Chapter Five Noelle #3
I swear, this man is one more jaw tick away from a mouth ulcer.
‘Look,’ I sigh and run a stressed hand through my braids. They’re cold to the touch and slightly damp with melted snow. ‘Just give me ten minutes to order an Uber and then I’ll be out of your hair.’
Hoxton nods stiffly. ‘Take all the time you need.’
If that had come from anyone else, I’d have no doubt in my mind that they were being genuine, but the words ring false as they fall from Hoxton’s lips.
Take all the time you need.
Translation?
Hurry up and get the hell out.
He turns abruptly on his heel and starts making his way down the corridor. It’s only when he glances over his shoulder and quirks a brow at my still-shivering form in the lobby that I realise he wants me to follow.
At first, I think he’s guiding me back towards the kitchen, the only place in his home where I feel even a modicum of comfort and ease, but he doesn’t take the right turning for it and instead directs me to a room I’ve only ever seen in passing.
His living room.
The second I step over the threshold, the scent of vanilla hits me.
There are two large candles lit on the dark oakwood coffee table, bathing the room in a yellowy glow.
The news is playing on mute on the large flatscreen TV on the wall, a ruffled blanket is slipping off his slightly uncomfortable-looking sleek black leather sofa, and there’s a dog-eared book balancing precariously on the dark wooden armrest.
I wouldn’t call Hoxton’s living room cosy by any definition of the word, but I realise that this is the first time I’ve seen any room in his house that looks even vaguely lived-in.
It’s still too dark and sleek for my personal taste – and the distinct lack of any Christmas décor feels like a targeted attack against me personally – but I can see the appeal.
It’s easy to imagine Hoxton sprawled out on his sofa, the dark blanket draped over him, getting lost in a book under the candlelight.
I inch further into the room and promptly choke on the laugh that threatens to come out of my throat.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting to see on the front cover of Hoxton’s late-night read – maybe something like 48 Laws of Power or The Art of War – but the words The Return of Krampus, accompanied by a truly gruesome depiction of a horned creature wearing a torn Santa hat with blood dripping down its mouth, is definitely not it.
‘Are you—’ I turn to face Hoxton, eyes wide in disbelief. ‘Are you seriously reading a Christmas horror?’
Hoxton snatches the book up and turns it over, as if that’s going to do anything. The dark flush is back on his cheeks again. ‘It’s a classic,’ he says, almost defensively.
‘No,’ I laugh, shaking my head. ‘A Christmas Carol is a classic. How The Grinch Stole Christmas is a classic. That is—’ I gesture at the book in his hands and huff out another quiet laugh. ‘That is actually very on-brand for you, I guess.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Hoxton asks as he strides across the room and slots The Return of Krampus back into its space on his bookshelf.
I’m suddenly filled with the urge to follow him and take a peek at the rest of his library.
See if his shelves are filled from top to bottom with Christmas hating books, or if The Return of Krampus is a one-off.
But I don’t.
The look on his face tells me that Hoxton is very much regretting inviting me into his home and unless I want to find myself out in the blistering cold for the second time tonight, I’d better not push him.
‘Nothing,’ I say innocently, fishing through my bag to grab my phone. ‘Just an observation.’
I ignore the suspicious look he shoots me and fire up the Uber app.
THERE ARE CURRENTLY NO CARS
AVAILABLE IN YOUR AREA.
The words jump out at me from the screen, dancing in my vision. Taunting me. I close the app and restart it. There are currently no cars available in your area. Refresh. There are currently no cars available in your area. Refresh. Refresh. Ref—
‘I don’t think there are any cars available in the area.’
Hoxton is looming over me, an expression on his face that seems to be a mixture of amusement and exasperation. I hadn’t even heard him approach.
‘Really?’ I ask weakly. I’m still staring at the screen, desperately refreshing the app every few seconds. ‘What makes you say that?’
He stares at me critically for a second or two and then taps my phone gently. ‘It says right—’
‘I was joking,’ I bite out. ‘It was a joke.’
‘Hm.’ His lips twist into another one of those almost smiles he’s apparently become fond of. ‘Seems like a career in comedy isn’t on the cards for you, either.’
‘Seems like it,’ I mutter absentmindedly, my fingers already tapping away at my phone to try to find the local taxi service number.
That ends up being as fruitless as my attempts to book an Uber.
When I eventually do get through to the operator at the taxi company, the only response I get is a sharp bark of laughter followed by a ‘Have you taken a look outside lately, love?’
At that point, I do look outside. The snow, which was already achingly cold and furious just ten minutes ago, has whipped itself up into even more of a frenzy. I can barely see a metre out in front of the window, and the night sky is more white than black at this point.
‘Nobody’s coming out tonight,’ the operator says with a yawn. ‘I’d advise you to stay where you are and give us a call in the morning, and we’ll see what we can do. Wouldn’t get your hopes up, though.’
‘But I can’t—’
The operator hangs up without even waiting to hear what it is I can’t do.
‘That didn’t sound like it went very well.’
‘Didn’t it?’ I ask, voice rising in slight hysteria as I turn to find Hoxton sitting on the sofa, frowning at me.
‘No,’ he says slowly. Calmly. A lot calmer than I currently feel right now. ‘It didn’t.’
‘Thank you for such an astute observation,’ I say, slumping down onto the other end of the sofa. For all its sleekness, Hoxton’s sofa is surprisingly comfortable. ‘I never would’ve figured it out without you.’
‘Glad to be of service.’
‘Can you just—’ I wave a hand in his general direction. ‘Can you just not for two minutes?’
‘Not what?’
Not be you, I think. But instead, I drop my head into my palms and hiss out, ‘Just be quiet. I need to think.’ Except, that’s a lie. I don’t need to think. I already know exactly what I need to do right now. I just don’t want to do it.
I desperately, desperately, don’t want to do it.
My phone vibrates suddenly in my hand, and I allow myself the brief, slightly unhinged delusion that it’s the taxi company operator calling back to apologise and to tell me he’s about to send someone to come and collect me.
EVE
Holy shit where are you right now?
This storm just got real bad real quick. If you’re driving PLEASE stop and wait somewhere safe until it calms down.
And, as if I needed any further confirmation that I am currently in deep, deep shit, Eve sends a short video through.
She’s standing on Gran’s porch, and it looks like she’s in the eye of a storm.
Snow whirls in every direction, howling and screaming as the wind lashes around her.
She lets out a loud shriek as a particularly powerful gust batters against her and she turns and runs inside, slamming the door behind her as she goes.
EVE
Scary shit, right?
Where are you? Please tell me you’re holed up in a Tesco or something.
NOELLE
That would be the dream right now.
EVE
***
NOELLE
SC’s house
EVE
HUH?
My phone vibrates in rapid succession and I get a flurry of increasingly nonsensical messages from Eve, but I push her out of my mind and shoot Hoxton what I hope is a friendly, endearing kind of smile.
I’m not sure that I succeed because he looks vaguely alarmed.
‘Is everything all right?’ he asks uncertainly.
‘Just peachy,’ I say brightly. ‘There is, however, one teeny tiny thing.’
Hoxton hesitates. ‘Go on…’
‘I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we seem to currently be in the middle of quite a dangerous storm.’
His lip twitches. ‘I had noticed.’
I grip the fabric of my coat and squeeze tightly. ‘Then maybe you’ve also noticed that, with my car not working, and the lack of Uber and taxi services in the area, I don’t currently have a way of getting home. Which is great because I am supposed to be going to my gran’s for Christmas tomorrow…’
The thought of not making it to Gran’s causes a knot to form in my throat suddenly.
Hoxton’s entire face drops, like he’s finally realised where I’m going with this. As if this hasn’t been the only logical conclusion for the last ten minutes.
‘I—’ He swallows. ‘I hadn’t noticed that.’
‘So,’ I start, ‘and this is just a suggestion, but—’
Hoxton doesn’t wait to hear whatever my suggestion might be. Instead, he abruptly stands up from his sofa, reaches for his own phone resting on the coffee table, and begins pacing his living room.
‘What’re you—’
Hoxton holds a finger up to silence me and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to reach for one of the cushions on his sofa and fling it in his direction.
He’s the only thing currently standing between you and that blizzard, I remind myself as my fingers inch towards the nearest cushion.
‘I need a car,’ Hoxton says suddenly, omitting any kind of greeting to the person he’s currently on the phone to.
I can’t hear what the person on the other end says but, in response, Hoxton’s brows furrow deeply in the middle.
‘I’ll triple your fee.’ Another deep furrow, this time accompanied by a scowl.
‘Fine. Consider it quadrupled. Though this is price-gouging, and I will be— Hello? Hello?’ Hoxton stares at his phone, eyes wide in disbelief. ‘I think he just hung up on me.’
From the way he says it, I don’t think anyone has ever hung up on Alexander Hoxton before.
‘Listen, I appreciate the effort, but—’
He holds up another silencing finger and I grip the nearest cushion.
Stop it, Noelle! Or do you want to freeze to death?
‘I need a car sent over in the next twenty minutes,’ Hoxton says to the next person he tries. Their response is muffled slightly, but I do manage to hear what is clearly a snort of laughter before, once again, Hoxton is left staring at his phone in disbelief. ‘Again?’
This time, I don’t bother interrupting. I leave him to it as he punches in another number, and turn my attention to the large television on the wall. The news is still playing on mute but there’s a banner beneath the presenter that reads: MET OFFICE ISSUES RED WARNING DUE TO BLIZZARD.
Shit.
Why does it feel like I’m not going to be able to get out of here anytime soon?
Though I suppose I should be looking on the bright side in that it’s a good thing my car broke down in Hoxton’s drive.
Just the idea of being stuck on the side of the motorway while the blizzard rages around me and I freeze to death in my car is enough to make me give silent thanks to Hoxton and his blissfully warm home.
Over the next fifteen minutes I alternate between watching the muted TV, where they’re cutting between choppy video clips of the blizzard currently battering the country, and sneaking glances at Hoxton.
His attempts to try to get me a car out of here haven’t gone anywhere, and it’s clear he’s becoming increasingly irritated with each abruptly ended call.
If my situation weren’t so dire, I might laugh.
Someone as rich as he is probably isn’t used to being told no, and I don’t imagine there are many things he’s come across that he can’t throw a fat wad of cash at to make disappear.
Unfortunately for the both of us, a blizzard that brings the entire country to a standstill seems to be one of those rare occasions.
I’m not sure how many frustrated calls Hoxton makes – I lose count after the sixth one – but he eventually puts down his phone and sinks into his sofa with an expression on his face that suggests one of his nearest and dearest has just died.
‘No luck?’ I ask innocently.
Hoxton narrows his eyes at me. ‘Evidently not.’
‘Well, thanks for trying.’ I clear my throat and try to inject as much faux cheer into my voice as I possibly can, given the circumstances.
Like we’re two friends having a perfectly normal conversation and the sense of dread I feel pooling in the pit of my stomach simply isn’t there.
‘And I’m glad we’re both finally on the same page about the reality of our current situation. ’
Hoxton looks at me like I’ve just slapped him across the face. ‘Our?’
‘Yes, our,’ I say firmly. ‘And I hope you know that I would never, ever, in a million years, ask this of you under any other circumstance unless it was a true emergency.’
His face goes pale, and his voice comes out in a dry rasp. ‘Ask what?’
I shift awkwardly on the sofa. For some reason, I suddenly feel like a kid trying to figure out the best way to ask their parents for a ridiculously expensive gift for Christmas.
‘Could I… perhaps… if you wouldn’t mind…
and I promise I’ll keep out of your way…
but if you could find it in your heart…’
‘Noelle.’
I freeze. I think that’s the first time Hoxton has ever said my name. And he had to go ahead and say it like that.
Noelle.
It sounds like a plea. I try very, very hard not to think about other situations where my name might sound like that falling off his lips.
‘Could I please stay the night?’ I whisper. ‘And I’ll be gone as soon as the storm passes. First thing in the morning.’
I should email Roland and let him know that he had nothing to worry about on the aneurysm front. Because Roland’s tie wasn’t enough to send Hoxton over the edge, and neither was my apron. But this? Me asking if I could possibly stay overnight? This just might do it.
The colour, previously drained from Hoxton’s face, is back again. His cheeks are a dark red, bordering on purple, and his mouth opens and closes several times in quick succession before he manages to choke out, ‘Stay? You want to stay? Here?’
‘I don’t want to,’ I correct him, probably much quicker than I should.
The way he said my name is still echoing in my mind.
‘I’d rather be in my own bed, thank you very much.
But that’s not an option right now, is it?
Unless you particularly want to be responsible for poor Roland stumbling on my frozen remains in your drive come January? ’
‘No,’ he says gruffly. ‘Of course not.’
‘So… so can I can stay?’
He gives me a stiff nod. ‘Just one night.’
Relief floods through me. ‘That’s all I need.’
Hopefully.