Thank you all for reading so far, it is really appreciated. I should probably have said at the start that this story requires just a little bit of 'suspended belief' as I"m sure the chances of being put in an apartment opposite a handsome captain when in 'witness protection' pushes the boundaries just a little bit - or I'd be reporting crimes left right and centre... but it is just a bit of light relief to get us through these weird times we're living in - and for me not to fall out of love with the Molly and CJ. Thanks again.
The next day I wake with a headache. Completely and utterly the fault of the bottle of vodka sitting on the kitchen island. As always when I've overindulged, I have 'beer fear'; scrabbling for moments of memory to tell me I never made an arse of myself and all is okay in the world. Sadly I can only remember the moment when I knew I should have stopped - except I didn't. I have a horrible feeling I drank the entire bottle, not neat I hasten to add, and I'm pretty disappointed in myself because there is no one else to blame for my current suffering. There is obviously one way to find out but I'm too scared to look, which is strange because how much is left in the bottle, if any, is not going to make much of a difference to the pounding of my head or the hazy memories of the party I had to myself - you know the usual; music up at full volume, singing at the top of my voice and wondering why no one has ever suggested I audition for X-Factor. In hindsight the banging on the door by my next door neighbour wasn't his encouragement for me to continue. Mortifying.
After a morning of watching crap telly, trying to decide whether burnt toast, barely toasted bread or bagels were the best foods for a hangover and drinking copious amounts of tea, the need for a pee gets me to push myself off the supersized sofa and head for the bathroom. Passing the french doors the sound of voices, crystal clear on yet another warm hazy day stops me in my tracks.
"I suppose it is child friendly. Your son wouldn't be able to get over the railings…"
"Absolutely not, and I would of course be keeping an eye on Sam at all times."
Charles. And a female. I move to the side of the french doors, trying to get as close to the voices as possible without being seen. This is exciting. I've yet to witness him with company - apart from our original meeting when his wife made an appearance. In my head they're rich enough for Charles to live in London near Barracks and for Mrs James to live in a beautiful house in the countryside, my imagination has gone so far to decide the polluted streets of London are beneath her and not deemed healthy enough for their son. I've never questioned their relationship. Yet, here he is talking to someone else. There's the possibility of my party last night having ruined a naughty, romantic night for him. I have a strange feeling of happiness in my gut at the thought of his night not being perfect - I'm not sure why?
"It is a beautiful apartment." Breathless woman says. 100% she's pulling out all the stops, unfortunately for her it doesn't sound like he's flirting back, he's as brusque as ever when he replies.
"It'll do until I have a more permanent base. My friend knew it was lying empty and well…. Everything happened so quick and I just needed somewhere to stay, and of course I would like Sam to be here regularly. Rebecca can drop him off easily."
Somethings not right. I cover my mouth with my hand at the thought he's suddenly single, trying to remember if he was wearing a ring the last time I saw him. I can't. Carefully I inch my head around the doorframe, just enough for one eye to make out his balcony and see him standing with his back to me, hands on his hips listening to the woman. Unfortunately I can't make her out without risking them both spotting me.
"Where do you think you'll eventually live?" She asks, in a way which can only be described as 'desperate flirtatious' woman.
"Possibly near my parents in Bath."
"Handy for the train lines from London, only an hour and half away?"
"Well I can't see Sam and I coming up to London very often once I'm settled." He says in a tone which can only be described as 'pissed off bloke intentionally not taking any hints'.
"You never know. Maybe you and I could meet up for a coffee-"
I snort. Which I would have got away with if it didn't turn into some weird gurgle noise. Loudly.
There's a pause. And a sound I can only describe as a short, sharp exhalation of breath. Charles, I'm sure has worked out I'm eavesdropping. "Right well if that's everything you need to see I'll show you out." The words are rushed, decisive, his footsteps diminishing first before the high heeled footfall of The Flirter.
I have to hear how this ends. I'm wondering if she's going to try and ask him out again. To get to the door quickly I jump onto the sofa, agiley skipping over the 3 plates full of crumbs from my finished toast and an abandoned mug, leaping off the other end and I get to the peephole on the door to get my first glimpse in record time.
The woman in question is far more business-like than I expected when they emerge, a neat expensive navy blue suit and straight blonde hair. I'm surprised he's knocked her back as she is what I'd imagine his type. She's chattering away whilst putting a notepad of some kind into her leather briefcase, even managing to do that like she's flirting - which is impressive. When my gaze moves onto Charles, I take a step back because he's staring straight at my door. A tingle makes it way down my spine.
"Oh?" The Flirter says.
"What?" Charles drops his gaze from my door to the top of her head, picking up her questioning tone.
"That plant, is it yours?."
"No."
"Charles?"
My head manages to stay at the peephole while my knees start to constrict at the scene playing out across the hall - it's an impressive feat of gymnastic ability on my part. I know what she's going to say next - I'm almost mouthing the words in time.
"It's….a ….. Marijuana plant. I'm…. Charles… I'm not sure that is a suitable thing to be having outside your flat when you're trying to sort out custody for your child."
Shit.
"I can assure you 100%. That is. Not. mine." His finger is stabbing the air in the direction of my plant. He's trying to control his anger, yet it is making it difficult for him to talk and I know what he's going to do. Any second now he will be banging on the door and asking if I know anything about the plant. And in all probability he knows I've already been listening in. Wildly I look around. Trying to think of what I can do. Inspiration hits me fast, within seconds I'm stripping off and heading to the shower, turning the jets on and grabbing two towels. To make it look authentic, I wrap my hair in one, splashing some water on my shoulders and head back to the door just as it is banged loudly. Buying myself another few seconds I take a deep breath, check my towel isn't going to do an embarrassing disappearing act mid argument of who owns a marijuana plant and then nonchalantly as possible I pull open the door and give my most innocent smile.
There's a silent delay where he looks down his nose.I think he might be angry. I just stare at him because he's a bit scary when he's angry.
"This is your door. That is my door." He says, gesticulating between the two doors.
"I get that." I say sweetly, trying to front this out. "So can you kindly explain why you're standing at my door 'n' not standing at your own door where you belong?"
"Because I presume - that - is - yours."
The 'that' is of course the housewarming gift from my Dad.
"Well you presume wrong-"
"Oh come on." He interrupts. "Who the hell else would put an illegal plant outside my door." He's not shouting, but it's worse because I think he might be about to start shouting and I'm scared enough already.
My hands leave the towel to its own devices for a few seconds while I do the international sign of surrender. "Maybe I'll have a closer look at it 'n' see if there's a gift card or somethin', alright?." Careful to inch round Charles without touching him. I get the feeling he wouldn't like to be touched by me. "Oh Shit." I say at the sound of metal against metal, or as it's more commonly described - my flat door slamming shut behind me. Looking up I see my angry neighbour has a furrow so deep in his forehead I'm tempted to see how far my finger would sink in.
"Oh shit you're going' to have to apologise?" He asks, arms aggressively crossed over his chest.
"No. Oh shit I might have locked myself out."
"What. The. Actual. F-." Charles uncrosses his arms and leans against the wall. He then proceeds to bang his head against the wall. Twice.
It's not enough to give him concussion but it's an alarming overreaction to having locked myself out. This is my problem not his. Maybe, he's the kind of man that turns everything around to him. My Dad is a bit like that - Mum burns the dinner, Dad thinks it's only him affected. Mum burns some clothes ironing - Dad goes in a huff. Mum locks herself out, Dad gets all dramatic about household safety. My Nan calls it self twattishness. Charles obviously suffers from it too.
"I'm gonna' have to go down 'n' get the spare key from the concierge." I explain, in the same tone you'd use to tell a kid strapped to a suicide vest they needed to stand still until bomb disposal arrived - full of false calm.
"Dressed like that." He looks me up and down and not in an appreciative way. "Do you know what? Stay fucking here and I'll go down." With purpose Charles makes his way towards the lift.
"No." I say, pulling up my towel.
"No?" He repeats like he's never heard the word before.
I look around the small hallway, it screams anything but safety to me. If someone came up looking for me just now I'd be a sitting target. Obviously I can't tell him that, but I try with my eyes. It seems to work.
"Fuck." He says again to himself, hands on hips and staring at his highly polished shoes. This isn't the time to ask him if he suffers from tourettes but I've a feeling he might. Once he's given it an attractive amount of time deliberating he walks back to his apartment door and pushes it open, flicking his head. "Don't touch anything, and I mean anything and Do. Not. Move."
"Promise." I say, trying really hard not to turn around and look at his furniture whilst I give him my utmost assurance I won't leave his open plan living room.
"What is that?" He asks scrunching up his face and looking at my hand. If we are ever on better terms I'm going to have to suggest botox for him, because with the amount of scrunching of facial muscles happening he's going to have far too many wrinkles for even him to be attractive.
"The scouts honour."
"Tell me, were you actually a member of the Scouts?"
"Well no, but-"
"Forget it. I don't want to hear it." He holds up his arm before turning and leaving abruptly.
I'm ALONE in his flat. Normally, I'm not the type of person to invade someone's privacy uninvited but alas, I've not been for a pee yet and I am desperate, really desperate, soooooo desperate that I have to contemplate disobeying orders and moving. I give a small whimper as I stand working out what to do and how much time I've got. Realistically 5 minutes is mine by the time he explains the situation to Quaseem and makes his way back up in the lift. And it's not like I'm being really nosy because the layout is the exact same as mine.
Once I've made my mind up and promised myself I'll leave the designated spot but not look at anything, I'm reminiscent of an Olympic athlete out the starting blocks. I hurry through the open plan living room with the grey habitat couches and minimalistic glass coffee table with the latest thriller novel sitting on top, through to the hallway with it's wooden floor and blank tired walls where you can tell the exact placement of previous photographs and pictures. I've just reached the bathroom and sat down on the loo when I realise there's no toilet paper, nothing, not even a soap dispenser. Loudly I groan, standing up and wasting precious seconds running back along the hallway, whilst keeping my towel up, to the master bedroom with my legs crossed to get to the en-suite where I'm delighted to see a roll of white toilet paper sitting on the floor next to the toilet. Sometimes in life the greatest pleasure is a pee.
Afterwards I have an infection control crisis; to wash my hands or not. I stand staring at the sink, unsure how he'd feel knowing I'd used his 'strawberry laces' soap dispenser and then dried my hands on his towel, versus how he'd feel if I touched anything with unclean hands. Whilst staring at the sink and mirror above it I notice a few things;
I'm wearing two towels, I can wash my hands and dry them and not touch anything of his.
He wears Jo Malone aftershave or to be correct, cologne.
He uses colgate ultra white toothpaste - I should maybe buy some because his teeth are really perfect.
When I accidentally open his bathroom cabinet (after washing my hands) he has an unopened packet of condoms - size large - why I find myself giggling like a schoolgirl I do not know? Okay I do, the thought of someone as uptight as him having sex is well funny.
Once I've broken the rules it's easy to move back into the bedroom and look even further into the life of Charles James. The perfect corners on the bedspread and pillows facing the right way would have told me he was in the Army even if the carefully arranged photographs on the low chest of drawers hadn't been there but really there's very little tat. Prior to overhearing the conversation on the balcony, I'd have thought his apartment was sad, unlived in; now I know he's not putting down roots, this period of his life is like mine, temporary.
I'm going through his practically empty kitchen contemplating how he manages to cook or work the artisan looking coffee machine, when I hear the handle of the door. I hot foot it and rush back to stand in the exact same spot as he left me. I make it; just.
He stops and stares, raising one eyebrow. "You've stayed there the whole time?"
"Absolutely. Gave you my word."
"Didn't realise you could get out of breath standing still?" He challenges, raising another eyebrow so they're a perfectly matched pair.
"It's hard work."
His expression doesn't change, his eyes are as calculating as ever.
I snigger.
"What do you find so amusing?"
"Just the way you're questioning me, you're making me nervous."
"Mmmmmm… And your face is red….. Like you've exerted yourself?" He cocks one eyebrow now. The range of emotions he can show with all his facial movements still appears to be only one - annoyance.
Thankfully at this moment I notice Quaseem behind Charles. "Hello." I raise my hand to my friend and give him the biggest grin, intentionally ignoring Charles' last question, buying myself time to take a deep internal breath and keep my voice steady and then, patronisingly, I ask. "Can I move now?"
Charles shakes his head like he's dislodging some annoying earwax. "Yes."
I'm focussing on the safety of my bland front door which Quaseem is currently opening with the spare key, when Charles' arm shoots out and blocks my path. "Whoa. Wait a minute. The plant?"
"What plant?" I try.
"This plant?"
"Alright I'll take it." I roll my eyes for good measure to give the impression I'm kindly taking 'one for the team' and head over to the plant. A hand on my shoulder stops me and I quickly shrug it off to remove the unwanted feeling of heat his touch seems to have created.
"No. What is the plant doing outside my door?"
My mouth goes dry. I've always prided myself on being an honest person; to a fault at times. I've always told the truth, it's like my super power except for the little white lies because everyone tells them. My eyes flick between Charles' unforgiving stare and Quaseems' confused frown. I have no option. I couldn't bear Quaseem to think badly of me, after all he saw me with the plant yesterday.
There's painful minutes of silence, while I work out what I'm going to say. Eventually I opt for the truth, mumbling like a naughty child "Sorry. My Dad gave it to me, 'n' I was all chuffed he'd given me a present, then, well, it was pointed out it was a bad plant, which kind of sums up the relationship I've always had with my my old man, and I might of put it on your side of the hall. If I'd known-"
My words fade away at the sight of Charles picking up the plant, walking over and dumping it unceremoniously in my arms. "There is the chance…..." He spits. "That due to your foolish behaviour I might not be granted custody of my son. I think it would be best, if you keep out of my way as much as humanly possible for the next, let's see, yes, forever." Turning, he strides into his apartment. The slam of the door makes me jump.
Mortifyingly I watch for a few moments in the hope he'll decide he's overreacted and return. He doesn't. I turn to my friend Quaseem who is standing awkwardly and give him an unsure grin. "Well that went well?"
The kindly Afghani puts his hand on my shoulder and lets out a small chuckle. "I love your humour Polly Flawes. I love your humour."