The Startling Inaccuracy of the First Impression Read online

  Six a.m.

  She groaned.

  She’d been working all afternoon and most of the evening the day before, and she intended to work another shift that evening. Being awake at such an early hour was not at all part of that plan.

  As the sleepy fog started to clear, she realised what had woken her up. Someone was playing music. She pushed the duvet aside and angled her head to one side to listen.

  Correction: someone was playing the piano. Badly.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Katie mumbled.

  It seemed that Verity Forsyth was murdering her brand new piano at six o’clock in the morning.

  Katie tried to keep her anger at bay; if she allowed herself to become too annoyed with the situation, she’d never get back to sleep.

  Instead, she needed to try to relax and see if she could convince her over-active brain to let her drift off.

  She leaned out of the bed and grabbed her earbuds, stuffed them in her ears, and selected a calming music playlist from her phone. She scrunched up her eyes, burrowed her head back into the soft pillow, and hoped that sleep would reclaim her.

  On the seventh song, she realised it was pointless. Her body was bone-tired, her emotions were completely wrung out, and yet her brain was still playing a compilation of interactions with Chris.

  Katie was glad they were over, relieved that she’d finally managed to pry herself away from Chris and her toxic behaviours, but that didn’t stop her from overanalysing every moment. When had the lying begun? And when had it become so ingrained in Chris that she seemed to not know how to be honest anymore?

  And the big one: why had Katie allowed herself to become caught up in the same old situation again? Why had she stuck with Chris for so long, even when she knew that it was doomed?

  She turned off the music, knowing that her brain had woken up and there would be no more sleep coming now. She had a choice: stay in bed and dwell on the past or get up and start the day.

  Katie wasn’t one to dwell, so she kicked back the covers and got out of bed. She pulled on the tatty old robe she’d had since she was fifteen. It was ripped at the sleeves and one of the pockets was torn and useless, but she had never gotten around to replacing it.

  She opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the corridor. She glared at the wall in front of her for a few seconds. Beyond the wallpaper lay the brick wall that separated her corridor from Verity’s stairwell. As far as Katie was concerned, Verity had stolen her sleep from her that morning.

  After she had given the wall her best evil eye, she turned and headed for the kitchen. She’d picked up the essentials, which mainly consisted of coffee, bread, milk, eggs, and butter. She’d learnt a long time ago that you could do a lot with those four items. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, or an evening snack.

  She made herself some coffee and toast and then sat at the dining table. She’d chosen a chair, the one at the end of the table that faced the window into the back garden.

  The sun was starting to rise, and the garden was becoming visible. Katie wondered how long she’d stay in the apartment. Would she enjoy the space in the summer? Would she miss it in the winter? She’d signed a twelve-month lease, but it had a six-month break clause. She could technically leave then.

  Not that she knew where she would go. It felt odd and yet painfully familiar to feel so rudderless and lost.

  Her entire life had been a series of little pockets of stability interspersed with long periods of uncertainty.

  She crunched a mouthful of toast, only then realising that the piano playing had stopped. She rolled her eyes. Couldn’t Verity have chosen a quieter instrument? Or an electric keyboard that came with headphones? And why play at such an early hour?

  Katie wouldn’t be seeking out the answers to those questions any time soon. She’d never really been one to talk to neighbours. When neighbours made conversation with her, that tended to lead to her considering that it might be time to move.

  Not that she wasn’t sociable.

  Katie could talk someone’s ear off, in the right moment. It was just that moment was never at home. Katie liked to keep her socialising to where and when she wanted it. Not at any time she might be popping out for milk.

  The sun was hitting the garden in such a way that she could see the mist lifting before her eyes. The air looked fresh and crisp, and she realised how stuffy it was in the apartment.

  It was something that could be very easily remedied.

  She wedged a piece of toast in her mouth, stood up, and opened the back door. Standing in the doorway, eating her toast, she enjoyed the crisp morning air.

  People often complained that London was dirty, crowded, and polluted, but that entirely depended on where you lived. The city was encircled by various towns that made up the Greater London ring; much of it was extremely green and beautiful.

  Something warm touched Katie’s naked leg. She jumped and let out a little scream.

  The cat replied to her scream with a little meow.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” Katie demanded.

  The cat didn’t reply; it was already inviting itself into her kitchen. Katie rushed after it.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The cat looked around the kitchen and then turned, rushed past Katie, and disappeared. She sighed and trudged after it. The cat was by far the cheekiest animal she had ever met. It was a white, well-groomed Persian that walked with a strut and acted like it owned the place.

  Katie would bet money that she had already met the owner.

  Anyone called Verity Forsyth who had a piano delivered upstairs would surely own a snooty Persian cat.

  She walked up the hallway and checked her bedroom; there was no sign of the cat in, on, or under the bed. Next, she tried the spare room and then the living room.

  There, on the sofa, was the stuck-up beast. Lounging as if it owned the place.

  “Right, come on, princess,” Katie said.

  She picked the cat up and was surprised when it nuzzled into her, hooking its front legs over her shoulder and happily sitting in her arms. It was light, oh-so fluffy, and so friendly.

  Katie almost felt guilty as she returned to the open back door and deposited it outside.

  The cat’s paws touched the ground for a split second before it ran back inside the house. Katie spun around, surprised at its sudden speed.

  “No, no, no,” she said as she walked after it again. “You don’t live here.”

  She scooped the cat up again, this time from the shelving unit. Again, it latched onto her, purred happily, and nuzzled her face.

  “Yes, I know, you’re lovely. But you still don’t live here. Out you go.”

  Katie put the cat down and rushed back in to close the door. The cat snuck in through the gap, nearly getting itself chopped in half.

  “What—no, come here!” Katie demanded. This time she ran after it. She couldn’t believe she was being outsmarted by the tiny ball of fluff.

  She caught up with the cheeky feline in her bedroom, where it was lying on her bed as if it had been there for hours.

  Katie glared at it. “You are unbelievable.”

  It blinked.

  Katie picked it up once again, this time determined that the cat would not win. The cat leaned into her, and Katie wished that it was a little less warm and loving. It would make kicking it out so much easier if she didn’t want to cuddle it.

  She crouched down by the back door, closed it up so there was just enough room for her to put the cat out and then retract her arm and slam it shut. She gave herself a three-second countdown, not about to be beaten by the cat again. In a swift move, she deposited the cat and closed the door.

  Katie let out a sigh of relief. She stood up and looked out through the glass top half of the door.

  “Ha!” She gloated.

  The cat looked up at her with displeasure.

  Katie grinned to herself. It was the little victories in life.

  Sh
e couldn’t stand around all day and play hide and seek with a cat. She needed to shower and see if she could get some content writing work done before heading out on the bike that evening.

  It was less than an hour later, and still two hours earlier than she would have liked, when Katie sat on the sofa with her laptop. She checked through her emails for any new jobs, and then checked the usual sites for content work.

  She was deep into thinking about a four-hundred-word piece on recycling when the doorbell rang. Sighing, she put the laptop to one side and walked through the U-shaped hallway to the front door.

  She opened the door and greeted the postwoman.

  “Morning,” the woman greeted her.

  “Hey.”

  “Katie Ross?”

  “That’s me.”

  The woman handed over an envelope that was too big for the letter box and then some others at the same time.

  “Great, thanks,” Katie said.

  A blur of white passed them both and darted into Katie’s bedroom.

  “Oh, looks like your cat wanted to come in,” the postwoman said with a chuckle. “She’s fast!”

  “She is,” Katie agreed.

  They said their goodbyes, and Katie closed the door. She stood in the hallway and looked at the cat lounging on her bed as if it had been asleep for hours.

  “I’m busy and don’t have time for you, but this is a one-off,” Katie explained to the purring mass. “Lap it up.”

  Katie returned to the sofa, eager to get back to work. The problem with not having a contracted, full-time job was that you only got paid when you worked. And you only worked when work was available.

  As a content writer, she could only write what people wanted when they wanted it. And other people were competing for that work. If she wasn’t online and accepting the job at the exact right time, then someone else got the gig and she didn’t get paid.

  The same went for her delivering work. If she wasn’t in the area, online, and ready to go, she didn’t get the work and she didn’t get paid.

  It was an interesting way to earn a living and it definitely had its ups and downs, but Katie loved the freedom it brought her.

  She wasn’t sure how much time had passed the next time the doorbell rang. She let out a groan, put the laptop to one side, and went to the front door again.

  Katie had expected it to be another delivery or a charity canvasser. She hadn’t expected Verity, and she hadn’t expected her to look so incensed. Especially considering Verity had been the one to ruin Katie’s morning, she had no right to be the one looking angry.

  Katie leaned on the door. “Yes?”

  “My cat is in your apartment,” Verity said, fury dripping from each word.

  “Your cat ran into my apartment multiple times,” Katie corrected, not wanting to adopt the badge of pet stealer on her second day.

  “Then you stop her,” Verity explained as if she were talking to a child.

  “She’s fairly insistent,” Katie retaliated. “I kicked her out again and again, and she still threw herself back in. Nearly got chopped in half at one point.”

  “Kitty!” Verity called over Katie’s shoulder.

  “Kitty?” Katie asked, nearly laughing.

  Verity’s eyes flashed with rage. “My nephew named her, not me.”

  “You could have vetoed it,” Katie said. She turned around and looked at the empty hallway. “Looks like Kitty doesn’t want to come to you.”

  “She’s in the window,” Verity said. “I saw her when I got home.”

  The frustration poured from Verity; the fact that her cat was in Katie’s home and ignoring her was clearly enormously irritating to her. Katie couldn’t help but find it a little amusing.

  “I’ll fetch her.” Katie went into her bedroom and sure enough saw that Kitty had moved the blinds to one side so she could get a good view out into the front garden.

  “Troublemaker,” Katie whispered, picking the fluffball up. She carried Kitty to the door and handed her back to Verity.

  Verity gratefully took the cat, who clung onto her new human with as much happiness as she had held onto Katie. Kitty obviously didn’t care who was paying her attention as long as it was happening.

  “You slam your door,” Verity said.

  Katie frowned at the topic change. “What?”

  Verity looked at the doorframe by way of explanation. “This door, you slam it. It shakes my furniture and makes an awful noise in my apartment. Close it quietly in the future.”

  Verity spun on her heel and disappeared through her own door.

  Katie opened and closed her mouth, annoyed at herself for not having had the time to get a reply in. Or complain about the piano playing.

  She shook her head. Her neighbour, and cat, were obviously going to be a pain. That six-month break clause in her lease was looking mighty appealing about now.

  6

  Dinner Parties and Motorbikes Don’t Mix

  Verity clutched Kitty and climbed the stairs to her apartment.

  “Whatever were you doing in there?” she asked.

  Kitty simply cuddled into her, purring loudly. Kitty was clearly unaware of the huge amount of emotional distress she had just caused.

  Verity lowered her to the floor when they arrived upstairs and closed the door to the stairwell behind her.

  “No more going in there,” she ordered, hoping that Kitty could at least understand her tone.

  Kitty strutted into the kitchen, and soon the sound of dry food being crunched between sharp teeth was the only thing that could be heard.

  Verity blew out a sigh. Entering the garden and seeing her cat in the downstairs window had almost caused her to have a heart attack. She’d gestured wildly for the cat to come to her through the glass, somehow attempting to explain that she needed to get out and then come back home.

  Kitty had just stared back at her, not a flicker of recognition or emotion on her face.

  After much gesticulating, Verity had decided to ignore it. Kitty would come home soon enough. But Verity had barely got to the upstairs apartment when she realised that there was no way she could ignore it. Her cat was downstairs.

  Stolen by the new, loud, door-slamming tenant.

  It couldn’t stand. She went back downstairs and hammered on the door. Katie Ross had stood her ground and argued her point, and Verity knew she was right. Kitty was in and out of every house, shed, car, and delivery van up and down the street, given the chance.

  Verity blamed herself for wanting a breed cat; the Persian suffered from delusions of grandeur and no sense of propriety.

  It hadn’t been the best interaction with her new neighbour. She’d managed to mention the door, but not in a way she was particularly happy with.

  But who could blame her for getting in a snit over the whole thing? Katie had stolen her cat and offered no apology.

  She remembered the bags of shopping that she’d abandoned at the top of the stairs. Coming home from a quick trip to the shops to find your cat in the wrong house wasn’t exactly new to Verity, but downstairs had only been occupied a couple of days. Couldn’t Katie have waited a week or two before she started to kidnap her pet?

  It was obvious that Katie was going to be an enormous thorn in her side. The bike ruining the garden, not having usual working hours, bike engines rumbling, stealing her cat, slamming doors.

  Verity grabbed the shopping bags and entered the kitchen to unload them. What would her friends say if they saw Kitty in Katie’s window? What would they say if the bike was in the garden when they arrived that evening for the dinner party?

  She angrily shoved perishables into the fridge. She’d been looking forward to the dinner party for weeks; now she had a reason to dread it. A red-headed reason.

  “Please, please, let her be out when they arrive,” she muttered. “And please, please, let her have taken that damned bike with her.”

  Verity stepped outside, following her dinner guests. Robert, Timothy, and Harriet
slowly walked down the garden path. She stood on the step to wave them off, glancing to the left and noting that the bike was thankfully not present.

  The dinner had gone off without a hitch. Katie had left just before her guests had arrived, slamming her door and revving her bike before vanishing into the night.

  Verity didn’t care about the noise in that moment; she’d just been thankful that she was gone.

  Now, she wanted her guests to get out of the garden and away from the house before Katie returned. The last thing she needed was the three of them to be mown down.

  “Good night!” she called out, hoping it would encourage them to walk a little quicker and stop dawdling on the path.

  It didn’t work.

  Harriet and Robert were deep in conversation about the Japanese stock market, both of completely different minds about the direction of their client portfolios. Both wrong, in Verity’s opinion.

  The cool evening air caused her to fold her arms and rub her hands against her bare upper arms to keep the chill at bay. She’d stepped outside in her dress, simply to say goodnight to her guests and ensure their hurried departure.

  Now she regretted not grabbing a coat or at least a shawl.

  “Wonderful meal, Vere,” Robert said. “Did I mention?”

  “You did.”

  Robert was drunk. This was no mean feat considering Verity had long believed he was a high-functioning alcoholic.

  So many people in finance were.

  The culture of drinking within the sector was rampant, and only something she really noticed when she’d left.

  Her alcohol intake, and tolerance, had taken an almighty dive since her retirement.

  “I’ll call you soon, darling,” Harriet promised.

  “See that you do!”

  Harriet never called.

  Verity was always the one to pick up the phone and make the effort. Harriet was far too busy to remember to call people. She wanted to, she meant to, but she didn’t. Her work took up almost every second of her spare time, and she didn’t see the passage of weeks and months as others did.