When there’s a knock on my door on Tuesday evening, I lift Tumbleweed off my lap, settle him on the couch next to me and stack my lesson plans on the side table. I pull up my woolly socks and check my dressing gown is fastened so my short silk nightdress doesn’t show.
‘Who is it?’
‘Hugo.’
When I open the door he smiles broadly, and holds out a bottle of wine. ‘Didn’t you recognise my signature knock?’
Hugo Hallstead was brought up in the country, but his hair is streaky blond and scruffy like he lives at the beach. This year he’s wearing it long; he runs his hand through it, grinning infectiously.
‘I forgot what your signature knock sounded like, just like you always forget that I don’t drink.’
‘I don’t forget, but a true friend never gives up,’ he says, hugging me tightly.
‘There’s nothing wrong with not drinking.’
‘Trouble with you is, you’re afraid of a drinking problem you’ve never given yourself a chance to get. It’s grapes, Sapphie, good wholesome fruit.’
I wave him into the living room. ‘Where’ve you been for the past few weeks?’
‘Down in the mountains, saving lives.’
‘Tadpole lives?’
‘We’ve all got to start somewhere.’
When I came to Horseshoe, I was a city-girl foster kid who refused to talk about her past. I didn’t make friends easily. Hugo was a larrikin at high school, popular and confident, probably the last person I’d trust to even want to be my friend. But he’d track me down at lunchtime and ask if I wanted to swap lunches, as if we were six years old. He’d sit next to me in class and ask for my help, even though he didn’t need it. I refused to have anything to do with him for months, but then he decided he wanted to be a biologist and started spending as much time in the library as I did. Hugo became impossible not to like. We’d study late into the night at school, and spend days down by the river where he’d teach me about the things that lived in it. We went to the same university, four years for me and five for him. Now he works on conservation projects, specialising in critically endangered frogs.
I grew to care for him far too much to ever contemplate having sex with him.
I poke him in the chest. ‘Why are you here so late?’
‘Nine o’clock?’ He laughs as he skirts around me, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. ‘I’m homeless, that’s why. Mum and Dad have Andy’s kids staying over, and the pub’s fully booked.’
‘On a Tuesday?’
‘A flock of grey nomads flew in this afternoon.’ When he throws his bag on the floor, Tumbleweed looks up and squints. ‘Why don’t they perch in their caravans?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
I point to the couch. ‘It’s almost as wide as my bed if I take the cushions off, but you know how your feet hang over the end.’
Hugo looks at Tumbleweed and raises his middle finger. ‘I have to sleep with Killer again?’
I laugh, sitting next to my cat and covering his ears. ‘Don’t call him that. He’s a city cat that lives in the house. He likes steamed fish and slow-cooked lamb.’
‘Feral animals, Sapph, can’t trust them.’
‘When he was a kitten, he was feral. Now he’s domesticated.’
‘A bit like you I suppose.’
‘No!’
When Hugo crashes next to me on the couch, Tumbleweed jumps to the floor. We watch as he stalks towards the kitchen.
‘Sapphie? What’s up?’
I smooth my dressing gown over my legs. ‘It’s nothing.’
He bumps me with a shoulder. ‘Give.’
I blow out a breath. ‘My father’s been hassling me, and … other stuff. But now I know what’s happening, I’m fine.’
‘You know I liked you feral, don’t you?’
‘I’m not feral now.’
‘Nope.’ He shrugs. ‘You’re prickly and domesticated.’
When I spring to my feet and take the wine to the kitchen, he follows, rubbing his arms as he leans against the wall.
‘It’s freezing in here.’
‘That’s why I wear a dressing gown.’ I pour milk into a saucepan. ‘Would you like something to eat?’
‘I’m good.’ I’m straining to grasp a wine glass from the cupboard above the stove when he reaches above me and gets it himself. He lifts my collar to the side and plucks at the strap of my nightdress. ‘What’s that shiny stuff you’re hiding?’ He wiggles his eyebrows. ‘Expecting someone?’
‘It’s acceptable to wear silk at any time.’ I push him away and retie my dressing gown belt before filling his glass. ‘You didn’t say how long you’d be here.’
‘Once I’d committed to Thursday, thought I might as well visit my parents on the farm and catch up with friends. Five nights. That okay?’
‘Stay as long as you like.’ I turn my back as I spoon chocolate into a mug. ‘What’s happening on Thursday?’
‘You’re the chair, Sapph.’
‘Of the Environment Committee?’ I clear my throat, suddenly tight. ‘Yes.’
‘Dougie Chambers MP tracked me down. He reckons I’m a local boy made good, so I should give back. Told him I’d be happy to, so long as he remembers it next time I ask for funding.’
‘I thought the focus was the wetlands.’
‘And in the marshes you find …’ He opens his eyes wide and puts a finger either side of his mouth, stretching it out.
‘Frogs,’ I say, laughing. ‘I get it. But I don’t have you down as an agenda item.’
‘Chambers wants to impress some UN guy. I presume you’ve put him on your agenda?’
I stir my hot chocolate until there’s a fluffy, creamy layer on the top. ‘Matts Laaksonen? He was item three but I’ll move him down to four.’
Hugo picks up a small coronet, partially wrapped in sprays of wattle. He turns it carefully in his hands. ‘You made the flowers?’
‘It’s for Mary Honey; she’s in my class. I’m only halfway through.’
He frowns as he studies the tiny yellow spheres. ‘How long does it take to make one of these?’
‘Not long.’ I shrug. ‘Six or seven hours. Maybe eight.’
‘A working day. That’s a few thousand dollars for a banker, a couple of hundred for a teacher.’
‘As if I’d charge my time? It’s for Mary’s birthday.’
‘You are so freaking good to those kids.’
‘I like children.’ I smile. ‘That’s why I’m a teacher.’
‘Your little kids are okay. But the youth program kids you put up with? They’re as likely to spit in your face as thank you.’
‘They deserve a chance.’
‘Like the horses you rescue? Like that wreck of a farmhouse?’
‘I—they’ve been unlucky as well.’
‘You’re a bleeding heart, Sapphie, always have been. Why not mix things up a bit? Find someone who puts you first.’
‘You sound like Ma Hargreaves. Are you talking about settling down?’
He walks around the bench and wraps an arm around my shoulders, kissing me firmly on the top of my head. ‘Why not? You’ve already chosen where you’ll live.’
I force a smile. ‘I’m happy as I am.’
He squeezes so tightly that one of my feet lifts off the ground. ‘You’re still angry with me, aren’t you? I’m sorry about the feral comment.’
‘I overreacted. It’s just …’ I bend my knees, escaping his hold, and pick up my mug. ‘Don’t dare spill wine on my flowers.’
He counts the clusters of yellow, interspersed with grey-green leaves. ‘What variety is this? Golden?’
‘My grandmother taught me how to make it.’
Acacia pycnantha. Golden wattle.
Kultainen kotka. Golden eagle.
Kissa. Cat.
Matts called me Kissa for a reason. He said that, just like a cat, the more he told me to go away, the more that I came back. But I knew he didn’t mean it. I knew he searched for me when I was out of sight. I can’t recall why I chose the name Kotka for him. Eagles are powerful and beautiful, rare and often solitary. I must have been only eight or nine when I named him. Did I see those qualities even then?
Last time I saw him, I told him I wasn’t afraid of him. But …
The touch of his hand.
His serious mouth.
The shades in his eyes.
I could be.
Matts,
I’d prefer not to have to explain to everyone how we know each other, particularly as Thursday’s meeting will be a one-off. Can we pretend we’ve just met?
Sapphie
Sapphire,
Forget you ever knew me.
Matts