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CHAPTER 9
Oliver woke up feeling like someone had been banging out a wedding waltz on bongo drums inside his head. His mouth was as rough as the bottom of a cockie’s cage and he couldn’t help thinking he’d done something rather reckless.
He just couldn’t remember what.
He sat up and winced as the bongo drums started up with renewed vigour.
With a groan, he grabbed his skull with both hands. Downing that last bottle of champagne had probably been a mistake. But it hadn’t stopped there. When he’d got home—he vaguely remembered them all being ferried home in limos—he’d beelined for his dad’s study after everyone had gone to bed, uncorked David Blake’s best Irish whisky and drank one, maybe two… possibly three… substantial glasses, watching the city lights across the river from the wide veranda.
Thinking about how it should have been for him on his wedding night.
He couldn’t actually remember how he got up the three flights of stairs to his room.
And now he was fighting the mother of all hangovers. The kind of hangover that should have become extinct years ago. Which, considering he’d only ever had one to speak of in his life, at eighteen, signified for him an abject loss of self-control.
But there was more, wasn’t there? Jesus, how come even frowning hurt? There had been something—correction—someonewho had made him feel buoyant, happy, carefree…
French champagne. Sitting on the lawn. With… Felicity.
Shit. Now it all came back to him. He’d offered to travel across Australia with a girl who had somehow gotten under his skin in a way he really didn’t need to explore any more than he needed to explore the Aussie outback.
He sat up with a groan. Okay, he had to think this through.
Logically.
Frowning, he groped his way through the fog that seemed to have overtaken his brain.He’d made the offer completely out of the blue.Don’t kid yourself,you’d more than toyed with the idea, a voice inside his head kindly pointed out, accompanied by another drum roll of pain. Shit. Had he done it to get back at Leonie? To prove that he led an interesting, spontaneous life? And that he happened to be leading it with another woman? Was heusingFelicity for his own pathetic revenge fantasy?
That sat so badly with him he made the mistake of shaking his head.
As he climbed laboriously out of bed, their conversation filtered back in dribs and drabs. He seemed to recall she’d said no hard feelings if he backed out.
He should. Back out. Absolutely he should. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his feet, because with his head down he didn’t feel quite so much like he was being punched in the eyeballs. Heck, he was still wearing his socks. He could vaguely remember taking the stairs, getting ready for bed, but obviously removing his socks had been beyond him.
How much further could this slide? Socks in bed, next he’d be watching telly in an old vest, with a beer in a stubby holder on his lap. Oliver shuddered. Forced himself back to reviewing the problem at hand. Imagined telling Felicity he’d made an error of judgement, imagined her look of disappointment.
Another knife sliced through his temples.
Being trustworthy was his hallmark. In his personal life, in his work. Wasn’t that why people sought out his financial opinion? He walked the talk. If he said something, he stood by it. Period. Leonie’s mother had always affectionately referred to him as the world’s most perfect gentleman. Shame Leonie hadn’t shared her mother’s infatuation with his virtues.
What he needed, he decided, was to go for a run. His body rebelled at the idea, and he had to resist slumping back onto the bed and pulling the pillow over his head. But letting his routine slip would potentially start a slide into depression. After Leonie left, he hadn’t run for several weeks, and the consequences had been dismal. Since then, rain, shine, attractive redheads, brain funks that led him to suggest bizarre road trips, he could not miss a day.
It took about five minutes to put on his running gear and trainers; his feet seemed constantly just out of reach. Next, he put on his sunglasses and that seemed to help him get out of his room and down the stairs. His legs felt like the bones had turned to rubber as he made his way across the parquet floor of the massive hallway, which incidentally had grown bigger in the night. Taking a deep breath, he flung open the front door. And halted with a gruff expletive.
The Shaggin’ Wagon was parked brazenly outside the gate.
And to his amazement, out of the driver’s seat hopped… Dad. Oliver’s mouth went slack as he watched David Blake saunter around the wagon, stroke the chassis, the bonnet, a big grin swathing his features. Then he made his way up the path, and his grin turned sheepish when he saw Oliver on the doorstep.
“I used to date your mother in one like this, though not so imaginatively painted. I thought I was being daring spray-painting it pale yellow.” Dad turned and took one last look as they entered the house. “Such a classic.” He turned back to Oliver. “Where are you off to?”
“Going for my run,” Oliver returned through tight lips.
David Blake rolled his eyes. “For once in your goddamn life have some breakfast, son.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Your T-shirt’s on inside out, you’re green around the gills… frankly, you look like shit, my boy. Come and eat.”
Oliver thought he looked decent enough for a guy who’d spent yesterday fielding emotional minefields and slewing away his sorrows with alcohol. There was a time when David Blake had looked like shit on a daily basis, when Oliver had hauled his father’s sorry arse out of bed, made him get dressed and forced him to eat the breakfast he’d prepared for him.
