‘So…?’ I ask, instantly wishing I hadn’t because Joe doesn’t reply.
He hates the idea.
I’ve said too much, blown my chance with the verbal torrent I just aimed at him. This is why I don’t do this. Now he thinks I’m a pink-haired vagabond freak living in her car, trying to move into his space. Why did I think he’d even consider me?
‘Yeah,’ he says.
‘Sorry?’
‘You can see it after we finish here, if you like?’
‘Really?’
‘Mm-hmm.’ He glances to the side as if seeking back-up.
‘Yes,’ I say quickly, before he thinks better of it. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Great. Thanks, Ottilie.’
He doesn’t leave, like I expect him to. I don’t know whether to say anything else or just grin inanely back. I don’t want to risk this arrangement that feels as if it’s balanced on fragile ice.
Then Joe Carver smiles at me.
It’s warm and wide and inviting. And it’s all for me.
Oh crap…
Chapter Six
JOE
I must be out of my mind.
Why did I agree to let her see the house? She’s clearly strange. I mean, who carries all their stuff in their car? I don’t know why she had to leave her last place, either. It could be something really bad. And in five minutes she’ll know where I live.
Her smile is to blame. I thought the small glimpse of it was charming, but the full version blew me away.
Ugh. I never had this issue with Matt.
I move quickly around the house, shoving piles of dirty clothes under my bed and stuffing stacks of paper and notebooks into the nearest cupboard. My space is a bombsite when I’m working and I didn’t expect to have a prospective housemate visit today. The bath is passable; a quick once-over with an antibac wipe makes the sink toothpaste- and beard-trimming-free. There’s no time to vacuum, but stripped oak floorboards are thankfully forgiving in that regard; and at least I remembered to raid Ensign’s fridge for fresh milk before I headed home. I give the liquid air freshener Mum brought the last time she visited a tentative sniff, but think better of spraying it around. According to the label, it’s Dewy Roses. It smells like loo cleaner to me.
Ottilie might not like the house. I’m not sure that would be a bad thing.
But she has nice eyes. And a lovely smile. And cash.
Maybe a trial month is good idea. Test the arrangement – just to make sure she isn’t a closet psycho or someone who wields vintage Samurai swords as a hobby. If it doesn’t work out at least I’ll have Eric off my back for a while and four weeks to find another housemate. By then Russell will have my sample scripts and I can think about everything else again.
I move the same ornament on the mantelpiece two inches to the left that I moved two inches to the right a minute ago. Groaning, I shove my hands into my jeans pockets to keep them still.
I don’t know why I feel nervous.
Okay, maybe I do. Someone new means new rules, new rhythms, a whole new energy in the house. And she’s a girl. I like girls, but I’ve never had one as a housemate. Most of my relationships with girls have been strictly your-place-or-mine deals. Lots of fun, but you both get to go home afterwards. No shared bathrooms, no arguments over the TV remote.
A knock at the door makes me jump and I grab a final look in the mirror before I go to answer it.
She’s waiting on the doorstep like a rabbit about to scarper. When I offer my hand she grips it like a lifebuoy. A blush blooms across her cheeks and my nervous laugh mirrors hers. It feels like a first date, which is ridiculous.
‘Hi,’ she says, letting my hand go. ‘Can I…?’
‘Oh, sure. Sorry. Come in.’
I follow her into the hall and notice a layer of dust on the shelf under the mirror by the front door. I give it a surreptitious wipe as she pauses to inspect the Minton-tiled floor.
‘That’s gorgeous. Is it original?’
‘Yes. My landlord Eric renovated the house about ten years ago and it was the first thing he restored. Nice, huh?’
‘It’s beautiful.’ She straightens. ‘Um, where do we go?’
‘Just in there,’ I say, pointing to the living room.
She unleashes that smile at me before she walks in.
I take a breath. Cool and calm, Carver.
The late-afternoon sun is streaming in through the large bay window and I silently thank the house for showing itself at its best. The way light fills the rooms is one of the things I love most about this place. Watching Ottilie now, the warm gold sunlight playing in her hair, I am struck by a sudden sense that she was always supposed to be here.
Steady on…
I shake the thought and launch into the tour.
Ottilie politely inspects every room, nodding and making encouraging noises. So far, so good. Finally, we reach what might be her room. I’ve left it until last for two reasons: firstly, that I wanted the rest of the house to win her over before she sees the bedroom, and secondly, because it’s significantly smaller than my room. Matt didn’t care but girls have opinions on this kind of thing. What if she prefers mine to hers? What if she’ll only move in if we swap? Am I willing to surrender my sanctuary?
The answer to that is academic. I’ll have to be.
She’s very quiet. Standing with her back to me, facing the entire wall of empty bookshelves and small double bed. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. I don’t want to say anything too soon, but her silence is unnerving.
And then I notice her shoulders start to shake.
Oh no. Anything but that…
‘Is it—’ I fumble my words. ‘I mean, are you…?’
The shaking intensifies and a sob escapes. This is not good.
‘Ottilie?’
‘It’s Otty.’ She sinks to the bed, her back still to me.
‘Otty – are you okay?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, wiping her eyes.
My heart hits the IKEA rug. ‘Look, if you don’t like it we could always discuss swapping…’
‘No,’ she says. It isn’t the kind of no that’s negotiable.
Well, that’s that then.
‘No problem. Let’s just go back downstairs,’ I begin. But then she turns. And she’s smiling.
‘It’s perfect.’
‘It is?’
She nods, her eyes glistening. ‘So… many… shelves.’
Eh?
‘Shelves?’
‘For my books. I have a lot of books.’ She gives a loud sniff. ‘My old place had no bookcases. I just had piles everywhere. Of books,’ she adds quickly.
It’s a little bit adorable and it breaks the ice.
Downstairs we talk turkey. That is, we agree she’ll move in pretty much as soon as we’ve finished talking about it.
‘Furniture,’ I say, the thought suddenly occurring. Matt had little in the house apart from a desk in his room, a weird cast-iron pan-stacking thing in the kitchen and that horrific shoe rack in the hall.
‘I don’t have any.’
‘None at all?’
‘One chair. With flamingos on it.’ She giggles when she sees my confusion. ‘You’ll see. But no other furniture. Just books.’