The Boyfriend Sessions (22 page)

By the time I rounded the corner, the lift doors were already closed and it was descending.

The fire stairs.

I rarely used them, being on the seventh floor, but they were accessible via an unlocked door at the end of the corridor.

I pounded down the carpeted hallway, my feet landing with a rhythmic thud as I sprinted toward the stairs. I used my whole body to shove open the door and raced down the concrete steps, managing to take them two or three at a time. It would be a miracle if I didn’t break an ankle.

I tried to recall where Max had parked his car tonight. He’d let us off at the front entrance and then gone to park the car. He’d gotten into the habit of parking it in the visitors’ spots at the rear of our building, just outside the security gate to our underground car park. It was either that or he’d left it out on the street somewhere.

Reaching ground level, I hesitated for a second. Did I continue to the basement level of our complex or race out onto the street?

I decided to keep going to the basement, hoping like hell that was where he’d chosen to park tonight.

About the same time as I launched my body at the door to the car park, I heard the deep roar of an engine.

Max.

I was no car expert, but that didn’t sound like any ordinary four cylinder hatchback. Too deep, too smooth.

Too angry.

I sprinted past the line of dimmed garages, my sandals slapping loudly against the concrete. I really could have done with some decent shoes right about now.

The metal door beside the garage roll-a-door glowed like a beacon, the ambient light from the street streaming in around the edges.

I was going to make it.

I yanked it open with all my might and flung myself through, giving no thought whatsoever to what was on the other side. Not very smart considering there were four visitors car spots located just outside the door, two on either side of the driveway.

“Fucking hell!” Max’s voice was a strangled shout above the sound of the growling engine.

I froze inches from the bonnet of Max’s Porsche, his headlights blinding me momentarily, and my body dangerously close to becoming a hood ornament. Despite this fact, I stayed exactly where I was, using a hand to shield the light from my face and trying to look at Max in the driver’s seat.

“Get out of the way, Christa,” he demanded with a growl.

I shook my head stubbornly and the Porsche responded by revving angrily.

“Move.”

My eyes widened at his hostile tone, but I didn’t move. “You’ll have to run me over first.”

The engine revved again, so loudly that I could feel the skin on my arms tingling in response to the reverberations in the small underground parking area.

“You’d make a nasty dent,” Max called out, above the dangerous crescendos of the engine.

“Just try it, Spencer. I know you wouldn’t ruin that gorgeous car of yours.” And hopefully not the woman standing in front of it, either.

With a cry of frustration, Max yanked the handbrake on and reached over to push open the passenger door. “Get in.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I hurried around to the open door and slipped into the passenger seat, the tan leather cool on my bare legs.

“I need to drive,” was all Max said, before revving the engine fiercely again and propelling us out into the laneway behind my apartment complex.

I didn’t say a word as he drove at dizzying speeds through the back streets of Milsons Point and then onto the freeway, happy to let him take out his anger on the car, rather than me. We appeared to be heading north and with the roof down my hair whipped relentlessly around my eyes and face.

I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out one of Max’s caps. I secured it firmly onto my head as the car continued to go well over the speed limit toward the northern suburbs of Sydney. I decided not to ask where we were going. He’d been that close to running me over, I didn’t doubt that he could just as easily stop the car and push me out somewhere if he so desired. Possibly with the car still moving.

So I said nothing. Nothing when he took the exit to the Pacific Highway at Chatswood that would put us in the direction of Sydney’s most leafy, sprawling northern suburbs. Nothing twenty minutes later when we reached Hornsby, one of the last densely populated suburbs on the city’s North Shore. Still nothing when he turned onto the F3, the major carriageway north out of Sydney that followed the New South Wales coast.

After the endless glow of the suburbs, it was eerily dark on the freeway. The only lights came from the other vehicles glaring at us as we passed them at alarming speed. I sneaked a look at the speedometer. 130km/h in a 110 zone. I figured now wasn’t the time to highlight Max’s obvious lawlessness or the fact we were leaving Sydney.

Around ten minutes later, Max indicated to take the Berowra exit. Strange. I couldn’t imagine what was of interest in the small outlying suburb north of the city. Then I realized. He was taking the Old Pacific Highway north. It was the original road out of the city, winding tightly through the sandstone cliffs and dense Australian bush. Created in the first half of the 1900s, the road was at the mercy of the countless hills and valleys forged by the spreading fingers of waterways as the sea traveled inland.

I was sure I could remember hearing about a motor bike rider killed along here recently, but Max appeared to be in his element. He dropped the car down a gear as the road tightened and wound even further around the looming cliffs. I hoped we wouldn’t meet the same fate, but judging by the way Max was proficiently guiding the car around the corners at high speed, he wasn’t joking about his racing experience in the UK.

When the road opened up to two lanes on our side I gripped the seat nervously. Max used both lanes to weave around the series of corners faster than a single lane would allow. While it wasn’t entirely legal, I found myself leaning into each oncoming corner with a sense of anticipation. Unleashed from the restriction of city life, the Porsche purred in pleasure as Max guided it fluidly through the darkness.

Just as I started to relax and possibly even enjoy myself, Max took a turnoff to our right. He slowed the car to a more respectable pace and I was able to make out an eclectic mixture of ramshackle river shacks, charming weatherboard cottages, and the odd sophisticated holiday home.

We were in Brooklyn, an old river town north of Sydney that was now bypassed by the F3 freeway heading north. It was the gateway to the Hawkesbury River, where the sea water wound its way inland. The road straightened out and houses clustered together more tightly on either side of us.

It was a testament to old times. The still-active railway line overshadowed the main street and the buildings were a collection of early 1900s cottages and art deco brick architecture. The modest pub sat on the corner with a few locals perched on the verandah talking quietly over their beers. A couple of small restaurants were getting ready to close up for the night.

The whole place had a run down, shabby feel to it, but it oozed the charm of yesteryear, a breath of fresh air against the shiny polish of Sydney.

Max kept driving until we reached an empty car park located next to a deserted children’s playground and picnic tables overlooking the water.

He parked in one of the last car spots opposite the river. A series of low-lying hills greeted us, which in the dark of night looked more like small mounds of slumbering animals. In the distance the railway line disappeared around the corner of a hill. The river was at low tide, flat and unmoving, as if it too was at rest. A few small boats floated, moored in a haphazard pattern, and all I could hear was the gentle chirping of a few crickets in the hills behind us.

Max cut the engine and the crickets seemed louder. So did the silence.

I’d been quiet so long I didn’t know what to say. Actually, I wasn’t sure if I should say anything, so I waited.

I took the opportunity to glance sideways at Max and was relieved to see he appeared calmer and more himself. The tension must have been helped by the drive. He looked to be contemplating the scenery the same as I had been doing a moment earlier. His eyes held a quiet resignation rather than any bitterness.

I returned to the view of the river. The night was unusually still and the boats barely bobbed in the tide.

“Sarah had a wicked sense of humour.”

I almost jumped at the sound of his voice. I saw his hands were kneading the steering wheel, the resignation replaced by a quiet determination.

He was ready to talk.

“We met during the first year I was in the UK. A few of my co-workers talked me into going to the local pub one night when I was still settling in and hardly knew anyone. A few of their friends ended up joining us and she was one of them.”

He was quiet for a minute, his lips pressed into a firm line. It must have been more than six years ago, this occasion he was talking about. Judging by the tortured look on his face it had been a while since he’d allowed himself to recall it. I resisted the urge to reach out and hold his hand, sensing it would only return him to the present when what he needed to do was lose himself to the past.

He cleared his throat. “She made quite a first impression. She was tall, and at first glance it was easy to think she was little too skinny, although she wasn’t really. At the time she had very long, very straight, light blonde hair which made her appear even thinner. She had green eyes.”

He looked as if he was about to say more, but decided against it, the memory of his ex-fiancée’s eyes not something he wanted to linger on.

“She was a lawyer specialising in business law. She was exceptionally good at it and could be like a dog with a bone when she was working on a case. Back then, she just came across as extremely confident. She had a way with words, you know?

“When she told me she raced cars, I almost didn’t believe her. She had such a dry, wicked sense of humour it was easy to think she was pulling my leg. But she wasn’t. When we left the pub, she offered me a lift—I’d been drinking, she’d barely had one—and I agreed. When we arrived at her car, I knew she was the real deal. It was a classic. A restored Shelby Cobra. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was exquisite.”

He shrugged. “I guess she liked me too, because before she dropped me off at my place she made me give her my number and told me she’d call me. She called the next day and things started from there.”

I tried to imagine how Max must have been almost seven years earlier. Still shy, I guessed, and not yet quite aware of his appeal. Despite the confidence he’d developed in the following years, he seemed oblivious to it. My guess was that Sarah was used to getting what she wanted and when she’d decided on Max he’d happily gone along for the ride.

As if reading my thoughts, he glanced in my direction. “She was tough. She had to be to do what she did for a living, in a male-dominated industry. I think we worked because I didn’t threaten her. I was her equal intelligence-wise, but I wasn’t cocky about it like a lot of her peers. Everything was a competition to them.

“I guess I brought out the softer side in her.” He stopped and let out something resembling a mixture of a laugh and a choke, then closed his eyes. “The stupid thing was, she was softer when you got to know her. She’d just rarely let anyone else see it.”

This time he did laugh. “I knew she was in love with me the day she called me at work and demanded I come pick her up from work without so much as an explanation. When she got into the car outside her office, she wouldn’t even look at me. She just told me to drive.

“As soon as we were a few blocks away from her work, she burst into tears and I remember almost slamming on the brakes I was so shocked.”

His looked over at me, then back out at the resting river. “She’d lost a major case she’d been working on for months and it killed her. The partners of her firm were fine with it, they understood she’d done all she’d could, but she was devastated. I’d never seen her cry before that day. We’d been going out two years by that point.”

I released a long breath as quietly as I could. Two years and he’d never seen her cry? She sounded like the sort of woman who rarely cried full stop. But I held my tongue.

“For the first time in two years, she opened up to me. She was an articulate woman, but she’d rarely articulate her feelings. That afternoon she told me how much she loved her job, but how hard she found it sometimes, like she had to be constantly on the defensive to be respected. There was no room for emotion in her world.

“She also revealed to me for the first time about her upbringing.” He paused and ran a palm across the dashboard, removing invisible dust. “It was tough to say the least. It’s not something I want to repeat right now, but let’s just say it’s a wonder she’s as successful as she is.

“She told me that day I was the only person she’d told about her past, about any of it. I told her I loved her and she burst into tears again.” He did grin this time. “Not quite the effect I was hoping for, but once she’d recovered she admitted to loving me too.”

Admitted? I bit my tongue. Hard. I felt sympathy for this woman. She had loved Max, I could understand where she was coming from, but it sounded like she guarded her heart with a fierceness that was frightening.

“We were together for three more years before I worked up the courage to propose to her. You can kind of understand that I wasn’t sure what to expect. But she said yes.”

Poor Max, he’d been terrified she would turn him down. The instant I thought it, I realized how ironic it was. I, who had turned down one proposal, cut short another, and ran out before the other one could happen. Touché.

“We were engaged for six months before it all fell apart.”

He seemed unable to go on, so this time I did speak. “What happened?”

He looked at me as if all of a sudden he remembered where he was. “She became more and more distant. At first I was worried she was having second thoughts about marrying me, on account of her past. She wouldn’t commit to a date for the wedding and my company started talking about sending me home to Australia.”