THE END…or maybe not…
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My face fell—along with the blue terry cloth towel wrapped around my body—when I opened the door to find Simon staring back at me, backpack slung over his left shoulder.
No, no, no! This can’t be! What in God’s name is he doing here? I caught the towel with my hand before it completely dropped to the floor, and attempted to pull it tighter using only one hand.
“Hello, love!” Simon chirped in his annoying British accent, eying me up and down and giving me the creeps. Using both hands, I cinched the towel as snug as it would go, practically cutting off my circulation.
Damn it. Simon is not the Fed Ex man. Now just so you know, I don’t normally answer the door in a towel, but I was waiting for the new stilettos that I ordered from DSW. When the doorbell rang as I was getting out of the shower, I raced to answer it since I was sure it had to be the Fed Ex guy. Those damn shoes were supposed to be delivered yesterday, and I’ve been waiting so patiently for them. I really needed them to come like, right now, since I planned my entire outfit for today’s interview around those shoes.
Had I glanced in the peep hole and saw Simon standing there, I wouldn’t have opened the door in a million years. In fact, I probably would have climbed out the fire escape.
“This is a really bad time, Simon. What do you want?”
“Oh! There another bloke here, then?” Simon asked, craning his neck to peek into my apartment. Stepping out into the hallway, I pulled the door closed behind me.
“No! There is not. Not that it’s any of your concern,” I replied crossing my arms. At least, Austin wasn’t here right this moment, but that wasn’t really any of Simon’s business, now was it?
Simon leaned up against the wall, trying to appear cool. I bit my lip to suppress laughter. The building super had just painted that wall and Simon now had a big white line of paint on his sleeve.
“Ah, so no new chap? Still carrying a torch for old Simon then, huh?” He flashed one of his cheesy grins my way. God, did his audacity ever end?
“Listen, I’m really busy this morning. I have an interview at eleven o’clock and I thought you were the Fed Ex man with a package. Therefore if you could just tell me why your English ass is on my doorstep so I can bid you Cheerio, to borrow one of your expressions from your homeland.” I forced a tight smile.
“Well, I was really hoping you wouldn’t tell me to sod off, love. You see, I’ve been forced from my flat,” Simon drawled, leaning closer to my cleavage. “My, you smell delectable. New scent?”
I frowned as I side stepped his wandering nose. “No. Same old scent.” And same old Simon. “Listen, Simon,
I’m so sorry to hear that, but A, I don’t see how that’s my problem and B, we call them apartments here in the States.” So freaking annoying. He’s lived here for nearly twenty years, but he still thinks the accent is charming and is going to get him his way. Simon was like those Italian guidos at the Jersey shore. They strut around town with their Italy tattoos and Italian horns around their necks pretending they’re born and bred in Italy, when they’re actually from Bloomfield and probably haven’t ever been outside the tri-state area. Like my brothers.
“Alright then, my apartment. I was forced from my apartment.” He articulated the word carefully. It still sounded overly British. Why can’t he just talk like an American?
Come to think of it, at one point in time I did find Simon’s Britishness (if that’s even a word) sexy and irresistible. It’s pretty much how he got me into bed in the first place. Well, it’s not going to work today.
“And why, might I ask, were you forced from your apartment?” I enunciated every syllable, hoping to piss him off. I could be a bitch if he was going to be a jerk.
Simon cringed. “Well, I had a little bit of dickering with the landlord over the rent.”
“By that, you mean you didn’t pay the rent?” Simon was completely irresponsible with money. His parents had been well off, but they never seemed to teach him the value of money. He threw it away on toys and frivolous endeavors without budgeting for essentials of daily
living. It was another one of his many grating habits.
“Well, it was kind of hard. You see, I got sacked.”
“Shocker that is,” I remarked with a smirk. Simon was a very smart guy—his IQ was off the charts. But he absolutely refused to apply himself and I’m pretty sure he had an adult version of ADHD because he couldn’t seem to stay in any job for more than a few months. He changed his college major twice and then didn’t even graduate. He told me that it had “bored” him. With a big, fat trust account after his father died, he didn’t feel the need to ever be serious about a career or even a steady income.
“Please, Lizzie? I can’t get an apartment on a moment’s notice. The waiting lists are eons long and I have nowhere else to go. You know Mum’s in a home now. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate.” Simon’s face fell and his dark gray eyes grew wide and moist.
Oh, shit. Not the puppy dog face. Simon, put the puppy dog face away! That infuriating man knew I could not resist the puppy dog face.
I closed my eyes to shut out his pathetic expression. “Don’t call me Lizzie. You know I hate that. What about Jake? Why can’t you stay with Jake?” Jake was Simon’s successful and talented screenplay writing older brother, whose home was literally three blocks from my apartment. Except, I still lived in the crap part of town and he was living in a mansion penthouse.
“Jake’s being an arse.” The way he said arse gave me goose-bumps. Damn accent again. Stop it now, Elizabeth.
Do not let him get to you. “Something about not wanting company there when they’re doing construction. Mary Ellen is having a baby, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” I remarked dryly. He was so dense. Did he really think I kept in touch with his family after our breakup? I always found the whole bunch to be rather pretentious, and I had been overjoyed to purge myself of all of them in the process of breaking up with him. It had been one of the perks of breaking up.
“Well, she is. Due in May. Going to be a girl. They’re doing the nursery in Mother Goose or some other nonsense like that.”
“How about Robert?” I suggested, ignoring his foray into the inane topic of nursery themes. Robert was Simon’s younger brother. He was a bit of a romantic drifter, but he did have a house in Long Island.
Simon waved off that suggestion. “He’s decided to live in Spain. New tart he met on vacation lives there and apparently he’s in love. Again. Remember Illyana? Yeah, this one speaks even less English than her. I bet all she knows is…”
Exasperated, I sighed loudly. “Listen, Simon, I’d love to chat and catch up with the last two years of your life, but I’ve really got to go.” I reached for the doorknob as I spoke. “Why don’t you friend request me on Facebook or something, and we can be regular old chums,” I remarked with sarcasm.
“That’s quite naff. Leaving me out in the cold,” Simon pouted.
“It’s April, Simon. You’ll be fine. Go find a refrigerator box or something,” I countered as I turned the doorknob. Much to my chagrin, it wouldn’t turn. What the hell? I gripped it tighter and tried again—sometimes it stuck when it was humid.
As hard as I tried, the door wouldn’t budge. Oh sweet Jesus, please tell me I am not locked out! In the hallway. In a towel. With Simon. When I have an interview uptown in less than an hour!
Simon chuckled as I desperately rattled the doorknob. “A bit of a pickle, eh?” His voice was full of amusement.
“It’s not funny, Simon,” I growled through gritted teeth. “I really need this job. I can’t be late for the interview.” Tears burnt my eyes. Stop crying. You cannot lose it in front of Simon. I pulled at the door harder, to no avail. I tensed as Simon inched so close to me I could feel him breathing on my neck. What a creep!
“Ah, what happened to your
job, Lizzie?” Simon inquired with sarcastic sweetness.
“My job is none of your beeswax,” I retorted as I jiggled the handle futilely. Son of Sam, why the hell won’t this open? I don’t remember locking it from the inside.
“Oh, so you don’t have a job either? And you were criticizing me?” Simon chuckled. “You want to be the pot or the kettle?”
I inhaled sharply as I whipped around, looking up at his pointy chin. “Good day, Simon,” I told him, curtly nodding before marching off barefoot to the bank of
elevators at the end of the hall.
“Where are you going?” Simon called after me.
“Getting the Super to open my apartment door,” I called while I punched the button to summons the elevator. This was going to be one embarrassing visit to the Super’s apartment. Perhaps even more humiliating than the time Nora and I tried a new sushi restaurant and we both had explosive diarrhea and clogged up my toilet.
“Oh, well that seems rather mortifying,” Simon commented. Really, Simon? You don’t say. I focused on the glowing numbers lighting up on the top of the elevator door. Why is this damn thing so slow today? “So you need a key?” I heard Simon ask.
“Yes, Simon. Keys usually open doors,” I replied sarcastically, refocusing my gaze and staring down at my feet. I could see that my hot pink toenail polish was flaking off. Great. Now I have to wear boots and it’s hot. I can’t even wear the open toed shoes if I wanted to. Even if they come before I’m done getting dressed, I’ll never get the job with chipped toe nail polish. Ugh, I’ve got to rethink my whole outfit now. My mind was reeling as the clock ticked down.
“A key like this one?” Simon called, just as the elevator doors opened. My upstairs neighbor, Mrs. McIntyre was inside the elevator, gawking at me with her mouth hanging open. She clutched her purse and her stupid toy poodle, Cupcake, close to her body like I was some sort of crazed animal snatcher. Haven’t you ever seen anyone waiting for an elevator in a towel, lady? I
scowled at her before I spun around to see Simon dangling a key in the air. My key. On my Mets lanyard. Son of a bitch! I’ve been looking all over for that!
Heather Balog is a school nurse by day, supermom and writer by night. She lives near her beloved shore with her husband, children and one very needy dog, who thinks that he is human. When she is not writing, she’s thinking about writing, reading, or tending to the needs one of the aforementioned people or pet. She also can be found cleaning things in the house that won’t remain clean for longer than ten minutes, looking for missing socks, or running (away).
Other novels by Heather Balog:
The 8 Mistakes of Amy Maxwell
Amy Maxwell & the 7 Deadly Sins
Amy Maxwell’s 6th Sense
The Quiet Boy
Friends From the Edge
The Dead of Summer
All She Ever Wanted
Letters to My Sister’s Shrink
Note to Self: Change the Locks
When the Bough Breaks
Lexie Maxwell & One Spooky House
Lexie Maxwell & the Two New Kids
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www.badmommyreads.com
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