Ardent Strangers

by Samantha Kately

  “No. It’s not.”

  “Please hear me out. You need a place to stay and I’m still rattled about this whole business with Nathaniel. And considering that I’m restricted to discussing matters of Nathaniel and the bridge with anyone other than you, I wouldn’t mind if you stayed around for a while.”

  He lightly bangs his head against the door. “Let me pay rent then. Six-hundred a week.”

  “Six-hundred! That’s insane. One-fifty would be more than enough.”

  “Six-hundred for inconveniencing you. I’d be paying more for a hotel room.”

  I think back to Laura’s insinuation earlier. It’s humiliating to think of let alone say aloud, but I have to. “So we’re clear, I’m not part of the package.”

  Anger flashes across his face.

  I step back.

  “I know that, Evangeline.” He rubs his temple. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

  I look around the room. It seems to have more life than usual. My eyes fall on the man who is now leaning against the counter and I realize that it’s him…filling up the emptiness. “You want the truth?”

  “Please.”

  “It’s not fun coming home to an empty house. It might be nice to have the company for a while.” I smile weakly. “Plus, you’re actually not that bad to have around.”

  He laugh-grunts, then the television snares his attention. In one stride, he’s beside the coffee table and turning up the volume on the remote. Footage of Nathaniel exiting the hospital fills the screen. The reporter ceases talking, the microphone pointed in the billionaire’s direction. And I have to say Nathaniel looks good—fresh, handsome—his golden locks gleaming as he shields his eyes from the glare. Moving through the crowd proves slow. He’s surrounded by four security agents and additional police, who escort him into a car much like the one confiscated from Aaron five minutes ago. The Channel 3 reporter returns, describing the events of which we just saw. There is a rehash of his attempted suicide—that is completely inaccurate—and the moments leading up to it. My heart pounds painfully as I’m mentioned as the mystery rescuer for the umpteenth time today, and how I’d saved him from falling.

  I will forever remain a mystery to them—to him. More troubling, I’m bound to keep this secret forever. The secret seems too big. I’m scared I might crack.

  The reporter holds her earpiece. She smiles and nods. I see other news crews in the background react similarly. “We’ve just received breaking news. Nathaniel Blake has issued a reward to anyone who can locate the identity of his mystery rescuer. He is keen to thank her for coming to his aid.” She holds her earpiece again, then almost giggles. “And it seems the mystery girl has a first name. Evangeline—”

  I can’t breathe. I might be swaying. I grab the nearest armrest and swing myself into the seat, distantly aware that Aaron has shuffled over to the next cushion. I feel his eyes on me, but I am numb, staring at the reporter’s shiny teeth and cropped hair. I miss the next few words—I’m still stuck on the word ‘Evangeline’.

  “Nathaniel is behind this,” I say. “This makes no sense.”

  “He obviously doesn’t know about the contract,” says Aaron. “Laura is playing him.”

  “What? But she’s his lawyer. He trusts her.”

  “Rule one: Never trust Laura Barnes. Nathaniel never seemed to get that message, no matter how many times I told him.”

  “No frickin’ way.”

  I tune back into the report and freeze. “—the reward will be ten-thousand dollars. If anyone knows of a girl in her mid-twenties with long dark hair, Caucasian complexion and a slim build, named Evangeline, please call this hotline… And if you happen to be Evangeline, I recommend calling this hotline. Thankyou. I’m Lyndall Petrovski for Channel 3 news.”

  I slump against the sofa. “Holy crap.”

  “That about sums it up,” Aaron murmurs.

  I’d forgotten he was there. I roll my head against the backrest and stare at him. His hands are steepled beneath his mouth. I can’t bear to look at the television again, in fear of what I might see. But he is staring intently at the screen. His dark eyelashes blink in concentration. With a flick of the remote, he rewinds an ad during the live program, pauses at the end of the Nathaniel report and turns to me with relish. His eyes are alight, and I have to say this is officially the most animated I’ve ever seen him.

  “Watch,” he says, hitting the play button.

  An ad comes on. I realize it’s a promotional spot as the logo pops up: a cream background with a rough black circle and the words Original Star scrolled around the inner circumference. A semi-famous soap star, Dan Groen, appears in a bikie jacket amidst a crowd waving signs for Original Star.

  Dan flicks his sandy locks and speaks into the mic: “Amateur singers and bands of Australia we are looking for you! We don’t want covers. We want original artists with original songs, who have that something extra. You have until midnight tomorrow to get your video demo onto our site. Twelve lucky entrants will be selected via public vote on our website. The other twelve will be selected by our panel of judges. Each week the public will vote off one entrant, as will the judges, and they won’t stop until we have our final two Original Stars. That’s right! Two recording contracts are up for grabs! Voting begins 8 am Wednesday and finishes at 7pm. The finalists’ names will be revealed at 7:30 Wednesday night. There are no pre-recordings here, folks, so enter if you dare.”

  “That’s us,” Aaron says, staring at the screen. “We are going to enter that contest.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?” He turns and stares right through me. I can see it in his eyes, the determination. His mind is already set. “You’re good enough. Hell, I think I’m good enough. What have we got to lose? I’m newly unemployed.”

  “Hey, I have a job!”

  “Where?”

  “I’ve worked there for seven years and I’m not about to desert them. I need that job to live.”

  “Where?”

  “The Chalk and Cheese Café.”

  “Waitress?”

  I sigh. “Yes.”

  “It’s an honest occupation, don’t get me wrong, but do you really believe your destiny involves taking food orders for the rest of your life? You should be doing music.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re highly trained in who knows what military and assassin stuff.” He rolls his eyes, but I continue on, “But me, it’s not that easy to find a job with nice people, which actually pays well.”

  “Believe me, this isn’t easy for me.” He breathes in a hiss. “But I need this.”

  “Um…” Why did he have to say he needs this? Now it’s as if I’m crushing his dream.

  I know that dream.

  My gaze drifts to the small piano sitting between the kitchen counter and the heater. I’d put it there and let the dust settle on the timber. Part of me had hoped that it would warp and go out of tune just to ease my guilt about not playing it anymore. How many times had I pressed down those keys when I was growing up? All of the music exams… The auditions that had earned me a spot in a music program… I’d even gotten myself a part-time job at the café I still work at. My new adult life, I’d thought. Then Mum and Dad had died. I pulled out of my spot. I could barely function, only enough to get food on the table and work at the café, where people rallied around me. That’s all. That dream is gone.

  Then I remember Aaron’s words. He needs this…

  He lost his job.

  Maybe there are other reasons why he needs this.

  Maybe I need this…

  I jump a little at the unexpected brush of his thumb under my jaw. His hazel eyes study me carefully, trying to calculate my response. “I could enter alone, but I think I’d go further with you.”

  “But you haven’t heard me sing, yet. You haven’t heard any of my songs. I might be horrible and no one’s dared to tell me.”

  “I have a feeling you’re not. And if you are horrible, I’ll
certainly tell you.”

  “Ha. Thanks.” I smile a little. “Well, I haven’t heard you sing.”

  He grabs the guitars and hands me one. “Then I think it’s time we play.”

  Chalk and Cheese

  “Table three. One omelette, one side salad, and two soups,” Quinn calls from the kitchen.

  I excuse myself from a table of young mums and dash over to Quinn, knowing he hates his food to be kept waiting. He places the dishes on the top of the pass, where the warming counter divides the kitchen and the thin walkway behind the industrial-sized coffee machine. The décor is as cruisy as the owners Quinn and Penny. Jazz music plays loudly, all in an attempt to drown out Quinn’s death metal singing in the kitchen as he flames a steak.

  I snatch up the meals, deliver them and return with a drinks order. As I froth the milk, laughter sounds from the kitchen as Penny sneaks up on Quinn. He forgets the steak and pulls her in for a kiss, and that’s my cue to look back to the milk jug.

  It’s been three years since I attended their wedding and they were in their late thirties then. You couldn’t meet two people more opposite: Penny with her red bob, khaki trousers and tailored shirt, and Quinn with his piercings, tatts and bleached spike, yet they work. It’s hard to imagine what that kind of happiness would be like after what happened with Jeremy.

  I shudder, picturing Jeremy’s cropped blond hair and personal trainer uniform I’d seen him wear so often. The guy was fit, tall, with a boyish face that could be sweet one moment and venomous the next.

  The way his lip curled when he was angry…

  Penny bumps my hip as she squeezes past me, then sets about positioning her ladder beneath the chalkboard. Climbing the ladder, she begins writing today’s specials on the chalkboard, meticulously checking that each line is horizontal. Satisfied, she peers down at me as if I’m her next task to cross off her list. “You’re in a bit of daydream, aren’t you?”

  “Not quite so much a dream,” I mutter.

  “Please tell me you’re not thinking about him again?”

  “The Tool’s not worth it, Evie,” Quinn adds from the kitchen.

  Penny shakes her head. “Jeremy has no right taking up space in your brain, Eve. I hope you realize that.”

  “Um…” I grit my teeth, wanting to agree. It’s as if Jeremy’s stalking my thoughts, too. “I know. But he pops in there.”

  “If he ever gives you trouble when he gets out, you call me. Alright?” Quinn says.

  “Thanks, but I might not need to. I’ve got myself a housemate.”

  “Yeah? She good at karate or something? ‘Cause Jeremy’s pretty tough in the ring. Never brought me down in a match, but he’s defeated a lot of guys.”

  “My housemate, he’s a security agent. And ex-military, I think. Should be fine.”

  “That’s why you picked him, ‘cause you’re scared of Jeremy coming back?”

  I frown, seeing how that must look, hoping that Aaron doesn’t see it that way when I tell him the Jeremy saga. The thought of telling Aaron makes me queasy. “That wasn’t why. I accidently got him fired and evicted yesterday and I felt a tiny bit responsible.”

  Quinn laughs. “Only you, Eve, could get someone fired and manage to get them to move in with you.”

  Penny blows at the chalk and looks down at me, smiling. “What’s he like?”

  Damn, I think I’m blushing. “You know… What you’d expect from a security guy. Other than the longish hair and tatts. We’re kind of starting a band together.”

  “Wow, that’s awesome,” she says.

  Quinn prods the poor steak. “You should enter that new contest, Original… something.”

  “Original Star,” I say, excited to be telling somebody the news. “And we’re already on it. Aaron and I spent all night practicing our demos.”

  “I’ll expect free tickets and autographs when you make it big,” he says.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” I dust the cappuccinos with chocolate. “You’ll jinx Aaron and me.”

  I rush off to deliver the drinks when Quinn calls, “Table twenty. One Chalky steak burger, one side of wedges, and one bolognaise puree.” When I return to the kitchen he scans the café, his mood souring by the second. “Where’s Tasha gone?”

  I shrug apologetically. Not that I did anything wrong. “Table twenty, did you say?”

  He gives me a nod and tends to a sizzling patty. Loading the dishes along my arms, I wind my way through the tables to number twenty. I place the burger and wedges in front of a guy in his late twenties, then place the puree on the highchair beside him.

  “Give me a sec, will you?” he asks, gesturing for me to wait at the table while he grabs his son from the fenced off play area along the side of the café. The child cries as he’s parted from the plastic cubby house, but once he is seated his eyes light up at the food. He reaches for a wedge, but gets a mouthful of puree instead, courtesy of his dad.

  I pull a paper bib from the pocket in my apron, of which I have about ten stashed away—complimentary with any baby meal. “Disposable bib?” I ask the dad.

  “Thanks…” He looks me up and down, his squinty eyes lingering on my chest, where my abbreviated name is embossed on the black apron. “Eve.”

  “That’s me!” I do my best to smile. As he straightens his tie, I notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring. And he has flirty eyes! This never happens at the mother’s group tables. “So, what’s this cute guy’s name?” I ask, holding the toddler’s hand.

  “Joshua.”

  “Hi, Joshua,” I say in my sweetest voice. The little boy chuckles and throws puree across the table. I pull out my cloth and wipe it clean.

  “I’m Harry.” The dad wipes his greasy burger hands on a napkin before offering to shake mine. I really don’t want to, but I do.

  “Let me know if you need anything.” Damn, that line always sounds like an invitation for my phone number or a date, not just ‘Oh, could I have some more sauce, please?’ No, men like this always take it for something more. As he’s about to speak, I excuse myself and rush to the kitchen to collect the next order. Harry is still watching me, and it gives me the creeps. Not that I can say anything. This is work.

  As I’m loading my arms with plates, Tasha sidles up beside me and collects a bowl of soup. “You swear you’re not that Evangeline they’re talking about in the papers?” She grins.

  “Seriously, how many times do I have to answer this?”

  “Until you admit it, babe.” She knocks my hips and I nearly drop my service.

  “Nothing to admit.”

  “I could be ten grand richer if you’d let me call the hotline, Evie,” she sing-songs, and I dart off through the maze of tables. “You could snatch up a billionaire! And he’s seriously hot. It’s a win-win.”

  “I don’t need a billionaire.” What I need is to forget ever meeting Nathaniel Blake.

  Shaking my head, I place the meals on a table of mums and bubs, positioning my ponytail over my embossed name. These aprons are turning out to be a disaster.

  Tasha leans into my ear, “Please, let me…. Please….”

  “This isn’t Cinderella, you know. There’s no Prince Charming trying a glass slipper on every girl in the kingdom. We’re not living a frickin’ fairy-tale.”

  “Oh, you so are.” She giggles. “You want proof? You even have that super-hot guy in the last booth checking you out.”

  I squint at her, not trusting her judgment. She always does this—at work, at clubs—pointing out guys that would be perfect for me. They’re never perfect.

  “Turn casually, like you’re checking for customers who need service,” she whispers. “You’ll spot him right away.”

  I take the damp cloth from my pocket, as if I’m looking for a table to scrub. I’m partway through turning when I spot him by the corner windows. Laughing, I walk towards a burly Agent Randall. He is perusing the menu. Beneath the table, his legs are stretched and crossed at the ankles. The clean-shaven a
gent is gone, replaced with stubble and no ponytail. His dark hair hangs above his shoulders in stylishly cut layers.

  Okay, for once I’m agreeing with Tasha. The guy is hot.

  Hm. I can’t believe I just thought that about Agent Randall. I mean, Aaron.

  I smile. “Were you bored or did you miss me, Agent Randall?”

  He lowers the menu. “I thought we’d made it past Agent Randall, or do you plan on calling me that even when we’re on tour?”

  “Tour?” I laugh. “We haven’t even made our demo, yet.”

  He shrugs lightly and flicks a stick of sugar. “We’ve still got until midnight.”

  “Midnight deadline, hey? Cinderella had a midnight deadline and turned back into a maid.” I sound incomprehensible. “Did you overhear my talk with Tasha?”

  “Tasha?”

  “Forget it. She’s hoping that I’m some real-life Cinderella.” When he raises his brows, I point out Tasha serving at the register. Her red lips grin back at us, and I become hyper aware of how pretty she is, with her multi-toned blonde ponytail and slinky top that shows off her tiny curves. Suddenly, I regret pointing her out. Agent Randall notices everything.

  Why do I care? Tasha’s engaged. Agent Randall’s a free man.

  “Is something the matter?” he asks.

  I sigh. “You know the hunt for the billionaire’s mysterious Evangeline?”

  He gives a reluctant nod.

  “Tasha wants to tell the hotline it’s me.” I laugh nervously and peer around the café. “This apron has the name Eve on it, Aaron! It’s not hard to guess what it stands for. Almost everyone who’s seen it today has asked me if I’m the mystery girl. I can’t handle much more.”

  “You have no choice but to handle it. You signed the contract.”

  “Stupid contract.” I try to shake off my bad mood, realizing that I still haven’t taken Aaron’s order. I pull out my note pad and pen. “Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

  “I thought one of the other waitresses could do that while we have lunch.”

  “Oh?” We’re having lunch. Again, unexpected.