Читать книгу It Could Be You: Part 1 - Bella Osborne - Страница 6

Regan knew it was going to be a bad day when she awoke to find she was using a half-eaten kebab as a pillow.

‘You’re going to be late again,’ said Jarvis, giving her shoulder a poke.

Regan opened a bleary eye and tried to focus it on the alarm clock. ‘I’ve got loads of time.’ She harrumphed and pulled the duvet over her head. The work do the previous night had been dull so she’d drunk more than she intended to.

‘But I thought you were taking Cleo to the airport?’

‘Shiiiiiiit!’ Regan got out of bed so fast she forgot to put her feet down, and instead tumbled to the floor face first. Jarvis guffawed. ‘Ow! That bloody hurt.’ She jumped up and thrust her face up to the mirror. ‘Shit. I’ve got a carpet burn on my nose.’ She gave it a rub and removed a piece of lettuce from her cheek.

‘Remember you’re picking Cleo up from her studio and not the apartment.’

‘I know.’ Regan hadn’t remembered this, but being reminded by Jarvis was a daily irritant. She began picking things up and flinging them in all directions. ‘Shittity shittington …’

‘Regan, please don’t leave the apartment in a state,’ said Jarvis, adjusting his tie. She was doing a passable impression of the Tasmanian Devil as she tried to decide what she needed to do first. ‘I hate coming home to a mess.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Perhaps we need to have another discussion about this later. Hmm?’ A bra sailed past his ear.

‘Pants,’ said Regan, decisively. Pants were always a good starting point. She began pulling underwear from her top drawer. ‘No, actually I need a wee first.’ And she dashed off to the bathroom, taking a clean pair of pants and yesterday’s clothes with her in the hope she could get dressed whilst sitting on the loo to save some time.

‘You really should allow more time,’ said Jarvis, with a tut. Regan gave him a sarcastic smile and shut the bathroom door. Jarvis was lovely, but he could be a pompous arse sometimes. It didn’t help that he was frequently correct.

Right now she needed to accomplish as many things simultaneously as possible. She could brush her teeth sitting down too. The Lean Methodology expert at work would be proud, she thought, as she snatched up her toothbrush.

‘Bye then. We’ll talk later, all right?’ Jarvis called through the bathroom door, his voice overflowing with exasperation.

‘Oh kweee,’ mumbled Regan. It was the best she could do with a mouthful of toothbrush and one leg in her pants.

She heard the front door bang shut and relaxed a little. It was like living with her dad rather than her boyfriend. She surveyed the bathroom floor, strewn with an assortment of her clothes, a couple of towels and the oozing toothpaste tube. She’d just have to make sure she was home before Jarvis. She couldn’t stand another lecture on her slovenly ways, but she didn’t have time to sort it out now.

A few minutes later she was hurtling across Brighton in her battered Fiesta shouting obscenities at anyone in her way, which was essentially everyone. A quick check in the rear-view mirror reminded her that she hadn’t brushed her hair – she resembled a one-colour version of Cruella De Vil.

There was nowhere to park at Cleo’s studio, as usual, so she abandoned the car in the middle of the road and sprinted up to the door. She banged hard until Cleo appeared. ‘Come in. I’ve been calling you,’ said Cleo, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

Regan frisked herself as she stepped inside. ‘Shit. I forgot my mobile. Sorry, Cleo.’

Cleo gave her a forgiving look. ‘It’s fine. I told you an hour earlier than I needed anyway because I knew you’d be late.’

Regan was going to protest, but a quick glance at where her watch should be, followed by a squint at the clock on the studio wall, told her Cleo was absolutely right to have done this. ‘Sneaky – but good call.’

Regan was notorious for being late. She tried not to be, but she had long ago resigned herself to the fact that timekeeping simply wasn’t one of her talents.

‘What have you done to your nose?’ asked Cleo, peering at Regan.

Regan’s hand automatically shot to her face. ‘Carpet burn. Still need to hurry you up because the car is blocking the road.’

Cleo raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting. Let me just do one last check and we can go.’ Cleo swept away. She was dressed elegantly in clothes that adored being shown off on her willowy frame. Even the way she walked was sophisticated. She was the fashion opposite to Regan, who often looked like her wardrobe had vomited on her.

Regan stopped slouching. ‘Why did you want picking up from here and not your place?’ Cleo was an artist with a swish flat in Hove but this was her studio in Brighton, where she worked.

‘I stayed at The Downs Hotel last night. There was an exhibition at the racecourse, but I didn’t expect you to remember all that so the studio seemed easiest.’ Regan pursed her lips, but she wasn’t offended. Cleo was right; she wouldn’t even have remembered to come to the studio if Jarvis hadn’t said. ‘And anyway I’ve let out my flat. Daddy suggested it as I’m away for two months. It made financial sense.’

‘Of course,’ said Regan. Nothing made financial sense to her. Finance meant numbers, and she wasn’t good with numbers. Which explained the credit card juggling act she had to do at the end of each month. Although, thanks to Jarvis and his austerity measures, this was now more under control.

Regan scanned the small studio. It was filled with canvases: some blank, some finished and a couple somewhere in between. There was a high-arched window, which filled the space with light. It seemed to fall like a spotlight on Cleo’s latest work. Regan peered at the large brown mass in the picture, tilting her head at an uncomfortable angle. ‘I don’t know what you find so fascinating about—’

‘We’ve no time for any of that,’ said Cleo, pulling her Louis Vuitton case as if she too were on wheels and she shooed Regan backwards out of the studio. Cleo’s art baffled Regan; she wasn’t an arty sort. The two of them had met when Cleo had taken a part-time job as a waitress to impress her rich father with her work ethic. Regan had been working there with no other ambition than not to get fired before payday. They were an unlikely pairing, but curiosity on both sides had brought them together – that and a mutual love of coffee and tequila shots.

After she’d set an alarm and checked the door, Cleo poured herself gracefully into Regan’s car. ‘Got everything?’ asked Regan.

‘Because I’m the one who forgets things,’ said Cleo, playfully arching a perfect eyebrow. ‘Here,’ she said, handing Regan her keys. ‘Alarm code fourteen fifty-two. The year Leonardo da Vinci was born.’

‘Why do I need to know that?’ Regan was instantly uncomfortable with the responsibility.

‘Because there’s an issue with the boiler and the landlord is sending a workman over …’ Cleo was speaking slowly as if Regan was remedial.

‘And you need me to be here tomorrow to let him in. I hadn’t forgotten,’ she lied. She tried to repeat the number silently in her head so she’d remember it. She wished she hadn’t forgotten her phone – putting a reminder on there would have been useful.

‘I’ll send you a text,’ said Cleo, pulling out her mobile. She gave her friend an indulgent smile.

Regan noticed Cleo twang the hair bobble on her wrist. She kept it there to help with stressful situations. ‘You okay?’

‘Not looking forward to the flight … or being away for so long.’

Regan set off; she was now far more relaxed knowing she had a little time to spare and she also stood half a chance of not being late into work. ‘Remind me again where you’re off to this time?’

‘Dubai, Hong Kong, Japan and Taiwan,’ said Cleo, without a hint of any enthusiasm.

‘Wowsers.’ Regan had always wanted to travel. The furthest she’d strayed in recent years was the Isle of Wight – Jarvis’s favourite holiday destination. She couldn’t complain, because he usually paid the lion’s share due to her cash flow issues. ‘You’ll have the best time. Post loads on social media so I can live vicariously.’ She didn’t really need to ask because Cleo lived her life on whatever social media platforms were the hottest. Her timeline was filled with photographs of beautiful people in amazing places, and she had a gazillion followers on Instagram. Whereas, Regan had eighty-four, and an alarming number of those claimed to be single males very high up in the American armed services, which everyone knew was code for fraudster.

Cleo raised a perfect eyebrow. ‘It is work. It’s not a holiday.’

‘Still,’ said Regan, braking hard for a bus that pulled out at the same time as it indicated. ‘It’ll be five-star hotels, cocktails, à la carte dining and comfy beds all the way.’ She gave a small sigh. She wouldn’t have to think very hard before trading places with Cleo.

‘How’s your job?’

‘Still duller than a black-and-white party political broadcast. But like Jarvis says, it’s secure and it pays the bills.’ There must be more to life than that, thought Regan.

‘You should try staring at a blank canvas for hours. That’s dull too.’

‘I guess.’ Regan knew Cleo was just trying to make her feel better. As an artist, Cleo’s life was two extremes: she spent a large part of her time alone in the studio painting, but then she also travelled the world to attend exclusive exhibitions of her work, as well as being invited to all the trendy star-studded parties because she was very much part of the art scene glitterati. Regan loved hearing all about Cleo’s glamorous life, even if it made hers look crappier by comparison.

They pulled into the airport shuttle drop off zone and Regan hopped out to get Cleo’s case from the boot. ‘Have an amazing time …’ said Regan, and she could see Cleo was about to interrupt her, ‘… at work. But remember to have fun too. Love you.’

‘And you,’ said Cleo, kissing her cheek and giving her a tight hug that went on a fraction longer than usual.

Regan held her at arm’s length. ‘You okay?’ She could sense there was something not quite right.

Cleo’s face was deadpan for a moment and then a smile appeared. ‘Of course. It’s just that two months is quite a long time. I’m really going to miss you.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Regan, passing her the case handle. ‘You’ll be far too busy with work cocktails and work parties and other wonderful worky type things.’ Cleo looked skywards. ‘FaceTime me tomorrow.’

‘Of course. And please remember the boiler man. Saturday. Ten o’clock,’ called Cleo over her slender shoulder and she sashayed into departures.

Regan watched her go. She wished she were going too. She needed a break, and some sunshine would be lovely. There was nothing she’d miss for two months – with the possible exception of her dad – but he was all loved-up these days, so she rarely saw him anyway.

Beep, beep, BEEP!

The blast of a horn brought her back from her daydream. She gave a sickly-sweet smile to the large shuttle bus trying to get in behind her, whilst in her mind she was sticking her tongue out at him.

She had time to stop for petrol on her way into work, which was unheard of, so she treated herself to a Mars bar. The person in front of her in the queue asked for a lottery ticket. Regan couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought a lottery ticket. Jarvis had decreed that she needed to cut out all extraneous spending in order to repay her credit cards; her lottery and online bingo habits were the first to go. Jarvis called the Lotto a ‘fool’s tax’ because only stupid people played something with odds of forty-five million to one.

‘Which pump?’ asked the man behind the counter.

Regan had to check. ‘Two, please, and this,’ she said, passing him the Mars bar. Jarvis wouldn’t be impressed with her having chocolate for breakfast either. He was cutting down their sugar intake. ‘And a Lotto lucky dip for Saturday night, please,’ she said, feeling a tiny bit rebellious.

‘Good luck, love,’ said the man on the till.

‘Thanks,’ said Regan, putting the ticket in her purse.

It was a short drive into town. Regan waved as she entered her usual coffee shop, the Hug In A Mug, and Penny behind the counter did a double take. Regan braced herself for the sarcastic comments about her being earlier than usual. ‘You been evicted?’ asked Penny, chuckling whilst she made Regan’s usual order. ‘Wet the bed then?’

‘Had to take a friend to the airport,’ Regan said, with a giant yawn. ‘Actually can I have an extra shot in mine today, please?’

‘Sure thing,’ said Penny. She put it through the till and Regan paid with the joint account card. She liked contactless payments on the joint account because it wasn’t like real money. The only price she had to pay was Jarvis tutting over the statements.

There was a bang on the window of the coffee shop, followed by the cringe-making sound of nails on glass moving slowly down the pane. Penny and Regan winced and turned quickly to look. A large dog was standing on its back legs with its giant front paws on the window. It was the height of an average human.

‘Christ, what is that?’ asked Penny. They both watched, mesmerised by its large fangs and open slathering jaw.

‘Ah, that is Kevin’s new friend. I met him yesterday. Some bloke tied him up and left him, according to Kevin.’

‘Poor thing,’ said Penny, and they watched it lick the glass with its huge pink tongue. ‘What sort of dog is it?’

‘I think it’s a werewolf,’ said Regan. It certainly looked the right size. She grabbed some sugar sachets, slung them on the cardboard tray and headed for the door, calling ‘Bye!’ as she left.

Outside, the giant mutt was waiting for Regan, but thankfully, so was Kevin. Kevin was homeless. Regan had walked past him every day since she’d started her job at BHB Healthcare and he always told her carpe diem, which was Latin for ‘seize the day’ – she’d looked it up. He never asked for money, which had been what had triggered her to start getting him a coffee each morning, and the smile she got from Kevin when she handed it over kept her going for hours.

‘Hey Kevin. You might want to keep your dog off the glass. Don’t want him getting into any trouble.’ She gave Kevin his coffee and he beamed at her. The dog sniffed her groin and retreated. She couldn’t blame him – she hoped her lack of a shower didn’t have the same effect on her work colleagues. She made a mental note to spray herself liberally with perfume when she got there.

‘Thank you. Carpe diem,’ said Kevin, cupping his coffee reverently. Regan tried not to stare at the scars lacing their way across Kevin’s hands.

‘I will.’ She turned to walk away and then spun around. ‘Oh, has your dog got a name yet?’

‘I’ve called him Elvis,’ said Kevin proudly.

‘Because he’s in the ghetto?’ asked Regan.

Kevin looked baffled. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘because he’s a hound dog.’

‘Genius!’ said Regan, and it kept her laughing most of the way to work.