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The alcohol relaxed his mind enough to dwell there for a moment. She was funny and un-self-conscious and her energy had made the day a little less god-awfully painful.
Further than that, Oliver would not let his thoughts go…
He took a mouthful of champagne then stilled as he heard footsteps tripping along the path beside him.
A shadowy figure stopped at the railings that separated the function centre from the parklands overlooking the city. She lifted her face up to the moon and then, swirling her champagne glass, took a sip. Her hair shimmered around her shoulders in the glow from the fairy lights strung around the grounds and his heart shifted up a gear.
If he kept quiet maybe she wouldn’t see him, but now a hazy warmth courtesy of a fast slug of champagne sat in his belly and he acknowledged that he’d really enjoy her company right now.
When she turned to go back inside, he said, “Great view, isn’t it?”
Her silhouette visibly jumped before she turned in his direction. Then she tilted her head and cupped a hand to her ear. “Hark! Is that the voice of my bodyguard?”
Oliver sat up straighter, grinning at the possibility of some harmless fun. “I hadn’t realised I’d accepted the position.”
“What if I catapult over the wall and land headfirst in the bushes? Would that convince you?”
Ah, she made him laugh!
“I’d have to know the salary first.”
“What a mercenary brain you have. No thought for a damsel in distress here.”
“Sussed. Want a refill?” He held up the champagne bottle. Her smile bunched the dimples into her cheeks. “Why not.” She came over and looked like she was trying to find a way to sit down comfortably, so he extended his hand. Hers, warm and pliable, sent a little thrill down the length of his spine before she plonked in a rather ungainly fashion next to him.
They sipped their champagne in silence for a moment. Out the corner of his eye he watched her straighten her knee and jiggle her leg from side to side.
“Is it hurting?”
She sighed. “A bit. Scarlet likes to throw a tantrum whenever I go near a dance floor. Hence I don’t very often.”
“Scarlet?”
“That’s the name my friend Evie gave my scar. She figured I’d feel more friendly towards it if it had a name.”
He frowned. “That’s an interesting approach. Does it work?”
“Sometimes. And at least I have someone to hurl expletives at, like, ‘Scarlet you cow, why did you trip me up?’”
“Is the pain from the surgery?”
He sensed her pause. “Kind of. After the surgeries I had a lot of pain. It really got me down. So… anyway, my best friend Evie helped me to see it differently, to treat my leg with compassion instead of hating it. Usually me and Scarlet get on fine but…. lately, she’s been a right bitch, frankly.”
“So, you’re frenemies?”
She cast him a lopsided smile, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and then bent her leg carefully and cupped her hands round her shins. “I don’t let it stop me doing things. I still go walking, though not long distances, I swim—badly. I travel, avoid Zumba classes, or dancing—unless at weddings, of course.” She dipped her chin onto her knees. “Having cancer gave me a theory about living.”
“What’s that?”
“Grab every opportunity that comes your way… because… well, you know, the worst that can happen is you’ll die.” She snapped two fingers in the air.
“That simple, eh?” Oliver sought for adequate words to express his admiration, but everything that formed inside his head sounded condescending or worse, pitying.
“That simple. Though my theory is being challenged somewhat at the moment,” she huffed.
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve just been subjected to a lecture—yet again—about driving to Sydney on my own. Everyone’s worried.” She snipped at the grass with her fingertips. “Solo apparently did it on a motorbike a while back. He said it was tough. I guess it does sound more challenging than touring through Europe.” Another huff. “But I really don’t want to give up on the idea.”
