Chapter Twenty
‘How did the course go?’ Cleo’s expression was guarded. Guilty. Like she knew what an absolute clusterfuck the whole thing had been. ‘I one hundred per cent didn’t know that Felix had swapped out with Lucy.’
I sighed, letting the air puff my cheeks out. Where to start? She’d convinced me to come out to the pub and there was only so much time I could spend exercising and studying. On top of that, I liked her.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ I surprised myself by almost laughing. ‘Felix just … made a total fool of himself. Made it a lot easier to get over him.’ I told her about his overt thing with Morgan and how little he did to actually help with the course.
Cleo just shook her head. ‘What a dipshit.’
I didn’t tell her about Abel, but I suspected she was one of those girls who would probably read something into my body language and guess what had gone on. Like Ebony. Like Lilly. Did all women only think about men and sex? It was starting to feel like that was all I was thinking about too …
‘And, I forget, who was the retrievalist you were working with?’ she asked.
I tried to buy time by pretending I’d forgotten.
‘Sutherland,’ she said, like it had just come to her. ‘Of course. Hot. Grumpy as fuck. Oh, well, that would have been challenging all round. Sorry.’ She gave another apologetic wince.
I didn’t want to linger on the subject of hot, grumpy Abel. ‘How was work? As action-packed as you’d hoped?’
She gave me a knowing smile, her eyebrows dancing. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’
‘Not really,’ I admitted. ‘But it felt conversational. I don’t really know what else to ask you about. Met any sleazebags at ballroom dancing?’
She cackled. ‘You’re gold. Unfortunately, work was busy, and even unconscientious me couldn’t quite find an appropriate moment to disappear downstairs with Hot Locum. So sadly, not that much to report from the shifts themselves. Afterwards, on the other hand. Entirely different story.’
‘Okay.’ I nodded. ‘Well. Congratulations.’
‘Anyway.’ She flapped a hand and shrugged. ‘He’s gone now. Back October. More opportunities for inappropriate workplace relations to come.’
‘Excellent.’
It was near the end of my week off. I’d studied all day, every day, bar the time I needed to eat, clean and exercise, and I was happy with the progress I’d made. This evening was the first time I’d done anything beyond that simple cycle and it was nice.
By the end of the night, Cleo had managed to convince me to catch up again next week.
Why she possibly wanted to hang out with me I had no idea, but I was realising it was good to have connections with people.
Not just in a practical way, but on an emotional level too.
Cleo and the people I’d gotten to know on the course were making me feel that I was establishing a life without Felix, and I needed that.
Even if my housing situation was still a total disaster, at least I had a friend.
And the housing situation was a disaster. The noise-cancelling headphones I’d managed to buy were certainly a step forward but unfortunately I couldn’t wear them to sleep and the soundtrack of Vivian’s backyard was becoming my very own personal torture.
It was almost hard to believe that I’d actually fallen asleep to the sound of Abel reading to me four nights in a row, and that sleep had seen me through the first few nights of lying awake back in the ‘Granny Flat’.
I’d been positively charged up with rest after the wilderness course. But now I was back to rock bottom.
I’d scoured Gumtree rentals every bloody day. Multiple times per day. And .au. And .au. And the goddamn newspaper even.
But despite my best intentions and my best study plan, sleep deprivation was catching up with me and, as I sat there trying to work, the medical content was just swimming in my brain, grasping for holds but finding none, just drifting past like a train that wasn’t waiting for me.
To his credit, Abel hadn’t contacted me again since that first night. Maybe he was doing his best to let me focus. Or maybe he’d exhausted his interest in the whole thing. He was probably in the Grampians with Tessie or whichever other hot, outdoorsy type was currently orbiting him.
But finally, in a moment of slightly hysterical inability to concentrate on my study, I ripped my noise-cancelling headphones off and threw them on the rug.
My ears ached like I had spears in them.
Overuse of ear plugs at night had given me ear infections and my canals throbbed with inflammation and infection like a final ‘fuck you’ to my efforts.
With the headphones off, the ambient sounds dialled back up to 120 per cent.
The dogs howled. The wind chimes laughed maliciously.
I picked up my phone.
Me: Hypothetically, what would be involved in the house-sitting?
Obviously, there were ten million reasons why this was a diabolically bad idea.
I was stupidly attracted to Abel.
It was possible that I would do something really, really impulsive if I were to be in his presence again.
It was also possible that I’d realise that not only was Abel an absolute Sex God, but the loveliest man in the world and I might end up far, far deeper in.
The whole situation was extremely complicated.
Heart-bruising.
And very distracting.
But I was a practical person above all else. And right now, I had a housing situation that was clearly not sustainable, with no viable alternative, so an opportunity to house-sit for a short time was a practical solution.
His response came two hours later, while I was lying in bed with aching ears, listening to the nauseating, excruciating soundtrack of Vivian’s backyard.
Abel: Wind chimes going that well, hey?
Abel: I’d call, but reception patchy. Address is 42 Cara St, Battery Point. Key is under the pot plant on the right-hand corner of the front veranda. I figured you’d need it. Make yourself at home. I’m back next Sunday …
I didn’t let myself think about what the dot, dot, dot meant.
In fact, I didn’t give his message any more thought at all.
I just extricated myself from the shitty, saggy futon bed and packed my gear into my bags.
Fifteen minutes later, I was standing outside, waiting for my Uber driver.
I’d taken my perishables from the fridge.
I’d left the place tidy. I flicked Vivian a text saying I’d be back in ten days.
With any luck, I’d find somewhere more permanent during that time and could come back and do a proper clean and empty the ‘Granny Flat’, ready to move into my comfortable, quiet new home.
I was practical, sensible Mary Roberts and, for now, I had made a practical, sensible decision.
I knew instantly I was at the right house.
Forty-two Cara Street had Abel Sutherland written all over it.
White weatherboard with a tidy paint job.
Double storey with genuine heritage lace trimming.
Painfully desirable-looking. The stone steps to the front door dipped in the middle, tracing the thousands of feet that had trodden them in the last hundred and fifty or so years since this beautiful little home was built.
Only the roses out front showed any sign of neglect. I could see immediately they hadn’t been pruned in years, their dormant branches scraggly and unkempt. I had a full-bodied rush of yearning to get my hands on them and tidy them up, even in the dark with my bags hanging off my arms.
But regardless of the dishevelled roses, Abel’s home was gorgeous. I loved it so much it hurt a little bit.
The key was just where he said it would be and pushing the door open revealed a whoosh of homely air and a polished timber-floorboard hallway.
It was like being met with a gust of Abel and it was so delicious it had me momentarily doubting the quality of my decision-making skills. Could I handle this?
But I was too tired for further consideration.
I carried my bags inside and closed the door behind me.
It closed with a soft thunk; no squeak, no rattle.
The quiet was profound. I could barely hear the traffic anymore.
No sirens. No wind. (Or wind chimes.) No dogs.
Just the gentle hush and the faint hum of a fridge running somewhere. I felt the tension melt out of my body.
I switched the light on and a warm yellow glow emanated from the elegant, understated overhead fitting.
The house suggested a high-quality renovation had been done not so long ago.
There was a lot of white and warm-toned timbers, and big windows tastefully arranged around a few key features that held the house’s history, like the stone fireplace and the heavy internal ceiling beams. It wasn’t big, but it felt at once spacious and cosy.
When I came into the open plan living and kitchen area I could imagine the sun streaming in and I looked forward to coffee at the breakfast bar.
But right now, I pulled the curtains closed, creating a perfect haven.
It felt almost deliciously improper, the experience of seeing into Abel’s home and studying its every detail without him here.
Knowing that this was just how he’d left it, assuming he would be the next one to see it, not me.
There was something almost naked in that thought.
I tested the armchair by the couch. Perfectly soft but sturdy.
I felt the gentle strands of the woollen rug between my bare toes.
I picked up the climbing magazine on the coffee table.
I studied the book collection; novels I didn’t recognise, but which spoke to me of someone who read widely and intelligently.
I looked in the pantry. He cooked. He liked Asian flavours, and Italian.
He ate muesli and All-Bran. He had a fully stocked spice rack on the wall that was like an art piece.
I felt like a psychopath, drinking in all the details of who this man was.