Chapter 7: Was This You?

I was sitting at the dining table in the kitchen, enjoying some toasted crumpets smothered in butter and strawberry jam, when the doorbell rang. With my phone in my free hand, I was scrolling through Instagram while streaming Carly’s first album, ‘Three Weeks in Nashville,’ from my phone to the Bluetooth speaker on the windowsill. It was a really good album. I’d found it on the music streaming service I paid for (for me and my three housemates, naturally. Mark always said he liked to ‘pay his way’ but he certainly didn’t turn down the ‘perks’ of living with me).

It was very ‘Country’ in that undefinable ‘Country’ way. You know what I mean, right? Country Music has a ‘vibe’ that’s quite unique. You know when something is ‘Country’ the first time you hear it, even if you don’t know who the artist is. Anyway, it was a good album, and I could see why it had done so well. It was at the same time both joyful and bittersweet.

A lot like being in love.

‘Three Weeks in Nashville.’ She’d even named the album after the time we spent together.

I was looking at the photos that Carly had posted to her Instagram during her time in London and from last night, and they were getting a lot of likes and comments. Not huge numbers for someone in the entertainment industry, not by any means—thousands rather than millions. Carly was pretty good at replying to her fans, too. She obviously couldn’t reply to everyone—there were far too many. Instead, she responded to the comments and questions that themselves got the most likes, telling them how much she enjoyed her time in London.

There were more than a few comments from girls asking who the ‘cute guy’ in one of the photos was, which was a bit of an ego boost. Carly had replied to a few with ‘my English Gent’ or ‘my Gentleman Tour Guide.’ She’d even replied to one with just the word, “Jealous?”

At least she hadn’t called me her boyfriend like she had during our day together in London. I suppose she’d been told not to by her manager.

“I’ll get it,” Imogen called from the lounge.

A few seconds later, I heard the door open, and a voice said, quite aggressively, “Is he here? Where is he?”

It was Alannah.

“Is who here?” Imogen said. And she accused me of asking stupid questions.

There was a sigh, and I almost heardAlannah roll her eyes. “Paul, of course!”

“I’m in the kitchen,” I called.

Alannah’s footsteps were loud on the hardwood floor, so I guess you could say she stomped the short distance to the kitchen. I heard Lily apologise to Imogen over the sound of her stomping.

Alannah burst into the kitchen, stopped and looked around. I was sure this was the first time she’d been to the house. I’m surprised she knew where it was. Lily was with her, though, so Alannah must have ‘persuaded’her to show her the way.

Lana knew I owned the house, but having never seen it before, I can only assume it wasn’t what she expected. Student accommodation was usually at the lower end of the market—not just the areas the houses were in, but in terms of fixtures and fittings, and décor as well. Especially in the private rented sector. But I had deliberately bought a house in a nice area and when Mark and I worked on it that Easter holiday before we moved in, we’d done a damn good job, if I do say so myself. Well, he’d done a damn good job. I helped. A little. Actually, I might have gotten in his way more than I helped, but he was too polite to say so.

Mark’s dad ran a small building company, and while I’d gone on my grand tour of America during my gap year, Mark had spent his time working for his father, earning money and picking up skills I wished I had.

And I hadn’t skimped on anything that needed to be replaced. You could even go as far as to say I’d ‘spared no expense.’

So, the kitchen Alannah had just walked into wasn’t the kind of place most people would have expected to find in a student house.

“This is...,” she said, still looking around at the kitchen that could have been straight out of ‘Good Homes Magazine.’ She shook her head, then held out a piece of paper and said, “Is this you? Did you do this?”

“Do what?” I knew what the paper was. But I also knew that sometimes it was best to play dumb—at least until the person in front of you had ‘gotten it out of their system.’

“This ... Trust? Scholarship. Award. Whatever it is.” She read from the paper. “‘The Clarissa Liddington Memorial Scholarship.’ Is this some sort of joke? I told you before, I don’t need your charity. I don’t want your charity. Is that clear?”

I stood up and walked over to Alannah, then took the paper she was still holding out from her. She was so angry, she was shaking. I’ll give her one thing—as stubborn as she was, she was certainly a young woman of conviction. Passionate conviction.

I smoothed the crumpled paper and looked at it. Then I looked at Lana. “Have you seen who signed this letter?”

She shook her head. “Christine Liddington. I don’t know who that is.”

I said softly. “It’s Clarissa’s mum.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that. I...” She looked sad. Then her expression hardened. “So, what did you do? Get her to send me a letter so you could make it look like it wasn’t you giving me this money?”