Chapter 21. Ophelia
OPHELIA
The notification on my phone makes me grin as one of Alex’s security guys weaves through the lunchtime traffic, a com-fortable silence in the shiny black car.
From: Alex Corbeau-Green
Subject: Lonely (adjective) sad because one has no company.
Date: Wednesday 9th April 12:03 EST
To: Ophelia Winters
Are you there yet?
Ps. Mia hides the good snacks in the cupboard beside the dishwasher.
So the data plan he’s put my phone on works, then. I continue to be impressed by this cracked, dented six-year-old little machine.
I imagine the look on Alex’s face if I were to utter that sentence aloud. He already thinks I’m a cavewoman.
From: Ophelia Winters
Subject: Impatient (adjective) annoyed because you have to wait.
Date: Wednesday 9th April 12:04 EST
To: Alex Corbeau-Green
Not yet. This city is kind of trafficky, if you haven’t noticed.
I shut the screen off to take in the madness of the city around me, but it pings straight away.
From: Alex Corbeau-Green
Subject: Trafficky (error) not a word.
Date: Wednesday 9th April 12:05 EST
To: Ophelia Winters
We making up words, now? Text me when you get there, baby.
The car pulls up a short while later, outside a huge, terraced brownstone on a tidy street. “Wow,” I say, craning my neck to absorb all four floors.
The security guy opens the door for me. I’ve already forgotten his name. There’s so many of them to memorize. “I’ll park the car, miss. Take the steps up to the door.”
I creep into the house like I’m a burglar, holding my breath and walking on my toes, for some reason.
The foyer is huge, all polished wood floors and a white staircase with a beige runner.
There are shoes spilling out of the closet beside me, and children’s drawings in white frames decorate the wall behind the stairs.
There’s a warmth in the air, the smell of baking wafting from somewhere.
This is a home. The London house was a cold, polished shell. This is homey in a way that I’ve missed so badly. I turn to the closet, kicking off my boots and putting them on a shelf with Alex’s sneakers.
A cheery hi splinters the thick silence, and I let out an unholy shriek, dropping my bag.
The woman in front of me laughs, holding her hands out in apology. She’s short and round, brown hair streaked with gray. “Sorry to scare you. I’m Ingrid, the housekeeper.”
“I’m …”
“Ophelia. Alex told me you’d be here any minute,” she finishes for me, a warm smile on her face. Is everyone in Alex’s life this excited that he has a girlfriend?
“I … this is a beautiful home.”
“It is. I love my job. I’ll show you around.”
She takes my bag for me, leading me into a kitchen, bright and airy with pale wood floors and white stone countertops.
Huge glass doors at the far end lead out to a small garden, full of plants and trees.
A tray of cooling blueberry muffins sits on the island, and if I wasn’t too embarrassed, I’d beg her for one.
They smell ridiculous. “Are the girls home?”
“Emily will pick them up from school in a few hours, so you have some time to yourself before then.”
“I definitely need a shower.”
“Here, I’ll show you Alex’s bathroom. He already had me go out and grab you some things. I can give you a full tour later, if you like. I’m guessing you’re exhausted.”
Alex’s room is at the end of the second-floor hallway. A giant cream rug covers most of the hardwood floor, a huge teak bedframe at the center of the back wall. Maybe I’m just tired, but the white cloud of soft bedding looks like it’ll be the comfiest thing in the world.
As always with his rooms, the space is immaculate, but the desk is utter chaos. Piles of sketchbooks, books, letters for his mom, study notes, architecture journals. There are at least a dozen sketches of me scattered across it all.
In the giant en suite—I’ll never understand why a bathroom needs two sinks—there’s a wicker basket with shampoo, nice soap, a hairbrush, tampons, some soft sweatpants, pajamas, cookies, and a packet of Jelly Babies.
Ophelia
I’m spoiled. Thank you.
Alex
Did Ingrid meet you?
Ophelia
Yes, she’s lovely.
Alex
I have nightmares in which that woman retires. She’s worked here for fifteen years.
Ophelia
I might marry her instead of you.
Alex
Her husband works for us too, as a driver.
Ophelia
Damn it. Never mind, then. Gonna shower and take a nap.
Alex
Send pic
That stupid emoji pings through, with the big watery eyes. I laugh, snapping a pic where the towel only just covers me.
Alex
You’re so hot, baby.
Ophelia
This shower is definitely big enough for two.
Alex
I’ll be home first thing, as long as Mom looks okay. Cannot wait.
The shower is everything I needed. It washes away the stress, the flight, the panic from the lecture hall. When I step out in the fluffy towel and spot that Ingrid has left a warm muffin and a cup of tea on the side table, I think I might just curl up here and never leave.
I sit on the edge of the bed, peeling back the brown paper and taking a bite.
Jesus Christ, it’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I flop back onto the white duvet, moaning around the food in my mouth.
The painting is on the ceiling above Alex’s bed. My painting. The mess of fingers and handprints I made while he fucked me in London.
Ophelia
Nice view from the bed
Alex
Something’s got to make the lonely nights less lonely
Now my brain is full of all sorts of visions of Alex in this bed, so I bury myself under the duvet and let my imagination run wild.
A KNOCK AT the door startles me. The curtains are good enough that I have no idea what time it is, but my phone tells me it’s just past five. I croak out a hello, voice hoarse.
“Hey, girl!”
I’ve never met Mia, but I’d know her voice anywhere from the endless FaceTime calls I’ve spoken to her on.
“You’re home! Come in,” I say, combing my fingers through my hair.
The door opens, and a flurry of long limbs and dark hair launches toward me like a flying squirrel. She lands on the bed with a thud, grinning ear to ear. “Oh my god, it’s so cool that you’re here.”
“I can’t believe I survived the flight.”
“I know, right? Usually a very unreliable form of transport,” she says teasingly.
“Oh, so Alex’s attitude runs in the family?”
She laughs, flopping back beside me. “He’s the worst of us all.”
“How was school?”
She wiggles her feet, clad in white sports socks. “Fine. I had track practice.”
“Does Evie like sports, too?”
She smiles at the mention of her twin sister. “Not really. She likes dancing. Actually, she likes figure skating. She’s excited to meet you, too.”
“I’m kind of nervous.” I’m more than nervous. Meeting a load of miserable businessmen and CEOs? I’d be fine. Meeting teenage girls? Terrifying.
“Don’t be. We can just eat popcorn and watch a movie together. Did you see my mom? Did she seem … well, obviously she’s not fine, but did she seem okay?”
Concern creases her eyes and my heart squeezes. “It’s hard for me to say. I don’t know what she’s normally like. But we had a good chat. She seemed cheerful, considering.”
Mia stares at her feet, chewing her bottom lip. While Evie, Josie, and Charlotte have the blond hair and fair complexion of their father, Mia is all green eyes and dark hair, her skin a little sun-kissed. Although, anyone looks sun-kissed next to me. “Our mom is the best.”
“She is.”
“It’s not fair that she’s sick and my father isn’t.”
I nod, fiddling with the purple friendship bracelet on my wrist. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how Alex does this: answer questions from the six of them, all at different stages of childhood, all at different stages of understanding what death really means.
“It’s not fair Alex is dealing with all of this, either.”
“No, it isn’t.” I have a hundred questions. About Alex as a child, about life when their father was still at home, about how he’s really been these past few months. None of them are fair to ask a sixteen-year-old trying to navigate one of the most difficult weeks of her life.
“Ugh. What are we doing?” Mia asks. “We’ve gone straight to miserable talk. We should get up and be positive. There are blueberry muffins downstairs. And it’s risotto for dinner. And there’s ice cream in the freezer. I made it.”
I stand up, pulling on Alex’s Sorrowsong Rugby hoodie. I’d kill to see him back there, playing beside Vincenzo. “You can make ice cream?”
“It’s really good, if I do say so myself.”
From the top of the stairs, I can already hear the buzz of life downstairs. Ingrid’s voice, but someone else’s, too. A man’s. And lots of laughter, despite the situation.
It’s a home. It’s a home and a family and it’s a sink full of dishes and walls that aren’t cold the whole way through.
I will myself not to get emotional. But it is emotional. Whatever this is, here in this house, it’s the opposite of loneliness. “Sounds busy,” I say, nervously.
“You come from a small family, right?”
I stutter, like I always do whenever I talk about my family, stuck somewhere in that horrible space between is and was. “Yeah. Well, it’s just me now. Just me at home … um … but there was three of us. But no, I’ve never had a big family.”
She flushes, like she’s cursing herself for asking me that. “Shit, Ophelia. That was careless of me.”
“No, no. It’s fine. Really, it is.”
“If you’re overstimulated, you can just have a moment in Alex’s room.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I reach the bottom of the stairs, and a girl I recognize as Josie flies round the kitchen doorway like she’s been watching the stairs, waiting for me.
“Pheelz!”
I laugh, accepting her impressively forceful hug. “Pheelz? Did Vincenzo put you up to that?”
“Yeah.” She squeezes me again. “Alex told me not to scare you away.”
I hug her back, nose in her blond waves. “He did? We can’t keep letting him get away with these comments.”
“Let’s take him down!”
“Deal.”