‘Bye then. We’ll talk later, all right?’ Jarvis called through the bathroom door, his voice overflowing with exasperation.
‘Oh kweee,’ mumbled Regan. It was the best she could do with a mouthful of toothbrush and one leg in her pants.
She heard the front door bang shut and relaxed a little. It was like living with her dad rather than her boyfriend. She surveyed the bathroom floor, strewn with an assortment of her clothes, a couple of towels and the oozing toothpaste tube. She’d just have to make sure she was home before Jarvis. She couldn’t stand another lecture on her slovenly ways, but she didn’t have time to sort it out now.
A few minutes later she was hurtling across Brighton in her battered Fiesta shouting obscenities at anyone in her way, which was essentially everyone. A quick check in the rear-view mirror reminded her that she hadn’t brushed her hair – she resembled a one-colour version of Cruella De Vil.
There was nowhere to park at Cleo’s studio, as usual, so she abandoned the car in the middle of the road and sprinted up to the door. She banged hard until Cleo appeared. ‘Come in. I’ve been calling you,’ said Cleo, kissing her lightly on the cheek.
Regan frisked herself as she stepped inside. ‘Shit. I forgot my mobile. Sorry, Cleo.’
Cleo gave her a forgiving look. ‘It’s fine. I told you an hour earlier than I needed anyway because I knew you’d be late.’
Regan was going to protest, but a quick glance at where her watch should be, followed by a squint at the clock on the studio wall, told her Cleo was absolutely right to have done this. ‘Sneaky – but good call.’
Regan was notorious for being late. She tried not to be, but she had long ago resigned herself to the fact that timekeeping simply wasn’t one of her talents.
‘What have you done to your nose?’ asked Cleo, peering at Regan.
Regan’s hand automatically shot to her face. ‘Carpet burn. Still need to hurry you up because the car is blocking the road.’
Cleo raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting. Let me just do one last check and we can go.’ Cleo swept away. She was dressed elegantly in clothes that adored being shown off on her willowy frame. Even the way she walked was sophisticated. She was the fashion opposite to Regan, who often looked like her wardrobe had vomited on her.
Regan stopped slouching. ‘Why did you want picking up from here and not your place?’ Cleo was an artist with a swish flat in Hove but this was her studio in Brighton, where she worked.
‘I stayed at The Downs Hotel last night. There was an exhibition at the racecourse, but I didn’t expect you to remember all that so the studio seemed easiest.’ Regan pursed her lips, but she wasn’t offended. Cleo was right; she wouldn’t even have remembered to come to the studio if Jarvis hadn’t said. ‘And anyway I’ve let out my flat. Daddy suggested it as I’m away for two months. It made financial sense.’
‘Of course,’ said Regan. Nothing made financial sense to her. Finance meant numbers, and she wasn’t good with numbers. Which explained the credit card juggling act she had to do at the end of each month. Although, thanks to Jarvis and his austerity measures, this was now more under control.
Regan scanned the small studio. It was filled with canvases: some blank, some finished and a couple somewhere in between. There was a high-arched window, which filled the space with light. It seemed to fall like a spotlight on Cleo’s latest work. Regan peered at the large brown mass in the picture, tilting her head at an uncomfortable angle. ‘I don’t know what you find so fascinating about—’
‘We’ve no time for any of that,’ said Cleo, pulling her Louis Vuitton case as if she too were on wheels and she shooed Regan backwards out of the studio. Cleo’s art baffled Regan; she wasn’t an arty sort. The two of them had met when Cleo had taken a part-time job as a waitress to impress her rich father with her work ethic. Regan had been working there with no other ambition than not to get fired before payday. They were an unlikely pairing, but curiosity on both sides had brought them together – that and a mutual love of coffee and tequila shots.
After she’d set an alarm and checked the door, Cleo poured herself gracefully into Regan’s car. ‘Got everything?’ asked Regan.
‘Because I’m the one who forgets things,’ said Cleo, playfully arching a perfect eyebrow. ‘Here,’ she said, handing Regan her keys. ‘Alarm code fourteen fifty-two. The year Leonardo da Vinci was born.’
‘Why do I need to know that?’ Regan was instantly uncomfortable with the responsibility.
‘Because there’s an issue with the boiler and the landlord is sending a workman over …’ Cleo was speaking slowly as if Regan was remedial.
‘And you need me to be here tomorrow to let him in. I hadn’t forgotten,’ she lied. She tried to repeat the number silently in her head so she’d remember it. She wished she hadn’t forgotten her phone – putting a reminder on there would have been useful.
‘I’ll send you a text,’ said Cleo, pulling out her mobile. She gave her friend an indulgent smile.
Regan noticed Cleo twang the hair bobble on her wrist. She kept it there to help with stressful situations. ‘You okay?’
‘Not looking forward to the flight … or being away for so long.’
Regan set off; she was now far more relaxed knowing she had a little time to spare and she also stood half a chance of not being late into work. ‘Remind me again where you’re off to this time?’
‘Dubai, Hong Kong, Japan and Taiwan,’ said Cleo, without a hint of any enthusiasm.
‘Wowsers.’ Regan had always wanted to travel. The furthest she’d strayed in recent years was the Isle of Wight – Jarvis’s favourite holiday destination. She couldn’t complain, because he usually paid the lion’s share due to her cash flow issues. ‘You’ll have the best time. Post loads on social media so I can live vicariously.’ She didn’t really need to ask because Cleo lived her life on whatever social media platforms were the hottest. Her timeline was filled with photographs of beautiful people in amazing places, and she had a gazillion followers on Instagram. Whereas, Regan had eighty-four, and an alarming number of those claimed to be single males very high up in the American armed services, which everyone knew was code for fraudster.
Cleo raised a perfect eyebrow. ‘It is work. It’s not a holiday.’
‘Still,’ said Regan, braking hard for a bus that pulled out at the same time as it indicated. ‘It’ll be five-star hotels, cocktails, à la carte dining and comfy beds all the way.’ She gave a small sigh. She wouldn’t have to think very hard before trading places with Cleo.
‘How’s your job?’
‘Still duller than a black-and-white party political broadcast. But like Jarvis says, it’s secure and it pays the bills.’ There must be more to life than that, thought Regan.
‘You should try staring at a blank canvas for hours. That’s dull too.’
‘I guess.’ Regan knew Cleo was just trying to make her feel better. As an artist, Cleo’s life was two extremes: she spent a large part of her time alone in the studio painting, but then she also travelled the world to attend exclusive exhibitions of her work, as well as being invited to all the trendy star-studded parties because she was very much part of the art scene glitterati. Regan loved hearing all about Cleo’s glamorous life, even if it made hers look crappier by comparison.
They pulled into the airport shuttle drop off zone and Regan hopped out to get Cleo’s case from the boot. ‘Have an amazing time …’ said Regan, and she could see Cleo was about to interrupt her, ‘… at work. But remember to have fun too. Love you.’
‘And you,’ said Cleo, kissing her cheek and giving her a tight hug that went on a fraction longer than usual.
Regan held her at arm’s length.