Page 18 of Neighbor from Hell
I gaze at my one-dish meal and I can’t help feeling a pang of regret that I ditched his tea invite. I know regretting such a thing is dumb, but nonetheless, it feels valid. After all the energy I expended today, a proper meal is all I can think about. Hewould have probably had it served on the best China, and there would have been finger sandwiches, fancy cakes, and all kinds of English delicacies, but instead, I’m being forced to down this soup and be grateful.
Principles are more important than a great meal, I tell myself sadly. With a sigh, I pour my poor-woman’s meal into a bowl, and head outside.
There is an old rocking chair in the corner of the yard, the weathered wood half-hidden by a patch of tall grass, and I settle into it. It’s surprisingly comfortable and rocks me gently. The wild grasses brush my legs, and I’m grateful for it. It completely hides me from the world, from that manor looming across the hedge.
I cradle the hot bowl and slowly sip the soup, its heat spreading through me. Peace sinks in, and I let my eyes drift upwards towards the sounds of the birds. And that’s when I see the red squirrel. He is sitting on the branch of a tree, and watching me with intelligent, inquisitive eyes. I have never seen a squirrel in real life and I stare at it fascinated. I wonder whether it is male or female. Male, I think. Too bold to be a girl.
“Hello,” I call softly.
He makes a little clicking sound and with a swish of his extravagantly bushy tail, scampers off, disappearing between the dense leaves. Suddenly, I’m glad I didn’t go for tea at the manor. I’m happy I stayed and met my adorable tenant. I decide to win him over with lots of nuts and call him Jimmy.
Earlier, I rescued an old photo album tucked under a pile of books. I head back in to grab it. The cover’s cracked and peeling at the spine. I open the stiff pages slowly, and a past I never knew stares back at me.
My mom, young, maybe sixteen, her hair wild and blonde like mine, laughing in a sundress by a river. She looks so happy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this carefree. This is well beforeshe married my dad, before Grandma and her stopped talking, before everything went cold and silent between them. I trace her face with my fingertip, the plastic covering cool and smooth.
She looks very much like Megan, my older sister.
The air is heavy with the smell of earth, and I sit there, alone, and remember Megan—how she’d hum off-key in the kitchen, how she’d hug me tight even when I squirmed away. She’s been gone a few years now from cancer, and the ache is dull but steady, like a bruise I keep pressing. I miss her so goddamn much it hurts, but I didn’t come here to wallow and be sad. I quickly shut the album. Later. I will look at the photos later.
I let my mind drift, and it instantly sets sail towards him—Hugh, the Duke, or whatever the hell he is. I caught a glimpse through my upstairs window of his car peeling out of the manor grounds hours ago, that zippy Aston Martin roaring down the lane. A flash of bright yellow against a background of green and brown. I didn’t even know they made Aston Martins in that cheeky color. I thought they only came in classy gray or black.
This image has flashed more times in my head than I care to admit but I really can’t help it. I am curious about him. I’d expected him to roll in a long black car, sleek and serious like his attitude, but that yellow? It’s bold and fun. Perhaps it’s a crack in the icy wall he puts up, and that makes him interesting, more than I want him to be.
I try to shove him out of my head, the birds, the house, the grass, anything other than him, but he keeps creeping back—those gray eyes, that dreamy accent. I blame that stupid dream. That’s what has got me all twisted up. He’s handsome. Actually, he’s too handsome. I catch myself wondering why I’m dodging him so hard if he is so irresistible to me.
What’s the point?
Leaning back in the chair, I ponder the reason why I’m so dead set against him even for a meaningless fling. Probablybecause I came here for a change and I’m serious about it. I’m dead-set on shaking off the old me, the one who was stuck in a tiny apartment, in a dead-end job.
This unfortunately, means no leaning on men or relationships as a distraction, no matter how tempting he is to me. This, I'm sure, is the way to go.
For instance, today, even though I’m bone-tired—muscles sore, hands raw—I feel something else, something I haven’t felt in a long time. Peace. It’s a sort of freedom to do my own thing in this messy, foreign place. It’s still small and fragile, but it’s there, and it makes me believe that maybe coming here wasn’t the worst call I’ve ever made.
The sky has still got a lot of light in it, and I check my phone to see just how far the town is from my cottage. More than anything, I would like some snacks and maybe even a bottle of white wine. I see that it is twenty-five minutes by bicycle, which is honestly not too bad, because I found an old blue and white bicycle while investigating the shed. It was under some tarp, propped up against a wall, rusted but intact.
Excitedly, I jump up and head to the shed to fish it out. I wheel it into the yard and examine it closely. The tires are a little flat, and the chain is clinking loose, but it’s still very usable. I grab a rag, some oil from a shelf in the shed, and spend time cleaning it carefully—wiping down the frame, coaxing the pedals to turn. Then I pump up the tires.
It works, mostly, squeaks a little but it rolls, and I grin, picturing myself pedaling into town, the wind in my face. But then I realize, I’m too wiped to ride for twenty-five minutes—my legs feel like lead and my eyes are so heavy that I could literally fall asleep on my feet.
I lean the bike against the sun-warmed wall, and decide to postpone my trip to tomorrow, bright and early, when I’ve got some fight back in me.
Taking the empty soup bowl with me, I shuffle tiredly inside and collapse on the couch. I’ll get up in a while and have a hot shower and brush my teeth, but just for a moment, I let the quiet wrap around me. No deliverables, no worries, and no obligations loom over me. This is exactly what I have been longing for. For so long.
A slow smile of happiness lights up my face.
Chapter
Thirteen
HUGH
Icome to my surroundings slowly. The world is a blur of muted light and soft edges. The air is thick with the scent of wood polish and lavender, a smell so familiar it’s almost invisible, but it nags at me, pulling me awake. I’m not supposed to be here. My body feels leaden, sunk deep into a mattress, but the sheets are cool and crisp against my bare chest. I blink and the ornate plasterwork in the ceiling above me comes into sharp focus.
A dull ache pulses behind my eyes—not a hangover, just a brain-deep headache. I run a hand over the stubble on my face. The light’s wrong—too sharp, slicing through a crack in the heavy curtains. A window must be open somewhere because the city’s hum has already seeped in, a distant drone of traffic I’d kill to silence.
Fuck. I didn’t make it back to Montrose. I’m in my London townhouse.
I feel like I’m wading through mud, but I don’t linger. Sharp and fast is always best. I swing my legs out of bed, my bare feet smacking the cold hardwood, pajama bottoms hanging loose on my hips, chest bare as I shake off the fog. I run a hand through my hair, messy from sleep, and just then, a ring of the doorbell cuts through the haze. The sharp sound rattling in my skull.
