1
CHAPTER
Ididn’t plan on becoming an escort today.
My phone vibrates somewhere in the depths of my tote bag as I sling it over my shoulder and rush to slip on the white Nikes I left discarded near my front door earlier. The persistent buzzing continues as I scan my small but messy kitchen bench top for my apartment keys, finally stopping just as I spot them half-hiding under an unpacked bag of groceries from this morning.
Fuck, the milk!
After conducting a quick sniff-test I shove the carton in the fridge and grab my water bottle for the road. I’m out the door and calling for the lift to take me down to the ground floor of my apartment building when I hear my phone start up again, and I’m guessing by the sound its stuck somewhere between a lipstick case and a packet of gum. It’s most likely my mum calling to ask where the hell I am, so I ignore it again.
Within minutes my feet are hitting the pavement, and I weave through the heavy pedestrian traffic of Melbourne City on a Wednesday afternoon. The constant crowds ofpeople flocking the streets of the city are what I love most about living here. No matter what time I leave my apartment, there’s people around me and I never feel alone. I dodge men in suits ducking out on their lunch break and groups of women shopping up a storm as I hurry down the street, past the collage of old Victorian architecture mixed with modern sky scrapers that line the streets. When I stop to let a clanging tram glide past, I feel my bag vibrating against my hip again.
Geez mum, I’m only ten minutes late!
Across the street, I pass a row of boutique clothes shops before I make a sharp turn and push my way through the glass door of a small yet familiar coffee shop. The loud hum of the city is instantly silenced by the clinking sounds of the half-empty cafe, as though I’ve stepped into a quiet pocket where the urgent business of the outside world doesn’t exist. The mouth-watering aroma of roasting coffee beans and fresh croissants wafts around me as I glance around, spotting my mum sitting in her favourite people-watching chair at the back of the cafe. I’m already heading towards her when she looks up and sees me.
“Mum! What’s with the harassment? I’m not that late.” I rush out as I dump my bag at the foot of my chair and plant a kiss on her cheek, careful not to disrupt her makeup. A frown appears between her emerald-green eyes as I take my seat opposite her and unwrap my scarf, offloading it on to the back of my chair along with my coat.
“What are you talking about,cara mia?” She asks, placing a dainty hand over her chest. “Who is harassing you?”
“You! I heard my phone ring about three times on my way here.”
“That wasn’t me,” she says as she picks up her phonecarefully with both hands, treating it like it’s a nuclear bomb that could detonate at any second. “Well, I don’t think it was. I didn’t mean to call you.” She tries to access her call log, but gives up quickly and hands the iPhone to me. “You check, darling. You know I’m no good with these things.” She tucks a strand of black hair that has escaped her perfect chignon behind her ear as her eyes glide over the other patrons of the cafe. Mum comes into the city once a week to have a coffee with me, and she uses the opportunity to partake in two of her favourite pastimes: people watching and gossiping.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m here now.” I push her phone back towards her.
“Besides, I always expect you to be at least fifteen minutes late,cara mia,” she chastises lightly. “I ordered you a coffee and a cake.”
Our coffees arrive and mum fills me in on the new Italian cooking show she’s been watching when I feel my bag vibrate against my foot.
What the hell?
Keeping my eyes peeled on mum and making sure to nod intermittently, I lean down, dig my hand inside my bag and pull my phone onto my lap, glancing down to identify the insistent caller. My insides tighten as I recognise the unsaved number, and a familiar sensation of wanting to vomit creeps up my throat. I let the phone vibrate for a few more moments before it dies off. This is not a call I want to take while I’m having a coffee with my mum. In fact, it isn’t one I want to take at all.
Why the hell is she calling so persistently?
She usually dials once and waits for me to call back, if I even bother.
“Darling, are you listening?” Mum’s ardent voice cutsthrough my thoughts and brings me back to our conversation. “She used a SPRAY oil before adding the garlic. A SPRAY! I don’t even think it was olive oil. It was canola or some other sacrilege!” Mum shrieks with wide eyes, almost spilling her coffee as she acts equally offended and delighted at the scandal.
“That’s awful,” I nod absently, my thoughts divided between my mum’s story and my phone, which has started vibrating again in my lap.
“Awful, alright! She nearly lost me after that, but I was pulled back in with the most delicious looking recipe formelanzane.I’m going to try it for family lunch next week.”
“Sounds great, Mum.” Whatever my mum cooks will be amazing. She learned everything she knows from mynonnaback in Italy and I’ve never tasted anything short of delicious come from her kitchen.
“I’ll be right back.” I quickly stand and make my way out of the cafe before Mum can object. Outside the glass door, I slide my finger across my phone screen, wishing I’d grabbed my coat to shield me from the freezing wind.
“Angela, hi,” I stammer. Whether its from the cold air or pure dread, I don’t know.
“Oh, finally!” Angela shrieks. “Gianna, I have had an offer that you absolutely can’t refuse!” She squeals through the phone.
“Really?” I ask, my enthusiasm seriously lacking in comparison to hers. “Is there a gun to my head?”
“What?”
Her excitement momentarily stalls as myGodfatherreference goes straight over her head. I wrap my arms around myself in a futile attempt to stay warm and murmur, “Nothing, continue,” knowing already that I will refuse the offer, what-ever it is.
