Page 9 of Best Man
I nod and wave goodbye before clattering down the stairs.
An hour later I knock on the front door of the office. All the windows are dark, and I frown and knock again. Then a light switches on and I see the fuzzy form of Zeb appear.
When he opens the door, I nearly swallow my tongue. In the three years I’ve known him I’ve never seen him in anything other than his very expensive suits. Tonight he’s barefoot and wearing a grey T-shirt and an ancient pair of jeans. Worn white in places, they hang on him, perfectly cupping his package like an overeager man at kicking-out time in a night club. His hair is slightly dishevelled, as if he’s being running his hand through it, and he has thick stubble on his chin.
“Hello,” he says and then pauses. “You okay? You look a bit shell-shocked.”
I recover myself. “Just getting my expression perfectly right for the bollocking you’re surely going to give me.”
He shakes his head. “You have such a pessimistic outlook for someone so young.”
“I’d say realistic,” I mutter, following him in as he gestures. I look around the dark office. “Is this going to be one of those events where they torture people so that the office bonds as a group? Or like that SAS programme where they blindfold people and bang wooden spoons?”
He blinks. “Why on earth would I want to bang wooden spoons around you? And since when is torture associated with office bonding?”
“That’s a question you’ll have to take up with all those companies that offer team-building exercises. All I’ll say is that if you want your workplace to bond, take them to the pub and pay the bar bill.”
He shakes his head and moves forward, gesturing for me to follow him. “I’d be bankrupt within twenty minutes.”
I laugh and then stop as he opens the door next to his office. “Oh my God,” I breathe. “Are we going up to your flat?”
He pauses, looking worried. “We were, but we can stay down here if you want. I was cooking dinner, so I thought we could talk while I do that.”
“So, it’s not some surprise appraisal.”
“I’m not quite sure you understand the ways of the workplace. I don’t spring appraisals on people at eight o’clock at night. What do you think happens? That I shin up a drainpipe and shout through their bedroom window?”
I follow him into a hallway decorated with whitewashed walls and a lovely parquet floor. An olive tree sits in a huge stone container next to a tall window. He moves up a flight of stairs and I follow, trying not to look too much at that very fine arse of his. Oh, okay, I totally seize the day and look to my heart’s content. Carpe diem and everything, as Robin Williams said inDead Poet’s Society.
He opens a huge battered wooden door, gesturing me through, and I find myself in a long hallway. I trot behind him as he moves away, looking through a door and glimpsing his lounge. It’s lit by three floor-to-ceiling windows and they’ve been thrown open, letting in the sounds from the courtyard below. The Juliet balconies are painted the same bright orange as the windows and complement the huge turquoise sofa that sits catty-corner to a battered leather sofa. Two ofthe walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and there is bright artwork on the walls.
I look ahead and pick up my pace to catch up with him. Signs of the building’s previous history as a warehouse are everywhere, from the original loading doors to the sandblasted beams. Some of the walls have been stripped back to the bare brick while others are painted clear, warm colours. The floor is the original wood planks and they’ve been refurbished to a soft sheen. Someone very skilled did this renovation, and looking at my boss’s broad back, I somehow know it was him. I think what most surprises me is the feeling of warmth and comfort here. I’d imagined him in something pristine and modern, not this place with its bright walls and comfy furniture and books everywhere.
However, it’s still extremely neat, which feelsveryfamiliar after three years of watching Zeb organise everyone around him to an inch of their lives. I try to imagine living here, but I’m pretty sure that after twenty-four hours of my mess he’d chuck me out of a window. We pass a laundry room with not even a sock on the worksurface, and I amend that to two hours.
“This is lovely,” I say. “Bang smack in the middle of Seven Dials and all this space.”
He glances back, looking suddenly almost shy. “Thank you. I like it. There are another two floors above us. This floor has the kitchen, dining room, and lounge. Next floor has the spare bedrooms and then at the top is the master suite.”
“I bet this cost a fortune.”
He shakes his head. “My father was a property developer. He left me this in his will. He bought it for a song years ago when Neal’s Yard was derelict and just a place for bins and rats. But even though the other buildings got renovated, he never did anything with this. I think he actually forgot about it and when I inherited, it was very dilapidated, so I had to spend a long time doing it up.”
So it was him. “Did Patrick help?” I say and hold my breath. That’s way too personal, but I’m curious about his ex.
He smiles. “No, he didn’t, and if you knew Patrick you’d bethankful for that. He hardly knows how to change a bulb, so the idea of him tackling wiring is rather scary.” He shrugs, leading me into a huge kitchen. The cabinets are painted navy with a wooden worksurface and the floor is made of navy-and-white patterned floor tiles. It could look cold but it’s warmed by the exposed brick wall, battered-looking sideboard, and the bright paintings giving it a slightly shabby chic look. “Anyway, this was mine before Patrick came along. And it’s stayed mine,” he says thoughtfully.
“Yes, I heard you’d split up.”
A funny expression crosses his face. “Is it a topic of conversation now? It was a year ago.”
I shrug. “I only found out recently. Sorry.”
There’s an awkward sort of pause as he stares at me without saying anything. Then a lid on one of the saucepans rattles, and it breaks the stasis. He gestures me to one of the barstools at the central island. “Sit down. Do you want a glass of wine?”
I stare at him as I sit down where instructed, looking at the very healthy-looking herbs in their ceramic pots. If this was my house, they’d be dead. “Okay,” I say faintly. “That would be lovely.”Is this a dream?I wonder.If it is, hopefully we’ll have sex soon.
“What are you thinking? You’ve got a very funny expression on your face,” he asks, pouring red wine into a large glass.
