Page 48 of Pretty Mess

I toy with the frayed edges of my rucksack on the seat beside me. It’s like an old friend, worn well from carrying so many books over the past years. My fingers tighten on the strap. I vow I willnotfail my finals, and I willnotforget my goals. Yes, I’m living somewhere new and I have a cushion in my bank account, but who knows what the future will bring?

Robert makes a swift, skilled manoeuvre around traffic, and my interest stirs. If he’s Cormac’s driver, he must know a few things about my mystery man.

“So, have you worked for Mac long, Robert?”

“Mac?”

“Sorry. Cormac. I call him Mac. Not that he appreciates that,” I add gloomily.

There’s a beat of silence before he answers me. “Yes, I’ve worked for Mr Reilly for over fifteen years.”

“And has he always been so…” I hesitate, stuck for words. “…in charge?”

“Well, he is the boss.” His tone is tinged with amusement.

“Yeah. He does seem to run the world. It’s probably not good for his long-term health. Or personality.”

I’m thinking of more questions to ask when he says, “We’re here.” I’m sure I’m not imagining his relief.

I crane to see out the window. We’ve approached a six-storey, red-brick building. It was probably a mansion at some point, like many of the buildings around here. Knightsbridge is very much old money.

The car pulls up by a barrier, and Robert enters a code and then scans a keycard. The barrier opens, and we drive down into an underground car park. “I have your keycard, Wes,” he says, parking neatly in a bay with the number one on it. “Mr Reilly says you don’t drive, but you still might need it.”

He opens the door and goes to the boot to get my suitcase while I climb out of the car. Robert appears at my side. “Follow me,” he says, shaking his head at my attempt to take my case from him. I traipse after him towards the lift, which immediately whisks us smoothly upwards.

When the doors open, we step out into a foyer with a marble floor and wooden wainscoting. A woman comes around a sleek and very shiny desk, her face wreathed in a wide smile. “Robert,” she says. She turns to me. “And this must be Mr Archer.”

I shake her hand. “Please call me Wes.”

She looks at Robert, a quick glance I nearly miss. “Lovely,” she says. “My name is Celia. Now let me show you upstairs to the flat. I think you’ll find everything to your satisfaction.”

Given the fact that the foyer of this building is bigger than my old house, she’s probably right. I nod, smiling, and then the three of us make our way back into the lift. Celia has a manila envelope in her hand, and I watch as she opens it and pulls out a card. It’s navy blue with a red stripe running across it and a logo of the outline of a building. “This is your card for the apartment, Wes,” she says. “It also gives access to the gym and spa in the basement, and you’ll need it to operate the lifts. Scan it and press the button for the top floor.” She gestures at a console by the lift’s controls.

I do as she says and brace myself as the lift slides upwards.

It comes to a stop, and the door opens. I blink. I expected a corridor with doors opening off it, but we’re standing in another foyer. This one is small with more oak panelling. There’s a delicate-looking table with an enormous vase of roses. Their scent is sweet and delicate and mixes with the faint trace of beeswax.

“Your new home, Wes,” Celia says as we all step off the lift.

I look around. “Is this theflat?” I ask incredulously.

She nods, giving me a polished smile. “Yes, the penthouse apartment.”

“Jesus Christ.”

They kindly ignore me, and she opens a door, gesturing for me to go through. I step into a lounge, although it’s completely different to any lounge I’ve ever spent time in. It’s a huge room with big, multipaned windows letting in lots of light. A massive sectional sofa upholstered in amber-coloured velvet and a couple of armchairs in a subtle checked fabric are positioned to face a marble fireplace. On one side of the room is a long dining table and chairs. A pair of double doors leads onto a terrace. They’re open, letting in a gentle breeze and the sound of traffic, and I walk over, pushing aside the curtains and stepping out. I find an expensive-looking rattan table and chairs, the scarlet-coloured parasol and seat cushions a bright splash of colour.

Clelia comes to stand next to me. “Lovely view,” she says approvingly. “You can see all the way across Knightsbridge down to Chelsea.” She points to a huge building in the distance that’s instantly familiar. “That’s Battersea Power Station, and over there is the West End and the city of Westminster.”

I follow her gaze, my eyes snagging on the park in front of me. It’s a big expanse of green, and it contrasts with the red-brick buildings with their ornate exteriors, which are jostling for space with more modern buildings. In the distance, steel towers rise up against the skyline, and the street below is busy with people and cars.

“I don’t think I could ever get tired of this view,” I say softly.

I look back to see Celia and Robert watching me and feel a flush rise on my cheeks. Do they know the arrangement Cormac has with me? Of course they do. I wonder what they’re thinking, but luckily I’ll never know. They’re obviously too professional.

Robert smiles kindly. “I’ll put your case in the bedroom, Wes.”

“Thank you.”