‘Not blonde though.’ She bit her cheek.
‘You tried once.’
‘I pulled it off.’
She had. It hadn’t stopped him teasing her endlessly about it. A little boy tugging at pigtails.
‘Off you go.’ He tipped his head back, determined to get as much Bindi Bindi sun as he could before he started his new job in the workshop. ‘I’llget my tan on,as the kids say.’
She didn’t move. Her cheek chewing migrated to her lip.
‘Nella?’
‘You need to come with me.’ She pushed off the car.
‘Very funny. This is just some lawyer you know, right? Tom hasn’t got me wired. I’ll watch from here, make sure no one poisons your coffee. Don’t have to worry about me interfering.’
‘Jett.’ She lifted her ridiculous sunglasses to the top of her head.
He turned half to her, as casually as he could, as though too much movement would dislodge what he’d just tossed up into his attic for her to see. Her dark eyes were lined in fine-liner or eyeliner or whatever that black stuff was that made her eyes massive. But none of it could disguise that look she was giving him now. Nella Barbarani never let her guard down, so Jett knew, in those moments when it fell on its own, she wasn’t messing with him. She needed him for some reason.
‘Lead the way, signorina.’ He drew himself up to his full height as her lip relaxed and she stalked across the red cycle path in front of a family of bike riders who swerved angrily. Jett waved an apologetic hand and jogged after her.
This was a first, especially given Nella had almost started World War Three over Vittoria’s insistence he stay by her side. It didn’t make sense. He readied himself for some sort of punishment for A, not telling her about leaving, B, not waking her to come with him and Max to church and C, not telling her about his love-life – a sin, apparently.
As they approached the coffee van, Clarkson’s partner regarded them with a broad smile and opened his arms for Nella.
Jett didn’t miss the way she hesitated before accepting his embrace the way someone might extend their arm for a blood test.
So clearly not a friendship that had lasted, then.
The guy was on the short side of medium height with bleached white eyebrows and unruly sand-coloured hair that was more suited to an errant teenager who cut down your hosepipe every week, thinking you wouldn’t notice, than the named partner of a law firm. His nose was slightly crooked, like he’d been in one too many bar fights or, judging from his thick forearms and wide back, too many rugby scrums. ‘Long time, Nellie-Bellie. You still drink your coffee death-style?’
She didn’t smile. ‘I’m all right for now.’
‘Oh, go on, it’s on me.’ His rugby arm was up on the van window, the barista looking expectantly at Nella.
For some reason Jett had the strongest urge to pull her away and say, ‘She said she doesn’t want one.’ But he was quite attached to his balls – although maybe not as much after that moment in the garage. He doubted they’d ever be the fucking same again.
Shut up. Attic.
Nella grudgingly ordered a long black and Clarkson’s partner raised an eyebrow at Jett, who held up a hand. The partner didn’t push him.
When she and the partner had their coffees, they started to walk down the sandy path lined with blue-green and brown grassy shrubs. ‘This is Jett,’ Nella eventually said, kicking off her heels as Jett shook the guy’s hand.
‘Oliver Lockridge,’ he said as he crushed Jett’s fingers. Jett waited for the obligatory pause as he properly took in Jett’s face, but Oliver either spent his days looking at things much more shocking (unlikely, as a civil lawyer) or had perfected the art of an emotion mask (far more likely, as a civil lawyer).
‘I’m the chauffeur,’ Jett said to fill the silence that followed. Oliver gave a nod that saidCan’t see a car.Which was fair.
Jett kept his distance, waiting for Nella to let him know what exactly his role here was. To Oliver’s credit, he certainly looked like a man who’d just lost his business partner and university friend. His striped grey shirt was rumpled, his navy tie askew and loosened around his unshaven neck. When the sand turned cool and damp, Nella bent to roll up her pants and something deep inside Jett ground like a missed gear as he saw Oliver’s gaze tip down, following her movement.
Nella dropped her shoes and walked out, ankle deep, into the turquoise shallows, her hair tugged gently by the wind. Jett figured she’d stop there – he’d seen how much those pants cost when he’d been forced to focus resolutely on the price tag dangling near her hip as she tried them on in front of him and Eliza. But she edged in further, the fortnightly salary of the average Australian worker rolled up to the bottom of her thighs. Oliver joined her. Jett followed them only to ankle depth but close enough that he could hear what they were saying.
‘You drove all the way down here from the city?’ she asked.
‘I offered to bring his old man to the police station to do the identification,’ Oliver said, his lips against the lid of his matte black reusable coffee cup. Jett recognised the logo as some wanky, expensive brand. ‘Didn’t think it would be as hard as it was.’
His voice cracked on the last word and Jett expected Nella to offer a hand on the shoulder or verbal reassurance. But instead she took a deep sip of coffee, her gaze firmly on the blaring horizon.
