Husband Stay (Husband #2) (20 page)

I couldn’t see the
video they were watching, but when they frowned at the same time as the song
faltered, I knew exactly what they were seeing—Jack leaning across the stage,
about to vomit on my shoes. Then I remembered…

Jill was
watching.

She’d find out I
hadn’t saved her precious bridesmaid shoes for the wedding, but had recklessly
worn them out to a club. What would she think of me? Guilt and grief over what
I’d done tightened my throat, but only for a moment before it was swept away by
a surge of anger so strong I wanted to storm off the stage.

How dare he
show that video without my permission
? I glanced back at Tug and found him
watching me with a tiny self-satisfied smile, and in that very second I
promised myself that he wouldn’t win.

Danny had stripped
me of the one thing I’d cared for above all else—family. I wasn’t about to let
some smarmy male model take my self-respect. My eyes narrowed and my shoulders
went back as I stared him down.
I’ll show you grace under pressure, buddy!
The horrible sounds of Jack vomiting echoed around the studio as the audience
squirmed, but I felt an unnatural calm come over me.

I was going to
sing beautifully, and there was not a damn thing Tug Dunn or anyone else could
do about that. The audience could make their own minds up about my talent. I
planned to give a performance that would wipe any distaste from their minds.

By the time the
sound of retching and pandemonium had died down and Tug had begun to introduce
me, I was completely composed and breathing smoothly. Right up until he said,
“…you’ll remember him from last year’s Olympic medal special. And because here
on
Sunshine
we love reunions, we thought we should give Jack the chance
to apologize to Angel. After all, his run-in with the wrong medication did ruin
her night.”

For some reason I
was looking at Rosie by this time, and her eyes widened as she stared at the
side of the stage where I could see movement in my peripheral vision.

“Thanks Tug, I
appreciate the chance.”

Jack. That’s
Jack’s voice.

My head moved slowly
without my volition, so I could watch Jack walk onto the stage—not wearing a
suit as I’d seen him in the past. For some reason his amazing body was encased
in jeans, cowboy boots and a western shirt.

Whatever composure
I’d gained evaporated along with any moisture in my mouth. I couldn’t even swallow
as he walked straight to me and held out his hand, looking me straight in the
eyes. “I wanted to apologize in person, Ms Lata. When they tracked me down and
gave me the chance, I knew I had to see you.”

His back faced the
audience, so only I could see the secret meaning in his gaze, the intimacy that
said,
I want to touch you, any way I can.

“Thank you,” I
said, and made myself shake his hand, well aware that I didn’t want to look
ungracious. But Sweet Shiva it was hard to let him go, he felt so warm, so
strong, and so completely capable of turning me into a puddle of arousal for
millions of viewers to see. “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.” There was
no way I could smile. The tension between us was unbearable, so I aimed for a
concerned frown. “As you can see I’m fine.”

Tug cut in with,
“She’s more than fine. She’s totally hot, wouldn’t you agree, Jack?”

I held Jack’s gaze
but could feel my teeth gritting with impotent fury.
Sexist pig.

“She
is
beautiful,” Jack agreed, still holding my gaze, “But you’re being a sexist
arse, as usual, Tug.” He let go my hand and turned back to the presenter who
was trying to hold his smug smile, with difficulty now. “She’s not a Barbie
doll. She’s a musician, and you brought her onto the show to sing. Let her
sing.”

He swung back to
face me as the audience erupted in wild applause accompanied by more whoops and
hollers, but my attention was on Jack as he leant forward with a hand over his
collar microphone to whisper in my ear. “I’ve always wanted to tell that wanker
off.”

I couldn’t halt a
burst of relieved laughter as he pulled back, and when I looked into his eyes
again, a wave of tenderness and gratitude swept over me. I wanted to say
I
love you for doing that
because right in that moment, I did. No man in my
life had ever stood up for me like he just had, and for a horrible second I
thought I was going to cry.

He smiled as if he
understood. Then he mouthed
I miss you
and captured my good hand and
kissed it. The audience applauded again as he walked back to Tug and offered
his hand. It would be churlish of Tug to refuse, so he shook Jack’s hand and
said, “Never argue with an Olympic shooting champion.” Genuine laughter from
the audience then.

Jack grinned and
turned back to watch me sing, and seeing the two men together I could easily
understand why people might find Tug more handsome. He was an ex-male model.
But to me, Jack was a hundred times more attractive, more desirable, and
infinitely sexier from the top of that tangled brown hair to the bottom of
those dusty cowboy boots.

So I couldn’t help
myself. When studio band started in on the distinctive R&B opening and I
turned back to the audience, I could see Jack in my mind, in my bed, in my
body. I barely heard Tug say, “One of Noah Steele’s favorites. A Renee Geyer
classic. Angel Lata singing
Take me where you took me last night…

The funky tumble
of keyboard and base made me smile, and I knew it was a ‘cat that got the
cream’ smile, but I couldn’t help that. I was remembering Jack’s touch, the way
he made me laugh and the way he made me moan. I was going to sing to him, and I
didn’t need to look at him. I didn’t dare look. But I felt him as the lyrics
poured through me about the wonder of lovemaking that turns you inside out, and
the longing to have it again and again.

Part way through
the song, my hips started swaying, and before I knew it my shoulders were
moving and I could see the audience getting into it. One woman stood up and was
dancing in her seat, then five, ten, half the audience was up, dancing in the
aisles, laughing, their arms above their heads, sexy dancing along with me,
dancing with each other.

It was magical.
I’d never experienced a performance like it. When the song finished—all too
soon—I was applauding them and they were applauding me and the segment went
overtime as the cameras panned the audience, capturing the moment.

Finally, Tug cut
over the laughter to say, “Do we think Noah got it right? Is she a star?” and
the audience went wild. It was so loud they kept filming, panning around until
finally Tug had to say, “Do we want her back?” and the sound level rose again.
“All right then, and don’t forget you can download this performance on iTunes
later today, and the rest of Angel’s debut album later this month.”

Rosie was grinning
at me madly and I had to grin back. Then I glanced at Jack who was smiling at
me with what looked like quiet satisfaction. I wanted to throw myself into his
arms and kiss him. But instead, I forced myself to smile graciously at Tug as
he reached my side. His smile was smug. “That was stunning, Angel. You’ve
completely blown me away. Well done.”

I had no idea
whether he was being sincere, but I let him kiss my cheek, then with a wave to
the audience, the segment finished and they cut to an ad break.

I said, with as
much civility as I could, “Thanks Tug,” and I set off for Jack, wanting to
touch him, talk to him, go and make love with him.
Something
.

But Tug dogged my
steps. “So the ARIAs next week. Do you have a date?”

Australian Recording
Industry Association awards? I’d never given it a thought. “I don’t…I’ll ask
Rosie if—”

“Angel,” Jack said
as we reached him. “That was—”

Tug muscled in
between us and turned to Jack. “How are Belle and the girls doing?”

Silence settled
over the three of us as I blinked in shock, and Jack’s face immediately lost
all expression. He turned to face Tug. “That’s not a topic for discussion.”

“Sorry,” Tug said
blithely, and he turned back to me, clearly not sorry at all. He startled
prattling about the ARIAs but I wasn’t listening. I was looking at Jack and my
brain—dazzled by the success of my song—was slow to catch up. But one thing I
registered: he wasn’t meeting my gaze.

Rosie reached my
side as I was replaying Tug’s words:
How are Belle and the girls?

That sounded
like…a wife? Children?

When Jack finally
met my horrified gaze, he just stared back at me, saying nothing.

Finally, when Tug
stopped talking, Rosie said, “Angel? Do you want to go?”

Had she scoped out
the tension? All I could do was nod. I suddenly wanted to be far away.

But Tug seemed
oblivious to the silent dialogue between Jack and myself as he leant in far too
close, those glittering blue eyes looming large as he said, “I’ll phone you
darlin’. We’d make a great couple.” The minty wash of his breath swept over me
like an artic breeze, and I had to turn away. I had no manners left in me to
respond.

Rosie took my good
arm and led me away, but the moment my back was turned I heard Jack say, “How
dare you mention that in front of other people. I told you that was private.”

He’s married.
With children.

My brain wouldn’t
process the fact. It was numb as I rounded the corner where the technician was
waiting to take my microphone off, and then Rosie and I were negotiating the
cables and duct tape on our way back to the green room, where I suddenly could
not go. I couldn’t talk to anyone. We paused at a junction of two corridors and
I said, “Can I leave now? Please?”

“Absolutely.”
Rosie’s voice low and savage. “That fucker is going to have to whistle up a
drainpipe to get you back on his show.”

So she thought I
was upset about Tug. That was good. The documentary team came up behind us and Rosie
waved them away. After navigating more corridors, we reached a door that led us
out into the morning sunlight and Rosie got her phone out. A minute later her black
Rolls Royce Phantom
came around the corner and the driver hopped out to
let us in.

It was all cream
leather and woodgrain inside, so plush and roomy I wanted to curl into it and
go to sleep—anything to shut down the ugliness inside me, the horrible feeling
of having been tricked. Again. I didn’t care that my dress rode up or that my
makeup was dissolving as the tears washed it away.

Rosie pulled
tissues out of the console and handed them to me as she directed the driver
back to my apartment. I kicked off my stupid white shoes, then she helped me
put my seatbelt on and said, “You were amazing. That poor excuse for a ken doll
did everything he could to rattle you, but you shone. Do you hear me? The
audience loved you. iTunes is going to go mental with downloads of that song.
That’s all that matters.”

I tried to smile,
to reassure her that I was fine, but I wasn’t fine at all. Every bad feeling
I’d had in the aftermath of Danny’s betrayal came bubbling back, like evil
lava, burning my stomach and making my eyes ache.

It was all I could
do to hold it together until Rosie deposited me on the footpath outside my
apartment building. I left my shoes and the white gauze sheath that had hidden
my cast in the car, telling her not to walk me in.

“No recording
today,” she said unnecessarily. I was in no fit state to be conscious, let
alone record songs. “I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

I should have been
worried about what Rosie was thinking. For all I knew she might be regretting
taking me on as a client. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was stopping my
heart from breaking.

I stumbled into
the foyer and stabbed the elevator button, trying to hold in my sobs. When it
didn’t come quickly enough, I ran up the stairs, desperate to be alone, but
even when I’d let myself into my apartment and slammed the door behind me in my
haste, I felt no relief. A whirlpool of pain was sucking me down, and I had to
do something.

With my good hand,
I fumbled my phone out of my bag and punched the speed dial button for Jill,
but after a few rings, it went to her message-bank. I went into the bedroom,
shaking in reaction, fumbling to find Finn’s number, but that call went to
message-bank as well. Fritha might be working at
Bohemian Brew,
but I
rang her anyway, desperate for solace.

Her phone clicked
straight to message-bank without ringing, and I was so desperate by this point
I listened to her message so I could leave one for her. She sounded so cool:
Fritha
Wynde. I’m probably fucking some guy. Or serving tea. But don’t worry. I wash
my hands in between.
A few giggles then, and a slap, as if she was in bed.
So
if you’re trouble, hang up now. But if I like you, leave a message. Cheerio!

I clutched the
phone tighter to my ear, and immediately after it clicked, I blurted, “Fritha,
this is Ange.” My voice sounded unnaturally high and croaky, but there was
nothing I could do about that. “I’m sad.” I didn’t want her thinking I’d hurt
myself or she’d panic. “It’s probably nothing, but… No. Actually that’s
bullshit. Another man…” I suddenly remembered. “You’ve met him. Jack. Anyway…”
I was rambling, but I wasn’t sure what to say. “It’s complicated and I need
poor
baby
. Please! Please call me.”

I’d never heard
myself sounding so needy, but I was beyond embarrassment. I had to have something
to calm the molten pain inside me, and I wasn’t like Jill. I couldn’t drown it
in alcohol.

Although…I’d never
tried.

Maybe I could.

Did it matter that
the idea was ‘out of character’?

I was desperate.

But where would I
get alcohol at nine in the morning? I didn’t know my new neighborhood very
well, and could I even go out? I doubted it.

I looked around
wildly for inspiration and saw my reflection in the beautiful art deco mirrored
wardrobe.

I hate that
dress.

I threw the phone
on the bed, and it only took seconds to rip it off over my head one handed. The
constricting
Spanx
I’d worn underneath to
keep my silhouette smooth
took
almost a minute of wriggling and wrenching
.
“Bloody Martine.” I tossed
that at the wall and stood staring at myself, wearing only a G-string.

Everything jiggled,
and as I watched that settle, I had a horrible dislocating feeling that split
me in two. On one side was humiliation and betrayal and grief. On the other was
Jack’s cheeky smile watching those body parts move.
That
feeling was
arousal and pleasure and…

Love?

Was that why this
felt like my heart had been stabbed open? Had I fallen in love with Jack? Was I
that naïve that I hadn’t been able to separate sex and emotion? Maybe I
deserved to be tricked?

I stared at my
reflection, wondering if anything he’d said had been true. Maybe the whole
best
sex of my life
line was simply that, a line he used on gullible women to
seduce them. But why was this happening to me? Was there something about me
that attracted cheating men? Was I so trusting that they thought they’d get
serious mileage out of me before I discovered their duplicity?

How was I ever
going to have children?

I stopped looking
at my body and gazed into my eyes, suddenly sobered. The pain of Jack’s
betrayal faded, and in its place, a blanketing numbness settled. The ache in my
bones and the burning in my chest disappeared. I felt empty then, and that was
even more frightening.

My phone rang and
I picked it up to look at the caller.
Jill.
I stared at her name and the
photo on the screen. It was one of her with her arm around Fritha, but I’d
cropped Frith out—all but a swathe of red curls so there was only Jill with her
dark Italian eyes, courtesy of her mother, disheveled dark hair and smirking
lips.