huge sweeping driveway, complete with a round, manicured lawn, a fountain in the centre of it.
Jim leans forward to speak to the driver.
‘Gimme a sec, mate,’ he says. ‘I’ll get the gates open.’
He gets out and walks to the intercom. The gates both scroll aside, making an opening for the cab to drive through. The driver whistles again, but this time it isn’t to any tune on the radio. He’s as impressed as I am. Although the fountain is beyond tacky. White cherub statues are so Eighties.
‘That’s twenty-five quid, love,’ the driver says.
Oh yeah. This is on me.
The house is more of a mansion. Many of my friends in Dubai live in villas of a similar size, but they’re rented, or company owned, plus space is just cheaper out there. My mom’s house in the states isn’t much smaller than Jim’s, but that’s also a standard East Coast family home. Not a Victorian, brick-built double-fronted delight that oozes money. Only those with excessive cash have two lifesize gold-plated lion figurines on each side of the front door. I linger on the door step, my bags by my side.
‘Wait here,’ Jim tells me.
I’m a little taken aback. It’s freezing and this is Jim’s house, so I’m essentially a guest.
Still, I’m not here to be invited in for coffee. We’re rushing against the clock, on a tight deadline, and all Jim has to do is grab some keys and get a car out of the garage. Oh, the garage. What an understatement. Five cars are sitting on the driveway, none that would look out of place cruising up and down the beach road in Dubai. Behind the two convertibles is a garage to rival an aircraft hangar.
Jim doesn’t fumble for a key or ring the bell. The front door swings open.
‘Jim-Jim!’ A lady says with a musical accent – possibly Portuguese – wearing sweat pants, t-shirt and flip-flops. She throws herself at Jim, giving him a hearty hug. I kind of want one, too.
‘Hey Gloria,’ Jim says, kissing the lady on the cheek.
‘Jim?’ I ask, before he leaves me outside in the cold. ‘Can I use your bathroom?’
Jim looks at Gloria, who covers her mouth and tries to hide behind an unsubtle giggle.
‘Please?’ I ask, rage beginning to simmer.
‘Is that okay, Gloria?’ Jim asks.
What an odd question. Although what Jim’s doing now is even more odd. He’s placed his hand on my lower back. I’m convinced he has no idea he’s doing it. Yet, there it is, his hand lingering, touching me.
‘Will you show her the loo by the study while I go and grab the keys I need?’ he says, darting off.
Gloria claps her hands in front of my face. ‘Come in, darling.’
‘Excuse me, just one minute.’
I open one of my suitcases. I want to get out of my damp clothes, the ladder in my tights spreading longer, wider. Taking out a pair of black skinny jeans and a pink sweater printed with zebras, I also grab some clean pants, socks and a bra, and my toiletries bag.
‘You got a lot of stuff, darling.’
‘Well, it’s all I’ve got,’ I say, and follow Gloria indoors.
The interior isn’t surprising. In fact, it’s exactly how I predicted it would look from the second I saw the cherub fountain. Everything from unnecessary sculptures to heavy mahogany furniture shiny enough to act as a mirror, a black and white tiled marble floor dancing through the wide hallway and a double staircase leading to a mezzanine with lots of fresh, colourful carnations in large vases. There’s no style to this place whatsoever. Just lots of big, clean things. If I were Jim, I’d spend less money on flashy cars and pay an interior designer to do something special with this place.
‘Through here, darling.’
Gloria leads me through a study, fitted with thick beige carpet and a giant desk, plenty of filing cabinets and shelves filled with photographs, golf trophies and model cars. I roll my eyes – then hope Gloria didn’t notice – and scurry into the bathroom and lock the door. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I gasp, shocked at the state of my face. Jim had told me I looked ‘great’ at the train station. I let the cold water run and splash my face, removing the traces of mascara from beneath my eyes and injecting some life into my cheeks. I change quickly, not wanting to be the reason I miss my own flight.
I do dawdle back through the study, keen to catch a