jaw.
“Oh, and what’s that?”
His shoulders drop as he huffs air out his nose. “Me.”
“Is that why they call you Mr Trouble?” I ask, hoping to bring a smile back to his face.
“Ha,” he scoffs. “Funny that. My dad used to say that ‘trouble’ was my middle name.”
“It’s not, is it?” I joke.
“Nah, it’s Dylan.”
“Well, Sam Dylan Marshall, I’d better get back to work.” I stand and fetch my bag before turning back to him. “And for the record, I kind of like trouble.”
“’Kay,” he says, and angles his wheelchair to face the window.
Do I wish him a good weekend? Will it be any different to his Monday-through-Friday though?
“I’ll see you on Monday, yeah?” I say and smile.
“You know I’ll be here.”
As I leave his room, I find myself hoping for Sam’s sake that the weekend moves fast.
Chapter Five
Names. I thought choosing character names would be the fun part.
I was wrong.
Opening up Google in my web browser, I search for popular boy’s names. It’s as if I’m viewing a list of my failed relationships and crushes that never evolved into anything.
Chris.
Damien.
I wince when my eyes cast over the name Jarrod. Whilst he left town a year ago, the restraining order is still in place. And my dad’s .22 is close by, just in case.
Looking under the letter B, one name stands out.
Brandon.
Ooh. I’m swooning already.
It’s a solid name, one fit for a man of character in a small town. The name conjures an image of a tall man who’s well-built and over-the-top handsome in a simple T-shirt and bootleg jeans. He works with his hands, somehow, and is good to his parents. Model citizen, born and bred in my fictional town, which I’m yet to name.
Done. Brandon it is.
When it comes to girl’s names, it’s no easier. I don’t want a name that has any connection to friends or family. I don’t want people I know and love thinking that I’m writing about them and the nitty-gritty ins and outs of their lives. The name also has to be country-sounding, the kind of name you’d expect for the girl on the farm next door.
Alice? Nah, too Wonderlandish.
Alison
? Yeah, maybe. But how can I make it sound less formal? Ally?
That’s it. The name is friendly and casual, yet it has its own strength.
Finally, I settle on Brandon and Ally.
Let’s see if I can create some magic with these two.
***
Two hours, three cups of English Breakfast tea, and half a packet of double-coated Tim Tams later, I have a brief description of my characters.
Brandon Henry
Six feet two inches tall
Dark wavy hair—Superman like
Muscles that bunch under his shirt
He’s an electrician by trade, doing odd jobs around town
Single dad
Has a property on the outskirts of Mount Plenty. He farms black Angus cattle. He’s the fourth generation to farm there
For a moment there I thought about making Brandon a mechanic. I imagined him all greased up and doing all sorts of manly things with his hands, but that might be treading on Leonie’s toes. I’d hate for her to think that on some level I was using her partner for inspiration. I’m guessing that’s a big writers’ group no-no. Thou shalt not use other group member’s significant others for thine own writing inspiration.
My eyes travel back up to the name of my town. Mount Plenty.
What, am I horny or something? Yeah, it’s been a while. I must be, otherwise why would I subconsciously name a town that sounds like it’s a place where people ‘mount’ more than often?
With a strong shake of my head, I delete the word ‘Plenty’ and write ‘TBA’ in its place. I’ll have to come back to that later, because I know if I try now I’ll just waste more time trying to come up with a name. I need to focus.
Moving on, I review what I have for Ally.
Ally Spence
Five feet six
Curvy—because I don’t think I’ve ever seen a skinny short girl in my home town
Pixie-cut brown hair, button nose
Works in a mobile dessert van, supplying the town with their sugar fix
Ally makes her own doughnuts—cinnamon, jam and chocolate-filled, made-to-order waffles with ten different types of toppings, some crazier than others. Lychee and sesame, Nutella and strawberries, peanut butter and jelly, caramel and crushed nuts. Topped with an assortment of weird and wacky ice-creams. This is why Ally is curvy. A good cook should taste everything that leaves their kitchen.
Sing it, Sam Page 3