A startled laugh erupts from Julian. He tips his head back to look at her. “Jesus…ouch.”
“Heard, Chef,” I tell her, holding out both palms with what I hope is an earnest smile. “I don’t blame you for saying it. I have a great respect for your protectiveness of Sage, and… I won’t abuse your trust, or hers, should I succeed in earning it.”
Her eyes narrow. “Hmph.Did you practice that in the mirror first?”
Julian reaches for her hand. “Give the guy a break, baby. He’s trying.”
She points at me. “I don’t trust him. He’s got a hundred Sages, a hundred Julians. I’ve got one of each. If you mess with them,” she directs at me, “I’m coming for you.” She backs away, then pivots and stalks to her room, slamming the door.
Julian winces. “She’s on edge because of the rehab thing. In ‘mama bear’ mode. It’s not personal.”
“It’s very much personal, but not unwarranted.” I glance at the closed bedroom door. “I hope to change her opinion of me in time.”
He sips the latte. “You make it sound long-term—‘in time.’ You planning on sticking around?” He nods toward Sage’s room, behind me. “You guys a bigger thing than it seems like?”
Faintly I can hear Sage in the shower, her voice loud as she howls the chorus of the PJ Harvey song. I can’t help smiling.
“That’s my aim.” After a pause, I venture to confess more. Something about Julian is, as Sage mentioned, irresistibly winning. He’s an open book, and makes people feel interesting and important, without it seeming false. “I know I’ve a reputation as a libertine, but…” I rake one hand through my hair, sighing. “I fancy that girl in the most debilitating way.”
He bobs a slow nod, looking into his cup, then angles a glance up at me. “Pri told me the shit you said about Sage on your blog. If I didn’t like you, and if I wasn’t already a fuckin’ disaster”—he lifts his broken hand—“I’d probably have to knock you out for it.”
“You’d have every right. I was categorically an arsehole. That I taunted her to catch her attention is no excuse—it only makes me sound like a child as well as a complete twat.”
His face goes stern, and I get a chill, seeing the side of him that’s not easygoing.
“Not just childish and shitty, but unprofessional, man. Implying that she fucked her way into the Emerald seat?” He shakes his head. “Her whole life she’s worked to get where sheis. She’s a role model. I’ve never known a harder worker, with that kind of focus.”
He points toward the sound of her singing in the next room.
“Don’t let that fool you—the squirrelly façade. She may be a year younger, but I’ve always looked up to her. It’s easy to feel…inadequate… having a talented sister.” Taking another sip of coffee, he hides a smile. “Not that I’d give her the satisfaction of telling her that.”
There’s a soaring lift of pride in my chest, the way one feels when someone they treasure is praised. But the wings of the sensation are clipped by sorrow as I acknowledge that Sage isn’t “mine” in any sense and may never reciprocate my emotions.
“I can’t apologize enough for the asinine things I said.”
Julian lifts a shoulder. “I hope you mean you apologized toher. I think you’re a cool guy, but you’d better not be playing some long con on Sage, digging up dirt or trying to strike a deathblow by making her fall for you and then hurting her.” He pauses for effect. “You and I understand each other?”
“Crystal clear. And again, I in no way fault you for believing the warning necessary.”
A chill creeps over me at his mention of “digging up dirt.” I’ve given little thought to CJ Ardley’s asinine revenge plot since arriving in Melbourne. Like any besotted lover, I lost myself in the object of my affection and saw nothing but her.
I wonder if I should go back into the bedroom and tell Sage about it now. There’s athudas she jumps on or off something. It’s followed by a mock-operatic peal of song and a cackle of laughter, then animated talking, as if she’s answered a phone call and is reassuring the person on the other end. I know she’srunning late—I oughtn’t bother her, marring her focus by giving her something to worry about. I still feel confident I can manage it myself.
I can tell her when we see each other in Italy if it seems necessary.
Julian walks me to the door, giving me one of those back-slapping half-hugs in parting, with promises all around that we’ll get together after he’s completed his program.
I go back to my smaller suite at the far end of the hall. After walking in, I stand for a few minutes, examining it. Shipshape and Bristol fashion, with the faint citrus smell of cleaning products. Everything at right angles. With a pang, I feel the lack of not only Sage’s scent, but also her chaos.Where are the tangles of clothing, the empty cups, the salvaged papier-mâché Saint Nicholas?
I sit on the foot of the bed and tap open Contacts on my mobile. Straightening with resolve, I spend the next ten minutes weeding out and deleting any women—aside from Sage—who aren’t relatives or business connections. I keep CJ Ardley’s number, but change the name to “Alfred, Accountant.”
I’ve been away from Sage for mere minutes, and already it seems an eternity.
I get up and collect my unpacked suitcase so I can check out. There’s little point being in Melbourne if I can’t see her. Suddenly I want very much to be home, to think and play my piano and count down the days until Italy.
16
MELBOURNE
