How Do I Love Thee? (4 page)

Then I heard his trouser zip, and I tried to laugh to make it less embarrassing for him, but only managed to burst into tears.

‘And did he know who you were?’ Symes asked again.

‘Pardon?’ I glanced up at his question, wondering how long I’d been distracted by memories.

‘When you car-pooled to the AGM, did he realise how wealthy you are as a famous cartoonist?’

I shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say
famous
exactly.’

‘Come, come, there’s no need for false modesty. Who doesn’t enjoy your
Daily Grimes
cartoon strips? You’re a rare talent, Mrs Hossted! And surely, living in the same building with you for so long, he must have been aware of it?’

‘Honestly, I wouldn’t know. I never saw him much after that weekend. We went about three months without so much as a glimpse of each other.’

‘But surely he must have figured you were rich when you bought the top four apartments, and roof? It’s not like anyone could renovate two whole floors of an old building into a penthouse complete with private gym and pool on any normal salary?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘So he
did
know that you’re wealthy?’

‘I guess so.’

‘And if you had to guess, how long do you think he knew about your plans for the top floor?’

‘I don’t have to guess. He
is
the president of the building
management committee, so I had to submit all the plans to him straightaway.’

‘And was that before or after the AGM?’

‘After! I only bought the apartments last week.’

Symes’ crooked smile twitched at me. ‘So you weren’t aware that the private trust which sold them to you was just a two-dollar shelf company run by your neighbour, Dr Cage?’

My hands twisted into fists in the sheets. Aside from his horse, car and apartment, I wasn’t aware that Marty owned anything worth mentioning. ‘No, I didn’t,’ I confessed, ‘but what difference does that make?’

‘Quite a bit, it would seem, since this shelf company was only created on paper three months ago.’

‘Three months—?’

‘Seventh of January, to be exact.’

I nearly fell off the bed.

That was the same day I bumped into Marty after the Snowy Mountains. In the fire escape.

Until then, I’d managed to hide in my apartment like a happy little hermit, ordering groceries home delivered, paying the building’s optional maid service to take away rubbish, and emailing my boss with my resignation—which she didn’t accept. Instead, she offered to let me work from home so I could still do my regular cartoon strip as well as
political and sport cartoons for the weekend editions. Then when I hesitated at the thought of bumping into Marty again on a regular basis with my comings and goings, she started blubbing and doubled my salary. Everything else I did at the paper could be assigned to somebody else, she’d promised, so I should have been dancing on cloud nine after
that
news.

Instead, I was limping up the stairwell—all because a stupid bank refused to accept scanned copies of certain documents via email, so I had to serve the originals to them personally—and I didn’t want to use the elevator so late on a workday in case I bumped into Marty on his way to or from work. I hadn’t quite worked out what he did at that stage, but I’d noticed his car from my window often enough to know that it involved a lot of afternoon and night shifts. I’d also noticed that he was the suavest, most dignified guy in the building—and by ruining his weekend in such a brutally debased manner, I’d dragged him down into the muddy cesspool of my life, where none leave except in a body bag or straightjacket. So surely he can’t have escaped without some degree of psychological scarring that was sure to make him resent me?

Then, as I rounded the corner and looked up the last flight to the sixth-floor marker, he was there in the stairwell,
large as life in a tailored suit, just as the door clunked shut heavily behind him.

I flushed red and so did he, and we both just stood there for a long moment trying politely to figure out what to say and how to get past each other.

‘Boy, this is awkward,’ he said eventually, and when I laughed nervously, he did too. Then he glanced to my leg and must have noticed my cast gone. ‘How’s your ankle?’

‘Fine, fine … How’s your arm?’ His sling and cast were gone too.

‘Fine, fine … Aches a little in wet weather.’

I nodded and shuffled my feet. ‘Yeah, me too.’

He shrugged his shoulder in a circle, as if demonstrating how much movement he’d regained without needing to say so, then looked again at my ankle. ‘Are you sure it’s safe to be using that on so many stairs so soon?’

‘Oh, yes, yes,’ I flustered, hoping I sounded as casual, yet politely concerned, as he did. ‘I’m only taking it steady.’

‘So your fracture’s completely healed on your last X-ray?’

‘Well, I haven’t really had a chance to get to an X-ray clinic yet …’

‘How did you get your cast off?’

‘It got wet.’ I blurted before I realised what I’d said. ‘In the
shower
,’ I added with a little too much emphasis. I felt
sure he could tell it was a lie, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d already tried and failed to forget the terrible sound of his zipper sliding … and worse still, I couldn’t stand the thought of him remembering me hunched at his feet every time he had to go to the loo from now on.

I realised then that I’d clammed up too long and was fidgeting, so I faked a cough as a weak excuse for my loss of concentration. ‘Well, anyway, I noticed how easily the outer cast melted in one spot, so I repaired it with a bit of tape until I was sure it could take my whole weight, and then last week I just washed it off in my bathtub. Made quite a mess, of course, but nothing I couldn’t handle with a drain and rubbish bin.’

He still looked dubious, so I pushed my heel against the edge of a higher step and twisted the joint to show how strong and flexible it was again. I winced, but twisted my face masterfully into a smile to hide the pain.

Opening his mouth as if he wanted to say something, he swiftly changed his mind and backed up a step, burying both fists in his trouser pockets with a dark expression still lingering. God, he looked handsome, more now than ever with his back against the wall, trying so hard not to say anything cruel to me—and I felt so sorry for him. I could hide away in my room for as long as I liked, but he was still the president of the management committee, so he had to
go on facing everyone in the building and surely rumours were running rife about us by now.

He jingled keys or something in his pocket and I took that as a hint that he was keen to end this—almost as keen as I was now to escape the whole building—but I couldn’t let him go without apologising for that horrible weekend. It was all my fault anyway.

‘Sorry,’ I said, just as he took a step as if to come past me. ‘I only came this way because, at this time of day, I thought you might need the elevator.’

‘That’s not funny,’ he replied, stopping only one step above me. ‘I mean it is, but …’ He reached for my arm, hesitating just close enough to set my skin alight with anticipation, but finally grabbed the handrail and maintained the pitiful remains of the distance between us. ‘Listen, Emily, the stairs are the absolute
last
place I expected to find you. I’ve been coming this way every day so
you
wouldn’t need to bump into
me
. I thought if I just disappeared … so I’ve put my apartment up for sale.’

‘No, you can’t! Oh, Marty … I’ve just come back from signing a contract to sell
my
place! It’s a done deal already, sold to investors over the internet!’

All colour flushed instantly out of his face, and his mouth opened this time in disbelief, so I peeled open my
document folder wide enough for him to see the top half of the sale contract.

‘My late husband paid off the place just before the Titles Office went electronic, so I had to take the original deed to the buyer’s bank myself. Otherwise they won’t be able to complete the title searches or transfer the deed to the new owners on settlement day.’

‘But you’ve lived here so much longer than me, and you have so many valuable memories invested here!’

‘Memories I can live with anywhere—so long as I have a hundred acres around me, or maybe own the whole floor next time to keep neighbours at bay. No offence,’ I added swiftly. ‘Please understand, my husband died in a freak bus accident a decade ago, and I haven’t been able to mix with real people successfully ever since.’

‘
Real
people? Emily,
you’re
more real than anyone else I’ve ever met! Compared to you, the rest of us are asleep—just dozing along in our morbid lives until one of your brilliant cartoons shakes us awake. And trust me, I know morbid. I’ve got three bloodsucking ex-wives, but now, thanks to you …
God
, if I had to repay you with a smile every time you’ve given me one in the last year, I’d have to copy them and post them to you in bulk!’

I grinned, relieved and surprised that he could even bear the thought of reading my cartoons again. ‘You know, I have
a link for fan mail on my website. You could just cut, paste and spam me.’

‘There you go again,’ he said, mimicking my smile. ‘Strange magic happens whenever I’m around you.’

‘Oh,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘Every damn time lately! Don’t remind me!’

His smile widened and he winked. ‘Sure, I won’t if you won’t? Let’s face it, there’s no better way to start a peace in this world than with someone you hate.’

So he did hate me.

My heart sank to a new low and I stared at the floor, wishing for the impossible—until he touched my hand ever so gently and startled my attention back to his brown eyes.

‘Come on, Mrs Hossted. Do we have a deal? That weekend never happened and we can start again from scratch, right here, right now, as if we’ve just met in the stairwell.’

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Any kind of truce, uncomfortable or otherwise, was a moot exercise now that I’d sold my apartment, but if it helped him to repair his self-esteem and quash any malignant rumours that might have stirred about him or his mysterious injury, it was the least I could do.

I sighed and removed my hand politely from his.

‘Sorry, sir,’ I said, still snared by his brown eyes. ‘Do I know you?’

The next day, I posted him a parting gift from the old me: a set of smiley-faced ice-cube makers.

‘So let me get this straight,’ Symes said as if summarising something I’d missed. ‘Three months ago, Dr Cage started a shelf company and used it to secure the purchase of those top four apartments, plus three others on the ground floor on long contracts. Meanwhile, you’d sold your own place on a short contract and started renting it back from the interstate investors who bought it. So while
your
purchase dates for the top floor are still a few weeks from now, Dr Cage doesn’t actually own them himself through his shelf company until precisely the same day as you. Quite clever, actually, because it means he doesn’t need more than a few hundred dollars’ holding deposit for each. But it also means that he’s relying
entirely
on the money from your purchases in order to acquire them all in the first place.’

‘And make a hefty profit
from you
,’ Moser added, sounding as if he envied the idea. ‘Dead or alive. In fact dead would be preferable to him, because then your estate could be held accountable and you couldn’t back out.’

‘How much profit?’ I asked, fearing the answer. I could already see the cartoon: me and Agatha C—
the neighbour did it in the kitchen with a toaster!

‘Well, after he’s paid cash for the three ground-floor units …’ Symes paused for emphasis, so I braced myself. ‘He’ll walk away with roughly three times as much as he paid for them.’

I shook my head, refusing to believe it. ‘He’s not like that.’

‘Tell her the creepy part,’ Moser said, but he couldn’t wait. ‘Last week he also bought your place—the one you’re now renting, so even if the other deals fall through, he could still afford to buy it. So your stalker would be either your killer or your landlord, Mrs Hossted. What do you have to say to that?’

Nothing
, I thought. I was gobsmacked! Last week, I’d mentioned briefly to Marty that I might have to move out anyway until my penthouse was ready because I’d received a letter from the new owners of my old place, saying that they’d changed their minds about renting to me and were intending on moving in themselves to renovate and make a quick buck with a resale—which meant Marty must have contacted them almost immediately!

‘
I
have a question,’ Death asked from his silent corner behind the heart monitor. ‘What makes you think a doctor who also happens to be a savvy investor has anything to do with a pile of smiley-faced sticky notes or, for that matter,
dubious behaviour worthy of accusing him as this poor woman’s stalker?’

‘Show them,’ Symes said, to which Moser revealed a photocopy of their so-called evidence. ‘There’s more, but this one’s the clincher.’

It was a post-it-note with a half-scrawled poem.

How do I love ya? Babe, let’s count the ways: