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He grimaces. “I don’t know. It kind of feels like I’ve got a massive bumble bee on my head.”
On Monday, there’s a Tube strike, which gives me an excuse not to go to work. I spend the morning at home, lounging around in my pyjamas, drinking copious cups of tea and eating Galaxy chocolate. Somewhere around twelve, I go down to the kitchen to wash the dirty dishes from last night’s curry. Irritation grips me as I approach the sink and see a stack of food-encrusted plates Dad has been storing up for weeks in his bedroom.
Great, it’s gonna take hours to get this crap off.
Rolling up my sleeves, I run the hot tap, add a dash of washing-up liquid and start to fill the sink. Honestly, if Dad had his way, we’d have no clean plates and be eating off the floor. When the sink’s full, I turn off the tap and slide the plates in to soak. Then I switch on the kettle and take two mugs from the drying rack.
“Do you want a cup of tea, Dad?” I shout.
No answer.
When I passed the living room earlier, the door was shut and I could hear him typing away on his laptop. When the door’s closed, it usually means he’s working and doesn’t want to be disturbed.
“Dad, can you hear me? I said do you want a cup of—”
I quit calling and decide to make him one anyway.
As I wait for the kettle to boil, I rest my head against the wall and relish the hot steam in my face. I close my eyes and immediately visions of Nick flash up. Since our meeting on Friday, I’ve been thinking about him constantly. I’m completely besotted and thoughts of him leave me in a perpetual state of arousal. I envisage his swollen lips, his warm, capable hands and my mind races with the possibilities: him on me, me on him. Fantasies that fill me with both desire and disappointment. I wonder what it would be like to kiss those lips, to feel those soft fingers against my thighs. My attraction to Nick is all consuming, and the anticipation of seeing him again is what keeps me going. Even so, I’m still struggling to understand why a man I hardly know has had such an effect on me. Am I so desperate for male attention, so starved of sex that a kind smile and a few friendly words are all it takes to blindside me so completely?
A loud knock pulls me from my thoughts.
Blinking stupidly, I tighten the belt on my dressing gown and head through the hall to answer the door.
“Good afternoon. Is Mr Singleton at home?”
“Yes. Who shall I say is calling?”
“Robin Clarke from Latham & Co.”
The man on the doorstep is a little over six foot, well-built but carrying a lot of excess weight around the middle. He addresses me tonelessly, his lips barely moving. Something about him scares me. Latham & Co is my father’s bank. This must be serious if they have sent a representative to pay us a visit.
“What’s this all about?” I ask defensively. “Why do you want to speak to my dad?”
“Unfortunately, it’s a private matter that I’m not at liberty to discuss with you. Now, if you could just let Mr Singleton know I’m here, I’m sure we can resolve this amicably.”
My father appears behind me and hastily ushers me away from the door. “Go inside, Carly. I’ll deal with this.”
“Dad, what’s going on?”
“It’s nothing. Please just go inside.”
Cold fear pours through my veins as I hover in the hall, trying to catch snippets of their conversation.What the hell is going on?
After five agonising minutes, the front door closes and Dad returns inside, looking sick and shaky. Brushing past me, he shuffles into the living room. He paces about for a while then sits on the couch, wringing his hands. “Look, there’s no easy way of saying this …” He falters, takes a deep breath. “Okay, so basically, I’ve fallen behind with the mortgage. That man was from my bank’s Income Recovery department. He came here to discuss what my options are.”
There’s a short, seething silence.
I hesitate, preparing for the worst. “Exactly how far behind are we?”
“Four months,” he whispers.
“Four months! Oh, my God, I’ve been giving you money every month, Dad, money I thought you were paying toward the mortgage. This doesn’t make any sense. If you haven’t paid for four months, then what the hell have you done with my money?”
He doesn’t answer; just gazes at something on the wall behind me. The fact that he can’t meet my eye is worrying to say the least.
My heart sinks as I realise there’s more,much more.
In a haze of confusion, I collapse on the sofa, clutching my temples. Part of me wants to hear this, but another part doesn’t.
