Chapter 33
33
Saturday 25 June
4:15 p.m.
Hurrah! I’m finally free of La Linda.
With Jason scheduled to move in with me in a few days, things were coming to a head. Linda’s refusal to budge was becoming tiresome, but as I was still unable to directly confront her, I decided to outsource the dirty work to Jason again.
He came over this afternoon when Linda was at her worst: belligerent, drinking, and watching
Saw IV
(see why I had to get rid of her?). I opened the door and nodded grimly at him, because he was about to face the beast when she was not wearing her civilized mask. But Jason was happily made of sterner stuff. He strode over to the TV and turned it off, before snatching the bottle of wine she’d been necking from her. And placing it in front of his crotch. Smart move.
She barked some obscenity at him.
“Pull yourself together, Linda,” he said. “Is this appropriate behavior for someone your age? What are you, too chicken to deal with the reality of living alone and so weak that you have to get drunk in order to get over a flaccid lump of a man?”
Linda got to her feet and gave him a hard slap. Which, to his credit, he took without shrinking (she’s a tall woman and a boot-camp workout fanatic).
“Asshole,” she said, before she launched herself at him.
And then they were making the most hideous sounds in my spare room for, like, four hours. I know because I left the house to
seek refuge in a café and came back to a cacophony of noises I would expect from a gorilla enclosure at the zoo.
And now it was raining elephants outside on a dead-end Sunday. But not enough to drown them out. I speed-dialed Eric.
I quickly filled him in on my desperate situation. “Please, there are a bunch of animals in my house doing bad things to each other and I need to get out of here pronto. Take me to your next activity. I’ll indoor ski, learn how to make pasta from scratch, watch a documentary on Christian Scientists, whatever. Just please get me out of here!”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
He came over and picked me up. I was surprised when we drove up in front of his house on Jervois Hill, which I hadn’t been to since we first met at the Sexless Book Club. For some reason my heart was pounding and my palms were sweaty, not least because there was a very real chance that he was going to suggest we go bowling in his very own home bowling alley, which I suspect he has tucked away somewhere in that mansion of his. I mean, we had done just about everything else.
He dropped me at the front door and I waited for him to park in the underground garage, sweating. He opened the front door, I entered, and we stood awkwardly in the hallway, unsure of where to go next. Especially me. Because you know, his house had
wings.
He cleared his throat. “I have this really nice collection of Japanese whisky, so we can spend the evening whisky-tasting,” he said. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you watch any documentaries.”
“Great,” I said, flushing. Here’s the thing about Eric: he wasn’t joking when he said that. He really was
just
explaining.
“Oh, and Rashidah’s away, so . . .” He shrugged, looking a little flustered. “We don’t need to, ah, worry about being sociable, you know.”
“Well,” I said. “I think I might need a break from drinking . . . and I really just want to be with you, alone,” I added with
meaning before he could suggest bowling, chess, foosball, or worse, Catan.
“Follow me,” he said in a low voice.
“Oh, I’ll definitely need to, or I might get lost,” I replied, trying to be flippant even though I was perspiring in anticipation, my standard move.
He led me up a stairwell and into his bedroom.
3:10 a.m.
Dear God. The man has
stamina.