Read Online Don't Stand So Close by Luana Lewis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Luana Lewis
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couldn’t have Max, it didn’t really matter. Her bed, like everything else in the flat, was pretty horrible. It sagged in the middle where two of the slats were coming loose. The cheap stuff always looked so good in the catalogue. The lukewarm radiators didn’t seem to have any effect even though she ran them day and night. And on top of that, theflat smelt strongly of damp. She should really put up some pictures, she thought for the thousandth time. It was the same thought she’d had every single day since moving in two years ago.
Her desire to check the mail finally overcame her reluctance to leave her bed. She was hoping her payslip from the Grove Road practice would be in there. She was always paid on the last day of the month; Anne was in charge of the payroll and naturally was highly efficient.
She didn’t have far to travel from her bedroom to the front door, about six steps. As usual, she almost bumped her head against the paper lantern lightshade that hung low and crooked above her head. She picked up the post from the worn-out mat and flipped through the envelopes – mostly junk, the usual array of catalogues addressed to the previous tenant. She dropped those into the recycling and flipped through the rest. The gas and electricity bill had arrived. And, happily, a thick cream envelope of the kind favoured by the Grove Road Clinic. A couple more years and she would have enough money saved for a deposit to buy a small flat. Max might take her on as a full associate if she made herself indispensable.
Feeling more cheerful at the thought of future disposable income, Stella pulled on a pair of socks before steeling herself to brave the bathroom floor in order to splash some soap and hot water on her face. She did not look up at the ceiling where yellow globules were thriving due to a complete and utter lack of ventilation. Unfortunately, she could not avoid a sighting of the mould growing in black spots all around the windowsills. There was so much flora germinating in the bathroom it was beginning to look like a rainforest.
She pulled a brush through her hair and a halo ofstatic-filled strands sprung up around her head. She tried a few more brush strokes but this served only to worsen the situation. She couldn’t be bothered with make-up; she looked more or less presentable without it. Not that a coat of mascara and some lipstick would hurt, and she could make an effort to wear something other than jeans and a white shirt – but she wasn’t likely to see anyone worth glamming up for this weekend.
She would go down to the Caffè Nero and order a strong coffee from the good-looking Italian barista with warm eyes. The walk would get her brain going. Stella grabbed her bag and checked for phone, purse and Kindle. She banged the door of her apartment closed behind her and walked across the intricately patterned maroon carpet to the old-fashioned lift. She had to wait an age for the tiny antique car to climb up to the top floor. Thick black ropes swung slowly in opposite directions as the lift inched upwards. When it arrived, she heaved open the iron doors.
Outside her building, it was a gorgeous day in London. Although there was still an edge, a chill in the air, and spring had not yet arrived, the sun on her skin felt good.
She was disappointed when she was served by a trainee barista, a woman. She couldn’t face her flat or her laptop for a little while longer and so she sat at a table at the window, looking out at all the people strolling along Westbourne Grove in the sunshine. She imagined she might see Max, alone, walking towards her; the familiar beard, the grey at his temples. She would invite him to join her, they would go back to her flat. A young couple, smiling, passed the window walking close and holding hands. Stella felt somehow bereft. The couple was followed by a tired-looking Filipino nanny, pushing blond twin boys in a cumbersome double buggy.
Stella stared as more people passed in front
Her desire to check the mail finally overcame her reluctance to leave her bed. She was hoping her payslip from the Grove Road practice would be in there. She was always paid on the last day of the month; Anne was in charge of the payroll and naturally was highly efficient.
She didn’t have far to travel from her bedroom to the front door, about six steps. As usual, she almost bumped her head against the paper lantern lightshade that hung low and crooked above her head. She picked up the post from the worn-out mat and flipped through the envelopes – mostly junk, the usual array of catalogues addressed to the previous tenant. She dropped those into the recycling and flipped through the rest. The gas and electricity bill had arrived. And, happily, a thick cream envelope of the kind favoured by the Grove Road Clinic. A couple more years and she would have enough money saved for a deposit to buy a small flat. Max might take her on as a full associate if she made herself indispensable.
Feeling more cheerful at the thought of future disposable income, Stella pulled on a pair of socks before steeling herself to brave the bathroom floor in order to splash some soap and hot water on her face. She did not look up at the ceiling where yellow globules were thriving due to a complete and utter lack of ventilation. Unfortunately, she could not avoid a sighting of the mould growing in black spots all around the windowsills. There was so much flora germinating in the bathroom it was beginning to look like a rainforest.
She pulled a brush through her hair and a halo ofstatic-filled strands sprung up around her head. She tried a few more brush strokes but this served only to worsen the situation. She couldn’t be bothered with make-up; she looked more or less presentable without it. Not that a coat of mascara and some lipstick would hurt, and she could make an effort to wear something other than jeans and a white shirt – but she wasn’t likely to see anyone worth glamming up for this weekend.
She would go down to the Caffè Nero and order a strong coffee from the good-looking Italian barista with warm eyes. The walk would get her brain going. Stella grabbed her bag and checked for phone, purse and Kindle. She banged the door of her apartment closed behind her and walked across the intricately patterned maroon carpet to the old-fashioned lift. She had to wait an age for the tiny antique car to climb up to the top floor. Thick black ropes swung slowly in opposite directions as the lift inched upwards. When it arrived, she heaved open the iron doors.
Outside her building, it was a gorgeous day in London. Although there was still an edge, a chill in the air, and spring had not yet arrived, the sun on her skin felt good.
She was disappointed when she was served by a trainee barista, a woman. She couldn’t face her flat or her laptop for a little while longer and so she sat at a table at the window, looking out at all the people strolling along Westbourne Grove in the sunshine. She imagined she might see Max, alone, walking towards her; the familiar beard, the grey at his temples. She would invite him to join her, they would go back to her flat. A young couple, smiling, passed the window walking close and holding hands. Stella felt somehow bereft. The couple was followed by a tired-looking Filipino nanny, pushing blond twin boys in a cumbersome double buggy.
Stella stared as more people passed in front
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