“Emerging photographer,” he corrects her, humble as ever.
“Shortlisted in the Australian Photography Awards,” she brags. “You should own it!”
I reach out to grip his arm. I remember his telling me about this award years ago, and how competitive it was.
His eyes fall to my left hand and its adornment on his forearm, and the muscles stiffen through the sleeve of his shirt. “Anyway, it was good to see you,” he says. “Congratulations, Evie. Meg—should we find your mum?”
She nods and slips her hand around his back. He does steal one final glance over his shoulder that doesn’t quite reach me as they walk away, and pieces of my heart break off as I lose sight of him in the crowd.
Lose sight of myself, really.
52
Evie
Oliver has booked a table for two in the window of a prizewinning restaurant overlooking the Opera House. After the stress of today’s graduation, I’d rather stay in and order pizza, but instead I change into the sleek black dress and heels that he placed on our bed for me to wear. My feet hurt before we’ve even made it across the pavement from the cab.
It’s really a gorgeous setting. Enormous picture windows offer an unobstructed view across the harbor, and I watch as the Manly ferry pushes out, imagining the lives of the people onboard, wishing I was any one of them.
“Champagne?” Oliver asks. It’s not really a question. Of course we’re celebrating. Not just my graduation but his, and our big plans for the next chapter: the position he’s nabbed in a commercial law firm, my PhD. And I suppose our personal plans.
As a waiter pops the cork on a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, piano tinkling in the background, I try to peruse the menu, distracted by the sparkling diamond on my finger. Who knew something so beautiful could weigh so heavily?
“What are you thinking?” Oliver asks. Does he mean about the menu choices, or my life?
“I’m really not sure …” I begin. Not sure about any of it.
“We’ll have the seared foie gras to begin,” he tells the waiter, before I have the chance to contemplate it any further, “followed by the wagyu¯ beef for my fiancée, rare. I’ll have the lobster, and bring us sides of truffle mash and greens.”
“I’m not sure!” I exclaim quickly, every bit of his sentence unappealing. I’mreallynot.
The waiter, who had been rearranging the cutlery on the table, pauses.
Oliver’s back arches across from me, brows furrowed over his steel-blue eyes. “Is there something else you’d prefer?” He looks apologetically at the waiter and adds, “I’m sorry. She’s incredibly indecisive.”
I shake my head. “The beef is perfect, thank you. But I’d like it medium, please.”
And that’s it. That one correction is enough to tip him over.
“How do you think it looks that I don’t know how my wife-to-be likes her steak cooked?” he hisses after the waiter has gone.
“But you do know.”
“It’s better rare, Evie. It’s meat in its purest form.”
Doanyof my preferences matter? For steak, or for movies, or for holidays? Even this engagement ring is nothing like what I’d select myself, but of course I wasn’t consulted on that, either.
He catches me twisting the ring. “Oh, poor you, having to wear a two-carat diamond. God! I give youeverything!”
“And I’m grateful, Oliver, but this isn’t what matters to me!”
He’s raging now. “What does, though? You’re impossible to please!”
Phosphorescence springs to mind. Beaches. Sunrises. Con-versations. Photography.
“Do you expect me to believe you only ran into Drew today?”
Here it comes: the accusation that has been brewing for hours.
