Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Rosie

I wasup from my numb ass before he could rethink his offer. My legs were stiff from how long I’d been sitting there with my back to my door.

I needed him. Just like last time.

The man upstairs didn’t speak as he led the way up. He used one single key with no keyring to let us in, stepping aside to let me pass him. He scrabbled to clear the coffee table, rushing into the kitchen with three empty mugs and a couple of shot glasses. I followed him, hating his obvious embarrassment.

I had plenty enough embarrassment of my own. If only he knew how many book heroes I’d imagined him as…

“Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

His kitchen was practically barren, like the rest of his place. His fridge was buzzing loudly, and his microwave looked about twenty years old, and there was no sign of a dishwasher, just an old sink with a dripping tap. He put the mugs in there and rinsed them clean while I leant against his big, white washing machine.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked. “Tea? Coffee? Sorry, I don’t have much else.”

“Tea, please.”

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Both, please. Two sugars.”

I noticed the way he deliberately blocked the cupboard from view with his frame, grabbing two teabags and dropping them in a pair of mugs before he put the kettle on to boil. Each of the mugs were different, including the ones in the sink, just like ours were. A jumble that didn’t match.

I glanced in his fridge as he took the milk out. There was just one solitary stack of ready meals on one shelf. He sniffed the milk before he poured it, making sure it hadn’t gone off. Not that I’d have cared, to be honest. The very fact I was off the cold corridor floor and in someone’s place was a welcome relief. He could have had nothing but sour milk and I’d have still preferred it to holing up with Trisha.

He handed me my tea.

“My apologies again. It’s a terrible brand.”

He wasn’t lying. It was even weaker than the crap we used downstairs.

He was still in his suit, tie hanging loose, and his shirt hanging loose along with it. His hair was ruffled, and he had rough stubble, but he still looked gorgeous, gaunt or not. In my eardrums he’d been billionaires, dirty therapists, and hot older professors. Hell, he’d even been a lumberjack, but I couldn’t imagine that so well.

I leant back against the washing machine, letting the situation sink in. I was in the kitchen of the man upstairs, and Scott was dancing around the living room with my lovestruck mum like I didn’t exist. The depression finally reared its head in me, facing the truth about my sad, lonely existence. Would anyone really have noticed if I’d have wandered off into nowhere this evening? Would anyone have cared if the guys from block seven had been out there, threatening to pin me to the wall and use me however they wanted? They were known for spouting that kind of rancid crap at people who passed them.

The only one who seemed to care I was out in the hallway was Julian. Just as he’d been the only one to answer my screams for help.

I looked over at him, grateful. Lumberjack or not, he was my saviour. Again.

“I really appreciate the invite,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Steady on.” He laughed a sarcastic laugh. “It’s hardly a five-star hotel. You haven’t seen the state of my bedroom yet.”

The thought gave me one hell of a lurch in my stomach. It sounded as though I’d be staying in his bed. He didn’t need to give me prime position. I’d happily make do on the sofa. I had no expectation of romance novels coming to life, or turfing him out of his own bedroom.

“I’ll gladly take the sofa,” I told him. “Don’t worry.”

He looked puzzled, still holding his tea.

“Oh, no. No, don’t you worry. I won’t be staying in my bedroom with you! No need to be alarmed!”

We’d both got our wires crossed.

“No,” I said. “I mean, if you want your bed, I can take your sofa. I’ve been a sofa surfer plenty of times before.”

He laughed. “Ah, I see. No need for that. The sofa is even more uncomfortable than the bed. You’ll be pleased you accepted the offer.”

He changed the subject by opening his fridge again.

“I don’t have all that much in the way of variety, so I’m sorry if you’re hungry. I tend to stick with the easiness of the same boring ready meals every night. It’s not exactly appetising.”

I’d almost forgotten I had pizza still wrapped up in foil in my bag. I dug in to pull it out. Four slices. Two for me, two for Mum. She wouldn’t be needing hers now, though. I opened the foil in front of him.

“We could eat this?”

“Lovely,” he said, with a genuine smile. “That looks delicious.”

He took out a plate and opened the microwave, and I handed the pizza over with a grin.

“It’s got olives on it,” I said. “And jalapenos. I know they’re not everyone’s favourite.”

The look in his eyes was so warm. “I really couldn’t care less what’s on it. It looks excellent. Much better than a ready meal.”

We stared at each other as the microwave hummed, and I couldn’t help his words spinning into my head. It’s not your mother I’m going to be wanting, Rosie, it’s you.

Was that still true? Really? Would he really want a girl like me? Surely not. He couldn’t do. I wasn’t exactly a storybook minx.

I decided to touch on the last time we’d spoken.

“I know Mum came up here that night.”

He turned his attention back to the microwave, avoiding my eyes.

“Indeed, she did. I’d planned to ignore her calling, but unfortunately, she was getting rather enthusiastic. I didn’t want the poor chap on crutches to be hobbling up to my door.”

I couldn’t help but smirk, imagining it. “Yeah, Bertie. He would’ve poked his nose in. He’s a nice guy, though.”

“Bertie. Right. I didn’t know his name, let alone his temperament.” He met my eyes again. “How long have you lived here?”

“My whole life, pretty much. My mum was still with my dad when I was born, but not for long. He disappeared and the council gave Mum our apartment, and this is where we stayed.”

“Are you still in touch with your father?”

“No,” I said. “I never met him.”

“That’s a shame. Maybe he would have sorted your mother’s disgusting boyfriend out and kept him away from the both of you.”

I’m sure my cheeks must have flushed beetroot, and he looked horrified.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I overstepped the mark there.”

He looked grateful when the microwave pinged. It would have been so easy to use the distraction and veer the conversation away to something lighter, but I didn’t want to. I couldn’t help but want more. Some kind of human connection in a world where Mum had chucked me out of hers. I needed that right now.

“You didn’t overstep the mark. It’s just weird. I dunno.” I paused. “I really didn’t think it would come to this with Scottie. Whenever Mum split up with him, she always said it was really over, for good, and we’d never see him again. I wonder if she still believes it when she says it. She seems to.”

His eyes locked straight back onto mine, as though I’d touched a nerve.

“I can only imagine she does. Resolve can seem very strong when you declare it, but a lot harder to maintain.” He smiled a sad smile. “In my experience, anyway.”

He ripped off two pieces of kitchen roll, picked up the plate and gestured through to the living room.

“How about you plonk your butt down on the chesterfield and see how comfortable it is for yourself? We can watch some TV, if you like.”

TV was the last thing I wanted. I wanted him. I wanted his closeness, and his concern. And more. Sad and crazy, but true. Even though it scared the crap out of me, I couldn’t deny it. The swirl of tingles weren’t going away – they were getting worse. Far, far worse.

He was better than any of the billionaires, or therapists or professors I’d been imagining. He was real. He was Julian. He was the saviour upstairs.

I sat down on the sofa, and he sat as far away as possible on the other side. He smiled as he pulled the coffee table closer and set the plate and the sheets of kitchen roll down between us, then he waited until I took the first slice before taking one of his own. Instinctive manners. Scottie would have dived straight in there.

I couldn’t stop scouting the place out as I bit into hot cheese and olives. A small TV, a bookshelf stacked with well-worn paperbacks, and an overhead light without a shade. His coffee table was scuffed, and the leather on his sofa was faded to hell, but none of it mattered. His presence was enough to counter all of it.

Still, I couldn’t work out how a man like him came to live here, in crappy old Crenham Drive. Should I ask him? Would that be ok? I didn’t want to poke into his business, so I kept munching on pizza, hoping he’d say something about himself, but he didn’t. He nodded to acknowledge how good the food was, and wiped his gorgeous mouth with the kitchen roll, but that was all. His silence only added to the intrigue. What was he hiding? What was the story of his life? Why did they call him a sicko, when he seemed like anything but?

I tried a different approach.

“Did you go to the Brewery Tavern tonight? I heard that you go there.”

His eyes were sharp, scoping me out.

“I do sometimes, yes. I stayed longer than usual this evening. I’ve had a long week at work.”

“What kind of job do you do?”

“I’m an insurance clerk. I order stationery and process paperwork, in the main.”

“A lot of it, from the sounds, if it keeps you busy.”

“Yes. The harder you work, the more work appears on your plate, don’t you find?”

I loved how he spoke to me like I was a valuable worker, not just a girl at a pizza place, working shifts around college. He was right, though. I’d taken on more and more since I worked there. I was the one who was always dashing around, with more and more responsibility piled on top of me.

I chanced a probing question.

“What did you do before? I somehow doubt you’ve been an insurance clerk all your life.”

“Really?” He laughed. “I thought I might be fitting into Worcester life quite comfortably by now.”

I laughed with him, enjoying his company.

“Actually,” he went on, “I was a professor of English, from Oxford.”

“Wow,” I said, and I could imagine him there for real, standing before university students giving lectures. “You must have studied hard. I know Oxford is tough to get into, let alone teach at.”

“I always loved English. I wanted to be Hemingway when I was younger. As it turns out, I spent most of my time trying to help other people walk in his footsteps. Ironic. Some of them have been very successful. I can only imagine I’m a much better teacher than author.”

He looked so proud of his students. I wished someone would be that proud of my achievements one day.

“Are you a writer? Do you still want to be?”

“No, no. I haven’t written for a long, long time. I have had more pressing pursuits. Some not all that honourable.” He laughed a sad laugh, masking it with sarcasm. “Maybe I should take it up again, now I’m just an insurance clerk. Who knows? Maybe I could surprise fate and become a fresh incarnation of Shakespeare.”

He didn’t look convinced in the slightest. He looked depressed as hell. Like he’d been cast into the pits of his past life. My next question seemed obvious.

“What made you change your career? Why leave Oxford?”

He took another bite of pizza before he answered me.

“Plenty of things, all of my own doing.” He sighed and looked me in the eye, as if he was weighing me up. “A sinner has to pay for his crimes. Some people spend their penance in prison. I chose to spend it in Crenham Drive. It’s worse here, I suspect.”

I laughed at that. “Is Crenham Drive really worse than prison?”

He sighed. “No, of course it’s not. It’s just where I chose to up and leave to.”

“What did you leave behind?”

I knew I’d overstepped the mark at that. His eyes dropped, and he cleared his throat.

“A great many things.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“No need,” he replied. “But that’s a rabbit hole we don’t really want to explore.”

I did want to explore it. I wanted to dive right in like Alice and get to the depths. Get to him. There was only one way to do that right now… I stayed silent, and it worked. He spoke again after another bite of pizza.

“When I first arrived here, I was a little loose tongued. I got drunk in the Brewery and stupidly told people more than I should have done. I know there are whispers still circling.”

I looked at him.

“People say a lot of things around here. The rumours are rarely true.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of rumours about me that are true. No smoke without fire, as they say.”

I couldn’t hold back, grinning to lighten it.

“Are you a sicko, then?”

He didn’t take it humorously.

“Ouch. That’s harsh.” He looked up at the ceiling and my cheeks burned all over again. “Maybe not all that untrue, though. I know plenty of people who’d agree with that statement. It depends on your view.”

It only made me more intrigued.

“Why don’t you try out mine? I’m quite open minded.”

“Like I said,” he told me. “It’s a rabbit hole I don’t really want to explore. And neither should you. I think you have more sense in your head than that. You’re a wise girl.”

Girl.

I wasn’t a girl, I was eighteen. He seemed to read my mind when I flinched.

“I’m forty-eight years old,” he said. “You’re a girl to me, Rosie. Or you should be.”

“Should be?”

“Yes. Should be.” He brushed the crumbs from his shirt onto the empty pizza plate. “And you should be getting to bed now, you must be exhausted.”

He didn’t give me the chance to argue with him, just got up and walked away. I didn’t want to follow him. I didn’t want to move, I just wanted to hear his story. I wanted to hear about his life in Oxford, and what made him a sicko, and what really led him to Crenham Drive.

“Rosie, come on, please,” he said, from the hallway. I knew he’d be standing at the bedroom door, and I knew he wanted me out of sight. He really didn’t want to venture down any rabbit holes.

Who was I to argue? I was just a rescue puppy in a stranger’s flat.

“Sure, coming,” I replied, and picked up my bag from the floor.

The bedroom door was open when I got there. His bed was a double, but his wardrobe was a single. He had a solitary lamp on a bedside table. It was as barren as the rest of the place.

“My apologies again,” he said. “But I have only one set of bedding. You’ll have to make do with mine. And if you would like a makeshift nightdress, I have some shirts hanging up. Help yourself.”

If anything, the thought of wearing his shirt and sleeping in his sheets was thrilling.

He walked on in, sat down on his bed, and tried to fluff the flat pillows up for me. The bedsprings creaked underneath him. They gave me a zip up my spine, imagining how much noise they’d make if he was on top of me, fucking me. I leant against the doorframe, transfixed by the sight of him. Something had changed. His breaths were shallower, and he wouldn’t look at me, just busied himself by settling the pillows and switching on the bedside lamp. He was still avoiding my gaze as he took a towel from his wardrobe and placed it on the bed.

“I have one terrible bar of soap and a bit of shampoo, if you want to use it,” he said. “The bathroom is to your right.”

I flashed it a glance.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I moved aside on instinct as he left the room, but there was a moment of closeness. I wished I had the confidence to pull him back, and to ask him again, what made him a sicko. What had he done to end up here? And did he really mean what he’d said that night when he’d pushed me away?

It’s not your mother I’m going to be wanting, Rosie, it’s you.

I couldn’t let it go. For once, I wanted to push forward with what I wanted. I didn’t want Jayden, or the boys from block seven, or any of the guys in college. I didn’t like the pizza house manager, Marvin, and I didn’t want Kieran, the guy in the kitchen who’d been asking me out for months.

I wanted him. The man upstairs.

No matter how much I tried to deny it, I wanted him. And my fantasies had been getting filthier and filthier along with my books.

He was in the living room doorway when he finally looked back at me, and his breaths were still fast. His eyes were hard and dark.

“You should get to bed,” he said. “I’ll just get you some water.”

“Thank you.”

Even now, in the height of underlying tension, he was still trying to take care of me. He disappeared for a short while, then came back and presented me with a glass. He kept at arm’s length, aiming for a casual smile that didn’t match up with his stare.

“Goodnight, Rosie.”

I didn’t want to say goodnight to him, but the words came automatically.

“Goodnight, Julian. Thanks for rescuing me. Again.”

He closed the living room door behind him as he went. My heart was racing, and my stomach was fluttering, and I dithered on the spot like an awkward teenager, even though I wanted more than anything to tell him I wasn’t. I was an adult, not a little girl. I’d been trying to behave like an adult my whole life – taking care of Mum as well as myself.

I opted to take a shower, since I still stank of the pizza house. He wasn’t lying when he’d said about the bar of soap and the shampoo. Both supermarket budget, but I didn’t care. I wondered what he was doing as I scrubbed myself. Was he thinking about me? I’d deliberately avoided locking the bathroom door. On purpose. Just in case.

The living room door was still closed tight when I headed back to his bedroom. I towel dried my hair, still damp and naked when I opened his wardrobe. His selection of shirts were all white, and they smelt like a combination of him and fabric softener. He had one more suit jacket hanging there, and a selection of coloured ties. A few pairs of trousers, and one pair of jeans. A couple of token t-shirts, and a navy-blue jumper. Nothing much.

I opened the drawer at the bottom, too heady to avoid snooping. He had posh patterned socks, and some boxers. Nothing major. But wait. There were some other things in there… things I caught sight of as I fumbled through his socks… what the–

Marker pens and rope. A strange place to put them. And more. Three big dildos and a string full of beads. And some photos… wow, fuck. Some actual printed out photos of a girl with blonde hair, her hands bound up over her head. In that rope. A dark shade of red. I ran my fingers over it.

She had slut scrawled on her chest in marker pen, and one of the dildos jammed tight in her pussy, and she can’t have been much older than me. Nineteen, tops.

Shit.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

I stumbled backwards, slamming the drawer closed like an invader, because I was one. I sat on the bed, still naked with my heart racing, feeling like I should be embarrassed, or intimidated, or squicked out, but I wasn’t any of those things. Blame it on romance novels, or imagination, or my own dirty fantasies, but I was curious. More than curious. I was needy. Excited.

I wanted to be the girl in that photo.

I took a swig of water from the glass on the bedside table, and I thought through my options.

It’s not your mother I’m going to be wanting, Rosie, it’s you.

Maybe this would be my only chance. Maybe after tonight it would be eyes down in the hallway again for the rest of time. Julian didn’t seem like he’d be inviting me up here for coffee unless I really needed him. I’d likely get pushed away like my mother.

Now or never…

I could do this, or I could try to. I could seduce the man upstairs and behave like the girl in the photo. I could do it. I could be that girl. I’d heard plenty of story heroines attempt it and come up trumps. Why not me?

It’s not your mother I’m going to be wanting, Rosie, it’s you.

I hoped he’d meant it.I hoped I had the courage to find out.

I put on one of the shirts from his wardrobe, making sure I left a few buttons undone, and then I scooped my pizza uniform up into my arms, taking a breath as I headed in his direction. I pushed my glasses up and closed my eyes as I opened the living room door. Now or never…

He was sitting on the chesterfield with his eyes on the blank TV screen, and a shot of whisky on the coffee table. His eyes were still dark as he looked my way, and he swallowed as I appeared before him.

“I was wondering if I’d be able to do some laundry? I’ll need this outfit for my shift tomorrow.”

He nodded. “Of course, yes. I have a washer tumble dryer.”

I knew that. I’d seen it.

He got to his feet, and I wished I was brave enough to look down at his crotch. I knew my nipples must be showing through his shirt fabric.

“Here, let me take that,” he said, and I handed him my bundle of clothes. “I’ll make sure I have them ready for you in the morning.”

He didn’t look at me. He wouldn’t look at me. He disappeared into the kitchen, and I heard him working the washing machine. He waited there too long before reappearing, and I stood there like an idiot in one of his shirts, flushed pink and embarrassed as he sat back down again with nothing more than a smile.

I guessed he didn’t want me after all.

For once, I got a taste of what my mum must be living in. Self-questioning. Self-doubt.

Maybe I wasn’t as good as the girl in the photo? Maybe after our conversation, I’d put him off somehow? Was I too desperate? Too needy? Too stupid for a professor like him? Were my tits not big enough? Or was I too awkward?

I didn’t have the chance to ask him.

“Goodnight,” he said again, dismissing me with a wave.

“Goodnight,” I said, hating every step as I retreated.

I threw myself flat on the bed, cringing inside at my stupid attempt at seduction, and wished I’d been better at it. More experienced like most of the girls at college. Damnit. I switched off the lamp and got under the covers. It made it even more embarrassing that they smelt like him.

Ok, it was done. Over. I’d made a goof up, and read him all wrong.

Or had I?

I heard footsteps outside in the hallway… I heard them stop dead.

Was he out there? Really? Was he outside the bedroom door? My heart thumped like crazy, tingles all over me, because he was definitely there, outside in the hall…

Maybe… just maybe…

I held my breath.

Please, PLEASE.

I prayed he’d come in…

But no. I heard more footsteps and the bathroom door close behind him.

“Goodnight,” I said to no one, feeling like the biggest fool on earth.