Page 4 of His Pretty Little Duet

So, while I look across the street at the imposing, steep white gates, knowing I have mentally and physically prepared myself for this afternoon, wearing a nice pair of jeans, tan ankle boots, and a cute crop top, the swarm of butterflies in the pit of my stomach reminds me that I have number three looming. And that I'm out of my depth here... Stupid, even, for considering reaching out to a man who doesn’t know I exist. Which, according to my mum, isn’t exactly a bad thing.

She'd said he's a dangerous man.

But I need a dangerous man.

I peer out at the enormous walls that seem to go on forever to my right and left, a sprawling white barrier for an enormous estate. He needs the walls. He’s a crook. Well,Mafiais the word she used, although it’s hard to stomach such a serious accusation. In the Mafia? A Mafia man?

Sighing, I wrinkle my nose. No, I don’t even know how to phrase it in my head, but he’s damn dodgy. I worry my bottom lip while reaching for my right plait, untangling the freshly washed strands before starting on the left.

Just cross the street.

Knock.

My feet don’t move.

I shake my hair free, the long straight blonde curtain falling down my shoulders and over my breasts. I try to calm my nerves, reminding myself that Mum also believed mattress factories are warehouses harbouring secret alien research laboratories.“Five mattress factories in this town, baby. Five. We only buy a mattress every ten years. Who is buying all these mattresses?”

Forcing my feet forward, I take the first step and then watch a camera set above the wall come to life, stalking me the entire way up to the intercom.

When I face the speaker, my eyes widen, reality reaching into my chest and squeezing the air from me. I fiddle with the ends of my hair. It’s not too late to just walk away. I could do a little wave, mouth ‘whoops, wrong house,’ and run like a lunatic back to the bus stop. Maybe no one saw me, maybe the camera has a sensor, maybe no one is actually?—

“Miss, please state your business."

Fuck.I step backwards, then forwards, then backwards because that step was way too big before forcing the words out. “I’m looking for my father.”

Smooth.

I grimace at my outburst, locking my jaw to cease the verbal diarrhoea. When silence circles me, butterflies start to breed inside me, plotting to escape straight through my stomach lining. “Did... did you hear me?”

“What is the name of the man you wish to see?”

“Right, sorry.” I lean into the speaker, my voice a stammering mess. “Jimmy Storm. He lives here, right?” I swallow. “He knows my father, I think. At least that’s what my mum said. I was hoping he would help me find him.”

“What is your father’s name?”

“Ah, Dustin Nerrock... They’re friends. I’ve been trying to track him down for months.” That's a lie. It's been exactly eleven weeks, four days, and thirty-seven minutes. I knew from that moment this was my only choice. The only option left. And despite hating asking favours, even more so from privileged people, I'll do anything for Benji.

Startling me, the gate to my left opens. I’m surprised by the soundless way it slides across the silver driveway. A big breath puffs out my cheeks. I’ve come this far. Before I can wander through, the man on the intercom says, “Wait on the bench by the pond. We will send someone to collect you, Miss. It is quite a walk to the main house.”

I nod, wrapped in awe, as I walk over the threshold. He is going to think I want money. I’m prepared for that assumption. It’s not like these people would miss a small amount, though.

Gazing at the rippling lily pond directly to my left, surrounded by perfectly sculptured hedges, I wish Mum had at least told my dad about me. Wish that she had asked for help, so she could have put food on the table more often. Maybe she wouldn’t have killed herself trying to be a mother when she clearly had no idea how to be one... maybe she wouldn’t have killed herself.

I stroll over to the black-and-white marble bench beside the pond. Sitting, I marvel at the hedges, rolling parallel to the driveway and disappearing off into the distance. I feel as though I have tumbled down a rabbit hole. The hedges are almost too large, the greens too vivid. It reminds me of the movieThe Labyrinth, and that, of course, reminds me ofBenji.

A sad sigh leaves me. This place is far removed from my foster mother’s little red brick house in Storm River, with her dry, dusty backyard littered with my foster brother’s bikes and broken-down vehicles.

I shuffle nervously when a shiny black car comes into view, the sleek elegance of it an odd sight amongst the vast greenery, the car’s metallic paint glittering under the sun’s gentle touch. It slows to a stop, and I stand, smoothing my shirt down my stomach. Blinking at the ominous black vehicle, I wait.

A man in his early forties, black suit and black tie, steps from the driver’s seat before wandering around to the passenger door. He looks like a butler on steroids. “You won’t be seen for a few hours. The man you need to speak with is busy. Please,”—he gestures politely to the backseat—“I'll take you somewhere you can wait.”

The formalities stir me. "I'm sorry. I don't want to impose. If he's busy, I can come back?"

"It's fine, Miss. Please." He nods towards the open passenger door.

I swallow my need to hightail it and run as the big arse butterflies inside me fight for space. “Okey dokey.”

Climbing into the passenger seat, I shuffle to the opposite window to take in the sights. As the car takes off, rolling smoothly up the driveway, I realise there is nothing to be seen except hedges. An elegant solution to any privacy problem. Private people have things to hide... I would know.

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