Weetabix and sort out his packed lunch. We were down to the dregs again: slightly stale bread and an unbranded cream cheese that had the advantage of staying free from mould for around a month. I cut the crusts off to perk up the sandwich and examined a banana which, if I were a different kind of woman, with a different of life, would declare was fit only to make banana bread with. I tossed the lot into a Bargain Booze plastic bag, along with George’s water bottle, which was beginning to smell of damp dishcloth around the rim.
Poor kid.
Tying it up, I found myself murmuring that this would all change soon. This time next week, after my landlord was paid, there would be enough money in my account to afford a Tesco’s home delivery, and George could have sushi for his lunch if he so wished.
This time next week things would be ticking over again and my evening with Scott would be on its way to becoming a memory.
12
‘GOOD EVENING,’ I said. ‘I’m here to meet a resident, Scott Elias. Could you tell me if he’s checked in yet?’
I hadn’t spotted Scott’s Ferrari in the car park, so expected he was running late.
‘Mr Elias is waiting for you in the bar area. I’ll show you through. Would you like to leave your overnight bag here, and I’ll arrange to have it taken to your room?’
‘Thank you, yes,’ I replied.
I followed the young man into a pleasant, spacious hallway, dotted with antique occasional tables and freshly upholstered French dining chairs, before he stopped and gestured towards a doorway on the right.
He smiled. ‘Just through here,’ he said. ‘Enjoy your evening.’
The furniture was cleverly arranged to give rise to a number of distinct spaces to afford privacy. There were no large sofas. Instead, highly polished maple coffee tables were encircled by armchairs of differing designs, all carefully chosen to blend with the muted sage and ivory decor.
As I entered the room further, I became aware of Scott rise from his seat at the far end and smile my way. I passed a couple in their early sixties who were reading – she a copy of David Hockney’s A Bigger Picture and he a biography of the jockey A. P. McCoy. She glanced up as I came their way and then immediately down towards my shoes, I assumed to see what I’d paired with the green dress. Judging by her small smile of satisfaction, it appeared that the black patent were entirely the wrong choice.
‘Roz,’ said Scott, taking my hands and kissing me on both cheeks, ‘so good to see you.’
He smelled lemon fresh and had taken a little sun since I’d seen him yesterday. It suited him: he looked younger, healthy.
There was an open briefcase on the coffee table and two stacks of papers to the side.
‘Nice ruse,’ I said quietly, nodding to the briefcase. Scott had skilfully arranged things to give the impression of a business meeting.
‘You look stunning,’ he said ‘What can I get you to drink?’
‘Oh – anything – anything,’ I stammered. ‘I’ll have anything wet.’
‘I’m drinking red. But if you’d prefer some fizz, or how about a cocktail?’
‘Red’s great.’
‘It’s really good to see you,’ he said again, holding my gaze for a moment too long before gesturing towards the bartender.
We settled into our seats. Nervous, I crossed my legs one way, and then the other. Not in a Sharon Stone way, since I was wearing underwear. Underwear that had a habit of misbehaving, forcing me to wriggle in the chair.
‘I didn’t see your car,’ I said.
‘No, I’m in my other.’ He dropped his voice. ‘The Ferrari’s not great when my sciatica flares up, to be honest.’
I tried to smile. ‘That’s why the football players all switched to Range Rovers.’
‘Because of sciatica?’ he said, surprised. ‘They’re too young, surely?’
‘If you drive with your knees higher than your hips, it irritates the nerve root, sending the hamstring muscles into spasm. Which means they’re more liable to
Poor kid.
Tying it up, I found myself murmuring that this would all change soon. This time next week, after my landlord was paid, there would be enough money in my account to afford a Tesco’s home delivery, and George could have sushi for his lunch if he so wished.
This time next week things would be ticking over again and my evening with Scott would be on its way to becoming a memory.
12
‘GOOD EVENING,’ I said. ‘I’m here to meet a resident, Scott Elias. Could you tell me if he’s checked in yet?’
I hadn’t spotted Scott’s Ferrari in the car park, so expected he was running late.
‘Mr Elias is waiting for you in the bar area. I’ll show you through. Would you like to leave your overnight bag here, and I’ll arrange to have it taken to your room?’
‘Thank you, yes,’ I replied.
I followed the young man into a pleasant, spacious hallway, dotted with antique occasional tables and freshly upholstered French dining chairs, before he stopped and gestured towards a doorway on the right.
He smiled. ‘Just through here,’ he said. ‘Enjoy your evening.’
The furniture was cleverly arranged to give rise to a number of distinct spaces to afford privacy. There were no large sofas. Instead, highly polished maple coffee tables were encircled by armchairs of differing designs, all carefully chosen to blend with the muted sage and ivory decor.
As I entered the room further, I became aware of Scott rise from his seat at the far end and smile my way. I passed a couple in their early sixties who were reading – she a copy of David Hockney’s A Bigger Picture and he a biography of the jockey A. P. McCoy. She glanced up as I came their way and then immediately down towards my shoes, I assumed to see what I’d paired with the green dress. Judging by her small smile of satisfaction, it appeared that the black patent were entirely the wrong choice.
‘Roz,’ said Scott, taking my hands and kissing me on both cheeks, ‘so good to see you.’
He smelled lemon fresh and had taken a little sun since I’d seen him yesterday. It suited him: he looked younger, healthy.
There was an open briefcase on the coffee table and two stacks of papers to the side.
‘Nice ruse,’ I said quietly, nodding to the briefcase. Scott had skilfully arranged things to give the impression of a business meeting.
‘You look stunning,’ he said ‘What can I get you to drink?’
‘Oh – anything – anything,’ I stammered. ‘I’ll have anything wet.’
‘I’m drinking red. But if you’d prefer some fizz, or how about a cocktail?’
‘Red’s great.’
‘It’s really good to see you,’ he said again, holding my gaze for a moment too long before gesturing towards the bartender.
We settled into our seats. Nervous, I crossed my legs one way, and then the other. Not in a Sharon Stone way, since I was wearing underwear. Underwear that had a habit of misbehaving, forcing me to wriggle in the chair.
‘I didn’t see your car,’ I said.
‘No, I’m in my other.’ He dropped his voice. ‘The Ferrari’s not great when my sciatica flares up, to be honest.’
I tried to smile. ‘That’s why the football players all switched to Range Rovers.’
‘Because of sciatica?’ he said, surprised. ‘They’re too young, surely?’
‘If you drive with your knees higher than your hips, it irritates the nerve root, sending the hamstring muscles into spasm. Which means they’re more liable to
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