A Southern Star (19 page)

Christie said goodbye politely as Blake left the apartment twenty minutes later; the image of him burned into her mind, his hair still slightly damp from the shower, his fashionable shirt and business trousers emphasising his dark good looks.
At least now I can relax,
Christie thought as the door closed behind Blake, stretching out on the sofa, the remote in her hand as she changed channels on the television, flicked through the movie channels. Her mind ranged back over the day; almost guiltily, she again unwrapped the gifts Blake—and Lisa—had given her, admiring the detailing on the cardigan. She swung round at the knock on the door, frowning.
 

Blake must have come back for something, forgotten his key card.
Christie walked towards the door, opening it automatically, expecting it to be Blake, her greeting fading as she saw the room service waiter. Hastily, she told him he had the wrong room.
 

The waiter smiled. “I was told to prepare for an argument,” he said politely, his professional demeanour not quite disguising his amusement. Christie blushed, realising Blake had ordered a meal for her. Without another word she let the waiter into the room, watching as he set out ornate silver cutlery, a beautifully presented meal and a smaller covered plate together with bottled mineral water and the particular juice she had ordered at the winery.

“Blue cod with risotto,” the waiter explained as he opened the juice. “And dessert.” He took the cover off to show her a miniature chocolate pudding, surrounded by precise swirls and dots of berry sauce, small dishes of cream and ice cream. Christie’s eyes blurred as she sank into a dining chair, quietly thanking the waiter, only dimly hearing him shut the door behind him.

Blake had ordered her blue cod.
Her mind flew back to the pub on the island, Blake’s arrogant assumptions about what she should order, arrogance she now realised was a mask for his perceptive mind, his uncanny ability to understand her. As she ate, she looked unseeing at the luxurious furnishings of the apartment, the top quality embossed china the meal was served on, the fluted crystal wine glass the waiter had insisted on pouring the juice into.

Although the meal was superb, in her heart she could not help longing for the sausages and instant pasta Blake had cooked for her at Mason Bay; the mismatched cutlery, the dented, speckled enamel plate, the plastic cup, the sausages that were burnt on one side and barely pink on the other. She smiled to herself, remembering Blake’s laughter during the meal, his self-deprecation as he blamed “the cooker, not the cook.”
 

Christie suddenly thought of Paul, of his shallow focus on appearances, on superficial matters.
I wonder how long I would have stayed. Or how happy I would have been. Even if he hadn’t cheated, ended it himself. All his flashy clothes, his endless socialising and pretentious comments. That’s not me, not really.

And here I am, eating what must be one of the most beautifully presented—and expensive— meals I’ve ever had and all I can think of is a pub meal and a meal cooked on a camping stove. It’s not the food, though, is it,
she acknowledged to herself, sitting back.

Or the cost.
 

Christie shook her head slightly, remembering what Blake’s mother had said about Blake apparently just starting at the winery.
Ordering this was a wasteful extravagance,
she told herself firmly, even as she savoured Blake’s gesture, guiltily wondering whether it was a simple reaction to his belief she hadn’t eaten enough, or something more.
Takeaways would have been cheaper though,
she thought, smiling to herself wryly.

In the privacy of her mind, Christie allowed herself to think back over the trip to Mason Bay, the desire she had felt for Blake, the warmth of sleeping in his arms after an evening of conversation—real conversation—where her ideas and comments were challenged but respected at the same time. And Blake’s sense of humour, sometimes dry, often outrageous, always making her smile reluctantly, or laugh helplessly.
And it was the same that night at the pub, admit it. Or it would have been, if I hadn’t been so hung up about Paul and Amanda. And on the ferry…

Christie tried to stop her own thoughts, focus on the reality of her situation, her pregnancy, knowing Blake had only ever wanted a casual fling anyway, remembering his reaction to her pregnancy, his coldness to his own family, his silence when she asked him anything personal. None of it added up to any possibility of a genuine commitment, she knew. And her own contrary behaviour, the spectre of Paul and Amanda’s betrayal, had hardly helped.

Too bad I’ve fallen in love with Blake then.
Christie shook herself, suddenly filled with a sense of despair as she acknowledged the futility of her emotions. She pushed the plate away from her firmly, decisively, seeing the beautiful meal as a symbol of her love, her desire, for Blake, knowing it was pointless to try to finish the blue cod, eat the dessert, to enjoy the flavours and yet torture herself with her unrequited emotions at the same time.

Tears sprung to Christie’s eyes as she studied the meal. Unable to bear the sight of it on the dinner table, she wrenched herself from the dining chair, mechanically stacking the plates in the sink as she discarded the partly eaten food into the rubbish bag.
 

— # —

In her hazy dream, Christie could see Paul, turning to yell at her as he walked out the door, his face indistinct, blurred as she called out to him. As if to protect her from the aftermath of Paul’s harsh words, her mind lovingly replayed Blake carrying her after she had fainted in the island pub, seizing on the opportunity to embroider her dream with a touch of precious memory.
 

Christie turned away from where Paul had been standing, relaxing into the strong arms carrying her, her face pressed against the warm cotton, murmuring to herself as she acknowledged her attraction to Blake, realising the intimacy of her thoughts as the dream continued to entrance her, lead her further away from reality. She clung to him, loving the sound of his voice, the touch of his hands, the strength of his body as he laid her down on the bed, stretched out next to her. And Blake was responding to her inarticulate words, kissing her, his hands moving over her body, his voice rough in her ear.

Christie moved closer to him as he continued to touch her, kissing her with increasing passion, kisses she returned ardently, secure in the safety of the dream, a dream untouched by the constraints of reality. She murmured a response as Blake said her name, his voice uneven, urgent. She felt herself being taken in his arms again, his voice repeating her name. Christie relaxed in his arms, not wanting to talk.

“Christie,” Blake said, insistently. “Christie, wake up.” Her eyes flew open as she realised Blake was holding her close, had carried her into the bedroom from the sofa. She could feel his heart hammering as he held her; she tensed instinctively, not fully awake, remembering her responses, the hazy memory of Paul.

“I can’t…” she whispered.
 

“I know we can’t,” he agreed. She felt his hand move to lightly brush the curve of her stomach, return to hold her in an embrace.
 

Christie kept her head curved against Blake’s chest, unable to look at him. “I fell asleep on the sofa…” she said, so softly he had to strain to hear her.
 

“You were having a bad dream when I got back,” he said. She was silent.

“Who is Paul?” Blake asked, his voice suddenly bleak. She shifted against him, thinking back to her dream, trying to recall her subconscious thoughts.
 

“The baby’s father,” Christie said quietly. “I thought Lisa would have told you.”

“Leave Lisa right out of this discussion,” he said bluntly, and Christie felt a shiver of unease at the thread of anger in his voice. He was quiet for a moment. “So that’s the same dream you had at Mason Bay?”
 

She nodded, her head moving against his chest. “But…” Christie tried to explain, fell silent as uncertainty gripped her. Blake waited silently. “Not exactly the same,” Christie whispered.

“No,” Blake agreed dryly. “This one seemed to have a few extra scenes.” She listened desperately for any hint of humour, of understanding, some sort of sensitivity.
 

“I mean, I don’t have that dream so often now,” she said, trying to explain, determined to ignore her humiliation at what she had revealed, her abandoned responses to Blake’s touch.

“You told me you didn’t know you were pregnant,” he said bluntly.
 

“I didn’t know,” Christie said, realising he still thought she had known earlier and not told him, was connecting the dream to her pregnancy. “I just thought I was tired, upset.”

“About Paul?” he said harshly. Christie tried to pull away; he relaxed his arms slightly, moderated his voice. “Why were you upset?”

“About Paul,” Christie confirmed, pulling away from him in earnest, her eyes agonised at his failure to believe her. “Blake, please, I don’t want to discuss this now,” she said, overwhelmed by the contrast between Blake’s physical closeness and his harsh questioning.

“Why not?’ he asked, his voice rough.

“Because I’ve already explained and you don’t believe me,” she said, her voice catching as she looked away, the glow of the hall light defining her troubled expression in the shadows of the bedroom.
 

Blake was furious at his own lack of control, at her words now. “I don’t believe you?” he repeated with raw emphasis. “Then why keep mentioning Lisa? Even now? What will it take to convince you?” he said, emotion in his voice.
 

“Because I thought—” Christie began; he interrupted, not letting her finish.
 

“Where was your concern about Lisa twenty minutes ago?” he asked cruelly.

“Blake—”

He continued, not letting her explain, relentless. “This has nothing to do with Lisa,” he said, finality in his voice. “You don’t trust me. And you’ll invent any reason you need to prove that to yourself. That’s really it, isn’t it?” He moved away from her, off the bed, stood looking down at her, his eyes unreadable, opaque in the low light. “I woke you up, Christie. What does that tell you?” He turned and walked out without another word.

Christie stared after Blake, numb. She heard him moving around the lounge, then the hall plunged into blackness as the door to his room clicked shut. She remained on the bed, losing track of time as she stared into the darkness as she tried to sort things through in her overwrought mind. She did not remember slipping beneath the covers, still fully clothed, uncaring of her new clothes, falling into a dreamless sleep that was cold despite the warmth of the room.

Chapter Ten

A vague feeling of nausea woke Christie early the following morning; almost immediately, she heard the distant beeping of her cell phone alarm; it was still early. She lay still for several minutes, realising her phone was still in the lounge after she had set it while watching television on the sofa the night before. Anguish seeped through her as she remembered why it had been left there. Christie dreaded the thought of the drive back to Arrowtown, steeled herself for the next few hours. She pushed back the covers, still half asleep, determined to have a shower.

Christie moved over to close the bedroom door just as Blake appeared in the doorway, his face impassive. “You’re awake,” he said briefly, noticing Christie was still wearing the same clothes. Her heart ached as she heard his impersonal tone, noticed his distant manner. She nodded, saying nothing, shutting the bedroom door as Blake turned and walked down the hallway.

Thirty minutes later, Christie was packed, ready to go, having resolved to try and at least talk to Blake on the way back to Arrowtown. She was hurt at his assumptions about her pregnancy, but starting to realise how much Paul’s betrayal had skewed her usual trusting nature. Christie picked up her overnight bag and handbag, determined not to ask for Blake’s assistance, realising with relief the nausea had faded.

Blake stood in the kitchen, looking down at the plates in the sink, his face hard. Although he had tried to dismiss Christie’s words, he found himself turning the conversation over in his mind, trying to piece together what she had said. He resented her constant mention of Lisa, unable to understand how Christie could possibly draw such conclusions, knowing Lisa would never have said anything, implied anything, to give Christie that impression.

He heard a sound in the lounge; as he turned, he realised Christie was standing by the coffee table, picking up her phone. His eyes narrowed as he saw she was carrying her overnight bag. Blake hesitated slightly, trying to gauge her mood, then smiled to himself as he realised the futility of that exercise. He covered the distance between them in a few powerful strides.

Christie looked at him defensively as he reached for the overnight bag. Blake shot her a look, exhaling loudly but saying nothing. He saw her move to the sofa, look over towards the door, her expression puzzled. “I’ve already packed all the gear. All your practical purchases,” he said, in a tone that made her look around quickly. “There’s just your bag. So if you’re ready we should get going.” Christie nodded silently, still not saying anything as they walked downstairs and crossed the lobby.

She stopped abruptly, realising in her turmoil she had forgotten about the room service meal. “Blake, the mini bar, the meal…”