Page 25 of Closer

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ME BIG ROCK STAR, YOU JANE

LEVI

Ishove at the fingersprodding me. “Monsieur, monsieur.”

“Five more minutes,” I mumble.

“Excusez-moi, monsieur. Are you okay? Do you need a hospital?”

I sit upright, crack open my lids, just a fraction, and stare at the bloodied steering wheel before me. My car has been totalled, and I’m parked in a big fuck-off brick wall clearly belonging to the prodder. “Christ, no. No hospitals.”

“Monsieur, vous êtes blessé. Vous avez besoin d'un hôpital.”

“Where am I? You speak English?”

“Oui.” The woman nods. “Yes, but I must insist on calling an ambulance.”

“I’m fine,” I say, glancing at the seat beside me. Last I remembered, I was in the car, alone, but now the space is not only occupied by brick and plaster dust, there’s also a rather large dog staring back at me. His tongue lolls out, his fur ruffles with the late winter breeze. He looks like some kind of shepherd, his coat a mix of mottled caramel, white, grey, and black. His eyes are two different colours, one pale blue, one hazel. They make my head spin, like I don’t know where to focus, so I push open the door. Several bricks slide away from the rubble, and the metal protests as it scrapes against the debris. I stagger out of the car and crumple to the ground, retch onto the spindly tufts of grass. The woman steps back, clearly horrified. When I’m done purging my guts, I climb to my feet and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I glance at the brick wall and it crumbles on my car, smashing the windshield, the metal groans beneath the weight.

“Ah, shit.” I glance at the woman’s stunned expression, and then beyond her to the wooden placard sign attached to the gate. “What does that sign say?”

“Monsieur?”

“The sign? I can’t read French. What does it say.”

“Ah, it’s a for sale sign, monsieur.”

I frown. “Do you live here?”

“Oui, I’m a maid for Monsieur Durand. God rest his soul. He passed away recently.”

“Great. I’ll take it,” I slur.

She gives me a puzzled look. “Take what?”

“The house, I’ll take it.”

“Monsieur, it’s not—”

“You said it was for sale, right?”

“Oui. But—”

“Awesome.” I point to my chest. “Me big rock star, buy this house. You stay and work for me now, oui?”

“Monsieur—”

“Wake me when you need me to sign something.”

“But, monsieur, I do not own the estate. The bank ... they own it now.”

“Great, then call the bank.” I pull out my wallet and hand her a wad of cash, then I shove past and through the gate. The drive isn’t too long, but it’s long enough for me to wish I had a car, or a fucking golf buggy. I stagger up the steps and into the house. A sweeping marble staircase greets me. For a beat, I wonder if I can even afford this place, then I realise I’m a fucking millionaire rock star with a big cock who just signed a multi-million-dollar dildo deal so what the fuck do I care? The place is kind of a dump anyway. It’s virtually empty, and what furniture is here is worn. Expensive, but not well preserved. The walls are crumbling, there are cracks in the plaster and the murals that were likely hand painted masterpieces have been left to rot and ruin.

I climb the stairs and walk the hall with faded portraits of people I’ll never meet. I push open the door closest to me. It’s a bathroom, nowhere there to sleep. The next door leads to a bedroom and I head for the bed and flop down onto it. A cloud of dust jumps up to greet me, but I don’t give a shit. I roll over, pull up the faded blue brocade blanket and drift off to sleep.