‘Hello? It’s time for our meeting.’ A beat. ‘I’m afraid everyone must attend, especially on moving-in day.’ A pause before the voice, well-cultured but with a slight burr continued. ‘It’s exceptionally important.’ A longer pause. ‘Please?’ The last word trembled.
Sighed. I was right. Gandalf.
Huffing, realised he’d only keep knocking. Pretty determined.
Glancing down at sloppy navy joggers and ratty jumper swamping body and hiding scars, touched a hand to messy bun. Wasn’t wearing make-up and breath was probably rank after three-hour journey fuelled by coffee.
Perfect.
An insistent rap. ‘Are you hurt? Should I call an ambulance?’
‘No! I’m coming, for Christ’s sakes.’Fucking hell.
Okay, could have been bit more gracious, but trust is an issue and even though he looks like harmless old man, mild exteriors can hide dark interiors.
Flung open door and barked, ‘What?’
Gandalf blinked. ‘Hello, I’m Albie, your new neighbour. Very pleased to meet you.’ His twinkling blue eyes were assessing. ‘We didn’t get a chance to talk properly earlier.’
Obvs too polite to say anything about me avoiding his gaze when he gave directions to manor this morning. ‘Uh-huh.’ Values parents brought me up with, prodded conscience. Bit back a swear word. ‘I’m Tori. Sorry, I had a long journey and needed to unpack.’ Lie. Have hardly any possessions.
‘Ah, yes, Tori. Short for Victoria?’
Huffed at having to make small talk. ‘Vittoria, I have part-Italian family.’
‘How lovely.’ Albie shifted on feet, ‘Shall we walk to the meeting together?’
Know he was being polite, but don’t know him. Needed to get to meeting in my own way.
Meeting. Where there’d be people.
Chest tightened, breath constricted in throat, and panic flipped stomach. Peered over my shoulder into open-plan apartment. Chose the one with combined lounge-diner-kitchen, and high white ceilings. Need airy interior as don’t like feeling enclosed. Peach silk wallpaper is warm and soothing. Sighed, feeling calmer just looking at it, and knowing deadbolts fitted on bedroom and bathroom doors. Safe. Need lots of distance between me andhim. Nothing like my old flat, decorated in jewel tones and full of quirky objects, but what I need.
Didn’t want to go meeting. Wanted to stay here. But couldn’t.
Swallowed and forced smile, trying to remember how used to talk to members of public in old life. In thebefore. ‘Thanks, but I’m not ready yet. I’ll be along in a bit.’ Slammed door before hecould ask again, or pry. Or see what am trying to cover up… I ache to re-join the world, but not brave enough.
CHAPTER 3
Harley
Harley drops the last patio chair onto the patterned red oriental rug, wondering how many generations of people contributed to its worn appearance. The scatter of white plastic furniture looks incongruous against the rugs and burnished oak floor-to-ceiling shelves of the luxurious grand library, but there aren’t enough seats for the residents of all eight apartments. One of his tasks as Site Manager is setting up for the commonhold association meetings, and it makes him laugh to realise how far he’s fallen. What would his so-called friends say if they could see him now? They’d think him tamed, faded… broken. But the significantly reduced rent with the job is a godsend, given the state of his finances after The Bitch fleeced him. The same woman who’d accused him of being a selfish, self-absorbed and unfeeling bastard. Yet in the end, who’d been the mercenary one walking away with most of the money?
He is agitated, face reddening as humiliation and resentment coils inside his abdomen. He lays a surreptitious hand over the small paunch that’s developed since the surgery. If he can cut down on the alcohol and do manual labour, perhaps his toned physique will return. Even if it’s not to play the game he loves so much.
Once the darling of the professional tennis world, the press adored the man they’d once labelled the Henry Cavill of sport, given his passing resemblance to the actor. However, they’d just as quickly turned on him when things went wrong, their poisonous stories and judgemental condemnations making him the most hated man in the UK for several horrific weeks. He hadn’t been able to sue them for slander because most of what they’d printed was true, even if twisted in the worst possible way.
All he cares about now is keeping a low profile. Guarding his privacy while he heals… and works out what the hell’s going on with his body. Pulling out his mobile, he scrolls through various social media platforms and news sites, hunting for headlines about how he’s hiding out in a converted manor near the New Forest. Nothing. Blowing out a relieved breath, he tucks the phone away and notices as the oddball with the eccentric dress sense who asked him to set up earlier – Arthur, or Abel or something – enters the room.
Studying the haphazard arrangement of patio furniture thrown in alongside a yellow chaise longue and red silk-covered chairs brought down from the attic, his bushy eyebrows draw together, and Harley half expects a criticism.
Instead, the old man ambles over with a genteel smile. ‘Thank you. Are you settling in all right?’
Harley steps back with a half-shrug, and grunts. ‘Fine.’ His new neighbour looks harmless, but there’s a sharpness to his gaze that’s a threat to Harley’s peace of mind. Tugging his baseball cap down to shield his face, he points at the antique grandfather clock. ‘Five to two. Guess you’ll be starting soon…?’ He trails off.
‘Albie. Just waiting for a few more people to arrive.’ He gestures to where the scatter of residents eye each other with interest, some expectant, others impatient.
‘Right,’ Harley mutters, ‘well, I’ll be over there.’ Without waiting for a reply, he stalks away. Slumping against the damask wallpaper near the door, he thinks how the name Albie suits the man.Cosy and warm, but with a hint of mischief.Irritatingly, a familiar little voice sniggers inside his head, followed by a tune that keeps playing on loop. He shoves both aside.
