I thinkheprobably does, actually. He quoted that line from Macbeth to me, after all, so I guess he must have read it. Maybe he’s a geek too. In which case…
“I like all kinds of books,” I tell him, deciding my secret is probably safe with a man I’ll never see again. “I studied Macbeth in high school, which is why I know that line, but I read anything, really. I just love books.”
I pause, wondering if I should tell him how I wanted to study literature; how I applied and got accepted for a place at Edinburgh University, and how my mum talked me out of taking it because she wanted me to “learn the ropes”, as she put it, at the family distillery instead. How I still think about it every so often; the life I could have led, and how different things might be if I’d followed my heart rather than just doing what my mother told me, like I always have. How books are sometimes the only things that actually feel real to me, and how, when I was growing up, getting lost in one was the only guaranteed way to block out the sound of my mum arguing with whichever boyfriend she was with at the time, in the next room.
Or, worse still,having sex with them.
Talk about awkward.
I could tell 3.5 all of that. I’m not going to, though, because, before I can speak, a soft snore from the passenger seat makes me clamp my mouth shut again, embarrassed by all the things I almost confided in a man who’s so disinterested that he’s already fallen asleep.
“You have reached your destination.”
I pull the car to a stop outside a set of impressive wrought-iron gates as the SatNav makes its announcement. We’re up in the Hollywood Hills, somewhere high above Sunset, and, by the looks of things, this isnotthe home of the alcohol-soaked body snoring in the seat next to me.
Great. He must have put the wrong address into the SatNav.
“Hey! Wake up!”
Instead of snapping my fingers in his face, I poke 3.5 firmly in the ribs this time, making him jerk awake with a start, his long eyelashes fluttering as he struggles towards consciousness.
“You gave me the wrong address,” I tell him, pointing at the gates in front of us. “Look where we are.”
Mr. 3.5 blinks once, then his face clears.
“Oh, great,” he says. “That didn’t take long. I think I must have dozed off.”
Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something that looks a bit like the remote control for my TV, before pointing it at the gates, which start to slide smoothly open, without so much as a sound.
What the…?
“Is this… is this your house?” I ask, my voice sounding strangely squeaky in the confines of the little car. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, well, I mean, it’s one of them,” 3.5 says, as matter-of-factly as a very drunk man can manage. “This is the one I use most often, though. And it’s closest to your bar, too. Are you going to go in?”
For a second, I think he’s inviting me into his house — his really fuckinghugehouse — and I’m still so surprised to find he actuallyownsthis place that I just sit there gaping at him at first, until I realize he’s just asking me to pull the car into the driveway.
Clearing my throat in embarrassment, I drive forward, finding myself at the start of a large, circular driveway which curls around the front of a white concrete block of house, all chrome and glass and, well,money, basically. This house absolutelyscreamsmoney, and my eyes narrow with suspicion as we crunch to a stop, and I swivel around to face 3.5.
“Wait a minute,” I say, as he reaches for the door handle. “You’re telling me you actuallyownthis place?You? Seriously?”
Okay, I could possibly have been alittlemore tactful there. Tact has never been something I’m known for though, and, try as I might, I can’t stop my eyes flicking down his body, from his unkempt hair situation to his sloppy slides.
“Um, yeah.” For the first time, 3.5 looks ever so slightly rattled. “Where did youthinkI lived, Lady M?”
“How would I know where you live?” I retort instantly. “I just… I just can’t imagine it beinghere, somehow.”
I nod towards the house, which continues to sit there looking back at us, all elegant and sumptuous, and God, I would do anything to live in a house like this. Literallyanything.
“Well, it is,” says 3.5 shortly. “Thanks for bringing me home. I owe you one.”
He puts his hand on the door again, but no use; I’m not letting him get away with this.
“Uh-uh,” I say, reaching out and tapping him smartly on the wrist. “Not so fast. I’m not stupid, you know. Are you seriously expecting me to believe that this isyourhouse, and that you’re not just, I don’t know, thecleaneror something, trying to pretend it’s your house, so I don’t realize how tragic your life is?”
(Look, I know it sounds far-fetched, but I know someone who did thisexactthing back in Heather Bay. I’m not joking. So you’ll forgive me for being just a tiny bit suspicious when some guy who looks like he hasn’t showered in days tries to tell me he owns a mansion in the Hollywood Hills, you know? It’s like they say:Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me…)
“Lady M.”
