Beware of the Boss
Автор
Leah Ashton
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One
With a gasp, Lanie Smith sat up abruptly, her floppy straw hat dislodging onto her lap and her towel a tangle amongst her hastily rearranged legs.
What on earth?
A shockingly cold nose pressing insistently against her knee answered that question. The large dog, its long red coat soaked in salt water and decorated generously with beach sand, nudged her leg, then flicked its liquid chocolate gaze hopefully in her direction.
‘You lose something, buddy?’
Lanie leant forward, searching amongst the folds of her towel. The dog found its soggy-looking target first and snatched the ball up, backing a quick handful of steps away before going still and staring at her again.
‘You want me to throw it?’
Knowing there was really only one answer to that question, Lanie pressed her hands into the sand and climbed to her feet. She shook her head a little, still fuzzy from her impromptu nap.
One minute she’d been reading her paperback...the next... She glanced up at the sky, looking for the sun, and breathed a silent sigh of relief when she realised it was still low and behind her. At least she hadn’t slept for long.
Not that sleeping the day away would have been such a disaster. It wasn’t as if she had a million other things to do.
The dog came closer and dropped the ball with a dull plop at her feet.
Hurry up.
Lanie couldn’t help but smile.
‘Okay, okay, buddy—here we go.’
With barely a grimace as her fingers wrapped around the slobbery ball—there was enough water here at North Cottesloe beach to wash her hands, after all—Lanie weighed up her throwing options. Back towards the water, from where the dog had obviously come? Or along the shore...?
‘Luther!’
The deep voice stilled Lanie’s movements. The dog momentarily glanced in the direction of the obviously familiar voice before refocussing his rapt attention on the ball.
A man loped across the blinding white sand towards her. He was shirtless, wearing only baggy, low-slung board shorts and a pair of jet-black sunglasses. The morning sun reflected off toned olive skin that glowed with exertion, and he ran a hand through slightly too long dark brown hair as he approached, leaving it standing in a haphazard arrangement.
Lanie found herself patting uselessly at her own brownish hair—which, in contrast, she was sure had not been rakishly enhanced by the combined effects of sand, wind and the fact that she’d done no more than loop it into half a ponytail before walking out of the house this morning.
‘Luther!’ the man said again.
The dog moved not a muscle, every line of his body focussed on Lanie’s hand.
For the first time the man glanced in her direction.
And it was only a glance—as brief and uninterested as Luther’s when he’d heard his owner call his name.
‘Are you planning on keeping his ball?’ the man asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waited for her response.
Lanie blinked behind her own sunglasses. ‘Pardon me?’
He sighed, twisting his wrist to look at his watch. ‘Can you please give Luther his ball? Soonish would be great.’
The ball dropped from Lanie’s fingers, but the big red dog pounced as excitedly as if she’d thrown it miles away. Now he crossed the short distance to his owner, and moments later the ball was whizzing through the air and into the shallow waves. The dog followed with huge, galumphing, splashing strides.
The man left too, without a backward glance, jogging the exact parallel distance from the lapping waves as he did every single morning.
‘You’re welcome,’ Lanie said to his rapidly retreating broad shoulders.
What a jerk.
She knelt to stuff her towel and book into her canvas tote bag, and covered her windblown hair with her hat.
Well, at least now she knew.
In the past weeks she’d come to recognise most of the early-morning regulars at the beach—the dedicated open water swimmers who swam at seven a.m. every day, come rain, hail or shine. The walkers—both the walking-for-exercise and the walking-because-the-beach-is-gorgeous types. The joggers, the surfers, the sunbathers—and of course the dogs.
That man was also a regular. Unlike the others, who would greet Lanie with a familiar nod or smile each morning, this man appeared to be absorbed completely in his own world. He went for his run, his dog zipping about the shore in his wake—and then he left. That was it.
Dark and interesting, Lanie had thought whenever she’d seen him. Private. Intense.
Gorgeous. Obviously.
She wouldn’t have been human not to wonder about a man like that. What did he do? What was his name? Was he married?
Not that she’d harboured any ridiculous daydreams. Lanie was, if nothing else, pragmatic.
But still—she’d wondered.
And now she had the only answer she needed. So, what was he like? Rude. Definitely.
Oh, well. No great loss—he could still add to her beautiful view each morning. A personality deficiency wouldn’t impact on that.
With her shoes dangling from her fingers, Lanie followed a path through the green scrub-tufted dunes towards Marine Parade. Small white shells mixed amongst the sand dug into the soles of her feet. When she hit the footpath she dropped her shoes to the ground so she could step into them. The concrete was surprisingly warm, despite the lukewarm winter day.
It was Tuesday, so the Norfolk-pine-lined street was mostly empty, not crammed with cars fighting for every available space as was typical throughout summer weekends. Across the road, multi-million-dollar homes faced the cerulean ocean, with a single café nestled amongst their architecturally designed glory. The café’s white-painted tables and chairs spilled outside, protected by brightly covered shade cloth sails and decorated with blue glass bottles filled with yellow daisies. Lanie’s house was a two-minute walk up the hill—but a wave from the grey-haired man amongst the empty tables drew her attention.
‘Lanie!’ he called out, pausing his energetic sweeping to prop himself against a broom. ‘Morning! Did you swim today?’
She smiled as she shook her head. ‘Not today.’
‘Tomorrow?’
They followed this script every day. ‘Maybe.’
The man grumbled something non-distinct, but his opinion was still crystal-clear.
‘Tell me what you really think, Bob,’ she said dryly.
‘Such a waste,’ he said—just as he had yesterday—then patted one of the table tops. ‘Coffee?’
Lanie nodded. Along with her early-morning beach visits, coffee at the eponymous Bob’s Café had become part of her daily routine.
She slid onto the wooden chair, careful to avoid Bob’s scruffy-looking apricot poodle who slept, oblivious, at her feet. Bob didn’t wait to take her order, just shuffled inside to brew her ‘usual’: flat white, no sugar, extra shot of coffee.
On the table was today’s newspaper, and automatically Lanie flipped it over as she waited.
A giant colour photograph almost filled the back page: a familiar, perfect, blinding white smile; slicked back, damp blond hair and eyes identical to those she saw in the mirror each day—except Sienna’s were a sparkling azure blue, not brown.
‘Hazel,’ her mum always said. ‘Not brown. If you only made more of them, Lanie, they’d be your best feature.’
‘Another gold medal,’ Bob said, sliding a large mug and saucer onto the table.
Lanie shrugged. ‘I know. She’s doing really well. This is a great meet for her.’
Meet. Quite the understatement.
Bob raised his white-flecked eyebrows.
‘I mean it,’ Lanie said—and she did. ‘I’m thrilled for her. Very proud of her.’
Her sister was in London, living Lanie’s dream.
No, Sienna’s dream. Lanie’s dream had ended months ago, at the selection trials.
Lanie held her mug in her hands for a few moments, then raised an eyebrow at Bob, who still hovered.
‘It’s the relay tonight,’ Bob said.
‘Uh-huh.’ Lanie took a too-quick sip and the hot liquid stung the roof of her mouth. She pressed her tongue against the slight pain, dismissing it.
Bob didn’t push, but she felt the occasional weight of his gaze as he swept around her. He was a sports nut—pure and simple. Fanatical, actually—he had to be to have recognised her that first morning she’d emerged from her mother’s house. Lanie Smith was far, far from a household name. Sienna Smith—well, that was another story. A story that could be read in the sports pages, in gushing women’s magazines, or even in lads’ mags accompanied by pictures of her in far more revealing bathers than her sister wore at swim-meets.
It didn’t bother her. Her younger sister was suited to the limelight and she deserved it. Lanie was much happier in the shadows and perfectly satisfied with her accomplishments as a world-class relay swimmer. Besides, she certainly didn’t crave the adulation that Sienna seemed to draw like a magnet.
Mostly satisfied. Lanie mentally corrected herself. Mostly satisfied with her accomplishments.
Absently she flicked through the sporting pages, full of photos of winners on podiums.
‘Wish it was you?’
She hadn’t realised Bob had approached her table again, and she glanced up in surprise. ‘Of course not,’ Lanie replied—snapped, really. Immediately she wished she could swallow the words. ‘I’m retired,’ she clarified, more calmly.
He nodded and drifted politely away again—but Lanie didn’t miss the questions, and maybe concern, in his eyes.
She stood and left a handful of coins on the table, trying to ignore how her eyes had started to tingle and squint.
It was the sea breeze.
She slung her bag onto her shoulder and took big, brisk strides to exit the café and get home as quickly as possible.
She’d walked past three huge mansions, heading towards the street where her mother’s small neat cottage was, when something caught her eye.
The glint of sun off a sweaty, perfectly muscled chest.
That man.
He jogged along the footpath on the opposite side of the road. His dog was now on a lead, intermittently gazing up at his owner in adoration.
Lanie felt herself tense, for no reason she could fathom.
She’d slowed her walk, but now she deliberately sped up—back to the pace she’d been before.
She didn’t care about that guy. Didn’t care if he was rude. Didn’t care what he thought of her.
Didn’t care what Bob thought.
Didn’t care what her sister thought. Didn’t care what anyone thought.
She held her head high and walked briskly past. With purpose.
But out of the corner of her eye she couldn’t help but watch the man.
And notice that he paid her absolutely no attention at all.
It was as if she were invisible.
* * *
The knock on Lanie’s front door later that night was not unexpected.
She headed down her narrow hallway, her slippers thudding against the hundred-year-old floorboards.
She flung the door open, and—as expected—behind the fly screen stood Teagan. Her long black hair was swept off her face and semi contained in a messy bun on the top of her head, and her eyes sparkled behind red-framed glasses.
Her oldest friend held up a plastic grocery bag. ‘I have four types of cheese, olives, sundried tomatoes, and something I believe is called quince. The guy at the deli told me it was awesome, but I remain sceptical.’
Teagan bounded up the hall, as comfortable in this house as her own. As kids they’d split their time between their family’s homes, although Teagan’s family had long upgraded and moved on, while Lanie’s mum had quite happily stayed put in the house she’d grown up in.
Lanie watched as Teagan pottered around the kitchen, locating a large wooden board and helping herself to cutlery.
She didn’t bother asking why her friend was here as it was so obvious. Equally obvious was the fact that Teagan had ignored her when she’d politely declined her offer to hang out with her tonight.
‘It’s just another race, Teags,’ she’d told her. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Apparently she’d convinced Teagan about as well as she’d convinced herself.
Soon they’d settled on the rug in front of the TV, red wine in hand, cheese platter set out in front of them.
‘You do know the final isn’t until, like, two a.m.?’ Lanie asked, her legs sprawled out in front of her.
‘That’s what coffee is for,’ Teagan said between sips of wine. ‘Besides, this current job I could do in my sleep. Hardly anyone calls Reception. In fact I’m starting to think they don’t have any customers at all. You know...’ Teagan paused, leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘I reckon it’s possible that it’s all an elaborate front for something dodgy. I’ve always thought that my boss has shifty eyes...’
Lanie laughed out loud as Teagan outlined a typically outlandish theory. More than once Lanie had suspected that Teagan’s preference for temping over a more permanent job was purely to get new material—whether they caught up for coffee, dinner or a drink, it was guaranteed that her friend would have a new story to tell.
As they ate—and polished off the bottle of wine—Lanie flicked from channel to channel of the sports coverage—heats of rowing, horses leaping over huge fences across country, cyclists whizzing around a velodrome.
‘So, have you made a decision?’ Teagan said a while later, her tone much more careful than before.
Lanie shifted uncomfortably. ‘Has my mother been in touch?’
Teagan pulled a face. ‘God, no. And it isn’t like your mum’s not capable of nagging you directly.’
Lanie’s lips quirked unevenly.
Teagan drew her legs up so she sat cross-legged. ‘I was just wondering.’ She paused. ‘Worrying, maybe,’ she added softly.
Lanie found herself biting the inside of her lip. When it happened twice in one day—first Bob, and now her best friend—that look really couldn’t be misinterpreted.
They felt sorry for her.
Her whole focus had been aimed in one direction for so long. But now the pool wasn’t calling her to training each morning. Her coach wasn’t yelling at her. Her times weren’t creeping down—or up. She didn’t have another meet to aim for.
She had no goals.
Even though she wasn’t the slightest bit hungry she reached for the cheese platter, busying herself with slicing bread and cheese and then taking her time to chew and swallow, not looking at Teagan
She mentally pulled herself into shape.
‘I’ve decided not to go back to my old job,’ she said, finally answering the question. ‘It’s time for a change. Managing the swim school is too much the same thing I’ve been doing for ever.’ She attempted a carefree laugh. ‘Although I can’t imagine a job where my office doesn’t smell of chlorine!’
Teagan, ever the good friend, smiled back, but she wasn’t about to let her off the hook. ‘So, the new plan is...?’
On the TV a rider toppled off his horse when the big grey animal slid to a stop before a hulking log fence. Lanie watched as he immediately jumped to his feet. She could see what he was telling everyone with his body language—I’m fine!—but the commentator was explaining in a clipped British accent that this meant he was disqualified. His dream was over.
The man patted his horse’s neck, then leant forward until his silk-covered helmet rested against the horse’s cheek.
Lanie knew exactly how he felt.
‘I don’t know—maybe I’ll finish my business degree,’ she said with a shrug. Three-quarters finished years ago, she’d abandoned it leading up to the national titles, intending to defer only for a semester or two. But then she’d made the Australian team, and everything had changed.
‘Still living here?’ Teagan’s wrinkled nose conveyed exactly what she thought of that idea.
Lanie didn’t know. She’d moved back in months earlier, after the selection trials. At the time it had seemed sensible—she’d taken extended leave from her job, needed a break from swimming entirely, and without an income she couldn’t afford the rent on her little one-bedder in Scarborough without putting a huge dent into the savings she had earmarked for a house deposit. Her mum and sister had been focused on Sienna—not unusual in itself—so she’d reasoned that it wouldn’t be too bad.
But they’d both be back soon.
‘Maybe.’
Teagan raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm. You’re always welcome to crash at mine. Or I can put a good word in for you at my temp agency?’
‘And I can inadvertently work for an international drug cartel?’ she asked with a smile.
Teagan stuck her tongue out at her.
So the conversation was over—for now.
Some time during one of the rowing finals Lanie noticed Teagan had fallen asleep sprawled against the front of her sofa. She padded over to extract the empty wine glass from her friend’s hand, and then took her time washing up and tidying the kitchen.
She wasn’t at all tired. Quite the opposite. In fact with every passing minute she felt more alert, more awake.
Before Teagan had arrived she’d considered not watching the race at all. She’d told herself that it wasn’t as if anyone would know—and she’d find out the result tomorrow, anyway.
But she hadn’t really believed she could do that, and now she knew she couldn’t. It wasn’t quite the same, but she recognised how she was feeling: as if she was racing today.
The anticipation, the adrenalin, the nervous energy. Muted, but there.
From her kitchen bench Lanie watched the swimmers walk out for the men’s hundred-metre breaststroke final. Watched them stretch and roll their shoulders, wiggle their legs about.
Then she watched the race—listened to the crowd, to the increasing hysteria of the commentators, and then watched the moment the winner won gold.
Automatically she smiled in reaction to the winner’s smile, and then grinned to herself when she realised what she’d done.
See? She could do this. Tonight was just like any other night in front of the television. She’d watched her sister win two medals and been genuinely nervous and then over the moon for her. If she was going to have regrets, or be overwhelmed by jealousy or resentment or something equally unpleasant and inappropriate, she would have done it by now.
It really was just another race.
On the screen, groups of swimmers began to walk out to the pool. Sweden, in their uniform of vivid blue and gold. Japan, with all four women holding hands as they waved to the crowd. The Dutch in orange and grey.
And then the Australian team.
‘Lanie?’ Teagan poked her head over the top of the couch and blinked sleepy eyes in her direction.
‘Perfect timing!’ Lanie said, managing to sound remarkably normal. ‘The race is just about to start.’
Her friend raised an eyebrow.
Okay. Maybe she didn’t sound totally normal. But surely a little bit of tension was to be expected?
The swimmers had all discarded their tracksuits and onto the blocks stepped the lead-out swimmer. Australia was in lane four, sandwiched between the United States and the Netherlands.
Teagan’s eyes were glued to the television when Lanie sat beside her, but her friend still managed to reach out and grab her hand. She shot a short glance in Lanie’s direction as she squeezed it—hard.
‘You okay?’
Lanie nodded. ‘Totally.’
‘Take your marks.’
Pause.
Complete silence.
BEEP!
And they were off.
The first leg was good—strong. The United States touched first, but there was nothing in it. By the end of the second lap Australia had drawn level.
Then the third Aussie girl dived in, sluicing through the water like an arrow.
This was her leg. The girl was just like her—the fastest of the heat swimmers, awarded with the final relay berth amongst the more elite girls.
She was doing a brilliant job. Holding her own.
Would Lanie have?
She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut tight.
She imagined herself in the water. Remembered the way her focus became so narrow, so all-encompassing, that she didn’t hear the crowd—didn’t hear a thing. It was just her body and the water, and all she could control was her technique.
Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke...
The crowd—a world away—was suddenly much louder, and Lanie’s eyes popped open. The anchor swimmer was in the water, and Great Britain had a chance for a medal. The crowd had gone wild.
Teagan squeezed her hand again, harder, and Lanie blinked, refocussing her attention.
Australia had pulled ahead. They were going to win.
And just like that—they had.
The girls had done it, and done it in style—in record time. They deserved every accolade the over-excited commentator was bestowing upon them.
They filled the television screen, swim caps stripped off, damp hair long around their shoulders, as they completed the standard pool-side interview.
‘Lanie?’ Teagan’s voice was full of concern.
Despite her own mental reassurances that she was fine, and the many times she’d told herself she was a bigger person than to be jealous or resentful or whatever, she suddenly realised she wasn’t.
A tear splashed onto her hands, and she looked down to where her fingers were knotted in the flannelette of her pyjamas.
She’d been wallowing. Treading water until this moment—waiting for tonight, for this race.
Why?
Because tonight was the end. The end of her swimming dream.
Teagan silently shoved a handful of tissues in front of her and Lanie dabbed at her cheeks. Blew her nose. And considered what to do next.
She needed to do something—anything. And she had to do it now. She couldn’t wake up tomorrow and be the also-ran swimmer.
She turned to face Teagan on the couch. Her friend was so close to be as good as shoulder to shoulder with her, but she’d wisely not made a move to comfort her.
‘I need a job,’ Lanie said.
Teagan’s eyes widened, but then she smiled. ‘But no drug cartels?’
‘Or anything involving swimming.’
Her friend’s smile broadened. ‘Consider it done.’
