Dear Sir,

My favourite song is ‘Man in the Mirror’ by Michael Jackson, and the beautiful song that an ex wrote for me, titled ‘I Hate You, Small Penis Man’. He assured me this was ironic, but I’m a little puzzled as to what cleaning your bowels has to do with penis size.

Kind Regards,

 

 

At ten o’clock the next morning I am standing outside the house matching the address Dean left me. I stare along the row of nearby houses, sitting placidly in the cold sunshine, their white paintwork gleaming, and their front doors all painted a uniform, navy-blue. Then I look back up at my destination and blink. It’s pink. Not a faint, pastel pink like some of the houses in Primrose Hill. No, this is a shockingly hot pink that looks almost neon in the sunshine, with a rather incongruous navy painted door. It’s as if the owner had grown tired of flouting convention with the house colour, and had decided to throw the neighbourhood committee a bone with the door.

It’s a large, detached house, set back from the road, and guarded by a low, brick wall. It’s three storeys tall with gables, giving it a vaguely fairy tale feel. For a second, my fanciful mind conjures up an image of me being the only person able to see this house at this time, and when I set foot over the threshold I’ll disappear for good. Then reality forces its way in like a cold shower, pointing out the only place I’ll be disappearing soon is into the local homeless community under the bridge. Either that or debtors prison.

I shake my head, open the gate, and walk up the path to the front door. Taking a deep breath, I press the doorbell, hearing it echo melodically inside the house. While waiting, I take the quick opportunity to check my reflection in the gleaming, brass letter box. It shows a distorted reflection, but it’s enough to know my black curls are rioting after running my hands through my hair so much. I know my usually olive skin is washed pale by tiredness, and I definitely don’t look at my best dressed in three-quarter length, grey cuffed sweatpants, combat boots and an old, faded grey t-shirt bearing the slogan Do no harm, but take no bull. It was left behind by Dylan’s sister when she’d moved out of our flat, and I immediately appropriated it, even though it’s quite tight. Ironically, the water managed to soak all of my smart designer labels, but saw fit to save this, my daggiest outfit. I shrug and make myself calm down. It’s not a beauty parade. I’m not at work.

I belatedly become aware that I’m still standing outside, and there’s no sign of life anywhere. I check the paper again, and yes this is the house, so I ring the doorbell and then for good measure knock on the door. This time I hear the pattering of footsteps, and the door locks turn slowly and torturously. I frown. This is a bit too much like a horror story to my overactive imagination.

This thought means when the door swings open I’m so far into my imagining of a wizened, old butler who protects the sleeping vampire, I look in the wrong place to see the greeter, and find there’s no one there. Then I look down and finally see him. He must be five or six and he’s dressed in jeans, a bright blue t-shirt and rabbit slippers. He has thick, black, wavy hair, big dark eyes, and when he smiles at me it’s with a gappy, wide-mouthed grin. Surprisingly charmed I smile back, and forget to say anything. It’s my undoing, because he steps back and slams the door in my face.

“Oh, wait,” I shout out. “Hang on, can you come back?” There’s silence for a second and then I hear the creak of the letter box. Bending down and peering through it, I see sparkling dark eyes. “Erm, hello,” I say quickly. “Is there an adult I can speak to in the house?”

“No,” he says happily, and shuts the letter box with a snap.

I wait for a couple of minutes and then bend down, pushing the letter box open and getting a glimpse of a light filled hallway. “Hello, are you there?” There’s a high-pitched giggle and I smile. “Listen, I really, really need to come in and speak to Asa Jacobs. I know you’re probably not allowed to open the door to strangers, but could you please go and get him?”

“Password, please.”

For a second I’m utterly flummoxed. I don’t have much experience of children apart from my best friend Dylan’s nephews, and they’re spawns of Satan. I look at the door. Maybe it’s a characteristic of children this age. I wrack my brains for something child friendly. “Erm, abracadabra?” I finally say lamely, and then kick myself because that really was pathetic.

“You are wrong,” the little boy says in a tone of doom, and the letter box flaps shut smartly.

Cursing under my breath, I grab my phone from my pocket. A few rings later I hear my best friend’s voice. “Jude?”

“Oh, Dylan, thank God. Listen, I need -”

“No, wait a second. What the fuck’s happening? I’ve just had a very cryptic conversation with Dean. I’m sorry, make that an incomprehensible conversation. He related a very strange story about how you Feng Shuied your bedroom with a bath and lots of water at three in the morning. How much green were you smoking last night?”

“We didn’t smoke that much,” I say indignantly. “Well, I didn’t anyway. You know it gives me the worst headache. I can’t speak for him.” I pause as my mind boggles at the thought of speaking for Dean. Then I drag myself back to the conversation. “My bedroom ceiling and part of the hallway fell in, that’s all. Oh, and a bath fell through the ceiling, and it’s now by the side of my bed.”

There’s a short pause. “You really do lead the most interesting life, Jude.”

“Hmm. Interesting or crazy?”

“Yeah, I’m going for crazy, but that’s because of the company you keep.”

I smile because Dylan really doesn’t approve of Dean. “It didn’t happen because we were stoned, Dyl. Old Man McGregor left his bath running.”

“What are you doing now? You obviously can’t stay there. I’ll get your room ready for you.”

I smile. “It’s not my room, Dylan. You make me sound like the child of divorced parents, coming to stay for the weekend.” I try not to laugh. “Does that make Gabe my daddy, because I can totally take that and run with it?”

“Shut up,” he says, and I can hear the laughter in his voice.

“I’m not staying with you two, anyway.”

“What? Why the fuck not?”

“Because I might catch monogamy.”

“Don’t be a twat. It’s not a disease.”

“Listen, babe, just because you’ve settled into cosy domesticity, it’s not going to happen to me.” My smile fades because it’s the truth, and he knows it. No man would want to take me on with my baggage. I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “Anyway, I’ve got somewhere to stay, so don’t worry.” That brings me back to my predicament, and I stare at the closed front door. “Speaking of my new living arrangements, what would be the good answer when someone demands a password before they’ll let you in?”

There’s a long pause, and then he snorts. “Oh my God, where are you going to stay? Is it a sex club? Is it the password for the dungeons?” He starts to laugh. “If that’s the case, I’d go with red botty.”

I shake my head, trying not to laugh. “No, it’s the sort of password a five-year-old might demand. You’ve got nephews. What would they expect?”

A long silence greets this announcement. Finally, he breaks it. “I’m not going to ask what you’re doing, Jude, because all my senses are telling me it’s going to be a long story. Just know I’m cooking Beef Stroganoff tonight. I’ll have a place set for you at six o’clock. Be here or I’ll hunt you down.”

“You know, Dylan, you have a very bossy streak. Does Gabe know?”

I can hear the smile in his voice. “He might have a small inkling.”

“Well, it’s a problem that’s thankfully just between the two of you. Just be kind and remember size isn’t everything.”

“Fuck off,” he laughs. “Okay, a password. I’m not sure, Jude. The only words my nephews really like are poo and willy.”

I groan. “I can’t use the word willy. There is no way I can get in to see the bloke who’s hopefully giving me a place to stay, by using the word willy to his five-year-old son.” I think hard. “Okay, I’m going, babe. Catch you later.”

“Yes, at six o’clock,” he says patiently. “And be ready to talk.”

Ending the call, I stare up at the house for a minute. Then, mind made up, I march to the door and knock hard.

A few minutes later it swings open again, and the little boy appears. “Oh, what now?” he sighs in a very world-weary manner.

My lips twitch. “I’ve been thinking about your password.” He brightens instantly, and I lean back against the doorjamb. “Has it got the word poo in the password?”

He looks at me as if I’m Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking rolled into one. “It has,” he breathes wonderingly, and then straightens up. “What’s the rest?”

“Oh, there’s more?” I gulp.

The admiration fades. “Yes, one more word.”

“Can you give me a clue?” I ask desperately, looking beyond him at the hallway in the hope of seeing someone. Anyone. I don’t.

He swings slightly on the door. “It’s one more word and it’s a colour,” he finally says grudgingly. He looks behind him at the sound of a woman’s voice. “Be quick,” he whispers.

I look around desperately and the wall of the house catches my eye. “Pink!” I shout at the top of my voice excitedly. “Oh my God, it’s pink poo. Pink poo is the password.” He grins and nods excitedly, and I raise my arms up in triumph. “Yes. I am the man.” I pause and then shout loudly, “Pink poo!”

It’s at this point, with the luck known only to me that the door swings fully open to reveal a very stern-faced woman in a navy-blue and white piped nanny uniform.

“Oh my goodness,” she says faintly.

“I’m so sorry,” I say ingratiatingly, trying to ignore the giggles of the small boy. “I was trying to guess the password.”

“The password?”

“Yes,” I bluster. “This young man said he couldn’t let me in until I guessed the password.”

She looks down at the boy, and then at me. “He’s five, and you’re considerably older. It would be highly unlikely that he’d be in the house alone, so why couldn’t you have just kept ringing the doorbell?”

“Oh, well, I didn’t think of that.”

She shakes her head in a manner suggesting she finds me mentally challenged. “Can I help you?”

“Oh yes,” I say brightly, brandishing Dean’s piece of paper at her. “Is Mister Jacobs around? I have an appointment to see him.”

She glares at me. “I don’t know anything about this.”

I stare at her, unable to think of a retort which doesn’t sound sarcastic. In the silence vacuum, she glares down at the little boy. “And what have I told you about doing things without asking permission, William?”

“It’s Billy,” he says sulkily, and she tuts.

“It’s William when I talk to you, and when I do this, you are to remember your what?”

“Manners,” he says with an attitude that in twenty years will scream fuck you. She looks back at me, and while she isn’t paying attention I’m amazed to see him look at me and drop me a cheeky wink.

She nods briskly. “Bed an hour earlier tonight, William. If you persist in running off and doing silly things like opening the door to strangers, who could be complete …” She looks me up and down dismissively before finishing, “homeless layabouts looking for trouble.”

I look down at my outfit. I know it’s a bit casual, but it surely doesn’t scream tramp yet. “Look, could I come in?” I start to say, when we’re interrupted by a door opening down the hallway, and the sound of raised male voices.

“You know what, Mister Jacobs, I’m leaving. I’ve never been spoken to in such a manner. I have worked in some of the best establishments in the world, and nothing I’ve ever done has prepared me to put up with your demands.”

A deep rumbly voice says something I can’t catch, and a man appears in the doorway. Dressed in a brown pinstriped suit, and with fair hair slicked back from his forehead, he pulls on a coat and pauses to listen to the other voice. He leans back into the room. “Her Majesty would never say such uncouth things. I’m going.”

He huffs at the reply and marches towards us, nearly knocking Billy over. I grab the little boy’s shoulder gently to stop him falling over. Billy looks unperturbed and grins up at me, but I frown hard at the man. “Be careful. You nearly knocked Billy over.”

He sniffs as if he couldn’t give a shit, and turns to the nanny. “I’m off, Miss Hampton. I’ve never been treated with such disdain.” He looks me up and down. “Mind you, it’s not surprising, given the company he’s obviously keeping these days.”

I’m actually entertained, rather than annoyed. I’ve never been put down like this in my life, and I once made the mistake of heckling Frankie Boyle.

The nanny shakes her head commiserating. “You go, Mister Hawkins. Neanderthals like him can’t understand class when they see it.” She looks around and leans forward. “The whole place is a mad house. I won’t stay long myself.”

The man pats her on the shoulder, and then sets off at a sharp march down the street. He’s soon lost to sight, and when I turn around it’s to find the door swinging shut and the nanny vanishing up the stairs, carting a very indignant Billy. I quickly put my foot in the door to stop it shutting, and make my way over the doorstep.

I find myself in a large airy hallway with a Milton tiled floor. It’s painted a bright yellow, and one wall is entirely covered in photos in black frames. The scent of lilies is heavy in the air, coming from a massive vase of the flowers on a console table. There’s still no sign of anyone, but I can hear the rumble of a man’s voice from the half open door where Mister Hawkins had emerged. It sounds like he’s on the phone, and I move closer.

“Matt, is that you? Yeah, I need another PA sent over. That one was rubbish.” There’s a pause and he laughs. “Actually, this one lasted a whole morning. That’s way longer than some of the others. I don’t know what’s the matter with them. I only asked him to empty the waste basket and get me a coffee. You’d have thought I’d told him to give me a blow job.” He laughs again. “That’s one instruction Her Majesty certainly never gave him. Okay, mate, cheers.”

I hear the phone set down, and taking the opportunity I knock on the door. “Hello,” I call out. “Is that Mister Jacobs?”

I hear measured treads approach the door, and when it swings open I look up, and then up a bit further. Jesus, he’s huge. Six foot five easily, he’s also utterly gorgeous and completely unlike Dean. While Dean is sleek and slender, this man is all muscle, with long, strong legs, narrow hips, a deep, heavy chest and wide shoulders straining at his simple navy t-shirt. Then I remember they’re actually stepbrothers and he’s obviously older than Dean. I’d put him in his forties, and something about him looks familiar.

His hair is a rich, dark brown shot through with the occasional silver thread, and it hits his shoulders in messy waves. However, it’s his face which catches my attention most. He’s utterly unlike any of the men I spend time with on shoots. His jaw is wide and covered by an unruly brown beard. He has a nose that looks like it’s been broken a few times, and wide, high cheekbones. His twinkling brown eyes are bracketed with lines, indicating someone who smiles a lot, and he has a narrow, white scar slashing through one of his black eyebrows, ending up just above one cheekbone.

The elusive feeling that I know him stirs again, before I realise the eyebrow is arching in query, and I’ve just spent at least a minute staring at him and probably drooling. I mentally check, and sigh in relief. No drool.

He looks me up and down, and for a second I could swear that shock and something darker crosses his face. Then his expression clears and he half smiles.

I instantly put out my hand. “Hi, I’m Jude.”

Looking slightly bemused he reaches out and shakes my palm. His hand is large and warm and heavily calloused, and a spark shoots up my wrist. I let go in astonishment and he stares at me as if he felt it too, before shaking his head. “Nice to meet you, Jude.” His voice is deep and warm, like a hot toddy on a cold day, and he has a slight Yorkshire accent. He pauses and then laughs. “Who are you?”

I step back in embarrassment. “Shit. Erm, I’m Jude, and you were expecting me today?” This is said with much more of a question now, because I’m pretty sure he wasn’t. Bloody Dean.

His face clears. “You’re not my new PA, are you, because that was bloody quick? The other one’s only about sixty seconds down the road. Come in and sit down. I’ll talk to you for a full two minutes, more than likely offend you, and then you’ll still have plenty of time to catch up with him.” He stares in the direction I saw the beleaguered assistant go. “I’m sure he’s not moving too quickly anyway, with that massive stick up his arse.”

“Well, lucky him.”

I’m absolutely horrified to hear the flirty tone of my voice and the words that have just left my mouth. I open my mouth to backtrack, but before I can, he throws his head back and laughs loudly. I stare at him surreptitiously, because he’s really very handsome with his face alight with laughter. His laughter is like him - large and hearty, and I sense a great lust for life inside him already. His body seems to thrum with it, like he sucks every moment completely dry.

His laughter dying, he smiles at me. “You’re not from The Dalton Agency, are you?”

“No. Nor am I a PA, although I’m quite happy to empty rubbish bins and get you coffee.”

He looks me up and down lazily. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me why you’re here. You said I was expecting you?”

I slide into the chair he indicates, and while I wait for him to take a seat at the huge oak desk, I take a quick look around the room. He obviously favours bold colours, because this room is painted in a warm turquoise. Floor to ceiling bookcases line three of the walls, and the other is covered in old framed play bills. A large leather sofa and two deep armchairs are positioned in front of an open fireplace, and light floods in through French windows which give a glimpse of a long garden. It’s a cosy room that invites you to curl up with a good book, and I relax slightly.

He settles down in the big chair behind the desk, and impatiently shoves the mound of papers covering its surface to one side. My lip twitches and he looks up at me. “You were saying?”

“Yes. I thought you were expecting me, but then I remembered it was Dean who actually made the arrangements.”

Some of the laughter dies from his face at the mention of Dean’s name. Shit. Have I offended him by implying Dean couldn’t organise his way out of a paper bag? Surely not. If he’s related to him he must know he’s not giving Professor Brian Cox a run for his money.

“You know Dean?” He pauses. “Wait, did you say your name was Jude?”

I nod and the laughter fully drains away, leaving what I would call a mask, even after knowing him for only a few minutes. “You’re Dean’s boyfriend, then? He mentioned you last night.”

I shake my head. “We’re not -”

He interrupts me. “He mentioned you, but you just said he sent you?”

I sit forward on my chair. “Yes. I had a flood in my flat last night and a bath dropped through my ceiling, along with most of the ceiling too. It landed right next to the bed, which is lucky really because what if it had landed on me? I’m not sure how I want to die, but having a bath land on you is slightly undignified. It wasn’t even a decent bath. It was avocado green.” I pause, struck by a sudden thought. “I wonder what you could say at someone’s funeral when they’ve been killed by a falling bath. Or what relevant music you’d play. Maybe ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head’.” I snort. “Or ‘Waterfalls’.”

A smile flits across his full lips, and I realise I’m babbling. “Shit. Sorry, I got carried away.” He nods, looking a little confused, so I finish quickly. “So, Dean spoke to you, and you agreed to let me stay here with you while my flat’s being repaired, and in return I can help with your missing PA’s duties.” I trail off at his look of utter incomprehension, and groan. “Fucking Dean. He never had that conversation with you, did he?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No. He asked whether I was at home at the moment, commiserated with me over the loss of my permanent assistant, mentioned what a nice arse the man had, and then said I should meet his boyfriend Jude.” He waves his hand at me. “Which would be you.” He looks at me coolly, and I wonder where that lovely moment of connection has gone.

I groan. “I knew it was too good to be true. Bloody Dean.”

Incredibly his lips twitch. “Not an unvoiced sentiment, that’s for sure.”

“Do you actually need any help?” I ask hopelessly, and he stares at me for a long time, something working over his face. Then it’s gone and he leans forward.

“I do need some help. Have you ever done this sort of work before?”

I shake my head. “No. But I’m a quick learner. I’m not stupid, and if you’re willing to let me stay while my flat’s being worked on, I’d really appreciate it, and I’ll help with anything.” A smile tugs at my lips. “Only within the bounds of decency, though. My previous employer, the Queen, was very decorous in her workplace demands.”

He looks astonished. Then he breaks into loud laughter, his shoulders shaking. “Fuck. You heard that, did you?”

I nod, smiling and shivering slightly as those warm brown eyes flit over my body. Is he checking me out? I don’t know. Sometimes my intuition malfunctions. I bring my attention back to the conversation. “I overheard when I was trying to gain access by guessing Billy’s password.”

He looks surprised. “How did you meet Billy?”

“He answered the door before his nanny came to get him.”

A dark look crosses his face. “How long were you talking to him?”

I hold my hands up. “It was okay. I stood well back, and most of the conversation was conducted through the letter box, until I guessed his password was pink poo.”

A warm smile crosses his lips, and he sighs. “No, I’m not implying anything like that. I’m just wondering how long it took Mary Poppins to realise her charge was gone. She was probably in my bedroom going through my underwear drawer.”

I try not to smile. “My, what an interesting place this must be to work at. The traditional workplace conventions just seem to fly away when you step over the threshold.”

He laughs, sitting back. “My problem, not yours.” He looks at me intently. “Mentioning Billy reminds me of something. If I let you stay, I’m afraid I’ll have to do some checks on you. I have a friend in the security business. He’ll do the necessary searches, but I can’t have you living under the same roof as my child without knowing if you’re safe. Even if you are Dean’s boyfriend.”

“Of course it’s fine. I’m an open book.”

He looks long at me, and that heat flares again almost palpably before he shutters it. Surely I’m not imagining this.

“So, you’re okay with me staying for a while?” I ask tentatively. “I can’t tell you how long it will be for, because I just don’t know. It could be for the summer, but if it’s longer I’ll find somewhere else.” I think about my bills and a hotel, and dread washes over me. I have to be okay, because it’s not just myself who’s depending on my work. Then I look at him and sigh. “This isn’t fair. If you’re not comfortable, don’t worry about it. I’ll find somewhere else to stay. It’s not your responsibility to house me just because of Dean.”

His expression hardens again at the mention of Dean’s name, and I wonder what their history is. Family’s family I suppose. He stares at me for a long time, something working behind his eyes. “No, it’s fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ll do you a deal. You can stay here for however long, if you help me out with the assistant duties.”

“Of course I will. I’ll help you with anything I can. Just ask.” We smile at each other and I feel a warmth in my chest. Then a thought occurs to me. “I have a couple of jobs lined up this month which I need to do, if that’s okay. I need to pull in my normal money.”

“Of course.” He looks like he’s going to ask me a question, but then pauses as if he’s remembered something. “Have you got any references? I suppose I should cling to the outer trappings of employment, no matter how unorthodox I actually am.”

I think hard. “Yes, of course. You can ring Trevor Saunders.”

He looks startled. “The photographer?”

“Yes. I’ve done loads of jobs for him and he knows me well. Other than Trevor, you can try Elizabeth Henton. She’s my agent, and I’ve known her for years. I can give you both of their numbers.”

Something like dread washes over his face. “What work do you do, Jude?”

“I’m a model.”

The minute I say the words, I swear I can feel all the warmth drain out of the room, and I watch as a chill crosses his face. “Of course you are,” he says, and there’s now a snide edge to his voice. “Just look at you.” He pauses. “Well, if you still want it, I suppose the offer is still open.”

Was it going to shut? I think wildly. Surely not just because I’m a model.

He carries on speaking, his voice cool as a cucumber. “We’ll say it’s a temporary offer. I’m sure you’ll get a better one at one of your modelling jobs.” My mouth drops open because he just implied I was little more than a whore. “It might be a bit too much like normal work for you to deal with, and there’s a fair amount of paperwork which might be too much for you. We’ll have to see.” His voice chills even more. “There are to be no drugs in this house, whatsoever. One whiff of anything hinky, and you’ll be out on your arse.”

I open my mouth to tell him I don’t take drugs, and then pause, wondering if he can smell Dean’s weed on my clothes. He carries on talking. “Just don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m an idiot. That doesn’t run through my side of the family. You’ll pull your own weight if you’re staying here. I don’t carry dead wood.” He smirks. “I really shouldn’t mention weight to a model. I remember it’s not done.”

He looks at his watch before I can say anything, and believe me, there’s a lot waiting to come out. I haven’t encountered so much stereotyping since I watched an old episode of ‘Rising Damp’. “Give me a couple of days to get your checks done, and then you can move in, providing they come up clean.”

I nod dumbly, and he looks me up and down dismissively. “I’m sure you have friends you can stay with until then, or a party to go to somewhere.”

He stands up, and I do the same automatically. “I have an appointment in town I have to get to, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be off. Leave your details on the desk, Jude. I’ll let you see yourself out, and I’ll ring you when it’s okay to bring your stuff round.”

The room falls silent as he exits, moving swiftly and gracefully. I stare after him, feeling two parts bemused to one part hurt. It’s not the first time someone has dismissed me as nothing more than a bird-brained clothes-horse, but it is the first time it’s ever bothered me. I know my reasons for doing this, and none of them include a fervent desire to be judged solely on my appearance. I’m much more than that, but he never gave me an opportunity to show it. I’ve been tried, judged, and condemned without even the chance at a defence.

I think over his insinuation that doing paperwork might make my pretty little head explode. Then I smile slowly. If he wants a bird-brained model. I’ll give him one.

My phone rings and interrupts my plotting. I stare at the name on the screen, and slowly tap to connect. “Dean?”

“Oh, thank God it’s you,” he gasps.

“Who else would it be?”

“Never mind that. Have you seen Asa?”

“I have. You didn’t tell me what a charmer he is.”

There’s a small silence. “Why would I tell you that? He’s an opinionated, bossy wanker, but I suppose he’s family.”

I shake my head. I don’t know why I persist with sarcasm. It doesn’t work with Dean. “Did you want me?”

“Yes. Thank God I’ve caught you. Listen, don’t tell Asa you’re a model.”

“Why? Doesn’t he like them?”

“No. He fucking hates them.”

“Not that this isn’t locking the stable door when the horse has already bolted, but -”

“What horse? Asa doesn’t have a horse.”

I hastily interject before we can go down this conversational dead end. “Never mind. Why doesn’t he like models?”

“It’s a long story. Asa had a …” There’s a crackle and a high pitched staticky squeal, and the phone goes dead. I click end and shake my head.

A mystery within a mystery. Well, I’m not going to be here long enough for it to bother me, that’s for sure.