I pay no attention to what he mumbles to the waiter, instead, taking in the ambience of the restaurant. I’ll have to come back here another time … in better company. The waiter moves on to the next table.
Fuckface takes a large swill of wine and makes an ‘ah’ noise, I presume in appreciation. “Primo drop, sweet pea. One of Italy’s finest. I think you should try it.”
How about no, you controlling piece of shit? Was he always like this, or can I only see it now that I’m out from under his spell and have spent time in the real world?
“Again, no thank you.”
He shrugs and pulls a face, as if to say ‘your loss’.
“I guess you’re wondering where everything is at,” he says, after another mouthful of wine. “The bank is happy. All paid.”
I nod once, gritting my teeth. It’s the only thing I can think of doing to stop me from pulling my hair out, or his, in this classy establishment.
“I’m all moved into the family home, and have organised a painter to give it a freshen up. I have a designer tentatively booked in to come by next week, so I think it’d be good if you came along and made some choices from my selection—carpets, curtains, furnishings and all that. After all, I want you to be comfortable.”
“Right,” I whisper in astonishment. I can add deluded to the list of Fuckface’s characteristics.
“I’m setting up a home office so I’ll be around more for you and our family.”
I clear my throat and swallow down hard. Now he’s gone one step further than bat-shit crazy.
“Sound good, sweet pea?”
Each second in his presence is getting my hackles up, but I can’t lose it now. I’m here to make a scene.
With his right hand, he reaches inside his left-breast suit pocket and pulls out a pen and one of his business cards. My hands clam up in a ball in my lap as he puts the ridiculously expensive-looking fountain ink pen to the back of the card. In the same cursive scrawl that cursed me all those years ago, he writes down a name. Clara who?
The pen goes back in his pocket, and he slides a business card towards me with a hopeful smile. “Clara Banks is the best interior decorator in Sydney. Why don’t you give her a call, and you can work out what time suits you both next week?”
Adrenaline zaps its way through my bloodstream as I place my hand over the card and push it to the side of the table.
In perfect timing, the waiter places a dish in front of each of us. My meal looks simply too delicious to not even taste. With care, I slice through the soft tube, exposing the rich tomato filling. I savour the intense flavour with the zing of chilli as I chew.
“He was right. An excellent choice,” I mutter around a mouthful of the seafood. Of course I can’t resist another bite, because it’s too good. With the stark white napkin, I dab at my lips and then place it on top of my bread plate. I stand up from the table, and loop my satchel across my body.
Now I get to have some fun.
“I’m moving on,” I inform him, with a great sense of satisfaction.
“You’re moving on?” he growls. “What on earth do you mean? We are meant to be together.”
“There is no we, Fuckface.”
I take great pleasure in pouring the ice-cold water from the jug over his head and into his lap.
He gasps and shakes his head from side to side, the water flinging from him in all directions. His grunts draw eyes from every corner of the restaurant, including the familiar suits who greeted him earlier. Watch this, boys.
With my fork I stab what’s left of the calamari and fling it at his suit. The tube bounces onto his chest. Red sauce splatters in the centre of his crisp white shirt. It kind of looks like a gunshot wound.
As I walk away, I flip him the bird. As much as I want to continue to admire that look of disgust on his face, I don’t turn back.
This fucked-up chapter in my life is over.
There’s only one thing left I have to do, and it’s gonna be tough as shit.
It’s time to call the agency and say yes.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
SOPHIE
Friday
“Give the girl a brazilian,” I say forcefully, guiding Vicky to the beautician. I spill a few drops of my champagne on my floral kimono robe as she turns and bumps into me, trying to escape the claws of Anna, one of our dedicated therapists for the afternoon.
“Um, I’m not sure,” Vicky says. Her crystal blue eyes flit around to the women in the room. It’s as if she’s sending out an SOS with the batting of her lashes.
“You want a pretty pussy, don’t you?” I say, challenging her with raised eyebrows.
“I guess,” she says with a shrug, and lets Anna guide her to the waxing room.
About two champagnes later, April and I look up as Vicky walks up the hallway. Her face and chest are flushed a rosy shade of pink. The girl looks as if she’s been put through the ringer, and she’s walking funny too, wincing with each small step.
“How’d you go, babe?” I ask her, trying my best not to laugh.
“I want to die,” she growls.
“Hey, Vicky,” April shouts as she comes closer. “How are your bits?”
“My bits officially hate you. They’re drafting a formal letter of complaint as we speak.”
“Oh, come on now. It can’t have been that bad? We’ve all done it.”
“I swear the girl was trying to rip my flaps off. It’s the most unnatural thing I’ve ever experienced. She made me cry, April. I nearly told her halfway to stop, but I thought it would look funny. Then she asked me to check it, make sure I was happy with it. It looks like a plucked turkey! It doesn’t look pretty at all.”
Laughing hard, April pulls her into a hug. “Aw, my sweet, little Vicky. Don’t worry; all that pain will be forgotten when a guy’s got his head buried between your legs.”
Vicky blushes a deep beetroot red. “Promise?” she whispers, only loud enough for April and I to hear. “Because no guy has ever done that before.”
“Holy hell, Vicky. We need to get you a man. Closest thing to heaven you’ll ever get,” April says, and slaps her arse.
April’s words might as well have been out of Rocco’s mouth.
His mouth. The first thing that comes to mind is Rocco’s stud. The second thing is me coming apart under the command of that skilful tongue.
****
ROCCO
Jones, Stone and I sit and watch the sun set over the city from our hotel room balcony. It’s just been the three of us hanging out today. I whipped both their arses this morning at go-karts, which pissed them both off, but they both caned me this afternoon in one-on-one basketball. Neither of them believed me when I blamed my poor form on my dud knee. I told them I didn’t give a shit if they didn’t, and then sat back and watched them battle for the title. I’ve never seen such a serious game of ball in all my life. The sweat was pouring off them, neither backing down.
Today has been exactly what I’ve needed, but didn’t know it until now. Spending quality time with the boys. Time with my brothers. My family.
What surprised me the most about today, and makes me love these guys even more, is that alcohol didn’t even come into play. I can handle being around it, and I’m sure they’d both love a beer in their hands right now, but they’ve decided against it, and avoided it completely on Jones’s last day as a single man.
I turn to my mates and clear my throat, drawing their attention. “I fuckin’ love you guys,” I tell them.
Stone stands up in his chair beside me and ruffles his left hand through my hair, messing it up. I stand up, preparing to wrestle him to the ground, but I stop short when he holds out his hand. I don’t hesitate to put my own in his.
“Love ya, mate,” Stone says, and shakes firmly.
Jones slaps me on the back. “Yeah, what he said,” Jones says and winks.