Page 15 of Just Say (Hell) No
The kitten followed him into the laundry room, where he scattered the litter into the tray. She hopped straight in, and didn’t give him a chance to get the box assembled before she was christening it.
“Good girl,” he told her when she was finished, and gave her a gentle pat. In response, she climbed his arm again.
“Doesn’t look comfortable,” Ella observed. She was leaning against the doorway, watching him.
“Try stopping her,” he said, continuing the assembly process with the kitten pressed against the side of his neck and wondering whether Ella would be interested in cooking dinner. Probably not. Takeaway it was, then. “She’s got a mind of her own. Which would bring us to why you’re here.”
“Because I’m up the duff,” she said, “and my mum’s throwing a wobbly about it. So I decided to come stay with you.”
Nyree had started work at Bevvy this morning at six. After that, there’d been the obstacle course her hormones had run with the Kitten Whisperer, not to mention Koti James. Though somehow, Koti had been a secondary consideration. Now, she was at a “consultation” that was testing her ingenuity, not to mention her resolve. You could say that it had been a long Thursday. She was wishing she’d made a few coffee drinks for herself during her shift.
“I just don’tknow,”Savannah Calloway said, fingering the swatches of silk with long, shiny black nails, each one carefully embellished with silver studs to look like leather bikie gear. The manicure was fascinating, in an objective way. Like Chinese foot-binding, announcing, “I cannot perform any tasks at all, and I don’t have to.”
Savannah’s life, Nyree reminded herself, was why she’d gone to work at six this morning. Exactly why. The daughter of a UK manufacturer who had patented a series of rock-crushing machines forty years earlier and moved to New Zealand to enjoy the fruits of his labors, Savannah, now a banker’s wife, was a living testament to the dangers of inherited wealth and taking the easier path.
The two of them were sitting beside a long, narrow slice of lap pool under the shade of an extravagant group of palms, looking out onto sailboats bobbing gently at their moorings on Herne Bay, and at the green hills of Auckland’s North Shore rising across the water. A tray on the glass-topped wicker table held a plate of grapes, three biscuits, and two lone slices of Tasty cheese. As Nyree watched, Savannah picked up one of the slices, tore it delicately into pieces between the motorcycle-boot talons, and fed the pieces to the collection of dogs who were sitting impatiently, uttering starved little yelps, beside her chaise. None of them needed the cheese, calorically, gastro-intestinally, or otherwise, but like Savannah, they were not to be denied.
What the hell,Nyree decided, and snagged the last piece of cheese for herself, along with two biscuits.Be the artist, not the help.She slugged down the remainder of her glass of wine and said, “The ivory, not the white. I can’t paint Precious in the white. It would be painful. Entirely wrong for her coloring.” She stood up. “I have what I need, so I’ll be going.”
“Oh,” Savannah’s mouth crumpled, and Nyree nearly sat down again at the loneliness she saw there. “I thought you could tell me about the veil.”
Nyree’s stomach rumbled audibly, but she didn’t flinch. Pookie had done heaps worse than that during the past forty-five minutes. “Studded with brilliants,” she said with an authority she didn’t feel. This was entertaining Savannah, if nothing else. “Not too long. You don’t want to overwhelm her.” Since the bride was a Chihuahua.
“Thank you,” Savannah said, standing up herself. “You have such an eye. The kids are so excited for it, and all their little friends will be coming. I thought—silver net gift bags with nail varnish for the girls, but I can’t think what for the boys. I want it to blend, but, well… boys.”
“A challenge,” Nyree agreed.
“And the portrait,” Savannah said. “I can’t wait to see Pookie. Can’t I have a teeny peek? Please?”
“No,” Nyree said. “Not until it’s done. It’ll disrupt my flow. And I really do need to go. Seeing Pookie again has given me an idea, and I need to get back to my canvas before I lose it.” A total lie. Pookie was finished, for better or worse, and awaiting his varnishing. But she needed pizza, and she needed it now.
You have two months. No worries for two months.She repeated the mantra as she pulled up forty minutes later and parked in front of her garage, where her tiny red table, purple chair, and rakish blue umbrella stood off to one side like a promise and a welcome. No lap pool, but it could be that lap pools were overrated. She climbed out of the car, balancing the pizza box in one hand and her camera bag in the other, and went inside.
It wasn’t locked. She owned a Bluetooth speaker, some clothes that were mostly “adaptations”—a word that sounded much better than “Op Shop finds”—paints, brushes, and canvases to the extent that she could afford them at any given moment, and the camera that she kept stuffed under the spare towels. The street was quiet, and anyway, life was meant to be an adventure.
She’d barely got inside when she heard the voice from behind her. “You have pizza. I’m eating it.”
She left the door open, dumped the pizza on the poppy-painted coffee table, shoved aside her sketchbook and a couple pieces of charcoal, and told Victoria, “Pop it in the oven to warm, then. I could use the company myself. I’m warning you, though, I don’t have wine. I’m skint until payday.”
“Ooh,” her landlady said. “Fortunately… Back in a flash.”
Nyree was already naked, turning the tap in the tiny shower cubicle to get it hotter, when Victoria called out again. “Just me, love. Small or large?”
“Large,” Nyree called back. “Absolutely large. Enormously large.”
She emerged five minutes later feeling more alert, toweled off, pulled on a dressing gown, and said, “Don’t say it,” while she was still blotting her hair dry.
“Here.” Victoria, her red hair nearly as wild as Nyree’s now that it was out from under her barrister’s wig, handed her an absolutely non-regulation-sized glass of Shiraz. She stepped back from the easel, sipped at her own glass, and said, “He’s quite funny. Is he meant to be, or is he meant to send me, looks-wise? Because he doesn’t. The background’s nice, though.”
Nyree sighed. “Saying, ‘The background’s nice’ is like talking about the cinematography in a film. Death knell. If you’re looking at the cinematography, you’re not engrossed.”
“Which would be why,” Victoria said, “they give Oscars for cinematography. Eh? Eh?”
“Which would be whycinematographersgive Oscars for cinematography. Never mind.” Nyree contemplated the portrait from partway down a glass of Shiraz, a much more comforting spot. “You’re right. He’s horrible. But I’m hoping that now he’s horrible in a lovable way. Comical.”
“He looks it.” Victoria folded her nearly six feet onto the car seat. “Tell. Lovely dressing gown, by the way.”
“Nine dollars,” Nyree informed her. “K Road. Silk, though. Also…” She turned around to display the back. “Dragon. Why would you give it away? People are mad.”
