Irrepressible You (12 page)

‘Oh?’ Ben scratched his cheek thoughtfully. ‘You mean as a sort of theme?’

‘Something like that. As long as they feature the little barber, or characters like her,’ Ross said with a decisive nod. ‘Given the reception you got we may be able to turn it into a money spinner later, a sort of tongue-in-cheek anti-travel book about Australia. What do you think?’

Ben shrugged, immediately liking the idea but not wanting to appear too keen. It never paid to have Ross think his ideas were good ones. ‘Might work.’

‘Will work.’ Ross thumped his desk emphatically. ‘Get cracking.’

‘That all?’ Ben asked with raised eyebrows.

‘No, actually, that was a side note. What I really want to talk to you about is an interview we’re running with your ex next week.’ Ross’s expression turned faintly apologetic.

Ben groaned. ‘Bloody hell, Ross. This has been going on for months. Hasn’t she milked the cash cow dry yet? There has to be more interesting material out there than me.’

‘Not with what she’s just come up with there’s not,’ Ross replied darkly, pushing a few printed pages towards Ben. ‘I said it at the time and I’ll say it again: a reality star? What the hell were you thinking? They’re so fame-hungry they’d shop their granny for lead story on the nightly news.’

‘I know.’ Ben picked the papers up off the desk. ‘I wasn’t thinking. Fit of insanity brought on by severe boredom and some pretty impressive cleavage.’ He scowled, his expression getting even darker as he began to read. By the time he got to the end of the page, he was cursing inventively.

‘She doesn’t say you did the last one, but all the others apply.’ Ross unsuccessfully tried to hide a smirk at his own joke. ‘Don’t worry’bout it, old man. It’ll be great press for that travel book you’re writing as of today.’

‘You’re as encouraging as ever.’ Ben stood.

‘You’re welcome,’ Ross said, not bothering to get up himself. He spoke again just as Ben reached the door. ‘Can you get me some duty-free single malt when you come back to London next?’

‘Bye, Ross.’

Ben boarded a British Airways flight back to Australia the next day. He settled himself down in the nearly empty first-class cabin and did his best not to brood. He was normally philosophical about travel, usually enjoyed it as a routine part of his life, but not this time around. If the news of his ex-girlfriend’s pending tell-all work of fiction hadn’t been bad enough, the meal he’d shared with his parents last evening iced the cake.

Having been deposited in boarding school at the tender age of five, Ben could honestly say that at thirty-three he didn’t know either of his parents any better than he knew the average man in the street. They were equally baffled by their genetic relation to him. Ben’s father, a member of the House of Lords and an ultra-conservative, frequently threatened to disown him over his often scathing comments about the government and the monarchy. His mother, a senior administrator at Imperial College in London, chose to deal with her progeny’s career by pretending it didn’t exist. Ben had the feeling that Celia Martindale frequently pretended that
he
didn’t exist too. He’d wondered idly over the years if that’s why there weren’t any childhood pictures of him in either of his parents’ country or London homes. He liked to think of himself as their dirty little family secret.

Years ago he’d decided that he couldn’t begrudge either his mother or his father; he owed them his entire career, after all. If it hadn’t been for their appalling child-rearing skills, he wouldn’t have been locked in that boarding school cupboard and developed the early ability to perform and entertain to fit into the cutthroat social hierarchy at school. That talent had led to numerous stand-up tours, several bestselling books, writing credits for three TV series, a weekly column and, if his friend Cameron and the Bright Star people had their way, a movie script. Not to mention a recent presence in the British tabloids that he’d rather not have at all.

He should have known better than to start a relationship with Marcella Black, but as he’d told Alex only the week before, she’d been like junk food: bland and generic but strangely addictive after the first bite. In that, she was nothing like Amy Blaine, his little Australian barber.

Requesting a Bloody Mary from a flirtatious flight attendant, he repressed a small half-smile, remembering his conversation with Amy that morning. He’d set his alarm for six and when it had gone off, he’d rolled over and reached for his phone before he’d even bothered to open his eyes, wondering the entire time if the lady was worth it. The breathless voice that answered the phone and his immediate rush of pleasure on hearing it told him yes, she certainly was.

She had sounded genuinely delighted to hear from him and even more delighted to agree to a mid-week dinner. In aid of advancing his cause, Ben had impulsively taken an hour out of negotiating with Bright Star to buy her a gift. With luck, it would achieve its purpose and the trip to London wouldn’t prove to have been an annoying nuisance after all.

Chapter 6

Amy hadn’t started her day intending to fall in love, but sometimes these things were simply inevitable. She stood in front of a concrete-floored wire mesh cage studying the object of her affection, who was currently wearing the most downcast expression she’d ever seen.

She didn’t
want
to be in love. Not with this particular morose face. No. She wanted to be in love with the cute, fluffy white bundle of energy next door with perky, pretty features and an endearing grin. Unfortunately Cupid’s arrow had struck her fair and square and now she had to live with the consequences. On the up side, at least those would be better than the last three sleepless nights she’d endured, lying in her bed thinking every bump and noise could be her burglar coming back for seconds. Never mind that going out to visit Harvey for nature’s call had turned into a nerve-wracking, bladder-bursting experience. For the first time since buying her home, she was actually considering getting a loan to cover a bunch of renovations she really couldn’t afford just now.

‘Is it a he or a she?’ she asked the burly middle-aged man next to her, who had minutes before introduced himself as Rowan.

‘His name is Gerald. He’s a three-year-old purebred bulldog as far as we can gather.’ Rowan shoved a beefy hand into the back pocket of his khaki shorts. ‘He came in a year ago. They found him wandering along the beach at Hillarys Boat Harbour. He was in pretty bad shape, not that you’d know it now. A few people have tried to take him so far, but no one’s stuck.’

Amy squatted down closer to Gerald’s eye level. ‘Why? If he’s a purebred surely people would love to have him.’

Rowan shrugged. ‘Dunno. Especially since he’s been thoroughly vet checked and doesn’t seem to have any of the nightmare medical dramas his breed usually has, other than surgery for cherry eye when we first got him. The last people took him for their kids then returned him a week later. Said he wasn’t active enough. The bloke before that said pretty much the same thing and complained that he got depressed just looking at him. I mean, bulldogs are normally pretty sedate, but Gerald here could write the manual for bone idleness.’ He gave the dog an affectionate smile. ‘I’m the one who named him Gerald, after my father-in-law.’

‘Can I go in and meet him?’ Amy reached through the wire of the cage, holding her hand out for the dog to sniff. In response he moved his front paws all of a millimetre forward on the concrete floor and snuffled at her half-heartedly before slumping down with a truly long-suffering sigh. No one could call this dog attractive. Even for a bulldog, Gerald looked like he’d lost the lottery in appearance. The combination of drooping, red-rimmed, brown eyes, massively pronounced overbite, white fur and pink skin stretched over a chubby loaf-shaped body were simply too ugly not to be adorable. There was also something charming about his complete disregard for social niceties.

When Rowan let Amy into his cage, Gerald let out a low ‘oof’ and snuffled loudly again before slumping down even further. His tiny stump of a tail wagged once, a sure sign of overwhelming enthusiasm, when Amy gave him a scratch behind the ear.

‘Is he house-trained and good with people?’ she asked, moving on to scratch the other ear. The dog wheezed and she took that as approval of the attention.

‘Yes to the house-training as long as you drag him outside at least three times a day to do his business. If you call not moving and generally lying around like a lump good with people he’s definitely grade-A.’ Rowan let out a booming chuckle.

‘What about being a guard dog?’ Amy asked, having a feeling she already knew the answer.

Rowan gave Gerald a speculative glance. ‘Well . . . I’ll say this for him, he looks the part, but that’s about it. Frankly, he’s probably as useful as a taxidermied Rottweiler.’

‘Ah.’ Amy nodded gravely. Given her requirements, that should have solved her dilemma then and there, but true love was often irrational. ‘He fixed?’ She stood up and brushed her hands off on her skirt.

‘Yep, but whoever owned him before gave him a bit of cosmetic surgery.’

Amy wrinkled her forehead in confusion.

‘He’s got fake nuts. Little rubber balls,’ Rowan said succinctly. ‘Never seen it before and it confused the hell out of the vet.’

‘Seriously?’ Amy regarded Gerald with amazement.

‘Yeah, but even if they were real, he wouldn’t have the energy to use them,’

Amy looked down at the dog and the dog looked up at her for a few silent seconds before she made up her mind. ‘Can I take him today?’

Rowan looked surprised. ‘Yeah . . . sure . . . as long as you meet our requirements. You look more like the type who’d go for Sprinkles, the little Maltese cross in the cage over there, though.’ He rubbed his chin, openly taking in Amy’s high-heeled black boots, red and white polka dot pencil skirt and cinched-at-the-waist black cardigan.

‘That’s what I thought too.’ Amy smiled apologetically at the enthusiastic Sprinkles. ‘But it’s not gonna happen.’

‘They weren’t lying when they said you don’t like exercise, boy. Come on.’ Amy half walked, half dragged her new dog through the door of Babyface, awkwardly holding a paper bag full of doggy supplies under one arm. She looked down at him. ‘It’s a good thing I don’t have anyone waiting for a shave or they’d be wetting their pants laughing. Come
on
, boy. Please?’

Gerald just looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. He snorted, took a few lumbering steps into the barber shop towards a patch of sunshine by the window then collapsed on his stomach with a thud.

Amy put the paper bag on one of the chairs, then crouched down next to him. ‘This is gonna be your new home, boy. Well, half the time. What d’you think? No, don’t make an effort. I know ya love it.’ She scratched him behind his ears and was gratified to hear an appreciative groan.

‘What is
that
?’

Amy looked up to find Kate standing at the rear of the store, looking at Gerald like he was an outbreak of the Ebola virus come to pay its respects.

‘He’s my new guard dog,’ Amy said with a cheerful smile, standing up and unpacking Gerald’s new food and water bowls. In deference to his gender she’d gone for a genteel hunter-green colour scheme.

‘Guard dog?’ Kate’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s not gonna be coming next door, is he? He’ll get hair everywhere.’ She looked down at her black
fleur de lys
maxi dress then at the very white and pink dog by the window.

‘Sometimes.’ Amy shrugged, not commenting on the fact that Kate was a hairdresser who dealt with hair every day. ‘When I’m next door. He’s placid so I don’t think we’ll have any problems with our ladies unless some of them are allergic. Mostly I’ll keep him in here with me on the boys’ side. Unless you hug him, I don’t think you have to worry about hair, m’love. Actually, I think all we’ll have to do to keep the hair down is sweep around him once a day.’ She spared her new canine best friend an affectionate smile.

Kate flicked a strand of waist-length blonde hair over her shoulder and grimaced theatrically. ‘Better keep him in here. Anyway, enough about the dog. I need to talk to you. Well, not me. Mel needs to talk to you. She’s next door. We’ve been waiting for you to get back for ages.’

‘Mel?’ Amy asked, simultaneously feeling a wave of relief and sharp stab of anxiety over the fact things were playing out exactly as they had every other time. Myf’s words about the problem with treating friends as family ran through her mind but she ignored them for now. Mel hadn’t completely let her down and that’s what counted. That didn’t mean Amy was going to be a total pushover. She couldn’t afford to be. Myf was right. She had to put her foot down some time and in light of Kate’s behaviour this past week, she never wanted to be down to one senior stylist again.

‘Yeah. You gonna talk to her or not? She wants her job back,’ Kate said briskly.

‘You two back together again?’ Amy asked.

Kate averted her eyes. ‘Yeah. Last night. Anyway, you gonna talk to her or not?’ Her voice had an edge you could cut wood with. This kind of attitude was nothing new and Amy usually ignored it due to Kate’s exceptional talent as a stylist, but today it abraded her nerves like a cheese grater.

‘Send her through. I’ve got Beau Jameson dropping by here for a shave in a bit so she can keep me company while I get ready,’ Amy replied curtly.

‘Yeah, alright.’ Kate spared one last disapproving look at Gerald and went next door.

The minute Kate left the room Amy hauled a deep breath into her lungs and closed her eyes. ‘You can do this, Ames. Toughen up,’ she whispered to herself, then quickly rifled through her handbag, found her make-up case and began to touch up her lipstick and powder in the mirror.

‘Amy?’

‘Hmm?’ Amy ran her pinkie along the edge of her lower lip to tidy up the scarlet gloss she’d just applied.

‘Can we talk?’ Mel walked into the barber shop, closing the connecting door behind her.

‘Yeah, sweetie. Come sit down.’ Amy gestured to one of the barber chairs and took the second, crossing one leg over the other. ‘Kate just said you two got back together. Congrats.’ She watched as Mel took a seat, noting that her friend had lost weight, which was a worry. Mel was one of the few people Amy knew who was actually shorter than she was. She had a straight up-and-down figure, which was made even more pronounced by the baggy trousers and loose-fitting vintage bowler shirts she liked to wear. She’d changed her weave since Amy had last seen her two and a half weeks ago. Mel’s shoulder-length bob was now a ponytail of sleek mid-length red braids that complemented her caramel-coloured, lightly freckled skin beautifully.