Page 68 of Pretty Mess

He doesn’t reply for a few moments. Obviously, my erudite reply was not very convincing. See you tomorrow.

Putting the phone down, I lower my head to the table, feeling the cool wood under my hot skin. I wonder if I could stop here forever. The lure of never having to go to uni again is very appealing at the moment. Eventually, Mac will find me—a mummified corpse surrounded by accountancy textbooks.

My thoughts stray to him, wondering where he is and what he’s doing. I twist the fake wedding ring on my finger absently. I should take it off, but something has made me keep it on. Maybe the feeling that I’m on the outs with him. I haven’t seen him for two weeks, because he’s been away on business. I’m unsure whether that’s an excuse, and he’s still furious with me for lecturing him. I’d spent the entire journey back from Pharaoh’s Island trying to persuade him not to destroy the house until he eventually snapped, “Enough.” His voice had been clipped and icy cold, and I hadn’t said another word. He’d dropped me back at the flat and departed without saying goodbye.

I’d consoled myself with the fact that if he’d ended our arrangement, I’d be the first to know. He isn’t sentimental in the slightest and wouldn’t keep letting me stay in this flat just to be kind to me. Now, as the days go by with no contact, I’m starting to doubt that conviction.

I’ve been missing him a lot, but I’ve been stalwartly telling myself him being gone is for the best because I could concentrate on revising for my finals. What I’ve actually been doing is winding myself up into a state of terror and nervous exhaustion.

I rub my face against the table, my heavy eyelids slide shut. Maybe I fall asleep or simply lie in a fugue state, but the sound of a door opening is like a bomb going off.

I jerk, raising my head and peering into the dim light. Who the fuck is that?

The answer, which really should be obvious, because who else would have a keycard, is revealed as Mac strides into the room. Joy rushes through me like a tsunami. He’s finally here. He’s wearing a black suit with a white shirt and a tie that’s the colour of a cherry. I can smell the zesty, warm scent of his cologne, and I blink at him like he’s a mirage.

He stops dead, looking around the room. His eyes widen, and his mouth drops open slightly. I follow his gaze and bite my lip. Every surface is covered with mugs of congealing tea, half-empty Pot Noodle containers, sweet wrappers, and energy drink cans.

“What is going on?” he says faintly.

“What are you doing here?” I say almost at the same time.

He eyes me warily. “I own the building.”

I give him good manners points for not mentioning that he also owns me. “Sorry,” I say immediately. “Of course you do. I just never heard from you.”

He looks discomposed or as close to that state as he ever gets. “I sent you a text.”

I blink. “Did you?” I grab my phone. “Shit, it’s dead. I forgot to charge it.” I blanch when I see the gold ring on my finger and surreptitiously slide it off and pocket it. When I look back at him, he’s staring at me. “What?”

“Did you know you have a Post-it note stuck to your hair?” He taps his hair to illustrate, his gaze focused on my head.

I put my hand up and grimace when I encounter greasy locks. “Have I?” I retrieve the note and glance at it. “Damn, I’ve been looking for this.” The reason for his arrival suddenly registers. “Are you here for a shag?”

“Well, I was…” He looks around. “But now I’m having second thoughts and considering purchasing a hazmat suit instead.” He gestures at the room disapprovingly. “I must say I thought you’dkeep the place in a better condition. Is this how you like to live, Wes?”

“Of course not.”

“I could have sworn I employed a housekeeper for you. Where is she?” He looks around as if expecting her to jump out of a cupboard. “Has she expired from shock?”

“I gave Mrs Tidewell a couple of weeks off because I needed the quiet.” I scratch my head as I look at the state of the room. “Admittedly, I’m not the tidiest person in the UK.”

He steps forward and freezes as his foot crunches on something. I have an uneasy feeling it’s the remote control I was looking for earlier. “Just in the UK?” he mutters. “I’d have spread the net further.”

“I’ve had a lot on.”

“What would that be?” He taps a sweet-and-sour Pot Noodle container. “Completing your hostile takeover of Unilever one plastic carton of noodles at a time?”

“No.” I gesture helplessly at the sea of papers and folders that’s so deep you can barely see the carpet. “My finals start tomorrow.”

“Finals?” He looks stunned. “I didn’t know you were at university.”

“My finals are tomorrow,” I repeat. My legs feel suddenly wobbly, and I sink into the chair. “Oh mygod, I’ve got my finals tomorrow.” He makes a noise, and I gaze up at him. “They’re tomorrow and I haven’t finished revising yet. What if I can’t answer the questions? I’ll have to sit there for hours and watch everyone else pass their exams. It will all have been for nothing. All the money and work, and I’ll end up working sat?—”

“Wes,” he says, cutting through the hysteria in my increasingly loud voice.

“Sorry.” I shake my head helplessly. “And now you’re here and I haven’t even douched yet.”

He steps closer, and his nostrils flare. “Or bathed, I’d guess.” He eyes me. “You have numbers written on your arm.”