by Foster, Zoe
‘Better than a secret wife in the basement,’ Mads said, without missing a beat. ‘Abs, why can’t you just roll with it for a while? Stop predicting the future and just be frivolous and fun and foxy for a bit?’
‘Well, I am, for your information. I even invited him to stay over last night, in fact.’
‘You RASCAL!’ Mads exclaimed in excitement. ‘Was it amazing and romantic and sexy and did you wake up in each other’s arms and have despicable morning sex?’
‘No, because he left. He was getting picked up to go fishing – who fishes? – at 5 a.m. by his rather handsome boss who, Chelsea, would be just your type, actually now I think of it.’
‘I have a boyfriend, but thank you. So wait, you actually got over your “thing”, and asked him to sleep over and he brushed you? Oh, this is too funny.’
‘Glad my vulnerability provides you with adequate amusement.’
‘He would’ve stayed though, if he wasn’t off killing fish?’ Mads asked, her eyes gleaming with excitement at this new development in her friend’s irrational need to sleep alone.
‘I’d like to believe so. He got snarky the last few times when he was sent home … Anyway, he wants to take me for a drink tonight … do you think it will look a bit wrongo? Like I’m taking my nephew for a cocktail?’
Both girls groaned theatrically.
‘HE ISN’T TWELVE, HE’S TWENTY-TWO. You carry on like he’ll be wearing a Harry Potter t-shirt and riding a BMX,’ Chelsea said, exasperated.
As she so often did, Switzerland stepped in. ‘Abs? No one will think anything of it. You look about twenty-five anyway. Let the man take you out for a drink. He probably saved up all his pocket money just for this very occasion.’
Abby sighed and pulled her legs up to her chest as she contemplated what her friends were saying.
‘Before you both fall in love with him, he didn’t text all week – did I mention that? Did my fucking head in. Why can’t people just text or call when they say they will?’
‘You mean people like you, who never text men back?’ Mads asked in a singsong voice.
Abby smiled in defeat and recognition.
‘So you’ll go into public with Marcus then, do we have confirmation of that?’ Mads asked, pushing romance and coupledom as subtly as a bulldozer.
‘Fine, fine. But only if Chels breaks into Jeremy’s place and checks in his basement for dead bodies.’
‘I might just fucking do that, you know,’ Chelsea said, frustration ringing in her voice.
‘Don’t worry, darling. I’m sure he’s done everything to make sure the scent of rotting flesh is gone,’ Mads said, reaching over and tapping Chelsea’s leg comfortingly.
21
In a move that delighted both parties, Marcus called Abby – who answered the phone – at precisely 6.04 p.m. and arranged a place where they could meet and have an Old-Fashioned at 8 p.m., a drink which Marcus assured Abby would become her new favourite way to drink bourbon, and which Abby flatly rebuked, due to the fact she would never find a way, let alone a favourite way, to drink such a filthy spirit.
As Abby finished the brief phone call, she realised she had completely failed to stick to her original lie, which was that she had plans tonight. The pace at which she was thawing out since having met Marcus was both electrifying and terrifying. Despite the heckling, the chat with the girls by the ocean today had helped. Abby knew her hang up with Marcus’s age wasn’t about to just switch off, but she could at least stop carrying on as though she had whisked him away from the day care centre in her Zimmer frame.
But pretending it was completely normal was so hard! She was kissing her first boy when Marcus was on the delivery table. Travelling through Europe when he was hitting puberty. Things like that wouldn’t stop swirling through her mind. But after spending an hour and twenty minutes on choosing her outfit – it had to be sexy, cool but not look like she’d tried; an impossible equation – she had convinced herself Marcus’s age was an issue only for as long as she made it one.
After all, she’d dated thirty-eight year olds who were less exciting, less talented, less intellectual, and far more childish. At least Marcus knew better than to text her at 2.30 a.m. when he was off his head and tell her he was out the front and they were going to the McDonald’s drive-thru in their pyjamas, like that fuckwit Ryan had done. God she’d dated some dipshits. Ryan was one of the worst; his Big Guy on Campus Finance Job was the prefect breeding ground for one of the most enthusiastic and badly disguised cocaine addictions she’d ever witnessed. This was a man who had a line before going to yoga; who excitedly took Abby back to his American Psycho apartment to show her a gun he’d bought. He was a real catch, ol’ Ryan.
It was a bit depressing in hindsight. But Abby was convinced that when she put her light on, when she actually wanted a boyfriend, they’d all come crawling out of the woodwork, ready to be the Best Boyfriend Ever. She didn’t have her light on yet, but she was definitely starting to think about maybe reaching for the switch. It would be nice to travel with someone when all of this newfound freedom came bouncing in with the new website, she’d decided. She could go alone, of course she could, it would be amazing, but a life in which she was deeply in love and had the freedom and money to travel? Inconceivable.
Abby arrived at the bar first; (Marcus had offered to pick her up; she had declined) or at least she hoped she did. It looked more like the wine cellar of a restaurant, dark wood, underground, capacity for no more than ten people catered for with three small rickety tables. Abby understood this brand of speakeasy was ‘hip’ but it was also a bit of a wank. We aren’t in the middle of the prohibition anymore, guys – we are allowed to drink, we don’t need to hide in underground lairs in case the cops bust in and confiscate our moonshine. Abby much preferred to drink in a place with a view, or at least some daylight, or at the very least, a cocktail list she could read without shining the face of her phone over it.
Turns out she didn’t need to.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ A familiar voice from behind her asked.
‘Trying to see what Batman’s serving down here in his cave,’ she replied, taking him in as he sat down in the chair opposite her, having kissed her lightly on the lips before he did so.
‘Well, don’t you look gorgeous,’ he said, taking her in appreciatively. ‘I’m the luckiest bat in the world being able to sit with you here and buy you a drink, do you know that?’
It sounded like hyperbole, but somehow when Marcus said it, dark eyes focused intently on Abby’s face, voice soft, lips curled into a small smile of delighted disbelief, it sounded entirely sincere.
‘And what might that drink be, do we think?’
‘Told you,’ he said, standing up to move the 23 centimetres to the bar, ‘an Old-Fashioned. It’s timeless, it’s artisan and it’s about to be in front of you, winking deliciously for you to sip it up. It’s a bit of a love letter to bourbon – or rum or whisky – but there are some notable appearances by sugar and citrus, too. You’ll love it.’
She loved the way he spoke, Abby realised. He and Mads would have a field day bantering back and forth with their witty turn of phrase and thesaurus-esque vocabulary.
He sat back down and faced Abby directly.
‘So, you gonna ask me about the one?’
‘What?’ Abby froze.
‘The one. The one that got away today! It was magnificent, obviously. Probably as long as that bar. And made of pure gold. With diamond scales. Pearls in its mouth. And I had it, totally had it, but then the bastard slipped away just as I was pulling him up.’
Fishing. Of course, Abby thought. Duh.
‘Well done. Catch any non-fiction fish?’
‘Course we did. I generously donated all of mine to Chris so he could cook them up.’
‘Or his wife could, anyway.’
‘No wife. And he’s a brilliant cook, actually. We should go over there for a meal one day. He thinks you’re great; would love to ha
ve us over.’
‘Well, you’re awfully matey with the boss, aren’t you,’ Abby accused playfully.
‘He was my friend before he was my boss, actually. Known Chris for about seven years; met him through my older brother Troy, he was his boss back then. He’s such a good man, Chris … I guess you could call him my mentor. One of a kind. So full of life, and hungry for new adventures and experiences. Webra is only one of his companies; he has three. Stupidly successful, a real entrepreneur, you know? He has an idea, he implements it, it succeeds and he moves onto the next thing. Can’t sit still.’
‘Impressive. Is he single then? Gay?’
‘Straight. Single. Always single. Has plenty of dalliances, of course, the occasional girl he’ll see for a few months, but he just … he just operates better single.’
‘I think a lot of people do. I think maybe even I do.’
‘Two Old-Fashioneds?’ A tall, thin man with several thousand tattoos and a thin moustache presented two tumblers brimming with ice and orangey liquid. A cherry completed the picture.
‘Thanks, man, they look incredible. Thanks so much.’ Marcus was so well mannered, Abby decided. He was a child, and yet he was a gentleman. A chentleman.
‘Try it. Fall in love with it. Go.’ Marcus took a sip of his drink, watching Abby intently as she sipped hers.
To her surprise, although it hollered of strong brown spirits, her least favourite kind, it had a sweetness and warmth to it that was rather pleasing indeed.
‘Actually, it’s not bad …’
‘He makes them strong, but that’s how they’re intended. Delicious!’ Marcus’s happiness levels upon knowing Abby was enjoying her drink rocketed; he was literally bouncing in his old wooden chair with glee.
‘Now that we’re becoming a little more lubricated’ – he winked in a deliberately over-the-top fashion – ‘I think you were saying how you prefer being single, and my heart was breaking a little bit.’
Abby grinned, the heat of the bourbon worming up into her head instantly. ‘Some people … they’re better when they’re part of a couple; they feel secure, like a team … they can’t handle being alone. But I don’t equate being alone with being lonely. I like being by myself. I get more shit done when I’m single.’
‘Hmm. It sounds suspiciously like you haven’t fallen in love with me yet, because if you had, you would be telling me you love being in a couple, especially with people called Marcus.’
‘You’re in a good mood tonight, aren’t you?’
‘I may have had a few cleansers on the boat, and then maybe one at home. But I’m not drunk, just fun.’
‘Yes, you are fun. So, where is home, anyway?’
‘I live in the city, down by the wharf. It’s this converted warehouse studio loft type thing, one living area. It’s got huge windows built into the roof for light, so you feel like you live outdoors, you know? I love it. It’s exactly the kind of place I lived in in New York and I never thought I’d find anything like it here.’
Abby’s mind was calculating all of this information at roughly the pace of a five year old trying to work a Sat Nav system, set to Danish. Loft? Lived alone? New York? Abby had done none of those things at his age.
‘When did you live in New York?’
‘I did a year of uni there, at NYU. I’m hustling to get back; told Chris we needed a New York arm of Webra. He hasn’t bought the idea yet, but I’ll add some sugar to my recipe and I’m pretty sure within a year he’ll take the muffin.’
His lexicon was confusing sometimes, Abby realised. Like she was out of the loop and a new language had been created specifically to ostracise non-loop dwellers. ‘Thankfully’ this happened often enough with her models that she didn’t experience a sting of feeling old or obsolete, more just a light pinch. She nodded and went along with it, praying his journey into the argot of hip dudes in their early twenties would be short-lived and was largely fuelled by alcohol.
‘Well that sounds like a lot of fun. I love that city. It instantly buoys me up … the energy is amazing.’
‘It’s incredible. It was a bit hard coming back here after that place, everything feels so insular, like, I love this city, of course I do, but it can’t compare.’
Abby was trying not to be too excited at the revelation that not only was he travelled, but that he had a hunger to travel again. She realised all her reasons for not being with him had started to dissolve; that this was occurring in direct proportion with the amount of bourbon she’d consumed on an empty stomach didn’t.
‘Shall we – have you eaten?’ Marcus asked, hopping off his chair to grab a bar menu, perusing it quickly before looking up at Abby. ‘How would we feel if I did the ordering? I’ll get us some tasting plates.’
Abby was hungry, and was thrilled to have him make all of the decisions. So often she was the one left in charge, organising and choosing where to go, what to do, which wine to drink … It was so refreshing to have someone come in and take charge. It was incredibly attractive, too. He was on fire, tonight, Abby realised, watching him chat convivially to thin moustache, ordering their food. His friendliness was so attractive.
Marcus sat back down with a happy plop, clearly delighted with the way the evening was transpiring. ‘So, didn’t you say you were busy tonight? Was that from the Fake Fiancé book of lies?’
‘I was busy, thank you,’ said Abby, who most definitely was not. ‘But it was a stiff dinner party, and I am pleased to have snaked out of it, to be honest.’
‘As in, you’re happier here with me?’ He placed his hand on her bare leg under the table, gently stroking it. She tingled at his touch.
‘I’m having fun, yes.’
‘So you admit you have fun with me? Even though you think I’m young enough to be your daughter?’
Abby laughed. ‘Yes! Yes, stop pumping yourself up, you maniac.’
‘I will admit I was surprised you came out in public with me. I thought you were going to pull some “Abby” move and cancel, to be honest.’
‘An “Abby” move?’
‘You know, asserting yourself. Reminding everyone who’s running this show.’
‘Am I really like that?’ Abby was taken aback. Partly at his comment, partly at the fact she was almost certain he was right.
‘Of course you are! It’s part of what makes you so sexy. Well, no, actually, the fact that you’re aware that you do it, that’s what’s sexy. If you were genuinely a control freak, that would be unsexy. This girl I was seeing for a bit, Naomi, she was a real pleaser, you know? She always wanted to make sure I was happy, and that everything was fine, and she never wanted to cause a fuss, or push her own needs, and at first I thought it was unreal, because we gents love to feel like kings, but after a bit, it became … kind of repellent, actually. I was so worried about disappointing her, because she relied on my happiness for her own happiness – is this too deep? Too much? You’re not meant to talk about ex-girlfriends, are you? Shit.’
Abby smiled warmly. ‘Not usually, no, but it doesn’t bother me. It bothers girls who like to believe they’re the only girl who was ever in your life, or who prefer to think you were a virgin monk before they came along. We’re adults. We can talk about whatever we like. Go on. It was interesting.’ And it was. Abby loved how emotionally aware Marcus was. And he was smart and a brilliant conversationalist. And he was sexy.
‘There’s not much else to say; it was basically a long-winded way of saying I think your self-assurance is very attractive.’
‘Thank you. That’s very sweet of you to say. Your self-assurance is equally appealing.’ The bourbon was making Abby extremely congenial, which was a surprise since she’d always figured the harder the spirit, the more revolting the drinker became. ‘What I want to know is how you know to use a word like “self-assurance”. Your parents brought you up well.’
‘Mum did. She’s an incredible woman. Dad’s not, he’s not even an incredible man; in fact, he’s not even a man at all. He’s a dog
.’ He took a long sip of the new Old-Fashioned positioned in front of him. ‘He walked when Troy, Katie and I were kids; I was five. He’s still alive, as far as we know, but he hasn’t bothered to contact any of us.’
‘What a pig,’ Abby said in disgust. It made sense now that Marcus was a gentler breed of man; he’d been raised by a good woman. ‘Did your mum re-marry?’
‘No, but she’s had a boyfriend for about seven years. That his name is Dwayne is forgivable only because he adores Mum and treats her well. I’d be forced to resort to Disney teen-movie style tactics if any guy came in and started making Mum unhappy. Dad did enough damage to last a lifetime. I wish him many sexually transmitted diseases and an acute gambling addiction.’ Another long sip of his drink, as if to soothe the fire in his body that arrived when talk of his father arose. ‘What about your parents?’
‘Well … Mum’s still around, she’s up in the valley in one of those revolting aged “lifestyle resorts”, where they get their own little apartment and garden and stuff and they all live together and pretend to not hate their children for never visiting.’
‘Jesus, that sounds pretty rough.’
Abby laughed. ‘No, she likes it, strangely. Chose to live there, in fact. They all do once they get used to the fact that this is their life now. She had me when she was nearly forty, by the way, she’s not some vivacious fifty-something fox living in an aged-care facility, secretly harbouring her escape.’
‘… And Papa Vaughn?’ Marcus’s face was prepared for something bad.
‘He died when I was twenty-five. Pancreatic cancer. It was horrific, and I still miss him deeply. He was my favourite person in the whole world.’ Abby smiled in memory of her father, and as a signal that Marcus wasn’t about to witness some kind of teary breakdown.
‘Oh, shit, Abs … that’s awful to hear.’ He reached over and placed his hand on hers, his thumb moving back and forward, stroking the side of her hand. It was such a simple, loving gesture; and coupled with the familiar abbreviating of her name … it didn’t take Abby’s breath away, but it certainly borrowed it for a moment.
