8. Chapter 8
A ria
Aria shook herself out of the memory. The warmth of that slow memory faded beneath the chill of the Lackenby's pristine silence. She blinked, forced her shoulders square, and tightened her grip on the duster. Melancholy had no place here, especially not while she was on someone else's time.
With five minutes to spare, she finished wiping the last surface in the drawing room and tugged off her gloves.
The envelope sat where it always did, discreetly placed on the fireplace mantle, sealed.
She tore it open quickly, counting the notes with a practised hand before stuffing them deep into her backpack.
Then she was out, careful to shut the door quietly behind her.
No sign of Mr. Lackenby again today, thank God.
The man gave her the creeps-always too close, always too slow to look away. She half expected him to reappear from his study like some old cat skulking through velvet curtains. But today, the house had stayed hushed and watchful. She'd escaped unbothered.
Which meant she had just enough time to make her way to her final and favourite job of the day.
She caught the tube to Hampstead, stomach growling slightly, and sank into a corner seat, tucking her backpack between her feet. The carriage rattled along, lulling her into that familiar, in-between stillness, neither here nor there .
With a sigh, she reached into her bag and pulled out the crumpled brown paper bag he'd left that morning.
Crispin never said anything when he did things like that, just left them behind, as though food appearing from nowhere didn't count as intimacy.
The pistachio topping had mostly fallen off, and the toast had long since grown cold, but the edges still smelled faintly of honey and cinnamon.
She unwrapped it slowly, careful not to tear the already-soft paper.
Then she ate it in small, reverent bites, her fingers brushing crumbs from her coat.
It was absurd, how much it meant. A piece of toast, a gesture.
But that was how it was with him-so much left unspoken, so much that felt like maybe.
In her stupid, unrealistic mind, it was his way of telling her he loved her without saying the words.
She stared out at the dark glass of the tunnel, the blur of lights, her reflection pale and unreadable.
The robotic voice announced her station, and she stood, slinging the backpack over her shoulder.
She walked the rest of the way through streets dappled with weak sun and windblown leaves.
Her boots clicked softly on the pavement as she turned the corner onto Heath Road, where Ophelia Hornsly's lovely, detached house waited like something from another era-red bricks, lavender along the front, and a little iron gate that squeaked when you opened it.
She was a few minutes late .
Ophelia Hornsley was waiting at the doorway, wearing her favourite housecoat-a faded floral wrap that had once been elegant, but now looked lovingly worn. Her silver hair was wound in a precise bun, her lips pressed in a line of mock severity.
"Aria, where the heavens have you been?" she called out as Aria stepped inside, stamping the mud from her worn boots.
"I blame the Piccadilly Line," Aria said brightly, dropping her backpack and heading straight for the kitchen. "Or possibly the ghost of Mrs. Lackenby's perfume slowing me down. I think I'm still breathing it in. It just makes my hay fever worse."
Ophelia made a pleased noise and shuffled after her. "I thought you'd run off with that rogue you never talk about."
Aria snorted, tying on an apron with what looked like a petrified pink cat printed on it. "There is no rogue."
"Mm-hmm," Ophelia said with all the disbelief of a woman who'd been young once and remembered the dance. She lowered herself into her armchair with a creak. "I may be half blind, but I am neither senile nor stupid, miss. And don't burn the onions this time."
"I didn't burn them- "
"You just caramelised them last time, I know. Same thing."
In the kitchen, Aria fondly rolled her eyes and got to work.
She chopped carrots, peeled parsnips, and rinsed celery, the rhythm of the soup coming to her hands.
Ophelia had health problems-a diminished appetite since her breast cancer treatment-and preferred simple foods now: soups, custards, and thick yoghurts.
Breads and meat stuck to her throat and caused coughing fits.
Aria had learned her palate the way you learn an old poem, by heart, and with patience and respect.
By the time the soup simmered and the placemat was laid, the house smelled of thyme and butter. Ophelia insisted Aria sit and have a bowl, too.
"I need to finish the dusting-"
"You'll sit,silly girl. You're skin and bone, and I can't bear to eat alone again."
So, Aria gave in. They ate at the wide, wooden table that could seat six but hadn't done so in years.
"I had a call from my cousin this morning," Ophelia said, slurping her soup. "Eighty-two and still cavorting like a fool. Caught with his pants down in the loo with that thirty-year-old hairdresser by his eighty-year-old wife."
Aria choked on a piece of bread .
"He swore they were just looking for grey hairs, and I asked him if the hussy was checking his pubic hair with her mouth. The bloody idiot. Told him he'd be checking into a care home if he wasn't careful."
Aria laughed, wiping tears from her eyes. "You're terrible."
"I'm alive," Ophelia said firmly. "Which is more than most of my friends can say."
After lunch, Aria swept the floors. Ophelia hated the vacuum-said it sounded like a dying dog-so Aria kept to the broom and dustpan. The air was thick with quiet until Ophelia called from the sitting room, “Come now, bring that book. Let's have a bit of Ove before my eyes give up on me entirely."
Aria fetched A Man Called Ove from the side table, its pages dog-eared and loved.
The smell of lavender stubbornly clung to the yellowed pages from a sprig which had been pressed between beloved lines.
She opened where they'd left off and read slowly, carefully sounding words when she had to, stumbling now and then.
But Ophelia never corrected her; she only listened, eyes closed, face soft.
Then came the passage:
"To love someone is like moving into a house. At first you fall in love with all the new things, you wonder every morning that this is your own... "
Aria paused.
"...as if you are afraid someone will come tumbling through the door and say it was a mistake."
The silence stretched as she stopped reading.
"Young man giving you trouble?" Ophelia asked gently.
Aria didn't look up. "There is no young man."
Ophelia snorted.
Aria stood, brushing invisible dust off her knees. "I should get going."
"Well then," Ophelia said, straightening slightly. "Before you go up, I have a favour to ask."
Aria stilled.
"There's a party...a grand thing. Family insists I attend.
Normally, I'd tell them to stick their canapé forks where the sun doesn't shine, but they're trying.
And they're always short-staffed. Would you come with me?
Be my carer for the evening? Help out a little if they ask?
I will make sure they pay through their nose. "
Aria turned to face her, caught off guard. "I...sure," she said after a beat. "Of course."
Ophelia smiled. "Bring that rogue of yours, too."
"There is no rogue," Aria repeated.