10. No. 37 Be more social #3
“That’s okay.” She huffs a laugh. “He sold it before I was born, and it was nowhere near the household name it is now, but he did pretty well out of the sale, bought a very nice apartment in central London and made some good investments. My grandmother sold most of the shares and assets and used that to live off after he died. She had an…opulent lifestyle. When she died, she had a little money left, I mean, a substantial amount to some, and she had the apartment. She left my mother the money and she left me the apartment…in Mayfair.”
I puff out a long breath, my lips vibrating out a sound like the motor of an old diesel engine. “I see,” I say, even though I really don’t.
“Well, you see, my mother was quite put out that she got a lot less than the value of the apartment and tried to claim my grandmother was not in her right mind when she made her will. But it was iron clad, the apartment was mine and I was not to give my mother any of the proceeds should I choose to sell.”
We’re stopped in the middle of the road, but it being a warm Sunday afternoon, there are no cars.
The sun is golden against Bea’s skin, of which there is plenty on display.
Her eyes are slightly squinted against the light where she looks up at me but even beneath her lowered lids, I can see the bright blue of her irises.
At this angle, in this light, I can see the dusting of freckles painting the bridge of her nose.
I know I have to distract myself from taking in every feature of her face, so I drag my mind back to the conversation.
“So, your mum didn’t get on with your grandmother? ”
Her gaze slips over my shoulder, and she chews on the inside of her cheek.
“Neither of my grandparents grew up with money and when they found themselves in certain social circles, they worked hard to keep up with the Joneses, which included giving their only daughter everything she wanted or needed. I feel like they never made her work for anything and then got angry when she couldn’t do anything for herself and relied on others. ”
I nod, understanding what she’s saying, but not really how we got here.
“My mum loves me,” she says, surely. “But she looks out for herself, and her priority has always been keeping her social status and having a rich guy to pay her bills. She always loved Richard—the surfer guy—because he was an investment banker and on course for a highly successful career. But I’ve never been all that interested in stuff like that. ”
I don’t know when I stepped forward, but I’m so very close to her now, her neck stretched where her head is tilted all the way back to look up at me. “What are you interested in?” I ask, voice lower than it has a right to be.
Her eyes dart between mine several times before dropping to my mouth when my tongue swipes over my suddenly dry lips.
I watch as her throat pulses over a swallow and a light breeze brings the scent of her floral perfume to my nose.
My lizard brain tells me to put a large hand to the indent of her waist, to run a thumb over her stomach and feel the softness of the fabric of her dress.
But her smile turns sad, focussing my thoughts on the words she says with a small shrug. “Being happy.”
Coming full circle to where this conversation started, I ask, “And moving here has made you happy?”
Her pink lips pout thoughtfully. “To be determined, but I sure hope so.”
Darcy makes a whining sound and pushes himself between us, clearly feeling very left out of the huddle we find ourselves in. He breaks whatever spell I’d been under, and I step away, clearing my throat and continuing in the direction of Bea’s cottage. “So uh, what else was on your list?”
She grins. “Well, dye my hair a crazy colour.” She points to her pink hair. “Get a tattoo, which I did, and do afternoon tea at The Ritz. I did all of that before I left London. Now I have to work through the many, many items left.”
If I’m not mistaken, a slight blush pinks her cheeks that I definitely want to know the reason for. “Like?” I push.
“Ride a horse,” she starts. “Swim in the sea—”
“You’ve never swam in the sea?”
“Nope.”
“Travesty.”
She giggles. “Um, learn to make croissants, they seem far too complicated. Learn to drive.”
“You don’t drive?” I stop again and look at her disbelieving.
“I grew up in the city,” she argues. “I could get everywhere I needed with public transport and there’s no way I’d ever want to drive in London, so there was no point.”
“You’re going to want to learn pretty quick,” I tell her, walking once more. “We get, like, one bus a day in the village and it probably wouldn’t take you where you want to go.”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “I’ll look for lessons online.”
“I could teach you,” I say without thought. “I mean, if you want.”
The smile she gives me pulls at my chest like a tether I’m not sure I want rid of. “Does this mean we’re friends, August?”
I screw my face up although it’s an effort not to smile at her. “Reluctantly.”
She throws her head back on a laugh and the sound is a warm syrup trickling through my veins letting me know I am well and truly fucked.