Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“Absolutely. Goodnight.”
I offered a small smile as my goodbye, seeing as he’d made no effort to introduce himself. Only once the guy I now knew as Ezra had returned to the car did I have the balls to say to Hugo, “Cracking personality that one, huh?”
Hugo laughed as he let us inside his house. By house, I mean luxurious mansion. “He takes his job seriously is all. He’s my bodyguard,” he said. “Ugh. Hate that word.”
I knew why, didn’t need to ask. Using a bodyguard would’ve made Hugo feel like people thought he was superior. But…he was superior, in a way. Not in a moral sense, but he had a higher profile. He was more exposed to whackos, and criminals who knew his material worth.
I watched Hugo shrug out of his jacket and hook it on a coat stand in the hallway like it was the most normal thing in the world. I suppose it was. He lived here, owned all this extravagance, was surrounded by it every single day. He probably didn’t even notice that his hallway was the size of the entire lower level of my house, including the garden, anymore.
“You okay?”
“What?” I blinked myself back to life, not realising I’d stopped walking. Hugo was waiting for me at the other side of the room, beyond the wide staircase. “Oh, sorry. Don’t know where I went then.”
“Come on.” He cocked his head for me to follow, so I did, admiring every inch of every wall, every floor along the way. Everywhere was white. The wood, tiles, furnishings. It made the splashes of colour in the artwork and lights look even more spectacular. The living room didn’t disappoint either, at least the one Hugo took me to. I’d noticed two more reception rooms along the way. Large white settees arranged into a C around a TV that took up a space on the wall bigger than my bedroom. Two chandeliers, glass tables, wooden bookshelves with intricate carvings in each corner – again, painted white.
Nothing personal, though. No photos, memories, nothing that could give away the man who existed beneath the façade expressed in the media.
“You must pinch yourself,” I said. “Surely you can’t ever get used to all this.”
“Yes and no.” He walked over to a record player on top of a sideboard, lowered the arm. A second later, Elton John’s Tiny Dancer started playing. “When I notice myself getting too comfortable, I give myself a lil’ talking to. I don’t ever want to take any of it for granted.”
I gravitated towards the centre settee, plonked myself down. “Oh, wow.” I shouldn’t have been surprised that it was the comfiest thing my arse had ever adorned.
Hugo joined me, sat in the middle and patted his knees for me to swing my legs up onto them. “Nice, right? I sleep on it sometimes.”
Head on the cushions, I watched Hugo watching me. We both wore smiles. “Can you guess what I’m thinking?”
His smile grew and I knew he was remembering too, just like he had when he’d penned the lyrics of his encore song. “That this feels incredible, like everything’s changed yet nothing’s changed at all.”
Exactly. But I couldn’t say it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. It still felt too impossible, being here with him, like my eyes would open any second and all I would see was the sunlight blinding me through the gap in my bedroom blinds. So, I went for random humour instead. “I’m thinking…why is pizza round, when it comes in a square box and is served in triangles? Name any other food with that level of shape dysphoria. I’ll wait.”
“Huh.” Hugo nodded, stumped. “Have you ever thought of switching careers? There’s clearly a gap in the market for square pizza, or were you thinking triangular pizza?”
“Actually, I was thinking of round boxes. Although…I’m not sure how easy they’d be to close.”
“You know, I met someone who was allergic to fruit once.”
“Fruit?” I repeated.
“Pizza made me think of pineapple, which is a fruit. It’s something to do with cross-reactivity to the pollen proteins, or something, while they’re growing.”
I’d always loved how his mind wandered, how a single word or sight could send him someplace else. It was what made him a good songwriter, I supposed.
“I’m really proud of you, you know,” I said, prompting his gaze to drop. I watched curiously as he sucked his top lip between his teeth, closed his eyes. His breath stuttered, causing his nostrils to flare. “Hugo?” I pressed, concerned.
His eyes peeled open, lips curved into a wobbly smile. “You’re the first person to say that to me. Caught me off guard.” He tried to shrug off the emotion, drummed a little tune on my legs with his fingers, but I saw it, felt it, how lonely he’d been. It was difficult to comprehend how a man who had everything, who could have anyone, didn’t have the most important thing of all.