The Soulmate(11)

‘You know that I’m being paid to serve food, don’t you?’ I said when he’d reached for my tray again. I feigned exasperation.

‘At least one of us is being paid to be here,’ he replied, finally commandeering the tray, which he immediately held out to a passing guest with playful confidence.

It was flattering, I’ll admit. Max was handsome – tall and broad enough to fill out his dinner suit. But it was the way he carried himself that was truly impressive. Even then, he knew who he was going to become.

‘All right! Give me the tray back.’

‘Forget it!’ Max popped a canapé into his mouth. ‘These are delicious. I’m not sharing them.’

I could feel my boss’s gaze from across the room. The only thing stopping her from approaching was the fact that she knew Max was the son of the client. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Give it back. My boss is looking. I can’t afford to lose this job.’

Max handed the tray back immediately, his expression a blend of remorse and attraction. How funny to think that someone actually needing their job could have such an effect. It was curious the way wealthy people found other people’s poverty thrilling; often it even morphed into a perverse sort of admiration. And our stocks rose even higher if we insisted our humble existences weren’t that bad. Some felt compelled to save us. And why not? Saving us was so easy. They could play God! Our gratitude was like a drug for them, particularly the men.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

I continued circling the room, but all night I sensed Max’s eyes on me. At the end of the evening, once we’d loaded the dishwashers, wiped the kitchen clean and loaded the tray into the vans, I found Max waiting for me on the front steps. I pretended to be surprised, but I’d spotted him out there while I cleaned the kitchen.

‘Hello again,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry to lurk out here like this,’ Max said, ever polite. ‘I just wanted to make sure you didn’t get into trouble. If your pay was docked, please –’

‘It wasn’t.’ I pulled on my coat. ‘It’s fine.’

‘Okay, well . . . good.’

We stood there for a moment. Max smelled like expensive aftershave. He’d taken his jacket and bow tie off, and the top button of his shirt was undone. He looked better like this, a bit dishevelled. His gaze travelled over me, but not in a leery way. Like he was considering something.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘I just realised that I don’t know your name.’

‘Oh. It’s Amanda.’

He smiled, as if my name was pleasing to him. ‘I’m Max.’

‘Yes.’ I smiled back. ‘I know.’

‘What is it that you do when you’re not waitressing, Amanda?’

‘I’m a photographer,’ I said. ‘An amateur one. But I’ve got a few jobs – kids’ birthday parties and the like.’

It felt lame compared to what Max did for a living, and yet he responded as if I had said I was in training to go into space. He asked question after question, making me feel like the most fascinating person in the world. Later, I realised this was a gift of his.

‘Amanda, would it be inappropriate of me to ask you to dinner?’ he said eventually.

It appeared to be a genuine question, like he couldn’t quite figure it out himself. I wondered if he was weighing up our relative positions in life, our employer/employee relationship . . . or something else. I was twenty-five. He was in his early thirties. We were adults. It was a free world.

‘If you don’t mention it to my employer, I don’t see why not.’

I gave him my number and he walked me to my car. After opening my door for me, he leaned in for what I thought was going to be a kiss but turned into a hug at the last minute.

He told this story at our wedding, describing how he’d ‘choked’. But I’d found it endearing that he’d lost his nerve. If he had gone through with the kiss, perhaps we would never have made it down the aisle. Would that have been a blessing or a curse?

With everything I know now, I’m not quite sure.





9


PIPPA

NOW



The police team return just after 7 am, and a steady stream of people traipse up and down the side of the house all morning: a photographer with a large camera, people with gloves and protective clothing, people with other people holding umbrellas over their heads. Freya and Asha sit cross-legged by the back door in their pyjamas, watching them. Asha fires questions at us. ‘What’s that guy doing? What’s the camera for? What’s happening over there?’ Thankfully, by the time she finishes asking one thing her mind has already moved on to something else, so we’re not required to provide answers. She is so much like Gabe; so brilliant, so inquisitive. It terrifies and delights me in equal measure.

When the girls tire of watching the police, we turn on the television. I envy the way they are immediately lost to it, their mouths hanging open, their brains suspended somewhere in the ether. They don’t even demand breakfast, which is unheard of for Asha. Eventually Gabe brings them toast, which they eat on the couch, and I don’t object.

Mum and Dad arrive around 9 am, with colouring books and games for the girls. Dad does a coffee run for the police, and returns with raspberry and white chocolate muffins. Kat arrives mid-morning with Mei, and they set up their computers side by side at our dining room table and work from there, as if it’s the obvious, most normal thing to do. There’s something about the morning that feels sacred and jarring – like someone has died. Which, of course, is true.