That One Moment (Lost in London #2)(8)
Benji shoots up out of his chair. “Leslie called? Are you serious? Did she ask for me specifically?” His voice rises to a high-pitched squeal.
“Benji,” I chastise like a proper mum. “If you’re going to act this excited around her tonight then it’s probably not a good idea for you to go. She’s got a lot going right now with a new baby and all her wedding planning. She really needs a nice evening out.”
His face drops. “No, I just…Oh, bugger. I didn’t mean to…It wasn’t that—”
“I know you’re fond of her. Leslie’s a great mate. Just promise to be cool and we’ll go together and have a fab time, all right?” Benji adamantly promises to be calm and I know I can trust him. He’s harmless, really. Just overeager.
Since Roger is not in the office today, we both decide to scoot out early to prepare for our big night. Benji has to go rent a tux and I need extra time to do my hair. A formal affair requires a bit more effort than my daily long and straight.
“I’ll pick you up in a cab outside your building at seven then,” I say as we clamber out the large swing-open window of our building.
“Sounds lovely,” he replies, his voice rising at the end as we descend down the wrought iron fire escape stairs along the outside of our building. There’s a call centre located on the lower level of our two-floor warehouse, and we look at those employees like zombies who could infect us with a case of “dull and painfully boring.” It was Leslie’s idea we start using the fire escape steps to enter and exit so the drab lower level office doesn’t mess with our creative mojo.
Just as we reach the bottom of the large metal steps, my dad’s name pops up on my phone screen. I wave Benji off and answer as I make my way down the sidewalk. “Hiya, Dad!”
“Hiya, my new twenty-five-year-old daughter. You sound rather chipper.” His warm voice is always a welcome sound.
“Well, I just got invited to a formal do tonight. I was going to call you, actually. I’m afraid Bruce and I won’t be around for tea.”
“What’s the event for?”
“Oh…erm, crap.” I was so excited at the prospect of who might be in attendance that I completely forgot to ask Leslie what the charity was even for. “I suppose I don’t even know. It’s sort of a favour for a friend.”
“Well, have fun. I’ll try and ward off your brothers for ya.”
I let out a huff of laughter. “As if that were even possible.” Being footballers and over-protective alpha types as brothers makes them think they can call the plays in my life.
“They mean well, darling. It’s off-season, so they have too much time on their hands to worry about you.”
Rolling my eyes, I reply, “I know, I know.”
“But you will be by Sunday, right?” he asks.
“‘Course, Dad. You needn’t even ask.”
“All right, just making sure. Be safe and text me when you’re home tonight.”
“Will do! Bye, Dad.”
“Bye.”
I stride down the street with an extra bounce to my step at the prospect of a big night out. This is what I envisioned when I moved. Doing fun, spur of the moment things with friends that don’t involve going over match footage. And now that Leslie lives with Theo full-time, she’s only a ten minute walk from my flat. Maybe now that she lives closer we’ll see each other more often? I know she’s got a baby, but surely mummies need a break here and there.
I walk through the narrow alley between the two shops that my flat sits above, shaking my head at the image of my idiot brothers trying to make a three-man-tower of themselves. They demanded a key from me, but I refused. I love my flat too much to give those animals access to it.
I have the penthouse above a large period building that hosts a Hookah Lounge and a gift shop on the ground level. I didn’t especially need the penthouse, but my dad insisted and, damn, it is bloody perfect. As soon as you walk in, you’re greeted with an entire wall of exposed natural brick, which compliments the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a huge balcony. The balcony opens from the living room and the master suite is concealed by French doors on the left. On the right is a modern kitchen with glossy black cabinets and pale wooden countertops.
As if that all isn’t gorgeous enough, there’s a ladder up to a private rooftop terrace with a huge flowery oasis. My own personal secret garden. I wish I could say I tend to the flowers myself, but I do not have a green thumb. I pay someone to maintain it and it’s the best money I spend every single week. I spend hours up there reading and people watching down over my quaint neighbourhood. It’s dreamy.
I let myself into the side entrance where the private lift to my flat is located. I pop my key into the panel and push the only button labeled eleven. Just as the doors open into my flat, I’m socked right in the belly by none other than Bruce.
“Bruce! You vile monster. Get back,” I shout, grabbing him by the mouth and pushing him away from me. “Now just look at the state of me.” I glance down at my soaked jeans. The cheeky bastard has the nerve to drop down on his butt and cock his head at me in that cute puppy-dog way he still has about him.
“You think you’re cute, don’t ya?” I glare at him angrily. Bruce is an enormous Saint Bernard that I ended up with when one of my neighbours passed away six months ago. It was quite sad, really. Mrs. Renack lived one floor below me. Her children bought her Bruce as a puppy when she was diagnosed with cancer. She used to drop him off at my flat whenever she had to go for treatments and we always had the loveliest chats. But unfortunately, Bruce isn’t a miracle worker. When I showed up for the funeral, her kids spoke of sending him to a shelter and I couldn’t stomach the thought.