Nicola Marsh - Wedding Date with Mr Wrong

Nora had refused to be a burden on her only daughter, so Callie had found the best care facility around—one with top neurologists, speech, occupational and physiotherapists, psychologists, nurses and palliative care, while trying not to acknowledge her mum’s steady deterioration.

It was as if she could see the nerve cells failing, resulting in the progressive muscle weakness that would eventually kill her mum.

So she focussed on the good news: Nora’s sight, smell, taste, sensation, intellect and memory wouldn’t be affected. Nora would always know her, even at the end, and that thought sustained her through many a crying jag late at night, when the pain of impending loss crowded in and strangled her forced bravery.

To compound her stress she’d had to reluctantly face the fact she had a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting it too. She hadn’t breathed all through the genetic testing consultation, when the doctors had explained that Nora’s motor neurone disease was caused by mutations in the SOD1 gene. That tiny superoxide dismutase one gene, located on chromosome twenty-one, controlled her fate.

Insomnia had plagued her in the lead-up to her testing, and the doctor’s clinical facts had been terrifying as they echoed through her head: people with the faulty gene had a high chance of developing MND in later life, or could develop symptoms in their twenties.

Like her.

She’d worried herself sick for days after the test, and even though it had come back clear—she didn’t carry the mutated gene—she’d never fully shaken the feeling that she had a swinging axe grazing the back of her neck, despite the doc’s convincing argument that many people with the faulty gene didn’t go on to develop MND.

Then the worry had given way to guilt. Guilt that she was the lucky one in her family.

During this time the support group had been invaluable. Artie had been there, just as frustrated, just as angry. He’d lost his wife of forty years.

They’d bonded over espresso and biscotti, gradually revealing their bone-deep resentment and helpless fury at a disease that had no cure. Those weekly meetings had led to an invitation to Rivera’s, a place that had instantly become home.

She loved the worn, pockmarked wooden floor, the rich mahogany bar that ran the breadth of the back wall, the maroon velvet embossed wallpaper that created a cosy ambience beckoning patrons to linger over delicious tapas and decadent sangria.

This was where she’d started to thaw, where the deliberate numbness enclosing her aching heart at the injustice of what her mum faced had melted.

This was where she’d come to eat, to chat and to dance.

She lived for the nights when Artie cleared the tables and chairs, cranked up the music, and taught Spanish dances to anyone eager to learn.

Those nights were the best—when she could forget how her life had changed that momentous day when she’d learned of her mum’s diagnosis.

She nodded at familiar faces as she weaved through tables towards the bar, her heart lightening with every step as Artie waved his hands in the air, gesturing at her usual spot.

‘You hungry, querida?’

Considering the knot of nerves in her stomach, the last thing she felt like doing was eating, but if she didn’t Artie would know something was wrong.

And she didn’t feel like talking about the cause of her angst. Not when she’d spent the fifteen-minute walk to the bar trying to obliterate Archer from her mind.

‘Maybe the daily special?’

Artie winked. ‘Coming right up.’

As he spooned marinated octopus, garlic olives, banderillas, calamares fritos and huevos relleños de gambas onto a terracotta platter, she mentally rummaged for a safe topic of conversation—one that wouldn’t involve blurting about the blackmailing guy who had once stolen her heart.

He slid the plate in front of her, along with her usual espresso. ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong before your coffee or after?’

She opened her mouth to brush off his astute observation, but one glance at the shrewd gleam in his eyes stalled her. She knew that look. The look of a father figure who wouldn’t quit till he’d dragged the truth out of her.

‘It’s nothing, really—’

He tut-tutted. ‘Querida, I’ve known you for more than seven years.’ He pointed to his bald pate and wrinkled forehead. ‘These may indicate the passage of time, but up here...?’ He tapped his temple. ‘As sharp as Banderas’s sword in Zorro.’

She chuckled. If Artie had his way Antonio Banderas would be Spain’s president.

He folded his arms and rested them on the bar. ‘You know I’m going to stay here until you tell me.’

‘What about your customers?’

‘That’s what I pay the staff for.’ He grinned. ‘Now, are you going to tell, or do I have to ply you with my finest sangria?’

She held up her hands. ‘I’m starting work early tomorrow, so no sangria.’

How tempting it sounded. What she wouldn’t give to down a jug of Artie’s finest, get blotto, and forget the fact she had to accompany Archer to Torquay tomorrow.

‘Fine.’ She pushed a few olives around her plate before laying down her fork. ‘CJU Designs scored its biggest account ever today.’

Artie straightened and did a funny flamenco pirouette. ‘That’s brilliant. Well done, querida.’

‘Yeah, it’ll take care of mum’s bills for the next year at least, thank goodness.’

Artie’s exuberance faded. ‘How is Nora?’

‘The same. Happy, determined, putting on a brave face.’

Something she was finding increasingly hard to do when she visited and saw the signs that her mum’s condition was worsening. While Nora coped with her wheelchair, relaxed as if she was lounging in her favourite recliner, Callie watched for hand tremors or lapses in speech or drifting off.

She couldn’t relax around her mum any more. The effort of hiding her sadness clamped her throat in a stranglehold, taking its toll. She grew more exhausted after every visit, and while she never for one second regretted spending as much time as possible with her mum, she hated the inevitability of this horrid disease.

Artie patted her hand. ‘Give her my best next time you see her.’

‘Shall do.’

That was another thing that bugged her about this Torquay trip. She’d have to give all her attention to the account in the early set-up—and to the account’s aggravating owner—which meant missing out on seeing her mum for the week before Christmas or long drives to and from the beachside town. Which would lead to Archer poking his nose into her business, asking why she had to visit her mum so often, and she didn’t want to divulge her private life to him.

Not now, when things were strictly business.

‘If this account has alleviated some of your financial worries, why do you look like this?’ Artie’s exaggerated frown made her smile.

‘Because simple solutions often mask convoluted complications.’

‘Cryptic.’

‘Not really.’ She huffed out a long breath. ‘The owner of the company behind this new account is an old friend.’

‘Ah...so that’s it.’

She didn’t like the crafty glint in Artie’s eyes much—his knowing smile less.

‘This...friend...is he a past amor?’

Had she loved Archer? After the awful break-up, and in the following months when she’d returned to Melbourne and preferred reading to dating, she’d wondered if the hollowness in her heart, the constant gripe in her belly and the annoying wanderlust to jump back on a plane and follow him around the world’s surfing hotspots was love.

She’d almost done it once, after seeing a snippet of him at the Pipeline in Hawaii three months after she’d returned from Europe. She’d gone as far as logging on, choosing flights, but when it had come to paying the arrow had hovered over ‘confirm’ for an agonising minute before the memory of their parting had resurfaced and she’d shut the whole thing down.