‘Your sister?’ Ben looked at Amy and then back to the photo. ‘She looks nothing like you.’
‘No, she doesn’t,’ Amy said cheerfully. ‘That one over there is Stephen and Jo again. Stephen’s Jo’s fiancé.’ She pointed to another photo that depicted her sister and a darker-skinned blond bloke emerging from the sea hand in hand, both carrying surfboards. Although Watanabe had captured them in black and white, the image conveyed an overwhelming feeling of warmth.
‘Brilliant.’ Ben’s gaze skimmed further along the wall. ‘Ah. There you are.’ He moved to stand in front of an over-saturated colour portrait of Amy. She was standing in a kitchen, her hair up in a high, loosely curling ponytail. She was decked out in a frilly red apron and mixing something in a large white bowl with a wooden spoon, her face wearing an adorably focused expression. Studying the image, Ben experienced an unexpected, nearly overwhelming surge of jealousy towards Watanabe.
‘Yeah, that’s me. He took it last year.’ Amy walked up behind him. ‘I’m so used to Scott following me around and taking pictures that I don’t notice any more. When we were kids, he’d hide out with us in the bush every summer and practise with his camera all the time. I don’t know how many pictures he took. Must have been thousands.’
‘How old were you when you met?’ Ben asked, turning to study her expression. She was smiling softly, her eyes focused on what were obviously happy memories.
‘Eight. Scott was ten and Jo was twelve. I’ve actually got the photo he took that day. This one here. He snuck up on us.’ She pointed to a smaller image and Ben moved to study it.
‘We look hideous.’ Amy chuckled, but Ben saw the way she bit her lip when she thought he’d fully focused on the photograph. He did so now and was completely stunned by how much the image affected him.
It depicted two raggedly dressed girls from behind: one tall and overweight with a straggly brown ponytail; the other tiny and blonde with snarled hair falling to her waist. They were both standing under the shade of a large tree watching two other children playing in the distance, bathed in light. In the foreground the bigger girl was reaching out as if to comfort the small one, who had her little fists bunched at her side in obvious frustration and, maybe, longing. It was obvious they were outsiders, poor ones at that. Ben tilted his head to the side, feeling a sharp stab of affinity for the girls in the picture, knowing just what it was like to feel an outsider. It made him uncomfortable.
He pasted on a smile. ‘I like the look. Urchin chic. One wonders why you changed your style?’
He was rewarded with a nudge in the ribs. ‘You can insult me more later. Come keep me company in the kitchen.’ She took his hand and pulled him behind her towards the irresistible hearty aroma of home cooking. ‘Mind Gerald.’
‘He’s settled in fine.’ Ben stepped over the dog, who was blocking the doorway to the kitchen, looking like a misplaced hairy log.
‘Yeah, he has. Can you open this?’ Amy thrust the wine back at him along with a bottle opener. ‘I’m halfway through the risotto. You like risotto, I hope? If you don’t, tough, it’s what you’re getting anyway.’ She pulled on a blue and white spotted apron and went back to a large shallow pan simmering on a surprisingly modern stainless steel gas stove. Ben opened the wine and poured it into two glasses Amy had left on the counter.
Mission accomplished, he studied the kitchen, which was as quirky as its owner. A black and white tiled floor contrasted with fire-engine-red cupboards and white bench tops. The only furniture in the room was a tiny pine table with two mismatched ladder-back chairs. Ben contemplated sitting on one before deciding to lean against a bench and watch Amy instead. He was thoroughly and utterly entranced. Never in his life had he been in a house this small, or furnished this eclectically on what was obviously a tight budget.
Even in the Spartan accommodation at his college, his furnishings had been more modern, but they hadn’t been nearly as inviting. He couldn’t wait to share the details with his readers in his next column. His fingers were already itching to type, the words dancing across his,. He’d centre the piece around what made a home maybe . . . or maybe he’d just write about Amy. She was far more captivating to his senses, and to his readers too, if their feedback had been any indication.
Amy reached for a half-empty bottle of white wine and poured a splash into the pan in front of her. ‘Do you cook?’
‘No, I burn things. I mainly rely on the kindness of others if I want a home-cooked meal.’ Ben ran his fingers over a speckled sheet of paper on the counter, detailing the recipe for Risotto Milanese in dense feminine handwriting. ‘Usually Colin’s good for a meal or two. His partner Sharif is a chef.’
‘He’s your personal assistant, yes?’ Amy retrieved a spoon from the counter, daintily taste-testing her dish with an approving nod.
‘Hmm? Oh yes.’ Distracted, Ben studied her profile. It was no doubt sexist and completely politically incorrect, but the sight of Amy cooking him dinner had him hornier than the Spanish Bull Run.
‘You really are spectacular.’
Amy looked at him in surprise. ‘Pardon?’
‘You.’ Ben reached out and ran a finger down the side of her flushed cheek, gratified by her soft exhalation of breath. ‘I’ve never met anyone quite like you, and I’ve met a lot of interesting people.’ He briefly touched her bottom lip, painted a tempting dark red.
‘Thanks.’ Amy’s cheeks took on a deep pink colour that had nothing to do with the heat coming from the stove. ‘I can safely say I’ve never met anyone like you, either.’ She turned away and added some finely chopped herbs to her pan. ‘So is it true you’re a comedian?’
‘Looked me up, did you?’ Ben grinned. ‘I’m sure it was all bad. I’m the one who wrote my own Wikipedia entry and I made sure it was suitably full of propaganda.’
‘Really?’ Amy laughed. ‘No, actually. I haven’t had a chance. My house was broken into on Saturday night and my laptop was stolen. I’ve been too busy replacing everything, working and losing sleep to get around to digging up the dirt on you. It was Scott who told me. Well, actually,
he
didn’t. He told my sister, who then told me.’ There was an edge to her voice that told Ben dear Scott wasn’t in Amy’s good books. The thought heartened him until he replayed what she’d said just before that.
The short hair on the back of his neck bristled. ‘Did I just hear you correctly? You had a break-in? On Saturday night? The same Saturday night you were with me?’
Amy nodded. ‘When I came home afterwards I found the door open. Did you see the scratches?’
‘I was going to ask you about them. What happened?’
‘I got home and found the door open and noises coming from inside the house.’
‘You didn’t try to investigate on your own, did you?’
‘No. I went to Scott’s place and he came with me the next morning to meet the police and clean up.’ She spoke as if she was describing a pleasant walk in the park, but the tension in her shoulders said differently.
Ben wasn’t amused. Mixed emotions, alien emotions, bubbled through his system. Outrage at someone stealing from his little muse; horror at the thought of what could have happened if she’d walked in on whoever it was; and sheer blinding jealousy that she’d spent the night with Watanabe when she should have been with him.
‘I’m alright, though,’ Amy said quickly, no doubt observing his thunderous expression. ‘I was upset because a bunch of stuff was taken but otherwise I’m fine. If you’re thinking of having a go at me over being safe or something, don’t.’ Her eyes narrowed and she held her wooden spoon up threateningly.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Ben feigned horror. ‘Not when you’re armed at least.’
‘Good,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, it looks like insurance is going to cover everything and I’ve got Gerald now as a watchdog. He’ll protect me.’ She turned to regard her new pet affectionately.
Ben’s expression was dubious. ‘He’d certainly watch a burglar enter your property and steal your things, so yes, the name probably is apt.’
Amy snorted. ‘Pass me that pepper grinder, would you?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Ben saluted. ‘You look like a pro at this.’
Amy glowed at the compliment. ‘Thanks. I love cooking. I know I can do it and it’s one of the few things I do better than my sister. When we left home, I was the one who always did the cleaning and the cooking and Jo was the one who worked so we’d have money.’
Ben’s interest was piqued but he kept his tone casual. ‘How old were you?’
‘Twelve, almost thirteen.’ Amy took a sip of her wine. ‘Jo was sixteen, so she worked after school. We lived in this complete dive of a share house along with two other guys. They were university students who spent all their time smoking pot and skipping lectures. The house was as rough as anything . . . I remember we had green carpet in the backyard instead of a lawn and the landlord didn’t even care, and random guys would come by to use our housemates’ bucket bong. Not that you want to know about all that . . . Are you hungry? Do you want some cheese or something to snack on to tide you over? I’ve just restocked the fridge, so there should be some brie on the top shelf if you want it. It won’t be soft but it’s still yummy. There’s some crackers in the cupboard behind you too.’ She gestured to the latter with her hip.
Ben just stared at her, stunned, trying to determine whether or not he’d just been fed a creative and highly imaginative tale of woe. It had happened to him before, most recently with Marcella, the media-crazed reality star, but there was something about the way Amy had spoken that told him she’d just been sharing an anecdote, nothing more.
What had she and her sister been doing, living on their own at such a young age? Where the hell had their parents been? And more importantly, how had Amy gone from such humble beginnings to owning not one but two businesses in a prestigious part of town and, if the pride he noticed was any indication, her own home? There was a story here. A damn good one. His fingers were itching again with the need to learn more and write it down, but common sense told him this was not the time to take notes.
‘Ben?’
‘Sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘Jetlag. I’m not my usual charismatic self, if you haven’t noticed.’
‘Oh?’ Amy rested her fingers lightly on his forearm. ‘I forgot you’ve just been to England and back. Sorry. I should be used to it with Jo and Scott travelling a lot. I’ve never flown before so I—’
‘What?’ Ben asked, incredulous. ‘What do you mean you’ve never flown? As in on a plane? In the air?’
Amy flushed and returned to stirring the risotto with single-minded focus.
Ben immediately regretted his words. He opened his foolish mouth to apologise but she forestalled him by speaking. ‘No. Not enough money and I run two businesses, if you haven’t noticed.’
‘I did.’
‘So not many chances to travel. It’s okay. I don’t mind.’ She shrugged, but there was a wistfulness in her tone that told Ben she well and truly did. ‘Anyway, enough about me. Tell me about your job. Are you really a comedian?’
‘Only to the people who find me funny.’ Ben concentrated on locating the cheese and crackers in an effort to cover up his frustration over his gaffe. ‘To everyone else I’m probably just a right bastard who gets paid a lot of money to offend people. Which I do brilliantly and often, I might add.’
‘Have you been on TV?’
Ben did a double take at her expression to make sure she wasn’t playing with him, then remembered the old TV in her living room. She mustn’t be hooked up to digital or cable and didn’t seem too fussed over spending time on the net, so there was a chance her question was genuine. ‘Sometimes. Usually chat shows to promote something. I’ll be doing the rounds in a few months no doubt to promote a film adaptation of one of my novels.’
‘Really?’ Amy spun around, her eyes wide.
‘Hmm. Not a big deal. It’s awful really, incredibly dull.’ He located a cutlery drawer, sliced off some cheese, popped it on a cracker and held it out.
‘You’re lying.’ Amy opened her mouth. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled, chomping down.
Ben grinned. ‘Yes, I am actually.
Power to the Devil
is possibly the best work I’ve done. They’ve recently pulled me in to take over rewriting the screenplay after the studio bollocksed it up.’ His expression grew stormy at the memory of his recent trip to London.
‘Oh?’
‘Hmm. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about myself. If you haven’t gathered the fact already, I’m terribly neurotic.’ He was gratified when Amy laughed, releasing both dimples. There was just something so
satisfactory
in making this woman laugh. It gave him more of a buzz than working a room of a few thousand people.
To his surprise, she leaned over and mischievously bit his lower lip.
‘I don’t know. You seem pretty marvellous to me so far. You know what would be even more marvellous though?’
‘No, what?’ Ben leaned forward to catch another kiss but missed when she ducked out of the way.
‘If you could set the table.’
Amy watched, beaming with no small amount of eagerness and pride, as Ben took his first bite of the risotto.
‘Good?’ she asked, knowing what the answer should be. She didn’t have a wide culinary repertoire, but the things she did make–good stick-to-your-ribs food and hip-clinging desserts–had been mastered to perfection. Or at least Amy’s idea of perfection, which was to provide pleasure for the people in her life.
She wasn’t disappointed.
Ben groaned with pleasure. ‘Hmm. My God! Incredible. Your talents are wasted. What are you doing with a barber shop when you can cook like this?’
Amy flushed with pleasure. ‘Thanks, but you know, it’s what I do for fun and for friends. If I
had
to cook, I probably wouldn’t want to. It wouldn’t be fun any more. I make cake for the customers at work and they seem to like it, but that’s about it.’ She took a sip of the red wine Ben had brought along and nodded with satisfaction. It went beautifully.
‘Tell me more. We just covered me. I want to know about you,’ Ben said, before popping another forkful of risotto in his mouth and chewing with a satisfied smile.