Will you be there?
His reply comes almost immediately, which means whatever time zone he’s in, it’s daylight right now.
Of course. Though my plane lands in Heathrow at 8, so I could be a little late.
Sure, he’ll be late. Naturally. That’s if he turns up at all. Which might not be such a bad thing. If he’s not there, it’ll make slipping out unnoticed that much easier.
As we drive through Mudford-upon-Hooke, I guide Piotr up the long winding lane to Hooke Manor. The eight-bedroomed Georgian mansion my family has occupied for generations looms over us. It’s illuminated from the outside. Uplighters curve along the planting and the smooth stone exterior, but no interior upstairs lights are on.
Yet again, no one’s home. None of the staff. Not even my twenty-seven-year-old stepmother, Juliette.
“Shit the bed, you live here?” he asks.
I toy with lying to him, denying everything, telling him I’m the gardener’s apprentice or something, but I don’t. He wouldn’t believe me anyway; my accent is a dead giveaway. “I know, right? Poor little rich boy.”
Piotr’s mouth hangs in a perfect O for a second before he snaps it shut. I pop the door open and plant a foot firmly on the gravel drive.
“Thanks for the ride.” I tip him two fifties, and get the hell out of his car before he can do something as self-destructive as ask for my number.
I hear his BMW pulling away as I slip in through the service entrance to the kitchens and head to my room.
The house is dark and devoid of any living beings. My footsteps echo along the corridors, and centuries-old oil paintings I’ve seen almost every day of my life peer down at me through the shadows, judging me.
“Don’t look at me like that, Charles, not with that crusty wig of yours.” My voice parrots itself throughout the halls, stirring up the darkness like a skimming stone on a glass-smooth lake.
I place Jordan’s bottle of cologne in my walk-in closet along with the many other fragrance mementos I’ve taken from past conquests. I nestle this one between two identical bottles of Noir Extreme. In fact, there’s an entire shelf of Tom Ford scents. There’s a whole Creed section, and a corner dedicated solely to Davidoffs.
And as I stand back and drink in the rainbow of atomisers laid out before me, I realise I am . . . an awful person.
I step into my shower and scrub Jordan’s sweat from my body, and by the time I’m stepping out onto the Anthropologie bath mat, I’m kinda thinking maybe Dear Old Dad is right. Maybe it’s about time I tried to . . . grow up. Just a little bit. Maybe I shouldn’t waste my days ruining other peoples’ marriages. Fucking around is starting to lose its shine anyway.
I shouldn’t be looking at this job interview as something to slog through but exactly what it is—an opportunity to become a better, more well-rounded, more contributive person.
Or whatever.
Fine, okay, it is what it is, yeah? Everything happens for a reason. Or . . . it probably does. Mr B’s getting married next weekend. I need a suit for the wedding and for my big job debut. I can always pick something up when I take Daisy dress shopping.
As I climb into my own bed, with my own sheets, and shut my eyes, I’m thinking this could be the turning point for me. I could start to make a change. Maybe.
That is until I remember with exacting clarity thathe’llbe at the wedding. The one guy I’ve spent the last year avoiding.
Harry Ellis.
2
Thursday 22nd April 2027
Lando
“Of course he doesn’t want to see you either. You stole his virginity then you ghosted him,” Daisy says as she rifles through a Missoni rail in the Knightsbridge branch of Harvey Nicks.
Hozier plays on the overhead sound system, and the air is fragranced with eucalyptus and lavender. It smells luxurious in here. Budget-friendly shops always stink of those chemical preservative pouches, but I like knowing I’m around nice, expensive things. It relaxes me.
Daisy pulls a linen midi dress off the rack and holds it up for my approval.
I wave the garment away. “It’s beige,” I say, barely concealing the disgust in my voice. “And you’re about as white as they come. Do you want to give the guests a jump scare?”
“Fair point,” sheagrees.
