Just One Night: Part 5 (2 page)

She laughs nervously. “Welllll … heh-heh … that’s probably not going to help you much.”

“Why not?”

“Because when he left here, he kiiind of threw his phone across the office and smashed it into a thousand tiny pieces. Maybe a million tiny pieces, actually. I stopped counting at fifty four.”

I frown, trying to decide if she’s kidding or not. Surely she didn’t count pieces of his broken phone…

Her voice perks up. “But I could pass a message to him through Edward.”

“No, don’t do that,” I say in a rush.

“Why not?”

“Because …” I don’t have a reason, actually. It just feels stupid to play pass-the-message, especially when William’s brother has his old job now. Could William really be okay with that? I got the impression before that there were some conflicting feelings between the brothers.

“Because …?” Rachel’s apparently going to force a confession from me.

“Because … I’d rather tell him myself.”

“Oh. Okay. That makes sense. Do you want his home address? I’d give you his email, but the only one I have is his work one and … well, he doesn’t work here anymore.”

Oh my god, is she serious? Do I want his home address? “Do you have it?” I finish meekly, feeling like a total stalker now.

“Of course, silly. I used to be in charge of having his dry cleaning delivered and buying stuff for him on Amazon.” She sighs heavily. “Not so much anymore, though.”

I’m so tempted to ask her for the scoop on why he’s not there, but I hold back. Something tells me she’s too eager to share and that William wouldn’t appreciate it.

“Okay, you ready?” she asks.

“For what?” I respond, worried she’s about to tell me something weird.

“You
did
ask me for his address … right?”

My face burns redder. I can see Rachel’s expression in my head as clearly as if I were standing in front of her. She’s the one thinking she got stuck talking to a Barbie the dingdong airhead now. It makes me feel bad for thinking that about Mia, because she wasn’t acting half as dingy as I am. I can’t believe how nervous I am.

“Yes, go ahead, I’m ready.” I rush around my kitchen trying to find a pen.
I’m not ready! Ack!

She reads the number and street name out slowly, and I write it on my arm with a magic marker I found rolling around next to my aluminum foil in an otherwise empty drawer. Paper is hiding somewhere in my apartment, but I don’t know where. I should probably unpack some more boxes.

“You got that?” she asks.

“Yep,” I say, adding the last part of the street name. “Thanks so much.” I put the pen down and too late I realize I’ve used permanent ink for this message. Somebody just needs to shoot me right now and put me out of my misery.

“Tell William hi for me,” she says, wistfully.

“I will.” I start to hang up, but I hear her voice again so I put the phone back to my ear.

She continues. “And tell him Edward is going to Scotland for that problem they were having.”

“Okay.” I’m sliding the phone away again, but stop when I hear her once more.

“Oh! And tell him that his father has been coming in here every day and that he got rid of our text messaging system.”

“Um … okay.” I pause, waiting for more, but there’s only silence. “Did you want me to tell him anything else?” I’m afraid I’m going to hang up on her by accident.

“Hmmm, let me think …” More silence stretches between us. Her voice comes again, only this time twice as perky as ever. “Hmmmm … no! I don’t think so!”

“Okay, well, thanks again. Bye.”

“Wait!”
she yells, nearly busting my eardrum.

“Yes?” I ask, holding the phone away from my head just in case.

Her voice drops to conspiratorial levels, forcing me to risk it and put the phone on my ear again.

“Tell him that I’m keeping an eye on
things
for him.
Things,
you know? Well, you don’t know, but tell him like that.
Things.
He’ll understand.”

“Okaaay, I’ll tell him about the things.”

“No,” she says, “not
the
things. The
things
.”

“The
things
,” I say, feeling like I must be on some sort of hidden camera for the purpose of being mocked by an invisible audience. Is this girl for real?

“Yes, that’s perfect!” she says, back to being perky. “Okay, well … have a nice day!”

“You too,” I say, staring at the phone as I press the red button to hang up. When I’m sure we’re disconnected I look out into my apartment. “Wow,” I say to no one but myself. “That was interesting.” I feel like I just ran five miles. I need a nap to rest my poor brain, but there’s no time.

I thought I’d be more nervous packing up my purse and heading out the door to William’s place, but I feel strangely confident. We made a plan to see each other and I’m just following up on that plan. No big deal, right? I’m a grown-up. A professional woman. I can drive to a man’s house unannounced and demand to know when he’s going to take me out on a date.

Oh. My. God. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

I climb into my car a bundle of nerves, my palms sweating, my stomach churning, and my head spinning.
Please, God, don’t let him blow me off.

CHAPTER TWO

William

THERE’S A DINNER GONG JANGLING in my head, insisting on turning my brain into jelly with its incessant ringing, ringing, ringing …

I turn over on the couch, trying to rid myself of the nuisance, using pillows as buffer. It’s then that I come to the conclusion in my fuzzy, half-sleep state that it’s not a dinner gong at all. Rather, it’s my doorbell.

Pulling the coverlet I’ve taken from my bed over my head, I sink down farther into the cushions. It is an exercise in futility, however, because this person, whoever it is, will … not … stop!

“Oh for crying out loud!” I yell out into the room, sending the coverlet flying and the cushions to the floor in my haste to stand and end the madness. “Bloody hell!” I trip on a wine bottle and go down on one knee before recovering. Five more strides has me to the door, and after fiddling with the lock for a moment, I’m able to throw it wide so as to greet the person who shall soon be told off in a most spectacular fashion.

“Hello,” she says, giving me a smile that could melt sunshine.

I stand as still as a statue, believing that perhaps if I continue to do so, this mirage will disappear into a thin trail of smoke and I will be able to go back to my self-imposed hibernation-slash-incarceration-slash-putrefaction program.

“I couldn’t reach you by phone, so I got your address from Rachel. I hope you don’t mind.”

My statue plan is apparently not working. This is worse than being caught with my pants down. At least then I’d be able to distract her with something wiggly. As it is, she has a full, front-row view of my self-destruction.

I haven’t bathed in two days. Or is it three? It couldn’t be four, could it? I don’t have to turn round to know that my apartment is a shambles. I fear speaking will send her running, as my breath is reminiscent of that of a hagfish having a bad day. To say I have seen prouder moments would be a monumental gift of restraint on the speaker’s part.

Her head tilts to the side. “Are you … okay?”

I step back a couple paces, hoping it’s enough to shield her from the poison that is my exhaled breath. “Certainly am, thank you for asking after me.”

Her expression shifts to one of discomfort.

I clamp my mouth shut to keep further emanations from destroying whatever connection we might still have. I believe I can see a greenish-tinged fog floating in the air between us, shadows of my words left hanging in the atmosphere. I cannot think of a single less attractive thing I could offer of myself than this.
Well done, William, well done.

“Okay, well, I guess I should go.” She turns to leave and my heart lurches.

I must let her go, allow her to live her life in the arms of a man who deserves her, who can care for her, who can remain gainfully employed for longer than six months. That would be the right and manly thing to do, and I do still have my manhood left, if nothing else. Sometimes one must let something go and suffer the resulting pain when one wants to be unselfish and good. I can be that. I can be a good man, still. An unemployed and pitiful man, granted, but good-hearted nonetheless.

My shame is complete when she steps inside the lift and the doors begin to slide shut.

I cannot watch the rest of the tragedy that is Jennifer I-Used-To-Know-Her-Last-Name walking out of my life, so I turn round and stumble into the salon, not even bothering to shut the door behind me. What would be the point? It’s not like anyone’s going to come in here, save my father’s lackeys, hired to toss me out on my arse. Their arrival is imminent. He has all but promised it.

“Are you completely serious?” comes an angry voice from the doorway behind me.

I pause and turn, shocked to find my lost love not so lost as I expected her to be. She should have been down to the lobby by now, but instead her form shadows my doorstep once more. Could it be that she’s a fan of hagfish?

“Serious?” I ask. My brain is in a bit of a fog. “Sorry, I’m just a little … I’ve had something to drink.”

“I can see that.” Her gaze roams the room. I should probably cringe about that, what with all the dirty laundry lying about and the inner workings of my kitchen being transferred to what would normally be the living area. But I can’t quite muster the sentiment. I’m too far gone for that.

“What are you doing here?” I ask in an effort to break the uncomfortable silence.

Ungraceful? Yes. Tactless? Indeed. But dishonest? No. At least I have truth going for me. It’s all I have left, in fact.

“I came to see if you were okay. I read the news about you losing your job and Edward taking over.”

“Have they hired a sky writer then?” I snort at my joke. Edward would never do such a thing, but my father … now he’s a different story altogether.
Bloody bastard.

She frowns, confused. “I don’t think so. I read it online.”

I wave the silly fog that I’ve created away with a careless swish of my hand, and turn. “Right, right, of course.” I trip over a cushion and fall sideways onto the settee. “Bloody vultures, the press are.”

Her voice is louder and more insistent. I turn around to try and discover the source of her ire.

“I can’t believe this,” she says.

“Can’t believe what?” I ask, sitting back more thoroughly into the cushions, wiping the greasy hair from my eyes. Maybe I’ll get lucky and she’ll think it’s hair gel making it stick in place. That’s right. This is the newest fashion.
Sans domicile
, the nouveau trend in hairstyles and home decor.

She throws her arms up and gestures silently around the room.

“My housekeeper has gone on strike,” I say by way of explanation. Then I stop before I can go any further down that road. “No, wait. That’s a lie.” I sigh out in relief. Honesty feels so much better than pretense. “Truth is, I let her go. Made her redundant. I haven’t the dosh to pay for luxuries as such and soon this flat will no longer be my concern.” A bitter taste rises up in my mouth as I think of my father and his hired help coming to chuck me out of my posh home. “Let them have it with my ruination in evidence.”

I look around and examine said evidence. It really is quite disgusting, but I’m too tired and annoyed with myself to do anything about it. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

She laughs but there’s a distinct lack of humor to the sound. “I thought I was good at pity parties, but you really are the champion.”

“Come again?” I squint so as to see her more clearly through my decidedly hazy vision. I’m afraid even my eyeballs could use a good squeegee-ing at this point.

“You heard me.” She points at piles of clothing on the floor. “You’ve been living in your family room for four days now, haven’t you?”

I follow her gaze. “And if I have? What of it?”

“And you’ve been ordering in?” She points to a pizza box. It rides atop a pile of other fast-food containers, a masterful display of engineering. I should have been a bridge builder instead of a real estate investor.

She doesn’t appreciate my stacking skills though, apparently. I find I’m offended by that. “I admit to enjoying a quick meal on occasion, enjoyed
inside
the home.”

“When was the last time you had a shower?”

I blink a few times. “That’s a personal question, don’t you think?” I put my arms down as the stench that is rising up from my pit area will surely give me away.

She comes over and stops just in front of me. I have to look up to see her. The ceiling spins round her head.

“And you’re drunk. It’s only eleven in the morning and you’re completely wasted.”

I lift my finger to point at her, my mouth open to deliver a stinging retort, but I’m gobsmacked into silence when she slaps my hand away.

“Get up,” she demands, hands perched on curving hips.

“Excuse me …” I’m full of righteous indignation. How dare she pop in without warning and then start acting the fishwife.

“Excuse me, nothing. Get up. I’m serious.”

I stand, but only because I need to intimidate her with my height. I’ll show her a thing or two about what …

I can no longer think clearly. There are two deliciously voluptuous breasts at eye level and they’re distracting to the extreme. I cannot stand up straight because to do so would put them out of my visual field.

“Come on,” she says, holding my head against her lovely bosom. “Let’s get you into the shower.”

“If you insist,” I say, holding her about the waist, walking in a hunched over position down the hallway. I can hardly breathe, but I will not complain, otherwise she’s liable to take her breasts away from me for good and I couldn’t handle that. Not now. Not when everything else has gone into the John Crapper, head first.

The sound of running shower water pulls me from my jubbly-induced thrall. When I’m pushed backwards and the nearly subzero temperature hits me, I go fully awake. A roar leaves my lungs unbidden.

“Bloody whoring hell!” I scream in tones more suited to a man who prefers to wear dresses and lipstick on week-ends. “It’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey in here!”