The Wild Heir(31)

Which is another reason why I want to go outside and walk around, to let the rain soak me from head to toe as I stroll from pub to pub, hoping to wash all the bullshit off me and get belligerently drunk. It’s been a few days now since Ella and I had apparently gotten engaged and I’m still waiting to hear if this is actually happening or not.

I mean, it’s ridiculous, but what isn’t these days? After Ella had me escort her to her room and proceeded to tell me what happened, I immediately pulled my father aside. Not to get mad at him, though believe me, I was livid. He had absolutely no right to tell her father that I was proposing to her when he knew I was just talking to her and explaining the situation.

He, of course, thought he was helping, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he wasn’t and that he’d put Ella in a very uncomfortable situation. I did tell him, though, that she still needs to think about it and will give us her answer soon.

But at the moment, it’s later rather than sooner. Ella and Lady Jane went back to Edinburgh the next morning and I haven’t heard from her since. Not that we exchanged phone numbers or anything, I just assumed she would have contacted my parents in one way or another. Patience isn’t my strong suit, and the longer I go not knowing where my future is heading, the more agitated I get.

Hence the need to leave the confines of this apartment and get smashed on whisky and aquavit.

“I think I should go with you,” Ottar says quietly, shutting the curtains.

“I’ll behave,” I tell him. “You know you don’t have to follow me.”

“I won’t be following you,” he says. “That’s what Einar is for. I’ll go with you. As your friend. You look like you need someone to talk to.”

“Do I?” I ask wryly.

“You’ve been under a lot of stress lately and we both know that stress can have an adverse affect on you, particularly emotional stress. I mean, you are getting married and that’s enough to make a normal man piss his pants, let alone you.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “There’s nothing emotional about any of this,” I tell him. Though the fact that he’s even mentioned it has made my heart rate start to pace. The smart thing for me to do would be to go for another run through the park like I did early this morning, or at least hit up the treadmill in my private gym, lift some weights until my muscles shake. Sometimes exercise is the only way I’m able to think clearly at all. It’s a positive place for all this pent-up energy and frustration to go.

“Are you sure you won’t stay in? You have all the booze in the world to get yourself bludgeoned. I think this is just going to cause trouble. I’m not sure if the public quite believes your apology or not.”

“Well, that’s on them,” I tell him, throwing on my coat and a newsboy cap. “I did the best I could and if they choose not to me believe me, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Just…” He trails off and sighs. “Be careful, sir.”

“I always am,” I tell him and step out the door. I pass Einar in the hallway and wave my arm, gesturing for him to follow me. “Come on, Einar, old friend, let’s have another night on the town.”

“Sir,” Einar says but he doesn’t follow it up with anything else. Once I get my heart set on something it’s hard to talk me out of it.

I head down the tunnel and pop out of a door on a quiet back street, then I walk along until I get to one of my favorite drinking spots, Harold’s.

Harold is the owner of Harold’s (not just a clever name), and also the bartender and the doorman and everything else in between. He’s about seventy years old with a hunchback and a glass eye and tufts of grey hair coming out of his ears that makes it look like he’s smuggling a Husky inside his head.

His place is dark, with a fine layer of dust covering the top shelf bottles that he can’t reach. It’s also about the size of my kitchen with just two booths and five seats at the long, stained copper bar. Tiny wood-framed paintings of whales adorn the green walls, which remind me of Ella. I wonder if she’d like this place, I wonder if she likes going out to bars at all. At first glance she strikes me as too goody two-shoes for that and though she said she drank too much at dinner, she only had two glasses.

I shouldn’t be thinking about her though. That’s why I’ve come to the bar to begin with. That and it’s one of the safer places for me to go. Sure, I’m not going to meet any single ladies when I’m here, but Harold won’t let any paparazzi inside, there’s a no camera or cell phone use rule, and I’ve gotten to know the regulars pretty well.

They don’t give a rat’s ass about me.

There’s Maud, who used to be a film actress in ye olden days whose biggest claim to fame is that she stole Ingrid Bergman’s husband after Ingrid dumped him for Roberto Rossellini. She’s got lavender hair, always wears red lipstick, and talks about classic actors as if they were best friends and is never shy with giving you drunken thoughts about love.

There’s Guillermo, who moved to Oslo from Spain who knows when, and doesn’t know a lick of Norwegian. The more he drinks, the more Spanish he speaks, and from what I gather he used to be a monk. I can’t tell how old he is or if he’s telling the truth, but it doesn’t really matter. But he never speaks above a whisper.

Then there’s Erik. Tall, skinny, and pale as snow, I call him Slender Man. Doesn’t help that he’s always wearing the same black suit and his features are decidedly flat, his mannerisms subtle, his voice monotonous. Truth is, Slender Man got laid off a year ago and is going through a terrible divorce, so when he does speak, you can bet it will take the wind out of your sails.