Chapter Three
I arrive at the subway puffing and sweating, and decide to call Gloria, right away. I slide down the wall outside to sit on the ground. Partly for the cooling effect of the tiles against my back, and partly so that I can put my shoes on as I speak to her. I can imagine what a sight I must be—soaking wet hair, sweat covered face, braless, and barefoot. Nice.
The phone barely rings before Gloria is on the line.
“London? Are you okay? I was about to call the police after I couldn’t reach you.” The concern in her voice is obvious.
“Yeah. I’m okay, thanks. Sorry I didn’t pick up before. I’ve only just left there now.”
“Well then you have a lot of explaining to do, young lady. A lot. What the hell has been going on over there?” Now she knows I’m safe, the concern is quickly replaced with anger.
“Umm… it’s pretty embarrassing really, but I guess you got most of it from what he said.”
“I suppose so, but I need to hear it from you also.”
This has been without a doubt the most humiliating day of my life, and it seems it’s not over yet.
I sigh. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to rehash it all, but feared she would want me to. After the mess I’ve gotten her into, the least I can do is explain myself, so I take a deep breath and confess all.
“Umm… in a nutshell, I got there today, and found an army of spiders on the ceiling. Literally my worst nightmare, but obviously I couldn’t leave them there, so I got the bug spray and a ladder from the storeroom, and I sprayed the hell out of them. In a way my plan worked too well, because then they started falling down on me, and I had a complete meltdown.”
Each time I tell it to someone else, I realize how dumb it sounds.
“All I could think was that I needed to shower and get them out of my hair and clothes, and off my skin. Just talking about it is creeping me out right now. If my arachnophobia was bad before, it’s through the roof now. I went down to the bathroom in the basement and almost gave myself third-degree burns in the shower.”
“London!”
“I know, I know, and I’m sorry. It seems so crazy now, but I guess I wasn’t thinking straight at the time. I thought I was alone, like every other day, and I was totally going to clean up after myself when I was done. That’s when the homeowner walked in, and as you heard, he wasn’t pleased to see me in his shower. Then no matter what I said to explain, he wouldn’t believe that I wasn’t some kind of crazy stalker fan, or something.
“Is that house really his? It’s so massive and immaculate, like something out of a design magazine. I always felt like I was sullying it, even though I was cleaning! I also thought that the owner was an aging music mogul, not some young and ridiculously famous rock star. Why didn’t you tell me he’s not much older than me?”
I know I’m babbling, but I’m trying to avoid getting to the punchline of the story. Gloria is going to kill me.
“You know me—I don’t know Kim Kardashian from a hole in the wall, let alone anyone else. Besides, it’s not important who owns the place. All you needed to do is go in there, clean, and leave, not cavort about naked in the shower. That could have turned so ugly. What if he hurt you, or called the police?”
“Well he didn’t,” I spit out, a little too quickly, and loudly.
“That’s a relief, but there’s also my reputation to think of,” she chastises. “You know that I’m building up a base of higher-end clients. The last thing I want is word getting around that our staff are unprofessional or untrustworthy. Apart from being dangerous, it was also very selfish. I’m extremely disappointed. I expect better from any of my staff, but from you of all people, it’s an extra kick in the guts.”
She sighs, and I physically deflate under the weight of her disappointment. She’s right though, of course. I behaved stupidly and irresponsibly.
“We’re not out of the woods yet, either,” she continues.
“I’m going to have to call Mr. Jones to try and smooth things over.”
It’s weird to me to hear someone close to my own age being referred to so reverentially—especially when they’re a total dick. He doesn’t deserve to have Gloria suck up to him, and I regret that I’ve put her in a position where she needs to. I really hate that I’ve done something that could jeopardize her business that she’s worked so hard to build. Even worse, she’s been kind enough to give me work, to help me fulfill my dream, and this is how I repay her. Not my finest hour, on all fronts.
“Maybe I should be the one to call him, and apologize?” I offer up, hoping she’ll decline. I don’t want to see or speak to him again, if I can help it, but it would be the least I could do if it would help fix the damage I’ve done, and repair Gloria’s reputation. “Absolutely not. Let me handle this. I’m sure you’re the last person he wants to hear from.” She’s got a point.
“Yeah, of course. I’m so sorry. I hope it works out okay with um… Mr. Jones, I really do. If there’s anything I can do or say to fix it, just ask, and I’m there. I’m sorry, I know I can’t work at the house anymore, so I’ll see if I can pick up some extra shifts at the restaurant instead. I hope it doesn’t screw you over too much to find a replacement.”
Gloria sighs, softening already.
“Look, don’t do anything about extra shifts yet. I’ll jiggle some things around and see if I can give you something else with me.”
“Thanks, Gloria. I appreciate that, but I’ll totally understand if it’s not possible. I’ve only got myself to blame, and I don’t deserve any extra favors from you. I’ve got to go. I’m at the train, and I’m running hideously late for my shift at the restaurant, plus I still need to go home to change, and I don’t want to get sacked twice in one day!”
I hang up and quickly call Murray. As predicted, he’s not exactly ecstatic I’m leaving him in the lurch for a couple of hours, at such late notice, but as I’m normally his most reliable staff member—aka his bitch—he takes it pretty well. Plus, I spin him a yarn about a specialist appointment running over time, out of my control, yadda, yadda, yadda, so there’s not much he can say.
I’m pretty distracted as I make my way home—everything seems to be a blur as I mull over the events of the morning. The shower. Looking up into those eyes. My outrageous physical reaction to Arlo. How turned on I was when we kissed. The fact that I kissed him at all. The taste of him on my lips. The feel of his hands around my waist and behind my neck.
After everything that happened with Danny, I haven’t been ready to get back into that side of things with anyone. In fact, I told myself that I wasn’t even going to try. My heart still very much belongs to Danny. At least it did. Now I’m not so sure. I feel like I cheated on him, even though he’s not here to be cheated on. I guess I cheated on his memory, though, if that’s even a thing.
Not only have I not been ready to move on from my feelings for Danny, but I also promised myself I’d focus on work, and nothing else. Right now, it’s more important than ever for me to concentrate on building my career. If I’m going to make it as a photographer, I need to keep my head down to save enough money to get my studio. It’s the only way I’m going to get more experience and build my client base.
Given all of that, my emotions are shot following what went down with Arlo Jones. I don’t know what to think about any of it. The way I felt at the time. The way I now feel. Despite my earlier anger at Arlo’s comment, and his forcefulness when I tried to pull back, as I think about how it all played out, I find myself aroused again. I don’t understand how I can be feeling this way after such a brief, and not always pleasant encounter.
I put my key in the lock, and before the door is fully open, I’m in tears. I can’t hold back. I’m just completely overwhelmed and exhausted by the thoughts and feelings I’m dealing with right now, and by the events at Rosemond House—from the spiders to my run in with Arlo. It’s been one hell of a day already, and it’s barely even midday, plus I have a shift at the restaurant to get through before I can really take some time to process it all. Once the floodgates open, the tears fall quickly and heavily. No ladylike little sobs or crocodile tears, over here. This is big, ugly blubbering of the worst kind. I never was a pretty crier. I make my way into the living room to get my shit together.
I notice too late that Marko is home. Damn it. I thought he’d be at rehearsal—he definitely should be. He crosses the room in a few graceful paces, and before I know it, has me gathered in his warm, protective embrace.
“Hey, hey, what’s all this? Shhh, shhh. What’s happened to get you this upset?” He’s rubbing my back with one hand and smoothing my hair with the other. God, I love this man; he’s always there for me, no matter what.
“C’mon, sit down and tell me all about it. Who do I need to kill?” He’d do it in a heartbeat, too, no doubt.
He gently pushes me down onto the couch, kneels in front me, his hands grasping mine, and looks searchingly into my eyes.
“I’m sorry, I thought you had rehearsal,” I say, sniffing loudly, and wiping my nose on the back of my hand. Nice. I’m nothing if not all class.
“I did, but Chantal has a torn her rotator cuff, so it was canceled. I could have done some practice by myself, but instead of hanging around there like a spare dick at a wedding, I decided to come back here and get some shit done. I wasn’t expecting you to be here either. It’s a good thing I wasn’t prancing around naked.”
He flashes me a quick grin as he says this; his sense of humor, as ever, is switched on. I snort with laughter. We’ve seen each other naked and in various compromising positions more times than some married couples, so that’s not a concern. Plus, he might be a ballet dancer, but Marko never prances. Like, ever. He’s alpha as fuck, and I love him for it. Case in point, he doesn’t even know what’s wrong yet, and already he’s threatening to kill the culprit, and doing his best to lighten my somber mood.
“Anyway, enough about me,” he continues. “What’s going on with you?”
“Ugh. I fucked up. Epically.”
I sink my face into my hands in despair, but he won’t let me hide. He peels my fingers back, dipping his head so that his eyes are level with mine.
“Well spill then. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s up. Besides, I’m dying of curiosity, so you’d better put me out of my misery, pronto.”
He gives me his fullest grin, displaying his supercute dimple, and snaps his fingers. I slap him on the arm, trying not to smile, but I can’t deny that he’s already made me feel a little better.
“Stop it, this is no time for jokes. You don’t even know what’s happened, it could be a life or death situation.”
“I know you better than that, babe. If it was life or death you’d have said so by now, so don’t get testy with me.” He winks mischievously.
He’s got me there. He and our other bestie, Nic, know me better than just about anyone.
“So start talking.”
I quickly recount the morning’s events, not revealing Arlo’s name until the last moment. At which point I think that Marko is going to choke on his own tongue, or at the very least, on the mouthful of water he’s chugging down just as I drop the bombshell. The look of shock and horror on his face is utterly priceless.
“Wait, so you’re telling me that you accidentally exposed yourself to Arlo Jones?”
I nod.
“Arlo Jones of the Heartless Few. That Arlo Jones?”
“The very same.”
“Although you didn’t know who he was at the time?” He’s smirking, trying to hold back his laughter.
“Correct.” I nod sagely, not seeing the funny side of the situation at all.
“Then once you knew who he was, you kissed him?” His eyes grow wider with incredulity with every question.
“Well no, he kissed me. But yes, I did kiss him back.”
“And then when he offered to bend you over the counter and do you from behind, you slapped him in the face and fled. Am I missing anything?”
Ugh. It sounds worse now than it seemed at the time.
“Nope, I think you’ve pretty much got all the salient points covered. Apart from the part where I got caught ogling his package in the elevator while dressed like a contestant in a holiday park wet T-shirt contest.”
I can’t keep the sarcasm from my voice.
“Okay, but why do I get the impression that you’re not telling me everything, princess? He didn’t hurt you, did he? Because if he did, he’s as good as dead, right now.”
The humor that was in his voice only moments ago has been replaced by a much more chilling tone.
“What? No! It’s nothing like that.”
“What is it, then? A few minutes ago you were crying like a baby. If that’s all there was to the story, I don’t think you’d be quite so upset. Angry, possibly. Embarrassed, definitely. But upset, no. That’s not your style. So what aren’t you telling me? Are you into him?” Damn, he’s good!
“Well, of course I’m into him. I’m hardly in the habit of sucking face with men I have no interest in, now am I?”
I shouldn’t take my frustrations out on him, but I can’t help it.
“Don’t play the smartass with me. In point of fact, you’re not in the habit of sucking face with anyone these days. Period. Not since Danny....” Realization dawns on his face. “Oh. Right.”
“Right,” I echo. “I actually didn’t like him at all, initially. He’s the total opposite of Danny—arrogant, and rude, and domineering. But somehow, despite all that, I….” I let my voice trail off, certain that Marko can fill in the blanks for himself.
“Oh, sweets….”
“It’s not that big of a deal. I was attracted to him. That doesn’t mean shit.”
I try for the bright and breezy approach, but am not very convincing, even to my own ears.
“Come on, dude. Of course it’s a big deal. How long have Nic and I been saying that you should get back out there and start dating or something again? And this whole time, you’ve flat out refused to even consider the idea, although we all know it’s what Danny would want. He loved you so much, and he definitely wouldn’t have expected you to put your life on hold for him forever.”
“I know. I know. You know I know that, but it still hurts. Sometimes it hurts like it was yesterday. I still miss him every fucking day. Some mornings in those tiny moments between sleep and waking, I momentarily forget that it happened at all, and I find myself reaching for his side of the bed. It’s only when my hand meets with cold, empty sheets that it all comes flooding back. It’s like I’m back in that hospital bed, just out of the coma, and they’re telling me all over again that Danny didn’t make it.
“When I was kissing this guy, even though I was into it, I mean really fucking into it, at the same time I started to feel like I was dancing all over Danny’s grave. I’m a terrible person.”
Marko has moved from kneeling in front of me to sitting on the couch next to me. He slips his arms around me, and draws me to him. He gives the best hugs.
“You’re not terrible, you’re human. You’re human and you’re alive. You have needs. Danny’s not coming back, and as shit as that is, nothing’s going change that fact. You’re still here and you’ve got to live your life, especially because he’s not here to live his. You can’t beat yourself up about that forever. Nor can you continue to lock yourself away in your ivory tower.
“Clearly this isn’t just a casual hook up to get you back in the game. You obviously felt something quite significant for this guy, or you wouldn’t be reacting this way now. The bad news is he’s a man-whore on a global scale. He’s been linked to every supermodel and sexy starlet between here and the moon.”
“Ugh.” I sigh grumpily. “How do you know this stuff? I knew nothing about him until I googled him on the subway ride home.” I eye Marko suspiciously.
“I work almost exclusively with women. Of course I know this shit.” He grins ruefully.
“I’m a woman, and I was clueless,” I remind him.
“I know, but you’re not the gossip-rag-reading, or Instagram-stalking type.”
He’s got a point—I like to think I have better things to do with myself than worry about what celebrities are eating for breakfast. We’re both lost in our thoughts for a moment. Marko breaks the silence.
“He behaved like a pig.” His tone is serious now.
“I know,” I agree. Of course I do. I tuck my legs up tighter under myself and sink deeper into the couch.
“He was so rude to you,” he presses on.
“I was there, Marko. I know what happened.” There I go again, using him as my punching bag. It’s a good thing he loves me as much as I love him.
“When you do something, you do it big, hey baby girl? Arlo Jones, of all people. What are you going to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’ve flashed, kissed, and then assaulted one of the hottest and most down-to-fuck rock stars in the world, who also happens to be your boss—”
“Ex-boss,” I interrupt.
“—ex-boss. You need a fucking plan if you’re going to come out of this unscathed.”
“Well that’s where you’re wrong. I don’t need a plan. You’ve listed all the reasons why I can hardly just rock up back there tomorrow—or ever—as though nothing happened. I spoke to Gloria on the way home. She’s going to roster someone else to clean his place, and I’ll never have to see or think about him again. Problem solved.”
***
I increase my shifts at the restaurant, pretending that Showergate never happened. It’s exhausting. Sometimes I do back-to-back shifts, to make up my hours. As well as replacing the lost income from the cleaning job, the extra shifts have the added bonus of helping keep my mind off Arlo, and what happened between us. That is until a few weekends later when I’m woken from my much needed, and long-awaited sleep-in by the sound of my cell phone ringing.
I’m desperate to stay burrowed under the blankets forever, but the chirpy trill is too annoying to ignore. It’s on the other side of the room, too (whose stupid idea was that?), so I’m going to have to leave the safety of my cocoon—if only to switch it off. Why can’t whoever the hell is calling get the hint, and leave me alone? I. Don’t. Want. To. Talk. To. Anyone.
Grudgingly, I fumble my way out of bed, wrapping myself in the quilt as I go. This way I can at least kid myself that I’m not actually getting up, I’m just temporarily vertical, and will soon be restoring the horizontal status quo once more. If I don’t expose my skin to the cold air outside the blankets, I can even crawl back into bed and pretend I never left. My sleep and I definitely have unfinished business.
I reach for the phone and sigh in dismay when I see that it’s an unrecognized number. I’d love to just not answer it, but it could be a potential client wanting to book me for a photography gig. As I work toward my goal of setting up my studio and working full-time as a photographer, I can’t afford to turn away work, no matter how much I’d rather stay in my nice warm bed. I answer in my best business voice, despite the cobwebs lingering in my head.
“Hello, London Llwellyn speaking.”
“Hi, London, it’s Arlo.” I recognize the transatlantic drawl straight away—he has that accent that many celebrities who’ve traveled a lot or lived outside of the US have—but I remain silent.
“Umm… Arlo Jones, from Rosemond House.” I wait a few more beats before speaking again, as though wracking my brain to remember him.
“Oh. Hello, Mr. Jones.”
“It’s Arlo. You can just call me Arlo.”
“Hello, Arlo.” I let the silence extend between us. If nothing else, I’m too busy wondering how the hell he got my number to make fake nicey with him.
“I hope you don’t mind me contacting you directly. I got your number from your website.” Ah, well that solves that mystery. I continue to wait, enjoying his obvious discomfort.
“So… I was calling because I need a housekeeper, and… I wanted to offer you the job.”
What now?
“Pardon me?” Cool, calm, and collected be damned, I’ve jumped straight to completely confused.
“The rest of the band and I are going to be in town for an extended period of time, so my home care needs have changed. I’m looking for more of a housekeeper—one who can be here every day. Your aunt has replaced you with someone else to clean the place, but I don’t feel like she’d be up to the extra duties. Given you know the house, and are clearly very capable, I’d rather have you back than bring in a third person.”
“Umm….”
“I’m offering quadruple your previous rate of pay.”
He must be a lunatic. That’s an insane offer. I mean we’re talking crazy money, even for a ‘housekeeper.’ It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’s sure he wants to pay that kind of money on a daily basis, but I stop myself. It’s his money, and from what I’ve read, he’s good for the cash, so who am I to argue? Besides, the more I earn, the sooner I’ll get my studio. Even better, I won’t have to bust my ass doing back-to-back waitressing shifts to get there.
“Hmmm….”
“Is that a yes?” He’s chuckling now.
“Sure. Yeah. Okay. Thanks. But Gloria—”
“Great. You can start on Monday. I’ve already cleared it with Gloria. She said she was going to call you to square away the details. I don’t think she was expecting me to call you directly, but I really just wanted to talk to you, and make the offer in person. I also wanted to apologize for my previous behavior, and personally reassure you that I’ll mind my manners from here on in. I won’t do anything to make you want to slap me again, I promise.” He sounds sincere, but still, I wonder if I’ve lost my mind agreeing to go back there, and I’ll definitely be double-checking the booking with Gloria regardless.
“Oh, and London, my cheek is fine, by the way, thank you for asking.”
I can hear the smile in his voice.
Touché, Mr. Jones. I see we have a sense of humor. If it was anyone else, I’d probably tell them to stick it, but somehow, and maybe against my better judgment, I trust him to keep his word and behave himself this time around.
***
On my first day back at Rosemond House, I arrive early—the last thing I want to do is get myself into more trouble by being late. I get a shock as I round the corner approaching the house, humming absentmindedly to the tunes blaring on my headphones, and stumble headlong into a baying crowd of attractive young women and not so attractive paparazzi.
Clearly word has gotten out that the Heartless Few are back in town, and it looks like everyone wants a piece of Arlo Jones. When I was here last, the house and the street outside were deserted, but today the scene resembles some kind of crazy street bazaar, with people flitting here and there. Some are even waving signs and chanting. I definitely don’t want to run the gauntlet of that lot—a few are hysterical, and they all look like they’d stop at nothing to get close to their idol.
Luckily, I easily blend in with the crowd, so I pull my cap down low over my face, and casually sidle toward the back of the house. There are a few photographers hanging out there, but they obviously mistake me for a fan, and don’t look twice as I move past them toward the entryway. Even when I start entering the code into the keypad, nobody seems to suspect that I’m meant to be there.
“Hey!” calls one of the paps. “Don’t bother. Security’s as tight as a nun’s hoo-ha! It’s fingerprint technology, or personalized code only. Unless you’re a mind reader or a shape-shifter, you’ve got no chance of getting in there.” He laughs heartily at his own joke.
Nobody realizes what’s going on until the metal security door is ninetenths of the way closed behind me, and I’m free and clear. That’s when they surge forward, trying to attract my attention for that all-important shot.
“Hey gorgeous, what’s your name? Who are you going to see? Are you Arlo’s latest?” I can just make out the words as the door clicks closed.
Ugh, I’m glad they can’t see my reaction to that question. I’m bristling as I enter the kitchen, shaken by the tiny glimpse of the celebrity fishbowl lifestyle. I can safely say it’s not for me. I’d hate to have to worry that a photographer with a telephoto lens could be lurking around every corner.
I can’t imagine stepping out to empty the trash in my pj’s and having someone sell photos of me with bed hair to the press. More than that though, I hate being referred to as Arlo Jones’s latest conquest. Even though I know I’m not, it still feels gross to be viewed that way, knowing the reputation he has.
Imagine my delight when the news is full of stories of a “mystery woman” seen entering Arlo Jones’s house. If the speculation wasn’t about me, I’d probably find it pretty funny. The stories the press invents are wild. I’m variously called his new Brazilian girlfriend, an exotic “escort,” and a playmate who regularly has threesomes with Arlo and his identical twin, Luke.
I am mildly amused by the fact that the truth is so much more mundane than any of the rumors. If they knew, they’d be disappointed. “Arlo Jones’s housekeeper seen doing daily rounds” really doesn’t have the same ring to it as something featuring the words “steamy sex romp.”
I walk into the kitchen to find Arlo waiting for me. He’s leaning against the counter top, in almost the same position as I left him the last time I was at the house. The thought unnerves me, but not as much as the sight of him. He’s bare-chested, wearing only a pair of lived in, but well-fitting jeans. I’m fascinated again by his tattoos—they’re elaborate and ornate, and oh, so rock ‘n’ roll. He’s every bit as gorgeous as I remember, if not more so. I catch my breath, and he looks up, crushing my hope that he didn’t hear the sharp intake of air. Damn. Our gazes lock. Those eyes. Brighter and more intense than I remember.
I smile a little, but don’t speak, waiting for Arlo to make the first move. He takes my cue, returning my smile slowly, and breaking the silence.
“Hey.” His voice is soft.
“Hey.”
“So I thought I should be here to welcome you back after the last time, and to give you a rundown of your new duties.”
“Okay, great, thanks.”
It makes sense. Though I worked at the house for a while before Arlo came back, this is a new role. Gloria did call me to give me a basic idea of what would be required not long after Arlo offered me the job, but it’s good to hear it straight from the source, also.
He motions toward the dining table and sits down.
“Come join me. Take a seat.” He points to the chair at the foot of the table, close to his place on the long edge.
Instead of sitting where he suggests, I choose the chair opposite him, not trusting either of us to sit any closer. He notes my choice, but says nothing, although I get the sense that he wants to.
“Before we get to that, I think it would be a good idea for us to start over with the introductions, given the confusion when we first met.” He stands up and extends his hand toward me across the table.
“Arlo Jones, pleased to meet you.” I stand up too, and take his proffered hand, but instead of a regular handshake, he grasps my hand in both of his, squeezing gently. A spark of awareness zings from his hands to mine, and straight to my crotch. He doesn’t let go of my hand. I clear my throat and swallow awkwardly, before responding. I hope he doesn’t notice how deeply affected I am by the smallest physical contact with him. In fact, by his mere presence.
“London Llwellyn, and I’m really very sorry about what happened. Both the shower incident and the slap were out of order, and out of character.”
“Not at all. You made a mistake, but I made it much worse by behaving like a complete dick about it. Not that I generally advocate violence, but I deserved that slap, and more besides. I kind of got lost in the moment for a bit. It’s in no way an excuse, but I’d been partying pretty hard the night before, and I was hungover as shit.
“My judgment wasn’t what it could have been, but I want to reassure you that I wouldn’t have done anything you didn’t want to do. In any case, it really wasn’t my finest hour, and I’m not proud of myself for it.” Well that makes two of us then. He finally releases my hand, and we sit again.
With that out of the way, Arlo goes on to explain that the band is back in town because their latest world tour was cut short due to Stevie, the drummer, suffering some sort of collapse, and having to be flown home to attend a “treatment facility.” The rest of the band is on a temporary hiatus as a result, hence Arlo’s sudden and unexpected return.
It turns out that though the whole band is originally from New York, Arlo and his identical twin Luke mostly prefer to base themselves in LA between tours these days. Arlo has burgeoning business interests there, and Luke prefers the milder Californian weather to the extremes of the East Coast. As a result, they are here fairly infrequently. Each brother owns a number of investment properties throughout the Lower East Side, SoHo and Chelsea, but they are sublet to long-term tenants, so Rosemond House is their home of choice when they are in town. It belongs to Arlo, but Luke is happy to crash there as Arlo’s unofficial roommate.
Stevie still lives in New York, and decided to do his stint in rehab here so that he could be near family when he comes out.
“I guess I should formally introduce the two of you, as well, shouldn’t I—” He’s referring to Luke. “—given that you haven’t officially met?” Arlo’s rueful half-smile causes my stomach to flip flop.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I agree. He reaches for his mobile phone and fires off a quick text, before turning his attention back to me.
Over the next few minutes, he takes me through my new duties. In addition to cleaning, I will be expected to keep the household running smoothly—grocery shopping, keeping the fridge, pantry, and drinks cabinet well-stocked, running errands, managing tradespeople like window cleaners, gardeners, handymen, and the pool guy, and some light cooking (just as well that it’s only light—cooking isn’t a talent of mine).
Although there’s a little more work than I was doing previously, it’s hardly backbreaking, and while Arlo speaks, I can’t help but wonder why the ridiculously generous pay increase, for a role that’s still pretty simple. I don’t know who my replacement was, but this doesn’t strike me as something that someone else couldn’t handle. It does make me question why Arlo hired me back here again—regardless of his explanation.
He hands me a credit card with my name on it, telling me “Use this for anything you need to do to get the job done.” Umm… wow. I’m in shock. This is only the second time we’ve met, and the first time didn’t exactly go well. Why in the hell would he trust me with a credit card? I don’t have long to ponder this point, or to respond. As though on cue, we’re interrupted by Luke’s arrival.
“Knock. Knock.” He air raps on an imaginary door in the large entrance to the kitchen smiling warmly at me.
As with the first time we met, I’m struck by the uncanny similarity between Arlo and Luke. Obviously, it’s totally to be expected, but on the other hand, I don’t remember ever having met adult identical twins, so it kind of freaks me out.
“Here he is, Prince Charming himself. Luke, meet London Llwellyn. London Llwellyn, meet Luke Aldous Jones.” I don’t miss the heavy note of sarcasm in his voice. Aldous? I hope my smirk isn’t too obvious.
“Fuck you.” Well that’s not charming at all. He glares at Arlo, before turning to me.
“What? That’s your name, no shame in it.”
“You know I hate it, stop being a dick. Oh no, wait, you can’t.” He’s smiling at me, but clearly still speaking to his brother.
“Whatever, man.”
“Pleased to meet you under more pleasant circumstances than last time, London. I look forward to seeing you around the house more often.”
He takes my extended hand, and instead of shaking it, turns it palm downwards, and kisses the back of it like an old-fashioned gentleman. What is it with these guys and strange handshakes? I note the absence of sparks this time, despite their identical looks, it’s definitely only an Arlo thing.
I give Luke a warm smile and hear a loud huff from Arlo’s side of the table. I look across to see him rolling his eyes melodramatically.
“What’s eating you, Arlo Cassius Jones? Need a few lessons in how to treat a lady?” Ha!
Arlo’s jaw tenses, but he says nothing. I get the impression he’s biting his tongue, most likely for my benefit. Even still, the sparring between the two of them is entertaining, and the dynamic between them makes for fascinating viewing, especially for an only child like me.
***
I’d spent the weekend after Showergate googling Arlo and the rest of the band, which was definitely an eye-opener. Although I’d vaguely heard of the Heartless Few prior to that, I clearly hadn’t known much about them, and definitely couldn’t pick any of them out of a lineup, including a certain Mr. Arlo Cassius Jones. It didn’t take long to get up to speed on the ins and outs of their lives, though, figuratively and literally.
It turns out that Arlo’s disbelief at my failure to recognize him wasn’t just arrogance. The Heartless Few are über successful, and astronomically famous. So much so that my nanna could probably recognize all the members, even if I couldn’t. Their sales, downloads, and streaming stats are off the charts, smashing pretty much every record in musical history. I must have been sleeping under a rock, to not have been more aware of them before now.
Mr. Jones, I discover, is an extremely accomplished man. Not content with tearing it up in the music world, he owns several successful businesses, which he manages while also touring, writing songs, and recording with the band. Because… why not?
Here in NYC he has a nightclub, 12AM Mass (pronounced Midnight Mass), then he has SK:eTCH, an adjacent tattoo parlor. He owns both outright, with no shareholders or board, and established them with no assistance from investors. If Forbes is to be believed, business is booming, and he has another tattoo parlor planned for LA, hence the relocation there. In a nutshell, Arlo Jones is winning at life. #bigtime
You can’t go looking for info on Arlo without very quickly stumbling upon the sordid details of his “love” life. If everything I read is correct, he’s been associated with just about every actress and supermodel who’s anyone. Let’s not even mention the groupies, hangers-on, and other wannabes who throw themselves and their underwear at him on a daily basis. The man is prolific.
It actually makes me feel a little sick to think about it. I can see the attraction—he’s stunning to look at, built like Zeus, famous, successful, powerful, and richer than rich. What’s not to love? Well, his personality, for one thing. With all that notoriety comes a reputation for being sullen, moody, rude, and arrogant. He is the quintessential broody front man, and he plays the role to a tee, even at home.
My Google foraging also tells me that Luke tends to play good cop to Arlo’s bad, also doing very well with the ladies himself. By all accounts, women proposition the two of them on a daily, even hourly basis. The boys allegedly respond in kind, treating women like discarded Kleenex. I know the media is prone to stretching the truth, so I take much of what I read with a pinch of salt, especially as I struggle to reconcile the picture painted by the press with the version of Luke that I get to know over the coming weeks. Something in my gut tells me to give him the benefit of the doubt, whereas from what I know of Arlo, there seems to be a lot more truth to the rumors.
The three of us quickly slip into a daily routine. I start my cleaning rounds early and do a couple of hours’ work before getting on with making breakfast for the guys. Neither of them are early risers, which is no surprise really, given that they’re musicians. I gather that they’re not in bed much before sunrise most days, and even then, I’m not sure how much actual sleeping happens. Generally, Arlo heads straight down to the gym and swims laps, runs or pumps weights for an hour or so, while Luke and I chat in the kitchen as Luke eats.
As the weeks roll on, and I spend more time around them, it fast becomes obvious that despite being Arlo’s physical double, Luke is quite different to him in just about every other way. Sometimes I can scarcely believe they are brothers, let alone identical twins. Where Luke is laid-back and takes things in his stride, Arlo seems perpetually on edge. Where Luke is warm, and an open book, Arlo keeps his cards close to his chest. Though he doesn’t speak loudly, as such, there’s a sharpness to the tone of his voice that isn’t there in Luke’s. It’s as though he’s measuring every word before he says it. On the other hand, he has a quick temper, which has a tendency to flare up—especially when dealing with his brother.
My friendship with Luke is relaxed, warm, and familiar. Our quick and easy rapport feels like we’ve known each other forever, and we quickly find that we have a number of common interests, like independent movies. We make the discovery by accident one day when I’m sitting at the dining table during my break, booking tickets to a French film season at the Sunshine Cinema. Looking over my shoulder at my laptop, Luke interrupts me.
“Planning a date?”
“Hmm…? No, the opposite, in fact. I don’t know anybody who shares my love of beautifully shot independent movies, so I’m gonna go and see a few of these alone as usual.” I turn the screen toward him so that he can get a better look.
“Ha! Well today could be your lucky day.”
“What do you mean?”
“I love art house movies.”
“No way! Seriously?”
“Seriously. Arlo thinks I’m a pretentious prick, but when I was younger, I had a bit of a Mrs. Robinson thing with an older woman. She was a lecturer at NYFA, and she introduced me to the indie movie scene. The fling didn’t last, but my love of art house did.” He grins impishly.
“I’ve already booked a few sessions for the French season—why don’t you see if you can grab tickets to the same ones, and we can go ‘solo’ together? Unless of course you really want to go alone? Sorry, I didn’t mean to barge my way into your plans like that.” What a sweetheart.
“No, you’re not barging. I’m actually glad we spoke before I booked anything. I only go alone because I don’t want to drag any of my friends along, and deal with the fallout if they don’t enjoy it. It seems silly for us both to go solo if we can have a movie buddy. This is so great! Which ones are you seeing? Hopefully there are still tickets left.”
Luke pulls up a chair close to me and we sit huddled together, laughing and joking, poring over the confirmation details on his phone, while booking tickets for me on my laptop.
“What’s for breakfast?” Arlo’s voice is gruff and comes out of nowhere. Neither of us had heard him approach us from behind. I jump up, both startled at Arlo’s appearance, and feeling guilty for chatting to Luke, even though technically I’m on a break.
“Umm… morning, Arlo.” I try to appear unflustered, though I’m not sure that I pull it off—I always feel so on edge when he’s around.
“I made some banana protein pancakes earlier, do you feel like those? Or I could make something else. Eggs, a smoothie…?” I look toward him to find that he’s staring intently at the back of Luke’s head as he continues to browse the cinema bookings page on my computer. Why do I get the impression that he wishes his eyes were lasers?
“Pancakes are fine.”
“Okay, great, I’ll grab you some.”
As I begin to move toward the oven, Luke speaks up without looking away from the screen.
“Dude, don’t be a dick, you can see we’re in the middle of something. What’s wrong with your arms and legs?”
Arlo says nothing for a few moments, but I can see the fury building. A vein at his temple throbs, yet when he speaks, his voice is calm and low.
“Yeah. You get back to your thing, I’ll get it myself.” He sounds as though he’d rather eat a shovel of shit.
“No really, it’s my pleasure. Sit down, and I’ll get them. Do you want anything else with them? Fruit? Bacon….”
“No.” Okay.
“All right then, I won’t be long. Umm… we were just booking some tickets for this French film thing. Do you want us to get you some too?”
I move into the cooking area to get the pancakes, which I’d left warming at a very low heat after Luke ate his earlier. Arlo strides toward the table, and throws himself into a chair opposite Luke, where he sits slumped, legs splayed in front of him, arms folded across his chest.
“Nah. That shit’s not my bag. Besides, I don’t third wheel.”
Third wheel? Wait, what? Understanding dawns slowly.
“Oh no, it’s not—” Luke interrupts me.
“Man, can you just not be a douche for like ten seconds? It’s not a date. We’ve discovered a mutual love of indie movies, and we’re going to catch a few movies together, that’s all. You’re more than welcome to come.”
“Like I said, I’ll pass.” Up until this point, he has studiously avoided eye contact with either of us, but now he raises his gaze from a spot on the table to meet Luke’s glare. Nobody speaks for the longest time, not in words, at least.