Page 14 of House of Bass

“We don’t call each other.”

I can feel his eye-roll from the other end of the line. He says, “We are now. I heard about what happened today.”

I sigh and lie back down, “Hmm, which part? The humiliating fall or the debilitating panic attack that came afterwards?”

“Both. Madeleine told me about the latter.”

“Of course, my misery is already news for the day,” I say with a sigh, snuggling under my duvet.

“That’s because, good or bad, what happens in your life is the most entertaining thing for these people. There’s no substance to any of them,” he tells me.

I look to the ceiling, still feeling solemn and hollow, “Some days I wish that it wasn’t. Rich, do you think I would survive not being the person I am today? If I was just a normal girl nobody knew?”

He goes quiet for a second, then answers, “Maybe. Maybe not. Where is this coming from?”

“He has another daughter,” I laugh, but it’s not a very jovial one. It sounds more like a cry. “She’s older than me too, by seven months. Seven.”

“Saint…” he trails off, stunned into silence. I almost smile because I haven’t heard him call me that in years.

“She’s in my house. Sleeping in one of my rooms. And she hates me. I can tell from the way she looks at me that she hates me, she has his eyes.”

“No one can hate you,” he says, softly.

“Not even you?”

He doesn’t answer. He did, once. He might still do.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I whisper. “I wanted to speak to someone today, all day, and just lay down all of my problems onto their shoulders. And do you know the first person I thought of? You.”

It’s out there and I know I can’t take it back, so I continue, “I know I shouldn’t say it, but there are days when I wish I had a time machine to rewrite every wrong in my life because the first thing I would fix would be you and I.”

I let the words hang in the air as my eyes grow heavy and prove increasingly difficult to keep open. A yawn escapes me before I can stop it.

“Sleep” is all he says in response. The gravelly tone sends shivers down my spine. I don’t want this to end, but I don’t have the energy.

So I sleep like he asks me to. I would do anything he asks.

✧✧✧

The next morning, I woke up earlier than my usual ten am to try to cook for my guest. The problem is, I didn’t know how to make toast without even burning it and Cathy, my chef, comes on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Cooking is just something I am not good at, I rarely ever had time to learn because I was constantly either at ballet or studying.

Mother doesn’t cook that often either, we have chefs, but whenever she tried to teach me the basics, I could never sit still in one place long enough to learn. My friends and I spent a considerable amount of time house hopping. Dan's house was our favourite because his parents are the kindest but also, looking back, his mother makes great food. When I got my own place and hired a chef of my own, there was no need to learn. I am allowed one shortcoming.

Still, I tie my thick blonde hair into a ponytail and head into the kitchen to attempt a meal. Or perhaps I can feed her a bowl of Frosties and call it a day? No. I can do this. I scour the internet and find a tutorial that includes pancakes. You can never go wrong with pancakes.

Except, as quickly as I start, I remember exactly why I avoided my extremely beautiful marble kitchen. Cutting a frozen block of butter is harder than it looked.

“What are you doing?” Harley asks, startling me as she leans against the entrance. I hadn’t even heard her walk up. She is in a faded pink tank top and shorts, her hair wrapped in a bonnet of the same colour.

“Making pancakes,” I reply with a lopsided smile.

She frowns at the disaster in the making before stepping further into the kitchen. She took the knife out of my hands. “Step aside before you hurt yourself.”

I marvel at how she cuts through the butter with ease as she asks, “Where are your eggs?”

“In the fridge,” I say in a tone that implies that should’ve been obvious.

“Then why are you making pancakes with no eggs?”