I
suppose it could be the booze amplifying my suspicions of them together?
Oh,
I don’t know … maybe he was that all along, a charlatan all this time and I’m
only now beginning to see him in his natural habitat.
An
awful retching cough from upstairs pulls me out of my reverie. I crouch down
even further from the window sill. Ah yes, the aftershave! I suppose my actions are no better or
logical than a girl shielding herself from the monsters under the bed. And the
monster has surfaced. I remain still, listening intently for the heavy
footsteps to bundle down the stairs.
We
live (or cohabit would be a more accurate description of the true situation) in
a duplex. It’s not that glam but hey, this is London, and we have two very
small floors and not just the ‘very typical’ squalid studio room. Piers’s
father is generous that way. Probably why I fell for Piers in the first place:
digs that didn’t need fumigating every month, no damp in your treasured
wardrobe. A lot less has appealed and swayed women on a budget at university!
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