we could have a conversation that has a little give and take to it?”
She shifts in her seat, looking into her mug instead of at me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I ask a question – you answer it with actual information. Then you ask a question, and I answer like I normally would because compared to you – I’m a sharer.” I stare at her unblinking, eyebrows raised, watching as she thinks.
She puts her mug down and sits more upright on her chair as she scratches at something real or imaginary on the table, refusing to meet my eyes again. “Fine, but I don’t have to answer everything or elaborate if I don’t want to.”
“Deal,” I say mentally preparing my first question. As she adjusts herself in her chair, sitting even straighter than she was before. It’s as if I can actually see her defences go up, her glare has an edge to it, warning me not to push too hard.
“Where did you grow up?”
“Miranda.”
“A shire girl huh? You don’t sound like one when you speak.”
“No. I don’t. Where did you grow up?”
“Bondi. Where did you go to school?”
“Danebank.”
“Did you like it there?”
“It was a school. How about you?”
“Sydney Grammar. First job?”
Watching her, she is clearly uncomfortable talking about herself, her arms folded protectively around her waist while she watches me as if she is ready to shut down at any moment. I could just end this now, let her be, but I can’t.
“Sex toy.”
I simply sit and stare back at her trying not to react to this one, there’s a challenge in her eyes, and I feel like she’s trying to shock me or test me to see how far she can push before I’ll stop. When I open my mouth, I force my voice to stay even as I speak. “Sex toy?”
She shifts in her chair again and sighs, but continues eye contact, “Salon hand.”
“How old were you when you lost your family?”
“Fifteen.”
“Then what happened?”
“My life changed.”
Paige
I feel like we’re playing a game of battleship in this rapid-fire question and answer session, but he’s getting more turns than I am as he moves towards the area of my life I really don’t want to talk about. It’s time for me to focus more on him.
“Tell me about your family, are they good to you?” I urge him, trying to get him to talk about himself, so I don’t have to refuse him an answer. As much as I’ve had enough of talking about me, I don’t like the thought of him being upset with me.
He sits forward, taking a drink from his mug now that it’s had some time to cool down. “Does it upset you - talking about other people’s families?”
I laugh; he is playing me at my own game, “Are we only going to ask questions now?”
“Are you finished answering questions?”
“Are you still asking them?”
“Would you like a Tim Tam with your coffee?”
“Touché, Elliot,” I laugh, “You just played the chocolate biscuit card, and you won – yes I’d love a Tim Tam.”
He smiles slightly with only half his face. It's not in any way cocky; I get the feeling he’s been trying to show me what it’s like not to be given answers. I watch him as he rises gracefully from his chair, the muscles in his arms rippling as he reaches up and pulls a packet out of the cupboard, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet room as he slides the biscuits out of their packaging and places the tray between us.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says quietly. “Does it upset you?”
“No, it doesn’t. I actually like hearing about other people’s lives – their families, their friends, their interests. It’s part of what I love about my job, these people come in and share so much about themselves, and my gift to them is an understanding ear and little extra confidence in their looks. So please, I’m now begging – tell me about your family.”
“Well, my mum is fantastic,” he starts. I sit and listen as Elliot gives in and talks about his family, he’s an only child and his parents divorced when he finished school. I can tell from the way he talks that he adores his mother and step dad, but he doesn’t say much about his father.
“So where’s your father now? Do you have much to do with him?”
“We don’t talk much anymore. He wanted me to be a barrister and when I threw in the towel and