Duplicity

by Lisa J. Hobman

  Okay, a lot duller.

  On top of all this was the fact that I missed my parents terribly, meaning I didn’t feel much like celebrating.

  Alec, of course, had other ideas. “Come on, Twinkle. You’re only twenty-five once, and you have to bloody forget about that wanker. He wore crap clothes and his hair was always a mess. You can do so much better.”

  Okay, so he was right. Mick had never been long-term boyfriend material, but being dumped was never fun. Alec eventually convinced me that I needed to get out, and so I agreed to go to DeBasement. It was our usual drunken haunt in the city where we’d get up and sing a duet of “Dead Ringer for Love”—Alec insisting, as always, that he sang the Cher parts—or some other old rock song that we could murder together. It never failed to make me laugh, even when I really didn’t think I was in the mood.

  It was Friday night, and I dressed in my black combat boots, ripped fishnets, shorts, and a white tank top with a black Sisters of Mercy T-shirt over the top that had a slashed neck so that it fell off my shoulder. My pink hair was left to dry in natural waves and then messed up a little with product. Like I said before…I’m quirky.

  We made our way to the bar to meet up with some of our friends—Alec’s on and off boyfriend, Gil, short for Gilbert, being one of them.

  Alec opened the door for me like a real gentleman and I spotted the group immediately. Waving frantically, I dashed through the throngs of people and was enveloped in a group hug and treated to a very loud and raucous rendition of “Happy Birthday” whilst hoisted up on the shoulders of two of my male friends, Slater and Conch—Bruce Conchola, in case you were thinking, “Huh?” His mom was from Texas and his dad was Glaswegian—go figure.

  Anyway, I felt better already.

  The drinks were flowing nicely, and Alec even ordered a bottle of champagne. I was more of a Jack and Coke kind of girl, but it was sweet of him to buy it so I helped drink it anyway. Well, it would’ve been rude not to, right?

  Conch and Mindy, his girlfriend, got up to sing Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” and the place erupted as they camped up their performance. Conch dabbed at his face with a white napkin—bits of the paper towel getting stuck to his forehead as he did so. It really was hilarious. But the thing I loved about the place was the eclectic music on offer. It wasn’t your run of the mill Bette Midler, Diana Ross kind of karaoke. You could literally sing anything you wanted—so long as it was rock or indie.

  As the night wore on, we all got more and more drunk, and I was working my way up to my big duet with Alec when a guy walked onto the stage. His head was down so I couldn’t see his face, but he looked completely out of place up there—in the club too, if the truth be told. Grey slacks, white shirt, short blonde hair and a tie that had been loosened half way down his chest. Most of the club’s regular clientele donned black and were covered in tattoos. He took the mic from Pedro, the club owner and M.C. and stuck it in the stand, then rolled up his shirt sleeves just as the intro began to play.

  I recognised it immediately. Now, I know you should never judge a book by its cover and all that, but to say I was shocked at the song choice would be a major understatement. He lifted the mic from its stand once again and began to sing but didn’t lift his face to the crowd. His gravel-filled voice sent shivers down my spine. The guy could sing, that’s for sure. A rarity in that place. But it was what happened next that had me almost passing out right there on the spot.

  As the words fell from his lips and the song began to build, he slowly lifted his face and my mouth fell open. My eyes widened and my heart almost stuttered to a halt.

  It was him.

  It was Mr McYummy, the blonde bombshell from the coffee shop.

  “Well, hellooooo there, handsome,” came Alec’s voice from beside me.

  I swivelled around to face him, opening and closing my mouth like a dying trout. “It’s…he’s…I…”

  Alec burst into fits of laughter and nudged me with his shoulder. “Use your words, Star. Use your words.”

  I stared aghast in the direction of the stage and at the gorgeous Scottish guy singing “Undertaker” by Pucifer.

  Turning to Alec, I pointed toward the stage. “I…I know him.”

  Alec’s eyes widened. “Well, lucky you. Is he gay? Please say yes.”

  I frowned and shook my head as my gaze trailed back to the stage and I realised I had no clue. He could’ve been marrying a guy, I suppose. “I…I don’t know.” But, deep down, I just knew he was straight. I think it was the way we had shared a moment on the day before his wedding. Something inside me knew he wasn’t gay.

  Alec bumped me again and almost knocked me off my feet, I was so stunned. I glanced back to my best friend and pseudo big brother to find him standing, arms folded. “You can’t know him too well then, love.”

  Ignoring Alec’s bitchy comment, I switched my attention back to the stage once again. I watched as the beautiful, clean cut man stomped around the stage like he was meant to be there. Like he owned the damn place. The amount of venom and angst he injected into the angry lyrics made me shudder. It was like he was singing them at someone. Someone who had wronged him severely, and I pitied whoever it was.

  He didn’t quite look like himself up there.

  But, oh my God, was I turned on.

  Now, I know that up on a stage with bright lights shining on him, he was bound to look different, ethereal somehow, but his eyes looked a little sunken and…sad. But the rest of his demeanour screamed aggression—the clenched fist and gritted teeth along with the sneer on his lips—so either he was a great actor as well as an amazing singer, or he really was singing the lyrics to someone who’d hurt him badly.

  Then it hit me. He was here. Mr McYummy was on a stage in an Edinburgh nightclub. Not on some tropical island with his perfect new bride. Did this mean she was the one who’d wronged him? I hated the fact that my stomach fluttered at the prospect.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I could no longer form words, nor could I calm the thundering of my heart in my chest. He was…incredible. There was no doubt in my mind that he belonged up there. His voice alone was orgasm-inducing, but coupled with his electric blue eyes piercing through just about everyone in the audience—indiscriminate of gender—he had me ready to throw my underwear at him. He had the stage presence of a rock god. And I was in lust.

  Head over heels in pure unadulterated lust.

  Fin

  By the time I unlocked my apartment door, I felt as sick as a dog. I slammed the door and staggered my way to the bathroom, making it just in time to hurl the meagre contents of my stomach down the pan. What the hell had I been thinking? Seriously?

  Once I’d finished throwing up, I made my way to the bedroom. Elise’s stuff was all gone. An eerie loneliness settled over the place, but thankfully, I was too drunk to really acknowledge it. If only I was so pissed that I couldn’t remember the events of the night. Unfortunately, and much to my chagrin, I was not. The whole getting up to sing thing whirred around my head. Or maybe the spinning was alcohol induced. I don’t know. All I did know was that I could remember what I’d done on that stage vividly.

  Bollocks.

  ♫♫♫

  I awoke to a loud ringing sound, each and every piercing note drilling another hole into my already tender skull. I carefully opened my eyes and stared up at the ceiling. The noise registered in my hazy mind as the telephone.

  Pulling myself to an upright position, I held my head as the room tilted and turned. I managed to clamber to my feet and looked down to discover I was still in yesterday’s work clothes. My head was spinning so I took steady steps until I reached the living room where the phone screamed angrily from its cradle.

  Lifting it to my ear, I croaked. “Hello?”

  “Hunter, you’re alive. How are you feeling, mate?” Tom’s all too cheery voice pissed me off. Why wasn’t he feeling like death?

  I rubbed at my temples. “Um…I feel like utter
shite. You?”

  “I’m okay, pal. Didn’t drink as much as you.” He laughed and I wished he was here so I could punch him.

  “Great. Lucky you.” My response was filled with all the sarcasm my poorly head could muster.

  His chuckle pissed me off further. “Anyways, are you up for a bit of brekkie? Thought a nice plate of stodge might do the trick.”

  “Um…na. I think I’m going to get some work done, Tom. Thanks, though.”

  “Oh, come on, Finlay. Live a little, pal. It’s Saturday. Let’s do breakfast and drink plenty of coffee and then if you really feel the need to work, you can do it later, okay?”

  I didn’t need much convincing, and although my stomach lurched at the thought of food, I couldn’t really be arsed working either. “Yeah, okay. Give me half an hour and I’ll meet you at The Edinburgh Larder, okay?”

  “Great! See you there.” He hung up and I slumped onto the couch to rest my head in my hands.

  Once I’d showered, I felt a little more human, and grabbed the first clean clothes I set my hands on—dark jeans and a blue v-neck sweater. I pulled on my boots and stood in the centre of the vast space I had once shared with Elise. I would need to move. The place was too big for me, and to be honest, I needed a fresh start. I needed to be somewhere that didn’t reek of my father and his money.

  Half an hour later, I walked into the Edinburgh Larder and spotted Tom perusing the menu. He looked up and waved as I made my way over to sit opposite him.

  “Feeling any better?” he asked with a smirk.

  I sneered. “Fuck off.”

  His responding laugh caused his whole body to vibrate. “I’ll take that as a no then.” A young waitress came over, took our order, and quickly left us in peace. “So…what happens now?”

  I glanced at Tom to see the grin gone and concern etched on his face. The guy took the piss out of me constantly, but there was no doubt in my mind about how much he cared for me.

  I rubbed my hands over my face as if doing so would bring some ideas forth. “Honestly? I haven’t got the slightest clue.”

  “Are you looking to move out of that penthouse? It’s a wee bit big for one, don’t you think?”

  I nodded as I stared at the tines of my fork. “Funnily enough, I was thinking the same before I left there to meet you.”

  The waitress arrived and placed our food and drinks down before smiling warmly and leaving us once again. Tom added sugar to his bucket of coffee. “Have you spoken to your folks since the shit hit the fan?”

  The mention of my parents made my stomach churn. “Na. Don’t want to either. I’m tired of all the bull that goes along with being a Hunter. I wish I could fucking change my name.”

  Tom threw his head back and guffawed. “Oh, yeah. I can imagine it now. Like that time on Friends where Phoebe changed her name. Johnson McBudgysmuggler would suit you down to the ground.”

  In spite of the fact that I felt like a bear had beaten me over the head and crapped in my mouth, I joined in his laughter.

  Fin

  Monday morning was dull and rainy. The dark clouds overhead matched my mood and the feeling of doom that hung over me. To make matters worse, I’d got up late, so I rushed around like a headless chicken, trying to get myself ready for work. Although, my father was due to be back and I really didn’t feel like facing him—this made summoning up the energy even more challenging. We hadn’t spoken since the day of the non-wedding and I felt sure he’d have more reasons to have a go at me.

  Choosing a black power suit from my wardrobe—in the hope that I’d exude the confidence I was internally lacking—I dressed slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. Thoughts of a pink-haired girl sprang to mind as I fastened my tie. Those eyes. Where the hell did I know her from? Why was she so familiar to me? Why did I feel drawn to her? I remembered the slashed T-shirt she wore and the way it gracefully slipped from one shoulder, exposing her collarbone and slender neck. Sisters of Mercy I thought the T-shirt was. She wasn’t the type of girl I was usually attracted to, but for some reason, the image of her walking slowly past, smiling, kept on flitting through my mind.

  I shook my head. Enough of that, Hunter. You’ve a father to stand up to. I grabbed my overcoat, keys, phone, and briefcase before heading out of the door and down to the ground floor.

  The doorman nodded and opened the main door for me. “It’s a cold one, Mr Hunter, sir.”

  “Yeah, it looks that way, Mortimer. Thanks.” I gave a rigid smile and began the short walk to work just as the heavens opened. I’d forgotten to pick up my umbrella and considered heading back, but checking my watch, I realised I was already late.

  Oh, shitty fucking shit. More ammunition for my father to fire.

  Once I reached my usual coffee house, I was soaked and freezing. Droplets of water slid from my hairline and down my nose, and the sky showed no sign of letting up its ice cold deluge. I stopped and peered in through the rain-covered window to discover there was a ridiculously long queue, and I debated whether to risk it and join the wait for the best coffee in Edinburgh. Could I justify being even later?

  Suddenly, a flash of pink caught my eye from behind the counter and it hit me. That was where I knew the girl from. The bloody coffee shop. The realisation stopped me from joining the line of dripping wet customers, and I dashed off as quickly as I could before she saw me. Although I have no clue why, my heart leapt at the thought of meeting her face to face once again. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I think embarrassment at my performance the previous Friday was the main factor. What the hell must she have thought of me? And actually…why did I care what she thought? She didn’t know me. I didn’t know her. We were only acquainted through our shared interest in coffee. Well, me drinking it and her serving it. So why did it matter?

  Thankfully, I’d seen fit in the past to ensure I had a set of towels at work. They were mainly for my post-gym shower in the days I deigned to go before work, but thanks to the heavy downpour on my way to the office, I just looked like I’d had a shower.

  Once I’d dried off as much as I could, I sat behind my desk and stared at the pile of papers neatly stacked in order of importance. Where to bloody start? Do I get the longer tasks done first or tackle the quicker ones?

  The intercom buzzed and my stomach flipped.

  Taking a deep breath, I pressed the button. “Yes, Morag?”

  “Good morning, Mr Hunter. Your father wishes to see you in his office right away.”

  Oh, fuck. Don’t even let me get settled then, Father dear. “Okay, thanks. I’ll be right there.”

  Once I had summoned up the courage and made a brief plan in my head of the retorts I might be able to use for whatever bullshit he accused me of this time, I made the short journey to the next floor up and approached my father’s office. His secretary, Melissa, asked me to take a seat and so I plonked myself down and waited.

  And waited.

  And waited some more.

  I felt like a school kid waiting to see the head teacher for a roasting. My knee bounced up and down, and I chewed on my nails. This is ridiculous.

  And still I waited.

  Fuck this shit. I stood and walked over to stand at the secretary’s desk once again. Speaking through gritted teeth I said, “Melissa, can you tell my father I have work to be getting on with and that he should call me when he actually has the time to speak with me.”

  Melissa’s cheeks turned bright pink, and she opened and closed her mouth as if trying to work out how to protest at my request—which would no doubt land her in hot water.

  Suddenly, the door to my father’s office opened. “Finlay. You may come in,” he said dismissively, without making eye contact.

  When I glanced over at Melissa, her relief was almost palpable. I smiled at her and shook my head, but she dropped her gaze to her computer screen and carried on typing. I realised she must have been terrified of suffering my father’s wrath just like everyone else.

  Once inside the plush offi
ce that had been occupied by my tyrant of a father ever since I could remember, he closed the door. “Take a seat, young man.”

  Okay, so he has his patronising bastard head on. Bang went any hopes of a civilised and adult to adult conversation. I watched as he walked around the desk and sat in his large, wing-backed leather chair, silently resting his elbows on the highly polished mahogany and steepling his fingers.

  Unable to bear the silent treatment any longer, I interrupted whatever thoughts were bumbling around his head. “What did you want to see me about, Dad?”

  He took a noisy, deep breath through his mouth and blew it out with force through flared nostrils. “As you can imagine, Finlay, you upset your mother and me with the aggressive nature of your departure after the wedding.”

  I rolled my eyes. “There was no wedding.”

  He huffed. “And therein lies another issue. Your mother and I put a lot of time and effort into your relationship with Elise. Does that count for nothing?”

  I couldn’t help snorting. “Do you not realise how wrong that whole sentence is?”

  His brow furrowed. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  My heart rate picked up and my temples began to throb. I could sense my anger levels rising. “Meaning that it was my relationship with Elise, and it was me who was getting married to her. Not you. Yet somehow you’ve turned the whole bloody thing around and made it look like I’m the guilty party.”

  “Do you not see how your lack of insistence on setting a date caused a rift between the pair of you, Finlay?”

  His persistent use of my full Christian name rather than an affectionate term like “son” made me seethe. It was more like a business meeting than a father-son chat. But then again, he chose to do this at our place of work.

  My calm tone belied the turmoil under my skin. “Dad. I will say this once more, and I will say it slowly so you understand this time. She. Did. Not. Want. To. Set. A. Date. And I will tell you why, shall I? It’s down to the fact that you sent her to London where she met the man of her fucking dreams. So don’t keep turning this around on me. We never really loved each other. You and the Drummonds forced us into a relationship that neither of us really wanted.”