On the Same Page, page 11
***
Another week passes before I hear from Lars again—another message sent to Emma’s email account.
Emma,
Iconic Australia’s marketing and publicity head of division, Adam, has made numerous unsuccessful attempts to contact Miles by phone and email. Although Pippy is enthusiastic and attentive, she is unable to deal with substantive matters. For example, Adam has been unable to confirm your availability for a book tour, or appearances at local point-of-sale outlets.
Miles has also prevented our web developer and designer, Billy, from liaising with Pippy on website and cover-design materials. Would you prefer that we use the photographs of you that were taken by Trevor of the Royal Agricultural Society as an alternative to creating new (and perhaps more discreet) material?
Iconic has invested a considerable amount of time and money in your name and in your product. If Iconic is unable to recoup expenses incurred in the production of the backlist and new release, and this loss is attributable to your failure to perform contractual obligations, Iconic will look to you for reimbursement. You may also be responsible for additional costs, and general damages, arising out of any breach.
On a positive note, I understand that the new novel is progressing well. Maurice informs me that, with the exception of the final three chapters, he has a complete draft.
Kindly instruct Miles to contact Adam immediately.
Lars
There’s a good reason that Maurice doesn’t have the last three chapters—I haven’t finished drafting them yet. The final chapter, where Evangeline climbs the drainpipe to Rupert’s window, is problematic. How will she get up there? I’ll try to work that out on Friday night at pole dancing.
Chapter 17
The girls are already warming up when I arrive, so by the time I’ve put on my shoes they’re swinging around the poles, working on variations of the Fireman’s Spin.
Effie takes my arm and leads me to my Henry pole. ‘Today we learn the Chopsticks,’ she says.
When Beyoncé, Crystal and Ruby take to the Chopsticks just as well as they did to the Fireman’s Spin, I’m not surprised because, even though Effie gives me individual tuition, this move seems to be very similar to the one I failed at last time.
‘What’s the difference?’ I ask Effie, using my Henry pole to pull myself off the floor for about the hundredth time.
‘The Chopsticks is push off, cross ankles, close, press in, spin down,’ she says.
‘I’d like to learn how to go up the pole, not down it. When do we do that?’
Effie laughs. ‘I think you might be referring to the much more advanced moves, like the Eagle and the Butterfly.’
‘I suppose so.’
She looks towards Crystal, twirling around the pole with her head thrown back. ‘Excellent work. Extend the left leg further, point your toe.’
As soon as Effie walks away, I face my pole and tighten my tummy muscles, hoping to discover the inner core of strength that Tom is always talking about. I imagine Evangeline, running towards Rupert’s ancestral home …
She skirted around the perimeter of the formal gardens, keeping to the shadows cast by the clouds, and followed the path around the tall yew hedge that led to the east wing. Dew dampened the hem of her gown and the fabric clung to her legs. The bedchambers were on the second floor, and the windows to Rupert’s room were thirty feet above her, perhaps more. She considered the copper drainpipe, glistening silvery-pink, and placed her hand against the wall to measure the gaps between the stones.
Evangeline was determined to see Rupert, to watch over him as he slumbered, to climb into his bed and lie by his side. She felt for the parcel in her pocket. Her gift was tiny and delicate, wrapped in tissue paper.
She gripped the drainpipe and wedged her toes between the pipe and the wall. She inched slowly upwards until her arms ached with fatigue and her legs were stiff and cramped. Her feet grew numb. Her thighs and the palms of her hands were grazed; they stung and were sticky with blood. The gaps in the wall were too small and unevenly spaced to form easy footholds, but still she climbed until … there was a sound behind her … the hoot of an owl. She lost her grip, tumbling into the garden below. She was exhausted and filthy, sore and disheartened …
‘Ouch!’
Effie squats next to me on the floor, wincing when she sees the bruises on my thighs and the carpet burn on my knee. ‘What did you think you were you doing, Georgiana?’
‘Firemen go up the pole as well as down.’
She raises her brows. ‘I think you’ve practised enough for this week. It’s time to stretch out.’
Beyoncé pushes down on my upper thighs when I attempt the splits, and Ruby pulls my arms back to loosen up my shoulders. I haven’t had time to stiffen up yet, but I’m sore all over and the marks on my thighs are turning purple. Crystal smirks as she counts the bruises, while Ruby pats my arm. They look up when they see Jack. He greets the girls, and then holds out his hand. ‘Hurry up, Georgiana. I need a drink.’
***
It’s cold and windy, but Jack and I couldn’t find a taxi, so we’re walking with tightly linked arms to keep warm.
‘Did you see Jules?’ I say.
‘All we do is talk about the lease,’ he says as he kicks a stone. ‘It sucks.’
‘He’s just taking things slowly. At least you get to talk to him.’
‘Remember how he lost weight when we broke up and I didn’t think it suited him? It’s good he’s put it on again. He looks great, doesn’t he?’
I squeeze Jack’s arm. ‘He looks very well.’
‘I can hardly remember why I two-timed him.’
‘Something to do with him wanting to settle down, perhaps?’
‘Forever is a long time.’
‘He must’ve loved you though.’
‘He doesn’t anymore.’
‘I want to be loved absolutely—like the Duke loved Viola in Twelfth Night.’
‘He thought she was a pageboy, didn’t he?’
‘She was in disguise.’
‘Are you sure the Duke wasn’t gay?’
‘I don’t think sexual preference came into it. He loved her as a pageboy and he loved her as a woman. My characters fall in love because they can’t help themselves. That’s what I want too.’
‘You don’t think you’re setting the bar a little high?’
‘It’s all or nothing.’
When Jack’s stone ricochets off the kerb and skids into the drain, he curses. ‘Crystal’s still a pain.’
‘She’s sharp.’
‘Like a stiletto in the balls.’ He puts his arm around my shoulders. ‘You don’t have to keep going with the pole dancing, Miles. You’ve got enough to worry about with Iconic breathing down your neck and no cash coming in for Emma’s books.’
‘If I quit, you wouldn’t get to see Jules. And it’s for Evangeline too.’
‘What?’
‘The drainpipe scene? It was you who thought it up.’
When my phone rings and Lars’s name comes up, I put it on silent and shove it back into my pocket. Pippy told me he went from Japan to New York. I don’t have to worry about him too much if he’s there.
‘Lars sent Emma feedback a while ago,’ I say. ‘For Cupid’s Revenge.’
‘What’d he think?’
‘He’s not keen on Edward.’
‘Maybe that’ll put him off reading the other novels.’
When we turn onto the main road, Jack tells me to answer the phone because the vibrations are driving him mad. I count to five, take a breath and answer.
‘Lars Kristensen,’ he says. Four precise syllables.
‘Are you still in New York?’
‘Heathrow. I’ll be back in Sydney tomorrow night. I presume you’ve seen my recent email to Emma, asking her to get in touch with Adam.’
Jack ushers me into a doorway and stands in front to keep out the wind.
‘I understand Iconic would like to schedule another meeting,’ I say.
‘Correct, Lars snaps. ‘And as you haven’t responded to Adam’s messages, he’s set it down for Tuesday.’
‘I can’t do Tuesday; I’ve got something else on.’
‘Cancel it.’
Prick. ‘Time?’
‘Ten o’clock. Adam, Lucinda and Billy will attend.’
‘But you won’t?’
‘I have a flight on Monday evening. You and I will meet beforehand, on Sunday.’
‘That’s impossible. I can’t—’
‘I’ll see you at Centennial Park. Two o’clock. The same place we met last time. And Miles?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bring Emma.’
Chapter 18
I sip my takeaway tea in the children’s playground, near the park entrance. When a father comes along with a baby and a little boy, I push the boy on the swing while the dad gives the baby a bottle. After that, I sit gingerly on a plastic horse—my legs are killing me from Friday’s pole dancing—and watch two kookaburras squabbling over an empty hot-chip cup. It takes around an hour to build up the courage to face Lars. And I still don’t know what I’ll say if he’s worked out I’m Emma.
I’d hoped Lars would be riding Henry on the bridle path, to give us something besides Emma to talk about, but he’s standing at the tree near my bench. Wearing a black sweater, jeans and riding boots, he’s undeniably hot, just as Pippy described him. His blue eyes meet mine.
‘Good afternoon, Miles.’
He doesn’t over-emphasise the L in my name, but it’s definitely there in his careful enunciation. ‘Hello.’
‘Might I ask why you so rarely answer your phone?’
‘Oh.’ I pull my phone out of my bag and see I have four missed calls. ‘Why were you calling?’
‘Why do you think?’ He looks at his watch. ‘You’re over an hour late.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Where is Emma?’
‘Where is Henry?’
‘What on earth does …’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Henry is with Lucinda. She was expecting me at the stables ten minutes ago.’
‘Do you want to walk in that direction, then?’ As soon as my words are out I regret them. My quads and hamstrings burn with every step.
‘If you don’t mind,’ he says as he strides down the incline. He ducks between the railings of the fence and waits expectantly on the bridle path. ‘We can walk across the field.’
I clench my teeth and tackle the slope in tiny steps, putting my hands on the top railing when I get there. But … I have as much chance of climbing through as throwing a world record in javelin.
‘I can’t get over to you,’ I say. ‘I’ve had a … a misadventure.’
He frowns. ‘What happened?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
He takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment and exhales. ‘There’s a break in the railing fifty metres ahead. Can you make it that far?’
‘I think so.’ We walk together, separated by the fence. ‘I presume Adam wants to see me regarding the book covers and Emma’s website.’
‘Amongst other things, yes.’
‘He’s left multiple voicemails.’
‘You refuse to answer your phone.’
I take care as I walk through the exposed roots of a Moreton Bay fig tree, holding out my arms to keep my balance as I gingerly pick my way around them.
‘Lucinda went to my school, but she was older than me, and the head prefect. We didn’t know each other well. Were you aware of that?’
‘No, I was not. Don’t change the subject.’
Please pay attention, Miles. ‘Book covers and website.’
‘In addition to the author tour to regional centres, yes.’
Emma’s name hasn’t come up specifically yet and I’d like to keep it that way. ‘Can Pippy liaise with Adam instead of Billy?’
‘That makes no sense. Adam is in charge of marketing. Social media and design are Billy’s domain.’
‘I don’t think Billy is suitable.’
‘Lucinda believes he’s talented.’
‘He probably is. But when Pippy and I went to Iconic for the meeting, he made inappropriate comments.’
‘In what context?’
‘The sexual context, mostly directed at Pippy.’
Lars stops dead in his tracks. His face is grim. ‘That is totally unacceptable. Does Billy’s conduct justify termination?’
I give Lars credit for taking this so seriously, but his cutthroat approach to management doesn’t auger well for Emma. And while it’s tempting to cause trouble for Iconic as Billy’s employer, I don’t want to cause harm that might not be warranted.
‘Billy is young, and I think he was showing off. If Lucinda agrees to counsel him about sexual harassment and supervise him, I suppose you could give him another chance.’
‘I shall speak to Pippy,’ Lars says as we start walking again. ‘If she chooses not to take things further, I’ll brief Lucinda.’ We walk another twenty metres, but besides glancing at me a couple of times, he doesn’t say anything else. If he does suspect I’m Emma, why doesn’t he confront me? It’s not as if he’s been afraid to speak his mind in the past.
He finally breaks the silence. ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Shall I ask Lucinda to counsel you about sexually harassing me?’
‘I haven’t sexually …’ Oh, God. He’s referring to the photos Pippy took. I’m under another fig tree. The roots jut out of the ground like thick gnarly snakes and I walk along one of them, thinking desperately about something else to talk about.
‘Miles? I asked whether—’
‘Oh!’ I slip off one root and the toe of my shoe gets wedged between two more. I trip and fall, landing heavily on my knees, and then I pitch forward, hitting my head on the tree trunk. ‘Ouch! Shit. Ouch!’
By the time Lars reaches me I’m sitting on my bottom and holding my head. He crouches at my side, squeezes my shoulders and gently runs his hands down my arms. ‘Are you hurt?’
I feel stickiness on my forehead, and when I pull my hand away and look at my fingers they’re smeared with blood. ‘I’m okay.’
‘You have a graze.’ He takes my wrist in one of his hands and holds it away from my head. ‘It’s swelling. Try not to touch it.’
I stick out a leg and reach for my bag strap. ‘I’ve got a serviette.’
He follows my gaze, scoops up my bag and pulls out the crumpled piece of linen. ‘This?’
I’m blushing furiously. ‘I had to wash it. I was going to give it back.’
He doesn’t say anything, just folds it into a smaller square. ‘Let me.’ His brow is furrowed in concern. I wish … I wish … what? That I’d fallen into his arms instead of the tree?
When he rests the cloth against my head, our fingers tangle up. ‘I can do it,’ I croak, taking the serviette. With my other hand, I brush dirt from my jeans. ‘I’m fine, really.’
‘I’m sorry, Miles.’ When his hair falls onto his forehead, he brushes it back with an impatient hand.
My sweater is old and a lavender colour, like jacaranda blossoms. There’s a tiny hole in the elbow, nothing really, but he must notice it as he methodically picks fragments of leaves from my arm. We’re so close that it seems perfectly natural to rest my hand on his chest, to feel the way his heartbeats thump against my palm. I stare at the top of his head. And when he runs his hand up my arm and over my shoulder, I bite my lip. He moves my hair out of the way and tentatively, gently, touches my neck near my ear.
‘Miles?’ I meet his gaze again, darkest blue in the shadows. ‘I apologise. It was not my intention to harm—’
‘Hey! That you, Milo-girl?’
We both start, and look towards the running track. Tom waves and jogs towards us. ‘What’s up?’ he asks, smiling at Lars and squatting on my other side, puffing quietly. He pulls the serviette away and peers at my forehead.
My hand is shaky. It might be shock, or the fact that Lars is so close. I touch the sore part with my fingers and feel the lump. ‘It’s bleeding.’
‘How’d you do it?’
‘I hit it on the tree.’
He looks into the canopy of the tree. ‘Were you climbing up there? You weren’t practising, were you?’
‘Practicing?’ Lars asks, puzzled.
‘Pole—’
‘No!’ I practically shout, then take a deep breath to regain my composure. ‘I tripped on the roots, that’s all. I’m fine.’
Tom reaches into the small bag he carries around his waist and takes out a packet: an instant ice pack that freezes when the seal is broken. He wraps the serviette around it. ‘Keep it on the graze, mate,’ he says as he gives it to Lars, who holds it carefully against the lump.
‘It hurts,’ I say.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lars says.
‘Press it on harder,’ Tom says. ‘To stop the bleeding.’
‘Ouch!’
‘Quit whining, Milo-girl.’ He leans over Lars’s arm to kiss me on the mouth. ‘You don’t want an egg-head, do you?’
Lars presses more firmly, ignoring my flinch.
‘Lars? Miles?’ Lucinda appears at the railing, riding Georgie and leading Henry. The big black horse is skittish and prances on the spot, but Georgie stands quietly, peering over the top rail to see what’s going on. She appears to be a very calm and curious type of horse.
‘Miles has hit her head,’ Lars says, his words sharp and clipped.
‘Go with Lucinda,’ I tell him. ‘I’m fine.’
He looks at me and then at Tom. His eyes meet mine again, and he lowers his voice. ‘I’ll stay if you want me to.’
I don’t want him to stay, do I? Even though his knee is pressed against my knee and I can’t bring myself to move mine away.
I clear my throat. ‘No. Definitely not. No.’
He nods. ‘Very well.’
I’m awkward and shaky and can’t look up. ‘About the book tour, Emma won’t do it.’
‘Later, Miles, for Christ’s sake.’
After he climbs through the railings and takes Henry’s rein, he swings a long leg over the saddle and, with a narrow-eyed look, nods a brusque farewell. Just like Mr Darcy when he came across Lizzie and Wickham. With a shift of body weight and a flick of the reins, he spins Henry around and canters away.
