Bella Osborne - Meet Me at Pebble Beach

No mention of the alarm code. Regan closed her eyes whilst the alarm echoed through her brain. Why couldn’t Cleo use her birthday like everyone else? Cleo had said something about the code being related to a famous person.

‘Good morning,’ said a cheery man in navy overalls, making Regan flinch – she hadn’t heard him approach thanks to the relentless racket of the alarm. ‘You got a problem?’

‘No, it’s my alarm clock. Of course I’ve got a problem!’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she shouted over the alarm. ‘I can’t remember the code.’

‘Try 1234. It’s usually 1234.’

‘No, it’s something to do with a famous person. Leonardo …’

‘DiCaprio?’

‘No, the artist bloke.’ Her head was throbbing in time to the incessant alarm. A few people passing by were glaring. ‘Leonardo da Vinci!’ shouted Regan as recollection struck her.

‘Born fourteen fifty something and died fifteen something-or-other.’

Regan was stunned. She eyed the boiler man again – who’d have thought he’d know something like that? It was a reminder that she should never judge people on first impressions; although of course she absolutely did. She began inputting numbers and on the third attempt she struck gold – 1452 worked, and silence reigned. Hallelujah , she thought. And then: Oh poo, now I’m going to have to change the code AND think of a reason to tell Cleo why I’ve had to change it.

Her head continued to buzz, but she went inside and the boiler man followed. After a few minutes hunting for the boiler, she left him to it, while she raided the solitary cupboard for coffee. There was a tiny fridge but, sensibly, there was nothing in it apart from a half-used jar of pesto, so she made two black coffees and settled down in the only chair to read her magazine.

‘Is this what goes for art these days?’ asked the boiler man whilst unscrewing something.

Regan eyed the large canvas nearby. ‘Yep. She makes a mint.’

He paused. ‘Really? What are they?’ He tipped his head at the large pinkish brown circle on the canvas. ‘Abstract, is it?’

‘Nipples,’ said Regan and she disappeared behind her magazine.

The rest of Saturday was quite dull. Jarvis had insisted on having a bit of a spring clean, changing the bed linen and the towels, and it felt like that had taken up most of the day. When she’d finally flopped in a chair, Jarvis had hold of the TV remote and was flicking through the channels. The winning lottery numbers flashed up and she yelped.

‘What?’ he asked.

Regan realised she had no idea what her numbers were, and the ticket was safely locked in her drawer at work. Oh well; she’d have to wait until Monday to check them. ‘I thought the thing before looked interesting.’ She wasn’t going to let on that she’d bought a lottery ticket.

‘ Wheeler Dealers ? Okay,’ he said, changing the channel back. She sank into the chair in defeat.

Regan spent most of Sunday in the kitchen: half the time cooking, and the rest trying to keep on top of the mess she was creating. It was such a shame that society didn’t see her ability to make a mess as a talent, because she really was very good at it. Jarvis tapped on the door. ‘Dare I come in?’ he asked.

Regan scanned the room. ‘Mmm, okay but don’t freak out.’

‘Now I’m already freaking out,’ he said, pushing the door open a crack and peering cautiously inside. Apart from a few sticky patches on the worktop and some onion skins on the floor the kitchen was tidy.

‘Ta dah!’ she said, flailing out her arms and whacking a spoon resting in a saucepan of toffee, which sent a dramatic splatter up the wall. ‘Shit!’

‘And it was going so well,’ said Jarvis, cracking a smile as he grabbed a cloth from the sink.

‘It really was.’ Regan’s mouth turned downwards. It had taken a lot of effort to keep the mess at bay; she seemed to be able to make it multiply without any particular effort.

‘When’s dinner ready?’

‘Ah,’ said Regan, retrieving the gooey spoon from the floor and trying not to stand in the puddle of toffee it had left. ‘I’m not making dinner.’

‘But you’ve been in here ages.’ Jarvis rinsed the cloth and had another go at the toffee that now appeared to be firmly attached to the paintwork.

‘I’m making “special” toffee apples for Alex at work.’ She indicated a tray of four toffee-coated balls covered in chocolate sprinkles with lolly sticks sticking out of them.

‘Why special?’ he asked, frowning at the toffee patch, which wasn’t going anywhere.

‘They’re not apples. They’re onions.’ She did her ta-dah hands again and narrowly missed the toffee spoon, so she shoved her hands in her pockets for safety.

His eyebrows knitted together. ‘Why?’

‘Because he dropped me in it at a meeting and kicked my pen across the floor. Then blamed me for him spilling his coffee and made me go to a director’s meeting. It’s payback.’

‘It’s juvenile.’ He returned to trying to shift the toffee.

‘It’s funny,’ said Regan, feeling deflated. It had taken a few coats of toffee to disguise the white of the onion but they looked just like innocent toffee apples now. She smiled to herself. She was pleased with her subterfuge, and it would be hilarious in the office tomorrow when Alex bit into one. What did Jarvis know? Having fun was definitely not one of his talents.

Regan had set two alarms for Monday morning so that she didn’t have to rush with the toffee onions. She had carefully stowed them in a cake box because the thought of dropping them was too upsetting and most definitely something she was likely to do. In fact, dropping things was another of her many talents. Someone had once suggested she might be dyspraxic but she’d never bothered to investigate it further. She rested the box on the coffee shop counter while Penny fetched her usual order.

Her phone rang – it was Jarvis. ‘Regan, did you remember to put the washing on?’ he asked.

‘Good morning,’ said Regan, trying to think of an excuse.

‘You forgot, didn’t you?’

She’d been far too focused on the safe delivery of her toffee onions. ‘Yeah, sorry. I’ll put it on later.’

‘But you won’t,’ said Jarvis. ‘You say you will but you won’t. I’m fed up with everything being left to me. I do everything around the apartment. I cook, I clean and I do all the tidying up.’ Regan rolled her eyes. ‘I’m fed up with it. It’s like being a student again.’

Regan had loved being a student. ‘I’m sorry. All right?’ She was in a good mood bubble and he was the prick that was going to spoil it.

‘No, Regan, it’s not all right. Things need to change.’ And he put the phone down.

A bang on the glass made her jump and knock the cake box. ‘Shit, Elvis,’ she said, seeing the large hound with its feet up on the glass. ‘Actually Penny, can you do me a small warm milk for Elvis?’

‘Sure, on the house. But don’t tell the boss.’ She slotted the cups into the tray and passed them to Regan. ‘Is it your birthday?’ She pointed at the cake box.

Regan grinned. ‘No, it’s a surprise for a friend.’ She tried to hide her smugness as she placed the coffees on top of the box and went outside.

‘Morning, Kevin,’ said Regan, passing him his coffee.

‘Thank you. Carpe diem .’

‘Elvis, sit,’ said Regan, and the mutt’s butt hit the floor like a soldier under fire. ‘Good dog,’ she said, impressed with his response. She looked at the small cup of milk and then at the large, gaping jaws of Elvis. She hadn’t thought this through. ‘I got him some milk,’ she said lamely to Kevin.