Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Unlike me, Robert dropped out of school at eighteen just before completing his Leaving Certificate. He was lucky, though (or spoiled, depending on how you want to look at it), because he walked straight into a job in PR provided by his precious daddy. Robert has the perfect personality for public relations, because, like his father, he can make you believe he's the most trustworthy, honest guy around, yet underneath it there's selfishness and little else.
“It's late,” I say to Sasha, who's still chatting down the line. “I'm going to go get some sleep.”
“Okay, then, talk to you tomorrow, kid.”
I roll my eyes at her pet name for me. She seems to think that just because she's two years older that she's so much more grown up.
I click the “end” button and rest my head against my pillow, while memories of Robert's cruelty drift through my mind, causing my heart to stutter.
As I walk through the arrivals gate at Heathrow one week later (rape alarm safely secured in my carry-on bag), my eyes immediately pinpoint Sasha, who's galloping towards me with a massive smile on her face. She scoops me up into her arms and gives me a long, squeezy hug.
Sasha is around 5 foot 11, which makes me feel like a short arse, since I'm only 5 foot 3. The long, dark brown hair she had as a teenager is now cut short and dyed a honey shade of blonde. Both she and her brother have what I like to term the “wow” factor in looks; when you walk into a room, they're the ones who are most pleasing to stare at. Of course, Sasha is the only one who's pretty on the inside.
Not only are we polar opposites looks-wise, we're also polar opposites when it comes to fashion. Sasha is quite tomboyish with her jeans, boots, and leather jackets, whereas I like to describe my own personal style as “granny chic.” I enjoy finding old stuff in secondhand shops that your granny would have worn back in the day and pairing them with something modern. Pretentious, yes. I'm not doing it to be hip and different; these are just the sorts of clothes I find appealing. For instance, right now I have on a cream knitted cardigan with fake pearl buttons, a calf-length, flower-print skirt, and green Converse.
“I can't believe you're finally here,” Sasha enthuses. “Come on, let me take some of your bags.”
I'm currently laden down with a wheelie suitcase, a massive handbag, a laptop case, and a backpack. Sasha and I make our way to her car, where she stuffs all of my luggage in the boot and then drops down into the driver's seat.
“Whew, I need a cigarette after all that,” she says with a grin, making a show of wiping her sweaty brow.
“If you didn't smoke so much, then you'd probably be better able for the heavy lifting.” I laugh and secure my seatbelt.
“WOT-EVA,” Sasha replies loudly, whipping out her packet of Marlboro Lights. I watch her as she savours the first drag before resting her arm on the back of my seat and pulling out of the parking spot.
“So,” I say to her on the drive, “whatever happened with Tim? Or was it Jim?”
Sasha goes on a lot of dates with a lot of men. Tim/Jim was her latest.
She purses her lips. “Tim. He was okay, I suppose. He's a photographer where I work. Nice bloke and all, but he didn't exactly blow me away.”
“Another one bites the dust, eh?” I smile, and she grins at me out of the corner of her eye, then turns up the volume on the radio when “Changes” by David Bowie comes on. We both laugh as we sing at the top of our lungs, sailing down the motorway.
When we pull into the driveway at Sasha's house in Finchley, I have to do a double take. The place is fancy with a capital “F.” It might not seem so fancy to people who are used to it, but I'm not used to it.
It's a fully refurbished, four-bedroom, red brick Edwardian house with bay windows. I have a soft spot for bay windows. Oh, and those little round ones you sometimes see on older buildings. This place doesn't have a round window; however, that doesn't take anything away from its appeal. Sasha's been living here by herself for the past year. The place belongs to her dad.
“I can't believe your dad's owned this house for years and has never even lived in it,” I exclaim.
Sasha shrugs. “He sees property as an investment, or some shit like that. Sometimes he buys houses and keeps them until the time is right to sell so that he can make a profit. Don't ask — that stuff goes right over my head.”
“I can imagine. You're not exactly Mensa material,” I reply jokingly, as Sasha slots her key in the front door and we make our way inside.
She grins at me. “Shut up, cheeky.”
We leave my bags in the hallway and go into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. That's when my heart practically stops beating, because standing by the counter, taking a bite out of a sandwich, is Robert.
The last time I saw him was two years ago, and that was only from far away when I'd looked out the window and seen him visiting with his mum. I've built him up in my head so much over the years that he almost doesn't seem real. The bruises beneath his eyes from the “husband bashing” he took are almost healed, and his dark brown hair looks a mess. He's wearing a rumpled black dress shirt, a loosened silver tie, and grey pants. He is dishevelled but beautiful, looking like he just got home after a night out.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Sasha asks, annoyed. She knows how Robert's presence might make me feel uneasy, so she's clearly pissed off that he's decided to let himself into her house (not to mention helped himself to a sandwich).