Love's Inferno

Chapter 3- A Harley Davidson headache

Lou

I was running late for work. Not actually late,  but when it came to Anna I preferred to be in the office early (at least forty-five minutes to an hour ahead of her) because that way I'd have time to prepare myself before having my day (and feet) royally screwed. I was actually allowed to work from home for the next couple of days but there was an important directive I had left on my desk that I couldn't seem to find in my emails. I was a mid-level, what this American company called, a 'Junior PR executive' and that's only because Anna had been stalling on my promotion for the last six months. 

I had worked for the company for three years remotely from a sunny flat (that I missed very much) in Woodstock, Cape Town before I was contacted about moving to the in-person office in the European division. Hybrid-work. I had needed a break from the uncanny monotony of the Cape Town creative space and actually wanted to move to Joburg when the ask was made. I had never longed for London. There's nothing wrong with the UK if you shelved their history of depraved colonialism, terrible weather and disgusting produce aside... it's just been an adjustment. I've been living in London for what's just shy of two years and...it's been hard. I loved adventures not in the traditional sense of like para-gliding or something but more like the invitation to a challenge that life sometimes hands out. So I'd taken up the challenge, and a generous pay raise (in a foreign currency) and moved. I had thought it was a generous pay raise when I first moved but boy was I wrong; the cost of living crisis was no joke. And that wasn't the only crisis on this island because the housing crisis was nothing short of a disaster and I had unknowingly entered into an iron-clad flat share lease in student housing for the first year. Yeah, a disaster. I was out of place and most certainly out of my element. 

So I used my signing bonus to break the lease and had moved once more to Camden. My second and arguably more egregious mistake. There was nothing wrong with Camden but a remarkable amount with my flatmate Carrey. In all the comms he had hidden the fact that he was a man... Sure I had done my due diligence and had a flat-tour but he had told me he was out of town and a friend would do the showing. She was lovely and I had assumed she was Carrey because I was conveniently only informed about his friend conducting the viewing after I had seen the place and hastily signed the contract. And the girl? Sheridan?  had made no moves to correct me when I had called her Carrey. So I moved in with a man I didn't know... and things got weird. I mean really weird, really quickly. So I had begun searching, frantically, with a borderline neurotic urgency for a new place which is how I landed on this flat. I dipped into my savings, broke yet another lease and forked out some more cash to have movers in and out within the four (very rare) hours that Carrey wasn't home during the week. I wasn't sure where he went or why - every Thursday like clock work-  but I was grateful and seized the opportunity with enthusiasm. 

This is when I encountered another problem- all the moving had raised a flag with immigration which was another tedious, painful exercise to rectify over a series of four weeks and ample paperwork. And I was threatened with deportation unless I settled - quickly. I'd asked Luca, a family friend living here, for some help and was met with sweet relief when he found this place for me. It was closer to work and lower in rent and there were no weirdos about when I moved in. Sure everyone was old (and I quickly found out Italian) and the place had carpeting but..I could fix that. The flooring I mean. Italian was fine. Old was fine. Old was wonderful until I opened my front door and the one across from it clicked closed. I had been living there for two weeks and had been comfortably under the assumption that no one lived across the way from me. I'm a light sleeper and while the flat was spacious, I'd never heard the door open or close. I'd never seen anyone and I figured no one in the building would be able to venture up the six flights of stairs because they're old. And if I had an old neighbour they would complain about the noise. I mean I'd practically been sanding the floor every night with little to no interruption but looking across the now filled hallway...the guy wasn't old. Not at all... He was tall, the kind of tall where you bend before entering doorways. The kind of tall which made the landing feel small and awkward. He wasn't tall and thin - he was expansive and painfully handsome. He was in a suit, a tailored suit I imagined because I don't think traditional suits would reach his ankles. He was all clean lines and...controlled. His gaze flittered up and down, with his face quickly contorting into clear disdain when he noticed my Crocs.  What is with everyone and my shoes in this country?! I wasn't wearing fucking vellies.