Resisting Mr. Kane (London Mister #2)(32)

Over forty hours is a long time to be sitting down, and I have to repeat it for the next forty years. I’ve sat in eighteen meetings this week. That's thirty-four thousand meetings I will attend throughout my career. Please, someone pass me a brown bag to breathe into.

Still, I can be thankful that Tristan Kane hasn’t approached me all week. I haven’t seen him since the shame of getting kicked out of the Rosemont on Sunday morning. Maybe Megan was right, #linenclosetgate was the nail in the coffin to make him realise I’m not worth the hassle. Or he has simply moved on to his next conquest. Perhaps it will be easy to avoid him for the next two years. If he stays in his ivory tower on the top floor and I stay on the tenth floor, buried in photocopies, I’ll be safe.

What a roller coaster week.

I hear another thud upstairs. Frank has been wrecking around bumping into shit for an hour. What the hell is he doing?

This is officially the house-share from hell. Chances are, at least one of us will leave in a body bag, and one of us will be charged with murder. Right now, I don’t mind which one I am.

This thud sounds like he’s fallen over. Argh.

My thoughts drift back to Tristan Kane.

As I do every night, I shut my eyes and try to drown out Frank’s commotion so I can focus on visions of Tristan’s naked ripped body. My guilty pleasure. I need to stop this. I need to move on.

The door upstairs slams open, and I hear Frank stumble down the stairs followed by a loud bang where he must have missed a step.

My bedroom doorknob rattles suddenly. What the hell? The door is slammed open against the wall with such force that small flakes of paint chip off the wall.

I jolt up in bed to see a dazed Frank standing in the doorway. “Frank,” I bark, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. “What the hell are you doing?”

He doesn’t respond. I’m not sure he knows I’m here. He’s sleepwalking or really drunk, maybe both, I can’t tell. “Frank,” I repeat louder. “Frank, you idiot!”

Nothing. He just stares at the wall with glazed eyes. Don’t they say never wake sleepwalkers? Maybe he’ll leave on his own accord.

Instead, he walks over to my dirty clothes basket and lifts the lid up against the wall. I’m irked but mildly curious. What’s he doing? Unsteady on his feet and muttering under his breath, he fumbles with his jean buttons.

Realisation dawns on me. He thinks this is the bathroom.

No. No. NO.

“No, Frank! No!” I shriek, clawing on the floor for a T-shirt I can grab to cover myself.

It’s too late. Before I can react, he yanks out his dick and pees in my clothes basket.

“It’s not a fucking toilet, Frank!” I bellow. “It’s my clothes basket! Wake up!” I might as well be a ghost. I pull the T-shirt over my head and jump out of bed.

He shakes his dick and allows me to shove him out of the room. It’s too late, the damage has been done. He doesn’t look for the sink, so now I have proof he doesn’t wash his hands. I’ll never accept toast from him again.

I can’t cope with this. I’ll have to start barricading my room at night.

Trainee lawyers don’t get paid as much as people think. I’m up to my eyes in student debt and helping my mum with her rent. It will be at least a year until I’ve saved enough so Megan and I can move into our own place. As for Megan, she had to get a loan from her sister just to move to London.

I pick up my wash basket and creep downstairs to put my clothes in the washing machine. Of course, it’s full of wet clothes that someone forgot to take out, meaning no one else can use it.

Something soft runs over my foot in the dark, and I yelp. Maybe I won’t make it to the end of my first workweek after all.

***

Sophie touches my arm in concern. “You look tired.”

That’s an understatement. I look like a panda caught in headlights, I'm so tired.

I'm grabbing a coffee in the canteen with Amy and Sophie. Calling it a canteen is an insult; Madison Legal canteen could rival a Michelin star restaurant. This is no school dinner selection, these guys are professional chefs and baristas trained to make world-class coffee. The baristas are coffee connoisseurs imported from New Zealand, which explains a lot.

It’s a constant reminder of Tristan Kane and his particular tastes. Sophie says he has final approval on all the lunch menus and the sourcing of the coffee beans. Control freak.

“Did I work you too hard this week?” she asks. “You’ve been staying late every night.”

“No, Sophie. It’s my flatmates. I didn’t sleep very well last night.” I sigh. “Again.” It’s not just me that’s exhausted. Yesterday, Megan said she was so tired at the salon that she nearly cut someone's ear off.

“Frank at it again?” Amy giggles.

I nod, regaling the disaster of last night.

Sophie shudders. “Can’t you get him evicted? Christ, I’m glad my days of renting by the room are over.”

I laugh dryly. “Frank’s not the worst of them. Anyway, better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. Statistically, living with seven other people, I reckon you’ll get at least one nutcase in the house.” I take a giant slug of my coffee. “It never stops. It’s a production line of noisy human movements throughout the night. Someone is up at the toilet every hour or coming in late from pubs or getting up early for shift work.”