Page 64 of Take My Breath Away
My phone pings. Stuffed deep into my pocket, I fish it out, in the hope it’ll be James. It isn’t.
“No thank you.” I delete the recorded message offering me the opportunity to make sexy times with beautiful Russian ladies.
I finish off the cake, slug back the rest of my drink and take the stuff out to the kitchen. My laptop’s on the table, and I wake it up.
I’ve set up email alerts with a number of estate agents in and around Brighton. Not that it’s really been worth it. There’s a new one come through, and I open it up, always hopeful. Yes, the brightly painted beach hut looks lovely and it’s only—
“Fucking hell.” How can a glorified garden shed cost as much as I earn in a whole year?
I type in my requirements again: house, potential to extend, fifteen miles from Brighton city centre, preferably close to the seafront — no, close to the sea front, I’m not going to compromise on that. At least not yet.
And… lift off.
The screen fills up with dozens of properties, showing nothing I’ve not seen before. I scroll through fast, and then scroll back. Something new, something that looks kind of okay, something that could be in my price range, with the promised help from my parents. I click on for the virtual tour.
A bungalow, in need of some updating. That’s something of an understatement as it looks like the place was all the business — in the late ‘70s. I’m surprised the estate agent hasn’t called it retro. A coat of paint and some new wallpaper would work wonders. Or that’s what I think until I take a closer look at the bathroom.
“Awww…”
An avocado suite and baby pink tiling. If I look at it for too long, I’ll get a headache.
Landing on the photo of the kitchen, I lean in closer, peering at the screen. “‘Large kitchen, extended by a previous owner,’” I read aloud. It looks big, but so would a shoe cupboard, if a fish eye lens were used to take the shot, but the dimensions sound interesting. There’s an old wooden twelve inch ruler, a relic of James’ school days, in what he calls The Man Drawer. I root around for it, and start to measure, using mugs to mark each corner.
A tremor of excitement dances through me. Not as big as James’ and full of ugly dark pine instead of beautiful sage green and blond wood, but still… It’s the first, and only place, I’ve seen that’s shown any kind of real promise. Taking a deep breath, I type a message to the estate agent to book a proper viewing, and I get a response within seconds of hitting send.
Today… one o’clock… agent will meet at the property… new on the market…
Slumping back in the chair, I have to make a decision. I’ve got the day off with nothing particular to do. I can’t dither, I can’t take my time. I bash out a quick reply and minutes later I’m out the door, and heading to Victoria station to catch the train to Brighton.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
JAMES
As soon as I hear the key in the door I rush out to the hallway.
“Where the hell have you been?” I regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I don’t own Perry, he’s not answerable to me, he can come and go as he wants. I need to remind myself of that, and I’m lucky his response is only wide eyes and a silentO.
“It’s only six-thirty. I thought you’d still be at work.”
It doesn’t answer my question, but I need to take a figurative if not a literal breath. He peels off his coat and it’s only now that I take in that he’s soaking wet. A sudden thunderclap seems to shake the whole house.
“You’re drenched.” A couple of steps and I’m so close I can see the raindrops glittering on his lashes. His dripping hair’s plastered to his brow; I push it back, and plant a kiss.
“That’s a better greeting.” He gives me a hard stare that really isn’t very hard at all, but it’s enough to wrench the apology I know he’s due from me.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I expected you to be here.”Wanted you to be here, waiting for me…“I tried to phone you, but it kept going through to voicemail.”
“I’m really sorry, but I’ve been out for the day. It was all very last minute and although I had my mobile, when I tried to phone you from the train the battery was as flat as a pancake.”
“Train? Where were you going?” He hadn’t mentioned going on a jaunt, and if he had I’d have gone with him — although our plans would’ve ended up on the scrap heap because of my early morning call. But, I’m still miffed he’s been out for the day without me, even though I don’t own him, even though he’s not answerable to me, even though he can do as he wants…
“I’ve been to Brighton. Well, not quite Brighton, but near enough. I went to see a property. It all happened so quickly. It looks, erm, promising.”
His gaze slides away from me. His words sound almost apologetic, even though he’s got nothing to be apologetic about. This was always his plan, to move away, start a new life, miles and fucking miles and miles away. I force myself to smile when it’s the last thing I want to do. It feels distorted, as though I’ve become a gargoyle.
“Promising, eh? That’s good.”
The tinge of worry in his eyes dissolves. I must be a better actor than I thought. Or a better liar.
