weary to argue, she nodded, relieved to find the key safe by the door which gave up its contents as soon as she punched in the code. Wes led the way up the narrow staircase, carrying her cabin bag and suitcase with ease while she struggled up behind him, following the scent of herbs which spilled from a couple of pots wedged into his canvas satchel slung across his body.
On the top floor he stopped outside a bright-red door. ‘Here you go – 425A, Bella’s just upstairs. She rents this whole building.’ He took the keys from her and did the honours, dumping the case in the tiny hall and flipping the light switch. ‘Welcome to the neighbourhood.’ He fished out a rosemary plant and handed it to her, before saluting, ducking under the doorway and loping away down the stairs with a cheerful whistle.
Tired as she was, the brief, friendly encounter with a man who’d given her a herb pot made her feel that maybe life in Brooklyn might just be bearable after all.
The hallway opened into a lounge with several doors leading from it. She had an impression of polished wooden floors, two long tall windows through which the ambient light of the street spilled and a shadowy collection of furniture. She put the pot down on a table and opened the nearest door. Bingo first strike, the bedroom. A double bed, quilt, pillow, all bare of sheets. Bugger. It hadn’t occurred to her to pack those. Sod it, still fully clothed, she pitched forward onto the naked duvet, wrapping it around her. Her last thought, her teeth could have an extra minute’s brushing in the morning.
Despite the god-awful time of 5 a.m., she was wide awake, her body clock, even after only five hours’ sleep, hell-bent on London time and, according to her biorhythms, enjoying a leisurely nine o’clock lie-in.
With a groan Sophie rolled over, feeling grimy, travel stained and full-on icky, her body still crimped from the plane journey. She stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling as half-hearted daylight clawed its way through the flimsy curtains. As usual, the thoughts began to crowd in. Memories of the last two years, fighting like gremlins coming up through the crevices. Nope, not going there. Refuse to go there. Shower. Unpack. Find tea. They were the priorities.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and planted them firmly on the wide-planked wooden floor and looked around the room. Just about enough space to swing a very small kitten, but clean and obviously newly painted. The tasteful shade of sage green was complemented by the cream-painted woodwork of the headboard and a matching chest of drawers and an oval mirror hanging above it. Space was tight, so the bed was pushed up against the opposite wall and there was no sign of a wardrobe.
She found the reason when she pushed open the second door leading from the bedroom. It opened into a tiny hallway with a built-in wardrobe and, at the end, another doorway which led into a long and very narrow bathroom. However, the shiny, glossy brick tiles and immaculate, gleaming chrome fittings more than made up for its corridor-like dimensions.
At the sight of the state-of-the-art shower, chrome-filled with numerous taps, heads and levers and big enough to take a rugby team, she peeled off her clothes and stepped into the blissful streams of hot water. It was only as the water streamed through her long blonde hair, from two different directions, that she realised that there was no shampoo, no soap and no towel. She blinked hard at her stupidity. Why hadn’t she thought to pack towels and sheets?
As she shook herself like a dog to try and dry off, using her jeans as a bathmat, she glared at the idiotic image in the mirror, her hair wrapped in her T-shirt to soak up the drips.
For God’s sake, she was normally the person who could be relied on for having packed spares for everyone else.
She went through her case pulling things out, appalled at the random contents and glaring omissions. Hair straighteners. No hairdryer. Fourteen pairs of knickers. One bra. Three tubes of toothpaste. No toothbrush. Tweezers. No nail scissors. Her second-favourite cookery book. And decaffeinated tea-bags? Just when she could have mainlined caffeine with bells on. Who drank decaffeinated anything? There should be a law against it.
Sitting back on her heels, she looked back at the last week with sudden clarity. Lord, hindsight was a wonderful thing. Now, when it was far too bloody late, she could see that her packing had been done in a blur of denial and downright indecision. Convinced she wouldn’t ever really leave. Right up to the last minute when the taxi driver rang the bell, she’d not really been sure she’d go through with it.
Biting her lip, kneeling among discarded shirts, jeans and Converse hi-tops, she picked through her final days in London. Once she’d said yes to Angela, it was as if she’d stepped on a treadmill and had neither the will, the energy nor the reasoning capacity to do anything but keep putting one foot in front of the other. Misery, it had turned out, was a useful shield, blurring away reality until it was too late to get off the treadmill. The taxi was there, her passport was in her hand and she had two cases and a cabin bag at her side.
And here she was. In America.
‘Right.’ She stood up, tugged the T-shirt from her wet hair and looked firmly at herself in the mirror. ‘You are here now.’ She glared into her own eyes. ‘You, yes you, Sophie Bennings … Beauchamp, Bow-champ to the nice customs man, need to knuckle down. Sort yourself out. Sheets. Towel. Toiletries.’
Those stupid omissions at least gave her a mission for the day. She had to go out and buy those as an absolute minimum.
‘And shopping.’ For Pete’s sake, she was so wet, she hadn’t even explored her new home. And she was talking to herself. ‘And what’s wrong with that? Come on. This is an opportunity.’ Saying things out loud made her feel less stupid. Perhaps she ought to buy one of those self-help manuals, come up with a few more convincing mantras. ‘It is an opportunity. Some people would kill to be me.’ OK, kill was perhaps going a little too far, but all her friends had been frankly envious. Not one of them had said, ‘Oh, God just think how big and scary New York is and how lonely you’re going to be.’
Her exploration didn’t take long. The apartment was small, but perfectly formed. Modern, urban and very sophisticated. Not what she was used to at all, but as she stood in the open-plan lounge-kitchen, she nodded to herself. OK, she could live here. The polished, wide-planked, wooden floors were lovely and the huge sash windows let in loads of light and provided a great view out over the street. There was a television and a black box thing, with several remote controls, which she glanced at briefly with a wince. That had been James’s department. The bright-red sofa, with grey cushions positioned opposite a fireplace, looked inviting and welcoming.
On the other side of the room, along the back wall, was a long galley kitchen, with white brick tiles on the walls separating units of glossy, dark red. A wooden-topped island with a breakfast bar created a division between the living room and the kitchen. It contained the sink, drainer and more counter space, and she was pleased to see that the hob, oven, fridge and sink were arranged in the perfect cook’s triangle of practicality.
When she opened a couple of cupboards to find ubiquitous Ikea china mugs and plates, she was unable to decide whether they were disappointing or reassuring. One half of her hoped that there’d be some exoticism – chic American branded crockery, proof that she’d flown 3,000 miles to be here. But the other half – the more dominant half, to be perfectly honest – was relieved by the sight of the familiar tall-bodied mugs and the chunky primary-colour plates. They said, See, not so far from home after all.
With a nod of approval, she was about to turn when her eye caught sight of an unexpected door, tucked out of sight at the end of the run of units.
