New York Nights (Heart of the City #2)(10)

'Well, as much as I am relieved, I'm also partially offended that it didn't take much to sway her away from us.'

Alistair laughed. 'Don't be, she hasn't seen me in months, so it's been a while since I've taken her out for lunch. There was no way she would turn it down. Now you're free for another day.'

I sighed. 'Thank you, I appreciate that. I haven't even been here for a week, so we're still finding our way, aren't we, Gracie?'

Grace shoved her fist into her slobbery mouth.

'Well, if that's the case, you won't need Mother on your doorstep. I'll make sure she's suitably distracted until you settle in,' he said, giving me another boyish grin.

'Thanks, Alistair.' I could hardly believe that, aside from Nikki, there was another nice Worthington in the world. I had been convinced there was no such thing.

'My pleasure,' he said. 'Remember, you never saw me.'

I shrugged. 'I didn't see a thing.'

Alistair laughed. 'Well, we'll make a Worthington out of you yet.' And with that he slid into the car and was driven away.



Meeting Alistair Worthington was the unexpected delight of my day; well, that and the freedom of no Penny Worthington visiting. Even Grace's mood seemed to have picked up, now that she wasn't feeding off my vibes of impending doom. We didn't get to Magnolia Bakery or the park, but we did manage to lounge under the umbrella on the roof terrace. Me, Grace and a bottle of formula on the daybed: things were definitely looking up. Sure, most people my age were probably binge drinking and partying and sleeping their lives away. But all was not lost: come the weekend and my days off, I wouldn't have a baby permanently strapped to me. I would go out exploring, because, to be frank, the thought of Ben and me being in the same house all day did nothing for me; a supreme conversationalist he was not and I was harbouring a terror of the weekend dynamic. In the Liebenberg house my weekends were treated as sacred and were respected, aside from the odd one here and there when I had to work. I wasn't entirely sure how weekends would work here. Could Ben change a nappy? Sterilise bottles and prep formula, handle the endless crying should it strike Grace not to be all smiles?

As each scenario ran through my mind, I felt sick. Maybe I would stick close this weekend, lurk in the shadows. I remembered the words of warning from the au pair agency when I was sent to the Liebenbergs: don't overstep barriers or blur the lines by falling into the trap of helping. I had to keep that in mind. Besides, Ben was a strong, capable businessman who navigated tough waters; I mean, Penny Worthington was his mother, for God's sake. Alistair himself had said he had an au pair; had there been a maternal influence on Ben at all, could he be blamed for the way he behaved?



       
         
       
        

Things were just so much simpler where I was from. We grew up without much money: Dad was a labourer, while Mum did cash-in-hand work cleaning hotel rooms. I thought about Mum being in Frieda's place with Penny Worthington and it made me mad. There was a distinct difference in our social statuses, and from day one, Penny and Emily had made me feel my place; the only people who hadn't were Nikki and Alistair, even in our brief meetings.

The more I thought about it, the more adamant I was that there would be no lines crossed. Ben would just have to step up and be a dad, his arms weren't painted on.

And as the mood pushed me in the right direction, I picked up the iPad and started researching my weekend's activities. After all, I did have a tourist wishlist to fulfil and come Saturday I was heading to my number-one spot.

Hello, Tiffany's!





Chapter Eleven


With Grace down for a nap that I knew I would pay for later in the night, I curled up on the nursing chair. I wondered where Ben had gotten his tattered copy of Charlotte's Web from  –  it was by far the only thing in the entire apartment that seemed to have a bit of personality, a history. Even in Grace's room the walls were blank  –  so much wall space and nothing hanging there, like a rental property. It would be a little while before Grace could provide any paintings for the fridge, but it wasn't out of the question to reconnect with my roots and get back into painting again. It'd be nice to create something for Grace. Painting was the one activity I'd loved to share with the boys back home; on a sunny day we would sit in the garden and they'd attempt to tell a story with scribblings about cars and family portraits with mythical pet dogs, rainbows and chimney smoke, while I tried to tap into a lost part of myself from my high school days, painting semi-abstract art with blocks of colour. At the start I was way out of practice and frustrated enough to think that the boys' paintings were turning out better than mine, until one evening when Dr Liebenberg observed one of my paintings drying on the clothes horse in the laundry and declared his love for it: 'It's exactly what I've been looking for, for the office. It's perfect.'

At first I'd thought he was just being polite, but when he asked me how much I wanted for it, the smile fell from my face.

'Every artist has a price,' he'd insisted, and for the first and only time in my life, someone bartered the price up. Every amount I mentioned, Dennis Liebenberg laughed, then wrote out a cheque, scribbling his signature with his barely readable doctor's handwriting, tearing it from the stub and passing it to me.

'You have to own what you do, Sarah.'

I've never forgotten those words of wisdom; I've also never forgotten the shock of reading the cheque: three hundred and fifty dollars, substantially different to the twenty-five I'd originally asked for. I'd thought him mad, but, hey, each to their own. 

With the support of Lorraine Liebenberg, I'd nervously gone into Rosie's Café and asked if it was possible to display my work on the walls in return for a small commission if they sold. Rosie seemed unfazed and allowed me to hang my work with my signature and a price tag in the corner. I had thought myself quite the artist, even if the rest of the town didn't seem to be as enthusiastic about my art as Dr Liebenberg. As far as I knew, the pieces were still for sale in ol' Rosie's Café. A bit of a blow to the ego. But it was nice to know there was a Sarah Williams original hanging over the fireplace somewhere in remote Slovenia. How many artists could claim that?

I was positively giddy about looking online for supplies. Entering in the details of my credit card, I decided to start out small, a basic sketch pad and pencils, easy enough to slip into my tote bag and transport anywhere.

As I clicked on the button to complete my purchase, the doorbell rang. I checked my iPad. Surely express delivery wasn't that express?

I revelled in the freedom of running without a baby attached to me, making sure I got to the door before the bell rang a second time and woke her. I promised myself that the first thing I was going to make with my new materials was a 'Do Not Disturb  –  baby sleeping' sign. And that would go even for Penny Worthington.

I hoped this wasn't her, swinging by for a post-lunch visit with Alistair. This time I thought to spy through the peephole on my tippy toes. I smiled broadly and opened the door with glee.

'Hello!' I said, a little bit too high-pitched.

Nikki Fitzgerald stood before me, looking dishevelled yet still pretty with her ash-blonde hair unruly around her face and dressed in what looked like a maternity kaftan, sunglasses and carrying an oversized bag.

'Quick, I have one hour of peace so I have to make the most of it,' she said, causing me to step aside as she waddled through the door and dumped her bag on the floor like a teenager's backpack after school. She shucked off her shoes and placed her hands on her lower back with a groan before perching her sunglasses on top of her head and parting her curtain of hair. Her cheeks were flushed, and I could tell she was struggling to lug around her belly.

'Are you okay? Do you want a drink?'

'Yes, please, you will be my best friend,' she said, supporting herself on the banister.

'You're not going to go into labour, are you?'

Nikki laughed. 'I should be so lucky, and why does everyone keep asking me that? It's like everyone is scared to be around me or something. I'm beginning to get a complex.'

'Hey, we're just looking out for the pregnant lady,' I said, holding up my hands and heading down the hall.

'I like you, your accent is funny,' she said.

'Funnier than an Irish accent?' I asked, veering toward the fridge.

'Ah, yeah, Seamus, bless his tartan socks. I swear when we first started dating, I couldn't understand a word he was saying.'

I laughed, pouring a lemon squash from the jug. 'And now?'

'Now? Now I'm his interpreter.'

'Well, I look forward to meeting him,' I said, handing the glass to her.

'Thanks.' She gulped the lemonade, the ice cubes tinkling against the edge of the glass. She drank like she had been stranded in the Sahara, smacking her lips together in appreciation. 'Oh, that's lovely.' It was only then that she seemed to be back in the moment, skimming her eyes around the lounge. 'Where's Gracie?'



       
         
       
        

I sat down opposite her, pulling my legs to my chest on the plush leather lounge. 'She's down for a nap.'

'Is that child ever awake? I swear, every time I come for cuddles  … '

'Trust me, she's awake plenty. Maybe come for cuddles any time between one and five am, apparently those are the party hours.'