Chapter 9

Emily tried to focus on the screen, but the words seemed to slip in and out of her mind without their meaning registering. She had read the same paragraph four times, without being able to recall one word of it, or what the meaning behind the words was. She suspected she was going to need a strong black coffee to get through the afternoon. Maybe two. And it was barely past lunch. But her attention was so divided she might as well give in and go home as she was not going to achieve anything significant like this – except that Emily never gave in and skipped work. It wasn’t in her work ethic to do so.

In truth, though she didn’t want to admit it to herself, she had gone home mentally weeks ago, but she kept to the routine of work because staying all day in an empty house echoing with the ghost of Owen was far worse than coming to her office and fighting her way through another meaningful day of drudgery. And every dollar she made now, would be useful for when she quit her job and moved.

She saved the file she was working on, and shut down her laptop, and instead opened her phone to the real estate ap and entered some country post codes into the search field. She flicked through the pictures. She wanted to imagine herself in a pretty, little country house, with the big dog, and a garden full of flowers, writing about romantic heroes who would never break an engagement and run off with a rock band…

But nothing stood out to her, mostly because she could not imagine her life without Owen in it, and if she found a house that would meet her needs and bought it, then she would have committed to giving up on the life she had planned with Owen, giving up on Owen. She would move, leaving it and him behind her.

Owen, on the other hand, seemed to have no problems imagining his future without her, and no hesitation about leaving her behind him.

For the past couple of weeks since they had agreed to switch houses, she saw Owen only in passing, a casual hello as they went about their separate days and passed each other in the front yards, or when they needed to discuss something regarding the division of property or the sale of the houses.

These latter encounters seemed to always end in frantic, heated, animalistic sex, and whilst the sex was the best she’d had in her life, the ups and downs of the relationship were exhausting her emotionally, the constant slide between hope and despair leaving her numb and listless, unable to focus, in its wake.

The screen of her phone flashed up Owen, interrupting her fruitless search. She frowned and lifted it to her ear. “Owen?”

“Em!” He was breathless, and she could hear traffic in the background, and the sound of his indicator as he wove his way through it.

“I hope you are on hands free,” she protested automatically knowing that he probably wasn’t.

“I am not,” he laughed it out as if amused that she would even think such a thing. “Em, I need your help. I am on the way to your work now.”

“You are on the way here?” She felt a flutter of fear in her chest. “What has happened? Are you alright, Owen?”

“Fine, and not fine,” he replied. “Cordelia’s sick, and we are scheduled for a very expensive half day in a studio in just under an hour. I need a back-up singer. I need you.”

“Owen… I am at work.” She looked around her office as she worried her lip with her teeth. She couldn’t just get up and leave… Could she?

“Leave. Please, Em,” he was begging. “I am five minutes away.”

“My car is here.”

“It is easier if I just pick you up and drop you back. I know how you drive.”

She sighed out a breath… Why not? She asked herself. Really, why just not? She was just biding time at this job, anyway, and her focus was off, she wasn’t going to be achieving anything worthwhile scattered as she was. “Fine,” she decided. “I will meet you out front.”

“Thank you, Em,” he said emphatically. “Thank you. Really.” He disconnected.

She slid her laptop into its case along with her notebook and the client file she was working on and grabbed her bag as she made her way to the door, pausing by the reception desk and waiting until the glossy receptionist who always slightly intimidated her with her flawless makeup and manicured nails looked up from what she was typing with a bright, false smile.

“Yes, Emily?”

“I have got a meeting which might run long,” she lied for the first time in her working life. But what did it matter? She was planning on handing in her notice anyway the moment her house sold. “Can you take messages?”

“Sure, Emily.”

She took the elevator down to the foyer, which was bare of people, her high heels clicking crisply over the tiles as she hurried over them towards the glass doors that opened out onto the tree-lined street, the road busy with traffic.

She stood on the sidewalk feeling as if she were in high school again and ditching class to go make out with Owen on some obscure side road or beach carpark. She wished it were so, she thought wistfully. She wished herself back to those days. She had not appreciated them enough, had not appreciated her time with Owen enough, had not appreciated Owen enough until he was no longer hers.

She saw his car winding its way through traffic and dived into the passenger seat as soon as he pulled to a stop as it was a no parking zone, and his pause was heralded by the blast of car horns as drivers caught behind them gesticulated their frustration. He took off as she strapped into her seat.

“I feel like I am sneaking out of school,” she told him breathlessly. “I never ditch work.”

“I know,” he flicked her a grin. God, she thought, he was sexy. She had a flash of him pinning her up against the wall, and her body ached to do it again. It was just not fair, she thought, that she had rediscovered her sex drive after he broke it off with her. Her vibrator was getting such a heavy usage she’d had to buy more batteries twice now. “I appreciate it Em, I really do.”

“I don’t know any of your songs.” Focus, Em, she told herself sternly, on the problem at hand, and not on your inconvenient feelings for a man who was no longer yours.

“You will pick it up. Here, I have got some recordings we made.” He passed her his ear buds and phone at the red light leaning over the centre console in order to retrieve them from the glove box and spilling out a variety of items, including several packets of condoms, she noted, as he hastily scooped them off her lap and stuffed them back where they had come from. “Sorry,” he slid her a look out of the corner of his eye.

At least he was using protection with others, she thought, her heart twisting in agony in her chest.

“It is bad sound quality,” he continued briskly as they moved on again, though his neck and cheeks flushed vividly red. “But it will give you some idea, and the lyrics and music are in my notebook, by your feet. Thanks, again, Em,” he said the last so quietly that it was barely more than a murmur.

She put an earbud in and pressed play on the song list as she reached for the notebook. The music roared out at her, but after a moment as she adjusted to the onslaught of sound, she could make out the backing vocals. She flicked through the pages of his book until she found the sheet music to match what she was listening to.

“Can I make notes on this?” She asked him.

“Yeah, of course. There is a pen jammed in the spine.”

“I see it.”