False Advertising (48 page)

‘Did you have a good time with Nan and Pop today?'

‘Mummy, Charlie's calling me. I haffa go, we're making pancakes!'

‘Oh, okay darling, I'll see you later, though you probably won't see me till morning . . . Noah?' But she realised he'd already hung up. Helen flipped the phone shut slowly, contemplating it.

‘Is everything all right?' Myles asked.

‘Great, apparently,' she said, handing him the phone. ‘I don't think he's going to miss me at all.'

‘And that bothers you?' he said, handing her the glass he'd refilled.

Helen shrugged. ‘I don't know. You want them to be strong and independent, then when they are, you realise they don't need you any more.'

‘Helen, Noah's only four years old. I think he's going to need you for a while yet.'

‘But it's the beginning of the end,' she said wistfully, sipping her champagne.

‘I wouldn't have taken you for a “glass half-empty” kind of girl,' said Myles.

She looked at him sideways. ‘Don't you think I have more reason than most people to expect the worst?'

‘Maybe,' he shrugged, ‘but then again, you also have more reason than most people to understand how short life is, to try to live every day to the full, like it could be your last.'

Helen snorted. ‘That's so much bullshit.'

Myles looked at her. ‘Helen, I've never heard you talk like that.'

‘Then you'd better get used to it: drink loosens my tongue.'

He raised a sly eyebrow. ‘There are so many lines I could say right now, but I'll restrain myself.'

‘The thing is,' Helen went on, ignoring the innuendo, ‘if it was your last day on earth and you knew it was, of course you'd do things differently. You wouldn't do the laundry and clean the bathroom, but someone would have to after you were gone. Those things still have to be done.

‘Besides, I reckon anyone who knew they were going to die would give anything to have the rest of their lives just to do the ordinary day-to-day things.'

Myles nodded. ‘Do you think your husband would have done anything different if he'd known?'

Helen looked at him. ‘Well, I hope he wouldn't have stepped off that kerb.'

‘Good point.'

‘No, living each day as though it's your last is just a romantic notion,' she declared, taking a long sip from her glass. ‘And I'm not much of a romantic.'

‘You aren't?' Myles asked.

‘Apparently not. Not that I have anything against it – it might be kind of nice, in fact. I just don't think I've ended up that way.' She turned to look at him. ‘What about you?'

‘I'm a hopeless romantic,' he said without hesitation. ‘I think that's why I'm still single.'

‘Poor Myles.' Helen smiled. ‘But hold on, I seem to remember you saying you were nearly married once. What happened there?'

‘I called it off.'

‘You called it off, Mr Romance?'

‘And there's that patronising tone again,' Myles said. ‘Thought I'd just point it out, you might want to work on that.'

‘So what happened?' Helen persisted, ignoring him.

‘We'd been together for a few years, living together for eighteen months,' he began. ‘We met at management school. She was a real go-getter, very ambitious, and not only about her career – she had this whole life plan thing worked out.'

‘Did “she” have a name?'

He looked sheepish. ‘Michelle. So we dated, got serious, moved in together, and we'd started thinking about buying our own place, when Michelle pointed out that in her life plan she had “wedding” before “mutual real estate purchase”. So I said okay.'

‘You didn't propose, Mr Rom–' Helen pressed her lips together.

‘I admit, I don't remember actually proposing, but next thing we were planning a wedding. It was like a military exercise, the whole thing turned into a nightmare, taking up all our time, costing a small fortune . . . I woke up one day and realised I couldn't go through with it.'

‘So what did you do?'

‘I knew I had to tell her, as soon as possible, before one more cent was spent or one more rose petal plucked or bead sewn or dove placed into captivity.'

‘Wow, it was going to be one of those weddings.'

‘Think over-the-top, and then exaggerate. It was a huge choreographed extravaganza designed to impress everyone. It didn't seem to have anything to do with our feelings for each other. And that's when I realised that my feelings were never going to live up to the hype of the wedding. It was all a lot of false advertising.'

‘Weddings generally are, don't you think? Designed to numb you into a false sense of security. Happily ever after and all that,' Helen said wistfully.

‘Did you have a big wedding?'

‘God no, David would never have stood for that,' said Helen. ‘We went to the registry. My mother couldn't have coped with anything more anyway, and Tony wasn't able to get back, so we really didn't have any reason to make a big shebang out of it. David's family were a bit miffed though, so we compromised by having drinks back at their place afterwards with a whole lot of relatives we didn't know.'

‘Good times,' Myles said dryly.

Helen sighed, scoffing down half her glass.

‘I'm sorry, that was really insensitive,' he said seriously.

‘But also true,' she dismissed. ‘So what happened in the end? I take it Michelle must have been pretty pissed off if she was in the middle of organising a big wedding and suddenly you pulled the plug.'

Myles nodded. ‘“Pissed off” is putting it mildly. But when she calmed down and we talked it out, we both realised we weren't all that sure we wanted to be married to each other for the rest of our lives. We didn't hate each other; we just didn't really love each other that much.'

Helen had been listening intently, and she'd also emptied her glass. She went to reach for the bottle when Myles realised and picked it up first. She watched him refilling her glass. He'd rolled his sleeves back, so his forearms were exposed. They were strong forearms, she noted, very manly. She had a sudden urge to stroke the hair . . .

She picked up her glass and gulped down a couple of mouthfuls. ‘So,' she said, trying not to look at his forearms, or think about his forearms for that matter, ‘no one's caught your eye since Michelle?'

Myles opened his mouth to speak, but then he changed his mind. He just looked at her instead, with those bloody brown puppy-dog eyes of his.

‘You know what, don't answer that,' said Helen, jumping up to her feet too quickly, so that she almost overbalanced except that Myles reached up and grabbed her hip to steady her. And he was gazing up at her still, with those eyes, his hand firmly grasping her hip, apparently sending some kind of electrical charge through her body. What was it with his hands?

‘Let's get out of here,' Helen declared, a little breathless.

‘Where do you want to go?' he asked.

‘Oh, somewhere loud, with music, and people. Lots of people.'

They caught a taxi out front and proceeded to drive around the city for the next forty minutes, looking for some action. The
heat had brought a brief thunderstorm and rain, and the traffic snarled along, getting them nowhere in a hurry. The best they could find was a couple of quiet bars with piped jazz music playing in the background, though there was a piano player at one place they poked their heads into. Not exactly what Helen had in mind.

‘What is wrong with this city?' she said, frustrated. ‘All these years thinking I've been missing out on something and there's nothing going on anyway.'

‘It is a Monday night,' Myles reminded her.

‘So? Doesn't anyone like going out on a Monday night?'

‘I do know a place that plays really good music . . .' said Myles tentatively. ‘It's not far from here actually.'

‘Oh?' said Helen. ‘Well, what are we waiting for?'

‘There won't be a lot of people around though.'

She shrugged. ‘Beggars can't be choosers at this point.'

Myles gave the driver an address and they pulled up in front of what looked like a hotel. He paid the driver and they got out of the taxi. Helen looked up. ‘What is this place?' she asked.

Myles glanced at her a little warily. ‘It's where I live, actually.'

‘Oh, it is, is it?' She put her hands on her hips, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘You failed to mention that little detail before.'

‘We don't have to stay, Helen,' he said solemnly. ‘We could go to one of those bars, or back to the office, or we could always go to your place if you want.'

Helen considered the options. She didn't want to go anywhere they'd checked out already, and she certainly didn't want to go back to the office. She felt like kicking back a little, and she wouldn't be able to do that at home with Noah and the baby, not to mention Gemma and Charlie and now Tony looking on, making their innuendoes, pulling their silly faces and conjecturing till the cows came home. Helen just wanted to have some fun, without an audience. But she wasn't sure what Myles had in mind. Or how she felt about that.

She looked at him. ‘Do you really have good music?'

He plucked an iPod out of his pocket. ‘A thousand songs.'

‘What? Are we going to have to share headphones?'

He smiled. ‘No, it syncs into my sound system.'

Helen had no idea about this new technology. It was enough that she'd mastered computers and the internet. When she'd first heard of an MP3, she thought it was a character in the new
Star Wars
movies.

She became conscious of her stomach growling mildly. ‘Do you have any food up there?'

Myles nodded. ‘And running water and electricity and all the mod cons. We could go up and relax, have something to eat, listen to music . . . Or, if you like, we could stand out here all night.'

He was right, this was silly. She was a grown adult, and she liked Myles. She liked being with him, she felt good around him. And she trusted him. Maybe she was being naive and unworldly, but there was no reason to assume that going up to his apartment had to lead to anything. Though just to be on the safe side . . .

‘Okay, but let me make one thing clear,' said Helen. ‘I'm not going to sleep with you.'

Myles feigned shock. ‘Well, I'm glad we sorted that out. I didn't want you getting any ideas. I'm not that easy.'

Helen grinned, taking the arm he offered as they walked into the foyer. ‘Is this a hotel? Do you live in a hotel, Myles?'

‘It's a serviced apartment. My home away from home.'

‘So you still have a place in Melbourne?' Helen asked as they stepped into the lift.

‘Sure,' he said. ‘I still live there, officially.'

‘And here unofficially?'

‘I guess you could say that.'

They arrived at his floor and Helen followed Myles along the corridor till they came to his apartment. Inside was a reasonably spacious living area with a sleek kitchen tucked behind a breakfast bar. It had that typical hotel look, everything ultra coordinated and a little soulless. But there was a pretty spectacular view to make up for it. Helen walked to the wall of glass that looked out over the city to the Domain, and on to the harbour towards the Heads.

‘This is fantastic,' said Helen.

‘Not bad, is it?' said Myles, a little wistfully. ‘Though I can't say I'm here that much to enjoy it,' he added. ‘Oh and just so you know, Helen, the bedroom's through there –'

‘And why would I need to know that?' she said accusingly, turning around to face him.

‘Because as I was about to say,' Myles went on, ‘the bathroom's off the bedroom, if you need it.'

‘Oh, okay. Good idea actually. Back in a tick.' Helen walked into a similarly hotel-style bedroom, dominated by a massive bed. The bathroom was on the lavish side as well, with a spa bath, double shower, double handbasin. It was all very shiny and clean, Helen was impressed to note.

‘What would you like to drink?' asked Myles from the kitchen when she reappeared. ‘I don't have any champagne, but I do have white wine, or red, or beer, or –'

‘White will be fine, thanks,' Helen interrupted him. She'd best stay with the same colour at least. ‘You're very neat,' she remarked as she walked over to the breakfast bar.

He shrugged. ‘Not if I don't have to be. It's serviced, remember.'

Helen shook her head. ‘Myles, can't you even make your own bed?'

‘Yes, I can, in fact,' he said, passing her a glass of wine across the bench. ‘But if I'm paying for someone else to do it, why should I?'

‘Fair enough.' She took a sip of her wine, but then she felt her tummy rumbling again. She needed to put something in it before she made herself sick. ‘Can I be rude and ask for something to eat?'

‘I was just getting to that,' said Myles, turning around and opening the fridge door. ‘What do you feel like?'

‘What have you got?' she asked, going around into the kitchen to join him in front of the fridge.

He reached for a couple of pieces of wrapped cheese, as well as a nob of salami. ‘Don't worry, I know you won't eat this.'

‘That stuff'll kill you, you know,' she grimaced.

‘But what a way to go.'

Helen scanned the contents of the fridge. There were several containers half filled with dips and olives, some stuffed vine leaves and other curious bits and pieces. It looked as though he'd raided a delicatessen. ‘You're a grazer, aren't you?'

‘What's that?' asked Myles as he laid the cheese out on a plate with crackers.

‘You graze instead of eating a proper meal.'

‘I eat proper meals, but usually in restaurants, on business,' said Myles. ‘I don't get a chance to cook much here. I like to have stuff to snack on when I get in late.'