‘Thanks,’ said Regan, a little reluctantly. She still didn’t like being falsely accused.
The rest of Friday was uneventful, with the exception of another lecture from Jarvis, but it was easier to take because she had a beer in her hand and a plateful of her favourite Chinese takeaway. Jarvis had also apologised for not waking her when he’d left, which had smoothedthe waters somewhat. Despite his lectures, he wasn’t a bad person, and she knew he had her best interests at heart. Even with his slightly obsessive need to keep the flat immaculate at all times, she was very fond of him; and nobody was perfect. It was yin and yang – she was spontaneous, he was a planner; she wanted to have fun and be a Bond girl, he wanted quiet nights in and government bonds … whatever the hell they were. She vowed that when she got to work on Monday she’d cross the ‘get a new boyfriend’ task off her list, because that was unfair.
As expected, on her arrival in Dubai, Cleo was liberally splashed across all social media platforms. Various pictures of her looking unspeakably glamorous accompanied by other beautiful people in stunning locations kept popping up on Regan’s phone, all accompanied with masses of hash tags (something Regan didn’t really understand). #LivingMyBestLife was one that kept popping up. Regan had to agree that Cleo really was living her best life. Work, my arse.
Jarvis left early for a golf match on Saturday, but not before he’d woken Regan with a strong coffee, enabling her to be at Cleo’s studio with five minutes to spare before the boiler man was due. Regan had wondered if Cleo had told her the wrong time again, so she’d taken a magazine with her in case she had an hour to kill. She stuck the key in the lock and opened the door. Instantly the alarm sounded; a shrieking noise that made her eardrums rattle. ‘Shi …’ She flipped the cover on the alarm – but what was the code? She’d not written it down. She quickly scrolled to Cleo’s last text message:Boiler man at Studio 10am Saturday – DON’T FORGET
No mention of the alarm code. Regan closed her eyes whilst the alarm echoed through her brain. Why couldn’t Cleo use her birthday like everyone else? Cleo had said something about the code being related to a famous person.
‘Good morning,’ said a cheery man in navy overalls, making Regan flinch – she hadn’t heard him approach thanks to the relentless racket of the alarm. ‘You got a problem?’
‘No, it’s my alarm clock. Of course I’ve got a problem!’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she shouted over the alarm. ‘I can’t remember the code.’
‘Try 1234. It’s usually 1234.’
‘No, it’s something to do with a famous person. Leonardo …’
‘DiCaprio?’
‘No, the artist bloke.’ Her head was throbbing in time to the incessant alarm. A few people passing by were glaring. ‘Leonardo da Vinci!’ shouted Regan as recollection struck her.
‘Born fourteen fifty something and died fifteen something-or-other.’
Regan was stunned. She eyed the boiler man again – who’d have thought he’d know something like that? It was a reminder that she should never judge people on first impressions; although of course she absolutely did. She began inputting numbers and on the third attempt she struck gold – 1452 worked, and silence reigned.Hallelujah, she thought. And then:Oh poo, now I’m going to have to change the code AND think of a reason to tell Cleo why I’ve had to change it.
Her head continued to buzz, but she went inside and the boiler man followed. After a few minutes hunting forthe boiler, she left him to it, while she raided the solitary cupboard for coffee. There was a tiny fridge but, sensibly, there was nothing in it apart from a half-used jar of pesto, so she made two black coffees and settled down in the only chair to read her magazine.
‘Is this what goes for art these days?’ asked the boiler man whilst unscrewing something.
Regan eyed the large canvas nearby. ‘Yep. She makes a mint.’
He paused. ‘Really? What are they?’ He tipped his head at the large pinkish brown circle on the canvas. ‘Abstract, is it?’
‘Nipples,’ said Regan and she disappeared behind her magazine.
The rest of Saturday was quite dull. Jarvis had insisted on having a bit of a spring clean, changing the bed linen and the towels, and it felt like that had taken up most of the day. When she’d finally flopped in a chair, Jarvis had hold of the TV remote and was flicking through the channels. The winning lottery numbers flashed up and she yelped.
‘What?’ he asked.
Regan realised she had no idea what her numbers were, and the ticket was safely locked in her drawer at work. Oh well; she’d have to wait until Monday to check them. ‘I thought the thing before looked interesting.’ She wasn’t going to let on that she’d bought a lottery ticket.
‘Wheeler Dealers? Okay,’ he said, changing the channel back. She sank into the chair in defeat.
Regan spent most of Sunday in the kitchen: half the time cooking, and the rest trying to keep on top of the messshe was creating. It was such a shame that society didn’t see her ability to make a mess as a talent, because she really was very good at it. Jarvis tapped on the door. ‘Dare I come in?’ he asked.
Regan scanned the room. ‘Mmm, okay but don’t freak out.’
‘Now I’m already freaking out,’ he said, pushing the door open a crack and peering cautiously inside. Apart from a few sticky patches on the worktop and some onion skins on the floor the kitchen was tidy.
‘Ta dah!’ she said, flailing out her arms and whacking a spoon resting in a saucepan of toffee, which sent a dramatic splatter up the wall. ‘Shit!’
‘And it was going so well,’ said Jarvis, cracking a smile as he grabbed a cloth from the sink.
‘It really was.’ Regan’s mouth turned downwards. It had taken a lot of effort to keep the mess at bay; she seemed to be able to make it multiply without any particular effort.
‘When’s dinner ready?’
‘Ah,’ said Regan, retrieving the gooey spoon from the floor and trying not to stand in the puddle of toffee it had left. ‘I’m not making dinner.’
