“You have to wait, Aid,” said Blake.
“I’ll let her know you were both here,” said Chris.
“I only need a minute.” A lie. He needed a lifetime. He deserved nothing.
“See her tomorrow, mate,” said Blake.
“I need to tell her I’m sorry.”
Chris looked confused. His eyes went to Blake. “I thought it was an accident?”
“Yeah, absolutely. He means he’s sorry about the accident.” Blake’s tone showed he knew he shouldn’t have been the one doing the talking.
“Just tell her I’m sorry, Chris.”
Chris said, “Sure, Aiden,” but his expression was muddied. Not that it mattered, the good guys won anyway. The bad guys went back to the office.
The car was a space capsule of peace after the panic. No stereo. A chance to re-group. Blake had other plans. He didn’t wait till they were under the car park boom gate to start in.
“What are you going to do about this?”
“I’m going to send her flowers and apologise. If I hadn’t called her? If I’d just let her get up the stairs.”
“Don’t fuck me off.”
That was Blake’s, ‘I’m driving’ equivalent of a headlock. Aiden should’ve seen it coming, should’ve ducked. This was going to be a brawl. He tucked his chin down to prevent his air being cut off. “What can I do, Blake? She’s better than what I can offer.”
“I’ve heard that argument and it didn’t wash well the first time. You lost it today. You’re going to try and pass off what you feel as business as usual. I’m not buying it.”
To get out of a headlock you had to take your opponent down, or you could simply give up. He sighed, he was too wrung out to fight with Blake. “She’s better off with Chris.”
Blake gripped the wheel. Shot him an angry look. “She’s better off with a bloke who loves her to distraction. This is something I know about.” He thumped his chest. “It’s something you know about. I have it with Olivia, you had it with Shannon, and you have it with Bailey too. And you fucking know it, and you’re fucking her off.”
Another hard look, a sour expression on Blake’s face, a too quick lane change without a blinker, and a horn blasted behind them. Blake’s eyes went to the rear-view and he gave the driver behind them the finger.
“Yeah, yeah I know you’re sitting there wishing I’d shut the fuck up but I’m not going to. I’m driving.” Another jab to his chest. “You’re stuck here and you’re going to fucking listen to me.”
There was eye contact. Blake’s expression was take no prisoners.
“I’ve only ever seen you look like this way once before. Your wedding, waiting on the beach for Shannon. You got this look on your face, like you were going to be sick, and worse, like you didn’t have the strength to go through with it. And me, standing beside you with sand in my shoes, I’m all heart in mouth because I thought you might pull a Phar Lap and bolt. I was thinking about having to tackle you in my wedding clobber.”
Aiden opened his mouth to shut Blake down. Enough, he’d said enough, but Blake got out, “Shut it,” one hand coming up in a flat palm stop gesture. “You were thinking Shannon was too good for you. Too beautiful, too talented, too rich, too brilliant, and here you were a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, with hardly two bucks to pay bridge toll and you were like, no way, this can’t happen. I can’t do it to her.”
“Slow down.”
“What?”
“Take your foot off. You’re going too fast.” Literally. Figuratively, Blake was bang on target.
Blake eased off the accelerator, but not the point. “Then you saw her, and she smiled at you, that gorgeous way she could, and fifty people and the whole friggin’ beach disappeared. There was only the two of you, and you knew it was going to be ok.”
“I remember.” No one needed to remind him how it felt to have Shannon look at you like you were the only thing in the world she wanted.
“You’ve got that same look now. You think you’ve got nothing to give Bailey, like you’re all used up and too much in love with a ghost. You can’t bring yourself to be with her because you think it’s not good enough.”
“Are you finished lecturing me? It’s not the same thing.”
“It’s exactly the same thing.”
“I loved Shannon and she died.”
“So you’re one lucky bastard, you get a second chance. You love Bailey, and it will be different. But you’re too stubborn, too much of a hard head to think you deserve to be happy with her.”
“You’re wrong. I’m too much of a realist to think I can be any good for her. I just had a meltdown because I thought Bailey was going to die. I wanted to cave Chris’ skull in because he gets to visit her and I don’t. In case you haven’t noticed that’s not well adjusted.”
Blake slapped the steering wheel with both hands in frustration, but he stopped talking. He pulled up at traffic lights and the only sound was the low throaty hum of the engine and the screaming still going on in Aiden’s head. He was not alright. He was twisted inside out. He needed Bailey like he needed sunlight and air and water, but he’d crush her with his desperation, suck the colour and sunshine out of her. It was the right thing to let her go.
When the light changed, so did Blake’s tone. He was less pissed off, more sanguine. “Why do I think you’re one of the smartest blokes I know? Right now you’re being the dumbest. Why can’t you see you’ve dealt with all the crap after losing Shannon and you’re still standing? You think you should be punished because she died. But I know you’re not dumb enough to think Bailey should be punished too.”
“I’m trying to stop her from being hurt. She should be loved without having to look over her shoulder, without ever having to worry she was second best.”
“Would she be second best or different?”
“How could she be anything but second best?”
“How could you be such a fucking thickhead?”
“I suppose you’ll explain.”
“Nope. You stupid bastard, you have to work this out for yourself.” Blake had him in another headlock. “But I’m telling you now, if you decide misery and self-denial, and going without the love of a very fine woman, who I know cares for you, is the way to go, it’s going to put a serious fucking strain on our friendship.”
Aiden gave up the fight. “Good to know.”
43: Ladder
The next time Aiden saw Bailey she was standing on a chair, trying to reach a gel filter on a spotlight. He thought he might stroke out. She shouldn’t have been here. She had her back to him, her shoes off. She stood on one foot, the other, bandaged up, she used for ballast, resting it on the edge of the chair.
He’d have shouted at her to get down, but she thought she was alone, and he might’ve frightened her. If she fell again he’d have to ritually disembowel himself, because apparently he’d been able to go on living with his heart dead stopped in his chest and his brain fixed in the off position.
He hadn’t seen her for three days. Three days, during which she got out of hospital, rested at home and insisted on coming back to work. Three days, during which he faked being normal with an increased leaning towards freaked the fuck out.
Yesterday he’d missed his flight back to Sydney because he’d hadn’t heard it called in the business lounge, missed it because he’d been thinking about her. He’d had to wait for two hours before he could get another flight home, and when he arrived, he couldn’t remember where he’d parking his frigging car in the airport stack. Took him thirty-five minutes to find it.
You could chalk that up to having a bad afternoon, but when you added the fact he’d gone to work the day before and left the front door of the house swinging open, and then entirely forgot about the meeting he’d made with the kid’s parents, he had to conclude he was losing his mind.
It could’ve been worse. He’d only left his credit card not his whole wallet, at the hotel in Melbourne. Cara found him in the office when he
should’ve been long gone to the George’s place, rang them and made some clever excuse. And the house was as he’d left it, with the exception of a dead bird Chauncey had stashed on his bed, half chewed and stinky, its beady eyes staring at nothing.
It could’ve been worse. Bailey might already be lying on the ground bleeding again.
She snagged the filter with a fingertip and a little cry of triumph and levered off the chair. When she turned to face him all the air in his body exploded out of his pores. She had a white bandage taped on her forehead near her hairline. She had a green and purple bruise on her jaw and a black eye. But she smiled at him. It would’ve stopped his heart had it still been beating.
He covered the distance between them in four fast strides and would’ve grabbed her, but he was scared of crushing her. He stood as close to her as he could stand it. He could smell her shampoo. Without her shoes she seemed so much shorter, younger and more fragile.
“What are you doing here? You should be at home.”
“Well hi Aiden, I’m pleased to see you too.” She actually laughed at him.
“Bailey. Don’t muck around like that. You’ve got concussion and a bandage on your head and you’re standing on a chair on one leg.”
“Keep your pants on. I’m perfectly fine, a little frayed around the edges.”
She was going to kill him, one way or another. She was going to knock him over so he couldn’t get up again. He took hold of her arms, bent at the waist to bring his face close to hers so he could see into her eyes.
“You’re not fine. You scared the shit out of me. Don’t ever do that again.”
She started to protest, and he stopped her with a finger against her lips. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called out to you. How could I not know better than to do that to you, with your back, on the stairs? I could’ve killed you. I thought I had. I couldn’t stand it.”
He was rambling and she was breathing hard against his finger, her lips open. He dropped his hands.
“Your flowers were lovely.”
“The least I could do.”
“I think you should kiss me.”
He straightened up. “What?”
“If flowers were the least you can do, I’d like you to kiss me.”
He shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
“Yes you can. I won’t get hurt.”
“Bailey.”
She flung up a hand in disgust. “You’re such chicken shit, Aiden.” She turned and went back towards the staging. He followed, seeing she moved with effort, gingerly as though she was sore all over.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. I called you chicken shit.” She stopped as he stepped around in front of her. “I saw your face. I know how you really feel about me. You’re just too chicken shit to deal with it.” She poked him in the chest. “She’s dead, Aiden. I’m alive. I think I might be in love with you. Get over yourself.”
“Fuck!” He reeled away from her. There was a stabbing pain in his head. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I’ll grow old waiting for you to work it out without help.”
They were separated now by a work table and a scattering of chairs left over from an onsite production meeting. It was late. He’d thought he’d do a quick site inspection and go home, go to bed and stare at the ceiling. He hadn’t expected anyone to be here. Certainly not Bailey, but here she was, battered, bruised, and set on grinding him into powder.
“I know you must be angry with me, but it would be better if we kept this professional.”
“Better for you, chicken shit.”
He raked a hand through his hair. Why was she doing this? She looked like a crash victim but she was stalking him like a ninja. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”
“I’ll start with a kiss.”
This was some kind of subterfuge. Deep cover lunacy. “You want a kiss? What—to make it all better?” He approached; he needed to see her expression. “To make the stiches and the soreness go away? To take back what happened?” He stopped close. “It’d have to be some kiss.”
She was grinning at him, taunting, a stealth assault on his already shaky sanity. She brushed her finger over his cheek, and he hissed. If she touched him again he’d be lost. Not accountable.
She licked her lips.
It was enough. The equivalent of a nuclear explosion in his head. He dragged her into his body and slammed his lips down on hers. Her arms went around his neck and he lifted her into him. The kiss was open mouth shocked, deep and wet. It pulled a groan of raging lust from him, and high pitched chirps of pleasure from her.
He was not responsible.
He sat her on the table, scattering left over takeaway coffee cups. He stood between her legs and touched her face, gently, reverently. His lips followed his fingers, over her bruised jaw, across her cheek to her temple and then onto the white plaster over her stiches. Her eyes were closed, her lips curved in a smile, as though she was listening to a private melody. He pulled the band from her hair and it fell down her back and around her shoulders, releasing a cloud of fruity perfume.
She arched into him when his hands moved down her back, her breath hitching, her knees squeezing his hips. She bared her throat and he ran the tip of his tongue up the length of her neck to her ear and then took her lips again.
He was not to blame.
This time they were alone. This time they were safe from discovery. She wanted this and he hadn’t frightened her. He laid her back over the table and she gripped his shoulders, pulling him down to her, but her low murmur wasn’t the right tune. He saw pain flicker across her eyes and it jolted him from the moment.
She reacted the second he started to pull away. She pushed herself upright. She knocked into his shoulder and his disgust and amazement as he sat back on the table, not game to trust his legs to hold him. He wasn’t sure his voice would cooperate with his intentions. “Does that solve anything? Is that what you wanted?”
She pushed off the table and walked over to the stage set. Considered it, her back to him, her head cocked to one side, her weight on the foot without the bandage. He could almost hear her thinking, but he had no idea what was going to come next.
“It’s a start. Now I need a ladder.”
He let the silence sit, hoping for an explanation to materialise. She turned back to face him. “You know has steps for climbing up.”
“A ladder?”
She grinned. “I bet you’re good at crosswords.”
He checked his watch. Checked Bailey. This wasn’t a joke. “It’s eight o’clock at night. Whatever you need a ladder for can wait till morning. Don’t we need to talk about what just happened?”
“No it can’t wait and no we don’t need to talk about what happened. I’m not in the mood for you to rationalise your way out of wanting me. And I need a ladder so I can light the scrim for tomorrow’s rehearsal.”
“You have a technical crew for that.”
“Not till after the walk through. I can’t afford to have them here earlier. I can dummy up a spotlight, but I either need a ladder or I’m going to get you to drag the table over there so I can put a chair on top, and...”
“I’ll get you a ladder.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
She found her shoes and after a brief argument about whose car to take, they took hers. Easier to get a ladder into it with the seats folded down. The only ladder they were going to get at this time of night was one Aiden hadn’t seen for a couple of years. He assumed ladders didn’t suddenly wear out or crumble from under use. He assumed it would be standing where he’d left it, with the curling wallpaper frieze and the gummed solid paste.
They were both quiet on the drive to his place. Bailey remembered the way. He was trying not to think about having her in his arms, about her saying she might be in love with him. She had the stereo on. He let the music wash over him, an old Alex Lloyd, singing about being sometimes lost and sometimes found. He thought
about going into the baby’s room and knew he still didn’t want to. He thought about Bailey balancing on a chair and knew he could.
When she pulled into the driveway, Chauncey leaped on the bonnet of the car and wailed at them, making Bailey jump then laugh. He got out and shooed the cat, went for the door. She got out too. “Stay there. I’ll be back in a minute.” He didn’t want her in the house. It would be better if he was alone when he did this. He had his keys in the door.
“Aid, I could do with a glass of water.”
He flung the door open. Started to say they’d go to a drive-thru on the way back, but she was on the step behind him. He turned on the hall lights, mood lighting now that two of four bulbs of were blown, and moved aside to let her pass into the hallway, following her to the lounge room.
“It’s beautiful.” She turned to take in the dining room and the kitchen beyond it. “Not what I expected.”
“It’s all Shannon’s work.”
“It’s like a showroom.”
“I have help.”
“You have central heating.”
She gave him an accusatory look. He was sprung. If she hadn’t worked out he didn’t want her in the house before, she knew now they could’ve come here the night of the pitch submission.
He pointed to the kitchen, “Glasses above the sink. I’ll get the ladder.” They moved together. Bailey going to the kitchen while he went back into the hallway, and stopped outside the room.
He walked past this door every day. He’d probably walked past it a million times since he’d last shut it. He pretended it wasn’t there. He put his hand on the brass handle. Maybe he could convince Bailey to go home and hire a ladder first thing in the morning. His throat felt tight. This was stupid. It was just a room. Just a ladder. He could be in and out of there in thirty seconds.
Bailey appeared at the other end of the hallway, sipping a glass of water and holding another for him. He pushed on the handle and door swung open. It was surprising it didn’t creak like it was haunted. He stood in the doorway for a second and took in the smell of the room, stale, musty. He fumbled for the light switch, forgot exactly where on the wall it was.
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