The Price of Inertia (The Seven Sins #4) - Lily Zante Page 0,23
days.”
“The housekeeper’s still here,” I shoot back.
“I’m surprised that you didn’t fire her at the same time.”
“She never said anything.”
“You’ll find a reason soon enough, but go easy on her, will you?”
“You make me sound like a villain from one of my books.”
He chuckles. “With you I never know.”
I’m curious. “Go easy on her why?”
“She lost her job.”
I snort. “I’ll try to be gentle.”
“I’d appreciate it. She’s nice. She accepted the job on the spot. Of course, I had to pay her slightly more to get her to accept.”
“How much more?”
Rob coughs lightly. “Double.”
I have no idea what double the rate is. I don’t even know what the going rate for these people is. I don’t care. I’m aware that I need a manager or a PA to help me through my daily life, but I’ve made a choice not to have people around me. And unwittingly, Rob has fulfilled that role to a degree. It’s not his responsibility, and he’s gone over and above what he needs to. “I’ll try not to fire her.”
“This is a big year for you. It’s a big gamble, writing the third book in a trilogy almost a decade after the first book. It sets up a lot of expectation.”
I groan. Every time he reminds me of this the pressure intensifies. I wish I could go back to the days when writing was fun. I wasn’t so well known then, but I had enough to get by. I didn’t need millions. Or the fame, or the loss of my anonymity.
Writing is a chore now. I’m not sure I’ll ever get my love for it back.
“Dare I ask about your writing?”
It was coming, since that’s the only reason he ever calls. “How’s it coming along?”
It’s not. This week has upended my daily schedule. I’ve had people in my house to get used to. A new city, and new home. How does he think this is going to be any better?
“Why don’t you go back to the house where you lived? Or revisit the children’s home?” he suggests.
Is he fucking crazy?
I won’t be going to Grampton House, and I won’t be going to my childhood home. Ever.
Some places are best left forgotten. Though I’ve written about some of them. It helped me to reach some sort of closure.
“I don’t need to visit any of those places.”
Rob lets out a loud exhale. I sense he’s fed up. I’ve tried his patience lately and I’m aware of that. He’s only trying to help.
“I was about to write,” I tell him, staring at the blank notepad again.
“Don’t let me stop you.”
I hang up. I need more coffee. I head into the kitchen again and refill my cup, and notice that there’s a scrap of paper lying on the table that wasn’t there when I woke up.
Salad and quiche are in the fridge.
I’ll be back later tonight.
The housekeeper has gone out for the day.
My shoulders sink with the relief of this news. This is just how I like it. I have the place to myself.
No fitness guy.
No irritating housekeeper.
I stare at the scribbled note again and my eye catches the line a few spaces lower down.
Don’t wait up.
There’s a smiley face after it.
What in the devil’s name does she mean ‘don’t wait up?’
She’s trying to be funny, or familiar, but I don’t like it. I peer inside the fridge and pull out the food she’s left. It doesn’t look too bad though my insides roil at the heap of salad. Still, the quiche looks appetizing. I don’t imagine for one moment that she baked this. She’s no Freya.
But she’s trying. I have to give her that. She could have left me a sandwich. I guess Rob must have explained things better to her than he did the personal trainer.
I head straight back to my study and get on with my writing. My story is in a lousy shape right now but my longhand notes aren’t complete rubbish. I sit up and move my plate out of the way. An idea pops into my head and I start to scribble some notes. The more I write, the more ideas pop up in my head. I write some more and fall back into the story almost seamlessly.
When I next look up, it’s evening. I almost choke in surprise. Hours have flown by, and my lunch is untouched. The salad leaves look wilted but I’m starving. I stand up first and stretch, feeling stiff and achey all over.