Almost Perfect (41 page)

An hour later she'd showered, washed her hair, fixed herself something to eat and made a cup of tea. Now what? If she lived by the beach like Vincent she'd be quite content sitting out on the balcony,
browsing the paper, periodically glancing up to take in the view. But here she looked out onto a busy road and other ugly buildings. She picked up the phone and rang her parents, but the machine answered. They were out. Her seventy-plus parents had a more exciting life than she did. Most people had a more exciting life than she did. She wandered restlessly around the stark, monastic rooms, thinking of the morning, of Vincent, of his comfortable lived-in house, of their conversation. There was only one thing to do. She went into her bedroom, sat down at the desk and opened her laptop. She looked around the room as the computer started up. No matter what Vincent said, Anna needed a more pleasant space to work in. She walked back out into the living area and found a patch of sun on the carpet. If she turned the sofa around the other way, she could fit the desk there. Was it near a power point? She looked around and spotted one. Near enough.

Half an hour later she had moved the sofa and the desk, about three or four times in fact. But she was satisfied now. The desk was in a well-lit spot, perpendicular to the wall, next to a window that actually framed a little greenery outside. It was a savagely lopped, sad-looking tree, but a tree nonetheless, and through the fine slats of the venetian blind, it passed. She plugged in the laptop and started it again while she brought a small lamp out from the bedroom and placed it on the desk, moving it around a few times until it was just right, in the spot where she'd first put it down. She took out her notepad from writing class and some pens, arranging them
neatly to the right of the laptop. The pens would be better in a cup or a pot of some kind, she decided. Anna went into the kitchen and searched through the cupboards till she found just the thing. A funky little ceramic vase that looked like a cactus, given to her by a client before he left to travel overseas. Billy Wardrop, obsessive-compulsive but quite harmless, and very sweet. She sat the vase next to the computer and dropped the pens into it. Anna surveyed her new workstation. What else did she need? A cup of coffee? No, she'd had one and a half cups at Vincent's and a cup of tea when she got home. She'd wait. A glass of water perhaps? In fact, she'd fill a little jug and bring it to the desk.

Anna sighed. She was probably six steps away from the kitchen. It was not like she needed to stockpile supplies. What she did need to do was sit down and start writing. That's what Vincent had said. So that's what she did.

Liam returned to the office at one after a morning in the field. He was gradually getting the hang of his new job, even enjoying it. Though he'd been so idiotically happy since finding out about the baby that he suspected nothing could bother him. Only Anna's reaction had managed to dampen his joy. He
had tried to call her over the last couple of days, but all he got was her answering machine. She obviously didn't want to talk to him, it was probably best to leave her alone for now.

‘What have you got there?' Kath stuck her head out of her office as he walked past, carrying an assortment of shopping tote bags.

‘Oh,' Liam hesitated, feeling self-conscious. ‘I've been out Blacktown way this morning. They have one of those super mega mart places. They sell everything.'

‘Looks like you didn't get past the baby stuff,' said Kath, cocking her head to check out the logos on the bags. ‘Doting uncle?'

‘No . . .' He took a breath. ‘Doting father-to-be actually.'

Kath looked up abruptly. ‘Since when?'

‘Since a few weeks ago. At least that's when I found out.'

‘I thought you were divorced, or separated?'

‘I am . . . separated at least.'

‘So your wife found out she was pregnant after–?'

‘No, no,' Liam corrected. ‘It's not my wife's, um, my ex-wife's.'

She frowned. ‘Who's having the baby?'

‘A woman called Georgie, who I . . .' He didn't quite know how to explain this.

‘You met since your separation?' ‘During my separation might be closer to the truth.'

Kath nodded. ‘I asked.'

‘You did.'

‘So you're happy about the baby?'

‘I'm ecstatic.'

‘And Georgie?'

‘I think she's happy.'

‘You think?'

‘We're not actually together,' Liam admitted. He may as well get this out. ‘We broke up and then she found out she was pregnant. Once she made the decision to keep it, she felt I should know.'

‘Well, that was decent of her, I suppose.'

‘It was. She's . . . um, she's a very decent person.'

Kath lifted an eyebrow. ‘And you're still in love with her?'

Liam was a little taken aback. The chill had thawed between him and Kath since the interview and they were enjoying a good working relationship. But they hadn't ventured into personal territory yet.

‘Sorry,' she said, watching him, ‘it's none of my business.'

‘Oh no, it's okay. You're right . . . I am,' he finished awkwardly.

‘But she isn't?'

He sighed. ‘She's mad at me.'

‘Ha, well good luck then,' Kath declared drily. ‘It's only gunna get worse. Still, if you can hang in there and she doesn't hate you by the time she has the baby, she might come around. Of course, you have to get through the birth first. If she's mad at you now, whoo, wait till she's in labour.'

Liam blinked at her. ‘Well, thanks for the pep talk, Kath.'

‘Any time,' she said, retreating back inside her office.

‘Is that you, Anna?'

She was crouched on the step in front of Vincent's front door, and the sound of his voice made her jump. She stood up and spun around, clutching a thick manila envelope to her chest. Vincent was watching her curiously. He had a surf-board tucked under one arm and he was wearing a wetsuit. Well, almost wearing a wetsuit. He'd peeled off the top half and it was hanging open to his hips, rather precariously, it occurred to Anna.

‘I was just . . .' she began. ‘I called earlier, but . . .' She couldn't finish what she was going to say, she couldn't even remember what she was going to say.

‘I was down the beach,' Vincent nodded.

She still couldn't speak. And she couldn't look him in the eye, though she didn't know where else to look. She tried to be discreet, avert her eyes, but she couldn't help noticing his hair was loose, still damp from the surf, falling on his shoulders, shoulders that were broad and arms that were muscular . . . She tried not to stare, but, well, he was standing right there in front of her, with his chest all smooth and brown . . . Stop it, drop your eyes . . . to his stomach,
impressively taut, a trail of caramel-blond hair disappearing under the straining zipper of the wetsuit and . . . oh lord . . .

‘Anna?'

Her head jerked up. She knew her face was red. ‘Sorry, I um, I tried to call,' she said again, finding her voice. ‘To see if you were dressed . . . I mean busy, you know, if you had anything on . . . I mean, if you were doing anything.' Oh, for crying out loud.

Vincent was smiling as he propped his board against the wall of the house. ‘Well I'm getting cold. Come on inside.'

‘Oh, no,' said Anna, backing away, ‘I won't stay. I was just going to leave a note, but I couldn't find the letterbox.'

‘I have a post-office box, stops the junk mail.' He plucked a key from above the awning and unlocked the door, standing aside to let Anna in. But she didn't move. ‘Come on, you're here now, you might as well stay for a bit. And I promise I'll put some clothes on.'

She blinked at him. ‘I don't want to impose.'

‘You're not imposing,' he said, taking her arm and drawing her inside. ‘Why don't you make yourself at home while I get dressed? You know your way around.'

Anna watched him walk up the hall and slip into the bedroom. Where she'd slept a few nights ago. And now he was in there, probably naked. She felt herself blush. What was she doing here? She never should have showed up like this, but when he didn't answer the phone she thought he wouldn't
be home and so she decided to take a drive and just leave it in his letterbox, but then he didn't have a letterbox . . .

Vincent reappeared in the hallway, wearing loose cargo pants and a thin sweater that clung to the outline of his chest and shoulders. But in her mind's eye all Anna could see was his bare torso. That was going to be a hard image to budge.

‘Why are you still standing there?'

Anna hesitated. ‘I should go. You've probably got plans . . . you were going out, or you're having visitors. It is Sunday, after all, people do . . . things.'

His lips curled into an amused smile as she prattled on. ‘Sorry, looks like you're stuck with me,' he said, walking slowly back down the hall towards her. ‘The only thing I planned to do was maybe a little work this afternoon.'

‘You see, I'm interrupting your work–'

‘You haven't interrupted anything. I haven't started yet.'

‘But you should, you must. You have to. And I should leave and let you get started.'

‘Anna.' He was standing right in front of her now. ‘Shut up,' he said in a low voice. He leaned towards her, reaching across her shoulder to push the door closed. Anna breathed in sharply. He smelled like the ocean, and like eucalypts, and like a man. She was finding it all a bit heady.

‘So what is that anyway?' he said, taking a step back. Anna breathed out again. She was still clutching the envelope.

‘Well . . .' she hesitated. ‘I followed your advice, from the other day. I've been writing.'

‘How many pages have you got there?'

Anna winced. ‘Sixty . . . or so,' she said meekly.

‘You've written sixty pages since Thursday?'

She nodded.

‘That's, like, twenty thousand words.'

‘Is it?' she said, biting her lip. ‘You see, I couldn't stop. Once I got going it poured out. It was amazing, it was like I was possessed or something,' she went on, her eyes wide. ‘I kept writing almost all night, then I'd sleep for a few hours, dreaming about it, and go straight back to it when I woke up.'

Vincent was smiling at her. ‘And you want me to read it, I gather?'

‘It's too much, isn't it?' she said, weighing up the envelope. ‘It's too much to ask–'

‘I'd love to read it,' he assured her, turning up the hall towards the living room. He glanced over his shoulder at her. ‘Are you going to stand in the doorway the whole time?'

Anna stirred, following him. She'd stay for twenty minutes, maybe half an hour, to be polite.

‘Can I get you a drink?' he asked her from the kitchen.

‘Oh, no, I'm right.'

He sighed. ‘Relax, Anna. Have a drink, hang out. When I'm finished, we can talk about it.'

‘Finished what?'

‘Reading,' he said simply.

‘Oh, you're in the middle of reading something?'

Vincent suppressed a smile, walking back around
the kitchen bench. ‘You did say you wanted me to read that?' He indicated the envelope.

‘You're going to start right away?' she said, wide-eyed.

‘You don't want me to?'

‘Oh I don't know, I just didn't expect you to.'

He shrugged. ‘I've got nothing else better to do. Besides, I'm curious.'

Anna's forehead creased into an anxious frown.

‘What's the matter?'

‘Oh Vincent, I feel bad showing up like this, I was only going to leave it here and you could have read it whenever it suited you.'

‘Suits me now.'

She sighed.

‘Have you got somewhere else you have to be?' Vincent asked her.

‘No . . .'

‘Then relax, go for a walk along the beach, read the paper, or–'

‘Have you eaten?' she blurted.

‘Sorry?'

‘Have you had lunch?'

‘No.'

‘Then I could make you lunch!' she declared.

‘You don't have to do that, Anna.'

‘But I'd like to, and I really can cook,' she assured him. ‘I've been told that I'm a good cook, actually,' she added breathlessly.

Vincent smiled. ‘I believe you.'

‘Okay,' she felt relieved, at least she could do something for him.

‘So are you going to give me that now?'

‘Oh, sure.' She held out the envelope, but when he went to take it she didn't let go.

‘Would you prefer to read it out loud to me?' he asked.

She smiled sheepishly. ‘No,' she said, releasing her grip and relinquishing the packet to Vincent.

‘Now, how about that drink?'

‘Why don't you let me get it?' said Anna.

‘All right, there's beer in the bottom of the fridge. And there's wine . . . somewhere, help yourself.'

‘No problem. Where will you be? In your study?'

‘No, I think I'll sit out on the deck.'

She looked concerned. ‘You won't be distracted?'

‘Well, that depends.'

‘On what?'

‘On how good the writing is.'

‘Oh,' she nodded, her nervous smile morphing into another frown. ‘Oh.'

Vincent grinned at her. ‘Stop worrying, Anna. You were brave enough to bring it over here. You must feel at least a little good about it.'

‘Oh, you know how it is. I do, then I don't. Then I do again.' She paused. ‘Then I don't.'

He laughed. ‘Sounds familiar.'

‘And it's very rough, I probably should have cleaned it up for you first.'

‘I'm sure I'll manage.'

She nodded.

‘I'm going now.'

‘All right.'

Anna watched him as he crossed the living
room, opened the sliding door and stepped through onto the deck, closing the door again. She kept her eyes on him as he repositioned one of the chairs and sat, stretching his legs out and resting his feet on another chair. He looked down at the first page, and Anna watched anxiously as his face creased into a frown. Why was he frowning? It couldn't be that bad from the start? Suddenly he jumped up and crossed to the door, sliding it open.

‘Sunglasses,' he explained as he grabbed a pair off a nearby shelf. ‘Bit glary out there,' he added, slipping back through the door. He settled himself in the chair again and resumed reading. Anna couldn't tell anything from his expression, especially behind sunglasses. She didn't know what she was expecting to see, it wasn't as though it was full of laughs or anything. Though she had thought there was the odd bit of poignant humour. And then she saw Vincent smile, briefly, before he turned over a page and continued reading. What had made him smile, she wondered, trying to recall the first couple of pages . . .

This was ridiculous, she couldn't stand here attempting to decipher his every facial expression, it would drive her mad. Besides, she had to get on with lunch. Anna opened the fridge door, pleased to find he was a grown-up, with fresh vegetables and other basic supplies. She noticed the beers on the bottom shelf and grabbed one, opened it and took it out to Vincent. He seemed immersed as she approached.

‘How is it so far?' she asked.

He didn't take his eyes off the page, only held up his hand to silence her. She circled behind him and
placed the bottle on the table, then crept backwards to the door. Vincent still didn't look up, he just kept reading. That had to be a good sign. Anna turned and went back inside, a tiny bubble of pride rising in her chest. She quietly slid the door closed again and walked across to the kitchen to start cooking.

‘Anna?'

She jumped, startled. She had been stirring a pot on the stove and hadn't even heard Vincent come inside. For the past hour and a half he had barely lifted his eyes from the page, and he would not brook interruptions. Anna had taken him snacks at regular intervals – nuts, a bowl of olives, another beer – but he didn't speak, or even acknowledge her. She hadn't expected him to read the whole thing right there and then, but when she tried to tell him that he held his hand up as before, motioning for her to be quiet. So she got on with lunch, looking over every so often to try to analyse his facial expression, his body language, anything. Eventually she gave up, she had no way of knowing what he was thinking, she only knew he couldn't put it down. But that didn't necessarily mean it was good. Maybe he always read like that, or maybe it was hard to follow, or maybe he wanted to get it over with, or maybe she should focus on cooking and stop making herself crazy.

Anna had found wine in a rack on top of the kitchen cupboard and put a bottle in the freezer to chill while she got started. She also found enough
ingredients to put together an acceptable curry. Once it was cooking away happily, she poured herself a glass of wine, downing it too quickly. So she poured herself another. Then she looked for and found matching plates and cutlery, set the table, refilled the salt shaker and pepper grinder, washed up what she had used so far along with what Vincent had left from breakfast. And then she poured herself another glass of wine. It was really starting to go to her head, probably because her stomach was empty. She took another look at the curry and was wondering how long Vincent was going to be and if she should put rice on to steam, when she heard his voice behind her.

‘You startled me!' she said, turning around. ‘I didn't hear you come in.'

He was leaning back against the fridge, holding the bundle of pages to his chest, gazing at her . . . perhaps fondly? . . . though Anna was not really sure what to make of his expression.

‘So?' she asked when he still hadn't said anything.

‘Extraordinary,' he said, tapping the pages. ‘This is extraordinary. You are extraordinary.'

Anna's face contorted into an expression that wasn't a smile and wasn't a frown, but was somewhere between the two. ‘You're just flattering me.'

‘No, I promise you, I never flatter people about their writing,' Vincent said seriously. ‘They either have it or they don't. And you have it, Anna Gilchrist. You have something very special.'

Anna swallowed, feeling flattered regardless. She also felt nervous and excited and proud and
overwhelmed. ‘Um, I cooked a curry,' she said, turning back to stir the pot.

‘If you cook as well as you write, I may have to keep you here indefinitely,' he said in a low voice.

Anna glanced shyly over her shoulder. ‘Are you going to give me specifics? You can't just tell me it's good and not say why.'

‘You think I don't realise that? I'm a desperately insecure writer too, don't forget,' he told her. ‘We'll go through it over lunch, page by page if you like.'

And he did exactly that. He said her story was moving, heartwrenching at times, but never bleak, and always absorbing. And he said her writing was lyrical, and he read out lines and even whole passages to show her what he meant. The way Vincent read it, it sounded almost like poetry, and Anna could hardly believe she had written it herself.

He held up his glass to her when they had finished eating. ‘To beautiful words, beautiful food and a beautiful face.'

Anna winced. ‘Oh dear.'

He shook his head ruefully. ‘I knew as soon as it came out that I was going to sound like Austin Powers.'

She laughed.

‘But you are a very beautiful woman, Anna,' he said seriously. ‘That husband of yours must have rocks in his head.'