“Sounds like Maggie was one clever cat, Watson.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh, she definitely was.” A pause. “Why’d you call me that?”
“You know, because of your detective work. Watson and Holmes.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Why can’t I be Holmes?”
Jay folds his arms and quirks an eyebrow. “Because only I’m allowed to be Holmes.”
“Well, he was a bit of a lunatic,” I agree teasingly. What’s this? Am I actually flirting? Jay looks like he’s suppressing a big smile. It’s enough encouragement for me to go on, “So, am I a Lucy Liu Watson or a Martin Freeman Watson?”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and bringing our faces closer. “Which do you want to be?”
“Eh, Martin Freeman, obviously. That way I could be BFFs with Benedict Cumberbatch.”
“But if you were Lucy Liu you could be BFFs with Jonny Lee Miller,” Jay counters.
“Ugh, no, thank you. I’d have to listen to him whine on and on about missing his chance with Angelina Jolie and how it’s the biggest regret of his life.”
Jay’s mouth opens as he lets out a loud guffaw of a laugh. “That was a good one, Watson!”
Ignoring his compliment, I ask, “Do you want the other half of my sandwich?” My belly is too full of butterflies in his presence to eat it all myself.
“Give it here.”
I push it across the table to him, and he eats it in less than four bites. There’s something about watching him eat that gives me a pang of déjà vu. Strange. Jay signs the tenancy agreement and tells me he’ll be around some time tomorrow evening to move in, provided his references all check out.
“Can I ask you a question?” I request shyly as he’s driving me back to the office.
“Fire away.”
“Did David Murphy really die because of the ordeal you put him through?”
Jay’s fists reflexively tighten on the steering wheel, and he doesn’t look at me as he answers, “What am I, Matilda?”
“Uh, I don’t….”
“What’s my profession?”
“You’re an illusionist.”
“Right, and what’s an illusion?”
I hesitate a moment before replying, “Something that isn’t real?”
“Exactly. Despite what some of the crazies out there would have you believe, everything I do is a trick. Sleight of hand, misdirection, smoke and mirrors. I show people a table and make them believe it’s a chair. But in the end it’s still a table. David’s heart attack would’ve happened that night whether he’d taken part in my stunt or not.”
“But Una Harris’ article said you gave his family twenty grand,” I practically whisper.
“Yeah, I did. Because David wasn’t just some random volunteer. He was a good friend of mine. I wanted to help pay for the funeral.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh,” Jay replies, and there’s a long silence before a small smile splits his lips. “You feeling like a bit of a shit now, Watson?”
I do my best not to smile back. “Just a little.”
He chuckles softly. “Good.”
A minute later he lets me off at the office and then pulls away in his flashy car. I can’t believe this man could be officially sharing a house with me in only a day’s time. There are a few people already sitting in the reception area, waiting to be seen, when I arrive and hurry to my desk. As I take my seat and quickly register each of the waiting clients, something red catches my eye. Sitting atop a stack of folders that have been placed on the floor, waiting to be filed, is my phone.
And quite mysteriously, resting on the screen is a red and white six of hearts, taken from a deck of playing cards.
Three
Dad and I arrive home the next evening at six-thirty, having taken the bus as usual. We have a car¸ but Dad says it’s not economical to drive to the office and pay exorbitant parking fees when we can simply use public transport.
As it happens, Jay’s references did check out, so Dad called him earlier to give him the good news. There’s no sign of him yet, and I can’t say I’m not relieved. I definitely need some time to relax into the idea of him living here. In the kitchen I put the oven on to pre-heat, planning on cooking a lasagne for dinner. Dad sits at the table, sorting through files in his briefcase.
“Put those away,” I scold him mildly. “I think you should spend this one evening work-free. You’ve been overdoing it lately.”
Dad puts down a file and rubs his forehead. “I know, love. It’s just so hard to turn off these days.”
“What do you think about joining that book club I mentioned last week? It sounds like fun and will give you something to do that’s not work-related.”
“A-ha, but what if they’re reading a novel about a court case?” he counters, and I sigh.
“Dad.”
“Okay, I’ll go to the book club if it makes you happy.”
“Great, the next meeting is on Wednesday.”
Dad smiles at me now. “It’s funny how the roles change, isn’t it? I remember a time when I was the one who looked out for you. Now you’re the one who’s looking out for me.”
I smile fondly back him. “We look out for each other, Dad. Always.”
He’s right, though. Up until around the time I turned twenty-one, Dad had been very protective of me, always making sure I was safe and sheltering me as much as he could. He’d even sent me to an all-girls convent school growing up, which could be why I’m a little behind other women my age when it comes to men.
Losing Mum when she was so young made Dad cling to me more tightly than your average parent.
I make a quick trip to my room to change out of my work clothes and get into some comfy yoga pants and my favourite, a Game of Thrones T-shirt that reads, Stick ’em with the pointy end. If Jay’s going to be living here, then I might as well let him see the real me. I have no desire to put in the effort of pretending I go around the house all dolled up to the nines twenty-four/seven. Better to disillusion the illusionist from the get-go.
I wash off my makeup and moisturise, then take out my contacts. Slipping on my black-rimmed Ray Ban glasses, I tie my hair up in a bun. There. The outfit says, This is me. Take it or leave it.
Just as I’m popping the lasagne in the oven and Dad has settled himself in front of the TV in the living room, there’s a knock at the door. Walking nervously down the hallway, I recognise Jay’s tall frame standing in front of the frosted glass. I take a deep breath and open the door.
Whoa. It seems I’m not the only one who decided to dress down. Gone is his business suit from yesterday. Now he’s wearing a pair of faded jeans and a grey T-shirt, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. And wow, both his arms have tattoos right down to the wrists.
I make a big show of giving him a curious look. “Oh, hello. I’m sorry, but I was expecting someone else. You wouldn’t happen to have seen him? Goes by the name of Jay Fields, about your height, wearing a suit, no visible ink?”
“Quit being a clever clogs, Watson, and come give me a hand with my stuff,” he chuckles, not for a second batting an eyelid at my dressed-down appearance. Oh, well, all right, then.
I take the box he’s holding and set it at the end of the stairs, then follow him out to his car to help with the rest.
“So, who are you supposed to be now, Clark Kent or Superman?” I ask jokingly as he hands me another box. This one rattles, and I look inside to see a plastic dummy head, a medieval knight’s helmet, a bunch of fake coins, and an industrial-sized roll of cello tape.
“Fuck that. I told you I was Sherlock,” he replies with a smirk, stubbing his smoke out with the toe of his boot. He moves to stand in front of me and takes me by surprise when he gives my nose a little pinch. “Besides, you’re the one wearing the cute glasses.”