Alexander

It’s great to see my boys on Sunday afternoon. They’re wearing the new shirts I sent them, full of smiles at the prospect we can share this new football craze of theirs.

I play along, pretending to the best of my abilities that I’m as excited as they are by the upcoming fixtures, and it leaves me with no uncertainty that they’re changing. Rugby is old news, and no matter how much I try to fight it, it’s only a matter of time before I become old news too.

Football, and Hampshire, their cool older step-brother and new younger sibling on the way.

And Terry. Cool dad Terry.

This is their life now, and I’m… well, I’m still the same old workaholic they knew in London.

I’m pained as I make the drive back to the city, as though the final shreds of my soul are bleeding out through the cracks. It’s been a long time coming.

My fingers feel dirty as they grip the steering wheel. The kind of grime no antibacterial gel can scrub away.

I’ve spent my entire adult life pulling the strings of those around me, as my father did. Still does.

Clients, judges, juries, boys’ club fraternity members. The women I pay to serve me. The women I don’t.

The people whose fate rests in these filthy hands and what I choose to do with them.

People may despise me for the outcomes I manipulate in order to fulfil my legal duty, but they respect my ability to deliver.

People do what I tell them because the alternative is unfavourable.

Plenty fear me, but not a single person who has truly known me has ever come out the other side loving me. Sad but true.

My boys still have that obligatory affection for their father that all young children have before they learn better. My boys will learn better as they get older, just as I did.

I’m feeling it already. My word is no longer God. My idea of fun is no longer their absolute benchmark for a good time.

Brutus stares out of the passenger window for the entire journey, giving occasional grumbles as though he’s sorry to leave them behind too. I’m probably reading too much into it. Seeing things that aren’t really there.

I’ve got into a habit of that lately.

It’s another sad truth that having the house feel like more of a home is beginning to highlight the fact it really isn’t one.

There’s a sadness around the scent of fresh orchids tonight as I walk in through the door. Their delicate floral radiance unable to counteract the knowledge that someone was paid to put them here.

Paid to turn my bedsheets down and stock up my kitchen with necessities – as nice as they may be.

And yet there is still a fragile spark of hope in me.

It’s dangerous.

Dangerous to feel touched by someone’s consideration.

Dangerous to want more of it.

“What’s she like, boy?” I ask Brutus as I eat yoghurt straight from the tub.

He stares at me, angling for whatever I’m having.

“Is she nice? Pretty?”

His lolling tongue tells me nothing other than he wants yoghurt too, and it’s grotesquely adorable enough to let him lick the remnants from the pot.

I guess I’ll have to find out for myself what she’s like.

* * *

Melissa

I’ve been poked and prodded and jabbed with needles at some expensive clinic in Harley Street, all paid for, no questions asked.

They said nothing about my general state of health, making no comment whatsoever as they weighed me, and took my height, and checked in my eyes and ears, and… everywhere else…

They asked me about my menstrual cycle and informed me I’d been listed to receive a contraceptive injection. I let them jab me in the ass with it without argument.

I’m just glad it’s over as I race across town to finish up at Mr Henley’s house after lunch.

I’m rarely out at this time of day, normally up to my elbows in scrubbing and polishing. That or playing with myself in his bed, although I’m trying to do less of that now. Trying.

My work handset shows me he’s in court all day today, and my internet search this weekend told me he’s got some big case going on. They showed a picture of him leaving the courtroom, steely and immaculate as his client – some rich oil tycoon – trailed behind.

I wish I still had the dream of being a lawyer ahead of me. I wish it was me in an expensive suit representing clients in court, the excitement of the trial, the hushed negotiations behind the scenes.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to live the excitement through him, maybe he’ll confide in me as we lie in bed at night, asking my opinion as he whispers client secrets in my ear.

Or maybe I’ll end up trapped in a hotel room with some random guy who wants to fuck me up in exchange for twenty grand.

There’s a sweet little street market open in Kensington as I head back to the house. I feel ok about glancing at the stalls today, feeling more presentable with my crappy uniform stuffed out of sight in my shoulder bag.

The clothes and jewellery are so out of my price range it’s not even worth a thought, but there’s a boutique cupcake stand at the far end, and I can’t resist a quick look.

That’s when I see it. A dark chocolate and orange swirled muffin with a vanilla yoghurt fondant.

I think of him.

Of course I think of him.

I don’t care that it’s unprofessional as I root in my handbag for my purse.

I leave it on the island as I finish up for the day, looking so pretty with its deep purple cupcake case. I make sure it looks inviting, placing it just so on a cute little stand I found in the cupboard, and cover it up with a clear glass bowl that I guess someone used to use for baking.

I hope I’m not totally overstepping my boundaries, hoping he’ll forgive me rooting around his kitchen to leave him a gift.

My throat is dry as I tear out a piece of paper from my notebook, my fingers shaking as I find the right words.

Dear Mr Henley,

I saw this and thought of you. I hope it’s even half as nice as your breakfast recipe.

Thank you for being so generous with your muesli.

MM.

I’m convinced I’ve made a professional faux pas as soon as I am back on the underground, but my calendar tells me it’s too late to undo my mistake even if I wanted to.

* * *

Alexander

I don’t bother heading back to the office after court today. My driver picks me up as soon as I’m done, which is just as well since I narrowly avoid a pointlessly antagonistic run-in with Ronald bastard Robertson on the steps outside. I’ve got no time for his crap.

Nor have I any time for the congratulatory calls my father attempted several times today after the quarterly board report showed we’re twelve percent up on last year’s turnover.

It would have meant something once.

All of this meant something once.

Winning meant everything to me.

My head’s fried with the whole sorry lot of it as I step through the front door, dropping the keys on the smoking table and giving Brutus a pat on the head as I make my way through to the kitchen for a glass of water.

I’m not expecting it. Not in the slightest.

The bacon was a thoughtful professional gesture, but the cupcake waiting for me on the cake stand is something entirely different.

I stare at it as though it’s some kind of optical illusion, as though it may disappear in a puff of smoke and leave me gawping like a fool.

I read the note before I dare touch it.

Dear Mr Henley,

I saw this and thought of you. I hope it’s even half as nice as your breakfast recipe.

Thank you for being so generous with your muesli.

MM.

She saw this and thought of me.

The strangest stabbing feeling in my ribs. A beautiful revulsion. A beautiful pain.

Thought of me.

I can’t remember the last time someone thought of me.

I can’t remember the last time I received a gift that wasn’t a branded fountain pen.

I lift the bowl so carefully to uncover the cake.

Dark chocolate and orange.

I smile.

Of course.

Brutus grumbles as I tease down the cake paper, but he can grumble on.

“You’re allergic,” I tell him, and he cocks his head. “And you can go fuck yourself, boy, this is all for me.”

Sinking my teeth into that muffin is the greatest culinary pleasure I’ve ever experienced. Not because I have a particularly sweet tooth, and not because I’m even particularly hungry, but because it’s such a thoughtful gift.

A vanilla filling. Thick, like creamy yoghurt.

My smile grows wider.

She thought of me.

* * *

Melissa

An email from Claude tells me my medical was satisfactory. I’ll be up for auction on Friday evening.

I wonder how it works, trying to shake off the horrible little fear that Alexander Henley won’t even be there to bid. He’ll be out on the streets, dishing out hot meals, nowhere near the Chelsea saleroom.

But Claude would know that, there must be… early bids, remote bids… I’m not sure how it even works, but I’m sure it does.

I breathe.

I’m definitely sure it does.

There’s a breakthrough today as I step through the door. Brutus comes padding up before I’ve even deactivated the alarm, and his tail is wagging. It’s actually wagging.

I dare to ruffle his ears as I grab him a fish stick and he doesn’t even flinch.

He likes me. For real, he likes me.

And so does someone else.

The sob chokes as soon as I see it, a crazy sense of excitement zipping through me at the sight of a plate on the kitchen island.

It’s a cookie. Chocolate chip and topped with pink icing.

Thank you it says in iced yellow letters.

There’s a note, but it takes me a few moments to calm down enough to read it.

MM,

Touched, genuinely.

I saw this and thought of you.

With my thanks,

AH.

It’s the greatest cookie I’ve ever eaten in my life.