Chapter Three PRESENT DAY

Chapter Three

P RESENT D AY

Madeleine put her key into the front door of her apartment – almost an entire floor of a mansion house that had had its guts ripped out and now offered a serene, spacious, open-plan kitchen with a vast living room that thrilled her every time she stepped inside. She hoped the couple who would be renting it in a few weeks would appreciate its qualities, and liked to think she was leaving it in the best hands. Tonight, however, far from the sense of serenity and well-being that she had anticipated, her pulse raced as she stared at the walls. Ditching her soft leather tote on the sofa and shrugging her arms free of her jacket, which she dropped on the pale marble countertop, she took a step closer and narrowed her gaze, until her nose was only inches from the low wall that part-divided the kitchen from the eating space. Grabbing her phone, she took a deep breath, trying to control her breathing.

‘Garth, what on earth?’

Her decorator picked up almost immediately.

‘Madeleine, I guessed you were going to call.’

‘You did?’

‘I told Micky you’d notice. He said you wouldn’t, and here we are!’

‘You thought I wouldn’t notice? Come on, mate!’

It was astounding to her, especially as Garth was a contractor she used professionally. He therefore knew she was a designer, a stylist, a creator with an eye for detail and that the devil was always, always in the detail. Her heart sank as she ran her fingers over the wall, as if this might help in some way. The paint samples had sat on her walls for months and now with only two weeks until she shipped her life to the other side of the world, this!

She had refused to be hurried, understanding the importance of getting the detail absolutely right. Or at least it was important to her. It was what she had touched upon earlier with Orna, being brought up in a flat with scuff marks on the paint, peeling wallpaper and no consideration for colour schemes or design. This level of detail was a mark of her success, a standard to which she held herself accountable. A standard that meant her clients were always left with total satisfaction at a job well done.

Hours had been spent studying the way the light fell on each potential shade at various times of the day as the sun travelled from east to west, taking note of how the different tones looked alongside the kitchen cabinets and chamfered oak flooring. When she finally felt able to make a confident decision, she had been bold and insistent. Chantilly! That was the colour she had chosen after much deliberation. Chantilly. It was the palest cream with the vaguest hint of vanilla that warmed the space while not detracting from the neutrality of her considered interior palette. What she now stared at, despite her strident instructions to Garth and his team, was something closer to popcorn – cream with base notes of ochre.

‘I ... I don’t know what to say.’ She heard him swallow. ‘It was the industrial radio. It’s a great clunking thing – heavy. We were just packing up and Micky dropped it and I don’t know how, but something caught the fridge door and ...’ She was aware of him gabbling, and immediately turned one hundred and eighty degrees to stare at the door of her Meneghini la Cambusa refrigeration unit, imported at great, great expense ... Her heart sank as a sound that was part wail, part sharp intake of breath left her throat. Her fridge! Her beautiful, beautiful fridge had a two-inch scratch on the door that was now the only thing she could see. It was ugly, brutal and it destroyed the flawless design of this iconic piece of furniture that was the feature of her kitchen.

‘Oh no ...’ She found it hard to find the words, knowing that even if they got the paint right, this scratch would be the one thing that drew her eye each time she walked into the room. How could she fix it? How could she sleep? This imperfection was enough to put a splinter in her dreams, so strong was her drive for perfection when it came to such matters. It was that standards thing again.

‘Micky spat on it to see if he could polish it out, but—’

‘He spat on it?’ She could barely disguise her dismay as Garth continued to reveal more about their disastrous day.

‘I’ll have a look around and see what I can find, like a paint or glue or filler-type thing.’

‘It’s a Meneghini la Cambusa!’

‘A what?’ This time she detected a hint of laughter.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, she closed her eyes and did her best to remain calm. ‘And actually, just to add insult to injury, the reason I called was because you have used the wrong paint, Garth.’

‘The wrong paint?’ This was apparently news to him. ‘It’s the colour and range you wrote down.’

‘It’s really not. It’s not Chantilly. That’s the colour I wanted. The colour I chose.’

‘Okay, Madeleine. Look, let’s keep calm.’ She knew he meant that she had to keep calm, and felt her pulse race accordingly. Why did men do that? She found it beyond irritating. ‘It’s best I come over in the morning and we talk about how we get this resolved.’

‘No, don’t come over in the morning, I’ll be in the office. And how we get this resolved is simple: I need you to source the paint I wanted and repaint the walls.’

She heard his sharp intake of breath. ‘That’s going to blow my profit on the job.’

Madeleine knew she was a sucker when it came to things like this but couldn’t allow him to do the work for nothing, his mistake or not.

‘I’ll pay for the new paint.’

‘You, Madeleine, are what we call a diamond!’

‘And I’ll pay you a day rate as well.’ Garth was a decent bloke and a great decorator; it would be a shame to sour their working relationship.

‘Actually, make that a rare diamond!’

‘Mmmn.’ She smiled in spite of herself, remembering her conversation with Nico. ‘Is there anything else you need to tell me, other than the fact that you’ve messed up my walls and destroyed my beautiful fridge?’

‘Micky nicked one of your Diet Cokes and a Diarylea triangle from your ... fridge thing.’

‘Tell Micky not to worry, I mean, in the grand scheme of things ...’

‘Gotta go, Madeleine, football is starting.’

He ended the call and she staggered to the oversized sofa that was covered in linen the colour of biscuit, sinking down into the soft cushions, where she lay for a moment. It was a pain having to get the walls repainted, but she reminded herself of the good stuff that had happened that day; she was safe and warm inside her beautiful apartment, her lunch with Nico, his thumbs-up text, the okay from Stern on the chandelier for the Manchester project, and her chat with Dr Schoenfeld. This small gratitude ritual was a technique she used for self-calming when things felt a little overwhelming. She laughed at the thought of Micky snaffling a Dairylea triangle, the one snack she knew she would have devoured as a child.

‘Those bloody picnics!’

She smiled, thinking about her conversation with Orna and how she used to sit on the bench with Marnie, who unpacked all manner of cold and congealed dinner remnants from plastic containers, food they would pick at as they nattered away the hours. She wondered if they still did that ...

Gnocchi ... Gnocchi ... Again she practised, locking it in for the next time she wanted to order it.

Her phone buzzed.

It was a Facetime call from Nico. She was more than a little taken aback. It felt unusual, to say the least. A text, sure. A call, maybe. But a visual? She sat up straight and adjusted the collar of her shirt and fixed her hair before accepting the call.

He beamed. ‘Hi!’

‘Hi.’ She smiled back, deciding to let him do the running.

‘I liked our lunch.’ He cut straight to it, as if this were a prearranged thing, a usual thing, which did instantly normalise it.

‘Me too, actually.’

‘Actually? That makes it sound like you expected the worst!’

‘I did,’ she lied.

‘Well, I thought the décor was good, company first class but the food was a bit stingy. I mean, it tasted good, yes, but wasn’t one of those meals that can see you through to bedtime.’

‘That’s very interesting, but I have to ask, did you mean to be writing this in a review instead of telling it to me?’

‘No, I wanted to tell you because I figured if I was hungry, you might be hungry.’

As if on cue her stomach gave a delicate rumble.

‘I could eat.’ The mention of food turned her attention back to her fridge, wondering not only what she might have inside it, but now focused on the scratch on the front.

‘Do you like sushi?’ he asked.

‘I love sushi. Why?’ She wondered which restaurant he was about to recommend, knowing she’d say yes, and simultaneously thinking about what she could shove on that might be suitable for a future sushi date.

It was then he lifted a tray into view with his one free hand – a large, covered tray showing an artful display of sushi.

‘Well, lucky old you!’

‘Lucky old us , actually. I’m outside your apartment.’

‘What?’ She jumped up from the sofa and walked to the wide Crittall bifold doors that led out to a small terrace that ran the width of the building. Levering the handle, she walked outside and looked down. There he was, standing by the sycamore tree with his phone in one hand and the sushi in the other.

‘I don’t know how I feel about this.’ She liked him, of that there was no doubt, but this felt fast – too fast. If they leapfrogged to a sleepover, then what? The open conversation about life that for her was about as comfortable as the thought of ripping off a Band-Aid? She hated the complexity of what should have been a simple get-together for sushi. It was always this way, the unsettling feeling when her worlds threatened to collide.

‘Okay, I could always go get pizza or kebabs.’ He pointed up the street.

‘No, Nico, not your supper choice.’

‘Phew,’ he interrupted.

‘I don’t know how I feel about you turning up at my home. It’s ... it’s a lot.’

‘It is a lot. I am fully aware. And please don’t ask me how I got your address.’

‘How did you get my address?’

‘From my mother.’

‘I see. And do you do this often? Pitching up at people’s homes after a handful of texts and one lunch?’

‘Nope, I’ve never done it before, but here’s the thing.’ He paused, took a breath. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you. Not since I first saw you in that meeting ten days ago. And I didn’t want our lunch to end today, and I’ve not been able to concentrate all afternoon, replaying in my head our conversation, the way you tuck your hair behind your ears, your gentle laugh, your shyness.’

‘I’m not shy.’

‘I think you are a bit. And I know you are heading off to LA in a couple of weeks, and rather than see that as an ending, I’ve decided not to waste what little time we have. This is after all the foundation-building stage and will determine what happens when you’re away. Don’t you think?’

‘I don’t know what to think right now!’ This was an understatement. While she had to admit to being hugely flattered and also a little moved, was this really happening? This level of vulnerability was not what she was used to. It was as scary as it was thrilling.

‘I guess the point is, I didn’t want to have to wait until next week or when you had a suitable window in your calendar. I wanted to see you right now, and so I jumped in a cab and bought sushi. Actually, technically, I bought sushi then jumped in a cab, but that’s just semantics.’

‘I ...’ She couldn’t decide if this was a wonderful act, his spontaneity, his openness, or whether he was seven kinds of crazy.

‘Madeleine, don’t worry.’ His tone softened. ‘I’m not going to come up to your apartment. I just wanted to bring you sushi and I wanted to see you, to look you in the eye and see if I can figure out why are you living in my thoughts right now. Day and night.’

‘Okay.’ She stepped back from the wrought iron balustrade. ‘I’ll come get my sushi.’

Grabbing her keys from the countertop, she trod the wide sweep of the staircase and opened the heavy front door. Nico leaned on the frame, sushi in hand.

‘Hi.’ He looked good, fresh from a shower, and again, he smelled so good! Her gut rolled with joy at the sight of him. ‘Sushi delivery.’ He handed her the box and took a step backwards.

‘That’s a lot of sushi.’ She eyed the rows of glossy salmon strips, and delicate splayed prawns all resting on the plump, sticky rice of the nigiri. Just the sight of the sesame-edged California rolls, their centres stuffed with pale shredded crab and chunks of avocado, made her mouth water. Best of all were the little pots of fresh ginger, wasabi, and dark soy, which she would smother each morsel in.

‘It is a lot of sushi,’ he agreed.

‘Too much for one person?’ she suggested.

‘I’m not so sure. I saw how you put that gnocchi away over lunch. I reckon if I hadn’t been quick, you might have made a dash for mine too.’

‘That’s possibly true, and I definitely would have had pudding if you hadn’t been there,’ she confessed.

‘Oh my God!’ he laughed. ‘Me too!’

‘The tiramisu.’

‘The tiramisu!’

They spoke in unison and were then quiet for a beat, a moment for her to make a decision, one she hoped she wouldn’t regret.

‘You wanna come share this with me?’ She raised the platter in her hand.

‘Only if you’re sure.’ He kept his gaze down, his tone soft, and far from her initial fear at having to entertain this relative stranger in her apartment, she felt warmed by the prospect of sharing supper with him, and maybe a glass or two of something chilled.

‘You can either come up ...’ She stood back against the wall, allowing enough space for him to pass. ‘Or I could go upstairs, put half of it on a plate and lower the rest of the platter down on a rope or in a basket. I’d work it out. A pulley system or something.’

‘Sounds messy. Probably easier if I just come up.’

‘Probably.’

He walked up the stairs behind her and she inhaled his fabulous scent.

‘You have to take me as you find me.’ She looked over her shoulder as he stood in the grand open-plan space of her home and stared up into the bone-coloured rafters of the double-height ceiling.

‘It’s immaculate!’ He threw his arms up in the air.

‘Mmmn.’ She chose not to point out the irritating paint mix-up or the infuriating scratch on her prized fridge. ‘I’m glad you think so. I’m a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to my living space.’

‘I can see that.’ He looked around as she placed the tray of sushi on the table.

Having collected the chilled bottle of dry white from the wine fridge and two glasses, she joined him on the sofa and poured two generous measures. Nico took one.

‘I too have my peculiarities, things I need in place so that I can feel comfortable, and things that make my brain itch.’

‘Like?’ She was curious.

‘Like I can’t bear anyone touching my feet and the thought of touching someone else’s feet is just ...’ He stuck out his tongue and shuddered.

‘Okay, so no feet, got it. And don’t worry, I’ve got so many quirks, oddities, habits, superstitions, that if I actually listed them, you’d be out of that door quicker than you could shout, “Taxi for Yannis!”’

‘Okay, now I’m suitably terrified.’

‘You should be!’ She sipped the crisp white that was doing much to lubricate her nerves and her tongue.

‘Try me.’

He turned and rested his arm along the back cushions, propping his handsome head on his palm. He looked very relaxed and at home. She was relieved that his presence felt comforting rather than invasive.

‘Come on, Miss Woods, tell me one thing that you consider a ... a quirk, and let me judge.’

‘Yes, of course, because that’s comfortable, telling you my strange habits so you can hold them up for scrutiny!’ She rolled her eyes and he laughed.

‘I’m serious! I find things are often far worse in your head or when you don’t share them. It’s possible that your oddities are in fact entirely normal – or more common than you might think – but you’ll only know that if you share them.’

‘You sound like my therapist.’

‘You have a therapist?’

‘I do. I literally have her on speed dial and see her when the need arises.’ She held his eye, noting the slight flicker of his gaze. What was that? Concern? Approval?

‘Does the need arise a lot?’

‘It varies, but a couple of times a week, sometimes more, often less.’ She figured he might as well know it all, as she’d taken the lid off that particular box.

‘I too have a therapist. And I also have her on speed dial. You see, that’s one thing shared that we have now normalised.’

She sank back on the sofa, feeling the tension over the great Chantilly debacle slip almost entirely from her mind.

‘Okay.’ She swallowed and waved her hand in a circle over her head. This was part of her lie, telling him something small, something palatable, almost comical, while the big things stayed firmly shut away. Testing him almost; testing herself. ‘As you can see, I am rather fond of a neutral palette when it comes to décor. I like order. I like clean lines, dust-free corners, no clutter, nothing that isn’t functional or beautiful.’

‘I can see, and it’s very chic. But I would expect no less from someone with your eye.’

She smiled at the compliment from this man who knew a luxury interior when he saw it, doubting that he’d ever lived with anything else. An image of the peach woodchip wallpaper of her childhood room flashed in her mind.

‘There’s a bit more to it than just wanting it to look good.’ She took a sip. ‘It’s more about anything that jars with my motif.’ She struggled to find the words. Her mouth moved but it was a while until the sound followed. ‘I can’t stand it! I mean, like, literally. I couldn’t sleep if someone, for example, bought me a garish bouquet. You know the ones – harsh oranges or even things dyed blue or bright pinks or a mishmash of all three.’ She wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘To have that on my soft wood table against the pale wall would make it hard for me to sleep.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ She took her time, feeling oddly comfortable in opening up to this man, wanting to build a bridge, to get closer to him. ‘And that’s not the worst of it.’

‘Do go on!’ He finished his glass and placed it on the table, staring at her, as if fascinated and amused in equal measure.

Instinctively, she covered her face with her free hand and spoke through the gaps in her fingers. ‘I can’t say it out loud! It’s quite a big thing, actually.’ There was a fleeting moment when she practised the words in her head, as her heart raced, feeling at once overwhelmed and excited by the prospect of being transparent with him.

It’s rare for me to talk about it. Not something I ordinarily mention and certainly not this early on in proceedings, but here’s the thing ... And just like that, she snapped back to reality, far too soon to be an open book.

‘Oh, come on! There’s no way you can leave that there! Come on, spill the beans!’

He broke her thoughts, as he pulled her palm from her face and laced his fingers with hers, letting their hands rest, joined on the sofa between them. She could feel his pulse against her skin, and her heart beat quickly. It was a delicious moment of contact that held promise and, not wanting to spoil it, Madeleine smiled at his beautiful face and chose another story altogether.

‘All right, then. I was seeing this guy – we’d had a couple of dates,’ she qualified, ‘but he was nice. Things were on track and it was good.’

‘Nice?’ he scoffed. ‘That’s got to be the most insipid compliment a person can get. Please don’t ever describe me as nice.’

‘What would you prefer?’ she laughed.

‘I’d prefer “spectacular”, as in, “He is absolutely spectacular!” But I digress. Then what happened?’

‘I invited him over.’

‘Did he sit here, right here where I’m now sitting? Do you do this a lot? Invite men over? You’re not making me feel very special!’ he smarted.

‘Technically, I didn’t invite you over, and, yes – yes, he did, he sat right there. The problem was, he turned up in a Fair Isle sweater. Not a crime in itself, I grant you, but it was like a loud Fair Isle sweater. The yoke was orange and yellow and the background green. It might have looked cute on a hanger, but he sat there and it was such a clash with my décor ...’ There, she’d said it.

‘Oh my God! Are you telling me that you ditched a guy because his sweater didn’t go with the colour scheme of your lounge?’

‘Well, that sounds harsh, but ...’

‘But yes! You did! I honestly don’t know what to say! You’re a monster!’ He released her hand and grabbed a cushion to his chest. ‘Thank goodness I went for white shirt and jeans. I mean, are the jeans okay? Not too blue?’

‘You said you wouldn’t judge me!’

‘No, I said I would judge you! And frankly I find you to be a shocking horror of a human being!’ He grabbed his phone and shouted into it, ‘Taxi for Yannis, please – immediately, like immediately! Right now!’

They roared their laughter. What happened next was swift, comfortable, and felt like the most natural thing in the world as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her softly. With her wine glass hastily deposited on the tabletop next to his, they slipped down on to the deep pile of the rug, and with the lighting low, they forgot all about the sushi and shed their clothes.

As the night crept towards dawn and with the neutral-shaded raffia cushions as pillows, they took pleasure from each other before falling into a deep and satisfied slumber.

It was rare for her to sleep in this way, deeply, and without a care in the world ...