She didn’t seem fazed that she’d interrupted them. Clasping a clipboard to her chest, she looked like an extremely efficient PA, one who never blinked, even in the face of the weirdest things.
‘I can see you’re really busy but Lexi’s calling for you and the second set is finished. Are you coming?’
Bruce sighed and whispered to him: ‘Tomorrow, my place, 7 pm. You’d better be there.’
‘Or?’
‘Or I come get you and carry you away over my shoulder.’ His voice rumbled against Gabriel’s ear.
‘That sounds appealing.’
Bruce smiled and pecked him on the cheek before letting him go. ‘Right, Sam. Let’s get on with it.’ He then walked away.
Gabriel had had enough of the theatre for one night. He’d have to apologise to Angela and Magda for his behaviour but he was still too raw. He walked outside and into town to find somewhere to have a drink.
Chapter Sixteen
Bruce opened the oven door for the third time since putting the chicken pie inside fifteen minutes before. He wanted to catch the moment when the flaky pastry was golden rather than charred. He should have gone with a couple of steaks and a salad. That he knew he could cook. Or he should have got a takeaway. Giorgio’s did a wicked spaghetti alla puttanesca. He could have saved himself the stress and the time. Strange that he could knock up a chest of drawers in an afternoon but that pie had taken him way longer than the cookbook’s stated preparation time of twenty minutes. Luckily, he’d had the good sense to buy a fruit tart from The Providore for dessert.
He’d spent much of the day tidying, pushing aside a job he’d been asked to do in favour of making his house look like a person lived there rather than a pack of angry pigs. He wasn’t intentionally messy and he wasn’t a hoarder, but with no-one visiting to keep it neat for—and no time—the house had gotten cluttered. He’d given the bathroom and the bedroom a thorough clean and made the living room, kitchen and dining room presentable. And then he’d focused on the verandah. The clouds hadn’t shifted but it was going to be a warm night so they could eat at the table outside. He’d dusted down the swing and oiled the hinges.
After another five minutes, the pastry turned golden and he turned off the heat. He was ready with fifteen minutes to spare.
A knock on the door disturbed the butterflies he’d been trying to pin down all day. Distracting himself with housework had helped but with Gabe’s arrival, they swarmed and he was all out of nets. Gabe was early. Hopefully that meant everything was okay. He checked his hair in the mirror and opened the door.
Only it wasn’t Gabe.
One side of Rachel’s mouth lifted into a smile like a stroke had paralysed the other side. Her blonde and brown streaked hair hung in thick strands. She’d lost weight—more weight—and her hip bones protruded over the top of her jeans, a black T-shirt stuck to her concave stomach. She gripped the handle of her backpack in one hand as it sat limp on the floor.
‘What do you want?’ Bruce said, his voice flat and stony.
‘Hey, bro,’ she drawled as if they were friends. She didn’t make to hug him.
‘Again, what do you want?’
‘Jeez, you’re such a grouch. Can I come in?’ She tried to enter.
‘No.’ He blocked the way.
She stumbled back and reared up, stumbled again. ‘What do you mean? I just want to come in for a bit.’
‘You don’t live here anymore, Rachel. This isn’t your house.’
‘I’m still your sister.’
‘Still doesn’t mean you’re coming inside.’
She scowled and charged him, pushing and screeching to be let in. She punched and kicked. He could withstand a lot of abuse from her but the chances of her going quietly after her tantrum were about as slim as she was. If she came in for five minutes, he could calm her down then get rid of her. The stink of alcohol and her own filth rubbed off on him. He’d have to change before Gabe arrived.
‘Fine,’ he shouted, loud enough for her to stop. ‘You can come in for five minutes. But you cause any problems and you won’t even get that.’
He stood aside for her to enter then closed the door behind her. She weaved her way inside, dumping her bag in the middle of the floor and circled around to the living room. When she stopped walking, her body swayed.
‘See you had a tidy. Got company coming?’ She tried to wink but failed.
‘Yes, and I want you gone before he gets here.’
‘Glad to see big bro is finally getting some.’
He folded his arms across his chest. He wouldn’t talk to her about Gabe. He didn’t want to talk to her at all.
‘Why are you here, Rachel?’
‘I missed you,’ she simpered. ‘I wanted to see you.’
‘Wrong answer.’
She sneered at him. ‘You always were an arsehole, Bruce. Have you got anything to drink?’
‘You know I don’t drink.’
‘Such a good boy. Luckily I brought my own.’ She dived into her backpack and pulled out a bottle of bourbon, her favourite only so far as that was the one she bought herself. She hadn’t been picky about what went down her throat if someone else was buying.
‘You’re not drinking in here.’
‘I’ll do whatever I want.’
‘It’s not your house anymore.’ He tried to keep his voice level, was surprised how even it was. ‘If you drink, I’m calling the cops and having you booted for trespassing.’
‘You wouldn’t do that to your own sister.’
‘Let’s not see what I’d do.’ He stayed where he was against the wall while she scoped the place. She tutted at the family photos he’d hung on the wall. He’d kept a few photos of her—from when they were kids—and pencil lines still marked the hallway doorframe where they used to measure their heights. The lines ended when he was fifteen and she was twelve.
