‘That’s
Princess
Amy to you, mister. There’s a brush and an elastic band in there somewhere if you want to tie your hair up. If you’re lucky, it won’t be pink!’
‘Cheers, big ears,’ he called back, reappearing wearing his fitted black shirt. His hair had been pulled back into a sleek ponytail and not for the first time did Amy wish she had some of Scott’s Japanese–Australian genetics. The man didn’t have to try. She, on the other hand, had to use the threat of industrial machinery to get her shoulder-length hair to even listen to her, let alone behave.
‘How’s your head?’ she asked when he took a seat across from her, stretching out his legs to take up most of the kitchen.
He winced. ‘Great, now I’ve downed a few aspirin. Not so great when I woke up. How much did we drink last night?’
Amy shrugged and smiled perkily. ‘Three and a half bottles.’
‘Jesus.’ Scott ran his hand over his eyes, then looked at her incredulously. ‘You’ve gotta be the eighth wonder of the world. How is it that you’re half my size and you don’t get hangovers?’
‘I just don’t. You going to stick around this morning for some chocolate cake, or are you headed home?’
‘Home, babe. Jo’s dropping by for a late breakfast.’ He reached over and tugged at her sleeve. ‘Was last night just a bit of a vent or do I have to be worried?’
Amy bit her lip, not meeting his eyes. ‘Just a vent, sweetie.’
‘You sure? Because it didn’t sound like it. I haven’t seen you cry like that for years. Not since Liam.’ His words hung in the air for a few awkward seconds.
‘Well, I was due then, eh?’ Amy slipped her foot out of her shoe and nudged him on the thigh with her toe.
His brow wrinkled with worry. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, sweetie. You don’t need to worry.’
His eyes searched hers for a moment, then he nodded. ‘Alright. I’ll leave it then.’
‘Thanks.’ Amy gave him a relieved smile. Around about bottle number two, she and Scott had taken a taxi from the pub back to her little Fremantle house and she’d poured out her tale of woe, going through half a box of tissues in the process.
The past week had been a slow-motion film of how sad and pathetic one woman’s life could be. Like all films of that nature, it had commenced on an absolutely peachy note. On Monday morning, Tom Draper, Perth’s most loved TV weather man, had given her a call at her barbershop and asked her out for a few drinks. Assuming her sparkling wit had worked its magic on him during his monthly visits to Babyface, she’d immediately said yes. She should have known better. Not once had she had success with a man who had a dry scalp, and Tom’s was drier than the Nairobi desert.
Tom’s careless rejection had just amplified the ever-present aching sense of loneliness she liked to pretend didn’t exist. Once alcohol and Scott’s reassuring presence were added to the equation, it was inevitable that she’d find herself curled up, bawling buckets against his shoulder at two in the morning until he put her to bed and stumbled off to her spare room.
‘You want a ride to your place?’ she asked, derailing the train of self-pity before it could build up a full head of steam.
‘What? Yeah, actually, that would be great . . . you sure?’ Amy had a strong feeling he wasn’t just referring to the car ride.
‘Yeah,’ she said firmly. ‘Just let me get changed. I’ve got to do a bit of shopping anyway.’ What she didn’t tell him was that her shopping involved a trip to her local hardware store.
Later that afternoon, buoyed by a break in the weather, Amy cheerfully clambered atop Harvey’s roof with a tube of silicon sealant in one hand, holding her rickety wooden ladder in place against his blue-painted stone walls with the other. Although it had stopped raining, the leaves and debris on the corrugated iron roof made it difficult to work out which of the rusty holes she was looking at was responsible for her cold shower that morning. She’d just located the most likely culprits when her sister’s loud, surprisingly husky voice startled her and nearly caused a fatal accident.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Jo bellowed from the kitchen door before stomping out into the small jacaranda-lined courtyard. Just over six foot tall and strong from her former job as an engineer working on offshore oil rigs, Jo was able to reach up and easily wrap her hands around Amy’s waist, supporting her as she placed her feet back on the second-from-top rung, ready to climb down.
‘Hey.’ Amy grinned, ignoring her sister’s fierce frown. ‘If you could just hold me steady for a few more seconds, I’ll finish, then make you a hot chocolate.’
‘You’re insane. You know that, right?’ Jo tightened her grip as Amy leaned backwards to survey her handiwork. ‘High heels on a bloody ladder. Don’t you own a proper pair of boots? What idiot wears heels on a ladder? No. Don’t say anything. The answer’s right in front of me.’
Ignoring Jo, Amy calmly capped the sealant, dropped it into the front pocket of her cheerful, daisy-printed apron and climbed down.
‘Thanks,’ she chirped as her feet touched the ground. She spun and pulled her sister’s head down for a kiss on the cheek. ‘I was fine, but I love you for caring.’
Jo ran her fingers through her short, bright red hair in obvious exasperation. ‘At least find yourself some decent work boots like mine. Or get in a pro.’ She looked from Amy’s two-inch-heeled ankle boots to Harvey. ‘Why don’t you just tear this thing down and put a toilet inside like a normal person?’
Amy drew herself up to her full five feet and one inch. ‘You and Scott are just as bad as each other. He was having a go this morning too. What did I tell you about hurting Harvey’s feelings?’
‘Settle, petal. I take it back.’ Jo lifted up her hands in feigned surrender. ‘You want me to put the ladder away?’
‘Yes please,’ Amy said pertly. She walked across the courtyard and opened the kitchen door, pulling off her boots and sliding her feet into the slippers waiting just inside. She took the time to untie her apron and hang it on the back door. The heavy screwdrivers and various other tools in its pockets made a satisfying
thunk
as they bumped against the wood.
While Jo stopped at the back door to unlace her old beaten steel-capped boots, Amy began heating milk on the stove, breaking in chunks of Lindt chocolate and adding honey, a cinnamon stick and a tiny pinch of salt for flavour.
Jo was silent as she wandered into the kitchen and took a seat at the table, stretching out her Levi-covered legs in a pose that echoed Scott’s from earlier. She began idly playing with the pages of a French cookbook Amy had left on the table.
Normally Amy would be chattering away happily, but she knew her sister wouldn’t be visiting today if Scott hadn’t squealed. So instead of talking, she settled for stirring the hot chocolate into a satisfyingly rich brown sludge, and braced herself.
‘Want to tell me what’s got you so upset that you cried buckets last night?’ Jo asked eventually.
Amy stifled a sigh and finished pouring her luxuriously thick brew into Jo’s special blue and white striped mug before filling up her own. ‘I knew I should have poisoned Scott’s coffee this morning.’ She placed both drinks on a bamboo tray, added two generous slices of just-iced chocolate cake, then made herself comfortable at the table.
Jo laughed softly, accepting her hot chocolate, running it under her nose and sniffing appreciatively. ‘Ta. Wouldn’t have worked. One look at you and I knew you were feeling flat.’
Amy frowned.
‘You only wear those old jeans when you’re pissed off or have PMS.’ Jo shrugged. ‘The rest of the outfit gave you away too.’
‘What?’ Amy looked down at her bright yellow hoodie with a smiling Tweety Bird on the front. ‘How?’
‘It doesn’t go with your lippy or nail polish. It’s a sad, sad day when Amy Blaine isn’t colour coordinated.’ Jo shook her head with mock gravity, pursing her lips to hold back a smile.
Amy scowled down at her nails, which were painted a bright coral. Damn, Jo was right.
‘I bet you’re wearing black undies too. You only wear those when you’re
really
pissy.’
‘Am not.’ Amy checked all the same, sticking her nose up in the air when Jo was proven correct. ‘Smarty pants.’
Jo chuckled. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. So what’s bugging you?’
‘Nothing. Everything.’
‘Man trouble?’
‘Yeah, or more to the point, lack of man trouble.’ Amy pushed a marshmallow around her hot chocolate before raising her finger to her lips, licking off the icing sugar that clung to it.
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Nope.’ Amy smiled to take the sting out of her rejection. After a truly epic fight nearly a decade before, she and Jo had come to an agreement that her love life was off-limits. ‘You can tell me how the wedding plans are going instead, though.’
Jo smacked a hand over her eyes. ‘Thanks, Ames. Stick the knife in and cut me to the bone, why don’t you? Tell me, why did I agree to get married in the first place?’
‘I dunno. From memory it had something to do with falling for an awesome, lovable lug and having spectacular sex on a regular basis, but what’d I know?’ Amy grinned widely at Jo’s obvious distress. ‘You know it’s not really the drama you’re making it out to be. Stephen’d get married in a shearing shed to make you happy. You’re just upset because you know I’ll insist you wear a frock.’
Jo grimaced. ‘Yeah, you would too. Bitch.’
‘Love you too. Come on, it can’t be that bad.’
Jo averted her eyes. ‘It’s not, but setting up the brewery has taken up all our time the past two years and it’s still gonna be another few before we start making any kind of profit. The thought of arranging a wedding right in the middle of it all is giving me the willies. That, and . . . I dunno . . . it’s awkward, you know? Stephen’s got such a big family and on our side there’s just you and me. Not that I’d want Mum and Dad there in a million years after what they did . . . but it kinda seems a bit sad, eh?’ Jo scuffed her foot across Amy’s floor, scowling at her big toe, poking through a hole in the threadbare sock.
‘What about Scott? He’s our family too.’ Amy reached across the table to put her hand over Jo’s, her heart aching in sympathy. Ever since meeting her fiancé, Stephen, Jo had been happier than Amy had ever seen her. It was awful that their crappy childhood was returning to cause Jo unhappiness now, when things were going so well. In the past few years Jo had gone from strength to strength, quitting her job in the oil industry to set up the brewery with Stephen at his family’s winery.
‘Yeah, but Scott is Stephen’s cousin, so he sort of doesn’t count in this case. Although I’ve been threatening to make him a bridesmaid.’ Jo’s wide mouth curved up in a reluctant, wry smile. ‘He’s pretty enough.’
They shared a mutual grin at the thought of their six-foot-two friend wearing a frock.
‘Pink for preference,’ Amy chuckled.
‘Hell, yeah.’ Jo withdrew her hand and broke off a large chunk of chocolate cake, moaning with pleasure at the first bite. ‘Hmm, Jesus this stuff is good.’
‘I know, I made it.’
‘No ego on you, Ames.’ Jo chuckled. ‘So you gonna get around to telling me about giving an opera singer the brush-off, or do I have to drag it outta ya?’
‘Scott told you that too?’ Amy felt a heated blush creeping up her cheeks.
‘Mmm hmm,’ Jo said, her mouth full of cake.
‘He’s such a tattle tale,’ Amy grumbled. She’d Googled Alex Crane the minute she’d returned home with her hardware supplies earlier and had quickly discovered Scott had been right; Crane was an operatic superstar. Even more embarrassing, he was in Perth for a huge sellout production that was being advertised all over town. How she’d failed to recognise him from the billboards, the flyers and the TV ads was beyond her.
She’d also tried looking up his rude friend but hadn’t been able to remember the man’s last name. It was Ben . . . something. All she knew was that he’d featured in a really unpleasant dream last night.
She’d been back in the bar, but this time she’d been naked and Mr Thug had been sitting across from her, smirking, his ice-green eyes cataloguing every one of her faults before he’d started laughing.
She’d woken up feeling exposed, horribly vulnerable and, above all, confused.
She successfully interacted with men in her barbershop every day of the week. Despite her past negative experiences with her alcoholic father and a bevy of ex-boyfriends, Amy rarely had a problem talking or relating to men and frequently felt more comfortable in their company than she did around women, in professional situations at least. It didn’t make sense that five seconds around this particular man had left her feeling like an overexposed piece of film. This morning she’d brushed the feeling off as the effect of too much wine, but that didn’t stop her feeling anxious about him actually turning up on Monday morning.
‘This is where you tell me what happened instead of staring into space.’ Jo poked her gently with a finger.
‘Do I have to?’
‘Yep, or I’ll sit on you and force you to. Tell you what though, how about I let you rip the hair off my legs while you do it? Come on, that way you can make me scream if I laugh. Remember last time?’
Amy chuckled despite herself, pushing the memory of taunting green eyes and nine o’clock appointments firmly out of her mind. ‘Old Mrs Korrigan next door called the cops last time, thinking someone was attacking me. Yeah, alright, it’s a deal. I haven’t been sadistic in a while. I’ll heat up the wax. Want your bite stick?’
‘Hell, yes.’
Ben’s ring tone assaulted his ears with all the force of an air raid siren. Clearly someone in his acquaintance had lost all sense of civility and had taken up torture for a hobby.
He snatched the phone off his bedside. ‘What?’
‘It’s me,’ Alex announced as if it were inconceivable that Ben could think it was anyone else.
‘I gathered that. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ He rolled over, pried his eyes open and peered blearily at the obnoxious red glow coming from his alarm clock. ‘At eight a.m.
Eight a.m.,
Alex. I didn’t get to bed until four. Neither did you. What fit of insanity inspired you to wake me up at eight?’