Page 54 of (Not) The One
‘My goodness, what a shock.’ The woman in front of me laughs a warbly laugh, her hand at her throat as her initial expression of terror subsides. ‘I didn’t think anyone was home.’ I take in the Waitrose shopping bag at her feet and the one placed higher on a kitchen worktop, her light application of makeup and her short, no-nonsense bobbed hair. She looks like someone’s mum. But not his, somehow.
‘He’s still asleep.’ The words are uncomfortable, my throat hoarse as the woman’s gaze widens in surprise and not shock this time. And she’s not hurling insults or produce at me, even though I currently feel like I could give Hester Prynne a run for her money. Maybe replace her scarlet A for a H.For ho.
‘Mr Harrison is usually at work by now.’ She smiles carefully, and things suddenly make more sense. She works for him. The housekeeper, maybe? Or just the woman who makes groceries appear in his fridge.I wonder if he writes his own list?The thought makes me smirk because I can’t imagine it.
‘He’s still out for the count,’ I shrug then realise what I’ve just said. My cheeks redden with a sudden and furious blush.Yeah, so basically, I left him upstairs naked and sleeping off our mammoth banging session. I might not have actually said that, but I may as well have, dressed as I am, shoes in hand and sex-crazed. At least my dress is quite demure even if the rest of me looks like I’ve been hanging out on a street corner somewhere. ‘Sorry, I was looking for the front door.’To make my escape. You know, now that I’ve stolen his wallet.Shut up, brain!‘I must’ve gotten lost.’
‘Oh, that’s easily enough done. This house is like a rabbit warren. The front door is on the next floor, dear. Let me show you the way.’
In case you steal anything else,she doesn’t add, but I think it anyway.
‘Do you want me to carry one of the shopping bags up?’ It seems the least I can offer to do as she reaches down.
‘No, I’m just getting it off my foot. I’ll take them up in the elevator later.’ Because why wouldn’t a house with a pool also have an elevator?
As I follow the woman upstairs, I don’t know what to make of her silence except that she’s being unfailingly polite. Maybe finding strange young women wandering around the place isn’t a common occurrence? Or maybe she’s just too polite to ask questions?
‘Oh, that’s mine,’ I say, making a grab for my bag which is lying where I left it. Thankfully, there’s no sign of my knickers becausethatwould be beyond embarrassing. I’d rather lose them than find them hanging from the chandelier, a picture frame, or wrapped around one of his artsy knick-knacks. And speaking of arty knick-knacks, those knocked from the table last night in our state of passion are still scattered on the floor. I resist the urge to apologise, to pick them up, stepping over them instead.
‘Do you have transport arranged?’ Oh, boy. She’s good at this ignoring the obvious game as she steps over the copper bowl. ‘I’m sure I could call for the car?’
The car or a car?
‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you,’ I hear myself reply ins a completely even tone, ‘but I’m just going to get a cab.’ Or an Uber, if my phone has any charge. ‘Thank you for showing me the way,’ I add, pulling on the door handle, which doesn’t budge.
‘Here, let me.’ I move to the side as she presses a code into something that looks like a keypad without buttons. ‘These high-tech security systems are more trouble than they’re worth sometimes.’
‘Thank you again.’ With a tight smile, I edge out of the door before she’s pulled it fully open, jogging down the stair at a rapid pace.
I turn left at the bottom, not because I know where I’m going but because I need to go somewhere. My pounding heart slows to a more normal rhythm as I pause on the street corner.
I straighten my shoulders and take in my surroundings. The street behind me would look perfectly at home in a Regency period drama, the kind of houses mamas and papas would take their marriage age daughters to town for the season and the marriage mart. Tall, narrow, and rather uniformed, their stucco façades have something a little Roman about them. No doubt, could they speak, they’d have a lot to tell. Comings and goings more than just mine.
I pull my phone from my purse, sending up a silent thanks for the six percent battery charge remaining on my phone, then flip open the Uber app. I press in the specifics, noting my car is a red Subaru with a driver named Javid, then lift my head and let the morning sunshine warm my face while refusing to acknowledge the swirling, burgeoning thoughts of the things that led me to this moment.
The ring. My drunkenness. Having sex with an unsuitable man again.
All of it can wait for another day because right now, I have other things to concern myself with. Like forcing my stomach to settle long enough for me not to vomit in Javid’s nice red car.
14
Harry
‘Uncle Griff,that lady has really big boobies.’
Beside me, Griffin’s head emerges from his newspaper, following the direction of the child’s boldly pointed finger
‘You shouldn’t announce that so loudly, Mo,’ Griffin censures lightly. The child frowns, his hand falling to the tabletop as his uncle murmurs, ‘Even if you are right.’
It’s hard to believe I went to sleep with one of those in my hand last night—breasts, not small children—only to wake alone, much later than normal, the lovely owner of the lovely breasts having already left. But at least I now know where to find her Monday through Friday.
Instead of going into the office for a few hours, as I would usually, I’d left straight for our usual Saturday spot at Mortcombs. Part bar, part French brasserie, it’s my favourite for a reason. A few reasons, actually. The food is decent, the waitstaff outstanding, and it has the added advantage of rarely being discovered by tourists.
And when I sayourusual Saturday spot, I mean Beckett and Griffin are often to be found there at the same time, too. I was surprised today, however, to find that though our party was still three, Beckett wasn’t present. Also, there isn’t usually a child present. Unless you care to count Griff.
‘Mummy doesn’t like it when you call me Mo,’ the kid replies, his curls moving in the gossamer breeze. Maybe we should’ve sat inside. Today is a scorcher; one of those lazy, hazy summer days when everyone is in a good mood and where brunch at your favourite spot should lead on to cocktails on a roof terrace somewhere, and not studying someone else’s progeny.‘She says I’ll be r-radically profiled if you call me Mo, and that you should call me by my proper name.’
‘Racially profiled,’ Griff corrects, rubbing a hand over the child’s head. ‘Can you be racially profiled on the basis of a name?’ His gaze flicks to mine, and I shrug.
