Page 6 of Pretty Mess

“Why?”

“Because you’re coming home with me.”

“Are you fucking mad?” I gape at him. “We don’t really know each other.”

“I am aware. But you’re my competition. I can’t have you upset. I need you to keep my interest alive in the boring classes.”

“Your altruism knows no end.”

“I need competition to thrive, and you’re it. The one person at uni with as much ability as me.” He pauses. “Well, a bit less, to be honest, but you do try hard.”

“You must struggle in life with your massive sense of inferiority.”

His lip twitches, but he gestures briskly at me again. “Come along. You can come home with me for the night.”

I stare at him. “And what do you want in return?”

He rolls his eyes, a smile playing over his lips. “Not your scrawny arse that’s for sure.” When I don’t move, he clicks his fingers like I’m a stray dog he’s beckoning. “Are you coming? I can’t stand around here talking to what looks like a tramp on a doorstep.”

“Why? Am I too much competition for you?”

He shakes his head. “A poor riposte. Well?”

I stay still for a second. I’m not entirely sure what’s happening at the moment. I should head for the YMCA and see if I can get a bed for the night. Then I can think things through tomorrow, and maybe if I’m lucky, my guardian angel will come up with a solution.

Or maybe she already has. Am I really unlucky enough to have a guardian angel with such a sick sense of humour that she’d send me my snobby rival to help? I shake my head at the reminder of my day so far. I’mdefinitelythat unlucky.

I heave myself to my feet. “Okay, thank you.”

I hold out my bag, and he stares at me. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you a bag to carry.”

“Is there anything in my appearance to demonstrate that I’m a pack animal?”

Despite the day I’ve had, my lip twitches. He’s always amused me with his sharp retorts and prickly demeanour. He’s like a very posh hedgehog.

“I’ll take your rucksack,” he says in a magnanimous tone.

“Very kind of you.”

A cab appears on the street, and Julian raises his hand languidly. The driver immediately screeches to a halt as if he’s seen King Charles. He lowers the window. “Where to, mate?”

“Saint Katherine’s Wharf.”

I blink. “Blimey, that’s posh. Do you live near there?”

He looks back at me as he stows my rucksack on the back seat. “No, I have a flat on the wharf.”

Me eyes widen and they remain wide during a lengthy drive where the cabbie tries to initiate conversation and Julian refuses to humour him.

I step out after we arrive at our destination and stare up at the massive brick building. “Here?” I say in disbelief. It reeks of money. The Porsche drawing up to the entrance, and the concierge darting out to help the driver, cements the appearance.

Julian nods, running a casual hand through his hair, which, unlike my messy waves, immediately falls into artless perfection. “Come along,” he says.

I obediently fall into step next to him, carrying my bags. We enter the building through huge wooden doors, and into an atrium-style foyer. Sunlight shines through the glass above, sending rainbow colours onto the marble floor and my feet in their shabby trainers.

“Do close your mouth,” Julian mutters. He nods at the concierge and stops to press a button by the lifts. “You look like a rather slow guppy.”