‘This isn’texactlyyour house or this isn’t your house?’ I reply.
No, I’m not sure what the difference is either, but they both sound bad.
‘Both, I guess,’ he replies.
I just stare at him for a moment.
‘Look, full disclosure time: My name is Chris, and I didn’t say I was your boss, I said Iwork foryour boss.’
I glance around the hallway – I don’t know what for. Another door? A weapon? That’s when I notice the framed photo on the sideboard. It’s my boss, Richard, with his wife and kids. The four all them all dressed up in their warm clothes, smiling on a ski slope somewhere.
I glare at Chris as a horrible realisation occurs to me.
‘Are we in Richard’s house?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Are we supposed to be in Richard’s house?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Not exactly or no?’ I reply. I can feel the blood boiling in my cheeks.
‘No,’ he admits.
‘Oh, God. I need to get out of here – how do I get out of here?’ I ask in a panic.
‘I only have a key for the garage door,’ he explains. ‘But–’
‘Oh my God,’ I say, cutting him off. I have one big horrible realisation a second before Chris reminds me himself. ‘Doesn’t Richard live on an island?’
‘A tidal island,’ he corrects me. ‘But yes.’
‘That’s where I am?’ I reply.
‘Don’t you remember, we got a train, then a taxi…’
‘Now that you mention it, yes,’ I reply. ‘But I didn’t realise I’d travelledto the sea.’
‘Look, come into the kitchen, I’ll explain everything,’ he says. ‘How we ended up here, our current predicament, and so on.’
‘Our current predicament?’ I repeat back to him.
‘Just come to the kitchen,’ he says. ‘I’ve made pancakes – everything is better with pancakes.’
I glance at the knife in his hand and realise it’s actually a pallet knife. I suppose the apron makes more sense now that I know he’s been cooking. My mind went to a dark place when I was thinking it was to protect his clothes from my blood.
I follow Chris along the hallway and into the kitchen. Yet another massive room, with all the mod cons, coupled with that country mansion charm.
‘My mum always said Agas make the best pancakes,’ he tells me as he starts another one. ‘Of course, she inherited hers, when my gran died and we moved into her house. We didn’t have Aga money.’
I really don’t have time for his cute small talk – how can he just stand there, chatting so casually, flipping pancakes without a care in the world.
‘So, we work together,’ I say, changing the subject. ‘But you’re not my boss?’
‘Did I say I was your boss?’ he replies curiously.
‘I’m sure you did,’ I say. ‘And I could have sworn you said your name was Rowan, not Chris…’
