Anybody But Him (5 page)

Hunger hauled Nicola out of bed on Saturday morning. For once she had plenty of time to make herself a huge breakfast and to eat it slowly. What a luxury– or it would be if she had any food to cook. Not that she was much of a cook anyway. She'd never needed culinary skills; that was one of the many good things about living in the city.

She made her way to the bathroom in bare feet, yawning as she kicked the door shut behind her. When she heard a loud clunk, she froze, her mind racing through the possibilities.

None of them good.

She turned back to the door and grasped the knob– which came away in her hand.
What the–?
She looked at it sitting in her palm.
No freaking way.

She dropped to her knees to look into the hole where the knob had been. Much good that did her. She could see the bolt-thingy that operated the latch, but it was no help without something to make it work. Like a knob.

Maybe she could find some sort of tool.

She made a frantic search of the bathroom cabinet in the hope of finding a random object that would do the job. Nothing. There was nothing that would be remotely useful. Stumped, she stood with her hands on her hips, wondering why she'd shut the door
when she was alone in the house. Force of habit – she did it at home too. Greg had stayed with her sooften she'd grown accustomed to closing doors. Both of them had preferred to keep a few things private. Or in Greg's case, more like a truckload.

If only she'd brought her mobile phone into the bathroom with her. But who did that? And why? Although, she would probably do so in future – if she ever got out of here.

She considered the possibilities.

She couldn't kick down the door in bare feet. It was a pretty solid door. A glance at the window was enough for her to dismiss that as an escape route. Nobody could climb through that small opening– ah, but she could shout for help, couldn't she? She stepped up onto the edge of the bath. The opening portion of the frosted bathroom window was too high and too small to allow her a view of anything other than sky, but it did face the side fence, and on the other side of the fence was the neighbours' driveway where their car was parked, so she should save her voice until they came out to the car– assuming they had a reason to use the car today –then shout her head off. Until then, at least she could do what she'd come into the bathroom to do.

As she brushed her teeth she wondered how long it would be before anybody would miss her and come looking for her. Would she become a news story – another of those unfortunate people she read about, lying undiscovered in their home for weeks after their demise? No, of course not. Someone would miss her before then. And she had water; it wasn't as if she was stranded out in the desert. Her parents? Well, they might notice that she hadn't been to see them after a few days. But there was Lainey, of course. She'd definitely come looking for her if she didn't show up at work, or she couldn't make contact by phone.

If this had happened in Sydney, there'd be no one there at all who'd make the effort to call around to her apartment to see if she was all right. They'd try to reach her by text message or email to see if she was up for a night out, and if they received no response, they'd
forget about her and move on with their lives.

The thought gave her a hollow feeling in her stomach that wasn't hunger, despite the lack of breakfast. Shouldn't there be someone in Sydney who cared enough to come looking for her? She'd lived there long enough.

Okay, now she was getting depressed. Time to stop thinking like this. A shower would be a good distraction, but she was wary of missing the neighbours and she looked in disgust at the only towel in the bathroom– a hand towel, because she hadn't done the laundry yet. Then she heard a noise outside. She paused, listening, and there it was again. A dog. Yapping. She listened again, and heard footsteps crunching across the gravel in her direction. Human footsteps.

‘
Help!
I need help!' she shouted, clambering onto the edge of the bath. ‘Can you hear me? I'm locked in the bathroom.'

There was a silence, followed by some very male, and very familiar, laughter. She dug her nails into her palms.

‘Nicki?'

‘It's
Nicola
, yes.'

‘You're really locked in the bathroom? This is priceless.'

Why him? Why couldn't somebody else have come to her rescue? Anybody else.

‘Nicki? Are you still there?'

‘Well, I'm not going anywhere, am I? I told you, I'm locked in.'

‘Now, now, be nice or I'll have to turn around and leave.'

‘All right, all right. I'm nice.'

He laughed. ‘That I don't believe.'

Indignant, she said, ‘Are you going to help me out or what?'

‘Yes, I'm going to help you. Calm down. Okay, I'll look for a way into the house.'

‘Just don't break anything.' She could imagine him being all macho, breaking down the front door, biceps bulging …

Oh, good lord, probably better not to think about that.

Before long she heard movement in the house, and then Blair sniffing at the gap beneath the door– well, no, it was probably Dammit who was sniffing. But then Blair's voice came to her from right outside the door. ‘Nicki? Are you okay?'

‘What do you think could have happened in the five minutes since you spoke to me? Will you just get on with it?'

‘There's no door handle.'

‘Oh, really? I hadn't noticed. I was wondering why I couldn't open the door.'

‘You know, it's really tempting to leave you in there.' After a pointed pause, he said, ‘Do you have any tools in the house?'

‘You mean, does Una have any tools? I've no idea.'

‘I'll have a look in the shed.'

A short time later, the lock rattled and clicked, and the door swung open. Blair filled the space, grinning. Then his smile faded, and the look in his eyes changed.

Once again, she was wearing sleepwear that barely covered the essentials, while he – because the universe had something against her–was fully clothed, this time in faded jeans and a black T-shirt with a sports-brand logo on the front. Very casual. Very sexy.

He swallowed, visibly. ‘Well. I think this is the part where you call me your hero and fall down in a swoon so that I have to catch you in my big, strong arms and carry you—'

‘There will be no swooning in this house.'

‘Are you sure? What about we skip the swooning part and go straight to the carrying? I'd be happy to oblige.'

‘There will be none of that either. What are you doing here, anyway?'

He struck a pose, chest out, hands on hips. ‘Riding up on my valiant steed to rescue a fair maiden.'

She started to smile, then shook her head instead. ‘Enough of the fairytale stuff.' Which was pretty much how she felt about her life. ‘Seriously, what are you doing here?'

‘Delivering vegetables. I left them outside.'

More vegetables? She hadn't managed to use up the last lot before they went floppy.

‘But you're not supposed to come round on a Saturday. Weekdays only, remember?'

‘I thought you'd make an exception this week since I've been away interstate. You didn't miss me, then?'

She rolled her eyes.

‘I could have waited till Monday, but I thought you'd be needing your vegetables. Five a day, and all that.'

Five a day? Who did that? It was a marketing ploy by the supermarkets, surely? ‘Right. Well, thanks for letting me out.'

‘You're very welcome.'

She opened her mouth to send him on his way, but hesitated. He'd helped her out of two awkward situations now and he'd been nothing but pleasant despite her less-than-friendly manner towards him. Perhaps she'd been a bit harsh.

‘I don't mean to be rude, but I'd like to get dressed now, so if you wouldn't mind …' She made a shooing gesture towards the kitchen.

‘Okay, but I'll be back in a while to board up the kitchen window. I had to break the glass in order to reach the door lock. It was the only way in, I'm afraid. I'll put that knob back on the bathroom door too.'

‘No need. I can do it.'

‘Sure?'

‘It can't be that hard.' She moistened her lips. ‘I'm not completely helpless, you know.'

He scratched his jaw. ‘It won't take me a minute to do it. I don't like the idea of you locking yourself in there again as soon as I turn my back.'

‘I won't.' She'd stick a phone book by the door to remind herself not to close it.

He turned away, whistling for the dog as he reached the back door. Once he'd gone she wasted no time, rushed into the shower and back out again at record speed, dressed, and dried her hair roughly. She slapped on minimal make-up – even if it was only blush, mascara and lip gloss, it made a difference. Ever since she'd left behind her nerdy looks, she'd made an effort never to be seen without at least a little make-up. It had become a mask that gave her confidence to confront the world.

Or, in this case, Blair Morrissey.

She was stuffing towels into the washing machine when he turned up again. She saw him walk past the laundry window and by the time she reached the kitchen he was stretching across the sink to knock broken glass from the window frame with a hammer. His T-shirt had parted company with his jeans, leaving tanned skin on display in the gap above the denim.

It was nothing. An insignificant bit of back. So why couldn't she tear her eyes away? And why did her own skin feel like ants were crawling over it?
No
. She couldn't be attracted to Blair Morrissey. She shook her head to dislodge the totally unwelcome concept before it could take hold.

The movement caught his eye, and he turned to look at her, smiling. As his gaze flickered over her, his smile broadened. She forced herself not to react. There was no need to let him know that she'd been affected by the sight of him, and give him yet another reason to mock her. It wasn't as if she was going to let it happen again. No way. She'd be on her guard in future against stray bits of skin. Or anything else.

‘Well,' he said, his eyes glinting.

‘Well, what?'

He hesitated, then said, ‘Do you have something to sweep up this glass with?'

‘There's a dustpan and brush under the sink.'

He bent down to open the cupboard.

He was so annoying. She tried to keep quiet, but she couldn't help herself. She blurted, ‘You can't say “
well
”, and not explain yourself.'

‘Why not?'

Before she could respond–not that she could think of a suitable answer– Dammit trotted up to the door. She pointed. ‘I don't want that dog in here.'

‘Una doesn't mind him in the house.'

‘Doesn't she? Huh. Well, I'm living here now, and I don't want dog hair everywhere.'

‘He's only little. He doesn't make much of a mess.'

‘That's got nothing to do with it. I don't like dogs.'

He muttered something that sounded derisive. Whatever it was, she chose to ignore it in an effort to show that she was better than him.

It seemed Dammit didn't want to come in anyway. He trotted back down the steps and meandered off, following a scent trail along the garden path, oblivious to her words.

‘You don't know what you're missing, you know. Dogs are great companions.'

‘That's okay with me. I'd rather not know, thank you very much.'

‘Better than women.' After depositing the broken glass in her bin, he crossed the kitchen to pick up a piece of board he'd left leaning against the pantry door.

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘Dammit is much easier to live with than a woman.'

‘I really don't want to hear about your domestic arrangements,' she said as she grabbed the kettle and stuck it under the tap.

While he waited for her to move out of the way, he said, ‘For a start, he doesn't correct my stories. I can big-note myself as much as I like and he doesn't contradict me. And I can tell him my secrets, safe in the knowledge that he won't blab them over coffee and cake.'

Cake. Nicola opened the fridge in the hope of finding something to have for breakfast. She found some low-fat margarine but nothing to spread it on.

‘He doesn't criticise my friends,' Blair went on, picking up a measuring tape and extending it. ‘Plus, he never complains about my taste in television.'

She'd have to go to the shops before she did anything else. Actually, she'd have to find somewhere to eat before she went shopping or she'd buy up the whole place. God, she was starving.

Blair used a pencil to mark a measurement on the board. ‘He shares my interest in the garden, and– now this is a biggie –he
never
asks me to talk about my feelings.'

The kettle was near boiling so she closed the fridge and got some mugs out. ‘Tea or coffee?'

‘Tea, please. He doesn't play games. Well …' He stuck the pencil behind his ear. ‘That's not strictly true. He does play fetch, but not behind my back.'

‘Sugar? Milk?' She dangled a teabag in one mug while she poured in boiling water. ‘Personally, I think living with a dog would be very much like living with a man.'

‘Just milk, thanks. How so?'

After tossing the teabag in the bin and adding milk to his mug she said, ‘Well, neither of them would notice if I had my hair cut, neither of them would understand the word
no
, neither of them would want to do anything with me unless there was something in it for them—'

‘Ouch. Do I detect a hint of bitters in my tea?' He raised one eyebrow as he took the mug from her.

‘It's called realism.' She plonked a heaped teaspoon of instant coffee into the other mug and added water. A good cup of coffee was also on the agenda for this morning along with breakfast. She hated this powdery stuff that Una had left for her. ‘Anyway, what about you? Sounds like you know a thing or two about bitterness.'