I glare at him and he looks at me as if to say, “Hey man, I’m only human.” Cheeky fucking wanker.
“Come on up. I’m going to pop out and take Bruce for a walk, so I’ll just leave you to it.”
The three of us slip into the small lift. Vi sticks a metal key into the slot, and my eyes flash in shock when I see the number eleven displayed as the only button on control panel.
Without noticing, she looks to me and says, “Vincent tends the garden on my roof.”
My brows go up. “You have a garden on your roof?”
She looks down in embarrassment. “It’s only flowers and plants. Not like produce or anything.”
“It’s incredible. You should see it,” Vincent says, nodding earnestly. “The roses are just beginning to bloom.”
“I can show it to you some other time,” she shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly.
When the lift doors open to the eleventh floor, I’m surprised to see we’re walking straight into her flat. Since I’m the first one out, my crotch is instantly pummeled by a wet mouth.
“Oi, Bruce!” Vi shrieks and stumbles over to grab him around the collar. She struggles to pull him back. “You disgusting creature. Go on and head up, Vincent.”
I don’t even attempt to help her with Bruce as I take in the stunning eleventh-floor penthouse. Vincent walks through her airy living room, out the large balcony door, and begins climbing a ladder on the building that evidently leads up to the roof. A huge flat-screen is mounted on one wall in the sitting area, and a quick glance through a pair of French doors to the left reveals a huge ornately, gothically decorated bedroom. The bed alone is a jaw-dropping piece of art.
Vi has a gardener, her flat is decorated immaculately, she was willing to spend six hundred pounds on a keepsake box, and she lives on the entire top floor of this building. “Who are you, Vi Harris?” I ask, my gaze crashing on hers in accusatory curiosity.
She blows a puff of hair out of her face, still holding onto Bruce. “What do you mean?”
“You said your brothers are footballers,” I start, beginning to put two and two together.
“I did.”
My jaw drops. “Like professional footballers?”
She sighs heavily.
I inhale sharply. “Is your brother Gareth Harris? As in, Manchester United starting defender?” My face is deathly serious.
She purses her lips. “Are you a fan?”
My eyes widen as she confirms my suspicions. “This means your dad is Vaughn Harris, the manager of the Bethnel Green Rollers.”
“You’re a fan,” she murmurs.
“You could say that.” I blink my eyes slowly and run my hands through my hair. “Christ. Now I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Your brothers!”
She giggles and releases Bruce to pounce me. “Too late to back out now, mate.” Just as Bruce nearly reaches me, she says, “C’mon Bruce, time for a walkies,” and he diverts his path toward a small basket in her kitchen to grab his own lead.
Still slightly star-struck by this very new information, Vi and I head out with Bruce in tow. Jesus. I never would have guessed any of this about timid, quirky, and somewhat awkward Vi! I do my best not to fire a million questions at her because I assume she gets that a lot. And frankly, I’m more intrigued at watching her walk this enormous animal through the busy streets of Brick Lane. She looks rather confident and at ease in her own skin. Bruce is actually quite manageable on a lead, which I’m grateful to see. One strong tug from him and he’d take Vi out and seriously injure her.
She leads us into a quiet little park oasis where a pair of poodles are prancing around proudly. They take one look at Bruce and freeze. Vi unclips his lead and he bounds over to them, immediately rolling over on his back to allow the two precious canines to sniff all of his wobbly bits till their hearts are content. One of his paws is the size of the pair of them put together. It’s comical, really. The three begin chasing each other and yipping playfully as Vi and I find a secluded bench beneath a magnolia tree.
Pink flowers are literally cascading down all around us. I grow ill as I take in the stark contrast of the surrounding beauty and the horror within me.
“So…where do you have to start?” Vi asks, breaking the silence, her eyes wide with interest.
“Day five,” I croak, shrugging. “Or at least, that’s what Doc said.” I lean forward and rest my elbows on my legs, looking straight ahead as nerves shutter beneath my rib cage.
“What happened on day five?” she asks, her voice soft and probing. “Hayden, stop looking so terrified. I told you I am curious, remember? This is your challenge. I’m your helper. Don’t worry about me. I get what I’m in for. Out with it.”
I tsk my teeth and begin, “Day five was the first time in my life that I had ever considered methods.” Getting it all out in one sentence is an immense relief. I had spoken of many of my days leading up to my attempt in rehab during group therapy. But here, out in a dog park in London, is an entirely different situation.