Your Mark on Me

Chapter 10: Jeremy's Daughter

When I was writing this book, I was listening to "Daddy Issues" from The Neighbourhood a lot. I actually liked the song so much that I decided to record my own version - which you can watch/listen to above. I hope you enjoy it xx

When I woke up, I noticed that someone had indeed tucked me in. My phone must have died in the meantime, because it was now off and charging on the bedside table, even though I didn't remember putting it there. I turned it on to see that it was much later than I would have thought. Also, Chloe had texted to say she managed to retrieve my purse.

I got up and opened the blinds, only to notice that it had rained while I had slept. It was still downcast, so I found the switch and turned on the light.

The door of the built-in wardrobe was ajar. I pulled it tentatively, unable to fight my curiosity. There was no harm in having a quick look, just to learn a bit more about my host.

His job must have asked for a strict dress code, because he had at least a dozen suits, all neatly ironed and hung up in a long row, organised by colour, from darkest to lightest. I hadn't even known there were so many shades of blue and grey. Blazers, sports jackets, waistcoats, a ton of shirts, all in different colours and textures. Smart pants. A few t-shirts, neatly folded, white, grey and blue. No jeans, anywhere. The two drawers at the bottom stored in divided compartments dozens of rolled-up ties, again, organised by colour, and underwear - boxers, all folded.

It was all a very manly, and very unusual sight to me.

Back when I was little, Mom and I used to share a wardrobe. My clothes used to be folded up on a lower shelf, so I could reach them. On the hangers flowed her flowery dresses, silky shirts and blouses that smelled of her perfume. Sometimes, when I was left alone in the house, I'd play this game on my own, where I imagined that the house was being burgled. I would hide in the wardrobe among Mom's clothes, breathing in her jasmine scent for comfort. Sometimes I would stay there, scared by my own fantasy, until she came home.

Back then, I think I could still remember what Dad smelled like. Eventually it faded away from memory, just like his face, or the sound of his voice. His face was still in photographs, but no one ever looked at those anymore.

It was a bit chilly in the room, so I found the bag with my clothes next to the bed and put the cardigan on. Then, I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. A big empty suitcase leaned against the wall. On a small table, a few graphite drawings in glass frames had been taken out of a cardboard box, waiting to be hung.

The bathroom, just like the rest of the house, was sparkly clean. All the small objects, except for an electric toothbrush and the tooth paste in a white support on the rim of the sink, seemed to be tucked away in the cabinets. The only 'untidy' thing was the Forbes magazine left open on top of the laundry basket. I picked it up and flicked through it while on the toilet, but very soon put it back: it was boring.

I flushed, then continued my exploration by opening some of the cabinets. Now, I wouldn't normally have been so nosey, but it didn't happen everyday that I was in the house of someone I had a crush on. I wanted to know everything.

A few drawers were empty, the others contained various male hygiene products: shaving cream, lotion, hair gel, all the regular stuff. But special formula eye hydration cream? Hair thickener? Moisturiser? Coconut oil? I snorted; these were the kind of things Mom had in her cabinet. For a guy in his mid-twenties, he seemed way too obsessed with ageing.

In another drawer I discovered an opened box of flavoured condoms, which made me instantly realise that snooping around was not a nice thing to do, after all.

Still, when I walked past the half-open door of the room he said he was using as an office, a devilish impulse urged me to poke my head in, just to have a look.