Sleeping with the Soldier. Charlotte Phillips
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absolutely perfect,’ Lara said, wondering vaguely how she could possibly fit all her stock in here. The room was tiny, the only furnishings a small dresser and lamp and the narrowest single bed Lara had ever seen. But in terms of living space, it was a gift. She supposed it might seem small to Poppy and her friends. Lara had heard them talk about boarding school and their families; spacious living was clearly the norm. Lara had had many bedrooms over the years. The dispensable bedroom was part of the package when you were working your way through the care system. She’d lived with a succession of foster families over the years and a room of your own still felt like something to be prized. And after the flood debacle, it really was. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said. ‘All I need to do now is source some storage for the rest of my stock. Until the shop gets going I’ve got a bit of a stockpile. I’ll have a look and see if there’s somewhere locally that I can keep it cheaply.’
Poppy flapped a hand at her.
‘There’s no need for that. You don’t want to be putting those gorgeous clothes in some hideous manky lockup. You can keep them in Alex’s room—there’s tons of space in there.’ She led the way along the hall and opened the door on what was possibly the neatest room Lara had ever seen. The bed was made with symmetrical coin-bouncing perfection, the top sheet neatly folded back in a perfect white stripe across the top of the quilt. She narrowed her eyes as she took in the radiator, the ends of which were visible either side of the headboard. Goodness knew what acrobatics he’d been performing in this room to make the hideous racket she’d had to put up with.
After the cosy bohemian colour of the rest of the flat, the room was practically austere. Poppy moved to one side so Lara could see properly. Open shelving ran the length of the opposite wall, filled with perfectly folded rectangles of knitwear and T-shirts. Gleamingly polished shoes were lined up neatly in pairs along the lowest shelf. A shelf was devoted to books, their spines lined up in order of height. Not an item was out of place, not a speck of dust marred the clear floor space. A dark oak wardrobe stood at the side of the window. Lara imagined his shirts and jackets would be hung in colour co-ordinated perfection if she were to look inside.
‘Wow,’ she breathed.
‘I know,’ Poppy said, completely unfazed. ‘He’s a million times more tidy and organised than I am. That’s what comes of being packed off to boarding school at the age of five and then later going into the military. He’s the most organised, methodical person I know.’
A pang of sympathy twisted in Lara’s chest at the thought of Alex as a five-year-old fending for himself when he had a family of his own back at home. She’d been forced into that situation by necessity; there simply hadn’t been an alternative for her mother. She couldn’t comprehend why anyone would want to send their child away when they didn’t have to, and they probably paid a fortune for the privilege too.
‘He does all his own washing and ironing,’ Poppy was saying. ‘He just needs a bit of, well, female influence in his life.’
Lara looked at her with raised eyebrows. Female influence? Poppy grinned at her.
‘Maybe not that kind of female influence. I’m not sure he’s short of that.’
He certainly wasn’t, judging by the frequency of his overnight guests.
‘He needs someone a bit more long-term in my opinion. He’s spent far too long with only blokes for company. Who knows? Perhaps a roomful of lingerie might put him in touch with his feminine side a bit more.’
‘Are you sure he won’t mind having the clothes rails in here?’ Lara said doubtfully. ‘I mean, it’s so tidy. I’ve got quite a lot of loose stuff too.’
Poppy shrugged.
‘I’m doing him a favour here, letting him stay. It’s my flat, after all.’ She tossed her hair back. ‘Do you want a hand moving in?’
HEADING TOWARDS MIDNIGHT, and the landing and stairs were customarily dark as Alex propelled his latest evening companion towards the top flat—Name: Susie; Age: Twenty-six; Occupation: Medical Secretary; Favourite Drink: Strawberry Daiquiri … whatever the hell that was. He’d need to ask Isaac—although he’d bought a few this evening.
He opened the front door and ushered Susie down the dimly lit hallway to his bedroom. The rest of the flat was quiet. Poppy could sleep for England and Isaac was still out of the country. This last week after his encounter with the quiet freak downstairs, Alex had found himself grudgingly attempting to keep the noise down and so he skipped his usual stop-off in the kitchen for a nightcap. Not that it had anything to do with any personal regard for Lara Connor, of course, although he had to admit to a nod of admiration for her business drive. It was more a desire to keep her off his back and live an easy life. And after the embarrassment of sleeping the day away in her flat, he’d done his best to avoid bumping into her again. To that end, he’d also shifted his bed away from the wall a little. Apparently it had worked, since he hadn’t heard a word from her since.
As he opened his bedroom door it was the scent that hit him first. It assaulted him even before he flipped the light switch and it put him immediately on edge. Sweet floral notes that took him right back to the rose garden at his family home in the country. The memory wasn’t a particularly welcome one. Then again there were precious few childhood memories that were. Susie hung on to his arm and stifled a tipsy giggle, which trailed away as light flooded the room.
‘This is your room?’ Her voice registered shocked disgust, and the fun tone was completely gone, as if he’d lobbed a jug of cold water over her for perfect instant sobriety. She let go of his arm. ‘Oh, my God, you live with someone,’ she wailed. ‘I knew it was too good to be true. Where is she—out somewhere? Working?’
The perfect order by which he’d lived his life since he was just a small kid at boarding school, reinforced first by the cadets and then by the army, had been completely in evidence when he’d left the flat some six hours ago for his usual Friday night out. A place for everything and everything squarely in its place. In his absence the room had been inexplicably turned into what looked like a bordello. Clothes racks full of silk and satin nightwear stood alongside the wall; the floor space to one side of the room was stacked with baskets of frilly knickers and lacy bras; there was an overflowing box full of bars of ladies’ French soap from which the cloying girly smell was emanating and, most unbelievably, there was a padded clothes hanger over the door of his wardrobe on which hung a long and flowing peacock-blue silk dressing-gown thing trimmed with matching marabou feathers. He felt as if he’d stumbled into some insane dream world.
He suddenly remembered Susie standing next to him and shook his head lightly as if to clear it.
‘I’m not with anyone,’ he said. ‘I’m single.’
Her tone now shifted to sickened.
‘You mean this stuff is yours? I should have listened to my friends, all those warnings about one-night stands and weirdos. Where’s my phone?’ She opened her handbag and began to paw through it. ‘What are you, some kind of cross-dresser?’
‘Of course not,’ he said, exasperated. ‘For Pete’s sake, do I look like I might enjoy wearing women’s clothing?’
‘They never do,’ she said, pulling out her phone and scrolling through it. ‘I’ve watched enough reality TV to know that the ones to watch out for are the masculine types. And they never choose the kind of clothes that blend in either, oh, no. It’s always a bloody prom dress.’ She pointed an emphatic finger at him. ‘Or a silk negligee.’
The situation was careering way out of control. He held up placating hands.
‘There’s obviously been some kind of a mix-up,’ he said.
‘Too right there has.’ She turned away from him. ‘Taxi, please,’ she snapped into the