“If my best mate wasn’t getting married in two days, there’s no way I’d be going anywhere near the green. But you know, big Carl Jones always gets what he wants.”
“I’m sure if you wear a collared T-shirt and a good pair of jeans you’ll be okay.”
“It’ll have to be okay, because that’s the best I’ve got.”
He digs at the back of his cupboard, and slips on a navy, collared shirt, which I’ve never seen on him before. Next, he steps into a pair of dark blue jeans. Surely that’ll be acceptable?
“When are you meeting up with the girls?” he asks as he straightens his collar, and tucks the gold cross inside.
“After work I’ll go straight to the hotel. Tomorrow is a full day of waxing and primping and preening.”
“Sounds horrific,” he says, through a chuckle.
“It’s my job as badarse bridesmaid to ensure everything is perfect.”
“I’m sure it will be,” he says, with a wink. He puts on a pair of black skater sneakers, and scoops up his keys from the bedside table.
“I’ll see you at the altar, then.” I straighten my pyjamas as I get out of bed and pull the covers up in a half-arsed effort to make the bed.
“I’ll be there waitin’,” he says and walks from the room, a swagger in his step. The heavy front door closes a moment later.
In the silence of the apartment, I take a quick shower and get dressed for work.
Rocco seemed fine this morning, but I can’t keep using him as an excuse. I need to start making some headway of my own. I’ve been taking charge in my new job, loving every liberating minute of it, but there are two things hanging over me. Two things that have to be done for me to really be in charge of my future.
****
On my way into work, I call Vicky on hands-free.
“Hi, Sophie,” she says, excited as ever when she answers the phone.
“Hey, Vicky. Sorry it’s taken me a while to return your call. The last few weeks have been tough.”
“Don’t apologise. I heard about Rocco’s brother. Please tell him I’m thinking of him, too.”
Aw, that’s sweet. “That’s nice of you. I will.”
“Now, I’ve read through the documents you sent and made contact with bank. I’ve got communications with the bank confirming that the loan has been completely paid off, with all processing fees paid. You’re no longer liable, Sophie.” Her voice is all business with a hint of her trademark bubbliness.
“I can’t tell you how fuckin’ relieved I am to hear that. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m so happy this has all worked out. You’re getting your life back.”
It’s not about getting it back; it’s about starting fresh.
“Thanks, babe. If I can ever repay the favour, just say the word.”
“I will.”
Once I park my car near my work building, I flip through my bag for his business card. His name mocks me as my eyes cast over the pompous gold font. Time to call Fuckface and say goodbye for the last time.
“Greg. It’s Sophie.” I hope the reluctance in my voice doesn’t come across as obvious as it feels.
“Ah, Sophie. Well, hello darling. I didn’t think it’d take you this long, but you were always going to call.”
Cringe.
“We need to talk.”
“Yes. You’re right. How about we meet for lunch?”
“I can meet at twelve, twelve-thirty?”
“Give me half an hour to organise somewhere and I’ll text you the booking details.”
“Sure.”
****
He’s waiting for me outside the door to Buon Ricordo in Paddington, as agreed. The fucker wears a different suit to the one he wore the last time I saw him. This time, it’s a dark navy blue number, with a crisp white collar and striped powder-blue tie positioned firmly around his neck. Would make for a nice noose.
The pompous smirk that crosses his lips as I approach has my heart racing and my nerves on edge. Perhaps I should have told Rocco about this meet. This whole skinning-alive business is supposed to be a team effort, and I failed to bring my partner in crime.
“Greg,” I say, with a nod.
“Love this look on you, sweet pea. Much more fitting.” He kisses my cheek. I clench my jaw to stop myself from outwardly cringing.
Fuck you.
“Shall we?” I say, motioning towards the door and raising my eyebrows.
“Of course.” He opens the door for me and I walk through, doing my best to avoid his gaze. I needn’t have worried, because he seems to forget about me when two middle-aged business men start talking to him. He shakes hands with the suits, kissing their arse with compliments on a building project. I smile to myself in his shadow, thrilled that there are people here that know him.
Moments later, we are taken through the busy restaurant by a tall man dressed in black with clipped sandy-brown hair. He seats us at a table for two, and with great flair he tucks in my chair and ceremoniously drapes a white linen napkin across my lap. I fiddle with the corner of it and concentrate on my breathing rather than what Fuckface just said to the waiter. Why am I nervous?
The waiter hands a slim black menu to the pretentious arsehole seated across from me. “Can I get you something to drink?” the tall man asks Fuckface.
“Yes, the 2010 Jermann Were Dreams chardonnay,” he replies after perusing the list.
“Excellent choice, sir. And for you, madam?”
“Some ice water, please,” I say. The waiter nods and retreats.
“You’ve dressed for the occasion,” Fuckface says, and flaunts the dimple that used to do things to me. Now? I’m imagining taking a steak knife to it.
“I came from work,” I inform him, matter-of-fact.
“Really? Where are you working?”
Do I need him to know where I spend my days? Fuck it. I’m proud of my job. I don’t give a shit what he thinks. “Walker & Wilde Recruitment.”
“Great company. Heard nothing but good things. You’d make a lovely impression in reception.”
“Actually, I’m a consultant.” I leave off the junior part of my title, because I know it’s only for the short-term, and Julie has confirmed as such.
The waiter fills our water glasses and places a silver jug on the table, ice cubes tinkling inside. He returns a moment later and pours Fuckface a wine, and then hovers the bottle over my glass. I wave my hand over the rim of it, stopping him.
“None for me.”
Fuckface leans across the table, the muscles in his jaw ticking. “I just got the waiter to crack a two hundred dollar bottle of wine. Surely you’re not just drinking water.”
You can’t woo me, fucker.
“There’s no need to be extravagant, and besides, I’m not drinking at the moment.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to.” I put my head down and take a good look at the menu. I’d like to think that I have a refined palette, but I can’t even understand what half the shit on the menu is. I’d be more impressed right now if someone placed a fucking medium rare T-bone with pepper sauce and a mountain of vegetables in front of me. Now Rocco is on my mind.
“Bit too much eye makeup, don’t you think?”
What the fuck did he just say? Does he want one of these four pretty forks laid out in front of me wedged into his thigh or the meaty part of his shoulder?
“No. I don’t think so, actually. I like it like this.”
“Huh,” he says, and diverts his scrutinizing gaze to the menu instead. Arsehole.
The waiter returns with his plastic pen poised on his electronic notepad.
“What can I get for you, madam?”
“I’ll just have the stuffed calamari.”
“An excellent choice, madam.”
“That’s all you want?” Fuckface barks.
No. I want you out of my life for good. That’s all I want.
I grant him a fake-as-fuck smile and then direct the waiter with my hand to take Fuckface’s order. “Yes. I had a late breakfast.”