He’s surprisingly young. Mid-twenties, hard eyes, ridiculously tall, stooped a little at the shoulders. His hair’s combed forward and falling over his left eye. It’s brassy blond, unnatural, the black roots poking through. Looks like shit. I’ve never seen him before, but I recognize the shirt he’s wearing. It’s slate gray with a logo on the left pocket: Quality Office Cleaning. The long-sleeved shirt is far too small for him, the cuffs ending halfway up his forearms.
I drop the bottle and exhale shakily. The office cleaners get here at five every Saturday and Wednesday morning and finish before I get here at eight. Shit, is it five already? I know I set my alarm to go off before the cleaners got here. I always do. Black Wood House is only a ten-minute drive from my office.
He gives me a quizzical half smile, and I take a small step back. What if he stole that uniform to trick me? What if he’s snooping on me? He wouldn’t be the first person hired to track me down.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course,” I say automatically. Actually, my fingers are trembling so bad I thrust them into my pockets.
“You’re Sarah, yeah?” he asks patiently. “I just started here last week. Haven’t met most of the shrinks yet.”
There’s anentire chapterin my book dedicated to mastering the easy art of small talk! And yet I don’t know what the hell to say. It’s too early for this shit.
“Me missus read your book.” He grins. “She was pretty chuffed when I told her I’d be working here.”
My face feels itchy, like I’ve stepped into a spiderweb, and my heart won’t stop pounding. I manage a weak “Thank you” and wish to Godhe’d leave. I wonder how he got this job. He doesn’t have the upper-middle-class Beacon feel about him. And he definitely doesn’t have the vaguely expensive Australian accent so typical of these areas where Dad’s a construction manager and Mum doesn’t need to work since Dad pulls in a shitload. If you could call an Australian accent expensive, anyway. It’s more like the discount version of our English cousins’.
But this guy, he’s got the true-blue Aussie accent going—a vernacular that couldn’t be lazier if it tried. Everything isdarl, love, mate, bloke, fair dinkum, g’day, ’ow ya goin’?
Myaccent, if I’m being honest. Dad was a mechanic, Mum a house cleaner. But the old man could never keep a job and was always storming home in his cloud of righteous anger. He crapped out on everything in the end, including us. Took the car and all my self-worth with him. Left Mum bewildered and broke and holding her breath when the cashier tallied up our weekly grocery shop.
I didn’t need another reason for Beacon residents to look down on me. So I stole Nicole Kidman’s accent. I liked that vaguely upper-class cadence, so pleasant to the ear. I watched, then re-watched her interviews on YouTube, until it felt like I had two accents fighting in my mouth. But I’m a very good mimic. The best. And that working-class accent? I finally bled that shit out of me. It slips out only when I’m angry. Like now.
“Whaddya doin’ here?” I ask, face hot with indignation.
“Sarah Slade.” He rolls it around his tongue like he’s at a wine tasting. I wonder if he can detect hints of my deceit. Wonder if he can taste smoky blackberries and terrible lies.
Obviously not, because he nods approvingly. “Nice name.”
We wait in a silence that’s rapidly turning awkward. And dangerous. For me.
“Couldn’t stand to be a shrink meself.” He sniffs. “Don’t see whyanyonewould want to.”
I must’ve zoned out, because he snaps his fingers to get my attention. He’s crossed the line now, if he hadn’t already. There’s something nastyabout the way he does it. Slimy. Like I’m a dim-witted student and he’s the smart-ass principal.
I close my eyes, cool my blood. I’ve got to be nice to this asshole in case he tells someone about this. Do he and the other cleaners have a friendly smoke in the car park after work and bitch about us, like we do about them?
I caught Mrs. Slade asleep in her office,he would say, puffing on a cigarette.Pretty sure she’d been drinkin’ all night.
His cleaning friends scurry closer like a pack of insects.Husband problems, I betcha. Not to mention that murder house she just bought.
I heard she’s gotta come up with another book,another says, taking a gleeful drag.Pressure must be getting to ’er.
This is bad. This is really bad. Terrified, I slip my skin on, brush the droplets of wine from my chin, and stretch.
“Goodness me, I must have dozed off.” I even go for a playful half smile that says,This is all so silly, isn’t it? You, busting in like this. Me, shit-faced in my chair and ready to club you to death.
He looks pointedly at the empty bottle sitting at my feet, raises an eyebrow. My heart squeezes tight, and for one hot second I wish Ihadsmashed him over the head.
Ineedthis job. The royalties from my book are falling alarmingly. The next book is proving a bitch to write. And all that’s paying my eye-watering mortgage is Joe’s paltry bartender wage, a few Instagram sponsorships I’m desperately grateful for, and my work here at Mercy Community.
I’ve been working for them nine months now. I knew I’d gotten the job the second Adria, the manager, shook my hand a fraction too long before blurting, “I’ve read your book!”
According to their website, Mercy Community “maintains the highest professional standards,” which is absolute bullshit. Because if they’d done their research, I’d never have gotten the job. And they would’ve realized the two references I gave were paid actors on Gumtree. Cost me fifty bucks each. They rang only one.
He shuffles his feet at my door. “It’s getting on anyway,” he says dismissively. “Your husband’s probably worried…”
I doubt that.
