doing it?
‘I don’t know why I said yes. I can’t do this, Jools. Every time I see him my resistance chips away just a little bit. You know me and my pathological addiction to helping people.’
‘Stop being such a drama queen, Lizzie. Would it be that bad to spend some time with Dan? I could think of worse ways to pass the time. He clearly wants to hang out with you and the only risk I see is that you could get a crick in your neck from looking up at his chiselled jaw and fine eyes for too long.’
Lizzie sighed in frustration. ‘Would it be bad? Yes. Very bad. Seriously bad. We’re talking about the Dan who slammed the door in my face. He’s just being polite.’ Whatever interest he might have had four months ago, and Lizzie was even suspicious of that now, was dead and gone. Despite the way he’d looked at her.
‘Lizzie, it’s just food. The man clearly needs to eat. Just chill.’
‘I don’t need to chill!’ Lizzie shouted and her voice echoed around the car park. ‘Oh hell, I need to chill.’
Lizzie heard the pub door open and there was a heavy thud of boots on the wooden floorboards. The sound triggered a jolt of memory.
That night, last winter. The pub had been busy but not jam-packed. A few tradies had stopped in for a cold beer on their way home and a party of day-trippers from Adelaide were tucking into a very late lunch. In the far corner, the Middle Point bowling club ladies were finishing up dessert, their celebrations for a member’s eightieth birthday almost coming to a close. It had only taken them a dozen bottles of wine to get there.
Dan had swaggered in, his hair and leather jacket misted with rain, and his tall frame had almost filled the doorway. He’d worn a shit-eating grin and there was sex in his eyes. They’d roamed over her eyes, her lips and her breasts and unashamedly stayed there.
He’d asked her why she was known as Lizzie and not Elizabeth.
‘Always hated it,’ she’d told him. ‘When people call me Elizabeth I feel like the Queen.’
‘Bye, Elizabeth,’ he’d said and winked at her, pushing his wayward fringe off his forehead.
Everything had changed just a few hours later on a lonely road.
At 7.30 p.m., Lizzie checked her make-up in the bathroom mirror. Entirely by accident, of course, as she’d just popped in to go to the loo. For the fifth time that afternoon.
At 7.45 p.m., she counted the bottles of chilled water in the fridge behind the bar.
At 7.50 p.m., she checked the time. Again. Was the old clock getting slower?
At 7.55 p.m., she reviewed the covers for the night, looked over the next day’s specials and wondered again if the sushi counted as a gluten-free option if it didn’t come with soy sauce.
At eight, she waited and watched the door.
She did the same at 8.10 p.m. and 8.15 p.m.
Dan stood frozen to the spot, sweat drenching his T-shirt. A wrench of pain arced to life near the scar on his thigh and radiated up and down, sending waves of shock coursing through his body. He took a few halting steps to the kitchen bench and gripped the counter top, knowing what would come next. A ferocious pounding in his chest and a terror so intense that it took over any rational thought and made him want to run and run and run.
Was this what a heart attack felt like?
The panic attacks only lasted a couple of minutes but the sudden onset of dread was bone shaking. It had a violent, uncontrollable and unpredictable power over him and Dan wanted to curse and shout at it, whatever it was, to fuck off and leave him alone but it gripped around his chest and his head like a vice and pounded there too. His heartbeat hammered so hard he thought his heart might burst.
When it was over, when his chest finally stopped quaking, he stumbled to the sofa and collapsed onto it. The wave was over but the ripples shuddered through him, inside and out. What came next was almost as bad.
The trying to make sense of it.
Why had it hit now, seemingly out of
‘I don’t know why I said yes. I can’t do this, Jools. Every time I see him my resistance chips away just a little bit. You know me and my pathological addiction to helping people.’
‘Stop being such a drama queen, Lizzie. Would it be that bad to spend some time with Dan? I could think of worse ways to pass the time. He clearly wants to hang out with you and the only risk I see is that you could get a crick in your neck from looking up at his chiselled jaw and fine eyes for too long.’
Lizzie sighed in frustration. ‘Would it be bad? Yes. Very bad. Seriously bad. We’re talking about the Dan who slammed the door in my face. He’s just being polite.’ Whatever interest he might have had four months ago, and Lizzie was even suspicious of that now, was dead and gone. Despite the way he’d looked at her.
‘Lizzie, it’s just food. The man clearly needs to eat. Just chill.’
‘I don’t need to chill!’ Lizzie shouted and her voice echoed around the car park. ‘Oh hell, I need to chill.’
Lizzie heard the pub door open and there was a heavy thud of boots on the wooden floorboards. The sound triggered a jolt of memory.
That night, last winter. The pub had been busy but not jam-packed. A few tradies had stopped in for a cold beer on their way home and a party of day-trippers from Adelaide were tucking into a very late lunch. In the far corner, the Middle Point bowling club ladies were finishing up dessert, their celebrations for a member’s eightieth birthday almost coming to a close. It had only taken them a dozen bottles of wine to get there.
Dan had swaggered in, his hair and leather jacket misted with rain, and his tall frame had almost filled the doorway. He’d worn a shit-eating grin and there was sex in his eyes. They’d roamed over her eyes, her lips and her breasts and unashamedly stayed there.
He’d asked her why she was known as Lizzie and not Elizabeth.
‘Always hated it,’ she’d told him. ‘When people call me Elizabeth I feel like the Queen.’
‘Bye, Elizabeth,’ he’d said and winked at her, pushing his wayward fringe off his forehead.
Everything had changed just a few hours later on a lonely road.
At 7.30 p.m., Lizzie checked her make-up in the bathroom mirror. Entirely by accident, of course, as she’d just popped in to go to the loo. For the fifth time that afternoon.
At 7.45 p.m., she counted the bottles of chilled water in the fridge behind the bar.
At 7.50 p.m., she checked the time. Again. Was the old clock getting slower?
At 7.55 p.m., she reviewed the covers for the night, looked over the next day’s specials and wondered again if the sushi counted as a gluten-free option if it didn’t come with soy sauce.
At eight, she waited and watched the door.
She did the same at 8.10 p.m. and 8.15 p.m.
Dan stood frozen to the spot, sweat drenching his T-shirt. A wrench of pain arced to life near the scar on his thigh and radiated up and down, sending waves of shock coursing through his body. He took a few halting steps to the kitchen bench and gripped the counter top, knowing what would come next. A ferocious pounding in his chest and a terror so intense that it took over any rational thought and made him want to run and run and run.
Was this what a heart attack felt like?
The panic attacks only lasted a couple of minutes but the sudden onset of dread was bone shaking. It had a violent, uncontrollable and unpredictable power over him and Dan wanted to curse and shout at it, whatever it was, to fuck off and leave him alone but it gripped around his chest and his head like a vice and pounded there too. His heartbeat hammered so hard he thought his heart might burst.
When it was over, when his chest finally stopped quaking, he stumbled to the sofa and collapsed onto it. The wave was over but the ripples shuddered through him, inside and out. What came next was almost as bad.
The trying to make sense of it.
Why had it hit now, seemingly out of
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