Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3) (3 page)

Instead she got a cheery text before she got to the tube. W
e’d love to have you. When can you start
? That meant telling Hamish she was leaving was a pressing reality.

She got up and righted the suitcase so it stood on its wheels. If she dragged it into the bedroom and unpacked it would feel like progress and it might stop this senseless rehashing of the events of the last few weeks. They no longer mattered. The whole of the last eight years hardly mattered; it was scar tissue, a non-lethal brain lesion. She never needed to think about it again.

She thumbed to a David Guetta track on her phone and swayed in the space between the boxes, cases and badly positioned furniture. She couldn’t sing for nuts and no sooner krump, pop, lock or hip hop than she could get a basic side to side step, school disco à la 1997 going, but moving, no matter how randomly, felt better than remembering that night she announced she was leaving.

Hamish was seeing someone. He hadn’t bothered to hide it, staying out all night and leaving restaurant receipts and movie tickets on the kitchen counter. It was the act that pushed her to end things and look for a way to move home.

And it was the admission that made her announcement seem like retreat instead of advance. She’d expected him to fuss, cause a scene. He’d laughed and told her it was good timing.

Georgia turned in a circle, knocking her hip on the edge of a tallboy dresser and didn’t care that it nipped and would bruise. She was dancing and no one could tell her she looked like an idiot and moved like a zombie on human meat ‘roids. She was dancing, in her own place, halfway around the world from Hamish and his new lover, Eugenia, and the grey, hesitant existence she’d lived since she’d married him for all the wrong reasons.

The song changed and she was just getting warmed up. She worked a shimmy into her shoulders. Did anyone shimmy anymore? Who cares? She did. In her own flat, where no one could see her, she shimmied and sidestepped and bopped her head, got a little tush action going and knocked over a box of new linen. If she kept this up she might need to strip off, dance barefoot in her mismatched Marks and Spencer’s underwear because she wasn’t scared and awkward, she was young still, and hot and desirable, about to set the local recording scene on fire with her stunning command of sliders, her dab hand at sequencing and her perfection with pre- and post-production.

Dancing made you sweaty. She should’ve remembered that. It made you a little light-headed and giggly. She pulled her t-shirt over her head and did the twist in her beige bra and her vintage 501s, using the shirt as a makeshift boa around her neck. Dancing made your breath come short and your chest hurt. That was peculiar. Was that normal? It made you feel a little panicked and burned your eyelids. But she was absolutely not crying, so it had to be the dust she was kicking up irritating her eyes, making water course down her face and drip off her chin, like it had that night in front of Hamish as she’d packed a bag and left him.

He’d done all the talking. She’d said nothing after all of it, the youthful love, the horror and blame, the stupidly hopeful bedside wedding and the years of trying to make something good from the disaster of feeling responsible.

She wiped her face on her t-shirt and closed her eyes. It wasn’t the loss of innocence and love that hurt. Hamish had cherished his mastery of her guilt more than he’d ever loved her and she’d been the one dumb enough to let him manipulate her into staying in the relationship so long. What hurt, struck the knockout blow, like walking into a glass wall you didn’t see, was the years she’d lost to putting his needs exclusively above her own.

So she danced in a whirl of flailing arms and jerky gyrations to crappy audio, in her cheap flat, surrounded by newly purchased credit card debt, while she sobbed for all the decisions she’d made that led her here, and resolved that everything in her personal life that came after this maddened prancing would be about independence, caring less and standing clear of being needed so she could learn who Georgia Fairweather was when she wasn’t the one to blame.

3: Lucky

Sometime between the rehearsal and the gig the jet lag really kicked in—hard. He thought going to the gym might stave it off, but now Damon felt all fifteen and a half travel hours, and the impact of the dateline in the heaviness of his limbs and how much worse than normal he played pool. And he normally played like it was chess, which is to say the only way he could win was to employ a strategy where he totally screwed with the other guy by making him fudge shots.

Character voices were great for that. He’d wait till the other guy was lined up then give him a blast of Arnold Schwarzenegger or Jack Nicholson. Al Pacino also worked a treat to put a guy off his shot, and so did Buzz Lightyear.

But Jamie was immune to all that, so he’d tried Captain Vox, but that didn’t work either because he hadn’t created a voice for Vox. He was Vox.

He managed a decent break, but after that Jamie chased him all over the table; he might as well have been playing by himself. They both cracked up the fourth time Damon air swiped the cue ball, but Jamie, being Jamie, never said a word; he passed more chalk, as if that was going to make it easier to align white, red, pocket with more than fluke on his side.

The pepper steak and jacket potato with sour cream topping Angus put in front of him before they went on made a difference. All that protein woke his system up and the carbs refreshed him, but he still felt like he was sleepwalking.

“You okay?” Taylor. She massaged the back of his neck.

“Feel trashed. Worse than usual.” He moved his head side to side as her fingers found sore spots. Now that he’d vocalised it, he did feel like shit warmed up. The coming home jet lag was usually worse than the fly out version, but he was a master at managing it after so many years moving between Sydney and LA, New York or London. The
Dystopian Outlaw
movie read had been quick and intense, but the game had needed long hours over months; he was either more exhausted than he’d thought or he had picked up a bug. His throat felt tight and his eyes were gritty and wouldn’t stop watering. Maybe he was coming down with something.

Taylor’s hand went to his forehead. “You’re not hot.” He grinned; Umbria Starstarter thought he was molten lava. Taylor pinched his cheek. “Did you get any action this trip?”

He pushed his plate away and turned on the stool to face her. “Why would I answer that?” The bar had filled up in the time he’d taken to eat. There was a low-level buzz of chatter, the occasional shriek of laughter. He had to go get changed in a minute if he was going to bother. He could go on in his jeans, but bloody Sam had stretched the neck of his t, and Taylor had changed so he should make the effort.

She put her hand over his where it lay on the bar. “I think you’re lonely.”

He flipped his hand and clasped hers briefly before putting it back on the bar top. “Christ, where’s that coming from?”

“Just a thought.”

Just a thought that was going to make it harder to get her to accept the idea of moving in with him. It’d virtually convince her she was right if he asked now. “Umbria wanted me.”

“They all want you.” Taylor’s voice was all it’s hard to believe but true. “Was she as sexy as she sounds?”

“We only did two sessions in the studio together.” Umbria had wanted to go all method on his Captain Vox ass, ten minutes after they were introduced. “She was interesting.”

“Is that code for old, fat and ugly?”

He laughed. “She was one of those instant clingy ones.”

Taylor put a glass of water in his hand. “Oh, you hate that.”

He shivered. It was an occupational hazard and he did hate it. “The only one allowed to cling to me is you, Tay.”

“But one day you’re going to want someone else to cling to you.”

He sipped the water and the ice in it made him cough. “Meanwhile I’ll stick to the non-cling variety.” By which they both knew he meant women happy to sign up for a good time, not a long time. He held out his hand and she took it. “I need to change.”

She went with him behind the bar and into the room they used as a green room. Sam and Jamie were already there. Still short-staffed, Angus stayed behind the bar pouring beers.

He ditched his jeans and t for black tailored pants and a white dress shirt, no tie, couple of buttons left undone and the sleeves rolled up. It was what he usually wore on stage. Taylor tousled his hair with gel and he donned his shades.

“The Voice is ready,” he announced to the room and got no reply.
Bastards
. The three of them were breathing, the least they could do was laugh.

Angus came in smacking his hands together. “Full house out there. Had to call Heather to come help in the kitchen.”

“You’ll be on the couch tonight,” said Jamie.

“Can’t be a shock,” said Taylor.

Angus grunted. “How the fuck am I supposed to get reliable staff? I hate having to call on her.” He was genuinely upset.

“What have I missed?”

“Ah crap, Damon. I promised she wouldn’t have to work nights anymore while she’s studying.”

“She got in. Man, why didn’t you tell me?” Damon stood and they hugged. Two years Heather had been trying to get into uni to study law as a mature age student. “Where is she? I need a hug.”

Angus pumped his shoulder. “I’ll take you to her in the break. She’s really feeling the pressure already and I don’t want to be the one who distracts her with this place.”

“You distracted her when you married her, bro,” said Jamie.

“We going on or not?” said Taylor.

They went on and the crowd was buzzed. Two birthday groups and a soccer team celebrating a loss. They opened with
Beautiful Day
. Damon sat on a stool at the side of the stage. Jamie and Angus out front of Sam’s kit, Taylor on a tambourine. He stood with the chorus and stayed there for the next three songs. Then they did the ball-playing ladies a solid with OneRepublic’s
Something I Need
. That got them on their feet with the marching band rhythm chorus and they clapped and sang along. Angus would do good business at the till tonight.

He took to his stool again when Taylor did
Sober
and
Try
and they closed the set together with
Give Me A Reason
, which went superbly till he nearly walked off the edge of the stage, one foot shooting out into empty space before Taylor grabbed his arm. Hopefully it played like he’d intended it. There were squeals. There was no way he was fit for a second set unless he stayed seated and there was no reason to kill himself over this. It was purely social, the band could play on without him, like they did most weeks.

In the green room he made for the old sofa and lay on his back like a felled tree. Eyes closed, he could sleep right here even with the noise from outside and the movement in the room. Until Angus sat on his feet. He moved, pulling free, sliding them to the floor; now he was a bent tree.

“The great Captain Zice Vox succumbs to—” Angus squeezed his kneecap. “What is it you’ve succumbed to?”

“My head’s on LA time and my body is,” he waved an arm above his face, “doing me no favours.”

“That’s all?” said Jamie. He’d be thinking about all that additional unnecessary cue chalking.

“Yeah, man. I’m done. Dumb idea to go to the gym today. I can hardly think straight. I need to sleep for a week.”

“Can you?” said Taylor. “You nearly walked off the stage.”

He laughed. “You don’t have to worry till I do.” But he knew he’d scared her. Scared himself. He’d never worried about falling, on or off stage, always managing to groove around their kit in the space without mishap.

He sat up properly, about the same time as Taylor knelt behind him to play with his hair. He knocked her arm, then pulled her into his lap. “Tomorrow, but I have a job on Monday.”

“Already? But you just finished a job.”

“Yeah, it’s a favour for Ben Pinetti. An interactive training video and a couple of ads. Two days work tops.”

Angus got up and his end of the couch lifted off the floor and both Damon and Taylor yelled, so Angus sat down again. He’d want to get back to the bar. “Ben’s the guy got you started in voiceovers, right?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t say no.”

Taylor undid a button on his shirt. “I’m not working till the afternoon Monday, you want a ride?”

He did the button up. He could talk to her about moving in when there was less sand and cement setting in his head. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

He got a taxi home, praying he wouldn’t suddenly get a second wind and not be able to sleep once he got to bed. The thought of lying awake half the night, staring unseeing at the ceiling, was enough to make him regret not hefting home the sixpack Angus tried to press on him. But he’d begun to think seriously this might be more than jet lag; felt like he might get a head cold, or the flu, a professional hazard best avoided.

He stood at the bathroom sink and dosed up on horseradish and garlic, vitamin C and echinacea, plus cold tablets, swallowing a great handful of the stuff with water before the idea that he maybe shouldn’t take them all together dawned.
What the hell.
He crashed into bed and made like a dead guy for ten hours straight.

He stumbled around the rest of Sunday feeling almost normal, bar a scratchy throat. Too much rebel yell last night. He unpacked, checked email, talked to his folks, nuked the first thing he put his hand on from the freezer, which turned out to be chilli con carne, then in an attempt to keep up with the competition, he took Stephen King’s
Black House
on audio book to bed, knowing he’d likely fall asleep listening to Frank Muller read it.

Taylor was bang on time Monday morning. Shave and a haircut two bits sounded at exactly 9am. He had a 10.30am call, so that gave them plenty of time to get to the studio and ample time to fly the living arrangement idea, get shot down and crash-land with no survivors.

When he closed the car door she said, “You look better.”

No perfume. He hugged her across the handbrake. “How did I look?”

“Emo.”

He laughed. There was no way he could look wan, slender and delicately emo. If emo was a short-lived hothouse flower, he was lantana, a perennial weed you couldn’t kill.