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Every morning I leave one in its stead.
A Belgian truffle, a tub of candyfloss, a selection of vintage cheese.
Finally, on Friday morning, I leave her a bottle of wine.
It’s an expensive one, thoroughly extravagant. Ridiculously extravagant.
I write her a note along with it telling her to enjoy her weekend.
It’s the craziest phenomenon, how this little gift exchange brightens my disposition.
I’ve been excited when I walk in through the door at night, smiling as I set out her daily surprise on the kitchen island before leaving for work.
So it’s no surprise that I’m feeling the disappointment now the weekend looms, knowing the house is about to turn cold again.
My Friday morning is a ballache of client meetings, followed by an afternoon that proves to be a fucking pain in the ass to boot.
Board meeting. My disgusting father nodding at me across the meeting room table.
He accosts me as everyone leaves, insisting I stay behind as I stare pointedly at the clock on the far wall. I’m supposed to be meeting Mr Rand at his office in forty minutes for a Friday night celebratory social. I hate those at the best of times, but right now it feels pretty damn inviting.
“What?” I snap. “I’ve got places to be.”
His smile is sickening. “Yes, so do I. Auction, yes?”
I stare blankly. “Auction?” And then it dawns. Claude’s seedy fucking new meat offering.
My cock twitches instinctively at the thought of getting some fucking snatch, but I don’t care today. I don’t care at all.
“Have you seen the lots?” my father asks, and his eyes sparkle with delight.
It sickens me. I tell him so.
“Get off your fucking high-horse, boy. We both know you’ll only last so long.”
“We’ll see about that.”
He laughs. “Yes, we will. It’s at eight. Don’t be late.”
I hate the way he has such little respect for my resolve.
I hate the way he has such little respect for me.
“A bit old for little girls aren’t you, old man?”
“I do just fine, thanks for your concern.” He leans in close and it makes my skin crawl. “Nothing a few little blue pills can’t remedy. I can hook you up, if you like?”
I shunt past him without the grace of a response, and my heart is thumping, hands so clammy I repulse myself.
I wipe them down as I head to the car, and my breath is shallow, raspy.
Panic.
I’m on the edge of a fucking panic attack.
It amuses me so much I stop to laugh.
A fucking panic attack.
I haven’t had a panic attack since Geoffrey Rogers smashed a cricket ball into my temple and I thought he’d smashed my skull in. I was twelve.
It won’t ease off as I get into the car, not even after a minute of staring blankly through the windscreen and breathing in to seven out to eleven.
I call Brenda, she answers in two rings.
“Mr Henley?”
I tell her I’ve changed my plans. Tell her to inform Mr Rand that we’ll have to reschedule.
I give her no time to drill down into detail, just hang up and scroll through my weekly schedule.
I’m marked out as busy for at least another ninety minutes, time enough to get home before rush hour.
Which means…
And I get it. I get the panic attack. I get the urgency of having to cancel Mr Rand’s silly fucking social.
I’m officially losing my fucking mind as I put the car into reverse and get the fuck out of there.
MELISSA
I’M ABSOLUTELY CRAPPING myself knowing that tonight’s the night my fate will be decided.
I’ve made preparations, spending a chunk of my latest wages on setting up life insurance and writing out one of those stupid standard legal templates to set up a will naming Dean as Joseph’s legal guardian should I…
Well, just should I…
I don’t want to think about that.
Mr Henley has left me a bottle of wine, I choose to think about that instead.
I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I wish I could leave him a note telling him that my name is Melissa Martin and I’ve loved him since I was fourteen.
I wish I could tell him that it was my dream to be like him, and I’m sorry we had to meet this way, but to give me a chance, just one little chance to introduce myself.
I wish I could tell him that being in his house is the greatest honour, and I’d give anything just to share breakfast with him, just once in person.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Because tonight Mr Henley will be seeing my face on some seedy auction screen. Tonight Mr Henley will be seeing my spread pussy and my sparkly heels, and listening to all the things I said to Claude last week.
I’m just Mr Henley’s cleaner, and Mr Henley is a kind employer.
I don’t want Mr Henley to be a kind employer, I want him to be the man who takes my virginity.
And that’s why I can’t take the bottle of wine from him. It’s vintage. Expensive.
It’s too much for a lowly little cleaner like me, and I don’t want to drink it without him.
My note is simple this evening.
Dear Mr Henley,
You are too generous.
Thank you, but please enjoy the bottle yourself.
MM.
I hug Brutus without even thinking about it as I prepare to leave and he stiffens but doesn’t growl at me. I slip him an extra fish treat and ask him to wish me luck.
My Henley’s calendar shows some work social thing, but I want to get across the city in time to avoid rush hour.
I want to cuddle my baby brother and forget my body is about to be bid on by a roomful of strangers.
And then I shall wait for the verdict.
Terrified.
I close the door behind me and step into the cool twilight, bracing myself against the chill. The street is quiet and I smile as I realise I really have missed the rush hour.
In half an hour I’ll be snuggling up with Joe on the sofa playing choo-choo trains as Dean puts the kettle on.
The glow of headlights behind me makes a long shadow of my silhouette, and then they swing away onto a driveway. And I know. I just know.
I stop.
Wait.
I dare to glance back over my shoulder in time to see Mr Henley step out of his Mercedes.
I’m too far away to see him clearly, but I want so desperately to watch him make his way inside.
I take a couple of small steps back towards his house, close enough that I see he swings the door open quickly, with an urgency that hitches my breath.
This is risky. Too risky.
I’ve resumed walking when I hear the thump of his front door for a second time.
The hairs on my arms stand up, my throat tight and scratchy as I pick up my pace.
Please don’t see me like this, please don’t.
I stop dead as I hear him call after me.
ALEXANDER
SHE’S NOT HERE, but the alarm is still running through its activation cycle, so she’s close. Really fucking close.
I just want to see her.
I want to look her in the eye and thank her for her gifts.
I want to tell her she’s doing a great job.
I want to ask what her name is.
I want to ask her her life story.
I want to know her.
The door slams behind me as I dash back into the street, and I know I’m acting like a crazy. I know I’m out of my fucking mind.
And there she is, a tiny figure in stripy green walking away towards the underground.
“Hey!” I shout, and I feel like such a fool. “Miss Moll…” Fuck. That’s not her fucking name.
Fuck.
What the fuck do I fucking shout?
She stops.
And I’m scrabbling for w
ords, pacing towards her without a fucking care for how deranged I look.
What the fuck do I say?
Hey, Miss fucking cleaner? Hey, MM. Come and say hi to your idiot fucking boss.
I’m trying to find the right fucking words, trying to get this crazy fucking impulse under control and not appear like an absolute fucking crazy when she keeps on walking.
She hears me and she keeps on walking.
It fucking floors me.
I stare in horror as some poor freaked-out little employee makes a dash for it, and I know I’m way out of line.
So out of line I can’t do anything other than stumble back to my front door.
Jesus Christ.
My head spins.
I’m a head case, a fucking lunatic.
My fingers fumble with the door handle and I barge back through to safety on the other side.
I head straight through to the kitchen to splash myself with cold water, and that’s when I see the bottle of wine still on the island.
I tear into the note.
