by Jo Lovett
The porter looked at her, a little open-mouthed, and then shook it. ‘Henry.’ He had an excellently gold-toothed smile. Should she tip him? She had no idea. She also had no pound coins on her, so it was kind of academic.
When they’d stepped out of the lift together and had all her suitcases outside the door of the flat, she said, ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t tip you because I have no cash on me at the moment but I am very grateful.’
‘No tip necessary.’ Henry flashed another gold smile. ‘An absolute pleasure. Anything else you need, just give me a shout.’
Cassie’s hand was a bit shaky as she put the key in the lock. The area was incredible, the building was swanky, in a good way, and the flat had looked nice in the photos, but it might not be. What if it wasn’t clean?
It was sparkling. Literally. Cassie could see that as soon as she opened the front door. She kicked her suitcases inside and closed the door behind her. There was a big open-plan kitchen/reception room ahead of her. The dark wood floor was extremely shiny. The floor-to-ceiling windows were so clean it was like they weren’t even there and the view out of them was spectacular in a London kind of way. She could see immaculate buildings and trees to one side, and ahead of her into Holland Park. Wow.
She really needed to wash her hands and face. The floor plan had been easy to memorise, because the whole thing was just a loo, a small utility, a study, the kitchen/reception room and three en-suite bedrooms, and she knew that the loo was the door to her right in the little hall.
As promised by the SwapBnB photos, the loo was very nice in a boutique hotel way, with dark brown and gold shimmery paper, dark brown matt stone tiles – the type that looked as though they’d been hand-delivered straight from a difficult-to-access Andean quarry – wall-hung toilet and a swish basin with funky taps. It looked smarter, less bland, in real life than in the photos. Very sophisticated. If James had chosen this décor himself, he wasn’t necessarily going to love Cassie’s style.
Where were the towel and hand soap? There were cleaning products in an – actually quite cool – almost-invisible, recessed cupboard in the wall but that was it. There was at least a loo roll, thank goodness.
Cassie dried her wet-but-not-soaped hands on the loo paper and went to investigate the rest of the flat.
The sitting room, like the loo, was very boutique-hotel. Tasteful artwork and a geometric, maybe silk, rug in shades of dark grey. Two enormous pale leather sofas, covered in lime-green cushions, and a grey velvet armchair were angled towards a gigantic wall-hung flatscreen TV. The dining table to one side of the room was modern and wooden, and the eight velvet dining chairs were the same colour as the sofa cushions.
She lowered herself down onto one of the sofas. Wow. That was a lot less comfortable than it looked. Like it was for show only.
Cassie’s stomach rumbled loudly. She hefted herself off the sofa to go over to the kitchen area.
It was all stainless steel. Cassie should definitely not have described her own kitchen as state-of-the-art. This was state-of-the-art. The appliances were incredibly shiny and unused-looking. How did anyone maintain that? The inside of the oven looked as though it had never seen a stray splash of anything.
In the middle of the – obviously shiny and sparkly – black granite island there were three bottles: champagne, red and white, with expensive-looking labels.
She found the built-in fridge after only three false door-opening starts. It was remarkably bright white and spotless inside. And remarkably empty of food. As was the freezer. There was in fact no food anywhere. The only food or drink of any kind in the entire flat were tap water and the wine, unless James kept food in the bedrooms, study or utility.
The utility was as smart as the kitchen and did not contain any food.
The study had another lovely view, brown panelling and grey wallpaper, a large desk and, obviously, no food.
The bedrooms were all enormous, with identical, modern, glossy-tiled shower rooms. They also obviously did not contain food. Or, unbelievably, bed linen. Or towels. All the cupboards in the bedrooms and utility and hall were almost entirely empty, other than of cleaning products and a vacuum cleaner. There were at least glasses, crockery and cutlery in the kitchen, and one (small) saucepan, a cheese grater and a spaghetti ladle.
So after having been on the road for about twenty-five mainly wide-awake hours, Cassie could sit on an uncomfortable sofa, she could lie down on a sheet-free mattress, and she could have a glass of water, wine or champagne. And she could do some cleaning or vacuuming.
But before she could eat or sleep or have a shower, she was going to have to go bloody shopping.
Honestly. Yes, the flat was perfect and you couldn’t help feeling grateful to someone when they’d left things in such an immaculate state, and provided wine, but would it not have been normal for James also to have left some milk and bread or something? And sheets and towels. Surely? Maybe when he’d been asking her to confirm that her passport was valid, she should have been checking whether or not he was planning to strip his flat bare.
Right, well, she was starving. She needed to have a shower and then she’d better go and find a supermarket.
Maybe she’d just drop James a quick text first, to ask him if there were any sheets or towels. Maybe they were in a cupboard that she hadn’t spotted. She could ask for café recommendations too, and whether there were any instructions for the appliances.
The shower was fab – powerful and hot. She used her dressing gown to dry herself, which worked less well than she’d thought it would because, while the dressing gown was made of towelling fabric, it was a lot less absorbent than an actual towel.
She wished she’d remembered to bring an adaptor for her hairdryer. It had been a really bad decision to wash her hair. It was usually her favourite thing about herself but today it wasn’t working in her favour. There was too much of it and it was still dripping down her back. Maybe she could borrow a hairdryer from a neighbour. And that was an idea she would have been better to have had before she got in the shower.
‘Hello?’ The next-door neighbour was a very dapper man, probably in his early seventies, with a neat moustache and wearing a yellow V-necked argyle jumper and what Cassie would have to describe as slacks. He was looking at her blankly.
‘Hello. I’m Cassie. I’ve done a house swap with James next door. I don’t know if he mentioned it?’ The dapper man wasn’t looking remotely as though he knew what she was talking about.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’ve moved in next door. James and I have swapped homes for a few months. So I’m your new neighbour. Cassie.’
‘I see. Hello. I don’t think I know James.’ That wasn’t a surprise given that a lot of averagely friendly people didn’t know their neighbours in cities, and James seemed a lot less friendly than average.
‘He owns the flat but I’m going to be living there for the next few months. I was wondering if I could ask an enormous favour. Could I borrow a hairdryer, if you have one? And maybe you’d like to come over for a cup of tea in the next few days?’
‘I’m Anthony. I live here alone.’ He put his hand out and Cassie shook it. ‘Great to meet you and yes to both. How nice to have a friendly neighbour.’ Exactly. Unlike James.
A reply from James came through as she was going back into the flat. He’d had new bed linen and towels delivered to the island and had presumed she’d do the same for herself in London. And he recommended a café called Luigi’s. He didn’t mention the appliances.
Cassie had already bought expensive new bed linen for James and had nearly broken her back making all the beds in one morning. Hard not to find that annoying.
It was what it was, though. There was nothing she could do about it now, other than go shopping this afternoon, and for now go and check out James’s café recommendation.
Luigi’s was quite near Notting Hill Gate Tube station, but on a side road out of the way of all the bustle. Inside, it smelled deliciously of warm bread and pastries
.
Cassie sat at a table in the corner, next to the windows, with a herby squash and chickpea salad, some very moreish olive bread and her Kindle. James was right; the food was great. And the café was great too. She had an excellent view of passers-by and the pastel-painted terraced houses opposite. This would be a great place to work with her laptop.
Right now, it was very relaxing sitting here, reading a little, watching the world go by, reading again. This was something you didn’t get on an island where you knew everyone. By the time she was eating a delectable raspberry tart for pudding, she had the sensation that she was on an enjoyable weekend city break. London was great, and the flat was extremely clean and well furnished – ignoring the sofas – and in a great location. She’d probably been too harsh on James.
Five, literally five, hours later, after trips to the supermarket and a department store, and a nightmare journey back on the Tube grappling with an enormous duvet box and pillows as well as the sheets and towels, she was standing in the bedroom in the flat, sweating – actually sweating – from trying to get the bloody sheet onto the incredibly heavy mattress, and she knew that she hadn’t been harsh enough about James.
Making the bed wasn’t going to work. She’d bought a fitted sheet, obviously, because she wasn’t a masochist and she didn’t want to be ironing sheets, but it did not in fact fit. She’d definitely bought the right size, but the sheet wasn’t going on, because the mattress was deeper than the seams on the sheet. She got her phone out. And Google confirmed that there was such a thing as an extra-deep mattress, for which you needed extra-deep sheets. Maybe, maybe, James could have bloody mentioned, knowing that she was going to be buying bed linen, that she needed deep ones.
She really wanted to say something to him. She shouldn’t. Sod it, she was going to. She was really tired and, yes, she felt cranky. She sent him a quick text. And immediately regretted it. It was easy to forget to mention things.
The doorbell rang as she was staring at the ‘deep fitted sheets’ page of the John Lewis website.
A tall, blonde woman was standing outside the door. Her clothes were conservative and expensive-looking: navy narrow-legged trousers and a navy silk top, with a cream jacket. She was beautiful but definitely suffered from ‘resting bitch face’. Unless she’d arranged her features like that purposely.
‘Are you the cleaner?’ She really did not look friendly. Cassie hoped she wasn’t a neighbour.
‘Nope. I’m living here for a few months.’
‘What?’ Now the woman had a moving bitch face. ‘Where’s James?’ She didn’t wait for an answer but pushed past Cassie, through the hall and straight into the sitting room.
Cassie followed her in, fast. ‘Excuse me. James has moved out. He left last week and I’m now living here.’
‘Nonsense. Where is he?’ Wow. The woman’s voice was trembling and, from the looks of her screwed-up face, it was with anger.
‘It isn’t nonsense. He doesn’t live here at the moment.’ Why was Cassie engaging with her?
‘What? Where the hell does he live?’
‘I don’t know.’ Cassie didn’t want to be giving her own address to this woman. ‘James has moved out and I’ve rented the flat. I’m sorry but could you leave?’ Seriously. So ridiculously British of her. The woman had barged in and was swearing at her, and Cassie was using the word sorry.
She’d definitely been too British about things. The woman wasn’t moving towards the front door; she was walking towards the bedrooms. And flinging doors open. Wardrobe doors. She was literally searching the flat.
‘Please stop,’ Cassie said. This was awful. Normal life didn’t prepare you for a seemingly deranged woman hunting through the flat you’d just moved into. She had no idea how to stop her. Now the woman was riffling through the piles of John Lewis bags Cassie’s new bed linen and towels were in, like any kind of remotely average-sized man could be hiding under them. ‘I’m sorry but I’m going to have to call the police if you don’t leave.’ The police. Security. Cassie had a buzzer. ‘And security.’ She was already on her way over to the button.
Henry answered immediately and told her he’d be straight up.
He was fast. The woman was still checking out the study when he arrived, while Cassie stood in the hall saying, completely ineffectually, ‘Will you please stop that?’
Henry got the woman out of the flat in well under a minute and then knocked on the door and put his head round it when Cassie said, ‘Hi, Henry, thank you.’
‘I can only apologise,’ he told her. ‘She must have got past me when I was signing for a delivery.’
‘Do you know her?’
‘Yes. Emily. Mr Grey’s ex.’
‘Wow.’
‘Yeah.
‘Well.’ Cassie really wanted to ask Henry for every detail he had. Obviously, she couldn’t. Not until she knew him a bit better, anyway. ‘Thank you so much for your help. That’s the first time I’ve ever experienced anything like that.’
‘Would you like me to call the police?’
‘I don’t think so. Although is she likely to come back?’
‘This is the first time for a while.’
‘Maybe we should call the police. How many times has she been?’
‘Six or seven, I’d say. This is the first time she’s got back up here. I’m very sorry.’
‘Honestly, it really isn’t your fault. You really shouldn’t blame yourself.’ Surely James should blame himself, though, for not mentioning his stalker to Cassie.
Seven
James
James turned towards the shore to begin the sprint finish to his swim. There was a woman there, waving manically at him. She was shouting. Something about neighbours. James didn’t really want to spend his Monday morning speaking to someone who might be great to talk to but might equally be a younger version of Laura and bombard him with personal questions.
How was it possible that in a large city you could avoid your thousands of neighbours but on a small island they were in your face the whole time? He waved, turned round and swam away from her.
When he got back, the woman had gone, good news.
He checked through the messages on his phone on his way through the garden to the house. There was one from Ella, meaning that he now owed her about four texts or calls. Guilt, again. Maybe he’d send her a message later, with some photos of the beach for his nieces.
After a shower he discovered that the Wi-Fi was still on the blink. It had been erratic all morning apart from first thing.
Okay. He could get round this. He could work in the garden and hotspot himself from his phone until it was up and running again.
Working in the garden wasn’t bad. Incredibly different from sitting in a London office. Something to consider in promoting get-away-from-it-all tourism opportunities to workaholics.
Yeah, this was great, really.
No. What was that? It was a raindrop on his screen.
It was a bloody deluge. James grabbed his laptop and sprinted for the house. Extraordinary how fast that rain had come. Laura hadn’t been wrong when she’d said, ‘If you don’t like the weather here, wait ten minutes.’
The Wi-Fi was still down. So what the hell was he going to do now?
He was going to find some shelter for his phone just outside Cassie’s study window so that he could continue the hotspotting but work inside.
A golf umbrella, a large bowl and a rock worked well as a phone shelter but now he was on the other side of a wall from his phone. Christ, this was frustrating. Bloody countryside.
He went outside at lunchtime to check his phone. He had a message from Cassie. About bed sheets, unbelievably. Another one came through as he was holding his phone. What now? Another housekeeping question? Should he have bought her toothpaste? Left her details of local knitting clubs and piano recitals?
Oh, Jesus.
Emily came round. Asked if I was your cleaner. Barged straight into the flat and searched for you. I h
ad to call security.
Shit. So unacceptable. He was going to have to call Cassie.
‘Hi, James.’
‘Hi. Cassie. I’m so sorry about Emily. Are you alright? What happened?’
‘I am okay, thank you, but if I’m honest, it wasn’t very pleasant. She wouldn’t believe that you’d moved out, and started hunting through the flat for you. She actually started going through all my stuff, like you’d be hidden in there. She didn’t leave until Henry escorted her out.’
‘That’s awful. I can only apologise. She’s been before but I didn’t think she’d come back, because I threatened the police if she did anything else.’
‘I kind of wish you’d warned me if there was even the tiniest chance of her coming back.’
‘Yep, again, I’m very sorry. I really didn’t think she would but I take your point,’ he said. ‘I’ll call Security and speak to them and I’m happy to call the police.’
‘Thank you but I’ve already done it. I made a complaint but I didn’t press charges. I think Emily was really shocked when she realised that she’d barged into a stranger’s home and she knows that I called the police, so I don’t think she’ll come back. And I had a long chat with Henry. He felt awful. I told him obviously it wasn’t his fault.’
‘Well, thank you for speaking to Henry and the police. I’m incredibly sorry that this happened and that you had to deal with it.’
‘Thank you. No problem. Well, I mean, it was a problem, but I do realise now that it wasn’t really your fault.’
‘Hopefully that’s the end of it,’ James said.
‘Yes. Okay, so goodbye then.’
‘Apologies again,’ he said. ‘Goodbye.’
Damn. Cassie shouldn’t have been dragged into his sordid nightmare-ex situation. He should probably ask Dee to send flowers.
Dee picked up the phone immediately. ‘Flowers,’ she said. ‘Absolutely. What’s she like? Any particular preferences?’