Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157450 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“Shall I call you a cab?” I ask.
“I can Uber.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Okay, thank you. I’m going to Putney.”
She tells me her address, I get up, slip on my discarded jeans, and taking my phone, leave the bedroom to give her some privacy. It’s strange how some women behave the morning after: shy and quiet. She’s no longer the lascivious, demanding siren of the night before.
Once I’ve ordered a car I wait, staring out across the dark Thames. When she finally appears, she hands me a scrap of paper. “My number.”
“Thanks.” I slip it into the back pocket of my jeans. “Your car will be here in five minutes.”
She stands awkwardly, her postcoital shyness taking hold. As the silence stretches between us, she surveys the room, looking anywhere but at me.
“This is a lovely flat. Airy,” she says, and I know that we’ve resorted to chitchat to fill the awkwardness. She spots my guitar and the piano. “You play?” She walks over to the baby grand.
“Yes.”
“That’s why you’re so good with your hands,” she says. Then frowns as if she’s realized that she’s spoken aloud, and her cheeks flush a fetching pink.
“Do you play?” I ask, ignoring her comment.
“No—I never made it further than recorder group in year two.” Relief softens her features, probably because I ignored her comment about my hands. “And all that?” She points to my decks and the iMac on a desk in the corner of the room.
“I DJ.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Couple of times a month at a club in Hoxton.”
“Hence all the vinyl.” She glances at the shelved wall housing my record collection.
I nod.
“And the photography?” She waves a hand at the black-and-white landscapes that hang on large canvases in the drawing room.
“Yes. And occasionally on the other side of the camera.”
She looks confused.
“Modeling. Editorial, mainly.”
“Oh, that makes sense. You really are a man of many parts.” She grins, feeling a little more confident. She should. She’s a goddess.
“Jack of all trades,” I reply with a self-deprecating smile, and her grin vanishes, replaced by a puzzled frown.
“Is something wrong?” she asks.
Wrong? What the hell is she talking about? “No. Nothing.” My phone buzzes, and it’s a text to let me know her car has arrived. “I’ll call you,” I say as I pick up her jacket and hold it open for her to shrug on.
“No you won’t. But don’t worry. That’s Tinder for you. I had fun.”
“Me, too.” I’m not about to contradict her.
I follow her to the front door. “Do you want me to walk you down?”
“No thanks. I’m a big girl. Good-bye, Maxim. It was nice knowing you.”
“Same here…Heather.”
“Well done.” She beams, pleased that I’ve remembered her name, and it’s impossible not to return her smile. “That’s better,” she says. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Reaching up, she gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek. She turns and teeters on her high heels toward the lifts. I frown at her departing figure, watching her fine arse move beneath her red dress.
Find what I’m looking for? What the hell does that mean?
I’ve got all this. I’ve just had you. It will be someone else tomorrow. What more do I need?
For some unknown reason, her words irritate me, but I shake them off and head back to bed, relieved that she’s gone. As I strip off my jeans and slip between the sheets, her challenging parting words echo through my mind.
I hope you find what you’re looking for.
Where the fuck did that come from?
I’ve just inherited a vast estate in Cornwall, an estate in Oxfordshire, another in Northumberland, and a small portion of London—but at what cost?
Kit’s pale, lifeless face surfaces in my imagination.
Shit.
So many people are now relying on me, too many, far too many: tenant farmers, estate workers, household staff in four houses, the developers in Mayfair….
Hell.
Fuck you, Kit. Fuck you for dying.
I close my eyes as I fight back unshed tears, and with Heather’s parting words ringing in my head I fall into a stupor.
Chapter Two
Alessia digs her hands farther into the pockets of Michal’s old anorak in a vain attempt to warm her cold fingers. Huddled in her scarf, she trudges through the freezing winter drizzle toward the apartment block on Chelsea Embankment. Today is Wednesday, her second day here without Krystyna, and she is heading back to the big apartment with the piano.
In spite of the weather, she’s feeling a sense of achievement because she’s survived the cramped and crowded train journey without her usual anxiety. She’s beginning to understand that this is what London is like. There are too many people, too much noise, and too much traffic. But worst of all, no one speaks to anyone else, except to say “Excuse me” if they jostle her or “Move down the carriage, please.” Everyone hides behind their free newspaper or listens to music on headphones or stares at their phones or electronic books, avoiding all eye contact.