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His lips quirked. “Well, put it this way, there comes a time when having your country tethered to a small island in the North Sea doesn’t seem to make any sense.”
“It helped me to get a visa. I could stay for a year if I wanted.” She felt his gaze on her. “If Iwanted, which I don’t. I couldn’t anyway, with my teaching job.”
Oh dear, her ears were tingling.
Luckily Oliver sat back in his seat, which left her to try and bring her temperature down as she stared at the lights of the city getting closer.
Once they’d landed, a flurry of baggage collection and an Uber trip followed. The lit-up streets, so much busier than Perth, made her think of a tropical version of London with all the pretty frangipani trees everywhere. Oliver told the driver to take the scenic route past Circular Quay.
And surely, when they approached the city centre they could be nowhere else but iconic Sydney. The Harbour Bridge formed a magnificent arch across the harbour, the Opera House right there next to it like a fairy palace, its famous roof lit up against the sky.
Soon the streets grew more winding, edging over hills and into gullies still crammed with houses and apartments and bars and restaurants. People spilt onto the streets, laughing, happy. She could so easily fall in love with this city.
Next to her, Oliver pointed out which suburb they were passing through, as though he was Google maps Bruce. But although that thought made her smile, it didn’t bring back the sense of fun they’d shared before Adelaide.
And when the Uber drew up outside a super modern block of apartments, a kind of watery dread seeped through Felicity’s veins.
“Okay,” Oliver said briskly. “We’re here.”
* * *
The closer they’dgot to his penthouse apartment in Wellspring Road, the more tense Oliver got. He’d run from this place under circumstances he’d prefer to annihilate from living memory. After the wedding was called off, he’d stayed in a hotel as removalists packed all Leonie’s chic black lampshades and large ceramic pots and modern kitchen ware into boxes. Some things he would be glad never to see again. The strange black feather thing that reminded him of a dead crow Leonie hung as a kind of entry statement in the hallway. And all the cushions on the bed that took forever to remove and had to be piled back neatly when he made the bed every day. At least there would be few reminders of their life together, other than the leather couches and the dining table. And the king size bed.
His hand fisted hard around the handle of his bag. His stomach churned with the cocktail of fear and excitement he used to get before attempting a black piste. The sense that he might be about to die. Which had some merit when you were staring down a mountainside covered in snow, but when he was about to enter his apartment with Felicity, it was clearly irrational. And yet, as the lift opened onto the top floor, knowing she was close behind, it felt like there was nothing to hold onto. That he could just slide into a white-out and disappear.
He grounded himself by focusing on the smell of eucalyptus and lavender, courtesy of the cleaner, who must have just been.
He glanced at Felicity as she stepped over the threshold into the hallway and her eyes widened as she took in the huge open-plan living area ahead with picture windows overlooking Bondi.
“Wow, it’s kind of—space-age, isn’t it?”
He wheeled their bags inside. “How do you mean?”
“Ultra modern and chic—and empty. Like those photo shoots in magazines. Do you have any stuff?”
“Only what’s absolutely necessary.”
“Right. Of course. I should have guessed.”
“I’ll put your bag in the guest wing.”
She looked surprised, then flushed and glanced away. “Of course, thank you.”
As he wheeled her case, Oliver’s brain hummed, which apparently was a neurological possibility. Because it was definitely humming. Like two opposing forces were crashing into each other inside his skull. He knew what his primitive brain was up to, it wanted to catapult him back to that long dusty road, back into that stupid van.
His logical brain told him firmly to shut up.
But as he put her case into the room, he had to acknowledge the truth of it. He wished he wasn’t here. That she wasn’t here. He wished they were in the Shaggin’ Wagon, shagging their fucking brains out.
“I’ll let you settle in,” he managed hoarsely as he strode past her. “I’ll go see if there’s anything in the kitchen to eat.”
When she joined him, changed into a pair of purple happy pants and a sky-blue T-shirt, he said tersely, “There’s a tin of caviar and some dried squid ink pasta.” He slammed the packet and jar onto the counter and tried to remember where the saucepans were kept.
“Oliver!” The way she said it stopped him in his tracks. Slowly, he looked up. Her freckles stood out on her nose, her eyes were tired. They were both suffering, he realised, and suddenly he longed to take her in his arms, lay his head against her breasts.
Just. Give. In.
Instead, he banged cupboards until he found a saucepan.
