Eight. Five. Five. Eight. Three.
The door unlocks with a soft click and I push it open, walking toward my fate.
6
Cecilia
Victor St. Clair’s apartment is a testament to quality.
The polished hardwood floors, the thick wool of the living-room rug, the giant cloud couch built around a sixty-five-inch TV. There are no exposed cables. No knickknacks spread on random surfaces. No fridge magnets, no smudgy handprints on the mirrors, and definitely no plants on the windowsills.
It’s a space to look at.
Not live in.
I walk around the place on tiptoes, as if he’s waiting around a corner. He’s not. I know he’s not. But his presence is everywhere, lingering on the smooth surfaces and polished edges.
It feels like walking through a museum. The only thing missing are the bored attendants, sitting on fold-up chairs in the corners, ready to tell you off for taking a photograph. I peek into a room that looks like a near replica of his office at work. Similar desk. Similar chair. I wonder if he has an assistant who looks like me hiding somewhere, ready to pop out and do his bidding.
Maybe she did the smart thing and turned down his proposal.
The interconnecting rooms span an apartment of at least two thousand square feet. Or so I think, until I see the staircase.
I’m afraid to snoop.
I’m also too curious not to.
Besides, I have to find the guest bedroom that’ll be my home for the next year.
A year.
I can’t let myself dwell on that. A year is too long. I’ll take this in months, instead. Weeks, perhaps. Days, most likely.
The staircase leads to a second story with a long, elegant hallway. On one end is a half-open door. The other is closed.
I inch toward the half-open one and peer inside.
Bingo. The bedroom is big, but not master-bedroom big. A queen-sized bed in the center with a beige bedspread that looks ironed and pressed.
I run my hand over a desk in the corner. It looks like a hotel room. Does he have a lot of guests over?
Is this where the women he dates have to sleep? Booted out of his bedroom when he’s finished, relegated down the corridor to this place?
The windows open up to a view of the park and I sit down on the bed, looking out at the fall foliage, the bright oranges, reds and yellows.
It feels like taking a deep breath.
Drinking a cool glass of water.
I can live with this view. I can spend my time in this room, working at the desk that feels like it belongs in a hotel, sleeping in the large bed, showering in the giant adjoining bathroom. I can spend my weekends at Nadine’s or party with our friends. And during the days, I’ll work on my start-up. My very own firm, selling virtual assistant hours to entrepreneurs.
A voice echoes below.
I freeze, listening. Are those footsteps? Why is this place so big? I walk softly over to the open door, and the voice rings out again.
“Miss Myers?”
It’s not Victor’s.