by Bailey, Orla
I stare at him incredulously. Who the hell is this weird phantom? I kick my legs out from under the duvet preparing to drag myself to the kitchen if necessary and get my own damned drink of preference. “I haven’t had nearly enough. You’re still here.”
He forces me back into bed which is hardly difficult when I can barely stand.
“I hoped it might have been a previously opened bottle you were drinking from. You’re pretty drunk.”
“A pretty drunk?” I try to smile. I’m not sure I succeed. His frown grows deeper but this is more like my usual illusionary Jack. Complimentary.
“Completely drunk. You look a mess.”
I’m not certain, because I’m confused enough already, but I’m not sure it’s a good sign when even your own hallucination tells you you’re a drunken mess, rather than reassures you he’ll die in agony if he can’t have your body lying beneath his. My delusion definitely isn’t obeying the rules tonight.
“Don’t bother to stay if all you’re going to do is criticise. You can puff off back where you came from.”
“Puff off, is it?” He laughs mirthlessly. “You’ve no idea how angry I am that you’d pull a stunt like this.”
“It’s no-one’s business,” I tell him. “I can look after myself.”
“It’s clear to me you can’t. Someone needs to be here. What would Harry think?”
We face off for a few seconds, mulishly, before my expression crumples. I start to cry thinking of Harry Caid, who raised me since I was nine years old and real Jack, who dumped me when I was eighteen and love-struck. Both gone from my life.
I don’t even question why my mirage of Jack gathers me up into his arms and holds me tight against him. Hallucinations are allowed to do anything you want them to. I sob quietly into the front of his shirt until I’m done and wipe my wet eyes on his silk tie. He doesn’t stop me.
He strokes my hair back from my face over and over in a soothingly rhythmic caress. “Hush now. Harry wouldn’t want you to be doing this to yourself.”
I figure hallucinations have complete insight into the workings of your lucid brain because that much is true. News of Harry’s heart attack reached me just a few months ago.
“He said he was doing fine.” I shudder out the words.
“He had the best medical care available. There was nothing you could have done better.”
“I could have taken care of him. Been here.”
“He wanted you to go back to university and take your finals. You did what he asked you to do. It made him happy.”
“I never saw him again.”
“I know.”
We sit in silence for a while.
“I’m making a mess of everything.”
Jack holds me from him at arms’ length and stares solemnly at me. “What could you possibly make a mess of?”
I stare back at him. “You’re just a figment of my imagination. What would you know about it?” I twist out of his arms and collapse onto my side down into the bed. Utter exhaustion overwhelms me. “Go away. I’m not explaining to a drunken delirium just how badly I’m stuffing things up at CaidCo.” I’m not sure if I’m speaking out loud or not. Everything converges in the centre of my brain. I’m wholly drained.
He barks a laugh. “Drunken delirium or not, I’m staying right here until you sober up, kitten. Then we’ll discuss what’s going to happen next.”
That crazy delusion is reading my thoughts now… And calling me kitten... Real Jack used to call me kitten all the time…
To everything else I grow insensible.
* * *
Lots of things have the ability to irritate me. I haven’t the will to open my eyes but this morning they won’t let me be.
Annoying lights dance behind my closed eyelids until I have to move my forearm slowly over my face in an attempt to block them out. Notting Hill on a Saturday morning drones inside my head: vehicles rumble, brakes screech, voices are louder than they ought to be and music is playing everywhere. All sounds converge into one. It would have to be this morning my hearing becomes hyper-sensitive and my apartment’s triple-glazed sound insulation fails, simultaneously.
Even worse is the banging and thumping coming from so close by I’m beginning to think dwarves must be mining their way into my apartment. A faint sense of déjà vu drifts in on a tide of memory but ebbs away again.
I decided to escape work yesterday afternoon to drink myself stupid. And mission accomplished apparently. I always lock the door behind me and turn my phones off but for the life of me I can’t remember anything else. I desperately want to go back to sleep yet the exquisitely irritable feeling of a bladder about to explode forces me to wake up. I need to crawl out of bed and skulk my way to the bathroom.
Even before I move, I notice sun shining straight onto my face through the open window. When did I open that? I never leave my window open at night even though I’m on the top floor. I’m shocked to think I might have got so drunk I tried to crawl out of it.
Yet I can’t quite square that level of inebriation with the fact that my head isn’t even pounding. I twist my head carefully to one side. On top of the bedside cabinet is a huge glass jug with barely an inch of water left in the bottom. That would account for the bladder, I suppose. I lift the duvet gingerly to check this isn’t my second exploding bladder of the morning and am relieved to find the sheets dry. That would definitely have been me hitting rock bottom.
I’m confused. When did I ever prepare in advance to get water into my system before I went to bed? What would be the point of that? I look around for the empty vodka bottle but it’s gone. Beyond my closed bedroom door, it sounds like someone is trying to break their way into my apartment. Perhaps there’s building work being done in the block.
When I hear voices, I still and listen. They’re speaking in some oriental language and they’re coming from inside my apartment. I glance towards the open window.
Oh, God, I’m being burgled as I sleep.
I crawl out of bed. I don’t want to be lying here wide awake when the thieves come back through with all my valuables. My heart pounds and my respiration rate amps up into shallow air-sucking gulps. Please don’t let me have a panic attack now. I look about for something to arm myself with.
Quickly dismissing the idea of filing off the corneas of the Chinese mafia with the nearest emery board, I opt for the tennis racquet propped against the wall. I’m told I have a dynamite fore-hand volley for a girl with few obvious arm muscles.
Not that I intend to attack them. I just want something for self-defence if they discover my hiding place. I search for one. I wonder if I have time for a pee first. I’m pretty desperate. Of all the inconvenient moments to be invaded by triads.
Halfway to the closet the voices stop. Sure footsteps move in my direction and the door flies open. I whirl round holding the racquet, ready to serve, between me and them.
“The police are on their way.”
It’s a complete lie. How could I think about calling law enforcement when all I can think about is having a pee?
Seeing Jack Keogh standing there, I nearly take one right where I’m standing.
Chapter Two
The heart-stopping hotness and amazingness that is Jack Keogh halts in my bedroom doorway just a couple of feet from where I’m hunched over the racket, quaking. And only a moment ago I’d been absolutely convinced I’d sobered up fast.
His sharp business suit trousers and quality cotton shirt look like he’s spent the night in them, especially with the top shirt buttons undone. I stare at the triangle of tanned flesh. His jacket and tie are missing. And he’s in my apartment. What the hell is he doing in my apartment?
At thirty-two he’s even more outrageously, dangerously masculine than he was four years ago and I hate that I’m still so instantly attracted. But I’d defy any heterosexual woman with even one of her five senses intact not to be.
The man’s seriously scorching.
My stomach clenches
so hard in reaction I’m surprised my bladder doesn’t rupture. It isn’t doing anything to stem my arousal either. Anyone would think I’d spent all last night thinking about sex when I can’t remember what I spent last night doing, let alone thinking. But I’m incapable of any other rational response when Jack is standing two feet away from me – beyond checking to see my jaw isn’t hanging.
“Feeling up for a game of tennis?” He narrows his eyes on my weapon. “That’s a good sign.” The humour is delivered dead-pan.
Those Arctic blues force a purely visceral reaction. I’m more affected by him standing in my apartment after four silent years than I would have been staring down Genghis Khan and his entire Mongolian horde. My total body reaction to that faint scent of Clive Christian feels so intense, the room darkens and I stagger.
Jack rushes towards me, removes the sports equipment that I’d visualised holding off a whole army of triads with, with one flick of his wrist and lowers me to sit on the bed. I’m weak before him in every sense of the word and I’m burning with shame. This isn’t how the big reunion was meant to be.
“Catch your breath a minute. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Sitting plagues my bladder even more which prompts me to remember the empty water jug. I glance over at it and back at Jack. I turn my head towards the open window, then back to him once more.
“You broke into my apartment.” My gravelly voice doesn’t sound like my own.
“I’m having the door fixed now.”
Door? “I thought you came through the window.”
He twists his neck round and frowns at the window before looking back at me with a dubious expression on his face. “You live on the top floor, Tabitha. I opened that to get some air in here but I came through the door.” Only Jack could make breaking and entering sound perfectly reasonable.
“It was locked.” And one of the last things I absolutely remember doing.
He shakes his head at me. Top floor or not, I don’t think Jack Keogh should make me feel like an idiot just because he’s not up to a four-storey climb. He’s still an intruder.
“I know it was. And you weren’t answering when I knocked and kept on knocking. That’s why I’m having it fixed now.” Jack glares as if this is all my fault.
“You broke my door down?”
“How else was I supposed to get inside?”
“Wait for an invitation?”
“When would that have happened?”
“Never.”
“Exactly.”
I wonder if it’s too late to call the police but I know I’d never do it. With my luck they’d send a couple of female officers who would be so instantly smitten by Jack’s virile male presence, sexy athletic body, blazing good looks and rogue Irish charm, they’d arrest me for harassing him and wasting valuable police time. They’d probably leave with a hefty donation of his money for the Metropolitan Police Benevolent Fund and an offer to open their next family sports’ day, as the cherry on their big creamy cake too.
I’m cataloguing his attributes like I’m about to launch an advertising campaign to persuade myself I can’t live without him. Well I can. I do and largely by focusing on his many and significant faults. He’s bossy. Pig-headed. Arrogant. Rich. Self-possessed. Over-confident. Flirtatious. Mega-attractive to every woman on the planet with a pulse. And, most importantly, not the least bit interested in me. And he breaks into single women’s apartments.
“Why are you here, Jack?”
He made it perfectly clear he didn’t want any sort of relationship with me. His company might still be CaidCo’s most important client but I never personally handle his account. I can hardly bear to look at him.
I can hardly bear not to.
The truth is, I feel totally inadequate, wearing grotty old pyjamas when he looks so amazingly well-groomed despite breaking and entering and probably sleeping the night on the sofa. I jump up and brush past him.
He grabs my elbow stopping me. “We’re going to talk about this situation.”
“I have a more pressing one.” I stare in defiance even though it makes my stomach lurch. But he isn’t letting go. “I need the bathroom, okay? An entire jug of water, Jack? Really?” I didn’t think a bladder was capable of holding that much liquid, before today. Mine won’t be for much longer.
He understands instantly, releasing me. “For your own good.”
I pee continuously for twenty minutes.
One glance in the mirror tells me I’m not leaving this bathroom until I’ve done something about the way I look. It’s hard enough confronting the past without feeling like a bag lady before a prince. The long brown tangled bird’s nest of hair makes me look like I’ve been hanging upside down or dragged backwards. My strappy top is inside out and back to front with the label showing yet I was definitely sober when I put it on. The shorts are aptly named, creased and twisted up my rear end. I heave the elastic into proper alignment around my hips. They’re so washed and worn they’re practically threadbare, I notice with dismay. I turn and look back over my shoulder into the mirror. I’ve had these ones since I was fifteen and they barely cover the cheeks of my backside.
I hide my face in my hands and groan with embarrassment. I’m a drunken mess. The thought echoes with familiarity round my head.
How was I to know this would be the day I finally came face to face with Jack Keogh again? It could only happen to me. In every fantasy I ever had about it, I was elegant and disdainful and hanging off the arm of some ripped hunk when he happened to brush past me in a crowded room. All alone. I wanted to enjoy the look of bitter regret on his face for abandoning such a gorgeous woman as me.
I stare at myself again with disgust, knowing he’ll be glad of the lucky escape. There’s no way he’s seeing me until I’m showered and changed at the very least.
Checking the bathroom door is firmly locked whilst realising the futility if he managed to break my front door down, I turn on the hot water, strip off my things and try to improve on grim reality using every lotion and potion to hand. At least I’ll come out looking cleaner and smelling more pleasant. I dry my hair and put on a bit of make-up.
It’s only then I realise I have no clean clothes inside with me. I consider the crinkled contents of the dirty laundry basket before I crack open the door and peer out, wrapped in a towel. Jack sits on the bed watching me, managing the neat trick of raising both his eyebrows whilst frowning between them which seems to spark yet another hazy memory in the recesses of my mind.
“You’re taking your time. Perhaps I overdid the rehydration. Need any help?”
I pull a face. “I need to get dressed.”
“So get dressed.” His lips curve marginally making me want to scream. He’s goading me deliberately. I don’t suppose he’s used to being kept waiting.
“I’m not getting dressed with you watching.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen a woman’s body before.”
“You haven’t seen mine.” And that was his own choice.
“Really? The state you were in, you have no idea what I’ve seen.”
I don’t even want to know what he means by that or the smirk on his face but I do know he’s saying it just to rile me. He isn’t the least bit bothered he’s invaded my privacy; planted himself in my bedroom when I haven’t even invited him into my home. Why wouldn’t I be angry after all this time? Especially after his rejection.
I try to be reasonable. “Please can you go to the sitting room while I get dressed?”
He stands. “I’ll find you something to wear.” He searches my closet then hunts through my chest of drawers without the slightest qualm that he’s going through all my personal possessions.
“Stop!” I hold my breath and cringe when he looks inside the top right hand bedside cabinet drawer, shuts it again and turns towards me with a horribly fascinated look on his face. I go beetroot red. Now we both know that’s where I keep my Turbo Toy.
He doesn’t say a word but keeps on searching whil
e I linguistically programme myself into believing I’m a perfectly normal healthy female and I don’t really want to turn to ashes and gust out the open window. I jump when he speaks.
“Christ, Tabitha. When did you last go clothes shopping?”
“You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself.”
He turns and strides towards me effortlessly pushing wide the door I’m guarding through the crack. I take a step backwards under the sheer force of his personality. “You. Are. Beautiful. Your clothes, on the other hand, are a waste of cupboard space.” He doesn’t pull his punches.
“It’s just stuff I wore through Uni. Jeans, t-shirts. What’s wrong with it?”
“Are you still at University?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you running Harry’s company now?”
“Yes.” At least in theory.
I think of my two machine-washable business suits, one of which lies crumpled up in the laundry basket in the bathroom beside me. I bought them five years ago when Harry insisted his teenaged intern be more formally dressed on occasion.
Jack turns his attention back to the closet discovering a short cotton printed skirt and matching sleeveless blouse right at the back. He hands the garments through the door to me. I bought them for a country wedding a few summers ago and haven’t worn them since. It’s not the sort of thing I wear on a Saturday morning; it’s far too dressy but as I’m currently naked under a damp towel I’m not about to argue.
I bang the bathroom door closed and lock it. Then I remember underwear and have to open up again.
“Yes?” He’s waiting right outside.
I swear from the look on his face he already knows what I’m about to say. “Underwear.” I stare past his right shoulder as I say it.
“I suppose that might be a good idea under the circumstances.”
I ignore him.
He goes directly to the lingerie drawer he inspected earlier and pulls out a bra and pair of panties, looking at the latter with barely disguised amusement. Although they’re perfectly decent and serviceable, if I’d known Jack Keogh would have been rummaging through my knicker drawer I definitely would have hidden the ones covered in cute cartoon characters, at the very least. I snatch the Wallace and Grommit minis and un-matching bra out of his hand and slam the door in his face.