The Offer(20)

More crackle. Silence. Maybe she’s hung up.

“From last night,” I go on. “And other times.”

“Uh, hi…”

“Can I come up?”

I can sort of hear Steph in the background, “Who is it?”

“Tell her it’s her brother-in-law!” I yell and then I’m disconnected.

I stare at the door wondering if I’m being told to fuck off when it buzzes and I go on up.

The funny thing about Nicola, the thing I’ve gathered from what little I know about her, is that if there’s anyone that shouldn’t be living in a place like this – bars on the doors, mildew on the stairwell walls, stains on the carpet – it’s her. Maybe some hipsters could make it work, or James and Penny, Linden’s friends on the alternative side who might call this type of living as “being real.” But Nicola seems too stiff, prim and proper for this place, like she should have been born in a palace instead. From the way she was talking, well blubbering, in my car, I have a feeling she might have been.

Just before I’m about to knock on the door, it opens and Stephanie is staring at me with a suspicious twist to her lips.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, blocking the door.

“What are you, her guard dog?”

“Well, I am a bitch sometimes,” she says. “Woof, woof.”

“Can I come in?”

She shakes her head, her skull earrings rattling. “Why?”

“I want to know if they’re okay.”

A line slowly forms between her brows. “They’re going to be okay,” she says in a drawn-out tone. “Sorry, Bram, not used to you caring about people.”

I guess I deserved that. “Can I talk to Nicola? Alone?”

Steph flinches. “What?”

I look over her shoulder and see Nicola appear just beyond the door. She looks like shit. Her hair is greasy and pulled back, her face sallow, her eyes puffy and red. Other than sad, though, I can’t really read her face and tell if she’s happy to see me, or pissed off, or indifferent. I’m betting it’s the latter.

“Hey,” I say to her. “I just wanted to check up on you. You never called,” I add.

Steph looks between the two of us. “He gave you his number?”

“Business card, actually,” Nicola says wryly.

Steph folds her arms across her chest and I try my damndest not to stare at her cleavage. Damn, Linden is a lucky guy. Good thing I think of her more as the mother type. “What did I tell you?” Steph whispers harshly to her.

I raise a brow. “What did you tell her?”

“Never mind,” she says quickly, fixing her eyes back on me. She’s like mother hen with teeth in that beak. “I’m watching you,” she says to me.

I raise my arms out to the side. “Watch all you want, babe, I’m used to it.”

Nicola gives out a small sigh of resignation. “It’s fine. Bram, you can come in. Just be quiet, Ava’s sleeping.”

Victory. I step inside and take a quick intake of my surroundings. It looks like some trendy grandmother’s cottage in here. The type who puts ruffles and doilies on everything but also listens to the Rolling Stones on vinyl to remember the days when she’d get so bloody high.

Nicola walks over to her tiny kitchen, which is cluttered with bright cups and plates. “Want coffee? Or tea?”

Do I admit I drink tea over coffee? Hell. “I’d love a cup of tea, please. Do you have orange pekoe or Earl gray? With cream?”

I can’t see her face but I know she’s not looking too impressed. “I have chai.”

“That’s fine,” I say, aware that Stephanie is staring at me. “What?” I say to her.

She just narrows her eyes, points her finger at me as if she’s about to say something, then picks up her purse. “Okay, Nic,” she calls to her. “I’m going to go. Call me later, okay? Please?” Now I’m not sure if that please is because of Ava’s situation or the fact that I’m here.

“I will,” Nicola says. “Thanks for everything.”

“Love ya!” And then Steph is out the door and I’m alone with Nicola.

It’s suddenly very awkward. While the kettle is boiling, I sit down on her sofa. It’s like sinking into a marshmallow. I’m afraid I won’t be able to get up.

She’s not talking, so I attempt to fill in the gaps.

“Nice apartment,” I comment.

“Thanks,” she says, still puttering around in the kitchen.

“Did you inherit all your furniture from your grandmum or something?”

She shoots me a killer look over her shoulder. “It’s from Anthropologie.”