Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Leo
The NHS takes four hours to confirm what we already know—Archie’s ankle is broken. They can’t cast it yet because of the swelling, so they strap it into a temporary splint and hand him a fracture clinic card for the following week.
By then, I’ve engaged Zenith, a luxury concierge agency, and secured a ground-floor apartment close to Archie’s current bedsit in Kentish Town.
This is where throwing money at a problem actually helps.
It’s one o’clock in the morning by the time we reach the apartment I’ve booked.
Zenith executed the brief perfectly, providing an accessible, modern ground-floor apartment. After A&E’s fluorescent purgatory, the place feels absurdly civilized. Everything gleams with the particular blankness of somewhere no one has ever lived.
Archie blinks around at it. “This is where you’re putting me?”
I stand there awkwardly. “It was available on short notice.”
I move ahead of him to switch on the rest of the lights, checking that the layout works for crutches. Doorways wide enough. No steps. No rugs to trip on. There are two bedrooms, each with its own ensuite, plus an additional bathroom off the hallway. Zenith has earned their fee.
“This kitchen is bigger than my entire bedsit.” Archie hobbles farther into the room on his crutches, taking in the sleek appliances.
I watch as he opens the fridge.
“Oh my god, the fridge has an ice dispenser,” he says in an incredulous tone. “My current fridge doesn’t even stay cold. It’s more of a suggestion box for temperature.”
“There’s also a water filter,” I say, which I know is the conversational equivalent of bringing a spreadsheet to a party, but I’m not sure how else to cope with Archie’s gratitude.
He flicks me a grin. “Stop. You’re going to make me emotional. I didn’t even realize a place like this existed in my neighborhood.”
“Now, someone needs to go to your bedsit to retrieve what you need.” I revert to management mode.
“I can get your stuff for you,” Jaymee says.
“I’m high-maintenance, so there will be a lot to carry,” Archie warns.
I can understand his skepticism. Jaymee is tiny. If I had to guess, she’d need a step stool and some optimistic rounding to hit five feet on a height chart.
“I’ll come with you and help you carry everything,” I offer.
Jaymee eyes me up and down. “You want to isolate me from my friends so you can murder me in a bedsit? Classic serial killer move.”
“Yes, you’ve seen right through me. I deliberately spilled syrup on your friend, foreseeing he would break his ankle, and because of the circumstances of where he lives, his reduced mobility would require me to find him a new apartment. All that just for the chance to get you alone in a bedsit.”
“You do look like a planner to me,” she says darkly.
I can’t help chuckling.
Archie and his friends are definitely more entertaining than the tech industry people I usually spend my time with.
But any trace of amusement inside me dies after Jaymee and I walk the five minutes to Archie’s address and puff our way up four flights of stairs to Archie’s drafty bedsit in a huge Victorian house.
It’s as neat as a pin, but it’s tiny. And it’s furnished with the unmistakable aesthetic of “making do.” There’s a futon that’s seen better decades.
A clothes rack instead of a closet. A microwave sitting on top of a mini-fridge because there’s no counter space.
Fairy lights are strung along the ceiling, the type people use when they can’t afford actual lamps.
Something twists in my chest because I know this room.
Not this specific one, but this life. The carefully rinsed-out takeaway containers repurposed as Tupperware.
The store-brand everything. The way the radiator has a shirt and a towel draped over it because it’s probably the only way to dry clothes during the winter.
I grew up counting dimes. I put myself through college on scholarships and ramen. I recognize the particular neatness of someone who can’t afford to lose track of anything they own.
But the thing is, the Mansleys don’t count dimes.
The Mansleys come from old money. The kind of money that builds wings on hospitals. It’s why I had no chance against Vaughn after he stole my idea.
So why is Vaughn Mansley’s brother drying his clothes on a radiator?
There are leads and dog harnesses on hooks along one wall, a plastic crate stuffed with children’s-party chaos, including the makings for balloon animals, a bottle of bubble solution, and something sparkly that might be a cape.
Business cards are stacked neatly on a flimsy desk: Archie Mansley, Children’s Entertainment, with a little cartoon version of him in a top hat.
A Mansley, making balloon animals for a living.
I stare at the cartoon Archie in his top hat. None of this makes sense.
Jaymee grabs a canvas bag from a hook and starts filling it. She gathers clothes from the rail, a laptop from the desk, and a charger from the power strip.
It snaps me back to attention.
“What can I do to help?” I ask.
“Grab his bathroom stuff,” she says.
I feel awkward as I rummage through the drawers of Archie’s nightstand, locating deodorant and a toothbrush.
But my awkwardness takes on another dimension when I open the second drawer and discover an extensive collection of vibrators, silicone dildos, cock rings, and other things I don’t instantly identify but don’t want to think too deeply about their use.
It appears the innocent-looking Archie has a far more adventurous sex life than I do. And I say that as someone who spent years dating all genders in San Francisco’s dating scene, which is not exactly known for its restraint.
I slam the drawer shut, my cheeks heating.
I glance over to see Jaymee’s barely concealed mirth. I get the feeling she had an inkling about what I might find in that drawer.
“Got everything you think he needs?” she asks innocently.
“I think so. And we can always come back if he needs anything else.”
Logistics. It’s best to get my brain back on logistics right now.
Jaymee and I manage to pack everything into two ratty canvas bags, and then I carefully carry them down narrow stairs that were probably a health-and-safety violation before health and safety was invented.
Yeah, there’s no way Archie will be able to navigate these stairs until his ankle is fully healed.
More guilt. At this point, it’s less a feeling and more a permanent condition.
When we get back to the apartment, Billy’s gone—something about a five a.m. boot camp, which sounds like a punishment rather than a hobby.
“Right. First things first, let’s get you cleaned up,” Jaymee says firmly to Archie.
“But I’ve just started to enjoy smelling like a Canadian breakfast,” Archie replies.
Jaymee rolls her eyes. “I’ll help you shower, then I’ll crash here tonight, just in case you need anything. But I have to open my shop by nine a.m. tomorrow. And you’ll need help sorting out how you’re going to cope with your jobs.”
She looks expectantly at me.
Apparently, now that I’ve passed the mass-murderer test, she’s expecting me to help Archie in every way possible.
“I’ll, ah, come back tomorrow morning to help,” I promise.
Archie gives me such a grateful smile that I have to look away.
His gratitude. My guilt.
It’s creating a feedback loop that has the potential to spiral out of control.