Search History

Amy Taylor is a writer based in Melbourne (Narrm). Search History is her debut novel. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. First published in 2023 Copyright © Amy Taylor 2023 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act. Allen & Unwin Cammeraygal Country 83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100 Email: [email protected] Web: www.allenandunwin.com Allen & Unwin acknowledges the Traditional Owners of the Country on which we live and work. We pay our respects to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Elders, past and present. ISBN 978 1 76106 850 8 eISBN 978 1 76118 663 9 Typeset by Bookhouse, Sydney Cover design: Alissa Dinallo Cover image: Shutterstock FOR C&L, OF COURSE. CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER THIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS CHAPTER ONE AT SOME POINT AFTER A breakup, the desire to sleep with someone else arrives. There is no universal timeline for how long this takes. On one occasion the desire showed up almost immediately, winking seductively at me from a doorway. On another, I’d tried to force its appearance, placing the cart before the horse, only to find myself weeping into the limp arms of a disappointed and horny stranger. This time, when my ex and I broke up, it took a few months; a period I spent busying myself with logistical distractions—moving out of the house we shared, and, later, packing up my halved possessions and fleeing across the country. Then, when the desire did eventually turn up, I did what was expected of me: I selected someone from an app. The man I chose told me he worked as a chef at a wine bar in Fitzroy, so I looked it up online. On the bar’s account I was able to find photos of him that weren’t included in his sparse dating app profile. In one photo he wore a navy apron and held out a plate of food for the camera: a chunk of charred meat floating in a thick beige sauce. His face held a sly grin. I found him handsome. I liked his smiling green eyes and the evidence of a sense of humour in the arrangement of his features. I spent an unreasonable amount of time zoomed in on his hands. They were pale, freckled and a little rough. They made my stomach flutter. I’ve always been attracted to a man’s hands; I love the way they look, and I love what they can do to me. Even though we’d never met, The Chef and I fell quickly into the habit of messaging each other every day. He was consistently quick to respond and, to me, this felt strange, as if he lived behind the screen of my phone and waited to be summoned. After four days of unbroken dialogue, I woke up to a message that read: Sleep well? :) x That’s when I wondered if I’d done something wrong. Maybe I’d forgotten to signal early on that I didn’t want a date, only the part that comes after. I wasn’t interested in receiving good morning messages; I was still enjoying the pang of loss I felt when I woke up alone. I didn’t want his intrusion, but I also didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I frowned at my phone and began to workshop ways to subtly set expectations. That night, apropos of nothing, he sent me a photo of his dick captioned: Free tonight? and I laughed at myself. While I waited for him to arrive, I changed my outfit four times. Then I walked around my apartment, simultaneously tidying and disguising any evidence of effort. Eventually I sat down on the couch and messaged my friend, Beverly, to let her know he was coming over. I included a screenshot of his account. Be safe!!! she replied and sent a string of pink love hearts. He showed up just after eleven, a wine bottle in hand. ‘Here, this is for us. It’s French, from Beaujolais,’ he said, placing the bottle down on the kitchen bench and taking his jacket off. ‘I stole it from the bar.’ ‘Thanks,’ I said, unsure of how to respond to any part of that sentence. I was surprised by his size; he was tall and broad and when he opened his arms to hug me, he entirely absorbed me. He smelled like grease and charcoal. I tried to imagine myself turning up to have sex with someone after working a ten-hour shift and not showering, but I couldn’t. I’d showered and shaved. I’d put on makeup. I’d tidied my apartment and lit a candle. He draped his jacket over the back of my couch, before wandering across the room. It occurred to me then that he was the first visitor I’d had since I moved to Melbourne after the breakup, and I realised that by being