Not to be outdone, her mother—who was a top-notch interior designer—had thrown herself into decorating the space with her usual vivid passion. It might be tiny, but it was exquisite. Kitchen, dining and living areas merging seamlessly. Pale wood finishes. Violet sofa. Crimson coffee table. Hot pink cabinet holding her slightly battered Agatha Christie novels. A wall of shelves displaying her lovingly collected snow domes.
The bedroom was no more than an alcove, painted chartreuse, separated from the rest of the space by a blind in a glorious shade of magenta. French doors opened from the living room and her bedroom onto a superb garden, designed by Adam himself even though he had a team of landscapers at his firm (because her brother was every bit as indulgent as their parents) to provide maximum privacy from whatever shenanigans were going on up at the main house.
The whole of it was like one of her snow domes. An intensely private, tiny world where everything was perfect. Coloured the way she wanted, styled the way she liked, cut off from the wider world, protected, controlled. Not many men cared to make the trek to her place. Many men avoided it out of a misplaced fear they’d be under scrutiny, so close to her mother’s house. But that was the way she liked it—a world where she was in charge of picking and choosing who came and went.
So why, tonight, as she entered and looked around, did she feel out of step with it? Why was she walking around picking up objects then putting them back while trying to imagine what David’s place looked like?
Something about David suggested he’d been born fully matured, occupying his own loft apartment. It would be sophisticated, sleek, stylish, minimalist. Pale, cool, neutral colours. Funky metal accents. An easel positioned in a well-lit corner …
Hmm. From that perspective, he was going to hate her place. He was going to think it was nothing but an overblown, over-coloured, schoolgirl’s cubby house. And she wasn’t even going to be allowed to stalk off in a snit when he told her his opinion.
She realized with a start that she’d picked up her mother’s favourite snow dome—of Rome’s Trevi Fountain—and was giving it a too-frenzied shake. Ha! As though shaking the snow around ever did anything to change the world inside! However manic the shake, the snow still settled to reveal the same idyll. Was that a reflection of her life? Did she need shaking up? Were her insides static? Or maybe there was something significant about the fact that she’d chosen the Trevi Fountain for this abuse? Some deep-seated aversion to her mother’s latest beau, perhaps?
O-kay—that was all a bit deep and disturbing. Which is what happened when she was left to her own devices, without her mother or Lane or Erica to bounce things off. And since her mother was on the other side of the world and there was no way could she talk to Erica or Lane just at the moment without revealing her David Bennett perfidy, it was time to pack away the second-guessing for the night.
She was going to soak her dissatisfaction away in her cedar hot tub, purpose built for her minuscule bathroom (and who cared that David Bennett wouldn’t fit in it without having to break two leg bones?) and then go to bed and forget about David until next Wednesday.
Unfortunately, as she started to drift off to sleep, an image of David, arms circling her in the storeroom, slid into her brain like a serpent that had been biding its time to strike.
She sat up, snapping on the bedside light, hoping the sudden brightness would dispel it, but the picture seemed entrenched. She supposed the miracle would have been if she hadn’t thought of that particular moment once she was in bed. His erection wasn’t exactly a forgettable entity—not at that size!
She’d just bet David knew she was thinking of it, too. It’s not as if he’d been trying to hide it. Not that she believed for a second his state of arousal had anything to do with her specifically. The way Lane had described him, he was the type to always be ready. It meant no more than that tossed-out suggestion of his that they have sex. Nothing more than a bargaining chip—I’ll have sex with you if you pose for my portrait. Arrogant sod!
She giggled suddenly, remembering how he’d described himself: Yes, I’m an egomaniac, a boaster, a narcissist. He had a sense of humour, at least. Which only made him more dangerous.
She gave her pillow a thump, turned off the bedside lamp, and yanked the covers up.
No way was David lying in bed agonizing over everything she’d said and done and thought during the evening. He’d be too busy with Anthea. His hands travelling over Anthea’s balloon boobs. Whispering sex words to her, preparing to plunge into her …
Sarah sat up abruptly and switched the bedside light on again, because the image in her head was wrong. It wasn’t Anthea in bed with David, it was her. Her heart was racing, her muscles were tense, and there was a heavy, pulsing ache between her thighs that made her want to touch herself … and think about David touching her.
This had to stop! Aside from the fact that fantasising about him was disgustingly disloyal, she had more important things to think about. Like Saturday night. She turned off the bedside lamp and determinedly dragged Craig’s face into focus in her badly behaved brain. Craig kissing her … her, sliding her fingers into his hair …
Really, Craig’s hair was a little too long; David was right about that. And it needed a good brush. Although she was fairly certain she’d seen a flake of dandruff on his shoulder at the gallery, and who knew what other dandruff flakes a thorough brushing might dislodge? Perhaps that was why he didn’t brush it?
She sat up and turned on the bedside light again. ‘Really?’ she said out loud. ‘So buy him some anti-dandruff shampoo!’
Off went the bedside lamp again—and at that exact moment, a sound like the clash of cymbals pierced the air and she jumped half out of her skin with a strangled scream. What the—?
Oh! Her phone, in its usual place on her bedside table beside the on-again-off-again lamp, had lit up. Except her phone had never clashed like cymbals before.
She snapped on the bedside light again. One quick glance at the phone told her the clash of cymbals denoted the arrival of a text from David. Or, as he’d listed himself in her contact list, Dreamboat David.
She wanted to laugh, but found herself strangely breathless. Her fingers trembled as she opened the message. She was wildly curious about what he might say … and a little bit apprehensive. But the message turned out to be prosaic:
Address for next Wednesday. SydneyScape Apartments #3011
Before she could start tapping out a response, the cymbals clashed again, making her jump before she could stop herself. She was going to have to change that tone to something less heart-attack-inducing. A job for tomorrow. But for now, she opened the text.
Be there or be square
She was smiling as she composed her own text, but the cymbals clashed once more and a new text popped onto the screen before she could send it:
Or maybe a circle, a triangle and some rectangles
Again, she started tapping out a text, only for the cymbals to clash:
Sorry—cubist joke
Sarah gave up at that point and sent him a simple nerd emoji.
As she slid back under the covers, it occurred to her that if David was texting her, he mustn’t be in bed with Anthea. Not that Sarah cared. It was just a stray thought.
She was still smiling as she drifted into sleep.
Five seconds