A Heat of the Moment Thing Page 4

  After a few moments of stunned silence, the murmurs began. They’d clearly noticed my clothes. Hardly standard lecturer garb: Hawaiian shirt stuffed with a pillow (voila! Instant beer gut), glaringly-white Bermuda shorts, straw hat, sunglasses, walking sandals, false moustache.

  Terrified though I was, I had decided to take the bull by the horns today. If I won, the rest would be easy with these first-years. And hopefully the grapevine would do its thing and make my life easier with the second-years as well. If I lost . . .

  Well. Best I didn’t think about that.

  I reached the lectern and confirmed with a glance that my props were behind the bench. Then I placed a picnic basket containing lecture notes on top.

  For the next few minutes, though, I didn’t need notes. I had this part of the lecture committed to memory.

  I pulled out a sun umbrella, unfolded it, steadied it in its weighted base, then snapped up a deck chair in its shadow. Stepped back and nodded at the effect. Gave my audience a lopsided smile, then sat on the deck chair and rested my feet on the bench. Stopped. Stood again and went to the picnic basket. Pulled out a bottle of Becks. Sat down again, feet up, and opened the beer.

  I tilted the bottle towards the tiered seats. “Cheers.”

  I took a swig, the reactions by now audible. Murmurings, the odd whistle, a few claps of approval. I let it continue and feigned sleep, using the time to get my breathing under control. Then I stood, stretched lazily and, beer in hand, man-swaggered over to the lectern. Turned on the microphone and looked around the theatre.

  My stomach flipped. So many people.

  I hid my trembling hand in my pocket.

  “Travel,” I said. My voice boomed out larger than life and I leapt back from the microphone. Sipped another mouthful of beer to steady myself, then continued. “Imagine getting paid to drink beer and chill on the beach all day.”

  A few comments floated down from the tiered seats.

  “Paid to take holiday after glorious holiday. All in exotic destinations. Just one big Full Moon party after another.”

  Laughter rippled around the theatre.

  “And that’s why you’re all here, right? The parties!”

  A few raucous whoops and cat-calls rang out over the growing noise.

  “Yep,” I said. “Life’s a beach when you’re in the travel industry. Sex, drugs and rock’n’roll.”

  The theatre erupted.

  I felt euphoric. My memory hadn’t failed me, my body hadn’t betrayed me, and my props hadn’t fallen to pieces. The introduction had gone without a hitch. I smiled around the theatre—my theatre—and my terror faded to a pinprick of distant memory. I could do this job. Maybe not the way Sharon would’ve, but it was my cat, now, and I’d skin it the way I chose.

  I retrieved my lecture notes and stood at the lectern. A slight movement at the edge of my vision caught my attention and I glanced towards the door. It was open a few inches. Someone had been watching the entire performance.

  A blond fringe.

  My breath caught. My heart raced.

  Matt.

  Chapter Five

  Hands on hips, I watched as my house-mate, thirty-three going on twelve, completed his silly little trick.

  “You call that skill?” I said. “Here, give me one of those.”

  Jim, still sprawled in his bean-bag, handed a maltezer up to me. I lobbed it in the air then lurched around beneath it with an open mouth. Cursed as the chocolate ball bounced off my nose and hit the floor.

  He snorted and handed me another maltezer. “You need practice.”

  I tried again. Failed.

  “See? Skill. It’ll be an Olympic sport soon. Here, let the master show you how it’s done.”

  “Stand up and do it.” Maybe it was his posture.

  He stood, tossed a maltezer in the air and waited for it to plop cleanly into his mouth. Shot me a smug look. Passed me another maltezer. “Best of three.”

  I needed to keep my body still; that was it. Ever so gently I lobbed another one towards my waiting mouth. The doorbell ding-donged. I started. The maltezer rolled down my cheek.

  “Fail,” said Jim.

  “I was distracted. Give me another go.”

  The bell pealed again.

  Jim threw three maltezers in the air and caught them all in his mouth like a famished baby bird. “Distractions are irrelevant. Skill takes focus.”

  He flopped back into the bean-bag and picked up the remote, studiously ignoring the bell.

  I prodded him with my toe. “Fine. I’ll get the door, since you’re so busy training for the Olympics.”

  Dani stood there in the gathering dusk. A tear slipped down her cheek. “Can I come in?”

  I threw off the long-suffering act and hauled her inside, whipping into big-sister protection mode. “Dan, what’s wrong?”

  Her chin trembled. “Nothing,” she said, and broke down in shuddering sobs.

  Oh dear. Another love crisis, I bet. Her break-ups were always spectacular, and she always did them like a Shakespearean tragedy. Luckily I knew her. She’d be fine in a week or two, once she found the next guy.

  I hugged her, unable to repress a wince as she clung to me.

  She noticed and stepped back, gulping back her tears. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?” She honed in on my bald patch. “Oh my God! You’ve got stitches! What happened? Becs!” Her tears went on hold. “You should’ve rung!”

  I walked through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. “I did. Twice.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Her voice lowered to a mumble. “I haven’t been thinking straight. I’ve had . . . stuff going on.”

  She’s always got stuff going on. But Dani is Dani, take her or leave her. She’ll always be the star of the show. I love her to bits, of course.

  “Another break-up?” I prompted.

  She closed her eyes, sighed heavily. Her face crumpled and she dashed away more tears.

  “The worst,” she said, her voice ragged.

  I switched off the kettle—more serious measures required—and guided her through to the living room. We sat at the table and I poured a dollop of brandy into a glass for her.

  “Men are such bastards.” She stared down at the formica.

  Jim shifted in his bean-bag. The TV volume rose.

  I pushed the glass closer. Dani took it without looking up.

  “Bastards,” she repeated, then tipped her head back and downed the brandy.

  I blinked at the empty glass. Refilled it. “Want to tell me about it?”

  She gulped more brandy but didn’t drain the glass this time, thank goodness.

  “How could he?” she whimpered. Then, with vicious fury, “Bastard.”

  “Who?” I asked. Not that it mattered. I’d long since stopped trying to remember their names. There were just so many. She reeled them in and tossed them back so fast it was a miracle even she remembered their names.

  Jim held a dramatic hand to his forehead. “How could he?” he mimicked in falsetto. “Those Kenny Rogers CDs were my life.”

  Dani shot him a scathing look. He pretended not to see, but I knew he saw everything where she was concerned. He fancied my sister rotten. Not that I blamed him. Enviably slim, with long, sleek blonde hair and olive skin (both only slightly enhanced), Dani was nothing short of stunning. My frizzy auburn halo and parchment-pale skin, though cute in a just-like-your-grandmother kind of way, didn’t have quite the same impact. At five-foot-eight she was just an inch or so taller than me, but somehow that inch lent her a poise and slenderness I envied. Beside her I felt like an ugly duckling who never quite made it to swan status.

  Dani dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, all vulnerability and exotic beauty. Honestly, Jim didn’t stand a chance.

  She looked at me. Focused. Frowned. “Becs, your hair is hideous.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “What happened?”

  I’d wondered how long it would take her to show some interest. Even so, now I finally had
her attention I hesitated to admit the clumsy truth.

  “It was the most random thing,” I said. “I was walking up the street, minding my own business, when a crazed madman wielding a baseball bat”—her eyes widened—“jumped out in front of me and—”

  Jim piped up. “Hardly. She swam into the end of the swimming pool.”

  “What?” Dani swung from me to him and back again. “Really?”

  I shrugged. “I preferred the crazed madman story.”

  Jim muted the TV.

  “Crazed madman? Madwoman, more like. Doof!” He reeled as if from a head blow. “Oh yeah,” he slowed his words, “that’s right; the wall’s made of concrete. That’ll be why my head hurts.” He crossed his eyes, then uncrossed them and cackled.

  She rounded on him. “What, and that’s funny? Look at her! My sister could’ve died, and you think it’s funny?”

  He frowned. “Well, it is kind-of funny, don’t you think? Hold on—I can feel a joke coming on.” His eyes lit up, alien-like. “What did Becky say when she hit the end of the swimming pool? You’re a hard act to follow!” He hooted at his own humour. “Or . . . what’s Becky’s favourite song? All in all you’re just a-nother head in the wall!” He slapped his thigh, laughing manically.

  She eyeballed him. “There’s nothing funny about a head injury.”

  His laughter withered and died.

  She lanced him with her glare. “And what about me?”

  Her? Funny, there I’d been, thinking it was all about me for once.

  “Why didn’t you ring me as soon as it happened?” she demanded. “I am her sister, after all.”

  He looked stricken.

  Poor Jim. It wasn’t his fault she’d had a bad day.

  “Give him a break, Dan,” I said. “He’s not used to playing Florence.”

  “He’s not used to playing human.”

  Jim dragged himself upright, flicked off the TV, and left the room. His silence bothered me more than his jokes.

  “Typical.” Dani rolled her eyes.

  Yeah. Typical Dani, turning my accident into something about her.

  I felt torn. Thanks to Dani, Jim was upstairs feeling misunderstood, while she sat down here doing her usual melodramatics.

  Still, she was my sister.

  On cue, her baby blues welled again. She reached for a fresh tissue. “I should be working,” she said, voice wavering. “I’m on deadline this week.”

  “Dan, it’s night-time. Work can wait. Tell me about your break-up.”

  She hugged her glass, opened her mouth to speak, then exhaled and closed it again. Which was very unlike her. Her blow by blows of he-said-she-said usually lasted hours.

  “Hey,” I said, “if you don’t want to talk, that’s okay. We can just sit.”

  She nodded and whispered, “Thanks.”

  For a while she swirled the amber liquid in her glass, watching it with a glazed un-Dani-like expression.

  I gave her arm a gentle squeeze. She looked up at me with a watery smile, then drained her drink. I refilled it yet again, wondering if I had enough brandy to see Dani through her crisis.

  “Any chance you guys can work it out?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Oh.”

  More brandy-gazing.

  “Well, if there’s no going back, you need to move forward. Forget him, Dan. He’s history.”

  Her face crumpled. Clearly she hadn’t relegated him there just yet. Interesting. As far as I could remember, it had always been Dani doing the chasing, Dani deciding when it was over, Dani delivering the Dear John speech. This time, somehow, she’d lost the power.

  Hell, maybe she’d fallen in love.

  I grabbed her hand in mine. “Hon, I know it hurts. But you’ll get through this.”

  We all do, I wanted to add.

  She shook her head, disagreeing, then started wailing and wringing her hands. Shakespeare would’ve applauded.

  “You will,” I insisted. “And I’m here for you, all the way.”

  I gave her a minute or two for her dramatics, then tried again. “Will revenge make you feel better? We could . . .” I thought quickly. “. . . Throw rocks at his windows? Take out a full-page ad? Ooh! Basic Instinct! Let’s boil his bunnies.”

  She gave a hiccup-y giggle. I handed her a tissue.

  “Thanks.” She blew her nose.

  “Want to go for a walk?”

  She sighed.

  “Down to the pub, maybe?”

  She shook her head, looking morose.

  “Okay, let’s catch a movie.”

  She slumped even further in her chair.

  “Right. Shall we just stay here, then?”

  “Becs, I can’t face the world just now. I’m all messed up.”

  Did she mean on the inside or the outside? I wasn’t sure.

  “Look at me! I can’t go out looking like this.” She indicated her face, practically flawless in spite of her tears. “Can’t I hang out here a while?”

  “Sure. Whatever you want.” What else could I suggest? “Want to watch some TV, then?”

  She shook her head again, and I gave up.

  “Right. Well, I’ll get you another drink, and how about you curl up in my bed for a bit while I do some work? I need to write up next week’s lectures.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Then she straightened in her chair. “I could proof-read them for you.”

  I stared at Dani, aghast. Her spelling and grammar only barely verge on adequate. Really, she should never leave home without a spell-check facility.

  Her shoulders sagged. “Or not.”

  I bit my lip. It would at least give her something else to think about.

  “Great idea,” I said, with far more enthusiasm than I felt.

  Chapter Six

  “Coming for a drink, Jebecca?” Sal stood in my office doorway.

  I groaned. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

  “No.” She grinned.

  “Didn’t think so. I’ll settle for a drink, then.”

  As I locked my door the phone rang. I hesitated.

  “Let it ring.” Sal checked her watch. “Come on, it’s 5.30. They’ll leave a message if it’s important.”

  We headed down to Little Tuscany, a nearby wine bar and T&T’s local watering hole. Over in the corner our noisy group had already switched to weekend mode.

  A wine, maybe two; that’s what I needed. I bought a self-congratulatory glass of bubbly, and Sal sat down next to me with a Chianti.

  She clinked her glass against mine. “Well, Luv, the first week’s always the worst. How’d it go?”

  “Great. Even better now it’s over. I’m exhausted.”

  “I hear your first lecture was . . .”—she searched for the right word—“. . . memorable.” She smirked.

  “Oh.” I felt my cheeks colour. Did she mean memorable-good or memorable-bad? I didn’t like to ask. “Who’d you hear that from?”

  She tapped her nose. “Can’t reveal my sources.”

  I’d heard Sal knew everything about everyone at T&T. She must be a gossip extraordinaire if she’d already had the low-down on me. Maybe she’d been speaking to one of the students. Or—I glanced down the table—Matt, maybe? What had he thought of my lecture? Would he admit to spying on me? My heart fluttered up around my throat.

  I leaned closer to Sal and murmured, “Who’s Matt speaking to?”

  She turned and looked at the quiet young twinset-and-pearls woman at his side. “Oh, haven’t you met Amanda yet?”

  Sal’s voice carried down the table, drawing looks from both Matt and Amanda. I cringed.

  Sal smiled at them, unfazed, and raised her glass to her lips. “Amanda keeps herself to herself. Not much of a socialite.” She paused. “Actually, she can barely string a sentence together.”

  “Looks like she’s managing nicely with Matt.”

  “Yeah. He’s a sweetie. I doubt Amanda would come to drinks if
he wasn’t there. I’ll introduce you later,” she added. “She lectures Year 1 Tourism, like you.”

  “Really? Oh!” With her tidy, no-fuss ponytail and serious, be-spectacled face, she just oozed librarian—but lecturer? No.

  “Her specialty’s IT.”

  Which explained her almost-translucent English Rose skin, a stark contrast to Matt’s sun-bronzed tones. They probably didn’t have much in common. The thought filled me with pleasure which, a micro-second later, translated into annoyance. Why should I care?

  My gaze rested on Matt for a double pulse-beat. He looked like he’d just come from a sunbed. Maybe he had some Greek or Italian or something in him. Though that didn’t explain the blond hair. Scandinavian, perhaps.

  He looked up and smiled. Heat rushed to my face. Damn. He’d caught me staring. He raised a quirky eyebrow and I smiled back but let my glance slide past him, as if I’d been scanning the whole room, not just him.

  I felt his eyes still on me, though, stringing an invisible thread of tension between us. The tension tautened, tighter, tighter, until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  I leapt to my feet. “My round. What’s everyone having?”

  They started calling their orders.

  “Want a hand?” Matt stood.

  No! Anyone but him.

  I shook my head, softening it with a smile. “You’re hemmed in. Sal can help instead.” I grabbed her by the elbow and hauled her upright. “Right, Sal?”

  She looked surprised. “Oh, okay.”

  “I’ve got this, Sal,” said a male voice at my side.

  I turned and came face to toupee with a younger, darker version of Benny Hill. Took a hasty step back.

  “I bet you do,” said Sal. “Becky, Hank. Hank, Becky.”

  Hank held my hand in both of his. “Ah. The beautiful Becky.”

  I gave him a small, don’t-want-to-encourage-you smile.

  He leaned closer, so close I wanted to take another step back, and engulfed me in a hideous huff of beer breath. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Oh dear. Shame I couldn’t say the same about him. I’d have found a way to avoid him.

  We made our way through the now-full room and queued at the bar, trying to dodge people’s drink spills and (for my part) Hank’s hands. He made small-talk about his incredibly important second-year book-keeping course, and I whiled the time away studying his toupee. Was it even made of hair? It looked very . . . nylon. And every time he turned his head, the toupee looked ready to bark and launch itself through the air at me.