by Alam, Donna
‘Well, I think we can assume that number thirty-seven is the redheaded stepchild of the street.’ I point at the house with peeling paint and a pile of refuse where the houses on either side have potted plants or a rockery.
I sense Miranda physically deflate beside me.
‘Come on. It might be better inside.’
But it isn’t. If anything, it’s worse. Ten times worse. To begin with, the flat she’s come to see is in the basement. It’s dark and dingy and smells of bleach.
‘Do you think he’s trying to hide something?’ she asks, pressing herself closer to me. The landlord lurks somewhere in another room, and I don’t think I imagined his disappointment when he realised Miranda had brought a “friend” to the viewing.
He looks like a pervert. There’s just something wrong about him. Something I couldn’t put my finger on at first. I’ve worked it out now, though I’m not quite sure how to break the news.
‘Definitely.’
‘A dismembered body?’ she whispers, but whether aghast or titillated, it’s hard to tell.
‘Mould, more likely.’
‘I know it looks a bit grim, but with a lick of paint and some nice bits from Ikea, I think it’d be okay.’
A contradictory sentence, if I ever heard one.
‘Are you trying to convince me or yourself?’ It takes some effort, but I manage to keep my voice even and my expression calm. But really? Come the fuck on. I’ll buy this place and knock it down before I allow her to move in.
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘That’s not an answer.’ I scratch behind my ear and indicate the landlord behind me.
‘Does he look like the kind of man you want owning a keyto your private space?’
‘Look, it’s not like I’ve got the option of moving into Princes Gate, is it?’
‘Look at the marks on the wall. There’s been flooding here. And look at the window.’ I point at the large bay. ‘There are three windows in this whole place, two of them have bars, and that one has a direct view down into your potential living space. You’d need to keep the blinds closed to stop passers-by from seeing down and in—drunks coming home from the pub we passed at the end of the road.’
‘This has got nothing to do with you,’ she answers mulishly. ‘Check your rich man privilege,’ I think she mutters next. But for all her obstinacy, she knows just as I know that this isn’t the place for her.
Excuse me a moment while I bang the final nail in the coffin.
‘And this.’ I point at the ceiling without looking up myself.
Her brow creases, and her eyes tighten in concentration. ‘What is it?’ Her gaze flicks to me. ‘Is it mould?’
‘I’m no expert, but I’d say that’s a hole from the floor above. There’s another in the bedroom in the same place.’ A key-sized hole next to the light pendant. ‘And another in the bathroom, though this time in the corner.’
‘What . . .?’ I watch as a range of emotions flicker and fade on her face. Confusion. Disbelief. And finally horror. ‘In all the rooms?’ she hisses, her gaze flicking to the doorway where her potential landlord had disappeared, along with his potential of becoming her landlord.
‘I didn’t see any in the kitchen. I suppose watching you put the kettle on isn’t part of his voyeuristic kink.’
I try not to smile too broadly as we leave. And the same again when we don’t even bother climbing out of the car at the second place above a massage parlour, though I take no pleasure in her dejection as we drive away.
‘Let me set you up with an agent. You can have a look at a few properties, maybe get a better idea of what a half decent place will cost.’
‘I’m almost frightened to,’ she mutters as she stares out of the passenger window.
‘That doesn’t sound at all like you. The Miranda I know meets problems head on.’
‘I sometimes wonder who you think I am,’ she says, turning back to face me. ‘I’m nothing special. I’m just muddling on like everyone else, probably making a bloody mess of it all.’
‘You’re selling yourself short. Look at what you’ve done to keep yourself afloat. You have two jobs and plans to move out into your own home. You’re about to bring a child into the world without fear.’
‘I wouldn’t exactly say that. I have fear—plenty of it. I just keep it to myself.’
A chink in her armour and at her own hand, a tiny fraction of her innermost self bared.
I’m calling that a win, despite the circumstances.
‘Fear is a very human reaction,’ I say gently. ‘But the flip side is courage. And that you have buckets of. But that doesn’t mean you need to do everything on your own. That’s not courage but sheer bloody mindedness.’
‘Oh, James,’ she says, offering me a hint of a smile. ‘And you were doing so well on the flattery front.’
‘Have I blown it?’
‘I don’t know, have you? I wouldn’t imagine there’s space in this car to even try.’
‘Very droll. But if you’re going to talk about blowing it, perhaps you should put a little skin in the game yourself.’
‘I think you’ll find the skin goes in here.’ The minx pouts, pressing a fingernail to her bottom lip. ‘Why do you suppose the skin of a penis is so silky, anyway?’
I groan like I’m being tortured because I sort of am.
‘If we’re going to have this kind of conversation, I’ll be forced to take you home.’
‘Go on then,’ she says, almost resigned. But for the spark of devilment in her eyes. ‘Take me back to your lair, G.O. Did I tell you this whole sexy CEO look does it for me?’
No need to ask for an explanations as she trails the tips of her fingers down my shirt sleeve.
‘You look so hot in a suit, and I don’t know if you already know, but you have a bum made for jeans.’
‘Are you trying to make me blush? And by blush, I mean hard?’
I’d like to think her increasing openness is a result of her becoming more comfortable around me. But it could be pregnancy hormones, apparently. Whatever it is, I’m loving the results.
‘G.O.?’ I find myself repeating. ‘Would you care to explain the reference to me?’
‘It could stand for gorgeous one or maybe god.’
‘You’re missing a d.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I know you’ll give that to me later.’
There really is ony one answer to that.
‘Your place or mine?’
27
Miranda
Good morning, beautiful.
Staring down at the phone in my hand, I read my early morning text and try to contain my smile. There are only so many times I can lie to Heather, citing a humorous meme as the reason for my smile. Smile. Sigh. Giggle. Saturday was fun. Well, apart from discovering the kinds of accommodation my income will stretch to. But since, I’ve become the regular recipient of a dozen daily messages. Some sweet, some sexy, some just an enquiry or a short word.
They’re just texts, I silently remind myself. Don’t read into it too much.
Because it would be madness to fall in love with him.
Sheer, unadulterated madness.
But fun. And fun might be totally fine if I only had myself to consider.
But I don’t.
At least I now realise Cameron didn’t break my heart. It definitely took a hammering but seeing him last week cemented my understanding. I no longer feel anything for him. Not love, nor hate, nor fear, nor shame. Sure, I’ve talked a big game, but when faced by him at the door of the restaurant, it all just fell into place. But boy did I relish the look on his face after James was through with him. I don’t remember the last time someone stood up for me. I usually have to fight my own battles, so it felt good to hand this one over to him.
I doubt I’ll be getting anymore emails. But James’s texts? They’re more than welcome.
Ah, James. He’s a one off. A gentleman in the streets and a freak between the sheets.
/> ‘What are you smiling at, miss lady?’
With a start, I look up into Olivia’s pretty face. She looks better lately. Healthier. Whatever virus she’d been suffering from, she’s definitely made a full recovery. I wonder if she’s been taking some kind of vitamin or supplement because she looks really bloody good. Maybe I should ask her for the brand. Plus, she’s back to making her own coffee, and I no longer feel like I have to feed her chocolate biscuits to keep her alive. It was stressful for a while. And a bit like looking after a human Tamagotchi.
‘I wasn’t smiling. I . . . have wind.’ Really? That’s what you come up with, brain?
‘Pretty sure that only works with babies,’ she replies with a smirk. A smirk that I meet with a grimace.
Note to self: Google babies, smiling, and wind. Or maybe borrow one of those pregnancy books that James said he’s ordered from Amazon. He’s really taken to this fatherhood idea. But wind and smiling? That was a blast from the past, and the first thing that came into my head—something my grandmother used to remark if I smiled at all in her presence. You know, instead of crying. Really, it’s no wonder I cried rivers around the old cow. She was just so unpleasant.
But babies. Everywhere I look babies! Magazines. TV advertisements. The books lying on James’s coffee table. There was even one on his nightstand which I’d teased him mercilessly about as we’d undressed. Sometimes we just get into bed to sleep. It’s not always heightened passion and clothes ripped from limbs.
Though it mostly is.
Kinky, much? I’d teased, though secretly, I was thrilled. It’s just another sign of his commitment to our baby. Not that I’d said that at the time, instead going with, Is this a new fetish or something you’ve been keeping under wraps for some time?
My interest is in one particular pregnant woman, not pregnant women. I’d skimmed over the implication, telling myself it’s good that he’s interested in my wellbeing.
Pregnancy porn is a thing, you know, I’d found myself blundering on. I can hook you up with some good sites.
I don’t even want to know where you find that kind of thing. He’d slipped the shirt from his shoulders and thrown it in the direction of the laundry hamper before turning to the bathroom without even checking to see if it had made it.
It hadn’t.
From the other side of the bed, I’d tried to resist the pull.
I hate mess.
But I couldn’t leave it. So, in my underwear, I’d tip-toed across the bedroom floor, reluctant to let James know how cuckoo I was. Am. Also, who wants to be the woman who picks up after a man?
He has cleaners and a housekeeper, crazy pants, I’d told myself as I stuffed the navy blue Tom Ford number into the hamper. Meanwhile, you just have issues.
Miranda. At the sound of my name, I’d stilled. Can you come in here a moment?
What is it? I’d asked as I reached the bathroom door. He gestured me closer, and I could see there was something on his mind. He’d pulled me in front of him as we faced the vanity mirror. His body was warm behind mine and he smelled of toothpaste and the faint lingering scent of his cologne. His hands settled over the bump that only a few days ago seemed comfortably concealed in my jeans.
Nine weeks, he’d murmured. Nearly ten. A few more and we’ll share our news.
I’d nodded. This is the timeline we’d agreed. Twelve weeks seems to be the time ascribed as best for making the official announcement. So near yet so far. I don’t like to dwell on the fact that we’re not there yet or what would happen if.
No. Not going there. This baby is already so loved, even if everything else is up in the air, it’s just beyond contemplation.
But the twelve-week point falls on the week of the wedding, so we’ll wait until week thirteen to make it official. I’ll probably tell her on the Monday following the big event, especially as they’re going on honeymoon the week before. They’ve done everything else their own way, why would they wait to honeymoon after the wedding!
I’m going to tell my father this week. His eyes were so blue in the mirror and I’d wondered if our baby would inherit my colouring or his. A little girl like me or a little boy like him?
Do you want me to come with you to break the news?
He’d chuckled softly and, pulling my hair from my face, pressed his lips to my cheek. I think I can take care of it. Though I do want you to meet him. When you’re ready. He’ll adore you.
I’d nodded and swallowed back happy tears at his words.
I’d like that. I just have so much to sort out before I full commit to becoming one of those pregnant women who float around the place on a cloud of blissful happiness.
We have time. I sometimes think he has the patience of a saint. But then again, I’ve heard the way he speaks to his staff over the phone. He’s very exacting and not exactly what I’d call Zen. Tyrannical, maybe?
Three more weeks and the books say you’ll have a definitive bump. His arms tightened.
I’ll start getting fat, you mean.
I’m not going to dignify that with an answer. But. He paused. This pregnancy porn you were talking about? Something inside me twisted a little as his hand slipped from my belly, dipping under the elastic of my knickers. How would you feel about watching a little of it on my flat screen mirror?
I smiled. And I’m still smiling now.
‘I guess you don’t want to share what’s tickling your metaphoric pickle this fine London summer’s morning.’
Oh, fiddlesticks. This zoning out business if becoming a professional hazard.
But I certainly don’t want to share. And I’m pretty sure, as wife of James’s best friend, she also doesn’t want to hear how my metaphoric pickle was well and truly ticked just a few days ago, bent over the bathroom vanity, and that since, both my metaphoric pickle and the rest of my body has been focussing on a recovery. Let’s just say preparation for night spent with James should include more than washing my hair and shaving all pertinent bits. It should also include stretches. Lots of stretches.
I should learn to limber up before we limbo if you know what I mean.
I’m not at all sure I can blame baby brain on the way my mind seems to drift to him continually, snapshots of him playing through my mind on a loop. Those eyes, those brilliant blues that speak of so many naughty things, laughter lines denoting a wealth of experience. It’s amazing to me how his gaze can go from laughter to smouldering suggestion in a beat, and how one glance from him can ignite a million tiny fires under my skin. Sometimes, when he looks at me, I feel literally pierced in place.
God, who knew sex could consume your thoughts? I find myself thinking about it, about him, all the time. And when I’m with him, I’m literally putty in his hands, soft and malleable, moulding to the touch of those long-fingered hands, melting at the sound of his pleasure breathed in my ear.
‘Miranda, are you unwell?’ My spine snaps straight as I realise I’ve zoned out, possibly in the middle of a conversation with Olivia again, who’s staring at me now with her head tilted to the side like a redheaded terrier.
‘I’m fine!’ Why do I sound like I’m auditioning for a part in Glee? ‘Just spiffy!’
Or just losing my mind. One of those things, anyway.
‘Are you sure? You just did this whole spaced-out thing. And you’re a little pale. And I thought I heard someone vomiting in the bathroom this morning.’ She glances over her shoulder to where Heather sits at her desk, quite wisely paying supreme attention to her laptop.
‘Vomiting?’ Guilty as charged. ‘It wasn’t me.’
And in the bathroom? I should be so lucky.
I’d barely made it up the stairs this morning before needing to barf so badly I’d pulled out the plastic bag I’ve taken to carrying around in my purse—not the same bag, obviously—because it’s almost like something, or someone—naming no names because we’re nowhere near that stage yet—pulls on my intestines at random intervals during the day, causing me to puke almost immediately.
/>
Anyway, I thought I was alone in the office when the urge to purge struck.
How the jiggery-pokery am I going to hide this for the next couple of months?
I realise Olivia is still staring at me. And that I’ve spaced out again.
‘I’m fine,’ I repeat, fixing a smile on my face as I do one of those you’re crazy dismissive waves.
‘If you need time off—’
‘Did you just say it’s a fine summer’s morning?’ I exhale a relieved breath at Heather’s interjection. ‘Ols, it’s chucking it down out there.’
Olivia’s gaze moves to Heather before gliding to the grimy windows. Outside, the sky is a thunderous grey, sheets of water slapping the window as though offended to be on that side of the pane.
‘Oh, so it is. I guess I never noticed.’ With the same kind of secretive smile she’s been wearing all week, she turns and takes her steaming coffee cup back in the direction she came.
‘Did she just float across the floor?’ Heather sounds almost perturbed as Olivia begins to climb the stairs.
‘She seems happy,’ I respond with a shrug. ‘Happy works for me.’
‘She seems weird, more like,’ she says, coming to stand next to my desk. ‘How long does the honeymoon period last, do you think?’
‘Do I look like I know the answer to that? But I’d like it to last at least until after the wedding I’m planning.’
Not my wedding, hers.
I’m pleased to report there have been two developments on the second job front. First, I got a call from the agency to say there’s been an influx of bookings in their diary. Also, apparently two of their more sought-after sitters are retiring to the South of France. I’ve no idea how pet-sitters are able to afford to do that, even on joint pet-sitting incomes, but I suppose they might be living in a caravan for all I know.
Also, the school half-term holidays are coming up soon, and people appear to be booking ahead for the upcoming winter. It would be nice to escape the upcoming rain and snow for a few days, but hey-ho. I’ll just stay at home with their pets.
