‘
Fuck.
’ The profanity echoed along the empty street as he looked through the windows, the sharp tang of fresh paint stinging his nostrils. Nothing looked damaged inside and there was no police tape to indicate anything more serious had occurred but he couldn’t think past the panic. His gut hurt where she’d punched him and his chest ached as if he were about to have a heart attack.
He knew she was alright. This had to have happened before she’d come to see him but the fact she hadn’t told him about this just emphasised how much he’d obviously fucked up.
If he could only talk to her, he’d be able to find out what had happened. He’d be able to make it alright. Words were his forté and without them he was lost. He just needed to get her alone so they could talk.
He climbed back in his car, sparing another look at the black marks on the pavement before returning home, sending yet another text message asking her to call him. Afterwards, he paced the length of his kitchen, trying to work out what could have upset her so much. Obviously he’d stepped over the line at some stage, although he had no idea where or when.
He knew his brand of comedy could easily be taken the wrong way if read out of context, but he couldn’t believe anything he could have written would warrant the devastation he’d seen in Amy’s expression. Or the anger. She had actually sworn at him, had even called him
scum,
which was somehow so much worse than the profanity. He felt the impact of her words all over again like a wrecking ball.
Finally, when he couldn’t come up with any answers, he retreated to his study and pulled up all the copy he’d filed with the
Enquirer
over the past few months.
It didn’t take him more than a few sentences to realise just how much he’d fucked up. Line after line, his words jumped off the screen, words he’d thought were so amusing, that he’d arrogantly believed Amy would find amusing too once he got around to showing them to her. They really didn’t seem funny now. In fact, Alex was right. They were nasty, even downright cruel in places. Oh, they were funny in an abstract sense, and he could certainly see why Ross had said his reading public had fallen in love with Amy and loved to despise him, but they also, undeniably, set Amy up as Babyface, a character he’d created on the page to fuel his own ego.
He recalled a critical review he’d read of his first sellout show at the Edinburgh Comedy Festival. He’d read the review so many times, he had it memorised.
Ben Martindale’s humour is naughty when it’s mediocre, delightfully cutting at its very best. He has mastered the art of staying your friend while insulting you to your face and you’ll keep coming back for more, paying for the privilege because you know deep down that Martindale’s a lovely chap at heart. You never once think that his jokes could possibly be at your expense. And maybe you laugh all the harder to quieten that little voice that asks, ‘Or could they?’
Ben had revelled in the review, knowing the writer’s description was bang on the money. Over the years he had become so adept at satirising people while simultaneously charming them that he now did it automatically. It was a skill he’d picked up during his early years in boarding school and honed over the years to a fine art. He never
really
hurt his victims’ feelings; they knew the score – they understood what he did for a living and enjoyed being a part of the process. Only, Amy hadn’t known. There was no way she could have anticipated that he would write about her because he’d selfishly kept that information to himself. He knew now that he’d been worried all along she’d ask him to stop.
He began reading the column he’d written about Amy’s home. It wasn’t long before he was cringing with stunned disbelief at how he’d arrogantly reduced something he knew Amy loved and cared for into a pithy little vignette. He moved onto the piece he’d written after the first time he and Amy had slept together and felt his gut drop to the floor.
He had well and truly–unforgivably–fucked up.
He walked downstairs, noticing for the first time he hadn’t turned on the kitchen lights when he’d returned home. The entire bottom floor of his house was dark with the exception of the moonlight filtering in through the windows. His fear of the dark, it seemed, had been completely obliterated by the realisation that it wasn’t the dark he was scared of. It was being left alone.
The next morning Amy did something she’d not done her entire working career: she called Mel and arranged to be away for a week before turning off her phone and booking herself into a beachfront holiday cottage south of the city.
She staunchly refused to notice the twenty-three missed calls and fifteen messages from Ben. She didn’t want to talk to him right now. He was too good with words and she was scared she’d give in and forgive him far too easily. Instead, she bundled Gerald into her car, threw in a minimum of clothing, and set off for the country.
She pulled up at the rear of a small weatherboard cottage three hours later. Climbing stiffly out of the car, she took in the panorama of white sand dunes, olive-coloured saltbush and massive waves breaking on the beach a few hundred metres away. There was a strong wind blowing off the ocean, bringing with it the tang of salt water, seaweed and an incoming rain shower.
After letting Gerald roam free, she propped the cottage door open with her suitcase, saw to putting out some food and water for her dog and collapsed on the double bed facing the view, giving in to the emotional exhaustion she hadn’t allowed herself to feel for nearly three days.
When she opened her eyes next, it was dark outside and freezing cold. The sea breeze had transformed into a groaning and howling wind that was presently whipping around the room.
She squinted through the dark with eyes that felt grainy from wearing contacts too long and saw Gerald’s boxy silhouette blocking the entry door. ‘Hey, boy,’ she croaked.
He snuffled in reply and wagged his stub of a tail once, which told her just how much he’d missed her company for the past few hours.
It took her at least another ten minutes to haul herself off the bed, close the door and get some food for herself and the dog. By that time she was exhausted all over again. Sleep was what she needed. Sleep meant she wouldn’t have to think about the fact that the happiness she’d felt over the past three months had been a sham, a joke at her expense. Not even bothering to change into pyjamas, Amy kicked off her shoes and crawled back into bed, passing out.
The next days disappeared in a blur of sleeping, waking up to walk Gerald along the beach, answering the call of nature, eating then sleeping again. She was just
so tired
. It was as if she hadn’t slept for a lifetime. Every time she tried to think about what had happened, sort it out in her mind, she felt exhausted all over again. She finally turned on her phone on Saturday and was shocked at how much time had passed–almost a whole week gone already. She had only one more day left before she had to return home and she’d barely gotten out of bed.
This couldn’t go on. She’d gone out with Ben for less than three months. The thought of him brought a familiar pang to her gut but instead of burying her head under the covers, she climbed out of bed, straightened her shoulders and injected some steel into her spine.
So what if her now ex-boyfriend had exposed an entire newspaper readership to her most intimate fears and worries? So what if he didn’t really care about her? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had people make fun of her before. She’d survived her childhood, she’d survived her parents, she’d survived Liam (along with countless other pathetic ex-boyfriends) and she’d survive Ben Martindale–and have good hair while doing it, dammit.
The last thought deflated her a little when she caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. Her hair was a limp and greasy tangle, her face was puffy from far too much sleep and she had what was hopefully not the permanent imprint of pillow wrinkles on her cheek.
‘I should have known better than to get a bulldog! You could have told me I was beginning to look like you, Gerald.’ She gave her snoozing dog a prod with her toe then looked back at her reflection. ‘Amy Blaine, what were you thinking?’ Her reflection wasn’t forthcoming with answers, so instead she undressed, wincing at how completely hairy and scary she’d become, and climbed into the shower.
Amy was packing to go home when her sister got hold of her.
‘Ames, I don’t want to step on your toes and I know you’re having time out but I think you might want to see this. Can you check your email where you are?’
Amy looked out at the view in front of her, the sea was calm today, a lot calmer than the night before. She took a large gulp of her coffee, feeling it slowly awaken her sluggish senses, alerting her to Jo’s worried tone of voice. ‘What’s this about?’
‘He’s published something else. I didn’t want to tell you but . . . ah . . . fuck it, I
wasn’t
gonna tell you but Stephen thinks it’s up to you how you deal with it and I agreed to back off.’
Amy squeezed her eyes shut. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? ‘What is it?’
‘An apology. Kind of. You might want to look at it.’
‘Alright.’ She wouldn’t let herself hope. Not yet. ‘Send it through.’
‘Yeah. Alright. You sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah.’
Later that afternoon Amy stopped at a roadside café and checked her email, following the link to Ben’s
London Enquirer
column. A fragile bubble of hope expanded in her chest when she saw the heading, ‘Forgive Me, I’ve Sinned.’
She read on. The words jumping off the page were so obviously Ben’s she could almost hear him.
Anyone who’s read me would well know that I’m not a man who apologises lightly. In fact, I say this with a heavy heart. I owe the delectable subject of my most recent entries into this esteemed paper an apology. A grovel if you will. I had no intention of hurting her feelings, making the erroneous assumption that she’d understand, as you do, dear reader, that I’m a complete bastard but a soft-hearted one at that. In the months I’ve known my little blonde barber she has brought light to my life like no other . . .
The bubble popped within seconds. Glib, funny, contrite and so, so horrible. This was an apology, yes, but it was also a performance. It was meant for everyone but her and it wasn’t what she needed.
Three words. If he’d just said he’d loved her, then she might think about this differently, but they were conspicuously absent.
She’d laid herself completely on the line for him, heart on the table, and he was incapable of understanding that, for her to truly forgive him, he had to lay himself just as bare. She’d given him her love. That’s what she’d needed in return. And no matter what Ben thought, this wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.
‘Colin. I don’t care. Tell them that if they don’t like the script they can fuck themselves with their own towering incompetence and get someone else in,’ Ben snarled into his phone, glowering at the other patrons of the open-air beachfront coffee shop he was currently bunkered down in.
‘I don’t think that’s going to work, Ben,’ Colin replied in a painstakingly calm tone.
‘Well fucking
make
it work.’ Ben hung up, grimacing at his own hideous behaviour. He made a mental note to apologise and give Colin a week-long five-star holiday somewhere nice for putting up with him. He’d earned it.
He swore under his breath and lit up a cigarette, abruptly putting it out again. He settled for glaring at the few intrepid surfers braving the spring temperatures and frigid water.
His public apology to Amy in last week’s column hadn’t worked. Despite the fact he’d published a completely mortifying, soul-baring piece of sentimentality, Ben hadn’t heard a thing from her. He’d left voicemails, emails and text messages. He’d dropped by her house and her salon numerous times only to be put off by a pitbull-stubborn employee who wouldn’t let him through the door.
He was lost and out of ideas. His column had been his best effort and it had been published six days ago. He didn’t even know if she’d read it, despite the fact he’d slipped a copy under her front door like a pathetic stalker.
He’d wanted to do more but he’d had to make an emergency trip back to London for a meeting with Bright Star. The trip had turned into a nightmare that made the furore over Marcella look like child’s play. The tabloids had been having a field day speculating over the identity of Babyface and wanted the story. Luckily he’d managed to elude their vermin by doing all his business in the early mornings, shocking his acquaintances one and all, before departing back to Australia.
So here he was now, having reached rock bottom and having no option but to acknowledge he couldn’t get Amy back on his own. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed help.
‘Martindale.’ A deep, unfriendly voice pulled him out of his brooding and he looked up to see Scott Watanabe standing by his table accompanied by a striking red-haired Amazon wearing blue jeans, a black T-shirt and scuffed, no-nonsense boots.
Watanabe was doing his best impersonation of a modern-day samurai in frayed jeans and a long-sleeved black linen shirt; the woman just looked pissed off and out for blood.
‘Watanabe,’ Ben said crisply, removing his sunglasses before turning to the woman. ‘Jo Blaine, I presume.’ He stood up and gestured to the other chairs at his table.
The woman nodded, acknowledging that she’d seen the chairs and would sit when she felt like it. ‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kick your balls through the back of your head,’ she growled in a startlingly husky voice.
Ben internally winced but kept his voice and expression cool. ‘Did you read my column? I sent it to Watanabe here,’ he said as the man in question took the seat across from his, sprawling out with deceptive casualness. ‘I apologised and gutted myself publicly in the process. She won’t call me back, she won’t see me. What more can I do?’
‘After what you wrote, you expect another bit of writing to make it better? A single apology shared with every man and his dog?’ Her eyes narrowed, glaring down at him with the intensity of a blowtorch.