Dear Sir,

Thank you for your enquiry as to the size of my penis. I’d love to report that it’s huge, but unfortunately, it’s so small the inhabitants of the kingdom of Lilliput would have mocked me.

Kind Regards,

 

 

Saying goodbye to Henry and promising to give him a ring soon, I follow in Asa’s wake as he strides through a packed room. It’s like moving with minor royalty, although without the early pattern baldness. A gallery employee waylays him, and I pause while they speak in hushed whispers. Catching a woman’s frankly envious gaze, I adopt an insouciant air, as if I move with major celebrities all the time.

Asa thanks the man and gestures me over. “There are a lot of press outside. I think they might have got wind of the new series.” A dark look moves across his face. “It had better not have anything to do with fucking Phillip,” he mutters, as if not aware that he’s talking to me.

“Who’s Phillip?” I ask, not even trying to act confused.

He shakes his head and doesn’t answer me. “I’m going to grab Lucy. Can you go and make sure Amos is ready for us, because it’s going to be a bit of a scrum when we get outside.”

I nod and go to move away, but he grabs my arm and I blink as a wave of heat spreads up my arm. My cock stirs and I mentally glare at it. Retreat you fool. Asa stands back calmly, but I notice his breathing has picked up. Shit. I don’t need another useless attraction, particularly not when he views me as a simpleton.

He stares at me, something moving lightning fast across his face, and then says almost reluctantly, “If we get split up, meet us on Agar Street. It’s round the corner. We’ll pick you up there.”

“Okay.” I clear my throat. “No problem.”

He laughs without much humour. “What am I worried about? You’re probably more used to the press than I am.”

I wrap my vapid persona around me like a comfort blanket. “My agent always says, ‘Jude, don’t say anything to the press, not one bloody word. Just smile for fuck’s sake.’”

A smile tugs at Asa’s full lips. “I can’t even begin to put myself in your agent’s shoes.”

“I don’t think you could,” I say earnestly. “He’s a size six.”

Asa gives a shout of laughter, and I get going while it’s still good.

Stepping outside, I blink at the hordes of photographers jamming the street. I’m used to the press, but I’m just a model. I model Calvin Klein underwear, so unless I stroll down the street in my boxers there isn’t much chance of the paparazzi being interested. This is another league. I’ve seen it on television, where they swarm a celebrity, but I’ve never been present when it happens. I couldn’t possibly have described the feverish atmosphere, the shouts that go up when someone opens the gallery door. It reminds me of descriptions of the French Revolution, when people stood and waited for the tumbrils.

I edge to one side, looking around frantically for the car. It’s a black Audi SUV, which unfortunately is camouflage material in Knightsbridge, as nearly every car waiting is the same make. I finally spot a sleek black car and what looks like Amos’ gloomy bald head, bobbing away to invisible music or one of his interminable Sharpe audiobooks. I go to turn around, but at that point someone shouts, “Hey, you’re Jude Bailey, aren’t you?”

“No,” I say quickly, but it’s too late as a cluster of photographers surround me.

“How’s Malachi? Have you split up with him?”

You fuck one supermodel. One fucking supermodel. And all you hear about for the next fucking five years is him.

“Yo no hablo inglés,” I say quickly, and the man backs off, looking confused. A couple of the others start to take photos seeing him talking to me, and I put my hands up quickly. However, it’s too late to avoid being blinded by the pulsing flashes. I hear a commotion and before I can get away, a big hand lands on my shoulder.

“Where’s the fucking car, Jude?” Asa growls, and I gesture blindly at the queue of cars.

“Over there,” I say, but he’s moving already, dragging me with him and trying to gently move Lucy along. She’s pouting prettily, and seems to be enjoying herself more at the moment than she has all night.

Finally, we reach the car and he shoves me in and then gently hands Lucy in like a princess. He slides in and slams the door on the lights and shouted questions. “Going for a threesome, Asa? Would you let her peg you? He’s pretty. Does he fuck well?”

I feel my mouth fall open in amazement. Who shouts these things, particularly in Knightsbridge?

“Go, for God’s sake, Amos,” Asa shouts.

“What the bloody hell are you doing in my car?” comes the querulous question from the driver’s seat, and I gulp as I look up and see an old man looking at us. Rather incongruously, he appears to be wearing pyjamas. “Is this one of those car jackings, because you’ll take this car over my dead body, you young bloody hooligan!”

Asa turns a look on me that threatens retribution on a grand scale, and I swallow. “Not my fault,” I say quickly, in case he’s entertaining notions of throwing me out of the car. He certainly looks like he is. “I just pointed. You’re the one who threw us in here.”

He shakes his head slowly, like a big bear about to crush someone. “Jude, I am going to -”

Thankfully, I’ll never know what he was going to do, because somebody bangs on the window, making us all jerk. Asa turns to the old man.

“I’m so sorry. We’ve ended up in the wrong car. My driver is somewhere back there.” He shoots me a fulminating glare. “And my assistant has all the brains of a boiled pea.” I blink. That’s a fairly descriptive phrase. Asa smiles winsomely. “Could I possibly ask for your help? You can see how many press are out there. I can’t make the lady get out there in this mob.” He looks at me as if he’ll cheerfully throw me out, before turning back to the man. “Could you possibly give us a lift home? The lady lives in central London, so it’s not far. I’ll be very grateful.” The silence stretches, and obviously realising that tactic isn’t working, Asa switches tack. “I’ll make it worth your while, of course.”

The man smiles at him, showing missing teeth. “I know you, don’t I?”

“You might do,” Asa says modestly.

“I think my wife’s a fan.”

“I’d be delighted to give you an autograph,” he says urbanely, and the man nods.

“Okay, where are we going?” Asa gives him the address and the man moves the car slowly around the photographers, before shooting off at a speed I last saw in ‘Back to the Future’. Thrown back against the seat, I sneak a look at Asa and snort out a laugh before I can stop myself.

“Jude,” he says pleasantly. “I am going to fucking kill you when we get back.”

Lucy interjects. “When you’ve finished talking to what must be the most incompetent assistant ever, could you possibly give me some of your attention? Are we going straight back to my flat, sweetie? I’ve got to feed Rosie.”

“Is she your familiar?” I say waspishly, and she sneers at me.

“Asa, please make your assistant aware of his place, and tell him not to address me directly again.”

“I’m not entirely sure what his place is,” Asa says in a bewildered voice. “But I’ll pass your message on.”

“Please tell Lucy I have holy water and I’m crossing myself as she speaks,” I snipe, and he snorts, before wiping his face clear when Lucy turns to glare at him.

I sit morosely silent. I can’t believe the one time I set out to make a good impression, I end up confirming the bimbo image. I shake my head. Maybe it’s catching. Maybe I have actually caught stupid.

Becoming aware of his head turning towards me, I look up. “What?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve never met anyone who can so clearly telegraph the fact that he’s thinking.”

I frown. “This from someone who grew up with Dean.”

He snorts with laughter, and I look up with a smile crossing my lips at his open face. For a second he stares back at me, but the smile dies away. It stays away throughout the short journey to Lucy’s flat, as the old man speeds down side streets and takes corners like he’s driving in ‘The Fast and the Furious’, and we all roll about like Teletubbies in the back seat. I watch a frown appear when the man happily takes the wad of cash Asa hands him for petrol, and then puts one hundred and fifty quid in. The frown grows deeper as he disappears into the petrol station and comes out twenty minutes later with a carrier bag bulging with stuff, including apparently twenty tons of chocolate and toiletries, and what looks like three travel pillows.

I manfully battle the urge to smile, and when Asa looks at me I shake my head in a sympathetic manner. “Could be worse,” I whisper. “Could be travel blankets as well.”

“Jude, shut up,” he hisses, and I sit back quickly.

We drive through the streets and silence descends. With it, comes a sudden, deep awareness of Asa’s big body sitting closely against me in the tight confines of the backseat. I can feel the heat coming from him, and if I inhale I can smell the warm amber scent which clings to him and fills his house, much the same way as his personality does. I look at his big hands resting on his knees, the fingers long and dexterous with neat clipped nails, and for a wild second I imagine them holding my cock, the calluses rough against the tender skin. I breathe in sharply, and to my horror I feel my cock stiffening.

At my intake of air, he turns his head and stares at me, streetlights sending shadows moving and flitting over his face, making him look mysterious and somehow dangerous. For a long second which seems to stretch he stares at me, a nerve throbbing in his jaw. Then I see his chest rise and fall sharply, and he inhales jerkily. Is he smelling me? Our eyes catch and hold and I feel suspended in time, until Lucy says something in a querulous tone of voice, and his attention breaks away from me as surely as if he took a hatchet to the string it was tethered by. I breathe in deeply and subtly, aware that I’m shaking slightly. What the fuck was that?

Finally, we draw up outside the block of tasteful mansion flats where Lucy lives. She climbs out elegantly and Asa follows her, before leaning in through the window.

“You’re not coming home?” I ask, and mentally kick the fuck out of myself, because what the hell was that?

He shoots me a startled look mixed with humour. “I think it best tonight that I’m not too near you. If I’m within arm’s reach I’ll throttle you, and Billy is far too young to break me out of prison.” He looks at the man. “Thank you so much for your kind help. Did you want an autograph for your wife?”

The man immediately proffers a piece of scrap paper, and Asa pauses. “Who shall I make it out to?”

“Oh, don’t put a name on it,” he says blithely. “I can sell it on eBay when she goes off you.” He looks Asa up and down, and shakes his head as he stands open mouthed. “I must say I thought you’d be a lot bigger. You looked like quite a strapping young man behind the bar in ‘Eastenders’.”

I try to choke the flood of giggles waiting to leak out, but fail, and a disgusting snort comes out. Asa glares at me. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jude,” he says silkily. “Bright and early and ready.”

“Ready for what?” I ask, but with a muttered thank you to the old man, he’s gone, striding down the path to catch up with Lucy.

Going to burn the sheets up I think sourly, and look up when the old man clears his throat.

“Is it okay with you, young man, if we stop off on the way back?”

I nod. “Of course, it’s fine. Did you need to get something?”

“The wife,” he grunts. “She’ll be wondering where I’ve got to. We only stopped off so she could get a loaf of bread.”

***

I stand on Lucy’s balcony, smoking a guilty cigarette and looking down on the quiet street. It’s very early and London is just starting to wake, if it ever really sleeps. I normally love this time of the morning, feeling like I’m seeing a little-known side to the busy city. However, today my mind is off and I feel agitated.

I inhale deeply, feeling the smoke burn its way down, and then with an exclamation of disgust, I stub out the cigarette in the ashtray on the balcony wall. I’m not starting this habit again. I packed up when Billy was born, and ever since then I’ve only had the odd one, usually when I’m feeling off kilter. I sigh, because I’m not keeping secrets from myself here. I know very well the reason why I’m so uneasy. He’s six feet of gorgeous, impish cheek, and he’s currently driving me up the fucking wall. He’s too young for me but still half of me wants to punch him, while the other half wants to grab him, throw him down on the nearest surface, and fuck him until he screams.

I shake my head because it’s no surprise I’m so conflicted. Jude is an utter walking contradiction from the sulky, sleepy full pout of his mouth, to the merry, kind eyes. The lean, strong length of his body which screams energy and time spent exercising, and his dreamy disorganised nature. I smile unwillingly. Even the studied stupidity of his actions spell out contradiction, when compared to the quicksilver wit and razor sharp brain I see signs of all the time.

I sigh heavily. The latter is my fault unfortunately. I never judge people. It’s one of my few character traits I’m actually proud of, and I broke it in front of someone who is ironically proving to be a person I find reluctantly important. I just looked up, and for one wild moment I thought he was Phillip. The same long body and dark curls. I saw them and reacted viscerally, which unfortunately as with anything connected to Phillip, had more than an air of wounded bear about it.

Things worsened when he told me what he did for a living. One whiff of the word model and I was gone, and it’s been a massive source of regret to me ever since. So many times over the last two weeks, I’ve seen smart arsed retorts on those full lips, and interest and engagement in his eyes, and I’ve wanted so badly for him to say what he has been thinking, to let me see the real him.

I snort out a laugh, because instead of that, he’s immediately settled back into totally fucking up whatever I’ve asked him to do. I shake my head because this is like some fucked up dance we’re doing now. I know he’s not stupid. He knows he’s not stupid. I also know he’s starting to realise I know the truth, but he’s still doing his level best to appear like a moron. He’s a contrary motherfucker - never what I expect. I sigh. Always what I want.

My phone buzzes and distracts me. I grimace as I see my agent’s name on the screen. I fucking know what this is about.

I connect the call. “Good morning, Max.”

“What’s fucking good about it?”

I smile involuntarily because his East End accent is very strong today. I could lay a bet on what’s set him off. “I don’t know,” I say lightly. “The sun’s out. My shares are doing really well. Arsenal won last night.”

“How long have you and that posh bird been in a threesome with Jude Bailey?”

I choke on my own spit. “Wow. Max, I think I forgot how much you mince your words.”

“Whatever the fuck that means,” he grunts. “I mean it, Asa. Tell me the truth now and we can handle it, mate.”

I think of the photos which greeted me first thing this morning and drove me onto the balcony with nicotine. Then I laugh helplessly, because the best one in my opinion was the one where I’m dragging Jude into the back of the old man’s car. The indignation and ire on his face still tickles me. Unfortunately, the laughter sets Max off.

“Fucking hell, Asa, are you hysterical? Is that what that laughter is? Or are you finding humour in the fact the papers will now be speculating endlessly over which one of them is taking your dickory dock?” I blink and mouth the words, but he’s on a roll. “Right now, the people of Britain are speculating whether you’re a top or a bottom. Right now, over their toast and marmalade, women are saying to their husbands, ‘Darling, is that Asa Jacobs, the one whose career is starting to take off again? That man right there in the picture in the fucking Sun, who appears to be the sausage in a celebrity sandwich’.”

“Oh my God,” I groan. “Max, stop. I know you somehow think you’re using the right terms, but you’re really not. It’s like Dennis Waterman doing grime.”

He pauses. “I don’t think Dennis Waterman is dirty. At least I’ve never heard any rumours about the lad.” I open my mouth, but he goes on in a very offended way. “I think I’m very LSFFT friendly.”

“I’m not sure what organisation that is, maybe fly fishing. However, it certainly isn’t the LGBTQ organisation I think you’re trying to refer to.”

There’s a short pause. “So many letters,” he sighs, and I wait him out, trying hard not to laugh. Max is the most tolerant, warm person I’ve ever met. He’s never met anyone he didn’t accept. The only requirement he has is that they make him laugh, and if they can, he likes them regardless of gender or sexual orientation. Once you’re in with Max, you’ll never have a more stalwart champion.

However, he’s getting on and his language is still the language of the East End boxing clubs he spent his early days in. It’s the last hangover of his misspent youth, apart from his massive cauliflower nose from being punched too many times. Despite this, I love him. I’ve loved him since the first day, when the rough talking man with a fondness for flash three-piece suits and cravats took a gangly northern boy under his wing. He and Marnie, his wife, semi-adopted me, and Billy considers them his erstwhile grandparents.

There’s a heavy sigh down the phone, recalling me to the present. “So, you’re now fucking a very well-known male model, as well as that posh bint, then?”

I’m not actually fucking either of them at the moment. I’ve slept with Lucy before, but not for a long time. Over the years there have been many men and women in my bed, and I’ve always proudly embraced my bisexuality. I tend to lean more towards men, but since Phillip I’ve steered away from them altogether. There were too many horrible associations to make me want a relationship with a man after him. However, I have a feeling this dry spell is coming to an end.

Last night I was tempted to sleep with Lucy again, and release all the tension created by that silent moment in the car. However, I knew if I did anything it would only be working off the hard-on Jude created. It’s a truly shitty thing to do to someone, so I claimed tiredness and we just went to sleep. Max would be ecstatic if he knew, because he doesn’t like Lucy. Ironically, he would really like Jude. I shake that thought off quickly.

“No, I’m not fucking him,” I say patiently. “He’s just staying with me and doing Andrew’s job until I find someone permanent.” My brain shies away a little at the thought of him not being there anymore, and it’s sufficiently alarming to have me reaching for another cigarette. I wrench my fingers away from the packet and give myself a lecture. I shouldn’t even be entertaining these thoughts about anyone, least of all someone who is from the same feckless world as Phillip. No matter how charming and funny Jude is.

Max recalls me to the present, one of his many talents. “So, let me get this straight. You’ve got a fucking Calvin Klein underwear model answering your phone.” There’s a short pause. “What’s next? David Gandy popping in to mow the lawn? Jordan Barrett pulling on the marigolds and giving your fucking loo a quick spritz?”

I snort out a laugh. “Lovely as that sounds, Max, I think I’ll pass. Jude’s going out with Dean so there’s no danger of anything happening.” A fact I remind myself about at least every two minutes, usually because I have a massive erection.

“He’s going out with Dean? What the fuck for? Well, at least it points to him having a sense of fucking humour. You’d need one to be with Dean. Either that or a fucking lobotomy.” His voice lowers slightly. “Is he thick? Is that the answer? Well, don’t let him into any of your fucking paperwork.”

“He’s not thick,” I say with absolute certainty. “He’s extremely clever and very funny. You’d really like him.”

A long silence greets that, and then finally he sighs. “Shit, Asa. Don’t go there with another model. He even looks like Phillip. I’ve done some digging and he’s got a huge reputation for sleeping around. No complaints from anyone, mind you. They all seem to like him, but he’s not known for his staying power. He doesn’t do many repeats.”

Rage sears through me at the thought of him shagging all those faceless men, but I squash it. I also squash the memory of him talking to his mum which clearly showed a softer, more troubled side to him. “I’m not going anywhere with anyone,” I say indignantly, but he interrupts me.

“I can hear it in your bloody voice, mate. All soft and fucking fond. Ugh. Haven’t we already been there with Phillip? And we’re still only standing on the edge of the pile of shit he’s going to be shovelling your way very soon.”

My smile dies instantly, and I feel the customary tightening in my chest at the thought of what Phillip is doing. “He’s not like Phillip,” I say sharply. “He’s nothing like him.”

I think back to the other afternoon when I’d come back early and found him and Billy dancing to ‘The Promise’ by Girls Aloud. The music had been pumping, and Billy had been dancing like a whirling dervish and laughing loudly at Jude, who appeared to be heavily channelling Cheryl Cole and rather alarmingly seemed to know all the moves.

In all my years with Phillip, I never once saw him exhibit the level of simple joy that Jude showed around Billy that day. Instead, Phillip had always been a little distant around him, and very concerned we should always have time away, like he was convalescing from my child.

I shake my head, coldness slipping over me at the thought of him, souring my mood the way he did so many times over the years. I will never again give anyone what I gave him, only for it to be thrown back at me as if it was nothing, as if I was nothing. I’m forty-four. It’s way past time for me to grow up and stop dreaming.

“You don’t need to worry,” I say coldly and briskly. “Jude’s only passing through. No one’s becoming attached to anyone.”

It doesn’t take Max’s silence for us both to acknowledge the fact I’m lying.

The next morning, I find myself hovering in front of Asa’s front door, wondering if he’s back yet. I popped out earlier for a run, too nervous to sit still and wait for the axe to fall. I thought about it as I jogged around Regents Park. Why am I so bothered about him asking me to leave? Is it stubbornness, or something else?

I push my mind away resolutely from the something else, which I have an uneasy feeling is six foot five with long wavy hair and full lips. Instead, I concentrate on the fact I actually like living in his house. It’s busy, sometimes chaotic, but never boring and it suits me. However, this morning when I left, it was totally still, which is a bit of a rarity. Billy was still in bed, and Peggy and Amos always go to the supermarket on a Friday. I therefore stopped at Costa on the way back and treated myself to an iced coffee and an almond croissant.

I clutch the croissant protectively to my chest, and juggle my keys and coffee as I let myself into the house. They immediately fall to the ground, as I hear the sound of shrill shouting and the awful sound of a child crying helplessly.

“Billy,” I whisper, and belt up the stairs, catching myself on the balustrade to avoid face planting before darting to the open door of his bedroom. I throw myself into the room, and come up short as I take in the sight before me.

Miss Hampton is standing over Billy, his arm caught in a crushing grip judging by the white knuckles of her hand. They’re stood over a box of Lego, which has been upended and spread out over the floor, and is obviously the source of her anger.

Billy is whining and wriggling with a shocking red mark on his white cheek. He’s sobbing helplessly and utter rage fills me, mixed with an immense, powerful pity. “Let him go,” I say, and my voice sounds hard and cold. “Let him go right now, you utter cow.”

She huffs but releases her grasp. “Come here, Bill,” I say calmly, through the glass in my throat, and he speeds across the floor like an arrow flying to the gold, rushing into my arms with a choked whimper. I grab him close, lifting him up while he winds himself around me like a little howler monkey, his legs and arms in a rictus grip. I croon to him softly. “It’s alright, Billy. It’s fine now, baby. I have you, Bill.”

He sobs and I can feel the tremors running through him, and when I see his arm, which is bright red where she grabbed him, with nail crescents showing, I feel rage consume me.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” I say in a low cold voice. “You’re a bloody monster.”

Incredibly, she gathers herself together, patting her uniform down, the only sign of her anger the two red spots on her cheeks. She looks at me indignantly. “Who do you think you’re talking to? I have never in my life been -”

“Been what?” I interrupt. “A psychotic loony? Look at his arm and face, you bloody cow. He’ll bruise.”

She huffs. “Look at this mess. He’s a cheeky little brat, and I’m sick of picking up after him.”

I tighten my grip around the child in my arms, stroking his back. “He’s a little boy,” I say hoarsely. “If he makes a mess, you ask him to clean it, you don’t put your bloody hands on him.” I stare at her. “Get out, you rancid old cow. Get out of this house.”

She draws herself up to her full height. “You have no right to tell me to do anything. You’re not my boss.”

“No, I am,” comes a deep, anger filled voice from behind us, and we both jump and turn towards the door where Asa is standing. He’s still dressed in his suit from the night before, minus the jacket, the shirt open and displaying a trace of hair, and his tie stuffed in his pocket. He looks dishevelled and handsome, but what draws the attention most is the look of ice cold anger on his face and the bleakness in his eyes.

He comes into the room, and when Billy wriggles, I put him down. He instantly runs to Asa who scoops him up, holding him close and crooning low words to him. Eventually, Billy calms down, and raises a blotched face to his dad.

“You alright, mate?” Asa asks quietly, and he nods before giving a snot filled sniff. Asa’s mouth quirks, and one handed, he pats his pocket, obviously looking for a handkerchief, before resignedly holding one shirt clad arm out. “Blow,” he says, and smiles as Billy rubs tears and snot all over what I know is a Tom Ford shirt. Unperturbed, Asa looks at him. “Better?”

When Billy nods, Asa kisses him. “I’m going to speak to Jude and Miss Hampton. Peggy and Amos just got back, so I want you to go down to the kitchen and ask Peggy for a biscuit.” Billy clings to him, and Asa carries on talking in the same quiet tone I’ve heard my father use with spooked animals so many times in the past. “You’re not in any trouble, Bill. None at all. I just need a quiet word.”

Billy nods, but wraps his arms around Asa’s neck and whispers something in his ear. Asa’s expression softens and he looks up at me, holding my gaze. “Don’t worry,” he says quietly. “He’ll be fine. I’ll make sure.”

He sets him down on the ground, and my throat tightens as Billy rushes over to me, skirting Miss Hampton warily, and hugs my legs tightly. “It’s okay, Bill,” I say softly. “Go and get a biscuit. Get me one too.”

With that sudden shift in emotions children can manage so easily, he nods and darts out of the room. Silence falls, before Asa stirs.

“Pack your bags,” he says, and the tone is so sharp and heavy it’s like a clap of thunder in the still room. I jump, convinced for a second he’s talking to me, but he’s staring intently at the nanny.

She sniffs. “I’m not allowed a defence, then?”

I huff and Asa stares at her. “I don’t think there is any defence for manhandling my child and leaving marks on him, do you?” She stares at him as if hypnotised, as he paces across the room like a large jaguar, sleek and suddenly deadly. “Pack your bags and get out,” he says quietly. “Make sure you look down at your uniform, because it’s the last time you’ll wear it. By the time I get through speaking to your agency, you’ll be lucky to get a job cleaning their toilets.”

She recoils and looks up, arguments running through her eyes and trembling on her lips, but they visibly fall away when she catches and is held by his gaze. He shakes his head. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Me?” she hisses. “What about you? All those women and men in your bed. Who are you to judge me? Let’s not forget Phillip.” He jerks slightly and she smiles coldly.  “That’s going to come back and haunt you, Mister Jacobs, and I’ll have a good laugh over my gin and tonic when it does.” She looks him up and down. “With your morals, how can you possibly hope to raise your son properly?”

For a second Asa looks vulnerable, and I lose my temper. “Oh, give it up, Mary fucking Poppins,” I sneer. “The only spoonful of something you should have is a bloody good dose of Valium. It might help your appalling Hitlerish tendencies.”

“How dare you. You’re bloody nothing. An empty-headed model with nothing between your ears.”

“On the contrary, I am an awesome model with good bone structure and a fantastic brain, and you are a tin pot dictator with a bad perm and appalling taste in shoes. Why don’t you fuck off and pursue your true vocation in life. It’s dictatorship if you’re confused.”

Asa breaks into the tirade, his quiet words stopping everything. “Will you go and wait for me downstairs, Jude, and send Peggy up. I’d like her to monitor Miss Hampton, so she doesn’t take anything not belonging to her.”

“Like a decent personality,” I mutter, and march my way out and down the stairs.

An hour later I stir, unable to stand the silence in the room. I heard footsteps going back and forth overhead about twenty minutes ago, and a little later there were steps outside the library and the sound of the front door shutting. Then nothing. I sigh, then jump up from my chair when the door opens and Asa walks in, closing it quietly behind him.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly.

“For what?”

“I shouldn’t have used bad language and shouted at her in front of Billy. I should have done what you did, and calmed him down and got him out of the room.” I pause. “Then, I could have used bad language and shouted.”

Incredibly, a smile crosses his face as he lowers himself into the leather sofa facing my chair. He sighs and the smile dies.

“Are you okay?” I ask cautiously, sitting back down. “How’s Billy?”

“Sitting in the kitchen eating beans on toast and watching ‘Charlie and Lola’.” He looks at me searchingly. “He’s fine.”

“You didn’t answer my first question. How are you?”

He shakes his head, and there’s something weary and ancient looking about him at this moment, as though he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. Something stirs in me, a sudden feeling of tenderness I find utterly alien.

“I’m a terrible father,” he says quietly, and the statement is so shocking I jump.

“What the fuck? Where did that come from?”

He stares at me. “I didn’t see what she was like. I missed it. How many times has she done this and got away with it?” He shuts his eyes for a second, and when he opens them, there’s an unmistakable sheen there. “What will this have done to him? He was frightened of her, and I didn’t know.”

“Okay, hold on a second,” I say firmly. “You’ve taken this idea of a poor abused child and run way too far with it.” I nod. “About sixty miles too far.” He stares at me, seeming fascinated, and I stand up and pace. “Should you have seen how she was? Maybe.” He winces, and I come to a stop. “But how could you? I’m talking about her personality, not her violent tendencies. I’ve never seen her do that before, and I’ve been watching her for a while.”

He jerks. “See? You’ve only been here a couple of weeks and you saw.”

I shake my head crossly. “I saw because she let me. I was nothing in this house. You heard her. I’m an empty-headed bimbo. I was no threat. You, however, never saw that side of her. In front of you, she was all sweetness and light, like Mother Teresa on a very, very bad day.” I shrug. “So unless you’ve developed presentiment, in which case you can give me Friday’s lottery numbers, I suggest you give up the pity party. Bill’s a happy, well-adjusted little boy, who’s a testament to the way you raise him. He’s funny and kind and open minded. I’d be proud to be raising a little boy like him, not beating myself up because I made an error of judgement.”

His eyes clear and I feel a rush of gladness which I force down. Then I start as he carries on talking. “It’s not the only error of judgement I’ve made lately.” He shakes his head and gestures at the chair. “Look, can you sit down and stop towering over me?”

I perch on the edge of the chair, and look enquiringly at him.

He sits back. “I owe you an apology, Jude.”

“What? Me?”

“Yes, you.” A smile appears on his face and vanishes just as quickly. “I judged you poorly, based on your appearance and your job. I thought you were vapid, stupid and money hungry. A fame whore like -” He pauses and shakes his head. “Anyway, it was entirely the wrong judgement, and I’m extremely sorry for it.” He smiles. “Not that you haven’t had your revenge for the misconception.”

I stare at him, feeling warmth rush through me. “You don’t think I’m stupid?” I say tentatively, and then stare in astonishment as he throws his head back and laughs.

“Fucking hell, Jude. I know you’re not stupid. I knew pretty quickly actually.”

“When?”

He snorts. “When you used the word pensive in a conversation about drains. How you managed to work the word in is a mystery, but you did.”

A smile plays on my mouth, which for a second his gaze seems to catch on, but then he leans forward.

“I knew you were playing me after that, but I deserved every single thing you did.” He shudders. “Every time you listed the calorie content of something, or lectured me on the correlations between grease and poor complexions, I deserved it.”

I smile suddenly, unable to keep it in anymore, and laugh out loud. “Yeah, but your face when I made a coal and avocado face mask and insisted you put it on. That’ll stay with me for a long time.”

Incredibly he joins in, laughing until tears dampen his eyes. Finally stopping, he stares hard at me and I look at him questioningly.

“I am sorry,” he says slowly. “But I need to replace you as my assistant.”

My laughter dies, and sudden surprising dread fills me. I get to my feet clumsily. “I understand,” I say quickly. “I’ll pack and get out of your way. It’s too awkward after the last couple of weeks.”

He jumps to his feet. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t want you to be my assistant, but I also don’t want you to leave.”

“What?”

Words hover on his lips before coming out in a rush. “I want you to look after Billy.”

My ‘what the fuck’ is drowned out by his words bubbling out untested. “Please listen. It’s the perfect solution. You need a place to stay, and I need someone to be with Billy. Someone I feel he’ll be safe with.”

“But I’m not trained. I have no childcare qualifications, and up until a few days ago you thought I had the IQ of a piece of toast.” His lip quirks. “Why would you want me looking after him?”

“Because he’ll be safe. That woman was one of the most qualified nannies at the agency I used, but trouble still happened and, at the end of the day, when it happened, you reached out for Billy and he ran to you. You stuck up for him and comforted him when I wasn’t there to do it. You keep him safe, and you make him laugh. You’re kind and funny and incredibly quick witted. If I’m looking for a good role model for Billy and someone to trust with looking after him, I can’t see beyond you.”

I stare at him, feeling twin emotions of total panic and pride. “Are you sure?” I ask tentatively. “I’m not convinced I’m the right person for this.”

He slumps slightly in what looks like relief. “I am sure, yes.” He hesitates. “It’s not for forever, anyway. You’ll be leaving after the summer. It gives me the chance to look properly for a new nanny and find the right person.” He looks up. “Is it a deal?”

I flinch slightly because I’ve actually forgotten for a second I will eventually be leaving. Everything with him seems somehow rooted in reality, like a plant’s roots in the soil. Real and firm and present.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “It’s a deal.” I pause and make myself say firmly, “Until I leave, I’ll do this for you and Billy.”

I should be running for the hills, my glamorous carefree existence changing to being a child carer. I wonder when my shiny life suddenly began to look so rootless and pointless.