An Isolated Incident by Emily Maguire Read Free Book Online

might’ve been moonlighting?’
    My mind hooked on to the word and all I could think was how pretty it sounded. I imagined Bella climbing a ladder and flicking a switch, bathing the world with gentle white light.
    â€˜Like yourself, I mean,’ he added.
    Moonlighting . Bella wasn’t one for moonlight. She was a morning person if there ever was one. She must’ve been so tired on Friday night, on top of everything else.
    â€˜C’mon, Chris,’ Brandis said. ‘We don’t want to bust your chops over it, but everyone knows you –’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Listen, you’re not in any trouble, we just need to –’
    â€˜Not her. There’s no way.’
    The detectives exchanged another one of those looks and my hand went hot with wanting to slap their faces.
    â€˜You know it’s a high-risk profession,’ Brandis said.
    â€˜What is? Cleaning up old people’s shit?’
    â€˜Chris,’ Brandis said and the younger one smiled. He fucking smiled.
    We have to deal with this, I suppose.
    The first time, three and a bit years ago, was an accident. It was a slow night at work and I got to talking with a long-distance truckie who’d stopped into the pub for a feed. At the end of my shift, when he said he’d be sleeping in his truck that night, I invited him back to mine. I’d been doing that a bit lately, asking blokes back. It hadn’t been long since Nate left and I wanted nothing to do with love, you know, but the other business, well, I’ve always found it a good boost, to be honest.
    Look, I’m no great beauty but I’m handy with make-up and keep myself fit and, harsh as it sounds, the same can’t be said of most of the women my age around here. I’m not having a go, just stating a fact: being single and childless gives you more time to spend on making yourself look nice. In this town, most women my age haven’t been single and childless since they were young enough that they didn’t need to make any effort, so, in that – if nothing else – I have an advantage.
    Point being, I’ve never had much trouble attracting blokes and in the years since I’ve been divorced it’s only been easier. This probably sounds sad to you, but sometimes it’s what’s kept me going. Like, there’ve been times I’ve felt so low, so down on myself and my life, and then some fella in the pub would start hanging around, finding excuses to talk to me. I’d catch him perving when he thought I couldn’t see. And it always gave me such a lift, no matter who he was. And if I liked him back, then even better. I tell you, it was a relief to learn, as a divorced thirty-four-year-old, that I could still feel that thrill, that bubbly, giddy, giggly excitement I had thought belonged to being sixteen and getting felt up in the movies for the first time.
    I’m not talking about love. I’m resigned to the fact that Nate’s my one and only when it comes to that. And I don’t think it’s even lust, although I can and do get swamped by that now and again, my god. But no, I’m talking about something less dramatic but much sweeter. A crush, I suppose is the word. A crush that might only last a few hours and might end up in awkward sloppy kisses or might end up with mind-blowing sex or might never end up at all, just float away with the summer wind but that, while it lasts, makes you feel fresh and pretty and like your whole life is ahead of you.
    Anyway, one night, I invite this bloke back to mine. It’s like a hundr– well, not that many, but like a bunch of times before. We have a drink or two and then a nice roll around under the covers and then in the morning he’s gone. But this time was different because this time after the bloke left there was a stack of twenties on the bedside table, folded up with a note saying: Had an early start. See ya next time I’m in town,