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These people, the ones with nothing to their name and every reason to be bitter, are some of the nicest people I’ve ever met in my life. They take everything with thanks, and ask me about my day with genuine interest, like they haven’t got better things to worry about than my cruddy life away from here.
Frank knows everyone, literally every single person that comes up to us. I follow him as he makes conversation. He asks one guy about his bad leg, and some poor old woman about her grandkid’s birthday last weekend. She tears up as she tells him she got to spend time with him at the foster shelter, and I tear up too, because there is something so real and so raw about this place and these people, something so sad and so warm all at once.
I’m so homesick for my old life that I have to fight the urge to curl into a ball and never get back up. I twist my cold fingers in the tassels of mum’s scarf and push the pain back inside, dishing out those hot soups to those less fortunate than I am and counting my limited blessings.
At least Joe and I have a roof over our heads. It may take every penny I earn to run the place and keep it that way, but Joe always has food in his belly and warm cuddles at night.
Maybe that’s why Mr Henley comes here, to feel gratitude for his lot in life.
Who knows.
I guess Frank does, because on the way back to the kitchen he tells me how he works at all three branches, how once he started this work he couldn’t just walk away at the end of the evening.
Looking after people on the street is everything to Frank. His volunteers are like a second family to him, he says, and so are the people out there in the cold.
I wonder if Mr Henley is like second family to him. The thought feels weird.
I help him pack away, even after everyone else has gone, and he’s turning off the lights for the evening when he asks if I’ll be back next week.
I tell him I’ll definitely be back next week, and every week after that if he’ll have me.
He calls me Amy and I smile like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
The weirdest thing about all this?
On my way back to the underground I realise I’d be back next week regardless, Mr Henley or no.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ALEXANDER
MM.
Maybe she’s a Margaret or a Millicent or Mollie. A Mary, or a Maddie, or something trendy like a Miley.
Mary Moore.
Miley Montgomery.
Margaret Mackenzie.
I could just look her up on my employee database, of course. A few keystrokes and I’d have every M name on our books at my fingertips.
But I don’t.
There is something so ethereal about this girl’s presence in my home. One wrong move could blow that sweet illusion away.
At the other extreme, knowing her actual name might give me dangerous options, so I force myself to remain ignorant.
I name her Molly May instead.
I like that. Sweet Molly May.
Molly May enjoyed her breakfast, her note told me so.
This morning I didn’t leave another, just made sure there was an empty bowl and spoon on the tray on the island, trusting she’ll know what it’s there for.
I’m disappointed to find nothing in its stead when I return. No sure way of knowing if Molly May ate her fill or simply put the empty bowl back in the cupboard.
I tell myself it’s done, our ridiculous little note exchange nothing more than a passing fancy. She’s most likely relieved, free to carry out her daily tasks without having to concern herself with looping her letters just so for her fool of an employer.
Despite my rational mind telling me it doesn’t matter shit whether my cleaner left me a stupid little thank you note or not, there’s definitely a pang of frustration in my gut.
It’s annoying.
Distinctly annoying.
I console myself with the pornography I’ve committed to avoid, then finish myself off to the fantasy of little Molly May with my hands around her throat, retching streams of saliva all over her stripy uniform.
It’s the best orgasm I’ve had in months, and that’s distinctly annoying too.
MELISSA
THE NOTES STOP.
I try to shrug it off and pretend it doesn’t matter.
I’m sure it doesn’t matter, not to him. He was just a powerful man taking a moment to make his lowly cleaner feel comfortable.
The disappointment only makes my plan all the more important, because now I’ve had a taste, just the tiniest little taste of how good it feels to be known by Alexander Henley, I can’t bear to let that go.
So here I am, trying to hide my bellyful of nerves behind a calm smile as I teeter on my new-old heels through the centre of Chelsea en route to meet CF.
It’s dark, and I’m glad. It already feels like everyone is staring at me, like they know I’m an outsider, that I don’t belong around these parts, with my second-hand gown and the jacket that needed stitches on the inside seam.
I have to take a minute to calm my breathing when the posh signage for Finch Hamilton auctioneers comes into view.
The main entrance claims it’s closed for the day, but there’s a little light shining above the posh oak reception desk I spy through the window. The door is locked when I try it, so I press the intercom.
“Side entrance,” a voice barks, and it’s him, CF, I recognise him from my first phone call.
The side entrance is dark, and I’m slow on my heels. The door is already open when I reach it, and Claude Finch is a huge shadow beyond, big and broad and dressed in a pinstripe suit. He beckons me in, then locks it.
He slips the keys into his inside pocket, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. He’s older than I expect, a silver fox with a slick moustache. He looks as though he should be wearing a monocle.
“I’m Amy,” I lie, keeping my smile confident and hoping he doesn’t realise my legs are wobbly.
“Alright, Amy,” he says, “come on through.” He points to a door at the back of the corridor, and I walk on ahead of him. I feel his eyes on me, know he’s hanging back to check out my ass in this slinky dress.
Judging me. He’s definitely judging me.
It feels grimy, but I don’t care. I just want to be good enough.
His office smells of old leather, his desk covered in guides to antiques and reams of paperwork. The seat he offers me squeaks as I lower myself into it. He stares at me from across the desk, opening his hands to offer me the floor.
I feel so small. So pathetic.
“I want to… I’m hoping to…”
“Sell yourself,” he says. “Yes. I have buyers.”
Buyers.
My nerves jangle. I can’t speak. I don’t know what to say.
Claude sighs and I feel like I’ve already failed. “So, tell me, Amy, have you ever offered your services for sale before? My clients have… particular tastes. We are a niche agency.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m, um…” I can’t find the words, and I wonder if I should say them at all, because he might not want me if I’m inexperienced. He might tell me to come back when I’ve sucked a few dicks and know what the fuck I’m doing.
Maybe he’ll offer me his, and I don’t want it. I really don’t want it.
“You’re what?” he prompts, and he’s impatient. The kind of guy that wants it straight or he’ll chuck you out on your ass.
“I’m a virgin,” I tell him. “But I can learn… I’m a fast learner…”
His eyes widen, and I’m petrified he’s going to tell me to fuck off out of here. “A virgin? A genuine, honest-to-God, un-fucking-touched virgin?”
I nod. “Yeah. But I…”
“A medical will have to confirm.”
I nod again. “Sure.”
The biggest smile creeps across Claude Finch’s face, and it’s scarier than the scowl he was wearing before. “You want me to put your sweet little cherry on the market? First time goes to the highest bidder? I hope you?
?re not playing games with me, sweetheart.”
No. I want my sweet little cherry to go to Alexander Henley.
I can’t say that, so I smile instead. “Yes. That’s what I want. Please.”
He laughs. “Alright then, Miss…”
“Randall,” I lie. “Amy Randall.”
“And you brought ID with you, Miss Amy Randall?”
I dig my fake passport from my clutch bag, hoping beyond hope Dean’s dodgy friend delivered a decent forgery.
Claude nods as he looks it over, and then he slams it onto the photocopier at his side. “For my records,” he says. He taps away on his keyboard, and I wish I could see his screen. He pulls a face. “Good, good. I see you have a good credit rating, Miss Randall. We like that. We don’t take… desperates.”
I keep smiling, my foot tapping in mid-air as he leans down to a desk drawer. I hear the rattle of keys, and my breath hitches as he presents me with a questionnaire. I lean to take it but I can’t stop staring at the camera in his hand, some high end digital thing. It lights up as he angles it towards me.
“Are you, um… is that for pictures of me?”
“Video. Call it a brochure. Just fill in the questionnaire first so I know how to catalogue you.”
Catalogue me.
