throat. ‘Sure, I’ll come in, thanks. When do you want me?’
Damn, that didn’t sound good. But he seemed to think so, as he chuckled. ‘Can you meet me back at the Embue studio around seven tonight?’
‘Fine,’ she said, still surprised by his offer but managing to sound as if she weren’t. ‘See you then.’
She hit the call end button before he could say anything else to further discombobulate her and stared at the phone as if she couldn’t quite believe it.
‘Good news?’ Abby tapped her on the arm, and Makayla nodded.
‘I got a call-back from Hudson.’
‘That’s great, sweetie.’ Abby leaned over and hugged her. ‘See? Told you he was a good guy.’
‘Yeah...’ She sounded less than convinced.
Something in Hudson’s tone bugged her. A touch of condescension? Like he was doing her some giant favour. Probably all in her overactive imagination but for a moment she considered calling him back and citing a prior engagement.
Foolishness, considering how badly she needed this job and how it could lead to something much bigger. But she didn’t need anyone’s pity and she’d be damned if she backed out of this before she’d given it a real shot.
‘At the risk of getting my head bitten off, I’m going to offer some advice.’ Abby eyeballed her with surprising seriousness. ‘Your heart is in dance, not working part-time at a patisserie to pay bills. So whatever happened between you two, forget about it and concentrate on making the most of this opportunity, okay?’
Makayla grunted in acknowledgement. ‘Who made you so wise?’
Abby grinned and tapped her temple. ‘Considering the mess I made of my own life until recently, guess I learned a thing or two about putting the past behind me.’
‘Thanks, Abs.’ She leaned over and hugged her friend. ‘I’ve wanted a dance role like this for a long time. So I’ll nail this call-back if it kills me.’
The part where she had to meet a guy who’d once been her best friend after hours at a hip club? Not a problem at all.
Not really.
HUDSON DIDN’T MAKE it back to the Cross much these days. Not that he shunned his past so much as he’d moved on. But Bluey McNeil had called and when the man who’d given him his first job telephoned, Hudson made an effort.
Bluey hadn’t sounded good. In fact, he’d coughed three times during their brief conversation. Hacking coughs that invoked an image of Bluey’s packet-a-day habit and how haggard he’d looked the last time Hudson saw him about three months ago.
Foreboding lengthened Hudson’s strides as he rounded the iconic El Alamein Fountain, skirted the bar he’d found his father passed out in too many times to count, and into the tiny jazz club aptly named Bluey’s after its owner.
While the sun blazed outside, inside the club channelled the darkest midnight, with blackout drapes ensuring the wall sconces glowed and the faux candles created an atmosphere of intimacy. A few patrons dotted tables around the small stage, where a solo saxophonist did his thing. No older than twenty, the kid wasn’t bad. And obviously another of Bluey’s charity cases, as he’d once been.
‘Hey, Squirt, thanks for coming.’ A hand clapped him on the back, and Hudson grinned. He’d been a late bloomer, so Bluey had always called him Squirt and the nickname had stuck, even after he shot past six foot at seventeen.
However, when he turned around and caught sight of his friend, Hudson’s grin faded. Bluey looked terrible. A walking skeleton. Parchment-thin skin stretched across cheekbones. Furrows bracketing his mouth. And a pallor that indicated just how ill his friend was.
‘Any time, you old reprobate.’ Hudson enveloped Bluey in a man hug, not surprised that his arms met at the back when they once couldn’t. Bluey had lost a shitload of weight and his earlier foreboding blossomed into full-blown panic.
They disengaged, and Bluey gestured at the bar. ‘Let’s have a seat. What can I get you?’
‘The usual,’ Hudson said, knowing it got a rise out of his old friend every time.
Bluey’s nose wrinkled. ‘Orange juice with a spritz of soda is a girl’s drink.’
‘So you’ve told me a million times before.’ Hudson leaned his forearms on the bar, taking comfort in watching Bluey fill a glass with orange juice and adding a shot of vodka rather than soda, something he’d seen countless times before. ‘What’s up, old man? Woman troubles?’
Bluey grunted and slid the glass along the bar towards him. ‘You’ve got a big mouth for a whippersnapper. You know my heart belonged to Julia and no woman has come close since.’
‘Who’s talking about your heart?’ Hudson raised his glass in a silent toast, wondering if Mak’s mum ever knew about Bluey’s crush on her.
This place wasn’t just special because of his first boss. Bluey’s was the place he’d met Mak, doing homework on a makeshift bench set up in a nook off the main hallway leading to the kitchen, while her mum worked tables. She’d been a beaming fifteen-year-old high on life; he’d been a jaded twenty desperate to get out of the Cross. But there’d been something about her, something refreshing, and once they’d started chatting their friendship had been born.
Back then he’d watched Bluey make puppy dog eyes at Julia, who’d taken it in her stride, as pleasant to Bluey as she’d been to his customers. Everyone had loved Julia and he could’ve been well on his way to feeling the same for her daughter if he hadn’t screwed up so monumentally.
‘Listen, Squirt, I’ve got something to tell you.’ Bluey braced himself on the counter behind the bar and Hudson knew the news was bad from the way his eyes darted away. ‘I’m heading to the big jazz bar in the sky. Lung cancer. Terminal. Few months left, tops.’
Hudson’s stomach fell away, and he downed the orange and vodka in two gulps as Bluey continued. ‘I wanted you to hear it from me, not by a second-hand phone call after one of the geezers here rang to invite you to my funeral.’
Hudson wanted to say something, anything, to make this better. He remained silent, anger and regret roiling in his gut alongside the vodka.
‘And before you go getting all sentimental on me, stop.’ Bluey thumped his fist against the bar. ‘I’ve been around for sixty-one years and been lucky enough to run this place for most of it. So don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve had a good inning. And enjoyed sucking back on each and every one of those bloody cancer sticks that gave me this bugger of an illness.’ He thumped his chest. ‘So now you know. What’s happening with you?’
The ache of impending loss blossomed in Hudson’s chest. He’d experienced the same feeling before, the night he’d strode into Le Chat and seen Mak stripping on stage. In that moment he’d laid eyes on her, wearing a thong and little else, he’d known they were over.
And when she’d removed that thong...there’d
