Page 93 of Into the Dark
“Cats sleep a lot,” I confirm. “My cat sleeps all day. He snores too.”
He smiles a little then. “You have a cat and he snores?”
“I do. Fred.”
“Fred is my uncle’s name!” Caleb’s eyes light up, and my breath catches.
“It is? Well, see, uncles can have cats’ names just like girls can have boys’ names.”
He thinks about this hard and then nods, smiling a little. “If I had a cat, I would call it Simba. He’s the best lion.”
“He is? Why?”
“Because Simba became the king and he beat Scar.”
“He’s the bad lion?”
He nods enthusiastically. “He was Simba’s uncle, but he killed Umfasa and then Simba ran away,” he explains gravely.
“And who was Umfasa?”
“Simba’s dad.”
I make an “O” shape with my mouth just as Caleb’s eyes go wide at the sight over my shoulder. I turn around to see Jake coming back to us, hands full of ice-cold surprises. The relief at seeing him is immense, and Caleb brightens immediately too, jumping up from the blanket to run for his dad, who hands him a multicolored ice pop in the shape of a rocket.
As Jake bends down to hand me my waffle cone, dripping in what looks like caramel sauce, not even the sight of his full, glorious smile can chase away the bizarre and unexpected sense of foreboding that settles over me.
The flat feels cool and airy, a world away from the heat hanging heavy in the air outside. As I look around the huge open space I wonder again how much it’s worth. Whether he owns it or rents it. Whether he has a mortgage on it or bought it outright with the proceeds of one of his illegitimate business streams. We haven’t ever discussed money, finances, or assets. In lots of ways it’s too soon. In other ways it’s vitally important. What will Jake be left with when this thing with Fred is all over? He owns the club, I know that much. I suppose we’ll have to discuss it at some point. If I’m having his child I need to know he can help support me in raising it. Another conversation for another day.
On the bottom shelf of the low coffee table is a stack of Men’s Health magazines, and so for something to do I reach out and grab one of them before relaxing back into the soft gray sofa. As always, some six-pack-possessing, greased-up actor grins up from the cover, telling us boldly how to shave pounds off by drinking coconut water fourteen times a day. Jake seriously reads these? Jake looks far better than any of the men in here.
We said goodbye at the park gate, with Caleb waving enthusiastically and inviting me to the zoo with him and Jake to see the lions next time they go. An offer I accepted, of course. I thanked him for helping me feed the ducks and for eating all the food, and for teaching me how to play “whizzy ball”—the loud, bright, worryingly addictive game on his iPad. Before they crossed the road toward Jake’s car, Jake kissed me in full view of his son. It was a chaste kiss by his standards, but with a warm, lingering intent. Then he gave me the key to his flat and told me to go back and wait for him there and that he wouldn’t be long.
Vicky lives in Clapton, but he’s dropping Caleb by her salon in Hackney, so he’ll be no more than an hour depending on traffic, he said.
I kind of miss Caleb already. His cheeky demeanor and adorable giggle. The way he watches Jake with a quiet awe as if he’s the center of his little universe is something I can actually relate to since Jake is fast becoming the center of mine. I’m still concerned about the chat Caleb and I had had when Jake left us alone. I need to think of how to discuss it with Jake.
The sound of the intercom screeching its robotic ring at me from the other side of the room makes me start, tearing me from thoughts of Caleb. It takes me a minute to locate the thing, obscured by the large fridge in the kitchen, but after pressing the unlock button I go to the front door and unlock that for him too. As I’m pouring myself a chilled glass of cranberry juice, a sound similar to the intercom but a little less brazen echoes through the flat.
Why wouldn’t he just let himself in?
As I go to the door and pull it open, to my surprise I’m faced with a woman, not Jake. She’s older, early fifties maybe, and dressed in a pair of cropped white pants and a T-shirt, denim jacket draped over her arm. She smiles at me nervously, and it pulls her high cheekbones up. She shifts on her feet and looks behind me into the house.
“Um, can I help you?” I ask politely. She must be selling something. My eyes go to her large shoulder bag.
“Sorry. I, uh, I was looking for Jake,” she says, glancing behind me again.
My face falls into a half-frown, which I try to lose immediately. I pull my shoulders back. “He’s not home right now. Is he expecting you?”
She smiles another of her tight smiles and this time shakes her head, her shoulder-length dark blonde hair falling over her shoulders. “No, love, he won’t be expecting me.” She looks at me then, properly it feels like, blue stare leveled at me with curiosity. There’s something familiar about her stare and I don’t know what. I’m certain I’ve never met this woman before in my life.
“Do I know you?” I hear myself ask anyway.
Another shake of her head. “No.”
“Well, can I maybe give Jake a message for you? I’m his girlfriend,” I tell her.
Something flickers over her eyes, and she nods an “ah”-like nod and opens her mouth to speak. Then she closes it again. “No, it’s okay. I’ll come back another time. It’s better if I speak with him in person.” Her accent has some affect I can’t quite place. Birmingham maybe.