Surely Fleur Elise wasn’t all that bad? She hadn’t been aware of all this dissatisfaction with it when her mother was alive.
Despite Marc’s sympathetic cooing, Amber walked back to her counter with doubt clouding her mind. Everyone knew Marc and Di were cronies. Maybe she should take up his offer of a swap.
Turning to examine the shutters that hadn’t been opened for years, she tried to visualise the sort of display Marc would be likely to mount there. Underneath all his fooling, he seemed pretty much in love with his dreams of what he could do.
But what about
her
dreams? She couldn’t suppress the thought that she’d given up her first big dream. She’d rushed home from Melbourne, left it all behind her, but for very good reasons. Her mother’s need had been desperate. But would she truly give up on the shop’s potential over a little bit of needed capital?
The trouble was she was
green
. Greener than one of her philodendrons. She was meant to be a dancer, not a businesswoman. With all the conflicting advice being flung at her from all directions she had no idea who to believe.
During the mid-afternoon lull she checked her Facebook page for news. Serena had posted her a funny comment.Smiling, she typed a reply. Then, all by themselves, her fingers typed Guy’s name into the search bar.
There were a few Guy Wilders in the world, but none of them appeared to be him. Probably a blessing. Who would want to know him better, anyway?
Her fingers, apparently. Because they went one further and Googled him.
Bingo.
She felt a small shock. There he was, looking impossibly crisp, clean-shaven and corporate. Involuntarily her blood started the same painful pounding she’d experienced this morning in the mall.
Breathing hard through her nostrils, she compressed her lips. He wasn’t a genuine musician at all. He was in advertising. Wilder Solutions, his company was called. ‘The most vibrant, up-and-coming ad co on the scene.’ Right. She could imagine that.
She read through the whole site, stung by every glossy piece of spin. No doubt it was all true, and they were brilliant geniuses at selling things to people who didn’t mind being cheated. Guy was certainly charming when he wanted to be. Persuasive. Seductive. He had all the gifts essential to a con man. She’d seen it with her own eyes. Felt the overwhelming effects. That was what professional liars were like.
He hadn’t even bothered to tell her the truth about himself. What he
was
. In fact, he hadn’t told her anything real about himself at all.
Guy stood outside Amber’s door. He was in no way nervous. He was a guy, and he didn’t have a nerve in his body. If something interpersonal needed fixing he’d do it, as he always did, with a few calm, succinct words.
Words were his forte. He shouldn’t need to remind himself of that.
He braced himself, then knocked. No glow from inside illuminated the opaque glass of her fanlight, but although night had fallen he’d learned that didn’t mean a thing. She could still be in there. In the dark. Doing who knew what.
He suddenly noticed his heart muscle thudding way too fast, and started as her low, musical voice issued through the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Guy.’ His words came out like a croak. What had gone wrong with his voice?
There was a long pause. As the silence stretched and stretched, Guy felt his tension tighten a couple of notches. Surely she wouldn’t actually ignore him? Then a light went on and the door was snatched open.
‘Well?’
He blinked. He couldn’t see much of what she was wearing because she was only poking her head around the door. One thing, she seemed smaller all of a sudden. More petite. Vulnerable. Though the instant that emotive notion kindled in him he stamped it out before it could take hold.
He noticed behind her some sofa chairs and rolled-up rugs piled in the hall, while his ears picked up the gentle, plangent notes of some classical piece.
He
Despite Marc’s sympathetic cooing, Amber walked back to her counter with doubt clouding her mind. Everyone knew Marc and Di were cronies. Maybe she should take up his offer of a swap.
Turning to examine the shutters that hadn’t been opened for years, she tried to visualise the sort of display Marc would be likely to mount there. Underneath all his fooling, he seemed pretty much in love with his dreams of what he could do.
But what about
her
dreams? She couldn’t suppress the thought that she’d given up her first big dream. She’d rushed home from Melbourne, left it all behind her, but for very good reasons. Her mother’s need had been desperate. But would she truly give up on the shop’s potential over a little bit of needed capital?
The trouble was she was
green
. Greener than one of her philodendrons. She was meant to be a dancer, not a businesswoman. With all the conflicting advice being flung at her from all directions she had no idea who to believe.
During the mid-afternoon lull she checked her Facebook page for news. Serena had posted her a funny comment.Smiling, she typed a reply. Then, all by themselves, her fingers typed Guy’s name into the search bar.
There were a few Guy Wilders in the world, but none of them appeared to be him. Probably a blessing. Who would want to know him better, anyway?
Her fingers, apparently. Because they went one further and Googled him.
Bingo.
She felt a small shock. There he was, looking impossibly crisp, clean-shaven and corporate. Involuntarily her blood started the same painful pounding she’d experienced this morning in the mall.
Breathing hard through her nostrils, she compressed her lips. He wasn’t a genuine musician at all. He was in advertising. Wilder Solutions, his company was called. ‘The most vibrant, up-and-coming ad co on the scene.’ Right. She could imagine that.
She read through the whole site, stung by every glossy piece of spin. No doubt it was all true, and they were brilliant geniuses at selling things to people who didn’t mind being cheated. Guy was certainly charming when he wanted to be. Persuasive. Seductive. He had all the gifts essential to a con man. She’d seen it with her own eyes. Felt the overwhelming effects. That was what professional liars were like.
He hadn’t even bothered to tell her the truth about himself. What he
was
. In fact, he hadn’t told her anything real about himself at all.
Guy stood outside Amber’s door. He was in no way nervous. He was a guy, and he didn’t have a nerve in his body. If something interpersonal needed fixing he’d do it, as he always did, with a few calm, succinct words.
Words were his forte. He shouldn’t need to remind himself of that.
He braced himself, then knocked. No glow from inside illuminated the opaque glass of her fanlight, but although night had fallen he’d learned that didn’t mean a thing. She could still be in there. In the dark. Doing who knew what.
He suddenly noticed his heart muscle thudding way too fast, and started as her low, musical voice issued through the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me. Guy.’ His words came out like a croak. What had gone wrong with his voice?
There was a long pause. As the silence stretched and stretched, Guy felt his tension tighten a couple of notches. Surely she wouldn’t actually ignore him? Then a light went on and the door was snatched open.
‘Well?’
He blinked. He couldn’t see much of what she was wearing because she was only poking her head around the door. One thing, she seemed smaller all of a sudden. More petite. Vulnerable. Though the instant that emotive notion kindled in him he stamped it out before it could take hold.
He noticed behind her some sofa chairs and rolled-up rugs piled in the hall, while his ears picked up the gentle, plangent notes of some classical piece.
He
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