OPHELIA
The notification on my phone makes me grin as one of Alex’s security guys weaves through the lunchtime traffic, a com-fortable silence in the shiny black car.
From: Alex Corbeau-Green
Subject: Lonely (adjective)sad because one has no company.
Date: Wednesday 9th April 12:03 EST
To: Ophelia Winters
Are you there yet?
Ps. Mia hides the good snacks in the cupboard beside the dishwasher.
So the data plan he’s put my phone on works, then. I continue to be impressed by this cracked, dented six-year-old little machine.
I imagine the look on Alex’s face if I were to utter that sentence aloud. He already thinks I’m a cavewoman.
From: Ophelia Winters
Subject: Impatient (adjective)annoyed because you have to wait.
Date: Wednesday 9th April 12:04 EST
To: Alex Corbeau-Green
Not yet. This city is kind of trafficky, if you haven’t noticed.
I shut the screen off to take in the madness of the city around me, but it pings straight away.
From: Alex Corbeau-Green
Subject: Trafficky (error)not a word.
Date: Wednesday 9th April 12:05 EST
To: Ophelia Winters
We making up words, now? Text me when you get there, baby.
The car pulls up a short while later, outside a huge, terraced brownstone on a tidy street. “Wow,” I say, craning my neck to absorb all four floors.
The security guy opens the door for me. I’ve already forgotten his name. There’s so many of them to memorize. “I’ll park the car, miss. Take the steps up to the door.”
I creep into the house like I’m a burglar, holding my breath and walking on my toes, for some reason. The foyer is huge, all polished wood floors and a white staircase with a beige runner. There are shoes spilling out of the closet beside me, and children’s drawings in white frames decorate the wall behind the stairs. There’s a warmth in the air, the smell of baking wafting from somewhere.
This is a home. The London house was a cold, polished shell. This is homey in a way that I’ve missedsobadly. I turn to the closet, kicking off my boots and putting them on a shelf with Alex’s sneakers.
A cheeryhisplinters the thick silence, and I let out an unholy shriek, dropping my bag.
The woman in front of me laughs, holding her hands out in apology. She’s short and round, brown hair streaked with gray. “Sorry to scare you. I’m Ingrid, the housekeeper.”
“I’m …”
“Ophelia. Alex told me you’d be here any minute,” she finishes for me, a warm smile on her face. Iseveryonein Alex’s life this excited that he has a girlfriend?
“I … this is a beautiful home.”
