Catching London

by MV Ellis

  “Wait, so you’re telling me that you accidentally exposed yourself to Arlo Jones?”

  I nod.

  “Arlo Jones of the Heartless Few. That Arlo Jones?”

  “The very same.”

  “Although you didn’t know who he was at the time?” He’s smirking, trying to hold back his laughter.

  “Correct.” I nod sagely, not seeing the funny side of the situation at all.

  “Then once you knew who he was, you kissed him?” His eyes grow wider with incredulity with every question.

  “Well no, he kissed me. But yes, I did kiss him back.”

  “And then when he offered to bend you over the counter and do you from behind, you slapped him in the face and fled. Am I missing anything?”

  Ugh. It sounds worse now than it seemed at the time.

  “Nope, I think you’ve pretty much got all the salient points covered. Apart from the part where I got caught ogling his package in the elevator while dressed like a contestant in a holiday park wet T-shirt contest.”

  I can’t keep the sarcasm from my voice.

  “Okay, but why do I get the impression that you’re not telling me everything, princess? He didn’t hurt you, did he? Because if he did, he’s as good as dead, right now.”

  The humor that was in his voice only moments ago has been replaced by a much more chilling tone.

  “What? No! It’s nothing like that.”

  “What is it, then? A few minutes ago you were crying like a baby. If that’s all there was to the story, I don’t think you’d be quite so upset. Angry, possibly. Embarrassed, definitely. But upset, no. That’s not your style. So what aren’t you telling me? Are you into him?” Damn, he’s good!

  “Well, of course I’m into him. I’m hardly in the habit of sucking face with men I have no interest in, now am I?”

  I shouldn’t take my frustrations out on him, but I can’t help it.

  “Don’t play the smartass with me. In point of fact, you’re not in the habit of sucking face with anyone these days. Period. Not since Danny....” Realization dawns on his face. “Oh. Right.”

  “Right,” I echo. “I actually didn’t like him at all, initially. He’s the total opposite of Danny—arrogant, and rude, and domineering. But somehow, despite all that, I….” I let my voice trail off, certain that Marko can fill in the blanks for himself.

  “Oh, sweets….”

  “It’s not that big of a deal. I was attracted to him. That doesn’t mean shit.”

  I try for the bright and breezy approach, but am not very convincing, even to my own ears.

  “Come on, dude. Of course it’s a big deal. How long have Nic and I been saying that you should get back out there and start dating or something again? And this whole time, you’ve flat out refused to even consider the idea, although we all know it’s what Danny would want. He loved you so much, and he definitely wouldn’t have expected you to put your life on hold for him forever.”

  “I know. I know. You know I know that, but it still hurts. Sometimes it hurts like it was yesterday. I still miss him every fucking day. Some mornings in those tiny moments between sleep and waking, I momentarily forget that it happened at all, and I find myself reaching for his side of the bed. It’s only when my hand meets with cold, empty sheets that it all comes flooding back. It’s like I’m back in that hospital bed, just out of the coma, and they’re telling me all over again that Danny didn’t make it.

  “When I was kissing this guy, even though I was into it, I mean really fucking into it, at the same time I started to feel like I was dancing all over Danny’s grave. I’m a terrible person.”

  Marko has moved from kneeling in front of me to sitting on the couch next to me. He slips his arms around me, and draws me to him. He gives the best hugs.

  “You’re not terrible, you’re human. You’re human and you’re alive. You have needs. Danny’s not coming back, and as shit as that is, nothing’s going change that fact. You’re still here and you’ve got to live your life, especially because he’s not here to live his. You can’t beat yourself up about that forever. Nor can you continue to lock yourself away in your ivory tower.

  “Clearly this isn’t just a casual hook up to get you back in the game. You obviously felt something quite significant for this guy, or you wouldn’t be reacting this way now. The bad news is he’s a man-whore on a global scale. He’s been linked to every supermodel and sexy starlet between here and the moon.”

  “Ugh.” I sigh grumpily. “How do you know this stuff? I knew nothing about him until I googled him on the subway ride home.” I eye Marko suspiciously.

  “I work almost exclusively with women. Of course I know this shit.” He grins ruefully.

  “I’m a woman, and I was clueless,” I remind him.

  “I know, but you’re not the gossip-rag-reading, or Instagram-stalking type.”

  He’s got a point—I like to think I have better things to do with myself than worry about what celebrities are eating for breakfast. We’re both lost in our thoughts for a moment. Marko breaks the silence.

  “He behaved like a pig.” His tone is serious now.

  “I know,” I agree. Of course I do. I tuck my legs up tighter under myself and sink deeper into the couch.

  “He was so rude to you,” he presses on.

  “I was there, Marko. I know what happened.” There I go again, using him as my punching bag. It’s a good thing he loves me as much as I love him.

  “When you do something, you do it big, hey baby girl? Arlo Jones, of all people. What are you going to do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’ve flashed, kissed, and then assaulted one of the hottest and most down-to-fuck rock stars in the world, who also happens to be your boss—”

  “Ex-boss,” I interrupt.

  “—ex-boss. You need a fucking plan if you’re going to come out of this unscathed.”

  “Well that’s where you’re wrong. I don’t need a plan. You’ve listed all the reasons why I can hardly just rock up back there tomorrow—or ever—as though nothing happened. I spoke to Gloria on the way home. She’s going to roster someone else to clean his place, and I’ll never have to see or think about him again. Problem solved.”

  ***

  I increase my shifts at the restaurant, pretending that Showergate never happened. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I do back-to-back shifts, to make up my hours. As well as replacing the lost income from the cleaning job, the extra shifts have the added bonus of helping keep my mind off Arlo, and what happened between us. That is until a few weekends later when I’m woken from my much needed, and long-awaited sleep-in by the sound of my cell phone ringing.

  I’m desperate to stay burrowed under the blankets forever, but the chirpy trill is too annoying to ignore. It’s on the other side of the room, too (whose stupid idea was that?), so I’m going to have to leave the safety of my cocoon—if only to switch it off. Why can’t whoever the hell is calling get the hint, and leave me alone? I. Don’t. Want. To. Talk. To. Anyone.

  Grudgingly, I fumble my way out of bed, wrapping myself in the quilt as I go. This way I can at least kid myself that I’m not actually getting up, I’m just temporarily vertical, and will soon be restoring the horizontal status quo once more. If I don’t expose my skin to the cold air outside the blankets, I can even crawl back into bed and pretend I never left. My sleep and I definitely have unfinished business.

  I reach for the phone and sigh in dismay when I see that it’s an unrecognized number. I’d love to just not answer it, but it could be a potential client wanting to book me for a photography gig. As I work toward my goal of setting up my studio and working full-time as a photographer, I can’t afford to turn away work, no matter how much I’d rather stay in my nice warm bed. I answer in my best business voice, despite the cobwebs lingering in my head.

  “Hello, London Llwellyn speaking.”

  “Hi, London, it’s Arlo.” I recognize the transatlantic drawl straight away—
he has that accent that many celebrities who’ve traveled a lot or lived outside of the US have—but I remain silent.

  “Umm… Arlo Jones, from Rosemond House.” I wait a few more beats before speaking again, as though wracking my brain to remember him.

  “Oh. Hello, Mr. Jones.”

  “It’s Arlo. You can just call me Arlo.”

  “Hello, Arlo.” I let the silence extend between us. If nothing else, I’m too busy wondering how the hell he got my number to make fake nicey with him.

  “I hope you don’t mind me contacting you directly. I got your number from your website.” Ah, well that solves that mystery. I continue to wait, enjoying his obvious discomfort.

  “So… I was calling because I need a housekeeper, and… I wanted to offer you the job.”

  What now?

  “Pardon me?” Cool, calm, and collected be damned, I’ve jumped straight to completely confused.

  “The rest of the band and I are going to be in town for an extended period of time, so my home care needs have changed. I’m looking for more of a housekeeper—one who can be here every day. Your aunt has replaced you with someone else to clean the place, but I don’t feel like she’d be up to the extra duties. Given you know the house, and are clearly very capable, I’d rather have you back than bring in a third person.”

  “Umm….”

  “I’m offering quadruple your previous rate of pay.”

  He must be a lunatic. That’s an insane offer. I mean we’re talking crazy money, even for a ‘housekeeper.’ It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’s sure he wants to pay that kind of money on a daily basis, but I stop myself. It’s his money, and from what I’ve read, he’s good for the cash, so who am I to argue? Besides, the more I earn, the sooner I’ll get my studio. Even better, I won’t have to bust my ass doing back-to-back waitressing shifts to get there.

  “Hmmm….”

  “Is that a yes?” He’s chuckling now.

  “Sure. Yeah. Okay. Thanks. But Gloria—”

  “Great. You can start on Monday. I’ve already cleared it with Gloria. She said she was going to call you to square away the details. I don’t think she was expecting me to call you directly, but I really just wanted to talk to you, and make the offer in person. I also wanted to apologize for my previous behavior, and personally reassure you that I’ll mind my manners from here on in. I won’t do anything to make you want to slap me again, I promise.” He sounds sincere, but still, I wonder if I’ve lost my mind agreeing to go back there, and I’ll definitely be double-checking the booking with Gloria regardless.

  “Oh, and London, my cheek is fine, by the way, thank you for asking.”

  I can hear the smile in his voice.

  Touché, Mr. Jones. I see we have a sense of humor. If it was anyone else, I’d probably tell them to stick it, but somehow, and maybe against my better judgment, I trust him to keep his word and behave himself this time around.

  ***

  On my first day back at Rosemond House, I arrive early—the last thing I want to do is get myself into more trouble by being late. I get a shock as I round the corner approaching the house, humming absentmindedly to the tunes blaring on my headphones, and stumble headlong into a baying crowd of attractive young women and not so attractive paparazzi.

  Clearly word has gotten out that the Heartless Few are back in town, and it looks like everyone wants a piece of Arlo Jones. When I was here last, the house and the street outside were deserted, but today the scene resembles some kind of crazy street bazaar, with people flitting here and there. Some are even waving signs and chanting. I definitely don’t want to run the gauntlet of that lot—a few are hysterical, and they all look like they’d stop at nothing to get close to their idol.

  Luckily, I easily blend in with the crowd, so I pull my cap down low over my face, and casually sidle toward the back of the house. There are a few photographers hanging out there, but they obviously mistake me for a fan, and don’t look twice as I move past them toward the entryway. Even when I start entering the code into the keypad, nobody seems to suspect that I’m meant to be there.

  “Hey!” calls one of the paps. “Don’t bother. Security’s as tight as a nun’s hoo-ha! It’s fingerprint technology, or personalized code only. Unless you’re a mind reader or a shape-shifter, you’ve got no chance of getting in there.” He laughs heartily at his own joke.

  Nobody realizes what’s going on until the metal security door is ninetenths of the way closed behind me, and I’m free and clear. That’s when they surge forward, trying to attract my attention for that all-important shot.

  “Hey gorgeous, what’s your name? Who are you going to see? Are you Arlo’s latest?” I can just make out the words as the door clicks closed.

  Ugh, I’m glad they can’t see my reaction to that question. I’m bristling as I enter the kitchen, shaken by the tiny glimpse of the celebrity fishbowl lifestyle. I can safely say it’s not for me. I’d hate to have to worry that a photographer with a telephoto lens could be lurking around every corner.

  I can’t imagine stepping out to empty the trash in my pj’s and having someone sell photos of me with bed hair to the press. More than that though, I hate being referred to as Arlo Jones’s latest conquest. Even though I know I’m not, it still feels gross to be viewed that way, knowing the reputation he has.

  Imagine my delight when the news is full of stories of a “mystery woman” seen entering Arlo Jones’s house. If the speculation wasn’t about me, I’d probably find it pretty funny. The stories the press invents are wild. I’m variously called his new Brazilian girlfriend, an exotic “escort,” and a playmate who regularly has threesomes with Arlo and his identical twin, Luke.

  I am mildly amused by the fact that the truth is so much more mundane than any of the rumors. If they knew, they’d be disappointed. “Arlo Jones’s housekeeper seen doing daily rounds” really doesn’t have the same ring to it as something featuring the words “steamy sex romp.”

  I walk into the kitchen to find Arlo waiting for me. He’s leaning against the counter top, in almost the same position as I left him the last time I was at the house. The thought unnerves me, but not as much as the sight of him. He’s bare-chested, wearing only a pair of lived in, but well-fitting jeans. I’m fascinated again by his tattoos—they’re elaborate and ornate, and oh, so rock ‘n’ roll. He’s every bit as gorgeous as I remember, if not more so. I catch my breath, and he looks up, crushing my hope that he didn’t hear the sharp intake of air. Damn. Our gazes lock. Those eyes. Brighter and more intense than I remember.

  I smile a little, but don’t speak, waiting for Arlo to make the first move. He takes my cue, returning my smile slowly, and breaking the silence.

  “Hey.” His voice is soft.

  “Hey.”

  “So I thought I should be here to welcome you back after the last time, and to give you a rundown of your new duties.”

  “Okay, great, thanks.”

  It makes sense. Though I worked at the house for a while before Arlo came back, this is a new role. Gloria did call me to give me a basic idea of what would be required not long after Arlo offered me the job, but it’s good to hear it straight from the source, also.

  He motions toward the dining table and sits down.

  “Come join me. Take a seat.” He points to the chair at the foot of the table, close to his place on the long edge.

  Instead of sitting where he suggests, I choose the chair opposite him, not trusting either of us to sit any closer. He notes my choice, but says nothing, although I get the sense that he wants to.

  “Before we get to that, I think it would be a good idea for us to start over with the introductions, given the confusion when we first met.” He stands up and extends his hand toward me across the table.

  “Arlo Jones, pleased to meet you.” I stand up too, and take his proffered hand, but instead of a regular handshake, he grasps my hand in both of his, squeezing gently. A spark of awareness zings from his hands t
o mine, and straight to my crotch. He doesn’t let go of my hand. I clear my throat and swallow awkwardly, before responding. I hope he doesn’t notice how deeply affected I am by the smallest physical contact with him. In fact, by his mere presence.

  “London Llwellyn, and I’m really very sorry about what happened. Both the shower incident and the slap were out of order, and out of character.”

  “Not at all. You made a mistake, but I made it much worse by behaving like a complete dick about it. Not that I generally advocate violence, but I deserved that slap, and more besides. I kind of got lost in the moment for a bit. It’s in no way an excuse, but I’d been partying pretty hard the night before, and I was hungover as shit.

  “My judgment wasn’t what it could have been, but I want to reassure you that I wouldn’t have done anything you didn’t want to do. In any case, it really wasn’t my finest hour, and I’m not proud of myself for it.” Well that makes two of us then. He finally releases my hand, and we sit again.

  With that out of the way, Arlo goes on to explain that the band is back in town because their latest world tour was cut short due to Stevie, the drummer, suffering some sort of collapse, and having to be flown home to attend a “treatment facility.” The rest of the band is on a temporary hiatus as a result, hence Arlo’s sudden and unexpected return.

  It turns out that though the whole band is originally from New York, Arlo and his identical twin Luke mostly prefer to base themselves in LA between tours these days. Arlo has burgeoning business interests there, and Luke prefers the milder Californian weather to the extremes of the East Coast. As a result, they are here fairly infrequently. Each brother owns a number of investment properties throughout the Lower East Side, SoHo and Chelsea, but they are sublet to long-term tenants, so Rosemond House is their home of choice when they are in town. It belongs to Arlo, but Luke is happy to crash there as Arlo’s unofficial roommate.

  Stevie still lives in New York, and decided to do his stint in rehab here so that he could be near family when he comes out.

  “I guess I should formally introduce the two of you, as well, shouldn’t I—” He’s referring to Luke. “—given that you haven’t officially met?” Arlo’s rueful half-smile causes my stomach to flip flop.