Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
M idnight. My entire body is drenched in sweat. When I sit up, the room spins in a strange way, like I’m on a merry-go-round and I can’t get off.
I don’t know what’s happening. My throat is thick. My head hurts. My eyes have floating spots, like tiny little fireworks going off wherever I look. I am underneath what feels like a mountain of blankets, like I’m drowning. I’m not wearing my usual silk pyjamas. Instead, I’m in the bra and lace underwear I’ve worn to the dinner, and my bed looks like it’s been in a tornado, all the sheets are strewn up, and…
THERE IS A MAN IN MY BED.
I jump up.
‘Relax, Gemma, it’s just me.’ Weasel is sitting against the headboard, his computer resting on his lap. He’s still wearing his pressed pants from the dinner, and they’re completely perfect, as is his shirt. He’s taken his shoes off, and his white socks – brilliant white, not a spot on them – are folded at the bottom of the bed. Ugh, he’s perfect, always.
I do a quick step towards the couch where the hotel bathrobe is folded, and swiftly wrap myself in it.
‘Where’s my dress?’
‘You sweated through your clothes.’ He shrugs. ‘I had them sent down to laundry.’
‘Oh, um, thank you.’ He undressed me?
I don’t know where to look. I suddenly realise I’m extra thirsty, and down a glass of water in one gulp. My phone flashes. There are ten missed calls from Adam. ‘I should probably … uh, return these calls. Get some clothes on.’
He snaps the laptop shut. ‘I’ll go down and get something for you, for the fever, I just didn’t want to leave you alone while you were sleeping.’
Although I still feel sweaty and nauseous, I say nonchalantly, ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
He grabs my hotel swipe card, says, ‘Two minutes’, and disappears quickly out the door.
I glug another glass of water as I sweat in rivulets. Seconds later, a shiver comes over me. I duck into the bathroom, aghast to see my red blotchy face, my smeared mascara, my eyes dull and half closed. Leaning my heavy head forward, I splash water on my neck and face, and it’s so wonderfully cool I almost imagine my skin sizzle. While I’m still alone, I call Adam, and thankfully this time he answers.
‘I’m sick.’ As I say it, I start to cry a bit, because suddenly I just desperately want to be at home. In my bed. With my real boyfriend. Not continuing with this charade. I walk to the furthest end of the room, towards the window, because I’m very aware Weasel could come back at any moment and see me crying again.
‘Oh baby.’
I sink into a chair and close my eyes. ‘I vomited in front of my entire family.’
Adam laughs, but then quickly clears his throat and says in a more serious tone. ‘Oh shit, Gemma. Is there someone to take care of you?’
I think about Weasel. ‘Kinda.’
‘Well, that’s good, you really need to rest, baby. Take a Panadol. Hey, someone’s knocking on the door, think it’s my dinner. I got the beef tortellini with that red sauce we love.’
My stomach churned just thinking about it. ‘Oh um, nice.’
‘Call me in the morning, I want to tell you something big, okay? I think you’re going to love it. Hope you feel better. Love you.’
He hangs up so I end up saying, ‘Love you too’ to the silence and try not to feel deflated. But I can’t help it, a few tears run down my face. Why do I feel so alone in this world? Have I cursed a god somewhere?
The door quietly opens and closes. Weasel stares at me, a little aghast he’s caught me crying again.
‘Well, this is embarrassing.’ I quickly wipe the tears away. ‘It’s just because I’m sick.’
‘Right.’ He’s nice enough to go along with my theory, but we both know .
I sniff. ‘I know I need to be less emotional, less reactive.’
‘Says who?’ Weasel looks at me with those aqua eyes, those eyes that seem to reach into me.
‘You know. All that detachment stuff. Letting go.’ I don’t really know much about that stuff, but Adam says it all the time.
‘Detaching what?’ He raises his eyebrows.
‘Detach from uh … feeling.’
Weasel laughs. ‘What robot said that?’
My brain can barely make a word let alone an argument, and the room is still spinning. ‘I just heard it somewhere.’
‘Well, unless you’re an android, I don’t think that’s possible or that that’s what you should do. You just have to feel what you do, until it stops.’
Now I’m truly confused. I have Adam telling me to not feel anything, and now I have faux-Adam telling me to feel everything. Which one is right?
Shutting it out, I tie my bathrobe around me as tightly as I can, as Weasel unloads his shopping bags – which seem to contain an entire pharmacy – on the table. He’s bought one of everything – a thermometer, some Panadol, some things in Italian I can’t decipher, bottles of water, bed socks (WHY!), then a washcloth (supposedly for the fever), and even an assortment of herbal teas.
‘You shouldn’t have…’ I feel incredibly uncomfortable that he has done this.
He points to each pile. ‘Gastro. Fever. Those are for sleeping or jetlag, I don’t know which because it’s in Italian so we just have to trust them. Water. Thermometer. In fact we should probably use that now. And then socks, in case you get cold.’ I can see the clench of his jaw. He likely hates this weird niceness between us as much as I do.
‘Aren’t you worried about catching something?’
‘Nah, I’m pretty good in a medical crisis.’ A shadow flicks over his face.
I resist the urge to ask why.
‘Let’s see.’ He walks over to me and practically shoves the thermometer under my tongue. He pushes some limp, sweaty hair off my forehead.
I try to make sense of what’s happening. Weasel is taking care of me. My awful colleague is taking my temperature. I must be high as a kite with this fever. But does he keep his hand on my face longer than he should?
‘Thith feelth weird,’ I say, aware my entire body is shivering, and then, just as quickly, sweating with fever.
The thermometer beeps. He looks at the end and his eyes widen. ‘Thirty-eight point five. That’s too high.’ Then he’s popping pills like a doctor and pushing them into my hand with a bottle of water.
‘Take those. And do you want a cool shower?’
I raise my eyebrows.
He says quietly. ‘No, Gemma, I’m not helping you with that.’
‘Thank goodness,’ I say quickly, hoping he doesn’t see me blush at the thought of him naked in the shower.
* * *
The shower is glorious. The sweat slick runs off me. Two minutes in, I shiver and turn the water to almost scalding. As I’m feeling the water regulate my temperature I realise how strange it is to be completely naked, in a hotel room, with Weasel just a few metres away. I keep my eye on the door. I did lock it, didn’t I ?
One minute I’m worried about the lock and the next I’m having a flashback. Weasel lifting me up as if I were a feather. Weasel striding through the ballroom, his rugged blond hair perfectly in place. Weasel protecting me. Gorgeous Weasel, with large biceps, big enough to snap a shark in two. I can feel the tell-tale tingle of my body, my stomach, wanting desperately for him to just burst in here and shove me against a wall, kissing me passionately. I open my eyes and try to scrub the images away. Damn fever.
After the shower, I feel dizzy as I bend down to towel my legs. For a minute, I sit on the edge of the toilet trying to control the relentless spinning of the room. Everything hurts. I pull on the bathrobe, double-knotting it for safety.
I crack the door open a bit. He’s tried to clean my hotel room, the jumbled sheets now nicely back in place on the bed and the medication waiting in a weird little row, and he’s opened all the windows so the warm, balmy night washes in. A candle is lit, and the smell of gardenias wafts through the room. If this was anyone else, any other time, it would almost be – I swallow – lovely .
He looks up immediately as I exit the bathroom. ‘Okay?’
‘Yep.’
‘Sit down.’ He’s in charge.
Honestly, I have no fight left in me as I sit on the edge of the bed. He gives me a glass of cold water and then makes me a ginger lemon tea. My head is still heavy, and my cheeks are hot. I look at him while he’s making tea in the kitchenette and if I squint a little he looks like George Clooney, who has dark hair and is way shorter, so I must still be really out of it.
When he brings me the tea, I feel stumped. ‘Why are you being so nice to me?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we hate each other.’
He tilts his head, with a small smile playing at the edge of his lips, as if considering it. ‘We don’t hate each other. Do we?’
Yes, we do. We hate the fucking pants off each other.
I nod. ‘Course we do.’
‘And now?’
Fever fuels me and I can’t stop myself. ‘Now I’m confused. You like cheese. And books.’
He laughs and drops something into my glass of water that starts to fizz. ‘Maybe delirium has set in.’
I flop back on the hotel bed, wondering why the room has started to spin again. My stomach clenches. ‘God, I’m going to be sick.’
I run to the toilet and vomit again, then lay my head on the cool tiles for a while. There’s a soft knock on the door. ‘It’s open,’ I murmur.
This time his hands pick up my horrible, sweaty hair and drape a cold washcloth around my neck.
‘That’s nice,’ I mumble.
His hands are soft on my neck, then carefully they move to my forehead, checking my temperature again. Something unfolds in me that I can’t quite describe. He disappears for a second and I can’t stop myself calling out feebly, ‘Where are you?’
I hate myself right now. I may as well dig my own grave and just lay in it. I am feeling small, soft and vulnerable like a starfish’s underbelly. Because I just called out for Weasel. I obviously have Stockholm Syndrome.
He doesn’t joke or smirk about it though, meaning he must have a modicum of sensitivity towards a fevered girl. Instead, he crouches beside me, both of us huddled near the toilet. ‘I’m here.’ Again the thermometer is back under my tongue.
‘Shit. Thirty-nine.’
My eyes are blurry, and it’s hard to make out much, but he looks concerned. Really concerned.
My mind goes into overdrive. Girl found in bed, unresponsive. End of life for pasta lover. British-born Aussie dead celebrating sister’s Italian wedding.
‘Are you sad I’m going to die?’ I say miserably, my head resting on the lid of the toilet.
He laughs at that. ‘You’re not going to die. So dramatic.’
Am I?
I continue without a filter. ‘I think I’d be sad if you died. Not before. But now, maybe a little.’
‘Right.’ Weasel’s arms are around me again, lifting me up and guiding me back to bed. He hands me a glass of water and another tablet. I take it with shaky hands.
He waits for me to lie down, then pulls the blanket up around me. My eyes close but the pressure in my head is intense, pounding no matter which way I turn. I hear him back in the bathroom washing another cloth for my neck. By the time he puts it on, I’m burning up, and it feels wonderful.
I open my left eye slightly. He’s sitting up on the bed next to me. Close enough that I can smell the faint cedary-ness of him. He keeps his hand on the cloth on my neck, the weight a reassurance I didn’t know I needed.
‘You’re being very nice and … it’s … it’s … lovely actually.’
His lips twitch. ‘Really. A compliment? Finally?’
‘I’m confused. Are you nice? Or are you not? You confuse me a lot .’ Then I add, ‘Not that I think about it. Because I don’t.’
‘You don’t?’ I can see a small smile dancing on his lips.
God, fevers are truth serums and I hate them. ‘Well … a bit. I do think about it a bit. Sometimes more than a bit.’
He laughs. ‘Is that so?’
Immediately, I know I’ve exposed myself too much. Even in my fevered state, I try to re-balance it. Gain back some power.
‘I mean, I think about a lot of things too. Like why snails leave trails behind them. Whether I look weird when I lift weights at the gym, cos I scrunch my nose.’
‘Right.’ He puts his hand on my forehead, checking for fever, but then he keeps it there for longer than he should. Even with my fever, I feel it. He wants to comfort me.
I allow myself to look at him, and he’s smiling at me, as though he can see right through me.
My phone vibrates. He passes it to me. I’m hoping for a text from Adam, but it’s Han.
Okay, give me the goss. And if shit goes weird, just straighten that crown, because you are a queen!
I love her. I write back a response I think makes sense, about Weasel and being sick, and it won’t be until tomorrow that I discover I’m writing: in bed with a stranger. Am queen. Have washcloth…
I lie back on the bed, on my right side, facing Weasel, exhausted but smiling. Han is a godsend. It feels so good and reassuring to remember how much we are there for each other. It’s always been like this for us. There’s something about her support that makes me feel bold. Maybe it’s Han’s message or the last bit of fever, but I need to know.
Once the room stops spinning, I contemplate what I’m about to say a full two seconds before I blurt out, ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Yes.’ He lies back on the bed, shifting so he rests against the backboard. He removes his hands from my forehead and the lightness feels almost unbearable. Put them back. Please. When I’m sick I want to be wrapped up and held.
‘Do you think I’m a…’ I stop. I can’t say it.
‘Yes, Gemma?’
Before I can stop myself, I say quietly, ‘Do you think I can’t do my job?’
‘What are you talking about?’ He looks mystified. If he’s an actor, he’s a superb one.
He regards me silently for a moment. ‘Honestly, if you must know, you’re a good editor, a great one even. You can turn the sludgiest, verbose stuff into … well, an excellent read.’
This is a lot to process. How Weasel sees me. Coming from him, it’s glowing. But then, none of this makes sense.
‘So you wouldn’t want my career to end?’
He seems genuinely shocked. ‘God no, never. Why would you say that?’
I narrow my eyes, still suspicious, and try to ignore the pounding in my head. ‘How do I know that you’re honest? You could be lying.’
I can tell I’ve hit a nerve because his eyes darken for a second. He shifts uncomfortably. ‘Because that’s just the way I am. Radical honesty.’
‘ Radical honesty? Sounds like a dance fad where you wear Eighties fluoro.’
‘Well, I always think the truth is best. Why lie?’
‘How can anyone NEVER lie? It’s … it’s … impossible .’
‘For you.’ He has a smirk on his face that annoys me, as if to say, we all know you lie your pants off, Gemma Evans, just to please everyone and keep the peace.
Still, I’m intrigued. ‘Do you bend the truth?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Little white lie?’
‘Never.’
‘What about a “Does my atrocious pantsuit look good?” kinda lie?’
He laughs. ‘Absolutely not. Do you own a pantsuit?’
‘No.’ I vow to buy one.
‘Well, that’s a moot point then.’
‘Sooooo anything I ask, you’ll answer truthfully.’
‘Yeah. Try me.’ He opens his bottle of water, and stares at me like it’s a challenge.
For a moment I’m stumped. What do I want to ask him? So many things. Why is he a horrid human sometimes? Did he feel something the other day, when we kissed? What did he think when he undressed me? Is he being nice because that’s just part of the act? I’m still not sure this isn’t just part of some giant ruse to play with me. I’ve heard him say those words, It’s over , plain as day through the bathroom. I have the horrible idea that as soon as I let down my defences, he would just know he was in , and he’d use something I said against me.
So, instead, putting my walls back up, I retort, ‘What makes you think I want to know anything about you?’
Almost immediately, I realise how rude that sounded.
He raises his eyebrow, as if to say, Really, Gemma ? and looking at his face, there’s a tinge of something in his eyes, and it makes me feel incredibly guilty, so I quickly add, ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I said that, after you looked after me all night.’
‘Pulled your hair back when you were sick.’
‘Saw me vomit into a pot plant.’
‘Put a cold compress on your neck.’
‘Helped me when I was sweaty and gross.’
‘Undressed you…’
We both stop. His eyes meet mine… Undressed you. Tension and heat gather between us. It’s palpable. I look down so he won’t see my face is on fire. He’s seen things. What things?
I roll over onto my back to break the tension, and rub my temples as if I could scrub the night away. Weasel and I will go back to being enemies because it’s easier that way. He scoots so he’s lying on the bed, and folds his arms beneath his head, his elbow so close to me, I can feel the heat from his skin. We both lie there, staring at the ceiling.
‘Tired?’
‘Yep,’ I say, even though I’m not sure I could sleep. In my mind, I’m imaging Weasel striding through the foyer with me crumpled in his arms, putting washcloths on my neck, buying me the entire chemists’. And I’m wondering, what would Adam have done, had he been here? ‘Not sure I can sleep though. Room keeps spinning.’
‘Put one foot on the ground.’
‘What?’
‘Do it. It helps.’
I half think he is making fun of me, but I bend my knee and let my big toe be the anchor onto the floor. And what do you know, he’s right. The room isn’t as spinny. I can close my eyes without thinking I’m going to fall off some universal merry-go-round.
‘What the hell.’
‘Works, huh.’
‘Is this magic?’
‘No.’
‘Voodoo? I could see you with feathers and chickens.’
‘Uh, no.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I know some things.’ Unfortunately he’s right. He knows lots of things and it makes him more interesting than most guys. He’s not just a pretty head on a gym body.
‘How?’
‘Drunk nights out and other stuff.’
I want to know about other stuff. ‘Like?’
‘Some time spent in hospitals.’
Oh. This seems like an off-limits subject.
He adds quickly, ‘Not me. Anyway, it’s just something that works because of how the brain works, but I don’t think you’re up for a science lesson right now.’
‘I forget what you just said. Too many words.’
I hate that he’s so knowledgeable about everything because it’s almost a good enough reason for him to be so cocky. Truthfully, I love it. I want him to tell me more, I’m insatiable for weird facts. I wonder if we’d do well at pub quizzes. I’m great at English and geography, could he do science? My mind is twirling again, fever loops, and I beg it to stop.
‘Okay, no brain facts.’
‘Thank goodness. Maybe you can stop showing off. Like that first day I met you. Parading about like you owned the place. All suave in your dark blue Dolce three-piece whatever.’
He laughs. ‘Hugo Boss. It took me a year to save up for that. And it wasn’t the first day we met.’
My fever has confused me, but I know I’m right. ‘Yes, it was. Because Bec the receptionist practically had a fainting fit at how handsome you were in that dark blue with tan shoes, and you looked like you belonged on a film set.’
‘Actually, Gemma, want to know something?’ I can feel his eyes linger on me, and I’m not sure I do.
My breath catches in my throat. ‘Okay.’
He faces the ceiling again. ‘We met before then.’
‘No, we didn’t.’
‘We did. What I told your family was the truth – we met at the awards night. The Finch Memoir Prize. You don’t remember me. I think it’s because you were busy trying to talk to a guy – Dean, I think.’
Confused, I think back to that time. I remember Dean, the writer I wanted to sign. But how could I forget meeting Weasel? ‘I don’t remember meeting you. Surely I’d remember you?’
‘We said hello. You thought I was someone’s secretary.’
My poor tired brain is hunting through memories ‘Did I? Oh, that’s it!’ Suddenly it clicks. ‘Jason Hussein, Taylor’s editor, had mentioned he’d recently gotten a new male secretary. I guess, I must have thought … you must be him.’ Still, I don’t remember talking to Weasel at all.
‘That’s why I thought it was quite funny to return the favour, calling you my secretary that first day. Which seemed to tank.’
‘I thought you were being a misogynistic prick.’
He laughs and his eyes linger on me. ‘Obviously. But I felt you were playing along, like we had this banter going. And so, when you mentioned a coffee, I gave you a bit of stick about it.’
I roll my feverish eyes, even though they hurt. ‘You told everyone I wanted to date you.’
‘Did I?’ He smiles at the memory, like he remembers how charming he was, and doesn’t apologise, because sorry doesn’t seem to be in his vocabulary. ‘I thought it was just banter. I can get carried away sometimes, especially with you.’
‘Me?’
He grins. ‘Yes, you’re very easy to get into a banter battle with; it’s part of what I enjoy most about working at Peacock.’
This is news to me.
I feel a shiver coming on, and he drops the smile immediately, looking concerned. He pulls the blanket back over me, keeping his hand reassuringly on my back, which he rubs a few times.
He traces my neck feeling for the temperature, the pads of his fingers gentle. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘I guess.’
‘Did you move to Australia to get away from your family?’
I don’t know what to say.
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ he says quickly.
I shake my head. The fever seems to have loosened my tongue and without a second thought the story spills out.
‘Ummm, it’s okay. I can tell you. You can probably see it right in front of you anyway. But I’m going to do it not facing you.’
To his credit, he doesn’t say a word about how weird it is that I need to be on my side, facing away from him.
‘When I was about seven, my dad went away for a business trip. He met Marla. And then he just … left us. Me and Mum. He didn’t even say goodbye, just one day I woke up and he wasn’t there.’ I pause.
‘He was gone for a while, and my mum forgot to do things. Sometimes it was buying groceries, and sometimes it was paying our electricity bill. She was just absent-minded, and she got really nervous. Always worried she was having a stroke, or had cancer or some illness. I guess now I think about it, she was just hurting and anxious.’
I think about it. ‘I never wanted to burden her, so I just tried to help around the house, tried to cook dinners, and clean and…’
‘Be the parent?’
‘No, I … well … I guess. Maybe.’ I shiver again.
‘Did your mum realise?’
‘Ummm, no, I don’t think she can remember much about back then. We largely just pretended it didn’t happen. Swept it under the rug. Well, that’s until Lulu and Marla and my dad showed up on our door, and we all had to live together.’
I feel him move slightly on the bed. ‘Jesus. Really?’
‘Yep. Happy families. And my mum took over everything; she became Mum extraordinaire. And I was so worried that she was going to go back to how she was before that I just tried to be the happiest girl ever, the nicest, even if I didn’t feel that way.’
‘Wow. It all makes sense now. I get why you’re nice all the time: it’s because you’re pretending you’re okay. Because it would be worse to tell your family you’re not okay and run the risk of no one caring.’
Fuck. He banged that needle so hard on the head, it hurts. My heart actually hurts . I feel winded. But, at the same time, something in me unfolds painfully. I’ve never felt so seen. I roll over to look at him. His eyes pierce me like the azure blue of the Antarctic, like ice under water. I feel my heart beat double time.
‘That’s why the other day, when you told me I always do the nicest thing, even if it’s a lie, it hit a nerve.’
He breathes out heavily. He rubs his hands over his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
I swallow hard. ‘I’ve never told anyone but my friend Hannah that.’ And I don’t know why I’m telling you. I really don’t. You could make this hell for me; you could share it far and wide.
As if he could read my mind, he says, ‘Your secret is safe with me.’
My entire body flushes. For a moment I think it’s with relief, but then my stomach cramps. ‘Shit. I’m going to vomit.’
I’d never seen anyone leap so fast across the room. Before I can even get off the bed, a bowl is in front of me. A plastic fruit bowl, and then I am gagging into it, but since I’ve not eaten there’s nothing left, except the sourness and saliva. Disgusting. Even so, Weasel is holding the bowl and my hair back at the same time.
When I finish, he tips it straight into the toilet, without complaint, and washes it.
I wipe my mouth. ‘Sorry. That’s disgusting. So now you I’ve told you everything about me. And then in a final embarrassment to myself, I vomited.’
‘You’re a pest,’ he says with a wry smile on his face as he helps me back into bed.
* * *
I must have fallen asleep straightaway, and then slept for an hour or two.
When I wake up, it’s still dark outside, and he’s asleep too. I watch his pretty face, eyes closed. It’s strange, being alone, here, with this man.
‘Stop staring.’ He opens one eye.
‘I … I’m not…’ I blush. ‘But seriously, are you a vampire? I thought you were asleep.’
‘I’m on boyfriend duties, and my girlfriend is sick.’
‘Faux,’ I remind him, but my stomach flipped when he said that. My girlfriend.
I trudge into the bathroom and brush my teeth, loving the minty-ness making a fresh forest out of my mouth rather than a rancid bog. My fever seems to have broken somewhat, but he’s still waiting outside with pills and more water.
‘Now you’re the pest.’
‘Being strictly accurate, you thought I was a wanker,’ he says, laughing.
‘True.’
Then he paused. ‘Are you regretting this? Me being here?’
Yes. No. Yes. No.
I stare at him across the bed. He isn’t smirky and vampiric anymore; he’s the person that pulls my hair back; he is fun and bantering; he is laughing with me. I remember how it feels to wake up and have him there: safe . ‘I guess not.’
He gives me that satisfied smile, showing his perfect teeth and a small dimple I’d never noticed before, on the right. So faint you wouldn’t know unless you stared at him. ‘Good.’
And that makes my stomach flip for some utterly nonsensical reason. I get back into bed and snuggle under the sheets, and make one last attempt at building the wall between us back up, just in case I wake up in the morning regretting everything I’ve said tonight. ‘When we wake up, we can go back to hating each other.’
‘Sure, okay.’ His voice tells me that’s never going to happen. ‘Go to sleep.’
‘Yes, sleep,’ I say, snuggling down into the pillow. I’ll wake up fresh tomorrow.
Before I slide into inky blackness, I think I remember him saying, ‘Just rest.’
Then more quietly, but I heard him, ‘And the answer is yes, I’d be sad if you died.’