‘Is this outfit even legal?’ I yell while I work out the helmet. Shouldn’t I be wearing more protective gear?
He glances over his shoulder at my knee-high boot, bare leg and skirt hitched to the rafters, kicks the stand and yells, ‘It shouldn’t be.’
I’m still reeling from the compliment as he sweeps us out of the driveway, down our street, past the village centre and onto Lanyon Drive, glimpses of snow-capped mountains reinforcing how chilly it is as first light brightens the sky. We rush past a winter fantasyland of frost-covered farms, fog lifting in patches into a lightening blue sky, and my heart rate bolts. My thighs clench tightly around his hips with surprising force for a set of muscles that haven’t seen the inside of a gym in four years. When we reach the highway and I cling tighter around his waist, he opens the throttle and I know he’s showing off now.
Wait! I am a sole parent. I shouldn’t be taking such risks! Getting on a motorbike with a virtual stranger, without proper protective gear? But it’s too late now. Temperature in the single digits, giddy smile frozen to my face, I let out a couple of loud whoops, which only encourages him to floor it.
I feel more alive right now than I’ve felt in years. Maybe it’s because, on the back of this bike, I feel closer to death than I ever have before. A fraction of a second of lost concentration is all that lies between Cam and me. Such a fine line. Infinitesimal.
Justin roars through the early morning traffic, weaving in and out of cars on Pialligo Avenue, then across the Molonglo River. Cold air slices through me until I’m numb, and when we finally cruise past the airport hotel into the passenger drop-off loop, I’m disappointed the ride is over. I can see Hugh standing at the kerb in his suit, briefcase placed beside him on the pavement, checking his watch. What happened to the Qantas Club?
Justin sees Hugh, too. I know this because he revs the engine unnecessarily as we pull in right beside where Hugh is standing. Hugh doesn’t even register it’s me until I take off the helmet and shake my tangled curls loose with a flourish of thoroughly gratuitous drama, to the tune of 1000 revs per minute and some perfectly timed lighting from the sunrise.
By the time he clocks who I am, his gaze has helped itself to an unprecedented and unprofessional roam through my windswept hair, all the way down to my leather boots and up my thigh again, where it finally stalls.
Justin swings the front wheel of the bike into the kerb to steady it and leans it onto the kickstand. He takes my helmet and extends his hand as if I’m Daphne Bridgerton alighting from a horse-drawn carriage at a nineteenth-century ball. As I prepare to dismount, I realise those Regency women had longer and more voluminous skirts and didn’t inadvertently flash everyone behind them in the drop-off queue like I do as I swing my leg over the back of the enormous bike, stumble backwards over the gutter in a poorly executed Frosby Flop and tumble into the waiting arms of my exceedingly unimpressed boss.
Hugh steadies me, sighs heavily, glares at Justin over my head, props me onto my own two, very uncoordinated feet and bends down so we’re at eye level. ‘Are you drunk, Kate?’
The hide!
‘Excuse me, I haven’t had more than half a glass of anything in weeks. You saw me tip Grace’s glass down the sink last night in front of you.’
Alcohol doesn’t mix with grief, I’ve found, so I’ve been largely avoiding it. And that thought brings me up sharp. For twenty or so liberating minutes, I’d actually forgotten that I am heartbroken. No, it’s worse than that. You’re heartbroken after a break-up. You can grieve a break-up too, and grieve someone’s absence from your life, but when someone dies, it’s soul-deep. An impossible-to-grasp, endless absence not just from you, but from the entire world. You won’t run into them by accident in the supermarket. You can’t stalk them on social media. Your best friend won’t furnish you with gossip about their next steps. There’s just nothing. Forever.
Justin hands me my bag, pulling me from my thoughts. I step back and admire the bike properly now. On the back of it, for the very first time since the night Cam died, there’d been a sliver of time free from obsessing over the sheer awfulness of it all. Obsessing over Cam. And how much I miss and adore him and can barely gasp for air sometimes in his absence. What a precious escape this ride was.
Reality chases the dream. I’m definitely thinking about Cam now and feeling really bad about how effortlessly sexy I imagined myself to be just then, perched behind Justin, all leather and legs and Biker Chick Energy . . . before misjudging the dismount, obviously, annoying Hugh and snapping straight back into the real world.
I start to unzip the leather jacket, but Justin grabs my hand and pauses the action at my chest.
‘Nobody’s going to need that before you get back,’ he explains, still holding onto my hand. ‘Keep it. You look hot.’
I glance at Hugh. If I’m scouting for a second opinion, I’m not going to get it.
When I pull out my phone, Justin lifts it straight out of my hand and inputs what I assume is his number, whether I want it or not. Hugh and I watch silently as he saves the contact, hands it back and says, ‘I put it on speed dial.’ This is a man who has clearly experienced very little social rejection. He must have god-like status in the largely introverted actuarial world.
‘We board in ten minutes,’ Hugh says, his tone brisk. I toss the strap of my tote over my shoulder and mumble an inadequate thank you to Justin, launching myself at him for a lightning-fast hug.
He hugs me back so tight I’m breathless. Then he readjusts the strap of my bag, which is now all caught up in the zipper of his jacket somehow. Hugh sighs as I peel myself off my neighbour and a police officer wanders over and says, ‘Move on, please.’ This is strictly a drop-off area, and not a place for awkward and premature public displays of affection, regardless of how cinematic this scene looks in my imagination. There’s always been a lot of Anne of Green Gables about me, imagination-wise.
‘Two police incidents since we met,’ Justin observes, swinging his leg over the bike again and kicking the stand. ‘You’ll get me in trouble, Kate.’