Chapter 15
15
C assie was no stranger to getting up early. She’d organised and attended many, many breakfast launches and client meetings. She didn’t like it (and would inwardly curse any sadist who wanted to meet at the Riding House Café in town at some ungodly hour) but she did it all with good grace.
Having to get up at six thirty for a preposterously early call time not of her own making hit different. Her phone was telling her that sunrise had happened at six minutes past six, but the sky outside was still wearing its pyjamas as Cassie stumbled, befuddled with sleep, to the bathroom.
She’d had an everything shower, where every millimetre of her body had been exfoliated, depilated and moisturised, the night before. She’d just finished a more perfunctory morning shower when her phone chimed.
Marc: Am outside. Are you good to go?
Cassie stared at her phone in disbelief and mounting rage. It was seven o’clock precisely. He’d turned up thirty very passive-aggressive minutes early.
Cassie: We agreed seven thirty.
Marc: I’m here now. I’m at your front door.
Cassie: DON’T RING THE BELL!
Cassie came out of her flat and padded down the hall to wrench open the front door. A very quiet wrenching.
‘Why are you so early?’ she hissed at Marc, who was standing on the doorstep looking smug and well rested in jeans and a slim-fit navy shirt.
‘Are you not ready?’ he asked even though Cassie was standing there with a towel clutched around her and her hair still twisted in a pink satin-covered heatless curling rod from the night before.
‘Does it look like I’m ready?’
‘Well, best get a move on!’ he said cheerfully.
Cassie could have quite cheerfully murdered him.
‘Go and get some coffee and come back in half an hour,’ she insisted in the same fierce whisper. ‘And keep your voice down, my flatmate is asleep.’
‘Can’t get coffee, nowhere is open this early,’ Marc said, stepping forward so Cassie had no choice but to step back, shrinking away from him, and just like that, he’d breached the perimeter of the communal hallway – though she was damned if she was going to actually let him in … ‘You through here?’
Cassie could only watch and make a strange growling noise as he stepped through the open door of her flat.
She followed him in. Their hall was so narrow that immediately, they were nose to nose. Marc with his air of smug superiority and Cassie in a towel, her skin glistening with moisturiser that hadn’t even had time to sink in.
Scrunching up her face in distaste, she poked Marc on the arm, encountering muscle and the sheer heat that he gave off.
‘Go in there.’ Another poke, then Cassie jerked her head in the direction of the living room. ‘Sit down and don’t touch anything.’
‘Surely sitting down constitutes touching something,’ he said pleasantly. All Cassie could do was growl again and beat a hasty retreat to her bedroom.
Cassie was already packed, because she was a very organised person. She was also a very petty person. So she sat on her bed doing nothing but waiting for her day serum to take for ten minutes, which in her opinion was utterly justified. Also, once you were past the age of thirty-five, an essential part of getting ready was sitting on your bed in a slack-jawed stupor for a while.
She could just imagine Marc’s curled lip as he cast a disparaging eye over their little lounge. Cassie thought it was cosy and full of colour, a real sanctuary for Savita and herself. The place where they stuffed their faces, binge-watched utterly irredeemable reality TV and shared many stories and confidences.
But it didn’t compare to minimalist penthouses with wraparound river views, or minimalist Hampstead mews houses with death-trap glass staircases. Marc already thought that Cassie was far, far beneath him and now he’d see the rickety windows that rattled in their frames whenever a car drove past, the sofa arm that Koita used as a scratching post, even though Cassie had spent good money on products designed specifically for that purpose.
It was such an invasion of her space. In fact, turning up this early was an act of supreme aggression. It was as if he were declaring war and if that was the case, then Cassie was going to put up one hell of a fight.
So she continued to sit on her bed for another five minutes before she got dressed. Very, very slowly.
Cassie knew that she’d be rushing around all day. Apart from when she was forced to spend the next two hours in Marc’s car; the man who emitted British thermal units like other people emitted carbon dioxide. It was quite chilly first thing in the morning now that August was nearly done, but Cassie would rather freeze than ask him to put the heating on.
So she dressed for comfort, ease of movement and warmth. Black cuffed joggers (not even chic and cleverly cut joggers from somewhere like Hush or The White Company. These had come in a value pack of two from a supermarket and had gone baggy in the knee) and her oversized ‘Slay All Day’ black hoodie, a birthday present from her little brother, Ryan. Cassie didn’t have time to do anything with her hair so she kept it twisted up in the curling rod but covered it with a knock-off Hermès scarf and hoped she was giving off Rosie The Riveter vibes. Then she put on her ancient and ratty purple and yellow Adidas Gazelles and she was done.
It was one of Cassie’s finest man-repelling outfits to date. Certainly when she steeled herself to face Marc, she was ready for his assessing up-and-down stare then the barely raised eyebrows and twist of his lips.
‘Almost ready,’ she whispered in a jaunty tone. ‘I’m just going to make some coffee and toast.’
‘We’re on a clock,’ he snapped, rising from the depths of Cassie’s sagging sofa. ‘And I can guarantee that anything you make from a jar isn’t coffee.’ He brushed past Cassie. ‘You’ve wasted enough time.’
‘I haven’t wasted time. It’s seven thirty. The time we actually agreed on,’ Cassie pointed out with a saccharine sweet smile. ‘Can you load these boxes into your car while I make sure I haven’t forgotten anything?’
Marc stared at the three cardboard boxes stacked up in the hall. The hall didn’t get a lot of natural light so it was hard to know for sure, but there seemed to be a muscle pounding away in his cheek.
‘What are these?’ he asked in a tight voice.
‘Oh, just the goody bags.’ Another saccharine sweet smile. ‘Did I not mention the goody bags? Just a few things I pulled together. At work, we have a whole cupboard full of spare … I won’t go into details; not when we’re on a clock.’
Yup, there was definitely a muscle jackhammering away. ‘How were you going to get all this on the train?’
‘I have a wheeled trolley,’ Cassie said, her eyes running down the detailed list she was leaving for Savita and Naomi (who was coming down that evening to spend the weekend), noting Koita’s needs. Most of them food-related. It read a lot like the small-plates menu for a Michelin-starred seafood restaurant. Marc was saying something, but Cassie managed to tune most of it out.
‘This is what Joni and Fleur mean when they’re complaining about someone being extra,’ he said, lifting up the first box.
‘Thank you. It’s one of my best qualities,’ Cassie trilled.
It was another five minutes before Cassie locked the street door and came down the garden path to where Marc was leaning against his sleek black car, arms folded and not looking quite so smug now.
‘Shall I put these on the back seat?’ Cassie asked, holding up her weekend bag, yoga mat and a laden tote bag.
He sighed, then made a huge show of opening the rear door. ‘Jesus, can we go now?’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Of course. I’m ready when you are,’ Cassie said brightly, glancing up the road. ‘Oh, hang on.’
‘What now?’ Marc sounded as if he was about to wring Cassie’s neck and later insist that it was justifiable homicide, but she could see Koita slowly strolling down the street then speeding up as he saw her.
He hadn’t come home the previous night and Cassie was glad that he was here now. If she was away for a few days and he hadn’t realised she was going, he wasn’t above peeing on her bedroom rug to show his displeasure.
Now he was meowing pitifully, springing up on the garden wall so he could jump into her arms.
‘My dark prince. I’m glad you’re here to say goodbye,’ Cassie murmured, as he twisted sinuously in her arms. ‘I’ve left a note that you’re to have Dreamies on demand.’
Marc was stony-faced. ‘Is this your familiar?’
‘Something like that,’ Cassie agreed, her arms too full of affectionate cat to snipe back. ‘I need to let him into the flat.’
‘Of course you do,’ Marc said as Koita jumped down and wound his way past Marc’s legs, tail twitching in annoyance at the implication he was a supporting character in Cassie’s life and not the main attraction. He hissed once at Marc, spine arched, then followed Cassie up the path.
Marc was in the car when she came out, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He started the car before Cassie had even fastened her seat belt.
It was now 7.45 a.m. exactly. Only fifteen minutes later than their original departure time. Cassie could tell he was fuming as he pulled away from the kerb. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and the muscles in his forearms seemed particularly tense as he turned the steering wheel.
It always seemed like a very cruel trick that he had such beautiful forearms, Cassie mused, as she stuck a gold patch under each eye to try and combat the dark circles, which were becoming a permanent fixture.
The car was electric, which meant it was deathly silent, which added to the tense atmosphere. Cassie was aware of how loud her breathing was. Was she mouth-breathing?
She couldn’t even think of anything to say to lighten the mood because the gloves were well and truly off now. Besides, they were worlds apart with nothing in common, so there really was nothing to talk about.
Until they joined the North Circular, the infamous, always clogged ring road around London. If Cassie had been driving, even though she couldn’t actually drive, she’d have headed for Brent Cross and joined the motorway there. Not that Marc would appreciate this nugget of information. Even so, it was impossible to remain silent.
‘I’ve lived in north London my entire life and I have never seen the North Circular completely free of traffic until now,’ she said with rising indignation.
‘Clearly not completely free of traffic,’ Marc said pedantically because there was traffic but it was free-flowing, fast-moving traffic. ‘I can assure you that by the time we get to Hanger Lane, it’s going to be a complete clusterfuck. Thanks for that.’
‘Yes, but—’
Before Cassie could throw caution to the wind and share her preferred route, Marc jabbed a button and a very boring podcast about innovations in finance technology featuring two men – one with a very nasal New York accent – swallowed up the silence. Also, they kept calling it ‘fintech’, which enraged her for reasons she couldn’t even explain.
Cassie had never been so pleased to hear her phone ring. It was eight o’clock and right on cue, her grandmother was calling her as she did every morning, apart from on weekends.
She slipped in her AirPods and took the call. ‘Hi, Nan, can’t talk right now,’ she said.
‘So, Dan has been in the wars,’ replied her grandmother, Sue, because she always caught up with Cassie at this time, usually as Cassie was walking to the bus stop, and didn’t tolerate any deviation from the routine. ‘You’ll never guess what the silly sod’s done.’
‘Knowing Dan, he’s probably broken several bones while he was playing football,’ Cassie said of her uncle, though like Emma, she regarded him as more of an older sibling. Marc actually huffed with irritation.
‘Torn the ligaments in both thumbs playing five-a-side last night,’ Sue announced with some satisfaction. ‘He wouldn’t be told. I said to him, Cass, I said, you’re fifty—’
‘Forty-seven, to be fair, Nan.’
‘Nearly fifty and you’re kicking a ball with a gang of lads half your age. You’re going to break your neck.’ Sue harrumphed; it was the only word that came close to describing the snort–scoff hybrid that Cassie’s grandmother had made her own. ‘Has to have an operation, doesn’t he? Two plaster casts up to his elbows. Can’t even wipe his own arse.’
Cassie felt bad for giggling at her uncle’s misfortune. ‘Poor Katie.’
‘How she hasn’t divorced him yet, I don’t know. What’s that noise? Are you talking to someone?’
‘It’s a podcast. I’m in a car. On my way to Sussex, remember?’
Marc reached over to turn off the podcast.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Cassie murmured softly but he shook his head, and now even though she had her AirPods in, every single word of Sue’s was audible because, as Cassie’s grandfather used to say, she had a voice like a foghorn.
‘Well, have a lovely time. We’ll miss you on Sunday,’ Sue said, because Sunday was the annual end-of-summer family barbecue.
‘If Dan’s out of action then at least the burgers won’t be half raw, half charcoal,’ Cassie said. ‘I’m amazed we’ve never got salmonella.’
‘Our family have always had cast-iron constitutions. I’d better go, my darling. Lots of love.’
‘Lots of love back,’ Cassie said as she always did, glancing over at Marc, who was still flaunting his beautiful forearms while his face in profile was positively rigid. ‘Do you want to put your podcast back on?’ she asked, just as her phone started ringing again. ‘Oh, this is work. I have to take this. Sorry.’
Cassie knew that she’d gone out of her way to be annoying when Marc had come to pick her up, but she’d never meant to be this annoying on the journey down. After two work calls to head off an impending crisis over a caricature artist booked for an event the following Tuesday, Cassie was all talked out.
She leaned forward to turn Marc’s podcast back on but he grabbed her hand. ‘What are you doing? You’re not to touch anything!’ he hissed.
‘Sorry! I was just going to—’
‘Well, don’t.’ Marc sucked in a breath, which did amazing things to his cheekbones and once again Cassie marvelled at how such an unpleasant person could be contained in such a pleasant package. ‘If you had taken the train, then your incessant chatter would have every unfortunate person in your carriage wanting to throw you out of the window.’
Such an unpleasant person. ‘Unlike travelling in your car, where just one person hates me,’ Cassie said dryly, though his remark stung a little.
He didn’t put the podcast back on, which was a case of cutting off his nose to spite his stupidly good-looking face. Especially as she was now busy in several group chats to discuss Dan’s torn thumbs, if Koita had already breakfasted because he was claiming he hadn’t, and did Cassie know that rain was predicted for Sunday?
Marc’s grip on the steering wheel was currently white-knuckled because Cassie, and she knew that it was her most toxic trait, had keyboard sounds turned on . There was something so satisfying about the tapping; it reminded her of the summer she’d taught herself to touch-type with a typewriter and a Pitman textbook she’d found in a charity shop.
He muttered something under his breath that was either ‘For fuck’s sake’ or ‘Jesus wept’, Cassie couldn’t really tell.
By now they were at the Hanger Lane gyratory system, which was busy but hardly a clusterfuck, though Cassie valued her life too much to point that out. When they finally joined the motorway, it seemed to her that they both breathed a sigh of relief. She’d have quite liked a coffee and something to eat but all she had was a packet of Polos in her bag; she offered Marc one, but he brushed her hand away.
Then he put his podcast back on and Cassie continued with her group chats. The Lucy’s Naughty Forty chat was in a frenzy. Even though Cassie had sent out itineraries and information sheets, people were incapable of following the most basic of instructions.
Al fresco yoga on Saturday morning was optional. Fancy dress and karaoke on Saturday night was mandatory. Yes, she knew that Anita was allergic to feather pillows and duvets and …
Cassie: Heather, honestly, I’ve told you so many times already. Lucy and Russell are in the cottage, you and Davy have a lovely ensuite room. And we’re having fish and chips tonight, not sushi.
She paused. ‘Have Heather and Davy paid the deposit?’ she asked Marc.
He shook his head. He seemed to be beyond words at this point.
Cassie: Also, Marc is still waiting on the deposit from you and Davy.
Heather: Marc is a billionaire!
Cassie: I think just a multi-millionaire actually.
Heather: So he can afford to swallow two hundred quid!
Cassie: Not really the point. Everyone else has paid the deposit as a token gesture but if you don’t want to come, I do understand.
It was always horrible when Cassie could actually feel her blood pressure rising. It seemed to start in her toes and rise up, making her heart beat faster, and, when she pulled out the neck of her hoodie and looked down, mottling the skin on her chest.
She caught Marc’s eye in the rear-view mirror. He was smiling now, one of his chilly smiles. He must have thought that Cassie was checking out her own breasts.
‘Everything present and correct?’ he enquired.
Cassie made a point of looking for a second time. ‘Seems to be.’
She was just about to be the bigger person and put her phone away, when it rang again. Both of them sighed.
It was Heather, so Cassie felt entirely within her rights not to take the call. But it was Heather, so she just rang again. And again. It wasn’t as if Cassie could turn her phone off altogether.
By now, Heather was ringing for the fourth time.
Cassie had hardly slept. She hadn’t had any coffee. No wonder she felt like crying, and all the while she was aware of being trapped in a small, enclosed space with Marc. Could sense his tiny but irritated glances at her, the weight of his disapproval.
‘Are you going to get that?’ he asked finally, annoyance coating every syllable.
‘It’s Heather,’ Cassie said by way of explanation, but Marc wasn’t really an active participant in the group chat, apart from when he was arguing with Cassie. So he hadn’t really experienced the full force of Heather’s … forcefulness.
‘Just answer it,’ he ordered.
Cassie knew it was going to further enrage him but she put her phone on speaker because this was undoubtedly going to be the kind of conversation that required witnesses.
‘Hi Heather, what’s up?’ Cassie went for her breeziest tone.
‘I really must insist that we get the cottage,’ Heather said in a tearful voice. ‘I can’t really do stairs.’
A persuasive argument if only Heather didn’t frequently post pictures on Instagram of herself walking, running, doing all kinds of exercise and also wearing high heels when she was #girlsnightout #lovemygirls #wineoclock.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’ Cassie’s first boss when she’d moved into event planning after Skirt closed had been Penka, a very forthright Bulgarian, whose mantra was ‘It’s not possible’ when dealing with everything from demanding clients to requests that she work overtime.
‘Well, I can concede the cottage, but then we have to do sushi tonight,’ Heather insisted. ‘Iris said she’d prefer sushi to fish and chips. I bet it’s not even line-caught fish and Davy can’t process carbs late at night.’
Unless the carbs came in a pint glass and then Davy could process them just fine. And what Iris had said was that she wasn’t fussed either way and had then apologised to Cassie in their side chat.
Cassie covered the microphone holes on her phone so she could sigh.
‘Maybe—’
‘No, no!’ Marc said sharply. ‘Never negotiate with terrorists.’
Cassie pulled a face. ‘If you want sushi that badly then maybe you can stop off en route and get some …’ Marc didn’t look angry any more, he just looked disappointed. ‘While I have you, Heather, Marc’s still waiting on you and Davy to pay the deposit. That’s a hundred each.’
‘I don’t see the point when Marc is paying for everything else. He’s bloody loaded and I just heard him call me a terrorist, which is very hurtful. Very, very hurtful. Also, I know full well that I was only invited as an afterthought,’ Heather said in an angry rush.
‘Does this mean you’re not coming?’ Cassie asked hopefully. ‘Because I’m sorry but if that two hundred quid isn’t paid, then …’
‘God, Cassie, I can’t believe you’re being this tight.’ Heather allowed herself a tinkling little laugh. ‘Also, did you get my cashew milk?’
Cassie’s eyes met with Marc’s in the rear-view mirror again.
‘Just cut her off,’ he mouthed, which was easier said than done.
But not impossible. ‘Hang on, Heather. We’re just approaching a tunnel.’ Cassie did her best impersonation of static noise. ‘I’m about to lose reception. I’ll see you later. Don’t forget to pay Marc.’
‘I am not happy, Cassie—’
‘Sorry, I’m losing you.’
She ended the call and smiled back at Marc. Bonding over a common foe was much better than snapping and snarling at each other.
‘The only other time Heather has ever rung me was when she wanted me to plan her wedding,’ she revealed as Marc changed lanes with a confident ease that Cassie didn’t want to find attractive but did.
‘I didn’t know you planned weddings too,’ he remarked.
‘I don’t, but Heather wanted me to do it as a favour, plus get her mates’ rates from all the vendors.’ Cassie shook her head. ‘Sushi-gate is nothing compared to that. In the end, I put her in touch with a friend who did plan weddings.’
Marc raised his eyebrows. ‘How did that work out?’
‘Well, that friend no longer speaks to me,’ Cassie said.
‘Poor friend.’ Though whether that was because Lily had borne the brunt of Heather’s bridezilla-ness, or because she no longer wanted Cassie in her life, was a moot point.
At least Marc was in a good mood now. Or rather, he didn’t look like he wanted to kill her anymore …
‘You know, we are early. It’s not even nine thirty and we’re quite near Brighton. Plus, we can’t check in for ages, so we could pop into a supermarket and pick up some sushi and cashew milk …’
‘Absolutely not,’ Marc said in a forbidding tone.
‘But we’re going to have about ninety minutes to kill so—’
‘Hey Siri,’ Marc drawled. ‘Best coffee roastery in Brighton.’
Typical that he couldn’t call it a coffee shop like everyone else.
‘Here’s what I found,’ sexy Irish lady Siri announced, and Marc’s phone, which was wedged into a holder attached to his dashboard, flashed up with a list of addresses.
‘I always say please and thank you to Siri and Alexa,’ Cassie said. ‘So when AI and the robots take over, I’ll have stored up some goodwill.’
‘That’s not how AI or robots work … No, I’m not doing this.’ Marc gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. ‘So, as we’ve made such good time despite setting out very late, do you want coffee with a sea view?’