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“That’s considerate. Is he good looking?” I asked. A hot guy moving into the flat opposite mine would be disastrous. I’d never met a handsome man who wasn’t an arsehole.
“No, I don’t think so,” she frowned and looked up to the sky for divine help. “No, definitely not handsome.”
“You’re a shit liar. Is he rich?” I thought rich, handsome men were the worst kind. I should know, my university was full of them. Steph had fixed me up on a few dates with her friends when I came home for the holidays. All of them were stunning in the looks department and had a decent bank balance. All of them rude, arrogant, and self-centred. I had no interest in those kinds of men. Give me a poor, plain man, any day of the week. So long as he had rugby player thighs.
“Um,” she pondered this question, looking left and right. Who, she thought would help her with the question I did not know, unless she hoped the seagulls sauntering around our table knew the answer.
“Let me make this easier. Is he richer than the Beckhams?”
“Um,” she paused again.
“Fuck off, Steph, you had to think about that? Why the hell would you try to get him to rent the flat if he’s minted?” Irritated for a moment, I took a swig of my latte, only to find it freezing cold. Politeness dictated that I swallow the liquid.
“He’s down to earth, normal like you, Elliott, and me. You won’t regret letting him move in, I promise. You’d never know he is wealthy, he’s not flash. He drives an old beat-up van and has no home to call his own.”
Steph fluttered her eyelashes, blowing me smooch kisses and clasping her hands in a begging motion.
“I want to interview him first. If he passes my strict questions, then he can move into Jeff’s flat. But, the flat is in a state. Jeff left it in a real mess. The doors are hanging off the hinges in the kitchen, the carpet needs replacing. None of which I can afford. The shop is a money pit too. I need to sell a decent comic to finish the renovations.”
“Did I mention he’s a carpenter?”
“Shut up,” I said, a little too loud for the ladies on the adjacent table.
Steph nodded, happy that she’d at last found his unique selling point. That simple fact might go in his favour. I hope he isn’t a carpenter with his arse hanging out of his trousers when he bends down to work. Unless he looks like a rugby player, then I’d just stare at him all day.
“Give him my address and tell to come and see me the day after tomorrow at 10am. Tell him, if he’s late, he’s lost his chance.”
Steph jumped up and hugged me, planting a big wet kiss on my cheek. She glanced at me, gauging my mood, seeing I wasn’t glaring. She sat back down on her chair. Raising her eyebrows and straightening the sugar bowl to align with the salt and pepper pots, she spoke again.
“I need a favour, Adaline. Please don’t say no.”
Her earnest plea had me silenced. She never asked me a favour. I would do anything for her.
“The organiser for the Charity Gala Ball has walked away, something to do with the chairwoman of the charity being too demanding. You have the organisational skills I would die to have. Please, will you step in and help?”
Steph was a part-time bookkeeper. She did the accounts for a charity that Elliott’s company supported. The widow of the man who started the electronics firm that Elliott ran started the charity after he died. She’d gone to Nairobi on holiday and came back with plans to build a school. I’d never met her or her husband when he was alive. Steph knew she was asking a lot of me with this request. The organising part would be a breeze. Listening was not my forte, listening to people in person or on the phone was a problem. Unless I could organise the whole thing by email. If I had my way, the only people who I would talk to would be Steph and Elliott.
“Why don’t you hire someone else? I’m not the best person for the job.”
“I can’t find anyone local that will take it up with such short notice. Event organisers cost a small fortune, and I know you’d do it for nothing.”
“When is the Gala Ball?”
“Two weeks, tomorrow,” Steph had the good grace to grimace after she uttered the words.
“Fuck off, no way can I organise a charity ball in two weeks, I would need at least three months. How much progress is there?”
“Three months? You could do it in three months? Well, I may have got the dates wrong. It’s a winter ball, late November.”
“You.” I didn’t know what to call her, as I waggled my finger at her. My screwed-up eyes scrutinised her angelic face, feigning innocence, but no horrible words came to mind. Steph and Elliott saved me from the horror of my parents when they kicked me out of my home. “Ok, I’ll do it. Three months is plenty of time.”
“The organiser has disappeared. She’s not answering our calls, so we have to start again. We have high-profile people coming, potential large donations. Elliott’s mate is running in the Brighton Triathlon and already had five grand in sponsorship. One or two celebrities and a bunch of business men and women will donate. I wouldn’t beg, but organising is your super power.”
I didn’t want to do it. Steph did not understand what it would take out of me to arrange everything, but our friendship meant everything.
“The ugly, rich potential flatmate runs marathons for fun?”
“Is that the only thing you’re focussing on Adaline?”
