Eleven Weeks (18 page)

I suck in a breath. He’s taking up too much air.
Michael
. What the hell is he doing here?

He leans in and hugs Kate, then mirrors the action with me. The stench of stale beer oozes from his pores like lava. I cough, and bile roses in my throat. He’s making me feel physically sick; why the hell do I still want to jump his bones? And then … and then
cuddle?

“Michael, just because we’re out of school now doesn’t mean you can touch me.” I offer a little laugh. Michael’s eyes flash hurt before they reclaim their usual sparkle, and I bite my lip to stop myself apologising. I need to be mean, to keep up this armour. I told him not to come back.

He shouldn’t be here.

A wave of the stale booze scent washes over me again, and my stomach lurches.
Please go away before I vomit on you.
“And you smell like a brewery. Gross.” I wrinkle up my nose.
Leave me alone. Seeing you makes it harder.

“Ah, come on, I don’t smell that bad, do I?” Michael’s lips grin, but I see the flash of hurt in his eyes.
Again.

“Yes,” Kate and I answer in unison.

Be strong, Stacey. He’s in a band, with dozens of hot chicks throwing their underwear at him on stage … He’s a virgin …

“I, uh, thought you guys were supposed to be out of town this week,” Kate says.

Yeah, Kate. So did I.

“Oh, yeah, well, everyone else is in Wollongong, but I wanted to come home and see Mum, so I drove back after the gig instead of partying.” Michael freezes and his mouth forms a tiny
O
, and then shuts again. “Not that the rest of the guys are, you know, partying heaps hard. Mostly they just sit around with Lee and Coal, and …”

Great. They’re bonding. It won’t be long before I never hear from him again. Problem = solved.

“Michael, it’s okay.” Kate waves his speedy explanation off. She bites her lip for just a second longer than I’d believe to be casual. “Dave’s allowed to go out and party. We broke up. It’s how it works.”

“Yeah,” I chime in. “Kate and I certainly have been.” I flip my hair back over my shoulder, puffing my chest out.
I don’t need you in my life. You, or your sexy eyes, or your sexy lips, or your sexy-feeling penis. Nope. No sirree, Bob.

“Oh, really? That’s awesome. Because I have a night off and nothing to do, and it’d be great if you guys were heading out. Then we could all go out together, like old times.” Michael’s eyes light up, and he shuffles his feet. “It’d be nice to chill on home turf, you know?”

I blink. Crap. “Well, we are going out for dinner tonight.” I nod, the action as much to convince Michael of the plan as myself.

“Rad! I’d love to come.”

My jaw drops so far it hits the white dirty tiles below us. My heart picks up its pace, practically beating out of my chest toward him à la comic book style. What? I hadn’t … But he …
Where did he get that invitation from?

“So, ladies, shall we just meet out, or have a few drinks before, or …” Michael weighs up the options with his hands.

My heart leaps into my mouth. We can’t go for drinks! Or dinner. Or anything …

I look to Kate.
Say something!
Tell him no, Kate.
Please
.

A wave of that stale beer scent wafts up my nose and my stomach lurches again and I realise I don’t have time to argue over this. I can’t be close to him for another second without spewing on his Doc Martens. “Meet out. We’ll go to the Thai place in Lakes at eight tonight.”

I can’t get the words out fast enough. I need a bathroom, pronto.

“Cool, see ya there, babes.” Michael winks and waves, then walks out of the shop as casually as could be.

As soon as he is out of our personal space, I focus on breathing, deep, cleansing breaths that sink to the bottom of my lungs and then clear out all the noxious fumes Michael may have led me to inhale.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Finally, the feeling of impending sickness sinks down a little. I know it’s just biding its time, though; that morning sickness is a nasty little bitch.

“Well … that was interesting.” I widen my eyes. The look on Kate’s face … she’s as pale as one of those alien-like models, and her eyes are as round as powder puffs. The poor thing. As much as I regret asking Michael to hang out with us because of
my
impending dilemma, I know things for Kate are much, much worse.

“I …”

“You need a new outfit. That’s what you’re about to say, right?” I grab Kate’s wrist and pull her closer to my side. I’ve been so caught up in my own crazy, I haven’t really been there for her as much as I could
. As much as I should.

“I guess?”

“Of course you do. We need Michael to report back to Dave how hot you’re looking.” I charge forward, heading for the store exit. I may have beaten the vomit monster for now, but I know if I don’t get to a bathroom quickly, she’ll have her revenge.

I glance behind me. Kate is standing stock still, right where I left her.

My phone buzzes.

Michael:
Your hair? Amazing …

Tears well in my eyes. I need to vomit, I’m feeling so much for Michael, I’m worried about Kate,
I’m hormonal and pregnant …

“Kate?”

She grabs a tube off the shelf and takes it to the cashier for payment. “You forgot your candy pink.”

“Thank you,” I say, and throw my arms around her neck. I’m still not sold on the lipstick.

But sometimes you look into someone’s eyes, and you see that they’re lost. You see that they need something to anchor them, to bring them back down to earth and reassure them that everything’s going to be okay.

And then you realise you’re only seeing that, because it’s mirrored in yourself.

And you wish like hell someone would hold you like that.

S
EVEN WEEKS
. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve had this person growing inside me, this tiny human that I’ve Googled and found out is roughly three centimetres in size right now.

It’s strange how something so small can change your life so drastically. Now, instead of spending my summer uncertain of my future, I have a plan.

Ish.

Or at least, that’s what I tell myself as I rock up for my fourth job interview in four days, only twenty minutes late after my emergency shopping trip for Kate.

I run my hands over my “You’ve ruined it, now” (thanks, Shae) hair, and bite my lip. I can do this. I
will
get this job. I
will
support the small human.

Pushing open the door, I walk inside an unmarked building to a white reception desk. Fluorescent lights illuminate the space and showcase every freckle on the woman behind the desk. And she has so many, you could play join the dots.

I walk up to the counter and clasp my hands on the top, smiling down at her.

“May I help you?” she purrs. Her voice is smooth as silk, and kind of … kind of sexy. I guess as someone answering the phone all day, she really does have the skills for the job.

“Hi, my name is Stacey Allison. I have a job interview with Mischa?” I ask.

“Sure, take a seat.” The woman nods to a black leather chair behind me, and I turn and sit down. I drum my fingers nervously on the black display folder I have on my lap. Not that it says anything particularly impressive inside; just a copy of some of my most recent school exams, a reference from the guy who owned the local store I used to work at—before he went broke—and a nice note from our year advisor, Mr Hilman, who scribbled down some notes about my talents as cheerleader two years ago.

“Stacey.” I look up. One of the most glamorous women I’ve ever seen struts toward me on what must be at least four-inch heels. She extends her hand, complete with perfectly manicured French-tipped fingers, and I scramble to my feet to take it.

“Hi. I’m Stacey,” I say, then bite my tongue.
Yes, you idiot, she just called you that!

“Sorry to have kept you waiting; I was on a call. Follow me.” Her voice is like liquid gold, all melting and luscious, and I wonder if having a soothing tone like that is a prerequisite for working here. I guess this is a sales company … if most of it is done on the phone that would make perfect sense.

I follow Mischa’s tight skirt-clad arse to an office down a hallway. She opens the door and gestures to a white leather chair situated in front of a white desk, which has another white leather chair behind it. Everything about the room is white: white-covered pens, white floor, white walls, and even a white statue in the corner, one of those odd ones where it looks like a naked couple canoodling. In fact, the only thing not white is the deep red rose in a slim vase on her desk.

Mischa shuts the door and dances around me with complete precision to a seat behind the desk. I look down at my folder and pull my skirt forward, only to see her kick off her heels and sink her red-painted toes in to the thick white fur rug beneath her. How does she make that look so attractive?

“Thank you for coming in today,” she says, giving me a brisk nod.

I open my mouth to speak, but no words seem to come. What’s wrong with me? Where have all my social skills gone?

Stace, you can do this. You’re good at pretending,
I internally berate myself.
And besides—small human depends on you.

“Thanks for having me.” I smile. I offer my folder across the desk to Mischa, who gracefully retrieves it from my grasp. “This is a folder with my resume, and a few letters of recommendation.”

Mischa opens the folder and flicks through, giving small nods every few pages. “How old are you?” She snaps the folder shut with a distinct
clack
.

“Twenty,” I answer confidently, chin held high, eyes wide open. Something tells me that this woman would not be impressed by my fresh-out-of-school status.

This answer seems to satisfy Mischa, as she nods, and then says, “Let’s talk about your experience in sales …”

“I’ve worked in sales before, for a period of three years.” Part-time, once a week, at the local store. And by sales, I really mean taking money for candy and occasionally mopping the floor. “And I take pride in giving a job my all.”

Mischa steeples her fingers together flat against the desk. “And how do you perform when it comes to meeting targets?” Her voice is so sexy, if I wasn’t pregnant and a chick, I’d consider jumping her.

“I have a good track record.” I dance around the question, and then, deepening my voice in the hope of sounding even the slightest bit hotter than I so far do, I add in, “And I can be very persuasive.”

Mischa laughs, a deep, rumbling sound, and I join her. “I like your attitude, Stacey. I think you could fit in well here. Presumably, you researched us before you came in?”

I blink. Yes. I did. Well, I researched that they had a job opening. The company itself? Once I saw the word phone, I thought it wouldn’t really matter. To me it had seemed like the perfect job, one where I could sit down all day, keep my feet up, and not stress out the bub. I rub my belly. After all, it’s not too taxing to pick up a phone.

“Yes.” I smile.

“And you think you can be … creative enough to fulfil the role?” Mischa asks.

“Yes.” I don’t hesitate for a second. Even though by now, I’m having some serious concerns about this whole thing. Creative enough? Isn’t this just a sales gig?

“I mean, as well as straight sales referrals, sometimes you’ll need to do some work yourself.”

My mouth opens and shuts like a goldfish.

“Oh, it’s fine. You can study, learn as you go along.” Mischa smiles, and I snap my jaw closed.

“I came first in drama back in high school,” I say. “I’m good at making things up.”
Amen to that.

“Fabulous. I like your enthusiasm, and honestly, being a niche market as we are, we don’t get a lot of candidates, so—”

Now, serious panic signals start going off in my brain. A niche market? What the hell is this job anyway? All I know is that it involves phone sales, an easy enough thing to deduce.