staring at his feet and muttering something under his breath. I notice heâs wearing a small gold cross round his neck. And heâs clutching it.
Fuck. This is not good. This is not good. This isâ
The elevator suddenly comes to a halt and the door springs open.
Wow.
My fear instantly evaporates as Iâm hit with the most breathtaking view of Central Park. Stretching out ahead of me, as far as the eye can see, is a vast carpet of trees. On and on it goes, as if someone just plopped a big piece of the English countryside in the middle of Manhattan.
âHoly shit.â
As we step out into the apartment, with its huge floor-to-ceiling windows, I turn to Mikey. Eyes out on stalks, heâs gripping the cart as if for support. âIâm not good with heights. I get dizzy,â he mutters gruffly, a queasy expression on his face as he gazes out at the skyline and the towering skyscrapers weâre now rubbing shoulders with.
âI would recommend putting the crates here in the hallway,â the doorman is saying in the background. âThat way, theyâre not causing an obstruction.â
âSure, good idea,â Mikey says, nodding. Immediately he gets under way unloading the crates in an eager bid to get out of here.
âItâs very important not to cause an obstruction,â continues the doorman somberly. âFire regulations, you know.â
âUm, yes.â I nod distractedly, my eyes flicking around me. Gosh, this place is enormous.
âFire?â repeats Mikey. His voice sounds a little strangled. âDid someone just say âfireâ?â He starts unloading faster, his biceps popping like pistons.
And white. Everythingâs white, I notice, glancing around at the white rugs, white sofas, white walls. I feel nervous just looking at it, as if Iâm going to get this sudden impulse to chuck a glass of red wine somewhere.
Not that I go around chucking glasses of red wine everywhere, but I have been known to spill things occasionally. Not that Iâm clumsy; Iâm justâ
Oh, who am I kidding? If I lived here, Iâd have to take out shares in OxiClean.
Anyway, I donât need to worry about that, I reflect, thinking about my cluttered little shoe box downtown with its clashing color schemes and eclectic mix of East-meets-West-meets-thrift-shop. Which is something, I suppose.
âI like art, you know.â
I drag my eyes back to the doorman. âOh, really?â I nod politely.
âVan Gogh, heâs my favorite,â he confides. âGot any of his stuff?â He jerks his head toward the paintings.
âEr, no.â I smile apologetically.
The doormanâs face drops with disappointment.
âOK, well, Iâm all done here,â interrupts Mikey, straightening up. Digging out an invoice from his back pocket, he holds it out for me to sign.
âGreat. Thanks.â I scribble my signature and pass it back.
âRight, Iâm outta here.â Diving back to the elevator, he stands by the closed door with his cart, waiting for the doorman. He reminds me of my parentsâ dog when itâs time to go for a walk and heâs sitting by the door, desperate to go out.
âIf youâll excuse me, miss . . .â Clearing his throat, the doorman adjusts his peaked cap and strides into the elevator, like a pilot climbing into his cockpit. âAny problems, buzz down.â He jabs at the button with a white-gloved hand. âIâll be straight up.â And with that, he and Mikey disappear behind the sliding door.
I listen to the hum of the lift as it descends, gradually getting quieter and quieter. Then itâs gone.
Chapter Seven
O K, so now what?
Alone in the penthouse, I stand motionless for a moment, looking around. The owner might not be back for ages. What am I going to do now?
Out of the blue I get an image of Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone , rushing wildly from room to room,