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“I’m reachable on my phone if you need me.”
“We were supposed to go over the memberships.”
“I’m sure you’ve got it covered.” I cut the call and turn the stereo on, cocking my elbow on the window and focusing on the road as Massive Attack’sAngelfills the car and my mind wanders to unknown places. Ava—my angel—is definitely from above... although I know they’ll be no love on the horizon.
On Sunday at one thirty, I pull up outside the Tesco local to Cathy’s little terrace in Hampstead. I park on the double yellow lines to wait for her, tapping the wheel. I feel fresh. Awake. Alert. Fuck me, I haven’t had a drink for two days, and that is fucking monumental. I can’t even explain why. Or how I resisted. It was there, the same liquor that usually temps me back into debauchment daily, sitting bold as brass on the sideboard in my rental. I don’t think I looked at it once. Weird. Very weird. I spent hours trawling the Internet for anything I could find on Ava O’Shea. That might have kept me distracted. And the morning and evening runs. And the dozens of times I went to call her but decided against it. Because, of course, it’s the weekend and she’d have an excuse to either not take my call or answer and brush me off because she doesn’t work on weekends. Because I’m a client. At least, I am for now.
I spot Cathy emerging from the supermarket weighed down with bags. “What the heck is she playing at?” I jump out of my car and jog across the road. Her beam could split her face when she clocks me.
“Jesse, my boy.”
I claim the bags from her hands and let her smother my face. “Hey.”
She squeezes my cheeks. “You look well,” she says, taking a step back to assess me. “Really well. What’s happened?”
I cock my arm out for her to link so I can walk her back across the road. Cathy knows my story. Knows everything about me. Every dirty detail. I managed to keep her in the dark for two years, not bad, all things considered, but eight years ago it all went to shit. It was my birthday. My thirtieth.Ourthirtieth. I’m surprised I didn’t kill myself with the amount of alcohol I drank that night. Poor Cathy found me in the morning. Called John, who called Sarah, who both turned up and saidwaytoo much in front of my sweet, wholesome housekeeper. I never expected to see Cathy again after that. “Nothing has happened,” I say, spotting a traffic warden taking a picture of my car on the lines. “I’ll put these in the boot.” I leave her on the pavement as I pop the boot and drop her shopping in.
“You can’t park here, sir,” the warden says, starting to tap at his device.
I roll my eyes and guide Cathy to the passenger door. “I’m helping an old lady with her shopping.”
I get a whack on my bicep for my trouble. “Less of the old, boy,” she snaps, and the warden laughs. “Give him a ticket,” she orders. “I’m perfectly capable of walking to the nearest car park, he’s just being lazy.”
I laugh under my breath and help her into the seat, hearing the warden laugh harder when she starts batting my helping hands away. “You in?”
“Yes, I’m in,” she declares, and I close the door, turning to face the warden, holding out my hand for the ticket.
He shakes his head. “Go on, before I change my mind.”
I smile and give him a friendly smack on his shoulder. “Good man.”
I land in my seat and pull off a lot slower than usual. “Listen, this new place. It’s rather large,” I tell her, not wanting Cathy to be too overwhelmed by the size of my new penthouse.
“I don’t understand it,” she muses. “There’s just you. Why do you need such a gigantic home?” She looks across to me. “Or do you have something to tell me?”
“Like what?”
“You know I live in hope that you’ll settle down, Jesse. You can’t carry on the way you do forever.”
I face the road, feeling ashamed. She’s right. I’ll end up dead. But sometimes death seems like a much better option than navigating this unknown world. Especially without Jake. “Maybe one day,” I muse, knowing deep down I’m deluded. There’s not a woman on this planet who could take me and my demons on. Or, more to the point, would want to. This chilled Jesse, the one everyone sees, the laid-back guy? He’s a shell. An act. Because acting like I’m fine is so much easier than admitting I’m fucked up. That I need help. Although I know waking up with a hangover each morning pretty much spells that out to everyone I know.
We make it to Lusso in good time, Cathy chatting the whole way. “Oh lord, oh my,” she sings as the gates slowly open. “This is a bit fancy, isn’t it?”
I laugh and pull into one of my allocated spaces. The car park is full of vans, tradesmen all working their nuts off to get completed on time. I round the car and open the door for Cathy, helping her, and she doesn’t fight me. The Aston is low, and Cathy isn’t a spring chicken anymore. She links arms with me, and I lead her in, past the concierge desk to the elevator where Chris is waiting.
“Mr. Ward,” he says, extending his hand. I shake it and make the introductions.
“Cathy, this is Chris, the estate agent. Chris, Cathy, my housekeeper.”
“Or penthouse keeper now,” she says, and I laugh as Chris taps in a code to call the elevator. We board and yet another code is entered before we’re carried to the penthouse.
“I’m sure Mr. Ward will give you the codes once he’s changed them after he’s moved in,” Chris says, and I hear him and Cathy exchange a few words and laughter, but my mind is off again. She’s been in this elevator. I’m beginning to regret not taking up Chris’s offer to oversee the interior taking shape. I may have encountered Miss Ava O’Shea much sooner than Friday.
Cathy’s oohing and aahing continues when we get to the door, and once Chris has let us in, her awe notches up a few more levels. “Well, I’m very glad I didn’t buy any perishables,” she says. “My God, this tour will take a whole day!”
“Why don’t you take a look around?” I suggest, smiling. I don’t need to offer twice. She’s off, poking in and out of rooms.
I wander into the kitchen, gazing around. I’ve neglected to appreciate just how amazing a job Ava O’Shea has done. There’s not a detail she’s missed, even down to dressing the place.
