Melissa

And so it begins.

The goalposts move from playing with myself in Alexander Henley’s dirty sheets, to playing with him in them.

After the accident I couldn’t imagine myself ever making plans again, ever using my brain again, not properly.

I was living for Joseph and that was fine. I didn’t want anything else.

I couldn’t do anything else.

My dreams of being a lawyer were crushed into oblivion. But not my dreams of Alexander Henley. The fantasy of a life in the arms of the man I’ve been fascinated by for all those years held strong.

And now here I am. So close. So very close.

I’ll be a whole lot closer if I manage to pull off my crazy scheme.

It is crazy. It’s so crazy I should probably never speak it out loud, not to Dean and not even to myself.

But I’ll have to, because I’ll need his help.

I drop into an internet cafe on my way home, and the soup kitchen location I followed Mr Henley to is easy to pinpoint. New Start. A charity-funded initiative with three branches across the city.

Newtown Lane on a Monday.

A place called Eastspring on a Wednesday.

And Brickwood, where he went, on a Friday.

I call Eastspring in my finest telephone voice and tell them my name is… Amy… and I’m… looking to volunteer… on a Wednesday… this Wednesday…

The guy’s name is Frank and he seems really nice. He tells me they’d love to have me, Amy, and I should head on down for seven o’clock sharp, with some warm clothes and a smile and that’s all I’d need.

But it isn’t all I need.

I pick up some hair dye and bleach at the local chemist when I get off the underground, and dig out my makeup bag once Joseph is bathed and in bed.

Dean watches me sorting through my old lipsticks until I find a light pink, and the expression on his face lets me know he’s expecting an explanation.

“It’s nothing to worry about…” I begin as he hands me a coffee.

“If it’s to do with Henley it’s plenty to worry about.”

I ask him for his help with the hair dye, just so I won’t have to see his face when I explain myself.

He gloves up with an expression of impending doom, and the silence is heavy as I sit in the chair, an old towel slung around my shoulders.

When he’s safely out of my eyeline, I confess in one long monologue that I’ve discovered Alexander Henley uses escorts, about the paperwork in his drawer, about the porn I’ve seen on his browsing history, but I don’t stop there, rattling off all the things I’ve seen and all the things I’ve learned. Big things, small things. Any things.

I tell him I’m going to volunteer at Eastspring, and then, when the time is right, I’ll transfer to Brickwood, I’ll run into Mr Henley and I’ll introduce myself as someone other than his cleaner, and it’ll be great… it’ll be just fine…

I take a breath. A long breath.

“What do you mean, it’ll be fine? Are you …”

I twist in my chair and I don’t need to say anything as my eyes meet his. His widen, the bottle of dye paused in mid-air as he realises what I’m really planning.

“No,” he says. “No fucking way, Lissa. Just no.”

“For Joseph,” I tell him. “I have to get him out of here, Dean. He’s only got me, and this place, and it’s not enough. Being a cleaner’s not enough. He needs more.”

“He has me, too,” Dean snaps. “And he’d rather you were poor than dead.”

Dead.

The word hits hard.

I take a another breath. Compose myself.

“I saw the guy’s card. Some swanky auctioneer from Chelsea. They don’t kill people, Dean, that’s crazy. They just pay them… for sex…”

“And you’ve never had sex. You’ve never been an escort. You’ve no fucking idea what these people are into, Lissa, swanky or not.”

“I want Alexander Henley. Being paid for it is…”

“Insane, Lissa. It’s fucking insane!”

“My only shot…” I close my eyes. “I’ll put the money in a trust fund, for Joe, if they’ll even have me on their books, that is. All of it, every penny, and I’ll keep working… keep cleaning… I won’t get carried away… I won’t…”

His hands land on my shoulders, and he squeezes so hard, as though he’s trying to squeeze some sense into me.

He can’t.

I’m a lost cause.

I know that much.

“For fuck’s sake, Lissa. What if it’s not even him? You even thought about that? What if it’s not Henley who rocks up in some seedy hotel room somewhere, but some slimy random. Some creepy old guy who’s paid to be your fucking first?”

The thought chills me, but it’s nothing I haven’t considered myself.

I gesture to the bottle of hair dye, and he resumes the application with a sigh. “I’m doing everything I can to make sure it is him who rocks up. He likes blondes. He had a crush on Debbie Harry when he was young, I’ve seen the pictures in a box of his old things and…”

“Oh, well that’s just brilliant, then. Dress up a bit like Debbie Harry and I’m sure it’ll be him who shows. Have you lost your fucking mind? Do you have any idea how fucking crazy you sound?”

I shrug, because it does sound crazy, and I lost my fucking mind a long time ago, before I ever got close to Henley’s bedroom. But there’s hope. Just a bit.

And that’s enough.

Money for Joe and hope for me. It’s as good as it gets right now.

He takes off the plastic gloves and moves away from me, staring out the window at the shitty street below with an expression like death.

I slip on the gloves without a word and apply the rest of the dye.

“I need to do this…” I tell him.

“You really fucking don’t,” he snaps. “You could do back to college, study like before.”

I shake my head. “I can’t and you know it. Not with Joe, and my head is… fried… I just can’t…”

“Your head is full of that fucking asshole of a man.”

“Better that than the alternative. If I stop, Dean, even for just one second. If I stop… hoping… if I stop dreaming… then I won’t get up, I won’t be able to breathe.”

He sighs, and his eyes are softer when they land back on mine. “Don’t say that, Lissa. You’ve got Joe, you’ve got me.”

“And I love both of you, but I have to do this. Please don’t stop me doing this…”

He groans. “Like I could if I wanted to.”

And I’ve got him. I know I’ve got him.

The victory doesn’t feel great.

I apply the last squirt of dye and wrap my hair in the plastic cap. “I’m sure they pay well, I mean it’s Chelsea, right? I’ll earn enough to make sure Joe’s ok. And us, we’ll be ok, too. I can get a babysitter and you can go back to college… you can have a life, too.”

“Please don’t pretend this is for me.”

So I don’t. I don’t pretend anything. I stop speaking, sitting quietly as the dye matures.

“Is there anything I could say to change your mind?” his voice is quiet. Heavy.

“No.”

He exhales a long breath. Shakes his head.

“Fine,” he says. “In that case, how can I help?”

* * *

Alexander

I’m in relatively good spirits for an average Tuesday morning.

I put that down to the smell of fresh orchids. That and a hearty breakfast. Bacon and eggs on a nice thick slice of wholemeal. The breakfast of champions – as long as those champions aren’t overly concerned about their waistline.

Nothing a good session on the treadmill can’t remedy.

I tell myself there are a variety of factors contributing to my good morning, but there’s no illusion. That’s why I left a simple note this morning.

Thank you.

And then the afterthought. A radical impulse.

Please help yourself to breakfast.

It pleases me to think that maybe she’ll take me up on my offer. Maybe she’s sitting at my kitchen island right this minute, listening to the radio as she eats, enjoying the space considerably more than I have these past few years.

It’s not her cleaning standards that inspired the note, nor is it any one individual change she’s made to my space and routine. It’s her thoughtfulness.

Her thoughtfulness creates the illusion my house is a home again. That illusion is priceless.

I’m thinking about her mysterious presence all the way through my early client meetings. Wondering if the note made her smile. If she’ll leave one in return.

I wonder what her handwriting is like. What her smile is like. Whether she licks her fingers clean after she’s eaten.

I wonder what her name is.

I force myself not to look it up.

“Christ, man. And I really have to go on this ridiculous fucking speed awareness course?!” Mr Calder’s voice disturbs my equilibrium. “As if I haven’t got better things to do with my fucking time.”

His face is piggy and infuriating, his bluster doing its best to ruin my happy vibe.

Ungrateful prick.

I’ve got better things to do with my time than bail him out of his stupid fucking mistakes, but I’m not sitting in his office moaning about a perfectly commendable outcome.

“Unless you want to take your chances in court. We could call your mistress in as a witness, I’m sure she’d be able to tell them you weren’t all that drunk while she sucked you off at twenty miles an hour over the speed limit.” I smile sarcastically. “Take the fucking speed awareness course. You’re fucking welcome, Andrew.”

His mouth flaps open, and then he thinks better of a smart comeback.

He rises to his feet as I do, shakes my hand with a nod.

“Thanks, Henley. Much appreciated. I’ll get my secretary to book it in.”

“You do that.” And stop drinking and driving like a fucking imbecile.

I don’t smile.

He doesn’t linger.

The door swings on its hinges as he leaves, and his silhouette is replaced by an even bigger cunt. Just what I fucking need.

“Let’s talk.” My father closes the meeting room door behind him. He’s wearing a red tie today. I fucking hate the colour.

“Let’s not.”

I don’t even attempt to hide my disdain as he takes a seat opposite me. “People are talking about you.”

“Which fucking people?”

He laughs. “Ok, so I’m talking.”

“Talk all you want, I have no intention of listening.”

His eyes turn dark. “What in the name of holy fuck is wrong with you? Turning your nose up at Claude, ignoring your messages.”

“Ignoring your messages.”

“This silliness ends now. Claude’s offered you a free sample. You will take it.”

“I’m not interested in Claude’s free fucking sample. I’m done.”

“Like hell you’re done,” he sneers. “You don’t know how to be done.”

“Speak for yourself, old man. I’m doing just fine.” I bristle with false confidence, my arms folded tight.

He pulls an envelope from his inside pocket and slides it across the table. “A gift. Take it. Enjoy it. I hate to worry about you, Alexander. You know how it makes me uncomfortable to worry. I may have to keep a closer eye on things…”

His threats mean nothing to me. “Are you quite fucking done? I have work to do.”

His eyes are steely but so are mine. “For now.”

“Good.” I get to my feet. Again. “Next time you want to talk, book a fucking appointment.”

“This is my office,” he snaps. “Don’t you forget it.”

“Retired. Don’t you forget it.”

We stare each other down for long seconds.

“Your mother misses you.”

“That’s a shame.”

“She misses the boys.”

“I’ll pass on her regards.”

He shakes his head. “You’re such a belligerent prick, Alexander.”

“We both know where I learned it from.”

“We both know where you learned a lot of things, boy. Call Claude. I don’t expect to have to come here again.”

“That would be nice.” I gesture to the door. “Close it on your way out.”

It slams with a thump that shakes the glass surround. His frustration makes me smile.

I put his envelope straight through the shedder unopened.

* * *

Melissa

I hardly recognised myself in the mirror this morning. The bleach worked its magic, and the dye took well on top, and there I was, a new blonde version of me. I’ve never been blonde before. It looks strange, alien. Not that you’d ever know the difference under a hairnet and stupid cap.

Dean helped me cut my hair shorter, armed with nothing but a pair of general purpose scissors my mum used to use to open stubborn food packets. My new long bob looks pretty good for a home-done effort. A few random snips to vary the length and the look is definitely a little Debbie-Harryesque. Even Dean agreed.

I slapped on some pink lipstick and ruffled my freshly dried hair, and he called up a couple of old pictures of her on the internet and said he thinks I’ll pass.

Charging up and down a billion stairs every day these past few months has helped my physique. My legs are more toned than they’ve ever been, and although I’m far from the perfect women pictured in the bedroom drawer, I think I look alright.

If it’s not enough, it’s not enough, but I don’t want to dwell on that.

I’m lucky that I have a similar jawline to Debbie. High cheekbones and big eyes. My nose is a little bit pointier than hers, but I can compensate for that with similar makeup.

There’s a lot more to my plan than a makeover though, which is why I’ve borrowed Dean’s phone today. He has a much better camera, and I’ll need to take a fair number of shots.

The codes for the gemstone cabinet are in the little black book Cindy gave me.

I have the special buffing cloth in my apron pocket, inputting the numbers so carefully to make sure the cabinet doesn’t autolock me out of there.

It opens with a click, and I get to work, snapping pictures as I go. I make sure all the names are in focus, a clear enough picture of the gemstones that I’ll be able to look them back up at home and memorise them.

Alexandrite. Poudretteite. Topaz. Red diamond. Benitoite. Musgravite. Bismuth.

I’ll never be able to afford anything like these, so I hope he’s interested in more mundane specimens as well as these weird little rocks. It just has to be a common interest. A convincing one.

I close up the cabinet when I’m done, and then I photograph his music collection. He doesn’t have many CDs on the shelf, and most of them are by the same band. A blues outfit called Kings and Castles. I check out the listing on the back, and I’m pretty sure the one song – Casual Observer – is his dreary morning wake-up soundtrack.

I like it, just like I thought I would.

I venture down to the kitchen last thing today, my heart calming now I’ve got my illicit practicalities out of the way.

His plate is on the island, the dirty cutlery arranged so nearly on top. The sight of the pan on the hob makes me smile. Bacon fat. He had the bacon.

I’ve loaded it into the dishwasher by the time I notice the piece of paper propped against the fruit bowl.

My stomach flips, because it can’t be. It really can’t be.

But it is.

A perfect scrawl, so beautifully penned on fine grain paper.

Thank you.

Please help yourself to breakfast.

To me?!

My fingers are shaky as I run them over the text.

He wrote it for me. For me. For the bacon. He liked the bacon.

I smile so hard my cheeks hurt, and I’m not hungry, not in the slightest, but his offer is too generous to ignore. I don’t want to ignore him. I couldn’t ever do that.

I take the pan back from the dishwasher and fry myself up some bacon, cut myself a thin slice of bread and add a single egg to the pan.

It gets the attention of a grumbling Brutus, who flops down at my feet as I try to manoeuvre. I guess he wants some bacon too.

It’s the strangest feeling, eating breakfast at Alexander Henley’s kitchen island. My feet tap against the base of the bar stool, nervous even though I’m the only one here.

The bacon tastes better than any bacon I’ve ever had before.

Brutus seems to agree with me. He takes the rind in one greedy swallow.

I clear down the sides thoroughly, then stand with a cheap biro in my hand, wondering what on earth I should write in reply.

I tear a page from my notebook, because I want to take his home with me, and I try for my very best handwriting, even though my hand is trembling.

Thank you very much, Mr Henley, sir.

I don’t sign my name. Because why would I? I’m just a nobody.

I prop it up against the fruit bowl, right where his had been, and then I do it. I just do it.

I input Claude’s number into Dean’s handset, and take a swig of water before I press to call.

Three rings and all I can feel is my own thumping heart.

I’m ready for it to go to voicemail, half hoping it goes to voicemail.

But it doesn’t.

“Claude Finch.”

I clear my throat. “Mr Finch? I’m sorry to call so randomly, it’s just I’m… I’m looking to sell something… and I was hoping you could… help…”

I hear him rustling through paperwork. “If you could call the main sales line, I’m sure they’ll be able to take your details.”

My throat is so dry. “I was hoping maybe you’d be… the right person…”

“That depends. What kind of item are you looking to sell?”

My voice is so weak. Such a whisper. “Well, I’m… I’m looking to sell… me…”

A pause. Such a long pause.

I feel the panic rising.

“Where did you get this number?”

“I, um… a friend…”

“What kind of a friend?”

“A female friend… she said I should…”

“This isn’t for discussion on the telephone,” he snaps. “Please forward a photo of the item to this email address.” He rattles off a series of letters and numbers that I scrabble to write down.

I read it back and he grunts, and then he hangs up.

I feel so wired I can’t keep still. Pacing up and down Mr Henley’s kitchen as I open the random email account Dean set up for me and attach the photo in my best underwear he took last night.

The nerves take over as soon as it’s been sent, and the pressure builds to breaking, my whole plan resting on a random guy and his reaction to one semi-slutty photo.

I feel like I’ve bared my whole soul for nothing, like he’ll laugh at me, tell me of course I’m not good enough, I’m not of the calibre they’re looking for.

I’m getting ready to take Brutus for his walk when the handset vibrates in my apron pocket.

1 new email.

The sender is CF.

I can hardly bring myself to open it.

Bring the item along to the saleroom with a copy of your ID.

There’s a date and time listed underneath.

I’m so excited I nearly pee myself on Alexander Henley’s freshly mopped floor.