Chapter Six Lee
Chapter Six
Lee
‘I’m back!’ I call, closing the front door behind me. There’s no reply and I realise Gran must be out again. I set my bag down and wander along the hall, through to the light and airy kitchen, where I spy her note, pinned to the door by a magnet that says FRIES BEFORE GUYS:
Darling!
Out for lunch with Peter then a night on the town. Expect a great debauching so see you… tomorrow? If you haven’t heard from me in a week, send out a search party with electrolytes.
Xo Gran
With a sigh, I check her pill organiser to make sure that she’s at least taken all her tablets today – which she has – and head for the stairs, sliding my shoes off on the way.
The townhouse where Gran and I have lived for the last five years is in a quiet, leafy part of London, and her rooms are on the ground floor, overlooking the pocket-sized garden (‘Just enough space for us to sit and have a gin and tonic,’ Gran had said approvingly when we viewed the place.
‘I couldn’t bear becoming one of those garden obsessives.
It seems to me you hit a certain age and suddenly your brain is full of nothing but dahlias.
’ I actually thought that sounded quite nice, but I wasn’t about to argue with her when this was the seventeenth property we had looked at.)
While my octogenarian grandmother would have absolutely no problem navigating the stairs, she conceded the top half of the house to me in an effort to give me ‘the sort of privacy that a young, single woman needs’.
I accepted with enthusiasm, which briefly bolstered Gran’s faith in me, but she was sorely disappointed when she realised that my dreams for my own ‘private space’ consisted of an extremely tidy home office and – in an act of total decadence – a small home library complete with floor-to-ceiling shelves (though tragically no ladder to roll around on).
‘Lee,’ she huffed on seeing it all completed. ‘I swear, being young and gorgeous is utterly wasted on you. A library? And an office? This could be one of those kinky Christian Grey type dungeons full of interesting… paddles and whatnot.’
‘Paddles?’
‘A sex swing!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s what you need. Not more calculators.’
Now, I let my toes sink into the plush carpet as I pad from room to room, organising my notes from the meeting I’ve been trapped in all day, laying out the findings of my latest investigation. It’s the part of the job I like the least. The part with all the people.
On the plus side, it seems there’s plenty of financial crime to keep me busy in the UK. I’ve pretty much stopped taking jobs abroad because – despite what she has to say on the subject – I don’t like to leave Gran alone.
After her very mild heart attack last year (her words) I’ve been trying hard to get her to stick to the lifestyle changes that the doctor suggested.
Predictably, it hasn’t gone well. Her blood pressure is still too high, and her cholesterol is as well.
She might be an expert in the art of hedonism, but she’s not good at taking care of herself.
As evidenced by the note she left on the fridge door as soon as I was out of the way.
I’m sorting my clothes out to be taken to the dry cleaners, when my phone rings. Adrian’s name flashes across the screen.
‘Hi,’ his deep voice rings out. ‘You managed to escape at a reasonable hour then?’
‘Yes.’ I put the phone on speaker and place it on top of the bed as I carry on sorting. ‘It was all relatively straightforward in the end.’
‘I’m glad… you’ve really been putting the hours in lately,’ Adrian says sympathetically.
We’ve been seeing each other for about three months now and I think it’s going well. He’s a partner in a law firm with his own busy life and he’s exactly the sort of man I should be dating – steady, reliable, a proper grown up. So far we’ve kept things very casual, and it suits both of us.
‘It’s been a lot of work,’ I agree. I’ve ducked out on more than one date in the last couple of weeks in favour of wrestling with the numbers involved.
‘Now, about tonight…’
‘Sorry, I don’t think I can make dinner.
I don’t want to leave Gran on her own at the moment.
’ It’s only a little white lie. Sometimes people don’t respond well to the truth: that I’ve spent too much time out in the world, and I need quiet and alone time to recharge my battery.
I know it can sound like a brush off, even when it’s not.
‘Oh. Okay,’ Adrian says, but the sympathy is gone and he sounds almost sulky.
‘How was your week?’ I ask, changing the subject, and he embarks on a lengthy description of some obscure piece of contract law that requires little input from me – the occasional hum of agreement or ‘Oh, really?’ – so I can carry on sorting through my laundry.
Eventually, he says he needs to go and jump on a Zoom call with a client in New York.
‘I’ll see you at the weekend?’ he asks.
‘Yes, please. If the weather’s nice we could go for a walk?’ I try to sound conciliatory, making an effort. ‘Pub lunch?’
‘Perfect.’
By the time we hang up I’ve pretty much finished with my tidying and I’m at a blissfully loose end.
I stretch my arms over my head and roll my shoulders, allowing some of the tension to run out of me.
When I log on to the computer in my office I find an email waiting for me from Tara and I grin at the subject line: SMUTTY MC SMUTFEST.
Tara is probably my closest friend, and despite the fact she only lives a four-hour drive away in York, we’ve never actually met in person.
We were first introduced in an online book club during the pandemic when we both hated the chosen – deeply misogynistic – book with the fire of a thousand suns.
While everyone else was raving about the powerful imagery, I felt like I must have totally missed the point.
Tara got into a heated debate with another reader, and when he started in on his derision for the entire romance genre, I actually felt annoyed enough to chime in for the first time (camera off, naturally).
This only fired Tara up further, culminating in her telling the man he could ‘suck it’.
At that point things unravelled somewhat, and Tara and I were ejected from the meeting.
Afterwards, Tara messaged me asking if I wanted to start a new book group with her – one where we read books that were actually fun.
And so the ‘Reading Between the Wines’ book club was born, and it didn’t take long for my friendship with Tara to spill over from the monthly meetings. Now it’s rare for a day to go by without us messaging or calling each other.
I click through to her most recent email and after a lengthy – and very funny – account of her latest online dating disaster there’s a list of suggestions for our next book group read.
Sal has suggested again that we try a monster romance, and I know you don’t think it’s going to be your cup of tea, but I say we give it a go FOR SCIENCE. I can tell them to pick something without too many tentacles or whatever. Monster light?
I grin and dash off a quick reply, commiserating on the terrible date and including a link to an article I read recently about how single women live longer.
Re monster romance – let’s go for it, I add at the bottom, and tell Sal they’re free to choose what they like. If we’re going to do it, let’s COMMIT. All the sexy tentacles!
I scan through the rest of my emails. Mixed in with the usual stuff there are a couple of work enquiries that have somehow found their way to my personal account, and one with the subject line HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!
I frown and click through. For the second time in my life, the photo knocks all the air out of my lungs.
Above the picture of me in Nico’s arms, there’s a flashing banner that reads:
HAPPY ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY!!!!!!!!!
And below it there’s a voucher code for a discount on merch. For only $29.99 I can own a mug with the photograph on it. There’s also the option of T-shirts, socks, tote bags and a mouse mat, all with my stupid, beaming face on them.
My stomach twists.
Nico and I haven’t spoken since that deeply awkward morning in Vegas.
He was already with Jack and Cynthie in LA by the time I got hold of my brother to tell him about Gran’s heart attack.
The three of them flew into London together, but I managed to dodge seeing Nico at all on his brief visit.
Avoiding confrontation is a particular skill of mine, honed over decades, and it was simple enough to make sure my visits home to sleep and shower just happened to coincide with Nico turning up at the hospital.
A military operation couldn’t have run more smoothly.
Jack didn’t seem to realise Nico and I had bumped into each other in Vegas, and almost immediately it felt too late to mention it without it being a big deal.
The whole thing was suddenly a secret that the two of us were keeping, which only added to the strange illicit thrill, swirling in with all the humiliation.
I’ve spent the last year ruthlessly quelling the urge to even think about Nico.
That night was a lesson learned about the consequences of letting my guard down.
Well, no danger of that now… with my focus firmly on taking care of my grandmother, my life for the last twelve months has been the picture of safe, steady respectability.
Which is probably why the sight of the photograph leaves me feeling winded.
Unhappily, I hit reply on the email and write out a brief message, informing the administrator at that I’ve been sent their message in error, that I only partook of a photo opportunity, and that I’d like to be removed from their mailing list. I certainly don’t need this popping up once a year for the rest of my life.
An annual haunting courtesy of my childhood crush… no thank you.
I’m surprised to receive a response almost immediately.
Dear Ms Turner-Jones
I’m afraid there seems to have been some misunderstanding!
Here at the Little Chapel of Love, photography comes only as part of our exclusive range of wedding packages.
Our records indicate that you and MR NICOLAS HART purchased our HUNK OF BURNING LOVE package for $329, which includes two song performances by one of our ordained Elvis impersonators, a fresh rose boutonniere, the photograph, a witness (if necessary), the admittance of up to eighteen guests, and – of course – the ceremony itself, officiated by an impersonator officially licensed by Elvis Presley Enterprises.
Following the ceremony you were presented with your signed and recorded marriage licence.
If you have misplaced this then a copy should be available to you for a fee via the Las Vegas Marriage Licence Bureau, and I have copied their details below.
I hope this clears things up for you!
Have a love-filled day!
Jaime Miller
Customer Care Operator
It takes a moment for the words to settle on the screen.
I blink several times as the letters dance around in front of my eyes.
I read the email again. Then I read it six or seven more times, just to make sure I understand.
Because what I’m reading seems to heavily imply that Nico and I actually got married in Las Vegas.
And that’s ridiculous.
Right?