Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Lynette.
I look down at my bare legs and think about the fact I have no knickers on. I don’t know Lynette, have no idea how it works having a live-in housekeeper, but I do know I’d hate to bump into her half naked. I cringe and look back over my shoulder, rolling my eyes as I spot my dress on the floor. I pull the T-shirt off and get my dress on, not bothering to search for my knickers now I’m mostly decent. I pad across to the door and quietly open it, revealing an en-suite. “Oh, thank God,” I whisper. The moment I step over the threshold, low-level spotlights ping on, giving me just enough light but not so much it’s blinding. I go straight to the loo and lower, using the time I’m peeing—which is forever, it seems—to take in the space. It’s all spectacular, all white porcelain and brushed brass fittings, but it’s the claw-foot tub in front of an arched stained-glass window that gives it the true wow factor.
I’m still peeing.
The mirrors above the twin pedestal sinks are suspended on gold rods from the ceiling, the floor is a chessboard of black and white tiles, the shower enclosed by a white half-height brick-tiled wall topped with a glass screen, and a bunch of candles line the windowsill—all of them gold.
I’m still bloody peeing.
There’s a tray spanning the tub, like one of those bath caddies you put things on if you’re a tub dweller—a book, a glass of wine, a candle, your lotions and potions, everything within reach. Does Dec Ellis soak in a bubble bath?
I smile, picturing him relaxed back, bubbles up to his neck. Does he sing in the tub? Read?
Or was that his wife’s?
My smile falls. He’s lived here for ten years. He told me he’d be divorced four years ago if he could find her. She lived here.
I’m done peeing.
I wipe myself, my face bunching when I feel the remnants of his release too, and tug my dress back down. I don’t flush—I don’t want to wake him—but lower the seat instead and wash my hands.
He’s not moved an inch when I leave the bathroom. Creeping to the door, I pull it open and peek out, listening for a minute before venturing onto the landing. I reach the stairs, the beautiful, wide spiral staircase, and take the balustrade, gazing around in awe as I take the steps down, paying more attention to the things I didn’t before because I was in a state of high anticipation and complete anxiety. The chandelier spilling from the top of the house finishes just shy of a baby grand piano. A mirror hanging on the wall makes the entrance hall look even bigger than it is, and it’s pretty bloody spacious. There are endless closed doors, all of which I avoid—I don’t want to snoop—but there are numerous open doors too. I pass a room on the right. It’s dark, but I definitely see a desk and bookcases—his home office?—and one of the closed doors is a bathroom, identifiable by the sign on the door. I approach another open door farther in, with the distinct purr of a refrigerator coming from that direction, and emerge into a beautiful kitchen, the space lit by under-counter spotlights. It’s modern, contradicting the exterior original architecture and what I’ve seen of Dec’s bathroom and the hallway. The walnut cupboards are handleless, the countertops polished cream stone. The long island running down the centre of the room is bare but for a glass vase stuffed with white roses with long stems in a tall vase as opposed to short stems in a dumpy glass like on the table in the hallway.
I take the three steps that lead down to a dining area, where a round table is edged with eight chairs. There’s a snug area leading off that. A curved stone-coloured velvet couch has been placed before a wall-mounted TV that hangs above the grandiose cream-stone fireplace. It’s large but cosy, traditional but modern.
Beautiful.
I go to the floor-to-ceiling doors that span the entire back and look out into the garden. Spotlights line a brick pathway through the middle that’s been shovelled clear of snow.
I smile and face the room again, something past the gorgeousness of Dec’s home niggling at the corner of my mind.
There are no Christmas decorations.
Not one thing.
I would wonder if maybe it’s too early. Some people go full-on into Christmas mode on December 1st. Other more conservative types might wait until the first or second weekend. And then there’s the ones who don’t bother with decorations at all. The damaged souls who resent Christmas. Hate Christmas. The souls who wish they could hibernate throughout December and emerge on the safe, less glittery and joyous side of January.
Souls like me.
My teeth sink into my lip, searching for even a Christmas card. Anything to suggest Dec isn’t like me. Doesn’t despise Christmas like me. There are none.