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I know what you did.
You’re welcome.
That night, I went to sleep replaying our kiss; feeling wanted, beautiful, and his. I’d finally found somewhere I fitted.
Memories of that want, that excitement and that night four years ago fill my head and belly as the black cab turns onto the street in Hampstead. As the cab rolls to a stop, I hope I am doing the right thing, walking away from the only person I have ever been in love with, and been building a home with, for the last two years.
FOUR
CALEB
When I see Ariella get up from her corner of the office, I take it as a cue to grab my messenger bag and head home. I take the brisk walk to Bond Street and ride the Jubilee line to West Hampstead. There are very few things I am attached to but my home is one of them. From the very first time I saw the space, I knew I had to buy it, so I’ve sunk every penny I have into turning it from the unloved disaster it was to the minimalist pad it is now.
The transformation has been painfully slow, but worth it. It would have been nice to continue to have it all to myself, but I have bills to pay and, potentially, a new business to fund. I keep it spotless anyway, but I do a quick visual sweep to make sure nothing inappropriate has been left out. I check the guest room. The sheets remain clean and unused since I put them on two weeks ago, and the bathroom is shiny. It’s a little stuffy, so I open the large bedroom windows to let some air in. It crosses my mind to get flowers from the corner shop, but I abandon that idea. A welcome drink at some point after she has settled in will do the trick. If she drinks. Probably not. I scrap that idea too.
When the buzzer goes, I look around the apartment one last time and remind myself that this is only temporary.
‘Hi, top floor.’
I buzz the communal door open. It doesn’t take long for the doorbell to go.
‘Hello! Welcome to Casa Caleb!’ I whack up the charm, trying to start off in a good place.
‘Hi, thanks,’ she whispers, dragging a suitcase and carrying a small jute bag.
She looks completely different to the confident silver-spooner who held me hostage in my office earlier. She has clearly been crying. She flinches timidly when I try to help her with a bag, so I back off.
‘I’ll come down and help you with the rest of your stuff?’ I offer.
‘Thank you, but this is it.’
It doesn’t look like very much.
‘Shall I give you the tour?’ I take the handle of the suitcase beside her. I’m not a total prick.
‘Please.’
The living room is a vast, square space with charcoal-grey floors and a wall of glass overlooking the city, and leads on to the kitchen with its central island and cooking hub, six chrome chairs lined up in front of it. The front and sides of the island extend out to create a flat surface that functions as a dining table. The place formerly had five bedrooms, but these have been knocked into the two huge en-suite bedrooms and a home office. I beam with pride as I walk her into her room.
‘This is your room, here are your keys and let’s just figure the house rules out as we go along.’
‘Thank you.’
Disappointingly, she looks unimpressed as she reaches into her bag and extracts an envelope.
‘The confirmation of the advance and deposit.’
‘No need, I got a text from the bank. Make yourself comfortable. I’ve got to go, but call me if you have any questions. See you later.’
She’s a big girl. She’ll be fine; plus I figure the less we see of each other the better. So I leave as fast as I can.
I meet the boys at the Bell, the pub down the road from my flat and unofficially my second home. Tim and Jack already have a pint for me at our usual table, next to the fireplace.
‘What took you so long? Your pint is warm,’ Jack says.
‘Hello, boys. New flatmate, landlord duties.’
‘Bloody hell, that was quick. The only reason I’d move that quickly is if Em kicked me out indefinitely,’ Tim says, genuinely concerned.
