Red,
Our in-person consultation efforts failed miserably due to a lack of focus on both sides. From now on, email seems the most efficient choice. Questions:
Do you own a domain name, and if so, where is it registered?
Do you have any ideas or examples of websites you find pleasing/effective?
What is/are the main purpose(s) of this site? Exposure, direct sales, portfolio, etc.?
Do you participate in social media, and if so, which platforms?
Do you have an ideal time line in mind?
Rgds.,
Chloe
Rgds., she said, like she was too bloody busy to type out the full word. And anyway, wasn’t that email-speak for fuck off? But she was the one in his inbox, talking about things like “a lack of focus on both sides.”
That phrase in particular gnawed at him, the way his granddad’s soft old mongrel used to gnaw at people’s knuckles. Both sides, huh? He wondered if her lack of focus had anything in common with his. If she felt this insistent, dizzying tug toward someone she should barely like, the way he did. The idea made something inside him coil up tight, like a spring. Made him remember the wide-eyed look she’d given him when they’d tumbled onto the bed together yesterday.
He must be petty as hell, because he hoped prim and proper Chloe was an absolute mess over him, that she’d stayed up last night thinking about him with every ounce of the frustration he’d felt over her. No—double the frustration, just because.
Imagining her tangling the sheets as she rolled around, irritated, unable to get his name out of her head, made him feel . . .
“What are you grinning at?” Vik demanded, craning his neck to see the phone.
Red locked the screen. “Email.”
“Since when do you get so jolly over emails? Hate to be the one to tell you this, but those foreign princes are usually—”
“Ah, fuck off.”
“Who was it from?” Vik asked, nudging Red’s shoulder. “Because I’ll use my considerable stalking talents to find out anyway, so you might as well just tell me.”
Red sighed, wishing that was a joke. “It’s from a web designer. I’m getting a site done.”
“No fucking way. Look at you, off like a shot all of a sudden. You’re on it.”
Red put the phone in his pocket, already mentally typing his reply. “Yeah. I suppose I am.”
* * *
Dear Chloe,
I don’t think we failed miserably. You didn’t seem miserable on the back of my bike, unless I misunderstood the screaming.
And, about yesterday—I already knew I couldn’t focus, but I had no idea you couldn’t, either. What distracted you? I’m curious.
So, these questions.
I don’t have any of the shit you need for a website.
Copying sites I like is a smart idea, so I went and found some for you. Is this what doing homework feels like? I usually skipped mine.
The site is for exposure, but I like the idea of direct sales. Would that mean building a shop?
No social media. Hate that shit.
As for time line . . . I’m not picky. This is a favor, after all. Fit me in around your actual work.
Speaking of favors—where are we at with this list of yours?
Regards (see how easy that was?),
Red
Red,
No, I wasn’t miserable on the back of your racing death machine. As for my lack of focus: concentration is something I occasionally struggle with. Not that I allow it to impact my work.
Re: direct sales, yes, we would build a shop into the site, and you—through that avenue, at least—would control your own sales, etc. Examples attached.
An Instagram feed on the site would add a dynamic, social element. As an artist, it seems wise to have an account. Consider it.
I don’t think we should discuss my list until we’ve at least hammered out these details. You helped me tick off an item yesterday. I should start my end of the deal before we go forward. I don’t want you to feel you’re being taken advantage of.
REGARDS,
Chloe
DEAR Chloe,
If you weren’t miserable on the racing death machine, what were you? Describe it to me, just so I can make sure I haven’t traumatized you.
I’d definitely like a shop. The direct sales thing sounds right up my alley, and if I don’t sell some of these pieces soon I’ll end up drowning in canvas.
I’m not joining Instagram, though.
And I don’t feel taken advantage of. You’re really into balance, huh? Why is that?
(Since you did so well with regards, let’s push it a bit.) Best wishes,
Red
To one Mr. Redford Morgan,
You haven’t traumatized me. The ride . . . surprised me. But I liked it. Please don’t worry. I really did. And even if I hadn’t, I liked making progress on the list.
The shop is a go, then. As for Instagram, you really should get over your Too Cool for School reluctance and just sign up. This behavior is modern hipsterism.
I don’t think anyone needs a specific reason to avoid incurring excessive debt. We’ve made a deal and I am taking it seriously. The end.
Best,
Chloe
Dear Ms. Chloe Button Brown,
Glad to hear you’re not traumatized. Confession: I already knew you liked it, because afterward, you stared at me like I’d just rocked your world. Which is a great look on you, by the way. Feel free to shower me in hero worship more often.
But—let me get one thing straight—are you saying that finishing the list and enjoying the list are two separate issues, or something? Isn’t the list made up of things you want? Things you fantasize about, maybe?
I’m really hoping you didn’t just call me a hipster, by the way. I’ve read that sentence like ten times, hoping you wouldn’t dare. I am not a fucking hipster. I don’t even have a mustache. I just think Instagram is where self-esteem goes to die.
“Debt” is an interesting word to use, when you’re talking about two people helping each other out. Are you scared I’ll help a little too much, and you won’t be able to help me back, and next thing you know, I’ll be banging your door down like a bailiff and I’ll take your laptop as retribution? Because that’s definitely not going to happen.
Yours sincerely,
Red
Dear Red,
(You write emails as if they’re letters, and it’s ridiculous, and now you’ve got me doing it. Disgraceful.)
“Button”? I do have a middle name, but that definitely isn’t it. As for my supposed hero worship of you, I am sorry to say that you have made a mistake. The truth is, I am occasionally mesmerized by how outrageously ginger you are. I do hope that doesn’t hurt your feelings.
The list has nothing to do with “fantasies.” I told you before, it’s about building life experience. I suppose I should tell you that I was almost hit by a car. When my life flashed before my eyes, it was rather uneventful, so I’m taking the necessary steps to rectify that. It’s really quite simple.
I think your definition of a hipster is roughly a decade behind the times, which frankly makes you even more of a hipster. Read my words now, very carefully: You. Need. An. Instagram. Account.
I’m so glad we had that talk.
I’m also very happy to hear that you don’t ever plan on trying to take my laptop, because, while I do spend a lot of time indoors, the length of a murder sentence might be a touch too long, and prison beds would absolutely ruin my back.
Yours, supposedly,
Chloe
Dear Chloe,
(Emails are internet letters, so my way is the right way. You’re welcome.)
“Button” because you always seem to be wearing them, and I don’t know where you find all those old-fashioned clothes. What’s your actual middle name? I bet it’s something ridiculous, like Fenella.
You should be really proud of yourself, by the way. It takes a lot of guts t
o admit to a man that you’re mesmerized by his amazing hair, and I appreciate the compliment. I promise not to bring it up too often. Once a day, tops.
That’s rough about the whole “near death” thing. Really, it is. But—and I’m not trying to tell you what to do here—but don’t you think, if your life ever flashes before your eyes again, you should remember all the shit you enjoyed? Rather than the stuff other people care about? I don’t know. Just a thought.
As for the Instagram account . . . you really are so damn bossy. I thought maybe the bossiness was a case of speaking before you think, but you’re typing these emails out. You’re reading them back to yourself. And you’re still so fucking bossy. Incredible. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m not even complaining anymore. I respect it.
Still not getting an Instagram account, though.
Yours SINCERELY,
Red
Dear Red,
Buttons add a certain dignity to an outfit, in my opinion. And I’ll have you know that my clothes are actually retro, and they are very stylish.
My middle name is Sophia. I suppose it has a similar ring to Fenella, but it’s not quite as ridiculous. Sorry to disappoint.
Perhaps I should’ve been clearer on the hair—mesmerized is such an ambiguous word. What I meant to say was, is it true that gingers have no souls?
The list is really not up for debate, since it has already been immortalized, and since I am committed, and also because I’m right and you’re wrong. I trust you understand.
I’m starting to think that your aversion to Instagram hides some deeper-seated issue. You mentioned it being where self-esteem goes to die. I hope you know I’m not suggesting that you use it for selfies and the like, though really, there is no need to be shy. You generally look passable.
Yours sincerely (this is beyond silly),
Chloe
Dear Chloe,
Just so you know, I like your clothes. Not that I go around telling women about their clothes, like anyone cares, but I realized it sounded like I might not like them, and that isn’t accurate. I know you’re into accuracy. So. There we go.
Although I hate to break it to you about those buttons, Button—they’re more cute than dignified. Sorry.
Sophia isn’t even slightly ridiculous, but I forgive you. And, on the subject of my soul, the rumors are true. Don’t have one. So watch your step.
If you want to talk about my Instagram “issues,” I want to talk about how hung up you are on this list, and why. Does that sound like a fun conversation? Because I’m ready when you are.
Good to know I look passable, though. For a soulless ginger, and everything.
Yours sincerely (not silly),
Red
Dear Red,
Well, thank you. You are, of course, correct; I always look excellent. But if you actually intend to start calling me Button, I may sew one into your tongue.
While it would be very thrilling to think I rode on the back of a soulless demon’s motorbike, I feel compelled to point out that your behavior suggests you do in fact have a soul. For example, the way you let that very boring man from the third floor barge up to you whenever he likes to whine about the lightbulb that keeps going out. Clearly, he’s doing something questionable with that lightbulb. And yet, you keep replacing it.
I have seen sense and decided to abandon the Instagram topic. For now.
And, since I feel like you might have misunderstood, I wasn’t being serious before. You really do look fine. Nice, even. And you have lovely hair.
Yours sincerely,
Chloe
Dear Button,
I would love to see you try and sew something into my tongue. Really. I need to witness this in action. I’m sure you have a detailed plan. Are there drugs involved, a good whack over the head, or are you just planning to hold me down somehow?
I can’t really comment on a tenant’s behavior, but I can confirm that, considering the number of times I’ve been up to SOMEONE’S flat to change the same fucking lightbulb, I really must have a soul. An extra shiny, golden one.
And don’t worry; I knew you were joking. I was joking, too. But I might fish for compliments more often because you really snapped up that bait.
By the way—you’ve now spent the whole day emailing me, a client. That’s a lot of hours, really. So maybe we should talk about your list tomorrow, just to make sure everything’s even.
Yours,
Red
Dear Red,
You’ll soon get to see my violent plan in action, since you flagrantly ignored my button threat, and extorted compliments from me, too. Come over tomorrow when you finish work, and I will attack. Or show you the list. We’ll have to wait and see.
Yours,
Chloe
Chapter Nine
For some reason, emailing Red all day made Chloe alarmingly upbeat. Of course, the universe put a stop to that cheer the moment she went to bed by cursing her with a numb right foot that kept her awake all night.
Some people (like singularly unhelpful and clearly underqualified physical therapists, unsympathetic GPs, and that supremely irritating second cousin who ate all the stuffing at Christmas) assumed that a lack of feeling in certain body parts shouldn’t affect sleep at all. Her insomnia in such situations, they said, was something she could easily overcome. Chloe liked to remind those people that the human brain tended to keep track of all body parts, and was prone to panic when one of those parts went offline. Actually, what Chloe liked to do was imagine hitting those people with a brick. But she restrained herself to scathing explanations and used her brick-hitting fantasies to occupy her when sleep refused to come.
After hours of numb-footed hell, she dragged herself up to feed Smudge, who had spent the night beside her offering moral support. If she was going to get any work done today, she needed to feed herself, too. She should brew green tea for the antioxidants and make a healthy breakfast rich in whole grains for slow-release energy. However, since that sounded extremely difficult and her body ached as if she’d been stomped on by a god, she improvised by eating handfuls of Coco Pops straight from the box and gulping apple juice from the carton.
Thus fortified, and wrapped up in her favorite plush, gray onesie, she settled on the sofa and opened her laptop. Sitting at her desk wasn’t happening today, no matter how much fine detail her monitors allowed. In the end, though, Chloe’s choice of computer didn’t matter—because, after 0.5 seconds of staring at a pixelated screen, she developed a sudden headache. Or perhaps someone had shot her. It felt roughly the same.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I will not be defeated.”
Smudge miaowed supportively.
She opened her eyes and got to work.
* * *
Hours later, a knock came at the door. Chloe sat bolt upright and realized three things in quick succession:
She had fallen asleep. Oops.
The flat had warmed up considerably since this morning, because she was now far too hot in her onesie.
It was after five o’clock and Redford Morgan was here.
“Fudge,” she muttered darkly, swiping the drool off her cheek. Judging by the fine lines and indents under her fingers, she had a mess of pillow creases on her face, too. Wonderful.
She glowered at Smudge, who was stretched out across her PlayStation with outrageous disregard for the house rules. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
He waved his tale with open belligerence.
“Oh, you are useless. I bet you wouldn’t nudge me awake during a fire. Get off there, would you?”
He casually kicked out his back paw, knocking her copy of Overwatch off the TV cabinet.
“I swear,” she huffed, rising to her feet and adjusting the Velcro straps of her wrist supports. “I’ve no idea what to do about your attitude. This is your last warning.”
She tried to sound stern, but as she hurried to answer the door, she heard mocking kitty laughter echoing behind her.
Still, she couldn’t worry about feline insubordination right now. She was too busy worrying about other things, like how utterly unprepared she was for Redford’s arrival. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go. She’d had a plan—one that involved her looking calm and put together, not half asleep in a onesie designed to make her resemble a giant lemur. She hovered awkwardly by her own front door, smoothing flustered hands over her hair, wondering if her and Red’s increasingly familiar emails yesterday meant they were now proper friends, or if she’d simply read too much into things.
Well, she was about to find out.
Her heart pounding thickly at the back of her throat, Chloe opened the door. And there he was, her exact opposite: cool, calm, hands in his pockets, a slow, easy smile spreading over his face. Her stomach swooped along the roller coaster curve of his mouth, the defined cupid’s bow a pulse-racing drop. She ordered her lungs to continue breathing normally, but it was too late; they’d already decided to gulp down air like it was going out of style.
“Hey,” Red said.
“Hmm,” she replied, because coherent speech was for other people. She looked away from his disturbing smile and found herself confronted, instead, by his eyes: warm, pale green, like sun-baked grass, with fine lines at the corners that might as well be a smile in themselves. Her cheeks flushed hot. She abandoned his face entirely, in favor of his body. He was wearing a gray T-shirt that clung slightly to his broad chest, and black jeans that hinted at his heavy thighs. She could just lick him. South of the belt.
“Chloe,” he said.
She looked up sharply.
He arched an eyebrow, cocking his head at her until his hair slid over his shoulders like silk. Had she told him, yesterday, during those funny, giddy, friendly emails, that he had lovely hair? Divine would’ve been more accurate.
Get a Life, Chloe Brown Page 11