Up on the Roof Page 4

  She pushed past them after hanging up her coat and sighed as they crept behind her up the steps, their sinuous bodies sliding alongside her legs. After feeding and watering them, she set about the most disgusting task involved in looking after her adopted charges: cleaning out the litter tray. For someone such as Lena, for whom cleanliness definitely came above godliness, this was a task she only just survived. And it didn’t matter that she had done it every day for six months; nothing would ever make her get used to it. As she wrapped dusty poo in sheets of newspaper brought home especially for the task, she cursed Chris for the millionth time for putting her in this position. And cursed her own weakness for allowing Chris to do so.

  “But honey, I love my little kittens. And I know you’re allergic, but they always say that the more you’re exposed to it, the more you get used to it. So I think it will be fine. Please, honey.”

  The last two words had been delivered in a sweet, coddling tone that Chris had perfected in twisting Lena around her little finger, and Lena had capitulated. To be fair, she had thought she might build up some immunity to the kittens once they were in her flat 24/7 and so had semi-willingly gone along with Chris’s plan to bring them with her when she moved in.

  Unfortunately, over two years later there was no sign of that immunity ever kicking in. She had a prescription on repeat at the local pharmacy for her inhaler, and taking an anti-histamine tablet had become part of her daily ritual at breakfast time. Luckily, she had managed to keep the cats out of the bedroom since Chris had moved out, and after some heavy-duty carpet cleaning and vacuuming, it was one room that was relatively allergy-free.

  She finished dealing with the litter tray and sat back on her haunches to watch the cats eat. They really were gorgeous, but they had to go. She couldn’t do this anymore. If that troll girlfriend of Chris’s didn’t like cats, that was Chris’s problem, not Lena’s.

  It was time for an ultimatum.

  Megan bounded up the communal stairs with the first two bags of supplies and dumped them outside her front door. She was excited—today she started painting the bathroom. The landlord had given her carte blanche to do what she wanted with each room. In fact, he seemed not to care at all what she did and how, which had rung a small alarm bell in the back of her mind about what sort of landlord she’d got now. Excitement won over her doubts and she’d shrugged them off. Then she’d wangled herself a Saturday off at very short notice and had got herself up nice and early to get on with the decorating. She’d thought she’d have to put it off another couple of months until she could save up for the things she’d need, as her credit card had taken quite a hit at IKEA recently. However, Callum had called her the day before to tell her about a job he’d finished and all the gear he had left over.

  “Honestly, sis, it’s cool. The guy’s already paid for the paint and laughed at me when I asked if he wanted to keep what was left. So I’m only going to take it down the tip unless you want it.”

  “And it’s okay to use in bathrooms?”

  “Yeah, totally. It’s a kind of cool blue colour. Any good to you?”

  Anything had to be better than the shitty brown colour that currently adorned her bathroom’s walls, she’d thought, and gratefully accepted Callum’s offer of two tins of paint.

  She hopped back down the stairs for the tins themselves. Though they’d both inexplicably been opened, each of them was at least half full, so she probably had just enough to do the whole room. It would take at least two coats to bury the brown, possibly three.

  She was musing on this calculation as she turned the corner at the top of the stairs. The bellowing of the organ from the ground-floor flat made her jump out of her skin and before she could stop it, the tin of paint in her left hand escaped her grip and sailed across the landing. It only took one point six seconds for its momentum to come to a halt.

  Against Lena’s front door.

  The newly repaired front door that, until one point six seconds ago, was a shiny polar white.

  Thanks to the lid of the paint tin popping open on impact with the wood, the door was now bipolar; white at the top, cool blue at the bottom.

  Megan stared at the carnage in horror, her mind numb, her heart racing.

  Oh. My. God.

  “All things bright and beautiful,” came Dorothy’s strident voice from somewhere below. “All creatures great and small.”

  Megan closed her eyes, hoping against hope that when she re-opened them, everything would be bright and beautiful again, and not blue.

  No such luck. She stared at the pool of paint congealing on the carpet right outside Lena’s front door, willing her brain to come up with something, anything, to rescue this situation. She tried to console herself with the thought that this one really wasn’t her fault. This one wasn’t down to her clumsiness. Not really. But something told her Lena wouldn’t see it that way.

  The sound of the lock being turned from inside Lena’s flat jolted Megan’s stomach down to her knees and back again. The warning she tried to formulate died on her lips as the door was pulled sharply open and the still-wet blue paint that had previously been descending the door changed trajectory. Splatters of it flung themselves, lemming-like, at the wall opposite, and onto Lena’s clothes, and down onto her shoes.

  Lena stared at Megan, then down at herself, then at the door, then back up again to Megan.

  “I-I can explain,” Megan began, only to be cut short by Lena’s fierce glare and raised hand.

  “This…you…argh!” The scream was shockingly loud from someone as relatively small as Lena, and it rocked Megan back on her heels, nearly sending her tumbling back down the stairs behind her.

  Below them, the singing and organ-playing stopped, and a few moments later, Dorothy’s front door opened.

  “What in the Lord’s name is going on up there?” she cried.

  Megan glanced down at her over the bannister.

  “S-sorry, Dorothy. Just a-a little accident. Nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Used to be so quiet in this house,” Dorothy muttered, as Megan watched her turn back to her flat. “Nothing the same since she moved in. Lord help me.” The door slammed shut.

  Megan closed her eyes and breathed out. Please let this be a bad dream. Please let me wake up.

  “Well?” Lena’s voice couldn’t have been icier if she’d have been standing in the middle of Antarctica.

  Megan raised both hands, the right still clutching tightly at the other tin of paint. “I swear, I will fix this. I am so, so sorry. I didn’t realise the lid—”

  Lena raised her hand again. “I. Don’t. Care.” She stared at Megan, and Megan’s heart lurched when she saw the shimmer of tears in Lena’s eyes.

  She stepped forward. “God, Lena, I’m so—”

  “Don’t,” Lena whispered, stepping back. “Please…don’t.” Without another word, she shut the door to her flat.

  “Jen, stop laughing. It really wasn’t funny.” Megan closed her eyes, gripping her phone tightly against her ear, willing her temper not to flare. It was rare for it to do so; generally, Megan was considered the happiest, go-luckiest person on the planet, but the memory of Lena’s tear-filled eyes cut deep, and Jen’s amusement at the situation pained Megan.

  “Oh, come on, Megs. How can you say that?” Jen snorted. “I mean, it’s priceless! Just when the door gets fixed from the scratch, it gets redecorated again, and—”

  “Enough!” Megan snapped. She heard Jen’s sharp gasp but refused to apologise. “I mean it, Jen. I know we’ve laughed about my mishaps over the years, but no one’s ever really got hurt by them. This one…this time I really upset someone, and that kills me.”

  There was a short silence. Then, “I’m sorry.” Jen’s voice was quiet.

  “I know everyone thinks it’s hilarious that I’m so clumsy at home when I’m so co-ordinated at work. But you know
what? It’s losing its charm. The more it happens lately, the more embarrassed I am. I feel like this big lumbering idiot—”

  “Oh, hey,” Jen interrupted, “you’re not that at all. You get a bit…over-excited, sometimes, and rush into things. No one thinks you’re an idiot. Promise.”

  “Well,” Megan mumbled, “I think I am.”

  “Okay, I think we need to get some drinks inside you and chill you out. What do you say?”

  Despite the pinkness in her face, Megan smiled. “I could get behind that plan,” she said, shaking her shoulders to try to loosen her mood.

  “All right! So, what time are you working to tonight?”

  Megan walked over to her desk and flicked open the calendar on her PC. “Um, last client will be gone at eight thirty.”

  “Cool. So, come straight to the bar after work, yes?”

  “I’ll try. The boss has been after me to fill in some paperwork I keep forgetting. If I can avoid her, I’ll be with you by nine.”

  “Which boss? The BDSM high-heels boss, or the other one?”

  Megan chuckled. “The BDSM one.”

  Jen whistled. “Hmm, one day you are going to have to introduce me to her. You know that, right? It’s what best friends are for, you know.”

  Megan laughed, and realised her glum mood of earlier had departed. Funny how that often happened when she talked to Jen.

  “We’ll see,” she said. “Anyway, got to go. See you tonight.”

  “Cool. Laters.”

  Jen hung up, and Megan tucked her phone into her pocket before going on the hunt for her favourite sneakers. She remembered kicking them off as she came home but not really watching where they landed. She stepped over the pile of dirty towels thrown in the corner of the bedroom—she had to remember to wash them at the weekend—and through into the living room.

  Shifting a pile of books and newspapers from beside the sofa she stepped around the furniture and found the sneakers lying haphazardly in the middle of the rug, an empty coffee mug and the scrunched-up wrapper of a protein bar beside them. Picking the litter and mug up and mentally noting that some housework might be in order at the weekend too, she deposited them in the kitchen, then pulled on her sneakers and packed her bag for the day. She had a full day of private clients rather than classes, and time in between appointments to get a decent workout in for herself, so she crammed her gear into her bag and headed to the door with a spring in her step.

  The health club was busy when she walked in. Tuesdays always were, she’d noticed. Most people couldn’t be bothered on a Monday, when they were all mellow or knackered from their weekends, but the guilt of weekend over-indulgence set in on Tuesday and the hordes appeared. The spin class was crammed, and she could hear Jason bellowing out his commands as he pushed everyone that little bit harder than they wanted to go. The circuit class was also in full swing, and she paused for a moment to admire Kimberly at work. Completely unattainable Kimberly, but she was still worth a look. Kimberly caught her watching and waved, which sent an instant flush across Megan’s cheeks. That Kimberly knew of Megan’s crush really didn’t help matters. Still, at least she was cool about it, which a lot of straight women wouldn’t be.

  Megan walked to the changing room and threw her stuff in a locker. She had two client sessions over the traditional office lunch break time of twelve to two, then she’d be able to get her own body in action. She grabbed her brush and ran it though her long locks, then swept them back and up into a ponytail. She’d flirted occasionally with the idea of cutting it all off given how many times a week she got sweaty and had to wash it. But she’d always shied away from that big decision—she had enough comments about her ‘manly shape’ without adding short hair to the mix. She smiled as she remembered the look of fear on her mother’s face when Megan had finally plucked up courage to come out to her.

  “Does…does that mean you’re going to cut your hair off and be one of those…butches?” her mum had asked, a tremor in her voice.

  “Mum, butch isn’t just about the haircut,” she said gently. “But no, I’m not going to cut my hair off.”

  Her mum had sighed with relief, and that was that—Megan was out and her mum was happy.

  As she departed the changing room, she heard heels clicking down the corridor behind her and sighed inwardly. That could only be Alisha. The BDSM high-heels boss, as Jen had dubbed her, all based on the initial description Megan had given her when she first started working at the club. Tall, slim, big-breasted, and always decked out in a tight skirt, tight blouse, and high heels—while she wasn’t actually Megan’s type, Alisha still gave Megan’s stomach a little flutter every time they spoke. She had a sensuality about her that was hard to ignore.

  “Megan,” she called, her velvety voice just audible over the piped bass-heavy music.

  Megan turned to face her. “Hi, Alisha.”

  Alisha smiled, her full lips glistening with a plum-coloured lipstick that looked fantastic against her brown skin. Megan blinked rapidly to pull her gaze from that inviting mouth.

  “I still need those feedback forms you promised me,” Alisha said.

  The hint of admonishment in her tone made Megan squirm, as if she were a teenager being told off by the headmistress. You wish, pervert.

  “Yeah, sorry. Um, if I promise to get them to you first thing, will that be okay? Only I’ve got a thing to get to this evening and—”

  “First thing?”

  Megan swallowed. “Definitely.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Don’t let me down.” Alisha’s grin was almost feral, and Megan’s body made it very clear it liked it—the heat that travelled through her limbs to a specific point between her legs was intense. She shuffled her feet to ease the sudden ache between her thighs. Was it her, or was it suddenly very hot in the corridor?

  “Never,” she squeaked, and pivoted on her heels before trotting down the corridor to the main workout room. Clients. Time to focus on clients.

  Chapter 6

  Lena glared at her half-blue door as she reached the top of the communal stairs. Although Megan had profusely apologised on Sunday—when Lena had finally consented to open the door to Megan’s repeated knocking—the mere sight of the re-damaged door made her heart sink. As for the ruined patch of carpet in front of it…

  She used to love living in this building and in her flat in particular. Now, with Chris gone, the issue of the cats still unresolved, and her great bumbling bear of a neighbour, life at 7 Jackson Road had lost its appeal. At the same time, she didn’t want to move. Moving involved change, and Lena struggled so hard with change.

  She let herself into the flat, trying not to look at the door again, and hung up her coat on the hook on the back of it. As she turned back to the stairs, she noticed the damp patch again. It had rained pretty heavily the night before and all morning, and they were forecasting a series of storms over the next week or so. She looked at her watch: seven p.m. Way too late to be bothering Dorothy for her ladder. Maybe she could do it on Saturday morning, before Dorothy headed off to church organ practice.

  She sighed. Dealing with Dorothy since the blue-door incident hadn’t been easy either. After Lena’s animalistic scream of pure frustration at what Megan had done—a sound Lena would never have imagined she was capable of making—Dorothy had marched up the communal stairs and demanded to know what in the Lord’s name was going on these days. Through the tears that she was trying valiantly to hold back, Lena had briefly explained, pointed to the door, and exhaled gratefully when all Dorothy did was huff and stomp back down the stairs. But on Monday Dorothy had ignored Lena’s “good morning” when they met in the hallway as Lena left for work, and that level of impoliteness wasn’t Dorothy’s style at all. Too tired to deal with it, Lena had merely left the house without another word and tried very hard to put all thoughts of home out of her head as she’d trotted off to work.

>   The trouble was, she mused, as she side-stepped the damp patch and met the cats at the top of her winding staircase, that her home was her sanctuary. She didn’t want to put thoughts of it out of her head. Coming home to it every night, especially since she’d got the place back to herself, and immediately immersing herself into her evening routine of dinner, cleaning, reading, and sleeping, kept her steady.

  Kept her from acknowledging that she was lonely.

  She looked down at Midnight and Snow, who sat at her feet, their big eyes staring up at her. Somehow, today, they didn’t look scary. Just…cute. She bent down and gave each of them a few quick strokes on their cheeks, smiling involuntarily at the purrs her touches elicited. She’d rung Chris earlier that day and left a voicemail demanding she come and get the cats or Lena was going to ship them off to Battersea Dogs and Cats Home.

  “I wouldn’t really do it,” she whispered to the felines, who gave her blank gazes. “Just so you know. You’re a pain for me, but it’s not your fault.”

  Suddenly realising she was talking to two cats, Lena straightened and shook her head. She needed to escape into one of her books, something that would take her far away from her reality.

  She finished climbing the stairs and headed for the kitchen to, first, wash her hands, and second, feed the cats. And third, wash her hands again. When she’d done that, she made her way through her spotless and tidy living room to her equally clean and tidy bedroom. Not an item was out of place in the top floor flat at 7 Jackson Road. Even the books on the two large bookcases were aligned so that their spines were perfectly straight. And alphabetised by author, obviously. The sofa had its cushions plumped every day before being covered with the dust sheet that prevented cat hair from smothering the sofa itself. The two cat beds were cleaned with a handheld vacuum cleaner every evening, and every photo or memento on the large windowsill was dusted twice a week. In the bedroom, no clothes were left lying around, everything either hung up, put away, or in the laundry basket. The bed was re-made, hotel style, every morning before she left for work, and the en-suite shower was wiped down immediately after her morning ablutions.