by Huston, Judy
Dimity had perked up at the image of a bare-chested Josh hurtling from the trees on a vine to sweep her up and away. Then she shook her head.
“Different ball game. I defend Shane because . . . ”
She stopped.
“Well, duh.” Sandra had looked at her pityingly. “Connect the dots, sweetie.”
A taxi stopped behind Dimity’s car. She glanced over idly as someone came out of the hotel, then looked again. It was Malcolm, carrying an overnight bag, with his arm around a shapely brunette.
The girl got into the taxi. Malcolm passed the bag in and watched the taxi take off.
Dimity whistled silently. Apart from the venue, Malcolm seemed to be doing well for himself.
Seeing him look at her car, she hunched back. He may have seen it at Shenanigans, but hopefully wouldn’t recognise it.
Hope faded as he walked towards her. When she could no longer ignore him, she lowered her window.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“I brought my brother to a job interview at the hotel restaurant.” Tempted to return the question, Dimity restrained herself.
“The beefcake boy? Must be desperate!” Malcolm rolled his eyes sardonically towards the hotel where he and his brunette friend had apparently spent a romantic night together.
“Listen,” he added, also apparently following Dimity’s train of thought, “I’m incognito here. If anyone asks, you didn’t see me.”
Dimity was trying to think of a reply when Shane appeared. Before she could unlock the passenger door, Malcolm moved around and introduced himself.
“I’ve seen two versions of your CV,” Dimity heard him say jovially. “Both very interesting. You don’t really want to work in this dump, do you? We might have something for you at Global Homes. Why don’t you sell yourself to me over a coffee?”
“We can’t wait. I have to take him home and then get to work,” Dimity called.
“I’ll drop him home,” Malcolm called back. “I have an appointment with a client in your area.”
Apparently happy with the arrangement, Shane waved and walked off with him.
Dimity shrugged. It seemed a haphazard way to recruit staff. But maybe that was Malcolm’s way. If she was going to get to work on time, she couldn’t sit around wondering.
She felt a surge of anticipation at the thought of seeing Josh, then frowned at a totally unrelated thought.
How did Malcolm know where she lived? She didn’t think she had ever mentioned it to him. Perhaps he’d remembered the address on Shane’s CV and guessed she also lived there.
On the way to work, her thoughts returned to last night’s conversation with Sandra.
“I defend Shane because I love him,” she had started to say, but the prospect of voicing the L-word in connection with Josh, even indirectly, had set alarm bells ringing in her mind.
Once again she had the sensation she was about to fall off a cliff into the unknown.
With nobody below to catch her.
This was different from the stomach flip-flops previously engendered by thoughts of Josh. This was heady, heavy, confusing and exhilarating, a warm tide of feeling flowing in to fill a void she hadn’t known existed.
She sailed up the Global staircase on a wave of euphoria. Last night wouldn’t matter when they saw each other again. Maybe he would suggest lunch. If he didn’t, she would.
But he wasn’t there.
Dimity’s spirits descended with a thump when she opened an impersonal email sent at 8am saying he was tied up at the convention all day. There was no mention of last night.
How very professional she thought, skimming through the rest of her emails.
She couldn’t even hope to hear from him tonight because he would be at the reception . . . which reminded her to do the professional thing herself, and confirm the caterer for the evening.
She unearthed the number, dialled and listened disbelievingly as an impersonal, recorded voice told her the number could not be connected and advised her to check it.
Several frantic phone calls to other caterers confirmed the bad news. She had chosen a fly-by-night business that was no longer functioning. Her requests for help to the other caterers were met by reactions ranging from polite refusal to outright scorn at the suggestion they might be available at such late notice.
“Isn’t it great,” she said in an email to Sandra, “for once in my office work life I’ve done something competently, and now it’s come back to bite me in the you-know-what.”
She didn’t expect to hear immediately from Sandra, who was no doubt busy tinting someone’s hair an outrageous colour. But she must have had a free moment because a reply came almost at once.
“Maybe Shane knows someone who can help.”
Dimity doubted it. Shane didn’t have many catering contacts in Newcastle.
But . . . any port in a storm.
She rang his mobile, interrupting his coffee with Malcolm while she whispered her problem.
“Do you know anyone?” she asked, hearing her voice tremble with frustration.
There was a slight pause.
“How many people?”
“About twenty.”
“I’ll put something together for you.”
Dimity’s mouth opened in disbelief.
“Really?”
“Really. I’m not totally useless.” Shane’s voice held a touch of bitterness. “I’ll have it ready for you.”
He didn’t let her down, looking justifiably pleased with himself when she arrived home. After buying a selection of breads, smoked salmon, tuna, turkey, cheeses and salads he had made several plates of delicious-looking open sandwiches. He had also prepared plates of dips, cheese and crackers, arranged pieces of fruit on skewers and had bought a selection of mini quiches and crab fritters.
“You’re a genius!” She hugged him. “How much did it cost?”
“My treat,” said Shane magnanimously. “Leigh and I got a bus into town to pick up my car, so I did the shopping on the way home. Even got some boxes to use for delivering it. So how do we do that? Ring the bell and run, like we used to?”
At this reminder of a couple of childhood escapades they had shared, Dimity burst out laughing.
“What if you stay in the car and I act as delivery boy?” Shane went on. “If I wear a cap and keep my head down, your boss might be too busy socialising with the VIPs to recognise me.”
Dimity looked at his faded jeans, old shirt and sneakers, then at the elegant array of food that he had carefully covered with plastic wrap.
“The heck you’re going to be the delivery boy,” she told him energetically. “The Forbes family doesn’t skulk around corners and hide under baseball caps. You’re the caterer and you’re going to dress up and show them you’re proud of it. And I’ll be right there being proud with you.”
Despite Shane’s protests, she insisted. She had a quick shower before wriggling into the “basic black” she had worn at Sandra’s party: a sleeveless V-necked dress that displayed just enough cleavage to be interesting, with a skirt that fell softly to a point slightly below the knees. She twisted this way and that in front of the mirror, checking suspiciously in case she had put on weight since wearing it, but couldn’t detect any bulges.
Not that it mattered, of course. Josh wouldn’t be looking at her.
A glance at her watch sent her into fast forward with hair gel, eye makeup and a touch of lipstick. After pulling on sheer tights and her only pair of black high heels, she picked up her coat and returned to the kitchen, fastening an earring as she went.
Passing the living room she saw Leigh, slumped on the lounge in her red pyjamas with a glass of matching wine, watching television. Apparently she had no interest in the bustle from the kitchen where Shane, immaculate in black trousers, crisp white shirt and polished shoes, was packing plates of food into the boxes.
“You don’t think we look too dressed up?” he asked.
“Absolutely not.” Dimi
ty was firm. “We’re treating the occasion with the respect it deserves.”
“Will it be a problem if your friend Malcolm’s there?” enquired Shane. “I took him up on his work offer. He wants a part-time assistant and he noticed on my CV that I did that type of work for a while in Sydney. It’s good pay and could become permanent. Even it doesn’t, he said they often need a casual chef so I could pick up shifts there too.”
Dimity secured the second earring, looking dubious.
“It won’t matter if he’s there. He’ll probably just think how enterprising you are. But I wouldn’t call him a friend. And I’m not sure you’ll like working for him, but I suppose that’s your business.”
“Well, there’s a change,” said Shane.
Was it? Dimity glanced at her watch again, opened a cupboard, grabbed a coat and yanked out a large umbrella. “It’s late! Let’s go!”
Parking space in town was at a premium but, with thunder rumbling and occasional flashes of lightning in the evening sky, Dimity managed to find a spot in the alleyway near the hotel.
“Luckily not many people know about this place,” she said to Shane, slipping on her coat as he removed as many boxes from the car as he could carry. She took a few trays of food from one of them to lighten his load and led the way to the hotel.
In the foyer the security guard’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at the cartons in Shane’s arms and the trays of food Dimity was carrying.
“Forbes Catering for Suite Five,” Dimity told him, resurrecting her haughty drawl.
This time it worked. The guard waved them towards the lift.
“Bravo, Miss Forbes,” murmured Shane.
“What a difference a dress makes,” she whispered back.
She was checking her appearance in a polished plaque on the lift wall when the door swished open onto a small, stylish vestibule. Hoisting the cartons onto his hip as he exited, Shane buzzed Suite Five. Dimity joined him as the Mayor opened the door.
“Come in,” he said jovially, recognising Dimity. “We’ll have to change your name to Miss Multi-Skill,” he added, eyeing the trays with appreciation.
From the background noise, the reception was already in full swing. The large living area seemed filled with people. There was the cheerful buzz of a successful party from groups standing around with drinks, a buzz that changed to a rousing cheer when somebody saw the food.
“This is turning into a triumphal march,” commented Shane, making an instinctive beeline for the kitchen area. “More than twenty people, though.”
“Whoops – looks as if they’ve brought partners. Didn’t occur to me. Hope there’s enough food,” Dimity said from the corner of her mouth while trying to look smilingly relaxed and proficient at the art of balancing trays.
“It’s only party food. They’ll manage. And if we leave them wanting more, it means they like it.”
In the centrally-located kitchen, separated from the living area by waist-high granite bench tops, Shane began unloading cartons. Dimity was annoyed to be claimed by Malcolm, with what looked like a substantial drink in his hand. The swagger in his step suggested it wasn’t his first of the evening.
“Very chic,” he remarked, his eyes lingering openly on her neckline after an approving glance at the food. “You didn’t tell me you had a catering business,” he said to Shane.
“It’s very part-time.” Shane gave Dimity a covert grin. “Too hard to get competent staff.”
She made a face at him behind Malcolm’s back then looked through to the main living area. Her heart seemed to stop when she saw Josh, decidedly debonair in a tuxedo, talking with a group.
Although he was smiling his expression seemed a little edgy. She’d keep away from him. He wouldn’t care if he saw her or not, anyway.
Then their eyes met and his face lit up. Almost before Dimity realised he had moved, she found him beside her.
“Let me take that.”
He took the trays she was still holding, standing so close to her that her pulse started galloping at a rate that surely couldn’t be healthy.
“Did you collect the food? You didn’t have to do that.” He looked surprised to see Shane.
“He’s helping out.” Dimity didn’t think it was the time to explain the extent of Shane’s help.
“It looks great.” Josh was puzzled but hospitable. “Don’t rush off,” he said as Shane moved past with some empty boxes.
“Thanks, but there’s more to bring up.”
Shrugging off her coat, Dimity sensed an absence of antagonism. The two men seemed mutually wary, but civilised. Interesting.
She deposited her coat on the counter and busied herself removing plastic wrap from trays.
“You look wonderful,” Josh said, leaning against the counter.
She smiled at him quickly.
“Same to you. And thank you. I did it without Sandy’s help,” she added mischievously.
“Very wise.”
Dimity picked up a tray of mini quiches.
“These need to go in the microwave.”
He took the tray out of her hands and put it down.
“You’re not the skivvy. Come and join the party.”
She felt herself flush scarlet. “But I’m not staying.”
His face fell.
“You’re going somewhere else?”
“Home. I’m not invited. I only came to help with the food.”
“You’re part of the marketing department. Amanda’s here, and Melissa, even though she’s on leave. Oh, and Gail.”
Pleased with Gail’s status as an afterthought, Dimity was also embarrassed. Gail would be livid to see the humble temp mixing it with the bigwigs.
“I honestly didn’t plan to stay,” she said, reaching automatically for the tray.
He covered her hand with his and bent his head towards hers.
“I’ve told you before,” he said softly. She felt his breath warm against her ear. “Refusal is not an option.”
Dimity was feeling distinctly oxygen-deprived when Shane reappeared, loaded with more cartons. Josh drew back.
“I have to take Shane home,” she said, remembering.
“I’ll get a taxi for him.” Josh hooked his thumbs in his belt and dared her with his eyes to argue.
“Do you want to stay?” Shane glanced at her. “I’ll call Leigh. It won’t hurt her to do something.” He unpacked the cartons swiftly. “One more load and I’m out of here.”
He was gone before she could reply.
“No more kitchen duties.” Josh put one warm, strong hand on her arm and picked up her coat with the other. “Come on. I’ll hang this up for you and introduce you round.”
She looked up at him, still undecided. But she couldn’t stand here much longer, with the touch of his hand sending all her nerve ends into a frenzied tap-dance. It was easier to murmur an acceptance and let him lead her into the living area.
Her evening went from good to excellent. Much to her relief Gail ignored her, apart from one ferocious stare. Dimity found herself talking to various tourism operators and meeting an assortment of VIPs including Global CEO Harold Woodman and his wife, who had timed a holiday in Australia to enable them to attend some of the convention activities. To Dimity’s relief Harold Woodman, a fit-looking middle-aged man, didn’t connect her with the forgotten phone messages. He seemed more interested in art than business.
“Nice place,” he remarked, looking around, “but we’ll have to do something about the trash on the walls.” He waved a hand at some prints that Dimity had also privately considered fairly ordinary.
“Maybe we can get rid of the alleged art work on the board room walls at the same time,” said Josh, joining them in time to hear the remark. “Dimity’s an artist. We’ll have to get her advice.” He smiled at her.
Harold turned with renewed interest to Dimity who hoped her blush of pleasure at Josh’s comment wasn’t noticeable.
All too soon Josh moved on to another group. Dimity found he
rself circulating too, but unfortunately in a different direction. She caught up with the Mayor and his wife, chatted to the owner of a Japanese resort and tried to hold her own during a rather technical talk about wine with two local vignerons. Somewhere in between she said goodbye to Shane when Leigh rang him to say she had arrived.
Before leaving, Shane had heated food and placed trays strategically around the living room. Helping herself to a cracker and a delicious avocado dip, Dimity decided that while there wasn’t an over-supply of snacks, there was enough to look respectable despite her bungle about the numbers.
She glanced up and caught Josh’s eye from across the room. They exchanged a quick smile that sent the blood singing warmly through her.
Standing near him, wearing a brown strapless dress that did nothing for her thin figure, Gail sent another poisonous look in Dimity’s direction, then resumed her fruitless attempts to monopolise Josh. He was unfailingly civil, but somehow managed to extricate himself each time. Finally, clearly irritated, Gail made an early exit. The suite took on an even more agreeable ambience.
“Different from your place, isn’t it?” remarked Josh, materialising beside Dimity at the kitchen divider where she had retreated to avoid Malcolm. Looking around the open-plan living area, he rested an elbow on the counter, so close she could feel the warmth from his body. “Minimalist, wouldn’t you call it in artistic language?” he went on. “It needs your touch to make it more comfortable.”
She smiled, then glanced at him teasingly.
““I must say it’s so neat it hardly looks lived-in. Not like your desk last time I saw it.”
He laughed.
“This place hasn’t had time to look lived-in. I’m hardly ever here. Might as well pitch a tent in the office until next Friday.”
His words reminded her that only seven days remained of their close association.
“Are you– ” Annoyed, she heard a catch in her voice, and tried again. “ Are you looking forward to being back in Sydney?”
“Not really.”
His voice was low. With his gaze holding hers, Dimity forgot there were other people in the room.
