“And what have you been doing since you got to Sydney?” she asked, peering at him curiously over her wine glass. “Marcus mentioned you’ve become a photographer since you retired from dancing.”
Nick lifted his mouth into an imitation of her smile. It felt like work. He pulled his shoulders back and did his best impression of a confident, well-established photographer.
“That’s right. It’s been a fun challenge.” That was only half a lie. There was nothing fun about going from knowing exactly what he was doing, and knowing he was good at it, to feeling like a lost, floundering failure.
“I imagine it’s a difficult field to break into.” He nodded in confirmation, hoping the heat creeping up his neck wouldn’t reach his cheeks. It felt crappy to lie to Leanne, crappy and dangerous. The woman hadn’t spent decades as a nurse and raised two sons without developing an extremely sensitive bullshit detector.
“Well, goodness knows you’ve got some experience with that,” Leanne said.
“That’s true, and at least this time around I don’t have to wear tights to work.”
“You could if you wanted to,” Marcus said, his mouth half-full of steak. “Might be a nice trademark.”
“You’ve been helping Carly out with her promotion project, in between wedding errands, right?” Heather spoke up. “How’s it going?” Carly looked up from her plate and smiled at him—that small, real smile again, and she cocked her head ever so slightly to the side, awaiting his answer.
“Euh, it’s going swimmingly,” he said, and Carly’s eyes sparkled with amusement. Okay, so she was probably remembering how ridiculous he looked climbing out of the pool soaked to his skin, but he didn’t mind. She’d saved his camera, they’d gotten good shots, and so far, their plan was working.
“That’s good of you,” Leanne said. “And when the wedding’s over, you’ll head back to Paris?”
Nick turned to Leanne, away from the glittering warmth of Carly’s mischievous gaze. He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet Leanne’s eyes.
“I’m still figuring out my options,” he said. He swivelled his body towards the other end of the table, desperate to engineer a subject change. “So, uh, Davo, how’s the contracting business these days?”
Davo took his time chewing and swallowing. Finally, he spoke. “Yeah, good,” he said, before taking another sip of his beer. Then, nothing. Why had Nick counted on the most taciturn person at the table to help him divert the conversation?
“Effusive as ever, Davo,” Alice said drily. “I think what Davo means to say is, ‘The contracting business is going gangbusters because the homeowners of Sydney love nothing more than knocking down their expensive houses and turning them into even more expensive houses in a never ending real estate arms race that keeps everyone but rich people with rich parents from ever owning property.’”
God bless Alice Ho. She’d been a few years behind them at the ANB school, and Nick remembered her as quiet and serious, but she’d clearly grown out of that.
“Right, and meanwhile, the rental market is also absolutely bananas, so we’re totally trapped,” Izzy added. “When Alice and I moved in together I thought it would mean a bit of a break on rent, but the way rents are rising, it’s hardly anything.”
“There are other advantages,” Alice objected, holding up her fingers and counting off. “Love, companionship, a hook-up to Will’s endless baked goods.”
“I’m mostly in it for the baked goods,” Izzy grinned, and Alice gave a faux-wounded gasp.
Nick laughed, and soon everyone at the table, well, everyone except Davo, was engaged in a lively conversation about which newly renovated house in the surrounding neighbourhood was the most hideous. Once the conversation got going, Carly met his eyes across the table.
Swimmingly?she mouthed, punctuating the silent word with a tiny shake of her head. He replied with an equally tiny shrug, and she flicked her eyes upward in an abbreviated roll. He huffed a quiet laugh, and for a moment it felt like they were friends. Or at least, they were not two wildly mismatched people who could barely tolerate being in each other’s presence.
Soon the platters were being passed for seconds and Alice was warning people to save room for dessert because her brother had sent along a spectacular pavlova, and Nick was full of good food and relaxed for the first time in what felt like months. The rest of Sydney had changed, but this small pocket of the city seemed to have been waiting for him, warm and recognizable, since the day he left. Across the table, Carly and Heather were laughing about something, and Nick watched as Carly threw her head back, the pale column of her neck arching gracefully toward the ceiling, drawing Nick’s attention to the deep V at the front of her dress. Once again, he had to remind himself not to think about the spray of freckles across her sternum.
When their plates were empty, Heather stood and began to clear the table.
“Sit,” Marcus instructed her quickly. “We’ll do this.”
Heather opened her mouth to object, but Carly pushed her chair back and grabbed the plates from her hands. “Don’t argue,” she said firmly. Carly cast a look over her shoulder, summoning Nick to his feet with a lift of her chin. Not daring to disobey her, he grabbed the nearest empty plate and took it into the kitchen.
He, Marcus, and Carly ferried the empty platters and used cutlery off to the kitchen, and Alice went to the fridge and pulled out an enormous pavlova. Nick started rinsing plates, and after a moment, Carly arrived at his side.
“You rinse, I’ll load,” she said, holding out her hands. For a moment they worked in silence, the comfortable, happy noise of the conversation at the table washing over them.
“‘Swimmingly’ wasn’t any worse than ‘Heather and Mucus,’” he said quietly, and she laughed. It was a lovely sound, all surprise and genuine amusement. She bent to put the plates in the dishwasher, and this time he wasn’t successful at keeping his eyes from her skin where her dress gaped slightly at the neckline.
“How did the photos come out?”
“The ones you took of me? They’re prime blackmail material. I look ridiculous.”
“I know, I was there,” she chuckled. “I meant the ones of me.”
