Chapter Eighteen
Elle
And – just to make sure I’ve understood correctly—’ Keisha said softly as she watched me slide the poster onto the Xerox machine at the public library, ‘this is all to help that cute British guy who you don’t like, and who doesn’t like you?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ I agreed. ‘But only because it’s going to help me, too.’
My index finger danced over the numbers on the screen as I debated whether fifty or one hundred was the best number of copies to make.
Little Italy wasn’t a big neighbourhood, but if we got a tip-off for another area, then a few extras would be useful.
I compromised and decided on seventy-five, hitting ‘copy’.
Sun streamed in the window behind Keisha, lighting the edges of her black hair auburn, a halo of dust motes floating above her.
Knowing she spent most of her mornings here doing the research for her historical novel, as soon as I’d finished perfecting the poster on my laptop using one of those clever ageing apps, I headed down here and surprised her with her favourite butterscotch Frappuccino as a thank you for the Friday-night bar-counselling session, while I got my copies done.
Now she was playing with the paper straw in the top, ice rattling in the bottom, and looking at me with concern.
‘Are you sure? I know I said to give yourself some space to think but I didn’t really mean…’ she waved her hand in a circle toward the machine, which was whirring and spitting out warm A4 sheets of paper ‘…this.’
‘Trust me, Keesh, this is going to work. I can feel it.’
‘Yes, but have you done any actual work?’
‘A bit,’ I hedged, thinking of the Post-it Notes on my wall – they totally counted. ‘And I’m going straight back home to get down to it after I’ve done this. I swear.’
‘You’re not going to stick these up around town?’
‘No. I have two delivery boys for that who’ll be turning up any minute now.’ I took the pile of paper off the tray and carried it over to the table where Keisha was set up.
‘The twins?’ She smirked, dropping into her chair. I nodded, counting out a couple dozen for my bag, then splitting the stack and turning one pile sideways on top of the other, ready to pass to my brothers. ‘How d’you rope them into that? Are you paying them?’
‘Oh hell no. When we went out for tacos the other night, they had too many beers and spilled a lot of college stories they don’t want Mom and Dad to know about. Those boys will never learn that, even though I’m smaller, I have eight more years of experience at holding my liquor.’
‘You’re such a mean big sister.’
‘If you had four brothers you would do wicked, wicked things to maintain your sanity and status within the pack too, I’m telling you.’
I left her in the library to research the intricacies of British politics for her historical novel and met my brothers outside.
Despite the extortion, they were both in good moods, with college finals over and less than two weeks left before the summer break started at the end of June.
I still warned them they better not dump the flyers and when they gave me their word they wouldn’t, I promised I’d keep their sordid secrets and bring my special white chocolate and honeycomb cookies when I saw them at Daisy’s softball jamboree at the weekend.
Then I went home, just like I’d told Keisha I would, with every intention of getting down to some work on my novel.
I opened my front door and it was like wading through soup to get to my A/C unit and try to get it working. I swore the make-up was melting off my face. By the time I’d given up and was pushing open my window instead, trying to get some of the stuffy air out, my cell phone rang.
‘Oh my God, Elle, talk to me,’ my eldest sister Lucy said as soon as I answered. ‘About anything that isn’t babies or diapers or sleep deprivation.’
‘Are you OK?’ I waved to Mr Biggins and flicked my blind down. It really would have been nice to be able to keep it open and get some more air in the place, without having him there, watching.
‘Yeah. Brigid’s gone down for a nap and I have about forty-five minutes to be a person and not a mom.’
‘Moms are people.’
‘Worn-out people. And this is not what I asked you to do. Have you no mercy?’
‘OK, OK. What d’you want to talk about? What have you been watching on Netflix?’
‘You can do better than that. Tell me, what’ve you being doing in your young, free and single life, on this glorious summer’s day?’
‘I’ve been to the library.’
‘Well…that’s pretty dull.’
‘You asked. I mean, at the weekend I began a mission to try and track down a long-lost family friend, if that’s a little more interesting?’
‘Who? One of ours?’
I laughed at the thought we could ever lose a family friend. They were around at my mom and dad’s house every weekend and all the major birthdays and national holidays in between. I explained to her what had been happening.
‘I see. So, who exactly is this guy you’re helping out?’
‘I met him in the UK last Christmas. He’s Beth’s boyfriend’s brother.’
‘Oh right. Is he handsome?’ she asked, slyly.
Having so many siblings I’d always found the best way to deal with any of their attempts to tease me was to take away their ammunition. Emotionally, it was hard to always follow through with this tactic, and it was in those instances I resorted to blackmail and threats.
‘Without a doubt. He looks a bit like, erm…’ I tried to think of someone she would know.
‘That actor who played the Darkling.’ Especially now he had the beard.
It was so Stephen — long enough that it wasn’t a douchey little goatee and showed that he could grow a proper one but not too long.
It highlighted his assets - sharp jaw and cheekbones, sexy lips, amazing smile - rather than hid them and I had no doubt it was clean.
I wondered what made him decide to grow it?
Damn, it was possible I was getting a little obsessed.
‘Wow.’ Lucy hummed. ‘Does he kiss like he’s starving, too?’
A shiver went down my spine at the thought, but I reminded myself I was boiling hot and went into my bedroom to grab my fan and set it up on my desk. ‘I would not know because I have not and will not be engaging in anything of that description with him.’
‘You’re such a spoilsport sometimes. If he’s so hot why aren’t you interested in doing the horizontal tango with him?’
‘I’m too busy – I’ve got my book to edit,’ I said, which was half the truth and half a lie.
‘And handsome men are completely overrated. They think the world owes them admiration and coddling or something. I’m tired of going into things thinking I’m just going to have some fun, then they want more but don’t want to give me more.
It’s so…it’s such a waste of energy.’ I jammed the plug from my fan into the outlet in the wall and switched it on, but now I was too overheated to feel anything from its meagre breeze.
‘It’s not always like that. Quinn’s not like that.’
‘No. You and Quinn fit. It’s getting a man who fits me that’s the issue.
I’m beginning to think I am a square peg trying to squeeze into a round hole.
Maybe I’ll be better off staying single.
’ I said it lightly, like I was joking. Not like I was genuinely considering celibacy.
There was nothing wrong with consciously choosing to stay single, though.
Think of the freedom. Think of the extra space in the bed.
‘We’ll see, but since you aren’t busy dating right now…I was wondering if you’d be able to babysit for us one evening soon? So we could get out. Not for long, neither of us can stay awake much past ten anyway.’ She snorted.
I went over to my fridge and opened it to stare at the contents, letting the cool air wash over me. ‘I don’t know. My deadline is looming.’
‘Yet you have time for detective missions?’ She sounded sceptical and a little put out. ‘You could write while she sleeps?’
‘I can’t concentrate as well if I’m listening out the whole time.
Look, I’m not saying no. Just not right now, maybe.
And don’t make me feel bad for helping Stephen; the guy lost his mother less than a year ago.
He’s trying to fulfil the wishes in her will.
That’s a worthy cause, wouldn’t you say? ’ If my literal career wasn’t.
‘It is.’ She sighed. ‘Sorry. I can ask Mom to babysit I suppose. I just feel bad. It’s like she’s only just escaped having a little one to look after. I can really appreciate why she’s been so exhausted for the last, like, twenty years.’
I could too, and just the thought that Lucy might turn to Mom instead had me feeling guilty.
I didn’t think Lucy was being manipulative – it wasn’t really her way.
She was just desperate. ‘Look. I’ll see what I can manage.
’ I grabbed a carton of smoothie out the fridge.
‘I’m coming over the weekend after next for the barbecue. We can arrange it then, yeah?’
‘Thank you. I love you!’
‘Yeah, yeah. I love you, too. You totally broke your own rule for this conversation by the way.’
‘I know. It’s pathetic – oh, and there’s the baby.’ There was a thin wail in the background. ‘Guess I won’t be getting forty-five minutes of adult time. See you at the barbecue.’
I said goodbye, then went to check out the Post-it-wall-of-increasing-anxiety while I chugged mango smoothie straight from the carton. I wouldn’t be able to do that if I was cohabiting either.
Seriously, how had I managed to let her cajole me into babysitting?
Partly because she was right. I was procrastinating with detective work.
I could at least procrastinate in a way that helped her out, I supposed.
But if I did it once, and she thought I was capable of working while doing it, I’d have no excuse not to keep being her babysitter.
Why couldn’t anyone understand that I had to concentrate to write?
Not just sit down with a coffee and a laptop for a few hours.
There was actual thinking involved. Words did not appear on the manuscript by osmosis.
That was the problem I’d had with the two men I’d actually had more serious relationships with over the last few years.
As soon as we lived together, they thought my working at home meant I was at their disposal to keep the flat sparkling, pick up their dry-cleaning and deal with every other household job basically.
Like writing didn’t actually take any real amount of focus or time. Ugh.
I pulled out the chair from my desk and continued staring at the pink and blue sticky notes, until my eyes crossed. Whenever my mind cleared, the only image that crept into my head was that of Stephen’s eyes, dark as the coffee he’d brought me. The thrill as they coasted over me from head to toe.
Shaking my head, I grabbed a blank character worksheet from the folder I’d found.
First, I would write one about Trevor Moorcroft; pool all the information I had so far, and then I’d do another one about James, to refamiliarise myself with the womanising snake from my last book, who Keisha thought I should reintroduce.
This would serve two purposes: it would count as work towards my book and also, it would remind me that any fantasies I might have about handsome, smooth-talking men were best channelled into my fiction, where they couldn’t hurt anyone. Least of all me.