Page 9 of Unravelling: Aria & Crispin
Back then, his name would pop up in the suggestions on her mobile. The society pages loved him. Always at some gala with some poised woman on his arm. A blonde with courtroom charm, a model with skin like deep mahogany and a glittering smile. Once, an Indian doctor who looked like she might have stepped out of Vogue.
And of course, Helga.
The Nordic one. Perfectly pedigreed. Cool and composed. She made sense in his world. Her smile held when the flashbulbs went off. Alice, Crispin's sister, had attended Guildford High School with her.
Aria had Googled her once, or maybe three times.
Just to see. And to remind herself that their relationship? Situationship? -it had a short shelf life.
There had been whole stretches when she didn't hear from Crispin-sometimes weeks. Then a text:You'd like the mural on 3rd and Clement.Or he'd show up, hair damp from rain, smile crooked, and they'd fall into their familiar rhythm again. Coffee. Quiet. That charged, electric feeling of almost...
She straightened the envelopes, returning to the present.
The house was still. The scent of polish mingled with blooming hydrangeas from the open window. April was here and so was a hint of spring.
She was no stranger to longing, but this was something else. Like something precious was slipping through her fingers.
Downstairs, the antique grandfather clock struck twelve.
Aria stepped back from the alcove, smoothing the cloth along her wrist. There was more to do-more silver to shine, more rooms to return to perfection, and only an hour to do it before her next job.
But inside, something stirred again.
Just that old, familiar pull. She had learned to ignore it, but there it was again.
The longing for something that may never be.
Chapter 8
Aria
Aria shook herself out of the memory. The warmth of that slow memory faded beneath the chill of the Lackenby's pristine silence. She blinked, forced her shoulders square, and tightened her grip on the duster. Melancholy had no place here, especially not while she was on someone else's time.
With five minutes to spare, she finished wiping the last surface in the drawing room and tugged off her gloves. The envelope sat where it always did, discreetly placed on the fireplace mantle, sealed. She tore it open quickly, counting the notes with a practised hand before stuffing them deep into her backpack. Then she was out, careful to shut the door quietly behind her.
No sign of Mr. Lackenby again today, thank God.
The man gave her the creeps-always too close, always too slow to look away. She half expected him to reappear from his study like some old cat skulking through velvet curtains. But today, the house had stayed hushed and watchful. She'd escaped unbothered.
Which meant she had just enough time to make her way to her final and favourite job of the day.
She caught the tube to Hampstead, stomach growling slightly, and sank into a corner seat, tucking her backpack between her feet. The carriage rattled along, lulling her into that familiar, in-between stillness, neither here nor there.
With a sigh, she reached into her bag and pulled out the crumpled brown paper bag he'd left that morning.
Crispin never said anything when he did things like that, just left them behind, as though food appearing from nowhere didn't count as intimacy.
The pistachio topping had mostly fallen off, and the toast had long since grown cold, but the edges still smelled faintly of honey and cinnamon. She unwrapped it slowly, careful not to tear the already-soft paper. Then she ate it in small, reverent bites, her fingers brushing crumbs from her coat. It was absurd, how much it meant. A piece of toast, a gesture. But that was how it was with him-so much left unspoken, so much that felt like maybe. In her stupid, unrealistic mind, it was his way of telling her he loved her without saying the words.
She stared out at the dark glass of the tunnel, the blur of lights, her reflection pale and unreadable.
The robotic voice announced her station, and she stood, slinging the backpack over her shoulder. She walked the rest of the way through streets dappled with weak sun and windblown leaves. Her boots clicked softly on the pavement as she turned the corner onto Heath Road, where Ophelia Hornsly's lovely, detached house waited like something from another era-red bricks, lavender along the front, and a little iron gate that squeaked when you opened it.
She was a few minutes late.
Ophelia Hornsley was waiting at the doorway, wearing her favourite housecoat-a faded floral wrap that had once been elegant, but now looked lovingly worn. Her silver hair was wound in a precise bun, her lips pressed in a line of mock severity.
"Aria, where the heavens have you been?" she called out as Aria stepped inside, stamping the mud from her worn boots.
