Page 7 of Hate You to Love You

‘I’m serious. If you mess this up, that’s it for you here. This can’t just be passable. It needs to be outstanding.’

I gaze out of the window at the Sydney skyline, biting my lip. This definitely isn’t the news I was expecting when I walked into Tamara’s office, but maybe this is the universe giving me a wake-up call? Maybe this is my redemption arc, my shot to prove that I do deserve to be here, that I do still love writing, and that second chances really are a thing?

I turn to Tamara. ‘I won’t let you down.’

‘Wonderful,’ she says, giving me another pursed-lip not-smile. ‘Have a look through the itinerary. You’ll be spending the next few weeks with Claudia and her team. Which reminds me, her publicist has invited you to the tour launch tomorrow night.’

Tomorrow night? I look through the documents in front of me. There are dates for bookshop signings, launches, a couple of big festival talks. It’s hard to believe that this jam-packed tour is for the same Claudia Leighton who’s been so reclusive these past few years.

‘I’ll be there,’ I tell Tamara, standing up shakily. ‘By the way, do you have her publicist’s contact details? I can’t see them here.’

‘They should be on the last page of the itinerary. His name is Elliot Simpson.’

My brain short-circuits.

No.

It couldn’t be.

chapter three

Elliot Simpson. Hearing that name is enough to tear open a deep wound in my heart.

It might have been three years since I’d last seen him, but Elliot goddamn Simpson still had that effect on me. Because he didn’t just break my heart, he also robbed me of my hope.

He’d taken away that spark in my soul that made me believe in true love.

Which is why, the second I get off work, I race through the back gate of The Henson Hotel with one thought on my mind: I need wine. Or a margarita. Or a cosmopolitan. Or someone to punch me in the face.

Anything to forget about Elliot.

The Henson is my safe place. It’s your classic neighbourhood pub, located on the corner of a residential street in Marrickville – a suburb that has seen industrial estates turn into trendy breweries, cafes and restaurants over recent years. My favourite thing about this pub is the courtyard out the back. Something about it reminds me of my childhood backyard. When the evening light hits the right spot, the overflowing plants and red-brick exterior are lit by a golden glow, which makes it the place perfect for after-work drinks.

I climb the steps that lead to the courtyard and catch a glimpse of my friends sitting in our regular spot in the corner. At first, there were four of us: Jones, Sal, Laney and me. We’d met working at the nearby Dusk Studios, a small but popular shoot location for photographers, magazines and marketing agencies. Laney’s boyfriend, Patrick, came with her as a package deal, and then Elliot had made it six. Until he left.

‘Mate! About time you showed your face!’ Jones lifts his pint of beer in my direction, waving his other hand high in the air. His buzzcut looks extra sharp today – he must have had a recent haircut. That was Jones Radden Smith after all. He might have looked tough on the outside, but on the inside he was a big teddy bear.

‘Sorry I’m late. Work was crazy today,’ I reply.

Jones didn’t have to know that ‘crazy’ meant I’d spent the afternoon at my desk, weighing up the pros and cons of agreeing to interview Claudia Leighton. Well, that and thinking about Elliot.

Oh god, Elliot… Where was that wine?

‘Considering you’re chronically online, a message now and then to remind us that you’re still alive wouldn’t go astray,’ Sal says, getting up from the table to give me a hug. Saltaj Kapoor gives the best hugs. He’s the brother I never had. The Meredith Grey to my Cristina Yang. The Seth Cohen to my Ryan Atwood.

‘Says the guy who can barely be bothered to do more than thumbs-up the memes I send him!’ I reply, feeling the tension leave my body as I rest my head up against his chest.

‘I am reclaiming the thumbs up emoji from its passive aggressive past,’ Sal says as he brushes the fringe out of his eyes. Unlike Jones, Sal let his hair grow so long that it covered at least a quarter of his face. That, along with his love for wearing band merchandise, made him look like he’d been plucked right out of a Blink-182 music video.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ Jones offers. ‘White wine?’

I smile. ‘Absolutely.’

At the far end of the table, Laney sits with her back against a wooden fence and Patrick’s arm around her. From a distance, you wouldn’t think they were a personality match. Laney O’Reilly is a primary-school teacher, and her soothing voice and luminous ginger hair makes her feel like summer, if it were a person. Tonight, she’s wearing denim overalls with one strap loose to reveal her pink tie-dye shirt underneath. Patrick Matherson, on the other hand, is winter. He has a permanent stone-cold stare and always wears a button-up shirt that’s tucked into his pants.

‘Carlos,’ Patrick greets me.

‘Pat, hey.’ I acknowledge him with a nod. I’m always a little unsure of what to say to him.