Page 22 of The Reality of Us
“No, thanks,” was all Owen said. He didn’t owe her anything, and a weight he hadn’t acknowledged for far too long lifted off his shoulders.
Camille’s mouth dropped open before she snapped it shut. Her eyes narrowed.
In his peripheral vision, he noticed Alice standing next to the door.
Camille followed his gaze. “Lights are on and no one’s home with that one,” she said.
Owen ignored her and picked up the tray of drinks. She was looking for a reaction, and he wasn’t interested in giving her one.
“No surprise that guy left her. Hard to believe she didn’t know her husband was screwing everyone in sight.”
Realisation dawned on him like the waterfall of spilt wine and beer. This was the kind of crap Alice put up with every day. People weren’t cruel to her face, but they said stuff about her. All the time. In person. Online, where they thought their anonymity protected them. How she managed to ever leave the house bamboozled him.
“You don’t know the first thing about her,” he said quietly.
“Oh, who cares? She’s just some girl who wanted to be famous.”
Without replying, Owen walked back to his table. As he handed his father his favourite red, he looked back across the room.
And shit. He shouldn’t like it that Alice was still standing at the door, watching him. Would she care if he had a drink with Camille? He sipped his beer and tried to ignore the gnawing in his stomach that appeared whenever he thought of Alice. Entertaining those thoughts would only lead to trouble.
8
Alice was dozing in the hammock when feedback cut through the air.
“Testing, testing, one, two, three.”
She scrambled up, her denim skirt twisting around her legs. The domestic thriller she’d been trying, and failing, to read fell to the floor along with the blanket she’d draped around her shoulders.
“Hello, Wattle Junction!”
Oh, no.
Years ago, the velvety smoothness of Phoenix’s voice would’ve made her weak at the knees. He was everything she’d always thought she’d wanted. Rugged. Artistic. Not afraid to disappoint his family by turning his back on their dreams of him being a doctor to pursue his own. He’d been so different from anyone she’d ever met before. He seemed to embody music. It was layered into the way he moved his body, how he spoke. His soft vowels and lilting voice had made her shiver when they first met on the show. It was like the universe had gift wrapped the perfect man and hand delivered him to her.
But like all things that seemed too good to be true, Phoenix wasn’t real. He was a character created by a man whose real name was Pieter Skoglund to sell records. Like the rest of the country, she’d fallen for the fairytale.
Phoenix strummed his guitar, his most famous song, ‘We Saved Each Other’, blanketing the usual afternoon noises of High Street. The piano kicked in, followed by the drums. For God’s sake, he’d brought the whole band.
His skinny jeans hung halfway down his ass while still being so tightly fitted it was unlikely he’d ever father children. She’d have bet money she really couldn’t afford to risk that his ‘lucky’, beaten-up black boots would complete his onstage look. But his bare feet were curled in the grass. Phoenix was a germaphobe … except for when he was using. Alice resisted the urge to bang her head against the wall.
Now everything made sense.
“My wife won’t speak to me. And I know what you’re all thinking.”
She eyed the sliding door. Remembered the tomatoes she’d bought earlier in the week. She could wing a few at him, but he’d have her arrested for assault after he made her pose for a happy reunion photo.
The drums and piano faded out. All that was left was his tortured voice, another well-rehearsed apology that made Alice want to hurl. Phoenix turned his head in her direction, and she refused to hide. It was no secret where she was living in Wattle Junction.
“Alice, each day without you is like a song without words. Please help me fix this.”
The music swelled, and he stretched his hand out towards where she stood on her balcony. Anger threatened, but there was no way she’d cry in front of him.
“I wrote this song for us. Remember?”
She remembered Oskar, the keyboardist, writing this song for his ex-girlfriend, but hey, whatever. Some things got lost in translation.
“Sötnos, if you let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you.”
