Talking Trouble

by Barbara Elsborg

  “Your room.”

  She turned the handle and walked into a bright bedroom that smelled of paint. It had pale lemony-beige walls, a stripped wooden floor and two big windows looking out onto a garden. A large iron frame bed dominated the space. A limed oak wardrobe, matching bedside tables and chest of drawers were the only other pieces of furniture. It was clean, smart and stylish and she loved it.

  “Not enough room for my drums,” Mollie said. “But I’ve always wanted to learn the violin. I’m told it sounds better after a year or so of regular practice late at night.”

  He chuckled. “Not in my parents’ experience. Does the room meet with your approval?”

  She faced him. “Yes. Thank you.” She pulled out eight fifty pound notes from the bottom of her purse and handed them to him. “Maybe we should try each other for a month before we commit to longer.”

  “As you wish. I’m assuming you only have clothes in your bag. Come to the top floor and I’ll lend you some bedding. You won’t need more than a sheet tonight. It’s going to be hot.”

  Mollie followed him up the stairs, admiring the flex of his butt under his paint-splattered pants. How had he got paint on his butt? He stopped next to a door on the third floor landing, opened it to reveal an airing cupboard and pulled out white cotton sheets, pillowcases, a pillow and towel and put them in her arms.

  “Until you get your own.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she turned to go, he caught hold of her chin. “What happened to your face?”

  She pulled free. “Fell down the steps of a bus.”

  “Hmm.” He turned away and disappeared into a room across the small landing.

  Had he guessed that she was lying? Possibly. Mollie went downstairs and put the things he’d given her in her room before she retrieved her bag from the hall. Jean-Paul was nowhere to be seen. She hung up her clothes, and when she realized she’d put all the hangers the same way, changed a few to face the other way, then groaned and turned them back. Maybe that had been her quirk and not Lewin’s.

  The bathroom was lovely. An old-fashioned claw foot tub, a separate shower, matching washbasin and loo with an overhead cistern and chain pull. Wow. She set out her toiletries on a shelf, hung the towel on a rail and glanced in the mirror. The bruises on her face looked worse. Shit. She’d been thinking of changing into a dress, but decided not to.

  After she’d made the bed, she hid her money under the mattress. Probably not the safest place, but it would do for now. She picked up the cakes and went exploring. The communal lounge was huge, as was the TV. Everything looked clean and well cared for, very different from all the houses Mollie had ever shared. The library had floor to ceiling shelves groaning with books, ancient ones alongside modern paperbacks. The three couches looked comfortable and well used, somewhere to curl up and read.

  In contrast to the rest of the house, the kitchen was modern with a range oven, granite countertops and Shaker style cupboards. The only old items were a long farmhouse pine table and benches. The fridge was double the size of any she’d seen before. One shelf was empty and she put the cakes on it. The counters had food marinating in cling film-covered dishes—sausages and kebabs and vegetable skewers. There were bowls of interesting-looking salad with blueberries, couscous with feta cheese and a dish of sliced tomatoes, all protected with film. Her stomach rumbled.

  She wandered out of the kitchen through double doors onto a herringbone patterned brick terrace that held an oval sun-bleached teak table, chairs and a gas barbecue. Beyond that was a mown lawn surrounded by shrubbery gone wild. Large trees shielded the garden on either side but Mollie saw no sign of neighboring properties. She was too hot, but couldn’t roll up her sleeves without revealing more bruises.

  “Hi,” Jean-Paul said behind her. “Like it?”

  “It’s fantastic. Thank you so much for telling me about it.”

  “You’re welcome. Mine and Aden’s room is over yours. Neither of us hums.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  “We…er…might make other noises, though.”

  “What?” Mollie put the most innocent look on her face that she could manage.

  “Ghosts,” he said. “They bang around. You’re not to worry about it.”

  She laughed.

  “Like a drink?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Come and help me make a jug of Pimm’s.”

  * * * *

  They were on their second glass and laughing together when a guy in a dark blue suit walked into the kitchen.

  “Aden.” Jean-Paul jumped to his feet and flung his arms around him.

  The pair looked almost like twins. Similar age, same height and same hair color, though Jean-Paul was the better looking. Aden kissed Jean-Paul and squeezed his butt, watching Mollie’s face as he did it, as if registering his ownership and judging her by her reaction. Mollie had had three male friends before Lewin had got her in his stranglehold but she’d lost them along with the others. I was such an idiot. What she’d thought was love had made a fool of her.

  Jean-Paul pulled out of Aden’s hold. “This is Mollie. She’s having the room on the ground floor.”

  Aden held out his hand. “Hi, Mollie. Nice to meet you.”

  She shook it. “Hello. Nice to meet you too.”

  Jean-Paul poured out another glass of Pimm’s and offered it to Aden.

  “Let me go and get changed first,” Aden said.

  “I’ll come in case you have trouble with your zipper. You know how hopeless you are.”

  Aden laughed and Mollie smiled as the pair left. She took her drink outside and wandered down the lawn, wondering why it was mown in such neat lines while the borders and the bottom of the garden had been allowed to run riot. She stood and listened. The only sound was birdsong. This might take some getting used to, every shade of green, the number of trees, birds and the quiet stillness of it. No traffic, no sirens, no chatter.

  She thought she could be happy here, for a time at least. The rent wasn’t expensive. In London she could never have afforded to stay in a place like this, though the distance from town was an issue. She would have liked to buy a car, but submitting her details to the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency would mean putting her address on record and potentially making it available to a certain detective. She couldn’t risk that, not yet. If she couldn’t persuade one of her housemates to give her a lift, she’d have to call a cab. Or maybe walk. It was about seven miles. Heck, she could run it. Or maybe buy a bike.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Mollie spun round to see a tall blonde stalking toward her in high heels and the most beautiful dress—floaty and flowery and expensive looking. Mollie put her hand out but the blonde put hers on her hips and scowled.

  “Are you Nikki? I’m Mollie. I’ve taken the room downstairs.”

  “The fuck you have.” She stomped off back down the lawn, almost going over in her heels.

  Her heart sank. When the woman slammed back into the kitchen, Mollie sighed. It was probably too much to ask for everything to be perfect. She turned away from the house and continued down the lawn. She discovered an overrun path at the end and pushed her way along it. It led to a narrow gap in an untidy hedge and opened into an area that looked as if it had once been used to grow vegetables. Now it was waist-deep in weeds. A large neglected greenhouse sat on the right and an orchard on the left. Rotting fruit lay in the grass beneath the trees.

  It didn’t look as though Lysander was interested in anything other than the lawn. Mollie was gripped by an urge to restore the garden. Maybe she could make that her contribution to the house. Although she needed to look for a job, she’d promised herself a month of not worrying about it, and working on the garden would be therapeutic.

  She made her way back to the lawn, pulled creepers off an old stone bench nestling beneath an overgrown arbor close to the house, and sat down. A patch of wild strawberries grew at her feet, and she picked several of the sm
all sweet berries to drop in her drink. She didn’t want to go back inside until she found out the results of Nikki’s tantrum.

  Mollie had always thought it essential that housemates got on together so Nikki was a problem. Lysander, too, but in a different way. There was something mesmerizing about him, maybe his intensity and remoteness. He had a self-assured arrogance that frightened her a little, though not because she thought he’d hit her. She wished she hadn’t flinched when he’d lifted his hand, but she couldn’t take it back.

  “Hiding?” Lysander appeared in front of her, dressed in clean clothes, gray pants and white linen shirt, his dark hair still wet and glistening. Wow, he’s really good-looking.

  “Oh damn, can you see me?” she asked. “I was so sure I was invisible.”

  He sat next to her on the bench, lifted the glass from her hand and took a swallow.

  “Mmm, wild strawberries. I’d forgotten about those.” He handed the glass back.

  Mollie imagined Lewin’s reaction if she’d done that to him. Lysander bent and picked a handful of the tiny red berries. He popped one into his mouth, and closed his eyes as he chewed. He had the longest, thickest eyelashes Mollie had ever seen on a guy. Was he wearing mascara? He opened his eyes to see her staring and her stomach lurched again.

  “A waste to have them in the Pimm’s.” He took the largest strawberry from his hand and held it to her mouth.

  Oh God. “Did you wash your hands?” she asked.

  “And behind my ears, Nanny.”

  “Did you have a nanny?”

  “Several. Open up.”

  Mollie opened her mouth and accidentally caught his fingers with her tongue as he withdrew them. His breath hitched and heat pooled in her gut.

  “Tasty?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “‘Course, frogs and insects have probably pissed and shat on them.” He tipped the rest into his mouth.

  “Insects don’t pee. There’s one that doesn’t even excrete nitrogen. The greenfly. It puts all its waste into its offspring.”

  He gaped at her.

  “I teach little kids. They think I know everything. I get asked a lot of tricky questions.”

  “Like how did you fall down the steps on a bus?”

  She looked straight at him. “I slipped. The bus jerked forward and I lost my grip on the rail. Have you lived here long?”

  “I grew up here. Went away to school, lived in London for a while, came back here after my parents moved to France. The light’s good and it’s peaceful. Don’t let Nikki bother you. She asked for your room when Isla left.”

  “I don’t mind swapping.” Peace in the house was more important than where she slept.

  “No. I want you on the ground floor.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m glad you’ve joined us. It’s the school holidays. You’re not working. You can sit for me anytime.” He smiled, his whole face lit up, and Mollie thought she’d have stood on her head or done cartwheels if he had asked when he looked at her like that.

  Damn. What does ‘sitting’ actually mean?

  Chapter Eight

  Flint did not like the look of his new home. The fact that the sun had set and the place appeared as gloomy as a mausoleum didn’t help. Plus it was out in the middle of fucking nowhere in the middle of a fucking wood, though when he thought about it, he guessed that was why Ryker had picked it. It offered him to chance to get back to normal away from prying eyes. Edge premiered in a few weeks. He had to be better for that. Max pulled up in front of tall, solid wooden gates and spoke into an intercom. The gates opened and they went through.

  It had been a long journey from London. Five and a half hours with a detour for Flint to take a leak because Ryker wouldn’t let him get out of the car at a service station and Flint refused to piss into an empty Coke bottle. He’d had to struggle over a gate into a field while Max kept a look out. Despite having slept for a good chunk of the journey, Flint was fed up and exhausted.

  Ryker urged him out of the car and over to the front door. It opened before they reached it to reveal the man and woman in their late thirties he’d seen in the photographs. The woman greeted him with a smile, the man didn’t.

  “Welk tups install,” said the woman.

  So they spoke the same garbled crap up here. Flint scowled. The pair stepped back to allow them into the flagstone hall and his jaw dropped at the sight of the baronial fireplace blazing with a fire. It’s the middle of fucking July. He looked around for a suit of armor, a serving wench and couple of hounds and was almost disappointed not to see them. Guess I’m the jester. Ryker rattled off something to the woman and the guy, and went through the contents of a folder with them while Max carried cases inside and Flint just stood there with his mood plummeting down a mineshaft.

  Ryker pointed to the woman and said, “Beat,” then to the man and said, “Ham.” Obviously they weren’t their names but Beat and Ham would do until he worked it out. The guy was shorter than Flint, but stocky and muscular. My bodyguard? Or my prison guard?

  Both probably. He couldn’t go anywhere, couldn’t use a phone, couldn’t use his credit card. Ryker put his hands on Flint’s shoulders and spoke slowly to him, and Flint tried his best to understand, but the words didn’t make sense. Ryker and Max turning to leave did. He wanted to tell them not to go, but ‘no’ refused to come out of his mouth. He formed the word in his head, strained to push it past his lips.

  He grabbed Ryker’s arm. “N…n…n…” Shit.

  Ryker pulled free and caught Flint’s chin. “Bakson.”

  Flint nodded, defeated. He understood, and didn’t. Why did Ryker have to leave straight away? He couldn’t even stay the night? Flint slipped from distress to anger, and looked for something to kick, but as the door closed on his agent, his rage evaporated and depression replaced it.

  Ham picked up his bags and headed for the stairs. Beat beckoned Flint to follow her. She showed him around the house without saying a word. On the ground floor there was a well-equipped gym, a library full of books—great, I’ll be making good use of that—not, a drawing room with paneled walls and a large oak kitchen. Purple seemed to be the color of choice—not his—purple carpets, couches and curtains in rooms he was supposed to relax in. He hoped he wouldn’t be here long. Old wasn’t his thing any more than purple. He perked up at the sight of the wine cellar except it was empty. I can go online and order… No, I can’t. Shit.

  Upstairs were five bedrooms, three bathrooms and a dressing room. On the second floor was a double bedroom with white walls and a high ceiling supported by an arched timber truss. Flint wanted to collapse on the bed, but Beat urged him out of the room to the stairs to the next floor and beamed as she showed him a huge cinema room with a large couch, spaces in the arms for beer and popcorn. He couldn’t wait to sit on his own and watch movies he couldn’t understand.

  When they descended to the floor below and the bedroom he intended to use, Ham was still unpacking his clothes into the closet. Beat and Ham exchanged a few words and chuckled. Flint’s discomfort grew. This was like being at school and thinking every time someone laughed, they were laughing at him. Why couldn’t he just be on his own? Beat pointed downstairs and he let her lead him into the kitchen. He couldn’t go to bed while Ham was messing around.

  Somehow the pair not talking to him was just as bad as hearing them talk and not understanding. She sat him at the table and opened the fridge. He shook his head to everything she showed him. He wasn’t hungry. But when she held up a jar of Horlicks, he straightened and she smiled.

  Flint couldn’t recall how many years it had been since he’d had the malt drink. It had to have been when his parents were still alive. It tasted just as he remembered. Beat waited until he’d finished then rinsed the mug and put it in the dishwasher.

  “Ulay?” she asked.

  He wanted to yell ‘Talk to me,’ but he nodded. He guessed she was asking if he was okay and he wasn’t, but there was nothing she could do.<
br />
  She took a phone from her bag and held it out. “Wiffin plep. Shell. Ham.”

  What the fuck?

  She gave an exasperated sigh and tried again. “Wiffen plep. Ham.” She pointed to the green key and pressed it. A moment later she passed it to him and Flint heard Ham’s voice at the other end.

  “Lert?” she asked.

  So he could call Ham. Great. What use was that? He took the phone and pushed it in his pocket. When he got upstairs, Ham had gone. All his toiletries were set out neatly in the bathroom. Flint stripped and stepped into the shower. He closed his eyes, rested his hands on the limestone tiles and let the water pour over his back.

  Were there any of the bad emotions he wasn’t feeling? Fear, anxiety, frustration, anger, sadness, grief, fury, resentment. More fury. More fear. Tears began to fall and his shoulders shook as he cried. Now he’d started, he didn’t seem able to stop. He cried until his stomach hurt, until he threw up the drink he’d just consumed all over his feet. The pain in his chest just grew and grew until his knees buckled. He felt as if there were an animal inside him fighting to get free. He’d not let a sound escape his mouth and when one did, the noise scared him because he didn’t recognize it. Everything that made him what he was had gone.

  He wanted to see it as a chance to start afresh, but he couldn’t. It hadn’t made him into a better man, but a lesser man. Marina hadn’t beaten the shit out of him, this fucking stroke had. He didn’t know who he was and he was scared.

  Chapter Nine

  Lysander liked hunting, but not the pursuit of creatures with four legs, only those with two. He used the others as beaters, asking them to thrash through the streets and bars to unearth someone interesting to share the house. When Nikki had come home with Isla, Lysander was aware that Nikki hadn’t expected the bad-tempered redhead to last a week. Nikki had picked her because she didn’t see her as competition. Lysander’s reaction to Nikki’s choice had been to take Isla to bed the night she arrived, though to be fair, he’d gone to bed to find a naked Isla lying there. The atmosphere in the house had turned toxic. But the following night he’d fucked Nikki and the sun had come out again. Men were so much easier.