7. Do something bad.
Oh, she’d done something bad, all right. Not that she could ever tell her sisters about that. Just the thought made her cheeks heat. But when she took her notebook back into the living room, guilty memories dragged her gaze, kicking and screaming, toward the window. The forbidden portal to her something bad. The curtains were still closed, the way she’d left them ever since her last transgression—but there was that little gap of light trickling through.
Perhaps she should go and pull the curtains tighter, cut off that gap completely, just to make sure. Yes. Definitely. She crept over to the wide living room window, raising a hand to do just that . . . but some sort of malfunction occurred, and before she knew it, she was twitching the curtain to the side, widening the gap instead of closing it. A faint shard of light stretched toward her across the courtyard’s patio, merging with the last gasps of the dying sun, and she thought to herself, Don’t. Don’t. This is horribly invasive and more than a little creepy and you’re just making everything worse—
But her eyes kept on looking anyway, staring across the narrow courtyard, through a not-so-distant window to the figure limned within.
Redford Morgan was hard at work.
Call me Red, he’d told her, months ago. She hadn’t. Couldn’t. The word, like everything else about him, was too much for her to handle. Chloe didn’t do well around people like him; confident people, beautiful people, those who smiled easily and were liked by everyone and felt comfortable in their own skin. They reminded her of all the things she wasn’t and all the loved ones who’d left her behind. They made her feel prickly and silly and frosty and foolish, twisting her insides into knots, until all she could do was snap or stammer.
She usually chose to snap.
The problem with Redford was, he always seemed to catch her at her worst. Take the time when some yummy mummy had cornered Chloe in the courtyard to ask, “Is that a wig?”
Chloe, perplexed, had patted her usual plain, brown bun, wondering if she’d slapped on one of Dani’s platinum blond lace fronts that morning by mistake. “. . . No?”
The yummy mummy hadn’t been impressed with Chloe’s lack of conviction and had therefore taken matters into her own hands. Which, in this case, had involved grabbing Chloe’s hair as if it were a creature at a petting zoo.
But had Redford witnessed that disaster? Of course not. Nor had he heard the woman’s chocolate-smeared child call Chloe a “mean, ugly lady” for defending herself. Nooo; he’d swept onto the scene like a knight in tattooed armor just in time to hear Chloe call the woman a “vapid disgrace to humanity,” and the child a “nasty little snot ball,” both of which were clearly true statements.
Redford had glared at her as if she were Cruella de Vil and let the yummy mummy cry on his shoulder.
And then there’d been that unfortunate incident in the post room. Was it Chloe’s fault that some bonkers old lady named Charlotte Brown lived directly above her in 2D? Or that said bonkers old lady, sans spectacles, had mistakenly broken into Chloe’s post box and opened the letters within? No. No, it was not. It also wasn’t Chloe’s fault that she, incensed by the literal crime committed against her, had reacted in the heat of the moment by finding the old lady’s post box and pouring her morning thermos of tea through the slot. How was she to know that Charlotte Brown had been awaiting seventieth birthday cards from her grandchildren in the United States? She wasn’t to know, of course. She wasn’t psychic, for heaven’s sake.
She’d attempted to explain all of that to Redford, but he’d been glowering so very hard, and then he’d said something awfully cutting—he was good at that, the wretch—and Chloe had given up. Superior silence was much easier to pull off, especially around him. He turned her into a complete disaster, and so, by day, she avoided his company like the bubonic plague.
But at night, sometimes, she watched him paint.
He was standing in front of his window, shirtless, which she supposed made her a pervert as well as a spy. But this wasn’t a sexual exercise. He was barely even attractive in her eyes. She didn’t see him as an object, or anything like that. From a distance, in the dark, with that sharp tongue of his tucked away, she saw him as poetry. He had this visceral quality, even when he was glaring at her, but especially when he painted. There was an honesty, a vulnerability about him that captivated her.
Chloe knew she was flesh and blood and bone, just like him. But she wasn’t alive like he was. Not even close.
He was in profile, focused on the canvas in front of him. Sometimes he painted haltingly, almost cautiously; other times, he would stare at the canvas more than he touched it. But tonight, he was a living storm, dabbing and daubing with quick, fluid movements. She couldn’t see what he was working on, and she didn’t want to. What mattered was the subtle rise and fall of his ribs as his breathing sped up, and the rapid, minute movements of his head, birdlike and fascinating. What mattered was him.
His long hair hung over his face, a copper-caramel curtain with shreds of firelight throughout. That hair, she knew, hid a strong brow, probably furrowed in concentration; a harsh, jutting nose; a fine mouth that lived on the edge of smiling, surrounded by sandy stubble. She liked to see the fierce concentration on his face when he painted, but she knew it was for the best when his wild hair covered all. If she couldn’t see him, he wouldn’t see her. And anyway, she didn’t need to see his face to drown in his vitality. The spill of copper strands over those broad shoulders; the ink trapped beneath his pale skin; that was enough.
If someone asked her what his tattoos looked like, she wouldn’t be able to describe the images they displayed or the words they spelled out. She’d speak about the dense blackness, and the pops of color. The faded ones that seemed ever so slightly raised, and the ones that flooded him like ink spilled into water. She’d speak about how strange it was to choose to bleed for something, simply because you wanted to. She’d speak about how it made her feel and how she wanted to want something that much, and on a regular enough basis, to build her own equivalent of his countless tattoos.
But no one would ever ask her, because she wasn’t supposed to know.
The first time she’d stumbled across this view, she’d turned away instantly, squeezing her eyes shut while her heart tried to break free of its cage. And she’d shut her curtains. Hard. But the image had stayed with her, and curiosity had built. She’d spent days wondering—Was he naked? Naked in front of his window? And what had been in his hand? What was he doing in there?
She’d lasted three weeks before looking again.
The second time, she’d been hesitant, shocked by her own audacity, creeping toward the window in the dark and hiding behind almost-closed curtains. She’d peeked just long enough to answer her own questions: he was wearing jeans and not much else; he was holding a paintbrush; he was, of course, painting. Then she’d stared even longer, hypnotized by the sight. Afterward, she’d crossed Do something bad off her list and tried to feel good instead of guilty. It hadn’t worked.
And this time? The third time? The last time, she told herself firmly. What was her excuse now?
There was none. Clearly, she was a reprehensible human being.
He stopped, straightened, stepped back. She watched as he put down his paintbrush, stretched out his fingers in a way that meant he’d been working for hours. She was jealous of how far he could push himself, how long he could stand in one place without his body complaining, or suffering. Or punishing him. She twitched the curtain wider, her envious hands moving of their own accord, a little more light spilling into her shadowed guilt.
Red turned suddenly. He looked out of his window.
Right at her.
But she wasn’t there anymore; she had dropped the curtain back into place, spun away, slammed herself against the living room wall. Her pulse pounded so hard and so fast that it was almost painful at her throat. Her breaths were ragged gasps, as if she’d run a mile.
He hadn’t seen her. He ha
dn’t. He hadn’t.
Yet she couldn’t help but wonder—what might he do, if he had?
Chapter Two
Why would a woman who all but hated Red spend her evening watching him through a window?
He couldn’t say. There was no good reason. There were bad reasons, reasons involving fetishes and class lines and the shit certain people considered degrading, but he didn’t think those applied to Chloe Brown. Not because she was above lusting after a man she looked down on, but because she didn’t seem the type to lust at all. Lust couldn’t exist without vulnerability. Chloe, beneath her pretty exterior, was about as vulnerable as a bloody shark.
So maybe his eyes had deceived him. Maybe she hadn’t been watching him at all. But he knew what he’d seen, didn’t he? Thick, dark hair pulled into a soft bun; the sky-bright glint of those blue glasses; a lush figure in pink pin-striped pajamas with buttons marching up the front. Cute as a button, neat as a button, always dressed in buttons. He knew exactly who lived in the flat that faced his across the courtyard, and he knew—he knew—that he’d seen her last night. But why?
“Red,” his mum barked. “Stop slicing so loud. You’re ruining my nerves, you are.”
The distraction, ridiculous or not, came as a relief. He was sick of his own repetitive thoughts, a murky, khaki color in his mind. He turned to face his mother, who was perched at the table wedged into one corner of her tiny kitchen, right beside the window. “You want to complain about my chopping, woman? When I’m over here to make you lunch?”
“Don’t get cheeky,” she said, giving him the death stare. She was legally blind in one eye, but lack of sight didn’t stop her irises from stabbing him.
He tried to look innocent. She huffed grandly and turned back to the window, twitching the net curtains aside. She ruled her cul-de-sac with an iron fist and spent most of her time waiting for supplicants to arrive.
This time, the supplicant was Shameeka Israel, a doctor at the Queen’s Medical Center. When she came for Sunday lunch with the great-aunt who lived three doors down, Dr. Israel became Our Meeka, or alternatively, Little Gap. She arrived at the window with a pot of oxtail curry and said, “Here, Ms. Morgan. Auntie made you some for the cold.”
Mum’s glower softened at the sound of the doctor’s voice. “Gap. You’re a good girl. When are you going to marry my Redford?”
“Soon, Ms. Morgan. All right, Red?”
He winked at her through the window. “It’s a date.”
She grinned, flashing her gap teeth, then put the oxtail inside the windowsill and said her good-byes. As soon as her Lexus pulled out of the car park, Red whisked the pot away from his mother’s grasping hands. She’d already lifted the lid, stuck a finger into the curry, and sucked.
“Oi,” he scolded. “You’ll spoil your lunch. I’m making you pistou soup.”
“What in God’s name is that?”
“The balls off a badger. Steamed.”
She snorted, screwing her angular face into an expression of disgust. “Sounds about right.” Mrs. Conrad wasn’t the only drama queen in Red’s life. Add his mum and Vik to the mix, and he was practically drowning in them.
He was just about to tell her the actual ingredients of pistou soup when she leaned toward the window, her voice rising to the level of a low-flying airplane. “Oi, Mike! I can see you, you scumbag! Get over here.”
Mike was, essentially, Mum’s good-for-nothing boyfriend. This was how they flirted. Red took himself to the stove and stirred his pistou soup, pointedly ignoring the things Mike shouted back. The guy was in his seventies, drank like a fish, and was round the bookies every afternoon like clockwork. Red did not approve.
It wasn’t as if he could say anything about it, though. Not when Mum had warned him about his last girlfriend, Pippa, and he’d merrily ignored her to the bitter, bloody end. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Relationship Expert. But he wouldn’t think about Pippa, or London, or his countless mistakes, because it only pissed him off, and Red hated feeling pissed off. Chill and cheerful was more his speed.
He was just regaining his equilibrium, clearing the dishes after a decent lunch, when Mum approached his most sensitive subject with all the delicacy of a rampaging rhino.
“Back to selling any paintings yet?”
Ah, his favorite topic. “Not yet,” Red said calmly. A little too calmly, but Mum didn’t seem to notice.
“Gee up, babe. You’ve been messing about for years now.”
Years? “It’s only been eighteen months.”
“Don’t correct your mother.”
He really didn’t get enough credit for his boundless patience. Maybe he should make himself an award. To the Much-Put-Upon Redford Thomas Morgan, in Recognition of Endurance in the Face of Pointless Questions About Art. Something like that.
“You can’t let that nasty little rich girl destroy your career,” Mum went on.
Too late. Red squirted a liberal amount of washing-up liquid into the bowl.
“Don’t give me the silent treatment, Redford. Answer me. What’ve you been up to? You are working, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he sighed, because if he didn’t tell her something she’d nag until his ears bled. “Mainly freelance illustration. Building my portfolio.” Again. “I just finished these pen-and-ink drawings of a brain and a bottle of port.”
Mum looked at him as if his head had fallen off.
“Lifestyle magazine,” he explained. “An article on erectile dysfunction.”
She huffed and turned fully away from the window, spearing him with her still-seeing eye. It glinted suspiciously from behind her amber-tinted glasses. “You’ve been drawing pictures for magazines since you were a boy. What are you waiting for? Sell some bloody paintings again. You have done some, haven’t you?”
Oh, yeah, he’d done some. He’d been painting as obsessively as always, and some of it was even half decent. But it was different. It was different, and he was different, and the things he knew were different, and after all the bad decisions he’d made . . .
Well. Red had plenty of work to sell. But thus far, he didn’t have the balls to show it to a single soul. Every time he considered it, a familiar, cut-glass accent reminded him of a few things. You try so hard, Red, and it’s pathetic. Accept what you are, sweetie. You were nothing before me, and you’ll be nothing after me.
Chloe Brown’s bladelike enunciation had nothing on Pippa Aimes-Baxter’s.
And why the fuck was he thinking about Chloe again?
“You gonna be a landlord forever?” Mum demanded.
He shook his head sharply, like a dog, brushing off the unwanted memories. “Vik’s the landlord, Mum. I’m his superintendent.”
“You should take a leaf out of Vikram’s book, in my opinion. Who could stop that boy? No one. Nothing.”
True. Vik Anand, aside from being Red’s best mate, was a minor property mogul who’d given Red the superintendent job after . . . well. After Pippa. Red was only vaguely qualified, but he hadn’t fucked anything up yet, and he was a decent plumber. Decent electrician. Excellent decorator. Damned hardworking.
Shit at the admin, but he did his best.
Aaaand, he was making excuses.
“You’re right,” he said, scrubbing out a saucepan, squinting when his hair fell into his eyes. It was like seeing the world through tall, dead grass at sunset. His fingers were turning red in the almost-boiling, bubbly water, the tattoo of MUM across his knuckles as bold as ever, each letter sitting just above his granddad’s silver rings. That tattoo hadn’t been his brightest teenage decision, but the sentiment remained: he loved the hell out of his mother. So he looked over at her and repeated, “You are absolutely right. Tomorrow morning, I’ll get on it properly. Start planning. Think about a new website.”
She nodded, turned back to her window, and changed the subject. Started gossiping about Mrs. Poplin’s witless nephew who’d gone and knocked up the girl from the corner shop who had a missing front tooth, could you beli
eve?
Red Hmmm’d in all the right places and thought about how to make Kirsty Morgan proud. He ended his visit with a kiss to both of her cheeks and a promise to pop in during the week, when he could. Then he put on his helmet and leathers, got on his bike, and sped home to the apartment building that was his blessing and his excuse.
He was not prepared for the spectacle he found outside.
Chapter Three
Walking improved heart health, significantly reduced one’s chances of breast cancer, and qualified as a relatively low-impact sport. Despite this last fact, and despite the New Balance walking trainers Chloe had bought especially, her knees were bloody killing her.
“You,” she muttered to the pavement beneath her feet, “are a first-class scoundrel.”
The pavement refused to respond, which struck her as rather petty. If it was bold enough to jar her bones with every step, it should be bold enough to defend its reprehensible solidity.
Then again, Chloe’s current predicament could be her own fault. She’d skipped her painkillers this morning because she was feeling lively—so she probably shouldn’t have spent the last twenty-seven minutes messing around outdoors, gulping down the crisp autumn air and pushing herself just a bit harder than usual. Hindsight was 20/20, and all that.
She could feel familiar tendrils of soreness burrowing into her body’s weak points, could see the dull gray of exhaustion at the edges of her mind. But she was nearly home now. Chloe wandered across the little park opposite her building—Grass! Thank Christ—and planned to reward herself with some lovely drugs, fluffy pajamas, and several dark-chocolate-chip cookies. Dark chocolate, obviously, was an extremely healthy choice. The antioxidants canceled out the sugar almost entirely.
Oh—there was a cat in a tree.
She stopped short, her thoughts scattered. A cat. In a tree. Had she stumbled into the pages of a children’s book? To her right stood the oak tree that dominated most of this random green area, and in the highest, spindly branches of that oak sat a cat. It was both a familiar concept and a completely baffling sight. For all that she’d heard of cats in trees, she’d never actually come across one.