A Girl's Best Friend

  ‘Good luck,’ Angela said, giving me a quick hug as Jenny and Kekipi high fived each other. ‘This is really brave.’

  ‘So brave,’ I said to myself. ‘Don’t be a chicken, Tess.’

  Award-winning advertising slogan for chicken cook-in sauces and good life advice. Maybe I was wasted in photography.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘Where to?’ the taxi driver asked as I struggled to stuff my dress’s train into his car.

  ‘It’s downtown,’ I said, trying to remember the street sign I’d clung to so hopelessly the night before. ‘Um, Stanford Street? Is that a place?’

  ‘You mean Stanton?’ he barked, pulling into traffic to a chorus of honks and beeps.

  ‘Probably,’ I replied as I was hurled across the back seat. Clambering upright, I grabbed hold of the seatbelt and stared. Ruin the dress or break my neck? Tough choice.

  ‘Stanton and what?’ the driver asked, changing lanes with joyous abandon. ‘What’s the cross street?’

  ‘Oh,’ I replied, staring out the window and watching Manhattan blur by. ‘I don’t know. Is it a long street?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ He turned to look at me, foot still firmly on the accelerator. ‘Lady, are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?’

  The blank look on my face was all the answer he needed.

  ‘What, you want me to drive up and down the Lower East Side while you try to work out where you’re going?’ he asked, taking a drag on a cigarette.

  Rather than ask whether or not smoking while driving a taxi was legal in New York, I simply shrugged. ‘That would be lovely,’ I said. ‘It’s an apartment building next to a bar.’

  ‘The whole damn street is an apartment building next to a bar,’ he said, hammering his horn at a pedestrian stepping into the street. Silly him, imagine you could cross the street safely when you had a walk signal. ‘You gotta do better or I’m kicking you out when we hit Stanton.’

  ‘But I don’t have a coat,’ I protested. ‘And it’s freezing!’

  ‘That makes you the dumb one, not me,’ he pointed out. ‘If you don’t know where you’re goin’, why you goin’ there in the first place?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ I said, gazing into all the Christmassy shop windows and letting my eyes lose focus until it was all one pretty, illuminated blur. ‘I’m sure I’ll know it when I get there.’

  ‘We got time,’ he said. ‘And if you want me to drag my ass around town looking for a needle in a shitstack, it better be good.’

  Dropping my head back against the sticky plastic seat, I looked up at the stained ceiling of the taxi and wondered where to start.

  ‘So,’ I said, holding my hands up in defeat. ‘I met this bloke …’

  ‘You sure you don’t want me to wait for ya?’ Jerry the cabbie asked as I opened the passenger door. ‘In case he ain’t home again?’

  ‘No, it’s OK,’ I said, fishing a fistful of bills out of my clutch and shoving them through the window. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Naw, man,’ he said, a big cheerful smile on his beardy face. ‘I’m a sucker for a love story. Y’all take care now, you hear me?’

  ‘I will,’ I promised. ‘You have a lovely Christmas. I hope Karlena says yes.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said, gunning the engine. ‘Maybe she won’t be so mad about me working so many nights when she’s walking around with a rock on her hand.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I agreed, shivering in the street. ‘Thanks again.’

  ‘Happy holidays!’ he yelled, pulling away from the curb and hitting his horn and holding it until everyone on the street was looking. ‘Hey, Nick! Come get your girl, ya limey bastard!’

  Admittedly, the bit at the end of Pretty Woman, where Richard Gear pulls up outside of Julia Robert’s house in a white limo playing Verdi was a touch more romantic, but you couldn’t fault his intention. With considerably more care than I had taken twenty-four drunken hours earlier, I tiptoed across the slippery sidewalk, keeping my pin-thin heels off the ice. A broken nose would not go with this ensemble and I would hate to see Jenny’s face if I returned it covered in blood.

  And there I was again. Right outside his door. But this time I was ready; this time I would get answers.

  I pressed the doorbell, every inch of me buzzing with anticipation and a smile on my face I couldn’t control.

  No answer. I pressed it again and waited. And waited. And waited.

  For the second time in twenty-four hours, Nick was not home. Maybe he went out of town for the holidays, I thought. In which case you just look stupid. Or, the considerate voice in my head suggested, he is home, he knows it’s you and he’s not answering.

  So much for taking control of the situation.

  There were only two ways to shut up unhelpful inner monologues and those were with booze and online shopping and since I’d bankrupted myself at the Apple store and the roaming charges on my phone were already ridiculous, I decided to opt for the booze. I couldn’t wait on Nick’s doorstep until he decided to show himself unless I wanted him to find a ridiculously overdressed snowman outside his apartment, so I made my way to the bar next door.

  ‘What can I get you?’ the bartender asked, not even batting an eyelid at my haute couture as I manhandled myself onto a stool. These dresses were not designed for sitting down – no wonder all the actresses at the Oscars were so skinny.

  ‘Do you have wine?’ I asked.

  ‘I do, but you don’t want it,’ he assured me. ‘I’ll make you something.’

  I nodded and emptied my bag onto the bar, looking for my dollar bills. My phone, a pen, two lipsticks and a just-in-case hair tie clattered out and my phone lit up with seven new text messages, all from Amy.

  I reluctantly opened the inbox to find four messages, saying ‘WHERE R U?’ two ‘IM FREAKING OUT’s and one last ‘TESS?????’

  Oh, fuckityfuckcockbollocks.

  ‘Here you go.’ The bartender set a tall glass down on in front of me, wet with condensation and chilled by one long spear of an ice cube that was almost as big as the glass itself.

  I offered him a polite smile as I tapped out a reply to Amy but I didn’t have a clue what to say. Why hadn’t Kekipi told her I was coming back?

  ‘It’s a cinnamon and apple infused bourbon base,’ he explained, leaning over towards me and pointing to the drink. ‘Mixed with a little sweet and sour mix, a little sweet sugar syrup, ten fresh mint leaves and a paper-thin slice of a red delicious apple.’

  I looked at him, picked up the drink and took a sip.

  ‘Tasty,’ I said, picking out the giant ice cube and dropping it on the bar.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said with an adorable lopsided grin. ‘You muddle all of that together and then top it off with …’

  The adorable lopsided grin faded as I pulled out the straw and chugged the entire thing in one go.

  ‘Really, very nice,’ I said, placing a twenty-dollar bill in his hand. ‘Thank you. I have to go.’

  Pulling my silky straight hair into a topknot, I threw the rest of my things back in my handbag and rubbed my bare arms as the cinnamon and apple infused bourbon warmed me up inside. It was only 8.30; I could be back at the Armory in twenty minutes if I left now. The presentation wasn’t scheduled to end until 9.30. I had tons of time.

  But leaving would have been a lot easier if Nick Miller hadn’t been standing between me and the door.

  ‘Of all the bars in all the cities,’ he said, smiling at me, as easy as anything. ‘Is it really you?’

  I stared at him for a moment, my fingers clenching around my handbag.

  ‘Tess Brookes.’ His voice was just the same as I remembered. Heavy and dark and deep. ‘You didn’t have to dress up; this place is fairly casual.’

  I’ve never been a violent person. When Verity Johnson challenged me to a fight after school in year nine, I showed up, I took one punch to the nose and I hit the deck. The last thing I remember from that day was watching as Amy leapt over my prone form with a batt
le cry that put Braveheart to shame and ever since, whenever confrontation became unavoidable, I found nodding and/or shaking my head while saying ‘oh really?’ over and over really helped take the sting out of most situations. Throwing hands was never really called for, in my opinion.

  But right there, stood in the bar, full of fancy bourbon and five months of frustration, I saw red. I dropped my bag on the floor, pulled back my arm and slapped Nick Miller across the face, as hard as I possibly could.

  ‘You absolute, total shitting wanker,’ I yelled as Nick stood there, staring at me in a state of shock.

  ‘Hey there, woah!’ the bartender yelled. ‘What the hell?’

  Stunned by my own outburst, I stuck my throbbing hand under my armpit and stared back at Nick. He hadn’t moved an inch but a bright red, hand-shaped slap was beginning to bloom on his left cheek. Blinking, he opened his mouth wide, moving his jaw slowly from side to side.

  ‘Your hand all right?’ he asked, bending down to pick up my bag.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘It hurts.’

  And it did. My palm stung like a bastard.

  ‘Good,’ he said before waving to the bartender. ‘Sorry, Joe. It’s all right.’

  ‘If you say so, dude,’ he said, shaking his hipster haircut. ‘If you say so.’

  Nick took a step towards me and I immediately took a step back.

  ‘What?’ he said, holding up his hands in surrender, sparkly clutch bag held aloft. ‘I’m not the one who just decked you in the face. Can we go upstairs, please?’ He held out his hand and looked me in the eye. Crossing my arms, I shook my head.

  ‘You want to do this here?’ he asked in a low, gruff voice.

  ‘I don’t think I want to do it at all,’ I said, grabbing my bag and pushing straight past him, out the door and onto the street. ‘I have somewhere to be.’

  ‘Tess, wait!’

  I was too angry to be cold this time, my arm flung out in the air as I tried to flag down a taxi with my camera bashing against my hip.

  ‘Tess!’

  ‘What?’ I turned to look at him without lowering my arm. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To talk.’ He threw his hands up in the air. ‘Come upstairs, please.’

  ‘No,’ I said, searching the street for a cab. ‘I waited months to talk and now I don’t have anything left to say.’

  ‘You’re the one who came here,’ he protested. ‘Don’t pretend this is an odd coincidence, you being in the bar next to my house, because there’s just no way.’

  ‘No, I came to see you,’ I admitted. ‘But now I’m not sure why.’

  ‘I think you are,’ he said. ‘I think you’re just scared to admit it.’

  It was almost as though he wanted me to slap him again.

  ‘Will you do me a favour?’ I asked.

  ‘If I can,’ he said, his fingers matching up with the mark I had left on his face, almost as though we were holding hands.

  ‘Please tell me you’re not interested,’ I said. My voice broke as I spoke but I was determined to get the words out. ‘Tell me we’re not a thing and we never were, that it’s over so I can put an end to it all, then let me leave.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ he asked, any trace of a smile gone from his eyes. ‘You want me to tell you that?’

  ‘It would be easier,’ I said, knowing it wouldn’t, not really.

  ‘I’m not doing this out here,’ he grunted, grabbing hold of my wrist so abruptly I almost lost my balance. ‘Come upstairs.’

  ‘No!’ I tried to shake him off but the ice was too slippery and he was too strong.

  ‘Five minutes,’ he said, his eyes locked on mine. ‘And then you can do whatever you want.’

  ‘You’ve had five months,’ I replied, not really fighting as he pulled me towards his door. Why was it so hard to walk away? ‘What’s different now?’

  He turned towards me, the shoulders of his leather jacket dusted with snow. ‘You came down here to see me, didn’t you? Now I’m here, you’re going to leave?’

  A boxy yellow taxi rounded the corner and slowed down as he saw me waving manically in his direction.

  ‘Tess.’ Nick placed his hand on my arm and drew it gently down by my side. The cab drove on. Without me. ‘I want five minutes.’

  I studied him closely, almost afraid to look away, my bare skin tingling where he touched me. I was afraid he would vanish if I took my eyes off him.

  ‘Five minutes,’ I relented as his fingers slid down my arm and wove themselves around my own and a familiar feeling of excitement bubbled up in my stomach. ‘And that’s all.’

  Nick nodded, a smile appearing on his face as he unlocked his front door and pulled me inside.

  Seeing his home for the first time was like seeing his handwriting: if someone had shown me a photo without telling me it was his, I still would have known. Dim lighting glowed from industrial fixtures that hung low from the ceiling, a worn leather couch and mismatched armchair were placed carelessly around the low coffee table and I saw book after book after book lining the walls. There was barely a square foot of brick visible behind his home library.

  With his hands on his hips, Nick closed the door behind me and inhaled slowly, deeply, before letting out a long sigh. With my arms folded, protecting myself, I lifted my chin in defiance and remained silent. I tried to live by the rule of if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. And I had nothing.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he said, observing me from a safe distance, the air between us crackling. Of what, I wasn’t quite sure.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, trying to step forward and immediately being yanked backwards. ‘Oh, balls.’

  Nick looked back at me with a raised eyebrow and tossed his leather jacket onto his sofa.

  ‘My dress,’ I explained, panic rising. ‘It’s stuck on something.’

  ‘What?’

  I tried to turn around to try to see where I was caught but every time I moved, I felt the delicate fabric of the dress shiver and froze.

  ‘Can you see what it’s hooked on?’ I asked, terrified of destroying the dress. How many hundreds of hours had it taken to stitch on all these sequins? I mean, pailettes? It might have been incredibly heavy but I couldn’t shake the notion that one pull and the whole thing would unravel.

  Nick wiped a hand over his jaw, as if to cover an unwanted smile and bent down behind me as I looked up at the ceiling and held my breath.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he said as he slid down onto his belly, his shirt riding up his back. I can’t see … oh, there it is. Hang on.’

  He reached behind me, one hand on my hip to steady himself and twisted his keys to open the front door. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Your train was waiting for you outside. Haute couture with an in-built chaperone? Might catch on.’

  I took a half-step forward and felt my dress sigh around my body, everything falling back into place. I looked down at Nick, still on the floor, still with his hand on my hip. It was just for a second, just as he got to his feet but a second was all it took. By the time I’d blinked, he was in front of me and the rest happened without a second thought. I grabbed the back of his head and kissed him, hard, and everything else was gone. I wasn’t worried about work, Charlie, Amy, Al, what I should or shouldn’t be doing because I was doing the only thing that mattered. Nick dropped his keys on the floor and backed me up against the door, his hands wrapped around my face, fingertips in my hair, his eyes closed. Nothing else mattered.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ he said, his words almost lost in his kisses. ‘Why didn’t you call me? You’ve been killing me.’

  My head banged against the door and my breath caught in my throat and I was completely lost. He pulled back, his breath caught in his throat, and ran his thumb over my lips. The way he smelled, the way he tasted, the way he knew exactly where to touch me, it was all too much in the best way and when he was kissed me again, I could taste blood. A Nick Miller signature.

  Wait, why
hadn’t I called him? Is that what he just said?

  As his hands travelled down my body, catching on each and every pailette as he went, I knew I had a choice. I could keep my eyes closed and let this happen or I could stop it and make him explain himself. His lips pulled away from mine, moving to my throat and following the low-cut neckline of my dress, down my collarbone.

  ‘Nick,’ I said, my voice little more than a ragged croak. ‘Stop.’

  ‘Why are you talking?’ he asked, lowering himself to his knees and running his hands over my backside. ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘I mean it,’ I pushed him away as hard as I could and watched as he sprawled backwards, a look of surprise on his face and an unmistakeable bulge in his trousers. ‘Stop.’

  The unreadable look on Nick’s face disappeared and was replaced by an equally infuriating grin.

  ‘Oh, Tess,’ he said, rising to his knees. ‘You are in so much trouble.’

  ‘I know, Amy’s going to kill me,’ I replied, straightening my dress and moving quickly away from the door and over to the kitchen; I needed to be further away from him to keep a clear head. ‘What do you mean, why didn’t I call you? I don’t understand, you’re the one who ended things.’

  There was something on his face as he stood slowly, adjusting the front of his trousers as he followed me into the kitchen. I understood the frustration – the annoyance perhaps not so much. I quickly sat down at a small wooden table – putting two pieces of furniture between us seemed like a good idea.

  ‘Drink?’ he asked, turning his back to me. ‘I know I need one.’

  ‘Water, please,’ I chirped, placing my bag on the table. ‘Why didn’t you reply to my text two days ago?’

  Nick was opening cupboards and running taps. He shrugged with his back to me.

  ‘I was going to,’ he replied. ‘But I didn’t know what you wanted me to say.’

  He was the most frustrating man alive.

  ‘Did you consider replying with what you wanted to say?’ I asked.

  He turned back to look at me with two glasses in his hands and smiled before turning back to the business of drinks. Why had I even imagined I would get an answer? When were things with him ever straightforward?