Page 22 of Just a Taste
If that had come from anyone else, I’d have no doubt in my mind that they were being genuine, but the words ring false as they fall from Hoxton’s lips.
Take all the time you need.
Translation?
Hurry up and get the hell out.
He turns abruptly on his heel and starts making his way down the corridor. It’s only when he glances over his shoulder and quirks a brow at my still-shivering form in the lobby that I realise he wants me to follow.
At first, I think he’s guiding me back towards the kitchen, the only place in his home where I feel even a modicum of comfort and ease, but he doesn’t take the right turning for it and instead directs me to a room I’ve only ever seen in passing.
His living room.
The second I step over the threshold, the scent of vanilla hits me. There are two large candles lit on the dark oakwood coffee table, bathing the room in a yellowy glow. The news is playing on mute on the large flatscreen TV on the wall, a ruffled blanket is slipping off his slightly uncomfortable-looking sleek black leather sofa, and there’s a dog-eared book balancing precariously on the dark wooden armrest.
I wouldn’t call Hoxton’s living room cosy by any definition of the word, but I realise that this is the first time I’ve seen any room in his house that looks even vaguely lived-in. It’s still too dark and sleek for my personal taste – and the distinct lack of any Christmas décor feels like a targeted attack against me personally – but I can see the appeal. It’s easy to imagine Hoxton sprawled out on his sofa, the dark blanket draped over him, getting lost in a book under the candlelight.
I inch further into the room and promptly choke on the laugh that threatens to come out of my throat. I don’t know what I’d been expecting to see on the front cover of Hoxton’s late-night read – maybe something like48 Lawsof PowerorThe Art of War– but the wordsThe Return of Krampus,accompanied by a truly gruesome depiction of a horned creature wearing a torn Santa hat with blood dripping down its mouth, is definitely not it.
‘Are you—’ I turn to face Hoxton, eyes wide in disbelief. ‘Are you seriously reading a Christmas horror?’
Hoxton snatches the book up and turns it over, as if that’s going to do anything. The dark flush is back on his cheeks again. ‘It’s a classic,’ he says, almost defensively.
‘No,’ I laugh, shaking my head. ‘A Christmas Carolis a classic.How The Grinch Stole Christmasis a classic. That is—’ I gesture at the book in his hands and huff out another quiet laugh. ‘That is actually very on-brand for you, I guess.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Hoxton asks as he strides across the room and slotsThe Return of Krampusback into its space on his bookshelf. I’m suddenly filled with the urge to follow him and take a peek at the rest of his library. See if his shelves are filled from top to bottom with Christmas hating books, or ifThe Return of Krampusis a one-off.
But I don’t.
The look on his face tells me that Hoxton is very much regretting inviting me into his home and unless I want to find myself out in the blistering cold for the second time tonight, I’d better not push him.
‘Nothing,’ I say innocently, fishing through my bag to grab my phone. ‘Just an observation.’
I ignore the suspicious look he shoots me and fire up the Uber app.
THERE ARE CURRENTLY NO CARS
AVAILABLE IN YOUR AREA.
The words jump out at me from the screen, dancing in my vision. Taunting me. I close the app and restart it.There are currently no cars available in your area.Refresh.There are currently no cars available in your area.Refresh. Refresh. Ref—
‘I don’t think there are any cars available in the area.’
Hoxton is looming over me, an expression on his face that seems to be a mixture of amusement and exasperation. I hadn’t even heard him approach.
‘Really?’ I ask weakly. I’m still staring at the screen, desperately refreshing the app every few seconds. ‘What makes you say that?’
He stares at me critically for a second or two and then taps my phone gently. ‘It says right—’
‘I was joking,’ I bite out. ‘It was a joke.’
‘Hm.’ His lips twist into another one of those almost smiles he’s apparently become fond of. ‘Seems like a career in comedy isn’t on the cards for you, either.’
‘Seems like it,’ I mutter absentmindedly, my fingers already tapping away at my phone to try to find the local taxiservice number. That ends up being as fruitless as my attempts to book an Uber. When I eventually do get through to the operator at the taxi company, the only response I get is a sharp bark of laughter followed by a ‘Have you taken a look outside lately, love?’
At that point, I do look outside. The snow, which was already achingly cold and furious just ten minutes ago, has whipped itself up into even more of a frenzy. I can barely see a metre out in front of the window, and the night sky is more white than black at this point.
‘Nobody’s coming out tonight,’ the operator says with a yawn. ‘I’d advise you to stay where you are and give us a call in the morning, and we’ll see what we can do. Wouldn’t get your hopes up, though.’
