screwed‐up paper balls. He picked them up, scrunched each one a little tighter and shoved them in so they all fit.
The drawing on his sketchpad was almost too good to be used as bait, but at least he had a plan for tomorrow—he glanced at the clock and amended— today . He placed the sketchpad face‐down in his scanner, pressed okay , and watched as the scanner’s white light slid across the glass.
****
Mick Jagger’s Give Me Shelter sent Christina groping for the sleep button on the radio. Her thrashing arm served only to give her knuckle an almighty whack and something hard thudded to the floor. Salt‐crusted eyes registered 6.30am and she rolled over and buried her head in the pillow.
Jagger wouldn’t quit.
Damp seeped beneath her cheek and helped penetrate the fog in her head. Not the radio, her phone. At this hour ? She sat quickly, flicked the switch on her up‐lamp and wriggled off the bed to fish the phone from the top of a crumpled pile of green chiffon. It looked how she felt. Then she retracted beneath the quilt, the phone against her ear.
“Hello?” Her mouth tasted terrible.
“Good morning, Christina. This is Tate.”
A car wreck of memories slammed through her head. How cold she’d been. Freezing by those stone pillars, waiting till she was two‐hundred per cent certain she wouldn’t cry because a wedding reception filled with relations was the last place on earth to fall to pieces.
The light poking around the curtain was only a shade off night’s pitch‐black, the street outside quiet. Wind stirred the leaves of the camellia, branches scraped the gutter.
“I didn’t get you out of bed did I?” He said it with the tone of someone who never let sunrise find him horizontal.
He can shove his pleasantries up his ass.
“I never intended to get my photo in the paper handing over a cheque to the Tribal Elders. I was never going to paint my tits and dance a corroboree and upload it to YouTube.”
The words burst from her lips.
If she told him about the work experience idea, he’d probably understand. At least he might mellow. But she was so pissed at him for not giving her any benefit of the doubt, she didn’t think he deserved an explanation. He should know her better than that.
“I’m sorry for being an asshole. I have to work on my tact.”
She snorted.
“If I start telling you now about everything that sucks with cause marketing, I’ll still be on the phone in two hours and I can’t do that because I have a plane to catch, so trust me. I can’t take what I said back, but I can make it up to you—if you’ll let me. I’ve been awake most of the night. I’ve got a brand concept for you. I can email it.”
She lowered her head until her chin rested on her hunched knees, trying to work out what she was missing here. A brand concept? It didn’t make sense.
“I thought you didn’t want to work for me.” It wasn’t a question.
“You’ve got nothing to lose by looking at it,” he said.
Her left thumb flicked the fingernails of her left hand, across, then back, like playing scales on a guitar. She wished she wasn’t so tempted.
“If it makes you feel better, Tate, send it. I’ll take a look. No promises. And I’m not paying for it.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
She spelled out her email address and heard his fingers tap the keyboard.
“I’m hitting send now.”
With a stab of her finger she ended the call and slammed the phone at the splotch on her pillow where mascara‐tinged tears had soaked in the night.
Teaming Explorer socks with her white dressing gown she padded to the bedroom across the hall. A practical timber desk, beige fabric swivel chair, filing cabinet and Dell computer sat opposite a sofa bed, folded in sofa mode. Until yesterday morning, Lacy’s wedding dress had called its cushions home and the room had yet to register the change. It still smelled of the lavender sachets she’d layered through the tissue paper, dried
The drawing on his sketchpad was almost too good to be used as bait, but at least he had a plan for tomorrow—he glanced at the clock and amended— today . He placed the sketchpad face‐down in his scanner, pressed okay , and watched as the scanner’s white light slid across the glass.
****
Mick Jagger’s Give Me Shelter sent Christina groping for the sleep button on the radio. Her thrashing arm served only to give her knuckle an almighty whack and something hard thudded to the floor. Salt‐crusted eyes registered 6.30am and she rolled over and buried her head in the pillow.
Jagger wouldn’t quit.
Damp seeped beneath her cheek and helped penetrate the fog in her head. Not the radio, her phone. At this hour ? She sat quickly, flicked the switch on her up‐lamp and wriggled off the bed to fish the phone from the top of a crumpled pile of green chiffon. It looked how she felt. Then she retracted beneath the quilt, the phone against her ear.
“Hello?” Her mouth tasted terrible.
“Good morning, Christina. This is Tate.”
A car wreck of memories slammed through her head. How cold she’d been. Freezing by those stone pillars, waiting till she was two‐hundred per cent certain she wouldn’t cry because a wedding reception filled with relations was the last place on earth to fall to pieces.
The light poking around the curtain was only a shade off night’s pitch‐black, the street outside quiet. Wind stirred the leaves of the camellia, branches scraped the gutter.
“I didn’t get you out of bed did I?” He said it with the tone of someone who never let sunrise find him horizontal.
He can shove his pleasantries up his ass.
“I never intended to get my photo in the paper handing over a cheque to the Tribal Elders. I was never going to paint my tits and dance a corroboree and upload it to YouTube.”
The words burst from her lips.
If she told him about the work experience idea, he’d probably understand. At least he might mellow. But she was so pissed at him for not giving her any benefit of the doubt, she didn’t think he deserved an explanation. He should know her better than that.
“I’m sorry for being an asshole. I have to work on my tact.”
She snorted.
“If I start telling you now about everything that sucks with cause marketing, I’ll still be on the phone in two hours and I can’t do that because I have a plane to catch, so trust me. I can’t take what I said back, but I can make it up to you—if you’ll let me. I’ve been awake most of the night. I’ve got a brand concept for you. I can email it.”
She lowered her head until her chin rested on her hunched knees, trying to work out what she was missing here. A brand concept? It didn’t make sense.
“I thought you didn’t want to work for me.” It wasn’t a question.
“You’ve got nothing to lose by looking at it,” he said.
Her left thumb flicked the fingernails of her left hand, across, then back, like playing scales on a guitar. She wished she wasn’t so tempted.
“If it makes you feel better, Tate, send it. I’ll take a look. No promises. And I’m not paying for it.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
She spelled out her email address and heard his fingers tap the keyboard.
“I’m hitting send now.”
With a stab of her finger she ended the call and slammed the phone at the splotch on her pillow where mascara‐tinged tears had soaked in the night.
Teaming Explorer socks with her white dressing gown she padded to the bedroom across the hall. A practical timber desk, beige fabric swivel chair, filing cabinet and Dell computer sat opposite a sofa bed, folded in sofa mode. Until yesterday morning, Lacy’s wedding dress had called its cushions home and the room had yet to register the change. It still smelled of the lavender sachets she’d layered through the tissue paper, dried
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