"Did you forget something?" I say without opening my eyes. "Or could you not bear the thought of being without my company for the next hour and a half?"
My nostrils are assailed with the unapologetically bold aroma of a rugged, crisp blend of caramalised sugar and cardamom with notes of grapefruit and bergamot a split second before Theodore Pinkerton laughs out, "Ah, neither?"
I whip my head around. "What are you doing here?"
He flashes me his hyena grin. "I own most of the building, chica. Ergo, I am entitled to be present in its presence." He waggles his head like he's imparted the witticism to end all witticisms and a bolt of anger flashes through me that feels at once totally reasonable in its presence and totally unreasonable at its intensity.
"Not without giving the tenant sufficient notice, you're not."
The Odourpffs and is about to tell me that law probably doesn't apply to tenants who are also their own co-landlord, but I head him off at the pass. "I'm finished business for the day, Theo. Work is over and,ergo, any conversations about it and the premises it inhabits. Why are you really here?"
"I wanted to have a deep and meaningful without interruption from the punters or the help."
The sun disappears behind a cloud. As if things weren't already ominous.
"You're the silent landlord, remember? No 'deep and meaningfuls' are necessary."
Theo says, "That's the thing," and the high I'd been riding all day disappears from underneath me with savage suddenness. I refuse to go into freefall, but his following, "It's time to have a review," doesn't help things.
"It's not. We don't need a review. Things are ticking along nicely."
"But we could grease that tick. Get it tocking real nice."
And I know one of two things. One: This is not a review. Theo has already made up his mind about the change he wants. Two: His charitable temperament has lost its used-by date.
"There is no 'we' here, Theo. I don't need to change anything."
"Well." Theo gets up from the lounger and sits on the edge of one of the long-dormant chimneys so he can face me. "I now find myself in a position where I need to parlay." He stretches his long legs out in front of him and looks down at his shoes.
I also look at them. They look brand new. The label "Tom Ford" is designed for maximum visibility on the tongue.
"I see you've noticed my haute shoeture. Nice, huh? You seen beaters as savage as these?"
I put a lot of meaning into my silent reply.
He holds his hands up like he's looked inside my head and seen the imaginary gun I'm about to shoot him with. "Don't hit me with those stank eyes."
I break. I can't hold back the deluge building on my tongue any longer. "'Parlay'? What the fuck is 'parlay'? Can you please stop fancying yourself as some Idris Elba character fromThe Wireand behave as if you are in touch with your own reality, which is being a nobby, white dude wearingtrainersin chocolate-box-ville fucking Devon."
"Aight."
He's so close to the edge of the roof. Three steps and a decent shove and I'd never have to hear his voice ever again. After the scream on the way down.
The Odour clears his throat and tries again. "Alright. Let's talk straight."
"Thank you."
He crosses his arms. "I need money."
Right. Of course he does. Which means this is the stuff of worst-case scenario imaginings for the very good thing Port Derrum artists currently have going on.
I cover my inner panic with my usual go-to around Theodore Pinkerton. Mockery. "You? Mister 'I have so much money I need to find a pet cause to patronise for the sake of my social media feed' need money?"
"Yes."
The silence that descends is leaden and extremely volatile.
"How?"
