Page 40 of Hired Help

My dance in front of the circle of teens, an attempt to woo the girl I adore. The twist of annoyance on Floss’s face when I gave her a soda instead of a real drink. The beat of the music, the pleasure of watching the stress fading from Brooke’s face as she leaned into my body. The way her hand kept reaching for mine when she gave a nervous laugh. How her knee jiggled until I gripped it tightly, then let my fingers wander farther up her leg while her head fell to rest on my shoulder.

If Harrison hadn’t shown, we might have gone to a hotel room afterwards. I remember my daft idea to ask her to stop paying me, to treat me like a romantic partner instead of a service provider.

If I hadn’t already poured the vodka down the sink, that memory alone would have poured it straight down my throat.

My life is a disaster. I should put up warning tape to scare people away.

* * *

BROOKE

Outside, I slap my palm against the door, then turn and sit on the top step, half hoping he’ll change his mind and open the house to me again.

A horrible feeling rises in my stomach, worse than the first stress ulcer I got at twelve, worse than the crippling panic attacks that sent me careening to a psychologist for help, aged fourteen.

This time, it’s not something done to me. Not neglect, not the complete and utter disregard of my family. Not the handsy gardener who kept trying to show me something in his shed. Not the string of minimum-wage nannies who thought they could smack me into righteousness.

This time, I created the scene, I auditioned its cast, and I prepped the script ready to go. My ‘fun’ revenge against Harrison that was never about fun and always about pain.

The light drizzle of earlier strengthens into rain and I shiver. Tomorrow I might be able to contact Daegan again, to apologise properly and offer something, anything, as a symbol of my remorse.

Tonight, I need to find a safe bed, perhaps cry myself to sleep. After Harrison’s dumping, tears have often been my sleeping pill of choice.

I stand, brushing the dirt from the back of my skirts as best I can, then discover I don’t have my purse, which means I also don’t have my phone or credit card or keys.

When I turn to knock on the door, I hear Daegan swearing at the top of his lungs, then the dull thump of something hard being kicked or punched.

My fingers curl into a loose ball, arm still raised in the air, then I let it slowly drop to my side.

Daegan sounds like he wants to kill me right now, and I deserve it. I treated him appallingly but now I’m out the other side of this infatuation, through to the part where I always knew he’d never want to touch me again, I want him back.

The joke’s on me. In taking revenge, rather than healing from the boy who hurt me, I still love Harrison just as hard, but now I’ve fallen for his dad as well.

Instead of getting my own back, I now lovetwomen who hate me.

I can’t bring myself to knock on Daegan’s door, but that’s okay. I can walk home. I’ve done it before.

Halfway along the front path, I grab hold of the realtor’s sign for balance as I take off my high heels. The sign pitches farther into the ground just as I’m leaning most of my weight against it, spilling me into the softening mud. I rage attack it with my bare feet, then struggle upright and push the whole sign over, jumping on the smiling agent’s face until it’s as coated with muck as I am.

By the time I’m finished, I feel slightly better, but that’s as likely to be the two drinks Daegan gave me. Compared to the one I had at the dance, chugging two much larger vodkas in five minutes flat mightn’t have been the greatest idea.

I lean against his front gate, staring in either direction, trying to work out the best way back to school.

There’ll be a new problem there since without my keys I don’t have access, but if someone’s around to let me into the lobby, I can crash in the common room for the night. At the very least, there’ll be security on duty. Maybe they’ll let me shelter in their truck so Harrison can’t make good on his threat.

I head to my right, straining to keep an internal map front and centre in a brain that struggles with the real thing. The houses opposite are nondescript. Along my side, there’s an extensive property with coils of barbed wire above its reinforced walls.

A wrecker’s yard? Storage? It looks like that kind of place but with an added air of menace. When I walk past a gap where there are no boards behind the chain-link fence, I see a bonfire in the yard, circled by heavyset men dressed in layers of denim and leather that look like they never come off.

I cross the road, cupping my elbows, then force my arms to my side so I don’t broadcast to everyone in the neighbourhood how nervous I am. When I turn into a side-street, I choose a cul-de-sac in error and waste five minutes of hard pavement under my soft feet before returning to the exact point I entered.

The next street along is better. I can see the long line of lights leading into the town centre. There’s a bit of traffic to keep me company but not so much I need to hug the fenceline.

After ten minutes of progress on my new path, I relax into the exercise. The sting of my feet grows until I walk on the berm, chancing the occasional discarded toy or random sneaker in exchange for the comfort of grass underfoot.

I allow my thoughts to return to earlier in the night. To dwell on the fury that twisted Harrison’s face as he screamed about wanting to kill me.

In the corridor, it had been different. With just the two of us, his anger didn’t spiral into destruction, it channelled into me, as tangible as his love had once been.

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