Chapter Ten #2
‘Clarence?’ Declan says, a hint of wry amusement in his tone.
Get it together, Clarrie.
‘Yep,’ I finally manage. I clear my throat and wrap my hand round my coffee mug for warmth. ‘Yep. That’s what I said.’
There’s a beat of silence.
‘It’s Declan Archer. I’m just calling about the email you sent Bri.’
Unease settles in the pit of my stomach. What is this about? ‘Okay.’
‘Bri told me you changed your mind about the tour,’ he says, and there’s something so condescending about the way he phrases it that I immediately feel defensive.
‘I take it back,’ I blurt out stupidly, just as he adds, ‘Everyone is thrilled,’ in a voice that indicates that ‘everyone’ doesn’t include him.
There’s another pause, longer this time.
‘Did you just . . . take it back?’ says Declan.
I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. What is wrong with me? I can’t take it back. And, even if I could, defensively yelling it at Declan Archer is not the way to do it.
‘No,’ I lie.
‘You know that you won’t be able to take it back when we’re in the middle of the bush with no phone reception.’
His voice sounds so damn smug that I want to hang up, and I hate that he holds the future of the bookshop in his hands.
‘I was joking,’ I tell him, wondering whether he’ll hear if I bang my head against the bench.
‘Bri thought it might be good for me to call before we leave,’ says Declan. ‘To clear the air.’
‘Fine,’ I say.
‘Fine?’
‘You’ve called,’ I say. ‘The air is clear.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that. Nothing in the air around here.’ I wave my hand in the air in front of me even though he very much can’t see me, and somehow manage to knock my coffee cup off the bench.
It drenches the bottom of my shirt and I stifle a yelp as pain lances through my skin and the mug cracks on the floor.
‘Was that . . . something in the air?’ says Declan.
‘No,’ I choke out, grabbing a cloth from the bench and ineffectually dabbing at my stomach.
‘Are you okay?’ says Declan, his voice stilted.
‘I’m fine,’ I tell him. I tug the bottom of my shirt. The pain has lessened to a dull burn now, but there’s no way the stain is coming out of my favourite shirt. ‘I’m looking forward to coming on the tour. All that camping and whatnot.’ What is even coming out of my mouth?
Stuff it, I’m taking it off. I’ve got my bra on – my fancy, lacy black bra, in fact, that I decided to wear this morning because after agreeing to go on tour I was feeling pretty rubbish.
We’re on the phone – it’s not like he can see me.
I hold the handset with one hand and manoeuvre my top off with the other, then flick on the kitchen tap to rinse out the stain.
‘Right,’ says Declan doubtfully. Then I hear a small intake of breath, like he’s about to wrap the conversation up, and suddenly it’s desperately important that I do it – that I’m the one who hangs up first.
‘Well, I appreciate your—’ I begin, glancing up from my shirt to the window – to see Mrs Potts staring at me through her kitchen window, her face a mask of frozen horror.
For a second we both stand there, suspended in a strange tableau, Mrs Potts in a nice blue top, holding her kettle, and me in my lacy black bra.
Before I very calmly and not at all frantically throw my shirt in the sink.
I duck down behind the kitchen counter and drop my phone, my heart racing as I watch it clatter across the floor along with the coffee and the broken mug.
‘Clarence?’ I can only just hear Declan’s voice, tinny down the line, as I scramble to rescue my phone.
I press it back to my ear just in time to catch him say ‘. . . okay?’
‘Fine,’ I say again, trying to sound like I’m not out of breath. ‘Yep, I’m fine.’
Declan sighs, and I can hear the frustration in his voice when he speaks again. ‘Look, you don’t have to do this. I can just tell Bri that you made a mistake. I know this is more than you bargained for when you told the press.’
It feels a lot like he’s being condescending, but mostly I just can’t stop thinking about the look of horror on Mrs Potts’ face. ‘I didn’t tell . . . No, it’s not . . . My neighbour just saw me without a top on.’
Declan pauses. I pause.
Idiot .
‘You . . .’ Declan starts, clearing his throat again, and I feel the blush all the way from my toes to my face.
‘Not like that,’ I blurt out, before he can continue. ‘I have a bra on.’ You’re making it worse, Clarrie. Stop making it worse. ‘I spilled coffee,’ I tell him. ‘And my neighbour hates me. She saw me the other day in my pyjama shorts.’
‘Okay,’ says Declan.
‘I mean, she doesn’t hate me because of that,’ I say. ‘She hates me because . . . Actually I think she’s just a bit of a jerk. Sort of like you.’ Not that . ‘Last week she saw me in my pyjama shorts. They feel a lot like my other shorts, but they’re pyjamas.’
Thankfully, Declan doesn’t mention anything about the fact that I’ve said the word pyjamas three times in five seconds, or that I’ve just called him a jerk.
‘Shame about the coffee,’ is all he says.
Damn it.
My entire body flushes hot again.
Stupid phone intimacy.
I lean back against the kitchen cupboards, the wood hard against my bare shoulders.
‘I’ll direct any questions I have to Bri,’ I say, like I have any semblance of professionalism left.