Chapter 4
Present Day
’You work where? In a bookies?’
‘In a bookshop.’ Even as she yelled the words above the blaring music, Lola wondered why she was bothering. ‘Kingsley’s. I’m the manager of the Regent Street branch!
‘God, rather you than me. Books are boring:The boy winked and leered over the rim of his beer glass at Lola, evidently convinced of his own irresistibility. He had super-gelled hair and a knowing grin. Having subjected her to a slow, appreciative once-over he said, ‘Nah, you’re having me on. You don’t look like the manager of a bookshop.’
What she could have said in reply to this was, ‘Well, you don’t look like a dickhead, but you clearly are one.’
‘Well, I am,’ Lola said patiently. ‘I promise.’
‘You should be wearing granny glasses and, like, a scuzzy old cardigan or something. And no make-up.’
Lola knew what she should be doing; she should be punching the stupid smirk off his face.
Aloud she said, ‘I’m guessing you don’t go into many bookshops.’
‘Me? No way.’ Proudly the boy said, ‘Can’t stand reading, waste of time. Hey, fancy a drink?’
‘No thanks. Can’t stand drinking, waste of time.’
He looked shocked. ‘Really?’
‘Not really. But drinking with you would be a huge waste of time.’ Lola excused herself and made her way over to the bar where Gabe, whose leaving party it was, was chatting to a group of friends from work.
‘Gabe? I’m going to head home.’
He turned, horrified. ‘No! It’s only nine o’clock.’
‘I know. I just feel like an early night.’
‘An early what? Hang on, where’s the real Lola?’ Gabe inspected her face closely. ‘Tell me what you’ve done with her.’
Lola grinned, because she was as mystified as he was; she absolutely wasn’t the early night type.
Parties were normally her favourite thing.
‘I know it’s weird. Maybe I’m going down with something. Anyway, you have a great time.’
Reaching up and giving Gabe a hug she said, ‘I’ll knock on your door with tea and Panadol in the morning.’
He looked even more alarmed. ‘Make it tomorrow evening and I might be awake.’
Lola left the bar, shivering as a splatter of icy rain slapped her in the face. If it was raining, the chances of managing to flag down a cab were slim to nil so she set off in the direction of the tube, tugging her cropped velvet jacket around her in an attempt to huddle up against the cold and click-clacking along the pavement in her pink sparkly heels.
It wasn’t as if it was Gabe’s only leaving party; this was just a motley collection of people from the offices where he worked as a chartered surveyor. Had worked there, anyway, for the past four years, although as from today he was out of a job and ready for the adventure of a lifetime in Australia.
Lola made her way down the street, pleased for Gabe but aware of how much she would miss him. When she’d moved back to London seven years ago with the unexpected windfall from the sale of Alex’s business burning a hole in her bank account, she had fallen in love with the third flat she’d visited.
She’d felt a bit like Goldilocks on that eventful day. The first flat, in Camden, had been too small. The second, in Islington, had been larger but too dark and gloomy and had smelled of mushrooms.
Happily, the third had been just right. In fact it had exceeded Lola’s wildest dreams. Radley Road was a pretty street in Notting Hill where the houses were multicoloured — like Balamory!
Yes! — and number 73 was azure blue and white. On the second floor was Flat 73B, a spacious one-bed apartment with a view from the living room over the street below and windows big enough to let the sun stream in. The kitchen and the bathroom were both tiny but clean. The moment Lola had stood in that flat she’d known she had to have it. It was calling her name.
Never one to take her time and ask sensible probing questions, she had swung round to the estate agent with tears of joy in her eyes, clasped her hands to her chest and exclaimed, ‘It’s perfect. I want to buy it! This is The One!’
Whereas what she should have said was, ‘Haim, not too bad I suppose. What are the neighbours like?’
But she hadn’t, thereby allowing the super-smooth estate agent to send up a silent prayer of thanks for hopelessly impulsive property buyers everywhere and say jovially, ‘That’s what I like to see, a girl who knows her own mind!’
And Lola, who now knew just how gullible she’d been, had beamed and taken it as a compliment.
But neighbours were an important factor to be taken into consideration, as she had duly discovered on the day she’d moved into Flat 73B. Sharing the second floor, directly across the landing from her, was Flat 73C. Ringing the doorbell that afternoon in order to introduce herself, Lola had been filled with goodwill and happy anticipation.
It had come as something of a shock when the door had been yanked open and a scrawny old man in his eighties had appeared, filled with malevolence and bile.
‘What d’you want? You woke me up.’
Lola exclaimed, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I just came to say hello. I’m Lola Malone, your new neighbour!’
‘And?’
‘Um, well, I just moved in across the hall. This afternoon!’ The man eyed her with naked dislike.
‘So I heard, all that bloody racket you made getting your stuff upstairs.’
‘But—’
Too late. He’d already slammed the door in her face.
His name was Eric, Lola later discovered, and while he wouldn’t put up with any noise from her, he wasn’t averse to making plenty himself. He played the trumpet, quite astonishingly badly, at any hour of the day or night. He liked his TV to be on at full blast, possibly so he could carry on listening to it while he was playing his trumpet. He also cooked tripe at least three times a week and the smell permeated Lola’s flat like ... well actually, quite a lot like boiled cow’s stomach.
Oh yes, she’d gone and got herself a living, breathing nightmare of a neighbour. Too late, Lola realised why the estate agent, upon handing over the key on completion, had given her that cheery wink and said, ‘Good kick!’
Having respect for one’s elders was all very well, but Eric was a filthy-tempered, cantankerous old stoat who’d done everything in his power to make her life a misery.
After two years of this, Eric had died and Lola was just relieved he’d been out at his day centre when it happened; as her coworkers at Kingsley’s had pointed out, if he’d been found dead in his flat, everyone would have suspected her of bumping him off.
But the reign of Eric was over now, the flat had been cleaned up and put on the market, and Lola crossed her fingers, hoping for better luck this time.
And it had worked. She’d got gorgeous Gabe — hooray! — and like magic the quality of her home life had improved out of all recognition, because he was the best neighbour any girl could ask for.
Better still, she hadn’t fancied him one bit.
Gabriel Adams, with his floppy blond hair and lean slouchy body, had been twenty-nine when he’d moved into the flat across the landing from her. And this time he had been the one who’d knocked on Lola’s door to invite her over for a drink on his roof terrace.
Which meant she liked him already.
‘I never even knew there was a roof terrace.’ Lola marvelled at the view from the back of the house; it was like discovering a tropical island complete with hula girls in your dusty old broom cupboard.
‘It’s a suntrap.’ Gabe grinned at her. ‘I think I’m going to like it here. Does this T-shirt make me look gay?’
Since it was a vibrant shade of lilac, clearly expensive and quite tight-fitting, Lola said, ‘Well, a bit.’
‘I know, it’s too much. I’m super-tidy and a great cook. I can’t wear this as well.’ Pulling off the T-shirt to reveal an enviably tanned torso, Gabe held it towards her. ‘Do you want it or shall I chuck it away?’