AllFreeNovel
Share Us
‘I’m going for a walk,’ I interrupt Victor. Sweat pricks my forehead. I just needspace.Spacewhere, ideally, Victor and Papa are not.
Victor’s pale brows rise and he closes his laptop. ‘You’re going out? Like . . . out on the street?’
‘I just need to clear my head. Make a game plan. Zone out a bit.’
Victor’s mouth purses. ‘We should arrange an escort.’
I shake my head. No. No escort. I’m a twenty-five-year-old man who should be able to take a walk without minders. ‘I will share my location with you. No one will recognise me, it’ll be fine.’
Victor doesn’t look convinced, but I don’t care. I’m going.
‘At least put a hat on,’ Victor calls as I grab my wallet and hotel key card. Ah yes, the curse of my famous hair. ‘And make sure your phone is charged.’
I leave the apartment, taking the stairs down to the lobby so I don’t run into Papa in the elevator.
The hotel lobby is an expanse of shimmering marble. There’s a sunken bar to the left of me, and the entrance to an indoor pool and spa on the far wall. A taxi loiters in the half-circle driveway by the large double doors, its engine rumbling. A dark-haired man smiles from behind the reception desk as I pass.
A small group of people wait by a nearby tram stop and I jump on the first tram that comes by, not bothering to buy a travel card. It’s busy and I shoulder my way into the carriage, barely finding my footing before the tram lurches and I stumble backwards, falling onto someone. A man in a suit turns to look over his shoulder, clearly annoyed.
‘Watch what ya doin’,’ he says in a hard Australian accent. ‘Hold on to the bloody rail.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I stammer, finding the words in my rusty English as I grab the rail above my head. An older woman in a priority seat gives me a tight smile.
My plan is to get off at the first stop that looks interesting, and for a while, all I see are business complexes and highways. No one gets on or off. But then, the tram turns onto a narrow road lined with retail shops, restaurants and bars. The street hums with excitement.
‘The next stop is . . . Chapel Street,’ says a woman’s voice over the intercom.
The tram stops in the middle of the road and I hop off, weaving my way through stationary cars to the footpath. I put on my cap, keep my head low and follow the crowd, telling myself,No one’s going to recognise a tennis player who’s had only a handful of decent wins.
But Victor’s voice comes back to me like the buzz of a persistent mosquito. ‘It only takes one social media post with a location tag for someone to find you at a restaurant and stab you,’ he’d said as we’d flown into New York last year.
I don’t want to get stabbed, so I adjust my hat and turn on the tracking on my phone, sharing my location with Victor. Hopefully he won’t be a nark and tell Papa.
Chapel Street gets busier the farther south I walk. It’s late evening now, but the sun is still strong and in a matter of minutes, I’m sweating. I wanted space to clear my mind but there are people everywhere. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe Idoneed an escort. I pass a man who gives me a double take, and then looks a third time. Does he recognise me? My heart’s beating so fast I can hear it. How doactualcelebrities do this? My resolve shatters and I search desperately for a side street, a refuge,anything.
A few metres away, there’s a chalkboard sign on the footpath:Try our new Hazelnut Expresso Martini.
Yes, espresso with an ‘x’.
An arrow points towards a bar located in the basement of an old Victorian-style building.Perfect. I go down the few steps into the sunken courtyard, avoiding the barren pot plant full of cigarette butts that sits precariously on the edge of the stairwell. I push the heavy wooden door and the sound of saxophone creeps out. Weirdly, the door jams before it opens fully. Stepping inside, I realise why—there’s a dusty old piano wedged in the space behind the door.
The bar smells like sour beer and something musty, as if it’s been closed for weeks. There’s no chatter or conversation, just quiet saxophone and the sound of cutlery clattering.
I take a deep breath and descend the staircase. About halfway down, I make eye contact with the bartender; he’s my age, lanky with a mop of long chestnut hair. He smiles at me as he polishes a fork.
‘Take off yer cap if yer coming in,’ he calls, his broad Australian accent running the words together. When I don’t move for a long moment, confused by his direction, the bartender uses the fork to point to a sign by the bar.
No Hats!
Cautiously, I raise my hand and take off my cap. With a held breath, I wait for a spark of recognition.
It doesn’t come.
Perfect.
‘Are you open?’ I ask.
The barman’s expression changes. His brow furrows and his lips purse. I’ve learnt that people look like that when they’re trying to place my accent.
