Get a Life, Chloe Brown

by Talia Hibbert

  “You do. This is hilarious. I should compliment you more often.”

  “Please,” he said wryly, “don’t.” Clearly, he couldn’t take it.

  “Fine. I promise to be consistently awful.” She smiled, really smiled. It was bright and lopsided and absolutely stunning. It only lasted for a second, but he saw the impression of it behind his eyelids the way he might see a firework that had gone out. Then she frowned and raised her fingers to her lips, as if she was confused by her own moment of happiness. Which, aside from anything else, was pretty fucking depressing. She looked at him, her eyes narrow and considering, like he was some kind of lab rat. “Alive,” she murmured under her breath. “Hm.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Pardon?”

  She cocked her head. “I think . . . I do believe I have a proposition for you.”

  There was nothing seductive in her tone, but the words sent a twisted kick of something through his chest. He’d watched too many rubbish spy films where propositions always ended in blow jobs. “What’s up?”

  “It’s rather a long story.” She bit her lip. “Actually, never mind the story; you don’t need to hear it. The short version is that I need to ride a motorbike.”

  He’d have been less surprised if she’d gone with the blow job thing. Chloe Brown. Motorbike. Didn’t really compute. He wracked his brain for a passable response and finally came up with “Okay?”

  She nodded. “And you, obviously, have a motorbike.”

  “. . . Yeah, I do.”

  “Would you like a free consultation? For your website?”

  “. . . I might.”

  “Then it’s settled.” She closed her eyes again. “I’ll give you one, and you’ll take me for a ride. Do you mind if we handle the details another time? As it turns out, I am rather tired.”

  He opened his mouth to say something like “Now wait a fucking minute,” but all that came out was “Uh.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  That’s what she said. I’ll be in touch. Like she’d just interviewed him for the position of motorbike chauffeur and would let him know how he’d done in due time. Christ, she was so far up her own arse, it was a miracle she could see the sun.

  “Good-bye,” she added.

  He was stuck between telling her to piss off, remembering that she was a tenant, and wanting to die of laughter.

  Then she cracked open one eyelid and said suspiciously, “You’re not one of those men, are you? Because you’d be surprised by how loud I can scream. Years of vocal training.”

  Red stood. “Nope. No. Don’t worry. Going.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  He went.

  Ten minutes later, he was in his own living-room-slash-studio, watching Chloe “rest her eyes” through the window. She looked pretty fucking asleep to him, but that was none of his business. He just wanted to check that the cat hadn’t curled up on her face and suffocated her or something. Cats couldn’t be trusted, as Vikram was telling him through the phone.

  “Nasty little buggers. They piss behind sofas, you know.”

  Red ran a hand through his hair and turned away from the window. “If you say so. Look, it’s just until we find the owners. Woman from 1D grabbed the thing out of a tree, so she’s not about to chuck it over to the RSPCA.”

  “Hm, 1D,” Vik mused. Red shouldn’t have mentioned specifics. Vik was too clever for his own good and had a fantastic memory. “Ain’t that the one you’re always moaning about?”

  Red glared at thin air. “Always?”

  “Always.”

  “Nope.”

  “Alisha!” Vik bellowed. “Red’s on about the rich bird from 1D again.”

  In the distance, he heard Vik’s wife holler back, “Oh, he isn’t. Tell him to bloody shut up about her.”

  “See?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Vik sighed dramatically. “There’s no shame in having a type, mate. The posh ones never did it for me, but—”

  “Vik.”

  “—your tastes leave a lot to be desired.”

  “Vik.”

  “One month, and the cat’s got to go,” Vikram said, smoothly changing the subject. Thank Christ. “And don’t let it out of the flat. If anyone sees it, there’ll be hell on earth.”

  “That’s what I told her. I’m dropping some litter off in a bit.”

  “Oh yeah? She can’t get it herself?”

  Well, no, she probably couldn’t. “I’m the superintendent.”

  “Right,” Vik snorted. “That’s exactly why.”

  “Yep.”

  “Not like you’re soft on her.”

  Not bloody likely. “You know me. I’m soft on everyone.”

  “True enough, mate. True enough.”

  Red put the phone down. He spent the rest of the day avoiding his window.

  Chapter Five

  Chloe’s youngest sister played five different instruments, but her greatest asset was her voice. Eve Brown had, as Gigi would say with great significance, lungs. So when she burst into Chloe’s flat belting out “Defying Gravity” like Idina Menzel on Broadway, the cat reacted as if an earthquake had hit.

  Chloe watched her placid companion fly into a state of major feline alarm. She’d learned since rescuing it a couple of days ago that this particular cat was not like most others; it lacked all grace and spatial awareness, as evidenced by its current path of evacuation. Streaking off in the direction of the bedroom, it managed to hit the sofa, the base of a standing lamp, and the door frame before making good its escape. Chloe had decided that this nervous clumsiness marked the two of them as a fated pair. She had also, in moments of exhaustion or panic, been known to bump into a door several times on her way through.

  Eve bounded into the now cat-less living room and trilled, “We come bearing snacks!” Then, seeing Chloe’s wince, she removed one of her ever-present AirPods and stage-whispered, “Oh, sorry. Do you have a headache?”

  “No.”

  “She’s lying,” Dani said, appearing in the doorway with far too many shopping bags. She wore a fluffy gray hat to protect her shaved head from the cold. “I always know when you’re lying, Chlo. I’ve no idea why you bother. Tea?”

  Chloe rolled her eyes and snuggled deep into the nest she’d made on the sofa. “Is it tea? Or is it one of your bush concoctions?”

  Dani waggled her eyebrows menacingly and raised the shopping bags. “Don’t worry, darling. Evie baked devil’s food cake to make the medicine go down.”

  Ten minutes later Chloe was indeed armed with a steaming mug of mysterious, spicy liquid and a fat slice of gooey chocolate cake. She shoved the latter into her mouth with shameless enthusiasm and let her eyes roll back, headache be damned. “This is divine.”

  “I made it just for you,” Eve said, and patted Chloe’s knee like a concerned mother. It had been three days since the Grand Climb, and Chloe had been on the sofa throughout because her body was throwing a tantrum. Her sisters, being painfully nosy, had finally caught wind, and had therefore descended upon her to treat her like a baby. It was mildly irritating and simultaneously endearing, because it involved both pats and heavenly chocolate cake.

  “Thank you. You’re a very good baker.”

  “I’ll put that in the window of my cake shop one day,” Eve said brightly. “I am a good baker. My sister says so.”

  Chloe raised her brows. “Cake shop?”

  “That’s the latest plan,” Dani called from the hallway. “But don’t ask her about it, or she’ll start whining about the tyranny of skeptical parents who refuse their daughters business loans, and you know I can’t stand her spoiled-brat routine.” Ignoring their youngest sister’s outraged gasp, Dani marched back into the room with a hissing cat in her grip. “Now,” she said, holding up the squirming bundle of fur. “Is this the creature you rescued?”

  “No,” Chloe murmured. “That’s one of the countless other cats I acquired two days ago.”

  “Shut up.” Dani squin
ted into a pair of narrowed, feline eyes, her expression stern, her jaw set. She had a habit of grinding her teeth when she was concentrating especially hard. Finally, she ended the interspecies staring contest and announced, “I judge this cat to be . . . a boy.”

  “Excellent,” Chloe said, quite satisfied. “We’ll name him Smudge.”

  “Oh, Chloe,” Evie tutted. “You ought to name him Cat, like Holly Golightly.”

  The nerve of little sisters. Bossy boots, the lot of them. With a withering glare, Chloe said, “Don’t tell me how to raise my children. His name is Smudge. The end.”

  “Wonderful.” Dani set Smudge down and he ran off in a blur of smoke. After a minor collision with a table leg, he was gone. Dani snorted and slipped into their old Nana’s patois. “Him ’fraid like puss.”

  “Of everything,” Chloe admitted. “I think that’s why he was stuck in the tree, actually: he could’ve gotten down, but he was too scared.”

  The air in the room changed, excited grins blooming like flowers, all eyes turning to Chloe. “Ohhh, yes,” Eve sang, leaning back against the cushions. “The tree. That you climbed. Like a badass! Care to share?”

  Ah. Chloe smiled coyly. “It was rather impressive,” she murmured, feigning modesty.

  “Do tell,” Dani drawled from her position sprawled out on the floor. Honestly, the woman was allergic to chairs. She was also good at ferreting out lies. But would she notice a minor (read: huge and ginger) omission? Hopefully not, because Chloe had no intention of bringing up Red’s role in the palaver.

  “I saw the cat, I got the cat. It was all very athletic. I climbed that tree like . . . like Lara Croft!”

  “With sweaty cleavage and frequent, strangely sexual grunts?” Dani mused.

  “With effortless expertise,” Chloe corrected. Inaccurately.

  “I’m sure you were quite Byronic,” Eve said.

  There was a short pause before Chloe deciphered that one. “Darling, do you mean heroic?”

  “No.”

  Dani rolled her eyes. “Regardless, I’m glad you did it. Climbed the tree, I mean. Sorry that it triggered a spell, but also glad.”

  “Are you really, Dani?” Chloe narrowed her eyes, all suspicion. “Because it was part of my plan to be fabulously reckless and extremely exciting, and a little birdie tells me that you have a personal investment in my failure.”

  “Oh, don’t be like that, darling. It’s only fifty pounds; of course I’d rather lose. And anyway, I don’t remember ‘cat rescuing’ or ‘tree climbing’ being on the list. Am I wrong?”

  “No,” Chloe admitted. “This was an extracurricular activity.”

  “Well, then. My fifty pounds is safe. But what will you do about the cat, long-term? Pets aren’t allowed here, are they?”

  “I’ve made a temporary arrangement with the superintendent,” Chloe said, then mentally kicked herself.

  Her sisters, predictably, collapsed in a chorus of lustful shrieks and sighs. “Red,” Eve said with such feeling you’d think she and the superintendent were Romeo and Juliet made flesh.

  “Redford Morgan,” Dani purred, vixenish in a way Chloe had never mastered. Danika Brown was a left-wing academic and amateur spiritualist who shaved her head because “hair is just so much effort,” but beneath it all, she took after Gigi. If Dani had been the one rescued from a tree by a handsome man, or woman, for that matter . . . well, she’d have secured said rescuer’s affections by the time they hit the ground.

  “How did you broker this deal?” Eve asked innocently, fluttering her lashes.

  “She offered her body of course,” Dani grinned.

  “Oh, be quiet, the both of you. I’m not so desperate as that.”

  “Because sleeping with that man would be such torture,” Eve snorted. “He is sex on a stick, Chlo. And he’s so sweet.”

  “Sweet?! Clearly, you barely know him.”

  “Which is why I’m not yet pregnant with his babies. What’s your excuse?”

  “Her excuse,” Dani said, “is that he’s so hot, he short-circuits her little robot brain.”

  “My robot brain is huge, thank you very much,” Chloe sniffed. “And he does not short-circuit anything.”

  Dani gave a slow smile, an action that had been known to cause proposals, jealous fist fights, and in one notable case, a minor car accident. “Wonderful,” she purred. “In that case, I expect you to sleep with him as soon as possible. Isn’t sex on your list?”

  Chloe narrowly avoided choking to death on her own astonishment.

  “It is,” Eve piped up. “Oh, go on, Chlo. Shag him. Tell us all about it.”

  Good gracious, sisters were a nightmare. “Men,” Chloe said firmly, “are not for me.” Especially not that man. I wouldn’t know what to do with him. But her mind proposed several heroic suggestions, and her mouth went dry.

  Dani cocked her head. “Finally decided to try women? Wonderful.”

  “I am trying no one, thank you very much.” Clearly, her subconscious needed the reminder as much as her sisters did.

  “Why not?” Eve demanded, her romantic nature clearly offended.

  “You know why not.”

  “Clearly, I don’t.”

  Sigh. “It’s too much work. I can’t be bothered.”

  Two sets of dark, unimpressed eyes speared her.

  She doubled down. “It’s very awkward, dating while disabled. People can be quite awful. And you know I don’t have much energy to spare for social nonsense.”

  “Social nonsense,” Eve snorted. “I swear, Chloe, you are so full of it.”

  Eve clearly didn’t realize that “social nonsense” was Chloe’s succinct way of phrasing “the constant disappointment that is human nature.” She’d learned the hard way that people were always looking for a reason to leave, that affection or adoration or promises of devotion turned to dust when things got tough. Losing Henry had shown her that. Waking up one day to realize that her friends, bored with lists and rain checks and careful coping mechanisms, had left her behind . . . that had been unnecessary emphasis on a painful lesson. Chloe’s family was abnormal in their loyalty, and she loved them for it, but they didn’t seem to understand that others couldn’t be trusted. Better to be alone than to be abandoned.

  She refused to let that happen again.

  But if she explained those facts, her sisters would insist she’d simply had a bad experience, then start insulting everyone who’d ever left her. And then Chloe would be forced to remember all the things she’d lost, and to wonder, for the thousandth time, what it was about her that made her so easy to leave.

  It was time to change the subject, and also her pajamas.

  Pushing off her blankets and rising to her feet caused a moment of dizziness, but she’d been ready for that. She waited. The encroaching blackness faded. “There,” she smiled, pleased with herself. “Right as rain.”

  Dani looked up in alarm. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m just popping into the shower. Won’t be long.” That was an unrepentant lie. She would indeed be long, and everyone present knew it.

  “Would you like some help?” Eve asked.

  “I’m not that bad.” Chloe rolled her eyes and left her sisters in the living room. As she peeled off her worn-in pajamas and settled into the bathroom’s plastic shower seat, she thanked God for the disability aids all ground-floor flats came with. After grabbing her shampoo and conditioner, she switched on the water and tipped her head back under the spray.

  It had been a frustrating few days. She’d fallen into an infuriating cycle when she’d climbed that tree. Physical overload led to pain and a complete dearth of spoons, also known as mind-numbing exhaustion; which led to extra meds and insomnia; which led to sleeping pills and too much brain fog; which led to, in a word, misery.

  When she found herself trapped in that cycle, Chloe was supposed to do certain things. Things like socializing with all her nonexistent friends, despite her inability to brush her teeth and change
out of her pajamas. Things like forcing her battered body into excruciating Pilates positions, because it was sooo good for the muscles. Things like meditation, presumably so that she could think more deeply about how much she resented her own nerve endings. These, obviously, were the suggestions of specialist consultants who were rather clever but had never lived inside a body in constant crisis.

  What Chloe actually did to cope was take her medication religiously, write fanciful lists, play The Sims, and live through it. Sometimes it was hard, but she managed by whatever means necessary.

  Right now, her aches and pains had faded to a low background hum and her mind felt clearer than it had in ages. She scrubbed the three days’ fever sweat from her scalp, smiling as she fingered the cute little kinks growing out at her roots. It was almost time for another chemical relaxer; she didn’t have the endurance to care for her natural texture, pretty as it was. After conditioning, she lathered herself with entirely too much scented soap, standing long enough to rinse all the necessary bits. She watched the water send white suds sliding over her skin, like clouds moving over the earth. When she was sick and tired of being sick and tired, she clung to moments like this: the first shower after a flare-up.

  Bliss should be held on to with both hands.

  Some time later, Chloe was clean and dry and neatly outfitted in a tea dress and matching jumper—though her jumpers were all designed to look like cardigans. She liked the little buttons, but her fingers couldn’t always handle slipping them in and out of holes. Her glasses were freshly polished and her hair was in a sleek bun. She’d taken her anti-inflammatories, her weakest painkillers, and the pills that protected her stomach lining from the damage caused by her other pills.

  Then she’d returned to the living room, largely ignored her bickering sisters, and written several lists: people to email, jobs to catch up on, mood and diet diaries to fill in. Last of all, she’d put a note in her journal, under the weekly to-do section. It was a single word.

  Red.

  She hadn’t been sure what else to put. What did one write about a man with hair like a fall of fire and silver rings on his fingers, a man who smiled at everyone and didn’t feel awkward about it, a man who was the exact opposite of boring Chloe Brown?