Set Me Free (7 page)

‘I think Morgan
Carmichael have made their point quite clear this evening,’ Charlotte said
clearly, ensuring her voice carried across the room. ‘And I, for one, refuse to
be patronised any further. It is obvious, that for all of your rhetoric about
caring what the community thinks, none of that will matter if there's a profit
to be made. Well, I have some advice for Morgan Carmichael: you will not profit
from this community and you should take your development elsewhere. Because if
you don’t, you will have one almighty fight on your hands.'

The crowd erupted
in support. The locals loved nothing more than a call to arms. Charlotte glared
at Craig for a few seconds more and took the time to take in Keith’s red face. Was
that steam coming out of his ears?  She suppressed a triumphant smile and made
her next crucial move. Nudging Emily and Ben with her knee to indicate they
should follow, she strode out of the room. As hoped, more than half of the
crowd called ‘Hear, hear!’ and trailed behind her into the warm summer evening.

Barb’s
Showtime Boogie House was pumping as usual for Thursday’s swing night and for
the first time since coming home, Charlotte was unwinding. Every blast of brass
belting out of the PA system unknotted a muscle in her shoulders and lower
back, steadily relaxing her, bit by bit. She was getting loose and getting
ready to dance.

The room was
gradually filling with dancers she knew from her swing class and the regulars,
who liked to come along, and watch them perform on the informal stage that was
the dance floor at Barb’s. The venue was a long and narrow 1950s throwback with
booths lining one wall. Along the other, an unused vintage jukebox held pride
of place at the end of a long Formica bar. At the back of the club was a small
stage for the bands, and tonight it was already occupied by a drum kit and
several amps.

But the main draw
card in Barb’s was the dance floor. It filled half of the venue and provided
the booths with a bird’s eye views of the Boogie Woogies, Charlestons, Balboas
and other swing styles that whipped the club into a weekly frenzy. Tonight the
big bands were trumpeting out of the speakers, and the gathering crowd was getting
into the groove. The club lights were low, though the dance floor was lit up
with multi-coloured spotlights, in preparation for the imminent skirmish.

Charlotte needed to
dance off three things that were stressing her out: Monday’s sinister one night
stand, the pending loss of her gallery and the fact that she couldn’t stop
recounting the electrifying sex she’d had with the source of both problems.   

But she was
buzzing, and tonight was going to be a good night. In a West Coast swing kind
of way, she was dressed to kill. Her hot-pink, knee-length, red polka-dotted
skirt overlaid a full and flouncy petticoat. It was perfect for twisting and
turning and underpants-flashing. Her matching lipstick-red top was cut low to
hint at her cleavage. It fit snug enough to hold her tight. She wore her favourite
swing shoes, black pumps with a short heel - perfect for clacking across the dance
floor. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, to ensure it whipped, but
didn’t whip her face while she danced up a storm. A red ribbon added the
finishing touch. It looked like a costume, but to Charlotte it was a disguise. Dressed
to dance, she was free to be herself, to cut loose and throw herself into
something she loved.

The band would
take to the stage soon, but for now Charlotte was content with the DJ. Her feet
were tapping and hips wriggling in anticipation. Uh-huh, she really needed a
good dance. So much so that she didn’t mind Jackson Phillips chewing off her
ear and moaning down her cleavage about how much he missed her.

‘I think we made a
mistake, Charlotte,’ he whined, his long dark brown fringe flopping over his
eye. ‘We’re great together, you and I.’

‘Come on, Jack. You’re
in the break-up fog. We were pretty average,’ Charlotte reminded him, lifting
his chin with her finger so he looked at her face. She glanced over her
shoulder to locate Emily, who’d gone to the bar for drinks. The bartender was
flirting with her, so she’d obviously been served. Salvation was on its way.

‘We’re not average
on the dance floor.’

It was true. Jackson
was
a great dancer. He was the only man who came anywhere near matching
her technique and pace. And for that reason she did enjoy dancing with him,
despite his constant attempts to out-dance her; which did his talent little
favour. As her partner, it was his job to make her dazzle. Instead, he was
flashy and attention-seeking. It was irritating, but Charlotte tolerated it for
the lifts. He
really
lifted her, and that was
fun
.

He looked
fantastic tonight, suited up like a hipster in a three-button brown corduroy
jacket with matching slacks. For a fleeting moment, Charlotte recalled what had
led her to his bed in the first place. And then, trying to pay attention to
what he was saying, she remembered why she'd wanted to leave once she’d been
there.  

He might be
slightly irritating and too showy for Charlotte’s liking, but there were plenty
of ladies who rubber-necked him on and off the dance floor. Luckily for her,
not many other women could move like her. Charlotte got to monopolise his dance
card whenever she wanted to; whenever she needed to - like she did tonight. And
because the shirt he was wearing under his suit coat tonight was as red as
hers, making them look like a pair, she suspected she wouldn’t have a hard time
of it.

Emily reappeared;
drink in hand just as the band walked onto the stage, greeted by a cheer from
the crowd.

‘What do you say?’
Jackson asked Charlotte, offering her his hand. ‘Come for a spin?’

She looked at
Emily. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Go ahead,’ Emily
obliged her. ‘I’ll get us a booth.’

Charlotte eagerly
followed Jackson out onto the dance floor where a few other couples were
congregating, ready for the band to begin. She grinned at the familiar faces,
which all looked rather intent on putting themselves through their paces.

The band started a
steady rockabilly beat.

‘Well, looky here,
ladies and gentleman,’ announced Sanjay, the band’s lead guitarist and singer,
eyeing Charlotte and Jackson on the dance floor. ‘Looks like a reunion of our favourite
couple. Whaddya say we get ‘em warmed up boys?' The tempo picked up slightly,
and after a friendly glare at Sanjay, Charlotte allowed Jackson to pull her
into a deceptively loose hold, his hand firm on her back and hers solid on his
shoulder.

‘Go easy for this
first one, Jack,’ she warned. ‘This
will
be my warm up.’

‘Take your time. I’m
not planning on dancing with anyone else tonight.’

It may have been
unwise to ignore the suggestion in his words, but that suited Charlotte very
well.  

After three fast
songs, she needed a breather and a little refreshment. She dragged Jackson
unwillingly off the floor and left him at the bar to go in search of Emily. She
found her sprawled out across an entire booth, saving the space with their
handbags strewn, and sneering at anyone who approached.

‘Feeling better?’
she asked as Charlotte bounced into the adjacent seat.

‘Oh yeah,’
Charlotte agreed, claiming her Pimm’s and lemonade. The ice had melted, but it
was still refreshing. She took a long thirst quenching drink. ‘I’m a bit out of
shape though,’ she added, rubbing the faint stitch on her side and making a
mental note of the perspiration finely coating her skin.

‘That’d be all
that Italian food you guzzled while you were away.’

‘Possibly. I did
have a bit of a carb overload.’

Changing the
subject she asked after Geoff. She wanted to get back on the dance floor soon, but
Emily was obviously having trouble holding the fray back from the seats, and
Geoff’s appearance would make her night easier.

‘He texted me ten
minutes ago to say he’d be five, so not far I guess,’ Emily answered.

‘I haven’t even
seen him since I got back. He
is
working too hard.'

‘Tell me about it.'
Emily pouted faintly, slouching over her vodka and cranberry, lazily scanning
the room.

Suddenly, shooting
upright, she exclaimed, ‘Oh no, don’t look now!' No sooner had she said it,
than she was withdrawing, shrinking into the back corner of the booth and
feebly attempting to shield her face with her hand.

Without a second
thought, Charlotte spun around in her seat, following Emily’s furtive gaze.

‘Shit,’ she said,
and stared.                                 

The source of the
unforgettable, electrifying sex was at the bar with Cassette. Good God, he was
gorgeous. Charlotte was rocked by a wave of heat and a flood of memories best
forgotten.

At the community
forum last night, she’d had the luxury of being blinded by her fury, which
helped her believe he was nothing more than a slime ball. But tonight she was
loosening up and feeling charitable with it. Tonight, the rage had abated and,
in a more appreciative mood, she was transfixed by the man he was.

Craig Carmichael
was tall enough that he was a head above most of the other people at the
crowded bar, and his sculpted cheekbones and delicious lips transfixed her like
a fireworks display. His clothes hung on him like decorations on a Christmas
tree; simple cargo pants and another button-up checked shirt – a little bit of
tinsel over something remarkably beautiful.  

Charlotte gulped,
and then managed to tear her eyes away and slink back to join Emily against the
wall. She concentrated hard on the drink in her hand and tried not to remember
him without said clothes. Nor was this the time to recollect the feel of those
lips travelling over her. What the hell was he doing here?  What the hell was
he doing here with
her
?  Damn, this was going to ruin her night.

From across the
table and behind her hand, Emily started verbalising the questions running
through Charlotte’s mind. ‘How do they know each other?  What are they doing
here?' ‘How are we going to avoid them?' And finally she exhaled heavily, ‘I am
really not in the mood for her tonight.’

‘I am really not
in the mood for
him
. Bit audacious showing up here after last night. I
wonder if this is part of his community consultation,’ said Charlotte, casting a
scornful, but empty, sidelong glance in Craig’s direction.

What
was
he
doing here with her?

‘Hey, she asked
Emily, ‘what’s Cassette’s surname?’

‘Umm, it starts
with an ‘M’ or something, I think. Her dad is that property…developer. Oh.’

‘Cassette Morgan,’
Charlotte said, watching her and Craig at the bar. Was Craig involved with his boss’s
daughter? 

Oh God, did he
cheat on Cassette with her?  The thought made her feel sick. There was nothing
less classy than being a cheater’s one night stand.

Charlotte sucked
on her rapidly emptying Pimm’s some more. The need to get back on the dance
floor was suddenly more urgent. As much as she'd love to hide here in the corner
all night, she had to get on that floor, which meant there was no way of
avoiding Craig and Cassette for the entirety of the evening.

But for now, where
was Jackson?     

‘Oh God…Oh no!’
Emily suddenly cried.

‘What, what is
it?’ Charlotte demanded, determined not to look around this time.

‘Geoff just walked
in, and he’s heading for Cassette at the bar.’

‘Traitor,’
Charlotte declared. So typical of Geoff to be friendly with every single
acquaintance he even vaguely knew. It should be an admirable quality, but
tonight it was nothing more than an annoyance. Particularly given he was
seemingly oblivious to his wife’s issues with the recipient of his pleasantries.

There was every
chance Geoff would invite Cassette and Craig to join them, and Charlotte’s palms
were clammy at the thought. She scrambled to come up with some witty remarks to
show Craig Carmichael she was made of tougher stuff than he might imagine.  

‘It’s alright. So
far they’re just talking,’ Emily assured her. Charlotte looked at her sister
and hoped she read her distress as nothing more than anxiety over the gallery’s
impending demolition.

Emily continued,
‘Geoff hasn’t even looked around for us. Do you want to sneak out?  I could
text him from outside.’

‘Nuh-uh. No way.' It
was tempting, but Charlotte was adamant. ‘I came here to dance tonight. It’s
been weeks. If Craig Carmichael has the audacity to venture out in this
neighbourhood, he can just face the music.'

‘Do you think it’s
safe?’ Emily asked. ‘What if Cassette launches into a performance and searches
the crowd for someone to humiliate?  You know she’ll come after me.’

Cassette certainly
did seem to have a penchant for embarrassing Emily Evans, and Emily disliked
her with good reason. At the opening of the Evans Gallery five years ago,
Cassette had unexpectedly launched into one of her famous performances. Caught
by surprise, Charlotte and Emily watched as, during a particularly theatrical
moment, Cassette threw herself against a wall and knocked one of Emily’s
paintings off. Unapologetically, the ‘accident’ was incorporated into the act. She
lifted the piece and threw it across the room. It collided with a startled
member of the audience, shattering the glass of wine in his hand, which
simultaneously slashed the canvas, stained it with red wine and destroyed it.

Unhealthily, Emily
still had the piece propped up against a wall behind others in her home studio.

No apology was
forthcoming from Cassette as she wrapped up her act in a flurry of spinning and
moaning that culminated in her collapsing on the floor. Later, once the
embarrassed murmurings of the crowd had moved on to other topics, Emily
overheard Cassette dismiss the work as second rate and inconsequential. Her
audacity blew the minds of the far more humble Evans sisters and she hadn't
changed a bit in the five years they’d known her. Cassette was still executing
unwelcome performances, with a tendency to dance around Emily if the
opportunity arose, and she was still completely oblivious to the lack of audience
appreciation that accompanied those performances.