the counter. ‘Hiya, I’m just … I’m …’ She realised she couldn’t drop all her woes on Cleo – she’d only fret. And what could she do when she was thousands of miles away? ‘How are you?’ asked Regan, trying to sound bright and carefree.
‘I’m okay.’
‘You at another party?’ It looked like a hotel lobby in the background.
‘Yeah. I’ve stepped out for a bit of a break.’ Cleo looked like she was stifling a deep sigh, or a yawn.
‘What time is it there?’ Regan opened and closed kitchen drawers.
‘Nearly three in the morning.’ She looked tired. ‘I could go but I loathe being in a hotel room alone. I think I might be a bit homesick.’
‘Blimey. Ow!’ Regan was only half listening. ‘Bloody skewers.’ Regan sucked her finger.
‘Are you cooking?’
‘Don’t look so surprised!’ said Regan. ‘No, I’m not cooking, but I could be. I’m looking for a corkscrew.’
‘What else are you doing? Remind me what normal people do.’
‘It’s riveting. I’m having a mug of soup.’ Regan held up the mug as evidence whilst she moved around the flat picking things up and stashing them in a black bag.
‘Soup?’ Cleo chuckled.
‘Yeah. It’s hot and nutritious.’ And I don’t know when I’ll get to eat again, she added in her head. Regan squinted at the screen. ‘Is that Elon Musk behind you?’
‘Oh, I expect so. I’m so bored with celebrities. Oscar wheels me around like a kid in a supermarket trolley introducing me to anyone who might get us more social media coverage. They’re like playing cards. On one side is a pretty picture: bright, colourful and engaging; but on the other there’s very little at all and what’s there is bland and functional.’
‘Wow, that’s deep,’ said Regan, pausing with a gin-scented candle in her hand. It was hers, but did she really need it?
‘Unlike most celebrities,’ quipped Cleo.
Regan watched a parade of beautiful people mill about behind Cleo. That could have been my life, she thought dreamily. ‘Oh, Cleo, you’re so lucky.’ Cleo opened her mouth to protest. ‘No, please don’t get me wrong; I know you’ve worked so hard for this, but to get the chance at a life like yours is millions to one and I’m so happy for you. Tell me how fabulous it is?’ She knew she was staring at her like a child anticipating a bedtime story.
Cleo took a moment to answer. Her smile seemed forced. ‘Yes, of course it’s fabulous. Let me show you the view.’
Regan made a series of awestruck noises as Cleo panned around the sights of Hong Kong harbour. It was quieter outside and Cleo found somewhere to perch.
‘Okay, well you’d better get back to the party,’ said Regan. ‘Have a brilliant time.’ Still holding her soup, Regan moved out of the kitchen and into the hallway – she didn’t have long before Jarvis returned and she wanted to avoid a face-to-face confrontation if she could.
‘Hang on!’ Cleo’s voice sounded a bit desperate and it drew Regan’s attention. Cleo was silent for a moment as if trying to think of something to say. ‘How did it go with the plumber?’
Regan shrugged. ‘Fine.’
‘Er … Any difficulties?’ Regan shook her head. ‘All fixed then?’
‘Yep.’
‘And you locked it all up properly?’
‘Yep. No problems. The studio is all locked up safe and warm.’ Regan frowned as a thought struck her. ‘It’ll be there empty just waiting for you to get home.’
Cleo appeared sad for a moment. ‘I guess so. I miss my little studio. It’s my safe place, where I feel most at home.’
‘Actually you could live there if you wanted to. Couldn’t you? It’s got virtually everything a person could need.’ Regan could feel her eyes widening as she spoke.
‘Not really. It’s against the terms of the lease so I’d get kicked out. And there is a loo but there’s no shower. No cooker, no washing machine, no—’
Regan was waving at her to stop. ‘Right, well, I need to … um … dash,’ she said.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Cleo peered at her through the screen.
‘Me? Yes, brilliant. Top banana! Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll check on the studio for you if you like?’ Regan leaned in closer to the camera.
‘No need.’
‘It’s no bother at all. You leave it with me. Anyway, cheers!’ said Regan, holding up her mug and liberally splashing soup over herself and the screen.
‘You’re bonkers! Cheers,’ replied Cleo, holding up her champagne glass. The call ended.
‘Shitterama …’ Regan stared down at her feet and at Jarvis’s beloved rug. The pale cream wool was now liberally doused in tomato soup. A few more trickles dripped from her hand, landing like paint on a new canvas. She rushed back to the kitchen in a panic, knowing that Jarvis would think she’d done this on purpose.
How on earth am I meant to clear this up? she thought, scanning the cupboards for something to clean it with and grabbing a cleaning spray and a cloth. The quicker she acted, the better chance she had of saving the rug. She sprayed the cleaner liberally over the stain but on the third squirt she halted mid-squeeze. ‘Green!’ The cleaning fluid now overlapping the orange soup stain was bright green. ‘What the …’ She checked the label. ‘Oven cleaner.’ Discarding the bottle, she began rubbing the orange and green together in the valiant hope the green would somehow magically eliminate the orange. It didn’t. After a few minutes she leaned back on her haunches and surveyed the rug. It looked worse than when it was just the soup stain. Now, thanks to her vigorous rubbing, the stained patch had a certain fluffier quality than the rest of the rug. She shook her head. This was hopeless. As usual, she was only making things worse.
In desperation, she laid the best part of a roll of paper towel on top of the rug in an attempt to draw out all the moisture whatever its colour. That seemed to help a little bit. She put some fresh kitchen roll on top. There was nothing else she could do – she could almost hear Jarvis’s voice telling her sarcastically that she’d done more than enough.
She fired off a quick text to him: Sorry. Had a bit of an accident in hallway. Take care and be happy. Regan. This way it wouldn’t be a total surprise and hopefully he would realise it wasn’t her being vindictive. She quickly grabbed the bin bags Jarvis had left, as well as a few more essentials she needed like shampoo, coffee, biscuits, the Easter Egg she’d not scoffed yet and his spare razor – whatever happened, she liked to keep her underarm hair under control. She also took the pen he kept by the phone – not because she needed one, but because she knew when he went to use it and it wasn’t there it would drive him disproportionately crackers.
She hurried from the building trying not to think about the good times she’d had there.
