Page 12 of Gold Digger
“You’re just jealous I can actually make something with my hands like areal man. None of this namby pamby land-owner, finance bullshit.” Mike’s custom-made furniture was actually pretty cool, but there was no way I would ever admit that to the smug bastard.
“I can do plenty with my hands, thank you very much.”
“Oh yeah?” Mike smirked. “Lucky Mrs Higgins.”
“I’m not fucking Mrs Higgins!”
“Whoareyou fucking then?” Felix asked, and I sighed.
“I’m not fucking anyone.” Two sets of raised eyebrows greeted that statement, and I rolled my eyes. “Whatever, I’m not that much of a whore.”
“Bucks, mate, you’re a total whore,” Felix said, and I gritted my teeth.
“Not anymore. Itold you: I’ve got a crush.”
“Okay,” Mike put in. “Let me get this straight. You, Oliver Harding, the Duke of Fuckingham –”
I growled. This stupid nickname had plagued me for years. Ever since that bloody article ran in theDaily Mailwith the headline ‘Inside the Duke of Fuckingham’s Sex Party’,courtesy of my ex-girlfriend Cordelia, who (when she started doubting whether she was in line to be the next duchess) had decided to sell a hugely embellished version of that night’s events to the paper, complete with grainy photos. In reality, the party, while lively, was certainly not asex party. It was held at Buckingham Manor, my country estate which had a pool – hence the bare-chested pictures of me – but it hadn’t been the massive orgy the paper implied. Granted, since then I hadn’t made much effort to improve my reputation. I maybe could have shagged fewer birds in my twenties, but my God, I hadn’t slept with anyone now for over six months –six months. So, it was totally unwarranted now for Mike to use that nickname. Try telling these twats that, though.
“– you have a crush on an actual woman,” Mike went on, “and you’re not fucking her?”
“What, like some bullshit unrequited love situation?” spluttered out Felix. “Are you serious?”
“What’s so surprising about that?” I asked.
“Ollie, when it comes to you, there’s no pining, no crush, no unrequited anything. You fancy a bird, you fuck her – repeatedly if you should choose – then you move on.”
I shifted on my chair. “I’m not a total bastard,” I mumbled. It wasn’t like I went around London sleeping with any woman I wanted with no consequences. I dated like anyone else. It was true my relationships usually didn’t last longer than a few weeks, but I wasn’t just bowling up to ladies’ bedrooms, doing the deed and then buggering off. I was a gentleman. Plus, after the whole Cordelia debacle, trust had been a real issue for me.
“We’re not saying you are,” said Felix. “It’s just… Ollie, there’s no reason for you to have a crush.”
“Why?”
“Because any woman would jump into bed with you, no effort required,” said Mike. “Number one, you’re pretty as fuck – even I can see that, and no, I do not want to fuck you; number two, you’re the smoothest motherfucker I know – there’s chat, and then there’s Duke of Fuckingham chat, it’s on another level, man; number three, you’re an actual bloodyduke. Any straight woman or gay man in this country would fuck you at the drop of a hat.”
“Iknewyou thought I was pretty,” I said through a smirk, and it was Mike’s turn to roll his eyes. All three of us were tall and built, but Felix and I were definitely in the well-groomed, pretty category compared to Mike. Our muscular physique was a product of hours in the gym, Mike’s huge frame was the result of manual labour. And whilst Felix and I had thick, sharply groomed, designer stubble, Mike had a full-on beard, which he shaved off every couple of weeks, but it grew back within hours. Felix and I matched the other patrons of the restaurant we were in with our perfectly tailored suits, whilst Mike’s bulky flannel-over-thermal top paired with ripped (and not in a designer way) paint-stained jeans stuck out like a sore thumb. To be fair toMike, he’d wanted to go to the café round the corner, which served god-awful coffee you could stand your spoon up in, along with sausages and bacon swimming in grease, but we’d made him meet us here instead. He’d actually asked the waitress for black pudding and beans when she’d taken our order – she’d just given him a blank stare until he’d gruntedbaconat her. The artisan crispy pieces of bacon over poached eggs and sourdough that arrived at our table were certainly not the greased-covered, heart-attack-inducing thick slabs Mike wanted. He’d scowled at us and mutteredfancy London dickheadsunder his breath before he ate the whole thing in two bites.
“The point is,” Felix said. “It doesn’t really track that you would have a crush on someone. It’s not really your vibe.”
“Yeah, well, it’s more complicated than that. She works for me.”
“I still don’t understand who you mean. I was at your place last week when Mrs Higgins was cleaning your study. You asked her if she’d mind very much cleaning a different room, and she told you to sod off.”
“Mrs H wanted to retire to spend more time with those horrendous grandkids of hers.”
“Right, so what?”
“So, I replaced her.”
“Er… if you replaced her, then why was she at your house?”
I shifted on my seat again. “The new girl, Lottie. She’s not a great cleaner. I mean, she tries, but she’s really clumsy. And… and she looks tired. I have all manner of dickheads, plus my family coming over, and the place often needs loads of work. Mrs H is indestructible whilst this girl…” I trailed off. It was difficult to explain, and I wasn’t sure the guys would understand. But Lottie just seemed worn out, like life was chipping away at her. “Plus, I really don’t want her cleaning up my pants and scrubbing my toilet.” I shuddered at the thought.
“Because you have a crush on her?”
I shrugged. “I found her asleep on my sofa once. I’d slammed the door and everything, not knowing she was there. She was completely out. Nothing would have woken her up. And she looked…” I trailed off as a vision of Lottie filled my mind – curled in a small ball with her hands tucked under her cheek like a child, dark circles under her eyes, and naturally thick lashes casting shadows. Lying like that, she looked too small, too thin, which surprised me with the rate she got through custard creams. “So, I asked Mrs H to come back and do the actual cleaning. By the time Lottie gets to my house, there’s literally nothing for her to do. No washing up, bathrooms are spotless. And she doesn’t eat enough, so Imighthave started leaving food for her.” I have a chef who I now pay to make double the amount of food. I told Lottie I would leave any dishes that needed eating up out on the counter for her to dispose of; made out that I just couldn’t be bothered. Lasagnes, pies, pasta bakes. It did get a bit ridiculous last week when my chef was off, and I had to order in. I ordered from a restaurant for some friends, then boxed up Lottie’s meal for her to take the next day – three courses of the finest Michelin food, which I passed off to her as leftovers.
Mike blinked at me. “Let me get this straight; you have a cleaner for your cleaner, just in case your actual cleaner might have to deal with your shit stain on the toilet or something?”
