Page 34 of Under Your Spell

Do. Not. Think. About. The. Dreams.

I smile, brightly. ‘Yes, here I am.’

Neither of us say anything.

‘Um. Can I get you something?’ I ask at last.

‘No,’ he all but snarls. ‘I’m going for a run.’

‘Oh, good. Running is good.’ I guess the charmer who wanted to get me into bed is long gone.

As if to underscore the point, Theo grabs a baseball cap and tugs it on, pulling it low over his face, then he strides towards the front door and leaves without another word.

‘Bye then!’ I say to the empty air. My shoulders slump. I suppose entitled rock stars really are all assholes when you get down to it. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I can’t help feeling disappointed.

I return to the kitchen where I keep my fat binder full of notes. The Theo Bible. One thing that David and I can absolutely agree on is a strong interest in good stationery. When I told him about my coloured tab system, I’m sure I heard the man purr.

‘Running, running, running…’ I mutter under my breath. Yes, there they were, David’s instructions.

After his run, Mr Eliott requires AT LEAST one of the high-protein snacks from addendum B, as well as one serving of the vegan recovery sport drink mixed with 300ml electrolyte water (served chilled between 2.5–3°C), and a fresh pressed kale and apple juice (see section 4, paragraph 7 for recipe. NB: Juice delivery does not include this post-run juice as it is Mr Eliott’s preference to have this freshly pressed. Do NOT try to give him the other juice to ‘see if he notices’. Just make the juice).

Whenever I drag myself out on a run (rare), I make do with a glass of tap water and a banana afterwards, but I suppose rock stars breathe rarefied air. I track down the juice recipe and set about getting the ingredients out, then remember that first I should go and clean the bedroom while he’s safely out the way.

I traipse upstairs, ready to change the sheets that Theo spent one night in and find myself hesitating at the door. I know that it’s my job to go in there, but it doesn’t feel right to just barge in. Be professional, I tell myself sternly. It’s just a bedroom. It’s not snooping. It’s cleaning.

Taking a deep breath, I push the door open. Despite my big talk I still creep in like a very mediocre cat burglar. This definitely feels like trespassing.

The room looks the same as I left it, apart from the unmade bed. I open one of the drawers a crack and find it full of Theo’s neatly folded clothes. I’m pretty sure I was supposed to unpack for him, but it seems he’s done that himself. The wardrobe is the same – everything hanging tidily, his empty cases stored underneath.

I move to strip the bed and tell myself I’m imagining things when the sheets feel like they are still warm from the heat of his body. Unfortunately, I’m definitely not imagining the smell of his aftershave, which clings lightly to everything and wraps itself around me as I wrestle with his bedding. Why does he smell so good? It’s not fair. It’s distracting. I make the bed as briskly as possible, waging war with the giant, puffy duvet and just about coming out the winner.

I am fluffing up the pillows when I notice that the label I made yesterday with Theo’s name on it is stuck carefully to the wall next to his bed, the wall that separates our rooms. I run my fingers over it, wondering why he’s kept it.

I double-check everything is perfectly smooth and neat, before heading back downstairs. I have no idea how long Theo will be running for, and according to David he’s going to want everything waiting for him when he gets back. It’s time to tackle the new giant, shiny juicer, which looks less like a kitchen appliance and more like a piece of industrial cleaning equipment.

After carefully reading the instructions, my first effort sends green gunk spraying all over me and the kitchen and ends with a dribble of unappealing sludge in the bottom of a glass.

‘You are not going to be defeated by a juicer,’ I mutter, scrubbing violently at everything with antibacterial spray. ‘You have a doctorate. You can juice a piece of kale.’ I’m not sure who I’m trying to kid – even without the machinery I wouldn’t previously have identified kale as a particularly juicy vegetable. Perhaps David is hazing me.

My second attempt goes much better. I mean, I wouldn’t drink it, but I have produced a glass of swampy-looking liquid, and I suppose that’s the best I can hope for, given the circumstances.

I’m just transporting my precious glass of juice to the fridge to keep it chilled (a risk, as this is not specifically mentioned in the instructions, but seeing as everything else has to be well below room temperature I’m making an educated guess) when I hear the front door open.

Yes! Perfect timing. I sweep out of the kitchen, triumphant, headed towards Theo and ready to deliver a freshly pressed juice into his hands on his return like a good little housekeeper. Instead, on the threshold of the living room I smash face first into a very hard object.

‘Shit!’ I shriek, flinging juice into the air.

‘Fuck!’ the hard object yells.

Lifting my eyes, I find Theo scowling down at me. Kale juice drips from his hair, covering most of his upper body. His completely naked upper body.

‘Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?’ I blurt, my eyes lingering on the perfectly defined chest I have just crashed into. I’m pressed firmly against him, meaning I am covered in my own share of juice and the thin layer of my now wet T-shirt does not feel like enough of a barrier between our skin. Not if I’m going to retain my sanity. I peel myself away, but he is still holding on to my forearms. He must have grabbed them to steady me when we collided.

‘I was hot,’ he says, but his voice is very, very cold. ‘Why are you throwing green slime at me?’

‘I was bringing you your kale juice.’ I say miserably, clinging to the now-empty glass. ‘It says in the binder that’s what you have after a run.’

He squeezes his eyes shut. ‘Of course there’s a fucking binder,’ he mutters.