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“Waltzing to Tom Jones?” I asked.
“Shush. You can waltz to anything,” he whispered in my ear as Tom Jones crooned about how a woman he knew was a lady.
Others joined us on the dance floor, some busting out dance moves last seen when Tom Jones released this single. Harry spun me and pulled me in, his mouth at my ear.
“Thank you for saving me up on stage tonight.” His hold on me tightened.
“It’s okay about being scared of public speaking.”
“Wasn’t that,” Harry said with a curt shake of his head.
The crowd cheered on the dance floor as Tina Turner screamed about Nutbush city limits. Harry moved away, looking lost and pissed off. One moment I was being thanked for helping him and the next he was acting as if I caused the problem.
Stuff this.
I strode off the dance floor as everyone changed direction with the song.
For a moment there, everything had been good. Great even. The way he held me to him, saying thank you in my ear. His breath on my neck…
A hand wrapped around my arm, spinning me around.
Harry.
He let go. “I’m sorry. Can I—” He gave a passing guest a nod and waited until they passed. “Can we talk? Somewhere quiet?”
“Here’s good.”
His nostrils flared. Harry pinned me with his gaze, his eyes a swirling storm.
“Last time I had to do a speech was for a funeral. The first funeral I’d ever attended. I was delivering the eulogy. When I was supposed to do the speech, I just froze. It was for my best friend, Simon. He taken his own life. And I couldn’t say a fucking word in his honour.”
18
STACEY
Ballydoon Community Group:
Sherie posted 4.14 p.m.:
Rumours are true that Doc Larcombe is off sick. I met the new doctor at the Stanmore Medical Practice today. Dr Harry was lovely with Mr 3 with tummy pains. I highly recommend Dr Harry for all families.
I led Harry out onto the balcony, away from guests and loud music, and was hit with an icy blast that cut through my dress. My body shivered as the last strains of ‘Nutbush’ faded with Harry closing the sliding door behind us.
“Here, wear this.”
He slipped off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. I didn’t refuse. Harry folded his arms, biceps straining against his shirt. We huddled under a lone gas heater, soaking up the warmth it offered.
“Fuck, it’s cold. George warned me about Stanmore’s winters.” He rubbed his hands closer to the gas flames. “I always seem to find myself outside, alone with you, freezing cold.”
I laughed, pulling his dinner jacket tighter around me. “Too late. I’m not giving this back.”
Harry smirked but it faded as he stared off into the pitch-black night. The eighteenth hole of the golf course was right in front of us but we couldn’t see it. Eucalypts swayed in the breeze and a bird called in the distance. I waited, silent.
“Simon died eleven months ago. His parents asked me to do the eulogy. I haven’t done a speech of any kind since until tonight. And I just—” Harry licked his lips. “I fucking froze. I said the same words tonight as I had for the eulogy to welcome everyone. Saying those words just took me right back to that moment and I couldn’t speak.”
I opened my arms and he wrapped his around me under his jacket, his chin resting on the top of my head.
“You saved me up there,” he whispered. “And I was an arsehole on the dance floor. I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit of an arsehole lately. The one-year anniversary of his death is coming up.”
