Page 68 of The Unraveling

Fuck the rich, I think. Then I remember that my mother used to say that all the time. She meant it as a double entendre. I suppose I do, too.

“You know, I grew up with nothing. My father and his father didn’t get along. He wouldn’t let him have any of the family money. My granddad thought my dad would gamble it all away. And he probably would have, to be honest, as that’s how he tried to make up for it. At horse races, in casinos.” He walks, hands in his pockets, to the center of the room, where he looks up at the soaring ceiling. “My mom made money working down at the local pub. I worked doing odd jobs wherever I could for people in the village. My dad drank himself to death after too many bad bets. My grandfather gave the money to my mother. Said he thought she deserved it. He was right. She was a good woman.”

“Is she still alive?” I ask, getting closer to him.

He shakes his head. “No. Neither’s my granddad. It’s just me and my younger sister. She’s inherited my dad’s bad decision making. God knows where she is. If I’m honest, when I bought this place, I bought it and designed it thinking she might come stay here. Might get herself together. But she’d rather wake up in the middle of the afternoon, party ’til daybreak, and find men to fuck and give her drugs. Once she got her inheritance, it ruined her life. She lost her ambition. I’m pretty sure she’s partied it all away.”

“I thought you got this place because you and Clementine were on the rocks,” I say. I’m not trying to catch him in a lie, but I realize suddenly that it might sound that way.

“That was part of it. Especially once it became clear Marian was never going to set foot here. I have a lot of trouble pleasing the women in my life, for some reason,” he says. “My mother was never happy. My wife and I are separating. She rarely wants anything to do with me. My sister would rather rely on strangers than on me.”

“Maybe it’s them, not you,” I say. “I don’t know, I haven’t known you long. You might be a monster. But you don’t seem like it.”

His eyes find mine, and he smiles. “If it’s me, I can control it. If it’s not, then…well. I can’t. I guess that’s why I keep thinking if I do a bit more, work a bit harder, try to be better, then maybe I can change things.”

For the first time since I met him, his guard seems down. He’s vulnerable. My draw to him starts to deepen, to crack into something more as I watch him.

I tend to run from vulnerability. To hide from intimacy. I’m not the type to be drawn in by a sob story. I heard my mom spin a million lies to get what she needed. I know people just say what they need to in order to get by. I know people don’t like to admit the power of pity. But I believe Alistair. I feel like there’s nothing he could possibly want from me. And for some reason, he’s dropped his cold exterior.

“You letting me stay here is such a huge gift,” I say. “I really appreciate you for that.”

“I just want to help,” he says. “You stay here as long as you want. I hope you stay for as long as you’re with the RNB, or until you meet some nice guy and you decide to move on. It’s yours as long as you want it.”

I don’t know what to say, so I just nod and say, “Thank you.”

He takes his hands out of his pockets, puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got to go.”

He doesn’t explain any further and I can’t help but wonder where he’s going.

“Oh, of course,” I say, feeling a little shy now. “Definitely.”

“I hope you don’t mind me not giving you the tour. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I’ll have some groceries sent over in the morning while you’re at rehearsal. Just leave a list in the kitchen. If you don’t, I’ll just send over some salmon.”

I look at him, thinking he’s serious, but I can see that he’s kidding. Maybe he’s not as dour as he seems. Maybe he’s just very dry.

“Okay. Thank you.”

He gets in the elevator, and as the doors close, he says, “Good night, Jocelyn.”

“Good night.”

And then I’m alone.

Holy shit.

I look around for a few minutes, then figure out the sound system and put on a radio station made for Alistair. Hidden speakers throughout the flat start to play “Rock On” by David Essex.

There are two stunning bedrooms, but it’s clear which is the primary. It has a creamy duvet on a plush, king-sized bed and fur rugs on either side. For some reason I feel strange about sleeping in that one, so I choose the ever so slightly smaller—yet equally gorgeous—one with the enticingly warm-looking velvet duvet in dusty rose. I drag my bag to it, then change into my pajamas.

As I head back to the kitchen I pass a darkly wooded office with books and encyclopedias and priceless-looking tchotchkes.

The whole place is worthy of Architectural Digest. Back in the kitchen, I open the glass-doored fridge and find bottles of San Pellegrino. I help myself to one, and then as I’m opening it I hear my phone buzz on the marble counter. I lean over to see a text.

I don’t have the number saved, so I don’t know who sent it, but when I see the text, I freeze.

Don’t trust him.

Chapter Twenty

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