“If this is the spare room, I can’t even begin to imagine what the master bedroom looks like,” I laugh.
“Honestly? I think you have the better deal.” She smiles.
I can’t believe it. This is really going to be my home for three months.
“Ensuite is just through there,” she points to a door to the left, “And then through that is the dressing room.”
“Dressing room?”
“Uh huh. You’ll find the concierge has put your luggage in it.”
How?! Unless they use magic, there’s no way he got up here before me.
“Service elevator,” Lianne says, as if she can read my mind. “Pretty cool, huh?”
With all of her enthusiasm, I can tell that she didn’t grow up in this type of world either.
I sink myself into a gray knitted hammock in the corner. “This is crazy.”
“Well, like Mr. Bryne said, make yourself at home. And if there’s anything else you need, just give me a buzz.” She taps a silver button next to the light switch with a knowing smile.
“Thanks, Lianne. Wait — I have a question.” I glance at the ajar door and lower my tone. “Does he like to be called Donnacha… or what? His business card said Atlas. Sorry, I know it’s a stupid question, it’s just —”
She interrupts me with a polite laugh. “Atlas is his nickname, but he’s had it for so long now that he’ll answer to it all the same.”
“Why Atlas?”
A knowing smile spreads across her lips. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
I shuffle uncomfortably in my hammock. Lianne walks closer to me and perches on an oak desk near by, letting her hospitality persona waver.
“Listen,” she says, reaching over to rub my arm, “I know he can seem a bit scary at first. He comes across as kind of rude.”
“Yeah, you’re telling me.”
“But he’s a big softie deep down. He just needs a woman to bring it out of him. Don’t let him walk all over you, and you’ll be fine.”
“Oh, it’s not really like that between us —“
“So he keeps saying.”
She stands straight and brushes the crease out of her pencil skirt before nodding to a row of shelves filled with rows of beautiful purple flowers. “By the way, make sure you mention the flowers. He was stressing himself out over them.”
When Lianne leaves, I head over and touch the soft petals. Violets.
The swarm of butterflies awaken in my stomach, and I can feel my cheeks burn.
Violets for Violet. That’s… incredibly thoughtful. The gesture is a complete contrast to his surly demeanor and constant scowl.
Maybe, just maybe, there’s a little more to my new husband than meets the eye.
12
Violet
By the time I’ve finished unpacking my meager amount of worldly possessions, the setting sun is spreading its orange glow over the New York skyline.
My stomach rumbles, and I curse myself for not eating dinner before I left.
Not that I had anything in the fridge to eat.
I put it off for as long as possible. Because I know once I step outside the comfort of my newly appointed bedroom, there’s the chance of another encounter with him.
My heart is in my mouth as I work my way through the corridors and back down to the first floor. I’m torn — part of me hopes the apartment is empty and that I’m left to my own devices, but I also want to see him. I’m curious to know what he’s like in his natural habitat.
I didn’t have to think this over for too long, because as I turn into the kitchen, Donnacha is sitting at the large stone island, his MacBook and a glass of red wine in front of him. Strange. I didn’t have him down as a wine drinker.
“H-hi,” I stammer, fighting to urge to turn on my heels, head back to my room and simply starve to death.
“Hello,” he says, not looking up from his screen.
Against the backdrop of his fingers brushing over his keyboard, I force myself to carry on as normal.
I walk over to the looming fridge and tug it open.
“The chef made a chicken and white wine risotto for lunch. It’s in the on the top shelf.”
“Uh, right.” I pull open one of the Tupperware boxes and peer inside. Sure enough, a beautiful, creamy risotto greets me. Damn, it looks and smells amazing.
“Or I can call the chef for you if you want something fresh?”
“Oh, no. This is perfect.” This risotto is a huge change from ramen and toast, so I’m definitely not complaining.
I pop it in the microwave and fiddle with the buttons. We sit in heavy silence as I stare at the countdown timer, but I can feel his presence behind me. It sticks to me like syrup.
Fuck it. “Um — so…” I turn to face him. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to get my sentence out. “You’ve already eaten.” As it leaves my lips, I realize it’s a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“Cool. What did you have?”
“Risotto.”
“Oh, sure.”
I stare at the timer. It’s the slowest thirty seconds of my life.
I decide to try again. “Are you still hungry? Do you want some of this?”
“No.”
Embarrassment and annoyance mix together like a potent cocktail in my stomach. Why is this man so incapable of having a normal conversation?
“Well,” I snap, plating my food up and heading out towards the dining area. “This conversation has been riveting. Have a nice night.”
Because the whole place is open plan, I simply have my back to him as I shovel the delicious risotto into my mouth. I can barely enjoy the creamy texture and incredible spices because I’m so annoyed.
His curt tone and awkward manner are borderline rude. No, it is rude. I know I’m in customer service, so I’m used to being chattier than most, but surely it’s just a basic life skill to be able to hold a conversation with somebody? Especially your wife, real or not? I mean really, is that too much to ask?
Now Lianne is gone, the penthouse feels eerily silent, bar the scraping of my fork and the faraway tapping of Donnacha’s keyboard.
These next three months are going to be a lot more lonely than I imagined.
13
Atlas
I sink the last drop of Chateau Margaux and automatically refill my glass.
Dammit, Don. Do you always gotta be so retarded?
For the past few hours, the numbers on my laptop have been nothing but meaningless smears across my screen. How could I work, when every floorboard that creaks, every doorknob that turns, is a reminder that she’s here, in my house? Under my roof?
And then she walked into the kitchen and caught me off-guard. Wide-eyed and beautiful, small and fragile in the optic-white space.
It was my chance to learn more about her, even bond with her.
But all my questions stuck to the back of my throat like gum, unable to reach my lips.
I take off my glasses and wipe them with the edge of my T-shirt.
Not because I’m scared. She may be unreal, but her beauty doesn’t intimidate me. It’s the consequences I’m afraid of.