35. Present Day – January
35
PRESENT DAY – JANUARY
JOSIE
S omeone is cleaving my brain.
I try to groan, but my mouth sticks together like it’s filled with fuzzy burs.
The noise crashes again and I squint at my bedside table to find my phone buzzing with a message. Ella’s name fills the screen.
Ella
This is Nate. Your mystery bidder would like to book an appointment with you to discuss their commission.
As I pinch the bridge of my nose, memories of last night flood back. I look down and I’m still in my tiny blue dress and an unfamiliar jacket. The auction.
Fuck.
It’s hard to make my fingers move but I manage to tap out a reply.
Josie
That’s not at all fucking weird. Have you sold me to a stalker?
Ella
No they’re legit. Why not meet them at a public spot, like The Bull, if you’re not sure.
Josie
Is this still Nate? Put Ella on.
Ella
Wear something nice.
Fed up with texting, I hit the call button, not caring who answers.
‘Can’t you just tell me who it is?’ I ask as the phone is picked up.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Nate chuckles. ‘I just texted them to tell them you’d meet them there tomorrow.
‘You’re on speaker,’ Ella calls out. ‘I’d like to say this has nothing to do with me.’
‘Should I be worried?’ I swipe my hair off my face. ‘This is for an art commission, right? You’re making it out to be a date or something.’
‘Why can’t it be both?’ Nate chuckles. ‘Thought you were trying to date people?’
There’s a muffled scuffling sound, and I can almost see Ella wrestling the phone from him.
‘Sorry, Josie. Nate is very tired after his busy day yesterday.’
I can hear Nate laughing and disagreeing in the background, and my head gives another throb.
‘So, I think you should know, Nate had the bright idea to?—’
I cut her off. ‘I haven’t had enough coffee to deal with this. Don’t tell me. I’ll work it out when I get there.’
I hang up and pull the jacket closer around me, the comforting smell of cedar curls up my nose. Scott. With a groan, I bury my head in my pillow, wishing the pounding would stop.
‘Hey, thanks for coming.’ Scott isn’t exactly smiling at me, but he isn’t frowning either. I ignore the standard flip-flop my stomach gives every time I see him. His lack of a scowl is disconcerting, especially as the last time I saw him, I’m pretty sure I yelled at him.
‘Is this yours?’ I pass him the jacket, still too hungover to mumble more than a, ‘Thanks.’
He nods, and as I wriggle to get comfy, my slow-moving brain makes a connection. ‘Wait. What do you mean thanks for coming ? I’m here to meet someone.’
‘That’d be me.’ A hint of a smile this time. ‘Nate’s idea of, I don’t know, a joke?—’
‘— Hell ,’ I say across him.
I’m still mad. At him. At myself, for losing control.
‘How are you feeling?’ Scott runs his dark coffee-coloured eyes over me, as if checking for damage.
‘I’m okay. Nothing like a little embarrassment to help get over a hangover.’ I rub at my temple and smile through a grimace.
‘You shouldn’t be embarrassed.’
Hangovers shouldn’t last for two days either, but here we are.
‘But I got mad at you for treating me like a kid.’ I wince as I admit, ‘and then I acted like one. Although you did kind of drive me to it, warning that guy off.’
‘I didn’t warn anyone off.’
‘What?’ I sit up straighter and frown. ‘He said?—’
‘Whoever warned him off, it wasn’t me.’ Scott shakes his head. ‘And I don’t think you’re like a kid . I’m sorry I made you feel like that, but it wasn’t my intention.’
There’s a heavy silence as we survey each other. An uneasy truce.
He rubs his hand across his jaw, the scruff rasping against his skin. ‘You think we can start again?’
I don’t know if he means today or from the very beginning. But right now, I’d take either. ‘Okay.’
He smiles. Actually smiles one of those huge, eye-creasing, heart-stopping smiles that make me weak. ‘After the initial shock,’ he pauses and then shrugs, ‘I’m pleased Nate bid on you for me.’
‘Don’t tell me … you want a portrait.’ I lift my chin and gesture behind him. ‘Put it above the bar?’
He chuckles. ‘Not quite. Let me get you a drink and we can talk about it.’
Before I can put in a request, he starts mixing up some juices, and after a minute, presents me with a hurricane glass full of a drink that fades from bright red to orange, complete with garnish.
‘It’s a mocktail,’ he says as he slides it over. ‘Crush a paracetamol in that and you’ve got a hangover cure.’ He fishes out a small cardboard packet from behind the bar and places it next to the drink. ‘In case you haven’t got any on you.’
‘Thanks.’ I hesitate over the word, my hand hovering above the box.
Who am I kidding? Day two post-hangover and it’s still kicking my butt. I swallow two of the little white pills, tossing them back with the fruity concoction.
I pull out a notebook and my sketch pad, along with my banana shaped pencil case. ‘Should we go over what you had in mind?’
‘I was thinking … The Bull is in desperate need of a makeover.’
I cast my eyes around. ‘I’m not that kind of painter … or a miracle worker,’ I murmur.
He pulls a smile. ‘I’m not asking you to redecorate. I can manage that. Didn’t win that particular lot in the auction, but I can handle a paint roller myself.’ Scott braces two corded forearms on the bar. ‘Could you re-paint the pub sign though? The hanging one out the front?’
‘You want it the same as before?’
He screws up his nose. ‘Honestly, it needs a new start entirely. Sorry, I know you’re not a logo designer. I should have a think first, and then let you know.’
I fiddle with my beaded bracelet. ‘I can have a go, if you want? Let me come up with some concepts for you.’
‘You’d do that?’
‘Yeah. It’s a lot easier than trying to capture your true likeness in acrylic.’ And then I won’t need to stare at his beautiful face for hours while trying to paint him.
‘I’d appreciate that. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’ I shrug and take another sip of my drink.
‘I used to have a bracelet like that.’ He nods to the wooden beads on my wrist. Almost sorrowfully he adds, ‘during my hippy phase .’
‘You had a hippy phase?’
‘Maybe not hippy. Carefree, I guess.’ He clears his throat. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Actually, a lot better.’
‘Yeah?’ He beams at me and I melt a little at the same time as my gut twists.
If this — us — was meant to be, then it’d be. And I really wish it was be-ing , but it’s not. And that’s more than a little bit devastating.
I cringe at how out of control I’d been at the auction. I’d seen red, I’d felt red. Anger. Embarrassment. Unrequited passion. And I’d gotten carried away.
Despite it all, Scott still seems to want to be my friend. I need to stop being a jerk about it all, and move the fuck on. I need to create my own happiness, and if it’s not with Scott, I can’t sit around and wait for it to find me. Taking another sip of my mocktail, I come to a frustrating decision: I need to try the app again. Getting drunk and launching myself at random men is not the way forward.