Chapter 32
‘I have every reason in the world to think ill of you.’
Bunny declared it would be better if I stayed in the vacant staff flat above the garage, since I had Rocky in tow. It was framed as thoughtful and practical. A kindness. But I knew it was a polite exile.
The flat had been empty since Pablo’s departure a few months earlier.
According to Bunny, she’d always known he was supplementing his wages in small, sly ways: an odd fifty here, a ring there, but the final straw had been a set of antique silver cutlery, supposedly brought over by a Fuller ancestor on the Mayflower.
That wasn’t the version told to the outside world, of course.
The official story was that Dear Pablo had taken early retirement due to health concerns. We shall all miss him terribly.
Now the staff flat was mine. A kind of glorified holding pen.
It was what estate agents might call ‘neutral’.
Beige carpet, cream walls, every surface telling stories in stains and nail holes.
Where the rest of the house was stuffed with antiques, oil paintings and generations of entitlement, the flat above the garage had been curated via garage sales.
Bunny’s private indulgence. She went to them incognito, wearing dark glasses, scruffy jeans, and old boots.
Her jewellery was strategically removed and locked in the glove box of Pablo’s battered Ford.
I’d been with her on a few missions. She’d stalk the folding tables, armed with rolled-up bills and an eye sharper than any antique dealer. If the seller looked particularly clueless, Bunny would open negotiations with an insult and finish with a handshake. It was her idea of a sport.
The spoils always ended up here, in the staff flat. A museum of tat – a chipped lamp shaped like a pineapple, a chair that tilted like a listing ship and a silvery mirror that made you look gaunt, no matter how well-rested you were.
Rocky took to the place like it was Buckingham Palace. He bounded up the stairs two at a time, sniffed every surface with reverence, and wagged his tail like we’d just arrived at Disneyland.
I dragged my suitcase inside, wheeled it into the bedroom and surveyed the scene. The place smelt of old sweat and cheap cologne. Pablo’s legacy. I opened the window. Damp fog was rolling in from the ocean.
This was Fuller limbo. I was at the mothership, yes, but in steerage. According to Bunny’s narrative, I was to wait here until Chase returned, apologised, and proposed a re-courting with diamonds.
But for me, this was time – breathing space. This was the place to hatch a plan.
Jet lag swept over me like a shroud. It was night in Milan. For all I knew, Chase was on a plane, or passed out in a bar, or in bed with Carmen. Whichever way, I didn’t care. Correction: I did, but not in the way I used to.
Bit by bit, my real self had been chipped away by his petty criticisms, snide digs, and casual sabotage. He’d tried to make me lesser so he could feel more. And I’d let him. What little confidence I had left was all for show, a fragile performance I dragged out for polite company.
Rocky nudged my hand with his nose, wide-eyed and hopeful. I looked down at his face, his big tail thudding against the side of the bed. I sat up on the edge of the lumpy mattress and stroked his fur. He was warm and uncomplicated.
‘It’s the Rocky and Florence show now,’ I said, trying it out. It felt better than anything I’d said in months.
He jumped up and licked my face, as if to say, Damn right it is.
Then the bedside intercom buzzed. I picked it up. Bunny.
‘Chinese in ten. Come over for a cocktail, darling.’