I can still feel his kiss on my face, like the ghost of it is still hanging around. It was just a peck – and only 10 per cent of it, tops, on the lips – but it really feels like it’s left a mark.
I’m really grateful for him stepping in and saving the day like that. I wonder who he is, who he’s here with, who he was dressed up as… I wouldn’t have thought he was dressed up but Mario clearly knew who he was supposed to be because he called him a legend. Then again, Mario was incredibly drunk.
I suppose I’ll never know who he was, it was just a random man right when I needed one – maybe that’s why my imagination is running away with me, because life feels a little boring these days, so why not project a bunch of wild scenarios onto a blank canvas of a man?
He was something exciting… someone interesting… someone other than Todd who noticed me for a moment.
But now the moment has gone and it’s back to reality.
Still, better to be sitting at a table with a boyfriend engrossed in a football game than a drunk fake plumber.
But only just.
2
ONE YEAR LATER
I never knew you could fall in love with an en suite until I met this one – and it’s a love that intensifies every time I step in it.
I love feeling the heated tiles underneath my feet, even on a warm day like today. When Todd was designing this place, he put so much thought into so many things, like which rooms should face south and be bathed in sun, and which rooms would do well to be on the cooler side of the house. I love his attention to detail with things like that.
In here it’s all smooth marble and soft lighting, with gold taps that gleam like they have a dedicated cleaner who shines them every day, and then there’s the double sinks – a sink each, both big enough to wash a medium-sized dog in at least (but you wouldn’t, because there is a dedicated sink for that in the utility room).
And then there’s the bath. Oh, the big, big bath. It’s free-standing and sits next to a floor-to-ceiling window – but not one with frosted glass, like you might think, nope, one that looks out over the West Yorkshire countryside, with uninterrupted viewsand – best of all – no one around to peep in at you while you’re soaking the day away.
I walk over to it and trail my fingers across the edge of it, thinking about how I’d love nothing more than to get in it, relax, have a glass of wine, maybe light a candle and just allow my brain to empty. Bliss.
But I can’t do that right now, for so many reasons.
Back in the bedroom, the cloud-like mattress calls my name in a similar way. It’s a super-king, super-squishy bad boy loaded up with at least eight pillows and cushions. It’s the kind of bed you could just dive right into… were it not for the perfectly laid-out tray of breakfast sitting on top of the duvet. Croissants, glasses of champagne, cute little jars of jam. Waking up to this on a morning – that’s the life, right?
I carefully adjust the rolled-up napkins, angling them just right, and polish one tiny missed smudge from the silverware. Okay, now it’s perfect.
‘It’s ready,’ I call out.
James walks in, his camera hanging from his neck, ready for action.
‘It looks great,’ he tells me.
‘Thanks,’ I say with a smile. ‘Oh, wait, one last thing…’
I grab the small vase with one single rose inside from the sideboard and place it on the breakfast tray.
‘Okay, now it’s ready.’
I watch James as he cracks on, snapping pictures of the room before zooming in on the cute little details that make all the difference.
‘Love what you’ve done with the place,’ he jokes as he photographs the breakfast.
‘This old thing?’ I reply, batting my hand playfully.
James and I have really got things down to a fine art. He’s a photographer, for a luxury estate agents – which is a genuine art form, from the bonus lifestyle pictures to the twilight shoots. All things that make so much difference when it comes to not just selling a house but selling a home – selling a way of life.
God, imagine waking up to this every morning. Imagine owning this house. I often wish the houses I worked in were my own, but this one is really something else.
‘Oh, wow, I wish it always looked like this,’ Joanne, the actual owner, says as she joins us.
Joanne is in her late forties, early fifties maybe. She’s wearing white – all white – the volume of white that only comes with having enough money to not need to worry about destroying it. Her tan gives away that she’s been on holiday recently – and the photos dotted around the place give away that she goes on holidays often. I can tell just by glancing at her shoes that they cost more than my weekly food shop – then again, you don’t live in a house like this, custom-designed by a luxury architect, without being super rich.
