Page 9 of The Reality of Us
“I want a div—”
“I’m getting another call,” Chris interjected. “Don’t say anything else or you’ll mess this up for everyone.” He hung up, and she stared at the home screen.
It was one thing for her parents to speak to her like she was a child … at least she’d been their child once upon a time, but this … this was too much.
No more standing still. No more pretending.
She tapped ‘divorce lawyer + wattle junction’ into Google.
Thankfully, there was one. James and Associates was only a few doors down. Score another one for small towns. As soon as she finished her nails, she’d set up an appointment. It’d do her good to get out of the room. Maybe she’d even brave dinner in the pub downstairs.
There was a knock on her door. A strange, gruff voice called her name before heavy footsteps faded away. Damn. The paps were already getting antsy.
Maybe she’d wait a little bit longer.
4
Owen hit enter.
Hit it again.
For the ninth time, nothing happened.
How was it possible for someone to be the dux of an undergraduate law program but not be able to work the supposedly simple—according to the reviews—invoicing and accounting program he’d bought for the office?
He cursed loudly, grateful Frankie was finished for the day. She’d shown him this morning, but he’d been distracted by Alice walking past the office followed by a group of cameras. He’d politely rebuffed Frankie’s offer to show him again before she’d left because she seemed keen to hang around. There’d been a casual offer to ‘grab an early dinner’, and Owen wanted to be clear from the start that he didn’t mix business with pleasure. Any dalliances would be kept strictly away from his professional life. And his mother’s knowledge.
Thumbing through the instruction manual, he tried to figure out what he was doing wrong. He tossed it back onto his desk and undid his tie.
The program was defective. After last week’s conversation with Lulu and the heavy-handed hints she’d dropped at trivia on Monday night, he didn’t want to ask her for accounting help, even though she’d recommended this program. Owen rubbed his face, remembering the phones still weren’t working properly either. All the calls were now going to voicemail and he had no clue why. They’d been working perfectly well two days ago and bam. Starting his own law firm had been full of challenges, mostly administrative, he hadn’t anticipated. He should send his old secretary a bunch of flowers for all his gruffness and impatience when she was obviously dealing with technology created by Satan.
He was about to try again when the bell over the front door chimed.
Strange. It was well after five.
Pushing back from the oak desk he inherited from his predecessor, Owen stood and fixed his tie. The thick, cream carpet in the short hallway muffled his steps. He was pleased to note any lingering smell from the pale grey paint he’d chosen had disappeared. He shook his head—really, his mum had chosen the paint and most of the other décor except for the art hanging on the walls. He’d picked the bluey-grey Rothko print for the reception area, and the picture Nate had painted him for Christmas hung behind his desk. It was a swirling mixture of soft greens and blue watercolours, calming and tranquil.
He stepped into the reception area.
“Really?” Alice looked around the room, her hand opening and closing around the strap of the leather bag slung across her body. “You’re the lawyer? Huh. The suit makes sense now.”
Owen looked down at his navy suit. It was one of his favourites. “Plenty of people dress like this,” he said.
Alice rummaged through her bag, scraps of paper falling to the floor as she fished her phone out. “Not here. Not from what I’ve seen.”
He put his hands in his pockets and watched her closely. “From what I hear, you haven’t seen much of Wattle Junction. Rumour is you’ve been bunkered down in your room at the pub.”
She pursed her bright red lips and smoothed her hair. It was arranged in that strange twisty style around her head again. She looked like someone from Game of Thrones had gotten lost on their way to wardrobe and been attacked with feathers and sequins. If she was trying to hide, why did she always dress to stand out?
“I’m here for some legal advice.”
He raised his eyebrows and gestured around the room. “Luckily, that’s what we do. I’m sure we can fit you in tomorrow.”
Alice’s face paled, and she glanced over her shoulder. Late afternoon sunlight sliced through the gaps in the blind, bits of dust dancing lackadaisically in the air. “I tried to get here without anyone following me.”
Protectiveness thumped in his chest, and Owen moved out from behind the counter, crossed the floor and peered out the front door. “There are two men with cameras near Swift’s and a few sitting outside the pub.”
“I want a divorce,” Alice blurted out, her shoulders slumping for a second before her perfect posture returned.
