by Loretta Hill
He watched the pulse at the base of her throat as he went about his work, knowing it wouldn’t be long now before she cracked under his gaze and spoke.
Silence, he had discovered, was a very powerful device. It thickened the air with meaning.
Most men made the mistake of talking too much. They gave women compliments, asked them questions that were too forward. Or worse, tried to touch them.
They made it easy for a female to turn them down.
But how could a woman dismiss a man who hadn’t said anything at all?
He continued to shake her cocktail, even though further mixing was quite unnecessary, enjoying the flittering emotions crossing her face. Chagrin, annoyance, humour – she was an open book.
He liked that.
‘Just so you know,’ she looked up, ‘I saw you trying to pick up two women earlier today and I’m not interested.’
He grinned. ‘Just so you know, I’ve forgotten them already.’
She laughed, a lovely melodic sound, almost like a wind chime. ‘You’re good,’ she acknowledged. ‘But I’m still not interested.’
He inclined his head. ‘I’m disappointed.’
‘Don’t be.’ She smiled sweetly at him. ‘It’s not that you aren’t good-looking, because you are.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s just that I’m not your type.’
He was so used to being in charge of encounters that for a second her lack of subtlety threw him. ‘How could you know that?’
‘Well,’ she rested both arms on the bar and said in the dreamy manner of Alice arriving in Wonderland, ‘this is the year I’ve decided to fall in love.’
Whoa. Dodged a bullet there!
‘Congratulations.’ He hastily poured her cocktail into a tall glass. ‘That’ll be eleven dollars, please.’
‘Wow. That scared, are you?’
‘I’m shaking in my boots.’
‘I better just get your money then.’ She grinned and lifted her handbag onto the counter. ‘Sorry, my purse is right at the bottom. Just give me a sec.’
He watched with fascination, and a little derision, as she proceeded to empty out the contents of her bag. ‘I just came from work,’ she said by way of explanation, ‘so I’ve got my big handbag with me.’
‘Er, right.’
Out came at least three varieties of shiny pink lip-gloss, an iPhone with a floral cover, hand sanitiser, packets of tissues, gum, a small silver jewellery box, car keys, an empty lunch box … was that a hair brush?
Before he could say, ‘Where’s the kitchen sink?’ she finally produced her purse.
‘Found it!’ She smiled.
‘I’m relieved.’
When she opened her purse, he saw a multitude of shopping reward cards in all the slots, the name Sarah Dubert on every single one of them. High maintenance, definitely.
She held out the money to him. ‘Thanks.’
‘Enjoy your drink,’ he said and made a quick exit. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a stack of other customers to serve. The Blue Saloon was packed. He couldn’t help but congratulate himself on the success of his investment. This was definitely the best decision he’d made in a long time. He’d always been a night owl. He loved the way the world changed at night and enjoyed watching its transition. But when he’d lost his wife, Amanda, eight years ago, working in bars had become his lifeline. At night you could pretend you were somebody else. Forget all the crap in your life and just focus on being in the moment. It was like attending a party every evening without the hangover in the morning.
It was also the perfect occupation for a single dad.
His daughter Chloe had been just five when Amanda died. He’d subsequently lost his job in a nine-to-five bureaucratic government department due to the trauma of it all, and had finally found work, a year later, in a small pub in South Perth. When Chloe went to bed, Owen’s mum came round to babysit. He’d start his shift at eight pm and work to the wee hours. But he would get home before Chloe woke up, so he could make her breakfast and then take her to school. Once that was done, he was free to sleep the day away until the routine started all over again.
He’d loved the job and the buzzy pub environment from the get-go and had immediately formed ambitions to buy his own place one day.
That was eight years ago.
Now things were a little different.
He’d definitely realised his ambition but now Chloe was thirteen. She went to bed at ten pm and often suggested coming to work with him.
Like hell.
The last place he wanted his curious, rebellious teenager was in the back room of a bar full of booze. With Amanda gone, he’d long since mentally reverted to that time before he met her, and had become the player he’d originally been. He didn’t want his daughter seeing him in action. Especially given that this time, he had no ambition to settle down.
Living in the past was certainly proving to become more and more difficult. Things at home seemed to be changing at a rate faster than he was happy with. Chloe had hit that age when she would probably benefit from having a female other than her grandmother to talk to. Certainly someone who would have dealt with this afternoon’s announcement better than him.
‘Dad, I think I need a bra.’
He was shocked. What? His baby! His angel! In a bra! What was the world coming to?
She was too young, too innocent to be draping herself in lingerie. So he’d responded a little sternly, ‘Isn’t that a bit premature?’
‘Dad, I’m thirteen. I have boobs.’
‘No you don’t.’ But even as he said it, he realised he never looked at her chest, so how would he know?
‘Yes I do. You need to take me shopping.’
There was no way he was taking his daughter shopping for a bra. He was a brave man. But not that brave.
Normally, he would have run straight to his mother when faced with a dilemma like this. His mum who had saved him from going completely over the edge after Amanda died. If she hadn’t intervened and given him the talking to of his life, he probably wouldn’t have remembered that he had a daughter to raise – a beautiful but heavily dependent child who needed him more than ever. His mum had given him purpose in those early days, though it had taken many years before he could truly enjoy life again and appreciate all that he had.
Now his mother was on a long overdue holiday in Europe with one of her girlfriends. She would be gone for two months. It had long been a dream of hers, which she had put on hold for him. He certainly didn’t begrudge her it after all the time she had already given to him and Chloe.
His daughter was old enough now to be alone in the house while he was at the pub, and since he owned the place he was able to work less hours and focus more on the managerial aspects of the job. Most of which he could do during the day while Chloe was at school.
‘Dad, you will take me, won’t you?’ Chloe demanded at his seeming lack of attention.
He’d scratched the back of his head. ‘Are you sure you need one right now? I mean, couldn’t you wait a few more weeks till Grandma gets back?’
Chloe’s eyes widened in horror. ‘I can’t wait that long! Do you know how embarrassing it is getting changed for sport at school? All the other girls have bras, even the ones who are smaller than me! They all laugh when they see my Mickey Mouse singlets.’
‘Who doesn’t like Mickey Mouse?’
‘Dad!’
He rubbed his temples this time.
‘Dad, you need to take me shopping for a bra this week.’
‘I don’t think I’m the right person to take you.’
To his relief, Chloe seemed to get this. ‘No, you’re right. I don’t want to go with you either.’
‘Good, glad we got that settled.’ He nodded, shoving his wallet into his back pocket as he prepared to set off to work. ‘So we’ll wait for Grandma then.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘No, I meant couldn’t you ask one of your female friends to go with me?’
‘What do you mean?’ He tensed.
‘You know,’ she groaned, ‘a female friend. You do have one of those, don’t you?’
The thing was … not so much.
He had flings and affairs. But friendships he tended to steer clear of. Most of his liaisons never lasted that long – a handful of meetings at the most. The truth was he enjoyed the chase more than the relationship and, after closing the deal, rapidly became bored and moved on. Because of this, he had more female enemies than anything else. Not that he blamed them. He was perfectly aware that the women he slept with deserved better. When he compared them to Amanda, he realised that many of them were quite similar to how she’d been when they’d first met. Young, happy and beautiful with a score of ambitions they were dying to tackle. That’s why sticking around was just too high a risk.
His problem was that he liked women. How could he not? He was as red-blooded as the next man. He just wasn’t Mr Commitment.
Or Mr Reliable.
Or even Mr Respond-To-Voicemail.
Not anymore.
Amanda had certainly cured him of that.
He had to put his daughter’s needs first. Keep her environment stable. He didn’t want to bring anyone else into their family when they could potentially leave. Chloe had already suffered through that hurt once.
And so had he.
No, he couldn’t risk going back there again. Chloe was the one permanent female in his life and he planned to keep it that way. So he never brought his women home. As far as Chloe was concerned, her dad was single and celibate.
Although, since his mum had been out of town, celibacy had actually become a necessity. Without her as back up, he had to make sure he came home every night on time, without fail. Strangely, he didn’t miss the shenanigans much. He was beginning to realise that there was something quite empty about being the man who always left.
Now he needed a woman again, though not for the usual reasons. But who could he ask? He did have two women who worked for him, Tracey and Joanna.
Joanna was a good waitress, but she was also a committed environmentalist, vegan and women’s lib activist. From the way her breasts seemed to sit somewhere just above her waist, he got the impression that she had even less experience buying bras than he did.
As for Tracey … Unfortunately he’d slept with her a few times. While she didn’t seem to hold it against him, he certainly didn’t want her interacting with his daughter. What if she said something? Ruined his perfect image with Chloe? Besides, Tracey didn’t even know he had a daughter.
Nobody did.
It had always been his policy to keep work, pleasure and family completely separate. When he was home, he was a strict, loving father with morals to rival a nun. When he was at work, he could be whoever he liked.
‘Er, excuse me, Owen.’ He looked up to find that one of his bar staff, a university student called Trevor, was trying to get his attention.
‘Sorry.’ He turned fully towards him. ‘What did you say?’
‘I found this on the other end of the bar.’ Trevor held up a small silver jewellery box, which he passed to Owen. ‘Belongs to a Sarah Dubert? That’s the name engraved on the lid.’
He instantly remembered the shopaholic romantic who had turned him down before he’d even hit on her. She must have accidently left it on the bar when she re-packed her handbag.
‘Actually, I think I know who that is.’
Trevor smirked as if sharing some private joke. ‘I thought you might. Maybe you can give it to her when you see her next.’
Before he could correct the misunderstanding, the waiter had turned to serve another customer.
Do I really hit on that many women?
Maybe he should start cutting back.
Nah.
He scanned the room but could not see Sarah Dubert anywhere. Perhaps she’d left already. Unless she was a regular, he was unlikely ever to see her again. Which was a shame for her, given this expensive-looking trinket. Maybe she’d come back for it. He should keep it under the bar.
He glanced down at the small, ornately embellished rectangular box that only just fit in one hand. His finger brushed over the name engraved in the lid in a decorative font.
What was in this thing anyway?
Something valuable?
Something she wanted to keep safe?
Certainly something so precious she carried it everywhere in this lavish, silver-plated crust.
A lucky talisman for her life?
Having now built up its contents in his head, he couldn’t resist a peek.
Deftly, he flicked the lid open with this thumb … and burst out laughing.
Women.
Chapter 3
Week 1, Day 2: Initialisation
Friday was going to be a big day at the office. Sarah had a meeting with Mr Penwick about the ball and wanted to be fully prepared for it. She didn’t know if it was just with her, but Mr Penwick had been crankier than usual lately. It could, of course, be old age. He was sixty-seven and should have retired two years ago but he had one of those annoying personalities that just couldn’t let go.
Given he had founded the mining company in his early thirties, she could see why he was so attached to it. But still. Wasn’t he tired? She certainly was.
Last night, after The Blue Saloon, she’d sat up in bed till midnight with her laptop on her knees, drafting a press release. She wanted to run that by Mr Penwick too, if they had time.
This morning she’d got up groggy but early, yet still managed to be forty minutes late for work. Because of a train strike, she’d been forced to drive into town along with a million other commuters, one of whom had an accident and completely bottlenecked the freeway.
Wasn’t that always the way?
She arrived at the base of the thirty-storey building known as Penwick Tower in the heart of Perth city at 9.40 and frantically stepped into the lift. It seemed to take forever as it chortled to the top, stopping maddeningly at almost every floor.
Come on.
She glanced nervously at her watch as she tapped her feet. She was forty minutes late for work but now also ten minutes late for her meeting with Mr Penwick.
What a disaster.
The doors burst open at her level, the twenty-eighth floor. She practically shot from the lift, skidding on her heels to make the turn past reception and through the guts of the office towards Mr Penwick’s throne room. She saw Lucy Mavis standing by her desk, watching her over the cubicle walls as she scurried past, her handbag flying behind her. A smug smile twisted Lucy’s lips.
Lucy was the other half of the Penwick Pty Ltd public relations team. Technically, they were supposed to work together but they rarely did, for one simple reason.
Lucy was a bitch.
And a highly competitive one.
Discussing anything with Mr Penwick while she was in the room was like trying to keep your skirt down in high winds. The woman was always on the lookout for ways to make Sarah appear incompetent. She seemed to think that her success was measured by Sarah’s failings and was keen to point these out to Mr Penwick whenever she got the chance. At least today Lucy wasn’t invited to the meeting. The ball was Sarah’s baby and thankfully she could keep Lucy out of it.
Fighting for breath, she arrived at Mr Penwick’s office, the grandest on this floor with its Swan River views and big black desk. She paused on the threshold to compose herself, glancing in at Mr Penwick’s high-backed leather chair, which was currently facing the window. He must have sensed her presence, because the chair slowly revolved, revealing its occupant like a clip from a bad movie. His ample chin was buried in the collar of his shirt as he perused the papers she had given him yesterday. He did not look happy.
Uh-oh.
He glanced up, the frown on his face deepening.
‘Sorry I’m late, Mr Penwick. There was a train strike and a car accident and the elevator just kept –’
‘Never mind about that,’ he said brusquely. ‘Ju
st come in and shut the door, will you? I need you to explain something to me.’
‘Of course, sir.’ She nodded, relieved to be heading straight to business. That, at least, she could handle. She took a seat on the other side of his desk and he tossed one of the pieces of paper across to her.
‘Why is there an empty seat at my table?’
She picked up the paper and immediately ascertained that it was the seating plan for the charity ball.
‘It’s a full-house event,’ Mr Penwick stated crossly. ‘Ten people to a table and yet my table, the most important table in the room, only has nine people on it.’
‘Er. Yes, sir. Sorry about that, sir. That was a change that occurred very recently.’
‘Why? I don’t want a spare seat at my table. It makes me look unpopular.’
‘You see, sir,’ Sarah tried to explain the problem succinctly, ‘Simon is getting a divorce.’
Mr Penwick blinked. ‘And how is my vice-president’s personal life my problem?’
‘He will no longer be bringing his wife to the event, sir. That’s why the spare seat appeared.’
‘Well, that doesn’t suit me.’ Mr Penwick sat back in his chair, his cheeks growing faintly pinker. Sarah knew this look. Stubbornness was setting in.
She cleared her throat and hoped that the calm, rational tone she injected into her voice would allay his agitation. ‘Unfortunately, sir, I can’t really force Simon to bring along his estranged wife.’
Mr Penwick snorted. ‘I can’t have a vacant seat at my table either. Do you know how important this dinner is, Sarah? Do you?’
‘Of course, Mr Penwick. Raising money for cancer is an extremely worthy cause.’
‘Cancer my arse,’ Mr Penwick spat and threw the rest of her papers onto his desk. ‘Do you honestly think I’m just doing this for charity?’
She didn’t. But if there was one thing a degree in public relations had taught her it was, if you’re unsure of the most diplomatic response say nothing.
‘The truth is,’ Mr Penwick continued sheepishly, ‘I’m trying to cultivate a business relationship with Andrew Whenam.’
