He winks, stepping away from me and entering the lift. “I love you, my beautiful Pixie.”
I’m foolish to spend my time doing anything other than actively looking for a job or studio, but in all honesty, I think I’m in denial. I don’t want to be working right now, not when I feel like Mase needs me.
Scarlet doesn’t answer the door, so I wave Vinny off and let myself in. I find her in the main living room, her hair covered in purple hair dye.
“Hey!” I frown, moving around the sofa to pull her into a hug.
“Thank god you’re here! Have I got the back?” She fans a hand around her head. “Dad normally checked—it’s the small things.” She tuts.
Spinning around, I check her hairline and see that she’s missed a chunk. “Here, give me the brush.” I paint the area she missed and hand it back. “How have you been? Are the Montgomerys not here?” I ask, frowning as I eye the blob of dye on the rug beneath my feet.
That isn’t coming out.
“No, they left two days ago. Frey is a babe and like a mother to me, but god, she is just too much.”
“That’s a bad thing?” I smile, happy to see her so upbeat.
“Uh, yeah. She offers me food when I already have food, a coffee when I’m sat with a tea. I swear they’re waiting for me to break.”
“And are you—going to break? ‘Cause that would be okay.”
“Nina, I’m okay. Honestly.”
I eye her sceptically but she only evil eyes me back. “Okay, you sure you want to do this today?” I ask, pointing to the pile of things belonging to her dad that she has gathered on the table.
“Yes, it’s got to be done.”
“Right, I will put the kettle on.”
Four hours later
We are only halfway through the piles of clothes and boxes. I look to Scar, noticing her beautiful, full smile. We have taken our time, pausing when needing to relish in anything that catches her attention. A photo that evokes a memory or a jumper that still smells of Anthony.
I just wish Mase could have been here.
Scarlet powers up the TV as she sits in a sea of boxes. Some will go into the attic and some to charities. Scarlet wants somebody to use the items and not have them sat, but insists the sentimental stuff stays—which is why we’re watching their home videos.
“Nina, look at this.”
“Is that you?” I laugh, taking in the image on the screen.
A little girl with dark hair is sitting naked in the kitchen sink.
“Yup. Dad always said I was the feral child.”
“I can see that.”
She eyes me with a scowl. “I can just imagine you with your perfect princess dresses and frilly socks,” she mocks.
“God, no. I was lucky if I got a pair of leggings that fit.”
“Shit. Sorry, Nina.”
“Don’t be.” I chuckle, reaching into the box at my feet and pulling out a smaller rectangular one.
“Here,” she calls. “Ha! Look at how chubby Elliot was.”
I carry the box with me, moving to stand behind her at the back of the sofa.
