“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 believe?
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.
She folded her arms, squinted against the too-bright, too-pale sky, and listened to the creature’s plaintive miaows.
After a moment, she called, “You sound as though you’re stuck.”
The cat screeched its affirmative like a miniature murder victim. It was small, but wonderfully fat, with fur so gray as to seem almost black, and piercing eyes that said, Surely you won’t leave me here?
Chloe sighed. “Are you sure you can’t get down? I don’t mean to be rude, but you know how this goes. Some gullible, bleeding-heart type clambers into a tree after a cat, only for said cat to leap mischievously down at the last second—”
Another shriek, this one blatantly indignant.
“Fair point,” Chloe conceded. “Just because you appear well, doesn’t mean you don’t require help. I, above all, should know that. I will call the fire brigade for you.”
The cat miaowed some more and glared down at her, a skeptical smudge against the sky. She was now quite certain that it was saying something like, The fire brigade, you wasteful cow? Don’t you realize we are in an era of austerity? Would you take much-needed public services away from children trapped in bathrooms and old ladies who’ve left the iron on? For shame.
This cat, like most of its species, seemed rather judgmental. Chloe didn’t mind; she appreciated bluntness in a beastly companion. And . . . well, it had a point. Why should she bother the fire-type people when she had a semifunctional body of her own? Fetching this cat might not be the cleverest way to end her walk, but then, staid, sensible Chloe Brown was dead. New Chloe was a reckless, exciting sort of woman who, in moments of crisis, didn’t wait for the assistance of trained professionals.