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“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.
