Page 63 of To All the Men I’ve Killed Before

‘But—’

I don’t get to finish my sentence though because Antoinette breezes past me and down the stairs.

Please let her be okay.

36

Nailed It Hardware Store, West Hollywood, Los Angeles

While Antoinette is off at Flexual Healing, I’ve come to a local hardware store to get some supplies for our new guest’s imminent arrival.

I’d be a really terrible host if I didn’t get some special things in for his stay with us.

Now, really, what I should be doing is splitting these purchases up over a number of different stores because it looks extremely shady and very serial killer coded buying duct tape, zip ties and tarpaulin all in one place. But this is Hollywood, if anyone raises a suspicious eyebrow at me, I can just say I’m working on a movie and the producer has sent me to buy some props.

I’ve filled my basket with all the essentials and am just deciding whether to buy extra duct tape – you can never have too much of the stuff – when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

I turn around and am greeted by a face I kind of recognise but I’m not sure where from.

I’m trying to place it when the face speaks to me.

‘Kitty,’ it says. ‘I thought it was you.’

I stare at the man in front of me for a full minute before I recognise him.

‘Cort!’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m in another world today.’ This isn’t entirely true. I couldn’t place him because he isn’t sporting his man-bun. Instead his dark tresses are swooshing around his shoulders like something out of a prestige shampoo commercial.

I’m actually very envious of the shine on his hair.

It looks almost laminated.

I wonder if he glosses.

Would it be rude to ask which one he uses?

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, peering into my basket. ‘It’s not the kind of place tourists usually come to.’ He looks into my basket again. ‘Is there something wrong over at the villa? You just need to speak to Agnes about that. She’ll call her parents to sort it. You don’t need to do it yourself.’ His tone very much suggests that he wants to add, ‘silly girl’ at the end but can’t. Because feminist man.

I look into my basket as well.

It does look very Serial Killer Starter Kit and I can’t use the movie assistant line on Cort. He knows full well I’m not working on a movie.

‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s um … art. It’s for my art.’

Cort’s brow puckers slightly. ‘Art?’ he says. ‘I didn’t know you were an artist, Kitty.’

‘Oh, I’m not, not really,’ I say. ‘Well, not seriously, I should say. It’s just something I like to do in my spare time.’

He looks at my haul yet again.

Jesus Christ, does the man have no concept of privacy? Then again, I can tell he’s the sort of man who would stop me in a drugstore buying tampons and have a full conversation with me about my flow.

‘Art,’ he says again. ‘I’d love to see some of it sometime. I’m intrigued as to what sort of art you do with … duct tape and … are those zip ties?’

I smile and try to flutter my eyelashes at him. ‘It’s very modern stuff,’ I say. ‘Sculpture. Like installation art.’ I have no actual idea what the words I’m saying mean. I’m just hoping Cort isn’t secretly an avant garde art buff who’ll easily catch me out in my lies. ‘I’m very amateur,’ I add, just in case.

‘Right,’ he says, nodding. ‘I don’t know much about that sort of thing. Bananas taped to walls and exploding paintings. To my shame. I can just about identify a Banksy and that’s it.’ He says ‘Banksy’ in a faux British accent that makes me cringe into myself.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, desperate to change the subject before he starts grilling me more about my ‘art’. One thing that can always be counted on with men is that they love the opportunity to talk about themselves.