by Bree Darcy
Andy’s laughter rippled down the line.
“I suppose if you did go to all the trouble of flying out here, I could spare an hour or two to take you to a fast-food joint or something,” I said. “Or we could catch a show, I know how much you adore musical theatre.”
“Puh-lease. I still haven’t figured out what that Cats show was about. And I shouldn’t have to remind you, I’m turning the big four-o so it needs to be something extravagant. Pack a bag, you might be away for a few days.”
“There’s no way I’m going anywhere with you. You can forget that. So it’s dinner or nothing.”
“Fine,” he sulked. “But you’re paying. And I want oysters. A steak as big as my head. Krug champagne. And a red velvet birthday cake shaped like a guitar.”
“Anything else, your royal rockness?”
“Yeah, just for a personal fantasy of mine, it would be great if you didn’t wear any panties under-”
“I’m going. Bye.”
* * *
After coercing Ryan and his friends in from the pool to haul down some boxes from the attic, I settled in to sort my way through all our forgotten treasures and dusty nostalgia. Delia’s housekeeper, Beryl, was coming over tomorrow to get the house sparkling for our first open house so I needed to clear all this junk today.
From the kids’ stuff, I culled the collection down to just one box which Delia would store at her place. It was full of precious things I would hate to lose in transit, including Ciara’s christening gown and Ryan’s first shoes encased in bronze, and I was still hopeful we would come back to live in Australia one day.
The next box was full of Curtis’ old student stuff. We had already shipped it to England and back once – surely it wasn’t necessary to lug it over again. I picked up a bundle of science textbooks – this information would either be outdated or could be found online. But I had better leave it for Curtis to decide. As I tossed the books back into the box, an envelope, addressed to him at his Canberra address, fluttered to the floor. I was about to stuff it back into a book when I realised it was from Felicity. Now many women at this point would return the letter unread, because they would never pry into their partner’s private business. Good on them. I hoped they remembered to shine their halo frequently. But instead I gently eased it out of the envelope.
Dearest Curtis
I know the news of our engagement came as a shock but I never expected you to react like this. What were you thinking - imagine if Ewan found your letter?
I know I told you I’d wait for you to return from Australia. But then things happened with your brother. We never meant to hurt you.
I hope you won’t go through with your threat to boycott the wedding. Imagine how upset your mother will be. Your family has accepted me as Ewan’s future wife and I want you to do the same.
I cannot and will not break off the engagement. I will not marry you instead or move to Sheffield with you. It is crazy even asking me. Ewan offers me the sort of security you can’t. I am ready to settle down – buy a house, start a family. You are still living in student digs.
You have to accept that I am with Ewan now.
You are such a sweet guy and one day you will find a girl who loves you as much as I love your brother. And then I will be happy for you. All I want is for you to be happy for me too.
Felicity
Dinky little love hearts were drawn over the i’s in her name. The postmark was three weeks before our Thailand trip where Curtis proposed. To me. And made me move to Sheffield with him. That son of a bitch.
CHAPTER 13
There’s nothing like latent fury to get you rip-roaring through a cleanout. Things were being tossed left, right and centre. Old cricket set, that could go in the donate pile for Delia’s church fete. Wedding invitations from friends – recycling. Bike parts – straight into the black rubbish bag. Curtis didn’t have a bike to fix anymore – he was still flummoxed how someone managed to break into the garage to steal his beloved racer.
Meanwhile I was flummoxed how I never twigged he’d been begging another woman to marry him, just before he proposed to me.
Scrubbing my hands after carting dried-up paint and mouldy craft projects out to the rubbish bin, I heard the answerphone kick in. It was Curtis. I quickly dried my hands on a teatowel and grabbed the receiver.
“Oh, you are there. Look, I’m filling in more dumb paperwork for the new job. I need my passport number, the date my Australian work visa was issued and my National Insurance number. So I need you to go into my study …”
“I’m busy sorting the attic,” I commented. “Is there anything up there you’re desperate to keep – books, sporting equipment …” Letters from the woman you wished you’d married, perhaps?
“I’d better take a quick look myself,” he replied, oblivious to the Pandora’s box I’d stumbled upon. “Are you in my study yet?” Curtis was his usual impatient self.
“Right, I’m here now.” The door creaked open.
“You need the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet on the right-hand side,” he instructed. “The key is taped underneath the Sheffield Wednesday paperweight, next to the Tour de France mug.”
I sprung the key from its hiding spot and was quickly directed to the correct blue folder and reeled off the information he needed.
“Now lock the filing cabinet and put the key back. Actually leave it on my desk, next to the phone. I’ll hide it again later.”
Because you can’t really trust your wife in her own home.
“Okay, so you’re leaving the study now?”
I slammed the door, then made exaggerated footsteps up the stairs.
“I’ll see you later. Might be home late. I’ll let you know if it’s after ten.”
Throwing the phone on to a side table, I galloped back downstairs to the study, reopened the filing cabinet and felt around inside the drawer. There was a folder hidden at the bottom, underneath all the vertical files. Nice try, Curtis, but that won’t cut it with an investigative professional like myself.
I crouched on the floor flicking through the bulging file. There were printouts of Manchester properties and a thin handbook for new Ames Penta BioMed employees.
From a large yellow envelope, I shook out photocopied enrolment forms for Sidewell and Marybourne schools. They were the same forms Delia had tried to give me, except these ones had been filled out, in Curtis’ handwriting. Stapled to each were receipts for non-refundable enrolment fees. What the hell was going on?
In the next wad of documents, held together with a paperclip, was a letter from Rodgerson’s, saying they were sorry to accept Curtis’ resignation and to find a reference attached. That was obviously their way of helping him save face, by rewriting his departure as a resignation, rather than a redundancy. But hang on a minute, underneath the reference was a copy of a letter from Curtis – one in which he told them he was “regretfully resigning” because he’d accepted a position overseas. And it was dated six weeks after he told me he’d lost his job. I reread it to make sure I hadn’t misinterpreted it.
I flicked back to the APB paperwork. The date on his employment contract showed he had accepted the position a week before he even mentioned it to me.
I spent another half an hour carefully piecing together the extent of my husband’s deception. No wonder he had the place locked up like Fort Knox.
Curtis had lied about being made redundant – presumably to guilt-trip me into giving in on England. All that time I agonised over the decision, he had already signed us up. Then with no consideration of my opinion, or our son’s feelings, he resigned from Rodgerson’s. Instead of them taking pity on him by keeping him on for a few months, like he told me, he was actually serving out his notice.
I also found the shares statement for that doomed anti-anxiety drug – at least he hadn’t made it up about losing our money. But on every other score he was a dirty rotten liar.
As the rage built in my chest, I put everything back in its place. T
hen I composed a grovelling email to my former boss, rang someone with some good news and sent my husband a text. Then I sat down. Too late to back out now. What had I done?
CHAPTER 14
Zara was so thrilled I’d changed my mind about those Perth assignments, she immediately tied up an extra at-home piece with actress Yasmin DeCoots, who had had her first baby with her mining magnate husband. “We’ll have the first official photos of baby Ruby,” she gloated. “Score one for Team Zara.”
My former boss was convinced sharing the editor-in-chief role with Amanda was only temporary – that they were being tested and whoever got the biggest stories would win the title outright.
Zara paused for a second, a glint in her eye. “What we really need is a massive scandal. With a big-name celebrity – the sort of thing that will draw international interest. Something on the scale of the nude pic leaks.”
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled in celebrity central Perth then,” I replied sarcastically, hugging my travel documents to my chest. I had negotiated with Zara to extend the date of my flight back, giving me extra days to catch up with family and friends. Curtis had moaned about my trip at first but when I revealed the amount of money I was being paid as a freelancer he shut up real quick.
He still had no idea what I had discovered snooping in his study. Nikki – the only person I had told – thought it was crazy I hadn’t confronted him but I wanted to discuss it with a clear head. And right now – not even a week later – I was still too furious to even contemplate that.
Zara leafed through Papped magazine, scouring for more story ideas. “Anything happening with your friend AJ Dangerfield? Got himself a hot new girlfriend? Any dirt out of his divorce?”
I shook my head.
“Not that you’d tell me anyway.” Zara exhaled in exasperation. “How about you reconsider doing that tell-all about your childhood sweetheart? I could make it worth your while.” Zara rubbed her thumb and fingers together, indicating a generous financial offer.
Again I shook my head. There really was no sum of money that could compensate for becoming a public spectacle. What Andy and I had was private. Sometimes I fantasised about escaping to a secluded island – just the two of us – away from my reality and Andy’s fame. Actually that gave me a splendid idea …
* * *
I had barely landed in Perth before I found myself unexpectedly back on a smaller plane heading north to Broome, because supermodel Bella London had posted an Instagram photo of her gorgeous honeymoon destination. Within hours, my report about the newlyweds enjoying a sunset camel ride down the white sand of Cable Beach had been beamed around the world. Another score for Team Zara!
Early the next morning, sitting at a beachside bar, palm trees swaying in the breeze, I decided there were worse places I could wake up on my birthday. I had actually been roused at four o’clock because Andy – stuffing up his timezones again – rang to pass on his best wishes. I’d also had an early morning call from Ryan and Ciara, who were staying with their grandparents at Pretty Beach.
With half an hour to kill until the airport shuttle collected me, I scrolled through my Facebook feed, reading all the birthday messages and laughing at the photo of a wrinkly old lady that Nikki had included with hers.
It wasn’t until I was lying on crisp white sheets in my Perth hotel room that night, being lulled to sleep by the hum of the air-conditioning, that I realised I hadn’t heard from Curtis all day.
* * *
Four days later, with my StarReach assignments completed, I was pacing the arrivals lounge at Perth International Airport. When Andy finally wandered out of Customs, he didn’t look like a rock star. Dressed in a baggy grey T-shirt and black jeans, he looked like any other worn-out traveller. His wildly messy brown hair hung over his shirt collar, and his bushy beard was flecked with grey. No one glanced twice at him.
“Where’s my welcome sign?” He flung his rucksack on the floor before embracing me. “And what’s with the hair?” He flicked my blonde shoulder-length bob.
“Careful, it’s a wig,” I whispered. “In case you get papped, I didn’t want anyone recognising me.” Zara’s mission of uncovering a celebrity scandal obviously had me spooked.
“Have you got a disguise for me? I could really rock a pair of Groucho Marx glasses. Or maybe we could drop by your ma’s so I could go the blue hair again.”
I shot him a withering look. “I’m sure your Grizzly Adams look is quite adequate.”
Andy yawned and rolled his shoulders a few times. “Geez, flying economy takes it out of you. Do you know they give you a seat for your bottom but no room for your legs? I was so cramped and I’ve got some of the shortest-ass legs on the planet.”
“Yes, Andrew, I do know what it’s like in economy. That’s how people like me travel all the time.” I dropped my voice again. “Now, let’s get out of here before someone recognises you. Keep your head down, your mouth shut and don’t strut.”
The stifling heat hit us as we headed into the carpark, where a black limo was waiting. It had been a bit of a splurge but I couldn’t be bothered dealing with a chatty taxi driver regaling us with his views on Middle Eastern politics all the way into the city.
Andy looked at me in disbelief. “I thought you said we had to stay under the radar. I flew across the world in the cheap seats because you didn’t want me to stand out and you get us a freakin’ Hummer?”
“Just shut up and get in.” I nodded my thanks at the driver, who was standing to attention by the rear door.
“A friend of Nikki’s owns the company,” I explained entering the pink and purple interior. “It’s a bit more ostentatious than I was expecting … but at least it’s private.”
“I lurve it,” Andy said, sprawling out along the leather seating. “I am especially digging all this leg room.”
The car took off and the floor began pulsating from yellow and green to blue, purple and pink in quick succession. “Woah!” he said, raising his feet into the air. “I’m so gonna speak to someone about getting this done in my bathroom. Imagine waking up for a piss and having the floor change colour under you – no acid required.”
As we pulled on to the highway, Katy Perry’s latest track blaring out of the surround-speakers, Andy grabbed a bottle of champers from the bar and filled two glasses. I felt the tension in my shoulders dissipate. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I said.
“I know, together, at last. Under what name did you book into the hotel – Mr and Mrs Smith?” Andy clinked his champagne glass against mine.
“We’re Mr and Mrs Palmer because I borrowed Nikki’s credit card.”
“Remind me to abuse the mini-bar then.” Andy put down his glass and slid over next to me. “Thanks for this. You know, being with me for my birthday.”
“My pleasure,” I replied. I hoped the strobing lights hid the fact that his proximity had caused a heat to rise through my body to my face.
Andy’s eyes penetrated mine, looking for a sign. My breath caught as his hand slid along my bare arm. He leant in and gently scattered kisses along my jawline. He pulled back again, studying me. With my heart beating in time to the dance music, I reached out to stroke the unfamiliar fuzz on his face. My finger slowly traced my way around his lips, then my own lips took over.
The years melted away amid our hungry kisses. There was no thought of his ex-wife, my husband, our kids as we rolled through the peak-hour traffic.
As we pulled up at the hotel entrance, Andy grinned, straightening my wig. “Now that’s what I call a very warm welcome.”
* * *
“So what does your husband think you’re up to?” Andy ran a finger lazily over the curve of my hip.
I reached for the twisted sheets at the bottom of the bed. “Let’s see. After several days of celebrity stalking, including faking my way into a wedding as the groom’s second cousin, I’m relaxing with Nikki at a spa retreat. Right about now I’d say I’d be melting under the firm hands of a Swedish mas
seuse named Lars.”
“Roll over then. I hev firm hands that vill make you meeelt,” Andy said, mimicking Sigvard’s accent. Balancing lightly on the small of my back, he concentrated on kneading my shoulder blades for a few moments before asking what made me change my mind.
“About?”
“About coming away with me.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I bet it had something to do with your husband. Because you’re not happy moving away?”
I ignored his question.
“You two had an argument?”
“I thought you were supposed to be making me relax, not bombarding me with questions. I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
“He figured out you were in love with another man, an outstandingly good-looking American with firm hands that make you melt? No need to say a word, sweetheart. Just clench your butt cheek once for yes and ...”
I wormed out from under him and gathered up my scattered clothes. “Andy, let’s get this clear right from the start. Talking about my family makes me feel awful. About being here and especially about what we’ve just done. If I have to spend the next few days feeling guilty then … we might as well forget this. I’ll leave. So what I want to do – what we are going to do – is pretend we’re those carefree teenagers from all those years ago. We have no ties, we have no families, we have no reason to feel guilty about being together.”
“That suits me fine, although I must say we have a lot more wrinkles and a lot less pimples this time round. You think I want to be this divorced forty-year-old guy? I’m more than happy to turn back the clock. Anyway when I’m with you, I still feel like that seventeen-year-old who couldn’t believe his luck the gorgeous girl from the tennis club walked home with him. But you have to be willing to talk about the future one day. Because you know why I’m here, right?”
“Because you’re Andy no-mates and have no one else to spend your birthday with.”
“There is that. But I’ve been doing a lot of navel-gazing lately…” My eyes automatically drifted to his navel, and the trail of dark hair leading south. “And I realise I’ve stuffed up heaps over the years. But there’s only one mistake I regret. And that’s letting you go. They say life begins at forty, well my birthday wish is I want my life to begin right now, with you in it.”
