‘Yes, please,’ Cassie said. ‘Thank you so much. I’m very grateful. I’m Cassie.’ She stuck her hand out.
The porter looked at her, a little open-mouthed, and then shook it. ‘Henry.’ He had an excellently gold-toothed smile. Should she tip him? She had no idea. She also had no pound coins on her, so it was kind of academic.
When they’d stepped out of the lift together and had all her suitcases outside the door of the flat, she said, ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t tip you because I have no cash on me at the moment but Iamvery grateful.’
‘No tip necessary.’ Henry flashed another gold smile. ‘An absolute pleasure. Anything else you need, just give me a shout.’
Cassie’s hand was a bit shaky as she put the key in the lock. The area was incredible, the building was swanky, in a good way, and the flat hadlookednice in the photos, but it might not be. What if it wasn’t clean?
It was sparkling. Literally. Cassie could see that as soon as she opened the front door. She kicked her suitcases inside and closed the door behind her. There was a big open-plan kitchen/reception room ahead of her. The dark wood floor was extremelyshiny. The floor-to-ceiling windows were soclean it was like they weren’t even there and the view out of them was spectacular in a London kind of way. She could see immaculate buildings and trees to one side, and ahead of her into Holland Park. Wow.
She really needed to wash her hands and face. The floor plan had been easy to memorise, because the whole thing was just a loo, a small utility, a study, the kitchen/reception room and three en-suite bedrooms, and she knew that the loo was the door to her right in the little hall.
As promised by the SwapBnB photos, the loo was very nice in a boutique hotel way, with dark brown and gold shimmery paper, dark brown matt stone tiles – the type that looked as though they’d been hand-delivered straight from a difficult-to-access Andean quarry – wall-hung toilet and a swish basin with funky taps. It looked smarter, less bland, in real life than in the photos. Very sophisticated. If James had chosen this décor himself, he wasn’t necessarily going toloveCassie’s style.
Where were the towel and hand soap? There were cleaning products in an – actually quite cool – almost-invisible, recessed cupboard in the wall but that was it. There was at least a loo roll, thank goodness.
Cassie dried her wet-but-not-soaped hands on the loo paper and went to investigate the rest of the flat.
The sitting room, like the loo, was very boutique-hotel. Tasteful artwork and a geometric, maybe silk, rug in shades of dark grey. Two enormous pale leather sofas, covered in lime-green cushions, and a grey velvet armchair were angled towards a gigantic wall-hung flatscreen TV. The dining table to one side of the room was modern and wooden, and the eight velvet dining chairs were the same colour as the sofa cushions.
She lowered herself down onto one of the sofas. Wow. That was a lot less comfortable than it looked. Like it was for show only.
Cassie’s stomach rumbled loudly. She hefted herself off the sofa to go over to the kitchen area.
It was all stainless steel. Cassie should definitely not have described her own kitchen as state-of-the-art.Thiswas state-of-the-art. The appliances were incredibly shiny and unused-looking. How did anyone maintain that? The inside of the oven looked as though it had never seen a stray splash of anything.
In the middle of the – obviously shiny and sparkly – black granite island there were three bottles: champagne, red and white, with expensive-looking labels.
She found the built-in fridge after only three false door-opening starts. It was remarkably bright white and spotless inside. And remarkably empty of food. As was the freezer. There was in fact no food anywhere. The only food or drink of any kind in the entire flat were tap water and the wine, unless James kept food in the bedrooms, study or utility.
The utility was as smart as the kitchen and did not contain any food.
The study had another lovely view, brown panelling and grey wallpaper, a large desk and, obviously, no food.
The bedrooms were all enormous, with identical, modern, glossy-tiled shower rooms. They also obviously did not contain food. Or, unbelievably,bed linen. Ortowels. All the cupboards in the bedrooms and utility and hall were almost entirely empty, other than of cleaning products and a vacuum cleaner. There were at least glasses, crockery and cutlery in the kitchen, and one (small) saucepan, a cheese grater and a spaghetti ladle.
So after having been on the road for about twenty-five mainly wide-awake hours, Cassie could sit on an uncomfortable sofa, she could lie down on a sheet-free mattress, and she could have a glass of water, wine or champagne. And she could do some cleaning or vacuuming.
But before she could eat or sleep or have a shower, she was going to have to go bloody shopping.
Honestly. Yes, the flat was perfect and you couldn’t help feeling grateful to someone when they’d left things in such an immaculate state, and provided wine, but would it not have been normal for James also to have left some milk and bread or something? And sheets and towels. Surely? Maybe when he’d been asking her to confirm that her passport was valid, she should have been checking whether or not he was planning to strip his flat bare.
Right, well, she was starving. She needed to have a shower and then she’d better go and find a supermarket.
Maybe she’d just drop James a quick text first, to ask him if there were any sheets or towels. Maybe they were in a cupboard that she hadn’t spotted. She could ask for café recommendations too, and whether there were any instructions for the appliances.
The shower was fab – powerful and hot. She used her dressing gown to dry herself, which worked less well than she’d thought it would because, while the dressing gown was made of towelling fabric, it was a lot less absorbent than an actual towel.
She wished she’d remembered to bring an adaptor for her hairdryer. It had been a really bad decision to wash her hair. It was usually her favourite thing about herself but today it wasn’t working in her favour. There was too much of it and it was still dripping down her back. Maybe she could borrow a hairdryer from a neighbour. And that was an idea she would have been better to have hadbeforeshe got in the shower.
‘Hello?’ The next-door neighbour was a very dapper man, probably in his early seventies, with a neat moustache and wearing a yellow V-necked argyle jumper and what Cassie would have to describe as slacks. He was looking at her blankly.
‘Hello. I’m Cassie. I’ve done a house swap with James next door. I don’t know if he mentioned it?’ The dapper man wasn’t looking remotely as though he knew what she was talking about.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’ve moved in next door. James and I have swapped homes for a few months. So I’m your new neighbour. Cassie.’
