Page 22 of Scarred by You

“Maybe if I get done before nine I could come over.”

I had to bite my lip to halt a beaming grin. I stepped into the lift. “Ah, fine, sure. Let me know. I’ve got to go; I’m going to lose signal.”

Now that I’m showered and I’ve cranked up the heating so I can wear a silk two-piece, I feel silly. These things aren’t comfortable to sleep in — the camis end up twisting up under my arms, and the shorts work their way between my arse cheeks, keeping me awake. I’ve worn this on the off-chance my unlabelled boy-friend-man-date turns up. I’m not an idiot; he didn’t have to work late. I’m clinging to that part of him that possibly changed his mind and decided coming over to my apartment wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world.

I pour myself a glass of red wine and curl my legs beneath me on the sofa, flicking through trashier TV than I’m willing to watch, all the while staring at the clock on the wall. Eight thirty-six. I’ll give him until nine. Then I’ll get out of this ridiculous nightwear and order a takeaway for one.

I start flicking through the movie guide, catch up on text messages to my friends, Amy and Tim, then pour a second glass of wine.

Eight fifty-eight. I glance over the sofa towards the door. There’s still time.

Nine.

I put down my wine and head to change. I switch my silks for lounge pants and a vest, then head to the junk drawer in the kitchen to dig out a Chinese takeaway menu.

“Got you!”

As I’m delighting in finding the menu, the intercom buzzes. I stare at the box on the wall like a doctor examining for disease, and eventually hit the buzzer.

“Hello.”

“Dayna. It’s me.”

With my best attempt at casual, I tell him, “Hey, come on up.”

I stand on the spot, not knowing what to do first — let my hair out of the clip that’s roughly holding it up, switch out of my lounge pants back into my silks or put on eye make-up. In the end, I do none of that because there’s a knock at the door.

Clark runs his eyes from my head to my toes, then focusses on my lips. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He’s in his suit but his tie is off, his white shirt unbuttoned by two. His square jaw is lined with dirty-blond stubble. I wish I’d worn knickers under my lounge pants, because I’m already wet.

He lifts up a white plastic bag and flashes me an almost-smile I can’t read. “I’m sorry I’m late. There was a queue in the takeaway.”

I step back from the door. Clark heads straight to the kitchen and starts taking cartons from the carrier. I don’t know what changed his mind and I don’t care. He’s here.

“Chinese?” I ask, joining him and stroking a hand down his back almost instinctively.

“Chinese is the only takeaway option.I didn’t know what you’d like, so I got sweet and sour, black bean, Szechuan and cashew sauces.”

“A little of everything sounds perfect.”

He lifts his head and throws me a deadly wink. “What a woman.”

Laughing, I pour him wine, and we head over to the sofa.

Clark slips off his shoes and jacket and finally drops his shoulders from his ears.

“Oh gosh, I feel like I’m about to have triplets,” I tell him after the feast, rubbing my stomach.

The look he gives me is so odd I don’t think I’ll ever work it out. He takes our plates to the kitchen, returning with the bottle of red and topping up our glasses. He flicks through the movie channels in silence and, after I give him the okay, puts on a boxing movie.

“Are we going to talk about what’s wrong?” I finally ask.

“There’s nothing wrong. Come here.”

He lifts up his arm, and I crawl against his side, resting my head on his shoulder. His chest and shoulders relax, and he presses his lips to my scalp.

We watch the opening credits of the movie with Clark leaning his cheek on my head and stroking my bare arm. “It’s nice seeing you like this. Relaxed, at home.”

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