‘Anyway. I told my brother that I would take him with me and put him on a diet. Get him into shape. I even bought him a little wheel.’
They both looked at the object in question. It sat deathly still in one corner, brand spanking sparkly new, Flower situated as far away from it as was possible.
‘It’s the most expensive one on the market. It hooks up to an app to let you know how many revolutions per day have been logged and there’s coloured LED lights embedded around the rim of the wheel that glow when it moves. It was the only way I could bribe Bunky into parting with him for a while. Let me tell you, that kid knows how to negotiate. But…’ She shrugged. ‘Favourite aunty status is not to be squandered.’
Oliver had to admit, it was the London Eye of hamster wheels.
‘I hope you don’t mind. He won’t be a bother, quiet as a mouse. And I’ll look after all his needs.’ She lifted her gaze to lock with his. ‘Bella said you wouldn’t mind?’
And there was the magic word. The kicker.
Bella.
He still couldn’t think of her or the way he’d acted without cringing. The guilt he felt over backing out of the wedding –on the day of– still ate at him. So much so that he’d holed himself away in Cornwall like some fucking recluse, ever since.
The media interest over Redondo’s runaway groom had been no less intense in the UK but, six months had passed and the paps had lost interest. Mostly. He still occasionally felt the preternatural prickle at his nape alerting him to the presence of a telephoto lens but they’d stopped bashing on his door and going through his bins.
‘Of course not,’ Oliver responded, far more positively than he felt. ‘Let me show you around.’
He gestured to her to lead the way and, leaving the cage behind, she headed in the indicated direction. Her wellies squeaked – of course they did – against the blonde birch floorboards as he followed her into the triple glazed quiet of the house. A light, Scandi-inspired open-plan living, kitchen and dining space unfolded in an understated elegance only achieved by a high-end interior decorator.
A bowl of shiny green apples on the dining table was the only pop of colour amidst all the white on white. Apart from the ocean, of course. A span of bifold glass doors dominated the far end, opening onto a deck and an absolutely spectacular view of the pounding surf.
‘Oh wow,’ she murmured on a breathy exhale as she squeaked to the doors and stared out transfixed.
Oliver couldn’t blame her; there was something elemental about the sight of a wild, stormy sea. He’d lived on Redondo Beach in California since he’d been fifteen and that was breathtaking in a sunny, sparkly, Pacific kind of way. But, given his disposition these past months, the moody, changeable Atlantic was more his style.
Of course, that could just be his guilty conscience.
He was struck, as he watched her watch the ocean, by how colourful she was amid all the blinding Scandi pallor. Like some exotic bird silhouetted against the glass. Red hair, pink cardi, lime-green T-shirt. A splash of rainbow amidst the greyscale.
A bright orange lifebuoy floating atop the swirling background sea.
Jesus… Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. Pull yourself together,knob head. Now was not the time for a flight of fancy or to channel sodding Shakespeare.
‘Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge or the cupboards,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘It’s a bit bare considering there’s usually just me but I get a delivery from St Ives every week to restock. Let me know if there’s anything in particular you need.’
‘Oh, did Bella mention?’ She turned from the window. ‘I’m vegan. And gluten intolerant.’
Well, of course she was…
Not that it phased him. Nearly the entire population of LA were gluten intolerant and about 50 per cent of his friends were vegan.
‘It’s okay,’ she assured. ‘I’ll go into town tomorrow and grab some things.’
Oliver nodded. ‘The bedrooms are on the second floor.’ He gestured to the stairs. ‘If you want to follow me?’
He led the way, the carpeted stairs providing sweet relief from the incessant squeak of her shoes. ‘That’s your bedroom there,’ he said when they’d reached the next floor, pointing to the right, down the thirty feet of hallway that separated the two rooms on this level. ‘No sea view, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m sure it’s lovely,’ she demurred. She glanced at the door to his bedroom. ‘Yours? Or are you’ – she tipped her chin at the staircase ascending another level – ‘up there?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘That was my dad’s room.’
All the bedrooms were luxuriously appointed with their own bathrooms but the one at top was the pick of the bunch. It took up the entire floor, the windows taking in the grand arc of Porthmeor Beach from the artisan cafés and restaurants of St Ives at the south end to St Nicholas’s chapel on the headland to the north, a 180-degree view of ocean in between.
It was criminal that it was being unused. But Oliver couldn’t bring himself to go there. His father’s clothes still hung in the closet. His towel still hung on the towel rack. His cufflinks still lay on the night stand. And his aftershave still scented the air.
‘I was sorry to hear about his passing.’
