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‘Good.’ She rubs her hands together. ‘Because tonight we’re out.’
‘What do you mean, out?’
‘Like out, out. Proper out. I have VIP entry to a new club up west called Piper’s. You game?’
‘Yes.’ I nod decisively, not needing to think twice. This is what London’s about. Freedom, fun and liberation. ‘I could do with a drink.’
‘Fab.’ She grabs my arm, pulling me to a stop, and I frown when her nose wrinkles in distaste. ‘Um . . .’ She steps back. ‘I think your new friend is about to take a dump.’
‘What?’ I look down to Winston, finding him squatting. ‘Oh, no.’
‘You know you’re gonna have to pick that up, right?’
‘What with?’ I slap my hand over my mouth when Winston looks up at me, his whole body shaking with the strain.
‘Don’t tell me you came out to walk a dog without a poop bag?’
‘I had other things on my mind.’ I look around the park, desperately searching for another dog walker. There’s no one. ‘Fucking hell,’ I curse, glancing down at Winston, who has now finished doing his business and is sitting at my feet with a pile of steaming hot poo next to him. ‘Damn,’ I mutter. He looks pleased with himself.
‘I’d ask for a pay rise,’ Lucy titters, and my shoulders drop, defeated, as I lower myself to unbearable levels, heading over to a rubbish bin.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. ‘I cannot believe I’m doing this,’ I whimper to myself. I’m in a lovely black dress with matching heels and a mac, and I’m about to rummage through a public bin – like a vagrant – to find something suitable to scoop up my sinful boss’s dog’s excrement. I really have reached an all-time low.
Once Winston is settled in his dog basket in the kitchen, I scrub my hands until they’re sore and oversee the collection of the Rembrandt by the restorers, then I take a moment to evaluate my situation. I need to be a grown-up. I need to get a grip and stop with the dangerous games. I need to clear the air and be rid of the awkwardness before it goes too far. If it hasn’t already. ‘Yes,’ I say to myself.
‘Yes what, dear?’
I turn to see Mrs Potts scanning the kitchen for who I might be talking to.
‘Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself.’ I wave a hand flippantly in the air, brushing off her curiosity, but before I can stop it, the question that’s plaguing my mind just spills right out. ‘Why is Becker in therapy?’
Mrs Potts shoots me a worried look, and I find myself rushing to go on.
‘I heard Mr H telling Becker to call his therapist.’
Her lips purse, her violet curls shifting as she shakes her head and goes to the pile of carrots I left for her, starting to scoop them into a large saucepan. ‘He struggles.’
‘With what?’ I don’t know why I’m asking. I heard plain and clear when Mr H yelled at him while I was hiding in the cupboard. I think I’m simply looking for validation. Trying to support the compassion I’m starting to feel for him.
She sighs. ‘With his parents’ deaths. First his mum in the car accident, and then his father. It’s a lot for a young man to deal with.’
I fold a little on the inside with the confirmation. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You mustn’t speak of it,’ she orders sternly, and I nod my understanding. ‘He has an unhealthy way of dealing with things, and Donald hopes Dr Vass can help him work through that.’
‘Women?’ I broach tentatively.
‘Among other things. He has a fear of affection. Doesn’t like getting attached. He keeps things simple, hence the fast turnover of women.’ She fires up the hob, effectively ending our conversation.
I accept the hint graciously, but wince as I turn and make my way from the room. Fast turnover of women. I’ve seen the photos myself. ‘I’ll be in the library.’
I can feel her eyes follow me all the way to the door until it closes behind me. She’s worried, and she has every right to be. I shouldn’t have pried, but I suspect she’s fed me that little information as another warning not to go there. It might have worked. Or it might not have. I’m feeling empathy for my difficult boss. I can understand the level of his grief from my own. I lost my dad. Just one parent. Losing both would have sent me deeper into the black pit with little hope of clawing myself out.
I relax and lean my back against the corridor wall, looking towards his office. The thought of seeing him again frightens me. I’m already struggling to erase the memories – his taste, the feel of him, the rush of desire. Clapping eyes on him again is likely to make me struggle harder, but I need to face this head-on. Delaying it will make it harder. Nip it in the bud.
