Looking Out, page 2
‘Do you have more work to do?’ Mitchell asked as he got up and moved around the table, gathering the empty plates.
‘Yes, I need to update the website and probably should post something on social media. And you?’ Natasha said, reluctantly getting up to help.
‘Yup.’
It was a waste of breath, really. Mitchell was like a teenage boy these days – spent all his time holed up in his bedroom/home office, only coming out for meals and brief trips to the supermarket if necessary. Granted, he did make most of the meals and of course he was working still, trading on the US stock exchange at odd times. She tried not to feel piqued, but a slight wave of resentment wound its way through her. She sometimes missed his body nearby now he slept in another room so he didn’t wake her with his unusual working hours and insomnia, but had to admit she did sleep better with him gone. Sleep seemed harder to come by these days and the heat fluctuations and her needing to alternate between throwing off and then retrieving the covers all through the night would no doubt drive him mad.
When had they last had sex? Natasha paused, one hand on the gravy jug and the other on the bowl of broccoli and beans. For the first year or so of sleeping in separate rooms, they’d both quietly padded down the hall for ‘visiting rights’ – the novelty giving them a rush and more powerful orgasms. But the ship seemed to have sailed on all that ages ago.
Natasha wasn’t sure what time worked for him now – if any time did – and she suspected that might be the case for Mitchell, too. Anyway, she was usually too tired to get up again once she’d turned in and not really inclined. Her libido seemed to have all but disappeared – no doubt another of the downsides of perimenopause. Or perhaps just life and being a business owner and mum were to blame; energy was always in short supply. She should probably make more of an effort, initiate occasionally.
She frowned as they stood shoulder to shoulder stacking the dishwasher and tidying up the kitchen.
‘What’s with the frown?’ he asked, holding a hand out for the plate she’d just scraped off into the compost bin.
‘Oh, nothing, just trying to remember something I have to do tomorrow,’ she lied. She smiled at him, having to force her expression slightly.
‘You’ll remember, you always do,’ he said, smiling back and touching her gently on the tip of the nose.
‘Okay, that’s that,’ he said a few moments later while surveying the space.
Natasha wrapped her arms around him. ‘Thanks again for dinner.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said, leaning into her and ruffling her hair. ‘Lasagne tomorrow, if that suits you?’
‘Sure does. If you can be bothered.’
‘Of course. Better than twiddling my thumbs, waiting for the market to open,’ Mitchell said, releasing her before closing the dishwasher and setting it going.
Natasha nodded distractedly.
‘Can I get you more wine before I get back to it?’
‘I’ll get it. You go.’
He kissed her on the forehead and filled his own glass. ‘Well, I’ll go and make us all some money, fingers crossed,’ he said, raising both his eyebrows and his wine glass.
‘Good luck,’ Natasha called to his retreating back.
She slumped onto the plush, feather-filled couch, turned on the TV and got out her tablet. Her thoughts went back to Mitchell. He was okay, wasn’t he? He hadn’t seemed stressed? No. He might work odd, unsociable hours, but at least he loved what he did. And he was much happier now than when he’d been an accountant working in the city. Perhaps not quite as buoyant now as then, but still … It was nice having him home to cook and not having to worry about him driving back and forth on the winding road that had claimed so many lives.
She took another long swig of wine and pushed back her meandering concerns as she picked up the remote and looked for something to put on in the background while she worked. She answered a couple of quick emails, using form responses she’d put together along the way that could simply be copied and pasted. She didn’t mind too much that they were the same topics covered by her website’s frequently asked questions page already. At the moment the volume was manageable – which was a bit problematic in itself; she’d been hoping the shop and her interior design services business would be thriving by now. She really wanted to be doing more consultations and projects and to be able to afford a staff member. She sighed. What more could she do, other than perhaps move somewhere more populated? Say, the east coast of Australia? Trouble was, she liked this town, which was close to Adelaide yet reasonably rural – though becoming more crowded and citified by the day.
She knew Mitchell would move back to Sydney in a heartbeat if she asked. They’d met there – though both were South Australian born and bred. He wouldn’t want to leave the Adelaide Hills, but he’d do anything for her. She knew that. She was determined to become a success here. And anyway, wasn’t Sydney and surrounds saturated by interior designers and homewares?
The problem was getting people to pay for her services. The current cost of living and increasing interest rates were killing her business. She was a luxury people couldn’t afford or simply didn’t want to pay for. Everyone thought they could do it themselves by trawling Instagram and watching shows like The Block.
Though she seemed to have enough pieces in her shop that were still selling well. People were always after a bit of luxury in the form of throw cushions and rugs and scented soap and candles. Particularly as many still didn’t seem to be going on holidays so much since the pandemic. That was the theme of her marketing at the moment: stay put, add a bit of luxury and enjoy your own home. They’d all had far too much of home during the recent Covid years, but things were starting to look a little more like they had before their lives had been rudely interrupted. While those who had most craved escaping overseas for a long-put-off holiday had done so, it appeared many only seemed to have one trip in them. People just didn’t have the patience or necessary resilience to stand in lines or wait for their luggage or whatever anymore. The world was tired, full stop. She certainly was. And frustrated and distracted.
Maybe what she and Mitchell needed was to get away for a bit. Europe for Christmas? Snow, beautiful old buildings adorned for the festive season, gorgeous markets to wander … The girls would love it too. And it would be good research for her. She might even be able to meet some new suppliers … Oh, yes …
But, no. Mitchell was too much of a homebody, and seemed to be only becoming more so by the week. She doubted she’d get him on a plane anywhere now, including a short hop interstate. So, there was no way he’d be keen on getting on a long-haul flight. Hell, she probably wouldn’t be able to even get him to agree to a weekend in a B&B just over an hour drive away on the Fleurieu Peninsula.
Anyway, she couldn’t really justify the expense of an overseas trip for her business when it wasn’t yet pulling its weight, could she? Even if they could afford it, and she wasn’t sure about that either: Mitchell took care of the family finances.
Chapter Three
Natasha had dusted her stock and taken some pictures, ready to do a social media post, when the glass door opened with the tinkle of the old-fashioned bell she never ceased to enjoy the sound of. She looked up to see a man dressed in a tradie’s navy-blue shirt with orange fluoro highlights and matching navy trousers. She returned his smile and, while he was looking around the small space, the focus of which was two bay windows, she took in his neat and tidy appearance. Tall, dark and handsome. So clichéd, she told herself, and tried not to roll her eyes. And, actually, he wasn’t above average height. Standing tall, confidently, she silently revised.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ she asked his back.
He turned. His broad smile, glowing white, perfectly straight teeth and single dimple stopped her mid-thought. She’d always been a sucker for a set of bright, well-aligned teeth. Or, perhaps not a sucker for but, rather, always noticed. There were lots of not-so-great sets of choppers around. It was like she was a metal detector, but for teeth or the perfect smile. The thought almost made her laugh out loud. She made a mental note to remember to tell Mitchell, but was cut off by the man’s voice.
‘Do you have any of those in a green frame?’ he asked, turning to the clocks. ‘The one on the left,’ he added, pointing.
‘I’m afraid not, just the blue and the white, sorry.’
‘Okay. That’s a pity.’
‘Is it a gift you’re looking for? Perhaps something other than a clock?’ she suggested. ‘If you’re keen on green generally, I mean.’ Natasha paused to regain her composure, realising she was becoming flustered under the man’s piercing gaze. Enormous brown eyes, slightly disconcerting in their intensity.
She looked away, gripped the cold edge of the glass countertop with two hands. ‘Is it for a gift?’ she repeated.
‘Yes and no. I just thought I’d like to surprise my wife.’ He shrugged.
Natasha tapped her lip to buy some time as she recovered from hearing that he was married, or rather, from the slight surge of disappointment she’d experienced. What was with her today? Another symptom of perimenopause? Ah, who would know? Her hormones had turned her upside down. If she hadn’t had a million conversations about it with her friends, and read just as many, if not more, online forums and social media posts and group chats on the subject, she might have worried she really was losing her mind.
‘You can’t go wrong with a throw rug,’ she blurted. ‘Here, this one …’
‘Oh, yes, how about this?’ the man said, at almost the same time. They each put a hand on the item draped over the arm of one of the two wicker chairs nestled around a small round table. No space for a full-size couch in here.
They were so close, Natasha thought she could feel heat radiating off him. Or perhaps it was from her. We’re both married, for Christ’s sake. Stop it.
Well, a girl can dream, she heard a voice, very similar to her friend Monica’s, say in her mind.
‘Perfect. The mix of colours will mean it goes with pretty much everything,’ Natasha blathered.
‘How much is it?’ he asked.
She knew off the top of her head, but was suddenly unwilling to say. She desperately wanted the sale. Why the price being uttered by her or discovered on the tag by him made any difference, she couldn’t have said.
‘It’s beautiful quality. Brushed alpaca, made in Australia,’ she said as he turned the tag over.
‘Oh. Damn. That’s more than I wanted to spend,’ he said, frowning. ‘You know, for a no-reason gift, that is,’ he added, with an easy, lopsided smile.
‘Being as it’s been here a little while, I could give you twenty per cent off,’ Natasha said, raising her eyebrows hopefully.
‘Twenty-five and you’ve got a deal,’ he countered with a cheeky glint to his eye. His eyebrows were raised to match hers, waiting.
Natasha’s heart thudded hard against her ribs. ‘Okay. Done,’ she said.
‘Great.’ He grinned and Natasha was surprised to find his hand being offered to her to shake. She felt she had no option but to clasp it. His grip was firm, dry and warm, and lingered for just a little longer than was necessary. Or had she lost track of time?
He had his gaze trained on her face still. ‘Thank you …?’
‘Natasha. It’s Natasha. I’m Natasha.’
‘Jesse. Lovely to meet you.’ He smiled openly.
‘I’ll just …’ She went to the chair, having to squeeze past him to retrieve the rug. She held it to her and said, ‘This comes in a lovely canvas bag in case you need, or want, to store it. It’s just out the back – I won’t be a moment.’
She ducked through the door behind the counter and quickly spritzed her face with the water bottle she kept for dealing with hot flushes then patted it dry, taking care not to ruin her makeup. As she grabbed the bag off the shelf, she thanked her lucky stars for being so organised as to know where it was in her flustered state. What the bloody hell was wrong with her?
‘Here we are,’ she said, carrying it back out to the man. He turned as she reappeared. She carefully refolded the throw and tucked it into the bag then pulled the drawstring closed. ‘Would you like it wrapped in tissue or just in a carry bag?’ she asked.
‘Wrapped would be lovely, thanks.’
‘Okay. No problem,’ she said.
As he waited, he leant further over the counter, seemingly getting closer to her with each second that passed.
‘There we are,’ she said finally, patting the completed raffia bow. She rang up the item, marvelling as she did that she’d remembered to take the tag off first. She couldn’t remember having done so, but there it was right beside the register. Thank goodness for established habits. And she was ever so grateful that the point-of-sale system she used calculated the discount automatically. She’d never have been able to navigate that under his piercing gaze.
‘So, are you a tradie?’ she asked as she waited for the machine to connect. He was standing with his card ready, twirling it around, unnerving her even further. ‘Sorry, it seems we have a slow connection this morning.’
‘No worries. Yep, shirt’s a bit of a giveaway, I guess.’
Was he being cheeky? Flirty? Or condescending? Natasha wasn’t sure. And what did it matter? ‘Which one – trade, that is?’ she said, ignoring the tiny flicker … of what, she wasn’t quite sure.
‘Locksmith. Here, in case you ever need one,’ he said, dragging a business card out of his wallet and handing it over.
‘Oh. Okay.’ Ah, a fellow small business owner trying to drum up some business of his own. She knew how awkward selling oneself was and how you had to make the most of any opportunity. No doubt that was what had caused him to be a little whatever it was she’d detected in him. ‘Thanks. Hopefully not. No offence – but you know …’ She gave a slightly helpless shrug.
‘None taken. But you never know.’
‘No. Exactly. There we are,’ she said, handing him his receipt and then the handles of the carry bag. ‘I hope it looks perfect in your house and that your wife loves it. She’s a lucky woman.’ Oh god, no. What did you say that for? ‘Lucky to be getting a gorgeous gift just because, I mean,’ she quickly added. Shut up, Natasha. Now. Just shut up.
‘Thanks, it’s perfect, beautiful … shop.’
Had he just called her beautiful or said the shop was beautiful?
As he left, he paused and turned to wave, flashing another brilliant smile as he did.
She busied herself with unnecessary tidying of stock as she noticed him looking out through the window of his silver dual-cab ute. He waved. At me? But she kept her hands down. She was being ridiculous. The whole interaction had been ridiculous.
Remembering the business card she’d put on the counter, Natasha went over and picked it up. Locksmith. There was a mobile number, but nothing else; no actual business name, no surname, no email address and no social media details. Weird.
Was it, though? It was probably all you needed, really. When you wanted a locksmith, it was most likely for emergencies, wasn’t it? So best to dispense with the superfluous. A part of her envied the simplicity. The whole social media thing was wearing thin. It had taken her practically forever to give in to the intrusion of posting pictures of everything in the shop, the weighing up of what and how much of the personal she wanted to include in her public posts. But, of course, she was her business, so she felt there wasn’t really much choice of leaving herself out. She still wasn’t a fan of selfies, but had joined the masses and now took a lot of them, even if she sometimes still had to scroll through a dozen to select the best one. It was all a bit obsessive and icky. And now the world was moving on to videos. She wasn’t good with spontaneous, cute or funny. Once it was out there, it was out there forever. She sighed. It was still cheaper than other forms of marketing and advertising.
As the day wound on and browsers and genuine shoppers came and went, her thoughts drifted back to tradie guy Jesse and what an odd interaction it had been. She supposed she wasn’t really used to men coming into the shop at all, except near Mother’s Day, which it wasn’t. Perhaps that was an angle to explore for marketing: targeting men. She could perhaps ask Jesse where might be a good place to start. He was neatly dressed, which in her experience suggested success, or at least a certain level of attention to detail and reasonable standards.
Oh, stop it. You know nothing about him, other than the fact he’s married, which you are too. God, I need more appropriate things to focus on. Like social bloody media.
What I really need is a billionaire with six mansions to come calling and hire me, she thought wistfully.
*
The ding of the shop’s bell startled Natasha. She smiled, seeing Willow and Lara entering. She loved the after-school clatter and commotion, and them throwing themselves onto the wicker display chairs for a rest. Natasha had long ago given up trying to stop them messing up the stock; there was nowhere else for them to spread out. They acted as if they’d walked miles in the heat, when in actual fact they’d just been dropped off by a friend’s parent, having stayed late after school for Willow’s drama class and Lara’s chess club. They could walk from school – it was only around ten minutes away – but she didn’t like that the journey was alongside a busy main road and that they needed to cross. Mitchell always used to collect them, but lately he’d seemed less inclined to.
‘How was school and everything?’ Natasha asked automatically before pushing her phone away from her. She’d got caught up scrolling online, both websites for design ideas and stock, as well as mindless scrolling of social media. The irony wasn’t lost on her that she was scouring the internet for inspiration when that’s exactly what she wished her potential clients would stop doing. Maybe she should really be thinking of doing something different with her life for a career. This thought was running through her mind a lot lately, but she was in too deep with stock on hand and that which would be arriving regularly over the coming year. It wasn’t just a matter of closing the doors and walking away.
