She laughs and seems to relax, forgetting the house and turning to face Zoe’s climbing roses, illuminated by a string of party lights. ‘I hate costumes,’ she admits. ‘This is not who I am.’
Isn’t that the whole point?Before I can argue, the back door bangs open and we’re silenced by the heavy tread of boots on the wooden planks of the deck above us. Shadows flick through the cracks, over her face.
‘Rachael!’ a voice booms over the banister.
We’re stock-still, then she moves closer to me as footsteps tramp down the stairs into the fenced-off courtyard that we’re trapped in.
I rise to my feet before he sees us, a tattooed brick of a man who looks like he was born in a gym. His eyes narrow furiouslyat the sight of me, but I stand tall and straighten the glasses on my nose. Not exactly a power move. Rather a nervous habit. Unfortunately not a more intimidating one.
‘Just move on, Connor!’ Rachael says. From where he’s standing, he might not have heard the crack in her voice, but I can. ‘It’s been over for six months!’
Six months?
‘And you’ve had time to get engaged?’ he roars.
Exactly! I try to invent a story that explains how I’ve apparently met, fallen for, and proposed to this woman, not half a year after they split. But inventing stories is not in my wheelhouse. I deal in scientific fact. Perhaps it’s the Beckham getup that makes me artificially confident, but I step forward and extend my hand—a civility Connor resolutely declines. Rachael is probably wondering why she picked a partner for this ruse who’s conducting the altercation in the manner of Colin Firth.
‘It’s been a whirlwind relationship,’ she says, by way of explanation.
A tornado, from where I’m standing.
Connor’s eyes roam over me, his hands balling into fists. ‘You don’t look like the whirlwind type,’ he points out, quite fairly.
‘I’ve been pretty gun-shy since my divorce,’ I admit, throwing my arm around Rachael’s latex-clad waist, deciding the only way I can be remotely convincing here is if I’m honest. ‘We just clicked.’
Five minutes ago.
He doesn’t need to know I’d be the last person to rush into a premature betrothal. Not when I’m still painstakingly removing the splinters from the last one.
The sight of my hand on her waist gets his hackles up. ‘Mate, she’s asked you to leave her alone,’ I hear myself say, pulling hertighter to my side. It’s the first time in my life I’ve used the term ‘mate’ in a threatening manner, and I’m trying to remember anything—even a single move—from my teenage tae kwon do classes.
‘Did you even wait for my side of the bed to cool?’ Connor pushes on. ‘No surprise, I guess, the way you look tonight.’
I don’t even know this woman, but suddenly all my hesitation gives way to anger. Fighting words, still rather Firth-esque, burst forth: ‘That is fuckingit.’
He laughs—a high school bully picking on the science nerd behind the bike sheds—and makes his move. I push her behind me, certain I’m about to be introduced to the inside of an ambulance but ready to involve myself anyway, when he’s unexpectedly brought up short by a deluge of water and what looks like hundreds of ice cubes. Having dumped them precisely on his shaved head from above, the bucket-yielding woman yells, ‘Leave her alone, you pathologically self-serving, insufferable twit!’
Whether he’s stunned by the ice or the insult, I can’t tell, but I capitalise on his confusion, grab Rachael’s hand, and pull her past him as he shakes off the frozen shrapnel. We rush back upstairs, where I deposit her into a swarm of concerned friends and outraged strangers. Before we can exchange another word, she is spirited away, glancing back at me as she’s pulled through the house, out the front door, and into someone’s car, like a celebrity exiting a New York restaurant. She’s down the street before a humiliated Connor decides to leap the fence. The whole ruckus simmers as Zoe, ever positive, attempts to reassemble the fractured vibe.
‘Wow! I’mso sorry, Fraser,’ she says, cornering me in the living room once things are back on track. She’s in one of those MC Hammer–inspired fluorescent parachute tracksuits that she’sprobably had in her wardrobe for three decades. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Who was she?’ I ask.
Her eyes sparkle as she looks at me, thrilled at my interest. ‘That was Rachael McKenzie,’ she says. ‘She works for Defence. Secret Squirrel stuff that she can’t talk about—’
‘No, I mean ice-bucket woman.’ I’m describing her as if I’ve discovered some missing link from eight million years of human evolution.
‘Oh!Britney Spears over there?’ Zoe says, looking at her across the room. ‘She’s hilarious. Andverysingle. No crazed ex-boyfriends lurking in the wings, which is obviously an asset …’
This is not a dating agency. Even if it were, Zoe wouldn’t have to worry about me getting tangled up with Rachael. As talented and attractive as she clearly is, guest-starring in that soap opera for five minutes was enough.
Her rescuer, though, holding court with a small group near the dining table, is all big eyes and dramatic energy, gesticulating wildly as she spins the story, admirers entranced.
‘If anyone needs some hilarity in their life right now, it’syou, Fraser,’ Zoe nudges. ‘You and Maggie were miserable for years, obviously—’
Was it that obvious?I thought we’d staged quite the convincing act of marital bliss.
‘I know for a fact Maggie’s on the apps.’ As Zoe breaks her own ban on Maggie Chat, I’m surprised at the measured way my body greets this news. Calmly, as if we’re talking about an acquaintance and not my wife of nine years. Strangely, it’s almost a relief to know Maggie is focused on something other than project-managing our breakup.
