Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1) (15 page)

Matt nods, distracted, as we reach my door, pausing along with me as I rifle through my bag in search of keys.

‘I don’t remember you being in the car.’

‘What?’ Cue a comic double-take, purse hanging limp in my hand.

‘Did you leave early?’ His expression clouds as he attempts recollection. ‘Were you ill, like at brunch?’

‘Oh, that was nothing. No, I’m fine.’ Yikes, for a minute I thought I must’ve been walking funny or something.
Like a cowboy too long on his horse.
I could definitely blame any mobility limits on some twelve-hour thing, only more the kind that leaves you with a sore hoo-haw, rather than the sniffles and a sore throat. Hang on, my throat
is
a little sore, but that’s from . . . yeah. I’ll stop there.

‘Great. So, do you wanna grab a coffee? There’s a
Coffee Bean
around the corner.’

He looks so adorably contrite with those huge, pleading eyes. Like some kind of large puppy
.
One that’d happily hump my leg, if the other night is anything to go by. And that I can’t help but be reminded of a Labrador doesn’t mean I think he’s a dog. Far from it. Maybe I’d appreciate his charms more if it weren’t for Kai.

‘Call it an I’m-sorry-I-can’t-hold-my-liquor kinda thing. My treat. They do great carrot cake,’ he almost sings.

I wonder who told him my secret vice was sugar. No, I don’t. Not really. I’m sure Niamh saw us as a possible match, which—colour me cynical—would’ve fit into her plans for a cosy foursome with Rob
.
And while I’m not interested, I don’t want to be rude. Or make him feel any worse than he already does. Surely it would be churlish to say no? Just call me a people pleaser. Or a cake whore. And despite ploughing through a massive muffin earlier, I’m probably still in calorie deficit after my night with Kai.

‘Sure, why not.’

‘Great,’ he calls, walking backwards along the corridor, still balancing those tubes. ‘Just let me drop my things. See you in five.’

Putting my purse on the kitchen worktops, I quickly change into jeans and a loose, white shirt, keeping on my pretty new thongs. The doorbell rings at the very same moment as my phone. The number on the screen is heavily familiar as I gesture Matt inside and to the sofa.

‘Hi, Mum.’ I try not to make it sound like answering is a chore, while wishing I’d let the call ring out.

‘Katherine, love. How are you?’

‘Good, thanks.’ There’s the usual pregnant pause which I’ve long since grasped I don’t need to fill by babbling, handing over the conversational upper hand. On this occasion, Kate for the win.

‘Did you get my message, darl?’

‘Haven’t had a chance to check my email yet. Hey, isn’t it the middle of the night there? What are you doing still up?’

‘Oh, I can’t sleep.’ My mum sighs dramatically. She’s got it down to a fine art, and I don’t have to ask why as it won’t be long until she tells me anyway. ‘I’ve such a lot on my mind. Worried about you in that God-forsaken place, the embarrassment of cancelling the wedding plans. It’s all been very sad.’

‘I told you, I’d deal with it, it’s only a few emails—’

‘The guests had to be
called
, Katherine,’ she softly berates. ‘We had to explain. To everyone. I just don’t think I’ll get a good night’s sleep until you come home.’

Ah, the emotional blackmail card. I knew she’d get there in the end.

‘I’m sorry you felt you had to do that, but I’m pretty sure everyone had already heard.’
You remember Cousin Kate, the one whose fiancé hooked-up with a stripper?
And as for forsaken by God, I’m pretty sure those five daily prayers must mean something. ‘I told you in my last email, I’m fine. I like it here. I’m having fun.’

‘Fun?’ The word drips with an ill-concealed scorn.

‘Yes,
fun
. And my contract is for two years. I won’t be coming home for good before then, just for holidays.’
Possibly.
‘Maybe you should get some lavender oil or something to help you sleep.’

‘Katherine, the Middle East is not the place to run away to, it’s . . . it’s dangerous! Your place is here, with your family. You’ve made your point and your fiancé is—’

I cut her off immediately. ‘Please tell me you’re not doing this. I don’t
have
a fiancé. I don’t want to talk
to
him, talk
about
him,
nothing!
’ A sudden thought occurs to me, slithering uncomfortably from spine to gut. ‘He’s put you up to this, hasn’t he?’

‘He came around yesterday,’ she admits. ‘He’s very sad.’

‘You didn’t let him in, did you? You’d better not have given him my number.’ Pinching the bridge of my nose, I will away her response.

‘He was on the doorstep. What would Betty from across the road have thought if I’d left him out there, carrying on like a pork chop? And what harm could a call or an email do? He’s just a man, they do stupid things. He needs to apologize.’

He needs to go boil his head. Preferably using his arse as a receptacle.

‘That’s not the point.’ I strain to keep my voice even, trying hard to regulate my rising temper through deep breaths. Truthfully, I’m about two steps beyond blowing my cool. ‘I asked you not to do this, the one
thing I asked.’

‘To err is human, Katie.’

‘Yeah?’ The word hits the air coldly. ‘He’s not peddling that crap here ‘cos I know what a lying bastard he is. He broke my heart, Mum, broke my
fucking heart!
’ From outrage to tears, the final words crack from the strain of trying to hold it all in. Isn’t unwavering support a mother’s function? Isn’t that a mother’s place? Not mine.

‘There’s no need for profanity, that’s not how you were raised.’ Her voice never alters in volume, but the reprimand is there all the same.

‘That’s where you’re wrong. There’s every need for profanity the way I feel. If you don’t want to hear it, maybe next time you’ll think about me. Look, Mum, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you soon.’

I push the
end
button, wishing it was as easy to end my connection to him.

Deep breaths, deep breaths. Don’t let it all in.

Acid washes violently through my stomach as I place my phone on the bench. My mother’s tactics are, as usual, classic passive-aggressive. Though I suppose it’s better than arguing with my stepdad, who leaves me feeling like I’ve banged my head against a solid brick wall.

‘Why can’t she be on my side?’ I mutter. Then I remember Matt sitting stock-still on the sofa, forgotten in my soap-opera call.

‘Families,’ I say with a weak smile. ‘Can’t live with them . . . so you move to another continent.’ He smiles sympathetically, that small touch of understanding allowing the threatening tears to spill. ‘Christ, I’m losing the plot. I totally cracked the shits with my mum!’ I press fingers against my temples to stave off the building ache. ‘I’m so rooted—she’ll get miles out of this,
fucking miles!
’

‘Hey, it’s okay.’ With his hands on my shoulders, he peers down at me, eyes sincere. ‘I have no idea what you just said, but it can’t be that bad.’

My return smile is watery, it’s all I can manage as I allow him to lead me to the sofa. My hands shake as adrenaline courses through my bloodstream, a reaction to the possibility of Shane having access to me in any way—
I can’t face him. I won’t—
and the fact that I’ve totally played into my mother’s hands. She’ll play the injured party forever. Why can’t she ever support
me?

‘I shouldn’t have lost it with my mum.’ I sniff, wiping my nose with the heel of my hand. ‘She’s a total emotional blackmail ninja.’

‘Should I make tea or something?’

I peek out from behind splayed fingers: tea, the ageless, cross-cultural, crisis management tool. ‘I’m okay, really. I’ll be fine.’ Not to mention, I don’t have any tea. In fact, I don’t have much of anything in the kitchen at all. ‘Just give me a minute then we’ll head out for that coffee.’ I wipe my fingers under my eyes, concerned I might look like a sad panda. ‘What I could really do with is a drink,’ I mutter, wondering where I’d stashed Niamh’s last bottle of wine.

‘Hey, now you’re talking!’ Laughing, Matt holds out his hand. ‘As you may remember, I’m an expert in that area.’

‘But I don’t think I’ve . . . ’

‘No, I’ve got this one. Come on.’

Grabbing my keys, I pull the door closed as we pass through.

Chapter Fourteen

Matt’s living room is almost a mirror image of my own, save for the monstrous tiki-style bar which takes up almost an entire wall. I can see now why Niamh wasn’t sure of their colour scheme as every surface seems to be covered with boy stuff. The walls are plastered with abstract posters and beer mats, the sofas covered in denim-coloured throws. But it’s the massive bar that is the focus of the room. Well-used, and almost battle-worn, it’s pinned with postcards from far flung places and other holiday paraphernalia, including a huge sombrero and a novelty nodding Indian Sadhu.
A baba bobble-head, would that be?
It would be tacky enough without the accoutrements, but with them it’s lifted into a whole other level of tastelessness. And I love it.

I clamber onto a high stool as Matt slides in behind the bar with an infectious smile.

‘What’ll it be?’

Definitely more a
vin rouge
girl, I note the absence of wine amongst the bottles, so opt for a vodka tonic instead.

‘Whoa, the hard stuff. Sorry,’ he says, shaking his head, ‘we finished it last night. Straight.’

‘After you yakked on the way home?’

‘Good for cleansing the palate. Rob’s logic.’ He shrugs.

‘Sounds to me like he might’ve been trying to finish you off, especially after you scuppered his and Niamh’s plans!’

Oh, shit. From Matt’s expression, he obviously had no idea what the pair intended.

‘Were they really going to—’

‘And most people rinse with mouthwash,’ I bulldoze on. ‘Vodka’s a bit posh for bleach. How about you surprise me with that drink instead?’

When put like that what else can he do? He begins to select unfamiliar bottles, gathering a glass from beneath the bar. His eyes rise hesitantly to mine once or twice as he examines and measures like someone in a lab. Then, flipping a small bar towel over his shoulder, he places the glass before me, grabbing a beer from the fridge for himself.

I twirl the stem in my fingers, recognising the shape of the glass, though I’ve never tasted the actual drink before.

‘A martini?’

‘Dirty, is that okay?’

‘How’d you make a martini dirty? Take its knickers off, call it a bad girl?’

Matt chokes a little, teeth clashing with his beer bottle before he places it down, thumping his chest once with his fist. ‘I think you might’ve confused it with its slutty cousin, the appletini.’

‘The appletini does sound like a bit of a flirt,’ I agree.

‘And we only serve manly drinks here.’

‘That so?’ I eye a bottle of butterscotch schnapps on the shelf behind, without comment. ‘What constitutes a manly drink, then?’

‘Beer, straight from the bottle.’ He raises his. ‘The martini, naturally.’

‘Of course.’ I dip a finger into my, as yet, untasted drink.
Slightly bitter, but not unpleasant.
‘If it’s good enough for Bond.’

‘Exactly,’ he agrees. ‘Then there’s vodka, which we don’t have; bourbon, which we do. Would you like me to slip you a couple of fingers?’

He holds out two gun-like fingers and I know he means the gesture as a measurement, but my smutty mind goes somewhere else, and it’s my turn to choke. Matt, meanwhile, looks like his head’s about to pop off.

‘No! I meant . . . you haven’t touched your drink. I could . . .’ His neck moves as he swallows.

‘Of course you did,’ I sing.

The awkwardness clears once I’ve stopped giggling, Matt grateful to move on. We chat about everything, and nothing, including his travel aspirations and mine. He’s very easy to get along with and tactfully doesn’t mention my phone call, other than asking how a person goes about
cracking shit,
for purely anthropological purposes. In the interest of cultural understanding, I explain. I also further educate him by explaining
rooted
in Australia is pretty much getting, or being, screwed. Depending on how lucky you are, I suppose.

One martini becomes two, two becomes three, and I’m feeling extremely relaxed as his phone vibrates against the bar top. As he answers, I realise not only is it getting late, but I’ve also left my phone in my kitchen next door. Toes against the stool rung, I lean across the bar and plant a swift, smacking peck on his cheek. Making to hop down from the stool, I mouth my thanks when his hand catches my wrist.

‘Wait,’ he whispers. But there’s no fizz or spark as his skin meets mine, despite the warmth growing in his eyes.

Mental note to self: no kissing mates in Dubai.

‘I can’t. Honestly, I’m done in.’

Hand still on my wrist, he lifts the phone back to his ear and with a curt murmur, he ends the call. As his head turns to mine, I’m reminded of a turret on a tank. ‘What’s your rush? Is it that guy, the one from the hotel?’

So much for a drink-induced lack of memory. I pull my wrist away.

‘That’s none of your business.’

A frown creases his brow as though attempting recall. ‘Did you stay back at the hotel after we’d left?’ His frown morphs into an expression of surprise, like he can’t believe what he’s said.

‘And that’s
really
none of your business. Just leave it at that, yeah?’

I leave with his apologies following me through the door.

Wobbling indignantly along the corridor, I recognise I’m also a teeny bit drunk. Three martinis make Kate well on the way to wasted, which totally excuses misreading the kissing thing, I hope.

Note to self: European-style goodbyes don’t always translate well into other languages.

And three martinis also make Kate thirsty, or hell bent on a bit of a bender, so once back in my flat, I open my last bottle of red. Pouring myself a large one, I head to the sofa and grab the remote for the idiot box. But I’m antsy, my mind too busy to pay any attention.