Chapter 1 Tuesday 20th April 2027 #2
Of course Jordan’s the type of guy to have bottles of store-bought water in his fridge.
I grab one, then rifle through his kitchen cupboards for a snack, but the guy clearly doesn’t eat here often, let alone cook, and I’m met with barren shelf after barren shelf.
Hopefully Piotr won’t mind too much if we stop for takeaway somewhere.
I pull on my boots and flip over the framed photo in Jordan’s entryway. Damn, his kids are pretty cute—all blonde hair, brown eyes, and rosy cheeks. The smaller of the two kids has a sizeable gap in the front of their smile, and the bigger one’s wearing a Pikachu T-shirt.
“Jesus, Jordan, you’re fucking all this up for idiots like me? What a fucking waste.” I turn the photo onto its front and head out of the apartment building.
Piotr waits for me in his black BMW. It could be midnight blue, but it’s difficult to tell under the orange filter that the Dickensian Clifton street lamps throw over everything.
“Piotr?” I say as I slip into the back seat.
“Hey, you got the pronunciation right. You must be Jordan?”
“Jordan’s my ex.” I’ve given that line so often I don’t even pause any more.
“She done you dirty?” Piotr watches me in the rearview mirror. He’s in his early thirties, with white skin, deep brown eyes, and the precise, sculpted skin-fade a person can only get from a big-city suburban barbershop. And damn, he’s pretty cute, but I don’t need that right now.
“He,” I correct, holding my breath while I discover how awkward the next hour and ten minutes will be.
Eventually, Piotr smiles. “Okay. So . . . we’re going to Hepton? Where is that, Wiltshire?”
“Actually, I want the village just before Hepton. It’s called Mudford-upon-Hooke, but it’s literally on the way to Hepton.”
I only put Hepton into the ride app so Jordan wouldn’t find out where I lived. Not that it would be difficult for him to uncover my actual address if he wanted to. Though they never do. I’m doing them a favour by ditching them discreetly once they’ve had theirs.
“Okay,” Piotr says again. “I understand.” I get the feeling he does.
“Hey, Piotr?”
“Hmm?”
“How would you feel about stopping for snacks? My treat.” Helpfully, my stomach chooses this exact moment to growl.
“I know a great place on the way. Best kebabs and pizza in Bristol,” he says. “But there’s no food in the car, so we’ll have to eat it on the street.”
Piotr seems familiar with the guy at the kebab shop.
He’s greeted with a warm hug and an enthusiastic, “Brother!” and I’m given some sort of discount on the food.
It’s too late and I’m too tired to work out what the percentage is, though.
I order a chicken donner and a can of Fanta for myself, and a twelve-inch margherita with “so many olives you can’t see any yellow” for my driver.
I slap two twenties on the counter and wave away the change.
We eat our food leaning against the bonnet of Piotr’s car. It’s definitely midnight blue—a gorgeous colour—and the bright fluorescents from the kebab shop signs gleam in the bodywork. He offers me a slice of pizza.
“Thanks, but I’ll shit myself all over your leather seats if I have dairy.”
He hesitates as though working out whether I’m joking, then laughs. “Yeah, no thank you. Don’t want that happening again. My sister is lactose intolerant. Fartiest person you’ll ever meet.”
“I love cheese, not gonna lie, but I need to make sure I’m home for the night before I eat it.”
We both laugh, but it’s short-lived. I stare at the warped reflection of the takeaway shop in Piotr’s bodywork and blow out a sigh. I don’t even realise I’m doing it until he speaks.
“You know, I’m a great listener. Comes with the job description.” He pauses. “If you . . . wanted to talk about anything.” He jerks his thumb in the direction we drove from, and I realise he’s referring to Jordan.
I shake my head. This guy, a stranger, doesn’t need to hear about some other stranger.
I don’t even know Jordan beyond the things he’d WhatsApped me.
He’d only ever told me superficial details, like his job, his hometown, his hobbies—running and drinking.
I’d guessed that he was married to a woman and had kids, but in all honesty, I’d likely chosen him for that specific reason.
Where’s the challenge in hooking up with men who are single?
No, give me the unattainable and closeted guys, the “I’m just doing this once to get it out of my system” guys, the “I don’t normally do this but I feel we have a connection” guys.
It’s fun. I have to work a little harder, and they’re less likely to develop an attachment.
I’m less likely to develop an attachment.
I don’t need to explain any of this to Piotr, but I find my mouth moving of its own volition, words falling out unbidden. “He’s married. Jordan’s married, that is. With kids. Cute ones too.”
“Oh,” he says. “And you just found out?”
“I had suspicions.” I don’t elaborate. Why am I like this? Why must I always go for the unavailable guys? If three years of therapy haven’t brought me any closer to the answer, I doubt a quick chat with a hot cab driver is going to make much difference.
I’m standing outside Kebab Station somewhere near central Bristol next to a human GPS system, and I’ve never felt more lost.
I scrunch up my paper donner wrapper and walk the six or seven steps to the closest bin. Piotr mirrors my actions with his pizza box. He’s left the crusts, and I smile knowing I would have done the same. Bread without cheese is like life without air.
“Ready to leave? Need the toilet before we go? I can ask R—”
“Nah, I’m okay. Alright if I sit in the front?”
“’Course.”
We climb into our seats. The stark white of the map screen steals my attention for at least five or six streets, and occasionally I feel Piotr’s gaze sweep over me, but he’s quiet, reading my mood.
“I just don’t want to be the homewrecker any more. You know?” The words flop from my mouth without instruction from my brain.
Piotr is quiet for a few more moments. Processing. “I think . . . perhaps . . .” He flicks on his indicator, and the car is consumed by a soft ticking. “Jordan’s the homewrecker, not you. He’s the one with a family. He’s the one with something to lose.” Piotr pauses. “He’s married to a woman?”
“I . . . think so.”
“Okay. I understand not wanting to live a lie, but these are choices he has made himself. He’s choosing to go around behind his wife’s back, not you. His decisions, his consequences.”
I nod because I have nothing else to add.
“You want him to leave his wife for you?” There’s no malice or accusation in Piotr’s words, only gentle understanding.
“God, no. No. Absolutely not.” Jordan’s bottle of Noir Extreme digs into my hip, so I pull it out of my pocket and turn it over in my hands. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. It’s over.”
I can’t explain that it had never been a thing to begin with—at least not in terms of a relationship. And I can’t explain that it is, and always has been, the chase and the validation that comes when a guy finally says, “Fuck it,” and gives in to me.
In any case, I’m done talking about me. Fifteen minutes and Piotr the Uber Exec driver has extracted more information than Dr Lisa Whitstable, professional counsellor, had in three plus years.
“What about you? You got any kids?” I say, turning over the eau de parfum once again and thumbing the golden lettering on the front.
“No. No kids. I’m . . . like you.”
I’m pretty sure the “like you” reference is his way of telling me he’s gay, not that he’s admitting to being an emotionally unavailable professional fuck-up like I am.
“Tell me more about yourself. I’m bored of talking about me.”
He side-eyes me and smiles, and for the next twenty-five minutes I learn almost everything there is to know about my driver.
He’s originally from Poland, but moved to the UK when he was my age.
He’s thirty-four now, and chose Bristol because his sister—a windy, dairy-excluding queen named Zofia—already lived here.
She’s since married and returned to her home country with her kids, and Piotr is by and large alone.
At least in terms of family. I want to tell him I understand, but the words make my chest ache, and I can’t quite get them to the surface, so I let him continue explaining all about his life outside of taxiing around drunken idiots, and his hobbies.
He likes cooking and Formula One. He has a soothing voice, and his accent is considerably more Bristol than Kraków, and by the time we get to Wiltshire I’m fighting to keep myself awake.
“Can I charge my phone?” I ask, remembering the cable I swiped from Jordan’s bedside.
In answer to my question, Piotr opens the glove compartment, revealing a USB connection hole.
I plug my phone in and wait for it to boot up.
There are two unread message threads. Luckily, neither is from Jordan.
I block his number before he wakes up and realises what’s happened on his Uber app, then I open the first of the messages.
It’s from Daisy, my best friend.
Dad’s wedding is next weekend, Lan! NEXT WEEKEND!!!!! I need you to come dress shopping with me ASAP.
Also, did you fuck Jordan?
Is he married?
I fire a text back.
Yes and yes. Also, dress shopping whenever you want. Bristol or Bath?
Or London?
She doesn’t reply to my texts, but that’s not surprising. It’s gone three in the morning, and she’s probably asleep. Daisy’s a proper adult now with a proper job and proper responsibilities.
The second thread of messages is from my dearest father. I have to take a deep breath and hold it in my lungs to gather courage before I open them.
Orlando. How are you? I’ve made arrangements for you to interview for a position at Oakham Industries. Monday 26th. Be there for 9. Wear a suit.
“Fuck’s sake,” I whine aloud.
Piotr glances over at me, but doesn’t speak.
He’s always doing this. My father. Always trying to set me up with work, and to some extent I guess I can’t blame him.
I’m unemployed and lazy, and I’m a liability to his empire and his reputation.
But it’s just that . . . I don’t wanna get a proper job.
I don’t want to be a proper grown-up. That kinda shit’s for Daisy and other people. Not me.
I don’t know what I want out of life, but it sure as shit ain’t working some bland as fuck office job at my dad’s company. I don’t even understand how Oakham Industries makes money. For all I know, it’s a front for an international drug ring.
I fire a text back.
Will you be there?
His reply comes almost immediately, which means whatever time zone he’s in, it’s daylight right now.
Of course. Though my plane lands in Heathrow at 8, so I could be a little late.
Sure, he’ll be late. Naturally. That’s if he turns up at all. Which might not be such a bad thing. If he’s not there, it’ll make slipping out unnoticed that much easier.
As we drive through Mudford-upon-Hooke, I guide Piotr up the long winding lane to Hooke Manor.
The eight-bedroomed Georgian mansion my family has occupied for generations looms over us.
It’s illuminated from the outside. Uplighters curve along the planting and the smooth stone exterior, but no interior upstairs lights are on.
Yet again, no one’s home. None of the staff. Not even my twenty-seven-year-old stepmother, Juliette.
“Shit the bed, you live here?” he asks.
I toy with lying to him, denying everything, telling him I’m the gardener’s apprentice or something, but I don’t. He wouldn’t believe me anyway; my accent is a dead giveaway. “I know, right? Poor little rich boy.”
Piotr’s mouth hangs in a perfect O for a second before he snaps it shut. I pop the door open and plant a foot firmly on the gravel drive.
“Thanks for the ride.” I tip him two fifties, and get the hell out of his car before he can do something as self-destructive as ask for my number.
I hear his BMW pulling away as I slip in through the service entrance to the kitchens and head to my room.
The house is dark and devoid of any living beings. My footsteps echo along the corridors, and centuries-old oil paintings I’ve seen almost every day of my life peer down at me through the shadows, judging me.
“Don’t look at me like that, Charles, not with that crusty wig of yours.” My voice parrots itself throughout the halls, stirring up the darkness like a skimming stone on a glass-smooth lake.
I place Jordan’s bottle of cologne in my walk-in closet along with the many other fragrance mementos I’ve taken from past conquests.
I nestle this one between two identical bottles of Noir Extreme.
In fact, there’s an entire shelf of Tom Ford scents.
There’s a whole Creed section, and a corner dedicated solely to Davidoffs.
And as I stand back and drink in the rainbow of atomisers laid out before me, I realise I am . . . an awful person.
I step into my shower and scrub Jordan’s sweat from my body, and by the time I’m stepping out onto the Anthropologie bath mat, I’m kinda thinking maybe Dear Old Dad is right.
Maybe it’s about time I tried to . . . grow up.
Just a little bit. Maybe I shouldn’t waste my days ruining other peoples’ marriages.
Fucking around is starting to lose its shine anyway.
I shouldn’t be looking at this job interview as something to slog through but exactly what it is—an opportunity to become a better, more well-rounded, more contributive person.
Or whatever.
Fine, okay, it is what it is, yeah? Everything happens for a reason. Or . . . it probably does. Mr B’s getting married next weekend. I need a suit for the wedding and for my big job debut. I can always pick something up when I take Daisy dress shopping.
As I climb into my own bed, with my own sheets, and shut my eyes, I’m thinking this could be the turning point for me. I could start to make a change. Maybe.
That is until I remember with exacting clarity that he’ll be at the wedding. The one guy I’ve spent the last year avoiding.
Harry Ellis.