Evie | H.S |

71. Hot wax

I padded over to the attached ensuite. Turning to respond, I shook my head - I was pretty hungover and didn't feel like I could keep food down just yet.

"At least have some tea and toast, line your stomach and that" he continued to which I nodded with a sigh in agreement - it was easier than arguing, I knew he wouldn't relent.

Dressed in my loosest fitting jeans, a baggy washed-out band shirt and my slip on chequered Vans, I made haste to pack my bags and lug them downstairs. Hotel Harry had been surprising and strange at times, and it was time for me to check-out.

Harry was buttering two slices of rye toast for me as I entered the kitchen. A jazz record was playing quietly in the background as he did so.

"We're twinning" he observed with a laugh, stepping around from the counter to reveal his outfit. He too was clad in baggy blue jeans, a pair of white Vans sneakers and a distressed Morrissey T-shirt.

"Jesus Christ" I moaned, moving to pull a stool from out under the island bench. With a chuckle, he pushed a plate of toast towards me, beside the hot cup of tea he'd had waiting.

"How's the head?" Harry leant forward onto the bench, one ankle crossed behind the other as his fisted hands cupped his chin.

"Worse than a five, less than a ten" I shrugged, ripping the toast with my teeth. "There's a lockbox at the flat, by the way" I added. "We won't need to go past the agents for keys anymore".

"I've quite liked having company here" Harry confessed after a few moments, watching on as I bit into the toast once more.

"I'm sure you could do without the stumbling-home at two AM wake up calls though".

"If you're going to be stumbling home, I'd rather it be to me anyway, Eve" he imparted, lips forming an earnest tight line before he left me to finish my tea, rolling my bags out towards the front door.

——

I can't believe I even considered doing this on my own. How we managed to fit all of my purchases into the back of his Range Rover was a Tetris-like miracle. In typical Harry fashion, he didn't allow me to lift a finger. As we pulled up in the undercover car park at IKEA, a store attendant was already waiting with my purchases. With sunglasses on and a cap hovering over his face to try and maintain some sort of anonymity, Harry had rushed out of the car and began packing it all across the boot and folded down backseats before I'd had a chance to get my seatbelt off.

I know he could have paid someone to do all of this if he wanted, but I think he genuinely got a kick out of playing 'normal' with me. He'd mentioned this in the past and this was proving a prime example.

The front facade of my new place of residence was similar to that of the terrace-like houses I'd lived in, in Melbourne. Rendered light-grey stone was covered with winding vine. A cute little iron fence sat between the properties boundary and the sidewalk, overgrown rose bushes behind it.

A narrow carpeted staircase led up to my floor - proving an absolute shit show of an effort to try and lug boxes of flat pack furniture up; although Harry did it with ease, all flexed-muscles and masculine bravado as he barked orders for me to get out of the way and stand back.

The flat was a bit of a shoebox, though I'd expected that and was ok with it, given it was still mildly aesthetically pleasing. It was a little dated, dying for a fresh polish on the floor and a lick of paint, but it was only temporary. The front door opened directly into the open living space with a small kitchen along the left hand side wall. The right wall had a large window that let in plenty of natural light and a small fireplace and mantle sat on the wall between them.