The closing titles of Made in Chelsea rolled and I yawned and picked up my phone to check the time. Just after nine o’clock. I could definitely fit in another couple of episodes before bed, I decided. The show was my guilty pleasure – the antics of rich kids in the wealthy west London borough made me laugh, but it was also aspirational. I wanted that sort of life one day – the carefree existence that money seemed to bring, the endless travel, the designer clothing, the casual sipping of champagne in exclusive clubs.
I picked up the glass of sparkling water from the table in front of me and took a sip of that, instead, for now, wondering how long it would take before I could work my way up into the sort of income bracket that would allow me to afford the Chelsea lifestyle. Or even the Cotswold lifestyle, come to think of it. Houses like the one I was currently sitting in didn’t come cheap. Six bedrooms, acres of gardens … I’d checked online on one of those property search websites, just out of interest, shortly after I’d moved in with the Garringtons, and guessed that this place was worth at least a million and a half. Maybe more.
Still, Annabelle and Greg deserved it. They were both locals, from modest backgrounds as far as I could gather, and they’d worked hard – she with her business, him advertising director for a major London agency, running their Gloucestershire branch – and I had no problem with doing the same. I’d get to where they were, one day, and in the meantime Annabelle paid me well, and this room was all I needed, for now at least.
It was at its nicest tonight, curtains snugly drawn against the January cold, a couple of fragrant candles – lime and vanilla, my favourites – flickering on the little side table, and me cuddled up on the sofa with a faux fur throw across my legs and trashy telly to watch, my belly full from the luscious moussaka Annabelle had insisted I share with the family downstairs earlier, the taste of the cinnamon-spiced lamb, aubergine and creamy white sauce still lingering on my tongue.
Yes, I was twenty-five years old and probably should have been out partying somewhere, on the pull like most young single women, but I was content to be right here tonight, safe and cosy in my room, tired after another busy week. I didn’t have many friends, not around here – I’d always found it hard to relate to people of my own age, and the sort of stuff they liked to do, which seemed to revolve around shopping, taking selfies and partying. I wasn’t much of a drinker anyway, and the kind of men you met in pubs and clubs did nothing for me – young, immature, boozed up, slobbery, wanting only one thing and doing it badly when they got it.
I’d always preferred older men myself, and for a moment I let my mind drift back to earlier in the kitchen, to the look Greg had given me when he’d arrived back from shopping with the kids. It had only been a glance, a quick up and down, but a little shiver had gone through me. He is nearly twenty years older than me, but he is … well, hot, quite frankly. And there was something, sometimes, when we were in the same room … was frisson the word? An exchange of looks, eyes meeting for just a fraction too long. It made my stomach flip, my hands shake a little, my mouth go dry. I blew out hard through my mouth, dispelling the thoughts. I was definitely not going to go near Greg, not in that way. No, I wasn’t even going to think about it. I’d made that mistake before, elsewhere, and I wasn’t going to do it again.
Maybe he had some friends though? Someone he could introduce me to? I leaned back on my cushions, pulling my throw up to my chest, running my fingers across the soft fibres, and idly wondered if I could ask Annabelle if she knew of any attractive, single older men when she took me out for dinner this week. It had been nice of her to offer, and I’d been happy to accept, but I already knew the meal would come at a price. I’d noticed it for a while, every time Nell was around or Thea’s name cropped up – the way Annabelle almost seemed to be holding herself back, clamping her lips together, desperate to ask me for the full story but not quite able to bring herself to form the words. She’d do it on Wednesday, though, I knew she would, and I’d resigned myself to it. It would do no harm to talk about it, not now. And there were too many secrets in life, too many things not talked about. So I would tell her, I decided, on Wednesday, if she asked me. When she asked me. I’d tell her what she wanted to know, finally. I’d tell her what happened to Zander.