Page 7 of Take My Breath Away
“Yes. I didn’t have too many choices when I found myself confronted with a key that no longer fitted the lock, radio silence from Grant, and cards that were no more than useless bits of plastic. I think I showed initiative.”
“Indeed you did. But I know when I’m being told off, and rightly so. I’m sorry.”
“And I shouldn’t have snapped, not when you’ve been so good to me. Anyway, I thought if I bunked down at work for a few nights, until I could get sorted… But there are a couple of security guards who do the rounds, and Elliot, he gets in early. Then I hit on the brainwave of the basement. Nobody goes down there.”
There’s an intensity in James’ moss green, feline eyes that’s almost dazzling. His face is set and serious, more I think than I’ve ever seen before.
“So, would it be fair to say you’re up shit creek with only a very small paddle?”
“A small paddle’s enough to get me moving.”
James laughs, lights sparking in his eyes.
“However,” he says, jumping up and gathering the plates, “you can’t stay in Elliot’s basement. You’re not a bloody troglodyte. Have you any idea when this friend of yours is likely to be back?” He leans over as he stacks the dishwasher, his jeans stretching across his muscled arse. I look away, not wanting to be caught staring again.
“Alfie? Not sure, to be honest. Last time I spoke to him was a few weeks back. Sometimes he likes to go off grid.”
“Off grid?” James looks at me over his shoulder. “He’s not one of those grungy sorts who lives on bits of twig and a few berries and believes a good steak, or just a simple sausage, is a crime against Mother Earth, is he?”
James looks so horrified it’s impossible not to laugh but I wince as my alcohol-pickled brain protests.
“He’d certainly qualify as grungy, but not the rest of it.”
“So were is he, being all off-grid?” James asks, coming back to the table.
“He’s somewhere in Scotland, or he was the last time I spoke to him. On a mountain and living in a yurt. He’s a shepherd.” James’ eyes widen. I’ve surprised him and I can’t help smiling. “When he’s not being an urban street poet, that is.”
“An urban street poet? Give me strength. How do you even know somebody like this?”
“We met a uni. He studied accountancy, so when he’s not—”
“Being a rap goatherd?”
“Shepherd urban poet. There is a difference, you know.” James snorts, and rolls his lovely eyes, but they’re filled with good humour. “He earns money by contracting, then he takes off again. He says the city’s too confining. But he’s smart, and bought his own place as an investment, when we were still students. When he’s in London he’s got a kind of open door policy. The last time he was here, he had a mime artist, a circus skills instructor and an, er, exotic dancer and her snake staying.”
James chuckles. “Sounds rather intriguing. Anyway, your clothes should be dry now.” He gets up and disappears through a side door near the French windows into what must be a utility room, and returns with my stuff. My heart sinks like a stone. It’s time to get dressed and go.
“Thank you. I’ll change then make a move. Leave you to your weekend. But thanks, again, and I’m sorry for, well, everything.”For crass flirting, and being sick…
For a moment I wonder if he’s going to try and stop me, but he doesn’t. Why should he? Despite what he says, I screwed up his night out and now he’ll be glad to see the back of me. I push myself up without enthusiasm. I’ll while away a few hours away in parks and galleries before I bed down for the night again in the musty, dusty basement.
“When you’re dressed, we’ll go and pick up your stuff.”
I’m in mid-turn, but I stop. What’s he talking about? I don’t have any stuff in the basement, beyond a blanket and towel and some toiletries — there’s a shower at work, thank God — and a change of shirt and underwear I’ve been forced to buy. But why would I be picking them up?
James is looking at me as though he’s waiting for something to click. When it doesn’t, he tuts.
“Don’t you want to get your things? From the flat?”
“Yes, but I can’t get in. Grant won’t answer my calls or texts, so I don’t know—”
“Don’t worry about that. We can still get your belongings.”
If there’s some way of getting my stuff…
I don’t have much there, but what I have I could easily store in boxes in the basement until Alfie’s back from the wilds. But how the hell does James expect to be able to help me get my things back from a flat that looks like a poster for Fort Knox?
“…back here, somewhere stable whilst you sort yourself out.”
