Riven Page 3

  “Pull up a seat,” Jess says, sliding back the plastic chair beside her with an almighty screech. Tom drapes himself over it, looking more like a Calvin Klein model than an aspiring architect. “I was just telling Sarah we should blow off the rest of the day and go and watch Tom Cruise doing all his own stunts.”

  “Actually the set’s closed for the day. I just came from there.”

  “You two are as bad as each other!” I scold. Tom meets my shocked disapproval with defiant nonchalance.

  “All work and no play makes Sarah a dull girl,” he teases, breaking off a piece of the demolished remains of Jess’s burger and throwing it at me.

  “Fine,” Jess concedes dramatically. “We’ll go to the library,” she gives a little shudder at the word, “but we better be on for tomorrow night.” There’s a pause and they both turn to look at me, the eternal party-pooper.

  “Oh come on! When have I ever cancelled Game Night?” Friday nights are a ritual for the three of us. Copious amounts of junk food are ingested and, depending on how much wine is consumed, we sometimes head out on the town after.

  The terrible twosome are already ticking instances off on their fingers.

  “The time you had to help Noah, the needy, plan his lessons…”

  “The time your mom came to stay…”

  “The time we had a philosophy final…”

  “Now hold on a minute,” I raise my hands to stall the onslaught. Once they build up steam there’s no stopping them. “I think you’ll find we all had a philosophy final, and, if it wasn’t for me, you two would’ve failed dismally!”

  They pause, heads inclining toward one another, Jess’s messy buns contrasting spectacularly with Tom’s perfect blond bed-head.

  “We have to give her that one,” Tom concedes.

  “Regrettably,” Jess agrees, giving me the benefit of her dazzling smile, which is not in the least bit diminished by the piece of lettuce caught between her teeth.

  After a gruelling couple of hours working on my digital 3D model, my back is aching from being hunched over the screen for so long. Most of my work is done on my personal computer but I do use the online library resource allocated by the Institute. My designated work station is in the far section of the library building and, while it’s perfectly functional, it’s hardly comfortable.

  I arrive home and drop my purse and keys on the table in the hall, rolling my shoulders to try and relieve some of the tension that has built up in my neck. My apartment is modest, but comfortable, courtesy of my parents who understood my need for independence and even better, the sensibility of being closer to college. They had bought the apartment outright with most of what remained of their savings – my dad’s rationale being that it was still his money, but that it was now far better invested. My parents hate the bustle of the big city. They still stay in the same house I grew up in, in Arcadia. It’s only about fifteen miles away and, at least once a fortnight, my brother Dylan and I drive out to see them. A couple of times a year mom comes down to spend the weekend, most of which she spends preparing and freezing ready-made meals for us, much to Dylan’s delight. My brother is the most undomesticated twenty-first century man I know.

  I’m halfway to the kitchen when there is a knock at the door. As if my thoughts had drawn him, Dylan stands outside my door.

  “I told you it was going to be a scorcher,” he grins, smug in the knowledge that both he, and the weatherman, by association, were right.

  “You need a haircut,” I say, stepping aside to let him in. Like me, Dylan inherited my mother’s curls and green eyes, but the rest of him is all dad, right down to the dimple in his left cheek and his love of Sky News. Dylan is an attorney, a good one if you ask him himself, and a full seven years older than me, although sometimes it feels more like twenty and at other times I want to feed him a jar of Gerber.

  “Don’t even go there,” Dylan yawns, clapping a hand leisurely over his mouth, “I’ve had a week from hell.”

  “I don’t want to hear about your cases, please,” I moan, not in the mood for the usual play-by-play of his prowess in the courtroom.

  Dylan glances around the spotless kitchen, unfazed. “What’s for supper?” he asks.

  “I just got in, as you obviously know, seeing as you got here about three seconds after me,” I reply pointedly. The downside to my parents’ generosity, coupled with their fear of sending their only daughter out alone into the city, is that the apartment they bought me came with one sole condition - it had to be in the same block as Dylan’s. The Gods were working against me the day that an apartment just a few doors down from his became available just when we were looking. Seven floors and I had to end up on his.

  “Just following the parentals’ orders,” Dylan grins unapologetically. “You know they told me to keep an eye on you.”

  “Yes, but I’m pretty sure that was more for my safety than for your convenience. You’re going to be thirty next month Dyl, you should at least know how to boil an egg by now.” Despite my teasing I open the fridge and stick my head inside.

  “That’s what wives are for.”

  “So why haven’t you found one, yet?” I ask sweetly, backing out of the fridge with a block of Gouda and a pack of pre-sliced ham. “Pass me the bread, will you?”

  “Grilled sandwiches?” Dylan pouts his disapproval.

  “Yes, Dyl, grilled sandwiches. I haven’t had time to go shopping, so you can either like it or lump it.”

  He doesn’t leave. Of course he doesn’t leave. Most nights Dylan eats out with any of the dozen or so single men from his office, but, whenever he stays in, he expects me to feed him, without warning I might add.

  “Mike was asking after you today,” he announces casually while I’m washing up. “We have a corporate dinner coming up and he doesn’t have anyone to go with. I said you might be available.” Dylan is always offering me up to his single friends in need of a date, my present relationship status notwithstanding. I vaguely remember Mike as a rather overweight introvert with ketchup down the front of his shirt.

  “I won’t be,” I reply, “I have plans.”

  Dylan gives me a dark look. “You don’t even know when it is, yet.”

  “When is it?”

  “December fourth.” It’s over two months away.

  “Then I definitely can’t make it.”

  “You are so full of shit!”

  “I’m not. For your information, I have every intention of having stomach flu that day.”

  “You’ve been single for over two months. It’s not healthy.”

  I arch my brows. “And this coming from a man who has been single for the better part of a decade?”

  “I haven’t been single for a decade! I’ve dated plenty of women.”

  “Oh yes, how could I forget the memorable Sandy, Mandy and Candy line-up?”

  Dylan laughs out loud at that. It’s a long-standing joke between us that the only women he ever dates are young, gorgeous and absolutely lacking in ambition or brains.

  “You know if you actually tried dating a girl for something other than her cup size, you might find someone you could bear to spend more than three months with,” I point out.

  “I’m taking it, then, that you dated Noah for his electrifying personality?” he asks innocently. Dylan spent enough time with Noah to know that he bored the life out of me and, unlike my parents, he wasn’t as taken with Noah as he made believe.

  “Touché,” I grin.

  Dylan leaves around nine o’clock. I take a much needed shower, washing away the sweaty stickiness of the day and then I fetch a bottle of water from the fridge and make my way to my room. The night air is still stiflingly warm and I switch on the air-conditioning, determined to sleep comfortably, utility bill be damned. As well as the apartment, mom and dad had set up a small trust that I could live off so I wouldn’t have to work through college. I usually err on the side of being conservative, but it’s just too hot to go without it. Embarrassingly, in the q
uiet stillness of my bedroom, my thoughts turn to Leo. In my defence, the unusual blue of his eyes and the wicked curve of his mouth are hardly easy to forget.

  It is only when I switch off my nightlight that I notice the annoying blink of the red light on my answering machine. There are two messages from Noah, both asking me to call him as soon as I get home. I delete them and curl up in my bed, pulling the beautiful patchwork quilt mom made for my sixteenth birthday around me. It has adorned my bed ever since, despite the fact that the pale pink and lavender squares don’t really match the rest of my bedroom. There is a still a faint smell of enamel in the air, as a result of the gorgeous side-table that I got for a steal online and which I only painted last night. I’d been going for a shabby-chic washed effect, but, in truth, the best I could manage was a smeared, globular mess. I make a mental note to sand it down over the weekend and then close my eyes, scrunching my pillow beneath my head.

  I am almost asleep when the phone rings.

  “Hello,” I croak, and for a fleeting moment in the place between sleep and wakefulness, I forget that the only person who would be calling me at this hour is the one person I really don’t want to speak to.

  “Don’t you check your messages?” Noah’s voice is playful, but I can hear the underlying irritation.

  “Noah,” I moan, rubbing my eyes. “It’s late.”

  “Not that late,” he teases. “We used to stay up a lot later, if my memory serves.”

  “I’m really not in the mood for your sexual innuendos right now. I’m tired.” A long pause follows this, and, realising I may have been a bit abrupt, I quickly add in a far gentler tone, “Can we talk tomorrow?”

  Noah is silent for a long moment and I can practically hear the cogs of his brain turning. Since our break-up he’s fluctuated between being charming and light, and downright angry that I refuse to get back together with him. Thankfully, tonight, he takes the high road.

  “Yeah, okay, sure. Sleep tight.”

  “You too, Noah.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The next day I barely make it home with enough wine to sink a small country before Tom and Jess descend on me like a pair of F5 tornadoes.

  “Stop that!” I slap Jess’s hand aside as she tries to grab a packet of crisps. “I’ll put everything out in a second.” She completely ignores me, ripping open the bag and spilling a liberal pile of Jalapeno Poppers all over the kitchen counter. “Why are you two so early, anyway?” I grumble, scooping the crisps into my palm and tossing them back into the bag.

  “We ditched last period,” Tom mumbles through a mouthful. “Mr Hardy is back on set.” He fake-swoons and I shake my head.

  “You’re both incorrigible. You can’t get near those sets, anyway. I don’t know why you even bother.”

  “We bother, dear Sarah, because you never know when old Tom might feel the heat of my yearning and stalk off set into my open arms. The press would dub us Tom-Tom and we’d adopt a whole basketball team of adorable orphans from Africa.”

  “If he’s going to be embracing anyone, it would be me,” Jess corrects, her brows narrowed in earnest, “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t bat for your team.”

  “That’s only because he hasn’t met me yet.”

  By 9.15 we have consumed at least five bottles of wine and Jess and Tom have joined forces to coerce me to go out. It’s futile arguing, so I allow myself to be led downstairs and bundled into a cab. By 9.30 I am wedged between them at the bar counter, yelling for the barman’s attention and waving a twenty in the air as though my life depends on it. Less than five minutes later, thanks to Jess’s criminally low-cut top, we are on the dance floor, each with a beer in hand.

  I dance half-heartedly for a few songs, laughing at Jess and Tom’s shamelessly sexual display, until I hear the first bars of Ellie Goulding’s ‘Something in the way you move’.

  “I love this song!” I shriek, doing a few energetic dance jumps and spilling at least a third of my beer over my arm.

  Let me just say that dancing has never been my strong suit. On a good day, Jess says I look like a baby giraffe trying to find her feet; on a bad day she insists I resemble a Parkinson’s patient being attacked by a swarm of bees. Nevertheless, with the amount of alcohol sloshing around in my system, I feel suddenly inspired. I wiggle my hips like they don’t lie and I wave my hands in the air like I just don’t care. I’m pretty sure I look like the girl in Flashdance – all long limbs and feline grace. By the time the song ends Tom and Jess are doubled over in fits of hysteria and Jess is laughing so hard that her mascara has run down her cheeks.

  “It’s not funny!” I yell above the thumping of the next number, but, in truth, it is. It’s hilarious. I start to giggle while Tom mimics my antics. “Okay, drinks!” I shout, pointing in the direction of the bar.

  Jess’s mascara-streaked face seems to have hindered her capacity to attract the attention of the barman and we stand in the queue much longer than before. While we wait I cast a lazy look around, closing one eye when the crowd starts to spin around me. A familiar face comes into view and I give a start of recognition, ducking my head before Leo can spot me.

  “What?” Jess asks.

  “It’s him!” I hiss, jerking my head in Leo’s direction.

  “Who?” she scans the sea of faces.

  “If it’s Tom Hardy I have dibs,” Tom interjects, looking around intently as though he might spot the superstar any minute in this seedy, downtown bar.

  “Not him,” I slur, “Leo!”

  “Who’s Leo?” Tom yells, his timing coinciding spectacularly with a lull in the music. I cringe, ducking below Jess’s shoulder.

  Jess ignores Tom, her eyes sweeping the room with single-minded purpose. “Oh, there!” She swings me around so that she can spy over my shoulder and watches for a minute. “Hmmm,” she murmurs after a time.

  “Hmmm what?” I’m itching to turn around.

  “Oh, give me that!” Tom snatches the twenty-dollar bill clutched in Jess’s hand and turns back to the bar. “You two better fill me in as soon as I have our drinks,” he announces.

  “What’s hmmm?” I demand of Jess.

  “Well, for someone with no prospects, he certainly seems to hang with the ‘it’ crowd.” She gets up on her toes to get a better look.

  “What?” My curiosity gets the better of me and I turn around, immediately finding Leo, still standing in the same position, talking to a man who is dressed a lot like Mike from Dylan’s office, only without the ketchup. They are in the centre of a small group of men, most of whom are drinking water. I spot the beer in Leo’s hand and heave a sigh of relief before returning my attention to the people surrounding him. They’re older than us, probably in their early-to-mid-thirties, and Jess is right. Their clothing, haircuts and even the way they hold themselves suggests money. Money and ego. I narrow my eyes, partly to try to see better through the throng of bodies, and partly because it’s the only way to focus through my alcohol-induced haze.

  “Right!” Tom hollers, returning with three tepid beers, “who is Leo?”

  “A first-year who has Sarah’s panties in a twist!” Jess yells back. “Well,” she adds, giving me a look, “what are you doing? Go say hello!” She gives me a small shove in Leo’s direction. It seems like a perfectly reasonable idea for the space of five tottering steps before I have a change of heart. I swivel, intending to beeline straight back to my friends, but I find myself hemmed in by the masses desperate to get to the bar. Right, then, only one way to go. I let the crowd push me forward and find myself at the counter.

  A burly youngster with a ring through his lower lip slaps the counter in front of me.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Um… a beer, please.” He casts a curious look at the full bottle in my hand. “I’m double-parking!” I yell, grinning like the village idiot. “You know; in case I can’t get back for a while. This place is pumping!”

  Lip-ring rolls his eyes and slams a beer on the counter. With one
practiced move he flips the top off and I hand over the money. “Keep the change!” I say, but he doesn’t respond. Too late, I feel a presence behind me and from the way the hairs on my neck rise, I’m pretty sure it can only be one person.

  “Hello Sarah,” Leo’s voice is low and friendly.

  “Hey!” I say brightly, turning to face him. Seeing as how we don’t really know one another, I’m unsure how best to greet him. I offer him my right hand, realise it’s holding a beer and instead extend the left. Dammit! Also holding a beer. Leo grins, going in for a hug instead. God, he smells good. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it.

  “You must be thirsty,” he says, completely at ease. I try to do the same, giving a casual shrug as if to say, ‘haven’t you ever seen anyone order themselves two drinks before?”

  “I saw you dancing earlier,” Leo admits, and the words send my dignity darting out of the bar and straight up 7th Street. It’s hit the state line before I can even think of a response. “So,” Leo continues, saving me the mortification of talking about it, “are you intentionally trying to avoid me?”

  “Avoid you?” I splutter, making a noise that sounds oddly like I just farted with my mouth. “Of course I’m not avoiding you.”

  “Oh,” he takes a small step back, the sheer size of him parting the crowd around us and giving me some much-needed breathing room, “it’s just, I thought you were coming over to say hi but then you seemed to change your mind?” He words it as a question, rather than a statement of fact.

  “Nope,” I shake my head, “I didn’t see you.”

  Leo’s lips press together as though he is trying to keep from laughing.

  “Okay then. Well, it was lovely running into you, Sarah.”

  He’s leaving. He’s leaving and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Fortunately, Tom decides he cannot contain himself a moment longer and charges toward us to scout out this shiny new toy. As Leo turns to go, Tom barrels into him. Leo is knocked backward by the force of the impact and six feet of solid muscle is too much for my jelly arms. Both bottles of beer hit the ground, sending fragments of glass sliding in all directions. Leo gives me an apologetic look, his eyes roaming up and down my body as if to reassure himself that I’m okay, before he rounds on Tom.