Max (6 page)

Chapter Ten

Max

Fucking Adam.

He was, if nothing else, predictable.

It was one thing to cop flak from the boys,
that was a given. But if there was one thing that you could count on with Adam,
it was his lack of a fucking edit button.

He was home for the summer and crashing at
the Onslow too, a sleep-all-day, party-all-night younger brother to Chris, who
never let a smart-arse moment pass him by.

He straightened on his stool, having seemed
to have had a miraculous recovery of his hangover, as if torturing me had given
him a new meaning to life. It also hadn’t escaped my attention the way he
looked over Mel with interest, with a male appreciation that rubbed me the
wrong way. A sudden urge to set him straight and piss him off rose in me. I
mean, it would be the same if he was checking over Miranda. Wouldn’t it?

“Aren’t you meant to be helping Chris clean
out the boat shed?” I reminded him, feeling a sense of immense satisfaction
watching his smile slowly fade from his face.

“Don’t tell him I’m here,” he warned,
readying himself to get off his stool, looking for a clear-cut exit.

“What, and lie to my boss?” I said in mock
horror. “That wouldn’t get me employee of the month, now would it?”

Adam cursed under his breath, quickly
sliding off his stool and heading around the bar towards the back. It had
worked better than planned and I was all but too pleased with myself, until I
locked eyes on Mel, who still sat with the same alarmed expression, the very
one that widened her eyes when she realised whose room she was occupying.

“I-I didn’t know it was your room,” she
blurted out. She was twisting a serviette in her lap, her teeth bit her bottom
lip with anxiety; her unease made me feel bad, fucking Adam and his mouth.

I couldn’t work out why she would be so
worried. If it were Miranda, I would give my room up for her. Why is she stressed?
It’s just a room.

I shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

As if telling her such a thing would offer
her some kind of reassurance.

It didn’t.

“I just feel kind of bad,” she admitted,
shifting awkwardly on her stool.

I didn’t want her to feel bad, as it really
wasn’t a big deal. I then thought back to my not-so-long-ago broody thoughts
about my room being taken from me, my new room, and then I felt kind of shitty
about it. Besides, Sean had said the apartment was as good as vacant until New
Year, why not make the most of my new digs? Maybe Mel was the one with the
dodgy deal.

“Seriously, it’s fine,” I said, hoping that
it would reassure her in some way, and it must have to some degree, as a small
smile lined her face.

“Well, thanks,” she said, before moving to
slide off her stool. “I, ah … might just go unpack my things, if you’re sure
...”

“It’s all yours.” I found myself smiling
small, too.

Melanie’s smile broadened, reminding me
that she had a great smile. Always had. She gave a sharp nod of finality, her
unease melting away as she made her way around the bar and toward the
restaurant partition with a new sense of happy determination, one I was
relieved to see. I watched her walk around, skimming herself sideways and
glancing back at me with a friendly smile before disappearing into the next
room. It was then and only then, after having stared at the partition for a
long moment, did I turn around, only to be hit by an outburst of catcalls and
jeers from the group of blokes at the bar, who much to my ignorance had all
been watching on with amused interest.

“Oh, piss off,” I said, laughing and trying
to ignore their taunts.

“Has anyone told you, Max, what a fucking
gentleman you are?” bellowed Snowy Martin, a Telstra linesman, leaning against
the bar enjoying an after-work drink.

The jeers continued with smart-arse
observational commentary that didn’t so much as rile me up, but actually did
something that was a bit more unsettling.

As their insinuated taunts about lust and
love continued, I didn’t quite believe that the feeling I felt most of all was
the sense of enjoyment, them ribbing me about a leggy blonde who was now
sleeping in my bed; well, let’s put it this way, I could think of worse things
to be picked on for. I just wasn’t quite sure when Melanie became a leggy
blonde.

The only time they toned down their vocal
musings was when old Melba, the kitchen hand, appeared through the partition,
sporting some baskets of chips that she dumped on the bar.

“Here,” she said, grabbing the bottle of
tomato sauce from underneath her armpit, “this ought to keep you quiet for a
bit.”

“What’s wrong, Melba? We being too loud for
you?” asked Kenny Lowfry.

Melba scoffed. “You blokes would talk under
water with a mouthful of marbles,” she said, shaking her head and heading back
toward the kitchen. Melba didn’t smile my way. In fact, I hadn’t really seen
her smile at all, maybe at Chris who she seemed to favour, but as a whole I was
not yet inducted into Melba’s circle of trust, which was fair enough. Adam, as
far as I know, had known Melba all of his life and he still hadn’t been
inducted, and then of course I completely understood why. Maybe Melba was an
excellent judge of character, I mused, looking on as the group of workmen dove
into the complimentary basket of hot chips on the bar.

It was the Friday special for anyone that
called in for a smoko; it was also a genius ploy to salt up the chips and keep
the patrons thirsty. Didn’t miss a beat here. I moved to grab a tray of dirty
pot glasses for the washer out back when I was caught off guard by Melba
standing in the doorway behind me.

“Where’s that girl of yours?” Melba asked
in her usual no-nonsense tone. She also had a habit of disappearing and
reappearing out of thin air as a ways to scare a bloke half to death. Once I
took a calming breath in order to slow my heartbeat and quietly thank the fact
I hadn’t dropped the rack of pot glasses, I moved to skim past her.

“She’s not my girl,” I said, placing the
rack on top of the dishwasher.

“Well, whoever she belongs to, she’s starting
in the kitchen, yes?”

I scoffed, shaking my head at the way news
tended to move in this joint. “I believe that she is willing to help out.” I
loaded the tray into the washer, slamming the stainless steel door shut and
plunging my finger on the button, churning it to life. I turned my gaze to
Melba, who was, at a guess, four-foot-nothing in height, a pepper pot of a
woman with a permanent frown etched above her brow.

“Well, send her down at six. I’ll show her
the ropes, see if she is going to be a help or a hindrance.” She barked orders
that would intimidate most people, especially the kitchen staff, who she
basically ran like she ran the kitchen: as a well-oiled machine.

I did what I knew would unsettle her. I
smiled sweetly. “Sure thing, I’ll let
Mel
know.”

I made sure I emphasised the fact that the
‘girl’ had a name. And, as predicted, my amicable tone made Melba puzzled, as
if she expected a fight or disagreement, and when she didn’t get challenged,
she didn’t know exactly what to do, but back down and go wreak havoc someplace
else.

“Good.” She humphed. “See that she does.”

Melba nodded curtly before spinning on her
heel and waddling through the doorway.

I breathed out a laugh, thinking that if I
had felt a momentary lapse of feeling sorry for Melanie before, I most
certainly felt sorry for her now. If I had wanted there to be some form of
karma for her falling into my life, taking my room and disrupting my carefree
summer, then a stint with Melba in the kitchen was something I wouldn’t wish on
anyone.

Not even Adam.

Chapter Eleven

Mel

I was sleeping in Max’s room?

In his bed? I smelt the pillow, expecting
it to smell of maybe a musky hint of his aftershave and was disappointed with
only the scent of clean linen. I opened up a cupboard expecting to see a line
of shirts or something. Nothing. Only empty coat hangers; there were no
remnants of this being his room whatsoever. If Adam hadn’t let it slip I would
never have guessed. I crouched to the floor, pulling up the valance to reveal …
hello!

I reached under blindly, fumbling for what
I had guessed to be … yep. I grabbed the handle and dragged it out into view: a
guitar case.

I smiled. This was definitely Max’s room
all right. I could remember the countless times I went over to the Henrys’ to
find Max idly strumming his guitar in the house, the twangs of the guitar
strings driving everyone to distraction; well, everyone except me. I thought it
was really cool, still did. I delicately unclicked the locks, cautiously
opening the case, biting my bottom lip as I slowly revealed the glossy acoustic
guitar inside, the very same one I remembered. I reached into the case, sliding
my fingers against the strings, thinking how his fingers had skimmed up and
down them creating beautiful music. I couldn’t imagine he would go long without
his precious guitar and even entertained the thought of going to give it to
him, but instead I closed the lid and clicked the locks back into place.
Probably best I just put it back. Didn’t want to seem like I was deliberately
looking under the bed, that just seemed a bit creepy, much like smelling the
pillowcase had been. I slid the case back under the bed, thinking, hoping that
he would have to come and retrieve it. I felt a little flutter in my stomach at
the thought. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I glanced around the room,
nothing else seemingly to discover until I noticed the bedside table drawers;
maybe there was a Bible or something inside, I mused, as I shifted over and
pulled the top drawer open.

Nothing.

Ugh. Was Max seriously the most boring
person alive? I opened the second drawer that housed a big equal nothing, and I
was about to just give up my private investigative skills when I noticed the
matching bedside table on the other side of the double bed. I managed a rather
inelegant backwards army roll over the mattress, only to squeal and fall
clumsily off the edge in an oomph, knocking the wind out of me and obtaining a
rather nasty case of carpet burn to the knee.

“Faaaaaar out!” I cried, pulling myself
upward to sit on the edge of the bed to survey the damage.

“Son-of-a-bitch.” Sure enough, a layer of
skin was missing, and it stung like a bastard. Feeling rather over what the
hell might be in the side table, I continued my venture, hoping maybe there was
a first aid kit inside.

As I pulled the drawer open, squinting
inside, my brows suddenly rose.

“Whoa!”

I reached in, grabbing the long, long line
of unmistakable foiled packages, eyeing them with wonder.

Definitely not a Bible, and definitely
not the most boring person alive.

Like any given inappropriate moment, it was
at this point where I held a long chain of condoms in my hand, that someone
chose to knock on my door, flinching me into the here and now.

“Mel?” Max’s muffled voice spoke through
the wood panel.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

I chucked the packet back in, scrambling
and pushing them into place as I quickly slammed the drawer shut, cringing at
just how loud it was. Oh God, I hoped he didn’t recognise that sound.

I dove for the door, taking a moment to fix
my hair and catch my breath before plastering on a cool, calm exterior as I
opened the door. Opened the door to Max and his sexy green eyes and crooked,
apologetic smile. How could I be calm when such a guy stood at my door? It took
me a moment to gather my thoughts, but I double blinked to attention when he
spoke.

“Hey,” he said.

‘Hey,” I replied.

Silence. Awkward silence.

Max cleared his throat and pushed his hands
deep into his pockets. “Look, um, you can say no if you’re not up to it
tonight, but I just wondered if you wanted to …”

“Yes!” I blurted out.

Max look confused. “Yes?”

“Yes, I want to.” My heart was beating so
fast I didn’t think I could bear it, I was nervous and excited and nauseous all
at the same time. Was he asking me to go out somewhere with him? To eat dinner
or hang out? My mind whirled at a million miles an hour.

“You don’t even know what I’m asking,” he
said, watching me warily.

“Well, enlighten me,” I exhaled. I could
smell the rich spice of Max’s aftershave and I swear I would follow him to the
ends of the earth, do anything he asked of me.

“Well, you’re in luck, I’m not asking you
to break the law or anything.”

I would break the law for you.

“Well, there you go, can’t be all that bad
then,” I said with a laugh and a hair flick.

Max paused, rubbing the back of his neck as
he winced. “Yeah, um, do you think you could head to the kitchen around six?
Melba’s expecting you.”

Silence. Really awkward silence.

“Sorry?”

“Well, your dad said that you would be
willing to help out at the hotel, and I know that they could really use a hand
in the kitchen, especially on weekends. I’m not sure who told Melba but she is
really keen to show you the ropes and asked if you could come down and ...”

He was waffling, and by this point I had
completely zoned out, my concentration plummeted along with my heart as my
disappointment was paramount. God, I was ridiculous, what had I expected? That
he would be asking me to hang out with him? I was such an idiot. This was not a
summer camp, this was the continuation of my ongoing, never-ending punishment.

“Okay,” I said, cutting Max off
mid-sentence. He looked surprised.

“Okay?” he repeated as if he wasn’t certain
he had heard right.

I shrugged. “Okay.”

What did he want from me, jazz hands
singing Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah?

This was not my idea of a good time.

“Okay, well, just head down to the kitchen
at six – sharp.”

I curved my brow.

Max smiled. “Melba doesn’t look too kindly
to people running late,” he said.

“Thanks for the heads up.”

Max canted his head, as he backed away down
the hall. “Okay.”

“Okay,” I said.

Wow, together we were just riveting.

***

You know what else was riveting? Being
yelled at, constantly.

Apparently I didn’t know how to set a table
correctly, and I needed to be quicker, much quicker if I wanted to survive the
pace of the Onslow.

Ugh. I just wanted to go home. Never
thinking that in a million years I would actually prefer being in a car with
Dad for days as we headed to a sheep sale in the middle of nowhere.

After receiving an in-depth history lesson
about the Onslow Hotel, and how it was the pinnacle of the township that had
had a second chance of life in the hands of its new owners, Melba seemed intent
to build the restaurant up as some kind of Michelin star standard. Not a
setting out of place, not a single crease in the tablecloths. I think if she
spotted a speck of dust somewhere, someone’s head would roll. After having been
shown some aspects of the restaurant it appeared that I was not a fast enough
learner and was instead demoted to kitchen duties where I was introduced to
mother and daughter team, Heather and Penny Archer, the most recent employees
of the Onslow … until little ol’ me.

Heather was a thin, weathered single mum of
five who had worked most of her life in shearing sheds and RSL Clubs. There
wasn’t much to her but she could tenderise meat like no one’s business. Her
eldest daughter, a sweet yet shy sixteen-year-old Penny, would help in school
holidays and on weekends. She buttered trays of fresh rolls with cheese and
mustard butter, looking up only briefly from her task to offer me a small
smile. Aside from the lack of pausing for real introductions, apart from Melba’s
rather crude rundown of their character references on the way to the kitchen, I
knew I would feel a lot more comfortable back here than I would out the front
of house. Just as I was about to take a deep breath and ready myself to be
assigned to God-knows-what task, the door to the kitchen swung open and in came
Amy, tying an apron around her waist, until she paused, having laid eyes on me.

“You’ve got to be fracking kidding me,” she
said, looking at Melba for an explanation.

Melba simply shrugged.

Amy shook her head. “Boy, they don’t muck
around, do they?”

I was flooded with relief; finally, a
familiar and friendly face. Even if Melba barked orders at me all night, and
Heather and Penny didn’t warm to me straight away, now there was Amy, and I was
instantly at ease.

“Well, if you can survive your orientation
tonight, I’ll be sure to make your Onslow tour tomorrow worthwhile,” said Amy,
as a way of pacifying what she knew was a rather shitty situation.

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

“Oh, it’s not just a plan, it’s a promise.”