Page 20 of Commitment Issues
Chapter Nine
Freddie
“I think that’s everything.” Elliot looks at the bulging bags we both hold.
“Yes, thank you. It’s all more than enough.”
My stomach flips at the amount he’s spent on me. Suit, shoes, two silk shirts and a couple of ties. Those bags represent a fortune, or a fortune to me. More money’s been spent on what they hold than I can expect to earn in six months, if not more, but Elliot’s handed over his credit card without a blink, as though the sums are little more than change. Perhaps they are, to him.
I shift from foot to foot, the disparity in our status suddenly acute and glaring. “It still seems like too much.” Far too much to pay for a fake date.
Elliot shrugs. “These,” he says, holding up one of the bags, “represent your expenses. Which James will be meeting.” He gives me an almost conspiratorial smile, breaking through my squirming discomfort, and I can’t help but laugh. James is going to regret his part in all this, or his bank balance will.
Out of nowhere, my stomach growls, long and loud. It’s been hours since I toasted the last piece of stale bread and smothered it in mayonnaise because we’re out of butter.
Elliot quirks his brow at me. “Hungry?”
“A bit peckish, I suppose.” Peckish? I’m bloody starving.
“Let’s get something. There’s a small café around the back here that’s very good, or,” he says, hesitating, “we could go back to my place? It wouldn’t take long to get there, and I don’t know about you but I’m sick of crowds.”
His place? My surprise must show on my face.
“We should discuss the wedding, and I think it’ll be easier to do it somewhere quieter, but we also need to work out what we’re going to say to people if they ask about us. Well, Gavin, because he’s sure to dig. But if you’d rather go to a café, or a pub…?” Elliot’s looking at me, waiting for me to make the decision. His eyes are overcast in a way I’m sure they weren’t just moments ago, but the sun’s scudding in and out of the clouds, so it’s probably nothing more than my imagination. “Unless, of course, you have plans for this evening?” he adds quietly.
“No, no plans. And, erm, yes. Your place. That’ll be great. Yes, thanks.”
I’m burbling, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He smiles, and his clear blue eyes are bright with no sign of clouds. Which of course I’ve imagined, because I’m teetering on the edge of starvation, my blood sugar’s plummeting and if I go much longer without food, I’ll end up eating my own leg.
Elliot hails a taxi, and we bundle into the shadowy interior. The driver’s partitioned off, and I’m acutely aware that we’re sealed in a little bubble of our own. Elliot’s slightly tangy cologne is stronger in the back of cab, more concentrated in the enclosed space. Without thinking I breathe in deep, the clean, sharp, almost salt tang reminding me of the wild North Sea that batters the exposed shoreline of the Suffolk village I come from. Closing my eyes, images of family and old friends crash in on me. It’s been too long since I’ve been home, and for all that I love London, I miss my family and the wild coastline.
A shrill ring slices through the air and I snap my eyes open.
“It’s James,” Elliot says, with a snort. “He can leave a message. Let the little runt wonder what’s going on. He’ll hate not knowing.”
“Cosmo’s the same.”
“Hmm. They’re probably comparing notes.”
I’m not quite sure what Elliot means, and I don’t ask, especially as he’s closed his eyes and settled back into the seat.
It doesn’t take too long to reach Hampstead, and the taxi pulls up in a tiny side street.
I’m expecting a luxury block of flats, with a liveried porter in reception, but I can’t be more wrong, as I stare up at a large Victorian terraced house. A black and white tiled path runs up to the dark green door. The small front garden hasn’t, like so many houses, been turned into off-road parking, but instead is a riot of colour, with terracotta pots blooming with bright flowers. It’s lovely, and like a cross between aHomes and Gardensspread, and something much more homely.
Elliot unlocks the door, and looks at me over his shoulder. “We’ll go straight through to the kitchen, if you don’t mind? It’s where I spend most of my time in the house, in any case. Oh, I’ve got a dog. He’s only a scrap of a thing, but are you okay with them?”
“I’m fine. I grew up with a whole menagerie of animals.”
But what I am, is surprised. Elliot just doesn’t look like a dog person, whatever one of those looks like, I guess, but whatever it is, it’s not him.
I’m curious as to what breed it is, but I just know it’s going to be a pedigree, and one of the popular ones, like a French Bulldog. I’m about to ask, but he’s already walking down the long hallway, and I follow him to the room at the end.
The kitchen’s bright and airy, but there’s nothing sleek or designer about it. It’s kind of battered but not with that conscious and contrived shabby-chic look that costs a fortune. This is homely and, I just know, well-loved. Free-standing mismatched cupboards, all painted a light sage green, stand against soft-white walls, and a huge oak table takes pride of place in the middle of the stone-flagged floor.
But there’s one feature above all else that’s totally breath-taking.
“Oh, wow!”
