Chapter Four
Lilavati
What a rude, obnoxious, arrogant toad, I think for the hundredth time since I stormed out of the café on Sunday.
I lean against the kitchen counter, illuminated only by the rangehood light, and stab a spoon into the tub of Murray River Salted Caramel ice cream that’s serving as my dinner on Monday night.
My mood is not improved by having to watch the news before I start the first of five nightshifts at the hospital.
I almost never watch the news. It’s too depressing, and I get enough sadness at work.
But I’m under instructions from my mother, who left three messages for me today, to be sure to watch.
I wouldn’t want to miss my stepfather grandstanding over some massive merger deal he orchestrated that will change the face of the media industry in Australia, would I?
Change the face of his own bank account, most likely, since that’s all he really cares about.
God forbid any of us aren’t awed by Warren’s greatness.
No sooner has the story finished, and the presenter moved on to something about a sports star, than my phone buzzes.
Sheesh. I fire off a quick message to say I did indeed see it, and yes, he did look very statesman-like, and yes, it was an impressive feat, and yes, we should all be very proud.
But now I have to go to work. A good excuse not to answer any more messages.
Unfortunately, it’s a freakishly slow night, and I have plenty of time to stew over my recent bad decisions.
I wish I had a time machine so I could go back and kick my own arse when I came up with the brilliant idea of asking Ant Stevens to be my fake date.
I should’ve known better. Why would a drop-your-panties gorgeous man want to fake date me?
And not just for one event, but for an entire week? What the hell was I thinking?
I haven’t felt this level of humiliation since high school when I was always picked last for any team in PE. Which is ridiculous. I don’t even like the man.
And what the hell kind of name is Ant for a grown man, anyway? It had better not be a nickname or my insurance claim—which I really need to get onto—will be rejected.
I’m climbing into my car on Tuesday morning, having spent the better part of a twelve-hour shift trying to come up with a reason my mystery boyfriend can’t come to the wedding, when a message pops up on my phone.
Ignoring it seems like a good idea, since it’s probably Mum again, but if I deal with it now, there’s a chance she’ll leave me alone to get some sleep today.
It’s not my mother. It’s Ant.
Ant: Yes
That’s all it says. Just yes. I’m a bit slow since I haven’t slept in nearly twenty hours, so I don’t immediately work out what he’s referring to.
I stare at the screen, assuming he’ll follow up with an explanation, but there are no dots dancing around. Finally, I cave.
Me: Yes, what?
Ant: Yes, I’ll be your fake date. You ran out of here on Sunday too fast for me to say I’d do it
Argh! The man is infuriating. I’d just come to terms with the fact I was going to have to spin an unexpected breakup tale for my mother, and he goes and pulls this stunt.
Don’t bother flies off my fingers, but I hesitate before hitting send and delete it.
As if the universe is pinching my ear, a Facebook notification flashes.
Emily is posting manufactured drama related to her wedding.
Apparently, it’s an international incident that you can’t get the flowers she wants in Hawaii.
But her fiancé has told her not to be sad.
He’ll have them shipped in from wherever in the world they grow.
It doesn’t matter how much they cost. What matters is that she gets the wedding of her dreams. Hashtag couple goals, dozens of heart emojis.
Which serves to remind me of both his brother and the potential fate that awaits me.
It’s also a warning about the perils of marrying the wrong person.
Because you don’t have to be a relationship counsellor to understand the level of tantrum Emily must have thrown to prompt his offer.
Me: Are you sure? I know it’s a big ask
Uncharacteristically polite of me, but even I recognise I’m asking a lot.
Ant: Sure I’m sure. We should meet to sort out the details
I check the time. If I go home and grab a few hours’ sleep, I could meet him later today before my next shift. Maybe he’s working. Which would mean I could have another cup of that coffee. By which I mean another one of those brownies. They were next-level delicious.
Me: How about 3 pm at the same coffee shop as Sunday?
Ant: Perfect. We close at 3:30, so it should be quiet. I’ll save you a brownie
How did he know I’d been thinking about the brownies?
And no, it had nothing to do with him sucking the chocolate off those long, tanned fingers like a porn star.
Ant is behind the counter when I arrive at the coffee shop.
He spots me straight away and waves me over to a table beside the window while taking payment from a customer.
I can hear them laughing and joking as the customer stuffs an orange note into the tip jar on the counter.
Tipping is not a huge thing in Australia, so tipping twenty dollars for a café meal is generous. I guess it pays to be flirty.
The shop is much less crowded today than it was on Sunday. While I wait for him, I look around. I’d been too nervous to notice anything the first time I was here.
The vibe is perfect for a beachside café.
Wide windows open fully to the view of the beach across the road.
The polished concrete floor is generously studded with chunks of what looks like sea glass in blues and greens.
Lights are constructed with a combination of blue and green glass buoys and lobster pots.
An old surfboard—still covered in sand and wax—sits in pride of place on the white wall behind the serving counter.
The tables and chairs are weathered grey wood that reminds me of the driftwood you find on the beach, and in the far corner are groupings of outdoor lounges and chairs upholstered in greys, blues and greens.
Whoever put this place together has an eye for design.
And whoever runs it keeps it spotlessly clean. No sticky tables or half-filled sugar dispensers here.
I’m so lost in thought that I jump when Ant leans over me, bringing with him the fresh scent of the sea, and deposits a coffee and brownie in front of me, before returning to the counter to grab his own.
I refuse to read anything into the fact that he remembered my coffee order.
Except that I can feel a blush rushing up my cheeks, and based on the smug look he gives me, I think Ant notices.
“So, we’d be leaving in three weeks, for eight days?” he asks when he sits down, picking up the conversation where we left off as though it’s been a few minutes, not days.
I clear my throat with a gulp of the coffee.
“Yes. Will you be able to get the time off? Oh, no. I just realised. You’ll need a passport. I don’t think there’s time to get one.”
He grins. “No drama with holidays, and I have a passport. I’ll send you the details for the ticket. I presume you’ll book us on a flight together?”
“Oh, good. I’ll send you the information for sorting out a visa.
And the money to cover it. You could fly over later, if that’s easier.
” It’ll mean I have to fend off the matchmakers on my own, but I don’t want to inconvenience him too much.
Well, that, and spending too much time looking at his handsome face and …
everything … could be injurious to my health.
“I can fly with you. But we do have one problem. I can’t very well show up at this thing as your significant other knowing nothing about you.”
I was ready for this. I pull the fact sheet that I typed up before our first meeting on Sunday from my bag. Yes. It’s sad. I’m that woman who sat home on a Saturday night writing up a bio for a fake boyfriend.
I hand it over to a grinning Ant, who drops it on the table between us, without even looking at it.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to work for me.”
Why am I surprised. He might be prepared to help me out, but he’s still a bit of an arsehole.
“I was thinking more like dinner. Or lunch. I’m flexible.”
“You may be flexible, but I’m not.” I jab a fork into my brownie, wishing it were his hand.
Until it hits my lips. Then it takes all my willpower not to moan in ecstasy.
These things are divine. Crusty on the outside, soft and gooey on the inside.
Chunks of chocolate and flakes of salt littering the top.
I struggle to appear leisurely as I spear another piece and all but inhale it.
“I seriously doubt that,” he says with a dirty grin, clearly not referring to our schedules. “And doesn’t it only take one of us to be flexible to make it work?”
Shit. True. But I don’t want to spend any more time with this guy than necessary.
He gets under my skin. I’m not the best at thinking before I speak, and I don’t want to antagonise him before we even leave for Hawaii.
Once we’re there, I’ll be stuck with him for a whole week. That’s a long time to hold your tongue.
Double shit. We’ll have to share a room. I really didn’t think this through, but I’m in too deep to back out now. Note to self, call the hotel and ask to be upgraded to a suite. Hopefully, the sofa will be long enough to hold him.
“Fine. I’m on night shift this week. I can do lunch next Tuesday. But I’ll only have an hour. I can meet you at the hospital cafeteria at one pm.”
“You work at a hospital? Let me guess, you’re the one who chases up all the unpaid bills? Oh, wait. No. You’re the one who does the autopsies. What are they called?”
As I said, arsehole.
“I’m an anaesthetist, actually.”
He roars laughing. “That would’ve been my next guess.” As he did last time, he slides a piece of brownie into his mouth and slowly licks his fingers clean, while continuing to chuckle.
Gah. It should be illegal to look like him. Shame about the personality. At least there’s absolutely no chance of me falling for such a smartarse.
“Are you quite finished?” I, myself, am quite finished. My brownie, at least, and I’m wondering if he’d notice if I stole what’s left of his, but that feels too intimate and couple-y.
“Yep. All done. So, you put people to sleep for a living, and you could say I wake them up.” He gestures at the almost empty cups. “With the coffee.”
“Very clever. Anyway, perhaps you could read my biography before next week and make a note of any questions. It would be helpful if you did a biography of yourself for me too. My email address is at the bottom there.” I point at the bold line as though he could miss it.
He doesn’t respond, just smirks. “I have a question now, actually.”
“Yes?”
“You look like maybe you’ve got Indian heritage, except Lili Gordon doesn’t seem like a very Indian name.”
“My father—well, more correctly, my sperm donor—was Indian.”
“Actual sperm donor, or just an absent father?” he asks.
I bristle. Big surprise. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business, to be honest.”
“Perhaps not, but if I were your boyfriend, it’s something I’d know.”
Dammit, he’s right.
“After university, my mother worked in London for a while. She didn’t realise till she came home that she’d picked up a stowaway. That’s as much as she’ll ever say about where I came from. Except she gave me an Indian name, so I guess that’s a clue.”
Over the years, I’ve invented all kinds of theories in my head about my father and what happened between my parents.
Each wilder than the next. They met for one beautiful night, then were torn apart.
He died tragically in a plane crash. He was a spy and disappeared without a word.
I try not to think about the darker alternatives.
“It’s sad that you never knew your dad.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it was for the best.” I shrug. If there’s any chance he’s as much of an arsehole as my stepfather, I’m better off without him. “And Lili is short for Lilavati. It means charming in Hindi.” I don’t know why I added that last bit. I’m asking for it. And he doesn’t disappoint.
His laugh is so loud that the few people left at surrounding tables turn and stare.
“So, the opposite of your name is your destiny, then.”
If only he were the first person to express that sentiment. I know I’m not easy. I can be prickly and demanding and stand-offish. But he doesn’t need to be so rude about it.
“Very original. Like I’ve never heard that before.”
“I’m sure you have. So, Lilavati, I guess I’ll see you next Tuesday. For one hour.” The last piece of his brownie goes into his perfect, smug mouth. My eyes follow, and I’m not sure which is more appealing. The treat or his lips.
“Wonderful. I’ll …” I was going to say I’ll look forward to it, but although I may not be charming, I don’t lie. Well, except for the whole fake dating plan, but whatever. “I’ll see you then.”
“I’ll be counting the moments, my little charmer.”
I glare at him, annoyed by his smirk and the way he makes me feel, then stand and stomp out of the café.
None of that went as planned. Okay, I got the result I wanted.
But I had intended to be polite and nice and likeable.
Instead, I was my normal prickly self. It didn’t help that he baited me the whole time.
I just hope we can be nice enough to each other to convince my mother and grandmother we’re a thing.