So, I go to the bathroom with her on my arm and brush my teeth. Suddenly, the doorbell rings.
Of course, it has to be at this moment, but I am waiting for an urgent delivery of cat food because I forgot to order it on time, so Ihurry to the door and press the buzzer, cat on my arm, toothbrush in my mouth.
Horror strikes me when I see the driver of Victoria Fitzroy coming up the stairs. I stare at him as he fights off a laugh. If there was a hole of embarrassment to crawl and hide in, I’d take one right now. What is even doing here?
“Sorry,” I say, mumbling and sucking in toothpaste with saliva to keep from drooling, “Expected the mailman.”
He chuckles. “I have a delivery for you,” he says, holding out a gift box roughly the size of a larger laptop, with an envelope on top.
“Hang on,” I mumble, drop my cat to the ground, which she comments on with a bad hiss and an accusing meow, run to the bathroom, spit out the toothpaste, rinse my mouth, and hurry back to the door, drying my mouth unceremoniously with my pullover.
The driver stands there waiting in the same position as I left him.
“Here,” he says.
“No,” I say. “Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”
“You will,” he says and urges me to take it. “Throw it away if you don’t want it after looking at it, but I will not leave without you taking it.”
I sigh as I take it. In the end, he’s just a man who needs to fulfil orders. The rose-coloured cardboard with its soft finish beneath my fingers feels expensive.
“Good day to you, Miss Phillips,” he says as he leaves. I stare after him, and only when the echo of the entrance door falling into its hinges trails loudly into my ears am I able to think again. I dash to the kitchen, only to see the Rolls-Royce driving off.
I groan and turn as I can already hear the neighbours talking, and if there is anything I hate, it’s publicity and being the centre of attention.
As I walk out of the kitchen, I realise I forgot to close the door. One day, I will lose my head.
Suddenly, I hear meowing on the staircase.
“Of course,” I groan out loud as I run barefoot after my cat.
"Blimey, Pebbles," I say when I finally get her. "Sometimes, you're a real pain in the arse.” She screams at me in protest as I grab her under the belly and carry her back up, only to see that thedoor has fallen closed. And I, the idiot, have of course no key on me.
I stare at the closed door, cat in my left arm, mysterious package in my right, barefoot on cold tiles, after everything that had happened in the past 24 hours, and I just scream.
The neighbour on our floor comes out of her door.
She's a sweet old lady, nosy, but sweet. "Everything alright, dearest?" she asks.
And I start crying.
"Oh dear," she says and comes to pat my back.
"I locked myself out," I say between sobs. "Bella is in the hospital. Everything's a mess."
"You come with me," she says. "We'll have some tea.”
I don’t want tea with my neighbour. I have a cat on my arm. No shoes. But then she might be lonely and happy for some company—I can at least make something good of the situation. So, I follow her into her flat.
The smell trailing up my nose—I can’t tell what it is, but it is a distinct smell all the elderly have in their homes. I dislike it. I dislike any strong smells, which is also why I can’t stand that Victoria woman. Her perfume is so overwhelmingly prepossessing it gives me a headache. Her entire personality is too much.
I can already feel the anger stir in me again just thinking of her. I glance at the gift box and scoff.
“Everything alright, dearest?” asks the old lady.
“No—yes,” I say, “I just thought of something. I got this box as a gift from someone I do not like.”
“Oh, a suitor,” she says as she points me to a chair in her kitchen. I sit down, place the box on the table, and hold on to Pebbles.
