Oh, shut it, conscience. You and I have always gotten along just fine, you know. Why’d you have to start bugging me now?
It’s no use, though. My newfound conscience has spoken, and she will not be ignored. She reminds me a bit of my mother, in fact.
I shudder at the thought. Then I heave a sigh of resignation, put my bag back down on the floor, and then sink down beside it, wincing as my butt makes contact with the cold marble tiles.
Just two more minutes. That’s all he’s getting, then I’m out of here. This “being a good person” thing has gone on for long enough.
Chapter 5
I’m woken three hours later by a sliver of sunlight on my face and the nagging certainty that there’s something I’ve forgotten.
As soon as I try to sit up, and my hand makes contact with the cold floor beneath it, I realize what it is.
Home. I forgot to go home. And now I’m sitting here propped against the wall in Mr. 3.5’s imposing — but deeply uncomfortable — foyer, while 3.5 himself sleeps soundly on the sofa opposite me, his eyelashes fluttering slightly as he dreams. Probably about whisky, if his behavior last night is anything to go by.
Did I seriously spend the entire night here? Because Florence Nightingale’s got nothing on me, if so. Can I get some kind of medal for this, do you think? Or even just a cup of hot coffee? Because that would be good too, around about now.
I ease myself carefully into a sitting position, wincing as my entire body screams in protest at the movement.
I am not cut out for this “sleeping on floors” business. Not now, and not ever. This guy definitely owes me that cup of coffee — at the very least.
My tongue is welded to the roof of my mouth, and my bladder is about to burst, so, after a quick glance in 3.5’s direction, to make sure he’s not about to wake up and catch me, I tiptoe cautiously out of the foyer and into the hallway beyond, which is roughly the size of my entire cottage back in Heather Bay.
I know I said I wouldn’t snoop, but he can’t begrudge me a trip to the bathroom, can he?
Unfortunately for me, though, finding a bathroom is easier said than done.
The first door I try opens into what looks like an office, although I don’t linger long enough to find out. The third is a cinema room; like anactualcinema room, with plush chairs, and a screen with curtains on each side of it, like in a movie theater. I kid you not.
Okay, now I’m even more convinced that 3.5 is lying to me. Why would he be drinking in a dive bar, and dressing like a broke college student if he could afford a place like this? Hewouldn’tbe, would he?
Feeling more uncomfortable by the second, I open door number three and heave a sigh of pure relief when it turns out to be the bathroom I was looking for.
And what a bathroom it is, too. Gold taps. Double sinks. More marble. Giant movie poster featuring Jett Carter inIslanderson the wall opposite the toilet… Oh, you know: just your standard, run-of-the-mill Hollywood bathroom, really.
Okay,notreally. Sure, the decor is probably more or less what you’d expect from a Rich Person bathroom — not that I’d know, of course — but it’s not every day you have to take a whizz in front of a movie star, and the fact that this is just aposterof one rather than the real thing only makes it veryslightlyless awkward.
I guess 3.5 — or whoever actually owns this house — must be a big Jett Carter fan, then?
The toilet itself is on a little raised platform, which I ascend feeling a bit like Cersei walking up to the Iron Throne. As I sit down, I’m uncomfortably aware of the eyes of the poster opposite, which seem to be looking right at me, with polite interest.
Weird. Just… weird.
Seriously, I know Jett’s pretty hot, but you’d have to be areallybig fan of his movies to want a life-sized photo of him watching you pee, because it’s seriously disconcerting. So much so that, although I was desperate to pee when I came in here, I now seem to have a bad case of performance anxiety, which means I just sit there, staring at the image of the most famous man in the world, who stares back at me, his green eyes appearing to take in every inch of my—
Wait.
Green eyes. Ones with tiny flecks of gold in them, set above a perfectly proportioned nose, and full, pouting lips.
Where have I seen that particular combination before?
I tilt my head to one side, staring curiously at the poster as the memory struggles to break the surface.Islanderswas Jett Carter’s first ever movie. I think he was about 21 when he starred in it. I remember bunking off school one afternoon and taking the bus to Fort William to see it with Frankie Allison, and some of the other girls from school. Jett played an up-and-coming football star who got stranded on a desert island on his way to a match, and, oh my God, he wasgorgeous. So gorgeous, in fact, that I went back on my own that weekend just so I could see it again. And a third time the weekend after that.
His sun-bleached blonde hair. His tanned six-pack, sprinkled with drops of seawater. His emerald eyes, which… no, there it is again. That pin-prick of memory is more insistent than ever, and as I stand up to fasten my jeans, it stabs me so hard that the blood seems to drain from my body.
No.
It can’t be.
