by Emma Grey
But this time it’s different, and Sarah can’t put her finger on why. Nor can she put her finger on the new emotions that feel nothing like the usual low-level annoyance she always experiences when Joel is off her radar with a new girl. Could it be jealousy? It can’t be, can it? Why would she be jealous of a disorganised schoolgirl who hadn’t factored in a Plan B and actually had to beg a complete stranger for help? Joel doesn’t fall for the ‘damsel in distress’. He never has. It’s been strong, independent women all the way for him, even in high school.
She can’t get comfortable in bed, sits up and switches the light back on. Then she remembers the other half of the story. She could barely believe it when Joel confided in her about the concert ticket and the fact that Railway Girl had not only worked her magic on him in the ten minutes they spent together, but went on to catch the eye of none other than Angus Marsden, who is now stumbling through cyberspace in a desperate attempt to win her over.
‘What’s so special about her?’ Sarah had asked, although she really hadn’t wanted to hear the answer.
‘That’s just it, Sares. I don’t know! She’s a normal girl. She wasn’t dressed up. She wasn’t made up. She wasn’t trying to be anything other than herself. She wasn’t hiding anything. It’s like she’s the most “real” person I’ve ever met. Does that make sense?’
Yes.
And, as he was speaking, Sarah’s heart was sinking because she realised Joel was describing every single thing that she is not. She’s always dressed up. Always made up. Always trying to be someone other than herself. Always hiding something. Never quite ‘real’ — just like a thousand other girls. And like ninety-thousand other girls in the Unrequited audience, no doubt, which is why Angus Marsden would have singled her out, too.
How do you compete with that?
And why is she even thinking about competing? She’s never competed with the other girls in Joel’s life. She’s only ever stepped aside graciously. That’s what Sarah does. Every time. So why is she feeling so far from gracious now?
After a fitful night of not enough sleep, a 7 am knock on the door shatters Sarah awake. She stumbles from her bed in little more than a T-shirt, swings open the door and Joel is standing there in his usual jeans and a blue shirt in the bright morning sunlight, looking as overtired as she feels.
He frowns. ‘Do you always answer the door half-naked? I could have been anyone!’
Yes, she thinks, but he’s not anyone, is he? And why does he care? They practically grew up at the pool together so it’s not like he hasn’t seen her in a lot less than this. He’s just Joel.
Maybe it’s that she’s only half-awake and not thinking straight yet, but that’s when it hits her. Hard. He’s not ‘just’ Joel at all, is he? He’s way more than that! Look at him! Where has she been for the last twelve years of their friendship?
‘I’ll make coffee,’ he says. ‘You look like you need it.’
She needs more than coffee.
She watches him walk past her and make himself at home the way he always does. It’s becoming drastically clear that she’s been deeply underestimating something for a very, very long time.
‘Do you have enough milk?’ he calls, carrying on like normal.
Milk? Seriously! Has he no appreciation for the fact that everything has just shifted inside her brain? She watches him move about her kitchen like this is any normal day, and suddenly she’s terrified she’s left her run way too late . . .
‘Let me have a quick shower,’ she says, as he flicks on the kettle. She bundles up some fresh clothes and steps into the bathroom in a bid to escape his easy domesticity and worse, the ugly truth of this entire situation, for even five more minutes. The hot water doesn’t help. It only amplifies everything and then something happens that never happens in Sarah’s life. Ever. She starts crying!
By the time she gets out of the shower and dries herself and staggers into jeans and a designer shirt and plugs in her hair straightener and fumbles around for some makeup, she’s a total mess. She can’t even disguise the sobbing any more now the shower is off, and it’s not long before she hears a tentative knock on the bathroom door.
‘Are you okay in there?’ Joel asks. He never asks if she’s okay. She’s always okay, even when she isn’t. And that’s exactly the problem.
‘I’m coming in, all right? Are you decent?’
Even through the tears, she has to smile. Gosh, he’s a gentleman. Love. Him.
And that’s the moment. Right there. At precisely the second that he opens the door and enters the steamy bathroom and puts her coffee cup on the sink and wraps his arms around her tightly without saying another word . . . It’s right then, with an explosion of bitter-sweet clarity that Sarah realises she loves Joel Isaacson. Loves him.
And she loses it properly.
‘It’s okay,’ he’s saying. ‘It really is . . .’
He’s stroking her wet hair while she burrows her face into his chest and breathes in the scent she’s breathed in a thousand times before, without ever feeling like this. She blinks hard but the tears keep coming, and his shirt is getting wet and she needs a tissue but he doesn’t seem to care. He just holds her even tighter and says nothing at all, while the steam evaporates gently around them. And she knows that he is wrong.
It is so very, very far from okay . . .
Chapter 9
Joel doesn’t know quite what has hit him when Sarah starts crying. She never cries. It’s one of the things he likes about her the most. She’s been making their friendship easy for years because she’s so self-contained emotionally. It’s all been so pleasantly drama-free . . .
So it hits him for six when she loses it in the bathroom. What’s wrong with her? And how weird is it to be standing here, comforting Sarah, of all people. He’s hugged her before, plenty of times. She’s always hugging. She just never clings. It’s disconcerting.
He asks her what’s going on and she says nothing. It’s clearly a lie. She’s distraught! But she point-blank refuses to open up and tell him about it, which is worrying. She normally tells him everything.
‘Are you sick?’ he asks, the thought of it suddenly freaking him out, big time. She’s never sick like she’s never sad, and the thought of losing her is terrifying.
She’s not sick.
‘Is anyone else sick? Your parents? Your brother?’
‘No. Nobody’s sick,’ she says, reassuringly, and Joel’s heartrate starts settling back to something approximating normal.
‘Are you in trouble?’
She doesn’t answer immediately. ‘Sarah. What’s wrong? Is it a guy? Has a guy hurt you? Oh, God, you’re not pregnant are you?’
‘Joel! Stop!’ She nearly laughs at the last suggestion.
‘I’m not sick, not pregnant, not hurt, not in trouble. Can we just leave it? Can’t we just get back to normal?’
Nothing would please him more. This is agony! But Joel can’t just shake off what happened. The sight of her this upset crushes him. Maybe she’ll open up in her own time.
‘Change the subject?’ she suggests, and a few deep breaths and several tissues later, she looks almost normal. A red, puffy-eyed version of normal, anyway. It’s kind of cute. ‘What are you doing here so early?’ she asks.
He’s not sure he should tell her. What if it sets her off again? He does not want to set her off, and he isn’t used to treading on eggshells around her. Maybe chasing Kat can wait twenty-four hours. Maybe it’s more important to be here with his friend.
‘Why don’t we spend the day together, Sarah? Go for a bike ride? Maybe have a picnic? See a movie? Go to the beach? Whatever you feel like doing.’
She looks conflicted. She never looks conflicted. He feels like he’s communicating with her via a metal detector and trying to work out her warm and cold signals; almost like she’s a stranger and not his best mate.
‘Come on. You know you want to,’ he coaxes, nudging her with his elbow and smiling. He could swear she actuall
y blushes. Sarah Elliott? She doesn’t do that. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into her, or how to handle it, or what to do next.
‘What about Kat?’ she asks, with an uncharacteristic catch in her voice.
‘She can wait,’ Joel explains, hoping it’s true.
Sarah hesitates, but visibly relaxes a little and he’s relieved. It’s like he’s talking her down off a ledge.
‘I think we need breakfast,’ he says. ‘Do you have eggs? I’ll make an omelette.’
She looks at him as if he’s just offered to give her a million dollars. It’s just eggs! Nothing special. For a second, he thinks she’s going to cry again. He grabs the cushion beside him and throws it at her to snap her out of it. She looks shocked at first, but it’s a ruse. She grabs the cushion and throws it back. Hard.
He retaliates with two cushions and she tries to keep him away from her with her feet. It’s a manoeuvre she’s failed at since she was nine years old and they had their first pillow-fight during a movie night at her family’s house. That was the time when things got badly out of hand and they shattered her mum’s antique figurine and both had to do odd jobs all summer to make up for it.
As usual, he effortlessly grabs the cushion from her with one hand and her legs with the other and he leans in close, looks her straight in the eyes and says, ‘Sarah Elliott! This is no way to treat the man who just offered to make you an omelette.’
She’s laughing now, properly. It’s like he’s got the old Sarah back and that’s good. If the world had tilted off its axis there for a few minutes, now it’s right again.
Enough fighting. Joel gets off the couch, rolls up his sleeves and takes over her kitchen for twenty minutes while she lazes on the couch, in a very un-Sarah-like way, which isn’t altogether unwelcome. He’s been thinking for a long time now that she takes life way too seriously.
She flicks on the morning talk show. It’s something she never watches because it’s full of celebrity gossip, in which she has zero interest. Except for this morning, apparently. The TV hosts are sitting in the studio with the window behind them crammed full of teenage girls, which can only mean one thing. And now it’s too late to switch it off because she’s instantly engrossed.
Unrequited. Joel just wants them to leave the country, which they will do, but not soon enough. Apparently they’re having some R&R in Sydney before flying out for Tokyo. He’d Googled it. He pretends not to watch, but it’s like driving past a car crash and trying to avoid looking at the debris. He’s drawn to it, and hates that.
Angus Marsden is pretty well put together for an 8 am time-slot, after a late concert the night before. Joel wouldn’t know how to describe what he’s wearing — he just knows it’s the kind of thing he never wears himself. All those layers. He tries to work out what it is about the guy. Eyes? Steely green. Hair? Brown. And thick. In need of a cut . . .
Angus answers the host’s questions about the music and the tour and the fans with practised professionalism. They’ve clearly done media training. And then of course they ask him about the girl. @elle_twentysix. And Joel watches as the singer transforms from seasoned artist to bumbling schoolboy in a matter of seconds. It’s remarkable. ‘Elle’ is his undoing, and Joel fully appreciates why.
‘People are comparing this to a Cinderella story,’ the host explains. ‘Somewhere out there is a girl with a seat ticket that proves she’s the one you fell for at the concert. Are you sure this whole thing isn’t a publicity stunt?’
Joel perks up at this point. Having met Kat, he’d just bought the whole story, instantly. He never even considered it could be a stunt.
It’s the blond one who steps in and answers the question, because Angus is fully tongue-tied.
‘I’ve never seen Gus like this over any girl in all the years we’ve been touring,’ he explains in a London accent. ‘This is the real deal. We need to find this girl because look at him! He’s a mess! We’re all suffering!’
Angus laughs, but it’s the almost bashful, love-struck laugh of a schoolboy. There’s nothing of the pop star about him while he’s talking about Elle, and that’s what concerns Joel the most. Because Kat wasn’t attracted to the pop star. She was his anti-fan. The boy who’s chasing her now doesn’t seem like a pop star at all. He’s just a guy named Angus. Chasing a normal girl. Sure, he’s using very public channels to do so, but by the accounts of practically every female around Joel, the ‘New Angus’ is apparently delightful.
Sarah flicks off the TV and sighs.
See! Joel thinks. Even she’s gone mushy about the guy. It’s not looking good.
Eventually she gets off the lounge, walks into the kitchen, takes the whisk out of his hand and takes both his hands in hers. For a minute, Joel panics. What’s she doing? Is she going to kiss him? This is awkward . . .
‘Joel,’ she says steadily. ‘You like this girl a lot, don’t you?’
He takes a deep breath. ‘I do.’
She nods. ‘Well — I mean this in the nicest possible way — you’re never going to win Kat over on your own. It was one thing when Angus was an impossibly out-of-reach pop star, but that performance just then on TV? He’s so vulnerable! It’s so attractive. He’s really upped the ante and you, my friend, need to up the ante in return.’
Up the ante? How? What’s she talking about?
‘You don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you?’ Sarah is exasperated. ‘That’s why you need a right-hand girl for this assignment.’
Joel smiles, thinking of the in-joke between them. They used to play Big Business when they were kids. He was always the CEO and she was his ‘Right-Hand Girl’, until she figured out there was a power imbalance, staged a hostile takeover and sacked him.
‘Let me guess, Sarah. You’re the girl for me?’
She looks momentarily shaken, but regains her composure so fast, he thinks he must have imagined it. He hates to admit that he needs her help, but he probably does. She’s speaking in riddles, and this is confusing enough already.
‘I always have been,’ she says quietly. ‘Do you remember?’
‘You sacked me. How can I trust you?’
‘You haven’t got a choice.’ And she proceeds to explain that there isn’t a moment to lose because, in case Joel hasn’t noticed, he is a scruffy-looking uni student with an overabundance of blue shirts, and he’s competing with a guy who’s been on the cover of Teen Vogue. So apparently they have to go shopping.
Chapter 10
The band has a rare day off. They’ve chartered a luxury yacht from Rose Bay and the plan is to spend the day on the harbour, away from everyone, doing nothing. The skipper anchors the yacht in a fairly secluded location, with distant views across to the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. It’s warm, and they’re lying on the deck in the sun, listening to other people’s music. Totally switching off.
At least, four of them have switched off. Angus has some calls to make. Starting with the ticket office. He’s hoping to sweet talk an agent into giving him an email address or a phone number. Something, anything, that he can use to get in touch with the girl from the concert.
‘Angus who?’ a woman asks, after finally putting an end to the appalling ‘on hold’ music that he’s endured for nearly half an hour. She sounds about seventy. He’d been hoping for someone about five decades younger, and preferably infatuated . . . He’ll need to re-work his whole approach now!
‘Angus Marsden,’ he explains again. ‘From Unrequited.’
‘Unrequited? I think we sold some tickets for a show called Unrequited . . .’
‘Yes, you did. That’s my band. I’m one of the singers. I know this is unusual, but I’m hoping you can help me . . .’ He outlines his plight in detail. He tries to explain the situation with Elle and Twitter. Once he starts talking through it, he realises it sounds implausible — even to someone who understands social media — let alone this woman, who appears not to have the first idea what he’s on about.
She says she doesn’t ca
re who Angus claims to be. She’s been working in the ticket office since it opened its doors in 1979, and is retiring next week. Not once in her thirty-five year ticket-selling career has she strayed from company policy. ‘What makes you think I’m going to stray from it now?’
‘Romance?’ he argues, turning on the charm.
‘Oh, you young things! So impatient! You want everything right now. You’re not prepared to wait for anything, are you?’
No. He isn’t. He hasn’t got time. Hence this phone call!
‘Stop trying so hard,’ the woman says. ‘If this girl really likes you, she’ll find you. If it’s meant to be, it will happen.’ He doesn’t know how. For a moment, though, he basks in the comfort of her advice. Then she explains that she’s ‘blacklisted’ his name in the system, as well as any future inquiries about that seat number. So it sounds like this ‘meant-to-be’ meeting is not going to happen with any help of hers.
She ends the call before Angus can and he knows he’s been outwitted by a soon-to-be retiree who reminds him of his grandmother back in England. His nanna is always telling him the same stuff: ‘The right girl will come along at the right time, Angus! Don’t be so impatient.’
But he is. She has come along! He’s scared she’ll be ‘the one who got away’ and he’ll still be writing sad lyrics about her when he’s fifty!
And then — great! Xavier alerts them all to the fact that a yacht-load of fans has spotted them and is powering their way. Private escape over.
According to Zach, who appoints himself chief lookout, the bikini-clad girls on the other yacht are wielding a bottle of champagne and a loud hailer. Lethal combination, Angus thinks, slumping low on the seat like the other three, hoping to stay out of sight.
‘Hey! Boys! Zach! Reuben! Angus!’ a female voice calls.
Then more voices. Squealing. The girls yell the boys’ names relentlessly into the loud hailer, hoping for a glimpse. Angus just wants to hide. Even their days off are always ‘on’.
