Chapter 26
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Some bloke was sitting on the low wall out the front of my house.
And it wasn’t Simon. My pace slowed, trying to figure out who it was – hunched over, spinning a folded up bit of paper in his hands.
Waiting, like it was a nicely situated park bench, not a pile of crumbling render two and a half feet away from a constant stream of homicidal urban drivers on a short cut.
He did not hear my telepathic suggestion he piss-off by the time I got my keys out. Excellent. Might as well go inside and give him my bank statements and my NI number, so he could relieve me of my identity as a reward for his nefarious loitering. That would solve everyone’s problems.
Sev could Photoshop his head onto all the footage she’d taken, and Simon wouldn’t have to deal with the fact I’d been infatuated since I started working for him, and I’d just spent twenty minutes making sure he really, really knew it.
Even better, this random guy could be Mel’s Benedict. She’d be ecstatic.
The bloke looked up. I nearly sprinted straight back to the bus stop.
“Oh, god.”
I flash-backed to an anti-shagpile carpet and my phone stag-beetling all over the place. And Simon calling him unintelligible. Luke was not nefarious.
“You alright Ben?” He beamed, raising a wave. “I saw you on the internet.”
Of course he bloody had.
“Oh yeah?” The Trade Descriptions Act would take issue with calling the strangled line my mouth morphed into a smile. My eyes were still gritty from bawling them out on the bus.
“With that Simon guy. With your kit off.”
My eyelid twitched. None of that explained what he was doing on my doorstep. How did he even know where my doorstep was?
“And..?” Surely he was not here to ask for an autograph?
“You could have told me. I bet he thinks I’m a right dick now. No wonder he was getting arsey. You know, you really should discuss bringing other people into a relationship with all parties.”
“Right.” Had he seriously trucked down to the dodgy bit of Croydon to hand out unsolicited polyamory etiquette to a failed one-night stand? “Yeah. You’re so right. Thanks.”
I clapped a hand onto his shoulder and immediately wished I hadn’t.
Silence fell. A kid on a motorised scooter zoomed up the road. Luke crumbled a line of mortar with the heel of his trainer, gazing up at me expectantly. I’d definitely been touching him far too long.
Maybe he wanted an apology?
“Look. I’m sorry.” I snatched my hand back under the pretext of waving my arms about. “We weren’t actually—”
“Ready.” He nodded slowly. Sagely.
What?
Our story needed no more holes. The faintest whiff of the truth and Mel Booker would drive my body to an Essex pig farm to dispose of the evidence without bothering to check I was dead first.
“Exactly.” I nodded along with him, like a velveteen bulldog on the parcel shelf of someone’s car.
Oh yus, yus, yus. Whatever he thought he’d figured out, I should not correct him.
Benedict would have definitely been ballsing-up opening out the incredibly committed, deeply monogamous relationship Simon was absolutely, hundred percent, on-board with.
My brain ached.
“Silly question. How do you know where I live?”
“It was on your invoice.” He handed me the battered piece of paper he’d been fiddling with, standing to dust down his jeans. “You should be more careful with your things. Good job I’m an investigative reporter, isn’t it?”
I choked on my own tongue. “You are not!”
“With a good enough scoop I will be.” He leaned closer. “That’s the game plan.”
Oh shitting hell.
“How long did you say you two were together?”
Fuck everything. He had been talking about articles as well. Technology in the bedroom, and wannabe straight guys.
“I didn’t.” The universe hated me.
“No, you didn’t. In fact, you were telling me he was your boss, so I was wondering what was going on there?”
My forced grin froze. “Um…”
I’d have clobbered him over the head with my carrier bag and legged it, only I didn’t want to risk spilling the milk all over the pavement.
He leaned in whispering behind the back of his hand like he was telling secrets. “You didn’t seem up for anything kinky.”
“No. Yeah.” Sweat cooled on the back of my neck. I felt queasy.
Oh Jesus, think. Simon would kill me if I didn’t sort this out right now. “It’s this whole bit we do. Very involved.”
“Really?” Luke looked perplexed. “It didn’t have that feel to it.”
Baby Kink Monster would know.
“We’re into verisimilitude.”
“Can you spell that? Are they a band?”
I blinked. “Yes?”
The traffic in the street stopped moving all at once, like every driver on the road knew what a lying liar I was and wanted to get a good look. Or maybe it was traffic from the temporary lights down the other end.
Why wouldn’t he leave? Simon would be here any minute.
“Anyway,” I said. “Thanks for stopping by with this.” I waved my invoice at him, hoping to draw his little visit to a close.
I shouldered past, jamming my key into the lock. Scrabbling the front door open, I wedged myself inside and slammed it firm behind me. This was a planks and nails, batten down the hatches situation. Except I was objectively battenless.
“Ben. Talk to me! Five minutes is all I’m asking for.”
I winced at how loud he was being. Mrs F next door would complain to the council if he carried on much longer. Then again, I’d take a noise complaint over Gran coming across a full page exclusive with my name sprawled across the front page, detailing my kinktastic sex life.
“Go away!” I shouted.
I staggered into the kitchen and reeled right back out again at the sight of Luke rapping on the window. Why had Cathy taken the bloody blinds?
“Least you could do is give me an exclusive. Can you tell me about the roleplaying?”
“Please piss off.”
Darting for the living room, I tugged the curtain across so hard I nearly pulled the pole down. Cutting out the sun plunged the room to colourless grey. Shakily, I sank to the worn carpet, leaning against the arm of the Catford sofa. I wiped my clammy hands on my thighs. This was a disaster.
The lack of Cathy’s things hit me in the chest. Indents marked where the feet of her junk-shop upcycles were supposed to sit.
She’d get on really well with Simon if she ever got a chance to meet him.
They could chat about bric-a-brac finds.
Now, the shelf on the wall was empty. Ghosted-out silhouettes sat where my head told me things were supposed to be.
But it had all been hers. Not mine. Not Matt’s. Not ours. And now none of it was there.
Home did not exist. It had vanished while I was dicking about with Simon, pretending he really wanted me in his life. But he didn’t even want me at his sister’s wedding. He was only coming over because I’d gone to pieces on him on the phone.
What was I even playing at? None of it was real. And outside, Luke knew.
Me and Simon didn’t make sense. Luke knew there had been a work emergency right when Richard’s sex tape hit the world. The dots were right there for him to join. And when he did, he’d tear everything down, brick by shaky brick.
I sucked in a strangled breath. And then another one, blinking back dots. Outside, the street was quiet.
After ten minutes, I crawled to peek out through the gap in the curtains. And there he was, sitting on the wall scrolling through his phone. Barricading me in.
Ben
FYI Luke’s on the doorstep.
Simon
Who?
You know. The guy I was… with.
…?
On Friday.
Oh that Luke.
Simon
Why? Tell me you didn’t invite him over for the threesome he wanted?
BEN
Fuck off. He was waiting on my doorstep.
Is he lost?
He wants to run a story about how he knows we’re not together.
What am I supposed to tell him?
Nothing, preferably. Don’t panic, Mr Cooper. I’ll be there to rescue you in ten.
When the doorbell went, it was only Simon standing out on the front step. I peered past him, squinting up and down the street, but the narrow pavement was deserted. Luke had vanished into the ether.
“Was he still out here…?”
“We swapped cards. He’s sending through the draft of his story.”
“Oh god. He’s already written it?”
Thoroughly unflapped, Simon swept past me, headed for my kitchen like he knew exactly where he was going.
“Ben, relax.” He set a green, crocodile leatherette suitcase onto the worktop. “At this point in my career, I know how to handle the media reasonably well. It’s rumoured I’m very good at it.”
“Yeah but he knows we’re lying.”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “He knows nothing. I promise you he won’t be sure of his own name by the time I’m done feeding him the preferred narrative.”
I nodded to the suitcase. “What’s all this?”
Simon flicked open heavy brass catches and hinged open the lid. He unclipped the sides of the case, revealing a portable mini-bar, three bottles strapped safely in, next to a brushed-steel cocktail shaker, and, crucially, twin martini glasses.
“Who are you? An adults-only Willy Wonka?”
“Cocktails felt like the appropriate choice. Handy isn’t it?”
“For emergency Pimms O’clock?” I gestured to his little cabinet. “Why do you have this? Why does anybody have this?”
A neat, sharp clack echoed between us as he set the glasses upright. “For emergency sorrow-drowning and commiserations over shitty family members o’clock. Actually.”
“Oh.” Crap. He’d trucked across London with a bar in a bag to make me feel better, and I’d stood there being a dick about it – permanently trying to get his nice act to shatter.
“I also brought wine, if you’d rather.”
The posh bottle he set down on the laminate worktop looked like it couldn’t figure out what it had done to deserve ending up there. It’d probably cork itself on principle when it realised there were no wine glasses in the house.
His niceness wasn’t an act at all, was it? Which made me the only wanker in the room.
“No. Sorry. It’s great. Aren’t you pissed off about the photos?”
“Am I supposed to be? I’m more concerned about you having a minor breakdown on a bus.”
I cringed. “Could you forget about that, actually?”