WHEN I SIT up in the morning, well-rested and surrounded by nothing but the light hum of the air-conditioner, a sinking dissonance slides over me. This is the second night I have slept through without having anything to record in my notebook. This morning, rattling around in my brain is a vast content of nothingness. I drag my hand down my face and sweep my hair over my shoulders.
I blink ahead. Above Clay’s desk is a clock, ticking away, with the little hand happily pointing to the nine. I slept in too. Presumably, Clay will be in the City Building, cutting ribbons with big scissors or signing important documents, or whatever a mayor does on a Wednesday before lunch with Jill from marketing. I slide out from his bed and shower. I don’t know if there is a Jill from marketing. Maybe her name is Robin or Jennifer. No matter her name, I’m jealous she gets to spend time with him.
‘I won’t be yours.’
His words lay facts down inside my mind before I can even toe the line of jealous girlfriend. I’m not. He’s not. We are something else entirely.
After the shower, I wander naked into his huge dressing room. The moment I step inside, sleek downlights in the recessed ceiling build a perfect glow above the racks of clothing.
‘Woah,’ I mutter, moving between the rows of garments to sit on a black leather ottoman large enough to sprawl out on. To the left of the impressive space hangs suits and shirts, organised by colour and style. In small cubicles below the outfits are his shoes.
On the right—my breath hitches—are my clothes… ‘What the fuck?’ More than I bought the other day at the boutique, too. Also organised by colour and style. Despite his procurement of the items, they all still seem to be in my usual bohemian style, but somehow…not. Boho-chic, I would call it. I drop to my knees and touch the cute dusty pink slip-on flats in a little black box. Then the tan ones. And then heels. I pick them up, inspecting the thin wrap around leather. ‘So beautiful,’ I whisper, a sudden Everest of dizziness rising through me.
‘I will be making sure you are spoilt rotten.’
A little chuckle slips from my lips.
He is so fucking bossy even when he’s not here.
I slip into a cream-coloured lacy shirtdress, with henna style embellishments, and just long enough to cover my upper thighs and slide on the pair of pink flats.
For the rest of the day, I watch Maggie cook and learn a little as she goes about her usual routine. As soon as she finishes baking brownies, I spring from the countertop and search the entire house for Jasmine, eager to share them with her, to hear about her day, to tell her about mine, but despite Bolton having mentioned she is rostered on, I can’t seem to track her down. The way things are headed, it is as if we could one day have a kind of friendship, and for the first time in my life, I want to explore that. Be honest. Unguarded.
And although I am surrounded by people, her absence transforms the mansion. It seems larger, and I feel myself getting emotionally lost in the vastness and the hustle and bustle of it. Wincing when I recall that awkward conversation about Cinderella and pumpkins, I realise I haven’t seen her since the night of the party.
My heart is slow and a little low, when I retire for the evening, not having found her. Entering his bedroom, I glance around without my awe-goggles on and find it to be equally as soulless as it is beautiful. Wandering around the room, I circle each perfectly exquisite piece of polished black-wood furniture.
My heart sinks lower still.
The only sign this is a permanent residence and not a hotel room is my dreamcatcher swaying under the air conditioner’s gentle current. Sighing, I make a mental note to create a pillow stack with his cushions every morning.
Glancing up to watch the clock tick past the notch at the eleven, I frown, knowing he’s been gone all day and most of the evening. Unless… unless he’s here in the house somewhere.
Striding from the bedroom, I head towards the office I saw him in last week.
As I approach the door at the end of the hall, music entices me to stop by another instead. I push the double doors open and see a bespoke television screen spanning the entire length of a wall and two rows of leather recliners set on a small incline.
A fucking theatre.
‘Woah,’ I mutter.
As I walk down the centre, taking the little steps to the lower level, I notice Xander at the front; he’s not watching the show flashing in the soft lighting but is highlighting pages in the thick document on his lap.
‘Hi,’ I say, and he twists his head to see me. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘Fawn,’ he sings, letting a wide, charming smile transform his serious expression. ‘Not at all, girlie. Come sit with me. Oh, wait, shouldn’t you be in bed? I know my controlling big brother has some serious rules in place for you.’
‘Well, I can’t sleep, and he isn’t here.’ I shrug. ‘So, what’s he gonna do.’ I move over towards him, sitting on the edge of the cushion. I realise the last time I spoke to Xander was in the heat of a breakdown. That he was just trying to help. ‘I’m sorry about last week, Xander. I was rude.’
‘You were not.’ He hands me a stack of papers, and his grin is a thing of beauty, but it doesn’t gentrify the sight of bruising below his jaw and the barely healed black eye.
I take the papers on a kind of automatic response, but stare at the colours flaring below his caramel skin. ‘What’s with all the bruises? You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who gets into pub fights.’
‘Only on Wednesdays,’ he jokes, then nods at the documents clutched in my hand. ‘Wanna help? Highlight every mention of damaged property due to the fire.’
‘Is this for Sir’s campaign?’
He drops a highlighter down on the paperwork. ‘You could say that. We need reasons to evacuate the people around the docks. There is a lot of attention in that area now and well, we don’t—’
I raise an eyebrow at him, continuing his sentence. ‘You don’t want attention in that area.’ He snort-laughs but doesn’t answer, so I point at the television and say, ‘You’re working and watching television?’
‘Yeah, I seem to focus better when there is background noise…’ His eyes skirt along my face for a moment. ‘The bruising is from boxing, Fawn. I’m not getting into bar fights in big bro’s city.’
We talk about all sorts of things, and I’m pleased to find that it’s easy to be myself around Xander. He’s less regimented than his big brother, although I wouldn’t trust him with anything personal. Not like I trust Clay. I’m not sure I have ever trusted another person the way I trust him.
After a few hours, the time must be close to one a.m. and my eyes flutter. The show we ignored the entire time slowly fades from sight. I curl onto my side on the recliner and allow slumber to drag me away from the theatre and out to the nothingness I will my unconscious state to bring me.
