Chapter 7
seven
A Few Days Later
The afternoon is sunny but cool when I leave Julian’s apartment building and I shiver a little and huddle into my thin jacket. I’ve got a warmer one but I left it back at the house so I presume it’s on a skip somewhere.
Mac sent me the postcode of my new place this morning.
I meant to look it up online, but I got busy packing and forgot all about it.
I look around for a cab, squinting at the sun.
I lost my sunglasses during the upheaval.
I suppose I could buy a new fancy designer pair with all the money I have sitting in the bank, but frugality is hardwired into me after a lifetime of teetering on the edge of being poor.
I’m painfully aware of how one wrong move can send you toppling over the edge, so I’ve vowed to sit on my nest egg like a very protective chicken.
I start to walk away, pulling Julian’s fancy suitcase after me.
When he saw the old, battered case on my bed, he’d given me one of his, claiming he was throwing it away anyway, but I know better.
He’d protested the hug I gave him, but I’d still held on tight until eventually he’d relented and hugged me back, but not without huffing and rolling his eyes more than a host on Loose Women .
“Mr Archer?”
I turn at the sound of my name and watch as a dark-haired man climbs out of a gunmetal-grey SUV. “Yes?” I say warily.
“I work for Mr Reilly.”
My heart starts to beat fast. “Is he here?” I ask, looking around as if he’s going to pop up from behind a bush.
“No.”
I sag in disappointment.
The man continues quickly, “But he sent me to facilitate your move.”
“Eh?” It’s not my best comeback.
His eyes twinkle. “I’m to drive you to your new home and ensure you’ve settled in well.” He opens the door of the SUV and gestures. “After you, Mr Archer.”
I trundle the case towards him, and he takes it from me, stowing it neatly in the boot. I climb into the back seat to find a luxurious space pleasantly warmed by the heater. The radio plays low, and I’m sure I can smell Cormac’s fresh, citrussy aftershave.
Last week, I went with Julian to Harvey Nicks, where his bloke had set him up with an account.
Growing bored with the endless clothing changes, I’d wandered off and found myself in the perfume department.
It had taken me a while, but eventually I’d found Cormac’s aftershave.
It’s called Rue de Furstenberg by Durand, and I’d spent a little too long huffing the bottle like it was glue, and eventually, the salesman had taken the bottle off me and insisted that I try another counter.
The dark-haired man climbs into the driver’s seat. “Everything okay?” he asks.
I nod, fastening my seat belt. “Thanks for driving me. What’s your name?”
“Robert, Mr Archer.”
I wave my hand. “Oh no. Please call me Wes. Mr Archer sounds like I’m up on a charge.”
He makes a soft sound like concealed laughter before inclining his head gravely. “As you wish, Wes.” He pulls the car away from the curb smoothly, and silence falls as he navigates the busy traffic.
I pull out my phone and check my messages. The one from Tyler this morning is still up.
I’m fine. Stop ringing Ben.
I huff. I’d been frantic with relief when I saw the message but it’s fading into irritation very quickly. I tap on my phone.
I wouldn’t imagine it’s annoyed your friend that much seeing as he didn’t answer the phone once. Anyway, I wouldn’t have to ring him if you’d done as you promised and sent me a text every night.
I wait but the message stays unread. Eventually, I stir. “So, where is this flat, Robert?”
He doesn’t display any curiosity about my question. He’s well-trained. “Knightsbridge.”
“Oh. That’s fancy.”
I tap my fingers on the window, watching London slide by.
Old buildings jostle with modern tower blocks, and the streets are a sea of people.
We stop at some traffic lights, and I see a man about my age greeting two friends.
They’re all wearing backpacks, and I peg them as students immediately.
That was me a few weeks ago, I muse. Laughing and chatting with mates with no idea what was around the corner.
I’m immediately reminded that finals are approaching, and I need to get back to concentrating on my studies.
My head reels. So much has changed that I feel like a different person than the student I was last term, back when I was so fiercely attached to my coursework and feeling like it was the only way to build a future.
I toy with the frayed edges of my rucksack on the seat beside me.
It’s like an old friend, worn well from carrying so many books over the past years.
My fingers tighten on the strap. I vow I will not fail my finals, and I will not forget my goals.
Yes, I’m living somewhere new and I have a cushion in my bank account, but who knows what the future will bring?
Robert makes a swift, skilled manoeuvre around traffic, and my interest stirs. If he’s Cormac’s driver, he must know a few things about my mystery man.
“So, have you worked for Mac long, Robert?”
“Mac?”
“Sorry. Cormac. I call him Mac. Not that he appreciates that,” I add gloomily.
There’s a beat of silence before he answers me. “Yes, I’ve worked for Mr Reilly for over fifteen years.”
“And has he always been so…” I hesitate, stuck for words. “…in charge?”
“Well, he is the boss.” His tone is tinged with amusement.
“Yeah. He does seem to run the world. It’s probably not good for his long-term health. Or personality.”
I’m thinking of more questions to ask when he says, “We’re here.” I’m sure I’m not imagining his relief.
I crane to see out the window. We’ve approached a six-storey, red-brick building. It was probably a mansion at some point, like many of the buildings around here. Knightsbridge is very much old money.
The car pulls up by a barrier, and Robert enters a code and then scans a keycard. The barrier opens, and we drive down into an underground car park. “I have your keycard, Wes,” he says, parking neatly in a bay with the number one on it. “Mr Reilly says you don’t drive, but you still might need it.”
He opens the door and goes to the boot to get my suitcase while I climb out of the car. Robert appears at my side. “Follow me,” he says, shaking his head at my attempt to take my case from him. I traipse after him towards the lift, which immediately whisks us smoothly upwards.
When the doors open, we step out into a foyer with a marble floor and wooden wainscoting. A woman comes around a sleek and very shiny desk, her face wreathed in a wide smile. “Robert,” she says. She turns to me. “And this must be Mr Archer.”
I shake her hand. “Please call me Wes.”
She looks at Robert, a quick glance I nearly miss. “Lovely,” she says. “My name is Celia. Now let me show you upstairs to the flat. I think you’ll find everything to your satisfaction.”
Given the fact that the foyer of this building is bigger than my old house, she’s probably right.
I nod, smiling, and then the three of us make our way back into the lift.
Celia has a manila envelope in her hand, and I watch as she opens it and pulls out a card.
It’s navy blue with a red stripe running across it and a logo of the outline of a building.
“This is your card for the apartment, Wes,” she says.
“It also gives access to the gym and spa in the basement, and you’ll need it to operate the lifts.
Scan it and press the button for the top floor.
” She gestures at a console by the lift’s controls.
I do as she says and brace myself as the lift slides upwards.
It comes to a stop, and the door opens. I blink.
I expected a corridor with doors opening off it, but we’re standing in another foyer.
This one is small with more oak panelling.
There’s a delicate-looking table with an enormous vase of roses.
Their scent is sweet and delicate and mixes with the faint trace of beeswax.
“Your new home, Wes,” Celia says as we all step off the lift.
I look around. “Is this the flat ?” I ask incredulously.
She nods, giving me a polished smile. “Yes, the penthouse apartment.”
“Jesus Christ.”
They kindly ignore me, and she opens a door, gesturing for me to go through.
I step into a lounge, although it’s completely different to any lounge I’ve ever spent time in.
It’s a huge room with big, multipaned windows letting in lots of light.
A massive sectional sofa upholstered in amber-coloured velvet and a couple of armchairs in a subtle checked fabric are positioned to face a marble fireplace.
On one side of the room is a long dining table and chairs.
A pair of double doors leads onto a terrace.
They’re open, letting in a gentle breeze and the sound of traffic, and I walk over, pushing aside the curtains and stepping out.
I find an expensive-looking rattan table and chairs, the scarlet-coloured parasol and seat cushions a bright splash of colour.
Clelia comes to stand next to me. “Lovely view,” she says approvingly.
“You can see all the way across Knightsbridge down to Chelsea.” She points to a huge building in the distance that’s instantly familiar.
“That’s Battersea Power Station, and over there is the West End and the city of Westminster. ”
I follow her gaze, my eyes snagging on the park in front of me.
It’s a big expanse of green, and it contrasts with the red-brick buildings with their ornate exteriors, which are jostling for space with more modern buildings.
In the distance, steel towers rise up against the skyline, and the street below is busy with people and cars.
“I don’t think I could ever get tired of this view,” I say softly.