Jo didn’t know if this was the elevator, she hadn’t really been paying attention when she rushed headlong into it this morning. Besides, they were all peas in a pod, shabby and dated like the rest of the building, with tired, fake wood-panelled walls, and a square of mustard carpet inset into the centre of the floor. She turned to look at the space beside her, seeing him there, so tall, she remembered feeling a little intimidated. She glanced up at the ceiling, a grid of flimsy acoustic panels. He knocked one out, so she wouldn’t feel closed in. He was very practical, obviously, the type who takes over in a situation and knows just what to do. Though Jo had spent all her life being self-sufficient, fiercely so, there was something appealing about that.
The doors opened. She had arrived at the ground floor safely, swiftly and uneventfully. As she stepped out, Jo felt a sense of release. It was over. She wasn’t going to see Tall’n’Scruffy ever again. And just as well; in real life, she wouldn’t be able to stand his take-charge attitude. Jo was in charge of her own life. She had not allowed a man to have a say in it for a very long time, and she wasn’t about to start now.
So that was that. It was an interesting little episode, a pleasant interlude of no great significance. She would put it out of her mind and never think of him again.
7:20 pm
‘The best things always happen to you!’ said Angie.
‘They do not.’
‘Do too,’ she insisted, topping up her glass. Jo had fulfilled her earlier promise and bought Angie a drink, in the form of a bottle of sparkling to be shared at her place. Her head had started to clear during the walk home, and she began to feel upbeat. She didn’t want to be alone tonight, she wanted to celebrate her new apartment and her new lease on life, and put today’s little hiccup behind her. So she had called Angie to come over.
‘What good things happen to me?’ Jo wanted to know.
‘Heaps of stuff. You’ve been to the Logies and the AFIs, you’ve interviewed the entire cast of Home and Away, you met Will Ferrell –’
‘At a press conference with a hundred other journalists.’
‘You got to tour the Big Brother house,’ she went on. And on. Angie had been starstruck when Jo did a reluctant stint as entertainment reporter a couple of years back, and she’d never really got over it when Jo had dropped it to work on Business and Finance instead.
‘That’s part of my job, Ange, it’s not like it just happens to me out of the blue for no reason.’
‘This did.’
‘What did?’
‘Being trapped in an elevator,’ said Angie. ‘That’s never happened to me out of the blue.’
‘What’s so great about being trapped in an elevator?’
‘The part about the really cute guy trapped along with you.’
‘I never said he was cute,’ Jo protested. ‘He wasn’t cute. You’d never call this guy cute.’
‘Sorry, I forgot, big and manly and heroic –’
‘Oh, for crying out loud, where are you getting this?’
‘From the way you talked about him.’
‘I didn’t say he was big and manly and heroic. I said he was big and scruffy, and that he turned out to be quite a nice guy. That’s all.’
‘But he was heroic, wasn’t he?’
‘Heroic how? That tag gets bandied about so much it doesn’t mean anything any more,’ said Jo. ‘Footballers are heroic, a movie star who does a stage play is heroic. He didn’t save me from a burning building or a raging sea, he didn’t even save me from an elevator –’
‘He saved you from yourself,’ Angie nodded sagely.
Jo rolled her eyes. ‘Give me that bottle,’ she said, reaching across the coffee table. Angie handed her the bottle of champagne. It was already half empty, Jo realised as she poured some into her glass. Of course Angie would say it was half full. And there was the basic difference between the two of them.
‘What is that tune you keep humming?’ asked Angie.
Jo stopped abruptly. She had been humming on and off since she woke up this afternoon.
‘I think it’s ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’,’ she mused. ‘I don’t know where I heard it but I can’t get it out of my head.’
‘Perhaps it was playing in the elevator?’ Angie suggested.
She shook her head. ‘They don’t pipe music into the elevators in our building.’
‘Maybe he sang it to you to help you calm down?’
Jo looked at her. ‘I think I would have remembered that, Ange.’
‘Well, you can’t seem to remember a whole lot else,’ she said airily. ‘What a bummer you weren’t conscious when he was carrying you through the office. I bet it was like that scene from An Officer And A Gentleman.’
Jo groaned. ‘How was it like that scene? I was unconscious, Angie. If I hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have had to carry me.’
‘It’s still romantic,’ Angie swooned.
Jo crossed her arms in front of her. ‘I’d passed out from the effect of a drug I’d taken to control a panic attack whilst being trapped in an elevator. The total stranger who had the misfortune of finding himself trapped in said elevator with a crazy woman having a panic attack then had to lug me, unconscious, through the offices where I work in front of all my colleagues and deposit me on the couch in my boss’s office. That is not romantic. It’s humiliating and pathetic.’
Angie pulled a face. ‘Why do you always have to do that? Take away all the magic, the fantasy?’
‘Because there is no magic, and fantasy is just that. It’s not real. In fact, I’m beginning to think it’s hormonally induced in women. They concoct fantasies to explain the most mundane of everyday events so they can believe that men are acting with romantic intentions, while in actual fact the dimwits are going about the whole time with nothing much more registering in their brains than the footy score.’
‘Sucks to be you, Jo, if that’s how you look at the world.’
‘Well, it’s better than kidding yourself.’
Angie narrowed her eyes. ‘Is that a dig at me?’
Jo sighed. ‘No, it’s not a dig at you, Ange.’
‘Because I’ll have you know that Rocket-Pastrami and I had a moment today.’
Four years working in a sandwich shop had left Angie with the curious practice of identifying customers according to their choice of filling. Angie had had her eye on Rocket-Pastrami for months now. He was probably a merchant banker, she’d decided, not that she’d know one from a bar of soapless skin cleanser. But he had to be some kind of highly paid executive on account of the dead gorgeous suits and silk ties he wore, and the fact he nearly always paid with a fifty-dollar note, leaving the coin change on the counter as though it was flotsam. Angie had to revise his moniker frequently, because he tended to amend his order every week or so, ‘whenever some gourmet food magazine tells him what he’s supposed to be eating’ Jo had sniped. She didn’t like the sound of Rocket-Pastrami at all; she suspected he was a pretentious snob.
‘And FYI,’ Angie went on, ‘Rocket-Pastrami has changed as of today. He will now be known as Roasted-Goat’s-Cheese-With . . .’ She hesitated, frowning. ‘Hmm, it’s quite a mouthful, I’ll have to abbreviate . . .’
‘You know, it might be easier if you just give him a generic name. Like “wanker”,’ Jo suggested. ‘Then I’d know exactly who you were talking about.’
Angie ignored her. ‘Anyway, he asked me which garnish I’d recommend with his new combination.’ She paused to allow Jo to digest the significance of that.
‘That was your moment?’
Angie was mustering a comeback when the phone started to ring. Jo picked it up and flipped it open. It was Lachlan.
‘This’ll only take a sec,’ she said to Angie. ‘Hi Lachlan, how’s the conference?’
Angie pulled a face and got to her feet.
‘I’m wasting away from tedium,’ Lachlan was saying. ‘You have to rescue me.’
‘How do you expect me to do that?’ said Jo as she watched
Angie saunter off to the bathroom.
‘Hop on a plane and come join me.’
‘Huh?’
‘Come on down to sunny Tasmania,’ he said. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘It’s Thursday, Lach, I can’t just run out on work.’
‘Sure you can. Find something to write about here. Do a column on apples or roadkill or something.’
‘I’ve done my column for the week, I’ve already had a day off moving, and I didn’t get any work done today.’
‘Why not?’
‘I got stuck in an elevator.’
‘You did what?’
‘I got stuck in an elevator,’ Jo repeated.
‘How did you manage that?’
‘It wasn’t my fault, Lach, these things happen you know.’
‘With alarming regularity to you, I’ve noticed.’
‘No way,’ she protested. She was not one of those people. ‘I’m not one of those people.’
‘We both know you are,’ he said. ‘But that’s beside the point.’
‘What point?’
‘The point that I miss you and I want you to fly down here and do dirty things to me all night long.’
‘In your dreams,’ said Jo, ‘because that’s the only place it’s going to happen.’
‘Come on, Jo,’ he whined.
‘Now you’re whining.’
‘Is it helping my case?’
‘Not even a little.’
‘Then what do I have to do to convince you?’
‘Lachlan, I couldn’t get a flight now if I tried,’ said Jo as Angie walked back into the room. She must have heard the last comment because she was pretending to gag.
‘So come tomorrow,’ Lachlan was saying.
‘Lach, I have to go, Angie’s here and I’ve got a ton of stuff to do –’
‘Angie’s there? Good, let me talk to her. She’ll back me up, she loves me.’
It was part of Lachlan’s charm that he was oblivious to what people really thought of him. Angie couldn’t stand him. Oh, she understood the attraction; her distaste was purely on moral grounds. She was very disapproving of the whole extramarital affair business, and while Jo tried to tell her that she knew what she was doing and the arrangement suited her perfectly, Angie chose not to believe her. Lachlan was using her, Angie claimed. No more than I’m using him, Jo countered. You can’t have a future with him, she shot back. I don’t want a future with him, Jo maintained. Angie groaned, ‘Of course you do!’
It was no use trying to explain it to her, because Angie was a Hopeless Romantic. It was like a cult or something. She believed in love and marriage and happily ever after and one person fulfilling your needs for the rest of your life. Jo had long ago discarded such notions. Marriage was not for her. She’d tried it once and it didn’t fit.
‘I’m hanging up now, Lachlan,’ said Jo.
‘Take pity on me, Jo-bloh.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I find you quite pitiful.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Talk to you later.’
Angie was still standing, and now she was rummaging through her handbag.
‘You’re not leaving?’ Jo asked, hanging up the phone. ‘There’s still half a bottle left,’ she added, picking it up. ‘Nearly.’
‘Sorry Jo, I have an audition at eight in the morning. I’m going to have to get up at the crack of dawn to make myself beautiful, which is Mission Impossible at the best of times.’
Angie was bright and round like a bubble. Everything about her was round: her cheeks, her eyes, her belly, her breasts. Even her hair fell in spirals around her shoulders. Jo said she was like a ripe grape. Angie was rather more prosaic – she just said she was fat. It was the bane of her life. She could barely find a bad word to say about anyone because she kept them all for herself.
‘Anyway, it’s ten-thirty, aren’t you feeling tired yet?’ asked Angie. ‘With everything you’ve been through in the last few days, I would have thought you’d be dead on your feet by now.’
‘I was comatose the whole day, don’t forget,’ Jo said. ‘I’m wired. I couldn’t sleep now if I tried. I’m going to have to tire myself out by pulling this place into order.’
But it didn’t work. Jo packed away all the kitchen and bathroom gear, and most of her clothes, shoes, underwear. She stacked her books, CDs and DVDs onto shelves and set up her desk. There were still more boxes but now they were lined up against the wall, out of the way. The living room was neat, though a little bare. She had ornaments and whatnot packed away somewhere, as well as pictures to hang, but she didn’t think her neighbours would appreciate hammering at two in the morning.
Yes, it was two in the morning and Jo didn’t feel tired. Not a bit. She took a long hot shower and, though she felt more relaxed, she still didn’t feel sleepy. When it was going on 3 am, Jo made herself go to bed. But as soon as she was lying there in the darkness, elevator man loomed into her thoughts. She’d kept him at bay all night as she bustled about, whistling, singing to herself . . . though she finally had to put on a CD to drown out ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’ which had been playing on a continuous loop inside her head the whole time. Now there was nothing to distract her, and her brain was working overtime, processing the day, piecing together what she could remember till she had passed out in the elevator. She could see herself lying on the floor. She could hear his voice close to her ear. Princess. She felt his fingers trace a line down her arm, pausing at her wrist. And then his lips on her shoulder, moving up to her neck. She opened her eyes and he was above her and his mouth came down on hers. She wanted to protest but she couldn’t. And then she didn’t want to. She could feel his hands reaching up under her skirt, his fingers hooking over the top of her pantyhose, pulling them down with a rough urgency, sending a jolt through her body. And then he was inside her, and somehow at the same time Jo could feel his lips, his tongue all over her . . . she was breathing hard, her heart pounding, throbbing . . .
Jo lurched up in bed, panting, her head damp with perspiration. Shit. Shit! He had sex with her? While she was out to it? Surely not. But it was so vivid. She could feel him, feel his skin against hers, his lips, his tongue . . . Stop!
She took a few deep, slow breaths, willing her heart to stop racing. She flopped backwards on the pillow. What the hell? He couldn’t have had sex with her . . . no way. She would know, she would know for sure. Unless that drug was something like Rohypnol, which wiped your memory, she’d heard. No, she did have some memory of the events, snatches of conversation, or did she? Jo couldn’t trust her memories any more, she wasn’t sure what was real and what was a dream. But her clothes had been intact when she woke, there were no signs to suggest anything untoward. Jo breathed out heavily. This was ridiculous, she was being paranoid. She was just imagining things.
Why would she do that? Why would she imagine – dream – about having sex with a total stranger? It wasn’t all that odd, she supposed, it was the premise of just about every cheap porn film. Eew, she was having erotic dreams about this man? How desperate was she? She didn’t feel desperate. She got enough sex from Lachlan, she was quite satisfied in that department.
That was it! Lachlan had talked about having sex when he called. Her brain was simply processing the events of the day and got them muddled. The relief she felt was overwhelming. Clearly the dream was nothing more than the purging of her subconscious after a very strange and unusual day. Jo turned over onto her side and closed her eyes. Now she could get some sleep.
Morning
Jo woke up with a start. She reached over to her bedside table for her phone, but she couldn’t feel it. She sat up, rubbing her eyes as she swung her legs off the bed. The phone was definitely not on the table. She slipped down onto the floor and felt under the bed and around the carpet. What the hell? It couldn’t just evaporate. She knelt up, sliding her hands and arms under the covers and sweeping them across the mattress. She reached further up under the second pillow and finally her hand connect
ed with the slim casing. She drew it out and flipped it open, peering at the time.
Oh, no! Not again! How could this happen? She must have turned the alarm off in her sleep. She couldn’t even remember doing it. Bugger it! She was going to be late again. Leo would have her head on a stick.
Half an hour later, she was literally running along the footpath to work. She was even less organised than yesterday. At least she’d had an outfit ready then. But she’d had no time to iron anything, her hair was flying behind her, she hadn’t even managed lipstick. As she dashed inside the building, she did have a momentary pause at the elevators, wondering if she oughtn’t take the stairs after all. But she doubted she could manage nineteen floors in her present state of fluster. In any state, for that matter. An elevator arrived and she jumped in, pressing the button for her floor furiously, despite knowing it didn’t make things work any faster. Images from yesterday flitted across her brain but they were already starting to break up, like the fragments of a slightly disturbing dream. And not a moment too soon.
But then the sex scene landed with a thud. Jo shook her head to disperse it. It was just a dream, the construct of an addled brain, that was all. She arrived at her floor and bolted out of the elevator like a horse out of a starting gate.
‘The meeting’s already begun, Leo said you should go straight to the conference room . . .’ The receptionist’s voice trailed behind her as she sped up the corridor. Jo could never remember the name of the receptionist, they seemed to change every three months or so. It was something that started with an E or L – Elizabeth, Emily, Emma, or Laura, Louise, Liz . . . She stopped outside the door for a count of three, as she smoothed her wild hair, straightened her jacket and took one deep breath. She placed her hand on the doorknob and turned.
Crossing Paths Page 8
