My Perfect Stranger: A hilarious love story by the bestselling author of One Day in December. Kat French
‘It’s our own fault,’ Honey laughed. ‘Nell didn’t have tequila. It’s the mixing that kills.’
‘Does she always have to be so friggin’ sensible?’
‘Yeah, but who would you rather be this morning?’
‘Er, waking up next to Simon, the dullest man on earth?’ Tash said. ‘I’ll stick to the tequila and the headaches, ta very much.’
Honey yelped as a screechy wail assaulted her ears.
‘What the fuck is that noise?’ Tash yelled.
‘Crap! The smoke alarm! Gotta go, Tash. Love you.’
Honey belted into the kitchen. Smoke and burnt bacon. Double crap. At least there were no flames yet. She hurled the pan in the sink, wincing as the high-pitched alarm battered her already thumping head. She scrabbled onto a chair and pressed reset, weak with relief as the noise stopped. Then she tilted her head. It hadn’t completely stopped. Triple crap. Wow, she’d done a thorough job. When she opened her front door the alarm out in the hallway was going full throttle, and the damn thing was too high for her to reach.
She clamped her hands over her ears, then jumped out of her skin when the door to the empty flat opposite hers flung wide open.
‘Is the fucking house on fire?’
Whoa. Where did he come from?
‘No, sorry. I burnt my bacon. Just give me a minute …’
Honey tried to hide her surprise at finding a dishevelled Johnny Depp type yelling at her in her own hallway. Well, strictly speaking it was a shared hallway, but as the flat opposite had been vacant for months she’d become kind of territorial.
She squinted at him. Dark glasses at lunchtime hinted at a fellow hangover sufferer. Maybe he was some famous rock star hiding out. She could dream. Whoever he was, the faded black t-shirt clung to his body in a way that suggested fit, and the tattoos inked down his arms suggested sexy. It was a shame then that his personality rendered him thoroughly repellent.
‘Just shut that fucking racket up, will you? I’m trying to sleep.’
‘Umm …’ Honey stared at the alarm in panic. Her head was thumping, and out here the noise was even louder than in her kitchen. ‘I would, but I can’t reach it. Could you possibly …?’
He was well over six foot; with a stretch he’d make it, no problem.
‘No I fucking cannot. What sort of grown woman can’t cook bacon? Sort your own mess out.’ He curled his lip and slammed his door.
Honey reeled. Her life was full of people who, on the whole, were decent human beings. To come up against someone so outright obnoxious came as a shock.
‘Fine!’ she shouted. ‘Fine. I’ll do it myself.’ She made a half-hearted attempt at jumping to smack the alarm box. Futile. At five foot five and not very athletic, it had always been a long shot.
Plan B was required. Honey took her slipper off and hurled it upwards, but still she missed the alarm by a good foot. Then she spotted her tall, red polka dot umbrella propped in the corner of the hallway. Bingo! Could she reach the reset button with the metal end spike? She tried, but the damn thing wobbled too much for accuracy and the close proximity to the noise threatened to burst her eardrums.
Gah. The next time she wanted bacon she’d go to the café on the corner.
Honey sighed and opted for the only source of action left. She swung the umbrella above her head and whacked the alarm clean off the wall. It bounced hard against her new neighbour’s door, then landed with a squawk, before dying. She closed her eyes in relief.
Johnny Depp wrenched his door open again.
‘What?’ he growled.
‘What what?’
‘You knocked my door.’
‘Oh.’ Honey bent to pick up the mangled alarm. He recoiled as she straightened, as if her nearness offended him.
‘I didn’t knock. The alarm hit your door on the way down.’
‘You smashed it.’
No shit, Sherlock.
‘I suggest you don’t attempt to cook again. You might burn the fucking house down.’
The stony look on his face told her that he wasn’t amused. As did the door slammed in her face. Again.
Prick.
‘I can cook perfectly well, thank you,’ she yelled, annoyed by his assumption. This was her home. He was on her turf. If he thought he could roll up and chuck his weight around, he could think again.
In a valiant last stand the alarm case pinged open, and the battery plopped out pathetically onto Honey’s foot. A bubble of laughter filtered up. She’d murdered it.
She threw a glance at the door opposite.
Hello new neighbour. It’s good to meet you too.
One thing was for sure. This guy was no Simon. There wasn’t a meek or mild bone in his body. Tash would love him – as long as he was loaded. Their wine-fuelled conversation from last night floated back. Her specific. She knocked on his door.
‘Umm, you don’t happen to play the piano, do you?’ she shouted, knowing how funny Nell and Tash would find it when she told them.
He didn’t need to open his door for her to hear him howl fuck off.
On the other side of the door, Hal inched along the hallway. Ten paces to the kitchen work surface, where he’d left the half-empty whisky bottle last night. The cool glass against his sweaty palms soothed his rattled nerves. The wail of that alarm had kicked him straight into DEFCON 1 mode.
Stupid airhead woman. ‘Could you possibly reach it?’ Her question still taunted him. He tipped the bottle to his lips, and the harsh burn of the whisky took the raw edge off his anger.
She’d smelled of strawberry shampoo and bacon smoke when she’d stepped close, and the ever-present laughter behind her voice had told him she didn’t take life seriously.
Well, she should.
He fumbled his way to the bedroom and walked until his shins hit the edge of the mattress. The unmade sheets scratched his skin when he sprawled out, whisky in one hand, the other balled into a tight fist of frustration. He hated this house, and now he hated Strawberry Girl too.
Honey emptied out the latest bin liners on Monday morning and picked through the worn polyester blouses and elasticated skirts without enthusiasm. When she’d first started work at the charity shop, this had been one of her favourite bits of the day – tipping out the innocuous black bags in the hope of unearthing vintage treasure, or that some It-girl might have cleared out her summer wardrobe of all last season’s Prada to make room for her winter collection.
It hadn’t taken long for the shine to wear off. Honey had soon come to realise that the average age of people who gave to charity was around eighty. Either that or it was families clearing the decks of a deceased relative’s possessions. Cheap chain store separates. Moth-eaten dresses or suits that had been held on to for sentimental reasons that had died with their owners. Thrift shop jewellery with broken catches. Chipped teacups long since separated from their saucers. Stiff leatherette handbags with brass clasps and screwed-up bingo tickets in the bottom, or a yellowed letter that relatives hadn’t cared enough to hold on to. Honey could never bring herself to throw treasured mementoes away, so she slipped them into a drawer in the old bureau that doubled up as her desk in the small back room of the shop.
‘Tea.’ Lucille popped out of the kitchenette,