Get a Life, Chloe Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  She’d moved in a week later and had been disturbing his peace with her ice-queen routine ever since.

  “I—I have no idea how that happened,” she said, as if he’d secretly orchestrated the whole thing just for a chance to grab her.

  Gritting his teeth, he tried to assure her that this wasn’t a mugging or a botched kidnapping attempt—that, despite his tats and his accent and all the other things that made classy women like her judge guys like him, he wasn’t actually a dangerous criminal. But all that came out of his mouth was a useless wheezing noise, so he gave up and focused on breathing instead. The pain in his throat faded from a poisonous yellow to a faint, lemon twinge.

  He didn’t even notice her sisters until they started talking.

  “Oh, Chloe,” said the shortest sister, Eve. “Look what you’ve done! The poor man’s coughing up his garters.”

  The other sister—Dani, they called her—rolled her eyes and said, “Do you mean guts, darling?”

  “No. Should we do something? Go on, Dani, do something.”

  “And what should I do? Do I look like a nurse to you?”

  “Well, we can’t let him choke to death,” Eve said reasonably. “What a waste of a gorgeous—”

  Chloe’s voice carved through the bickering like a blade. “Oh, be quiet, both of you. Weren’t you just leaving?”

  “We can’t leave now. Our favorite superintendent is in crisis.”

  See, while Chloe had hated Red from the moment they’d met, her sisters, Dani and Eve, seemed to love him. They shared her cut-glass accent, but not her apparent classism. He thought of Dani as the elegant one, with her shaved head and her floaty, black outfits. She had a smile so pretty it should be illegal, and she flashed it like a lightbulb whenever their paths crossed. Eve, meanwhile, was the fun one, the baby sister with long, pastel-colored braids and an air of frantic energy that crackled around her like lightning. She liked to flirt. She also liked to wear polka-dot outfits and clashing shoes that offended his artistic sensibilities.

  If either of them had taken flat 1D five weeks ago, that would’ve been just fine. But no—it had to be Chloe. Had to be the sister who made him feel like a rough, scary monster. Had to be the uptight princess who’d decided he was dangerous simply because of where he came from. Why she even lived here, in a cheerfully middle-class block of flats, was a fucking mystery; she was obviously loaded. After Pippa, he could spot the gloss of a wealthy woman from miles away.

  But he wouldn’t think about Pippa. Nothing good ever came of it.

  “I’m fine,” he choked out, blinking his watery eyes.

  “See?” Chloe said quickly. “He’s fine. Let’s be off.”

  God, she irritated him. The woman had just cut off his fucking oxygen and she still couldn’t show him common courtesy. Absolutely unbelievable. “Nice to see you’re still sweetness and light,” he muttered. “Teach those manners at finishing school, do they?”

  He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. She was a tenant. He was the superintendent, by the grace of God and his best mate. He was supposed to be polite to her no matter what. But he’d figured out weeks ago that his good nature, his filters, and his common sense all disappeared around Chloe Brown. Honestly, he was shocked she hadn’t reported him already.

  That was the weirdest thing about her, actually. She snapped at him, she sneered down her nose at him, but she never, ever reported him. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

  Right now, her heavy-lidded eyes flashed midnight fire, narrowing behind her bright blue glasses. He enjoyed the sight on an aesthetic level and hated himself for it, just a little bit. High up on the list of annoying things about Chloe Brown was her beautiful bloody face. She had the kind of brilliant, decadent, Rococo beauty that made his fingers itch to grab a pencil or a paintbrush. It was ridiculously over the top: gleaming brown skin, winged eyebrows with a slightly sarcastic tilt, a mouth you could sink into like a feather bed. She had no business looking like that. None at all.

  But he knew he’d mix a million earth shades to paint her and add a splash of ultramarine for the square frames of her glasses. The thick, chestnut hair piled on top of her head? He’d take that down. Sometimes, he stared at nothing and thought about the way it would frame her face. Most times, he thought about how he shouldn’t be thinking about her. Ever. At all.

  Each word deliberate as a gunshot, she told him, “I’m so awfully sorry, Redford.” She sounded about as sorry as a wasp did for stinging. As always, her lips and tongue said one thing, but her eyes said murder. He was generally considered an easygoing guy, but Red knew his eyes were saying murder right back.

  “No worries,” he lied. “My fault.”

  She gave a one-shouldered shrug that he knew from experience was rich-people speak for Whatever. Then she left without another word, because their verbal battles were never actually that verbal, beyond the first few passive-aggressive jabs.

  He watched her spin away, her poofy skirt swishing around her calves. He saw her sisters follow, and waved a hand when they sent him concerned, backward glances. He heard their footsteps fade, and he pulled himself together, and he went to Mrs. Conrad’s flat and ate her awful casserole.

  But he didn’t think about Chloe Brown again. Not once. Not at all.

  * * *

  Some people might say that writing a list of items to change one’s life after a brush with death was ludicrous—but those people, Chloe had decided, simply lacked the necessary imagination and commitment to planning. She gave a sigh of pure contentment as she settled deeper into her mountain of sofa cushions.

  It was Saturday night, and she was glad to be alone. Her back pain was as excruciating today as it had been yesterday, her legs were numb and aching, but even those issues couldn’t ruin this peace. When she’d put pen to paper in her quest to get a life, finding her own home had been the first entry she’d written. She’d met that goal, and—unnerving superintendents aside—she had nothing but good to show for it.

  Through the slight gap in her living room window’s curtains, she caught a glimpse of the September sun’s evening rays. That warm, orange glow rose above the hulking shadow of her apartment building’s west side, making the courtyard nestled at the center of the building all shadowy and peaceful, its blooming autumnal shades rich as earth and blood. Her flat was similarly soothing to the nerves: cool and silent, but for the gentle whirr of her laptop and the steady tap of her fingers against the keyboard.

  Happiness, independence, true solitude. Sweeter than oxygen. She breathed it in. This was, in a word, bliss.

  It was also the moment her phone blared to life, shattering her calm like glass.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Chloe allowed herself precisely three seconds to wallow in exasperation before grabbing her phone and checking the display. Eve. Her little sister. Which meant that she couldn’t simply switch off the ringer and shove her mobile into a drawer.

  Drat.

  She hit Accept. “I’m working.”

  “Well, that simply won’t do,” Eve said cheerfully. “Thank goodness I called.”

  Chloe enjoyed being irritated—grumpiness was high on her list of hobbies—but she also enjoyed everything about her silly youngest sister. Fighting the curve of her own lips, she asked, “What do you want, Evie-Bean?”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you asked.”

  Fudge. Chloe knew that tone, and it never boded well for her. “You know, every time I answer your calls, I quickly find myself regretting it.” She hit Speaker and put her phone on the sofa arm, her hands returning to the laptop balanced on her knees.

  “What rubbish. You adore me. I am catatonically adorable.”

  “Do you mean categorically, darling?”

  “No,” Eve said. “Now, listen closely. I am about to give you a series of instructions. Don’t think, don’t argue, just obey.”

  This ought to be good.

  “Karaoke night begins in one hour down at the Hockley bar�
��no, Chloe, stop groaning. Don’t think, don’t argue, just obey, remember? I want you to get up, put on some lipstick—”

  “Too late,” Chloe interrupted dryly. “My pajamas are on. I’m finished for the night.”

  “At half-past eight?” Eve’s enthusiasm faltered, replaced by hesitant concern. “You’re not having a spell, are you?”

  Chloe softened at the question. “No, love.”

  Most people had trouble accepting the fact that Chloe was ill. Fibromyalgia and chronic pain were invisible afflictions, so they were easy to dismiss. Eve was healthy, so she would never feel Chloe’s bone-deep exhaustion, her agonizing headaches or the shooting pains in her joints, the fevers and confusion, the countless side effects that came from countless medications. But Eve didn’t need to feel all of that to have empathy. She didn’t need to see Chloe’s tears or pain to believe her sister struggled sometimes. Neither, for that matter, did Dani. They understood.

  “You’re sure?” Eve asked, suspicion in her tone. “Because you were awfully rude to Red yesterday, and that usually means—”

  “It was nothing,” Chloe cut in sharply, her cheeks burning. Redford Morgan: Mr. Congeniality, beloved superintendent, the man who liked everyone but didn’t like her. Then again, people usually didn’t. She shoved all thoughts of him neatly back into their cage. “I’m fine. I promise.” It wasn’t a lie, not today. But she would have lied if necessary. Sometimes familial concern was its own mind-numbing symptom.

  “Good. In that case, you can definitely join me for karaoke. The theme is duets, and I have been stood up by my so-called best friend. I require a big sisterly substitute as a matter of urgency.”

  “Unfortunately, my schedule is full.” With a few flicks of her fingertips, Chloe minimized one window, maximized another, and scanned her client questionnaire for the section on testimonial slide shows. She couldn’t quite remember if—

  “Schedule?” Eve grumbled. “I thought you were abandoning schedules. I thought you had a new lease on life!”

  “I do,” Chloe said mildly. “I also have a job.” Aha. She found the info she needed and tucked it away in her mind, hoping brain fog wouldn’t turn the data to mist within the next thirty seconds. She hadn’t taken much medication today, so her short-term memory should be reasonably reliable.

  Should be.

  “It’s Saturday night,” Eve was tutting. “You work for yourself. From home.”

  “Which is precisely why I have to be disciplined. Call Dani.”

  “Dani sings like a howler monkey.”

  “But she has stage presence,” Chloe said reasonably.

  “Stage presence can’t hide everything. She’s not Madonna, for Christ’s sake. I don’t think you are grasping the gravity of this situation, Chlo; this isn’t just a karaoke night. There is a competition.”

  “Oh, joy.”

  “Guess what the prize is?”

  “I couldn’t possibly,” Chloe murmured.

  “Go on. Guess!”

  “Just tell me. I am bursting with excitement.”

  “The prize,” Eve said dramatically, “is . . . tickets to Mariah Carey’s Christmas tour!”

  “Tickets to—?” Oh, for goodness sake. “You don’t need to win those, Eve. Have Gigi arrange it.”

  “That’s really not the point. This is for fun! You remember, fun—that thing you never have?”

  “This may come as a shock to you, darling, but most people don’t consider karaoke exciting.”

  “All right,” Eve relented, sounding rather glum. But, as always, she brightened quickly. “Speaking of fun . . . how is that list of yours developing?”

  Chloe sighed and let her head fall back against the cushions. Heaven protect her from little sisters. She should never have told either of them about her list, the one she’d written after her near-death experience and subsequent resolution. They always made fun of her itemized plans.

  Well, more fool them, because planning was the key to success. It was thanks to the list, after all, that Chloe’s imaginary eulogy was now looking much more positive. Today, she could proudly claim that if she died, the papers would say something like this:

  At the grand old age of thirty-one, Chloe moved out of her family home and rented a poky little flat, just like an ordinary person. She also wrote an impressive seven-point list detailing her plans to get a life. While she failed to fully complete said list before her death, its existence proves that she was in a better, less boring, place. We salute you, Chloe Brown. Clearly, you listened to the universe.

  Satisfactory, if not ideal. She had not yet transformed her life, but she was in the process of doing so. She was a caterpillar tucked into a universe-endorsed chrysalis. Someday soon, she would emerge as a beautiful butterfly who did cool and fabulous things all the time, regardless of whether or not said things had been previously scheduled. All she had to do was follow the list.

  Unfortunately, Eve didn’t share her patience or her positive outlook. “Well?” she nudged, when Chloe didn’t respond. “Have you crossed anything off yet?”

  “I moved out.”

  “Yes, I had noticed that,” Eve snorted. “Do you know, I’m the last Brown sister living at home now?”

  “Really? I had no idea. I thought there were several more of us roaming the halls.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “Perhaps you should move out soon, too.”

  “Not yet. I’m still saving my monthly stipend,” Eve said vaguely. God only knew what for. Chloe was afraid to ask, in case the answer was something like A diamond-encrusted violin, of course. “But you moved out weeks ago, Chlo. There’s all sorts of things on that list of yours. What else have you done?”

  When in doubt, remain silent—that was Chloe’s motto.

  “I knew it,” Eve sniffed eventually. “You are letting me down.”

  “Letting you down?”

  “Yes. Dani bet me fifty pounds that you’d abandon your list by the end of the year, but I—”

  “She bet you what?”

  “I supported you like a good and loyal sister—”

  “What on earth is the matter with the pair of you?”

  “And this is how you repay me! With apathy! And to top it all, you won’t help me win Mariah Carey tickets.”

  “Will you shut up about the karaoke?” Chloe snapped. She ran a hand over her face, suddenly exhausted. “Darling, I can’t talk anymore. I really am working.”

  “Fine,” Eve sighed. “But this isn’t the last you’ve heard of me, Chloe Sophia.”

  “Stop that.”

  “I won’t rest until you’re no longer such a boring—”

  Chloe put the phone down.

  A second later, a notification flashed up on her screen.

  Eve: :)

  Chloe shook her head in fond irritation and got back to work. The SEO of local restaurants, hair salons, and the other small businesses on her roster wouldn’t maintain itself. She sank into the familiar mental rhythm of research and updates . . . or rather, she tried to. But her focus was shattered. After five minutes, she paused to mutter indignantly at the empty room, “Dani bet fifty pounds that I would abandon the list? Ridiculous.”

  After ten, she drummed her fingers against the sofa and said, “She simply doesn’t understand the fine art of list-based goal setting.” The fact that Dani was a Ph.D. student was neither here nor there. She was too rebellious to grasp the importance of a good, solid plan.

  Although . . . Chloe supposed it had been a while since she’d taken stock. Maybe she was due a check-in. Before she knew it, her laptop was closed and abandoned in the living room while she strode off to find the blue sparkly notebook hidden in her bedside drawer.

  Chloe had many notebooks, because Chloe wrote many lists. Her brain, typically fogged by pain or painkillers (or, on truly exciting days, both), was a cloudy, lackadaisical thing that could not be trusted, so she relied on neatly organized reminders.

  Daily to-do lists, weekly to
-do lists, monthly to-do lists, medication lists, shopping lists, Enemies I Will Destroy lists (that one was rather old and more of a morale boost than anything else), client lists, birthday lists, and, her personal favorite, wish lists. If a thing could be organized, categorized, scheduled, and written neatly into a color-coded section of a notebook, the chances were, Chloe had already done so. If she didn’t, you see, she would soon find herself in what Mum called “a wretched kerfuffle.” Chloe did not have the time for kerfuffles.

  But the single list contained in the notebook she now held was not like all the others. She opened the book to the very first page and ran her finger over the stark block lettering within. There were no cheerful doodles or colorful squiggles here, because, when she’d designed this particular page, Chloe had meant business. She still meant business.

  This was her Get a Life list. She took it rather seriously.

  Which begged the question—why were its check boxes so woefully unticked?

  Her questing finger moved to trace the very first task. This one, at least, she had accomplished: 1. Move out. She’d been living independently—really independently, budgeting and food shopping and all sorts—for five weeks now, and she had yet to spontaneously combust. Her parents were astonished, her sisters were delighted, Gigi was yodeling “I told you so!” to all and sundry, et cetera. It was very satisfying.

  Less satisfying were the five unachieved tasks written beneath it.

  2. Enjoy a drunken night out.

  3. Ride a motorbike.

  4. Go camping.

  5. Have meaningless but thoroughly enjoyable sex.

  6. Travel the world with nothing but hand luggage.

  And then there was the very last task, one she’d checked off with alarming swiftness.