Emma Darcy - The Sweetest Revenge

She did, virtually dancing around their small living room in excitement as she laid out the party details and the invitation to stay on and mix with the crème of Sydney bachelors. Which Barbie had to concede, did sound interesting, given their current dearth of social life.

‘What’s this guy’s name? The one who booked my fairy princess act,’ she asked, wondering if there was some way of checking out his bona fides before the night.

‘Leon Webster.’

It struck a nerve and the twang was highly unpleasant. ‘Leon …’ Hadn’t Nick Armstrong had a friend of that name, a guy full of slick patter whom he’d linked up with in his university years? Compelled to know for sure, she asked, ‘And his partner’s name? The birthday boy?’

‘Nick Armstrong.’ Sue broke into mad song. ‘Happy birthday, dear Nick. Happy birthday, dear Nick ….’

‘Stop it!’ Barbie yelled, rising from her chair with clenched fists, so violent was the rush of emotion that name had stirred.

Sue stopped dead, gawking at her as though she were mad. ‘What’s the matter?’

As quickly as shock had drained the blood from her face, the memory of the worst hurt and humiliation of her life poured heat back into it. ‘Don’t you remember?’

‘Remember what?’ Obvious bewilderment.

Above flaming cheeks Barbie’s silver-grey eyes turned to icy daggers as she remembered the man who’d broken her heart into irrecoverable little pieces. ‘Nine years ago I sang at Nick Armstrong’s twenty-first birthday party.’

Sue still looked non-plussed. ‘You did?’

‘Yes, I did. And I poured it all out to you at the time … how he …’ She bit off the wretched recollection and faced Sue with blazing resolve. ‘I will never … ever … sing for him again!’

‘But … uh-oh!’ The memory finally caught up with her. She grimaced. ‘The guy you had the big crush on when we were schoolkids.’

‘I was sixteen!’ Barbie’s voice shook with the violence of feeling the memory stirred.

She’d loved Nick Armstrong with all she was, and he’d totally belittled that love by preferring what a sexy tart with a flash car could give him. Which undoubtedly proved he wasn’t the person she’d believed he was, but even telling herself he had to be a shallow rat to be seduced by such superficial assets, did not stop her from feeling utterly crushed.

‘A lot of water under the bridge since then, Barbie,’ Sue pleaded.

True, yet she’d carried that deep misery with her all the way. No other man had even scratched the surface of what she’d once felt for Nick Armstrong. He’d blighted her faith in love and had probably blighted her belief in dreams, too.

‘It’s only a ten-minute act,’ Sue argued. ‘It will put us well in the black financially.’ Her hands lifted in appeal. ‘He probably won’t even recognise you. You had braces on your teeth then. Your hair was short and much fairer, almost white …’

Yes, white and crinkly like a baby lamb’s coat. Baa-Baa Lamb was what Nick’s friends had called her in those days, teasing her for following them around. She’d hated it.

‘You wore glasses instead of contacts,’ Sue rattled on. ‘And well … you were a skinny rake when we were teenagers. You’re much more mature in your looks now.’

‘That’s not the point,’ she flared. ‘I won’t sing for him . You can if you want, Sue.’

‘Oh, yeah … like I’m blond and beautiful and sexy. Come on, Barbie, the fairy princess act is yours, not mine. Besides which, I promised Leon Webster no wig.’

‘Cancel then. Let him find someone else.’

‘And lose all that lovely money? Not to mention the chance to rub elbows—and possibly more—with guys on the rise?’ She shook her head and advanced on Barbie, the glint of determined battle in her eyes. ‘Best for you to sit down, calm down, and think reasonably about this. If the thought of Nick Armstrong can hurt you so much after nine years … you’ve got a real problem, and it’s time you faced it and got over it.’

Barbie sat down, not wanting to fight with her friend but mutinously resolved on sticking to her guns. She would not sing for Nick Armstrong. Never!

‘Remember the other side of our business— Drop Dead Deliveries? ’ Sue prompted as she propped herself on the large padded armrest of the chair.

The idea of someone delivering a bunch of dead roses to a party who had injured them had appealed to quite a few clients. It was a relatively harmless outlet for feelings of frustration and anger, a healthy outlet, Sue had argued, when Barbie had voiced doubts. At least it stopped people doing worse and gave them the satisfaction of doing something instead of just being a victim. Which was probably true.

Nevertheless, Barbie preferred to pass on those jobs to Sue who liked doing them. She didn’t. And delivering wilted flowers to Nick Armstrong to demonstrate what she thought of him and his actions was no answer. She wanted no contact with him at all.

‘Forget it, Sue. I’d rather face a tiger snake, and you know how I feel about snakes.’

With an expressive shudder, Barbie leaned the other way, resting her elbow on the other armrest and adopting an air of unwearable-down patience. Her friend could rail at her as much as she liked, but on this issue, she would not be moved.

‘Forget the dead roses. That’s not what I’ve got in mind,’ Sue assured her.

‘Then why bring it up?’

‘Because there’s nothing like a bit of revenge when someone’s done the dirty on you,’ Sue went on, beginning to wax lyrical with their own advertising copy. ‘Having the last laugh is wonderful. You can then get on with your life, knowing you squared the ledger. Clean slate.’

Barbie rolled exasperated eyes at her.

It didn’t stop Sue.

‘Revenge is sweet,’ she declared with relish, her eyes beginning to sparkle again as she spread out her hands like a magician about to perform a marvellous illusion. ‘Now imagine this, Barbie …’

BARBIE was literally trembling, her nerves a total jangle as she waited to make her entrance. She shouldn’t have let Sue talk her into this. Somehow her friend had plumbed a well of pride, stirring it to the point where Barbie had actually thought that seeing the stunned look on Nick Armstrong’s face might mend the scars on her heart. Especially when she sprinkled stardust over him, turning him into the child , with her being the adult , falsely smiling at him.

Sweet revenge, Sue called it, but right now Barbie seriously doubted that anything about this gig could turn out sweet. She would hate it if Nick Armstrong didn’t recognise and remember her and she would hate it if he did. And it was useless to even try to pretend she had forgotten him.

Nevertheless, she was here, outside the party marquee on Observatory Hill, and it was too late to call off the promised performance. Someone inside was making a speech—Leon Webster?—to bursts of appreciative laughter and occasional guffaws. About a hundred guests, dressed in very trendy evening gear, Sue had reported, definitely a moneyed crowd.

Since the sides of the marquee were clear plastic for the guests to have an unimpeded view of the harbour and its spectacular coathanger bridge, as well as the myriad night lights of North Sydney, Barbie was standing out of sight behind their car while Sue stood at the entrance, watching proceedings until the vital moment came.

At least she could make a fast getaway, Barbie consoled herself, with the car so close by. Ten minutes—just ten minutes—of being a fairy princess and she could be out of here. Sue, of course, didn’t want to leave. She was all dressed up to party in a slinky green satin slip dress—a very sexy pixie tonight—but she’d promised she would find her own way home if Barbie wanted to take off.