The Boyfriend Clause

Chapter 1

I’M ABOUT TWO minutes away from my dinner shooting out of both ends.

Hand clamped firmly over my mouth, I race down the street as quickly as my strappy silver high heels allow.

When I bought them, I imagined strutting home after a nice meal out with my date, Rick, beside me.

I did not imagine a stomach gurgling so loud it’s almost drowning out the rain pelting me as my flimsy umbrella hangs uselessly at my side.

Serves me right for choosing an umbrella to match my outfit instead of the sturdy yellow one on my coat rack.

The harsh wind slaps my face, and the footpath is slick under my feet.

I dodge a couple walking arm-in-arm under their giant red umbrella, dreamy smiles on their faces like they’re out for a romantic stroll through the streets of Paris instead of cold and dreary Richmond, teaming with footy fans in yellow-and-black scarves pouring into the pub on the corner.

I slam into a poncho-covered woman and wave a hand in apology as lightning streaks the sky. Her shouts are drowned out by a roaring thunderclap. My water-logged jeans restrict my strides and the button is digging into my stomach.

I shouldn’t have touched the fish. Rick told me not to and I ignored him, because I, Sabrina Fogerty, won’t be told what to do by anyone—except my mother.

Plus, I really wanted to spite Rick because he brought up his ex before I’d even opened my menu.

So, I ordered the fish and earned myself a winning smile from the cute waiter.

He was a flirt. All dimpled smiles and winks and for a moment there I considered slipping him my number when Rick wasn’t looking.

But then I ate the fish and all thoughts of ravishing the cute waiter flew from my mind.

My stomach lurches at the memory of the slimy white flesh sliding down my throat.

I race around the corner, sidestepping a group of girls huddled together, braving the bitter cold in their short dresses, and almost shed tears of joy as my apartment building comes into view. If I wasn’t worried about my dinner flying out of my mouth, I’d cover the building in kisses.

The warmth of the lobby wraps around me. My heels click on the tiled floor as I slow to a hurried walk. I hold my palm to the wall and use it to keep myself upright as the pain in my stomach threatens to fold me in half.

The elevator doors ping open across the lobby and I glance up to see a man with dark blond hair and black-rimmed glasses wheeling a trolley of cardboard boxes in through the doors.

I break into a jog. ‘Hold the elevator,’ I choke out and clamp my mouth shut again. The doors slowly move towards one another. ‘Hold the elevator,’ I say again in a frantic, pained shout. I thrust my arm between the sliding doors and they part like the Red Sea.

The doors close behind me and I stab my finger on the number 4, even though it is already lit, and glare at the man.

Body taut, I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the elevator to travel at the speed of light.

‘You’re getting my boxes wet.’ His voice is a deep baritone that reverberates through me.

I crack one eye open. He’s frowning as he watches the drops fall from my umbrella.

The water seeps into one of his cardboard boxes, the dark blob expanding with each drip.

I shake the umbrella and send a sprinkle over his other boxes.

That’ll teach him to ignore someone when they beg him to hold the elevator.

‘I have books in there,’ he snaps and wheels his boxes away from me.

My stomach groans loudly and I hunch over, beads of sweat mixing with the rain-soaked hair plastering my forehead.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ he says.

My fist closes over the rail behind me. I grit my teeth as my throat burns.

Nooooo.

Stomach roaring, I pitch forward. And I hurl. Once, twice, three times. The horrible retching sounds bounce off the walls. He swears and there’s a loud thumping sound.

With a shaky hand pressed to my mouth I straighten up to find him squeezed into the corner, his trolley pressed against his side, his face twisted in horror. He blinks at me and then his eyes travel down to his shoes.

Shit.

The elevator stops and the doors slide open.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whimper as I stagger out, one hand still clutching the useless umbrella and the other gripping my keys so tightly my knuckles are white.

The trolley rattles behind me and a quick glance over my shoulder sees him step out after me with a look that screams stay away, you hideous swamp creature.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again and stagger away from him, my butt cheeks firmly clenched together. My key jiggles in the lock. The wheels of his trolley squeak. He’s on the move and I want to be safely inside before he comes any closer and I throw up again. Or worse, shit my pants.

I push against the door, twist the key again, and it flies open.

I stumble through and, as I shut it, catch sight of him opening the door to apartment 4B.

If I wasn’t about to explode I’d dwell on the fact that I just threw up on my new neighbour, but the pain slicing through me is the more pressing matter and I make it to the loo just in time.

It’s a long night. Quite possibly the longest of my life.

I peel myself away from the toilet to drag a blanket and pillow into the bathroom and curl up on the floor, wishing for the days when my parents would let me crawl into their bed, hand me an old ice-cream container to throw up in while they wiped my forehead and opened a bottle of Sprite, waiting for the bubbles to still.

Those small acts always made me feel better, like they were handing me a magical cure.

Unfortunately, I don’t have any Sprite. Or someone to wipe my forehead.

Or an empty ice-cream container and I’m not about to empty the near full tub of Connoisseur ice-cream in my freezer.

One, that stuff is expensive, and two, it’s raspberry and white chocolate.

No further explanation needed. So I lie on the bathroom floor and close my eyes thinking of the poor guy across the hall.

I’ll have to move. There’s no other option.

Or he has to move. He’s only just arrived so it’s not like he has formed any emotional ties to the place.

Maybe I can sweeten the whole please vacate the premises request by offering him a week of free breakfasts at my cafe, A Cup of Joy, while he searches for a new home.

My stomach heaves at the thought of food and I drag myself closer to the toilet.

The longest night rolls into the longest morning and I begin to wonder if this will be the end of me.

My tombstone will read: Sabrina Fogerty, taken down by a sea bass.

But finally, by early afternoon, I manage to keep down a piece of dry toast and guzzle what feels like six litres of water.

If I ignore my sickly pallor and wild hair no one would guess I’d begged the universe to die last night.

Okay, that’s a total lie. I look like I’ve walked through the depths of hell and out again and not even the world’s longest shower can fix that, but I’m no longer dispensing from both ends and that’s a win.

I curl up on the couch with my phone and a mug of lemon-infused hot water and stare at the Instagram page for A Cup of Joy.

All the pretty photos of food almost make me bring up that plain piece of toast so I close it and check the message from my best friend and business partner, Hattie, for the hundredth time assuring me that the cafe can survive the day without me.

My phone chimes.

Rick: I have food poisoning. And now I’m missing a very important meeting because of you and your stubbornness about picking the restaurant. I’m choosing where we go next time.

He’s missing an important meeting? I’m the one who runs my own business and does the bulk of the baking for it. I can’t afford to be off sick. Not when my parents lent me the money to get it up and running and I’m under mounting pressure to make it successful and pay them back.

Rick can go to hell.

His message blinks up at me and if I had the energy to, I’d hurl the phone across the room. Right after sending some clever and overly witty response. Sadly, that energy does not exist, so my response is neither clever nor witty.

Sabrina: There wont be a next time

I hit send and then immediately hate myself for forgetting the apostrophe in won’t.

Sabrina: *won’t

I toss my phone onto the couch and sink back into the cushions vowing to never let Mum set me up on a date again. Because of her, and some dodgy fish, I’ll have to skulk through this building to avoid the new neighbour.

I look at the front door and narrow my eyes as though that will grant me the power of X-ray vision.

I wonder if he’s salvaged his shoes or was he forced to throw them out? If it were me, I’d throw them out. I owe the guy a proper apology. And whatever poor soul had to clean the mess I left in the elevator. I’ll bake them both something. I wince at the thought.

Tomorrow.