BEN LEANED BACK in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head in a languorous stretch and regarded the screen in front of him with a sense of overwhelming satisfaction. The trip to the barbershop, combined with Alex’s little case of being mistaken for a sailor, had produced comedy gold. He’d hammed events up and changed a few facts for entertainment’s sake of course, but that was normal. He was in top form.

He made a mental note to bring a copy for Amy when he saw her for dinner. Or maybe he wouldn’t. At the moment he liked the fact that she had no idea who he was, although she’d more than likely find out soon enough.

He had no doubt that Amy would find his writing just as amusing as the rest of his readership did, who expected witty satire mixed with a bit of the ridiculous with their Saturday morning crumpets and coffee. If his attitude was arrogant, Ben didn’t care. He’d done the hard yards in his youth: stand-up in dingy pubs, writing for any infernal little publication that would pay and taking any job going to get to where he was now. His success had been earned honestly.

Today, he was particularly impressed with himself. Never in the entire history of his varied fifteen-year career as a writer, comedian, broadcaster, scriptwriter and columnist had he ever submitted work before a deadline. Incredible and, above all, improbable, which is exactly what his editor Ross would say when he received Ben’s email.

To make matters even more unbelievable, it was before ten in the morning and Ben was awake and out of bed and had been since seven. He’d even managed to get in his daily hour-long swim before sitting down to work. He thought about calling a few of his friends in London to share this momentous achievement, then remembered the seven-hour time difference. That made him want to call them even more, but he decided against it at the last minute. As much as they’d all given him hell about his late nights and later mornings over the years, he was feeling far too damn peppy to be vindictive. In fact, he was in a better mood than he had been for months – and he knew the cause.

It appeared he had acquired a muse. An unlikely one with an abominably quirky sense of style and a penchant for holding razors to men’s throats, but a muse nonetheless.

Rain gurgled through the rusty gutters of Amy’s little Fremantle home, pitter patting on her bedroom window. Normally she loved the rain; it reminded her of the nights in her early childhood when she’d cuddled up on the bottom bunk with Jo in the postage stamp-sized bedroom they’d shared, safe in the knowledge that their dad wouldn’t drive to the pub in bad weather. Amy had always slept the best those nights.

By rights she should be sleeping now, but something was stopping her. Well, not something – someone. Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to get Ben last-name-still-unknown’s dinner invitation out of her head. More to the point, she couldn’t figure out why he’d invited her in the first place.

The man was good looking, rich, educated and, if Scott’s reaction was anything to go by, famous. For the life of her she couldn’t work out what his deal was. She’d analysed every second of his visit to Babyface time and time again and still couldn’t come up with an answer, and that left her feeling wary.

She knew she was attracted to him, in the way that humans look at tigers and think they’re cute until they get their heads bitten off, but what did attraction mean? If her past experience with men had taught her anything, it was that if they looked too good to be true, they were either married, gay or a total bastard. Her first experience having a boyfriend had been a nightmare. Since then, other than Tom Draper her no-show date, Amy had made a point of always sticking to the non-threatening variety of man: men who needed her more than she needed them, who couldn’t harm her emotionally or physically.

That thought led her to the other source of her insomnia, her first disastrous boyfriend, Liam. It was the third week of the month, which meant that he would be home on his monthly rotation from the oil rigs up north. He’d no doubt visit the salon and try his best to scare the pants off her. He’d been doing it since she’d left him almost a decade ago, and it didn’t look like he was going to stop any time soon.

Liam hadn’t laid a hand on her since she was eighteen, but that didn’t stop him from regularly making her life miserable. Usually, he just came to the barbershop and tried to intimidate her. Sometimes, he slipped abusive letters under her front door. The problem was that they both knew Amy couldn’t, or more to the point wouldn’t, do anything about it. If she went to the police and reported him, Jo might find out and that was unacceptable: in the early days, Liam had threatened to get Jo fired by spreading a couple of malicious rumours if Amy said anything. At the time, Liam had been Jo’s boss and Amy had fully believed he’d do it.

Years later, Amy knew she’d been naive.

Jo had frequently complained about how much men on the rigs gossiped and Amy knew that any rumour Liam could have spread would have been ignored. She hadn’t known that at eighteen. At the time, she’d been worried about her sister’s career and, much more importantly, her feelings. Jo had introduced Amy to Liam, thinking he was the antithesis of their dad, a good man who’d look after her, treat her well and keep an eye on her while Jo looked for a higher paying international oil and gas job. Amy had gone along with it because she’d watched Jo protect her for years, taking hits from their dad when they were younger, worrying about how to make everything work financially and emotionally after they’d run away from home. In Amy’s mind it had been her way of giving Jo peace of mind, of giving her something back and setting her free to take her career to the next level.

Having to tell Jo she’d ended the relationship hurt Amy almost as much as it hurt Jo, but it was Jo’s reaction that broke Amy’s heart. Jo had been so upset, couldn’t understand what had gone wrong, so she’d confronted Amy. The year of silence that resulted between them was easier to Amy’s mind than telling her sister the truth about Liam. They’d only made up after Scott locked them in a room and refused to let them out until they’d formed a truce, with the tacit understanding that Amy’s love life was well and truly off-limits in the future.

Jo would be devastated if she discovered that she’d pushed Amy into an abusive relationship, never mind the guilt she’d feel over that awful fight they’d had. There was no way Amy would put her sister through that, even today, especially not when Jo had physically put herself on the line so many times in the past to protect Amy, even getting shot last year in what had been the beginning of the end as far as Amy and Jo’s relationship with their parents was concerned. Just the memory of what had happened was still horrible.

Jo had been visiting their mum, trying to convince her to leave their dad. Their mum had chosen to stay and Jo had taken a bullet to her thigh when leaving.

It had still taken a little while for the reality of what had happened to sink in, for Amy and Jo to realise that their relationship with their parents couldn’t go on.

Amy had been devastated. The pain still hadn’t left her and probably never would but it was preferable to what had been before; Jo always trying to protect her from their dad’s violent outbursts.

The last thing Amy wanted was to see the worried look from their early years back in Jo’s eyes and know she’d put it there. Anything was better than that.

Amy groaned in frustration, pounded her pillow into shape and closed her eyes again, but the neon-pink light from her Hello Kitty alarm clock burned through her eyelids.

It was no use. Might as well get up.

She threw herself out of bed and padded into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. The ritual of measuring tea leaves and boiling water calmed her down, as did the sight of the rain beating against her dark kitchen window. She contemplated doing some of the ironing that had been piling up over the week but decided against it. Her wardrobe was high maintenance, but she didn’t mind. Her clothes were so much a part of the persona she’d created more than ten years before, she couldn’t imagine not taking painstaking care to maintain them. Four in the morning, however, was not the time for ironing.

Once her tea was brewed, she arranged everything on a tray, added a few chocolate chip biscuits for comfort and wandered into her living room. Minutes later her favourite movie was playing on her ancient, boxy TV and she was curled up on her battered lounge with a purple crocheted afghan pulled around her shoulders. She’d forgotten to retrieve her glasses from her bedside, but it didn’t matter. She knew every scene, every piece of dialogue and every song in the film by heart.

As Tony Curtis and Marilyn Monroe played their comical game of cat and mouse in Some Like It Hot, she felt her body relaxing and eyes getting heavy. It wasn’t until halfway through the film that Marilyn’s breathy voice and the beating rain worked their magic, and Amy drifted off to sleep.

By lunchtime on Saturday, Amy’s feet were aching, her head was pounding and she was milliseconds away from closing up shop and going home. Roslynn had called in sick and almost every man in Perth had decided that today was the day he absolutely needed a shave and a haircut.

Thankfully, Amy’s best friend, Myf, had raced to the rescue when Amy called, or more to the point howled, down the phone. While Amy was in the barbershop, Myf was helping Kate and Marissa by doing all the small, time-consuming tasks: blow drying hair, applying colour, buffing nails and, above all, keeping everyone sane.

Now, at five minutes past five, the end was in sight. When the bell rang signalling a customer in the barbershop, Amy added a dollop of cream to the coffee she’d just poured and sat it next to a generous slice of cake. Placing both on a tray, she nudged the connecting door between salon and barbershop open with her hip.

‘You’re late, young man. I was expecting you five minutes ago,’ she chirped, fully expecting to be greeted by the smiling countenance of Terry Nelson, one of her favourite customers. He was a retired judge and visited every Saturday without fail to get his beard trimmed before his weekly dinner date with Maureen, his wife of forty-three years.

‘This is a first. It’s about time you were happy to see me.’

Amy almost dropped the tray at the sound of her ex-boyfriend’s too-smooth voice. Please, God, not today of all days. She closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer, but no one was listening. When she opened them again Liam was still there, bullish and menacing as he sprawled in the chair nearest her. His legs were splayed arrogantly apart, his heavily muscled arms resting on the arms of the chair, and there was a smug smile on the broad features she’d once considered handsome.

‘Liam.’ Her gut clenched painfully. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. I’ve got a client coming then I’m closing for the day, so you’re gonna have to leave.’ She brandished the tray in front of her like a shield and prayed he wasn’t going to be difficult. Not today. She was tired, she had a stress headache and she was fighting a colossal case of the willies about her date this evening with Ben, or more to the point, what she’d do and say if he actually showed up.

Liam looked around and shrugged a beefy shoulder. ‘Your client’s not here yet. You’ve got time for me. Besides, with that extra bit of weight you’re carrying, you’re lookin’ good. How’ve you been, Amy?’

Just the mention of her name on his lips left her shuddering. ‘Fine until you turned up.’ She tried to keep her voice level. ‘Look, I’ve told you before that you can’t come here any more. Leave me alone, Liam. It was over years ago. It’s over now. Please leave.’

She might as well have been talking to thin air. Other than a faint wrinkle on his brow, Liam’s smug expression didn’t change a bit. ‘Nah. I’m a paying customer who wants a shave, so why don’t you put that tray down and give me one?’ It said a lot about the man that he didn’t once think she’d slip with the razor.

‘You know that’s not gonna happen. Just leave. Please. My customer’s here. You need to go.’ She nodded towards Terry Nelson’s white Jaguar, which had just pulled up at the kerb out front. Maybe God had been listening after all, she thought, ignoring the combined relief and apprehension currently causing her hands to shake.

Liam’s expression turned stubborn. ‘What’s he here for? I’ll wait.’

‘A shave, and no, you can’t wait. I told you, I’m closing up shop after. Just go,’ Amy said, the faint plea in her tone making her furious with herself.

‘What’s in it for me?’ Liam demanded.

Amy’s words were cut off when Terry opened the shop door, ducking his head as he came through and calling out his usual greeting in cheerful, booming tones. ‘Hello young lady, do you have time for me?’

‘Liam,’ Amy said softly.

‘Am I interrupting?’ Terry’s sharp gaze took in the scene and his bushy salt and pepper brows beetled.

‘No, Terry. I’ve got your cake and coffee here,’ Amy said with forced cheer, feeling her knees wobble with relief when Liam stood up.

‘She’s all yours, mate. I just dropped in for a chat. She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?’ His proprietorial expression made Amy’s skin feel one size too small.

‘The very best,’ Terry replied warmly.

‘Bye, Liam.’ Amy suppressed a flinch when he brushed past her, his eyes clearly communicating that he knew full well she wouldn’t make a scene in front of a client.

Nodding to Terry, he fished his keys out of his pocket and jangled them as he sauntered out the door, leaving the scent of cheap aftershave hanging in the air like a bad memory.

Aware of Terry’s quietly watchful presence, Amy stomped the adrenaline coursing through her system into submission and refreshed her smile. ‘So where are you whisking your lovely wife off to this evening?’

Amy only allowed her professional face to slip twenty minutes later as she waved Terry off. Giving in to the tension wracking her body, she gripped the back of the barber’s chair and squeezed her eyes tightly shut as the sick feeling left over from being in Liam’s presence crawled through her system on a thousand scurrying legs.

‘Amy?’ Myf’s soft call came from the salon next door.

‘Coming, m’love.’ Amy opened her eyes, taking stock of her appearance in the mirror. She grimaced. During the past few hours her lipstick had faded and the curls in her hair had begun to fall as flat as she felt. She’d have to fix those and soon. Ben was due in under thirty minutes – if he was the punctual type.

She took one last look around the barbershop to make sure everything was ready for Monday morning before making her way next door. The rest of her staff had gone for the day, leaving Myf curled up in one of the beauty salon’s pink leather chairs reading a Marie Claire.

As always, Myf projected a lovely aura of serene confidence and acceptance that enveloped Amy the minute she walked into the room, making everything seem just that little bit more manageable.

In direct contrast to Amy’s polished appearance, Myf radiated earth mother chic in recycled clothing splendour. Her wild fro of tight marmalade curls framed her narrow features and, as usual, she wasn’t wearing any make-up. She didn’t need to. Myf was perfect as she was, with her abundance of freckles, dark cinnamon brows and eyelashes, and incredible almost-black eyes.

‘Hey.’

‘Hey sweetie. You want a coffee? Or are you still doing that vegan detox thing?’ Amy tottered on tired feet to the back of the salon to make a cappuccino. She was tempted to tell Myf about Liam’s visit but held off. She had never told anyone about Liam’s ongoing harassment. If she was honest, her silence wasn’t only because of her fears Jo would find out; she was also deeply ashamed to admit she had effectively allowed someone to stalk and bully her for so many years. Myf would never judge her for it, but just the thought of speaking the words out loud made Amy’s chest hurt.

‘Coffee would be great,’ Myf replied, oblivious to Amy’s internal disquiet. ‘All the detox did was make me crave chocolate.’

‘I’ve got some of that here too. You want that instead?’ Amy replied over the noise of frothing milk.

‘Temptress.’ Myf grinned. ‘No, I think coffee is better after all the craziness this afternoon. I need the boost. Is it always this full-on nowadays?’ She gestured to the shop. ‘This is insane. When do you get time to centre yourself?’

‘Worse and never.’ Amy topped two cappuccinos with chocolate sprinkles, adding extra to Myf’s.

‘Really? You don’t look like you’re enjoying it as much as you used to. This is the third time Mel’s quit on you. Have you thought of not taking her back?’ Myf asked quietly, taking her coffee and drawing her finger through the froth and sprinkles before popping it into her mouth.

Amy just shrugged and took a seat next to her friend, giving her an apologetic half-smile. ‘It’s not that easy, petal. She’s a good friend. You know why she does it.’ She reached down and pulled her heels off, massaging her toes.

‘And you tell me I’m too nice.’ The words came as a kind rebuke.

‘You are. You’re here, aren’t you? What did you sell your last painting for? Ten thousand?’ Amy couldn’t help but notice that her friend’s bare arms and legs were generously covered with tiny specks of purple and green paint that blended in with her freckles. It made her smile. Myf was an artist, a highly successful one, whose explosive, violently dynamic canvases were a total enigma to everyone who knew her.

Myf waved a hand. ‘Not important. What’s important is the way you keep forgiving people when they do crappy things. You’re going to have to draw the line some time.’

Amy sighed. ‘I know, but you know what it’s like. My friends are my family. Mel’s family. I’m only doing what she’d do for me, right?’

Myf didn’t look as sure. ‘It doesn’t work like that for some people, love. And you know better than anyone that sometimes you’ve got to let family go . . .’

Amy felt herself tearing up. She’d let go of so much in her life, she didn’t want to think of giving up another person she cared about. ‘Can we change the topic, sweetie?’

A flash of frustration crossed Myf’s features but she hid it beautifully. ‘Okay . . . so what are you wearing tonight? I take it you want me to stick around and check this guy out?’

‘Of course. You’re my bastard detector. I’ve got my blue party dress out the back.’ Amy spun her chair around and leaned towards a mirror. How had Ben seen her scar on Monday? The man must have telescopic vision. ‘He said wear anything, so I was tempted to wear jeans and a T-shirt.’ They both knew it was a lie. Amy’s appearance was her armour, and she never went anywhere without making sure she was fully suited up.

Myf chuckled. It was a warm sound, one that never failed to make people smile.

‘What?’ Amy demanded.

‘You.’

‘Me what? Look, m’love, if you’re going to laugh, the least you can do is tell me the joke.’ She swivelled her chair back around and prodded Myf with her big toe.

‘There’s no joke.’ Myf tucked her knees up under her chin. ‘You look lovely as is, but if you’re going to change you’d better start. It’s getting on.’

Amy glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘It is too. Far out! Time to frock up.’ She took a quick sip of her coffee then scampered behind the screen at the rear of the room to change.

‘So where’s this mystery man taking you?’ Myf called out while Amy quickly got naked, put on clean underwear, slid on her stockings and stepped into her dress.

‘No idea. Hopefully somewhere not too expensive. My credit card can’t handle it. Give me a hand with my zip, petal?’

‘Coming. Why are you worried? He’s the one paying.’ Myf walked around the screen and zipped Amy the rest of the way up before stepping back and nodding her approval. ‘I love this dress.’

‘It doesn’t make me look fat?’ Amy looked anxiously down to her stomach. Liam’s earlier snipe about her weight slithered insidiously into her thoughts. She’d always had a little tummy but had never thought it looked bad.

‘Fat? No!’ Myf bent down to brush the hem of Amy’s skirt straight for her. ‘It makes you look like a young Doris Day. Want help with your hair?’

‘No, but you can keep me company.’ Amy lightly rested a hand on Myf’s shoulder as she slipped on her shoes.

‘That I can do. So what’s this about your credit card?’ Myf asked, not willing to let the topic go. She padded after Amy to the front of the salon and resumed her seat while Amy heated up a curling wand.

Amy shrugged. ‘It’s nothing. Usually when I go on a date I pay. I’m used to it.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah. I don’t like being . . . you know . . .’

‘No, I really don’t.’

Amy waved a hand. ‘Obligated. Food equals sex and I don’t want to feel like I have to have sex with a guy because he’s paid for dinner. It’s easier if I pay.’

‘Tell me you don’t pay for their food too?’ Myf asked, her eyes dark with concern.

Amy frowned at her reflection in the mirror, winding pale lengths of hair around her curling iron. ‘Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?’ She reached for the hairspray. ‘I mean, it just feels better that way.I don’t have to worry about anything then.’

‘Would you feel guilty or beholden if I took you out to dinner?’ Myf asked gently.

‘No, that’s different.’ Amy searched for some bobby pins in her work trolley.

‘How?’

‘I don’t know, it’s just different. You don’t expect anything. You’re my friend.’

‘I bet you let Scott pay for your dinner,’ Myf persisted. She and Scott were good friends and had held a number of exhibitions of their respective work together. Both women knew full well Scott would be mortally offended if any woman he’d asked out tried to pay for his meal.

‘He’s different,’ Amy insisted. ‘Can you see my bobby pins?’

‘Different? Like not a man?’ Myf asked, spluttering on her coffee in a burst of incredulous laughter. ‘Have you looked at Scott any time recently? They’re just here.’

‘Thanks. Scott’s not the same.’

‘I’ll make sure I tell him that next time I see him,’ Myf said. ‘I’ll make sure I’ve got a camera with me to catch his expression while I’m at it.’

Amy opened her mouth to reply then thought better of it. Instead she popped a few pins in her mouth and began securing her hair back from her face.

‘Amy?’

‘Hmm? Look, I want to drop the topic, okay?’

‘It’s officially dropped. Does your gentleman drive something that looks like silver sex on wheels?’

‘Yeah. It’s an Aston Martin I think.’ Bobby pins sprayed everywhere when she realised what Myf was saying. ‘Oh bugger. Is he here?’

‘If he’s a sexy, built guy in a suit, I’d say yes.’

Amy followed Myf’s gaze to Ben, who was prowling around his car to approach the door. He was early! ‘Bugger! Can you stall him? I really have to pee and I haven’t fixed my make-up yet. Keep him busy for a second or two, please?’ She frantically scooped up her make-up bag and sprinted as fast as she could to the bathroom at the back of the salon.

‘Sure,’ Myf said in a laughter-filled voice as the bathroom door slammed shut.

Ben pulled up outside Babyface, experiencing an unfamiliar sense of anticipation. Checking through the barbershop window and seeing it was empty, he pushed open the door of the salon next door.

The first thing that struck him was the scent he’d noticed on his first visit. It was stronger this side. A combination of chocolate cake and vanilla, mixed with the various faintly floral, ammonia and acetone smells characteristic of the female beauty industry. The second thing he noticed was the décor, which managed to be blatantly contrived, yet comfortable at the same time.

The pale pink walls contrasted with the white enamel skirting boards, shelves and window frames. The wall closest to him featured a giant poster promoting the movie Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, with Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell displaying maximum leg; the opposite wall held three ornate gilt mirrors arranged a metre or so apart. Each mirror had a plush rose-pink leather chair facing it. The back of the room was sectioned off with a white screen featuring large polka dots.

The overall effect should have been cloying but it wasn’t; it conveyed the same level of welcome and comfort as the barbershop. In fact, the only thing that wasn’t comforting was the distinct absence of the proprietor. Instead, he was greeted by a whippet-thin redhead wearing the ugliest green dress Ben had ever seen. She was curled up in one of the chairs, looking him up and down with a bemused smile.

‘Anyone home?’ He clasped his hands behind his back and wandered down to the back of the shop to inspect the area behind the screen, which contained a small room, ostensibly for those beauty treatments not fit for company, a small kitchen and another door, which was currently closed.

‘I am. Amy will be back in a few seconds,’ the redhead announced in a low, surprisingly strong voice. She had a more clipped, refined Australian accent than Amy’s. It spoke of money, and lots of it, somewhere in the family tree. ‘I’m Myf.’

‘Myf?’ Ben raised a brow.

‘Short for Myfanwy. Before you ask, Mum’s Welsh. I’m Amy’s friend. You’re Ben, right?’ Her gaze was steady and Ben got the distinct impression his every movement was being thoroughly judged. Interesting.

‘The man himself. Do you work here?’ Ben examined a row of nail polishes mounted on a narrow white shelf set above a spindle-legged table with two chairs either side. He wondered why any woman would want pea-soup-green nails.

‘Only as backup. Normally I’m an artist and yoga teacher, but both are too much fun to call jobs.’ Myf gave him such a warm smile that Ben found himself wandering over and parking himself in the chair next to hers.

‘An artist? Are we talking empty white rooms with used underwear scattered around, great steaming piles of excrement turned into sculpture, or the more palatable stuff you hang on walls?’ He propped an elbow on the arm of his chair and spun it around to face her.

Myf laughed. It was a warm, welcome sound. ‘I do the wall stuff. I haven’t advanced to any installation work yet.’

‘Perish the thought.’ Ben feigned a shudder.

‘Ben?’ Amy’s voice was faintly muffled, coming from behind the mystery door at the back of the salon.

‘At your service.’

‘Just give me a few seconds.’ There was the sound of something heavy thumping a wall and a muffled ‘Oomph.’

‘You alright, love?’ Myf called out.

‘I’m okay. Just give me a sec. I’m sorry, Ben. I’m running a bit late.’

‘No problem at all. I’ll just entertain myself out here with Myf and some of your quality educational reading material.’ Ben winked at Myf before perusing a nearby shelf and selecting a magazine that advertised Sex Tips to Send Your Man Wild.

‘Quality?’ Myf let out a low chuckle.

‘Of course,’ Ben murmured. He flicked past countless outlandish advertisements for shoes, perfume and, if he wasn’t mistaken, anorexia, until he found what was he was looking for.

‘For example,’ he said loud enough for Amy to hear. ‘Did you know, and I have to tell you I didn’t, that men like having toothpaste rubbed on their privates? Now this is definitely news to me. According to this article—’ His words were stopped mid-sentence by Amy’s shriek from the back of the salon.

‘What!’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just reading out loud.’

‘Where are you taking her to dinner?’ Myf asked in a low voice, leaning towards him, her eyes sparkling.

‘I was thinking Christie’s on the Beach in Cottesloe,’ he whispered back. ‘Good choice?’ He raised his brows before saying much louder, ‘Oh, no, no. I can’t say I agree with this. It sounds horrifically painful.’

‘What? Excuse me?’ There was another thump. ‘Oh damn.’

‘Perfect choice.’ Myf grinned. ‘She’ll love it. You’re paying.’

‘Excellent, and of course, worked my fingers to the bone to come up with the cash,’ Ben replied, just as the mystery door behind the screen opened and he heard the clicking of heels. Enjoying himself, he deliberately kept his eyes on the magazine as he turned the page to be confronted with some rather fascinating illustrations of sexual positions the magazine promised would send one’s man insane with lust. He snorted at the first improbable contortion and inhaled the scent of apples and bubblegum. ‘Now this is fascinating. I’ve never tried this one. I’ve always worried I’d damage a vital piece of equipment.’ He tapped the page pointedly.

The magazine was ripped from his hands with a crackle of glossy paper and he looked up, fully intending on making a joke but simply stared instead.

The kewpie doll had curves – curves wrapped up in an impossibly cute blue and white pinstriped dress in a style last seen on a screaming teenager at an early Elvis concert. It curved down from a high boat-neck collar and capped sleeves to a tiny waist cinched with a dark blue ribbon tied in a bow before flaring out to a full circle skirt that fell just below the knee. Ben couldn’t be sure from the front, but he was almost positive she was wearing French stockings. Her dark blue patent leather Mary Janes instantly kickstarted a few naughty schoolgirl fantasies he hadn’t visited for a number of years.

‘You look . . . fascinating.’ He was aware that it might not be the most appropriate of compliments.

‘Gee, thanks. You look nice too,’ Amy replied pertly.

Ben was aware of Myf next to him, hiding a smile behind her coffee cup.

‘Thank you, I do try, although I can’t possibly compare . . .’ He looked Amy’s ensemble up and down again, resting finally on the loose curls framing her face. She was wearing fuchsia lipstick, the same colour she’d worn when he’d visited the barbershop on Monday. He was developing a penchant for fuchsia. ‘For starters, I look hideous in blue and dresses have never suited me.’ He was gratified to see a dimple appear in her cheek. Satisfied, he pushed himself to his feet. ‘Shall we?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Amy said, then turned to her friend. ‘Are you alright locking up with your key, petal?’

‘Not a problem.’ Myf pushed to her feet and held out a hand to Ben. ‘Nice meeting you, Ben.’

He took her hand in his and clasped it warmly. He liked this woman. She knew how to play along. ‘The pleasure was mine. I look forward to viewing your work.’ He turned back to Amy and gestured to the door with a flourish. ‘Madam, your chariot awaits.’

‘Are you comfortable? Impressed? Overawed? You’re supposed to be.’ Ben wore a devilish smile as he slid into the black leather driver’s seat, buckled up and smoothly pulled out into evening peak hour traffic. The car purred with restraint. Amy had the feeling it would truly roar if he allowed it. Not that she was in any state of mind to contemplate the fact. Right now she was doing her best not to touch anything.

‘I wouldn’t say impressed so much as scared to death. This car probably cost more than my house.’ She gingerly leaned down to make sure her heels weren’t digging holes in the carpet at her feet.

‘It’s alright.’ Ben shrugged. ‘Gets me from A to B.’ A faint smile played around his mouth.

‘You’re kidding, right?’ Amy decided that she couldn’t do much damage if she stayed very, very still.

‘Never. And just in case you were wondering, I won’t let you drive it even if you offer me exotic sexual favours designed to make my hair stand on end.’ He said the words so casually that it took a few seconds for them to register.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’re excused. Just so you know, I’ve made reservations for Christie’s on the Beach. You’ve heard of it? Yes? No? I hear it’s good.’

‘Christie’s. Wow. Um. Okay. You don’t have to take me there. We can go somewhere . . . more casual if you like.’ She stopped herself from saying ‘cheaper’ just in time.

‘When I’m looking so debonair? No. Definitely not. I’m told the view is excellent. Not that I’ll be looking at it that much.’ He slid her an appreciative sideways glance.

‘The view is nice,’ Amy said wistfully, ignoring the compliment. She loved the beach.

‘Mind you,’ Ben mused, ‘places with a good location usually have dire food. London’s atrocious for it. Many’s the time I’ve gone to a restaurant in an excellent location expecting it to be amazing and . . .’ He made a raspberry noise, comically out of character to his polished appearance. ‘Shit.’

‘Serious?’ Amy laughed despite her worries. ‘I’ve never been to London so I wouldn’t know.’

‘Oh?’ Ben darted her a look that told her she might as well have admitted she had two heads. ‘Well, that’s probably wise of you. Hideous place. Crowded, overpriced and full of Australians. A bit like here really.’

‘You don’t like Australians?’ Amy leaned against the door, regarding him with narrowed eyes.

‘Oh, I like you all just fine. As long as you don’t talk much.’ He grinned when she snorted.

‘You mustn’t mind us that much if you’re staying here.’

‘I don’t. I love this city. It’s winter now and it’s raining less than it does in the summer back home.’ Ben turned off towards Cottesloe and they began driving along the ocean, huge mansions on one side, an endless expanse of sea and a vivid red sunset on the other.

‘How long have you been here in Perth?’

Ben shrugged. ‘A few months. My house is near here actually.’

Amy turned to study the mansions they were driving past. Cottesloe was a notoriously affluent suburb. Damn. She was definitely out of her depth and taking on water.

‘You’re quiet. I get the impression you’re not often quiet.’ Ben’s clipped words cut through her panic, bringing her back to earth.

‘What? No. I’m just blown away by the sheer sexiness of your car.’

‘Oh?’ Ben chuckled. ‘Well, that’s understandable. Embrace the shock and awe while I find us a parking place.’

Amy ran a finger over some polished walnut panelling. ‘Do you do this often?’

‘What?’

‘Ask ladies you’ve offended out to dinner.’

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he pulled into an empty space. ‘Offended? Not frequently, no. Usually they’re far too busy consulting with their lawyers. I can honestly say you’re my first dinner date offendee. Or at least the first one to accept an invitation. In fact, I do believe you should feel honoured.’

Amy pursed her lips, fighting a smile. ‘Should I? Are you going to be nice tonight?’

He turned the engine off. ‘Of course not. That wouldn’t be in the spirit of the thing at all. Although I do owe you, so we might be able to bend the rules.’

‘You owe me?’ Amy’s eyebrows almost hit her hairline.

‘Yes. You inspired me. As a result I’ve been amazingly productive.’

‘At being a dentist, you mean?’

‘What else? I pulled out millions of teeth. Productive teeth. Fantastic teeth.’ His white, toothy grin flashed in the dusky half-light. ‘How was your day playing the female Sweeney Todd?’

‘Busy. Exhausting,’ Amy answered honestly and gazed over Ben’s shoulder. The car park faced the ocean and was full of surfers stripping off their wetsuits and getting changed after catching some waves.

‘Oh?’ Ben regarded her with a faint frown. ‘Tell me about it. Or better yet, don’t. Wait and we’ll have a little bit of social lubrication first so I can fully enjoy all the gory details. I’m all ears. And teeth.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Never more so. I have lots of teeth.’ He shrugged. ‘Pointy ones. But you might be a little more interesting.’

Amy laughed, giving in and deciding to enjoy herself. She’d find a way to resuscitate her credit card later. ‘Alright, then. Lead the way.’